Chapter 4

They lay, face to face, her breasts touching his chest, and talked. Occasionally they kissed. Twice he rolled away from her, just so he could look at her breasts. The first time he said "Beautiful." The second he said "So beautiful."

She found herself telling him, somehow, of how lifeless her marriage was, of the disappointment she felt for herself for raising her daughter to be a selfish little bitch. He argued with her, and said she hadn't set that example. She had to agree with him about that, but she had blamed herself for Tiffany's flaws for a long time.

"I don't know why Roger isn't interested in sex," she said. "He was at first, but then it just faded away as he began to work more and more."

"Hmmmm."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm not sure you want to know," he said.

"Of course I want to know," she said.

"I see a lot of women who are like you, in the sense that their sexual urges are still fully functional, but their supply of sex is limited. That's why they come and watch us. They get to fantasize, and then go home and masturbate."

"Why wouldn't I want to hear that? At least I know there are other frustrated women too."

"What you don't want to hear is that men's sex drive doesn't fade away at all. I don't know a single man who has ever gotten tired of sex."

"But that means..." She frowned. What did that mean?

"That means they only get tired of sex with a particular woman," he said.

"You're saying he's cheating on me."

"I'm saying he hasn't gotten tired of sex."

"You're saying he's having sex with some other woman."

"I'm saying he hasn't gotten tired of sex."

"He's not gay."

"I didn't say he was gay."

"He's not cheating on me."

"How do you know that?" I'm quite sure that wherever he is right now, and whatever he's doing, he'd be quite happy to swear on a stack of Bibles that you're not lying naked with an exotic dancer, talking about why you're frustrated."

"I'm cheating on him," she whispered.

"Would you stop that?" His voice was loud. "Okay. You're cheating a little bit. You've had an orgasm. You're going to have at least three more before you go home. He could be giving you those orgasms, but he's not. Why not? That is the question. Why is it he's lost interest? It's not because you're ugly. No man on earth would call you ugly. It's not because you're a bitch. It's not because you're too wild and crazy for him. The vast majority of men stop having sex with their wives only because they feel so guilty when they do have sex with their wives."

"Because they're cheating on the wife," she whispered.

"I told you you didn't want to know."

She was quiet for a while, just thinking. He let her. She thought about those times she smelled strange perfume on him. She thought about the one time she'd gone to the firm, late at night, to surprise him with Chinese takeout, and found the place locked up. She'd chalked it up to his meeting being a dinner meeting. And Lord knew there were all kinds of up and coming, hard charging women going into law these days.

Hard charging women.

Like Lucinda, the perky little blond who had been working with Roger for months on a real estate deal. They had had to go to Florida twice, to inspect property, trips that took days and required them to stay there several nights. Jennifer hadn't thought a thing about it. The blond had tiny little tits. She looked more like his daughter than his assistant.

Or had. Now, doubts assailed her. Josh's fingers moving on her side reminded her of what he had said about her also not being what her husband would expect.

"You're really lousy at seducing a woman," she said. "You know that?"

"I usually seduce a woman by dancing for her," he said, smiling.

Suddenly she needed kisses, and to be held, and as that happened, her passion flared again. Here was a man who wanted to be with her. He could have let her leave the party. He could have joined the orgy downstairs. But he wanted to be with her. Her hand strayed to his penis, which was again erect. Erect because of her. Erect for her.

"I can't let you fuck me," she moaned into his lips.

And yet, when she began gibbering with her need, which his kisses and strokes only inflamed, and he moved to his knees at her hips, and his fingers tugged at the waistband of her panties ... her hips lifted, to let him remove the garment. The cloth of the gusset stuck to her pussy lips, glued there by her arousal. And when his fingers touched the inside of her knees ... only touched them ... they flew apart, exposing her treasure to him, offering it to him.

Instead of ravishing her, though, he merely lowered his face to her sex and gave her half a dozen orgasms in a row with his lips and tongue.

Again she screamed, but under the circumstances noise wasn't an issue, and she could let the raw emotions leach out of her body through the vibrations of her vocal cords. The intimacy of what he was doing, though ... something Roger had never done - would never do - changed her forever. She wasn't aware of it in the moment, but Josh's willingness to join her more closely than her own husband would, was like an earthquake that shifts massive things with ease, moving them to where they can never be put back.

Finally he rose from her, to his knees, between her thighs, leaving her glistening pussy lips gaping, flushed, and ready for his entry. His strong, youthful penis strained toward her, also ready to complete the ancient dance of mating.

Again, though, he somehow knew what she needed ... and didn't need. Instead of skewering her with his lance, he stroked it, his eyes raking up and down her body.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered.

And then his semen leapt from the tip of his prong to land on her belly, making multiple, criss-crossing stripes on her, as if she had been whipped by some toy flail that left wet, white, harmless scars.

At the very last moment, though, as his hand milked the final drips of his essence from his balls, he fell forward onto his other hand and brought the tip of his penis to stroke between her sexual lips, smearing the last little bit of his offering on those lips. She raised her head, stared, and her hands came to his head to pull him down for more long, sultry kisses.

They talked all night, never sleeping, not even napping.

She learned of his great-great-grandmother, who had been a sex slave in the railroad camps of the developing west, until an itinerant cowboy had seen her, and how she was treated. He was incensed, and thought to remove her from such servitude. There were objections, and gunplay. But he rode away with her, and they made a life together. His great grandmother had married a Chinese man, but their daughter had again diluted their race with a white man.

He learned of her own background and upraising, her volunteer work, and her unfulfilled wish to nurse her daughter.

At that point he had teased a nipple to erection, telling her she could nurse him, and then sucked gently until it was time to give her another orgasm. Again she made love to his penis with her mouth, telling him she needed to keep it as far away from her pussy as she could, because her resolve not to cheat that much was failing.

In the morning, when he opened her car door for her, and leaned over to give her one last kiss, she knew he could have fucked her if he'd tried. In that moment, as his lips brushed across hers in a startlingly casual goodbye kiss, her gratitude toward him made her want to get back out of the car, take him back to bed and let him love her completely.

But she didn't.

Instead, she closed the door and, blinking away her tears, started to drive away. She slammed on the brakes and punched at the window button again. He was there immediately, question and maybe hope plain on his face.

"I don't even know your last name!" she said, rubbing at tears.

"Hamilton," he said. "Josh Hamilton."

She was lucky she didn't get a ticket for inattentive driving on the way home. If she had, she would have probably told the patrolman her name was Josh Hamilton.

The next week was pure torture for Jennifer.

Roger, when he saw her, gave her a peck on the cheek. He didn't ask her where she'd been, or what she'd done. He didn't ask her if she'd had fun, or been successful at whatever she was doing. And as far as she could tell, Tiffany didn't even know she'd been gone.

The memory of Josh's touch drove her to masturbate three times a day. She knew now why no cameras were allowed. There would be pictures of male exotic dancers all over town, to be found by inquisitive maids, or family members, who would ask "Who's this?"

But she would have given a thousand dollars for a picture of Josh nude, that little half smile on his face ... his penis hard ... for her.

It was the next Friday night before she came to the realization that all she had to do was go to Christy's Puppet Palace. She would take her camera. And when he danced ... she'd get her picture.

It was dark, though there were lots of colored lights scattered around the room, on the walls, ceiling and tables. She'd expected it to be smoky, but it wasn't. She remembered the recent city ordinance passed that banned smoking in businesses.

There was a long bar along one wall, with sections of mirrors on the wall behind it. Bottles of all kinds, holding different colors of liquids lined glass shelves in front of the mirrors. A man, his upper torso naked except for what looked a little like a cleric's collar and a black bow tie stood behind the bar, talking to a woman perched on a bar stool. He was flirting with her as she played with the little umbrella in her drink.

The thump of bass rhythms came from speakers flanking a small stage. In front of the stage were scattered ten or so tables that would seat four, if everybody was really friendly. Four or five of the tables had women sitting at them. One had a couple, male and female, their chairs turned toward the stage. Nobody was dancing at the moment.

Jennifer sat down at the table farthest from the stage, where she hoped the relative darkness would cloak her from casual view. She felt like she was sneaking around and might get caught any second. She wondered if any of the other women ever came here to see their party favors plying their normal trade. She hoped not. How would she ever explain to any of her friends why she was there? She almost laughed out loud as she realized how stupid that train of thought was. They'd know exactly why she was there ... and probably approve.

The music changed, and a man dressed like a Toreador came out on stage. It wasn't flamenco music, but he danced flamenco style, swirling his cape and stomping his feet, doing kicks that had nothing to do with bull fighting. A waitress approached and wanted to know what to get her. She ordered a Manhattan, on the rocks, in a lowball glass.

Two hours and four Manhattans later, he finally came on stage. She was tipsy by then, and the thrill of seeing him made her do something she hadn't done in twenty years or more. Putting her two index fingers in her mouth, she produced a piercing whistle. She followed that with a "Yeah!" as he started his routine. She saw him look her way, but only for a second.