Douglas McCallister - Rich man, poor man

body alive with the excitement that was almost electric. He would fuck her then, his thick hard cock ploughing deep up into her warmly clasping little vagina. At last, satisfied, surfeited, exhausted, they would fall asleep… but it gradually dawned on John that at other times his life with Penny was as dull as dishwater. He found her friends impossible, their interests limited to local gossip and the cost of their clothes. He tried to start conversations with them, tried to discuss the latest political scandal, the state of the world, the question of war or peace. But they merely shrugged, uncomprehending.

He brought home the newest books, hoping that she would at least glance at them, that they could at least talk about those. But it was hopeless, as hopeless as their visits to the theater or to fashionable foreign movies. And as for museums! John gave up on those at almost the beginning of his marriage.

Even now, sitting across from Penny at their table in the restaurant, he blushed at the memory of the night they had gone to an opening of an art show at one of the top modern galleries in the city. He himself had been enthralled at the work of a new young painter, at the broad brush strokes in bright colors across the stretched canvases, the lights and shadows and shadings. But Penny had laughed, had opened that perfect little mouth of hers and let loose a howl of derision that had shriveled John's skin.

"What is it?" she had demanded, pointing at a picture. "What's it supposed to be?"

John had had no plausible answer and had only been aware of the amused glances of the others in the gallery. They had left hurriedly, with Penny complaining all the way home that her evening was ruined. "Why do we have to rush off?" she had repeated over and over. "Why? Are you ashamed of me or something? Is that it?"

"No," John had assured her. "No, not at all," And he hadn't been. But he had wished -oh, so devoutly -that she could learn something, meet him on his own level, could talk to him! But she hadn't, and she still couldn't.

He glanced across the table at her now, watched as she sipped her soup. He wished to God he could think of something to say to his wife, wished to God she would think of something to say to him. But nothing happened, and they ate in silence.

Finally, when they were both well into their canard a I 'orange, he again brought up the subject of the play they had seen. "I thought the man who played the lead tonight was pretty good, didn't you?"

But Penny's mind was far away, across the room again. "Oh look, John! That woman over there! She's wearing a dress just like the one I almost bought the other day."

John Whitmore gave up at last, watching his still beautiful wife as he chewed thoughtfully on his steak. There was no point in talking to her, he realized. There was only one thing they had in common. And for that they might as well go home. He waited patiently until Penny had finished the chocolate mousse she had ordered, God, how could she eat things like that and keep her fabulous figure? Then he paid the bill, and they left. They had nothing to say to one another in the taxi, nothing to say to one another when they reached their large and luxurious home. In the living room John at last suggested a night-cap and poured a brandy for himself and Penny. "Cheers!" he toasted, holding his glass out to hers.

"Oh, cheers, John. Cheers!" Penny tipped her glass and drained it. "I'm going to bed," she announced then. "You coming up?"

"In a minute, Penny."

He watched her as she turned and went out of the room, and a thrill went through him in spite of everything. She might be dull and depressing to be with, and she was, he admitted, and she was, but oh, God! Just the sight of her softly undulating buttocks, her long slim legs as she crossed the room was enough to excite him, to make his penis stiffen and throb, his loins ache with desire for her.

John took another drink, pouring it into his glass with a trembling hand, and sipped at it. It felt warm going down and good. He put the glass down, thinking of Penny upstairs in the bedroom. He heard the shower running then and imagined his wife standing beneath the streaming, steaming water, imagined her soaping her voluptuous body, lingering over her ripe full breasts, touching the tiny buds of her nipples, teasing them until they stood erect. And then her hands would wander down to the small triangle of curls there at the base of her belly, parting them, parting the hair-lined lips of her soft pink pussy…

The sound of the water running stopped at last and John took another drink, tossing it off quickly. And then, already unbuttoning his shirt, he headed for Penny's bedroom.

She was standing before the mirror wearing a nightgown so transparent she might have had nothing on at all. Through it John saw the warm glow of her soft white flesh, the fullness of her magnificent breasts, the cock-stirring curves of her hips and thighs.

He stepped forward, seizing her by the shoulders, digging his fingers sharply into the soft flesh, spinning her around to crush his chest against her until the hard little tips of her nipples seemed to bite into his own flesh. His hands slid down her back, trailing across it, ruffling the thin material of her crepe de chine nightgown as it went. Suddenly he bent down and seized the hem of the flimsy garment, lifting it high above her quivering ass-cheeks.

Now he placed his palms on each of the two round half melons, cupping them to pull her close to him. His loins crushed against her pelvis and his straining cock lurched again inside his pants, sending bolts of lightning-like fire coursing through his blood.

"Take this off," he commanded suddenly, his voice hoarse with his rising passion. He tugged again at the fragile fabric of the nightgown, almost tearing it.

"No!" Penny protested, and a sudden chill struck his heart. Oh, Christ! She was going to be coy tonight, play hard to get, just at the time when his own loins were on fire, his penis already rigid with lewd lust. Tonight of all nights! Didn't the woman understand anything?

"Take if off!" he ordered, his eyes narrowing in anger, his lips twitching cruelly.

"No," she teased.

"Damn it all…!" His hand shot out to seize one narrow shoulder strap and then he wrenched at it. There was the sibilant sound of ripping silk and then the gown fell in shreds to the floor.

"Oh, now look at what you've done!" Penny wailed. "Just look!" But John merely shrugged, then began to tear at his own clothes, pulling his shirt off and dropping it on the floor, unbuckling his belt, unzipping his trousers and dropping them to the floor, stepping quickly out of them. And then his shorts came off, releasing at last his thickly swollen cock that already jutted, rigid as a pole, from his aching loins.

He stood facing her, his eyes roving lewdly over his raven-haired wife's nakedly trembling body, stopping first at her voluptuous breasts, then descending over the slight swell of her belly, down to the sparse triangle of dark pussy hair there at the base of it.

They ran the length of her lovely legs, her slim ankles. And then he reached out to her, swooped her up and dropped her unceremoniously onto the large double bed.

"Oh, John," she whimpered. "What on earth did you do that for?" There was a hint of fear in her eyes, a glint of shock. She gasped, covering her mouth and then demanded, "John, what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to fuck you," he said suddenly, ashamed of using the obscenity and yet aware that it was one of the few things his wife would understand. "I'm going to fuck you, Penny, until you scream… fuck you

silly…"

"John!"

Oh, God! He hated himself for this… hated treating his wife this way. But goddamn it, she had asked for it! She'd begged for it, hadn't she? So she'd get what she wanted, what was coming to her! He dropped to the bed beside her, stretching the full length of his body out alongside hers. He turned his head, then fastened his hot mouth over hers almost brutally. His