Chapter 02 of Campus Nymph by Greg Caldwell

1962 GENRE: Vintage Sleaze | Promiscuous Wife

... PROMISCUOUS WIFE

Boiling passions and naked carnal desire on a college campus ... Night after night, beautiful, passionate Gay tossed sleeplessly on her lonely bed, wondering what had gone wrong with her marriage. Where was the ardent lover who just couldn't keep his hands and lips from her voluptuous body less than a year before, when they were first married? Why was Roger always "too busy"—or "too tired"? When she learned that Roger was involved in a torrid romance with one of his students, Gay decided that what was sauce for the gander was gravy for the goose ...

With provocative abandon she turned to Karl, the virile young college athlete who was never too busy or too tired.

... And Martin York, an accomplished connoisseur of the techniques of love ... Until one day she found herself caught up in a web of seething sin from which there was no escape, and learned what it really meant to be a …

… CHEATING HUSBAND ...

CHAPTER TWO

As soon as the guests left, Gay turned on Roger in a hot fury.

"What do you think you're doing, making love to that Hammond girl! I might have known something like this was going on!"

"Now, wait! Wait just a minute! I can explain what happened." Roger still had his professorial dignity, and it infuriated her all the more.

"Explain? How do you explain that? I saw you kissing her. You haven't kissed me like that for months."

"I can explain it, if you'll be quiet long enough for me to talk."

Gay stood rigid, her whole being waiting. She wanted him to explain, to convince her that what she had seen was not true. She did not want to believe that her husband was unfaithful to her.

"Tell me then. See if it's a story I can believe," she mocked his stiff tone angrily. Her lungs felt compressed, she could not take a full breath. Her heart hurt with a physical pain.

"Doris has been going steady with a boy. He broke it off last night. She was deeply hurt. She started to cry as she told me about it. I took her in my arms to comfort her. Then—well, I started kissing her. She is quite attractive. I let myself go too far."

Gay was silent, turning his explanation around and around in her mind. It was logical, but she could not believe it. There had been no tears on the girl's face.

Yet—it might be true. There was a small hope that it was true. She wanted to believe that Roger was not lying, that he was not having an affair with Doris Hammond.

"You see?" said Roger, maddeningly calm. "If you wouldn't blow up so fast, you wouldn't cause so much trouble. You must learn to control yourself."

Gay studied his face with cold fury. She was more calm now. There was a way she could check his story.

"I'll do the dishes," she said, finally. "I expect you have work to do—as usual."

His face lighted with relief. "l certainly do. I'll get to work. We're over our little fight, aren't we?"

"We'll see tomorrow," said Gay, with quiet irony, and went out to the kitchen. She would check his story and see.

When she had finished the dishes, straightened the dining room and kitchen, and was ready for bed, Roger was still working on his papers. She went to bed and lay awake in the darkness until he came to bed about 12:30. She lay rigid as he got in his bed, turned over, sighed and went right off to sleep.

She could not sleep, weary as she was. Anger churned her mind around and around.

Roger could give her all the verbal explanations and excuses he wanted. To Gay, actions spoke louder than words. If he was not carrying on an affair with Doris Hammond, then why didn't he want to make love to his wife? She knew Roger well enough to know he had the passions of a normal man, much as he tried to conceal and deny them at times. How, thought his wife, practically, did he satisfy himself? When he came to bed, he did not even look in her direction to see if she were asleep or awake. He did not want her.

The next morning she phoned one of the fraternity houses. When a boy answered, she asked, "May I speak to Karl Lucas, please."

"He's in class right now. Want me to have him call you?" said the boy's voice.

"Yes, please. This is Mrs. Roger Whitmer. Would you ask him to call me today?"

"Sure, Mrs. Whitmer." The boy's voice turned eager.

"Sure I will. I have to go to class myself, but I'll put a note on his desk to call you right away when he gets back."

"Thanks very much." She made her voice sweet and warm. At least the boys liked her as much as the girls liked her husband!

When she hung up, she said aloud, "There, that will do it. Karl will tell me the truth."

But Karl did not telephone her. She waited all morning, not even going on in the backyard to hang up clothes for fear she might not hear the phone. It was a suddenly warm April day, full of spring promises. Gay felt restless, touchy, on edge.

Surely Karl would not let her down, she thought, moving from one automatic task to another. She could not paint today, she didn't have the heart for painting.

Karl was in Roger's writing club last fall, had come to the house on the evenings Roger held club meetings at home. Then Roger abruptly changed his method. He held the club meetings in a class room or in the student union. When Gay protested, he said that it was too much work for her to have the students there, that she fixed too many refreshments, that the students couldn't concentrate on the manuscripts with her coming and going.

"He resented their attentions to me," said Gay aloud.

"That's what it was. He was jealous of the fuss the boys made over me. That was why he changed the club meetings. I wonder if that was when he started dating Doris again."

She was jealous, she admitted frankly to herself.

He spent so much time with his students. Perhaps some of those evenings that he had been so "busy" he had been with Doris—alone. Not in club meetings. Maybe he had changed the meeting place because he didn't want Gay to know he was not in a meeting, but with Doris.

"Oh, why doesn't Karl call me?"

She debated whether to call again, then decided he wasn't out of class yet. She would wait through the afternoon.

Roger came home for lunch, and Gay thought he looked quite self-satisfied. He praised the lunch, carefully, and kissed her when he went back to classes in the afternoon. But if he thought a peck on the cheek was going to make up for no love-making in bed—he was mistaken.

About two o'clock there was a knock on the front door. Gay went to the door, opened it to see Karl Lucas standing there. She stared at the boy, tall, blond, bronzed, athletic, a sullen expression on his face as he stared back at her.

"Oh—Karl," she said blankly. "I thought you were going to phone."

"Did you want to talk to me or didn't you?" he said bluntly.

"Yes. Come in."

She opened the door wider. He stepped in, brushing against her as he lounged awkwardly past her. He was about, a Junior this year, a quiet sulky youth who stared at her the evenings he had been in their home. He reminded her of a boy she had known in Rome, an artist, who stared and stared at her, at her red hair, her face, her figure, until she finally ignored him and let him stare his fill. He seemed to enjoy looking at her, and she didn't care.

"Sit down, Karl. Would you like something to drink?"

"I suppose you mean pop. No thanks. If you have some Scotch, I'd like it."

She decided to let that pass. She wasn't going to hand out liquor to her husband's students, and get a reputation.

She sat down nervously on the edge of the couch, opposite him in the big chair. "Karl, I want to know something. And I knew you would tell me the truth about it."

"Maybe I will and maybe I won't. What do you want to know?"

He was rude with the rudeness of youth, impatient with lying, impatient with social courtesy, brutal because it seemed more honest. He leaned back against the back of the chair, his legs sprawled, parted. She tried to keep her eyes from the lean sturdy figure, the long arms and legs, the open jacket, the tight trousers.

But he was so attractive, and both the woman and the painter in her appreciated the sight of him.

She turned her eyes away, stared deliberately at a lamp. "I want to know about Doris Hammond. Has she been dating anyone regularly?"

"Your husband," said Karl.

She flinched, looked back at him. "Oh, no. No! I meant—"

"She has. She sees him a couple nights a week, sometimes on Saturdays too. He has writing club only once a month now. The rest of the time he's with her."

She felt the blood draining from her head, leaving her dizzy and sick. Karl's curious eyes were on her, watching her reaction. Had he lied? No, he did not lie to her. He never had.

"I thought—I thought she was going steady with someone else," she forced herself to go on. "Some college—going steady—"

"Oh, she has dated a couple of fellows. One of them is in my frat. He says she's a cold one, though. To him she is, he says. Won't let him kiss her goodnight. He had the idea she was still hoping she could snag Prof.

Whitmer."

She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of his calm face, as he told her brutally what she did not want to know. She kept them tightly shut until he said, "Is that all? That what you want?"

She opened her eyes to see him standing before her. "Yes. Yes. Thank—you."

"Well, guess I'll go on then. Going down by the river to look at trees. That biology prof is a stupe.

Thinks we can study biology by looking at trees." His mouth twisted in a wry grin as he stared down at her red hair, her face, her breasts.

"You're going for a walk," she said, making conversation.

She wished she could go for a walk and forget all her problems. Looking at trees for biology class! Maybe she did not miss much by skipping college and living in Greenwich Village instead. She had learned plenty of biology there.

"Yeah. Why don't you come along? It's nice in the woods."

She drew a deep shaky breath. "Oh, you wouldn't want me to come, an old married woman like me," she said, already deciding to go with him.

"Come on," he said.

She got a sweater, green to match her green slacks and pale green blouse. She walked out the front door with him and didn't care who saw them on the street together. If she could hurt Roger as he was hurting her, she would be pleased and happy. Damn him.

Damn him and his star pupil! That was what he called Doris Hammond. His star pupil. He was teaching her plenty, she bet.

Karl Lucas took her arm lightly in his as they came to the corner. "This way," he said, and they turned off the main street into a muddy lane. She didn't care what happened to her shoes, what happened to her. She wanted to hurt Roger, to strike out at him in a way even he would understand.

They walked silently along the lane, crossed a fence, and in minutes were deep into the woods that lay beyond the town. A stream wandered through the woods and they walked around it, following its weaving way. She noticed without realizing the spring flowers, the budding green trees, the pale grass in the shade of the trees, the brown of the water in the stream, and the stones that shone beneath the surface of the water.

A bird sang overhead. She lifted her head to see it, but it was hidden.

"A cardinal," said Karl. "You can always recognize their call. There it is—look at that branch against the sky."

She looked, and saw the bright scarlet-colored bird, and just then he called again, flicked his long bright tail and bobbed on the branch.

"Oh, he's beautiful," she said.

Karl touched her hair with his hand. "Red-haired. Like you," he said. His hand stroked deliberately over her curly hair, and she did not protest. When they walked on, he put his arm around her, and drew her closer.

It was comforting to have a man interested in her, after Roger's cold neglect. She leaned against Karl as they walked, and his hand touched her breast through the softness of the sweater and blouse.

His touch felt good. His fingers were hard and aggressive.

He wanted sex also. He had hungers like hers.

She remembered what Roger had said about Karl—that he liked women too much. That he had been mixed up with an older woman in town last year. Karl was smart, honest. He didn't try to hide his affairs.

When they were discovered and stopped, he shrugged—and moved on to the next woman. He wasn't a sneak like Roger, hiding away from his wife. He didn't have a wife. He wasn't betraying anyone when he made love to a woman.

Karl paused, and his arm made her pause too. "Look at those flowers," he said, pointing to a patch of spring flowers that lay at the foot of a huge tree. "That looks like a bed for Venus."

She smiled. "I can imagine what one of the Italians would have done with that scene. The naked Venus laying on the flowers and perhaps Mars or one of her other lovers beside her."

"A Venus with red hair, that's what they would have painted," said Karl, his hand on her hair again.

"I'd like to see you that way, naked on the flowers."

His hands tightened on the back of her neck, he turned her face slowly up to his.

She let him kiss her, and her mouth answered his.

His mouth was young and eager and excited. She liked it, the smell of tobacco and sweat on him, the hardness of his hand at her neck, the roughness with which he drew her close with his other arm. Her own hot desires flared up as he kissed her with open mouth. She closed her eyes, opened her lips, and let his tongue thrust deep into her mouth.

She stiffened as he drew her down on the bed of flowers and grass. But she did not pull away. She drew him down on her, and he kissed her with rougher passion, his hand stroking her breasts hungrily. He unfastened the blouse, shoved aside the slip, and yanked away the brassiere to touch her soft breasts. His hard fingers squeezed, his thumb titillated the nipple and it rose in a point. He bent his head, and took the breast in his mouth.

Gay closed her eyes against the sunlight that filtered down through the trees. A heat was bubbling up in her, a hot desire for this lean hard body pressing against hers. As Roger was doing it with Doris.

Karl's hands went to the belt of her slacks, unfastened the belt, yanked the slacks down and off. He yanked off the panties, pulled the slip up. Impatiently he pulled at the sweater and blouse. She sat up, helped him pull them off, and the slip and brassiere. Then she was naked, lay down on the grass and brushed out her red hair deliberately for his pleasure.

He hung over her, his face glowing. His face was red, his eyes hot, his mouth parted as he looked at her, down to her feet, back up to her head. "Venus," he said softly. "Venus on her bed. Oh, you are so beautiful, so beautiful."

She raised her arms to him. "Come here, come to me. Venus was made for one use only," she said provocatively.

He laughed aloud, and leaned over her, his legs between hers. She unfastened his trousers, pushed them down. He yanked them off, came at her with ferocious hunger. She felt him drive hard at her, felt the jolt in her body.

He lay heavily on her and used her roughly, but she gloried in it. She wanted to be hurt with passion, to be roused and tousled and inflamed with passion. Not to be used gently, not to be handled carefully. But to hurt with ecstasy, to fight the man, to wrest satisfaction from him.

She rolled under him, her hips rising to meet his as he thrust again and again. She loved the feel of his hard young flesh against hers. He was breathing hard, panting, with each thrust. His hands strained at her waist, his mouth panted against her breasts. He groaned in the pleasure of possessing her.

All too soon it was over, he expired on her and lay breathing hard. She stroked his back, whispered to him lovingly.

"Karl—sweet, darling. You're marvelous. Do it again, love. Do it again to me, Karl. Love, darling, sweet," she coaxed, wanting more, crazy for more.

Her fingers played with his body, her hands squeezed him with design.

He soon wanted her again, raised up to begin once more. His eyes were dazed with pleasure, he came at her more ferociously, just the way she wanted it. She forgot everything in the world but the pleasures in her own body, the looseness of her limbs, the heat bubbling in her, then the rockets going off and soaring high into the sky. She cried out, clutching him painfully to her softness, hugging him tightly as the rockets went off again and again.

As she relaxed and lay back, he came again at her, pressing his sexual fury against her. They rolled over and over in the grass, biting each other, clutching, fighting for their own pleasures, competing sweetly for the most pleasurable pain. His lean body learned every curve and swell of hers.

They stayed in the woods until the shadows began to lay heavily on the grass. Karl played with her limbs and breasts and kissed her open-mouthed over her white flesh, praising her breathlessly as a Venus, a goddess, his red-haired nymph. She did not feel like laughing at him. She hungered for his praise, his joy in her, the feeling that at least this one man desired her.

Finally she knew she must leave. She washed herself in the stream; Karl splashed her with water, wanted to kiss her in the water, fondled her with shaking hands until she threatened him laughingly with a wet branch of a tree. She climbed out of the water dried herself, slipped on her clothes under his adoring gaze.

"When can I see you again?" he demanded. "Tomorrow?"

She had not planned a full-scale affair. She put him off uneasily and went home alone. She had enjoyed the afternoon, though, and she felt revenged upon Roger.

He could play around with his blond student all he pleased, she thought. Every time he dated Doris, she herself would play with one of his students.

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