by Don Elliott
Mr. Crispian had a drink. He had several.
Then he had Joanne.
There was no way of avoiding it. The lights were low, they were settled down on the couch, he was mildly gassed, and she was hot and yearning. She slipped his hand into her negligee and he felt firm ripe boobs. Nothing repellent about those, he thought. It didn't take long before the negligee was off, and he was looking at her milky-white body, and eyeing her high, steep breasts, sweetly contoured buttocks, and neat thighs with admiration.
"I'm not so ugly, am I?" she said. "I mean, there's nothing wrong with my body. You're a man of the world. You've seen lots of women. Tell me, am I built badly?"
"You've got a lovely body," Mr. Crispian said truthfully.
They went to bed, and he took her. He didn't do a very satisfactory job of loving her. She was so keyed up that she moved in a wild, berserk fashion beneath him. and her frantic heavings and jumpings caused him to reach his culmination too fast.
She was obviously disappointed. But she kept her pique under wraps.
"We'll rest a little while and try again," she told him.
Soon her hand was working on him, trying to get his flagging virility to rebound, and when that didn't work she applied her kiss, which did. And he took her again, and this time the loving was extremely satisfactory. Mr. Crispian moved to her and grabbed hrr breasts and then her buttocks. He bobbed on top of her while she gasped and moaned, sighed and sobbed, and soon he felt the delicious little quiverings of her body and that drew a quick burst of fulfillment from him. Afterward, he lay with his head pillowed on the cozy cushions of her breasts, and it occurred to him that she was certainly excellent to make love to, provided you didn't have to look at her face at all.
In the rapturous moments of the afterglow, Joanne did most of the talking. She told him how happy she was at this very moment and how lonely she had been. She spoke of her desire to be a wife and a mother. She asked him if he had ever thought of getting married.
"Not really," he said vaguely.
"I've often thought I'd make a good wife for some man," she said wistfully. "If only somebody would give me the chance to show him."
Hint, hint! Mr. Crispian knew what was bugging her, and he was afraid that she'd never leave him alone. Sure enough, half an hour later she came right out point blank and proposed to him. It wasn't even Leap Year, either.
"I'll have to think about that," he said. "It's a big step, you know."
He couldn't come right out and tell her that her face made him sick, could he?
For the next few weeks Mr. Crispian had something very much like a love affair going. Joanne didn't miss a chance to make love. She invited him to her place, and she invited herself to his. She even got him at the office. That happened one day when he had gone into the stockroom to do some inventory work by himself.
She followed him in and locked the door.
"I've got a present for you," she trilled.
"Oh?"
"This," she said, and lifted her skirt.
He saw her stocking tops, and the straps of her garter belt, and a lot of Joanne. She had taken her panties off. As she did a pirouette, he got the front view and then a look at the firm, inviting white buttocks. Very pretty. Too bad about the face.
She came toward him. She sat down on his lap and fluffed her skirt out over his legs. She reached underneath and unzipped his pants. Then she began to rock, and soon her ghastly face was twisted and distorted with her sensations of passion, and then she was finishing and so was he, and pleasure came in hot electric bursts.
Mr. Crispian wasn't too happy about such things, except at the very moment of passion. The rest of the time he wished she would let him alone. She didn't. She followed him around the office, tossing looks of melting love at him. She went on flaunting her body at him. When she got together with him in his apartment or hers, her physical demands were merciless. What troubled him was that everybody in the office knew what was goir" or. and it was turning him into a figure of ridicule. After all, it wasn't a matter of pride that the ugliest girl in creation had fallen for him. People started smirking knowingly at Mr. Crispian. He wanted to tell them, "You ought to see her legs! She's got terrific boobs! Her behind's fantastic! And she's red-hot in the sack!"
A lot of good it would have done. The people in the office wrote Joanne off as a horror. And any man who was known to be carrying on with her must certainly be a desperate one.
Finally things came to a head after the affair had lasted close to a month. She was at his apartment; they had made love, and it had been pretty highly satisfying. He had driven himself to her passion-hungry body, and her churning thighs had clasped him tightly; her big, firm breasts had drilled into him eagerly as they went rocketing off to the abyss of ecstasy.
And afterward she said point blank, "I've got to know, Martin. Are you just taking advantage of me, or are you going to marry me?"
He tried to stall. He said he needed to think about it a little more. But she was insistent. Maybe she hoped to stampede him to the altar, the way she had stampeded him into this whole love affair. From her point of view, pushing the issue made sense, because otherwise he might just drift along for years, sleeping with her but not giving her the married respectability she craved. She had everything to gain and nothing to lose by being insistent.
Mr. Crispian panicked, though. He wasn't being allowed to stall. So he came right out and said, "I'm sorry, Joanne. I guess I'll have to be frank. I don't want to marry you, I'm afraid."
That was when it bit the fan.
She blew up at him. Ranting and raving, racing around the apartment nude with her breasts all aquiver, she accused him of taking advantage of her, of cheating her, of lying, of breach of contract, of a million deceitful things. Mr. Crisipan protested mildly that he meant nothing personal, that he simply wasn't the marrying type in general; he'd be glad to go on seeing her, so long as it didn't involve a wedding. She screamed at him. She purpled the air.
Finally she got her clothes on. He took his last regretful look at her bare breasts, her delectable milky-white buttocks. Then she was dressed and gone.
The payoff came later. The next week at the office, he started getting peculiar looks from everybody. Whenever he spoke to anyone, he was met with stares and odd giggles. After ten days, he finally found out the story from one of the other clerks, a reasonably close friend.
Joanne had been telling tales about him. All over the office.
She had told people that he was impotent, that he was a pervert, that when he made love at all it was in disgusting and unnatural ways. She had gone into great detail about their love affair. Most of what she had said, so far as Mr. Crispian could tell, was the product of her own warped imagination. But it was pretty hair-raising.
He was humiliated on two counts. The fact that he had touched the pariah, Joanne, at all was pretty shameful. And even if he had done only half the revolting things she said he had, he would be judged a pretty weird sort.
Mr. Crisipan quit his job on the spot. There was no question of remaining there, even though it was a fairly nice post. He couldn't bear to face any of those people again after the things they had been told about him.
For the same reason, he moved to a different part of the city. He had to uproot his whole life because of Joanne. It taught him a lesson he never forgot.
In the twenty-five years that followed, Mr. Crispian had stayed out of the arms of women. He missed the sex at first, but as he grew older it didn't matter that much. And he was glad to do without the risks.
When you slept with a woman, you became vulnerable. She might try to pressure you into marrying her. She might spread vicious rumors about you. Safer to stay away-and peep.
That was what Mr. Crispian had done. But tonight it had backfired. His peeping had brought a live, voluptuous naked girl into his apartment. She wasn't looking for a husband, either. Just for passion. But he had been too deeply mired in h
is habits to give in to her.
Now he was scared. The image of that gleaming naked body blazed in his mind. His body throbbed with unfamiliar desires. What would happen? What trouble would this Kathryn stir up for him, now that he had refused her so rudely, pushed her and thrown her down?
He paced around his apartment until almost dawn. Then, fearfully, he slept for a while. When morning came, he did not feel quite so edgy.
But the fear remained.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jim McHughes woke as sunlight splashed him in the face.
He woke the way most men simply dream of waking. His head was on the bosom of a lovely naked girl, and another lovely naked girl had her head in his lap, giving him a friendly little good morning kiss.
He grinned at Cleo. He grinned at Peggy.
But he didn't take them. He had had more than his quota of that the night before. Again and again, body thrusting at body, writhing, stirring. He had made it with Cleo, and he had made it with Peggy, and Peggy and Cleo had made it with one another, over and over. Then they had slipped into a quiet doze as morning neared.
"Upsy-daisy," he said. "Let's all take a nice shower and then you two chicks clear out and let me get some work done, okay?"
They were hazy with sleep. McHughes tugged them to their feet and shepherded them into the bathroom. They moved sleepily, two nude, statuesque females whose breasts swayed enticingly with every lurching step.
It was pretty crowded with the three of them under the shower, but that wasn't anything to complain about. They soaped each other up, rubbing the slippery stuff here and there with a lot of giggling and chuckling, and then, when they were all soapy and lathery, they washed clean and got out.
McHughes passed towels around. They got dry, with many a hobbling of bosom. They were a cute pair, these two. Stacked, lively and sexy. He couldn't object to the way he had passed his night.
Except that he hadn't passed it with Ellen. Broads like these, sexy as they were, were a kopeck a dozen. Ellen was special. Ellen was his. Or so he thought. But she wasn't his enough.
Tonight would be the showdown, McHughes vowed. For sure, he'd get things straightened out.
Cleo and Peggy wanted to stay and play some more. "Sorry, girls," McHughes told them. "The fun's over. Daddy's got to work."
"Can't you work later?" Cleo asked.
"Don't tempt me," he laughed.
He gave them each one last good feel as a parting gift. He ran his hands over Cleo's silken boobs and satiny bottom, and then he filled his hands with the incredibly generous ripeness of Peggy's bosom, and stroked the cool, tender mounds of her backside, and then he aimed both of them toward their clothing and supervised them while they did a reverse of the strip tease of the night before.
It was past eleven in the morning before they finally cleared out. McHughes went through the studio, opening windows, letting the scent of last night's orgy wash away in the clean morning air. Then he picked up his brushes and started to tackle his current project.
He didn't feel much like working, though. He wanted to talk to Ellen.
But that would have to wait till later. He forced himself to push the paint around.
In early afternoon, he phoned her. She sounded tense and tired, as though she had had a busy night last night with little sleep. McHughes felt bitter about that. He didn't like to think about the things she might have been doing. Even though he had scarcely been a dutiful fiance, balling two chicks at once, his conscience was clear. He would never have picked up Peggy and Cleo in the first place, if Ellen had not forced him to look elsewhere for companionship. And he didn't see how he could be blamed for doing what he had done, when she had He preferred not to think about that.
He said, "I'll be over around eight-thirty or nine tonight, okay?"
"Whenever you come, okay."
"You don't sound enthusiastic."
"I'm tired, Jim. That's all."
"Rough night?" he asked sarcastically.
"A busy day," she said.
"How late did he stay?"
"Jim, please-"
"All night?"
"He left before eleven," she said. "Are you satisfied? Do you believe me?"
"Then why are you so tired?"
"I didn't sleep well," she said. "Bad conscience?"
"Could be," she admitted.
Somehow he used up the rest of the day. He didn't spend it very usefully. He wandered around his studio, looking at the unfinished paintings but not even considering working on them. Mostly he rehearsed the things he was going to say to Ellen, going over and over them in his mind until they echoed in his brain.
He couldn't help seeing Cleo and Peggy before his eyes. The two naked girls who had spent the night here with him still throbbed in his brain. Forget them, he thought. After tonight there won't be any more such little amusements. Just you and Ellen.
After a skimpy dinner, he set out for Ellen's place.
He got there a little late, about quarter to nine. When he ran the bell, the door opened immediately, as though she had been standing behind it waiting for his ring. She glided toward him and into his arms.
"Ellen," he murmured. "Ellen, darling-"
She looked radiant, magnificent. She was wearing a pink, filmy negligee, but it didn't hide her body in the slightest. McHughes could see the white, ripe, luscious globes of her breasts within the material.
He folded her into a tight embrace. The deep bowls of her breasts crushed against him. His mouth sought hers. Her lips were soft against his, and his tongue plunged deep. She dug her fingers into the muscles of his back as they kissed each other passionately.
His hands roved Ellen's body. He cupped one thrusting breast, feeling it warm and hard-nippled through the negligee. Then he slid his hand down her back, finding the twin mounds of her buttocks and grasping the resilient flesh with the tips of his fingers.
Then he let go of her.
She was panting and gasping with desire. Her face was flushed, her eyes were glassy. Her breasts were heaving in agitation, and clearly visible through the gauzy fabric were the tall, hard, excited nipples, thrusting up like little red towers.
"Get undressed, Jim," she said in a harsh, passion-wrought voice. "Hurry up! Let's go to bed!"
He shook his head. "Not so fast. First we have some talking to do."
"We can talk later, Jim." She came toward him again, her breasts swaying, her lips parted, her tongue flickering between them.
He held up one hand as though to push her back. "I'm serious, Ellen. We've got a lot to discuss, and I want to get it over with before any distractions set in."
Ellen sighed. "All right. What is it, Jim."
"I think you can guess,"
"Are we going to have another one of those discussions, Jim?"
"We're going to have the last of those discussions," McHughes told her in a flat voice. He folded his arms and stared levelly at her. The lure of her almost nude body was a powerful one. He could see those ripe, swelling curves beneath her filmy negligee, but he refused to let the magnetism of her seductive thighs and breasts sway him from his purpose. He said coolly, "I want all this crud to stop, Ellen."
"I told you. In a few more months-"
"No. Now."
"Don't pressure me, Jim."
"Listen, Ellen, the kind of relationship we have now is absolutely crazy. You know what I did last night? I went out and picked up a chick named Cleo in a coffee house, and I took her home and balled her. And because Cleo happened to have a pal along, I took the pal home, too. Two of them. Cleo and Peggy. Peggy had a pair of boobs on her out to here. We made it maybe half a dozen times last night."
"Are you bragging about your prowess?" Ellen asked sarcastically.
"I'm telling you what you forced me to do. Do you think I enjoyed doing it?"
"It sounds as if you did."
McHughes shook his head. "I enjoyed the physical part of it, the anima
l part, sure. But that's irrelevant. What I hated was the fact that I could have been having you in my arms instead of those two wild chicks. Only I couldn't have you, could I, Ellen? Because you were here, getting spanked by Brubaker. Getting your fanny tanned by that fat, middle-aged, stinking pervert."
Ellen bit her lip. "I would have been with you if I could have been, Jim."
"You say that. But you don't mean it. Think about it, Ellen. Why were you with him? Because you didn't say no. That's all. If you had spoken up and told him to go to hell with his spanking-"
"He'd have fired me."
"What of it? I can support you."