Richard Van Dorne - Ravished wife

"Gotta light?" Jeff asked the man as he started to walk away.

"Oh," he said, surprised by the sudden intrusion on his private thoughts. "Sure, somewhere," he laughed, searching his pockets for a phantom book of matches. "Here."

Jeff took the pack and started to light his cigarette, reading the club name from the cover.

"This is a good spot," he asked, pointing at the name on the cover, a club he knew that Jackson owned.

"Hey, let me tell ya about this place," the man said, winking his much practiced sly old fox wink. "I was there last night, and Jesus, you shoulda seen the broads. Say, you aren't here with your wife, are ya?"

Lotta good that'd do me, Jeff thought wryly. "Nope, she's out of town."

The man looked at Jeff's delegate tag, surprised at the city.

"Hey, you're from here, huh? I'll bet you know a lot of good places."

"No, not really. I can never get rid of my wife long enough to catch any action."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," he said, making his "you" sound like "choo". "But she's gone tonight," he continued, punching Jeff lightly in the ribs.

Jerk!

"I'm looking for some action," he said, trying to get irritated. "Maybe I should try that club on the matchbook."

"Oh, no," he said drawing out the words. "Tonight! Tonight there's gonna be some real action."

Jeff nodded showing his interest.

"I was just talking to a friend of mine, one of the guys who runs the club, and he's got a big bash set up for tonight. I mean booze, entertainment and girls, girls, girls," he finished, making an Eddie Cantor face.

"Sounds good," Jeff said, fishing for an invitation.

Jeff listened while the man gave him instructions, where to meet him, what time, etc.

Just before they parted he said, "We ought to get to know each other. I'm Jeff Lee."

"Right, Jeff. Bob Ferris," he put out his hand. "See you at nine, huh?"

"Great," Jeff answered, hoping this might be the break he was searching for.

At nine thirty the two men pulled up in front of a sprawling white mansion that housed thirty rooms. Jeff could hear the loud pounding of a drum as he got out of the car. In another minute he would be inside and could lose this creep. How the hell a guy like him ever got to be a delegate, he thought, I'll never guess in a million years how anyone could trust him with the political future of their country.

A butler in black tie waited for them at the open door and in a second they were inside. Without any trouble at all Jeff lost his companion and headed toward the music.

Before he opened the door to the room, he could tell that there was a striptease going on, or coming off, he thought with a sarcastic grin. The drum was beating the universal stripper's rhythm, a pounding monotonous beat.

Jeff slipped in unnoticed and walked through the dim red room to the opposite wall, where he sat on a large cushion as had the rest of the guests. Looking around he noticed a few familiar political faces, some of them women. Obviously the party was well planned, he noted as he searched the room. A lot of the older men were accompanied by strikingly beautiful young girls in their early twenties.

For the first few minutes he hadn't looked toward the center of the room where a magnificently built Cuban girl, about twenty was stripping. My God, he thought as he saw her. She's stolen Pam's body. A small wince of pain flashed through his chest when he thought of his wife. She had the same legs, the same hips, the same firm perfectly shaped breasts as the dancer, but never in a lifetime would she be able to lose her inhibitions and perform like that for him.

Jeff didn't like to think about Pamela's sexuality mainly because it was almost non-existent. Christ, he thought, what ever happened to her. He could remember the first time they had made love, a few weeks before they were married. He knew at the time that she was a novice, but he wrote it off to her being a virgin, something he thought strange, since she was twenty-seven at the time.

They had only made love once before they were married, and Jeff realized that something was wrong, but couldn't pinpoint it until a month after the wedding. Frigid, he thought. It was the only word that fit her. During the last three years he had done everything he could think of to help her change, but nothing had worked, and finally they had just stopped talking about it altogether.

But a man's a man, and he sometimes needs it any way he can get it, he told himself silently as he watched the stripper. She was about five-foot-three and dark, but other than that, the physical similarity between her and Pamela was a carbon copy. He watched her breasts quivering as she moved subtly around the circle in the center of the room, her hips in perfect unison with a slow, excruciatingly desirable act of sexual intercourse.

He tried to remember that she wasn't his wife, that she was a professional prostitute earning her living by taking her clothes off in front of a multitude of men and women.

Moving her eyes from man to man she continued to dance, undulating her hips, gesturing with her arms in such a way that every muscle in her long dark body would seem to twitch in unison. Her black hair swayed as she leaned her head backward, but all eyes were on her hands and not her head as she slipped her black half-slip from over her hips and exposed a tiny pair of panty briefs, smaller than any bikini Jeff had ever seen. She dropped the nylon to the floor and continued her dance, turning so that everyone in the room would be able to savor every inch of her sensuous flesh.

Jeff looked at her buttocks as she turned her back toward him, clenching the muscles in rhythm to the music as if she were conducting the drummer.

Just as she turned again to face him she slowly removed the two black pasties that covered her chocolate-brown nipples, completely exposing her rounded full breasts to his eyes. She looked directly at him as she danced, her hands toying for a moment with her breasts, then sliding down her torso slowly, stopping at her hips only long enough to grasp the brief panties and slowly ease them down her long firm thighs, revealing the small black triangle of soft pubic hair that covered the dampened lips of her vagina.

Pam, Jeff thought, replacing the stripper with his wife. If Pam could only be like you, for God's sake, what's your secret.

The stripper continued looking at the graying editor as he watched her, her muscles tense with desire as his eyes traced a path around her breasts and down her tummy to that tiny triangle of black curls between her legs. He was imagining his tongue in place of his eyes, but Goddamn it, he thought, I won't even get the chance.

Not taking his eyes from her, Jeff heard a voice say at his head, "Would you like a drink, sir?"

Jeff didn't answer.

"Perhaps there's something else," the too sweet voice of the young man said.

Mesmerized, Jeff still said nothing.

"The girl," the voice said. "Is that the one you want tonight?"

Jeff nodded.

"She's booked," the voice whispered, "But for the right price I can arrange her for you. You've obviously found what you want."

Jeff turned to him for an instant. "Fix it," he said and looked back at the girl.

He hated prostitution and anyone concerned with it, but Jeff had lost his battle. He had to have that girl to know what his wife could really be like. He had to have her!

She had turned her back to Jeff when he spoke to the waiter, and was slowly revolving in a small circle, tantalizing every man she looked at. But when her eyes met Jeff's she slowed almost to a stop, moving only her hips and holding her breasts out for his approval. There they were, two perfect nipples waiting for him to suck into his mouth, and pinch with his teeth.