“Then who sent you that nightgown?”
“I sent it to myself,” Llona told him truthfully. “I did it to teach you a lesson, so you’d never forget my birthday again. And I made up Pierre Strongfellow for the same reason.”
“You’re lying!”
“I am not. It’s all true.”
“Then you were lying before?” Confusion made the question plaintive.
“That’s right.”
“But how do I know you’re not lying now?” Archer demanded.
“You don’t.”
“How do I know you weren’t telling the truth before and now you’re lying just to get off the hook?”
“Think what you want.” Llona yawned. “I’m going to bed.”
“You did go to his apartment and kiss him and take off your clothes!” Archer made it a statement. “Didn’t you?” The question was timid and tentative by contrast.
“You figure it out. I’m going to sleep.”
That’s where it was left. Llona slept the sleep of one satisfied at having inflicted just and deserved punishment. Archer tossed and turned all night, wondering if his wife was faithful to him or not. And he continued to brood during the days that followed, his suspicion deepening and solidifying.
The suspicion ate away at the back of his mind when he and Llona had more surface arguments, which they did continually. Two topics took precedence verbally in these brouhahas. The first was Archer’s mother and Llona’s resentment of her. The second was the problem of Archer’s joblessness. One night a few weeks later, the two merged and the war between them achieved the highest point of escalation yet.
It started innocently enough, even lovingly, you might say. They were in bed and Archer was tentatively stroking Llona’s left breast. The firm flesh tingled under his fingertips and the long nipple quivered responsively.
“I love your breasts,” Archer murmured.
“I love the way it feels when you touch them,” Llona sighed.
“Like this?” Archer traced the large pink aureole and then strummed the nipple.
“Umm . . . It’s so masculine. Typical too,” Llona recalled without really thinking about it. “I was just reading where we’ve really become a breast culture because babies of our generation were weaned too early. All American men are hung up on breasts these days because they feel they were denied enough mother-love.” She tickled Archer’s ear.
“I wasn’t denied mother-love.” Archer lazily dipped into the cleavage between the large, plump breasts. “My mother loved me very much.”
“Oh, Archer, don’t be silly.” Llona bit his neck. “Your mother doesn’t even know the meaning of love.”
It was the wrong thing to say. “That was the wrong thing to say,” Archer told her, feeling the heat of her breast under his lips. “And besides, I wasn’t weaned too early.”
“Well, she doesn’t.” Llona raked his back with her nails and insinuated one warm leg between his “And if you weren’t, then why are you doing that?”
“I like it.” Archer caught the nipple between his lips and gently assaulted it with teeth and tongue. “It has nothing to do with weaning. Besides, I don’t see why you always have to drag my mother into it.”
“Not so hard,” Llona gasped, her breasts swelling with the deep breathing of sensual arousal. “And I didn’t drag her into it. You said—”
“I didn’t say anything about her.” Archer reached around to fondle the globes of her buttocks as they ground against him. “You did. You said my mother didn’t know the meaning of love.”
“But that’s true,” Llona panted. “It’s one of the reasons you’re so screwed up.”
“How am I screwed up?” One of Archer’s fingers probed and her wriggling grew more frantic.
“Well, the way you doubt yourself when it comes to getting a job, for instance.” Llona kissed him deeply and pushed back against his finger. “It’s because you doubt your masculinity. And that’s your mother’s fault.”
“Does this feel like I doubt my masculinity?” Archer pulled her close against him again so she could feel his arousal against her stomach. “And it’s not my mother’s fault I’m out of a job,” he added, moving rhythmically. “It’s your fault.”
“That’s right! Bring that up again!” Llona wriggled to get higher until she was satisfied that the pressure was against just the right spot. “But that doesn’t make it true. You’re having employment troubles because you lack confidence in yourself. And you lack confidence in yourself because subconsciously you realize your mother didn’t give you enough love!” Llona flung herself over him. “There! That’s right! That’s the spot!”
Archer reached up and feverishly squeezed the luscious breasts dangling over his face. “I don’t lack confidence in myself!” he panted. “I’m just having a rough time finding a job. Probably because there are other things on my mind.” His hips shot from the bed as he slammed upwards with all his might. “Other things are bugging me!” he reiterated in cadence.
“Of course!” Llona bounced ecstatically. “Other things like your hang-up with your mother.”
“I don’t have any hang-up with my mother!” Archer smacked her bottom ferociously. “What’s bugging me is you and that Pierre character.”
“Oo! Oo! Oo! Whee-ee!” Llona writhed frantically atop him. “What ‘Pierre character’?”
“That Pierre Strongfellow!” Archer assaulted the core of her.
“I made him up.” Llona fell forward and slowed down to an undulating rotary motion that gripped and guided “I told you. There is no such person.”
“I don’t believe you.” Archer followed her motions, his body arched like a longbow.
“Now! Now! Now!” Llona grabbed him wildly, biting, clawing, holding the fulcrums of their bodies taut and motionless as her lust exploded. “Now!”
“Yes! Yes! Ye --” Archer echoed as his own passion mounted to match hers. Then— “What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“I’m satisfied. I’m going to sleep.” Llona clambered off him and lay down with her back to him.
“What do you mean?” Archer was agitated. “I haven’t— You had yours-— But I was only just about-—”
“That’s your lookout,” Llona told him coldly.
“You mean you’re going to leave me all hung up this way?” Archer couldn’t believe it.
“Since you persist in arguing and badgering me, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I can’t feel erotic and bicker at the same time. Particularly when I’ve already been satisfied.”
“How can you be such a bitch?” Archer asked the question with genuine wonder.
“If you were a woman, you’d understand,” Llona told him smugly.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Archer was beginning to boil.
“It means that for a woman it isn’t just physical. She has to be able to feel too. And when you’re picking on me, I can’t feel.”
“It didn’t stop you before,” Archer pointed out through clenched teeth.
“That was before!” Llona said with the finality of feminine logic.
“The hell you say!” Archer exploded. He rolled over on top of her and forced her thighs apart.
“Go on! Rape me! I always knew that was the kind of man you were. No sensitivity! Just sheer animal lust! I won’t respond, but that won’t bother you, will it? That’s it! Rape me!”
“That’s exactly what I intend to do!” Archer forced her to admit him and began to move again with a brutal, angry, pounding motion.
“I don’t feel a thing!” Llona insisted, striving to remain absolutely still.
Archer ignored her. Actually, he was beyond hearing her, beyond giving a damn about her feelings. Lust and anger had combined to focus on the one objective of erotic release. After a few minutes he obtained that objective and then rolled away from Llona, tired, left only with his anger.