Chapter 03 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 THREE

Gay felt better. She felt she had punished Roger for his unfaithfulness, whether he ever learned of her episode with Karl or not. And she was satisfied physically, since Karl had brought her to a peak several times during' the afternoon.

When the door bell rang a couple of afternoons later, she fully expected to see Karl once more. She had put him off, but after all the boy was impatient. She felt impatient herself, as she thought of his kisses and caresses. Quite ready to welcome Karl and invite him in, she flung open the door.

There stood Professor Martin York, tall, suave, black-haired, as different from sullen blond Karl as two men could be.

Gay stared, her mouth parted in a greeting that was never spoken.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Whitmer. May I come in?"

He had a slight, charming, diffident smile under the black mustache.

"Why—ah—yes." She stood back, feeling like a child in her brief orange blouse and orange shorts. She was conscious of his appraising gaze sliding over her legs, like a physical caress.

She closed the door, motioned to a chair. He was probably here to ask her to be on a committee of the faculty to entertain someone or other. Or to arrange flowers, or a table.

"You have a lovely home, Mrs. Whitmer." He glanced briefly around the room, then back to her. She had the feeling he didn't see much in the house except her.

"Thank you." She resolved to agree to arrange flowers or organize a tea. The faculty women had been cool to her, she welcomed the chance to be in one some of the social events. They were a bore, but it was the only way to become acquainted with the faculty, get into the inner circles. "I suppose you are here about a tea· or something?"

"Tea?" His black eyebrows raised above the steady black eyes. "No, is there to be a tea? I wasn't aware of any."

"Oh. Well, I couldn't think why else—"

He smiled in amusement. "No, I don't have much to do with faculty events. Since my divorce, I have welcomed the opportunity of having nothing to do with faculty teas."

"Oh," she said again. She had forgotten that Martin York had obtained a divorce last fall, soon after she and Roger had come to the campus. She couldn't remember the gossip—something about Martin and a young woman in town, his wife's fury, the divorce, then Martin dropping the young woman. Mrs. Sweetman had made some comment, something about Martin using the woman to get the divorce he had wanted for a long time. He was a scoundrel, according to Mrs. Sweetman.

Martin York crossed his neat gray-flanneled legs.

"You have traveled a great deal, haven't you, Mrs. Whitmer?"

"Not much," she said. "I lived in Rome one winter. That's where Roger and I met."

"Ah, Italy," he said. "I had a year's sabbatical in Rome once. Then went back several summers. Charming and beautiful country. And you are an artist, I believe."

"Yes, I paint."

"I have tried to understand the minds of artists," he rambled on, his black eyes watching her steadily.

"They seem to have different standards than us poor wretches who have no talents. Beauty is their main standard, isn't it? And freedom, the freedom of the artist to live as he pleases, to live in the way that will enable him to paint the best."

She was wary, but could not help responding to his friendly tone. "Oh, yes, that's true! Artists must have different standards of values. The conventional world crushes them. It's dreadful to live in the conventional world—the fences, the walls—" she mused, almost forgetting him.

"I remember in Greenwich Village one painted where and when one pleased. If I tried to go out here at three in the morning and paint the night sky—whew! I'd be arrested!" She laughed ruefully. "And yet it is so important to paint what attracts one. To paint what one must!"

"I wish I were a painter," he said. "I'd like to paint beautiful women—country scenes like Fragonard, or Rubens. Lovely, rosy, naked women on beds of flowers ... "

His words seemed to have some hidden meaning.

She flushed, remembering her own experience two days before, and Karl naked frolicking in the water and on the grass.

"I don't do nudes," she said rather coldly. "I do some landscapes, in a stylized manner, translating them into streams of color and light. That sort of thing."

"Ah, yes. Tastes differ. I have always been attracted to nudes."

She moved uncomfortably, beginning to suspect. She scarcely dared look at him. "Why did you come today, Professor York?" she finally asked bluntly. "If it wasn't about a tea, what then?"

"About you, my dear. About beauty, and artists, and your charming habits when in the woods."

She started up from her chair. He stood, in mocking courtesy.

"You—you saw me?"

His black eyes flickered with amusement. "Yes. I almost missed you, and how I would have regretted it!"

"Oh!" She swallowed. He was probably going to blackmail her. She wondered frantically how she could raise a lot of money, quick. Or would it be better to go right to Roger and tell him everything?

"You see, I was walking in the woods, a solitary stroll that I enjoy so much now that my wife is no longer around to chatter and distract me. She was getting older—much faster than I am, I regret to say.

I am forty-one, but I feel like a young man. She was forty-one, and wanted to be a sedate middle-aged woman. So we were quite unsuited to each other."

"I—understand."

His long thin mouth moved in the shadow of a smile. "So, as I said, I was strolling in the woods when I heard voices. Ordinarily I would have gone miles around to avoid any body in the woods. But these bodies seemed to be having a wonderful time, laughing and panting. So„I peeped over a bush and behind a tree—and beheld Venus and her lover. A most gorgeous red-haired Venus with white flesh, and a most adoring anxious lover."

He loved to torment, Gay realized. She sank down in her chair again, and waited, shaking, for the climax.

"Imagine the scene that I saw. The sunlight streaming down through the branches of the trees, flowers and soft green grass, a burbling brook—yes, I am positive that it burbled. And rolling in the grass, two figures to enchant Rubens. The red-haired Venus, her legs parted, her soft breasts swollen from previous embraces, her face—ah, her face so enchanting and enraptured that it made my heart swell in sympathy. And her young lover, sullen young Mars, kneeling at her feet and kissing her with such wanton passion—"

"Shut up!" said Gay, her face blazing hot. "I get it. What is your blackmail price?"

He laughed, and sat down opposite her. "But I have not yet finished my little story," he mocked. "These two lovers were so enraptured that they never suspected my presence. I remained—about two hours, I believe—and finally the young Venus bathed her lovely limbs in the brown stream while Mars splashed her rudely with water. Then she dressed—ah, how I regretted the hiding of those lovely legs and arms and breasts. And they left."

That was the way he would describe the scene to Roger, and her husband would be so enraged he would kill her—or force her to get a divorce. Martin would not be content with simply saying he had seen Gay in the woods with Karl, and in an intimate embrace. He would embellish and describe the scene in lascivious detail, until Roger went right out of his mind.

"What—is—your—price?" she gritted.

He smiled frankly. "I confess I was almost as interested in the dialogue that went on as in the embraces. Charming! Karl Lucas has much more imagination and knows much more about mythology than I would have given him credit for. Of course in my psychology courses he never distinguished himself. I did not dream he knew so much about female psychology, as to know that a restless impatient wife who is being neglected by her husband is good prey for any Casanova."

She clenched her fists on her knees and waited silently. He would get around to the price when he had teased and tormented her long enough.

"The dialogue—so sweet. 'My glorious nymph,' he would yell as he dove between your beauteous limbs. I confess I thought his technique rather crude. I myself try to be a little more slow and give the woman more pleasure."

In spite of herself, her body was beginning to tingle as he went on and on, teasing her, describing how he himself would have treated her if he had been her lover in the woods. He was an experienced lover, and he knew the value of arousing a woman with words and suggestions.

Finally he saw she would not respond to his teasing words, and said, "Now you mentioned a price. Blackmail. Too terrible a word! But the act—ah, how sweet. Yes, I thought my price would be a night with the goddess. Venus herself shall pay the penalty for her indiscretion. Shall we say—a night at a hotel in Shelby?"

"What? she gasped, completely startled.

"I would suggest the woods, but it seems that the woods are full of spies," he said, mockingly apologetic.

"I wouldn't like to be observed as I observed! I wouldn't care for that at all. I'm shy and nervous, and it might put me off my technique. So, shall we say at the Shelby hotel?"

"No!" she said.

"My darling, Gay. I may call you Gay, may I not?"

Dearest Gay, you have no choice. A night with me—or I shall be forced, most regretfully to tell your husband the whole story. A long story I shall make of it, too. After all I observed for two hours, and you and young Karl managed to accomplish a great deal in two hours! Such embraces, such clinging, such kisses in such delectable parts of the body! I saw you kiss Karl and really, my dear, it made me blush!"

She jumped up again, unable to sit still any longer.

He stood also, and tried to take her in his arms.

"No, no, not here," she said. "Oh, I can't! Roger will know, he will hear about it—"

"Not if we are discreet," said Martin. "He'll never know."

She shoved him away from her as he came at her once more. She shook her head violently. "No, if I go with you—that won't be the end. You'll keep on blackmailing me. I know that. It's foolish—"

"If you give me exactly what I want," he said bluntly, "you won't need to worry! I'll never tell friend Roger one small word. You may count on that!"

She stared at him, tempted. But no, one time would lead to another, and there would be Karl to reckon with and—No. She must stop right here.

"I can't. I won't. You'll just have to understand—oh please, Martin," she said appealingly. "I want my marriage to work. I was only getting back at Roger for—for something else. I didn't mean to begin ·an affair.

It was only once. Please—"

"You are so charming when you please," said Martin. He glanced at his watch unhurriedly. "Well, I must leave. You are attending the faculty concert tomorrow evening, aren't you? And the reception, of course. I'll force myself to go, in order to get your answer. Tell me when I should make the hotel reservations, when to meet you. I'll be waiting, my dear!"

He succeeded in getting her into his arms. She stood rigid as he kissed her cheek with warm slow caresses.

He turned up her face. "Open your mouth, sweet," he commanded.

She opened her mouth. His tongue flicked lightly inside, thrust deeply, once. Then he stood back.

"Very sweet, and I'll see you tomorrow evening, darling." He grinned, like a dark satyr. "Do make arrangements for next week, Gay! I can hardly wait!"

He teased her a little longer before he left, but she realized she had been given a reprieve. After he had left, she sat down to catch her breath.

Oh, that devil! That teasing devil! She hated herself for being emotionally disturbed by his words and his invitation. He was much older than she, so terribly attractive. But he was a cold-blooded devil. She would be asking for trouble if she once met him in Shelby.

He had no love for her, or for any woman, she would bet. All he wanted was a woman to satisfy his passions, to satisfy his complex lustful desires.

She was tempted to tell Roger that evening about Karl, to disarm Martin. But Roger was dark and moody that night, he cut her off curtly when she timidly tried to make conversation. Angered, she relapsed into silence. She would work this out herself.

They went to the concert the following evening.

Three professors in the music department performed a Trio by Mozart and a Trio by Schubert. Gay was rather bored, and she suspected that Roger was also.

But he pretended to be delighted and clapped longer than the others, as though to prove he was more cultured than they were.

Professor Sweetman leaned over to Gay and whispered, with an old man's boldness, "I'll bet you would rather be dancing to some pretty music, eh? Pretty girls like you shouldn't have to attend functions like this."

She managed to smile. "I do like to dance. But this is very nice, of course."

Mrs. Sweetman patted her arm. Gay wondered why the Sweetmans were being so nice to her this evening.

They were going out of their way to be cordial. Maybe they had enjoyed the dinner at the Whitmer's.

Martin York had come and leaned against the wall in the back of the chamber concert room. Gay noticed him uneasily when she turned around. Surely he would not dare come up to her and talk the way he had talked yesterday.

While refreshments were being served after the music, Roger wandered off to talk to one of his colleagues in the Literature Department. Gay sat with Mrs. Sweetman and brooded. Was this the way it was going to be all her life? Going to dull events, pretending to be interested in heavy music and heavy talk, letting old men pet her while pretending to be paternally interested in her, talking to older women about their children and grandchildren. Would she ever have any children of her own? That would help. If only—But Roger always edged away from that subject.

"Venus," someone whispered in her ear. Without turning around, she knew it was Martin. She stiffened.

If Mrs. Sweetman heard one word, she would die?

But Mrs. Sweetman was busy comparing daughters-in-law with another faculty lady. Gay turned around, whispered furiously, "Don't talk to me!"

The shadowy grin touched his mouth, his black eyes gazed boldly down at the · modest edge of her green formal where it covered her white breasts. "Give me your answer, then, darling! I can hardly wait!"

"The answer is no! I can't meet you."

"You can, my pretty nymph! My beautiful gorgeous red-haired nymph of the woods, resting her lovely white limbs on green grass and yellow flowers."

"Shut up!" she whispered in a groan of dismay.

"I can go on like this all night! Especially when I have such a lovely subject to paint."

"Paint?" said Mrs. Sweetman, turning back to them.

"Are you talking about painting?"

Gay almost fainted. Had she heard anything else?

But looking at the innocent faded blue eyes, she was reassured. "Yes, Mrs. Sweetman. I haven't had much time to paint recently. I understand Professor York is quite keen about art."

She dared him to deny it, her green eyes meeting his.

He caught up the topic with his usual suavity.

"I have been telling Mrs. Whitmer about the lovely collection on display at the Shelby museum, Mrs. Sweetman," he said. "Rather old-fashioned paintings, as tastes go now. None of these modern blobs. I like the old-fashioned kind, the landscapes and people.

Don't you?"

The devil! Gay could hardly suppress her laughter as innocent Mrs. Sweetman agreed that she did love landscapes and people. "I'm surprised at you, Professor York," she said coyly, tapping his hand with her old blue-veined fragile hand. "I would have thought you were one of the people who adored modern art."

"Not I!" said Martin, with vigor. "I like the Italian artists and Rubens. Especially Rubens. His colors are gorgeous. Titian reds are my favorites also. All those lovely portraits."

"Wouldn't Mrs. Whitmer make a lovely subject for Titian?" said Mrs. Sweetman affectionately. "That beautiful red-haired girl in a gorgeous yellow satin dress. Lovely!"

Martin took the opportunity to study Gay with bold frankness, with pretended seriousness looking her over from head to foot. "Yes, I can just see that! I believe you're absolutely right. She would make a stunning subject."

Mrs. Sweetman beamed at him. "Now we're making Mrs. Whitmer blush! How charming!"

Mrs. Sweetman seemed determined to remain in the conversation. Martin finally moved away, frustrated in his attempt to wring an acceptance from Gay. She was relieved to see him go.

"My dear," said Mrs. Sweetman, as soon as he had left. "I've been wanting to tell you something. I must seize this chance. My dear, I'm so terribly sorry."

"About what?" said Gay, wondering again. Surely Mrs. Sweetman had not heard about Gay and Karl. Oh, surely not.

"About your husband—and his student, that Doris Hammond." Mrs. Sweetman was blushing and stammering, her eyes downcast. "We saw him at the Shelby Hotel two weeks ago. I'm so terribly hurt for you, dear. It is a burden you must find hard to bear, under that brave exterior. I can't tell you how much I admire you for enduring this without making a public scene. Not every woman has the poise to handle such a difficult situation."

Gay sat frozen as Mrs. Sweetman babbled on and patted her hand and consoled her. The well-meaning woman never realized how her words put barbs into the pretty girl at her side. Roger and Doris—at the Shelby Hotel. All night. It must have been that Saturday he had spent in Shelby, staying overnight "to finish business." Oh, she would kill him! Oh, she would slaughter that man!

"I only wanted to tell you that we are on your side," babbled Mrs. Sweetman. "We girls cannot understand how a man can ignore his bride of less than a year, such a beautiful sweet girl, in favor of that brazen student of his. I asked Mr. Sweetman if there wasn't something that could be done about her, if she couldn't be expelled. But like a man he made light of it."

So everyone on campus was talking about it! Everyone had known about Roger and Doris, except Gay herself! And Roger had had the gall to deny there was anything serious between them! He had told her that cock and bull story about Doris' steady boyfriend.

Oh, she would kill him!

"Poor darling," cooed Mrs. Sweetman, patting her hand. "I won't say another word. I just wanted to tell you we understand perfectly! You must be brokenhearted!"

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