Carl Van Marcus - The motorcyclist_s wife

This whisper was, of course, thoroughly unacceptable; Sandi paid it no more heed than she'd paid the somewhat similar sensations she'd experienced when she'd ridden on the back of Verne's big cycle and every man on the road had stared at her long, perfectly formed legs. Switching off the bedtable lamp, Sandi instead directed her thoughts toward the day when her husband would arrive home again. He should show up on Thursday, maybe Friday morning. That gave her two days to get out of her mood of depression. She'd prepare all the foods he especially liked, and maybe even drive into Brunrocke, the nearest town of any size, for some of that Danish beer he fancied. And she certainly wouldn't let herself think about the possibility that he was with another woman tonight, or about her censorious parents, or about her dread of the lonely winter months ahead. Most important of all, she'd not allow herself to think about the wonderful way she felt when he touched her, or she might find herself doing forbidden things to herself as she had earlier that evening. No, she'd save all those feelings up for his return – after all, it was wrong to think about sex unless you were in bed with your husband.

Sandi Smith fell asleep much more easily than usual, perhaps because of the long walk she'd taken up in the open prairie beyond the subdivision of Lakeview Estates. In spite of her earnest resolves, she immediately fell into a dream in which she was tooling down the highway behind Verne on his powerful motorcycle, her long blonde curls whipped around her face by the wind and her arms clutching her husband's strong-muscled body. Gradually the lonely nineteen-year-old's firm-fleshed thighs drew closer together beneath the sheet, and within minutes her silken-skinned upper legs were rubbing sensually against each other in unconscious imitation of the vibrations of the bike motor thudding up through the leather seat into the sensitive flesh of her widespread buttocks and quivering vagina.

As her hair-fringed pussy lips, already swollen from the erotic dream, were stimulated by the rhythmic pressure of her taut-muscled thighs, the sleeping girl's breath quickened. A light coat of perspiration broke out on her flushed forehead, and her toes curled under as lewd little fingers of excitement traced a forbidden path from the base of her neck to the tips of her feet. In her dream, the bike was zooming over roller-coaster type hills at breakneck speed; and in her bed, the squirming blonde's naked thighs were pressing so tightly together that the tendons stood out on their ivory-white surface. Deep inside her titillated vagina drops of heated moisture were forming, and her clitoral bud jerked into a tautly throbbing little button of erotic sensation.

The motorcycle was driving faster and faster, and now the roadside was lined with handsome blond men, all of whom were staring lustfully at Sandi's long, white legs and half-revealed ass-cheeks. A loud wolf whistle pierced through her dream, and then another, and another…

Suddenly wide awake, the young wife sat bolt upright in bed, her scantily-clad loins still trembling but all traces of physical arousal obliterated by a cold cloud of panic. For a moment she stared in perplexity at the luminous dial of the clock-radio, struggling to comprehend why she had awakened at 11:45 with her throat so constricted with fear that she could scarcely breathe. Then the front doorbell chimed again, a long drawn out shrilling as if someone were pressing his finger long and hard on the buzzer, and Sandi's entire body turned to ice. Verne! Something had happened to Verne, just as she had always dreaded it would. Why else would the doorbell be ringing in the middle of the night?

Leaping to her feet, the terror-stricken young wife rushed pell-mell down the dark hallway, crashing clumsily against a wrought iron telephone stand in her haste to reach the front door. Although the sharp metal table edge pierced through the naked white flesh of her thigh, Sandi was not aware of any pain.

Her trembling, white-knuckled hands gripped at the doorframe as she eased it open a crack and stared out into the darkness. There, his healthy tanned face glowing an eerie shade of green in the neon light from the streetlamp, stood Larry Johnson, her husband's partner and best friend, and Sandi saw at a glance that her worst fears were justified.

"Verne! It's Verne, isn't it? He's not… he's not…?" And then her voice trailed off, and her voluptuous young body, protected only by the wisp of apricot-colored lace, tumbled forward into Johnson's arms in a dead faint.

Larry Johnson stood beside the Smith's white imitation-leather sofa, a bottle of Johnny Walker in one hand and a towel filled with ice cubes in the other. His usually self-assured, darkly handsome face was twisted into an uncharacteristic caricature of confusion as he gazed down at the lifeless form of his best friend's unconscious wife, and though he made a brief effort to concentrate on his injured partner who lay paralyzed from the waist down in a Kansas hospital, his granite-grey eyes gradually began to shoot out sparks of lust.

When he'd lifted Sandi Smith's limp body in his arms and carried her in from the doorstep to the living room couch, her transparent orange nightgown had bunched up around her slender waist. Now, as she lay sprawled on her side, her ripely-rounded, snow-white buttocks were completely revealed to his ardent gaze. One full firm breast swelled out over the edge of the couch cushion, and the young motorcyclist had to fight back an impulse to lean down and gently lick its satin-skinned, ruby-tipped surface.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, taking a quick gulp of the whiskey with which he'd intended to revive the stunned young wife. Then, without allowing his eyes to leave the tantalizing spectacle spread out before him, he poured some of the amber liquid into a glass and set it on the glass-topped coffee table. In a moment he'd give it to her – but first he'd allow himself to feast his eyes upon the sensual but forbidden female flesh of his buddy's wife.

Whoever would have thought that Verne's goody-goody wife ran around the house in a get-up that even his own uninhibited wife Clare would have thought a bit risque? It just didn't go along with the prissy way Sandi had of wrinkling her nose and frowning when someone told an off-color joke, or the shocked looks she'd shot at Clare when the older girl had come over one hot afternoon in a skintight T-shirt sans brassiere. In fact, the only way he could figure it was that she must have a lover – why the hell else would she be wearing such sexy underwear when her husband was gone? Well, she'd sure had him fooled – and obviously old Verne too!

A low moan followed by a babble of incoherent words rose from the figure on the couch, and Johnson's face quickly reverted to a mask of concerned friend as the curvaceous blonde wife opened her hazel eyes and attempted to pull herself up to a sitting position.

"Verne! Wh-what h-happened to him?" she whispered. "He's not… not…" Then her voice choked in her throat as tears flooded into her fear-glazed eyes.

"Take it easy, Sandi," Larry murmured soothingly. He handed her the glass of whiskey, adding, "Drink this, it'll make you feel stronger. You sure gave me a scare when you toppled over like that on the steps."

Sandi ignored the proffered glass, instead grasping her husband's partner's other arm and imploring, "Is he all right? Larry, tell me! Tell me!"

As the half-hysterical blonde touched his arm, the dark-haired man felt his blood quicken in his veins, and the long shaft of his penis gave a sudden lurch against the tight material of his jeans.

"Calm down, honey," he reassured her, moving his arm around her quivering figure and holding the glass against her lips until she automatically gulped down the stinging alcohol. "Verne's had a little accident, but he's going to be all right. Everything's going to be all right."