Blearily, Karen looked around the small living room. She was seeing it with new eyes. With the exception of the television set, it was shabby. The furniture was thread-bare and worn. The finish on the end tables was chipped and marred. The walls were clean at least, thanks to the coat of paint she and Mark had stepped on in exchange for a month's free rent. But the prints on the walls looked like what they were pictures cut from calendars.
Only the television looked expensive, probably because it was. It had been a wedding present from Mark's parents. Karen had the feeling that Mark would have rejected even that, if he could have. His stupid, stupid pride seemed destined to keep them broke.
With a disgusted groan, Karen let the comb drop to the floor. She heard it clatter on the thin, worn rug. She was all sweaty and sticky and needed another shower. Dismally, she trudged to the bathroom and turned on the hot water. The shower was huge, and ugly. She really preferred a tub, but this was what they had.
As she washed away the sticky traces of her self-abuse, Karen thought about the trap she was in. Mark wouldn't let her work to help out. He had to do it all himself. Well, she wasn't a liberated woman, so the fact that he was a male pig didn't bother her. But the grinding poverty did.
She stepped out of the shower, and toweled herself dry. Then she walked naked through the house to get her robe. She stared at the spots of cunt juices on it and male a face. It was the only robe she had, too. Wearily, she took it and dropped it by the washer.
She felt like the walls of the small house were pressing in on her. She had to escape, now. Outside the bright sun beckoned. Without thinking about it, she opened the door to the backyard and stepped out. Then she was suddenly, gloriously, aware of her nakedness. She strolled around the secluded patch of grass, feeling the air touch her intimately.
How could she help get them out of the awful trap they were in? The problem, of course, was money. There wasn't even enough for them to buy a cheap second car for her to use. If she wanted to go somewhere, she had to walk eight blocks to the bus stop.
God, what they could do with ten thousand dollars, she thought. That was the jackpot on the game show. More money than they would see in a year at the rate Mark was going.
But he'd never let her go on the show. Besides, the idea scared her. She knew she was drawn to Peter Sandier. She would make a fool of herself if she went on the show.
But her attraction to the man made her want to try out for the show, too. And, there was all the prize money, and gifts, too. Even if she didn't win any money, the "consolation prizes" were enough to make her mouth water, free dinners and books and food and gadgets and games.
But, she couldn't do it, she just couldn't. Mark would never allow it. Not if he thought it was for the money. But what if she just told him it was a game? A game wouldn't threaten him at all. "And, if I did win…" Karen whispered to herself as the sun burned her bare titties.
Decisively, she went back into the house. Without dressing, she sat down at the kitchen table and dashed off a letter to the address still echoing in her mind. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she sealed the envelope, stuck on one precious stamp, and started out to mail it. Then, remembering she was naked, she hurriedly yanked a dress over her bare flesh.
CHAPTER TWO
Karen smoothed her skirt for the fifteenth time and looked around the waiting room. The wood-paneled walls looked solid and affluent. Spaced neatly around them were framed photographs from the game show, contestants in the warm, friendly grasp of Peter Sandier. Mingled with the pictures were plaques awards the show had won?
The neat, trim receptionist ignored Karen. The girl was studiously reading something on the desk in front of her. She made a mark on it from time to time. Karen resisted the urge to get up and pace. Finally, she couldn't sit still any longer, and trying to disguise her restlessness, studied the pictures as she slowly circled the room.
Again and again, she was met by the firm, unwavering, confident eyes of Peter Sandier. His flashing smile seemed directed straight at her. She remembered his arm around the girl the other day, and saw, in the pictures, his arm around one contestant after another. Most of them were young, reasonably attractive women, Karen noticed.
She felt her crotch warming as she studied the pictures. She tried to control her emotions. She wouldn't even meet the man today. She would be interviewed by one of his associates, some flunky or other. Probably she would fail the tests and interviews, and that would be that. Beside, she was a happily married woman! She had do business thinking about Peter that way!
To save herself from that train of thought, she focused her attention on the scores made by the photographed contestants. The sight of all those numbers preceded by dollar signs made her guts ache with hunger. If she could make only half of what some of the top winners had, it would be enough to take care of all their overdue bills and maybe have a little left over.
She had to get on the show she just had to. She would do anything at all to get a chance at the big money.
"Mr. Calder!" the receptionist called for the third time, breaking in on Karen's dreaming at last.
"What? Yes?" Karen turned hurriedly. She had been at the opposite end of the room from the receptionist.
"Mr. Sandier will see you now," the receptionist said.
"Mr. Sandier?" It came out a squeak, Karen was so startled.
"Through that door," the receptionist said, pointing gracefully before returning to her reading.
Tensely, Karen smoothed her skirt again. Her hands were so sweaty she was afraid she was going to drop her purse. The shining brass doorknob felt cold and slippery as she twisted it. The door opened onto yet another waiting room, a small one, and another receptionist.
"Go right in, Mrs. Calder," the girl said, nodding toward one of the two doors. Karen had the feeling that she had been carefully sized up by the receptionist in the few seconds she had been in the room.
The sight of Peter Sandier getting up from behind his mammoth desk was like a hard blow to Karen's gut. He was every bit as handsome in person as he was on television. The physical magnetism of the man was incredible. Karen felt herself extending her hand toward him, even though she didn't usually shake hands. His palm against hers was warm and dry and strong. Karen felt a river of fire run up her arm, flow out through her body, relax her tension-knotted muscles. His dark eyes met hem, and she felt her crotch begin to drool. He guided her to a comfortable chair in front of the desk.
She was grateful for the time it took him to return to his chair. She needed it to get in control of herself. Then he was eyeing her across the polished wood, and she had to control herself all over again as his dark eyes threatened to drown her.
"Mrs. Calder." It was a statement, not a question.
"Y-yes," she stammered stupidly.
"You're very pretty," he commented in a deep, perfect television voice. Hot shivers ran up her spine.
"Oh, n-no, not really," she stuttered modestly. She began twisting the strap of her purse in her sweating fingers.
Sandier smiled, and drew a sheet of paper over in front of himself. She saw, upside down to her, her own handwriting on the form they had sent her to fill out. Red circles had been drawn around some of her answers. Her snapshot, one taken at the beach, was clipped to the corner. She had tried to find one more suitable, but the awkward, semi-seductive bathing-beauty pose was all she could locate.