"The motorcyclist_s wife" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Marcus Carl)

CHAPTER ONE

Dusk had just fallen, and in the last crimson-gold rays of the setting sun, the row of identical pastel ranch houses which jutted up from the flat Indiana prairie seemed to be bursting into flames. In spite of the rosy glow, the air grew chill, almost forbidding, as the thin September sun sank beyond the horizon. High above the level plain a clamorous flock of blackbirds hovered for an instant in the darkening sky, then suddenly turned and vanished toward the south.

"Winter's coming at last…" the slender blonde girl murmured to herself, shivering and drawing her lightweight red cardigan tightly around her scantily clad body as a chill breeze rustled through the meadow. With a dispirited sigh, she turned away from the bubbling creek and started trudging back toward the subdivision houses silhouetted against the evening skyline.

Indian Summer had stretched on for so long that Sandi Smith had almost dared to hope that the cold and snow would never really arrive. This would be the first time the Florida born and raised young wife had ever spent in the north, and although she'd not let her husband know how she felt, she'd been dreading the winter ever since he'd told her they were settling permanently in the Midwest.

I know Verne says that northern Indiana's the only place in the country where his darned old Cycle Circus can really get off the ground, she thought rebelliously, but what does he expect me to do all winter long while he's away on his stupid tours? I just wish he'd let me come with him like I used to or get a normal job where he wouldn't have to leave me by myself all the time…

Kicking angrily at a pebble as she stepped from the overgrown field onto the concrete sidewalk of the brand new subdivision which bore the optimistic name of Lakeview Estates, the long-legged blonde tried to prevent herself from falling into a state of morbid depression. More and more often in these past few months, she'd been plagued by uncontrollable moods of frustration and uncertainty. Sometimes, she wondered what had happened to the starry-eyed optimist who'd been foolish enough to believe that marriage to a handsome motorcycle stunt rider meant living happily ever after, just like in the fairy tales and romance novels. It grew more and more difficult to recall the joyous sense of freedom she'd felt less than a year ago when, after the marriage ceremony in her father's Florida parish, she and Verne had set off on his big motorcycle for his home in Indiana.

As the shapely honey-blonde rounded the corner to Lemon Lane where the Smiths' two-bedroom house was located, her dismal thoughts were momentarily diverted by a group of junior high school boys racing by on their bicycles. The moment the youngsters spotted the attractive nineteen year old in her skimpy white shorts and tight red sweater, they squealed to a halt and circled around to stare after Sandi's tautly rounded buttocks wriggling in unintentional invitation and at her long, classically-sculpted legs. One of the youths, braver than the others, let out a loud wolf whistle which brought a bright red flush of embarrassment to the young housewife's face.

Quickening her pace – an action which had the unfortunate result of making her rounded hips undulate even more provocatively than before – Sandi hurried down Lemon Lane and into her own front yard. Instead of making a careful inspection of the wealth of flowers and bushes which transformed the Smith's quarter acre into a little oasis of color among the barren plots of crabgrass which were the general rule in Lakeview Estates, the red-faced blonde hastened into her white frame house.

Although the air was really quite cool now that night had fallen, the svelte young wife did not close the open living room windows. The blush which had begun on her cheeks seemed to have spread throughout her entire body, making her feel unaccountably warm.

They're just a bunch of silly kids, she told herself firmly, but deep inside, the innately honest girl could not deny that she'd been flattered by the young boys' obvious admiration. It seemed so long, so very, very long, since her husband had complimented her on her appearance.

"He was so different before we were married," she thought, her thoughts drifting to the whirlwind courtship which had been the talk of Collinsville, Florida. "Now he just seems to take me for granted… when I see him, that is…"

Her low, plaintive voice echoed eerily in the empty house, and Sandi clamped her lips shut and vowed once again to curtail the bad habit she'd been developing lately of talking to herself. What on earth would people think if they knew that she wandered around babbling to herself like a senile old maid?

"They'd think I'm stark, raving mad!" she murmured, realizing as the words left her lips that she'd broken her vow within seconds of having made it. "Well, maybe I am then!" she shrugged. "And if I am, it's all Verne's fault for leaving me alone like this while he's off with his stupid motorcycles!"

Without bothering to switch on the electricity, the unhappy young woman made her way down the short hallway to the master bedroom. By now it was pitch-black outside, but the street light out on the parkway cast its rays into the small room and illuminated the king-sized bed, brand new dressing table and bureaus with an almost surreal radiance that suited Sandi's morbid mood just perfectly. As she crossed over toward the closet to dig out the wool slacks and sweaters her husband had bought her, her eyes caught the color photograph of Verne that stood in a prominent position on her dressing table. Whenever he was gone for long stretches, the lonely wife always removed the wedding picture from the album and brought it in here so that she could look at it before she went to sleep, a habit that had started one dreadful day when she'd realized she could no longer conjure up an image of his face.

Now, as she'd done so many times before, Sandi stood staring at the handsome, sun-bronzed man in the photo. His deep blue eyes seemed to stare directly back at her, and she felt an urge to push the lock of wavy chestnut hair off his forehead. Though the young bridegroom was unsmiling, she could tell from the faint suggestion of a dimple in his strong jaw that he was not unhappy, merely embarrassed at having to pose in his wedding clothes when he really only felt comfortable in jeans and a motorcycle helmet. Even the rented tuxedo, however, could not conceal his healthy, masculine physique, and as Sandi gazed at her husband's muscular figure she felt a familiar rush of pride.

Then, as she remembered that Verne was miles away in Kansas with the Cycle Circus, the smile that was starting to form on her lips faded to a worried frown. What was the good of having a handsome husband when you never saw him? And when he was surrounded by plenty of cute girls all day long, his good looks really became a liability rather than an asset. In the early months of their marriage, Sandi had often accompanied her husband on his tours, and she'd had plenty of opportunity to observe the other girls who hung out around the cycle tracks. Most of them, the worried young wife felt certain, wouldn't hesitate to chase after the show's handsome star whether or not he happened to be married. And Verne… would Verne be able to resist their attentions… would he even try to…?

"I won't keep thinking those things about him!" she told herself firmly. "I won't be a jealous wife."

But try as she might, the suspicions remained in the back of her mind, even as she attempted to push away the fearful imaginary vision of her chestnut-haired husband standing beside some peroxide blonde in a low-cut blouse, his strong arm draped around her bare shoulders and his warm lips mashed against her lipstick-smeared mouth. Even though the picture was pure fantasy, Sandi's slender body began to shake in anger and she had to bite her knuckles to keep from bursting into tears.

After a moment, when she'd gotten a hold on her emotions, the golden-haired girl tore herself away from Verne's picture and moved in the direction of the closet. There, still in the shop's cardboard boxes, were all the new winter clothes her husband had bought for her – fluffy sweaters, woolen slacks, a few dresses in bright-hued cashmere-like fabrics, a shiny pair of leather boots, and even a nightgown and a pair of furry red angora slippers with a matching robe. For a moment Sandi felt sincerely guilt-stricken for the unproven doubts she'd been feeling.

"Verne's so good to me. I don't know what's wrong with me, why I'm so unhappy," she pondered aloud as she lifted each of the brand new garments from their wrappings. "I never had nice stuff like this before I met him – I ought to be grateful."

Deciding that trying on her new winter wardrobe would distract her from her gloomy fantasies, the young blonde pulled off her cardigan sweater and snug-fitting cotton halter top. Then, as her fingers sought the zipper of her skintight white shorts, her mind slipped back to the day when her tall, dark-haired husband had come home with the trunk loaded down with packages for her.

"Here you go, baby," he'd boomed in his usual hearty tone. "A few goodies to keep you snug and warm while I'm not around to warm your bed up this winter!"

She'd come to the back door, she remembered now, dressed only in the sheerest of sundresses, a strapless affair actually intended to be worn over a bikini, but which she'd thrown on that morning because of the truly suffocating heat. Since it was only eleven in the morning and she'd not expected Verne to come back until evening, she'd not even bothered to don her brassiere and panties before tackling the chore of unpacking the last of their things which had just arrived from Florida.

Her husband's habitual enthusiasm irritated her that morning – he had no more sensitivity to the sticky Midwest heat than he apparently had to the icy winters – and his vulgar words only added fuel to the fire. While she'd certainly been agonizing about the dreaded lonely winter months which she was supposed to spend alone in Lakeview Estates while her new husband toured the southern circuit, the crude way he spoke brought a crimson color to her already heat-flush cheeks.

"What are you going on about, anyway?" she demanded, too flustered to remember at first that she was as good as naked in the sheer beach dress.

"Hey, baby, I like that get-up!" Verne whistled, his glinting blue eyes boring into her body in a way that made his nineteen year old wife feel sordid and dirty. "How come you never wore this pretty little see-through number before?"

"Verne, I wish you wouldn't talk to me like that!" Sandi said stiffly, folding her arms to hide her proud, high-set young breasts and wishing that she had four arms instead of two so that she could cover up her shamefully revealed vaginal hair as well. "What are you doing back here now, anyway? I thought you were going over to talk with Larry? You said you both had to talk to the lawyer about the contract for the circus…"

"Hey, don't get uptight, baby," Verne laughed, still in his usual high spirits despite his wife's unenthusiastic response. "Larry was – uh – occupied with his wife. So I just thought I'd run up to Gary and pick up some things for you. After all, I don't want folks to think I'm neglecting my woman just because I'm gonna be gone most of the winter. I want you to look real a la mode, baby!"

Sandi knew that she should be pleased that Verne had thought to expand her exclusively summer wardrobe, but all she could feel was irritation. Ever since her husband had informed her one month ago that they would be permanently settling in northern Indiana, she'd tried her best to put the news out of her mind. Of course, she understood that this was an ideal home base for Verne's Cycle Circus – he'd grown up in the area and had good contacts, particularly his high school friend, Larry Johnson. Even though Sandi felt an instinctive and no doubt unreasonable distrust for her husband's darkly handsome manager, she had to admit that the Cycle Circus of which Verne had dreamed for so long probably would never have gotten off the ground if it hadn't been for Johnson's business expertise. It had been he, too, who'd insisted on this winter circuit of tours in the South and Midwest – it would give them extra capital, and enable the permanent cycle stunt riding show to open in style next summer.

I just want you to stay home with me – I don't care about new clothes, Sandi wanted to say. Instead, biting her lip to hold back her frustration as he dumped the packages on the kitchen table, she replied, "Thank you, Verne."

This time the handsome young husband could not fail to catch the lack of enthusiasm in his wife's voice, and he felt a spark of anger ignite in his chest.

"Well, you sure don't sound too pleased," he retorted. "Let me tell you one thing, baby – I picked up these things myself 'cause I want to be damn sure you're not parading around in something like you've got on right now. If you don't like me making remarks about it, how come you're wearing it? For some other man, maybe?"

"Oh, Verne!" Sandi cried out, exasperated by his unreasonable jealousy. For the entire year in which they'd been married, she'd never once given him a single reason to distrust her, but he was nevertheless obsessed by the idea that she might be unfaithful to him. Suddenly the unhappy nineteen year old felt very tired of being treated like a stupid schoolgirl with no control over herself.

"Why do you have to say mean things like that?" she demanded. "I'm wearing this 'cause it's so darn hot, and you know it! The way you're going on is just as dumb as your not letting me come along to the motorcycle shows anymore, or not letting me go riding on the back of your bike."

Verne bristled, his ordinarily even temper rising. "I can't stand the way the guys at the track give you the eye, Sandi. You're my woman now, and I don't ever want you to forget it!"

"Oh, they don't mean anything… they're just looking at me. What's so bad about that? They don't try to talk to me or anything 'cause they know I'm your wife. Really, Verne, please let me come along with you again. Let me come to Kansas with you next week! I get so worried sitting back home alone thinking that you might have an accident or something and I won't be there to take care of you."

"Never had an accident yet," the young husband boasted. "And you know you like those guys looking at you. Well, I'm not putting up with it! You're damn well not coming out to Kansas, or anywhere else! Larry told me about the way you were leading that blond guy on at that show in Baleton, remember?"

"All I did was smile at him once, just to be friendly. He didn't seem to have any friends and he looked lonely, just like I was. You… you act like I was thinking dirty things or something!"

Hot tears sprang up in her amber-tinted eyes as she defended herself, and her voice began to tremble with an indignation heightened by the twinge of guilt she'd felt at the mention of the handsome blond youth. Of course she'd never even dreamed of doing anything wrong – hadn't so much as spoken to him – yet she could still remember the delicious little forbidden thrill that had surged through her when she'd sensed the stranger's eyes staring up to where she sat perched on the back of Verne's powerful black cycle. Her widespread thighs and barely covered buttocks had been openly revealed to the youth whenever the wind lifted her short skirt, and wicked though it was she'd enjoyed his obvious admiration.

Feeling sorry that his angry words had brought his young wife to the point of tears, Verne Smith moved over toward her and circled his arms around her slim waist.

"Awh, honey, take it easy. I just don't want some bastard stealing my girl away from me, that's all." He paused to run his work-calloused hands over the firm mounds of her breasts. "Yeah, this beautiful body's all mine!"

Sandi couldn't help shivering as her husband's strong hands tweaked at the nerve-filled tips of her round girlish breasts, her entire body glowing at his possessive touch. It was wrong, she knew, but no matter what harsh things he said to her, she still felt excited the moment he drew close to her. Shameful though it was, she could never hold back the exquisite surge of desire that sped through her, and she often worried that she was abnormal for not finding sex as painful and unpleasant as her mother had warned her it would be.

"Nicest pair of tits in the state, and they're all mine," Verne was mumbling as he squeezed her tiny nipples to taut erectness straight through the sheer fabric of Sandi's light summer beach dress. "And this golden pussy… and your tight little cunt… all mine!"

The quivering young wife knew what her husband had in mind from the tone of his voice and the quickening pace of his breathing, recognizing the symptoms from those times when she'd unwittingly allowed him to see her undressing, and he'd come to bed filled with strange, sometimes even unnatural, passion. Although she knew that she ought to pull away from him before it was too late, she only whimpered weakly and let him press up against her own trembling loins for just another tantalizing moment.

"Shit, Sandi," Verne groaned, rubbing his swelling penis up against her trembling thighs as he reached around to bunch her flimsy sundress up to her waist. "You look so sweet today that I gotta screw you! Besides, you need to be reminded that you're my girl and no one else's!"

What could be the matter with Verne? Here it was the middle of the day, with the kitchen door standing wide open so that any of the always curious neighbors who happened to be passing could plainly see inside, and he was fondling her breasts and lifting up her mini-dress to stroke at the "vee" of honey-blonde pussy hair in between her naked thighs! What could have made him so unnaturally excited?

The young wife shivered as Verne's bulging penis pressured hotly against her upper leg, knowing that unless she stopped this indecency at once that his hardened male flesh would soon be spearing with long, smooth strokes up into her unprotected vagina – right here against the kitchen table! And she wanted him to do it – there was no use denying that. Up between her thighs a voluptuous moisture was forming, and the aroused young blonde knew very well that it wasn't being brought on by the noonday heat.

"P-please, Verne," she managed to stammer in a low, embarrassed voice. "N-not now… not here in the k-kitchen! It's indecent! Anyone might see us!"

"Who gives a damn?" her husband's lust-hoarsened voice hissed in her ear. "I just saw Larry giving it to Clare, and now I want you. I want you too bad to wait!"

His hands once again reached out to massage Sandi's sensitively trembling breasts beneath her skimpy dress, while he pressed his pulsating penis more insistently than ever against her hair-covered pussy mound.

"I don't care what Larry and Clare do in the middle of the day!" the nineteen year old retorted angrily, pursing her pink lips up into a disapproving little pout and pushing her husband's body away. "It's none of my business – or yours either! And even if they were acting like animals, that certainly doesn't make it right!"

Verne grabbed out for his full-bodied wife, who was tugging her short skirt down as far as possible over her flaring thighs, and tried to kiss her. "Come on, honey," he urged. "How come you always got to act so Goddamn prim and proper?"

Even though she secretly yearned to feel her husband's throbbing male hardness pushing up into her indecently quivering loins, Sandi wouldn't have dreamed of letting him realize she was so wanton. Once again, she pushed him firmly away from her.

"D-don't swear at me, please, Verne," she said, only the slightest quavering in her southern-accented voice betraying her inner turmoil. "There's a time and place for everything…"

"But baby…"

"And I don't want to talk about it any more!" The shapely young wife turned determinedly back to her unpacking, ignoring Verne's glare of helpless anger as she struggled to control her forbidden emotions. It was only a minute or so before he slammed out the back door, but she'd already almost succeeded in convincing herself that she was proud of her willpower.

Now, three weeks later, the half-naked woman standing lost in thought in her darkened bedroom realized with a guilty start that her own hands had risen to caress her uncovered breasts, and that her loins were rippling with the same liquid desire as she'd felt that sun-drenched afternoon when her husband had tried to make love to her right in the kitchen. Opening her eyes, which had been clenched shut while she relived the obscene memory, the lonely wife could not help noticing that her rose-pink nipples were hardening into taut little buttons. Thoroughly ashamed of herself, she snatched her hands away from her forbidden flesh and made a conscious effort to erase all erotic thought from her mind.

What's wrong with me, anyway? she asked herself. Here I am, playing with my body like a thirteen year old instead of a mature married woman. And it's no good blaming Verne for being gone so much… it's not his fault I love him so much I can't stand being away from him.

Ignoring the tingling excitement in her stiffening nipples, the flushed young woman flicked on the bedside lamp. The artificial light lessened the strange sensual atmosphere in the silent bedroom, but Sandi's swollen breasts were still sending out indecent messages of arousal to all the nerve-endings in her shapely young body. To her chagrin, the crotchband of her snug-fitting white cotton shorts suddenly felt far too tight, as her vaginal lips puffed up in a way that made the honey-blonde housewife feel more ashamed of herself than ever.

"I won't try this stuff on tonight," she muttered, pushing the cardboard boxes back onto the top shelf of the closet after extracting an orange-colored nightgown and a soft red bathrobe. "And I won't bother about dinner either – I'll just go right to bed. Maybe if I start getting more sleep, it'll help my nerves."

Turning away from the dresser mirror as though she were afraid to look at her own naked figure, the nineteen year old wife slipped out of her shorts and at once began to pull the new nightgown over her head to hide the body of which she was feeling so ashamed. Then, as her eyes registered on the gossamer garment, her hands froze in midair. The very idea that Verne had even considered her brazen enough to wear such a revealing nightie was shocking enough, but the lewd thrill of titillation that surged through her bloodstream at the thought of how her husband's eyes would light up with desire when he saw her in it was even more shameful.

It's… it's not just seductive, she thought. It's like something a whore would wear, it really is!

Feeling extremely bold, the young blonde held the diaphanous, apricot-colored scrap of lace up to her naked body and then turned slowly to gaze at her reflection in the floor-length mirror. As she'd expected, it didn't hide one inch of her slender yet curvaceous figure; but she'd not anticipated the way it made her look strikingly different from her usual wholesome self. For one thing, the nylon-lace fabric was cunningly cut to emphasize her well-rounded but average-sized breasts so that she looked as though she wore a D-cup instead of a 34-B! Her hips, too, appeared even fuller and more seductively rounded than usual. Instead of a fashion model figure, Sandi had acquired the body of a Playboy centerfold, and revulsion mingled with a strange excitement in her face as she continued to stare as if mesmerized at the unfamiliar image in the mirror.

"I look like a little girl playing dress-up!" she murmured. "Except that little girls don't dress up to be streetwalkers!"

The clear-eyed, smooth-skinned face with its halo of naturally wavy honey-blonde hair was indeed more like that of a sixteen year old than a nineteen year old. An expression of virginal naivete lingered in her soft brown eyes and rather full lips even after a whole year of marriage, and it was quite true that her voluptuous, though svelte, figure was in striking contrast even without the apricot-hued lingerie. Sandi had been raised in a home where cosmetics, hair dye, and other sophisticated beauty aids were anathema, and since she still retained traces of guilt for breaking certain strict rules her Methodist preacher-father had enforced in his household, she'd never picked up these habits even after leaving home. Consequently, she'd retained a purity and innocence that few girls of her age could match.

In addition, she'd continued to brood over breaking the code of morality imposed in her childhood. Consequently, as she stood in front of the mirror clad only in the skimpy, prostitute-style garment, she seemed to hear her mother's voice echoing in the silence of her empty suburban bedroom.

Suddenly, she was transported back to her narrow bedroom in the whitewashed clapboard rectory, her two suitcases and all her clothes spread out upon her bed as she packed for her honeymoon. Her nostrils quivered with the almost forgotten scent of wilting flowers – the thrifty pastor's wife brought home the limp bouquets after church services, funerals, and weddings – and her proudly-sculpted body unconsciously took on the awkward, hunched-over posture she'd affected in adolescence to hide her budding breasts.

"What's that?" she heard her mother's horrified voice snap. "Surely, Sandra, you can't intend to pack a thing like that! Where on earth did you get it, anyway?" With the tips of her fingers, she picked up a semi-sheer white cotton nightie, looking at it as if its very presence in her house were enough to call down the wrath of God. "What's the matter with that nice pink flannel nightie Aunt Mildred gave you last Christmas? I'm ashamed of you for wasting good money on something like this." She dangled the offending feminine-looking garment in front of her embarrassed daughter's downcast eyes.

"V-Verne gave me money to buy some th-things," Sandi had stammered apologetically. "And then I had the m-money I made babysitting."

"Humph!" the elderly woman sniffed. "Well, if Mr. Smith wants to waste his money on frivolities, that's his business. But I thought you were brought up better than to buy a sinful piece of goods like this, Sandra!"

"But Mother, there's nothing really wrong with this nightie!" Sandi had summoned up the courage to protest.

"There certainly is! Why, you can see your naked body straight through it!"

As there seemed no appropriate rejoinder to this, the young blonde laid the nightdress aside without comment. Later that night, she slipped it into her suitcase, balling it up underneath some inoffensive cotton panties just in case her mother should feel like snooping tomorrow morning.

Now, as the memories faded, an ironic little smile appeared on the blonde wife's face. "What would Mother think of this?" she murmured, wrinkling her nose at the lewdly daring apricot nightdress she was now wearing. But although she was trying to laugh it off, the foundation of guilt was too solid to be easily dissolved, and with trembling fingers, Sandi Smith drew the flagrantly wanton lace nightie up over her lushly ripened body.

I know I'm being silly, she told herself as she folded the soft, silk-like material and laid it carefully back in its box, but I couldn't sleep a wink wearing that, even though I know it's all right as long as Verne gave it to me. After all, he's my husband!

She leaned down to dig her ordinary cotton babydoll pajamas out of the dresser drawer, then paused with her hand on the drawer handle and a serious expression clouding her girlish face.

No! I'm not going to be a baby! she decided. Verne bought it for me to wear, and I'm his wife now, not my parents' little girl! I'll wear it, because he wants me to!

Ignoring the guilty voice pricking at the back of her brain, Sandi again slipped the sexy, slinky nightgown over her slim figure. You like wearing that obscene thing, don't you? the young wife's conscience accused as she climbed into her king-sized bed. You get a kick out of looking like a photograph in one of those dirty magazines. And it's nothing to do with Verne!

This whisper was, of course, thoroughly unacceptable; Sandi paid it no more heed than she'd paid the somewhat similar sensations she'd experienced when she'd ridden on the back of Verne's big cycle and every man on the road had stared at her long, perfectly formed legs. Switching off the bedtable lamp, Sandi instead directed her thoughts toward the day when her husband would arrive home again. He should show up on Thursday, maybe Friday morning. That gave her two days to get out of her mood of depression. She'd prepare all the foods he especially liked, and maybe even drive into Brunrocke, the nearest town of any size, for some of that Danish beer he fancied. And she certainly wouldn't let herself think about the possibility that he was with another woman tonight, or about her censorious parents, or about her dread of the lonely winter months ahead. Most important of all, she'd not allow herself to think about the wonderful way she felt when he touched her, or she might find herself doing forbidden things to herself as she had earlier that evening. No, she'd save all those feelings up for his return – after all, it was wrong to think about sex unless you were in bed with your husband.

Sandi Smith fell asleep much more easily than usual, perhaps because of the long walk she'd taken up in the open prairie beyond the subdivision of Lakeview Estates. In spite of her earnest resolves, she immediately fell into a dream in which she was tooling down the highway behind Verne on his powerful motorcycle, her long blonde curls whipped around her face by the wind and her arms clutching her husband's strong-muscled body. Gradually the lonely nineteen-year-old's firm-fleshed thighs drew closer together beneath the sheet, and within minutes her silken-skinned upper legs were rubbing sensually against each other in unconscious imitation of the vibrations of the bike motor thudding up through the leather seat into the sensitive flesh of her widespread buttocks and quivering vagina.

As her hair-fringed pussy lips, already swollen from the erotic dream, were stimulated by the rhythmic pressure of her taut-muscled thighs, the sleeping girl's breath quickened. A light coat of perspiration broke out on her flushed forehead, and her toes curled under as lewd little fingers of excitement traced a forbidden path from the base of her neck to the tips of her feet. In her dream, the bike was zooming over roller-coaster type hills at breakneck speed; and in her bed, the squirming blonde's naked thighs were pressing so tightly together that the tendons stood out on their ivory-white surface. Deep inside her titillated vagina drops of heated moisture were forming, and her clitoral bud jerked into a tautly throbbing little button of erotic sensation.

The motorcycle was driving faster and faster, and now the roadside was lined with handsome blond men, all of whom were staring lustfully at Sandi's long, white legs and half-revealed ass-cheeks. A loud wolf whistle pierced through her dream, and then another, and another…

Suddenly wide awake, the young wife sat bolt upright in bed, her scantily-clad loins still trembling but all traces of physical arousal obliterated by a cold cloud of panic. For a moment she stared in perplexity at the luminous dial of the clock-radio, struggling to comprehend why she had awakened at 11:45 with her throat so constricted with fear that she could scarcely breathe. Then the front doorbell chimed again, a long drawn out shrilling as if someone were pressing his finger long and hard on the buzzer, and Sandi's entire body turned to ice. Verne! Something had happened to Verne, just as she had always dreaded it would. Why else would the doorbell be ringing in the middle of the night?

Leaping to her feet, the terror-stricken young wife rushed pell-mell down the dark hallway, crashing clumsily against a wrought iron telephone stand in her haste to reach the front door. Although the sharp metal table edge pierced through the naked white flesh of her thigh, Sandi was not aware of any pain.

Her trembling, white-knuckled hands gripped at the doorframe as she eased it open a crack and stared out into the darkness. There, his healthy tanned face glowing an eerie shade of green in the neon light from the streetlamp, stood Larry Johnson, her husband's partner and best friend, and Sandi saw at a glance that her worst fears were justified.

"Verne! It's Verne, isn't it? He's not… he's not…?" And then her voice trailed off, and her voluptuous young body, protected only by the wisp of apricot-colored lace, tumbled forward into Johnson's arms in a dead faint.