Tempted bride
San Mateo, California, was suffocating under a coat of brownish-purple smog. On the Bayshore Freeway, traffic crawled, stopped, then crawled slowly forward another fifty feet before stopping again. Horns honked. Tempers were short.
Grace Hope was aware of neither the sweltering heat nor the traffic delay. She barely listened to Judi Sprague's monologue; besides, she already knew it by heart. Judi's favorite topic was men. As far as that went, that was all Judi lived for: men!
"Well," Judi was saying in her Bronx accent as she fluffed up her hair and gazed coquettishly at the young man in the Mustang next to her car, "I told him it was no go. I mean... who did he think he was? What did he think I was? Some common street girl? So I told him, 'See here, Bill Hill. I don't care if you are the Sales Manager. I'll thank you to keep your sweaty little hands to yourself.' So he started simpering and playing Mister Nice Guy and says I have him all wrong, that he didn't mean to imply I would go to bed with him. 'All I want,' says he, 'is a female companion for the weekend at Tahoe... someone to dance with, gamble with, walk along the beach with.' So I says right back, 'Well, why didn't you say so. Ah... where is it that you plan to stay at Tahoe?' He mentions some cheap cruddy flea-trap motel, and I says 'You'd never catch me dead in that cruddy dump. How about King's Castle. He kinda goes white around the gills and I can see him thinking it's going to cost him thirty bucks a day. Finally he says he'll get reservations. So... the weekend isn't shot anyway." Judi braked suddenly, viciously honked her horn, and swore at a woman who had abruptly switched lanes in front of her. She turned to Grace and asked, "What you doing this weekend, honey?"
"Oh, I plan to wash my hair, write a few letters, and do my laundry. And I thought I'd bake some cookies for Stan."
Judi chewed her gum silently and looked sympathetic. "You heard from him lately? I mean, he's okay and everything? That cruddy Vietnam." She brightened, blinked her eyes, and dimpled as she saw the Cadillac convertible driver in the far right lane staring at them in speculation and open admiration.
Grace seemed unaware that Judi had switched her attention from Stan to the other driver. She felt her eyes misting as she thought again about Stan and what he must be going through over there. Finally she cleared her throat and said, "He's okay. Or at least he was two weeks ago. They were getting ready to go out on patrol and he said he wouldn't be able to write for a while. I haven't had a letter for five days now. Maybe," she crossed her fingers, "there'll be one tonight."
"Gee... I hope so, for your sake. It's bad enough being alone, but when you don't get any letters either, I just don't know how you stand it, honey. Why, I'd be climbing the wall within a week if I didn't have an occasional fella to talk to."
In spite of her sorrow, Grace had to fight back a grin. "Talk to," indeed! Her apartment was right next to Judi's. They shared a common balcony, and it was difficult not to overhear what went on in the next apartment. Not much talking went on when Judi had one of her boy-friends over. A lot of grunting and panting and moaning, maybe, but not much talk.
Grace knew she probably should move out of the apartment complex; to stay there was to imply that Judi's promiscuousness was acceptable. To move, though, was out of the question. The apartment had been Stan's and her only home; true, they had been married less than three months when Stan went overseas, but still it was his bed she slept in, his television she secretly shared with him during the lonely nights, his clothes in the closet. That made it bearable, that made life livable, even during those hot summer nights when the sound of hot sexual love making came from the apartment next door.
Too, Judi was truly her only friend. Grace hadn't been around San Mateo long enough to make friends with other people. Married men she avoided... like the plague! And single men? The ones she knew who were still single were either homosexuals or always on the make. No, thank you; Stan had only nine more months in Vietnam. She'd spend it alone -- maybe having coffee in the mornings and an occasional beer in the later afternoons with Judi. She kept busy, that was the main thing. And best of all, she had her self-respect, her love untarnished, her memories unblemished. Topping it all off was her unexpected promotion to Office Manager of Austin Motor Sales. Not bad for a twenty-three-year-old girl just recently from Butte, Montana. All she needed to make life complete now was Stan to come back to her.
Traffic suddenly lessened at the 280 Interchange, and Judi's Volkswagen picked up speed. Five minutes later, the little bug darted under the carport of the San Mateo Polynesian Gardens apartment complex. Although they were now parked in the shade, the heat was more intense than ever.
Judi slammed the car door and made no effort to pull down her mini-skirt which had slid up to the point where her powder blue bikini panties were plainly visible. She fanned herself with a newspaper and grimaced. "God, it's hot. I'm going for a swim. How about you?"
Grace nodded. The pool would be heavenly. Best of all, the running, screaming kids who usually flocked like wild birds around it during the late afternoons, would all be in having dinner.
Judi disappeared, heading upstairs to her apartment. Grace lost no time in going around front to the column after column of bronze mail boxes shining dully in the sun. The heat was forgotten as the key was inserted. "Please... please!" she silently prayed, "let there be a letter from Stan."
The metal door fell open to reveal three white envelopes hiding in the cubicle. She didn't need to look at the addresses; she knew from the shape of the envelope that all three were from Stan. She hugged them to her breast as though she were protecting gold nuggets and ran upstairs. It seemed to take an eternity to open the door, but then the refreshing wave of coolness rushed out of the apartment and engulfed her. Kicking the door shut behind her, Grace headed for the bedroom, tossing her purse on the couch as she passed. Then, unmindful of her dress, she threw herself across the bed and picked up the first letter. With impatient fingers she ripped open the first envelope and read:
Darling,
Today we returned from patrol and now I have three days to do nothing but think of you. (And do all the paper work that has accumulated, and sit in on a court martial of a kid in the 101st who was caught smoking pot on guard duty, and lecture the men on keeping their weapons clean, and make sure none of my men get caught in off-limits places, and... so on.) But mainly, through it all, I'll think of you.
It was the oddest thing. Last night I called a halt to our activities and we settled down for the evening on the banks of the Mekong. It was horribly hot, the bugs were really chewing away on us, and the humidity was high enough to take a shower in it. The moon came up and then, through the trees, I saw the light dancing on the waters. All of a sudden I wasn't in Vietnam any longer. I was on the banks of the Spence, and you and I were lying there watching the moon come up. Do you remember? That was the night...
It was as though Grace had unexpectedly taken a ride on a flying carpet. Suddenly she was back in Montana. It all came back to her. She wasn't lying on her bed, but on the white sandy banks of the Spence River. The river made soft sucking sounds as it nuzzled the tree roots hanging over the bank. Frogs and crickets croaked and chirped their love songs in the blackness of the night. Overhead, the stars gazed down in approval at Grace and Stan's nude bodies.
Grace had known instinctively that Stan was going to ask her to be intimate that night. She had fought him off long enough, she decided. Now she no longer cared or had the strength to fight. She wanted it as much as he did. And, after all, the marriage was scheduled for the following weekend. They had come so close so many times. There had been nights when they had actually lain completely nude together in the back seat of his father's Chrysler station wagon, their hands and fingers running all over each other's body. She had stroked him to fulfillment several times with her hand curled warmly around his hardened penis, and minded not that his hot impatient love liquid had spurted all over her. Always though, she had resisted any penetration, wanting to save it until their wedding night. Stan wasn't a virgin, and that didn't matter to her. What Stan had done before he met her was his business; what he did after their engagement was announced was all that mattered to her.
Lying there with him that night, their nude bodies rapidly drying in the warm air, Grace knew that tonight she would not resist if he insisted again. She wanted him. She wanted him so badly that she actually hurt inside with a pain that was intractable.
With a low moan, Stan rolled over on his side and propped himself up on his elbow staring at her in the dimness of the Montana night.
"What's wrong?" Grace asked, knowing exactly what was troubling him.
Stan didn't answer for a second, then in reply he merely took her hand and placed it on his erect and throbbing penis.
"That's what is wrong," he said, his voice hoarse with desire.
Beneath her fingers, Grace marveled once again at the feeling of his hardened penis in her hand. There was an awesome power there, a living viable thing that seemed to have a heart and mind of its own. She could feel the hard fleshy ridges of its length, the soft rubbery hardness of its head. Tentatively, her hand enclosed the trunk and she began gentle little movements -- feeling the flesh move but not the instrument itself. It was as though the flesh covered a warm flexible steel rod. Stan moaned with the touch of her hand, then his mouth found hers. Their tongues fought a heated battle for supremacy before he, with a strength and near viciousness that she had never experienced in him before, jammed his tongue half way down her throat. He kept it there, and it seemed to her that his body had tensed as though he were trying to say something to her. He moved closer to her and now she found it difficult to continue the stroking movements because of the proximity of their two bodies.
After a moment, though, Stan seemed to relax somewhat. He pulled his mouth away and began kissing her neck, her shoulders, her ears. Breathlessly, she waited for his mouth to find her breasts. She liked that almost best of all. It was a terribly sensual thing when his lips enclosed her nipples, when his teeth bit into her breast... not painfully, but gently. Tonight, though, for the first time, Stan did not stop at her breasts. His tongue continued its excursion over the virginal flatlands of her abdomen. She was so lost in the wonder of his tongue, the fabulous trail of pure feeling it was leaving behind, that she didn't realize for a moment that he had reached the softly curling strands of her pubic hair.
Abruptly, Grace became aware of his intentions. All of her moral upbringing suddenly was screaming at her. She knew what Stan was about to do; after all, it was mentioned in most of the marriage manuals. And, in spite of the approval voiced in a couple of the books, there were several other authorities who referred to the act as "perverted".
"No, darling... you mustn't," she said, rolling away from him.
"Why not?" he groaned, his voice guttural with desire.
"Because."
"I'd like to do that to you with my tongue... just once."
"No!" She couldn't be more emphatic. She felt his hands on her shoulders, gently pulling her over to face him again. He gazed down at her and she saw the puzzled expression on his face. Wordlessly then, because she didn't want to discuss it, she reached up and pulled his lips down to hers. Again there was that savage kiss... so unlike him... almost brutal in its intensity and force. She felt his hands moving freely over her abdomen, then his finger slipping along her moistened cuntal slit, bringing with it something akin to rapture -- exciting, pleasurable, sensual. Grace splayed out her legs wider, giving him freer access to her now open vagina, and after a moment realized that Stan had put both knees between her wide-spread thighs and was forcing them even further apart. He pulled his mouth away from hers and croaked, "I want to fuck you."
The lewd phrase instead of repelling her only brought additional wanton excitement to her body -- already aflame with desire. And, from what seemed to be a great distance, she heard her own voice responding, "Yes, darling. Do it to me! Fuck me!"
Stan looked in astonishment at her. She had always stopped him before. Then, quickly before she could change her mind, he dropped one hand down between their bodies and guided his hard, throbbing cock toward the fur lined, coral-pink pussy lips.
Grace's eyes widened as she felt, for the first time in her life, the spongy thick head of a male cock beginning to part the fleshy, desire-dampened layers of her love-starved vagina. She could feel the cock throbbing powerfully as it began sensuously stretching the hungrily quivering little outer lips.
She tensed with the first electric contact between his prick and the sensitive edges of her fevered cunt; the sensation was so powerful that she was immediately shocked out of wanton excitement and back to a realization of the awful thing she was permitting him to do. This was detestable weakness on her part. Ever since she had known Stan, she had been firm in her unswerving resolution to retain the priceless gift of her virginity until her marriage night. She didn't care what other girls did or said. It was a gift that could be given to only one man and then one time only. Her entire body stiffened, and she reached up, pushing against his chest. "No, darling," she moaned. "I've changed my mind. I don't want to now."
"Wha... what?" Stan acted as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"Please, darling. No. I want to wait."
Now she could tell that he was really angry. A look of stern determination crossed his face. "You can't do that to me, besides, it's too late," he said, and pushed forward.
Grace groaned and cried out as she felt the first really harsh pressure against the tightly resisting virginal opening between her thighs, the lewd pressure grew and grew, building up to a point where it was almost intolerable.
"No... ooooohhhh, no!" she moaned loudly, trying to twist away from him. Now there was actually pain there. She felt as if someone were ripping apart her thighs, shoving a burning axe handle up into her tiny little vaginal orifice.
"Stop, Stan! You're hurting... me. Oh God, please stop," she wailed.
Stan's eyes were glazed, dimmed with lust. They stared, unfocused, at her. Suddenly, he shoved his hips forward in one vicious jerk; then with a hoarse groan, he fell forward with his powerful hairy chest crushing the softness of her ripe young breasts back into her own. At the same moment that his hips shot forward, the thick hot shaft of his implacably hardened cock slammed into the virginal pussy with all the force of a heavy lance dropped from great heights. The soft warm flesh of her vaginal walls was no match for this barbarous intruder; they were forced to give way before it, and the cock rammed into and ripped through the thin membrane of her hymen as though it were not there at all.
"Aaaaaggghhh," she screamed. She was being gored to death! His cock was stronger, sharper, more brutal than the horn of a maddened bull. Down there she was being ripped apart; she knew he had irreparably injured her... she would never be the same again! And still he continued to grind his way deeper, ever deeper into the previously secret, untouched caverns of her cunt until suddenly, with a loud groan of rapture, his scrotum clanged with all the force of a wrecking ball against the white defenselessly upturned cheeks of her tightly clenched buttocks.
"You're killing meee-eeee!" she shrieked, but Stan acted as if he had suddenly become not only blind but deaf as well.
Deep within the well of her pussy, his cock jerked once... twice.
"Aaaggghh. Don't move, darling! Please don't move!" she whimpered piteously, unable to stop the flow of tears streaming down both sides of her face. Never before in her life had she experienced such pressure, such pain anywhere in her body. She felt almost as if someone had shoved the roughness of a corn cob deep into her vagina. She was positive that he had not only ripped her hymen, but had split her entire vaginal area all the way from pelvis to anus as well. She could feel every rigid little muscle of his throbbing penis pressing, beating against her tortured cuntal walls. His mammoth cock's head seemed so far inside her that she was positive it was past her navel, and must be lodged somewhere up in the area of her breasts.
Stan lay atop her, and she could tell that he was beginning to regain some of his sanity. There was a look almost of despair on his face, as though he realized what he had just done to her. Then he groaned, "I'm sorry."
Grace stifled her sobs. It was now too late to be sorry, she thought unhappily. The deed had been done. It was as much her fault as it was his. She hurt. She hurt worse than she had ever hurt before in her life. And yet, that was part of the game, she supposed, part of the ordeal a woman must go through. She loved him, nonetheless, in spite of what he had done to her, but she had learned something new and hitherto unknown about him -- he could be brutal, selfish.
"I'm sorry, Grace," he repeated, looking down in a mute appeal for forgiveness.
She loved him. She loved him. That was all that mattered. What difference did one or two nights make. She closed her eyes and nodded, then said quietly, "It's all right, darling."
Stan made his prick jerk inside her rapidly two or three times. She bore it submissively, shutting off the tortured nerve endings down there, trying to ignore the pain, wanting happiness, wanting it to feel as beautiful and as wonderful as she had heard it would be.
Slowly, gently now, he began stroking in and out of her. It was painful, but not as much as before. It seemed to take an eternity, but then within seconds she felt his pace increase and his breathing becoming rapid and ragged. She forced herself to grind her pelvis up and to meet his powerful thrusts, falsifying an enthusiasm she did not feel. And abruptly she felt the pressure increase in her already stretched beyond capacity vagina as the mushroom head of his hardened prick ballooned in size. "I'm cumming," he groaned. "Oh, Jesus... I'm cumming."
"Yes darling," she crooned seductively, wanting it to end as soon as possible. "Cum, cum up in me now."
She felt the first hot impatient spurts of his semen wildly spewing out into her womb. Then he collapsed atop her. Moments later, he had lifted his head and asked, "Did you... too?"
She lied and nodded her head. Then, weeping again, put her arms around his chest, pulled his sperm drained body back down against hers, and stared up at the black limbs of the trees gently moving back and forth in the soft night sky...
The memory evaporated and she abruptly became aware, as she gazed down at Stan's letter, that she was crying again. She read the last phrase over and over again, "My body needs yours, just as yours must need mine. Our sex life has been so great, beginning with that first night by the Spence..."
She sat up upright, feeling shame overwhelming her. She had never told him -- never wanted him to know -- but she never, not even once, had come close to achieving a climax. In her mind she knew positively she was one of those women who are frigid, unfeeling. And she knew, with an unshakable certainty that she would never never tell him the truth... that, instead of being "great", sex was strongly abhorrent to her...
CHAPTER TWO
When Grace went down to the swimming pool a few minutes later, Judi was already in the water cavorting with 50 year-old Ricky Karl. She really didn't know how the girl stood him. Although once allegedly a professional basketball player, the man's muscles had long since turned to fat. He was gross, insulting, crude and vulgar, and had an air about him which implied he could buy anyone or anything. As far as Grace was concerned, he was a criminal and should be in jail. It was common knowledge that, among other things, he was one of the area's biggest bookmakers. And it was also common knowledge that he carried a reserve policeman's badge from a nearby city and thus, presumably, was untouchable. He ingratiated himself with the police, giving them gifts of expensive shirts and sweaters taken from one of the warehouses that he rented to a major men's chain store. It was rumoured that he could fix anything, also rumoured that he had staged a burglary of one of his own warehouses in order to collect insurance. He was, in fact, a symbol of everything bad... something diametrically opposed to what Stan was fighting for in Vietnam.
But what Grace hated most about him was his arrogant assumption that all he had to do was crook a finger at a woman, and she would jump into bed with him. Some women, maybe, but not her! She would die first! He had come oozing up to her like some slimy animal in the pool and put his fat arm proprietarily around her shoulders. When she gave him a piece of her mind, he had laughed sardonically and called her, "Miss Frigidaire".
She had struck back the only way she knew, verbally wounding him by saying, "I'm not frigid... it's just that I think you're a fat, dirty old man. You just disgust me and you make my stomach turn."
His face had turned almost black in fury, then abruptly his demeanor changed and he became his oily ingratiating self again. Grace, though, had caught the look on his face. She knew she had made an enemy of him, and at first it had frightened her. Since then he had ignored her, but she could feel his stare burning holes in her back each time she went down to the pool.
Now she saw him look up as she walked down the steps into the water. His hooded eyes moved up and down her figure, locking themselves on the vee of her swim suit panties. He made a parody of licking his lips, then turned his back to her. A moment later he climbed out of the pool, leaned down to Judi and said something, then picked up his towel and waddled across the green toward his penthouse suite.
When he reached the edge of the grass, he was greeted boisterously by two men who had just walked through the portico. Both looked like criminals to Grace. One of them was obviously an ex-jockey, a little man with a sneaky, mean face. The other male was about medium height, pot-bellied, and smoked a long black cigar. He wore rings on three fingers of each hand. On a leash between them, a powerful looking German Shepherd dog sniffed once at Ricky Karl and then dismissed him as being not important.
Grace caught the dog's action and smiled knowingly, "That's just exactly how I feel about him, too, Pup."
Judi swam over to her. "Ricky heard about our office party at Bay Meadows Race Track on Thursday night. He offered to buy all of us a drink. Isn't that sweet of him?"
"He can keep his liquor," Grace answered.
The two girls floated quietly side by side in the water. Judi broke the silence. "What are you going to wear tomorrow night?"
"I really haven't thought about it." If the truth be known, she wasn't too eager to go to the track with the rest of the staff. The management was picking up the tab for admission and meals and drinks, but the entire affair seemed such a waste of time. Grace didn't intend to bet any of her hard-earned money. A more boring evening she couldn't imagine. But, as newly appointed Office Manager, she felt the obligation to attend.
Judi began chattering away about the various merits of the different dresses she had, their effects on men, how women reacted to them (usually jealously), and how much each of them had cost.
Grace listened with only about a quarter of her mind's attention. She day-dreamed, thinking of how nice it would be to suddenly inherit a lot of money from a previously unheard-of uncle or aunt... or win one of the soap company sweepstakes which would pay $50,000 cash or $400 each month for the rest of her life. She could imagine the happy look on Stan's face when he came home and discovered she had purchased a house and furnished it just the way they had always dreamed -- with a nursery and a big formal dining room and an all-electric modern kitchen...
"... and so I told her, 'Well, lady, he's your husband. Why don't you tie a bell around his neck so you'll know where he is?' And she says to me, 'If I catch you again with my husband, I'll...'" Judi continued yapping happily away about her uncomplicated life.
Grace, feeling the buoyancy of the water holding her effortlessly up simply let her body and mind drift. In the house, there would be a bathroom with a sunken tub, a huge fireplace with lots of cushions tossed about so guests could lie on the floor in comfort if they chose. Of course, it's all just a wonderful dream, she thought, but there's no harm in dreaming.
She was too young, too innocent to know yet that some dreams can be treacherous -- especially those where one wants something for nothing, with no effort or will power expended. Dreams like these should be handled carefully -- like a rattlesnake -- and not be cuddled too close to the heart.
CHAPTER THREE
After several years of being one of California's less important race tracks, Bay Meadows finally began to attract horses and bettors of a calibre that moved it up in class until it is today the state's third or fourth track from a standpoint of attendance and daily handle.
Part of this sudden spurt in popularity came with the complete renovation of the club house and stands. The other was the advent of night racing, which permitted daytime workers to blow the week's pay check on the quarter-horses and trotters.
The Turf Club is big, comfortable, and roomy -- except on Saturdays and holidays when it can become a bit crowded. In the evenings, the Turf Club is open to club house patrons. Dinner is served, if one desires, out on the terrace high above the finish line. There is an overall air of luxury and expensiveness that can be, and often times is, contagious.
In spite of her cool calm exterior, Grace could not help but feel a certain growing excitement as she had her second martini of the evening and watched the horses parade to the post in the initial race. The first martini had been ordered for her by Mr. Austin, the big boss. Dubious, because she had never had one before, she cautiously sipped it and, in her aroused state, discovered that it tasted delicious.
"It is now five minutes to post time," the voice over the public address system boomed out.
Judi, who was talking to Bill Hill, the Sales Manager, turned to Grace and asked, "You making a bet on this race?"
Grace shook her head silently.
"Want to split one on number three?"
Grace, biting her lower lip in uncertainty, shook her head again. It would be fun just to bet a dollar. After all, what was a dollar? Still, though, her earlier resolve not to foolishly waste money came back to her.
Judi disappeared toward the sellers' windows with Bill Hill. Doug, another one of the car salesmen came over to the table and asked, "What you betting on this race, Gracie?"
"Nothing."
Doug glanced out toward the tote board. "That number seven looks awfully good at the price. Seven to one; why he shouldn't be more than three to one at the most."
Grace had absolutely no idea of what he was talking about, so remained silent in order not to show her ignorance.
"I think I'll try a fifteen dollar combination," Doug said, then turned back to her. "You sure?"
"Positive."
She was sitting there alone, waiting the return of the rest of the party from the sellers' windows when a tall, distinguished looking man who had been seated at Sam Austin's table came over and smiled down at her. "You're Mrs. Hope," he said smiling.
"Yes?" It wasn't an invitation, but it was non-committal.
"I'm Jim Meloney. Sam was just telling me you're his new Office Manager. I couldn't believe it, you look so young."
Grace dimpled in spite of herself. "Thank you." She paused a second, feeling a bit awkward about his standing there, then asked, "Would you care to sit down for a moment, Mister Meloney?"
"Why, thank you, Mrs. Hope. Yes, if I'm not intruding." He pulled out the chair next to her and seated himself. An expensive cigarette case and lighter was pulled from his pocket. "Do you smoke?"
"No, thank you."
"Do you mind if I do?"
"Not at all." Now, she thought, here is a real gentleman. Sophisticated, rich, dignified, handsome... unobtrusive.
She noticed his hands as he lit the cigarette. Manicured nails, long sensitive fingers, tanned and obviously capable hands... immaculate white French cuffs peering from the sleeves of his navy blue cashmere coat... extraordinarily large wrist watch with two sets of sweep hands. She also noticed the way he peered at her, looking at her as though she were an interesting person -- not like a piece of meat being inspected in a butcher shop.
"You're not only young," he said suddenly, "but I have a feeling you're pretty intelligent as well."
Grace blushed, feeling momentarily a loss of words. Then she replied in light banter, "Thank you, kind sir. But how could you tell if I'm intelligent... or stupid?"
"Well, for one thing, there's a lot of intelligence in your eyes. Another thing -- which furthered my conviction -- was that you're not betting this race. I saw you turn down several offers. Now that's what I call smart. These are a real bunch of dogs. The race is wide open. Anything can win it. Never bet unless it's a lead pipe cinch."
He seemed so knowledgeable! Grace blurted out before she could stop herself. "You seem to know a lot about it. How come?"
The man laughed, obviously delighted with her question. "I can tell you're not a race fan, and I'll bet you don't read the sports pages, either."
She shook her head. "I'm sorry. This is my first time."
"You show even more sense then, in not betting. This isn't a game for amateurs. I ought to know. I own Red Rebel Stables; we're running seventeen horses here at this meet. It took me almost thirty years to learn the game. And even now, I get fooled all the time."
Grace recognized the name "Red Rebel Stables" from an earlier glance at the program. She brightened immediately. "You have a horse in one of the races later this evening?"
He grinned, obviously pleased with her ability to recall the information. "Yes. We've got Red Jewel in the fifth... and the entry in the feature race."
"Oh, well. In that case, I'll make a bet on those two races. Just to wish you luck."
Jim Meloney shook his head. "Now don't make me change my mind about you, young lady. That would be an extremely foolish thing to do."
"But why?" she protested. "Don't you think your horses will win?"
He pursed his lips and shrugged. "I really don't think we have a chance for top money in the fifth. I'll settle for the show or fourth place purse. As for the seventh? It's going to be very close. It's a toss up between one of my horses and six of the others. If I do bet, it'll be only a small amount. I never bet big money unless I'm almost positive."
"Oh." Grace's disappointment showed in her voice. Jim Meloney laughed, a deep booming laughter of pleasure and companionship. "Look, try to find me just before the sixth race. There's a horse in the sixth that may have some possibilities; I'll know better after I see him in the paddock. Find me and I'll tell you."
"Will you? Promise?" She sounded like a little girl.
"I promise." He patted her hand paternally and stood. "May I buy you another drink?"
Grace glanced down at her empty martini glass. She was already feeling the effects of the liquor she had consumed, and it was still an hour or so before they planned to have dinner. She shook her head and said, "No... I think I've had enough for now." Then she added with uncustomary candour, "This is not only my first time at the track, but also the first time for martinis, and the first time I've been out socially without my husband."
He stood there looking down at her with a half-quizzical expression on his face, and Grace thought she had better adjust in case he had misinterpreted her remark, "My husband's in Vietnam."
Immediately he became sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hope. I didn't realize." He patted her hand again, then repeated, "See me about ten minutes before the sixth. I may have something for you."
Bill Hill and Doug arrived back at the table with their arms wrapped around the waist of a giggling, excited Judi. Bill looked toward the retreating figure of Jim Meloney and raised his eyebrows. "Hey... hey! What's he doing? Touting you on one of his horses?"
"Yeah," Doug demanded. "What'd he say about Red Jewel in the fifth?"
Grace paused a second, then feeling quite important, replied, "He thinks Red Jewel may be overmatched in the fifth, and the seventh is a tossup."
"A tossup, eh?" Bill Hill asked thoughtfully. "Sounds to me like he's trying to hide something -- probably wants to keep the odds up. I think I'm going to bet him anyway."
Judi was gazing at Grace in open-mouthed speculation, her eyes wide. "Gee... Jim Meloney! He's yummy, and so rich! Why don't you invite him over to our table, Grace?"
"No." She wasn't quite sure why she refused, but it had something to do with not wanting to appear too forward with him. She liked the man as a person. She felt safe and comfortable with him. She already thought of him as a friend, and some subliminal snobbishness told her that Judi and Bill Hill and Doug were not his type of people.
Judi bore the refusal philosophically and turned her attention to the starting gate where the last of the horses was just entering the stall.
The flag went up, the gates popped open, and the horses suddenly came out as if they had been shot from a cannon. The roar of the crowd built up to a crescendo of thunder and exhortative screams, making it quite impossible to hear the public address system at all. Beside her, Grace heard Judi suddenly groan and fall silent as the horse in front abruptly was overtaken by longer-striding quarter horses. It was all over in less than 20 seconds.
No one at Grace's table had the winner, a big bay gelding by the unlikely name of Meat Wagon Herb, who had gone off at 12 to 1 odds.
And so it went. Grace, against her better judgment had another martini just before dinner was served. Ravenous, she lit into her filet mignon as though she hadn't eaten for weeks. As the time grew closer for the sixth race, she found an almost unbearable tension building up in her body. It was akin to fever, leaving her weak and feeling light-headed. As Jim Meloney had suspected, Red Jewel wasn't quite good enough in the fifth, finishing third in a photo finish. Doug, who hadn't really believed Grace, bet the horse to win and lost another fifteen dollars; he was now down $130 for the evening. Judi had kept her bets at a more conservative level, but still was out $30. Of the eight people at Grace's table, only Bill Hill was ahead, and then just slightly thanks to a lucky long-shot in the third.
The feeling of light-headed excitement continued to mount to a point where Grace's hands were actually trembling when she picked up her purse shortly before the sixth race and walked toward Jim Meloney's private box. He wasn't there, nor was he in the dining room or bar area. Disappointed, she stared around hoping for a glance of him. Then, spirit crushed, and dejected, started back toward her own table. She hadn't taken more than half a dozen steps before she felt her shoulders grasped from behind and heard his voice, "Mrs. Hope. Don't go away."
She turned, a radiant smile of relief on her face. "I was looking for you." She faltered, suddenly unsure of herself. "You did say to find you before this race?"
He turned his head in both directions then gently took her elbow and steered her over to his box. "Right. Number six. Bet it to win. But don't bet more than you can afford to lose."
"But... but you said you never betted unless you were positive," she protested.
He smiled sadly. "Nothing on a race track is ever one hundred percent positive. I've had horses five lengths out in front stumble." The grin came back, along with a wink, "Six is almost positive."
Grace looked out toward the tote boards. The odds on six were eleven to one.
"Don't pay attention to the odds," he said. "I'll be making my bet about thirty seconds before post time. They'll probably drop to around seven to one." He paused, staring at her with what seemed to be fondness and amusement, "Would you like me to place your bet when I put mine down?"
Grace took a deep sigh, then nodded her head. Quickly then, before she could change her mind, she opened her wallet, pulled out two fives, and offered them to him.
Jim glanced down at the money, then his handsome face broke into a wide smile of delight. "That's playing it safe. I knew you were an intelligent woman." He took the money and shoved it into the side pocket of his coat. "Let's see now, your ten dollars and my bet... that makes a total win wager of one thousand and ten dollars."
Grace gasped and choked. "You're betting...?"
"One thousand."
She sat down weakly on one of the padded chairs in his box. "Oh, my," she managed to say.
Jim Meloney patted her hand again. "You sit here until I come back. We'll watch the race together and both pull for our horse." He disappeared.
She sat there, waiting for him, and actually shivering from excitement. A thousand dollars! She couldn't believe it. A thousand dollars on one horse! And he seemed so confident, so sure of himself... as if he had talked to the horse himself. Then, one by one, the horses began going in the gate. She began glancing frantically around for him, not wanting him to miss the race.
"The flag is up," the public address system announced as the last horse was locked in the stall.
Again the crowd screamed when the gates opened and the horses thundered out. She felt, rather than saw, Jim Meloney at her side. Their horse had broken alertly, but was no match for the blazing early speed of a gray which had immediately drawn out to almost a length lead. She found herself screaming exhortations at their horse and jumping up and down. Fifty yards from the finish line their horse and a big black on the outside both began overtaking the gray. She reached out, without volition, and grasped Jim Meloney's hand in excitement, digging her sharp fingernails painfully into his palms. Ten yards away from the finish line, the three horses were neck and neck; it looked as if the gray were getting a second wind. Then, just as the three horses flashed across the wire, Grace saw number six put his head out in front. She was screaming and jumping up and down like a school girl. Nothing in her life had ever exceeded this moment in pure excitement. "We win... we win," she yelled, and then impulsively threw her arms around Jim Meloney and kissed him.
The touch of his lips on hers brought her back to earth immediately. She blushed a deep red, then began blurting an apology...
"Sorry!" Jim Meloney asked, staring down at her face. "What's there to be sorry about genuine emotion... excitement, fear, love?" His eyes sparkled. "We got a better price than I thought we would," he said, nodding toward the tote board. "I saw Charlie Webster and Pete Grossman both plunking down some big bills on the four horses. So, it looks like you're going to get... ah... oh, lets say, about ninety five dollars or so."
Grace sat down stunned. She couldn't believe it. A profit of $85 in less than half a minute. She was forced to believe it, though, a few minutes later when Jim handed over $96.20 in payoff for her ten dollar bet.
Jim ordered drinks for them both, then laughed delightedly and seemed pleased when she insisted on paying for them. "That's the first time a woman has bought me a drink in a long time."
He insisted she stay seated in his box for a while longer, and Grace complied, trying to hide her eagerness. She liked it up here -- seated up here like a Goddess looking down at the swirling herd of little humanity. Finally, though, she felt she had outstayed her welcome and made preparations for leaving. He put his hand over her thigh and pressed down in a commanding manner. "Stay here," he ordered, then softened it by saying, "Please? Wait until after this feature race. If one of my horses does come in, I'll want you to go down to the winner's circle with me and be photographed accepting the flowers."
Grace sat there, feeling more like a queen now, and waited impatiently for the race. It came and went in a flash of colour, and Jim shook his head in utter bewilderment as his entry finished first and second. "And I didn't have a cent on them," he groaned to friends in the box next to them. Then he was escorting Grace downstairs, across the paddock area, and up the tanbark to the winner's circle. Everything was happening too rapidly for her -- the rush to the winner's circle, the smell of the horse, its panting breath, the shouted congratulations, the awarding of the flowers and trophy -- both of which were given to her, the flash bulbs as photographs were taken. It was a moment of glory, all too soon over.
Upstairs again in Jim Meloney's box there were half a dozen buckets of champagne being iced. He grinned. "An old custom of mine for the newspaper handicappers and the adjacent boxes." The first of his guests were already wandering over; the news had gotten around that he hadn't backed either of his horses. It was a joke, one that both they and he appreciated.
Grace was introduced as "my gracious hostess, Mrs. Hope. Her husband is a sergeant in Vietnam." She found herself meeting several people whose names she recognized from the Society Pages of the San Francisco Chronicle. She poured, she made polite conversation... and she drank toast after toast.
Three minutes before the last race of the evening, Jim came over and whispered in her ear. "Would you like to try another race? I have reason to believe that number five is a shoo-in."
Suddenly the intense fevered excitement hit her again. It was so strong that she found it difficult to breathe. "How much shall I bet?" she asked, and was surprised at the hoarseness of her voice.
"Well, I believe in betting with the track's money," he said quietly. "Why don't you parlay what you've won. That way, if you lose, you still haven't lost any of your own cash."
Grace was really reluctant to let that much money go. She already had mentally deposited it in the bank. Then, shrugging and not wanting to diminish this feeling of excitement, she nodded. She could trust him. Carefully she counted out $96 and handed it over.
"I'm still winner by twenty cents," she said defiantly.
Jim's laughter was contagious; she found herself giggling. She also found herself feeling proud at his words of praise, "That's a girl." Also, she was strangely comforted by his partnership pat on her shoulder.
It wasn't until Jim had disappeared that she peered and squinted at the tote board which seemed to be going in and out of focus. She couldn't even read the odds on their horse.
The effects of the excitement and the alcohol had made her so light-headed that she was forced to sit down. Grace wasn't even aware that the horses had entered the gate, and only stood up when she heard the roar of the crowd. There was the blurry mass of horse flesh and human riders hurtling down the brown dirt track, coming closer -- ever closer -- until the colourful avalanche flashed by.
She didn't have the slightest idea of who had won.
The conclusion of the final race of the day generally is a depressing time, for it is then that the great masses feel the sudden let down and are forced to go home knowing that the last chance to recoup or make the big killing has evaporated. So it was that Grace sensed the difference in the crowd and felt a beginning of depression. She was weary -- and knew that she was more than a little drunk. The pay-off prices flashed on the totalizator board, and she heard the "oohs" and "ahhs" and groans as the second-guessers saw what they could have earned if they had followed the form or their hunches.
The boxes around her had emptied quickly and now she sat quite alone, weaving a bit in her chair as the cleanup crews began rattling dishes and cans and banging folding tables together. A water truck, spewing rain behind it, raced along the dirt track below her. Dully she wondered, what had happened to Jim, then as she squinted down the aisleway, she saw what appeared to be his figure striding toward her with a big smile on his handsome face.
Whatever depression she had felt before disappeared when he handed her some money. She looked down and immediately sobered a bit when she saw the top bill was a hundred dollar note. She blinked. "I don't understand," she blurted out.
"We won. Not a bad payoff either. Twelve eighty... more than I thought we'd get."
"How... how much did... I win?"
Jim grinned. "I just gave you six hundred and fourteen dollars. I owe you another forty cents, but I thought I'd keep the dimes in case I need to telephone you."
She blinked owlishly at the money again, then felt an overwhelming gratitude. "Oh... Jim. How can I ever thank you." He was such a good friend! And such a gentleman! She looked up at him, weaved a bit, and he was forced to put out his hand to steady her. She saw him looking down in concern and amusement.
"I think," he said slowly, "that I had better get some coffee into you."
Immediately she became contrite. "I'm sorry... it's just that I'm not used to..."
"I know. Come on."
"But... but I came with friends."
"I've already told them we're going to get a nightcap and coffee. I'll see that you get home safely."
"All right." She trusted him. She wouldn't have ridden alone with Bill Hill or Doug in her present condition; they were uncouth, not to be trusted, not gentlemen.
She staggered slightly as they were entering the elevator, and Jim put his arm around her waist to steady her again. She could feel the warmth of his powerful right hand resting on her hip, could feel each of his sure fingers pressing gently above and below the hip bone. Somewhere in the distant recesses of her alcohol-fogged mind an alarm bell clanged, but it was so muted that she wasn't sure what it was for. After all, Jim could be trusted. She was completely safe with him.
Had Grace been more alert, she would have noticed the look in Jim Meloney's eyes as he gazed down at her proud, upthrust young breasts so enticingly outlined under the thin nylon yellow and black print dress. She would have realized that his hand on her hip was making subtle little circular motions -- barely perceptible... possessive. And under normal circumstances she would have noticed the change in his demeanor as heated desire overcame the fragile barriers of a superficial chivalry.
Looking down at her, Jim Meloney felt his groin tightening. Without touching her, without doing anything but watching her young vibrant body, he had already begun to get an erection. She would have to be handled carefully, he thought. No fast moves... nothing to alarm her. He knew instinctively, that there had been no one other than her husband since her marriage... and probably few, if any, men before her husband. She was practically a virgin, but there were certain little things she did -- the way she moved and talked and thought -- that led him to believe there was a wild untapped streak of wantonness in her body that even she was not aware of. He vowed to unveil that streak. Maybe not tonight... or tomorrow... or next week... but soon. He had absolutely no doubt that given time he would have her naked young body moaning in sexual delirium beneath him.
Outside, the heat of the night hit her and Grace became even more drowsy. She wasn't aware that the valet parking attendant had opened the door of a Cadillac convertible for her. She slid in, not knowing or caring that her mini skirt had slid up past the top of her hose and that her rich creamy bare thighs were there for all to see.
Jim saw it, though, and his power and importance was such that the parking lot attendant immediately averted his eyes from this luscious sight, staring off in the distance.
Grace had the sensation of driving, of being extremely comfortable in the deep leather cushions of the car, and finally of going up a set of stairs with Jim's arm around her waist again.
A half-fleeting moment of complete awareness came to her and she realized she was in a room -- a smartly decorated, obviously expensive and masculine study. She was lying full length on a long maroon leather couch in front of an unlighted fireplace. Grace sat up quickly, swaying and attempting to focus her eyes, her heart pounding in alarm. Then she saw Jim coming across the room, carrying what appeared to be a coffee pot.
"Jim," she gasped. "Where are we?"
"My study," he glanced at her quizzically. "Don't you remember? You wanted to come here for coffee rather than go to a crowded restaurant."
His face and the room were rapidly going out of focus again and she was having a terrible time keeping upright. "I... I... think I had better go... home now," she said, struggling to regain her feet, but succeeding only in falling backward on the couch.
Jim laughed and called out, "Whoa, there. Steady, girl. Come on... get this coffee down and I'll take you home. Come on," he coaxed, "try to drink a little of it."
"You promise... promise to take me home?"
"I promise to take you home just as soon as you ask to go." He watched her carefully in an effort to see how she took the remark, and was relieved when she nodded her head.
"That's a good girl," he said soothingly, as though he were trying to steady a nervous horse. He sat down and put his left arm around her shoulders, supporting her swaying figure in an upright position. He felt the incredibly supple warmth of her upper arm. "Here, try sipping a little of this." He held the steaming cup near her mouth until Grace had taken four or five swallows, then he permitted her to fall back onto the couch again. As she slowly slipped sideways the mini-skirt hiked all the way, almost as if it were pulled by venetian blind cords. He saw her lovely pouting young vaginal mound through the near-transparent yellow and black lace edged bikini panties. She had put the panties on over her black garter belt and this made him smile even more; it was this -- more than anything else -- that prompted his final decision to fuck her tonight. Until that very moment he had been prepared to let it go one way or the other. Now, though, knowing there was easy access to her starved little cunt and not a lot of undressing and fumbling to do, he could wait no longer to possess entirely this young, almost virginal bride.
Jim bent down and lifted her limp, nylon clad legs onto the couch, then pushed a pillow beneath her head. She smiled sleepily without opening her eyes. Next he went over to the stereo set and put on a softly seductive record. Then he padded upstairs and removed all of his clothes, putting on an expensive silk lounging robe which came just to mid-thigh and was fastened in front by a silken cord. He brushed his teeth and sprinkled some after shave lotion on his face before heading back downstairs to the study.
Grace was sound asleep, lying flat on her back with left leg slightly cocked at the knee. Jim could plainly see the shadow of her vaginal crevice and the full ripe mound of warm creamy flesh that denoted the beginnings of her deliciously proportioned buttocks. Softly curling strands of her pubic hair peeked out from under the elastic legbands of her panties. It was all he could do to keep from spreading her legs wide and savagely tearing into the young, almost naked cunt lying helplessly there before him. Only by exerting an inordinate amount of self-control was he able to be gentle with her.
Grace was not aware of it when he eased her shoes off her feet and teased soft wet kisses along the bottom of her foot and up the back of her calf. Nor did she realize what Jim was doing when she felt her hips being raised. She never felt her scanty little nylon panties being pulled down over the smoothly rounded curves of her hips and slid down her legs.
Slowly, the heavily breathing man spread her thighs apart, bending and raising the right knee until it pressed against the back of the leather couch. The left leg he simply let trail on the floor.
Then, with quickening breath, he knelt between her ankles and stared with lascivious eyes at her soft black pubic hair and the wide, coral pink lips of her now completely open and defenseless young pussy. It seemed as if they were a magnet pulling his face toward them. Her cunt called out, begged to be touched, to be kissed, to be eaten like the most succulent forbidden fruit from the Garden of Eden. The hardness of his throbbing prick rubbed against the silk of his lounging pajamas and made his balls ache. He had never felt more alive than he did at this moment. He could feel the cool leather on his knees and the warmth of her inner thighs on the palms of his hands as he pushed them even further apart.
It was not until her smoothly tapered young legs were completely widespread that Grace began to regain some semblance of consciousness, and even then she was incapable of evaluating completely what was happening to her. She knew her naked buttocks were on cool leather, that her legs were spread wide apart, that warm hands were stroking the insides of her thighs. Everything considered, it felt good.
Jim Meloney sensed that she had snapped out of her stupor momentarily. He waited for some protest, then felt her momentarily stiffened legs relax and fall limply open again. He grinned and licked his lips; she either knew or she didn't know what he was about to do. Either way, she was permitting him to go ahead.
Quickly then, he slithered forward until his face was just above the soft, wetly glistening little slit between her thighs. Never before had he seen such a mouth-watering cunt; the vaginal lips were perfect, looking almost as if they belonged on a young teenage girl instead of a married woman. Her pubic hair was more like silken sable and the tiny, sparsely used cuntal mouth was small, delicate... timid.
Slowly, as though he were savouring every second, he lowered his face... and his tongue like a red shinning penis of a dog crept out between his teeth.
He licked once... slowly and gently his tongue moved from clitoris to anus... and was rewarded with an almost inaudible moan. His tongue retraced the wetly teasing path it had just taken, and this time he felt the tendons of her inner thighs tighten and her entire pelvis slowly rise upward toward his face. Unconscious or not, her vagina was responding for he tasted the first slightly saline secretions of her feminine musk as her pussy of its own volition prepared itself for love making by seeping out its warm, slickly welcoming lubricant.
Grace was dreaming. Stan was making beautiful love to her. It felt wonderful, whereas always before it had been distasteful. In her dream she was responding, fervently!
And abruptly, she was in full command of her senses. She struggled to sit up, but found herself pinned to the couch. What was happening to her? Why was she naked from the waist down? Who? What? She finally raised her head and saw the top of a man's head down between her open thighs. "No," she screamed. "You mustn't."
Meloney, instead of answering, drove his tongue full length into the sweet warm depths of her pussy for the first time and used his nose to titillate her tiny, unconsciously pulsating clitoris.
"Aaagghh. No, oh, God, no!"
The man heard her terrified yelp and knew now that he must not stop until she was so aroused she could not help herself. It was now or never. She wouldn't let him near her in the future if he stopped now, but if he continued and she liked it? Who could tell. So thinking, he tightened his arms wrapped about her thighs and buried his rapacious tongue even deeper into the quivering, heated pussy lips between her open legs.
Fear and repugnance were battling each other for supremacy in Grace's mind. Instead of a sweet dream, this was some nightmare too horrible to comprehend. And still, though, the earlier pleasure of that dream was not to be denied. Her nerve endings down there were being serenaded by that velvet tongue that licked, sucked, and caressed all at the same time. It was hateful, outrageous, horrible... beautiful.
"No... no," she whimpered, flinging her arm up against her forehead and clenching her eyes shut as if this would make everything go away, "Stop! Oh God... Please stop!"
It was only then that the man looked up and she gasped as she saw the familiar face. "Jim," she cried. "Don't! Please stop. Let me up... please."
His own reply was, without taking his eyes from her face -- a hard tongue thrust against her clitoris.
"Oh, Jim," she squealed. "Please don't. You can't do that! It's a horrible thing!"
His tongue traced a zig-zag pattern down through her pubic curls from clitoris to anus again, then came back and speared into the seeping hole of her tiny, tightly clenched cuntal opening. Seven -- eight times in rapid succession he flicked his tongue in and out between inner and outer lips of her pussy, tongue-fucking her in earnest now.
Grace began moaning piteously as she felt powerful sensations overriding all other emotions and body functions. "Oh, Jim... Jim! Pluuuu-eeez! My husband has never even done that to me. Jim? JIM!" The last was a shout as his teeth clamped the sensitive almond bud of her clitoris and began nibbling gently. "Oh, God!" she gasped, then fell back against the couch, weakened by the intense feeling and sudden uncontrollable hunger down between her helplessly trembling legs. She made one last protest, "Don't. My husband! That's dirty... perverted."
Jim looked up, his face shining with his own saliva and her excitedly flowing cuntal juices. "Stop fighting it, Grace. You know and I know that you're enjoying what I'm doing to your wonderful pussy."
"Please... don't talk like that to me," she moaned. "I'm married and I love my husband."
"So?" He lowered his chin and ran his hot hard tongue along one side of her outer layer of vulva, watching her as he did so. Her face grimaced, not in disgust, but in what was obviously a fight for self-control.
She was his now. His to do what he wanted to. She might think she was still capable of fighting, but her pussy was in command of her body now, and it was going to betray her for thirty silvery licks.
Satisfied, he let his eyes feast hungrily on the now fully blossomed lips which had grown in size and colour since he began his ministrations. There was life in those lips, and no masterpiece in any museum could ever compare with the picture before him -- framed so delicately with incredibly soft, raven black pubic curls. One single drop of her seeping pussy juice clung like a small translucent pearl to the little curls of black hair. The entire cuntal area looked like the corolla of some ruby-coloured flower and, in the middle where the stamen ordinarily would be, there was the sacred little opening to her womb. Even as he watched, it puckered and unpuckered in sensual excitement, looking like the mouth of a feeding fish.
"Look down at me, Grace," he commanded, and there was something in his voice that made her lift her head. She watched petrified and stiff, as he placed his thumbs on her vaginal opening and peeled her softly yielding pussy lips apart as though it were sections of some succulent tropical fruit being separated; the soft curls of her pubic hairs gave way, exposing the flaming beauty of her vertical little cuntal mouth to his lust dimmed gaze. She moaned in shame as he breathed against the sensitive lips; the expelled hot air from his throat grazed raw nerves down there and her entire body reacted as she heard his accompanying lewd, lascivious statement, "I'm going to eat your pussy, Grace. I'm going to tongue-fuck you and, if you're telling the truth about no one ever having done this for you, then you're in for a beautiful surprise."
She saw his face drop... and his tongue come out to wetly probe her guilt-quivering vagina. That was the last thing she saw. With this hot, wet contact between tongue and cunt, she simply was forced to let everything go. Her body responded automatically, jerking convulsively, as she ground her hips into the leather couch in an effort to escape his long worming tongue that wiggled like a sidewinder up one side of her cunt and down the other. A groan bubbled out of her throat, "Ohhhh... my God! Jim... please... don't..." The rapacious licking continued in and upon her defenseless vagina and she felt her stomach muscles rippling like wind on the water. She began wailing in animal-like passion as his tongue scoured her inner thighs and made one hot swipe around her clitoris before snaking rapier-like in and out of her now completely helplessly cringing pussy. "Oh. Oh... Jim, dear God... stop... please."
Jim shook his head negatively and raced his tongue faster up the dilated hole between her open thighs. He used his nose to tease against the hotly throbbing little clitoris repeatedly and each nudge brought a low gasp from the helplessly immured girl.
She raised her head up to look down over her breasts and this time her mind was clear enough to see everything. She saw his bobbing head framed between her sleek widespread nylon-clad knees. Her black and yellow floral printed dress was bunched up above her hips and she could even see tiny red lace roses on the black lacey garter belt holding up her sheer hosiery. Black against white on her thighs, Jim's grayish brown hair and tanned face bobbing up and down against the black of her naked pubic hair!
She watched his assault with a feeling of horror, her mind in a maelstrom of repulsion, shame, and unwanted desire. Above all, was a realization that burned with a napalm intensity in her tortured mind: This is no dream... this is really happening to me. Oh, God! Dear Stan... I love you... forgive me... forgive... me... for... The unwanted jolts of forbidden pleasure and little zephyrs of pure wantonness vilely pervaded her entire being now as Jim's powerful hands released her thighs and slipped under her buttocks, cupping and squeezing the soft, yet firm warm flesh of the hotly trembling cheeks. His tongue and mouth continued to grind further and further into the valley of her squirming defenseless cunt. Without volition, she dug her shoulders into the couch, sucked in her stomach muscles and raised her pelvis, making Jim's head bury itself even deeper. Debased sucking and slurping sounds of his labours echoed throughout the study. His hands pulled apart the crevice between her buttocks, and then one adventuresome finger began exploring the opening to her tiny puckered little rectum. The feel of that finger there caused Grace to clench her eyes tightly shut and ball her hands into fists.
Now she thought of Stan and the one or two times he had tried to make love to her this way, and the coldness of her refusal -- especially that night on the banks of the Spence. Why hadn't she suspected this bliss her body was capable of. After all, she had always liked to be fondled and caressed, loved the touch of Stan's mouth on her breasts and neck and shoulder. It was only the sex act itself that was so abhorrent. If only she had permitted Stan to do this to her. If only she had known the exquisite pleasure in store for her!
Grace began moaning low in her throat, obvious sounds of pleasure. The vision of Stan was fading as she began to let herself feel everything... oh, if she had only known the inherent wantonness of her own body, she never would have had the first drink unless Stan had been beside her to protect her... from herself! But... instead, her mouth opened wide...
"Oooooooh God! God I can't stand it!"
Jim heard her sharp gasp of delight as his hands kneaded the soft globes of her pliantly yielding buttocks; the sound caused a surge of new lust in his already over-aroused body, and he drew her limply co-operating legs up and around his neck. Moments later, he had the satisfaction of knowing that she had voluntarily locked her ankles together behind his head in consent and cooperation. He continued to fuck her orally, using his tongue to run lewd sensuous circles around her fully erect little clitoris, nuzzling his nose back and forth as he darted his throbbing tongue deep into her pulsating pussy, feeling the soft, hair rimmed lips push against his mouth with increasing strength as her body spasmed and writhed upward in a now hungry effort to bring more and more of his mouth into contact with the wetly glist
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