"And number Three, lover," she asked in a passionate voice unmistakably excited by his obscene plot. "Quick, what is it?"
"Well, One will be with one – me – and Two will be with two, right? But Three… ahh, that might be with more than just three! We'll get as many of the boys together as we can, and then let things happen as they happen, and – the best part will be…"
"Yes?" Syble asked breathlessly.
"The best part will be that we'll let our color movie cameras roll the whole time. We'll do it in the studio out back, and presto! We'll have our next full-length feature!"
"My, you are clever," his naked wife teased. "We'll blackmail her into cooperating with the photos of us with her. When are you going to start in on precious Melanie?"
Amos thought for a moment, then replied: "I'll have to judge that as it happens. It depends on how soon I can get her to trust me. Then a little of that marijuana on a balmy, romantic night up here…"
"Wonderful!" Syble chimed in gleefully. "As long as I can watch!"
The lascivious sex film producer began to laugh with lewd delight, and before she knew it, Syble was joining in with him. If her husband's cruel seduction worked, and Syble was sure it would, she would soon be face-deep in the lovely blonde softness of that young wife's velvet pubic hair. Syble could feel her mounting desire just at the expectancy, her already moistening vagina flowering still more, and her high, round breasts hardening tautly with tingles of anticipatory passion. She reached her hand down and felt her lascivious husband beginning to stir with renewed desire, his large, thick cock hardening again with rising excitement. She grinned, feeling the wetness seeping between her own throbbing thighs, and knew that it was going to be a long, delicious night with Amos…
Followed by many even longer, more delicious nights with innocent, unsuspecting Melanie Cartwright. After all, Syble silently smiled to herself, doesn't every woman want to become a movie star?
CHAPTER THREE
One month to the day after Tim Cartwright had flown to New York City, his wife stood in the ladies room of the Dew Drop Inn, primping her hair before a large oval mirror over the wash basins. She was a little inebriated, although far from being drunk, and a crystal stem-glass filled with a Brandy Alexander stood beside her elbow on the ceramic ledge of one sink.
Lord! she muttered under her breath as she reached for the glass, she had eaten nothing since a quick lunch, and here it was after midnight! The soothing warmth of the Alexander – her third since she'd arrived at the Dew Drop Inn – was causing a slight tingling sensation to ripple through her blood. She raised the glass to her lips and finished the drink in one long sip. It tasted good; almost too good, she warned herself, and then she giggled at the idea of being in danger. What danger could she be in here, surrounded by all the richest people of Greenridge and a guest of Mr. and Mrs. Andersson? None, of course. The Dew Drop Inn was where only the most prominent and civilized of the local residents ate and drank and danced. Certainly nothing wrong could happen to her, she was certain of that. Why, she was as safe as if she was in her own home!
Home… the one word made her smile bitterly at her reflection. Home and Tim were where the last real danger had been. The thought of her long-gone husband made her remember vividly the last night they'd been together, and despite her promise not to dwell on the awful event, the liquor eased her defenses enough so that once more she reflected upon his savage attack. How could Tim have been so cruel to her, she thought. Why had he been such a raging animal.
She glanced around the ladies room and saw that she was still alone, and in a moment of recklessness she ran her hands over the sweater-enclosed tips of her round firm breasts. They had been so sore and swollen, and her nipples so raw, that she hadn't been able to wear the softest brassiere without pain for a week. Her shoulders trembled as she thought back to the horrible rape of her body by her husband and the way he had used her as a tool solely for his own gratification without even the slightest consideration for her wants or needs. He had used her like a slave – his own wife – and the memory sickened her even after all the days which had passed since then. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she recalled his last parting words just before he'd angrily stormed out the door with his suitcase. She could still hear his voice ringing in her ears as he'd yelled at her: "I don't think you could make any man happy. Maybe when I'm in New York I'll go out and get myself some slut off the street who'll give me the loving I need!"
Dear God, would he? Has he? His letters had been so infrequent and vague, his answers to her own almost daily letters sometimes ignoring the most important parts. This was deeply distressing to Melanie, and she sometimes had difficulty in sleeping at night, wondering if Tim still cared for her and was being faithful to their marriage.
She looked again down her slim body, provocatively dressed as it was in the short mini-skirt and thin pullover which Mr. Andersson had said was her theater uniform. The rounded peaks of her breasts stood out defiantly, and she could almost see the taut curve of her buttocks where they flowed gracefully into her firm legs, the hem-line of her skirt being so daringly high. She was proud of her youthful, curvaceous body, and yet it was the reason for all her troubles. If she could have been a Plain-Jane, she would probably have been settled down with children and happily married to some average fellow. She would never have attracted such a popular boy as Tim, but then she would never have been cursed with being wanted just for her striking beauty.
The hazy effect the brandy was producing seemed to simplify things into an either-or kind of situation in her mind. She turned around and started for the door of the restroom, and as she stepped out into the dim warmth of the Dew Drop Inn, she fleetingly wondered if there couldn't be a middle ground somewhere in between where she could find true happiness…
Melanie threaded her way unsteadily through the ring of small, intimate tables which surrounded a polished dance floor. Over in one corner was her table, the one she was sharing with Amos and Syble Andersson. This was the first time that she had been with them socially, and though she had been reluctant at first, she was now glad that she had accepted their invitation and pleased that they had asked her to join them.
Both the Anderssons, especially Amos, were so understanding and nice to talk to, and Melanie couldn't help feeling that her new employer had a real interest in her welfare. When she had gone to work that evening, Amos had invited her to a party at his house, which, he said, was being held after the theater closed for the night. She had made excuses at first, declining the invitation because she had never liked to drink much and would have preferred a quiet time at home alone. But Amos had persisted in his genial and persuasive way, saying that he was meeting Syble for a cocktail after work, and the least Melanie could do was have one with them. She realized then that his invitation was really a good-natured attempt to get her out of the shell of self-pity into which she had withdrawn. For this, the lonely young wife was grateful to him, and had then accepted for both the cocktail and the party, suddenly wanting a few gay hours to help take her mind off of Tim's absence and seeming neglect.
At first she had been very nervous in the Dew Drop Inn, feeling improperly dressed in her scanty skirt and sweater, but there'd been no chance to rush home and change, and Amos had laughingly told her that it was too dark for anybody to be that inquisitive anyway. She had also felt unsettled at just being out like this, alone and without her husband, even though Amos and Syble were only good friends. But, after a drink had calmed her nerves a little, she had mused that if Tim didn't think enough of her to return her daily reminders of love, then perhaps she deserved an innocent diversion like this.