Stanley Redman
Mark_s wandering wife vol. 1
CHAPTER ONE
It was Saturday and Mark had left early to play golf at the country club. There had been no kiss good-bye nor tender love-pats such as a young, new wife might expect from her husband, not even a word when he'd left her; but then, already she had grown accustomed to such treatment.
Dianne Coleman lay stretched out on their large, luxurious bed, a voluptuous, golden-haired Venus, the soft rounded contours of her breathtaking loveliness veiled enticingly by the diaphanous negligee she wore. Her wide- set; deep hazel-eyes bore an expression of sadness; her perpetually pouting lower lip trembled… her mind had suddenly conjured up the semblance of Phillip Gates… Too often, lately, that had happened… too often.
She struggled with her thoughts, forcing out all others but those of her husband. He would be soliciting support for his campaign from business and professional cohorts, the purpose of this rare day of leisure; at least, that had been what he had told her last night… one of the unusual occasions when she had been granted the pleasure of his company during the full month of their marriage. My God… it was unbelievable, wasn't it? A nightmare…? No… no, simply a deception.
Tears clouded her eyes; she bit at her full lower lip and subconsciously reached for the book on the stand beside her. Something… anything, to absorb her attention momentarily.
We are never deceived; we deceive ourselves…
She read Goethe's words blurringly from the small volume of quotations she had taken from Mark's study. Good Lord, how appropriate, she thought. Then, she found herself wondering if her handsome attorney-husband had ever taken the time to read this, or any of the other dusty works that lined the walls of that room. She doubted it; there was hardly time in Mark Coleman's ruthlessly ambitious existence for anything that didn't have to do with his quest for political power… even his wife.
Dear God, how was it that she hadn't detected this from the very beginning, she wondered for the thousandth time. How could she have been so utterly blind… his secretary for six months, yet know so little of his personal traits?
Again, she forced her eyes to the printed page, and the words of Moliere seemed to leap out at her in answer to her question.
One is easily fooled by that which one loves.
She closed the book and sat up, disconsolately surveying the splendor of her surroundings as she contemplated the wise, philosophical words. Suddenly, a bitter smile caught at her pretty mouth as she thought: the first sight of love is the last of wisdom.
Who had made that brilliant quote? It had just popped into her mind, but good Lord, how well it pertained. Mark Coleman had simply overwhelmed her; she had fallen in love with him the moment she had first laid eyes on him seven months ago, but never in her wildest dreams had she even dared believe that one day he would ask her to be his wife.
It had all happened so fast… his sudden, almost spontaneous invitation to dinner… candlelight and champagne… bubbles up her nose… her head swimming giddily… his proposal… their elopement that very night… and then… oh God… the horror! No, she didn't want to think of that…! No, she didn't want to think of that…!
Was she living in some appallingly distorted dreamworld? Under the influence of some weird drug, perhaps? She shook her beautiful head, causing her long blonde tresses to flail wildly about her shoulders, then fall neatly and softly back into place. No, there were no artificially induced cobwebs distorting her mind; she had simply deceived herself!
She arose from the bed and slowly crossed the large, plushly carpeted bedroom on the huge draped window overlooking the spacious grounds of the Coleman mansion. The midday California sun cast cooling shadows beneath the cypress and pepper trees, giving the velvet-like lawns a bluish hue, broken only by the myriad beds of flowers, Eduardo, the gardener, kept so trim and beautiful. Her own domain, Dianne thought wryly; she was mistress of the realm… and like the forgotten princess, its prisoner.
Staring off at the small sprawling city below, she recalled the slim volume of Coleman history she had found in the study. For a century, it read, the palatial, grey-stoned mansion had stood, housing three generations of the politically successful family, their vast land holdings throughout the county and in this city of Rio Lado itself, the source of their comfortable wealth. All had been lawyers such as Mark, and all had begun their political careers as state senators, just as he was attempting to do now. But the wealth, the power, the name… none of these had mattered to her, nor even interested her; she had only been concerned to learn if all the Coleman males had been as coldly indifferent to their women as Mark had been to her during the one short month of their marriage… and she hadn't found out.
It was so awesomely unbelievable! She thought of how little she had even seen of him… actually, she had shared his bed only a half-dozen times, and each of these occasions absolute drunken horrors she had tried to blot from her mind. It was near impossible for her to believe that this handsome, thirty-three-year old man who had easily won her heart could treat it so brutally, so ignominiously. My God… it was almost as if she were some kind of tool he had purchased for a particular use, to discard when he was through with it.
Still, she felt certain that once the election was over, it would all be different. She had tried to understand the strain he was under with his campaign, while still endeavoring to handle his practice… a grueling combination for any man… especially the man one loved… and she did love him… she did!
She felt sure the tremendous draught he had placed upon himself was the cause of his heavy drinking, and why he had been so short tempered with her when they were together… plus the fact that one did not domesticate an active, handsome man who had spent better than a third of his life as a bachelor, overnight.
Anyway, she loved him… regardless of all else, of all his failings… She was his wife! Till death do us part, she repeated softly to herself, tears once more glazing her eyes.
Abruptly, Phillip crowded into her thoughts again. She sighed and turned from the window, refusing to welcome his mental presence. She walked slowly toward the bath, deliberately filling her mind with other things.
She remembered the dance at the country club ahead of her this night and pondered on that. Their weekly social ritual. God, how she'd come to dread them. She'd never regarded herself a prude, but measured in this elite circle there was little doubt but what she was. Her conception of the envious country club set had been more or less founded on the stories one reads in the women's magazines, never the hard-drinking, promiscuous, mate- swapping group her prominent and wealthy husband had introduced her into. Although she had seen only the superficial side and not the actual orgies she'd heard took place in different member's splendid homes, it was still difficult for her to believe that couples truly exchanged husbands and wives for purpose of sex… God, she could never…! Nor could she understand why Mark had sneered at her when she'd told him this. But then… there was very little she had been able to understand about her learned, ambitious husband since the moment they had exchanged vows in the home of a Reno Justice of the Peace.
Now, gracefully, she slipped out of her negligee and caught the reflection of her twenty-three-year-old white nakedness in the full-length wall mirrors. It pleased her to admire her flawless body. Good God, someone had to… She thought of the bestial expression of lust that had contorted Mark's drunken face each time he had taken her and a cringing shudder coursed over her soft sensitive flesh. She didn't want to think of that either. Instead, she gazed appreciatively at her high-set, rounded, wildly spaced breasts whose pink-tipped nipples had distended from the cool rush of air caressing them, down to her slender, girlish waist that gently swelled into round, provocative hips, a flat, smooth stomach and long, full, well-tapered thighs, curvaceous calves and nicely formed ankles. She caught at her shoulder-length honey-colored hair and lifted it in back to the top of her head, pinning it there, the movement causing her erect, rotund breasts to jut forth in full bloom. Then, narcissistically, she smoothed her hands down over them and along her slightly delineated ribs to the smoothness of her belly and through the soft golden down that verified her natural complexion… Again, she trembled and felt the flush in her cheeks at her
