Carl Van Marcus: The motorcyclist_s wife

Yes, she was trembling, Sandi realized belatedly. Glancing down at her bare thigh as she sipped the burning alcohol, she saw that her ivory-white flesh was puckered up into goosebumps. For a long moment she continued to stare at herself, feeling sure that something was not as it should be, but not quite being able to grasp just what the matter was.

"Yes… I guess I'm cold. Maybe I should get…" Then her voice broke off in a low, horrified gasp and her face turned a shade of fiery red as she realized that all she was wearing was the wanton orange nightgown her husband had bought her.

Oh God, what's Larry thinking of me? she agonized, pulling away from him as she also noticed the overly familiar way she was snuggled up against him. How could I have been so stupid? Thank goodness it's not somebody else who wouldn't understand that I'm just too upset to know what I'm doing!

"Excuse me," she mumbled, feeling exceedingly awkward and not daring to meet her husband's best friend's eyes. "I… I better go get d-dressed…"

She rose to her feet, then collapsed in a heap upon the couch as her left leg buckled beneath her. Glancing down in bewilderment, she noticed for the first time that there was a jagged scratch running along the soft white flesh of her upper thigh. The moment she became aware of the red droplets of blood oozing down her leg, the cut began to throb with pain.

"Sandi! What happened to your leg?" Larry exclaimed. "Just lie there – I'll go get something to put on it."

"I ran into something when… when the doorbell rang," she gasped as she settled weakly down against the cushions. "But it didn't hurt till now."

The three-inch abrasion wouldn't usually have bothered Sandi in the least, but tonight she was already in such an emotional state that the sight of blood made her feel as though she were about to faint again. Gulping down some more whiskey, which made her head spin more wildly than ever although it did help to deaden her nerves, she focused her glazed eyes on Larry Johnson's tall, broad-shouldered figure hurrying toward the bathroom.

I have to get something else on, even though Larry's been too nice to say anything about the disgraceful way I look, she told herself; but somehow she couldn't summon up the energy to move from her prone position. At last, just as she spotted her husband's friend returning with towel and Merthiolate bottle in hand, she reached up to pull the afghan throw rug from the back of the sofa over her exposed loins. The violet and blue shawl, which she'd crocheted herself from an easy-to-sew pattern composed of more empty spaces than threads, made her feel less obscene without hiding any of her sensual charms.

"Now how am I going to get at that cut with that blanket over you?"

Larry flicked away the flimsy token of modesty and with an eagerness he tried to disguise ran his hand over the satin smoothness of the girl's wounded upper leg. Kneeling down so close to the sofa that he could detect the heady, feminine odor emanating from her blonde hair-trimmed pussy, he began to dab methodically at the angry red scratch with a dampened washcloth. At the same time, he placed an unnecessary hand upon the taut plane of her girlishly flat belly. Beneath the thin apricot-colored nylon, he could feel her muscles first quiver, then grow tense, at the unexpected contact.

She's a hot little bitch, he thought. I'm sure of it. The question is, is she hot enough that I can get her turned on even when she's all upset about her husband's accident? Well, I damn well intend to give it a try! And I do know a few tricks for getting broads into the sack!

A half-forgotten conversation he'd had with the blonde's husband flashed into his memory, making him pause for a second with the antiseptic bottle poised in the air above Sandi's full-fleshed thigh. They'd been standing on the side of the track, over by the bleachers, and watching the buxom blonde he'd set Verne up with saunter across the field toward them.

"How'd you make out with Sherry last night, man?" he'd smirked.

"She's wild, really wild," Verne had leered back. "You sure do know how to spot the winners, Larry. Honest to God, I never thought a girl would want to do all those kinky things! Sandi would freak out if I even mentioned trying stuff like that!"

Somehow this remembered conversation just didn't relate to the image Johnson was forming of Mrs. Sandi Smith tonight. Surely this sophisticated-looking female in her lurid lace nightgown wouldn't be shocked by a few harmless perversions! And surely her supposed lover couldn't be contented with a steady diet of missionary position.

This wasn't the time for idle speculation, however; all that mattered at this moment was the intoxicating perfume of the young wife's voluptuous body and the satin sheen of her unblemished white flesh beneath his roving hands. Just the innocent act of dabbing antiseptic on her firm-fleshed upper leg was sending electrical tremors of arousal shooting from his fingertips out to every nerve-ending in his body, and he felt his cock expand and pulsate in eager anticipation. Was the girl feeling the same surges of desire? It was hard to tell from the way she lay motionless except for a slight flinch of pain from the stinging antiseptic.

"Am I hurting you, Sandi?" he whispered huskily, bending still closer to the blonde's lewdly exposed body so that he could speak directly into her ear. Strands of honey-gold hair brushed across his cheek, and the hotly aroused Motorcycle Circus manager knew that he had to have this succulent young girl, had to get to know every inch of her lushly rounded figure, had to explore her blonde-fringed pussy. Most of all, he longed to hear his partner's formerly aloof and uptight wife begging for more of his throbbing male flesh, imploring him to still the fires that he suspected raged through her healthy young body.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" he repeated when there was no response to his first question. "I don't want to hurt you, honey."

The dark-haired young man set the bottle of Merthiolate down on the coffee table, but an instant later his left hand was back on the warm softness of the young wife's upper thigh while his right hand gradually began a persuasive massaging motion upon her smooth belly that eased the diaphanous orange nightie all the way up to Sandi's slender waist. Much to his gratification, he felt her stomach muscles ripple beneath his suggestive touch.

"You feel so tense, Sandi," he breathed into her ear, letting his lips linger longer than necessary in the silken strands of her naturally blonde hair. Most of the women Larry knew, including his wife Clare, favored wigs, hair pieces, and dyes which made their hair rather coarse to the touch. In contrast, his best friend's wife's shoulder-length curls felt as fine and soft as those of a child, and this plus her clean-scrubbed face and slim-hipped, girlish figure gave her a certain vulnerable, almost virginal quality which the older man found extremely exciting.

"Verne wouldn't want you to be feeling all tensed-up like this," he continued, his concerned, soothing voice betraying nothing of his lewd intentions. "He'd want you to relax, Sandi. Why don't I give you a massage?"

A massage? Just what did Larry mean by that? Sandi asked herself a little uneasily. It was a loaded word, for her sole conception of a massage was derived from a recent Chicago Tribune expose of that city's scurrilous purge of massage parlors. But the stinging pain from the Merthiolate was making her feel more disoriented than ever, and it seemed too much effort to question him.

In any case, Larry slid his hand up underneath the skimpy nightgown and began to knead the pliant warmth of her naked flesh without giving her a chance to voice any objections. His hoarse breathing echoed loudly in his own ears, and he hoped that the quivering young wife had not noticed his growing lust.