cunt, poking her titillated pussy with the regularity of a metronome, of a heartbeat.
Whenever she stopped raging long enough to breathe she knew that no matter how she might hate it, her long-deprived body was loving it. Her cunt might be liberated but she could feel a faint flutter as of untried wings, like some bird too long in a cage and confused, frightened at the prospect of a liberty too free, a world too wide for weakened wings.
God damn it all, if she gave in to this fantasy she was going to be sopping in another minute. Already she could feel her prurient pussy pulsating in time to that steady thrust, could feel tiny drops of love's lubrication preparing her for something that was not happening, was not going to happen as long as she had anything to say about it!
But it was happening. Against her will she felt her rage soften until she could sympathize with him, whoever the poor bastard was, sympathize with his need, with the wild, throbbing rage of his long-deprived body. It seemed as if his honker had been sliding slowly and steadily in and out of her for at least an hour, moving with the calm regularity of a pendulum, uncaring whether that slow steady eroticism were to melt her will, melt her mind, turn her liberation into bondage and wipe its ass on her diploma.
Then he changed his rhythm slightly, stopping at the bottom of each deep stroke to grind his pelvis against the lush fur of her pubic bush, sending his rigid rammer around inside her, stirring her in deep circles, mixing her brains and her cunt into a passionate pudding of instinct that gave not a shit for all her preparation, her education, her liberation.
Oh god damn it! Was she ever going to get back to sleep? If only she could go one way or the other: either wake up all the way and go have a shower, douche the stickiness out of her crotch and go back to bed or, for Christ's sake, forget all this prurient foolishness and go back to sleep. Did she have to spend the whole goddam night mooning here half-asleep, half-awake?
She had a responsible position. She made decisions involving the lives of other people. She needed a clear head for her job. If this went on all night she would be so sleepy that tomorrow she would look up unexpectedly, would catch a pair of eyes devouring her, unable to conceal their naked hunger and if she were to look long enough into those eyes, Paula knew she was in danger of falling in.
Christ! It was easy enough to understand their need. They might be imperfect, incomplete, not especially likeable, but that naked need was not, at least not directly, their fault. But Paula… whose fault was it that she had gotten herself locked into this crazy situation?
Nobody's but her own, she knew. There was no real reason why she couldn't have a discreet little affair, providing she didn't flaunt it about or rub somebody's nose in it. But the trouble with having an affair was that somebody she really worried about might find out. Paula might find out.
And all her colleagues, all her friends, they wouldn't be shocked or mind-blown. Nobody would ostracize her any more than they did now. She would not be asked to resign from any professional societies. No; the penalty would be more subtle, more lasting, more totally and completely unbearable. They would all smile and be tolerantly amused. Amused, god damn them!
And god damn this sneaky son-of-a-bitch who was fucking her! God damn this indestructible dream! Sneaking in through the foot of her bed, up between her legs, and slipping it to her ever so slowly as if he thought he could get away with fucking a full-grown woman in her right mind, in full possession of her faculties, as if somebody could fuck the daylights out of Paula and not even wake her up. Still she struggled with that dismal half-awake, half- asleep sensation.
There was only one way to come up out of it, she guessed. She would let herself slip deeper into the fantasy, imagine him banging deeper, harder, faster until finally he provoked a trembling spasm and then she would be awake, humiliated and cheapened but awake and away from this denigrating fantasy. She kicked at the covers and threw her legs in the air, she closed them in a loving erotic scissors over a dream man and oooohhh wow!
It wasn't a dream, Paula abruptly realized. There really was a man between her legs. He had his cock in her and he really had been fucking her!
CHAPTER 2
Still partly asleep, Paula was forced to amend her last observation. Not only had the faceless little sneak been fucking her-now that she had thrown her long straight legs in the air, kicked away covers and wrapped around a fantasy that was suddenly real-now that she abruptly knew it was a real flesh and blood man in there, a real flesh and blood cock sliding in and out of her-now she knew that despite her sudden explosion of movement he hadn't even hesitated in his steady stroking. He was still fucking her.
He must be in some kind of a trance. High on something, perhaps? She opened her eyes and the room was dimly lit. She could barely make out the outline of his head. His face was in shadow. She was still being fucked by a ghost but as she clawed her way back into full awareness she began to see a connection. It wasn't just some sneak who'd found an open window and forced his way into the next open window between her sleeping legs. In a way she guessed she must have invited him in. Not deliberately, nor even knowingly. As if they didn't always know…
This morning early. That had been when it started. No. It had started last night with a phone call from that fine-feathered son-of-a-bitch who'd gone out into a world that welcomed men, gone from his bar exam straight into private practice, moving every six months into a fancier apartment and working his way from a battered VW to a Mark IV. God damned smart-ass!
They had gone through law school together. Paula had graduated and gotten a job. In the time it had taken him to move from a VW to a Mark IV she had gone from nine to twelve thousand per annum.
And last night he had called.
Not that land of call, she had remembered. She guessed it had been years since he had wasted his time trying or even bothering to batter at a wall which- Anyhow, it had been strictly business. 'That banquet thing, Paula.' Before she could give him a proper blast he had hastened with, 'I know you're not going. Neither am I or anybody in his or her right mind but there's a bit of PR to be done for the bar association.'
Paula had still been ready to tell him to stuff it when she remembered that she was a lawyer after all, that it wouldn't hurt her career to be seen once in a while. 'I'm tied up all afternoon and evening,' she warned.
'No sweat,' Smart-ass rejoined. 'They're filming it so if you can just get down to City Hall early and hand the old bastard a plaque… '
'Well,' she said hesitantly, 'I guess I could do that much.'
'Fine! I knew you'd come through. Just put on some kind of long dress and be there before eight.'
'Eight o'clock in the morning!' Paula was so outraged she didn't even find the breath to tell him she hadn't worn a formal since- She was still struggling for breath when she realized the line was dead.
God damn him! Chauvinist bastard! So the bar association wanted to hand his honor another useless honor. Why couldn't some man do it? Or if they needed a sex symbol why not hire some bunny to shed her ears and tail and pop out of a cake? She had been dialing him back to tell him to go stuff it when she realized he must have cooked it up already, that he had fixed it up with Christ only knew how many other people, and that if she were to let them down the bar association would cooperate with his honor's administration to find dozens of little ways to make her life miserable. Vacation schedules could be reshuffled. Promising or at least nonviolent clients would go to more favored officers. She could end up with the psychotics and the gorillas. Her paperwork could be sent to the wrong office, everything delayed. No matter how she might despise it, Paula knew you could kick only so hard at the system before it started kicking back.
Shit! She'd worked till after eight this evening. Now she'd have to be there with her hair all fixed and everything in place in less than-less than nine hours! What on earth was she going to wear?
She rummaged through her closet with a sense of despair, knowing there was nothing even remotely suitable except the gown she had worn once twelve years ago, back before she had discovered exactly how much of a man's world the law world really is, back before she'd become so embittered that her wardrobe had gradually become nothing but pants suits.
To hell with them! They were all men and they wouldn't know whether she was in style or not. And she didn't care. She got it out. The gown was not at all what might be expected of an evening gown. It had long sleeves and a
