Clarence Tydings - The unfaithful girlfriend

Jessica's heart quickened as she entered the plushly decorated lobby; she paused in front of one of the ceiling-high mirrors to check her hair. One of her classmates from modeling school had styled it for her, and the effect, she'd have to admit, was stunning. It was high in back, and trailed down over the sides of her head in a half-dozen little ringlets, each of them lightly frosted to add contrast to her honey-blonde luxuriant hair. The dress was a real extravagance, but one she hoped would be worth the investment. Her Aunt had lent her the money, but only after she heard where the party was being held. When the Dodge name and address was mentioned, she couldn't dig up the money fast enough. No niece of hers was going to William Dodge's home without a new dress, she had insisted, and Jessica, admittedly, had offered only the least of token resistance.

"Miss Richards?"

She turned, surprised at the sound of her name. It was Bill Dodge, elegant in an Italian jumpsuit creation that made him look like Mastroianni in an imported movie. "Oh, hello. I didn't expect to find you in the lobby," she said.

He laughed, and when he did the soft skin around his eyes furrowed into a hundred tiny wrinkles, like the eyes of a cowboy after years of squinting into the southwestern sun. He looked his age, fifty-three according to the magazines, but he was an elegantly-preserved fifty-three, to be sure. She liked that about him – he didn't try to look and act twenty-five, like so many men in the television and advertising game.

"Actually, I was just coming down to ask Anderson here if there had been any sign of you." He paused to look her over, appraising me young blonde's delightfully trim figure, barely concealed beneath the skin-tight second skin of her silver gown. "You're quite lovely, you know that?"

Jessica felt the color fill her face and she turned away; she was a model now, after all, and she should certainly be acclimated to comments on her looks by now. But still, coming from a man as well-known and important as William Dodge, it was quite a compliment indeed. "Thank you, Mr. Dodge," she replied demurely, averting her eyes from his openly appraising stare.

"Well, now that you're here, let's go back upstairs and join the others. There's quite a crowd up there, and I'm afraid the party's gone on without us."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry we were late. But it wasn't your driver's fault," she explained as they entered the elevator. "You see, we were caught in this immense traffic jam on Riverside Drive. There was a big wreck right in that sharpest curve and we couldn't do anything but wait it out."

"Now, now, don't be concerned," he said with a paternal air, "No harm done. I do hope you enjoy the party. Oh, by the way, you did know that Wright gentleman was here, didn't you?"

"Wright? You mean Phillip Wright?" she asked, trying to mask her utter and total amazement and surprise.

"Yes, that young man you were with in my office the other day. The one my wife Valerie invited in for an interview. Commercial artist, I believe."

Jessica struggled hard and fast to compose herself before she spoke… Phillip, what can I say to him! He all never understand!

"Uh, actually, I didn't know he was coming," she managed to mutter after a long few seconds, "but I haven't seen him lately anyway. Does he know I'm to be here?"

"No, I don't think so. Valerie just happened to mention it to me. I haven't even been introduced myself yet. Would you prefer not to see him?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that! It's just… I'd like to talk to him alone, you understand?"

"Of course, of course," the older man smiled, "Don't let it worry that pretty little head of yours. Besides, it's so dark, I doubt he'd recognize you."

Jessica shrugged off that last remark; there was enough rolling around in her mind already to keep her confused for a lifetime. She took a deep breath and counted slowly backwards from ten, an old trick they'd taught her in modeling classes to help you compose yourself. And then they reached the Dodge's floor; she could hear the sounds of the party when the doors silently opened. Oh well, she thought, here goes!

Bill Dodge placed his hand very properly in the small of the beautiful young blonde's back, just lightly enough to guide her through the double doorway and into the tiled entrance foyer. He took her light wrap and hung it in the formal-sized coat closet, along with what looked like a million expensive furs and cashmeres. She turned to look down the corridor toward the living room doorway, and Dodge was able to get a few seconds of uninterrupted, unabashed staring in before it was necessary to put back on his Mr. Nice Guy smile. Christ, what a body! The ass on this lovely young chick he just couldn't believe! Two nice ripe handfuls, just aching to be squeezed like a couple of juicy melons, nearly bursting from her skin-tight dress. He could even see the lovely dimpled little crevice where the fabric dipped as it lovingly stretched across the glorious swell of her buttocks. Damn, his wife, Valerie, had certainly made the right move this time. Sometimes her choices were a bit strange, like that actor from California and his heroin-shooting wife, but not this time! This little honey was all right!

Of course, William Dodge hadn't always been quite so free-swinging and hip in his extra-marital sex life; he had Valerie to thank for the sudden new world she had introduced him to a few years back. There were two broken marriages behind each of them when they met in 1961 at the New York Art Director's Show, an annual exhibition of some of the best in advertising commercial art. Bill was there that year with several of his creative staff, riding high on the crest of agency popularity, having been just selected as the firm to package three network specials for NBC for the upcoming fall season, and Valerie Madison, after giving up her acting career, was then at the peak of her fame as the world's top model-agency chief, or procurer, as she liked to call herself for shock-value. Both of them at their zenith seemingly, career-wise, yet both were searching for something to fill the undeniable void in their respective lives. And after a few months of occasional dating and being buzzed about in all the society page columns, they decided to get married.

It had been, at first, as much of a merger as a marriage, the two corporate heads bringing their resources and assets together in a pooling that formed the W. B. Dodge Company as it existed today, Valerie magnanimously offering her new husband the right to sole use of the bannerhead. Not that there hadn't been another side to their marriage – Valerie certainly saw to that. Until she came along, Bill Dodge had never known what really total sexual excitement was all about. Sure, he'd had his share of would-be starlets and agency hangers-on, and they were all satisfying in their own sort of way, but nothing like this. Valerie was a veritable chasm of sexual delights, seemingly never tiring of incessant romps beneath the covers, continually frequent couplings that he knew he could only hope to provide her for just so long.

Extramarital sex wasn't even a topic they discussed; possibly if they had tried to agree on a plan of action, their life together would have been doomed to failure. But Valerie came through again, introducing him to a circle of friends she had apparently kept well obscured during the early months of their marriage, explaining much later that she wasn't lying, just waiting until he was ready for such far-out hobbies as wife-swapping and all-night orgies with a dozen or more couples.

But Dodge had taken to this new life like a duck to water, only in the very beginning feeling those omnipresent pangs of gnawing jealousy as he saw his lovely wife naked, being screwed until she screamed in ecstasy, sometimes by as many as five or six men in the course of one evening's get-together. Not now, though, now he enjoyed her little dalliances as much as his own, and fortunately, his new-found voyeuristic proclivities were well complemented by Valerie's obsessive exhibitionism.