He and Don talked baseball and drank beer while Kit, fuming with anger, sipped a gin and tonic. Shortly the shipping guy's two girl assistants appeared. One climbed all over Don. Other people arrived and within an hour a full-fledged office party was in progress.
A couple of men were flirting with Kit but she had her eye on Don. Seeing him duck out toward the phone booths, she followed, feeling so frustrated, so hot-crotched, so desperately in need of being fucked that she decided to simply demand that he take her to a motel.
He was talking on the phone when she opened the door and crowded into the booth.
His arm slid around her. He gave her a hug.
He said to the phone, "Honey, she's here right now. Kit, I have the wife on the line. Myra wants you to come to but house for supper. Can do?"
Kit could have screamed.
His wife had invited her for family supper, when her cunt was dripping like a leaky faucet!
But she agreed. At least this would let her stay away from home, giving Sonny and Lily more time to be together.
In her car, Kit followed Don's vehicle to Poplar View, a new development on the edge of town. Her jaundiced eye saw the place as ugly, a scatter of split-level houses clumsily plopped down on treeless, raw-looking lots. She positively hated Don for rejecting her, and his wife too, and their shitty house!
Don ushered her in the front door. She was pleasantly surprised by the living room. It featured a handsome sofa in color and apple green, some good antiques, boldly colorful abstract paintings on the walls.
Myra thrust out of the kitchen, calling, "Darlings!"
She was a tall, golden-limbed blonde wearing white shorts and a halter in which big tits bobbed and lurched. Kit eyed her resentfully, blaming her for Don's having come home. Myra was a luscious piece, and young, in her early twenties. Stiff competition.
Kit's attitude shifted to curiosity on recalling the party night when Myra had startled her by caressing her behind.
Myra gave her no time for speculation, seizing her arm and wheeling her to the kitchen, saying, "Don phoned that he was boozing with Mrs. Pretty-"
"Pretty Knees," Don put in.
"Then stop leering at her titties," Myra laughed. "And I said, Invite Mrs. Pretty-"
"Knees-"
"Oh shut up, darling. Invite her to dinner, I said. Kit, I'm so glad to see somebody from the world of the living! I am sick to puking over housewife talk of detergents and recipes. How beautiful you look! Gin and tonic, right? Don told me on the phone. You must be dying of thirst after the long drive here."
Despite herself, Kit smiled at Myra's rapid-fire chatter. Don's eyes twinkled as he watched his wife prance about, whipping a tonic bottle from the refrigerator, pouring gin with a generous hand. Don obviously doted on her. No wonder Kit's attempted seduction had failed. Myra seemed to fill the room, her golden limbs flashing, her big wobbling breasts tugging the halter this way and that.
She told her husband, "Chancy called over that he's having trouble patching his boat. He needs your fiberglass expertise. And he's run out of beer."
Kit saw their glances meet in one of those husband-and-wife gazes in which many things were said, unreadable by a third party.
He protested, "But Kit is here-"
"I'll keep Kit company. We'll yell when dinner is ready."
He opened the refrigerator and took out a six-pack of beer and headed for the back door. Myra watched him intently. The moment the door had closed she clutched Kit's arm.
She whispered, "Can you keep a secret? I mean, Don would kill me if he found out, he's so fucking square. Come on. The living room."
Kit followed her to the other room. Myra opened a chrome cigarette box on a lamp table and rummaged among king-sized filter tips.
She whispered, "I can't trust any of the neighborhood gals. They're so small-minded. But you've been around. See, it's no fun alone."
She drew a thin, hard-looking pink cigarette from under the white ones.
"Marijuana?" Kit asked.
Myra nodded. "It's the best grass, Panama Red. Do you want to turn on?"
"Well, I've only tried it a couple of times, never getting much out of it."
"This will send you." Myra seated her on the couch, dropped down beside her, lighting the cigarette. She sucked hard on it, lips compressed, drew until her face turned red. Biting firmly to hold in the smoke, she tugged the cigarette from her lips and handed it to Kit.
It was all too sudden. Kit gazed vacantly at the hard pink tube in her fingers.
The disruption of her plans had left her adrift.
"Go on," Myra urged. "It's the greatest."
Deciding she had not a thing to lose, Kit imitated Myra, sucking savagely at the stick, filling her lungs, her stomach, tensing every muscle as she forced it down. About to burst, she wrenched the stick from the vise of her lips and returned it.
She struggled to cramp the smoke down inside her, packing it by gulping, swallowing air. At last she had to let it hiss slowly out of her.
The next drag was easier. It sat like a lump inside her, then seemed to ooze through inner pores into her bloodstream. When she released her lungful there seemed little pressure left.
She had been gazing at one of Myra's abstract paintings. It was colorful, decorative, almost garish. But now she saw it come alive. The colors were layered and moving. Reds began to scream. Yellows blushed. The frame was transformed to a rectangular rainbow, a psychedelic nimbus.
Kit gasped, "Myra, I'm turned on! That painting is like a Technicolor movie."
"This is grassy grass, this Panama Red. Besides, there's a little hash mixed in. It lifts you like a balloon. Have you ever been a balloon?"
"No, I'm a movie projector," Kit giggled. "I'm projecting that painting of yours inside out on a wide screen."
"If you're zeroed in that heavy, I won't be a balloon either.
This nonsense talk somehow made perfect sense to Kit.
Myra took gold tweezers from the cigarette box and gripped the remaining butt of the pink stick, the roach, they called it. She held it to Kit's lips. Kit sucked it down to her toes. Her toes seemed to bloat, spread out, curl like fingers. She kicked off her sandals and toed into the nap of the rug, tugging it as she Pressured her gutful of grass down into a tiny pocket.
Myra had another pull before dropping the roach into the ash tray.
Kit watched the abstract painting change colors like a kaleidoscope. She gasped, "What a crazy cigarette that was!"
Then out of the corner of her eye she saw Myra's hand reach up to her. Slender fingers combed into her hair.
"Silky," Myra murmured. "Copper, gold, silken threads, a million of them, fluffy soft-"
Kit was aware that the girl had moved closer to her. The abstract painting was going away. She saw Myra's eyes, green warmed by other colors, not that green glitter associated with bitchy women, but a smiling haze beaming affectionately at her. She studied Myra's peaches-and-cream complexion, her delicate nostrils, her baby-pink lips. The lower lip was wide and plump, a damp cushion flattening as she smiled.
She realized that her time sense had been stretched by the drug. While drawing a single breath she could. study Myra's smile, look inside it, wonder at its meaning, evaluate everything the girl had said to her on their brief previous meetings. She gazed at Myra's slim golden arms, examined their contours, looked at the knobs her nipples made in the white halter, glanced at her long, downy, sun-gilded legs, at the shorts crotch molded to the form of her plump mound and large cunt lips, at the line of material drawn into her split. With a single look she saw Myra a thousand times and thought a thousand things.
The pertinent thought was that Myra's fingers winding voluptuously into her hair, her nearness, and her smile, all fitted that single ass caress at the party.