Carl Van Marcus - The tempted bride

Oh, God… no! Surely that last thought had to be the vague memory of a horrible nightmare, a dirty perverted dream. She forced herself to open her eyes; again the light caused a blinding flash of agony throughout her skull. Unsteadily, she stood, clutching the end of the bed for support. It was a dream. It had to be a dream! But even as she tried to tell herself this, her brain was transmitting the message: You don't have your panties on… and there is a dried crust matting your pubic hair and upper thighs. And with this came additional information – from various nerve centers – a minor amount of pain in her vagina, as though it had been terribly stretched, and a slight discomfort in her rectum where his finger had wormed its way into her nether depths.

Suddenly, her knees were trembling so violently they would no longer support her weight, and she was forced to sit on the bed. "Oh… dear God!" she croaked, knowing now the truth, as memories like a swarm of angry hornets began stinging her conscience. With shaking hands, she reached down and pulled up her dress – looking down at her black patch of pubic hair. Yes… that was dried cum, and yes! A stranger's penis had been pushed into her vagina… and… yes! It had been something wickedly enjoyable, not repugnant. Deeply ashamed, she felt the tears welling up in her eyes. Her throat was now so tight it felt as though a wooden stake had been driven through it. Her heart began pounding rapidly – beating painfully against her rib cage. Another thought hit her with all the suddenness of a lightning strike: What if I get pregnant?

She tensed, then dismissed the threat with the recollection that her period was due in about four days, and therefore she presumably was safe. Still, though, it was a terrifying thought that would hang like barbed hook in her sub-consciousness for four or five days, to be expatiated only with the beginning of her menstrual flow.

The slowing welling up of tears became a torrent when she glanced over toward the dresser and spotted her wedding picture. Stan had his arm protectively around her. "Stan…" she gasped. "Stan… I'm so sorry."

She continued crying for at least five minutes, deep heart-rendering, convulsive sobs of shame and humiliation.

I'm nothing more than a whore. Worse than a whore, because I've betrayed my husband and our love. What makes it worse is that I did it on the very first night I went out socially. As though I were some bitch in heat accidentally permitted out of the house!

A woman thinks of many things when first she accuses herself of wrong-doing. If the sin is of the flesh and it can't be blamed on anyone but herself, she will frequently consider dramatic, but drastic measures. Grace's first thought was that Stan would be better off without her and that she would be better off dead. This was replaced by a resolution to write Stan immediately, tell him what she had done and explain that she was leaving him because she was no longer worthy of his love. Then she decided she would have to quit her job because obviously everyone would know what had happened just by looking at her.

And finally, emerging from the hog-wallow of self-pity and incrimination, she decided that first she should have a shower. Quickly, then, she stripped off her dress, bra, garter belt and hose. Completely nude, she inspected herself in the full-length mirror before timidly reaching down to finger the matted black silken hair where cum had glued the strands together. She flushed as she remembered his rain of kisses across her abdomen and inner thighs, his tantalizing tongue licking and thrusting… his penis. Once again her heart speeded up its tempo and her breath lost some of its regularity. She stepped up close to the mirror and looked deep into her own eyes. Yes, there was a difference in them, but whether it was from fear or excitement, she didn't know.

In the shower, she alternated between fits of convulsive sobs of shame and moments that almost approached exhilaration as she remembered the glamour and excitement of the track, and Jim Meloney's expert awakening of her latent sensual talents. Emerging from the shower stall, she made an attempt to be realistic about the entire affair as she slowly dried her body. "After all, I was too drunk to realize what was happening," she told herself, knowing even as she said it that the statement was a half-lie and that drunkenness was no excuse. Also, she remembered all too clearly her own exhortation as Jim Meloney's wonderful prick thrust in, pulled out, thrust in… She could almost feel it happening now! She moaned low in her throat and felt her heart respond once more to the mental stimulus of love-making. There was a soft urgent tingling between her thighs, a feeling of wantonness that brought a flush to her face. Her nipples, she noticed, were fully erect. Grace knew she could get rid of her headache by taking aspirin, but there was no medicine that would cure or alleviate this sudden intense excitement. She couldn't tell how much of it was caused by the thought of pleasurable sex and how much by the sudden recollection of winning some money – a considerable sum of money. Quickly, she gobbled down the three aspirin she had shaken out of the bottle, and began searching for her purse, finding it tossed carelessly on the front room couch. She blushed when she opened the bag and found her bikini panties stuffed inside, then gasped when she saw the money.

It was with a feeling of stunned disbelief and ever-intensifying excitement that Grace began counting the $100 bills. She really didn't remember anything at all about the last race, but she recalled every little detail about the sixth race which she had won. In her mind she saw it happen all over again, could feel the growing fever, the hoarse tightness of her throat, the urgent excited screams of encouragement as her horse put its nose out in front, then the breathless moment of suspended animation waiting for the tote board to light up, with the payoff. It was definitely something akin to sexual excitement. In her mind, the two were almost inseparable, both had affected her body in the same manner.

Whereas only forty five minutes before she had awakened a wreck, contemplating suicide or resigning from her job, now Grace was almost glowing. Aside from a slight puffiness and a suggestion of redness about the eyes, she looked cool, calm and collected when she knocked on Judi's door.

The little blonde came to the door wearing only a skimpy bra and panties and a pair of dark glasses. "Oh, God!" she moaned, peering out through a crack in the door. "How can you look so damned cheerful when I'm dying." She sighed, then grimaced, and threw open the door. "Come on in… I'll be ready in a minute… if I don't drop dead before."

Grace was forced to laugh at the pathetic picture the other girl presented. Judi was obviously suffering from a monumental hang-over, one that was even worse than hers. While the little blonde dressed, Grace made strong instant coffee for them both.

Finally Judi emerged from the bedroom, dressed. She held her rattling cup of coffee in both hands to steady it, then drank half of the cup in one swallow. "Jeez, I needed that." She sighed again, then was forced to sit down. "How much did you lose last night?"

Grace hesitated only a split second, then unable to control the excitement, said, "I won over six hundred dollars."

"That's nice," Judi said absent-mindedly, then yelped, "You what?"

"I won over six hundred dollars," she repeated.

"My God! I thought you didn't know anything about the ponies," Judi said in genuine puzzlement.

"I don't. I just gave ten dollars to Jim… ah – Jim Meloney! – to bet for me, and he used my winnings to make another bet in the last race, then gave me six hundred dollars."

Judi arched an eyebrow up, then immediately looked as if she regretted having used that particular set of muscles in her head. "Jim Meloney, eh? I saw you two in the winners' circle. You looked real cute." She inspected her fingernails as she said almost too casually, "The two of you seemed to hit it off pretty well."