Grant Roberts: The reluctant couple

But then she had heard the whisper of his zipper, and her eyes had flown open and the spell was broken. She looked down in sudden, consuming terror to see the huge, blue-veined length of his erect cock held lewdly in his free hand. She watched in fascinated horror as it seemed to jerk spasmodically, and a thin oozing liquid seeped from the tiny glans opening.

"Baby… baby, I… need you, I want you. Oh Jesus Diane, I want you so Goddamned much…" Roger had moaned, and with his other hand he had begun to pull her panties down.

She had begun to struggle then. "No, Roger, stop, stop!" she had screamed. She strove with all her efforts against him, trying to free herself from his grasp, but he was too strong for her. He had forced her down on her back on the seat, and she had felt that warm sticky head of his cock against her thigh, felt it trembling there as he tried to work its impossible length upward to her pure, defenseless vaginal opening. She squeezed her legs tightly together, still struggling, still fighting, and then Roger had cried out, "Oh Christ, oh son of a bitch, I'm going to cum, I'm going to cum!" His member seemed to jerk out of control against her leg, and then Diane felt a great warm floodtide of hot liquid flow along her thighs, inundate her fleecy golden pubic hair, drench the soft, still quivering folds of her cunt. It was as if she were being drowned in a never-ending torrent of sticky sperm as he moaned and writhed convulsively above her…

Afterward, they had sat in shameful silence in the car, and Diane had cried uncontrollably. He had tried to comfort her, to tell her he was sorry, but she had refused to allow him to touch her. She had felt soiled and dirty and humiliated. But later, when she had calmed down enough to look at things rationally, she had realized Roger was contrite, and as miserable as she. He begged her to forgive him, and told her that he wouldn't touch her again until they were man and wife. And she had forgiven him, because it was partially her fault. She accepted that partial blame, and told him so, and confessed that she had allowed things to get well out of hand.

There had been no more episodes after that. Not until their wedding night, when he had never given her the opportunity to allow her sexual excitement to build normally and had attacked like some demented, mindless beast…

Diane felt her stomach churning as she recalled the Lookout Drive occurrence, and her wedding night. The chill seemed to be stronger now, and she shivered more violently. A good, hot bath, that was what she needed. To soak away the chill — and some of the memories with it.

She finished making the bed and went into the bathroom. She put the stopper in the tub and ran water into it, testing the temperature as she twirled the two chrome handles. When it was just as she liked it, hot but not too hot, she undressed quickly, folding her plaid skirt and frilly white blouse and her under things in a neat pile on top of the clothes hamper. As she waited for the tub to fill completely, she looked at herself critically in the full-length mirror attached to the back of the bathroom door.

She was a small woman, barely three inches over five feet, but her body was beautifully and symmetrically proportioned. Her blonde hair hung long and when she let it fall down across her shoulder it covered partially her full, round breasts. She did that now, and thought: I look very sensual that way, almost brazen. She swept the hair back again, studying the creamy white skin of her breasts, with their marbled and blue-veined translucence, the dark areolas making large, perfect accents for her small, now-rigid nipples. She raised her arms over her head, stretching her tits taut, looking like a classic nude sculpture in pose.

She stood that way for a long moment, letting her eyes move down across the flat surface of her stomach, past the tiny puckered outline of her navel. The triangle of her womanness was silky and golden, very fine, highlighting the pink fullness of her vaginal lips. She could see the tip of her clitoris peeking out from the soft puffy slit in an almost childish shyness there.

She pirouetted lightly, examining the dimpled roundness of her satiny buttocks, the rippling muscles in the backs of her slim, tapered thighs. The veins in the soft hollows in back of her knees were prominent, tantalizingly so, and her calves and ankles were shapely.

I have a good body, she thought. I really do. But it hasn't brought me any physical happiness in two full years of marriage. I can understand, certainly, why Roger becomes so aroused at the sight of me nude. That much I can understand, and it pleases me; my ego is as strong as any other woman's, and it's so nice to know that I have an attractive body. But what I can't understand is why Roger treats me the way he does. I always thought men respected beauty of form, protected it — not flailed it as if it were something terribly ugly, to be sneered at and scorned and treated with contempt…

Diane became aware of a wafting cloud of steam and realized that the tub was filled almost to the brim. She turned off the faucets and tested the water with her hand. A little hot, but that was fine; she was so cold. She stepped into the tub, felt the heat of the water envelop her as she slowly sank down, banishing the cold, filling her with a relaxed, almost contented feeling as she lay back with her head touching the rear lip of the porcelain.

She lay there for almost ten minutes, relaxing, blanking her mind to all but the lethargic warmth of the water. And then the sounds began to filter through the thin walls of the duplex.

Diane stiffened in the tub, even though the words were at first indistinguishable. Damn that Judy Carneal! she thought. She's entertaining some man again in the middle of the day. Why, she's nothing better than a… a whore, the way she carries on! Men always in her place, always different men, coming at all hours of the day and night. Not that it's any of my business what she does, but these walls are so paper thin that you can hear practically everything that's being said and that's going on over there…

A man's voice said suddenly, distinctly, "Come on, baby, let's do it right here."

"Ahh, Harry, not in the bathroom," Judy Carneal's voice answered clearly. "We'll go in the bedroom, honey."

"No, right here. I've always wanted to have my cock sucked in the john."

"Well… all right."

"That's it, baby. Take off that housecoat so I can see those big tits of yours while you suck me."

"How's this, Harry?"

"Beautiful, baby, just beautiful. Damn, but you got a fine set on you. Come over here so I can feel your cunt… Good, good. How do you like that, baby?"

"Mmmmmm!" And then, "Take your cock out, Harry. Let me see that big monster of yours."

"Okay… there it is."

"Oh, Harry, it's so hard! It's like a chunk of granite, Harry! God, what a beautiful cock!"

Diane lay rigid in the warm bath water, listening, holding her breath. Dear God! she thought. They… they were disgusting! They were sick, disgusting degenerates! He… he wants Judy to… to kiss his… penis and she's going to do it! She's going to take his big ugly throbbing penis, like Roger's, between her full red lips and… and…

"That's it, baby," the man's voice groaned. "Stroke it a little, that's it, run your fingernails along my balls… easy, damn you, easy…"

"There, honey. How does that feel?"

"Oh, Christ, get down on your knees, will you? Start sucking it, you bitch, start sucking it!"

I can't listen to any more of this! Diane's mind screamed. I've got to get out of here! It's sick… lewd… disgusting… But she only lay motionless in the warm water, holding her breath, feeling a strange series of involuntary sensations churning deep in the pit of her own stomach as she listened to the salacious conversation filtering through the thin wall separating the two duplex bathrooms.