Her Secret Sex Life (10 page)

"Wow!" Rachel giggled again, and her hand moved up his thigh very near his groin. "It sounds exciting already. Sounds as if that young lady had a college education and did some reading herself."

"She had and she did. Her father went broke in the stock market or something like that, and so she took to doing the next best thing. Only she seemed to like it."

"And you liked it too, hm, darling?" Now, very daringly, her hand had neared his penis, just brushing the side of the still dormant shaft. And at that evanescent touch, he suddenly felt himself surge and throb with carnal awareness. Awareness of the warm smell of her hair and flesh, of the pressure of her body against his, and of the intimate rapport which this in almost darkened room had brought about between them.

"Go on, don't be bashful, dear. How did she start? I'm really curious," Rachel smilingly persisted.

Tim Woodling's face was crimson now and he averted his gaze from his wife's. "Well, if you must know, she started me off with a bath."

"That was a lovely idea. It relaxed you, didn't it?"

"Uh huh. But not entirely-I mean-" he turned to look at her, and she giggled softly again like a girl, then kissed him on the mouth. Boldly, her hand now slid under the waistband of his pajama pants, and then her eyes widened: "Good gracious, she gave you a shave there too, didn't she?"

Under her touch, and with the recollection of Eleanor which his own wife had thus evoked in him, Tim Woodling felt his penis achingly swell to full erection. He turned to her now, on his side, his left arm round her shoulders, his right hand caressing her svelte, alluringly voluptuous body through the thin lounging robe. The glossy-smooth satin was so thin that it seemed as if he was feeling her naked flesh, so clingingly did the garment shape out the fine firmness of her swelling breasts and the supple curve of her haunch.

"Do you want me now?" she whispered.

"Oh God, yes, Rachel! Hurry-"

"Oh no, young man, that's exactly what you're not going to do," she whispered, giving his stiff penis a loving squeeze. Then, wriggling away from him, she unfurled the lounging robe and let it spread about her to bare her warm satiny nakedness. "Come to me, gently, my lover," she urged.

Her hand had not relinquished its grip of his penis, holding it between thumb and forefinger, with tiny little squeezes of the glans. With a groan, Tim Woodling mounted her, and nimbly her knees arched up to receive him as she offered herself, her eyes wide and humid with expectancy.

He was summoning up the images of that apartment in New York, the music and the lights and the incense and the revolving bed and the euphoric sensations of Eleanor's languorous preparations. He felt himself press between the warm quivering lips of Rachel's vulva, and his hands clutched her naked breasts as his mouth came down on hers. With a whimpering sight of acquiescence, she locked her calves over his, thrusting herself to meet his charge. He could feel the clinging enclaspment of her vaginal sheath against his delving penis, till all of him was enfolded- within her warm moist gloriously tight depths. And he closed his eyes and held himself immobile so as to gain full control. It was too wonderful at this moment to lose it at the very start!

"That's my dearest, slow and easy, I'll be here as long as you need me, you know that, Tim," her voice was husky now with desire as her hands moved over his flushed, twisted face, then to his shoulders, holding him eagerly against her palpitating warm olive-sheened nakedness. Even the fierce delight of feeling herself fitted to him so snugly, flesh to his flesh, was saddened by her despair for him; she knew all too well what a blow to his pride and his own self-esteem his repeated failures meant to him. She knew too, more than she could ever dare admit to him, how complex the problem had become because of the enmity of his own children towards her. And suddenly she found herself wanting to be whore and concubine to this gentle, considerate man who had such love to give and who had been denied so long. Well, if that meant adapting herself, against all the moral issues which could certainly be raised against it, to the vengeful, even contemptuous lust of young Tim and Heather, so be it!

Her hands moved down his sides, assuaging and steadying him, as she lay motionless, waiting for his sign, lest her slightest movement undo all the triumph he had thus far managed. Yet her own deeply latent womanly needs were upon her now, as she felt the quivering contractions of her womb intimate to him to take full possession of her flesh. With his fingers still clutching her swelling breasts, she could feel the nipples hardening and the very rhythm of her breathing quickening in her fierce carnal hunger.

But even beyond this, there had come a sudden blinding revelation from his admission of this one transgression, which was really no transgression at all. He had said that the call girl who had made him a man again was red-haired like-yes, and now she could clearly understand Heather's vicious resentment of her. Even by accident when she had bravely told Heather that she herself loved Tim as much as Heather did, she had unwittingly come to the very crux of things. Now It was transparent; Heather was at least subconsciously in love with her own father, that was why she had no dates, no steady at the age of twenty. And he in turn might well be subconsciously in love with her.

Now she could begin to cope a little better with both his children. Now she could take a more active part in directing how this secret bargain between them was to be wrought. And a new eagerness made her tremble against him, made her fingertips dig into his thighs as she huskily whispered, "Love me, Tim, do it to me, do it the way you wanted to with her!"

He shuddered, as if to silence her so that she would not again renew his torment by summoning more of those images which could be so destructive now. He drew himself back to the very brink of her vulva, and this time he could feel the quaking urgency of her burningly tight and eager sheath. His fingers left her panting breasts to thrust under her hips, to elevate them so that he might clutch the satiny globes of her velvety behind, almost ruthlessly. Almost as he would possess a woman for hire, indeed. And then, thrusting to the hilt. inside of her, he put his tongue between her lips to urge her to take part in this same illusion.

And Rachel Woodling understood. Her arms locked tightly round him, mashing down her swelling breasts as she strained up against his shuddering chest Her bare legs shifted and ascended to his lower thighs as she clamped avidly him into her matrix.

"Oh God, yes-Rachel-oh God, it's so good-is it for you too?" she heard him gasp.

"Oh my darling, yes, don't stop, oh it's wonderful- it's the way I knew it would be when you first asked me to marry you-oh Tim, give it to me good and hard!" and her own voice was strangely new to her, wanton and eager as it had never been before.

He quickened his thrusts and withdrawals, feeling the clinging moist sheath of her woman-core reluctantly ease its grip upon him. Yet when he thrust back home again, it was to find her marvelously receptive, and as passionately possessive. And now the tip of her own tongue met his, and he writhed as he felt himself being drawn towards that heavenly abyss of total release and shattering culmination.

With a hoarse cry, speeding his thrusts, he bladed himself within her, and Rachel, her legs locked over his buttocks now, arched and twisted, feeling her own dam released by the burnt of his furious and finally masterful conquest.

They cried out together, kissing hotly, and there were tears in her eyes as she strained to him to share this climax…

Heather straightened outside the door of her stepmother's bedroom, her face a mask of anguished rage. "Damn the bitch," she hissed to herself as she moved back down the hail to her own bedroom. "She's going to pay for that one good fuck she gave Daddy. Yes, Mummy, enjoy it tonight while you can. One swallow doesn't make a summer, and one fuck doesn't make a marriage."

She had worked late at the shop this Tuesday, knowing that Tim had already taken the plane for New York. First of all, it had been one of those exciting days when a brand-new prospect had walked in and asked for a quotation on the remodeling of an old mansion in Wilmette. Arnold Cantwell, suave, tall, his dark-brown hair heavily tinged with premature gray, had walked in without warning about two this afternoon, asked to see Miss Rachel, and had then explained that, himself an architect, he had been referred to her by James Prentize, a fellow architect whose penthouse in the hi-rise building Prentize had designed for a noted real-estate developer had been decorated by Rachel herself some nine months ago.

Rachel had been both flattered and startled. Word-of-mouth referral was, to be sure, one of the best ways of getting lucrative new business in the interior decorating field. But what had startled her when Arnold Cantwell had been ushered into her private office by her golden-haired receptionist Dinah Williams had been his astonishing resemblance to her own husband. They were of the same height, and Arnold Cantwell's nose and eyes were very much like Tim's. His way of looking directly at her and his direct but soft-spoken way of talking were also very much like Tim's.

During the conversation, it developed that Arnold Cantwell shared the mansion with his elderly mother and spinster sister. There had been few changes in that Colonial type house since it had been built over fifty years ago, and the handsome bachelor architect observed that the idea of redecorating it was really therapeutic: the last year or two his mother and older sister had been extremely depressed because of the death of a favorite cousin.

Fortunately Rachel had been free of appointments this afternoon, and so she accepted Arnold Cantwell's invitation to drive her out to the, house to make an appraisal of what work would have to be done. On the way out there, sitting beside him at the wheel of his new Impala, she learned that he was thirty-two, widely traveled, and that his hobbies were chess and music. An idea began to glimmer in the back of her mind. Soon after her marriage, she had seen a chess set and board on the writing desk in Heather's room.

He had driven her back to the Michigan Avenue shop about five, then invited her to dinner at the London House to continue their talk about the necessary work and its possible cost. Rachel had welcomed this hospitality not only because it gave her a better understanding of her new client's likes and dislikes as regards decor, but also because she was really starved for intellectual conversation. Heaven knows there hadn't been very much of it at the Woodling house.

Arnold Cantwell drove her home about eight o'clock, walked her to the door of the old Gothic house and smilingly told her that she would have carte blanche in putting more gayety and color into his old house and that he hoped she could begin the work by the next week. She had made a date to be there the following Monday morning, shaken hands with him and thanked him for the dinner, and smilingly watched him drive off. Then, with a sigh of pleasure, she had let herself into the house…

She had just taken off her cloche hat and her suitcoat, and was beginning to unfasten her smart tweed skirt when her door suddenly opened and red-haired Heather stood smirking at her. Heather wore baby-blue silk pajamas and soft fluffy mules, and her mouth was freshly lipsticked. She advanced now, in a sort of swaggering way, glancing around Rachel's bedroom with a proprietary air. "You're back at last, Mummy. Did you have a good time with the guy in the Impala?"

Rachel flushed hotly. "He happens to be a new client, Heather, I'm doing over his 'house in Wilmette starting next week. It'll mean a good deal of money. Of course," deciding to return the young woman's sarcasm, "that will come in handy for me to live on in case I get kicked out at the end of the month."

"You're awfully sharp tonight, Mummy. I give you credit for guts, though. Are you sure you didn't go to a motel with him just now? If I thought you were cheating on Dad, it'd be just one more good reason to boot your fancy ass out of this house, you know." Her cat-green eyes were narrow and cruel, her lips curved in a rictus of mocking contempt.

"No, as a matter of fact I didn't, Heather. If you like, you can call the London House and I'm sure the hostess will verify the fact that we spent several hours there having dinner and talking over Mr. Cant-well's plans."

"It's really not important." Heather shrugged her lovely shoulders. "Fact is, I'd just as soon you weren't already fucked out. You see, Mummy, now that Dad's out of town, Timmy and I figured tonight would be as good a time as any for a little family get-together. Any objections?"

Rachel found herself shivering 'as Heather insolently swept her voluptuous body up and down with those cynical young eyes. But she managed to stiffen her shoulders and face the amoral young tormentress:

"I always keep my word. All right, then. Suppose you give me a few minutes to take a shower and change into something more suitable."

"You can have ten minutes, Mummy. I'll go call little brother."

"Just one more favor, if you please."

"Shoot!" Heather snickered, moving back into the hallway.

"I don't think you'll need the camera tonight. You see, I kept my word about not telling your father. Besides, one set of films ought to be quite enough if you have to resort to anything as low as that."

"Hey now, Mummy, don't you be getting up on your high horse and telling me and Timmy what we ought to do!" Heather angrily sneered. "Anyhow, I wasn't figuring on taking more movies. Timmy still has those dandy ones of the other time, and he's just dying to show them to some of his pals in case you lose your amateur status around her. Well, see you In ten minutes, Mummy. Have a good shower and soap yourself good between your long legs. Timmy might just want to go down on you.

She slammed the door shut, and Rachel clenched her fists and bowed her head, fighting the tears of humiliation and shame which burned her eyes.