Llona was transfixed by the tearing off of the nightgown. Like most girls she’d had her fantasies of being raped. Arclier’s act fit in deliciously with the fantasy. It was wonderful to have a husband with just the right touch of aggressiveness to his passion. Now, as his head bent, she stretched and purred.
Archer stroked the golden triangle of her womanhood. The tendrils were very soft to the touch, and lighter in hue than the curls fanning out over the pillow. They didn’t hide the mons veneris, but rather delineated it. The highly set, plump mound, with its narrow cleft fluttered under the touch of Archer’s fingers. The fingertips gently strummed the slippery, maroon clitoris, and Llona thrashed out, digging her nails into Archer's forearm.
Her hands closed over his neck, the nails still digging as his face replaced his hands at the fount of her womanhood. The muscles of her golden thighs clenched fiercely over his ears, shutting out the rhythmic moans erupting from her lips. Finally the intensity became too much for her. She pushed Archer away.
“Now!” she panted. “Take me now! I want it now! Now! Now! Now!”
Archer stumbled in his eagerness to leap from the bed. But he recovered and kept going until he reached the closet on the other side of the room. Here he fumbled at his jacket which was hanging there until he’d found what he was seeking in one of the inside pockets. He took out the small packet and peeled off the wrapping until he’d freed the contents. Then he blew into the object in his hand and finally held it out so that Llona could see it as he hastened to return to her. *
“A balloon?” She was startled. “Archer, this is no time for practical jokes.”
“It’s not a practical joke. And it’s not a balloon!” Even in his passion, he sounded angry.
“Then what is it?” Her tone was placating and genuinely curious.
He explained what it was.
“Oh! Oh, yes.” Llona dimly remembered an experience in the past, an experience she was not about to share with her husband if only for the sake of tact. “But these days it’s an anachronism,” she protested timidly. “I mean, there’s no nee —”
“An anachronism!” He exploded. “You don't know what you’re saying! That’s the only explanation! That goddam Pill’s gone to your head!”
“But since I’ve already taken The Pill, then why bother with-'2”
“NOW YOU HEAR THIS!” he roared. “ There’s only one of us gonna wear the pants in this family, and that one’s me! And that means particularly when I’m not wearing the pants during sex! We’re gonna do things my way! You got that?”
“I’ve got it.” Far from being angry in return, Llona was thrilled by his masterfulness. She very much wanted her man to be a man in bed. Even though she thought Archer was being ridiculous in his insistence, she responded to his firmness. “And I want it!” She writhed invitingly on the bed. “Now!” she added.
Both mollified and filled with desire, Archer stopped talking and resumed making love. Llona was not disappointed. He played upon her Stradivarius of a body like a Heifetz. And during the course of the night he played three encores, improvising variations and reaching crescendos of passion that rendered artist and instrument glorious in their oneness.
The only offkey note as far as Llona was concerned was that damned—device. Archer was amply supplied. Nor was he given to conserving them. Each time a fresh one was produced. Each time it represented to Llona the one small, only slightly buzzing fly in her erotic ointment. But the ointment was so delicious that she didn’t complain again.
It wasn’t until the next day, when they were both too weary to embark on another concerto, that Llona delicately brought up the subject again. before, Archer started out by reacting violently and cursing The Pill. But Llona finally managed to calm him down enough to elicit an explanation.
She didn’t like the explanation. However, she accepted it. Since she was Archer’s wife, considering the circumstances he detailed, she had no choice. With a sigh, she threw away her bottle of Pills and really did enjoy the rest of their honeymoon, fly-in-the-ointment not withstanding.
By the time the honeymoon was over, Llona hardly thought about it at all. It seemed a small enough price to pay for the pleasure Archer’s expert lovemaking gave her. Besides, she’d accepted the fact that it had to do with Archer’s ambition and that she was probably lucky to have a husband who was such an ambitious man . . .
It was Archer’s ambition that lay behind Llona’s eager acceptance of their first social invitation as a married couple. The invitation was extended via the telephone by Mrs. Neva Holdkumb, wife of E. Z. Holdkumb, Archer’s boss. The booming pitch of Mrs. Holdkumb’s voice, the emphasis of its tone, the choice of phrases and the words chosen to be stressed—all added up to a vocally painted picture of her.
“When E. Z. told me the lovebirds were back—” Too old to enjoy more than once-a-week sex, but never too old to snicker! “—I said to myself, I said—-” When Mrs. Holdkumb talked, Mrs. Holdkumb listened, and you’d better do the same, sweetie, ‘cause her hubby’s your hubby’s boss! “—well, the honeymoon’s over, and they’re probably feeling let down—” Sex (even once-a-week sex) disappointed Mrs. Holdkumb and that meant disappointment was universal, and God help the trollop who said otherwise! “—-so why not ask them over for an evening of bridge?” Trump her ace and Archer’s career is doomed! “That way we can all get to know each other.” To know Mrs. Holdkumb is to love Mrs. Holdkumb; to be known by Mrs. Holdkumb is to stand up on the firing line and hope Fate hasn’t sprung you as the target for today. “If you’ll forgive an older woman’s giving advice, my dear—” Wisdom from On High designed to show how High is High! “—the social side of business is every bit as important as the business side of business--” Stentorian, denoting a size forty-four bust encased in sales reports. “-—particularly when it comes to the career of a young man, if you see what I mean.” Youth is a dirty crime! Never trust anybody under thirty! Or under forty! Or under anywhere your husband is at if there’s even the slightest chance he’s groping for that rung on the ladder where hubby’s foot is planted! “But I don’t mean that to make you feel nervous'—-” Eyes like icepicks flicking frozen slivers down Llona’s spine! “—’cause I just want it to be a cozy evening—” Snuggle up to Mama Hippo and suckle a little humblepie-juice! “--and I don’t want you to feel as if you’re being judged or anything like that.” Llona was guilty! She had a wart on the left cheek of her behind.
“We’d love to come, Mrs. Holdkumb,” she managed to interject.
But Mrs. Holdkumb kept on talking, filling in the picture, as it were. By the time she hung up, Llona saw her as clearly as the proboscis on your visage and ten times life size. The picture loomed up threateningly and wouldn’t go away.
Llona envisioned a woman in her forties—late forties—with very large teeth in a state of lupine decay, the kind of teeth developed by a hyena who regularly eats stale carrion purchased at a third-rate butcher shop. Over the teeth Llona saw a boarlike snout rising up to separate rheumy eyes splotched red with malice. The head was set firmly on a short, squat, powerful body—yes, that hippo body with its breasts made of muscle and grizzle. The body would be encased in a high-style hostess gown with a slit up the side to display one garishly veiny calf. Only one thing remained to complete the picture. Llona puzzled over it, then snapped her fingers. Of course! A Pekingese! Mrs. Holdkumb had to have a Pekingese!
But Llona was wrong. When she arrived at the Holdkumbs that fatal night, it was one of the first things she realized. Mrs. Holdkumb! didn’t have a Pekingese. She had a Mexican Chihuahua!