"Lawfully wedded nymph" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hotey Don K.)

CHAPTER TWO

I waited in the shadows, standing off the roadway, building my courage. Every once in a while, a car swept around the curve, and the headlights flashed across my body la a sudden splash of light. Then darkness again. I shuddered, even though it was a warm night Sweat coated my back, and made my dress stick to my flesh. For a moment I wished that I had taken tlie time to put the rest of my clothing on. All I was wearing was my dress. But I'd been in a hurry to get out «f Adam's room while he was sleeping. I had to get away. An image flashed in my mind: I remembered how he looked, sleeping contentedly, like some bronzed god, naked under the sheets. And snoring loudly, just as Peter, my husband, snored after sex. I pushed the memory from my brain. Another car pulled around the curve of the road, and I stepped towards it. Before I got any closer to the highway, the car was past, leaving behind the smelly wake of gasoline fumes in the warm night air. I looked at my wristwatch. It was ten minutes after two. Above, beyond the blinding haze of the highway, I could see one or two stars. They seemed to be winking down at me. Laughing, almost. I heard the car before I saw its light, and I 35 tensed at the sound. This was foolish, foolish, I thought. I stepped closer to the road, hoping the driver of the car would see me. I felt strangely conspicuous, like an actor on a stage, and I wondered briefly whether I should stick out my thumb or leg to draw his attention. I did neither, and simply stood there, with my hands at my side, sweating and naked under my thin dress. I'm too old for this, I thought. Too old. The blazing headlights swept around the bend in the roadway and burned across my body. I shrank back despite my intentions, feeling something like an escaping convict making his first prison break. The white light of the car made my flesh look colorless, and drained the life out of the road and grass around me. I couldn't see the car in the bright cloud of light, and I squinted into it, like a blind woman. The car drove past me, then stopped, pulling its right front wheel off the lip of the road and onto the grass shoulder. I stared at the warm, hulking shadow of the car with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I didn't want to go through with it, but I had no choice. I could never go home again, I knew that. Perhaps I had learned nothing else in that shattering moment of orgasm with Adam, but I learned that I could never, never go home again. I walked slowly towards the car. Then I began to run. The right side door swung silently open, like a huge mouth sucking in the night air. There was a boy in the front seat of the car, the only passenger, and he smiled at me. He looked small and slight, with long blond hair, tee shirt, jeans and work shoes. There was the fine pale stubble of an attempted beard on his face, and it gave his face aa

innocent, almost immature qualify, I guessed he could not have been more than twenty or twenty-one years old. I stood mtrfe in the doorway, holding my naked arms, feeling foolish and frightened. The boy continued to smile at me, but I didn't feel reassured. "Hello," he said, bending his pleasant smile into his voice. "Can I help you?" "I … uh … I'd like a ride." "Sure," he said. There was a lilting Southern music in his voice. "Climb right in." I hesitated, then did as he suggested. I felt very small in the front seat of the car. And very much alone. I sat huddled over in the corner, away from him. The plastic coolness of the seat under my naked legs made me shudder. He looked at me and laughted softly. "The door . . ." I stared at him as though he were speaking some foreign tongue. "What . . . Oh! The door." I reached to pull the side door closed, but he beat me to it. I felt him lean across me, brushing my body lightly, and his fingers closed on mine around the door handle. He pulled the door suddenly, and it slammed shut The loud sound made me jump. The smell of his body filled the front seat with the light, not unpleasant fragrance of masculine sweat The car pulled back onto the road with a silent, unseen surge of power, and I was pressed back into the seat. My head was spinning, and I felt anxiety throbbing in my blood. Yet I knew I had no choice in what I was doing. I could not live with Peter again after I knew . . . what I knew about myself.

"My name is French," he said, staring out at the road, "French Crandell. What's your name?" I stared at the darkness of the road. Lights flashed and night swept by us at a frightening pace. I could no longer see the stars. "What?" I said, realizing he had spoken. "My name is French," he repeated. "French Crandell. Since we're gonna be riding together for a while, I just thought I'd ask you ya name. Ya don't hafta tell me." "No," I said, softly. "That's all right. I don't mind. My name is Sally. Sally Bryant." Tm pleased to know ya, Sally," he said. "Where ya headed for?" I stared at the blank, empty road stretched out before me. Where was it taking me? Where would it lead me? Where? "I-I don't know," I said. "Really, I don't I just know I have to go … get away. Somewhere. Maybe anywhere. I just don't know." French was quiet for a while. I could hear the sounds of the night sucking past the dark windows of the car. We cut into the night, like a knife cuts into flesh, and I could hear the cry of the wound bleeding over the rushing car. "Well, I'm gonna Washington," French finally said. "Dee Gee. You wanna go there? There's gonna be a three-day rock festival, if it comes off. You wanna go there?" I thought about that for a while. "I've never been to a … rock festival. What's it like?" "It's pretty good. Lots a good music, good people. Lots a good vibrations. People love each other.

People are nice to each other. Sharin', you know what I mean?" I turned and looked at him. His profile was to me, and his face seemed so clean and new and innocent. His eyes were deep blue and his long fine blond hair fluttered in the breeze of the open window, like soft silk. "Are people happy there?" I asked. "Happy?" He repeated the word as if he didn't understand what I was talking about. "Yeah, I guess so. As happy as anywhere else. Maybe happier than most." I felt relieved, as though some unseen heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. "Yes," I said, staring out at the road of the highway. It seemed to stretch out to infinity. Maybe over the next hill, I thought Maybe over the very next hill! 'Well?" French asked. He turned his head for a split second and looked at me. "Do-ya wanna go?" "All right. I don't know where else to go." We drove on through the night, eating into it with long monotonous hours. For a while French put on the radio, thea turned it off after another while. I slept, woke, and then we talked together, about general things. French was a pleasant conversationalist, and I found myself opening to him, confiding in him as I never have in my life. He listened well, and he was a stranger. That helped. That helped a very great deal. "Sally," French asked, breaking into one of the longer silences. "Kin I ask you somethin'?" I was feeling relaxed and happy. I leaned my head back against the soft cushion of the seat. My hair dripped down like pale white water.

"Sure. What is it?" "It seems to me that you're a … little older than most hitchhikers. Not that yer old or anything." I laughed. "I am. I'm twenty-eight. And right now that feels very old to me." He thought about it for a moment. "You're married, ain't yaP" Something cold and very sad touched me in the night. I thought of Peter. I said: "Yes, I am. You're very perceptive." French turned and stared at me, perhaps a little longer than he should have, for when he returned his eyes to the road, I felt the car bank suddenly to the right as he negotiated a sharp correction. Then the car sped on, straight and steadily, as though the sudden swerve had been an emotional reaction of surprise. "How come?" he asked simply. I knew I didn't have to answer, but I wanted to. I wanted to speak it, say the words, get it all out from inside of me so that I could examine it as well. I was reacting, I knew, but it was time to find out exactly what it was I was reacting against. It was time for the truth. I told him about Adam. In detail, including the part about the three orgasms. "It was my first affair," I repeated, as if the words meant something. "In eight years of being married . . . and it was my first affair." French shook his head. For the first time in the night, he seemed at a loss for words. "That's really . . . somethin'," he said. "Somethin'." I thought about it. I said: "It was. It really was … something."

French took his hand from the steering wheel and rubbed his chin. "But what happened, Sally? I mean, what happened to make you change? So sudden-like?" The coldness of memory touched me, and I shuddered again. "When I was coming," I said, remembering, "the third time, I felt something. A change. Like my body was changing. Like a door was opening in my brain." "And . . . r "I felt myself change. I looked through that door, at myself, at my husband, Peter, and I saw that I was unhappy. I had everything . . . but it didn't mean anything." I looked at French, but he was staring at the road, "I felt suddenly trapped . . . dissatisfied with life. I had to get away . . . Don't you see?" He rubbed his chin again. "I guess so. Everybody feels like that sometimes. Like you just gotta go … break out. Git out. It's not so unusual." "It is for mel" I insisted. "I mean, rny God-I'm middle-classed . . . Really, middle-classed. I have a husband, a home. A car. Everything. It's so strange … so frightening." "The Age of Anxiety," French said. "Like the Age of Enlightenment or the Romantic Age, this is the Age of Anxiety. No doubt about it." I talked on, covering over bis words. "I knew I couldn't go home again … to Peter, to the house. It was all so … meaningless. So empty. I had to run … to escape." French cut in. "I know . . . filled with a restless urge to move, to wander. To seek new horizons, new experiences-"

"Yes, yesf Then, when I realized he was poking fun at me, I lapsed into silence. I thought for a few moments, then spoke on, with less animation. "That was it … what you said, regardless of what you think of it. That was it." French coughed. "I wasn't makin fun of you. Not really. I'm sorry." I didn't need his sympathy, nor his apologies. I searched for words to match my feelings. I reached out, blindly. "It was almost as if … I was looking for something." "What do you think you was lookin for?" I brushed my hair away from my face, as if I were brushing cobwebs from my brain. "I … I don't know. Escape, maybe. Happiness? I don't know." French snorted. "Happiness?" "Why not?" I said, defensively. "Life should be happy, shouldn't it? I mean, I'm twenty-eight. Twenty-eight! All my life . . . everything, everything has been meaningless. Life should be more than that Life should be happy." "Why?" French asked. "Who says it should? Television? The Constitution?" I ignored him again. My brain was racing, like the dark, starless sky that was gushing past our dart-Mke car. "It's funny," I said, but it wasn't really funny. It was sad. "I can hardly remember what Peter looks like, do you know that? After eight years of marriage, and I can hardly remember what my husband looks like." "Maybe you never really looked at him," French suggested. I tried to think about Peter, but memories of 42 Adam kept getting in the way. My mind kept confusing the two. I kept remembering Adam in bed with me, naked, and snoring like Peter. More than anything else, I thought, that must mean something. I mean, not remembering . . . "Do you think he'll miss you?" French asked, cutting into my thoughts. "Who?" I asked. "Peter . . . your husband. Do you think hell be worried?" I shrugged my shoulders. *7 suppose so. For a while. But he has his job." "What about kids? Do you have any?" I tried to remember. "No. No children." "A nice clean break," he said. "Yes, that's it." I stared at French, but he stared at the road. "That's it. A nice clean break. No call to Peter, no notes of explanation. I had no argument with him. Just leave. Period." "Because you're not happy-* "I took nothing with me," I continued, justifying it for myself. "Nothing from the past but the clothing I was wearing. Just this dress." French gave me a funny look. "I had to go," I said, softly, softly. *1 have to find . . . something before it's too late. Too kte for me. Do you understand?" French snorted again. "And you saw all this in a flash. In the split-second of orgasm. Right?" I nodded. "Yes. I saw it. Just a glimpse. But it was there." French shook his head. The typical American syndrome: a life filled with material things . . . Things and none of it means a goddam thing. Not

one fucldn thing. All your dreams come true, and you're still not happy." I felt my cheeks color. "You must think I'm s. fool, going on like this. Well, I'm not … I just wanted to get it out . . . Say it before I lost the perspective. Before I couldn't recognize it for what it was. I'm sorry if I bored you, French." He shook his head. "Hell, Sally, you didn't bore me-" Then you must think I'm crazy." "Not that either." I looked across at him. "What then, French?" "I think it's all kinda . . . sad." We fell into another silence, and I could feel the heavy oppressiveness weighing over the air like a cloud of humidity. I attempted to lighten the mood, "French," I said. "What kind of name is that- French?" He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't rightly know. All I know is my Mama liked it, so she named me it. French. French Grandall. God, if you knew how many fights I had because of that name . . ." "That's a nice name. I like it." "Well, don't go namin you kids it, cauz-" "No, I don't think I'll be doing that , . . Naming my children, I mean." French flashed a look at me. "Jeez, Sally, I'm sorry. I didn't think . . ." "Forget it," I said, with a wave of my hand. "And thanks, by the way." He looked at me again. "For what?" "Letting me talk." He nodded. He said: "You might as well be gettin some sleep, Sally. We gotta long way to go yet."

I I decided it was a good idea, and I curled up on the front seat, leaning against the door, closing my eyes. I was suddenly very tired, I realized. Very, very tired. And like a dark cloak, sleep came down over me. The car was no longer moving when I woke. There was darkness all around us. Even the dash was unlit. I woke with a start, frightened, disoriented. French was pushed into the far corner of the front seat. He was sleeping soundly. Panic made me sweat, and for a moment I was afraid to move. "French …" I whispered. Then louder and louder, until I was shouting. "French!" He woke with a start. "Huh? What is it?" I moved towards him, across the seat. "Hold me, please. I'm frightened, French. Hold me, please." His arms opened, and he pulled me toward him. I could smell the musky fragrance of sleep clinging to his clothing. "Easy, Sally, easy," he whispered. He patted my hair. "Ifs okay. Don't be scared." I slipped my arms under his, and I pressed my face against his chest. I could hear his heart beating. His chest was narrow and thin, and I could feel his ribs under the thin fabric of his tee shirt. "Hold me tight, please," I said. "I feel so … alone. So … lonely." He moved his arms around my back, and his hands slid softly up and down. His caress was gentle and soothing, and I felt myself relaxing. "Easy, easy . . . easy." Trench . . . make love to me," I said. I felt no passion yet, only emptiness. "Please, French . . . make love to mel"

He laughed softly, tenderly. "All right, SaHy. If you want me to. If it will make you happy." I pulled my face away from his chest. "Yes, yes …" I whispered, eyes closed. I pressed my mouth against his lips and I kissed him. "Ye$r French's mouth opened, and his tongue slid forward. I greeted him with my tongue, and we pressed against each other in wet, exploratory kisses. His tongue was soft and spongy, and I slid over the top, into his mouth. His teeth were twin hard ridges that came down and bit playfully into my tongue, chewing my flesh sexually. I dropped my hand away from his back and I pushed it between his thighs. I touched his cock. It was already hard and throbbing. "My goodness, Sally," French said. He broke the kiss off wetly, and spoke the words around the rim of my lips. "Tou are anxious, aren't you? It looks as if you kin hardly wait." I grasped his cock between my fingers, and I sighed in relief at his hardness. I ran my hand up and down the length of his organ, pinching it through the material of his jeans. From what I could judge, his cock was long and thin; not such a monster as Adam's was, but certainly as long as Peter's. And perhaps even longer. "I need you," I moaned. I licked my tongue against his face, like a cat licking at a bowl of cream. My hand worked feverishly in his crotch. "French . . . I need you. 1'leaser French stilled my words by kissing me again. This time it was his tongue that pushed into my mouth. I parted my lips and accepted him. I sucked deeply in, drawing the full length of his tongue into my wet, 46 drawing mouth. I felt him flitting over the slippery wet sides of my cheeks, over my palate, and behind the line of my teeth. I hollowed my cheeks and sucked in. Hard. My hand worked up and down against his cock I could feel its heat baking up into my palm. I pressed down with my fingers and imprisoned the throbbing shaft against his leg. I rubbed up and down until I could feel his balls at the base of the organ, and the crown-like ridge near the tip of his cock. I squeezed the bulb of his cockhead, and French moaned into my mouth. "Oohhh, Sally," he moaned. "That feels good." I gripped his cock as tightly as I could, pressing my fingernails deeply into the fleshy pole. "Touch me . . . please. Please, French . . . Touch me before I go crazy." He laughed against my mouth. "What parts do ya want me to touch?" he teased. He pulled his hips back and then thrust forward, driving the shaft of his cock through the pinched hollow of my fingers. "Name em for me, Sally. Say the words fer me." "My cunt, damn itl"" I moaned. The passion was there suddenly. The emptiness was gone, and I needed a new kind of attention-a sexual one. "My cunt, my tits, my ass. My whole body! But touch them, damn it. Touch them!" His hand came up to my breasts, and he squeezed in. "You have nice big titties, Sally," he said. My nipple was hot and throbbing in the palm of his hand. "Ill bet you like to have them sucked, don't you?'' Passion made my head swim. I reached up for the zipper of French's jeans. I began to pull it 47 down. "Yes, yes," I moaned. "Suck them . . . please suck them." Like an expert, French worked on the buttons of my dress. The dress parted, and my tits tumbled out "Hey!" he exclaimed. "No bra. Don't you have anything on under that dress?" "No," I said. I pulled the zipper open, and French's stiff cock pushed open the front of his pants. I reached my hand into the open zipper and touched him. He was naked under his jeans. "I have nothing else on. Only the dress." My words excited him, and French's blond head came down and began to suck on my nipples. H6 moved his mouth from tit to tit, working on me with his tongue and lips until I moaned from the wet, licking pleasure. I began to stroke his cock, jerking him off. "Ohhh," I moaned. With my other hand, I held his head against my chest. "That . . . feels . . . goodT His cock was uncircumcised, and it felt strangely erotic in my soft hand. It was the first time I've ever touched that type of cock. I pulled back the tender cowl of foreskin, and I ran my fingers over the moist gians. French trembled excitedly. "You do that well, Sally," he moaned. His mouth was slippery with saliva. His breath came out hot against my tits, and I shuddered. "Do you like to touch cock?" I moaned. His cock felt so hard, so hot in my hand. I squeezed it as hard as I could. "Yes . . . nol" I answered. "Touch my cunt Touch it, please. My . . . can*/" French worked over the remaining buttons, and I slipped from my dress. I was naked on the front

seat of his car. Naked for the second time on this night with a man who was not my husband. Where will it end? I wondered. Where? French placed his hand between my awkwardly spread thighs. He cupped my cunt, curling his fingers under my body, through the moist foliage of my cunt hair. He parted the blondet hairy flaps of my cunt lips and jerked his finger into me. "My . . . God!" he said. "You're so wetl" Pleasure spread up from the tip of his probing finger, and I pushed down around it I crushed my ass against the sticky plastic seat, grinding my cunt against the hardness of his finger. I could feel his knuckles against the soft flap of lips, pressing into my clitoris. "My . , . God, Sally," he whispered, excitedly now. "You are really hot! Hotr I slid back on his finger, drawing him almost all the way out of me. Then I hunched suddenly forward, and my cunt gobbled pleasurably down the length of his pushing finger. I moaned from the thrilling sensation. "See," I said, grunting the words through my teeth. "All those years of marriage were worth something after all. I did manage to … learn something." I grabbed his cock and pulled it up through my sliding hand. Jerking him off, softly, slowly, sensually. I moved my hand from the thick root of his belly, up the full throbbing length of the organ, until the moist head was pulsing in my hand. I squeezed into it, and French moaned. TDid you . . . learn anything else?" he asked. "la all those years of marriage?" I began to stroke his cock with the slow, steady rhythm that I had learned from Peter in the years it took me to learn how to masturbate a man. I felt French thrust a second finger into my cunt, matching my tempo, and begin to respond to my sliding, pulling hand. "I learned to fuck," I said, boldly. I could feel sweat coating my body. I was very, very aroused. "I learned how to fuck really well." "Did you learn anything else?" he asked, grunting. I squeezed his cock hard. "You mean like sucking? Sucking cock?" The idea excited him. "Yeah, Sally. Would you do that fer me?" I didn't bother to answer. I simply bent down between his parted thighs, and I took his cock into my mouth. I slid my lips down the length of the slender organ, and I began to suck him off. "Jeez-usF French groaned. His body stiffened, and he thrust his hips up hard. "My God . . . My God!" His cock was slender and tapered, and I found I could easily swallow his whole length. His cock felt different in my mouth than Peter's or Adam's did, and somehow that excited me very much. I pursed my lips tightly around the broad base, and I hollowed my cheeks against the sides of the quivering pole of wet flesh. His pubic hairs tickled against my face, and I could feel the swelling thickness of his cock-head pressed against the opening of my throat. I began to move up and down on him, stroking his cock with my mouth. French's hand slipped from my cunt, and he pressed my head down with all ten fingers. I could feel his 50 hips rising and dropping in tempo to my sucking, and I felt his body tensing and lifting from the car seat, I sensed he was very close to coming, I slid my mouth up the length of the organ, and I pulled it from my mouth. I felt my saliva dribble down my chin. "No . . ." he said, trying to push it back in. "1 wanna . . . come!" Tou will," I said, squeezing the dripping rod between my fingers to assure him. "Fuck me now." He was less ready to fuck as he was to have me make him come in the wetness of my mouth, but he finally acceded. "Okay … but hurry!" I lay flat on the front of the car seat. The plastic stuck uncomfortably to my sweaty back, and each time I lifted my ass to change my position, my body would make a squeaking noise. I threw my left leg over the back of the seat,, and I anchored my foot in the steering wheel. My cunt was wide open for him, about to embrace him inside of the warmth and wetness of my aching body. French threw himself excitedly down upon me. His cock was stiff and hard and wet, and he pushed it excitedly between my parted thighs, missing my cunt in his haste to fuck me. His age was showing, I thought, aware that neither Adam or Peter would be so excited that it would make them lose their head. Yet, in some ways French's inexperience was stimulating. For him it was a raw, sexual experience, something he hasn't gotten enough of yet to relegate it to the mundane. He was fucking a strange, married woman, and for

him, in his youth, that was exciting. Fucking was exciting! I pulled his cock into my cunt, remembering my own youth in back seats of cars. I tried to recapture those years, that youthful exuberance, that intensity of sexual feeling. I pressed my cunt up hard, and I felt French's cock sinking deeply into my belly. "Harder!" I coaxed, very excited now. I pushed up and down against him, gripping the pole of his cock with the muscles of my cunt. He bucked fiercely in and out of me, drawing his swordlike rod to the lips of my cunt, then stabbing in deeply into me, right to the hilt. "I'm gonna . . . come!" he grunted. I could smell his sweat, his excitement. His blond hair hung in my face and I kissed his mouth hard, sinking my straining tongue deep inside of him. I strained up towards the ceiling, pressing the back of my legs against the car seat to lift me. French drove viciously in and out of me, like an engine going berserk. I felt my own orgasm building. It amazed me. My second new man in the same night, and I was building towards still another orgasm. I couldn't believe my body. I couldn't believe it was happening to me! I felt French's cock quivering stiffly inside of me. I squeezed tight, bringing the full length of my wet cuntal canal to press against his very hard, very hot cock. He moaned in my mouth then jerked up savagely inside of me, driving his cock to the depths of my cunt. I could feel the zipper on his pants scratching against my nakedness. "fm coming/" he cried, as if somehow surprised. He pressed into me, hard and deep. Tm comlngF 52 When I felt his hot thick seed spilling like hot water up into me, I began to came. It was as though my cunt was already primed, and when his sperm touched my raw flesh, it was all I needed, I lifted my body and sealed it against his driving middle. I felt myself coming all over his cock. Liquid fire dripped from the throbbing mouth of Ms cock, and it spread up into the velvet slit of my cunt. It burned there, into me, sending my orgasm down the length of my.quivering thighs, then back up again. "God . . „ Godr I groaned, feeling my brain reach out, straining towards . . . something hard and elusive. I felt the fingers of my brain tightening around it, but then, just as I was about to reel it in, my orgasm reached its peak and began to diminish. I felt the thing slip through my fingers, gone perhaps forever. French felt heavy on me. The smell of sex was no longer exciting. His sperm felt cold as it dripped from my cunt, over my ass, and all over the front seat of the car. I held him very tightly. He was breathing very heavily, as though he were about to have a heart attack. I patted him affectionately on the side of his head. It was good, I thought. As good as it always had been with Peter, and perhaps as good as it had been with Adam. But it wasn't magic. It wasn't what I needed.