Chapter 3

The following morning Marily went into the garden for her first cigarette of the day, but she stayed under the eyes of the house. She did not venture into the patio, did not inspect the plants, look at the rose buds nor notice the snails that crawled about. She found that she was extremely nervous, that all her instincts had somehow deserted her. She took a deep inhalation of smoke, slowly let it out, then breathed deeply. It did not help. She was still jumpy.

She went back to the kitchen, took her place at the table, put the toast in the toaster, then poured the coffee. Her husband came through the door as she was pouring his coffee. He took his seat across from her, then said, "Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes. I suppose so. Fred... I," she paused, unable to go on, not knowing what she wanted to say, or how she wanted to say it.

"You're still upset this morning. I don't understand it, Marily. What is it?" He seemed genuinely concerned.

"I don't know. I... I don't want to stay home today. I want to go somewhere, anywhere," she blurted.

"Marily," he said tiredly, "You're free to go anywhere you like but it isn't your day for shopping, not your day for the library, and I don't know where else you would want to go. Why don't you get to know your neighbors? We've been here for two months now and you still don't know anyone to talk to."

She wanted to laugh. She knew one neighbor very, very well, more than he would ever be able to believe, but she couldn't tell him that.

"There must be some clubs in the neighborhood for women. Where they sew or talk or read or something. Isn't there?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Marily, I want to tell you something. I have a surprise. I was going to tell you last night but... I didn't. Old man Callan is sending me to Chicago. I leave Friday and I'll be there until Wednesday of next week! How about that?" He smiled.

"That's wonderful, Fred. Am I going, also?" she looked across the table hopefully at him. Perhaps this would give her a few days away from this place and a chance to collect her scattered thoughts.

"No. As a junior executive, Marily, I'm very lucky to be getting the chance, the opportunity, to represent the company on such a big deal. I couldn't very well ask that they pay your way and your expenses, too." He seemed hurt she wasn't ecstatic over his good luck.

"But what will I do here?" she asked bitterly, almost crying. She wanted to tell him about Peter, almost started to, but she knew that as far as he was concerned the discussion was closed. He wouldn't consider her, not with such an unexpected bit of luck presenting itself. He didn't answer. She supposed that he already had, in a sense, by quizzing her about the clubs in the area. Damn him, if that's all he cared about then maybe he deserved having an unfaithful wife. Maybe he deserved everything he would get, or she would get, she mused wryly. As soon as Fred left for work Marily made a decision. She dressed and went to the store. She purchased a bottle of Gin, asked the clerk for a good bottle of Vermouth, and a bottle of small olives. Then she went to the grocery store, bought enough meat for sandwiches, then went home. She was nervous but determined.

At 12:20 she looked at the clock in the kitchen and almost cried. She couldn't remember what time he, Peter, had presented himself in the garden yesterday, but she felt certain that it had been before 12:20. She drank a cup of coffee, walked about the living room, then the thought occurred to her that perhaps she should be out in the garden. No. She would never permit him to think--to know--that she was waiting for him, could not ever let him know that she was looking forward to seeing him again. How then, she wondered, was she to explain the pitcher of martinis? The prepared sandwiches? She felt as though she were losing her mind. She went to the kitchen, poured herself a martini and drank it straight down.

At five minutes of one, Marily was drunk. She had consumed three martinis and had cried and had washed her face and had applied make-up and had settled down with another martini. Then she heard her name called, softly, from the door leading to the patio. She sprung up from the chair, weaved slightly, then made herself stand still. She would not, she insisted, show how eager she was. She walked slowly to the door and looked at him, standing there, smiling, waiting for her. That was all it took.

Marily hurriedly opened the door and fell into his waiting arms. She clung to him, found his mouth with hers, and kissed him long and passionately. She felt him lift her off her feet, move back into the kitchen with her. His hands familiarly sought the soft mounds of her buttocks and pulled her toward him, into him. They kissed for what seemed like seconds for Marily but was actually five minutes. She was crying with joy when he lifted her away from him.

"Where's my martini?" He wanted to know, smiling his arrogant smile at her eagerness. But now, with the weight of the martini's lying heavy in her mind and the bitter thought of her husband's maddening disinterest in her welfare still ringing in her ears, his arrogance over his seduction of her didn't seem to matter quite so much. She was using him this time as much as he had used her before and the forbidden thought of committing adultery with another man right in her own husband's bed strangely frightened and yet excited her at the same time. It was going to be a big step in her life to do it voluntarily this way and a gnawing sense of hesitation pervaded her alcohol dazed mind. She knew once it started, there would be no turning back and she would be completely at the mercy of the whims of her body. But... she also knew that even now it was too late. The lewd, but exciting thought of again, this time from desire, of opening her legs to her neighbor's husband, had driven her beyond the point of any resistance to his advances.

She stifled a sniffle, went to the refrigerator and took the pitcher of martinis from it. She poured him one, put an olive in it and watched his hands as he took it from her. He sipped, smacked his lips, widened his eyes, and said,

"Perfect."

Between kisses and using his hands on her buttocks and breasts, Peter consumed that martini and asked for another. He drank that rather rapidly in the same manner, then calmly placed the glass on the table next to the couch and said, huskily, as though commanding a prostitute:

"Let's go to the bedroom."

"I made some sandwiches," Marily said, softly, hoping that he would take time to eat them now and give her a chance to collect her thoughts. Perhaps even a chance to back away from this horrible thing she was about to do. But, his answer gave her no respite from the decision she had made in anger earlier in the day.

"We can eat those after," he said, lifting her off the couch and guiding her to the bedroom. "Undress me and kiss me." he told her just inside the door, pressing his lips against her nose.

She did as she was told, knowing there was no backing down now. She removed his jacket, then mashed herself against him, probing gently into his mouth with her tongue. Then she removed his tie, and he awarded her with a searing kiss of a longer duration than hers had been. She started to unbutton his shirt but he guided her hands to his trousers. She was nervous and fumbling, but she managed to unbuckle the belt, then the zipper, then she moved his trousers down his leg. She blushed when she remembered his shoes and that they would have to come off before his trousers. She followed as he dropped back in to a chair and dropped to her knees and undid his shoe laces, then removed his shoes, receiving a kiss for each one. Then she dragged his trousers off his leg, started to fold them, but he motioned for them, took them out of her hand and threw them across the stool of her dressing table. He stood, kissed her and pressed his hardening penis into her stomach. She started to unbutton his shirt, but he pushed her hands down to his jock shorts. She blushed again, feeling suddenly more wicked than she ever had in her whole life, and put her hands around the waist band of his shorts and slipped them over his hips. She had to bend to take them off his legs, from under his feet and her eyes locked involuntarily on his mammoth cock, hanging as it had yesterday from under his shirt, straight down, the head of it purple and huge.

"Kiss it," he told her, putting his hand on top of her head. She did, after a slight moment's hesitation. But barely touching it with the soft wetness of her lips. He laughed, pulled her up in his arms and said, "You're innocent. And very, very nice. Take off my shirt."

She was so nervous that she thought she would never get all the buttons undone and the French cuffs gave her a lot of trouble. She made it, however, and slipped his shirt off his back. Then she took the bottom of his undershirt and raised up over his broad shoulders, then over his head, then flung it over her head and fell into him. He took her in his arms, moved his hands to her buttocks, massaged and squeezed her soft, pliant mounds, and kissed her totally with his lips, his tongue and his teeth. She felt faint, her desire for him overpowering her, making her legs weak and her stomach tingle.

Then he broke away from her embrace and began to undress her, tossing her clothes in a heap, biting her breasts as he permitted one to spring free, then the other, then dropping to his knees and gently removing her panties, kissing her stomach, her pubic hair and nibbling hungrily at her thighs.

Marily was in a quandary. She was trying to examine her own emotions, her complete abandon of herself to the pleasure of sex, her lack of moral convictions, that she should be thinking about, the building fires, pin point sharp, that were bursting within her, driving her crazy. She had never wanted anything, anytime, anymore than she wanted Peter now. She could hardly breathe.

He gently laid her on the bed then moved her dressing table so that it was at the direct foot of the bed, then tilted the mirror so that she could see herself, from head to foot, reflecting in the glass. He eased himself onto the bed, so that he was laying on her stomach and lowered his head to her full ripe breasts. He kissed first one, then the other, then licked one from her chest to its very end and sunk his mouth over and onto her nipple. Marily involuntarily rose up, pushed her breasts up, toward him. He sucked with his strong tongue, then teased her nipple with his teeth until it hardened, sprang into life all by itself. Then he moved to the other, repeated the same with it.

Marily lay under him, her hands rubbing his back and shoulders and his head, her fingers in his hair, pressing his head down into the softness of her naked body. She felt that she was alive in every cell of her being from the tip of her toes to the very top of her head. She glanced into the mirror and saw the two of them reflected there, he feeding on her, her moving and groaning under him, feeling as she was certain an actress must feel before the cameras of a dirty movie.

He put his mouth over hers, cupped her breasts with his hands and massaged and squeezed, and probed her mouth with his tongue, mixing his saliva with her, then drawing it out of her, then probing back into her throat, in and out like a slippery, wet serpent.

Marily wanted to consume him, all of him, through her mouth. She felt her lips burn, her tongue was beginning to get sore and enlarged, and she gasped desperately for breaths of air. He stopped kissing her, rolled over on his back, and pulled her on top of him, sideways as he had been on her. She put her mouth on his, probed his lips with her tongue until they parted.

He bit her lips. She drew back, startled, and he raised her by the shoulders and moved her so that her breast was over his mouth, then he sucked it in, worked over the hardened nipple with his lips and tongue and then his teeth until she cried out from pain, then moved her again so that the other breast hung over his face. She got the same treatment on that one, then he lifted her again so that her mouth was on his.

He moved his hands down the smoothness of her back and rubbed her hips where the soft white curves started, then over the roundness of them between her legs, then tentatively softly parted the soft, sparse pubic hair and worked his finger into her soft-lipped cunt and teased the tip of his thumb lightly against the rubbery tissue of her anus.

Marily moaned softly up into his mouth, feeling every movement of his hands over her and about her and opened her legs slightly to feel the finger moving into her wetness and probing, gently, deeper, the warm, moist walls giving to permit the object inside her without pain. She was surprised when he slowly wormed his thumb into her anus, felt the sharpness of the pain which she found endurable and enjoyable and sucked and bit his tongue, worked herself into a frenzy there on him, her moving hips doing the love making. Then, with his probing fingers in both her openings, she started rotating her hips, grinding down on his hands, all her sensations rushing over the sensitive flesh of her naked body. She knew that she was going to have an orgasm, a small, delicious, tiny one that would lead the way to a greater and more cataclysmic one later when he had crawled between her open thighs and fucked her the way her husband never could.

He took her hand in his and guided it to his throbbing prick. Marily felt the hardness that her hand could never completely encompass, and another thrill went through her, surging from her hand to her breasts to her contracting vaginal walls, wave after wave of it, rippling salaciously against her insides. She tried to move onto him, wanted to guide the pulsating hardness into her vagina, but he wouldn't permit it.