only by the two of them who would not meet again after this night. He hilted himself inside her vagina with a furious lunge, and once again he could feel her velvety-smooth buttocks convulsively grind and squirm against his belly. His forefinger pressed back her turgid clitoris into the soft protective cowl of loveflesh, then let it spring forth, and Eleanor uttered a sobbing little cry of pleasure, rubbing her forehead on the bed this way and that: her fingernails now scrabbling over the moving surface.
'Don't you dare let it slip out of your sweet cunt now, or you'll be sorry,' he gasped a lewd waning as he drew himself back to the portals of her twitching vulva. And before she could answer, he thrust home again his spear scab barding itself into her tightening, contracting sheath.
His right forefinger returned to commandeer the swollen nodule, making her jerk and gasp as tumultuous sensations began to invade her crouching proffered naked body. Now his left forefinger caressed the smooth effulgence of her buttocks before at last stealthily moving towards the sinuous, shadowy groove between the jutting globes. A moment later, she tilted back her head, her nostrils flaring widely, her mouth gaping in a startled cry of pleasure as his fingertip thrust inside the contracting rosette of her anus.
'Aaaaa-oooh-ohh, D-Daddy-oh yes, hick me everywhere, give it to me hard-oh Daddy!'
He forgot everything except the overwhelming glory of the flesh, the joy of triumphant domination and cohesion. He thrust back and forth, his fingers moving in tempo, and Eleanor's crouching body was shaken with interminable spasms as her own magnificent fulfillment approached.
And then with a simultaneous, chorused cry which drowned out the music from the hi-fl, he and his paramour of the night knew at last release from the frenetic longings of their whetted flesh…
Chapter 2
As she drew the venetian blinds of her bedroom windows on the- second floor of the old Gothic house in the heart of Chicago's fabulous 'Gold Coast,' Rachel WoodIing thought disconsolately of the changing contrasts in the short two months of her marriage to one of the city's most dynamic advertising executives. This beautiful and comfortable old house was an architectural landmark a few blocks away from picturesque 'Old Town,' Lake Michigan and Lake Shore Drive with its beautiful, costly high-rise condominiums, the world-renowned Ambassador Hotel with its Pump Room. Along this very block lived many of the oldest, wealthiest and most socially prominent families of the Windy City… and yet all this was only a few blocks away from a slum neighborhood with its poverty, muggers and narcotics addicts.
A warm May rain spattered the windows with an insistent sound this Friday night, blurring the bright lights of the houses and towering buildings beyond. And Rachel Woodling felt herself a stranger in the house to which she had come with such high hopes.
Perhaps all the more because, now thirty-four and in the prime of her brunette beauty, she had already known what destruction a bad marriage could wreak. She had been a New York debutante, married at nineteen, forced into it by her society-obsessed parents who had mated her with a tow headed, boorish and extremely rich twenty- five year old bachelor by the name of Matt Varney. He had been a playboy and philanderer who spent money on his extra-marital loves the way an Arabian oil magnate might have purchased slaves at a secret mart. Because she had been extremely devoted to her parents, she had dutifully let herself be led to the altar with him. Her wedding night had been brutal and joyless, and she had detested Matt from the very start.
He had known this at once, and had taken sadistic delight in being unfaithful to her, turning the dagger in the wound by letting her learn about his amours in the belief that she needed him and so would not divorce him. Several times she had come upon him making love to her best friend, even to their maid, in the very house in which they had lived in Long Island Sound.
But before she could. finally dissolve the marriage-difficult indeed in the State of – New York except on the grounds of adultery or desertion or lack of consummation-Matt Varney had been drowned while driving his motorboat at excessive speed, and Rachel had found herself widowed at the age of twenty-two.
To forget the disaster of this loveless marriage, the slim brunette had turned to night school courses in the field of interior decoration of which she was particularly fond, while supporting herself with a clerical job during the day. Within ten years, she had gained sufficient professional reputation in her avocation to open a shop on Chicago's vaunted North Michigan Avenue. That shop had brought her fame, financial independence, and her new husband, Timothy Woodling Senior.
She turned away from the window and walked slowly over to her boudoir table, seated herself and lit a cigarette. The gold-framed oval mirror reflected back a sensitive oval face, large, widely spaced gray-green eyes, aquiline nose with thin, sensuous wings, high set cheekbones and high-arching forehead, and a small delicate mouth. Her jet-black hair, coiffed in a chic, almost mannish bob, left bare the elegant nucha and emphasized the almost wistful sensitivity of her features. The peach-hued belted negligee which she wore over a matching white nylon bra and panty set more than hinted at a figure which, of slightly more than medium height, promised a latent sensuality, with high-perched closely spaced pear-shaped breasts contrasting with boyishly compact, high set oval buttocks, long, slender and graceful thighs, and sinuously high set calves. Her skin was a warm, flawless olive.
As she thought of all the contrasts that had come into her life in so short a time, she thought, too, of her new husband's first wife, Grace, a vivacious, robust and beautiful blonde whom he had met in college and married a few years later. Grace's death from pneumonia a decade ago had not only bereaved him, but also his two children, the then five-year old Tim Jr. and ten-year Heather, who had both idolized her.
After his wife's death, Timothy Woodling had brought up his children with one housekeeper. after another, and sent them to private schools where they could be both sheltered and their quick minds catered to, so that he might concentrate on the progress of his growing advertising agency. At times, he had asked Tim and Heather how they would feel about his remarrying, and both of them had been vehemently against it. Consequently, when his sexual urges were too great to endure, Timothy Woodling would frequent an elegant house of prostitution or seek the services of an expensive and selective call girl, as discreetly as possible.
Rachel knew all this because he had told her from the very outset, and she had loved him for his candor, vitality and imagination. She herself, indeed, had long since resigned herself to the fulfillment which her career would bring her, wary of love because of her own unfortunate first marriage. But late last year, Timothy Woodling had come into her shop because one of his business friends had recommended her as an outstanding interior decorator, and he had wanted to have the old Gothic house remodeled and redecorated. And it had been practically love at first sight for both of them.
Rachel had believed that this mature man who was cultured, imaginative and gentle and deeply devoted to his children might give her both security and love while. she was still young enough to enjoy the physical aspect of wifehood. Because when he had kissed her for the first time about three weeks after she had begun the project of redecorating at 759 Astor Street, she had felt herself responding as she hadn't done even with Matt Varney.
But when she had agreed to marry him and when he had introduced her to Tim Jr. and Heather, she had been startled at the hostility with which they had received this news of their father's impending remarriage. Oh yes, they had been icily polite, they had said the conventional things, but the way they looked at her and then huddled together, whispering and glancing at her from time to time, had made her feel like an unwanted intruder.
She had told Timothy Woodling as much on the United Airlines 747 flying them to Honolulu for their honeymoon, and he had smiled and reassured her, 'Of course they're taken aback, darling, but then so was I when I walked into that shop and saw you for the first time. It'll take time, but you're not the bossy kind of woman who's going to change them just to suit yourself. In time they'll come to respect and love you just as much as I do now.'
There was a low rumble of thunder out over the lake, and Rachel Woodling shivered, then reached for a cigarette from the silver monogrammed case Timothy had given her as a honeymoon present She lit it with fingers that slightly trembled. She sighed deeply. Time. It was supposed to be the great equalizer, but the only trouble was that nobody told you just how long time would be. Because now, after two months, it was quite obvious that young Tim and Heather had no more use for her than on the evening their father had brought her into the study to introduce her to them as their future stepmother. And somehow, she had never been more conscious of their resentment than tonight, with Timothy gone to New York to make a presentation on an important industrial
