Peter Jensen: The blackmailed mother book I

A light drizzle and a leaded sky with scudding clouds greeted Lonnie Carmel when she awoke in the half light of the early morning. She had left the bedroom window open slightly, and the cool air which blew through the crack rustled the flowers on the nightstand and rippled across the thin sheet which covered her. She stirred; frowning at first as she unconsciously tried to cover herself with more, then became fully awake and saw that the blanket was knotted at the foot of the bed.

Damnation, she thought, sitting up abruptly to grab the blanket. Another night of tossing and turning. She hated to sleep alone, and that was the problem. Her husband, Roger, was gone on another trip. Business, always business, him and his new job at Skopos, Incorporated. He never had time to be a husband to her any more, and she… well, she was little more than a pretty doll for him to use when he was around. She wasn't a wife, she was just someone – almost like a whore – for him to have sex with, always available.

Piqued, she stopped unfolding the blanket. Sleep was gone now, impossible in spite of the early hour of the morning. She stretched languidly on the bed, releasing the last of her stupor.

Lonnie Carmel was a wife any man would be proud to have. Her husband called her a "sex machine that can cook", and said it with a grin. Her long, raven-black hair cascaded down over her shoulders as she stretched, curled around her full breasts and made a contrast to her blush-red nipples and aureole. Her breasts were still firm and taut, even though she was the mother of a fifteen-year-old daughter, and she was increasingly glad that she had followed her doctor's regimen when Jennifer was born. The exercises she'd done faithfully had prevented the slightest trace of stretch marks from the birth, and she could walk around in a bikini and still look like she was Jennifer's older sister and not her mother.

The sheet had slid down to her girlish waist and her round, tapered thighs. She kicked the sheet aside with her long, slim legs and stood up, flouncing her hair and yawning. She was naked, as she always slept; naked and desirable. Her face went well with her body, a sort of pouty, sensual, flirtatious look about it with its small nose and full ripe mouth and large hazel eyes. There was nothing aloof about her; it was pure animal, pure female.

Lonnie giggled to herself as she crossed to the window and shut it. A little shiver of delight passed through her stomach as she recalled the number of men who stared at her, their eyes and the bulge in their loins hard and wanting. And of their propositions even though most of them knew that she was married – not that she had ever been unfaithful. Of course, a little coy flirting never hurt anybody, and it made her feel so good. She'd never let the game get out of hand, and she didn't intend to, but it was nice to know that a woman of her years could still attract, still arouse men on a basic, primitive level.

Not that her husband seemed to take all that notice. Damn, damn – how long had it been this time since she'd had Roger inside her? She leaned on the window sill and stated out at the wind-whipped yard and answered herself: too long. If it hadn't been for the bright visits and constant chatter of her best friend, Cylvia Oliss – who also happened to be the wife of Skopos' vice-president in charge of marketing – well, if it hadn't been for Cylvia to help take her mind off things, Laurie didn't know what she would have done, how she could have managed this long…

When Lonnie had called herself a whore, it had been with a slight tingle, a secret thrill the way forbidden thoughts can do. She enjoyed the sex which she gave her husband, wanted and needed it, and was at the moment naked and desirable – and desiring.

"Hurry up, Roger," she moaned aloud to herself. "Hurry up and get home." Roger was due in sometime today and she ached to see him again. It was always like this, when he was gone. Not so bad at first, but progressively more frustrating until by the day he leas expected back, she was nearly crazy with her anticipations and pent-up needs. I could have him make love to me from now until Christmas without stopping, she groaned inwardly.

She smiled ironically as she turned from the window and lay down on the bed again. Her mother had given her interesting advice when she'd first married, advice which was now a sore point between her and Roger. Her mother'd said: "You keep a man with good looks and a hot body. Anything else he can buy in a store." Sure – only you needed the opportunity to use that burning little trap between the legs.

The opportunity was going to come in a little while, she hoped. The very thought of Roger taking her, spreading her thighs and hammering his hardened penis long and deep inside her belly was exciting. She cupped her breasts as she sat on the bed, examining the nipples, slightly startled at the way they suddenly began to harden. She moved back so that she could lean against the head rest and look down at them and tweak the nipples between her thumbs and fingers until they were fully enlarged. It was overwhelming her, this manipulation of her sensitive breasts, just as it always had. Some women aren't aroused by their breasts being touched, others are teased only if their nipples are softly stroked. But Lonnie had always had nerve endings more exposed than most; sometimes even wearing a brassiere sent waves of delicious feelings soaring through her.

Now, as she stared down at the white globes jutting from her, she was doubly excited by the realization that soon, very soon, her husband would be placing his hands on them, caressing them, kissing them hotly… With a low mewl of passion, she let one hand slowly move from her breasts and down her smooth, flat plane of a stomach, down to the soft curling fleece of her pubic triangle, then out around her thighs and buttocks, then dipping once more to the lips of her pussy. Closing her eyes against the guilt in her mind she let her fingers open the swollen, moist lips, part the pubic hair, and slide in, finding the clitoris waiting and eager. She circled the quivering bud, spreading the rising juices in a slow caress, groaned softly between clenched teeth as her probing finger felt its way to her open, wet cunt-hole. Her thighs widened to her squirming touch, and she pinched the tender pink skin of her vaginal lips and mouth, luxuriating in the sharp pain as her hips jerked upwards.

Then she jammed her fingers into her hungry pussy, and she pressed herself tightly to the mattress as she masturbated, writhing and twisting, her thighs pumping in time to her plunging fingers. The cords of her neck stood out and the mattress squeaked as she lashed and bucked with the fever of her sexual urgings.

"Oh… God… oh God," she moaned. She felt like a panther, rubbing herself this way, and she knew that if just the thought of Roger returning did this to her, his real arrival would be absolute heaven. "Oh… God… I want… Roger!"

Suddenly she heard a car stop in front of the home, and a door slam. In another moment, the car slipped into gear and sped away. Who could that be? she asked herself, her hand frozen in midstroke, still in her cunt. Is it Roger? He's taken a taxi home?

As if in answer, the front door of the house opened loudly, and she heard the familiar sound of his footsteps. She quickly removed her toying fingers and whipped the sheet over her. A warm flush ripped through her… Roger, Roger, hurry to me, please… I need you so much right now. Then the bedroom door banged, and a muscular, tall man with cropped brown hair and a round, open face entered, his hands gripping the handles of two suitcases. "Hi, honey!" he said breathlessly: "Took the first flight I could." He dropped the bags just inside the door and came toward her. "Boy, it's good to be home again."