Jon Reskind
The dog-lover
CHAPTER ONE
Rhonda Baker lay prone across the queen-sized, walnut-framed water bed on her belly, her arms bent at the elbows, her beautiful young face resting in her hands while she watched the Democratic convention on her television set perched atop her antique dresser. Politics had never appealed to her sense of justice, but on a hot summer afternoon the paunchy-bellied frustrated lobbyists and their prissy wives parading around in sexless shirtwaist dressed before the cameras, helped pass the time and add a few laughs on an otherwise uneventful day.
Her shapely buttocks, covered only by a brief black bikini, jutted up proudly behind her at the base of her long tapering back and her legs were bent at the knees, her ankles clapping together in mid-air. The soft August breeze blew the curtains aside and poured into the room, whisking across her nearly naked back like the tender touch of a lover, and the sun slanted to make golden stripes across the burgundy bedspread.
And a dreary day it was, too, for Bob, her fiancee was on his way to the airport, packed and ready to fly to Minneapolis for an interview with Honeywell Corporation, one of the best-paying corporations a fresh young executive such as Bob could hope to work for. Travel, fringe benefits… for wives, too, Rhonda thought with a smirk, hoping that unlike so many of her recently graduated and married friends, she would not fall prey to the wife-supports-the-husband-til-he-finds-a-job-he-likes routine. Sometimes that took years, and Rhonda was not the modern liberated, professionally-aggressive female. College, with its grueling routine of cramming for exams, trying to please art teacher's tastes and get a passing grade had cured her of aspirations. Now, at twenty-three, she was perfectly content lying in the sun in the afternoons, watching television, dressing and waiting for Bob to come by. Sure… soon she'd have to look for a job, but in the time being, she would indulge her own pleasures. Life was too short as it was…
The red haired lovely lay on her bed, dumbly watching the flickering screen, none of the political ploys and inter-party politics sinking into her pretty skull. Tonight would be a long night, she knew. The first night since Bob had left for Minneapolis. Ten more sex-less nights in front of her before she could cuddle up into the protective circle of his strong arms and let him please her. Rhonda let out a long, heartless sigh. Ten days in a cold bed alone was an eternity! Fortunately, her sister Sharon had come to stay with her for three weeks that overlapped Bob's absence, and not by coincidence.
Sharon… Where was she now? wondered Rhonda dimly. Certainly the neighborhood was safe enough on a weekday afternoon with the playground and community swimming pool close by, for a pubescent thirteen year old to wander around unescorted.
But then one could never tell with all those crazies lurking the streets… Hmmm… four o'clock, mused Rhonda, watching her digital alarm clock slip to the hour.
Suddenly a smile broke out on the older sister's face. Maybe her little sister had met a boy, ridden off on his bicycle to the hamburger hang-out, and was sipping a soda out of her shared straw… Like a scene from one of those corny 1950's posters you saw in all the head-shops downtown. Sharon would be an easy shot for some young boy. She was a knockout with her platinum-tresses that hung half way down her back. Fresh as a model, Sharon was one of those girls who always appeared clean and scrubbed in every situation and who carried herself with a feminine grace that often put her older sister to shame. Part of this could be ascribed to her unusual hair. No one in the Baker family had been able to figure out where it had come from, though a few guessed their Irish grandmother might have jumped the fence once or twice, as the old saying goes… something old Grandpa Baker never told his kids when they sat on his knee and listened to family stories…
Sharon also dressed very stylishly, too, changing frequently to fit her mood. She had been a perfect baby, and now she was a perfect young lady. In the last year she had suddenly sprouted up quite tall for her age, and then some, with enticing young breasts, a tiny waist and flat, flat, tummy, and long sleek slender, but well-turned legs which seemed to retain their tan longer than most girls' did. Added to this was her long Jean Harlow hair but a prettier oval face than Jean had ever aspired to, with pert little upturned nose, bright blue eyes, and a small but sultry mouth. Yes, her little sister was a real princess.
But Rhonda was not jealous of the girl, for her own attributes brought a jealous chagrin from most women on the streets.
Perhaps, thought Rhonda, if Bob were to have known my little sister better – thought of her as someone other than my little innocent sister – he might have had eyes for her.
Bob… what a sweetheart! Ten days would be unbearable, thought Rhonda with a frustrated whimper, as absentmindedly she watched a politician peck his wife on the cheek in front of the television cameras. God, just thinking about Bob and his big hard cock made her want to close the door and satisfy herself right there in front of the whole Democratic party.
Then the mental image of Bob's huge, warmly pulsating penis came into her mind, as she dully watched a presidential nominee take to the podium. She tried to concentrate on the Southerners' speech, listening to him rant about unemployment and the rising cost of living, but the mental picture of that long, hard hunk of maleness refused to go away. She kept seeing his thick shaft of virile flesh vividly, as if she could reach out and touch it. The little tingling sensations had increased now and she could feel her nipples harden beneath the bikini top she wore.
Now this is silly, she chided herself primly. He only left this afternoon.
But the vision of Bob's long hard cock remained in her mind, and it was joined now by another image, a scene from their engagement party. Lying there, she remembered the occurrence clearly, very clearly and graphically…
It had been a rainy night in April, and they had just come from a dinner party at the home of one of Bob's ex-fraternity brothers who'd married a sorority sister of Rhonda's. They had laughed over old times, consuming plenty of wine as they reminisced, and she and Bob had had their share – and then some. They had departed shortly after midnight for the drive back to the Baker's home.
She had sat very close to Bob on the drive, twirling the engagement ring – which she still wore – feeling closer to him mentally than she ever had before. She even put her hand on his leg, stroking it gently but without any real sexual connotation. When they approached the lookout point where young lovers were known to spend many an evening overlooking the city's lights, Rhonda, feeling the effects of the wine, didn't object, she was in a responsive mood, and the idea of parking with her fiancee for a little light pre-marital kissing and petting did not seem in the least wrong with her.
Bob put his arm around her and drew her tight against him the moment the car was stopped and the headlights switched off. He kissed her then, their mouths fusing with the ease of lovers, and she opened her lips almost eagerly to accept his probing tongue. Their tongues met and tasted one another, exchanging a lover's kiss. Bob's hands were restless on her back and shoulders, moving back and forth, up and down, around and over her low-cut white silk dress. Rhonda felt an almost overpowering surge of desire at the nearness, the intoxicating male odor of the man she loved; his kisses were eliciting a full and total response inside the bride-to-be, and when his moving hands gradually worked their way around to lightly cup her firm full breasts, she made no effort to stop him from doing so. Her mother had warned her against allowing Bob to become familiar before their wedding night, (oh, if Mommy knew what her number one daughter was doing with her fiancee now!) but the closeness she felt for him at that magic moment transcended all the parental warnings and instilled taboos of her Irish, Catholic upbringing.
He began to caress her lushly ripened breasts in earnest then, as his eager tongue probed in and out of her opened mouth. God, his gentle touch felt so good on her! She wrapped her hands in his hair, kissing him even more passionately, and then his fingers had dipped inside the low-cut front of her dress to slide inside her bra. The contact of his hand on her naked flesh thrilled Rhonda beyond recall, and before she knew it, she was allowing him to unbutton the back of her dress and slip the garment down over her shoulders. His deft fingers
