Unckown: The Willing Mrs. Talbot

They would not be received until eight o'clock. That was typical, she thought. She lay on the bed, gazing at the ornate ceiling above her head, wondering, idly, when the old bastard would install mirrors over the bed.

She knew the son of a bitch peeked in on his guests now and then, for she had discovered, on their last visit, the small hole beside the portrait on the far wall. It had amused her then, but she was growing more irritated, these days.

She sighed and shifted her position, impatiently, on the huge, soft mattress. She could dream of putting it to good use, but knew, grimly, that such an enticing experience as she might imagine was more than likely not to come about.

She could hear the water running in the shower, where her husband was bathing himself, and she wondered for perhaps the hundredth time, why she could not talk him out of skipping this weekend with the clan.

God, she thought, it's going to be unendurable. It was bad enough to have married into the Talbot family, but to have to put up with them over a long weekend, was just to much to ask of a woman.

She smiled to herself, crookedly, then, shaking her head. Now, Maggie, she scolded herself, you didn't try all that hard to talk him out of it, did you? She knew, in her heart, that she hadn't.

Big things were happening, not the least of which, was the fact that E.G. was drawing up his will. She wasn't all that greedy, and could depend on her own wealth if she had to, but she was determined that Dash wasn't going to get cut out of the will by his brother and her scheming sister-in-law.

E.G. looked fondly upon her, she knew. Hell, a lot more than just fondly, she thought with an inner chuckle. The old bastard would like to get into my pants, if he could. Would probably like to do more than that, she added to herself, with a cold shudder.

She was suddenly remembering the dark stories that Dash hinted at now and then. He would not tell her anything more than the fact that the old man had been a harsh disciplinarian.

"He didn't believe in sparing the rod," Dash had told her grimly. "That was about the only thing he didn't believe in."

She had seen the faint traces of scars on his back, shoulders and buttocks, and the long, thin line that ran down his cheek, and often wondered where they had come from. Whenever she mentioned them, he would refuse to talk about it, and that scared her just a little more.

"Let's just say, I had a rocky time growing up," he would tell her, by the torte of his voice, signaling that he wished to cut off all conversation concerning his childhood at that point.

She had met him at a party the Talbot's had given in honor of his first starring role on Broadway. Dashiell Talbot was their second son, tall, dark and wiry, unlike the massive presence his father presented.

She had been impressed with the family, then. For the Talbot's were known the world over as the First Family of the stage. Even then, she had been wary around the father, huge, overpowering Edmund Gorey Talbot, known as E.G.

The man was fierce in his presence, and easily dominated any sphere or circle he entered. His wife Laurel was small and compact, but equally as powerful, in a more subtle fashion. She seemed to be able to temper his force, though of course, bowing to it, always.

As for Talbot's older son, he resembled the father in bulk and features, but not in power. Winston Talbot was a weaker man, and known mainly for the character roles he played in movies and on television. That he was jealous of his younger brother's success and talent was evident to Maggie from the first.

Maggie Bishop had been a struggling young actress then, fighting for the meager parts she was able to get, while trying to keep her legs crossed in the process. She couldn't be had just for the promise of a walk-on, and that gave her a reputation of being a bitch.

But she had been determined not to lay her way to the top, but get there on merit and achievement and had bristled when the rumors flew about why she married young Dashiell Talbot. It seemed that the press and public would believe everything said about her but the truth.

Dash had charmed her from the beginning, never coming on very strong with her, never trying to use her as a toy on his climb to the top. He had treated her with dignity and respect, and she had fallen in love with him for it.

Though he projected an image of daring and power, of sexual fury that could explode at any moment, in reality, she had found him quite shy. He was almost old-fashioned in the way he treated her, never once attempting a pass whatsoever.

They dated in a formal manner that she hadn't observed since she was a girl in high school. Maggie Bishop was no prude, nor a virgin either, but Dashiell Talbot treated her as if she were made of delicate china.

They had finally married just a year ago, and this was their third visit to Talbot Manor. The first two had been uneventful, for E.G. and his wife were starring in a play at that time, leaving she and Dash alone for the better part of the visits.

She could mark her husband's failing passion from the first visit, and it seemed to increase with the, second. Now, as she lay on the bed, her third time in the huge, massive mansion the elder Talbot's called home, she wondered when and if Dash would ever find her attractive again.

Something about returning to this house seemed to cast a pall over her handsome husband. Seemed to make his soul go as cold as ice, his passion wither like a vine in the midst of winter.

She was determined to find the cause of his dwindling of romantic lust. She had no intention of losing his passion for her, any more than giving up his rightful place in E.G.'s will.

The shower suddenly ceased in the bathroom and she sat up on the bed, not bothering to close the robe she was wearing, against her naked body beneath it. At twenty-seven, she had a perfect figure, full-bodied and firm, and she loved to entice her husband with it, whenever she could.

Already, a bit of excitement was trembling in her loins. She wondered if E.G. was spying on them right now, wondered if the old man was gazing through his little peep hole at her ripe, up-lifted breasts. Casually she ran the soft palm of her hand back and forth across her nipples, bringing them to a stiff, taut erection.

She allowed the robe to fall open a little more, and dropped her free hand to her lap. Her mound was covered with the same thick, silken strands of rich, black hair that crowned her head, and she roamed the tips of her fingers idly through the damp thatch of hair, now.

She shivered as she rubbed her fingers against her trembling vaginal lips. The luscious warmth rippled through her loins suddenly, and she groaned as she playfully toyed with the smooth, warm lips.

She leaned against the back of the bed, imagining her fingers to be her husband's hand, and kneaded her pussy mound anxiously, now. She squeezed her big, round breasts with her other hand, and slithered two fingers into her pit, now turning them lovingly against her inner walls.

"Ohh, Dash, Dash, my strong darling," she murmured softly to herself. Her eyes were shut tightly, now and she was trembling with increasing violence. "Umm, yes, my love, ohh, yes, it's so good!"

Her fingers danced in and out of her quivering tunnel, now slicing back and forth against her inner walls with a teasing, passionate force. She had always loved sex when it was good and right for her, and even just the dream of her husband was enough to send the powerful, surging pleasure tearing through her, wildly.

"What the hell are you doing, Maggie?" came a half snarl from in front of her.

She opened her eyes, lazily and smiled, not pausing for a moment in her caressing of her aching pit. "Ummm, just dreaming of you, Dash," she whispered sensuously.