The conversation seemed strained to Helen. No one mentioned the orgy, although she was certain it was uppermost in every mind. With each trivial comment, she became less patient and more self-conscious. The vision of her nude, spread-eagled body grew so vivid in her imagination that she felt she would see herself if she looked at the grating. And her memory of the individual caresses she'd experienced were sharper in the quiet of reflection than they'd been in the haze of her passion-so strong she was afraid Barry and Art would see them in her eyes if she glanced at them. When Vanessa returned, Helen mumbled apologies and urged Art to take her home.
"We do have to get up early," she said, cringing in the expectation someone might wisecrack she'd only wanted to stay long enough for the sex.
But there was no such gibe, and Art sighed happily at her suggestion. "Thanks for everything," he said to Vanessa. "Helen's right, though. Five-thirty comes early, and I've got to be out at that six-way interchange first thing in the morning. See you both soon!"
In the car, he made no pretense about the way he felt. "Come on over here," he said with a gentle growl. "What's the sense in leaving all that empty space between us?" He held out his arm and she slid into it, tensing for the feeling-up she anticipated.
To her surprise, he merely held her, seemingly content to feel her warmth at his side. And they were nearly home before he spoke again.
"I don't know what brought that business on tonight, sugar. Maybe I'm not supposed to. But I could see what it was costing you, and I think you were something else. You showed guts, doll!"
"You're not disgusted with me?"
"That's the last word I'd think of using. It's at the wrong end of the scale." After another silence, he asked, "Hey, where was that snotty kid sister of Van's?"
"Olga?" Helen tried to recall Van's mentioning the girl, but without success. "I don't know, honey. Maybe she went home."
"Naw. They'd have made a big deal of it last night."
"Probably had a date or something then."
"Yeah, I guess. They sure didn't seem worried about her showing up early, though."
Helen shuddered. "I'm glad I didn't remember her! I'd have been a wreck!"
Art chuckled. "That'll be the day! You being a wreck, I mean."
When they got into their own bedroom, Art went into the bathroom as usual and Helen took advantage of the time to get ready for bed. And as usual, when he came out, she was tucked securely under the covers. As he had done the night before, however, Art appeared nude. He paused in the bathroom doorway and gazed reflectively at her.
"Honey," he said at last. "Do me a favor?"
"What?"
"Come here."
She hesitated. Something about the light in his eye warned her he had no interest in sleep. As if he'd come out here naked if he meant to sleep, she commented to herself. "It's late, honey," she murmured.
Art grinned. "Come here, baby."
Reluctantly, she turned the covers back and sat up. Still reluctant, she rose and went to him. "Art, I wish you wouldn't come out here like this. It's…" She stopped abruptly.
"I know," he replied. He took her in his arms and kissed her on the mouth.
She stood stiffly in the circle of his arms and held her lips quiet against his. Knowing how cold she would seem if she were entirely passive, she put her arms around his shoulders, her fingers on the back of his neck. The scent of the masculine soap he used and the tangy odor of his cologne washed across her nostrils while the bristles on his neck pricked her hands. His lean body was hard and warm against hers, slipping on the nylon of her nightgown. She felt a stirring at her belly and knew his cock was rising.
A wave of hunger, surged through her, taking her by surprise and making her tighten her grip. Her body reacted as if her mental control were still under the paralysis of vodka. She crushed her mouth on his and rolled her head. Her boobs flattened against his chest and she thrust her pussy against the ridge of his upper thigh. Slowly and deliberately, she wiggled her belly on his cock. Her hunger turned hot and raced back and forth through her.
Art squeezed her butt gently and she felt the hem of her nightgown rising. Breaking free of the kiss, she protested, "No, Art! Don't!"
"Easy, baby, easy." His tone was soft and soothing, but he had the gown up to her hips and was continuing to lift it.
"Art! No! Don't do that!"
He let go of her nightgown and twisted free of her arms. Without moving, he seemed to draw away, and she gazed numbly into an expression more remote than she'd ever seen on his features.
"Art…" she whispered. "Art, honey?"
In a low, flat tone, he asked, "Want me to tie you up first? That the idea?"
"Art! Oh, no, Art! Please don't ever say a thing like that again!" She'd been so drunk… she'd been trying to shock him out of his sex thing… Vanessa had stampeded her… But she'd done it, nonetheless, and now she wouldn't. The worst thing of all was the way she'd let Barry treat her. She hadn't screamed or fought or cursed him; she'd wallowed on his hand and his mouth and then his cock like the most primitive slut in heat. She'd loved it! And Art had seen and known. What could he possibly think if I couldn't do as much – respond as hard – with him? she asked herself. Reasons don 't count… not when he's got pictures like that in his mind.
She backed slowly away from her husband. At arm's length from him, she reached down mechanically, arms crossed, and grasped the material of her nightgown. Intensely conscious of the need for grace, she peeled the garment from her body and over her head, tossing it towards the vanity chair. She ran her fingers through her auburn hair and shook her head as Vanessa had done to fluff the thick masses into a cloud about her shoulders. Gazing into Art's sober eyes, she backed to the bed and lay back on it.
'All right," she whispered. And after a momentary silence, she extended her arms above her head. "My legs, too?" she asked.
Art came to the side of the bed and stared at her. "Sugar, that's the most beautiful body I've ever seen. Anywhere! Jesus, how much I've been missing!"
Beauty! She struggled to adjust to the idea. She'd thought of nakedness as dirty. Displaying the body was a wanton invitation to sex, and in a marriage – where sex belonged – invitations weren't needed or desirable. But Art was talking about beauty, and at the moment the idea seemed to have displaced sex in his thoughts. She was still acutely conscious of his stare, though, and it still produced sharp tingles just under her skin. I want him! she realized. I want him to make love to me! He thinks my body's beautiful, and I want him to feel the beauty if it's there.
She raised her knees and thrust them apart. "Come here," she said softly. She saw his eyelids flicker in disbelief, and she let the corners of her mouth quirk into a smile. "Come here, man," she repeated.
He grinned and knelt, one knee between her thighs, then bent over her and sucked a nipple into his mouth. She held her breath, her hands holding his face and her thighs clamped on his knee.
"Darling!" she whispered. Her desire had ballooned in the brief moments of his touching her until it overwhelmed everything else. She loved Art, and all the physical excitement and imaginative stimulation she'd enjoyed earlier in the night coalesced around that love in a pounding, heady ecstasy. She couldn't hold still. Her hands left his face and caressed the sides of his body. She rubbed her legs on his. Her hips twisted and her shoulders flexed. And she moaned low and continuously.
Art lowered himself, guiding the nose of his cock into the embrace of her gash, then thrust urgently, plunging it through her rim and into the heart of her cunt. Clutching her to him, he rolled with her so he lay on his back and she lay astraddle his hips. He seized her butt and stroked her on his cock, jerking her entire body back and forth. Her boobs surged on his chest while his body hair harshly scrubbed her nipples. He pried her asscheeks apart and fingered her bung, dipping his fingers into the fluid at her cunt and lubricating her with the juice.