"Her Secret Sex Life" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maiket Willie)

Chapter 2

As she drew the venetian blinds of her bedroom windows on the- second floor of the old Gothic house in the heart of Chicago's fabulous "Gold Coast," Rachel WoodIing thought disconsolately of the changing contrasts in the short two months of her marriage to one of the city's most dynamic advertising executives. This beautiful and comfortable old house was an architectural landmark a few blocks away from picturesque "Old Town," Lake Michigan and Lake Shore Drive with its beautiful, costly high-rise condominiums, the world-renowned Ambassador Hotel with its Pump Room. Along this very block lived many of the oldest, wealthiest and most socially prominent families of the Windy City… and yet all this was only a few blocks away from a slum neighborhood with its poverty, muggers and narcotics addicts.

A warm May rain spattered the windows with an insistent sound this Friday night, blurring the bright lights of the houses and towering buildings beyond. And Rachel Woodling felt herself a stranger in the house to which she had come with such high hopes.

Perhaps all the more because, now thirty-four and in the prime of her brunette beauty, she had already known what destruction a bad marriage could wreak. She had been a New York debutante, married at nineteen, forced into it by her society-obsessed parents who had mated her with a tow headed, boorish and extremely rich twenty-five year old bachelor by the name of Matt Varney. He had been a playboy and philanderer who spent money on his extra-marital loves the way an Arabian oil magnate might have purchased slaves at a secret mart. Because she had been extremely devoted to her parents, she had dutifully let herself be led to the altar with him. Her wedding night had been brutal and joyless, and she had detested Matt from the very start.

He had known this at once, and had taken sadistic delight in being unfaithful to her, turning the dagger in the wound by letting her learn about his amours in the belief that she needed him and so would not divorce him. Several times she had come upon him making love to her best friend, even to their maid, in the very house in which they had lived in Long Island Sound.

But before she could. finally dissolve the marriage-difficult indeed in the State of – New York except on the grounds of adultery or desertion or lack of consummation-Matt Varney had been drowned while driving his motorboat at excessive speed, and Rachel had found herself widowed at the age of twenty-two.

To forget the disaster of this loveless marriage, the slim brunette had turned to night school courses in the field of interior decoration of which she was particularly fond, while supporting herself with a clerical job during the day. Within ten years, she had gained sufficient professional reputation in her avocation to open a shop on Chicago's vaunted North Michigan Avenue. That shop had brought her fame, financial independence, and her new husband, Timothy Woodling Senior.

She turned away from the window and walked slowly over to her boudoir table, seated herself and lit a cigarette. The gold-framed oval mirror reflected back a sensitive oval face, large, widely spaced gray-green eyes, aquiline nose with thin, sensuous wings, high set cheekbones and high-arching forehead, and a small delicate mouth. Her jet-black hair, coiffed in a chic, almost mannish bob, left bare the elegant nucha and emphasized the almost wistful sensitivity of her features. The peach-hued belted negligee which she wore over a matching white nylon bra and panty set more than hinted at a figure which, of slightly more than medium height, promised a latent sensuality, with high-perched closely spaced pear-shaped breasts contrasting with boyishly compact, high set oval buttocks, long, slender and graceful thighs, and sinuously high set calves. Her skin was a warm, flawless olive.

As she thought of all the contrasts that had come into her life in so short a time, she thought, too, of her new husband's first wife, Grace, a vivacious, robust and beautiful blonde whom he had met in college and married a few years later. Grace's death from pneumonia a decade ago had not only bereaved him, but also his two children, the then five-year old Tim Jr. and ten-year Heather, who had both idolized her.

After his wife's death, Timothy Woodling had brought up his children with one housekeeper. after another, and sent them to private schools where they could be both sheltered and their quick minds catered to, so that he might concentrate on the progress of his growing advertising agency. At times, he had asked Tim and Heather how they would feel about his remarrying, and both of them had been vehemently against it. Consequently, when his sexual urges were too great to endure, Timothy Woodling would frequent an elegant house of prostitution or seek the services of an expensive and selective call girl, as discreetly as possible.

Rachel knew all this because he had told her from the very outset, and she had loved him for his candor, vitality and imagination. She herself, indeed, had long since resigned herself to the fulfillment which her career would bring her, wary of love because of her own unfortunate first marriage. But late last year, Timothy Woodling had come into her shop because one of his business friends had recommended her as an outstanding interior decorator, and he had wanted to have the old Gothic house remodeled and redecorated. And it had been practically love at first sight for both of them.

Rachel had believed that this mature man who was cultured, imaginative and gentle and deeply devoted to his children might give her both security and love while. she was still young enough to enjoy the physical aspect of wifehood. Because when he had kissed her for the first time about three weeks after she had begun the project of redecorating at 759 Astor Street, she had felt herself responding as she hadn't done even with Matt Varney.

But when she had agreed to marry him and when he had introduced her to Tim Jr. and Heather, she had been startled at the hostility with which they had received this news of their father's impending remarriage. Oh yes, they had been icily polite, they had said the conventional things, but the way they looked at her and then huddled together, whispering and glancing at her from time to time, had made her feel like an unwanted intruder.

She had told Timothy Woodling as much on the United Airlines 747 flying them to Honolulu for their honeymoon, and he had smiled and reassured her, "Of course they're taken aback, darling, but then so was I when I walked into that shop and saw you for the first time. It'll take time, but you're not the bossy kind of woman who's going to change them just to suit yourself. In time they'll come to respect and love you just as much as I do now."

There was a low rumble of thunder out over the lake, and Rachel Woodling shivered, then reached for a cigarette from the silver monogrammed case Timothy had given her as a honeymoon present She lit it with fingers that slightly trembled. She sighed deeply. Time. It was supposed to be the great equalizer, but the only trouble was that nobody told you just how long time would be. Because now, after two months, it was quite obvious that young Tim and Heather had no more use for her than on the evening their father had brought her into the study to introduce her to them as their future stepmother. And somehow, she had never been more conscious of their resentment than tonight, with Timothy gone to New York to make a presentation on an important industrial account that was willing to select a Midwestern agency if it could be assured of greater sales as a result of a transfer from the smart ad shops of Madison Avenue. Young Tim and Heather were home this weekend, Tim from his brilliant junior year at Chicago Latin High, Heather as a junior at Midlothfan Girls' College. And, although Rachel had offered to prepare supper for them tonight, both of them very insolently told her that they preferred to go out to eat. It was just another of the many pointed snubs they had aimed in her direction ever since that first day, because their father had raved about her cooking and she knew herself to be more than usually competent.

The drumming of the rain on the windows had grown even more insistent, and there were frequent rumbles of thunder in the distance, heralding a violent storm. If only Timothy could be home with her now, so they could comfort each other and resolve that one special problem which she hadn't even anticipated… and neither had he. Again her fingers trembled as she took the cigarette out of her lips and stared nostalgically into the mirror.

Rachel was remembering her second wedding night. This time, it had been with a man she respected and loved, and in the most romantic of settings. Their suite at the Sheraton-Wakiki had been on the twenty-fifth floor overlooking the vast blue Pacific. After a gourmet dinner at the Hano-Hano Room, they had come down to their rooms and gone out on the lanai. The soft cool tradewinds had welcomed them to the paradise of Hawaii, and there had been a full moon.

Remembering how foul-mouthed and ruthlessly selfish Matt Varney had been on that other hymeneal night, Rachel had found herself longing for consummation. Proud of her mature and as yet unflawed body, she had undressed before him and2 donned the black chiffon nightie she had bought especially for this moment. Timothy Woodling, six feet tall, with regular handsome features, closely cropped gray hair, could still boast an athletically supple body and no paunch, as so many executives of his own age had to hide with expensive tailoring. He had put his arms around her, kissed her, and they had moved to the huge double bed. And then it had been a tragic, almost heartbreaking fiasco.

Not that he wasn't everything she had known he would be: gentle, thoughtful, considerate to a fault. His kisses and the soft knowing touches of his fingers on her breasts and thighs and between them had made her blood quicken in her veins, made her nipples stiffen and darken with the anticipation of passionate cohesion. And then when she had whispered, "Take me, Tim dearest, I want you so I", he had groaned and turned away. He had been impotent.

Rachel had done her best to console him. It could happen to anyone. The nervous excitement, the tension, but of course most of all his feeling that his own children didn't want her as their new mother. And she told him as much and then told him, too, that after all this was only the first time, that it sometimes took weeks for a new couple to learn each other's foibles and likes and dislikes in bed.

And yet it still hadn't worked. All through the honeymoon, he had tried to make love to her. He'd had an erection, a quite adequate one, too, several times during their idyllic two weeks in Honolulu. But even after he'd 'entered her, he hadn't been able to hold himself back; premature ejaculation had ruined the delicious, pulsating harmony that had just begun to vibrate between their enmeshed naked bodies.

And then of course, coming back home, there had been more of the same. He'd plunged himself into new projects at the agency, of which this New York presentation was a culminating part. She could attribute some of his failure to his driving himself too hard, but they both knew what the real reason was. He was even more concerned about the failure of Tim and Heather to take to her, and it was blighting their love life together. And that was why Rachel wished he could be home right now so that perhaps during the primitive fear of thunder and lightning they might cling together and overcome the psychological blocks that were halting their eagerness for each other…

At the other end of the hall, blond Tim Jr., wearing only his pajama bottoms, was seated on the edge of his sister's bed. He was lean and wiry, with a thin mouth, straight nose, and suspicious, closely set gray-blue eyes. He was smirking as he contemplated his twenty-year old coppery-haired sister, who was sitting with her back propped up against two pillows, wearing a yellow cotton shortie nightie and reading the latest issue of Playboy.

"You ought to be in their centerfold, Sis," young Tim insinuated, leaning forward to put his right hand on Heather's bare, milky-sheened calf. "You've got a snazzy shape, just the kind I've got a yen for."

"I know you've got a yen, little brother,' Heather cynically drawled. Her face was heart-shaped, her eyes a luminous cat-green, with dainty Grecian nose and full sensual mouth. Of medium height, her body certainly justified her brother's carnal praise: her breasts were high-perched, narrowly spaced young cantaloupes, her waist slim and thus setting off all the more mouth watering lush hips, full, upstandingly rounded buttocks, and ripely curved, full womanly thighs and calves, "But I'm not exactly in the mood for brotherly fun and games, if you don't mind. I was thinking about Daddy."

"No you weren't, you were thinking about our new Mummy," young Tim sneered, his hands sliding boldly up his sister's knee onto the middle of her thigh just under the hem of her thin clinging nightie.

She slapped his hand. "I told you no, little brother. If you'd quit jacking off and reading all those books you've got hidden in the bottom drawer of your dresser, and go out and get yourself a girl, you wouldn't be bothering me all the time. One of these days Daddy might just catch on."

"About what?" the blond adolescent assumed an injured look of astonished innocence. "I haven't ever screwed you, Sis. That's not because I don't want to, you know. But all you ever let me do is play around with my fingers or maybe give you a tongue job. Come on, be nice, I know you're not cherry. And it's all in the family. Besides I know where Dad keeps his safes, so I won't give you a baby, if that's what you're scared of."

"You're really a perfect idiot, Tim!" Heather Woodling sniffed as she tossed aside the magazine and swung her luscious legs out of bed, slapping at his hand as he tried to sneak it under her nightie once again. "And while we're on the subject, just keep your dirty little mouth shut about my one big fling. I did it just to find out what it would be like, and it's something I can take or leave depending on my mood, get me?"

"Whatever happened to that hippie writer you let bang you, Sis? Is he still living in Old Town?" her brother wanted to know with a lecherous grin.

"It's none of your goddamned business, but the answer happens to be no. He went back to Frisco and his folks. He couldn't earn a dime here, and besides he talked a better fuck than he gave me. And that's all I ever want to hear on that particular subject, dear little brother mine."

"Hell, it's a rainy night and Dad won't be back till maybe Monday morning. What's a guy gonna do for kicks?" the blond boy groaned.

Heather gave him a long hard look, her eyes narrowing as they studied his wiry half-nakedness. "Are you feeling horny enough tonight, little brother, to get some real kicks?" she at last demanded.

"Sure, Sis, if you mean am I up to giving you a good hot poke, the answer is hell yes, with bells on."

"Get that idea out of your head right now, Tim. I'm not after a brotherly fuck. Oh sure, I don't mind your working me off and helping you out sometimes, but I'm just a little older than you and when I really need a fuck it's going to be from a guy who's got plenty of savvy and knows how to make a girl come before he does. No, that wasn't what I had in mind at all"

"Then really what the hell are you talking about, Heather? I guess I'll go read one of my books or maybe run a new stag movie my buddy Jeff Morley picked up for me at Weird Harold's last week."

"That's it!" Heather Woodling slid out of bed, her hands smoothing the filmy shortie nightie about her delectably curved hips, her eyes suddenly glistening with malice. "I've got a much better idea for that movie camera and projector set of yours, little brother, if you're man enough."

"Hey, Sis, you're really stacked-come on, let's do a sixty-nine, you've got me all worked up in that sexy nightie of yours!" the blond boy sniggered as he moved closer to his sister and, his left hand moving round to palm one of her opulent, firm buttocks, cupped her left breast with his other hand and tried to kiss her on the mouth.

"Cut that out, you randy little no-good bastard! All you're good for is jacking off and reading dirty books and watching fuck movies. What I've got in mind calls for a man," Heather snapped as she twisted out of his grasp.

"No cause for you to run me down, Sis. You know damn well I could screw if you'd only give me the chance," he glowered. "Look at what I've got, just looking at you in that nightie. Take it off, Sis, and I'll show you if I'm a man or not!" He pointed to the visibly projecting thrust of his penis against the taut fly of his pajama pants.

"Oh sure, so you've got a hard-on! Big deal!" Heather sneered. "Let me ask you one question, little brother. How do you feel about our new stepmother?"

"What's that got to do with my hard-on?" He gave her a surly look.

Heather's laugh was brittle and mocking. "Maybe everything. But answer the question."

"Okay, I'll go along with it. I hate her guts. So what does that get us? Dad married her and they're going to live happily ever after."

"Maybe not," the redhead mused. "Maybe if Dad found out she's just a dirty bitch, he might kick her out, and then we could go back to being a family threesome, the way we were before he went off his rocker and brought her into this house."

"Hey, Sis, you're talking crazy. How are we going to do that? Me, I think he was a damn fool to go off and get married at his age, even though it's been ten years since Mom died. Why couldn't he have gone on with one-night stands, the way I'll bet he's done until he met up with that fancy interior decorator bitch?" Timothy grumbled.

"You can be sure about it. I found his little black memo book in the secretary drawer downstairs last spring when I was looking for Mother's last letter from the hospital. He gets his ashes hauled by some call girl every so often. Well, I don't mind that at all. But what I do mind is his thinking that any other bitch is going to come in here and boss us around and be our mother after we lost the only one we had and the only one we'll ever care about. Are you with me or not?"

"I said I was," the blond boy whined. "And it gripes me to see her sucking up to Dad and then coming around us with that gooey smile of hers and trying to be so sweet and nice and thinking she's going to make us love her like her own kids."

"You hit the nail right on the head, Timmy. That's why I asked you just now if you were man enough to prove that she's just a no-good bitch. We'll need your Kodak Instamatic."

"Hey now, tell me morel" his eyes widened as he studied his sister's flushed, spite-contorted lovely face.

"All right. I'll tell you. And just shut up while I'm talking. What I want from you is -action, not conversation. Now listen." She moved to him, put her-hands on his shoulders and began to talk softly and swiftly…