Douglas McCallister - Rich man, poor man

everything she wanted. Unless… For a moment he doubted his own worth. And then he leaned back and laughed. Jesus! What the hell was the matter with him? He was as good as any guy on the block, wasn't he? Better even. Jeez! He could hold out longer than any one he knew. So what was Kelly complaining about?

Oh, Christ! That's what women were like. He should have known when he married her that something like this would happen, but he hadn't, and now here he was, stuck with her.

If only he could have another woman tonight, he thought. He stared lecherously at one of the photos in the magazine and had the eerie feeling that the girl naked there on the bearskin rug was winking at him. He turned the page quickly, glancing at the headings of the articles that followed. He had a feeling that he'd read them all before, and he idly flipped the rest of the pages until he got to the end of the magazine. Studying it, Tom saw that it was a series of ads placed by readers anxious to meet other readers who wanted, as the magazine put it, "to swing".

There were a lot of singles who liked their sex in different forms, a lot of them exotic, and Tom felt a dart of pleasure course through his veins as he read some of them. "Young model wants to swing with partners of any and all sex… pictures provided. Write J.W…" and a box number followed. Christ, he thought, she sounded just like what the doctor ordered.

He glanced again at Kelly and was ashamed of his thoughts. Damn it all, he'd married her for better or for worse, and even if it was worse, and God knew it was, he still loved her. He got up and went into the kitchen. "Want a beer?" he asked.

Kelly shook her head. "I don't think so," she said.

Her answer served to annoy Tom even more. Beer wasn't good enough for her, he thought angrily. She had to have one of those fancy liqueurs or something, like her family served after dinner. He still remembered with chagrin knocking back a small glass the way he would have downed a shot of whiskey in the kind of bar he like to frequent, and then found that everyone was staring at him as if he'd just farted or something. Christ! They were all sipping at theirs, acting so damned snotty, their pinkies curled as they lifted their glasses. Oh, Jesus! The way they all stared down their noses at him just because they had money!

Kelly had been different, of course. She'd always managed to make him feel at ease, at least in those days. But now! He shook his head. He was beginning to feel like the proverbial bull in a china shop whenever he was with her. Oh, shit! He picked up his beer and poured it down his throat, then opened a second can. "Sure you don't want any?" he called to the living room.

"No, thanks," Kelly called back. And then she added, "But you go ahead and have one."

Oh! So now she was giving him permission to drink! Well, screw her! He polished off the second can and opened a third. He had just lifted it to his mouth when his wife called out, "Darling, I'm going up to bed."

Fuck you, he thought again. So go to bed! Go up alone. You might just as well, for everything you're throwing my way! He carried his drink into the living room and sat down, this time nursing it.

So Kelly had gone to bed, had she? Well, how about that now? And what was she planning to do there? Close her lovely eyes and pretend that she was fast asleep when he came up. "Oh, not tonight, Tom. I'm too

tired."

The thought riled him. God, what a marriage! Why the hell…? But he couldn't answer any of the questions he posed for himself, couldn't seem to think clearly. A sudden surge of anger tore through him. Damn it all! Damn her! Why, she'd even gotten around to pretending that he drank too much, as if no one in her family ever touched the stuff. Oh, sure, once in a while maybe he drank a little bit too much, but then who didn't? And maybe it did affect him a little bit. But not the way Kelly claimed. He never got drunk. And maybe he liked to argue a little more than usual when he had been "indulging", that's the expression her family would have used, but the hell with it. He never got real mean! He never blew his top the way some guys he knew did, never picked fights or stamped around or stomped on anyone. And Jesus Christ, he'd never punched his wife, never touched her all this time. Put up with her!

The thought infuriated him. Damn it all! He set the beer can down on the table and then with an angry gesture knocked it off. And then he got up and lumbered into the kitchen to get another. He drank it in the living room again, this time picking up the magazine while he drank.

Tom Brown turned to the picture of the girl which had attracted him before and, staring at it, he felt the familiar ache start in his loins, the lurch in his cock, the sudden hardening of it. Christ, he'd like to get some right now. He'd like to fuck a babe like the one who stared at him, pouting seductively. Jesus, better than that, he'd like to fuck Kelly upstairs in the bedroom.

He finished the beer. He'd like to fuck Kelly, all right. But not the way he usually did. Not just ploughing deep up into her warm and quivering cunt, his lust-bloated penis pushing the flesh back in soft pink waves, sawing in and out while her moistly pulsating vagina sheathed him like a glove. Not just that. Oh, no!

There were a dozen other things he wanted to do to his wife, had always wanted to do to her. But she'd been so puritanical, so uptight, that he'd never dared. But things were going to change around here, he vowed

suddenly, smacking one huge balled fist against the palm of his hand. Things were going to change. And soon, too. And soon, like tonight.

Tom looked again at the girl in the photo, stared at her large firm breasts, at the rosy nipples tight with excitement. Christ, she was good-looking, but Kelly, cold as she was acting these days, was a hell of a lot better looking. Oh, Christ! What was he waiting for anyway? His penis was throbbing now, his guts on fire with the need for his wife. Damn it all, he wasn't going to wait any longer!

He clumped off; heading upstairs and toward the bedroom. The door was closed and he rattled the knob before he turned it, yanking it open. He peered in and saw that Kelly was asleep, her lovely body clad in a thin and lacy nightgown, a light blanket pulled up to her shoulder.

"Kelly!" he bellowed.

She made no move, slumbering on. Tom walked onto the room and switched on the light, peering down into her face After a long time he spoke her name again, and now her eyelids fluttered open. "Tom?" she asked. "Tom? Is that you?"

"Who the hell else?" he bellowed.

Suddenly Kelly sat up, her eyes wide now. "Oh, Tom. What do you

want?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," he sputtered. "What the hell do you think I

want?"

"I don't know," Kelly said, shaking her head. Her husband stared at her, excited by the sight of her warm soft breasts barely covered by the flimsy nylon gown she wore, by the gentle slope of her shoulders brushed now by the long golden strands of her silken hair. He swallowed hard, feeling the desire grip him again, making his flesh burn, the blood in his veins explode like little pins that pricked his flesh. Oh, Christ!

"What is it?" Kelly asked.

There was no answer from Tom, merely a muffled groan. And then Kelly saw that he was stripping off his clothes, unbuttoning his blue work shirt, ripping it from his broad shoulders, dropping it on the floor.

He unbuckled his belt then, unzipped his pants and slid them down over his hips. He stood before his wife then wearing only his brief jockey shorts and she saw the bulge there between his thighs. A tremor of excitement ran through her and then she gasped as he stripped off even his shorts and his huge fleshy penis soared out toward her. She knew instinctively that he would be cruel to her tonight, and she shuddered as he approached the bed.