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Subject: {ASSM} Story:  LLP-348 The Motorcyclist's Wife courtesy of VintageAdultBooks
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Greetings all, 

You'll find below the story LLP-348 The Motorcyclist's Wife by Carl Van 
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LLP-348 The Motorcyclist's Wife by Carl Van Marcus


Prologue

The air hung heavy over the flat Kansas prairie, dense and feverishly 
heated as a sick person's breath. As the afternoon progressed, ominous 
black clouds encroached on the Western skyline, and violent gusts of 
wind - like the wracking coughs of an invalid - stirred but failed to 
cool the crowd below.

"Smith! SMITH! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? YOUR ACT'S SUPPOSED TO BEGIN 
NOW!" a darkly handsome man in his late twenties emerged from the shack 
that served as an equipment shed on this makeshift motorcycle stunt 
circus track, shouting to make himself heard over the roar of the large 
crowd. Spotting his star stunt rider standing beside the concession 
stand with a buxom peroxide blonde clinging to his muscular arm, the 
irritated show manager strode in that direction.

"What the fuck's holding you up?" the dark-haired man snapped. "We've 
got a show going here, remember? It's past time for your act, and the 
crowd's waiting for you."

"Don't make him do it, Larry!" the girl pleaded, throwing her arms 
around the well-built stunt rider. "The wind's too bad!  The radio said 
there's gusts up to 30 miles per hour!"

Larry Johnson, the manager, stared down at the girl, his face 
reflecting the contempt and dislike he felt for her. Though she was 
still in high school, her face and hair were already coarsened by 
overuse of cosmetics and dyes, and her large breasts, bulging 
conspicuously under her tight CYCLE CIRCUS T-shirt, would be sagging by 
the time she reached the age of twenty. Still, she was a good lay - he 
ought to know, for he'd tried her out before passing her on to his star 
stunt rider. And, more important, she was the daughter of the man who 
owned the most popular radio station who'd given their two-week Kansas 
tour so much free publicity. Anyway, she was probably just what Verne 
Smith needed, what with that beautiful but frigid wife of his back 
home. There was so much tension involved in this sort of dare-devil 
stunt riding that it wasn't a good idea for the guys to be sexually 
frustrated as well.

"What's the matter, Verne?" Larry asked, staring hard at his top bike 
rider. "You turn chicken over a little wind?"

Verne Smith laughed, looking embarrassed as he glanced at the teenager 
hugging him. He'd never quite learned to handle these precocious cycle 
groupies, nor quite managed to overcome his innate guilt about cheating 
on his wife.

"I ain't scared of no wind," he said to Larry, "you know me better than 
that. But I was just trying to calm down Sherry here."

"Just go on and get that act moving. I'll handle Sherry."

Verne moved out onto the track and mounted his powerful black cycle to 
the accompaniment of the crowd's loud yells. Though he was only twenty-
five, he was already famous among cycle enthusiasts around the country 
for his fearless skill.

"Don't do it, Verne! Don't do it!" he heard Sherry's shrill adolescent 
voice calling and turned to smile and wave reassuringly before gunning 
his bike and tearing across the field to the first hurdle.

Suddenly, so quickly that the watching crowd hardly saw what happened, 
a particularly violent gust of wind caught the speeding, climbing cycle 
at an angle that sent it hurtling back down the hill. Verne Smith's 
black leather clad body flew through the air to land not far from the 
spectators with a sickening thud, then lay as still as a crushed 
insect. Beyond him, the accelerating bike's powerful engine immediately 
burst into crimson flames that shot high into the darkening sky.

Larry Johnson rushed toward his friend's twisted body, the terrified 
screams of the crowd and the wail of the fire siren echoing in his 
ears.

"Verne! Verne!" he shouted, kneeling beside the sprawled out body. But 
the stunt rider was unconscious, and in the next minute his inert body 
was being lifted into a shrieking ambulance which raced toward the 
nearest hospital.



Chapter 1


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.



Chapter 2


Larry Johnson stood beside the Smith's white imitation-leather sofa, a 
bottle of Johnny Walker in one hand and a towel filled with ice cubes 
in the other. His usually self-assured, darkly handsome face was 
twisted into an uncharacteristic caricature of confusion as he gazed 
down at the lifeless form of his best friend's unconscious wife, and 
though he made a brief effort to concentrate on his injured partner who 
lay paralyzed from the waist down in a Kansas hospital, his granite-
grey eyes gradually began to shoot out sparks of lust.

When he'd lifted Sandi Smith's limp body in his arms and carried her in 
from the doorstep to the living room couch, her transparent orange 
nightgown had bunched up around her slender waist. Now, as she lay 
sprawled on her side, her ripely-rounded, snow-white buttocks were 
completely revealed to his ardent gaze. One full firm breast swelled 
out over the edge of the couch cushion, and the young motorcyclist had 
to fight back an impulse to lean down and gently lick its satin-
skinned, ruby-tipped surface.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, taking a quick gulp of 
the whiskey with which he'd intended to revive the stunned young wife. 
Then, without allowing his eyes to leave the tantalizing spectacle 
spread out before him, he poured some of the amber liquid into a glass 
and set it on the glass-topped coffee table. In a moment he'd give it 
to her - but first he'd allow himself to feast his eyes upon the 
sensual but forbidden female flesh of his buddy's wife.

Whoever would have thought that Verne's goody-goody wife ran around the 
house in a get-up that even his own uninhibited wife Clare would have 
thought a bit risque? It just didn't go along with the prissy way Sandi 
had of wrinkling her nose and frowning when someone told an off-color 
joke, or the shocked looks she'd shot at Clare when the older girl had 
come over one hot afternoon in a skintight T-shirt sans brassiere. In 
fact, the only way he could figure it was that she must have a lover - 
why the hell else would she be wearing such sexy underwear when her 
husband was gone? Well, she'd sure had him fooled - and obviously old 
Verne too!

A low moan followed by a babble of incoherent words rose from the 
figure on the couch, and Johnson's face quickly reverted to a mask of 
concerned friend as the curvaceous blonde wife opened her hazel eyes 
and attempted to pull herself up to a sitting position.

"Verne! Wh-what h-happened to him?" she whispered. "He's not ... not 
..." Then her voice choked in her throat as tears flooded into her 
fear-glazed eyes.

"Take it easy, Sandi," Larry murmured soothingly. He handed her the 
glass of whiskey, adding, "Drink this, it'll make you feel stronger. 
You sure gave me a scare when you toppled over like that on the steps."

Sandi ignored the proffered glass, instead grasping her husband's 
partner's other arm and imploring, "Is he all right? Larry, tell me! 
Tell me!"

As the half-hysterical blonde touched his arm, the dark-haired man felt 
his blood quicken in his veins, and the long shaft of his penis gave a 
sudden lurch against the tight material of his jeans.

"Calm down, honey," he reassured her, moving his arm around her 
quivering figure and holding the glass against her lips until she 
automatically gulped down the stinging alcohol. "Verne's had a little 
accident, but he's going to be all right. Everything's going to be all 
right."

Even as the words left his mouth, Larry felt a twinge of disquiet at 
deliberately deceiving the distraught young woman. In his mind's eye, 
he saw her husband flying through the air to land with a sickening 
crunch upon the track, his virile, leather-clad body crumpling on 
impact like a cricket crushed under someone's heel. Then, Larry's 
memory skipping forward a few hours, a vision of the small hospital's 
antiseptic white-walled corridor flashed across Larry's brain. He'd 
been nervously sipping at his third cup of wax-flavored coffee from the 
hall vending machine when a plump, white-frocked doctor who looked more 
like an extra in a low-budget television western than a surgeon had 
approached him.

"Lucky to be alive ... doubt if he'll ever walk again, though we did 
save his legs ... but paralysis has set in ... no life at all below the 
waist ... but no brain damage, luckily ... yeah, he was pretty lucky."

Just the recollection brought back a flash of the horror and disbelief 
he'd felt at that moment. Lucky? When he'd never again be able to walk 
or even make love to a woman, much less dazzle the crowds with his 
stunt-rider skills? Larry wondered if Verne wouldn't have been better 
off if his brain had died along with his body. And what about the 
Motorcycle Circus, into which they had both thrown their entire 
savings, counting on Verne's extraordinary prowess as a rider? He 
himself was ruined too, financially if not physically.

When the grey-faced, weary-looking doctor had thrown out a grain of 
hope, he'd grasped at it like a drowning man catching hold of a chance 
bit of driftwood.

"... no facilities here in Kansas, but there is an operation ... very 
expensive ... 50% chance of success ... very delicate, intricate ... 
know of a specialist in Indianapolis ..."

Now, as he stood in his partner's living room trying to comfort his 
buddy's tearful wife he wondered why he'd not told her the truth. On 
the drive from the airport, he'd been full of schemes to raise money 
for the operation, and he'd fully intended to discuss this with Mrs. 
Smith. She'd have to get a full-time job, of course, and he'd put on 
some special benefit shows or something along that line. Anything at 
all, just so that Verne got the best possible medical care and 
recovered at least in time for next summer's opening of the real money-
maker - the opening of the permanent Cycle Circus here in Indiana.

It was kind of ironic, he reflected, that he found himself depending so 
heavily on the slightly younger man. He, Larry, had been the one who 
taught Smith all he knew about bikes, starting when he'd been a skinny 
little freckle-faced freshman who'd hang around while his older 
neighbor polished and repaired his big cycle. Larry had taken a liking 
to the kid who so obviously adored him, and he'd eventually let him try 
out the bike. Within months the youngster had far outstripped his 
teacher in skill and daring, and by the time he graduated from high 
school, he was proficient enough to be able to make a living by the 
prize money he won. Even after he'd become a success, however, he'd 
still looked up to Larry Johnson and had asked his advice about a great 
many things other than motorcycles. In fact, probably the only decision 
he'd made entirely on his own was when he met Sandi on a tour in 
Florida and married her three weeks later.

Larry had been prepared to dislike the new bride even before he met 
her, simply because he'd have preferred to have handpicked the star 
motorcycle rider's wife himself if Verne insisted in tying himself down 
at this inopportune point in his career. Hell, the guy was only twenty-
one, for Chrissake, and it wasn't like he was hurting for sex, what 
with all the "cycle groupies" who liked to hang around the track and 
had no compunctions at all about putting out for the muscular, 
personable young stunt rider. Although the Cycle Circus had not yet 
become a reality at that point, the dream had been germinating in 
Johnson's brain for some months and most of the profits from his repair 
shop were earmarked for this project. The last thing he needed was some 
stupid broad coming along and seducing Verne away from a life of 
constant touring for fear of the danger involved.

When Larry had met Sandi, his worst suspicions had been justified. 
Granted, she never nagged at her husband to give up his career in favor 
of a stable nine-to-five job, but he could read in her plaintive brown 
eyes that this was exactly what she would have liked. At least he'd 
managed to persuade Verne that it wasn't a good idea for her to hang 
around the track; he'd told his partner that guys were making passes at 
his wife, but the real reason was that it was essential for Verne Smith 
to retain his image of virile, available hero if the Circus was to 
become popular with women as well as men.

Now, for the first time in a year, the ambitious manager found himself 
looking at his partner's young blonde wife in a new light - that of a 
sensuous female rather than as an obstacle in his path toward fame and 
fortune. The curvaceous, apricot-lace-draped figure now clinging to him 
was obviously that of a woman, and a woman whom he suspected of having 
a lover as well ... and that made her seem much more alluring to him, 
and available, as well.

Wonder how come I never really noticed her before? he asked himself as 
he caressed the soft blonde head leaning upon his shoulder. Ain't like 
me to ignore a sexy-looking chick!

"Oh Larry, Larry," Sandi murmured, hugging him more tightly than ever 
in her relief that her husband was neither dead nor seriously injured. 
"You're sure he'll be all right? You're sure?"

"Stop worrying, baby," Larry's normally loud voice dropped to a soft 
croon as a definite plan began to formulate in his scheming mind. 
"He'll have to be in the hospital awhile, but we'll get him the best 
doctors and everything'll work out."

"When can I see him?"

"They're flying him in from Kansas tomorrow afternoon, and I'll drive 
you into Gary to see him," Larry replied, pouring her another glass of 
whiskey as he spoke. "Don't you worry about anything - I'll be taking 
care of you just like Verne asked me to. 'Help Sandi out,' that's what 
he said to me after the accident. Yeah, you can count on me!"

This was a blatant lie, seeing as Verne hadn't even regained 
consciousness by the time the show manager left the hospital to catch 
his plane, but it had the desired psychological effect on the young 
wife. Her large amber eyes flooded with tears of gratitude, and a 
tremulous smile hovered on her child-like face.

"Th-thank you, Larry," she murmured. She'd never before seen her 
husband's partner acting so gentle, and decided that she'd been unjust 
in her estimation of him as an insensitive wheeler-dealer. Until now, 
she'd half-suspected him of exploiting and manipulating Verne, but 
certainly his reaction to this tragedy proved how deeply he cared about 
his friend.

"I ... I just wish I could be there with him, or do something to help 
him," Sandi sighed. "It's so awful to think of him lying all alone in 
some awful h-hos-"

"Now don't go on like that, honey," Larry interrupted as the blonde 
girl's voice began to grow unsteady. "And you can help - you can get a 
job so we can give him the very best care there is. You won't mind 
doing that for awhile, will you?"

"Mind? Of course not, Larry. I want to help. Anyway, it'll be better to 
be doing something than sitting around here worrying."

"That's a good girl," the conniving manager murmured, moving his hands 
an imperceptible inch closer to the full-swelling mounds of her almost 
naked breasts. "Here, have some more of this," he pushed the refilled 
whiskey glass toward her, and was pleased to see her gulp it down 
obediently. "You're still shaking like a leaf."

And no wonder! he thought to himself, considering that she's running 
around virtually naked on a cold night like this! But he restrained 
himself from speaking, for the last thing he wanted was for Sandi to 
notice that she'd neglected to cover up her resplendent body.

Yes, she was trembling, Sandi realized belatedly. Glancing down at her 
bare thigh as she sipped the burning alcohol, she saw that her ivory-
white flesh was puckered up into goosebumps. For a long moment she 
continued to stare at herself, feeling sure that something was not as 
it should be, but not quite being able to grasp just what the matter 
was.

"Yes ... I guess I'm cold. Maybe I should get-" Then her voice broke 
off in a low, horrified gasp and her face turned a shade of fiery red 
as she realized that all she was wearing was the wanton orange 
nightgown her husband had bought her.

Oh God, what's Larry thinking of me? she agonized, pulling away from 
him as she also noticed the overly familiar way she was snuggled up 
against him. How could I have been so stupid? Thank goodness it's not 
somebody else who wouldn't understand that I'm just too upset to know 
what I'm doing!

"Excuse me," she mumbled, feeling exceedingly awkward and not daring to 
meet her husband's best friend's eyes. "I ... I better go get d-dressed 
...,"

She rose to her feet, then collapsed in a heap upon the couch as her 
left leg buckled beneath her. Glancing down in bewilderment, she 
noticed for the first time that there was a jagged scratch running 
along the soft white flesh of her upper thigh. The moment she became 
aware of the red droplets of blood oozing down her leg, the cut began 
to throb with pain.

"Sandi! What happened to your leg?" Larry exclaimed. "Just lie there - 
I'll go get something to put on it."

"I ran into something when ... when the doorbell rang," she gasped as 
she settled weakly down against the cushions. "But it didn't hurt till 
now."

The three-inch abrasion wouldn't usually have bothered Sandi in the 
least, but tonight she was already in such an emotional state that the 
sight of blood made her feel as though she were about to faint again. 
Gulping down some more whiskey, which made her head spin more wildly 
than ever although it did help to deaden her nerves, she focused her 
glazed eyes on Larry Johnson's tall, broad-shouldered figure hurrying 
toward the bathroom.

I have to get something else on, even though Larry's been too nice to 
say anything about the disgraceful way I look, she told herself; but 
somehow she couldn't summon up the energy to move from her prone 
position. At last, just as she spotted her husband's friend returning 
with towel and Merthiolate bottle in hand, she reached up to pull the 
afghan throw rug from the back of the sofa over her exposed loins. The 
violet and blue shawl, which she'd crocheted herself from an easy-to-
sew pattern composed of more empty spaces than threads, made her feel 
less obscene without hiding any of her sensual charms.

"Now how am I going to get at that cut with that blanket over you?"

Larry flicked away the flimsy token of modesty and with an eagerness he 
tried to disguise ran his hand over the satin smoothness of the girl's 
wounded upper leg. Kneeling down so close to the sofa that he could 
detect the heady, feminine odor emanating from her blonde hair-trimmed 
pussy, he began to dab methodically at the angry red scratch with a 
dampened washcloth. At the same time, he placed an unnecessary hand 
upon the taut plane of her girlishly flat belly. Beneath the thin 
apricot-colored nylon, he could feel her muscles first quiver, then 
grow tense, at the unexpected contact.

She's a hot little bitch, he thought. I'm sure of it. The question is, 
is she hot enough that I can get her turned on even when she's all 
upset about her husband's accident? Well, I damn well intend to give it 
a try! And I do know a few tricks for getting broads into the sack!

A half-forgotten conversation he'd had with the blonde's husband 
flashed into his memory, making him pause for a second with the 
antiseptic bottle poised in the air above Sandi's full-fleshed thigh. 
They'd been standing on the side of the track, over by the bleachers, 
and watching the buxom blonde he'd set Verne up with saunter across the 
field toward them.

"How'd you make out with Sherry last night, man?" he'd smirked.

"She's wild, really wild," Verne had leered back. "You sure do know how 
to spot the winners, Larry. Honest to God, I never thought a girl would 
want to do all those kinky things! Sandi would freak out if I even 
mentioned trying stuff like that!"

Somehow this remembered conversation just didn't relate to the image 
Johnson was forming of Mrs. Sandi Smith tonight. Surely this 
sophisticated-looking female in her lurid lace nightgown wouldn't be 
shocked by a few harmless perversions! And surely her supposed lover 
couldn't be contented with a steady diet of missionary position.

This wasn't the time for idle speculation, however; all that mattered 
at this moment was the intoxicating perfume of the young wife's 
voluptuous body and the satin sheen of her unblemished white flesh 
beneath his roving hands. Just the innocent act of dabbing antiseptic 
on her firm-fleshed upper leg was sending electrical tremors of arousal 
shooting from his fingertips out to every nerve-ending in his body, and 
he felt his cock expand and pulsate in eager anticipation. Was the girl 
feeling the same surges of desire? It was hard to tell from the way she 
lay motionless except for a slight flinch of pain from the stinging 
antiseptic.

"Am I hurting you, Sandi?" he whispered huskily, bending still closer 
to the blonde's lewdly exposed body so that he could speak directly 
into her ear. Strands of honey-gold hair brushed across his cheek, and 
the hotly aroused motorcycle circus manager knew that he had to have 
this succulent young girl, had to get to know every inch of her lushly 
rounded figure, had to explore her blonde-fringed pussy. Most of all, 
he longed to hear his partner's formerly aloof and uptight wife begging 
for more of his throbbing male flesh, imploring him to still the fires 
that he suspected raged through her healthy young body.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" he repeated when there was no response to 
his first question. "I don't want to hurt you, honey."

The dark-haired young man set the bottle of Merthiolate down on the 
coffee table, but an instant later his left hand was back on the warm 
softness of the young wife's upper thigh while his right hand gradually 
began a persuasive massaging motion upon her smooth belly that eased 
the diaphanous orange nightie all the way up to Sandi's slender waist. 
Much to his gratification, he felt her stomach muscles ripple beneath 
his suggestive touch.

"You feel so tense, Sandi," he breathed into her ear, letting his lips 
linger longer than necessary in the silken strands of her naturally 
blonde hair. Most of the women Larry knew, including his wife Clare, 
favored wigs, hair pieces, and dyes which made their hair rather coarse 
to the touch. In contrast, his best friend's wife's shoulder-length 
curls felt as fine and soft as those of a child, and this plus her 
clean-scrubbed face and slim-hipped, girlish figure gave her a certain 
vulnerable, almost virginal quality which the older man found extremely 
exciting.

"Verne wouldn't want you to be feeling all tensed-up like this," he 
continued, his concerned, soothing voice betraying nothing of his lewd 
intentions. "He'd want you to relax, Sandi. Why don't I give you a 
massage?"

A massage? Just what did Larry mean by that? Sandi asked herself a 
little uneasily. It was a loaded word, for her sole conception of a 
massage was derived from a recent Chicago Tribune expose of that city's 
scurrilous purge of massage parlors. But the stinging pain from the 
Merthiolate was making her feel more disoriented than ever, and it 
seemed too much effort to question him.

In any case, Larry slid his hand up underneath the skimpy nightgown and 
began to knead the pliant warmth of her naked flesh without giving her 
a chance to voice any objections. His hoarse breathing echoed loudly in 
his own ears, and he hoped that the quivering young wife had not 
noticed his growing lust.

Although Sandi knew that her husband's best friend was just trying to 
help her feel better, his lingering hands were making her feel most 
uncomfortable.

"N-no, Larry ..." she sighed at last. "I ... I think maybe it's b-
better if I just try to s-sleep ..."

Her voice was so low as to be nearly inaudible, and there was a 
tremulous quality to it which told the conniving manager that she was 
indeed feeling a reciprocal arousal. In fact, she sounded so timorous 
that he anticipated no problem in accomplishing his adulterous 
seduction. In spite of her innocent face and prim mannerisms, she'd be 
just as susceptible to the lure of a long, stiffened cock as the 
peroxide teenyboppers who hung around the Cycle Circus.

All broads are the same, he reflected as he inched his eager hands 
farther up toward the inviting mounds of Sandi Smith's high-set 
breasts. Horny bitches, the lot of them. Only difference is that it 
takes longer to get into some cunts than others. Never had one say no 
to me yet!

"Awh, don't be silly, Sandi," he insisted. "You'll never sleep a wink 
if you're all muscle-bound like this, and you know it. You'll just be 
having nightmares about Verne!"

The slender blonde gave a slight shiver at the prospect as visions of 
blood and flames and prison-like hospitals haunted by ghost-like, 
white-frocked doctors and echoing with screams of anguish ran through 
her alcohol-confused mind. So frightened that she momentarily forgot 
her embarrassment at having Larry this close to her wantonly revealed 
body, she clasped her arms around his close-leaning back in a childish 
gesture of fear. The last thing she wanted was to be left alone in the 
dark, silent house with such terrifying images floating through her 
dreams.

Yeah - she wants me bad, all right, the egotistical older man gloated. 
I bet she's been wanting me all this time when she acted so high and 
mighty. Weird chick - but sometimes they're the wildest fucks of all!

The provoking sensation of being clasped so intimately by a female who 
was as weak and defenseless as she was beautiful was almost too much 
for the hotly aroused male. As his penis leaped to full blood-hardened 
erection, he had to fight back the overwhelming urge to rip off his 
jeans and ram his aching thickness deep into the tight little cunt that 
he knew lay hidden beneath those gently curling strands of pale gold 
pussy hair. That's exactly what he would have done if he'd been with 
most of the girls he knew - and in his profession, he got to know a lot 
- because they wanted to be fucked, not persuaded. Half the time, in 
fact, they'd been the aggressors, and the whole idea of seduction 
became a bit absurd. As a rule, this suited Larry just fine, for he 
preferred his adulterous adventures to be brief, uninhibited, and 
problem-free.

But with Sandi Smith, he instinctively realized he had to play a 
different game, and an oddly pleasant one at that. He was sure she 
didn't regard lovemaking as a healthy physical activity or amusing 
pastime; if she had indeed taken a lover, she was doubtless very guilty 
about it. No, the naive nineteen year old still hadn't accepted the 
fact of her basic sensuality ... and the real kick, as far as he was 
concerned, lay in proving to her that she was just another cunt with no 
control over her body's lewd desires.

"Don't get all upset, Sandi," he whispered to the quivering young 
bride. "I'm here to take care of you, and I'll fix you up so that you 
don't have any nightmares."

As he spoke, he continued his subtle massaging of her shaking flesh, 
pressing into her smooth, pliant skin with his fingertips and then 
stroking its silk-textured surface, moving higher and higher up along 
her rib cage. At last he reached her firm young breasts and grasped one 
in each of his eager hands, teasing their rose-pink tips with his 
palms.

A strong shudder surged through the innocent blonde wife at the 
unexpected titillation of her ultra-sensitive nipples. Her hands shot 
down from Larry's strong-muscled back to cover her naked breasts with 
the orange lace nightgown, which somehow had crept up around her neck 
without her noticing it. What on earth was her husband's manager doing 
to her? Surely he wasn't trying to ... but no, that was completely 
impossible.

"Wh-what are you d-doing, Larry?" she stammered, her whole body tensing 
as if she were about to jump to her feet and run from the room. "D-
don't do that, please!"

"Calm down," Larry said in the smooth voice he usually reserved for 
selling impossible schemes or unusable objects to recalcitrant clients. 
It was a tone of unquestionable honesty and sincerity which, along with 
his driving ambition, was largely responsible for his financial 
success. Never lost a deal or a woman yet! he often boasted to his 
friends.

"A massage is mental as well as physical, and if it's going to do any 
good at all you have to feel my energy vibrating on your bare skin. Now 
what I want you to do is think about Verne, pretend he's here with you 
now. That's what he'd want you to do! And you'll be sound asleep in no 
time at all!"

Sandi's shock-widened amber eyes stared back at him in confusion, and 
she continued her feeble effort to push away Larry's relentlessly 
kneading hands. Her mind was whirling so wildly that she just didn't 
know what to think, and all she could do was slowly shake her head at 
the handsome older man bending over her.

"Didn't anyone ever give you a massage before?" the sly manager 
inquired. "You're acting like I'm trying to do something wrong - do you 
really think I'd do anything to my best friend's wife that he didn't 
want me to do? And I know what he'd want is for me to relax you, honey. 
You're being silly - childish."

Was she? the naive blonde wondered. She had, after all, never been 
given a massage and had no idea of the usual procedure. And Larry had 
been so kind to her that it seemed insufferably rude to act as though 
he was trying to do something bad. Maybe she was being childish, still 
acting as though she was home with her puritanical parents. And what 
he'd said about thinking that Verne was here with her made sense; she'd 
actually been doing that already, for the two friends had very similar 
athletic builds and strong, capable hands.

"Here, have a little more of this scotch. It'll help you sleep, too," 
she heard Larry say, and as the glass was pressing right against her 
lips there seemed nothing to do but gulp it down. The clear brown 
liquid tasted nastier than ever, but it blurred her tangled thoughts to 
the point where it seemed unnecessary to do anything but close her eyes 
and try, as Larry had instructed, to pretend that her husband Verne was 
here beside her on the couch instead of in a hospital bed miles away.

Strong, gentle hands seemed to be caressing every curve and crevice of 
her nerve-tensed body, and she allowed herself to fall into a semi-
trance where there was no remembrance of motorcycle accidents, lewd 
lace nightgowns, or vague suspicions and guilt about what her husband's 
friend was doing to her. Verne, her wonderful husband, had magically 
arrived home safe and sound to calm the flames of desire that had been 
plaguing her for the past two weeks while he was away on tour. He was 
making her whole body vibrate in the most pleasant way imaginable, and 
instead of the nervous, undirected energy that had burned inside her, a 
flowing honeyed current of pure relief was humming through her veins. 
All she had to do was keep her eyes shut tight and not let her mind 
think of anything but Verne's handsome face with its lopsided grin and 
his sun-bronzed, virile body ... that was all she need do to feel happy 
again ...

"Ummmmmmmmm ... oooohhhhh ..." she purred low in her throat, letting 
her hands fall limply to her sides as all vestiges of guilt vanished 
from her conscious mind. "Oh, Verne, Verne ... ooooohhhh!"

Above the half-unconscious young wife, Larry Johnson was marveling at 
the ease with which his plan had succeeded. Even taking into 
consideration the whiskey and the shock of bad news, Sandi had allowed 
herself to be manipulated into this situation with the ease of a key 
slipping into a well-oiled lock. It was really incredible - if someone 
had told him last week that he'd be feeling up his star stunt-rider's 
prissy, conceited wife, he'd have laughed in their face.

Still moving cautiously so as not to jolt the crooning blonde out of 
her propitious trance, the lust-driven older man untied the small satin 
ribbon which served as the only fastening on Sandi's obscene lingerie 
and eased the translucent orange nylon away from her body. Jesus, was 
she a gorgeous chick! Johnson couldn't remember when he'd last seen 
such a cock-stirring figure, and now that her unblemished skin was 
coated with a thin sheen of perspiration, she might have been a 
polished sculpture created by a master craftsman. Inside his tight 
jeans, his impatient cock was throbbing in wild anticipation.

Massaging now with increasingly fervent strokes, the amoral motorcycle 
show manager tweaked Sandi Smith's tiny pink nipples into taut, swollen 
buttons. From the way she whimpered, Larry was certain that the little 
nerve-filled tips were shooting hot, tingling waves of desire 
throughout her unresisting body.

"Yes, Verne, yes!" Sandi breathed.

A warm, melting feeling identical to the one she experienced whenever 
her handsome young husband caressed her was now building up inside the 
young wife's frustrated body to a point where she required more 
stimulation than gentle strokes, and she gave a low mewl of relief when 
the strong male hand slipped down over her churning belly to brush 
teasingly across the curl-covered "vee" of her pubic mound. Without 
realizing what she was doing, Sandi wriggled her rounded hips and eased 
her soft full thighs a few inches apart. There in the rapidly 
moistening crevice between her trembling legs, a hungry, undeniable 
pressure was building ... an even more urgent pressure than she'd felt 
in bed an hour earlier as she'd rubbed her yearning thighs against one 
another in desperate search for relief.

Larry, who naturally did not realize how stimulated she'd been before 
his arrival, was astonished at the speed with which the sensuous 
nineteen year old blonde grew aroused.

I don't think she can have a lover, after all, he decided as he ran one 
outstretched finger up and down along the damp, hair-fringed slit of 
her vagina. Only a girl who's not been getting it for a good long time 
would act this hot! She's as cock-hungry as Clare was that time she had 
to stay on her parents' farm for three weeks while I was in Texas. Said 
she was ready to screw a horse by the time I got back!

Then, as Sandi's graceful legs eased another involuntary inch apart, 
all thoughts of his uninhibited brunette wife faded from the adulterous 
husband's mind. His lust-glazed eyes bugged out like a Pekinese dog's 
as he watched his middle finger slide stealthily in along the damp pink 
cuntal flesh nestling in between the honeyed-gold strands of curling 
pubic hairs. Then with a gentle twisting motion, he wormed his extended 
finger slowly up into the virginally narrow slit of her cunt.

Christ, she's tight! he thought, beads of perspiration breaking out on 
his suntanned face as he teased his finger deep inside her pinkly 
glistening vaginal flesh while continuing to knead the pliant mounds of 
her wide-set breasts with his other hand. Deep down in his testicles a 
burning need was growing, sending his long cock into an aching, rock-
hard erection that bulged obscenely in the front of his denim jeans. 
But although the urge to yank down his fly, release his swollen penis, 
and ram it into the tantalizing blonde-fringed cuntal opening beneath 
him was almost irresistible, he held himself back. Even in his present 
lust-maddened state, the successful business manager retained his 
opportunistic, coolly logical manner of thinking.

I don't want to let her realize what's going on, at least not till 
she's too hot to stop herself. If I try to fuck her now, she's gonna 
scream and raise hell, and all the neighbors are gonna hear for a block 
around. Some ass-hole might even call the cops - it's happened before. 
You can hear everything through these goddamn cardboard walls! No, what 
I have to do is get her so turned on that she wants me inside her ... 
and the way she's squirming around, that shouldn't take too long!

Moving stealthily, the well-built man slithered his muscular body 
sideways up onto the couch between the writhing blonde's long slender 
legs, positioning his swollen, throbbing penis up against her 
gracefully curved calf. Luckily, she did not seem to notice anything 
that was going on except the insistent probing of his middle finger up 
into her warmly sucking cunt. As Larry located the tiny nerve-filled 
bud of her clitoris with his thumb and began circling it in a slow, 
rhythmic pressuring motion, Sandi once again began to call out her 
husband's name.

"Verne ... Verne ... oh yes!" the confused blonde mewled. It feels so 
very, very good! she marveled to herself. I wonder why he never touched 
me like this before? Oh, thank you, Verne! Thank you for making me feel 
so goooooood!

Above the moaning young wife, her seducer was breathing hard and 
controlling his impatiently lunging virility only with the greatest 
effort as he continued to gently finger-fuck into her hungrily dilating 
little pussy. Sandi's cunt seemed to grow moister with each passing 
second, and again he found himself wondering at the rapidity of her 
arousal.

Guess maybe I'm more imaginative than old Verne, he congratulated 
himself with characteristic conceit. Guess she's never had no one treat 
her sweet little pussy so good! The cocksure egotist suddenly recalled 
his friend's statement about Sandi not wanting to do "kinky" things, 
and a lewd grin lighted up his rugged features as he at last formed a 
clear plan of action. If no one's ever sucked her, then she's going to 
go wild when I do it! She'll let me do anything to her after that ... 
she'll be crawling to me begging for it!

The expectation of having his star motorcyclist's lushly contoured 
young wife under his complete control so excited the ill-intentioned 
show manager that he bent his head down at once to her enticingly hair-
fringed cuntal crevice at once. Though he'd never admitted it to 
himself, Larry was subconsciously rather jealous of the way his younger 
friend had surpassed him in stunt-riding skill, and this heightened his 
satisfaction at exploiting the other man's wife sexually in ways her 
own husband had never dared to attempt.

As his tongue slid into the well-lubricated slit of Sandi's warmly 
flowing vagina, a rich feminine odor of tantalizing sensuality 
assaulted his flaring nostrils. Breathing in deeply to take full 
advantage of the heady scent, the dark-haired man let his tongue swipe 
with smooth gentle strokes against the quivering lips of her rose-
petal-pink vagina. Her feminine fluids inundated his hungry tongue, 
making it tingle in a way that caused his already uncomfortably 
elongated penis to swell thicker than ever, the blood-filled head 
grazing maddeningly against the rough denim fabric of his formfitting 
jeans.

Jesus! he thought to himself as he slithered his tongue along Sandi's 
fresh-tasting cuntal slit in search of her sensitive clitoral bud. 
Gotta make her cum fast! Once she's climaxing, I can shove it into her 
so fast she won't know it's me until it's too late for her to give a 
damn. And then I'll let her know whose cock is fucking her, I'm gonna 
ram it into her like I'm sure Verne never dared to! He always did treat 
chicks too nice.

Sandi, who's never before experienced a tongue-fucking, gasped aloud as 
she felt the strange, wetly moving object gliding along her most 
intimate flesh. In the farthest corner of her mind, a persistent little 
voice was attempting to warn her against this incredibly lovely 
sensation, but her frustrated craving for the wonderful waves of 
ecstasy that were shimmering out from her belly to every inch of her 
ripe young body was so intense that it was quite simple to block out 
the glowering warnings of her conscience.

"Verne, Verne! Oh, I love you ... I love you!" she cried, her voice 
overly shrill as if to convince herself that nothing was going on 
except her husband making conventional love to her. Clenching her fists 
so hard that her long nails left marks on her palms, and squeezing her 
eyes even more tightly shut, the tormented young wife strove to retain 
the wonderful illusion.

And Larry, slaving above the half-conscious wife of his injured friend, 
was enjoying the tongue-fucking more than he'd expected to. Being a 
naturally selfish and impatient individual, he tended to prefer having 
a girl suck his urgently pulsating penis, or sinking his long thickness 
hard into her welcoming cunt without any undue delay. Tonight, however, 
he was experiencing a great deal of somewhat perverse pleasure from his 
delightful oral torture of this naive blonde who believed him to be her 
absent husband. As he thought of how shocked she'd be when she 
discovered who she'd been sucked and fucked and fingered by, his eyes 
glinted with a malicious, almost sadistic delight. Yeah, she'd be under 
his thumb, all right! She'd be like putty in his hands! Even the 
agonizing ache in his cum-filled balls and pounding penis was worth 
that eventual triumph!

Lashing out with increasing ardor, he let his stiffened tongue vibrate 
in teasing little circles around the moaning nineteen-year-old's 
swollen clitoris. He could feel her jerk and groan out beneath him, and 
within seconds the tiny nerve-filled pleasure-bud had grown erect and 
taut, not unlike a miniature penis.

It was funny, he reflected, how different women were. His wife Clare 
had a wealth of thickly tangled dark cuntal hair; he'd made her shave 
it, for there was something obscene about an unnaturally smooth pussy 
mound that excited him. In fact, he got a very erotic thrill from 
watching her shave herself down there; seeing the dangerously sharp 
razor grazing so near to her ultra-sensitive pink vagina appealed to 
the sadist in him. At first she'd objected to performing the very 
personal operation in front of him, but he'd compelled her to, and she 
never resisted him for very long. Neither would Sandi after he was 
through with her! But he wouldn't like to see her shave off her 
sparsely curling strands of gold pubic hair. No, he liked the way she 
resembled a preadolescent nymphet ... and she acted incredibly like 
one, too, even after a whole year of marriage.

Then, as the intoxicated, honey-blonde wife began to tremble like a 
willow sapling in a Midwestern thunderstorm, Johnson lost track of his 
obscene thought and he buried his face in the warm moist crevice 
between her widespread legs, striving to bring on her impending orgasm. 
First he flicked his skillful tongue around the moistly glistening 
jewel of her distended clitoris, reveling in the way the smooth little 
bud vibrated in automatic response. Her whole body tensed beneath him, 
the tendons standing out on her lower leg where Johnson's lust-hardened 
cock pressed against it, and her breath coming in harsh, low gasps as 
she strained to reach her climax. Although he'd rather expected her to 
cum immediately, she hovered on the edge of release for so long that 
the man kneeling between her naked legs changed his tactics and glided 
his tongue down along her moist cuntal slit to the tiny orifice of her 
pink-fleshed vagina. Stretching as far as possible, he jabbed deep into 
the heatedly pulsing channel, then commenced a rhythmic pattern of 
long, smooth in and out strokes.

"Oooooohhhhhh ... aaahhhhhh ... ooooggg hhhhh ..." Sandi moaned, her 
honey-blonde hair flailing like a halo around her twisting head as she 
wailed out her mindless passion. Every muscle in her slender young body 
was straining for the fulfillment that lay just out of reach, and as 
the young blonde cried out again, she kicked her long, lithe legs still 
wider apart and curled up her small white toes in a frenzy of desire.

Why can't I cum? Why? I need to so bad! her dazed mind shouted.

There was so much pressure mounting inside her loins that she felt like 
a blown-to-the-limit balloon about to explode. As her softly tumescent 
vaginal lips contracted around the warm, vibrating object inside her 
pussy - no, she wouldn't let herself think what it was, not now, not 
just when she was about to cum - she thought that at last she'd reached 
the pinnacle.

"Pleeeeeeeeeeease!" she wailed. "Pleeeeeeease, Verne, nooooowwwwwwww!"

Larry wiggled his tongue lewdly inside the warm, wet channel of Sandi's 
pulsating vagina, then ran his tongue up over her desire-swollen pussy 
lips to nip gently at the glistening clitoral bud once more. 
Simultaneously, he reached up to knead the pliant mounds of her heaving 
breasts, pinching their puckering nipples much harder than before in 
his intense desire to feel his friend's wife cumming as a result of his 
skillful manipulations.

Suddenly the aching tension in Larry Johnson's throbbing penis was too 
much to bear, and his rock-hard member lurched out of control, pounding 
so impatiently that he immediately yanked down his zipper to release 
it. If Sandi discovered his identity now and began freaking out, it was 
just too bad for her. There was no power on this earth that could hold 
back his passion a moment longer, and with a hoarse, animalistic cry 
the burly motorcyclist began tearing off his jeans.

At the unmistakable metallic sound of a zipper being ripped open and 
the harsh cry in a voice which bore no resemblance to her husband's, 
Sandi's dream-like illusion shattered into a thousand pieces.

It's not Verne! she realized. It's Larry Johnson! Oh God, oh God! How 
could he do this ... how could I let him get away with it?

Pulling her wits together as best she could, the despairing blonde 
housewife forced her eyelids open. Not more than six short inches above 
her nakedly splayed body, her husband's best friend was extracting the 
enormous, glistening red shaft of his penis from his unfastened fly. It 
was so close to her that she could see the tiny pearl of over-eager 
pre-cum on the mushroom-shaped glans, and as she stared, paralyzed with 
shame and fear, it seemed to lengthen before her very eyes.

Adultery! Adultery! the voice in her mind screamed. How could you have 
committed this unforgivable sin just when poor Verne's had an accident?

The guilt-stricken young wife tried to defend herself, but before she 
could coordinate her passion-weakened muscles, the piercing ring of the 
telephone turned her blood to ice and she froze with her legs still 
half lifted in preparation to kick at her assailant. Larry also knelt 
stock-still, his Levi's bunched around his knees and his powerful 
erection thrusting out straight as an arrow from his loins. Both their 
heads whirled toward the dark hallway, their disoriented eyes staring 
at the shrilling phone.

Sandi came to her senses first, and began kicking out her legs and 
pummeling her balled-up fists against Larry's menacing figure.

"Get away from me!" she choked out. "Let me answer the phone!"

There was a huge lump of guilty fear clogging her throat which made it 
very difficult to speak, for she was positive that it must be the 
hospital ringing to say that Verne was dead. I've killed him! her mind 
shrieked, for by now she was far too intoxicated and shocked to be 
rational. It's all my fault that he's dead!

It wasn't easy for the half-naked older man to speak or move, what with 
the blood pounding so urgently through his lust-distended cock, but he 
finally managed to gasp out, "Let the goddamn thing ring, baby. Don't 
answer it."

"Shut up! You shut up, you - you monster!" the hysterical young blonde 
screamed, giving him a violent shove which caught him off his guard and 
sent him staggering away from the couch. Then she rushed into the 
hallway, grabbing the phone just before it rang for the fifth time.

"Hello?" she cried in a breathless voice quite unlike her usual soprano 
tone. "Yes? Yes? What is it?"

"Hey, take it easy, honey," she heard the throaty voice of Clare 
Johnson, the wife of the dark-haired man who stood in her living room 
with his massive, penis shamelessly pointed straight out from his hard-
muscled stomach, and Sandi's knees went weaker than ever in relief that 
at least it wasn't the hospital. Then, a moment later, she felt a wave 
of sick guilt so intense that she had to lean against the hallway's 
flower-papered wall to keep her balance, and she noted distractedly 
that her knuckles clutching the receiver were as white as if no flesh 
covered the bone. She prayed that Larry would keep quiet, at the same 
time loathing herself for having to think a thing like that.

"Clare ..." she gulped.

"Gee, honey, I'm so sorry about Verne," the other woman's voice buzzed 
into Sandi's ear. When there was no answer she added "Larry did tell 
you, didn't he? He called me from the airport and said he'd be stopping 
by your place to ..."

"Yes," Sandi swallowed. "He ... told me." She glared with wide, hate-
filled eyes at the man in question who stood awkwardly poised beside 
the living room sofa, his formerly rock-hard penis shrinking as he 
realized that it was his wife at the other end of the line. "He j-just 
left."

"Oh good!" Clare exclaimed. "That's why I called, really. I wouldn't 
have bothered you at a time like this, but I got so worried, what with 
this fog coming up and all. It's so hard not to worry, especially after 
..."

"Yes," Sandi broke in, not wanting to hear Verne's accident mentioned, 
not wanting to continue this dishonest conversation. She stared dully 
out of the uncurtained living room window, scarcely hearing Clare's 
condolences, as it suddenly struck her that any passerby could quite 
easily have seen into the living room and observed the depraved way 
Larry Johnson had crouched between her legs and touched her in 
unspeakable places with his mouth. Oh God, how had it happened, how? 
She'd never even let her own husband touch her in that perverted way.

Suddenly Sandi's head ached so badly and her legs felt so trembly that 
she knew she was about to collapse on the floor. "G-good-by, Clare. T-
tomorrow-" she stuttered, letting the white plastic receiver fall down 
with a clatter as she stumbled into a chair. I'm still naked, she 
thought vaguely, I have to cover myself up. But all she really wanted 
was for Larry to vanish, and Clare as well - how would she ever face 
the brunette again? - and everything about this horrible evening to be 
erased from her memory forever.

"Sandi ..." Larry said, stepping toward her, his deflated penis jerking 
slowly back into semi-erectness. Goddamn Clare anyway, he cursed 
silently. It's gonna take a fucking miracle now to get her back down on 
the couch. She looks madder than hell, the stupid bitch!

"Get away from me, Larry Johnson! What's the matter with you?" Sandi 
hissed in a voice that was more weary than angry. It was hard to sound 
indignant when her traitorous body was beginning to pulse with lewd 
desire for the orgasm which had been so abruptly terminated. 
Inconceivable as it was that she could be feeling like this, it was 
impossible to deny the wanton waves of erotic lust still shivering in 
her nearly naked body.

If there was one thing that infuriated the egotistical motorcycle 
enthusiast, it was to have his plans thwarted. All his life as an only 
child, he had been the first, the favorite, the winner of prizes and 
scholarships. The good-looking youngster had passed from being the 
strongest kid on the block to being president of his high school class 
without encountering any serious obstacles, and by the time he was in 
his early twenties he'd capitalized on the new motorcycle fad to become 
richer than most men twice his age. All of this had occurred so 
smoothly as to make him feel it was his due, and quite naturally Larry 
Johnson had come to believe by now that there was no reason why he 
shouldn't continue to have everything handed to him on a silver 
platter. He certainly wasn't about to take no for an answer from some 
uptight cunt who obviously wanted to be fucked as badly as he wanted to 
fuck her!

"There's not a goddamn thing wrong with me," he snarled rather nastily 
at the glassy-eyed blonde slouched disconsolately in the chair across 
from the couch. "But there's sure as hell something wrong with you! How 
come you're all uptight all of a sudden? You were liking it all right 
five minutes ago, and you know as well as I do you're dying to get a 
taste of this in your tight little pussy." He pointed his hardening 
thickness menacingly at the girl as he spoke, his face a mask of raw 
lust and his black eyes shooting out sparks of impatient fury.

At her husband's disloyal friend's scathing words, Sandi Smith's 
flushed pink cheeks blanched greyish-white. What hurt most was his all-
too-true assumption that she wanted to make love to him. Waves of self-
disgust rose stronger than ever in her throat, and tears of shame 
welled up in her eyes as her well-meaning efforts to draw her contoured 
thighs close together only succeeded in increasing rather than 
eliminating the forbidden sensations surging up from her frustrated 
vagina to her still crazily churning belly.

Johnson, though, by now so aroused and enraged that he wanted to rape 
the lushly ripened nineteen year old wife of his injured friend, forced 
himself to think calmly. It was too late to do anything tonight, he 
realized. Clare expected him home at any moment; besides, Sandi was so 
distraught by now that she'd be sure to scream and rouse the neighbors. 
One thing the Cycle Circus certainly didn't need was bad publicity. And 
damn it all! Here he was so horny he could hardly walk!

"Don't talk to me like that!" Sandi blazed, her indignant voice made 
shriller by her knowledge of her own very real guilt. "Get out of here! 
I never want to see you again!"

"But you'll be seeing me, baby," Larry snarled, his handsome face 
contorted by his vindictive anger into a caricature of a villain. 
"You'll be coming around begging for more of what I've got to give!"

"Shut up!" Sandi hissed, putting her hands over her ears.

"Yeah," the dark-haired man added spitefully as he tugged his form-
fitting Levi's up over his unsatisfied and still swollen penis. "Yeah, 
you'll be hurting pretty bad when you find out how it is living with a 
husband who's paralyzed! It's no use pretending to me, sweetie - I know 
you can't go long without a good stiff prick in that hot little hole of 
yours!"

With that parting shot, he yanked open the front door, determining to 
fuck the hell out of Clare and slap her around a bit, too, to pay her 
back for fucking up this perfect opportunity to screw Sandi Smith. 
"I'll be seeing you, baby," he hissed from the doorstep, then slammed 
the door so hard the living room walls shook, and with a loud squeal of 
tires headed toward his almost identical ranch house a few blocks away.

Sandi never heard his last words or his noisy exit. At his statement 
about her "paralyzed husband", she'd blanked out to all else in her 
surroundings. For what seemed an eternity, but was actually only about 
ten minutes, she sat frozen in the armchair. Then, at last, she fell 
into unconsciousness, her voluptuous body slumped over the wide chair 
arm and her dreams filled with blood and fear and giant naked men with 
enormous cocks who menaced her as she stood in the middle of a 
motorcycle stadium.



Chapter 3


"Typing speed?" the pinched-faced employment-office lady snapped even 
before Sandi had a chance to settle herself down in the squeaking metal 
folding chair. "Shorthand speed? Telex experience? Dictaphone?" she 
continued as though reciting a litany, never even glancing at the 
nervous young blonde.

"I ... I'm afraid I ... I never worked in an office," Sandi stammered, 
trying to smooth her short navy blue skirt down over her ripely rounded 
thighs. She'd chosen the skirt, a relic from her high-school wardrobe, 
as being more appropriate than the vivid-hued outfits which Verne had 
brought her. Although she certainly preferred the new clothes, they'd 
seemed somehow too frivolous for a job interview, and it was only now 
that she realized how very short this skirt was. She felt her cheeks 
grow hot as she thought that this stern woman must be thinking she was 
trying to look seductive in a rather sluttish way.

She needn't have worried on this score, for the woman still did not 
deign to glance at Sandi, although she did adjust her white-plastic 
framed glasses to frown at the card the young blonde had filled out in 
the outer office.

"No office experience?" She repeated Sandi's statement as though she 
were accusing the girl of having a prison record. "Well, then, what can 
you do?"

What could she do? Perhaps because she'd been so distracted by her 
guilty thoughts about the depraved scene with Larry Johnson the evening 
before, Sandi hadn't even thought to consider this question. Getting a 
job and making lots of money to help her injured husband had been as 
far as her thoughts went as she drove into Brunrocke this morning, and 
she'd been very glad to have something to do that helped to alleviate 
the crushing burden of guilt about her wanton behavior. But what if she 
couldn't even get a job ...?

"Well, Mrs. Smith, what skills do you have?" the gray-haired woman 
asked, impatiently tapping her ballpoint against the gray metal 
desktop.

"I ... I ..." Sandi began, then paused in despair as she fished through 
her mind for some citable accomplishment. Verne had always praised her 
cooking ... and she'd done a lot of babysitting during high school ... 
and she could knit and crochet ... and she'd gotten straight A's in 
English, though she'd failed algebra ... Somehow, though, none of these 
attributes seemed the sort of thing that would interest this unfriendly 
woman.

"I ... I," she tried again, "I can cook ..."

"If you wanted a job as a domestic," the woman interrupted, glancing at 
her watch, "you ought to have gone to an agency that deals in that."

"Oh no!" Sandi exclaimed, her cheeks flushing redder than ever. "I ... 
I don't think I want to be a maid."

Maids didn't make enough money to pay for Verne's operation, and she 
knew that her proud husband would be ashamed to have her cleaning 
someone else's home. He'd probably be resentful at the fact she was 
seeking any job at all, for he'd always insisted that no wife of his 
was going to work.

Catching the note of hysteria in the girl's voice, the frozen-faced 
employment bureau worker glanced up at her for the first time. The 
applicant didn't look a day over eighteen, though she was certainly 
pretty enough ... somehow she just didn't look like the type to be a 
waitress in a nightclub, which was just about the only type of 
unskilled job the agency had listed at the moment.

"Unfortunately, there are no vacancies at any of the groceries or 
department stores here in Brunrocke," she said, riffling through a 
stack of file cards containing job listings. "But I do have something 
for a nightclub waitress at the Pioneer Bar and Steak House just out of 
town, down by the new expressway. It's well-paid, but naturally it 
involves night work ..."

"Oh no, I don't think so," Sandi demurred. That certainly wouldn't 
please Verne either!

"Well, then," the lady was beginning to sound impatient and the 
nineteen year old blonde felt distinctly embarrassed. "I just don't 
know what we can offer you ..." she shuffled through her cards again, 
shaking her head, and then rather doubtfully plucked one out. "How 
about modeling? This is a rather - uh - odd position, but maybe ...?"

Sandi licked her lips, then gulped, "Odd?" Models make lots of money, 
she was thinking, and people are always telling me I'm built like a 
model.

"Mr. Fletcher seems to be a bit particular; he never seems to like the 
girls we send over. I suppose its because he's a foreigner. But you 
could give it a try."

The woman's statement was a command rather than an offer, and Sandi 
rose hurriedly, aware that the woman was anxious to get on with her 
more lucrative clients.

Clutching the paper on which the woman had written Mr. Fletcher's 
address, she slowly threaded her way cross the medium-sized town toward 
the three-story brick building which housed the "Deja-Vu Studio". She 
pushed the button labeled, "Tony Fletcher, Fashion Photographer", and 
waited, her heart thumping against her ribs and her mouth dry with 
nervousness. Suddenly the headache she'd woken up with returned to 
throb behind her temples, and when no one answered her rather timid 
ring she felt a sensation of relief.

Turning so quickly that her mini-skirt caught in the current of the 
autumn breeze and exposed her firm-fleshed thighs and pink lace 
panties, she started down the three rather steep front steps, her long 
slender legs wobbling slightly in her chunky navy blue platform heels. 
I'll try again tomorrow, when I'm feeling calmer, she promised herself. 
And I'll wear something more conservative too. But try as she would, 
she couldn't block out the guilty whispers that persisted in creeping 
through into her consciousness.

You're just afraid - and you'll be just as much a chicken tomorrow! her 
conscience accused. You're too stupid to find a job to help Verne! You 
can't do anything without making a mess of it, just like your mother 
always said. Just look at what you did last night! She was right when 
she said you'd never be able to get along alone up north!

A sobering image of her gray-faced mother flashed across the already 
downhearted young wife's mind, so distracting her that she failed to 
hear the "Deja-Vu's" front door opening and an oddly accented man's 
voice calling out to her. When she felt an arm tugging at her red 
cardigan, she yelped and whirled around so quickly that she had to 
catch hold of the bannister to keep from toppling over. Then, blushing 
with embarrassment at her awkwardness, she turned to stare at the dark-
haired, bare-chested young man in chopped-off blue jeans who had caught 
hold of her arm when she stumbled in her cumbersome shoes.

"Never did understand why you chicks want to wear those crazy shoes. 
Bloody dangerous," he remarked as casually as though they were old 
friends instead of complete strangers.

"I-I'm sorry ... I guess y-you startled m-me," she stammered, annoyed 
at her own gauche behavior but feeling extremely disconcerted by the 
way the handsome man's eyes seemed to be undressing her right out there 
on the doorstep. Then, when he failed to release his hold on her arm, 
she mumbled, "Well, better be going. Th-thanks for c-catching me." With 
a self-conscious laugh she turned away from him and put one foot down 
on the step below, then stopped short as he tightened his grip on her 
sweatered arm.

"Hey, wait a minute," he smiled, "I don't get it. You come to my house 
and ring my doorbell, but the minute you see me you want to run away. 
Am I so awful as all that?"

Sandi gaped at him uncertainly, wondering just what it was about his 
piercing blue eyes that made her feel so exposed. "Oh no ... I mean ... 
I was ... I was looking for a Mr. Fletcher," she explained, wishing 
again that she'd worn something that didn't reveal quite so much of her 
shapely legs.

The slim-hipped, long-haired youth grinned down at her, the pressure of 
his hand upon her arm increasing as he laughed, "Well, you found him!"

"You're ... you're not ...?" Sandi was astounded. She'd certainly not 
expected that woman at the agency to send her out for an interview with 
someone who looked for all the world like a college student from nearby 
Notre Dame. Why, he didn't look as old as her twenty-five year old 
husband Verne, and what with those sideburns, boyishly waving long 
hair, and faded and patched cut-offs, she just couldn't picture him as 
a prospective employer. Of course, she'd expected a foreign 
photographer to look somewhat more eccentric than an ordinary business 
executive, but a bearded, baggy-trousered, bereted little man was more 
the image she'd conjured up.

"Tony W. Fletcher, Fashion Photographer," the dark-haired youth tapped 
his tanned, well-muscled chest, looking vastly amused at the attractive 
young blonde's self-conscious confusion. "And when I make the effort I 
actually look quite respectable enough to impress the good citizens of 
Brunrocke, Indiana. Come on in."

Before she knew quite what was happening, Sandi Smith found herself 
being led back up the cement steps and into a dimly lit, very narrow 
hallway. To the left was a steep flight of stairs, and at the end of 
the corridor was a shiny black door on which was painted in red, "knock 
before entering".

"Darkroom," said Tony in response to her unasked question. Then, taking 
the bewildered blonde's arm, he guided her up to the second story and 
along a corridor decorated with rather bizarre black and white fashion 
photos done in a very modernistic style. She'd have liked to stop and 
take a long look at the exotic-looking clothing and unusual lighting 
effects, but Tony was pulling her into a large, brightly lit room which 
appeared to be a sort of living room, bedroom, and kitchen all combined 
in an overwhelming confusion of color and clutter. Much to Sandi's 
consternation, there was even a shower with a see-through plastic 
curtain draped around it standing right beside a pile of cushions which 
apparently served as a sofa.

What a crazy place for a shower! she marveled to herself. Just imagine 
being naked in there with people sitting and watching you so close they 
could practically touch you! The very idea sent inexplicable prickles 
of excitement shooting up her spine, and Sandi immediately put an end 
to that lewd train of thought.

The young wife would have liked to inspect this curious room, so 
totally divorced from her conception of a house, but the agile, half-
naked photographer was hurrying up a still steeper flight of steps and 
she was so busy concentrating on not stumbling on her clumsy, thick-
soled shoes that she didn't dare to glance anywhere but down.

The third level of Tony Fletcher's peculiar house was his studio, and 
whereas his living quarters had been in wild disorder, this room was 
methodically neat. Sunlight flooded into the slant-ceilinged chamber 
through two large skylights, and the white walls were ringed with 
photographs and colorful posters.

"What a strange building!" Sandi forgot her shyness enough to exclaim. 
"It's so tall and narrow - I never saw anything like it before."

"Yeah, it's pretty weird," Tony agreed. "It's one of the oldest houses 
in Brunrocke - belonged to my friend Ted's grandfather before he kicked 
off. But I like it, 'cause it reminds me of home."

"H-home?"

"London. Sit down." The good-looking young man gestured toward a canvas 
folding chair, then ambled over to the far side of the large room and 
began doing something with his camera equipment.

Sandi seated herself rather gingerly on the low-slung chair, self-
consciously tugging her miniscule navy blue skirt as far down over her 
flaring thighs as possible. Then she crossed her slim ankles in the 
prim and proper way her mother had often insisted upon, nervously ran 
her tongue over her dry lips, and waited for Mr. Fletcher to turn 
around and break the silence. Much to her embarrassment, he merely 
continued doing whatever it was he was doing, whistling to himself as 
though he'd been all alone in the studio.

Feeling more ill at ease then ever, the nineteen year old wife made a 
deliberate effort to stare at the pictures on the walls rather than at 
the rippling muscles of the photographer's golden-tanned torso, which 
somehow reminded her of Larry Johnson.

Don't be ridiculous! she scolded herself. They don't look the least bit 
alike, aside from both having dark hair, and besides I'm not going to 
let myself think about last night. I'm not!

The guilt-tortured young housewife had been resolving to block out the 
sinful, obscenely vivid memory pictures from the moment she'd woken up 
to find herself nakedly draped over the living room chair, her lurid 
apricot-lace nightgown crumpled on the floor below. Now, hours later, 
she couldn't hold back a shudder as she recalled how filthy she'd felt 
and how she'd detected a scent of Larry Johnson's masculine odor on her 
own body. There had been a dull pounding in the back of her temples, 
and a disgusting stale whiskey taste in her mouth, but as she'd hurried 
into the bathroom, she'd scarcely noticed her physical discomfort in 
her struggle to erase the shameful images that swam before her tear-
swollen eyes.

As she'd scrubbed her traitorous body, carefully avoiding applying any 
pressure to her ultra-sensitive breasts and soaping her hair-fringed 
vagina over and over to destroy any trace of her husband's friend's 
perverted oral assault, she'd thought she'd succeeded in driving the 
obscene pictures from her mind. Praying that she could make herself 
forget the ugly incident entirely, she'd directed her thoughts toward 
Verne. How could she be sinful enough to think of anything else, when 
her beloved husband lay paralyzed in a hospital bed? He must never, 
never find out ...

But as she'd sat drinking black coffee in the spotless little kitchen 
of her modern ranch house, the dreadful pictures once again rose 
unbidden before her eyes. There were two disturbing visions: the first, 
of Larry's head with its fashionably trimmed dark hair burrowing in 
obscene feast between her own wantonly widespread legs, his red tongue 
snaking out from between his teeth toward the most intimate, sacred 
part of her body - the pussy that belonged exclusively to her husband 
Verne; and the second image, of her husband's friend as she'd seen him 
when she opened her eyes to answer the phone, his huge, angry-red cock 
brandished in his hand and his black eyes burning with lustful desire.

All through the morning, as she carefully dressed and applied a touch 
of pink rouge to her unusually pale cheeks, then as she drove the ten 
miles from the subdivision of Lakeview Gardens to the larger town of 
Brunrocke, the disturbing images kept recurring. Now, as she sat in 
Tony Fletcher's studio waiting for him to interview her, Larry's 
flicking tongue and throbbing, swollen penis again flashed before the 
guilty wife's eyes. Flinching as though she'd been slapped by an 
invisible hand, the tortured young blonde exerted all her energy toward 
making the horrible visions vanish.

What's the matter with me? she agonized. Why did I keep seeing dirty 
pictures in my mind? I think I'm going crazy ... stark raving mad!

Suddenly a flashbulb exploded in her face, breaking through her 
troubled reverie and dispersing the lewd, unwanted images with its 
burst of light.

"Scared ya, didn't I?" the good-looking man flashed a bright smile at 
the shy job applicant. "A model oughtn't to be camera-shy!"

"I - I'm not really a model," Sandi felt compelled to confess. "The 
agency lady just sent me here because ... well ... because I can't type 
and this was the only job there was. And I have to find a job - I 
absolutely have to!"

Tony Fletcher studied the fair-haired girl curiously, trying to guess 
at her story from her appearance. This was a game he often played with 
himself, and with his trained eye, he was usually able to make quite 
astute guesses about total strangers. So far he'd had eleven females 
come in wanting to be models, and he'd psyched out every one of them 
before they'd told him a thing about themselves. Not that this was much 
to boast about, for they'd all been pretty obvious types: seventeen 
year old prom queens who dreamed of ending up in Hollywood, broad-
hipped mother's of three who'd won a local beauty contest ten years 
ago, and so forth. All of them had been pretty enough, though a little 
too heavy for the camera which added about ten pounds, but none of them 
had been right for the project he had in mind. In fact, the twenty-
three year old free-lance photographer had just about given up all hope 
of finding a model in Brunrocke, and had been sending off letters to 
former girlfriends in less conservative corners of the country.

What would this honey-haired girl say when he told her just exactly 
what sort of a model he wanted he wondered, a sly smile flickering over 
his handsome face. She seemed awfully nervous and shy, but beneath her 
modest, old-fashioned demeanor he sensed an emotional intensity. Well, 
he sure as hell hoped she wasn't a prude, because she had the body and 
face he'd been searching for ever since he and Ted had come up with 
this great idea.

Once again the young photographer let his green-flecked eyes glide over 
the nervous blonde's young curvaceous body. She looked about nineteen, 
though it was always hard to be certain about age, and he saw from the 
ring on her slim left hand that she was married. That might just 
present problems, but everything else was so perfect that he determined 
not to let it interfere with his plans for her. Jesus, she was exactly 
what he'd had in mind, with that southern accent and angelic face, and 
lush yet slender body too! He couldn't wait to tell Ted that he'd found 
an absolutely unbeatable star for the film they'd been talking about 
all summer long. The deal might really be coming off! For a brief 
instant he let his mind dwell on the way things would be when this 
movie had made him and his friend rich and famous. His family would 
sure be sorry they'd called him an irresponsible college drop-out, and 
a good-for-nothing layabout.

Slow down, Tony, he cautioned himself. Just keep cool ... you've still 
got to talk her into it, and you don't even know if she's photogenic 
yet ...

Quickly peeling the top paper from the Polaroid shot he'd just taken, 
he peered down at it intently, then flashed a broad, triumphant grin.

Perfect! he exulted. Custom-made for us! Face like a virgin, and a bod 
like the hottest whore in Paris! And even high-set cheekbones, and one 
of those enigmatic kind of smiles. Wonder what she was thinking about 
when I shot that? Something she wouldn't want to tell me, I bet!

"Looks real nice," he said, sauntering over toward the young woman who 
sat fidgeting uncomfortably on the canvas chair. "Lots better than 
anyone that damn agency's sent round. Have a look ..."

Sandi took the proffered photo, her smooth forehead wrinkling into a 
frown as she stared at it. It looked rather dreadful to her, and she 
couldn't imagine what Mr. Fletcher saw in it to please him so. For one 
thing, her shoulder-length hair was a mess; and still worse, the 
unguarded expression in her eyes was so different from any of the say-
cheese smiling photos she'd had taken previously that she scarcely 
recognized herself. Planting a stiff little smile on her sensual pink 
lips, she handed the snapshot back to the bare-chested young man.

"Of course, I'm going to have to take lots more test shots," Tony 
began, "but I'd say the job's yours if you want it - uh, what's your 
name, anyway?"

"Mrs. Verne Smith ... Sandi Smith," the astonished blonde replied, an 
odd little tremor running through her as it always did when she gave 
her married name instead of Seeburg, her maiden name. An inauspicious 
giggle buggled in her throat at the sheer absurdity of what was 
happening to her. How could this strange young man be offering her a 
job without knowing the first thing about her, not even her name? It 
just didn't make any sense at all!

"Ten bucks an hour - how does that sound?"

Ten dollars an hour? My cousin Mary-Sue's only making $1.95 an hour, 
and she knows shorthand and all that stuff. It's impossible - there has 
to be a catch somewhere. But if I'm earning that much money, I'll be 
able to pay all Verne's hospital bills without taking anything from 
that loathsome Larry Johnson. It'll make everything all right again ... 
as if last night hadn't happened...

Tony Fletcher moved an inch closer to the gracefully contoured young 
blonde so that he was standing near enough to smell the fresh, 
unperfume-adulterated scent of her very feminine body. Inside his hip-
hugging cut-off jeans, he felt his virile penis jerk to life to bulge 
noticeably against the much-washed denim fabric, and his smile grew 
even more gleeful than before. Before this afternoon was over, if 
things worked out the way he hoped, he'd be sinking his long thick cock 
into this innocent-looking blonde's sweet little pussy. It would be 
good and tight, he was sure of that, and she'd be whimpering beneath 
him and begging for more. The fact that she was another man's woman 
added an extra fillip of erotic anticipation to the scheming Briton's 
lust.

There you go again, counting your chickens before they're hatched, he 
cautioned himself. Talk her into getting out of her clothes before you 
think about getting into her cunt!

"Tax free, of course," he added smoothly. "And a cut of the profits 
too, naturally."

"P-profits?" Sandi stammered, not really liking the sound of "tax 
free"; though she knew little about such matters, it somehow sounded 
dishonest. Yet overriding her vague doubts was her almost desperate 
desire to earn money, lots of money. If she could pay for Verne's 
operation without asking Larry's help, she might be able to get her 
husband out of his disloyal friend's clutches. He could stop risking 
his life every day and could get a good job that didn't take him away 
from her for weeks at a time, and their marriage could be the way she'd 
dreamed it would be. Last night's wanton breakdown of her willpower 
would never, never recur...

"Yes, you see, we're making a movie. My partner and I, that is," Tony 
explained.

"A movie? But ... but I c-can't act. I mean, I never tried ..." Sandi 
broke in, her face reddening with disappointment at having lost this 
wonderful job so soon.

Secretly, she'd always wanted to try out for parts in high-school 
plays, but her father had been opposed to it, and besides she was sure 
she'd just get tongue-tied on stage and never be able to utter a word 
in the end. Still, it would have been wonderful to be up there with all 
those people in the audience looking up and admiring her, and a movie 
would have been even more exciting. If only she were a different, 
cleverer sort of person ...

Her classic-featured young face collapsed into a mask of despair as her 
short-lived vision of finding a good job faded. Probably she'd end up 
being a waitress in a drive-in, or a maid, or nothing at all. And Verne 
would continue to be controlled by his selfish manager, Larry Johnson. 
Why was she so inept at everything? She'd hoped that marriage would 
change her, transform her into an accomplished, self-assured young 
woman: but no, she was still as stupid and useless as she'd been back 
at her father's vicarage back in Florida.

"Doesn't matter at all," the photographer's British-accented voice 
broke through her dismal thoughts. "Why do you suppose I went through a 
goddamn employment agency in a dump like Brunrocke if I wanted a real 
actress? Listen, Sandi, you're exactly the girl I'm looking for. You've 
got the face I need - and you can act; everything you're thinking's 
reflected all over you. Don't put yourself down!"

Sandi hung her head, letting her long, ash-blonde curls form a 
protective veil around her flushed face. This was probably the first 
time in her nineteen years that she'd had to make a decision of any 
importance entirely on her own, and she felt flustered and helpless. To 
make things worse, Mr. Fletcher - though he did seem very nice and 
friendly - persisted in eyeing her in a way that reduced her already 
shaky composure to shreds. She especially didn't like his remark about 
her thoughts showing on her face; it proved she still was out-of-
control as she'd been the night before because since childhood she'd 
usually kept her expression smooth and guarded.

"I ... I don't know ..." she murmured.

"Let me tell you more about what we're planning to do," Tony said in 
his most persuasive voice, placing one hand on the nervous blonde's arm 
in a studiedly casual way. She shivered slightly at the contact, which 
sent his eager penis leaping into such urgent palpitations that he was 
afraid she would notice his arousal and be frightened away. "My mate 
and I got this fantastic idea for a flick - a real money-maker - but we 
needed a certain kind of bird. And you're the one! You've got that sort 
of soft, gentle looks, a kind of sweetness and innocence, and we just 
want you to act as though you're not in a film. You dig? You just have 
to be yourself!"

Sandi shook her tawny golden mane of hair away from her face to stare 
in bewilderment at the enthusiastic youth beside her. Although the 
pressure of his hand on her arm certainly wasn't in the least way 
suggestive, she felt her entire body vibrating with shameful excitement 
at his touch. All the unwanted excitation she'd felt from Larry 
Johnson's obscene touches of the night before came back in a dizzying 
rush, and though she tried her best to control herself, the two 
depraved images that had been plaguing her all day flickered briefly 
before her eyes again.

"You just have to be natural, uninhibited," Tony Fletcher's clipped-
sounding voice broke through the guilty young wife's unwanted 
remembrance. "Come on, let's take a few more test shots and I'll try to 
show you what I want."

Suddenly Sandi's body seemed to make up her mind for her, and without 
having made a conscious decision to accept this mysterious, almost 
suspicious job offer, she found her head nodding in agreement. As she 
did so, a curious elation tingled through her bloodstream, and her 
posture automatically grew straight and proud.

"Okay," she said to the photographer in a voice which quavered a little 
although she was trying to sound self-assured and experienced. "I'll 
... I'll take the job, Mr. Fletcher."

"Tony, please," the young cameraman smiled, his pleasure so obvious 
that Sandi's self-confidence jumped up several notches. His next words, 
however, brought feelings of inadequacy welling up inside her once 
again. "But you'll have to get out of those clothes - those just won't 
do at all," he said firmly. "Here - you have a drink and just relax 
while I dig up some things, okay?"

Sandi found herself nodding again, although a drink was the very last 
thing she wanted after last night's whiskey-perpetuated fiasco. Up 
until her marriage a year ago, she'd hardly even tasted alcohol, and 
although she now accepted a glass of wine or beer, or even an 
occasional whiskey, just to keep Verne from making fun of her, she 
still viewed liquor with distrust. Certainly she'd never have 
considered drinking at one o'clock in the afternoon, but since Mr. 
Fletcher - Tony, rather - seemed to think it perfectly natural, she 
didn't want to seem gauche by protesting.

"Here you go," Tony said, offering her a glass of a thick, yellowish 
liquid which he'd extracted from a bottle in a well-stocked cabinet 
built into the wall, then diluting it with water, so that it changed 
color in a mysterious way. It tasted as peculiar as it looked, but 
after the first licorice-flavored sip Sandi decided that she liked it 
much better than Verne's Johnny Walker.

"Pernod," Tony replied to her unspoken question as he turned to another 
cabinet and began pulling out an assortment of brightly-hued garments. 
"Should get your head in just the right place."

Sandi didn't quite know what he meant by that, but she was too filled 
with inner excitement to wonder about it for very long. I'm going to be 
in a movie! she thought, goosepimples breaking out on her smooth flesh 
at the very idea. What would my father and mother say? And the kids 
back in Florida who always thought I was the preacher's mousy goodie-
goodie daughter. What'll Verne say when he finds out?

There was no question about how her parents would react; they were 
opposed to movies in any way, shape, or form unless they were about 
bible stories and somehow she was sure that that wasn't at all what 
Tony had in mind. As for Verne ... well, it was hard to tell. He seemed 
to get jealous about the silliest things, and he'd always been against 
her working; but, of course, now she was doing it to help him so he 
couldn't really mind. Certainly he'd rather have her doing something 
respectable that he could be proud of instead of washing other people's 
clothes or serving drinks in some nasty bar.

But the biggest triumph of all was the thought of the reaction of the 
people she'd gone to school with back in Florida. Imagine the way their 
mouths would drop if they knew that skinny Sandra Seeburg with her 
dishwater blonde hair and unfashionable clothes was now Sandi Smith, 
movie star!?! For the first time in her life, the green-eyed blonde 
began to feel as though she were an important person in her own right, 
not just the dowdy preacher's daughter, or a faceless, unpopular high-
school student, or even the famous Verne Smith's introverted wife. It 
was a marvelous feeling, and as she sipped at the fresh-tasting but 
deceptively potent Pernod her sensation of freedom rapidly increased.

"Here you are, Sandi. These ought to fit you," the photographer's 
foreign-accented voice broke through her ego-building daydream.

Just look at the way she's livening up! the scheming youth 
congratulated himself. Then, as the curvaceous nineteen year old model 
turned her attention to the pile of clothes, he surreptitiously 
refilled her glass. This promised to be a very interesting afternoon 
indeed!

The slightly intoxicated young wife had turned toward the costumes with 
eager interest, but the moment she held them up for inspection her 
doubts returned in full force. First she lifted up a long length of 
gossamery chiffon in the same shade of apricot as that shameful 
nightgown which had been a major cause of her downfall the night 
before. Not only was this thing the same color, but it was, if 
possible, even more transparent; and to make matters even worse, it had 
no buttons, snaps, or other fastenings.

"That's an Indian sari, a real one," Tony broke in with deceptive 
casualness as he noted the look of consternation on the naive model's 
heart-shaped face.

With hands that shook slightly, the shocked blonde dropped it back down 
onto the chair without replying and pulled up a scrap of glossy emerald 
green material. This appeared to be some sort of foreign garment as 
well, for it was embellished with exotic-looking embroidery, but the 
beauty of the rainbow-colored handiwork quite escaped Sandi. Her entire 
attention was riveted on the plunging neckline, which couldn't help but 
expose the wearer's breasts in a lewdly seductive manner.

"And that's Moroccan," the young photographer explained, as though that 
excused the obscenity of the revealing shirt.

Sandi dropped the green cloth, took a deep swallow of the Pernod, and 
then turned to Tony Fletcher. Her cheeks were flushed, and much to her 
embarrassment tears of disappointment were welling up behind her 
eyelids.

"I ... I can't wear things like this!" she protested. "They're ... 
they're just plain indecent! You can see right through them!"

"Let me explain," Tony quickly improvised. "You see, our movie's about 
this American girl who goes traveling around the world and meets this 
guy - real romantic, sorta like Love Story - and in the places they go, 
she wants to be really in with the scene, so she wears what the people 
wear."

"Yes, but ..."

"But what? These things aren't indecent! I bet the Indian women would 
think your skirt's much more indecent!"

This rejoinder struck just the right chord, for Sandi was already 
acutely aware of the shortness of her box-pleated mini-skirt.

"Now, why don't you just try this one on," the conniving photographer 
urged, holding up the see-through orange sari, "and I'll get a few 
Polaroid shots of you. You'll see - it'll look great! This color's 
perfect for you."

Sandi Smith blushed, once again reminded of the nightgown her husband 
had bought her. Again she gulped some of the refreshing Pernod, then 
bit her lips nervously as her thoughts turned to Verne and her urgent 
need to earn money for him. If she turned down this job because she was 
too shy, too much a preacher's daughter, to wear the required clothing, 
wasn't she being disloyal to her husband? And besides, the photographer 
was doubtless correct in saying that there was nothing really obscene 
about native costumes. It was almost educational, wasn't it? Like those 
pictures in National Geographic of African women with bare breasts ... 
even her father subscribed to that magazine ...

"Besides, clothes aren't important - it's the person inside them that 
counts," Tony continued. "I mean, if you'd seen me first in a gray 
flannel suit, you'd have thought of me as just another person, wouldn't 
you? Of course, you would! See - it's totally irrelevant."

This, too, made sense, and though Sandi didn't quite grasp the 
connection between gray flannel suits and native costumes, she decided 
that she was just too stupid to understand. After all, this Mr. 
Fletcher appeared to be well-traveled and well-educated, and who was 
she to doubt his word? She'd only graduated from a small back-country 
southern high school, and had just barely done that, what with flunking 
both Algebra and Natural Sciences II her senior year. In fact, she was 
so stupid that she was lucky to get any job at all, much less a well-
paying and interesting one like this. Her mind made up at last, she 
reached out one slim white hand for the Oriental garment.

"Good girl," said Fletcher approvingly, his semi-erect penis thickening 
painfully as he grew nearer to his goal. Now came the crucial step - 
she had to undress, and she was going to have to do it in front of him. 
If he could get her to do that, he was halfway there. "Let's get 
moving. It looks like a storm's coming up, and I want to shoot these 
Polaroid shots while there's still good light, 'cause this isn't one of 
my really good cameras."

Her head was reeling a little from the glass and a half of alcohol 
which she'd unwittingly gulped down since arriving at the "Deja-vu" 
studio, she gazed out the corner window at the gathering clouds. Though 
Sandi was ashamed of feeling intoxicated, she was simultaneously 
grateful for the light-headed sensation. If she'd not had the drinks, 
she doubted whether she'd have had enough courage to even consider 
trying on the risqu� Indian dress. As it was, she was just dizzy enough 
to be able to rationalize that she was doing this for Verne, not 
because of the thrills of forbidden excitement that coursed up and down 
her spine at the idea of trying on the wanton garment ... and trying it 
on right in front of this strange young man who held a camera in his 
hand.

"Wh-where can I change?" she asked, gulping down the last drops of her 
Pernod, and getting to her feet.

I mustn't drink anymore, no matter what he says, she cautioned herself, 
aware that she was starting to lose control. Surely there must be some 
obvious place for changing clothes, and I'm just too confused to notice 
...

"Oh, just change here," Tony said. "I don't mind, if you don't."

Suddenly the inexperienced young minister's daughter forgot how much 
she wanted this job, not only to pay her injured husband's bills, but 
also for her own personal fulfillment. Indignant shock blazed inside 
her at this disrespectful assumption that she was that sort of girl, 
and the liquor had loosened her natural inhibitions enough that she was 
able to make an angry retort.

"But I do mind! Of course I mind! I ... I think you're very r-rude to 
say that to me!"

Jesus Christ! Tony thought, seeing that his impatient desire to screw 
the hell out of this innocent yet subtly seductive young woman had 
caused him to move too quickly. She's really something out of Victorian 
times. But although his patience was wearing a little thin, he 
remembered that this innocent attitude was exactly what his friend Ted 
claimed was the real money-making factor.

"I'm sorry, Sandi," he said with genuine-sounding contriteness. "You 
see, I don't think there's any reason to act formal and uptight around 
each other if we're going to be working together. You're not ashamed of 
your body, are you? I didn't think anyone was today ..."

Sandi flushed, trying to understand the conflicting motivations wafting 
through her mind. One part of her brain told her that the photographer 
was probably correct, that she was just being a silly, uptight country 
hick, and that she'd have to try to change herself if she wanted this 
job. She'd always avoided undressing in front of her husband, for it 
seemed to make him over-sexed and interested in trying perverted sexual 
positions once she'd climbed into bed. Now, however, there was no 
reason to fear anything of that sort, and her reluctance could only be 
a hangover of her old-fashioned upbringing.

Yet much as she wanted to believe her rationalizations, another voice 
in her brain was intoning dire warnings. You know it's wrong to let 
anyone except your husband see your naked body, no matter what the 
reason is. Remember what happened last night when you had on that 
sluttish see-through nightgown? Well, the same kind of thing's liable 
to happen again today if you don't get hold of yourself. Do you WANT 
this stranger to touch you? Are you that sinful?

"After all, the human body is the most perfect art form there is!" the 
liberal-minded photographer's sophisticated-sounding voice broke 
through the babble of conflicting voices in Sandi's brain. "I suppose 
you don't realize it, living out here in Brunrocke and all, but lots of 
the most famous statues and paintings in the world are of nudes. Just 
think of Rodin!"

The nineteen year old wife tried hard to think of Rodin, but though the 
name was vaguely familiar from a high-school art-history course, she 
couldn't quite recall exactly what sort of artist