Chapter 2

The next morning, Fred was hardly out of the door when my mind immediately returned to the newspaper clipping I'd stashed under the towels. Running into the bathroom, I heard my heart pounding in my ears as I extracted the ad with a trembling hand and read it all over again.

The ad seemed to be specifically addressed to me. To be honest, I was full of questions about sex. I had a ton of them.

I knew that sex between human beings was obviously intended by Nature for something beyond the begetting of children; but, on the other hand, I couldn't decide exactly what. If it was supposed to be an expression of love, then why did I experience such fear and pain when my husband was putting it to me? I knew that as a normal woman and a devoted wife I should look forward to and enjoy sex with my mate. Yet, with each passing day I dreaded it more.

Maybe, it occurred to me, I really wasn't the person I assumed I was.

All of a sudden the normality I had always taken for granted was under siege. Self-doubt started to consume me on the spot like a flame licking up a piece of dry parchment.

"No... no, ' I tried to verbally rein myself under control. "I'm a good person. A devoted housewife. After all, I cook for Fred. I'm a good mother to his children. Keep the house clean. Don't go over my grocery budget. What more could a man want?" Unfortunately, the answer to that last question was on the tip of my tongue.

"Somebody who's good in bed," I ruefully answered myself That cinched it. I had no alternative but to answer the ad.

The person on the phone told me to come at one o'clock to a motel suite the research organization had rented far interviewing purposes. When I got there I ran into Gloria Schaffer, who was just on her way out.

"Gloria!" I blurted- "What are you doing here?" "The same thing you are, I guess, Debbie," she answered. "I saw the ad in the paper and thought it might be interesting." "Are you going ahead with it?" I asked.

"Sure," she said cheerfully. "The kids are in school now, we can afford a maid to take care of the house, so why not? Confidentialiy, I've been going daffy sitting around with nothing to do." That made me feel better. Gloria and I were the same age, and had even graduated from the same high school together. For her to admit that a respectable life in the suburbs still left some gaps did a lot for my confidence.

"What's the interview like?" I asked Gloria.

"It's very deep," she answered. Then she paused and giggled. "Very, very deep. Just go in, you'll see." Her behavior puzzled me. However, in my usual fashion, I tried to skirt the issue; in this case by asking an innocuous question.

"Is the interviewer nice?" "Mine was," she giggled again. 'But I'm sure you'll have a fresh one. I suspect that mine's a little tired." Before I could even attempt to figure out what she was talking about, Gloria said she had to leave. "Listen, Debbie," she called over her shoulder, "why don't you give me a call sometime soon? If you decide to volunteer for this, maybe we could sort of work together." Just then the door to the room opened and a tall, handsome man introduced himself as Jason Evans.

"Oh, hello," I replied, somewhat flustered by his abrupt and striking appearance. "I'm Debbie Robinson. I'm scheduled for an interview. You know, about the ad in yesterday's paper.

"Of course," he smiled. "I was expecting you. Come right in." Even though I realized we were in a motel, once inside the room I was somewhat taken aback. The idea of being interviewed by a strange man in a motel room made me feel suddenly ill-at-ease.

"We'll be getting our regular offices later in the week," the man said, obviously detecting my apprehension. "Right now you'll just have to bear with us." When he sat down, I quickly realized that he was occupying the only chair in sight. If I sat down, it would have to be on the bed. It was either that, or stand up like a fool throughout the interview.

"Go ahead," he said gently, gesturing toward the bed. "It may not be your usual office furniture, but at least it's comfortable."

"All right, Mr. Evans," I agreed, and reluctantly parked myself at the foot of the bed.

"Jason" he said firmly.

"I beg your pardon?" "Call me Jason. We're all one big happy family here at SEX."

"SEX?" I blurted.

"Yes," he said. "I guess that's as good a place to begin explanation of what we're up to as any." "Please do," I responded nervously, something in his dark, smoldering eyes making me tingle all over.

"Only if you call me Jason," he insisted.

"Please do... Jason," I acquiesced.

"Very well," he smiled, revealing two rows of strong white teeth. "We are a research organization dedicated to finding out the facts about the human sexual function so we can wake up the American public with the truth. Our official name is the Sexual Experience Exchange, however we use the acronym S E X for short." "I see. "Our work in this community," he continued, "is to conduct a comprehensive survey on the sexual habits of both males and females. Our computer has selected your area as a typical middle-class suburb. In other words, whatever sexual techniques are practiced here would statistically have to be considered as the most normal of the normal. However, the computer, for all of its powers, can't actually find out what those practices are. In order to do that, we need interviewers, persons people in the community trust, to go out and gather the pertinent information. Are you game?" "You mean," I gulped, "you want me to go around and ask people about what they do in the bedroom?" "Precisely," he grinned. "Do you think you're up to it?" "Gosh," I muttered, "I don't know... That's awfully personal, isn't it?" "Perhaps," he said calmly. "But when you consider how useful the information can be, I'm sure you'll agree any objections are meaningless." "Well, perhaps," I stalled, "if I could see one of the questionnaires... You know, see just what kind of things I would have to ask." "Of course," he said, and drew out a sheaf of papers from a briefcase, handing them to me with one of his dazzling smiles.

Then, before I could start to read the material, he came up with a suggestion.

"Why don't you read them to me?" he said. "You know, pretend that I'm one of the respondents. That way you'll really get the feel of things." "All right," I agreed, and then gazed down at the first question.

The question was only five simple words; but they hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. All of a sudden I was breathless and gasping.

"Is there anything wrong?" Jason asked.

I lyingly shook my head, trying to conceal how embarrassed I was.

"Then go ahead and ask the question," he said.

"H... how long is... is is..." I stammered.

"Just take it easy," he soothed. "Now start all over again." "How long is your penis?" I somehow managed to get it out. To my astonishment the roof did not cave in.

"Eleven inches when erect," he calmly answered. "I've been told it's much larger than average. I didn't know which astonished me more. The question, or his glib answer. I couldn't believe I was having this exchange with a strange man in a motel room, and that it was incredibly all on the up and up.

To keep my bearings, I forced myself on to the next question. "Is your sexual partner satisfied with the size of your penis?" I heard myself asking as though I were a third party witnessing all of this from afar.

"Oh, definitely," he replied with a straight face. "I've never had any complaints yet." "I see," I murmured, and at that point found my gaze uncontrollably dropping toward his lap.

"Do you experience a sensation of tightness when you have penetrated your partner's vagina during intercourse?" I tried to rescue myself with the next question. However, that particular question provided about as much relief as pouring gasoline on a smoldering fire.

"In all modesty," he answered, "with the size of my organ, tightness is something I always enjoy during intercourse." "I see," I muttered again.

Only this time it just wasn't just an expression of speech. I really did see something.

Incredibly, bulging from the center of his lap was an enormous lump. The eleven-inch cock he'd been so nonchalantly talking about! I didn't know what to do but stumble on to the next question.

"About how long after intercourse has begun does it take you to ejaculate?" "It depends," he said amiably.

"Yes?" I asked expectantly in spite of myself, my gaze riveted on his now-throbbing crotch.

"On whether I'm stroking fast or slow." "Yes?" "And whether the woman is moving back." "You mean like if she has her legs wrapped around you?" I blurted.

"Yes," he smiled. "Or wiggling her hips." Realizing I had departed from the questionnaire, I suddenly stopped talking. Then, as I sat there in awkward silence, burning with embarrassment, I became aware of something which I had not previously noticed. Something so shocking that it made everything that had gone before seem comparatively innocent.

I sensed it on my thighs first. When I accidentally rubbed them together they were slick with moisture.

At first I tried to tell myself it was perspiration. Nervous sweat.

But when I became aware of the clamminess of my panties I could no longer ignore the truth. My cunt was soaking wet.

Without consciously willing it, I had become hopelessly turned on! "Is there anything wrong?" Jason asked with his usual aura of understanding.

"I... I'm afraid I got away from the questionnaire," I tried to divert his attention from my sopping condition.

"Don't worry about it," he reassured me. "I can tell already you're a natural at this kind of work. If I were a respondent, your naturalness would have made me trust you completely. I'd have told you everything." "Really?" "Definitely. Now why don't you continue with the questions? Quite frankly, I'm enjoying this immensely." I couldn't think of any other viable alternative but to agree to go on. If I got up from the bed, either to leave entirely, or to go to the bathroom to wipe my pussy dry, he'd surely notice the juice dribbling down my legs.

I'd lost my place on the questionnaire, and was too flustered to try and find it. I just asked the first question that caught my eye.

"Do you masturbate?" I asked, speaking the words rapidly so I wouldn't lose my nerve.

"Of course," he said without a trace of self-consciousness. "When there's nothing else available, a quick hand-job can be most satisfying." I was astounded. I'd always thought males gave that up after leaving adolescence. It seemed incredible that this prime specimen of handsome, mature man would actually practice self-abuse.

I dove into the next question to try and conceal my astonishment. Once again, it only made matters worse.

"Do you employ aids while masturbating?" "As a matter of fact I frequently do." "Such as?" "Women's underwear, mostly. You know, panties." Needless to say, when he said that I automatically made a mental reference to my own dripping pair. I tried to tell myself it was just my imagination, but it almost seemed that he knew about their saturated condition and was leading me on.