Chapter 2

Roger Slater was adding a long and intricate column of figures when Marcus Cord knocked on the edge of his office door. Roger looked up from the IBM calculator and smiled. "Come in, Marc."

Cord entered. He was dressed in the latest semi-mod fashion, not in the conservative grey or black three-button business suit which Roger wore. Cord had on a double-breasted pin-stripe jacket over checkered, slightly bell-bottomed pants, a rich blue shirt with a bright, wide-patterned tie, and Roger knew without looking that the shoes would be an off-color with wide buckles. Cord's hair, was a premature salt-and-pepper, which he wore long with thick, bushy side-burns. The total effect was impressive, rather than ostentatious or absurd. If he, Roger, ever tried to wear such clothes, he would have looked absolutely ridiculous and would probably have been fired as well.

Cord grinned and said, "Am I interrupting?"

"No. I'm just finishing the Apperson account for Pierson to see. What's on your mind?"

"Some of us are stopping off for a drink tonight, and I thought you might like to join us."

"Great. Count me in." Well, why the hell not? Roger thought bitterly. What's there to go home to, anyway? Just a cold, frigid wife, that's all. Well, maybe after I've had a couple of drinks, Diane will begin to look interesting again. Although I doubt it. He said, "Where?"

"There's that new place around the corner. You know, the one that looks like an English pub. I understand it has atmosphere, drinks are reasonable. Pig and Whistle, I think is the name."

Roger nodded. "I may be a little late, but I'll come by."

Cord slapped his hand against the door. "Fine." He turned and walked away, swaggering a little as he always did.

Instead of returning to the Apperson account, Roger stared at the computer in front of him and thought about Marcus Cord. The man was easy to envy, for he had the handsome attributes of wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and a dimpled smile which made women take a second look. He had been a football player in college, which hadn't been so many years ago to have lost Cord his muscular and well-developed physique; and combined with a charming and sophisticated manner, which was not affected but extremely natural, Cord made the women take that third and fourth look as well. He exuded sex like an aura around him, and damnit, he knew it.

Roger remembered when Diane had first seen him after shopping one night a couple of months ago, when she had met him for a ride home. By chance, Cord had been standing outside the office building with him at the moment Diane walked up, and when she laid eyes on the man, Roger knew she was violently attracted to him. Physically, lustfully, hungrily; not with love or tenderness which had characterized her desire for Roger. Animal instincts--pure bitch heat, and he had felt the rise of jealousy spread through him. He had been rather nasty to her that night, and they had ended the evening in a bitter fight. He had thrown the way she had acted toward Cord at her then, with all the acid of a man scorned. She in turn had denied everything, swearing it was only Roger she wanted, and that he was fabricating and fantasizing the whole thing. The problem had been that she really hadn't done anything. There was nothing Roger could point to except the explosive air which had been generated. He knew and she knew and Cord knew; but that didn't win the argument for him.

Still Marcus Cord was higher up in the corporation than Roger. He was in another section, a vice president in charge of customer service, which meant that his power over Roger was only indirect--but not worth crossing. Roger knew that if he alienated Cord, his chances of a good long term career at Waller, Waller, Crist, and Maxwell would be ended.

Besides, Roger had no reason to feel that Cord was a threat to his marriage, or that Diane, as indifferent as she was in bed, would ever consummate her desire if offered the chance. Cord had enough women to satisfy the most accomplished satyr. Although married to a beautiful woman from all that Roger had heard, he was nonetheless the office cocksman. He was smart enough not to fool around where he worked, or at least if he had, there had been no talk of it. God knew he could have had any of the nubile, mini- skirted girls in the typing pool, and they wouldn't have kept their mouths shut for a second. Yet when Cord was some other place--a bar, a restaurant, anywhere where there was a female around--he was definitely on the prowl. Roger had heard from another of the staff that Cord had once picked up and later bedded an airline stewardess on the forty minute run between Los Angeles and San Francisco--an almost impossible feat.

Roger shook his head. Why the hell couldn't he be that way? He was so God-awful inhibited, not at all like Cord. Why was he so damned straight and staid? He slammed his fist against the desk top. Well, if Diane kept up the way she was going, he would damn well stop being so stuffy and start being more of a swinger!

Roger stayed late at the office, even though he didn't feel like it. The Apperson account went slowly after he got back to thinking about it, instead of his wife and himself and Marcus Cord. He had to get it done; he had promised it to his boss, Ernst Pierson by the next morning. It was the hour here and the hour there of overtime which made the company begin to take notice of him, of that he was sure. Take notice they had: Two fifty dollar raises in six months, and promises of promotions and other benefits. The firm was shorthanded, too, which made his position even more valuable, and Roger willed himself to put in the overtime and forget how tired he was. He wanted to get ahead and earn more money, and this was the way to do it. He had to be on his toes, though, and that took a lot out of him. He realized that some of the problems around his home were his, but that didn't excuse Diane's perpetual iciness and indifference to his needs.

Roger finished at a quarter to six, and put the account portfolio on Pierson's desk before leaving.

He doubted that Cord would still be at the Pig and Whistle, but he felt like he deserved a drink anyway. He walked around the corner and entered the little bar. It took him a moment to let his eyes accustom to the dimness, for the crowd of men and women and the miasma of smoke blanketed what little light filtered from the lamps and windows.

The Pig and Whistle was as Cord said it was: an American idea of what an English pub might look like. The walls and ceiling were in a pseudo-Tudor wood beam design, with the stucco painted white. There was a long oak bar, highly polished, manned by a large, English-accented bartender who sported a handlebar moustache. There were long wood handles attached to the beer spigots, and Whitbread and Guinness Stout were advertised as being served.

There were groups of small, roughly hewn tables and matching chairs scattered haphazardly around the room. A pert waitress passed among the customers with a brass tray of beer glasses and other drinks. She was dressed in 18th Century fashion, except with an extremely short skirt, and she made sharp and slightly suggestive remarks to anybody who spoke to her. A couple of men were throwing darts at a circular cork board in one corner. Roger didn't recognize the shorter of the two, but the other man was definitely Cord.

Cord laughed as the other man stuck a dart in the wall next to the board, slapped the man on the back and turned. He saw Slater and raised a hand in greeting. "Roger! Over here, man!"

Roger made his way through the packed mass and reached Cord. "Sorry I'm late. Where is everybody?"

"They've all gone. It's just us two." Cord turned back to the man he had been playing with and said, "My friend is here. Thanks for the game."

"I owe you for two, I think," the stranger said good naturedly. "For someone who never played darts, you caught on pretty fast."

Cord laughed and together, he and Roger crossed to an empty table, leaving the other man standing alone. He took the chair next to the wall and gestured for the waitress. "That man over there owes me two beers," he told her when she arrived. "Serve one to me and one to him," he added, pointing to Roger. "And make it quick."

"I'll make it in my own sweet time," the girl snapped. She swung the tray around and walked off, her rear end twitching provocatively.

Cord laughed and then grinned at Roger. "She looks tempting. Right, Rog?"

Roger smiled back awkwardly. This was the first time he had been with Cord alone on a social occasion. He felt uncomfortable, over his head in new and strange waters. Cord was an over- powering force, he suddenly realized, somebody he would be entirely unable to cope with.

The beer appeared quickly and again the girl swished her skirt and jiggled the globoid cheeks of her ass at Cord. This time Cord leaned over and patted her thighs lightly. She turned and in mock anger told him to stop with the familiarity. He only patted her again. The scent of sex was heavy in the air. Cord merely had to say when and she'd ask him where, Roger thought to himself. He gripped the thick stein handle and drank deeply of the golden brew. It washed down his throat and he quaffed again. The waitress left, winking at them.

Cord lit a cigarette and sipped the beer and looked very earnestly at Roger. "I'll be honest with you," he said. "Actually, there was nobody else here. I only wanted you to come."

"But why--?"

"Why tell you that a group of us were meeting here? Simple. In case I was overheard by those pack of ears in the office. I didn't want them to know about it."

Roger's head buzzed. A warning bell rang in the back of his mind, but he couldn't figure why, any more than he could figure why Cord had gone to all this trouble. "I don't understand," he replied, frowning slightly.

"You know, Roger, that you've been noticed."

"Noticed?"

"In the office. You've shown ambition and a knowledge of the business, and you're young. You should go far with us."

Roger couldn't help but feel pleased. Cord only paused in his praise to order another round, and as Roger finished one beer the other appeared in its place.

"Our business, though," Cord continued, "has a great deal of politics." He took a final puff on his cigarette and put it out in the pewter ash tray. "In fact, those politics are often cruel and unjust, and to the unwary can be deadly."

"I've never tried to do anything to buy my job, Marc, if that's what you're driving at."

"No, no, I realize that," Cord replied. "You've been conscientious, and you've tried to be fair with everybody. Believe me, that's a refreshing change from the usual." He waved to the waitress that he wanted another round, and then refused to take the money Roger offered. "This is going on my expense account, Rog. I can afford it better than you. Just drink and listen to me." He paused again. "The office has been talking about Drake retiring soon, haven't they?"

Roger nodded. "I think Jim's due to leave next month, isn't he?"

"He is, and that means I'll be looking for a new general manager for my section. Now we both know that Willard Lewis wants that position, and that he's in line to get it."

"I thought that was pretty well settled. I mean, by the way Willard has been talking, I assumed--"

"Right," Cord said, breaking in. "He has an excellent record and has been with the company for a good many years. By all the written rules of good company policy, Roger, he deserves the job." Cord pursed his lips thoughtfully and then took a drink of beer. "Weigh his qualifications against anybody else's, and he's the man."

Roger's thoughts raced at what he imagined might be said next. Did this meeting represent... was Cord trying to offer him... damn it, was this all a lead-up to his appointment to the managerial position? His hand trembled as he drank, and the thrill of such an unlikely possibility coursed through him. God! He dare not dream of such an advancement!

"But this is where the politics I mentioned comes in," Cord said, interrupting Roger's reverie. "Business isn't always done by the rules, written or unwritten, and quite often it's a matter of manipulations."

"I'm afraid you've lost me."

Cord chuckled. "All right, Rog, I'll lay it on the line. In plain language, the promotion belongs to Lewis, but my intentions are to give it to you. Am I clear now?"

"I'm... overwhelmed, Marc! I truly am." Roger paused. His brain was spinning excitedly. "But you said politics. That's still a little..." He searched for the right word. "Unclear."

"Perfectly obvious to me. Lewis is old fashioned. He's too goddamned set in his ways, and as I move up in the firm, he could be more of a liability than an asset. I'd hazard to say that he could even become a danger to me."

"And I wouldn't be, is that it?"

"I can trust a man who'll stay by me and guard my backside. You can be that man, Rog, if you want to be. You're interested in getting ahead, and you're young enough to see how sticking by me can help you. Let me break the ground, and you'll ride to the top with me, that I promise."

Roger was stunned. He quickly took another large swallow of beer. "That sounds fine with me, Marc. I'll... work for you in every way I can. You can count on me."

Cord offered his hand and Roger shook it, sealing the bargain. "I'm sure I can count on you, Rog," Cord said warmly. "I pride myself on analyzing character, and you're not the kind to think up clever schemes or angles, and stab me in the back."

For some reason Roger felt a pang of self-revulsion. "You're right, Marc. I don't have the guts for politics."

"I didn't say that, Roger."

"No, but it's true. I'm colorless, too staid and too quiet. I tend to climb into a safe little hole so that I won't see what's really going on in the world." Roger wondered why he was talking like this, especially to Cord. But then, hadn't his prospective new boss been candid with him, taking a chance by confiding in him? Embarrassed, Roger laughed self consciously and raised the beer glass. "Here's a toast, Marc," he said. "To the perfect combination of the swinger and the prude."

Cork clinked glasses, smiling broadly. "Here's to us, all right. But don't belittle yourself, Rog. I'm too flamboyant, and I think we can help each other. We're a good complement."

Feeling better from Cord's remarks, Roger threw his head back and drained his beer. Cord motioned for the waitress again and ordered another round. She left and Cord said to Roger, "After this drink, let's go some place else. You know, find some action, have a little fun maybe."

Roger was tempted. He was more tempted than ever before in his married life. The idea of a hot, unknown pussy crawling and heaving around his pistoning cock made his head swim with desire, and he felt his prick engorge and stiffen in his pants. He needed a good fuck tonight, and Diane was definitely not that. Then he remembered he had promised her he would be home early this evening, for some special reason she had refused to elaborate upon. In spite of his sexual hunger, he had to admit that he still loved her, and that he was a man who kept his promises. He wanted to pound the table in frustration.

"Damnit, Marc, I can't tonight. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'll tell you what, Rog. Why don't you and your wife come over to dinner tomorrow night? I want you to meet Cindy, my wife. I think you'll like her." He winked at Roger, then turned to the waitress. She was back with the beers. He beckoned her to lean over so that he could whisper something to her. Roger overheard Cord ask the girl what time she got off work. She told him nine, and Cord said that he would be at this table, and if she would care for dinner...

The waitress smiled provocatively, nodded agreement and moved away. Roger almost groaned involuntarily at the image of what was certainly to follow the dinner. A fine dessert, all right...

"I've got to hand it to you, Marc," he said then, with genuine admiration. "You really have a way with the women."

Cord gave him a superior grin. "Nothing to it, Rog. Just takes practice. Hell, you can have it, too. Just lose some of your Victorian prudery and play the modern role."

"Security," Roger said. "That's my trouble. I want security. I come from an average middle class home, Marc. My dad was a stock broker, and you know how conservative they are. We were close, and I guess I picked up his attitudes toward solidarity." Roger rose from the chair realizing for the first time that he was somewhat drunk.

"Don't let it worry you, Rog," Cord said. "Maybe you can loosen up a bit as we work together."

Roger steadied himself with a hand on the edge of the table. "I hope so." He paused, then said, "Thank you, Marc, thank you very much for this position. You... won't regret it."

"I'm sure I won't. Now get home, Rog. I wouldn't want to go anywhere else if I had a hot little piece like yours waiting either. See you tomorrow night."

Roger smiled weakly, said good night, and staggered toward the exit. Cord's last words burned in his mind. Hot piece. If Marc only knew what kind of an icy bitch she really was. Even out of bed, she demanded all the little things involved in story book romance, with her teasing, suggestive remarks and her come-on looks, parading around in provocative clothes. But it was all a sham. Get down to basics, and she might as well have been encased in a block of glacier ice for all the good it did him. His balls and penis throbbed and ached for the loving touch of a woman, and all he had to look forward to was cold rejection.

Roger walked to the parking lot, the cool night air ineffectual on the rising cloud of inebriation, and picked up his car. The beer surged through his system, and made his thoughts hazy and his emotions fortified. Goddamn it, he was going to show her! He was going to fuck the shit out of her tonight whether she liked it or not, by God!

Roger drove more recklessly than was his usual wont from the combination of beer and passion. The alcohol had completely flooded his mind, and with careless abandon he speeded through the downtown traffic to Geary Boulevard, unmindful of possible violations. Christ, I'm drunker than I thought! he told himself. He never could hold his liquor very well, and more than two of anything, even glasses of wine or beer, affected him badly.

The heat of rising desire flamed his already lewdly-burning thoughts. Goddamn Cord and his wanton ways! That waitress' smirking countenance again appeared in his mind's eye. Her thinly disguised hunger for Cord's handsome body, and no doubt huge cock, flashed before him like a red flag in front of a maddened bull. Like the bull, Roger more and more angry, until he almost screamed with rage and frustration.

Goddamn his wife! His Diane, his one and only--Shit! God, he'd be deliriously happy if only she was a woman, a red-blooded female who wanted him! But he was denied his rights, his end of the marriage bargain. He pictured the ideal situation with Diane, with her mewling and moaning with pleasure as he took her a hundred different ways, and she in turn writhing and sucking and kissing him with unquenchable lust. He could almost feel the creamy secretions of her cunt as she whispered his name, and he groaned, knowing full well that her pussy was as dry and arid as a withered old crone's.

His long, hardened prick was bent mercilessly in his pants, and he could tell that he was oozing secretions into the cotton of his underwear. Never had he been so hot, so intensely aroused, not since the night on Lookout Drive when Diane had first shown what kind of lover she was to be. The pain of his doubled cock was excruciating, and with the desperation of a tortured man he reached down with his left hand and fumbled for the fly of his suit trousers. The zipper protested, for the sitting position made for awkward maneuverability; but slowly he was able to lower it until his white underpants bulged through the narrow opening, and the heavy sack of cloth stretched his trousers to their limit.

Roger looked down at the protuberance. The agony of what he was doing almost outweighed the relief he felt. My God, he thought with horror, here I am, driving along with my pants undone! I can't believe it! What the hell is happening to me? Has my sense of decency become warped?

Then he remembered Cord's words: "Just lose some of your Victorian prudery and play the modern role." Modern role: the permissive man in a wide-open society, where sex was the game--for its own sake and nothing more. As if in agreement, his swollen member throbbed against its restraining hold, and it seemed to jerk restlessly, as if seeking escape.

Trembling with the pent-up fury of his overwrought emotions, Roger touched the swelling and felt a tremor race through his groin and buttocks. What am I doing? I haven't done this since I was a teenager! The narrow band of material which opened along the front of his shorts seemed to widen as his cock bloated the front of his pants. As if of their own volition, his fingers ran along the band, the sensations they caused his prick almost overwhelming. For God's sake, stop this! What would happen if you were seen like this, manipulating yourself like an adolescent!

But his fingers continued to caress the stiffened cock, its outline hard against the shorts, and then he pulled the material aside and like a steel spring, his prick shot free. Oh Christ... no! No!

Roger tried to keep his eyes glued to the windshield, off his erect penis, but with almost animalistic fascination he dipped his vision, seeing the blood-filled knob's towering size. He had never been bigger! His fingers caressed the mighty shaft, and the cool air made it tingle maddeningly.

The foreskin folded back as his hand stroked the burning flesh, and the head winked with its unseeing eye through the steering wheel at him. Sperm churned in the boiling cauldrons of his balls, and he could feel the rising of his cum in the base of his cock. He took one last look at the action of his manipulations, the full fist of his hand wrapped around the pole of his penis, the furious pumping of his wrist and arm almost forcing him to stop the car...

Thirty-fourth Avenue was just ahead, and his duplex within sight. Thankfully, he took his left hand away from his screaming, pleading cock and turned the wheel to bring the Plymouth onto his street and then into the duplex's driveway. He stopped the car in the protecting shadows of the garage. He sat there for a long minute, staring down at his still rock-hard prick, his breath ragged and hoarse. He realized he was too far beyond recovery to fight the primeval urges his body thrust upon him, and his mind began to form weird erotic scenes of the lewd positions he was going to force his wife into. He opened the door, and started his desire-wracked body toward the kitchen entrance, his hand once more enclosed over the turgid shaft.

Diane straightened up the kitchen for perhaps the dozenth time, waiting impatiently for Roger to come home. She looked over at the table, set but incomplete without the candles and wine she had originally planned to have. Feelings of remorse and guilt swept through her. When she was upset like this she had to keep her hands busy, and she occupied herself by washing a couple of kitchen shelves unnecessarily. As the hours ticked by, the morning's horrible experience began to return to her mind in spite of herself. She blushed guiltily at the thoughts, shutting her eyes tightly in a vain effort to reject the smoldering picture of her fingers contacting the soft, wet slit of her vagina and throbbing mounds of her breasts, and she drew in her breath sharply to hold back a groan of humiliation. She found herself once again reliving the maddening onanistic caresses, and her hips churned in unintentional rhythm to the teasing recollections of unwanted fulfillment.