"Damnit, Marc, I can't tonight. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'll tell you what, Rog. Why don't you and your wife come over to dinner tomorrow night? I want you to meet Cindy, my wife. I think you'll like her." He winked at Roger, then turned to the waitress. She was back with the beers. He beckoned her to lean over so that he could whisper something to her. Roger overheard Cord ask the girl what time she got off work. She told him nine, and Cord said that he would be at this table, and if she would care for dinner…
The waitress smiled provocatively, nodded agreement and moved away. Roger almost groaned involuntarily at the image of what was certainly to follow the dinner. A fine dessert, all right…
"I've got to hand it to you, Marc," he said then, with genuine admiration. "You really have a way with the women."
Cord gave him a superior grin. "Nothing to it, Rog. Just takes practice. Hell, you can have it, too. Just lose some of your Victorian prudery and play the modern role."
"Security," Roger said. "That's my trouble. I want security. I come from an average middle class home, Marc. My dad was a stock broker, and you know how conservative they are. We were close, and I guess I picked up his attitudes toward solidarity." Roger rose from the chair realizing for the first time that he was somewhat drunk.
"Don't let it worry you, Rog," Cord said. "Maybe you can loosen up a bit as we work together."
Roger steadied himself with a hand on the edge of the table. "I hope so." He paused, then said, "Thank you, Marc, thank you very much for this position. You… won't regret it."
"I'm sure I won't. Now get home, Rog. I wouldn't want to go anywhere else if I had a hot little piece like yours waiting either. See you tomorrow night."
Roger smiled weakly, said good night, and staggered toward the exit. Cord's last words burned in his mind. Hot piece. If Marc only knew what kind of an icy bitch she really was. Even out of bed, she demanded all the little things involved in story book romance, with her teasing, suggestive remarks and her come-on looks, parading around in provocative clothes. But it was all a sham. Get down to basics, and she might as well have been encased in a block of glacier ice for all the good it did him. His balls and penis throbbed and ached for the loving touch of a woman, and all he had to look forward to was cold rejection.
Roger walked to the parking lot, the cool night air ineffectual on the rising cloud of inebriation, and picked up his car. The beer surged through his system, and made his thoughts hazy and his emotions fortified. Goddamn it, he was going to show her! He was going to fuck the shit out of her tonight whether she liked it or not, by God!
Roger drove more recklessly than was his usual wont from the combination of beer and passion. The alcohol had completely flooded his mind, and with careless abandon he speeded through the downtown traffic to Geary Boulevard, unmindful of possible violations. Christ, I'm drunker than I thought! he told himself. He never could hold his liquor very well, and more than two of anything, even glasses of wine or beer, affected him badly.
The heat of rising desire flamed his already lewdly-burning thoughts. Goddamn Cord and his wanton ways! That waitress' smirking countenance again appeared in his mind's eye. Her thinly disguised hunger for Cord's handsome body, and no doubt huge cock, flashed before him like a red flag in front of a maddened bull. Like the bull, Roger more and more angry, until he almost screamed with rage and frustration.
Goddamn his wife! His Diane, his one and only — Shit! God, he'd be deliriously happy if only she was a woman, a red-blooded female who wanted him! But he was denied his rights, his end of the marriage bargain. He pictured the ideal situation with Diane, with her mewling and moaning with pleasure as he took her a hundred different ways, and she in turn writhing and sucking and kissing him with unquenchable lust. He could almost feel the creamy secretions of her cunt as she whispered his name, and he groaned, knowing full well that her pussy was as dry and arid as a withered old crone's.
His long, hardened prick was bent mercilessly in his pants, and he could tell that he was oozing secretions into the cotton of his underwear. Never had he been so hot, so intensely aroused, not since the night on Lookout Drive when Diane had first shown what kind of lover she was to be. The pain of his doubled cock was excruciating, and with the desperation of a tortured man he reached down with his left hand and fumbled for the fly of his suit trousers. The zipper protested, for the sitting position made for awkward maneuverability; but slowly he was able to lower it until his white underpants bulged through the narrow opening, and the heavy sack of cloth stretched his trousers to their limit.
Roger looked down at the protuberance. The agony of what he was doing almost outweighed the relief he felt. My God, he thought with horror, here I am, driving along with my pants undone! I can't believe it! What the hell is happening to me? Has my sense of decency become warped?
Then he remembered Cord's words: "Just lose some of your Victorian prudery and play the modern role." Modern role: the permissive man in a wide-open society, where sex was the game — for its own sake and nothing more. As if in agreement, his swollen member throbbed against its restraining hold, and it seemed to jerk restlessly, as if seeking escape.
Trembling with the pent-up fury of his overwrought emotions, Roger touched the swelling and felt a tremor race through his groin and buttocks. What am I doing? I haven't done this since I was a teenager! The narrow band of material which opened along the front of his shorts seemed to widen as his cock bloated the front of his pants. As if of their own volition, his fingers ran along the band, the sensations they caused his prick almost overwhelming. For God's sake, stop this! What would happen if you were seen like this, manipulating yourself like an adolescent!
But his fingers continued to caress the stiffened cock, its outline hard against the shorts, and then he pulled the material aside and like a steel spring, his prick shot free. Oh Christ… no! No!
Roger tried to keep his eyes glued to the windshield, off his erect penis, but with almost animalistic fascination he dipped his vision, seeing the blood-filled knob's towering size. He had never been bigger! His fingers caressed the mighty shaft, and the cool air made it tingle maddeningly.
The foreskin folded back as his hand stroked the burning flesh, and the head winked with its unseeing eye through the steering wheel at him. Sperm churned in the boiling cauldrons of his balls, and he could feel the rising of his cum in the base of his cock. He took one last look at the action of his manipulations, the full fist of his hand wrapped around the pole of his penis, the furious pumping of his wrist and arm almost forcing him to stop the car…
Thirty-fourth Avenue was just ahead, and his duplex within sight. Thankfully, he took his left hand away from his screaming, pleading cock and turned the wheel to bring the Plymouth onto his street and then into the duplex's driveway. He stopped the car in the protecting shadows of the garage. He sat there for a long minute, staring down at his still rock-hard prick, his breath ragged and hoarse. He realized he was too far beyond recovery to fight the primeval urges his body thrust upon him, and his mind began to form weird erotic scenes of the lewd positions he was going to force his wife into. He opened the door, and started his desire-wracked body toward the kitchen entrance, his hand once more enclosed over the turgid shaft.