Chapter 2

Lynn Charles picked up the newspaper from the coffee table where her brother-in-law, Sam Dryerson, had dropped it the evening before. It was an act of desperation. She normally avoided reading newspapers. She turned to the comics, then the women's section. She was about to toss the paper back down when her attention was caught by a picture of a young girl. She was an amazingly pretty girl, Lynn thought, even though she had done her best to disguise the fact with long, straight hair, flowered, bell-bottomed pants, a sweater so tight it made her look like a tart, and a medallion that dangled in such a way as to call even further attention to her large bust. It was a human-interest story about what the reporter had called a "hippie love-nest tragedy." It seemed that one Maxwell Kern had died from an overdose of drugs, and a sexy picture of his teen-aged mistress could be calculated to sell a few newspapers. The girl, Ellen, had refused to cooperate by looking either tragic or regretful. She merely looked bored.

"At least she's alive," Lynn muttered aloud, "not half-dead and stuck in a no man's land like this."

The no man's land was the rather modern and comfortable home of her older sister, Shirley Dryerson. Her own "half-dead" condition was a slight exaggeration. She was simply bored, lonely and, in general, full of discontent with life. At twenty-six, Lynn had taught school for five years and had been married for three. On the day her divorce had become final, she had been notified by the school board that they did not intend to renew her contract as a teacher for the coming year. When Shirley and Sam had offered to take her in while she made the adjustment to her new, sharply reduced status, she had accepted gratefully. Now she found herself wishing she had done almost anything else than run scared through the first door opened to her.

The trouble was, she conceded bitterly, that Shirley and Sam both worked days and had no social life evenings. That left Lynn exactly nowhere. The rest of the trouble was, she admitted, that she, Lynn Charles, was a sissy who didn't have the nerve to go to a cocktail lounge, get herself picked up, taken to a hotel room and thoroughly screwed, which, of course, was what she really wanted and missed most of all.

"Goddamnit!" she cursed in a way that would have shocked the school board as much as her divorce had shocked them, "what the hell does a divorcee with hot pants do anyway?" It was a good question and Lynn wasn't the first grass widow to ask it without receiving any ready answer. It was midmorning. She had washed the dishes and cleaned the house. What now remained as a means of passing the next six hours until Shirley and Sam came home to eat the dinner she would prepare and then watch television until the late-late show? Lynn hated television as much as she despised newspapers. She could, she supposed, take a bath. Hardly an exciting prospect, but it would kill an hour.

She undressed in the bathroom, performing the unnecessary ritual of weighing herself. While the tub was running, she studied her nude reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She was a redhead who had miraculously escaped the redhead's curse of freckles. Her skin was a golden bronze all over, for, on the few fog-free days of the San Francisco summer, she took full advantage of the Dryerson sun deck at the rear of the house. She had green, slightly slanted eyes and a mouth that made up in sensuality for its somewhat overly generous proportions. She was tall and slender, but it was a healthy thinness, not the emaciated slenderness of a fashion model. Her breasts, while not large, were ideally shaped, the magenta nipples delicate and small. Her waist was narrow, her body flaring below it to womanly hips and tapering again to sweetly rounded thighs at the juncture of which was an arrowhead of auburn hair.

"Not bad," she murmured, "but what the hell good is it to me if I don't use it? Somewhere in San Francisco there must be a man who would dearly love to get my clothes off, play with all my goodies and then stick his big, fat, lovely cock in my pussy and bang hell out of me until I yelled for mercy. They have college courses in home economics, the modern dance and even karate. Why don't they have one on how to get fucked?"

She sighed and stepped into the tub, settling herself in the sudsy water. She allowed the warmth and the quiet to induce a lassitude that soon verged on sleep and made no effort to dispel an erotic fantasy that began to weave its way through her half- awake mind. She snapped back to consciousness when she became aware that in the midst of her imaginings she had allowed one hand to drift to her crotch and that she was gently massaging her clitoris.

"Good grief!" she gasped, sitting upright in the tub. "I haven't done that since I was fifteen! Oh well, what the hell? It does feel good, and if I'm going to be an old maid I might as well go the whole route." She lay back down and again put her fingers to her vagina. With the other hand she touched one of her nipples and experimentally rubbed it with the tip of a finger. Not like having a man's hand or mouth there, but better than nothing.

Lynn was so preoccupied with the new method she had found to entertain herself that she failed to hear the front door open or the sound of masculine feet on the carpeted floor of the living room. She was not aware that she was no longer alone in the house until the bathroom door was shoved open.

"Oops!" Sam exclaimed as he hastily backed out. "Sorry, Lynn, but the door was unlocked and I had to go."

"It's okay," she called out. "What are you doing home this time of day?" She was startled but not particularly embarrassed. Nothing but her head and knees had shown above the soapy water, and she was thankful that he had not been able to see that she had been masturbating. Nevertheless, she was trembling a little as she got out of the tub, hastily dried and wrapped a towel around her body. "All clear," she said.

"I came home for some business papers," Sam said as he started to pass her. "I should have..." His voice dwindled, and he stopped in front of her. His expression changed abruptly at sight of her standing there, unclothed but for the towel. His face registered shock and the beginnings of desire.

"Lynn, I... I..."

She was as shocked as Sam, but mostly at the wild, unprecedented thoughts that were surging through her mind. She blushed furiously. Nothing would have happened had she not, in turning to slide past him, let the towel slip so that it fell to one side.

He took it as an invitation. Looking back on it afterward, she couldn't blame him, couldn't be sure that some subconscious impulse had not caused her to drop the towel. She struggled in his arms, though, telling him to stop and that they couldn't do this because he was married to her sister.

"What the hell has Shirley got to do with it?" he muttered, kissing her and holding her tightly, one hand falling to her buttocks. "I want you, Lynn. Damnit! I've wanted you since the day you first came here. Shirley will never know."

"We mustn't," she insisted, but despite herself she found that she was grinding her hips against him, feeling the hardness of his cock through his pants and knowing that she was so weak from desire that she could never resist him. When he bent his head and took one of her nipples in his mouth, she was lost... lost beyond any hope of recovery and she didn't give a damn. Nothing mattered now except having him.

Her bedroom was across the hall, and he took her there with no resistance on her part, took her there and fell across the bed with her. He kissed her breasts, her stomach and her thighs, fumbling all the time with his belt until he had his pants down. Then he mounted her, punching his hard prick in ineffectual haste at her crotch until she took it in her hands and guided the head of it to her opening. It went in as smoothly as though they had been doing it with each other every day. She wrapped her long, lovely legs around him, pulling him even deeper into her.

"Now fuck me!" she commanded, her whisper hoarse and urgent. "Oh, fuck me, Sam! "

"Yes," he agreed, "this is what I want, Lynn. Oh, Lynn, honey, I've thought about you all day, every day for months. When I make love to Shirley, I'm screwing you."

"Hush," she told him. "Just fuck me. I love your cock inside of me."

"Suppose I get you pregnant?"

"I don't give a shit. Just fuck me, damnit!"

They did it quickly and convulsively. Both were in such a rage of sudden passion for each other that they came, almost together, in a matter of moments. The roaring beat was like the crashing finale of a great orchestra, and their movements on the bed were wild and jerky as they strove with mad desperation to merge their bodies. She nearly fainted with delight as she felt his hot cum fill her, and her own orgasm was a tearing, rending, destructive thing that seemed to demolish her as though a bomb had exploded in her womb.

"My God!" Sam exclaimed when he lay exhausted and shaking on top of her. "I never knew it could be like this. I had girls before Shirley, but they were nothing compared to you--and neither is she."

"I thought you loved Shirley."

He shrugged. "I suppose I do. At least I'm used to her. Frankly, Lynn, Shirley and I bore hell out of each other. She's a dud in bed. I'd like to experiment around a little, but she's a damned prude. I've never done anything out of the ordinary but, for Christ's sake, I know there's more to it than just screwing. She won't even talk about it."