'N-nooo…' she blubbered, clutching at his lapels.
He put an arm reassuringly around her, trying to soothe her, and they walked back in the direction of the house.
Chapter Nine
When they reached the house, Iris turned to him.
'Would you like a drink?' she asked, tears still streaming down her face.
'Sure!' he answered enthusiastically, his arm still protectively curled around her shoulder. 'I'll just go tell Jason, so he can stretch his legs.'
Iris waited at the front door, as Stafford walked over to the limousine. After a minute, Jason got out of the car, and Iris was surprised to see how tall, and how alike he was to Stafford. After another minute, Jason ambled off down the wooded drive, and Stafford joined her at the front door. She lead him out to the summer porch, and he settled himself comfortably on one of the wicker chairs.
Iris went out to fix the drinks, leaving Stafford alone.
A sophisticated man of the world, Stafford was able to immediately discern that when a woman appears, flushed, her lips red and swollen, her hair and dress in disarray, it can mean only thing — she has just been fucked. He was sure he was not wrong about Iris, and her sudden bursting into tears seemed to him to be a confirmation of his assumption.
He figured it must have been someone other than her husband, or else she wouldn't be so distraught over it. No wonder, Carla is so enthusiastic over this place, he laughed to himself, fully aware of his daughter's penchant for eavesdropping and peeping into open doors and windows.
Just then Iris re-entered. She was looking a lot better. Her hair was brushed and her tears had disappeared. She brought in a bottle of Scotch, a pitcher of water, and glasses with ice.
She poured a liberal amount of Scotch for them, and offered the water to Stafford. He refused, smiling, and she decided to drink it straight also. Her good spirits were returning and the sight of this handsome man in her front porch made her feel decent, and somehow respectable again.
'Just what is it you do, Mr. Stafford?' she asked, turning her attention to him again.
'For a start,' he answered, 'call me Peter. I don't feel old enough to be called Mr. Stafford by such a lovely young woman as yourself!'
Iris blushed from his casual compliment, and was sorry she hadn't spent more than a minute tidying herself up. She was beginning to relax more, feeling quite certain that Carla had not mentioned to him the real reason for her sudden maturity, and she was enjoying the company of a suave sophisticated man.
'My company,' he went on, 'Publishes six different magazines,' and he explained the inner workings of the publications, several of which were high fashion monthlies.
It sounded very exciting and Iris felt drab in her workaday dress and even more uninteresting when she mentally compared her life's work with the occupation of this fascinating man.
They chatted freely, and Iris helped herself to more of the potent Scotch. Ordinarily, she couldn't touch more than a sip, but somehow today, it seemed just about as strong as soda. Peter also sipped it liberally as he expansively explained the psychology behind the glossy fashion magazines.
'So you see,' he said airily, 'the conspiracy is all against the consumer — you — the woman on the streets, to make her throw out her entire mini wardrobe, and start afresh with midis, maxis — the longuettes!'
'You mean it's all a trick to rake in more money for the garment industry, the magazines, the designers?' Iris could hardly believe that this was the case, he had always thought that those who designed, advertised and sold clothes always had the best interests of the woman at heart, always striving to create a more flattering, cheaper, better garment for her to wear!
'That's just what I mean!' he continued, 'as soon as Miss and Mrs. Everywoman has been completely sold on the latest style of shoe, dress, pants, coat, and has gone out and bought, bought, bought — presto! the announcement is made — that style is out! And they all fall for it, like fishes for bait. Year after year. Of course,' he added, 'I'm not complaining! It's money in my pocket. The manufacturers will be even more delighted over this latest push for the longuette — they feel justified in charging more for a maxiskirt than they did for a miniskirt, and the woman feels less cheated paying a higher price because she figures she's getting more for her money. The factories were really getting worried, with skirts being no longer than a wide belt!' He laughed gleefully, and drained his glass.
Iris sat back in a daze. She was shocked by what she had heard — she felt like throwing out every item in her wardrobe and clothing herself with leaves and twigs! But the daze was also caused by the effect of the straight Scotch on her — she was completely unaccustomed to imbibing at this noon hour, and she had heedlessly downed several glasses. Now she was feeling it. Her forehead suddenly felt hot, and she brushed the back of her hand against her brow to cool the burning.
Her gesture was not lost on Peter, who sat back, watching her. He liked her and he ran his eye appreciatively over her petite, perfectly molded frame. He could see her breasts jutting out through the thin material of the dress and he guessed that they would be just as upswept without a bra. He saw the firm line of her hip through the shift, and the curve of her thigh was just visible. She had an air of sensuality about her which she hadn't managed to shake off when she had 'tidied' herself up, and this slightly muddled air made her more appealing in his eyes. Living in the city, he felt himself to be slightly jaded of the perfect not-a-hair-out-of-place girls who abounded in his usual habitats. He felt in the mood for a taste of naturalness and the surroundings and his hostess greatly pleased him.
'Are you all right?' he asked, leaning forward slightly.
'Yes, I think so…'
She started to rise, but suddenly the room swam around her and she felt herself falling. But she was caught and she didn't reach the ground and then she felt herself being lifted, and carried. Then she lost consciousness.
Opening her eyes, Iris looked around her in amazement. Blinking them, she tried to focus on the man who was sitting at the edge of the bed. Yes, she was in bed, she realized, and then gasped when she felt that she was completely naked! How had she gotten here? Who had undressed her? Her vision cleared and she recognized the tall man who was looking at her, an anxious frown on his face. She noticed his dark hair, attractively framed with gray at the temples, his interesting, slightly craggy face, his deep blue eyes. She boldly examined his appearance, seemingly unconscious of the fact that he also was alive and staring back at her. Timidly, she pulled the blanket up to her chin, and then with great effort, managed to sit up.
'W-what happened?' she whispered.
'I guess you fainted, and I brought you in here,' he replied. 'Can I get you anything?'
'No, I don't think so!' she said, sinking back against the pillow. 'Wait,' she said, 'would you bring a damp towel — my forehead is burning!'
He disappeared into the bathroom immediately, and then Iris relaxed when she felt the iciness of the wet towel being pressed against her perspiring brow.
'Mmmmm,' she said, 'thank you so much. It feels wonderful!'
'You're welcome,' he said, leaning his face close to hers. Suddenly, his mouth was on hers, and he was grinding down on her, in a tight passionate kiss. She was mildly surprised but she did not resist. His kiss felt so good. Her tiredness and achiness slipped away from her and she felt her lips responding to his throbbing kiss. She could feel his breath pouring out of his nostrils and warming her face, and she reveled in the feeling. She strained her lips up against his, clinging to them as best as she could terrified lest he stop kissing her.
His hand was resting on her naked shoulder, the wet towel forgotten. His other hand began to stroke her hair, her neck, her shoulders. She quivered under his light expert touch, and she reached up and encircled him in her arms, pulling him down on her.
She felt his tongue parting her lips, and she willingly yielded, and then his tongue slipped inside her teeth, and joyfully united with hers. The lingual organ felt warm and strong, and its very masculinity sent thrills through
