Carl Van Marcus - The motorcyclist_s wife

Clutching a large pink bath towel around her voluptuous figure, Sandi raced down the hall to the telephone.

"H-Hello?" she stammered, then recoiled and jerked the receiver away from her ear as she heard Larry Johnson's salesman-smooth voice.

The towel-draped blonde's first impulse was to slam down the phone, for the last person she wanted to deal with in her present emotional state was Verne's "friend" who had treated her with such shameful disrespect the night before. Yet, perhaps he had news about her husband… with the utmost reluctance she returned the receiver to her ear, nervously biting her full pink lips as she strained to hear Johnson's indistinct voice. He was apparently calling from a public place, for there was a babble of voices in the background interspersed with bursts of music, and he also seemed to be whispering.

"Sandi? Can ya hear me?"

"Yes – is something wrong? Is Verne all right?"

"I can't hear ya, honey." Sandi winced at the endearing word. Her husband's manager was quite drunk from the slurred sound of his speech, and she was afraid to hear what he had to say. "Where've ya been all day, huh? I tried to call all afternoon…"

"I've been getting a job," the blonde said stiffly.

"A job, huh?" Larry's intoxicated laugh echoed loud and clear over the wire. "What kind of job…?"

Sandi wasn't sure whether she was imagining the insinuating tone in her husband's friend's voice – her mind was so disoriented this evening that it was hard to be sure of anything at all. And why shouldn't he imagine that she was the sort of girl who'd find a job which people would snicker about? That was exactly the way she'd acted with him; wasn't it?

"A modeling job," she replied, wishing she hadn't spoken the moment the words left her mouth. Now Larry would expect her to earn money, and of course, she could never, never return to the "Deja-Vu" studio.

"No kidding!" the drunken manager slurred. "That's great, 'cause Verne's being flown in to Gary tomorrow, and in a couple of days or so, he's got to have this operation. Otherwise, he's never gonna be able to ball again, and ya wouldn't like that; wouldja?"

The white-faced wife flinched, hot shame flooding through her body as she realized that Larry's estimation of her character was perfectly correct.

"Don't talk to me like that!" she protested, but even she could hear the false tone in her retort.

"Sorry, honey; don't mind me." Johnson had intended to apologize for his actions of the night before, but after several dry martinis too many, he found his tongue running away from him. "And don't be mad about last night, huh? I just couldn't help getting carried away by that sexy little bod of yours. Let's be friends, okay? Let me drive you into the hospital tomorrow, and we'll talk about it…"

How could her husband's friend be talking about his obscene assault on her unconscious body as casually as if they'd merely had a trivial disagreement? He was a disgusting amoral man who didn't seem to feel the least bit of guilt about trying to trick her into adultery even while his best friend lay in the hospital paralyzed from the waist down, and she didn't believe for one minute that he had any intention of treating her platonically. His "talking about it" doubtless meant he would he turning off onto some dark, deserted country road and trying to slip his hand up under her skirt or inside her blouse… or worse, much, much worse…

"I'll drive myself into Gary," she replied in an icy tone.

"Listen, you bitch," the egotistical motorcycle club manager snarled, but the phone suddenly clicked and went dead. His temper ignited when he saw that he wasn't going to have his own way after all. Even after fucking the hell out of his wife Clare last night, his loins still burned with desire for this unavailable blonde, and as he sat drinking, he'd convinced himself that tomorrow he'd be fucking her tight, blonde-fringed little cunt. Drunken, obscene invectives spewed from his mouth with such vehemence that several couples standing around near the phone began laughing and pointing at him.

"Hey, buddy! Give her hell!" one of them called out.

"You bet your life I'll give her hell," Johnson swore, slamming down the already-dead receiver. "Just wait till I get my hands on that little bitch! I'm gonna fuck her so hard she won't be able to walk for a week!" For several long minutes after she'd hung up the phone, Sandi Smith stood immobile in the dimly lit hallway with her heart pounding in her throat. A chill draft was blowing through the corridor, but as the troubled blonde hugged her slim arms against her chest, the friction of the rough terry cloth against her still tender nipples caused an unnatural heat to radiate throughout her naked loins.

If I had gone with Larry, what would I have done if he'd tried something? Sandi searched her soul for an honest answer, then shuddered as an obscene vision of Johnson forcing her down in the seat of his large Buick and shoving his huge swollen penis up into her defenseless pussy flashed before her eyes. Just the very thought made her vagina tingle with unwanted excitement, and the guilty nineteen year old was forced to recognize that she would probably have had a very hard time resisting her husband's friend.

This line of thought was too dreadful to tolerate for very long, and the mortified girl forced herself to think of other things. Anything, anything at all, was better than dwelling on the unnatural perversions that were springing up in her wicked body.

"I'll get dressed, and then maybe I'll stop feeling so odd," she muttered, falling into her old habit of talking to herself. "And then I'll… I'll make myself something to eat… and… and then I'll read or watch TV or something… and go to bed early so I can look for another job tomorrow…"

Determinedly forcing her thoughts away from the depraved sexual experiences she'd been through during the past twenty-four hours, Sandi donned a crimson-colored velour robe – one of the garments Verne had bought her – and a pair of fluffy slippers. Then, although she didn't feel the least bit hungry, she took a package of frozen hamburger from the freezer and left it to thaw on the kitchen counter while she wandered into the living room and switched on the television. For a few minutes, she played with the channel selector, but when she found nothing but a football game, a talk show and a rerun of a western, she turned it off and set an album on the stereo instead.

Well, baby used to stay out all night long,

She made me cry, she done me wrong.

She hurt me eyes open, that's no lie.

Table's turning now, her turn to cry.

Because I used to love her,

But it's all over now.

Because I used to love her,

But it's all over now.

Sandi's hand shook as she reached out and switched off the record player. The album, an old Rolling Stones collection, was one of her husband's favorites, but, though she'd often heard it before, she'd never really listened to the words. Feeling as though she'd been slapped in the face by the all-too-apt song lyric, the young wife collapsed on the white imitation leather sofa with her aching head cradled in her arms.

How am I going to face Verne tomorrow? she agonized. What if he can tell I've been unfaithful? Mother and Father always knew straight off when I wasn't telling the truth…

Then, as it occurred to her that Verne might not even be conscious, she felt ashamed of her selfish attitude. It only happened this once, and I'll never let it happen again! she vowed, temporarily ignoring her deep suspicions of her own sexual nature. And I'll never let him find out – he's already been hurt enough without that… especially if the operation doesn't work.

The thought of the expensive, delicate operation turned her thoughts back to this afternoon's fiasco of a job-hunt, and to her disgust, the lips of her still slightly tumescent vaginal lips began to quiver at the obscene memory of the magnificent but unspeakably sinful orgasm she'd achieved there on the floor of the photographer's third-floor studio.