Grant Roberts - The wayward wifes

She brushed past her stricken father-in-law and stalked down the sidewalk to the street. She did not look back, not once, never seeing the welling tears of humiliation and contrition, which filmed the broken man's blurred eyes.

The high domed room buzzed with the low conversation of a dozen, sophisticated people as Patty was led in by the Chinese houseboy. A white-coated waiter balanced a tray of drinks and wound his way through the cluster, stopping periodically to offer a replenishment to some guest with an empty glass in his hand. A huge fire burned in the Spanish-accented fireplace, which was almost as large as the entrance doors themselves.

Patty marveled once again at the wealth displayed, at the fine silver and beautiful paintings and magnificent tapestries, which she had but sparingly noticed upon her first visit.

Renault was, as to be expected, the center of attention, Patty moved across the room to him, stopping the waiter as he passed to select a very dry martini, and as she joined the three other people who surrounded him, she heard Renault say: "Yes, and the Van Gogh above the statue has been in our family for generations. The magnificent little artist gave it to Grandmother as a token of his appreciation for sponsoring one of his first art shows in Paris. He was eternally grateful, and rose to his well deserved place soon afterwards.”

Renault was once more in the velvet smoking robe; wide belt tied around his slender waist, collar high and slightly ruffled with a studied carelessness. He paused, seeing Patty for the first time, and she was pleased to note that his eyes caressed her curves, and that her body had not passed his appreciation.

"Well, well," he smiled, "I'm glad to see you are here, my dear." He patted her shoulder warmly. "I was surprised to see you had left so early this afternoon. I didn't even have time to tell you about this little get-together before you literally disappeared."

"I-I was pretty tired," Patty replied in a soft murmur. She flickered her eyelashes in feigned modesty. “And, well, a little shy.”

"Are you still, my dear?" he leered down, stroking his mustache slightly.

“Not in the least, Rick, darling,” she smiled in answer.

"Good. I'm sure we'll work out something later of ah, similar interest. After all, you were brilliant, simply brilliant, today. You have, mmmm, let's just say, a natural talent for such things."

"What things, Renault?" a gruff voice broke in. Patty turned toward the stranger who had spoken, one of the four who had been around Renault when she had joined them. She was attracted to the man on sight; a muscular, good-looking man in a dark suit and tight-fitting turtleneck shirt. She didn't think he was much over thirty, yet he gave a strong impression of power and maturity, as though he had risen in the world the hard way and knew whereof he spoke.

"Sex," she answered blatantly. "That's what thing, Mr…"

"Jessup." The man grinned at Patty. "And you…?"

"Meet Patty Jennings, Harold. Harold is a fight promoter, Patty, and a very good one at that. Oh, and I'll introduce you to the others, which I should have done before. Pardon my rudeness."

Renault gestured at the woman standing to the other side of Harold Jessup; a short, yet perfectly proportioned five foot girl with a pile of golden curls on top of her round, cherubic faced head. Patty thought she was the most innocent, Shirley Templish looking type she had ever laid eyes on, and she thought for a split second that certainly that one couldn't be a part of this licentious, sex-ridden group. She belongs sucking on an all-day lollypop, not some strange man's cock!

And this is Peter Harrison Fugazi," Renault continued, "Harold's new fighter. Expect to see him as the new heavyweight champion in a few years, Patty."

"Pete, Ma'am," Fugazi said. "Just call me Pete."

"All right, Pete." Patty shuddered inwardly at the size of the man, for as adonis-like as Jessup was, he was nothing compared to the fighter. Pete was a few inches taller and a yard wider than any male Patty could remember, with a totally bald head and a cauliflower left ear, and a very thin nose. His eyes were dusky Italian, with the glitter of Rome and Naples in them, and Patty made no mistakes about him;: he would be all animal, lover as well as fighter, and would be absolutely and hugely delicious inside her cunt. She could feel him already, and it frightened her.

Next to Pete Fugazi was a medium-sized girl with absolutely stupendous breasts. They were the size which would have put the plastics industry on overtime if they had been injected with silicon, but Patty had the feeling they were all flesh, all real. They protruded like the Swiss Alps, forcing the girl to arch her back to balance herself. She had a flat nose with wide nostrils, the exact opposite of Fugazi's, and very black, tightly kinked hair. The girl smiled, her thick lips wide with lustful greeting. "Hi," she said. "I'm Linda. Linda Vigal."

"Please to meet you, I'm sure," Patty said, smiling back at them.

Renault took her around to the other guest, introducing her to Fortesque T. Franklynn, to "Fort," as he was known. He had his arm around Marcia, who nodded warmly to Patty, and who in turn introduced George Laufgren, who owned a chain of electronic parts stores; his brother, Carter; and their respective wives, Jean and Helen.

Patty was struck by the quiet, formal, sophisticated way everybody conducted themselves, and if she hadn't known better, she would have thought this was one of the most proper and stuffy gatherings she had been to in her life. It was hard to believe these belonged to the mass-swap life, and wondered if they would engage in any of the perverted and unnatural acts she had so recently been introduced to.

"I'll leave you here, Patty," Renault said. "I have to see how Barbara is doing with hors d'oeuvres. We have a cook, but she still insists…” he sighed and shrugged with age-old way a man does when he doesn't understand a woman. Then he turned and with a smile, he shook a warning finger at the Laufgren's. "I saw her first, so no hanky-panky while I'm doing my duties. Especially you, Carter, you rake."

Everybody laughed and Renault walked toward the kitchen.

"Good to see you, Patty," Marcia said, breaking the ice. "You were dead to the world when I got home, so I thought it best to let you sleep."

"Thanks," Patty replied. "But I'm raring to go now."

"I'm sure you are," Carter said. "Ow! You didn't have to kick my shin, darling," he protested to his wife, Helen.

"We were just talking about Viet Nam," Jean said. "Though I don't understand a word of it. I'm a poor housewife and leave such matters to the men-folk."

"Well, it is obvious to anybody, even to you, Helen," Carter said, "That we have no right in that country. We should pull out of there at once.”

“What?” bellowed George, "Leave those poor people to the ravages of Communism? How many women and children do you think would be slaughtered without our defense?"

"Less than the number we're killing now," came the hot retort. "Let them decide for themselves who they want to run the government. It's not our concern."

"Pshaw! I say the concentration camp and firing squad terrorism would wipe the country clean of any thinking men within a year. What kind of world would we have if we gave in to such tyranny, we; the nation which was founded on the principles of decency and freedom for all mankind! Did we not fight for our freedom? And are not all men our brothers? Why should an ocean or a frontier make any difference to the universality of the human race?"

"You mean we should play God with the lives of millions, just to sway them to our beliefs?"

"No, but to give the poor people a chance to decide for themselves, that's all."

"Imperialism has never worked, and you know as well as I do, George, that the real reason we're over there is not to fight for their freedom, but to enslave them in economic ties with the Western world. We're interested in what they can do for us, not what altruistically we can do for them."