Chapter 05 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 FIVE

A kind of numbness set in after a while.

She was so tired, she felt beat. Roger did not feel any loyalty to his wife. He would rather play around with his student, Doris, he seemed to have much more consideration for her tender feelings than he had for Gay's.

She wandered around the house in a daze that weekend.

She tried to paint, but found that she was sitting there with a brush in her hand, staring at the canvas for an hour at a time without putting a single stroke of paint on it.

She had never dreamed that Roger would be like this. She thought that a college professor would be so moral and so good that she would have a hard time living up to him. She had been proud that he chose such a wild Bohemian to be his wife. She had resolved to settle down and be a good wife so that Roger would be even more proud of her.

But he jumped directly into an affair as soon as they had returned to the campus. Or rather he continued an affair that had begun before his marriage. And he seemed to have no compunctions about it. He seemed to feel that anything he did was all right, anything he wanted to do was justifiable. He was a professor, he was smarter than other people; therefore if he wanted to do something it was automatically okay.

Gay nibbled at the end of the brush. In Rome she had known several couples who lived together without being married. How the American colony had looked down their noses at them! Even Gay had felt that they were beyond the pale. If a man and woman lived together like that, they ought to be married.

Yet, she mused, those couples were more devoted to each other than some of the married couples. She remembered Hans, the German, and little Lisa, the Hungarian girl with the haunted dark eyes. They never looked at anyone else. They held hands in public, shared what little income they could scrape together.

They had lived in an attic room where Lisa swept and dusted faithfully around Hands as he worked at his sculpture. Then she would go out and pose for nude photographs to earn the money for their dinner.

Gay wondered if she loved Roger enough to pose for nude photographs so he would have enough to eat.

Lisa had turned down lucrative offers from men, with the usual strings attached. She was faithful to Hans, even though they were not married. And blond attractive Hans had turned down an offer from a rich American girl who had wanted an "experience" as she called it.

Gay sighed and tried to concentrate on her painting. But now that she had begun to remember Rome, floods of memories kept coming back. The beautiful French girl who was studying ballet and living with the dark-haired Turk whose wife would not divorce him or live with him ...

They lived with each other for three years, faithfully. And there was red-haired Anna from Milan, studying music and living with the boy from Yugoslavia. They had been together for eight years, someone told Gay.

Those non-marriages seemed to be holding together better than her marriage to Roger, thought Gay. Why?

Was it because they were truly suited to each other, truly in love, whereas what she and Roger had felt for each other was just sex? She hated to think that.

She and Roger loved each other, she insisted. They did love each other. They had dated each other for months before marriage, learning to know one another well before marriage.

Yet—she was shocked at the change in Roger since they had returned to the States. Maybe she had not known him after all. Maybe the Roger she had known had been a wraith conjured up by the Roman sunshine, to evaporate as soon as the sunshine was gone.

The telephone rang. She went listlessly.

"Hello—Gay?" It was Karl's voice, eager, hopeful.

"Hello, Karl."

"May I come over? I know he's gone."

Her mouth twisted; probably everyone on campus knew that Roger was gone, and with whom. "No, not today. I'm awfully tired." It was the truth. The session with Roger had wearied her, and the emotional exhaustion she felt now was even more tiring.

"When can I come again? You can't keep putting me off." His voice was sullen again.

"I'm not putting you off, darling." She made her voice sweet and warm. "It's just that I want to be careful. I don't want you to get in trouble. They almost expelled you last fall."

"I don't care. It's worth it! Let me come." His voice lowered to a whisper. "Please—Gay—I must see you."

"Not this weekend. Roger might come home any minute."

"Next week, then. When he's in class."

"I'll see. Wait. Let me call you." She meant to keep putting him off until he tired of asking her.

"Let me come over now and just talk. I want to see you. I can't bear not to see you."

She hesitated, then refused again. "No, darling.

Someone might suspect. Let's wait."

He hung up angrily. She went back to her painting, tried to work at it. She mixed some rose paint with white, tried it on the sky. That seemed to work. She bent forward, absorbed and able to concentrate on her work at last.

She worked most of Saturday on the painting. Roger didn't come home that night. So she worked most of Sunday on it also. Sometimes she could not paint, but sat and thought about herself and Roger until it hurt.

Then she was able to concentrate, and forget all her problems in the work she loved.

Roger came home late Sunday night. She heard him come in cautiously, his shoes off. She pretended to be asleep.

In the morning he left before she was awake. He was avoiding her. He hated quarrels. He wanted only to be left alone, to do what he pleased. Well, maybe she would just leave him alone for a while!

She was cold and curt to him that evening. He seemed relieved, and settled down to grading papers.

quite happily. She wondered at him. He seemed happier when she was coldly angry with him than when she was loving and sweet.

Tuesday was more of the same. Wednesday he ignored her, scarcely spoke to her. How long could they go on?

On Thursday afternoon, Karl Lucas came soon after Roger had left for his classes. Gay suspected that he had been watching the house.

"Hello, Karl. Come in." She let him in quickly so the neighbors would not notice.

"I saw him leave. He'll be gone all afternoon." Karl stared down at her hungrily, his sullen mouth pouting.

"You didn't call me. You are free but you didn't call me."

"I've been—brooding." Gay shrugged, turned away.

"I guess I'm upset, Karl. You shouldn't bother with me."

He came up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders.

"I know what's wrong. He's been seeing Doris Hammond. Why don't you pay him back? He's a bastard."

She did not deny that. She thought so too. She let Karl draw her back against him. His comfort was sweet, though she knew it was only because he wanted her body. She leaned against him, held his hand against her breast. She was hungry for comfort, for sex, for the forgetfulness that this boy could bring to her.

They had all afternoon. Maybe she would play with him and have fun for a change.

"Let's sit down on the couch," she suggested, drawing him with her.

He came, but protested. "I thought we could go for a walk in the woods. it's plenty warm today." He looked at her significantly.

She remembered Martin York and his mocking "story." No more of that! She wouldn't take chances on being seen by middle-aged satyrs.

"No, let's stay here. Come on, darling," she coaxed, and drew him to sit down on the couch with her. As he sat down, she moved over and lay back in his arms.

His face lighted eagerly. His hands went to her breasts.

She stretched her arms luxuriously, her breasts swelling under the gold blouse she wore. "Touch me, hold me," she whispered. "I want to be loved."

She did want that. She wanted to be loved, to be kissed and caressed, to be helped to forgetfulness. Karl pulled up the blouse, unfastened the brassiere that was all she wore under the blouse. His fingers pulled down the bra eagerly, and touched her breasts. He laughed out loud, his eyes blazing as he found the soft mounds, the tender nipples.

She wriggled to a more comfortable position in his mouth. She touched his head tenderly, drew him closer and closed her eyes. This felt good, this boy's mouth at her breasts, his boyish sweetness nuzzling at her.

The nipples hardened, stood up in peaks which he took in his mouth and toyed with, each in turn. His tongue licked at the breasts and nipples, and she felt warmth sweeping down her spine to her hips. She moved her legs spasmodically as he went on.

He unfastened the belt of her slacks, pushed his hand into the pants and felt for her. She let him, lazily, lying quietly while he searched and explored and laughed excitedly. She felt the desire awakening in her. He jerked the pants down farther, pulled them off, and she kicked them away from her. Then he pulled down her panties, yanked them off. His head bent down to her thighs, and he kissed her soft body with hot urgent caresses. She rubbed her hands over his head, stroking the bull-like neck and shoulders as he bent over her.

"I wan—I want—" he panted, raising his head.

"On the floor ," she said. She also felt urgent passion.

She rolled off his legs, over onto the floor, and lay open and waiting for him.

He stood up, yanked down his trousers and bent to her. She felt the instant jolt of his body as he touched her. He lunged twice, exploded like a firecracker sighed and expired upon her.

It was much too fast to please her. She lay still, trying to coax him to life again. But he wanted to rest and she felt his heart beating, beating rapidly. She stroked his back and shoulders until he was calm.

Then they went to the bedroom. He lay on her bed and watched as she went to the dresser and searched.

"What are you looking for?" he wanted to know.

"You'll see in a minute," she smiled at him, teasingly.

She knew how to rouse him again quickly for her own pleasure this time.

She got out the small black lace panties and a black lace brassiere. She put on the bra, taking a long time to pull it over her swollen breasts and fasten it in back. Then coming close to the bed, she put on the lace panties, fastened them with the small pert bows at each side of a white thigh. Karl, panting with excitement, stared pop-eyed at her.

"Oh—you're so beautiful—so lovely—"

She smiled, went to the closet and got her high-heeled black shoes. On stilt heels she paraded before him as she often did for Roger. He was getting more and more excited. Teasingly, she bent before him, turned around and showed him her pink and white buttocks.

"Spank me," she invited, as she backed up to him.

Timidly he spanked one soft thigh.

"Again—harder—"

He spanked harder, his face reddening, his eyes blazing. Then he pulled her down across his thighs, pushed her over on her back, bent to her. He was ready now, she saw with satisfaction. She wriggled to a comfortable position, let him remove the panties with shaking fingers.

He drew her legs apart, knelt between them staring up at her. "You—you're so—beautiful—so gorgeous—so—so lovely—" His hands drew patterns on her arms and waist and thighs before he bent farther down and began kissing her wildly. He surged to her yielding body. She gently controlled his motions to build up her own passions.

"Slowly, darling—slowly—stop. Wait. Now, again."

She made him stop again and again, to control his own explosive passion until she was ready. Finally she felt weakness overcoming her, felt the heat building up to a peak.

"Now—hurry—faster, darling. Faster—"

He moved faster and faster. The rocket shot up to the moon. She cried out, and pulled him down on her, flat against her body, hugging him tight, moving convulsively as the rocket shot higher and higher . . . the waves of convulsions overwhelming them both at the same time, and the sweetness was like honey and molasses sliding down her throat, down through her body to her quivering hips. She hugged him and rolled back and forth across the bed, exploiting him ruthlessly to increase her own pleasure.

Finally it was over, he rolled free and lay panting for breath. She smiled lazily up at him. Men thought they were using her for their satisfaction. Well, she knew a few tricks herself, from years of experience. If Roger felt like neglecting her, and men swarmed around the neglected honey-pot—that honey-pot knew what to do.

She stretched with satisfaction, her body swimming in pleasure and looseness. Her hips felt lax and tired. Her breasts were swollen and soft, except for the hard nipples pointing up at the ceiling and quivering for more.

Karl needed a while to recover from that bout. When he had recovered, though, he wanted more. And she gave him more, and more, and more. They rolled across the bed and kissed and caressed with long open-mouthed kisses.

His young body quivered under her caresses, her body trembled with his kisses. They exploded like that, and laughed out loud as the bed shook. with their delighted experiments. She played with him boldly, encouraged him to experiment again and again ...

Toward four o'clock she began to get worried about Roger's return. Reluctantly Karl got up, but he wanted a shower.

"Take one with me,'' he urged eagerly. "Come on, beautiful Gay. I want to see you in the shower."

She was not unwilling. They went to the shower, and she turned it on. The water streamed down on them. He soaped her eagerly with knowing hands, grabbed her and kissed her, their soapy bodies struggled together as they tried to maintain their balance on the tiled floor. She pushed him off laughing, tried to get the soap away and cover him with suds.

He let her soap him finally, watching with burning eyes as she teasingly rubbed the soap over the sensitive parts of his body. They stood under the shower, hugging each other as the water streamed down on them. He kissed her and pushed her against the wall of the shower. Silently, eyes closed, they jolted closer and closer. Her feet slipped on the wet floor; he held her upright with the force of his body. She heard his heavy breathing at her shoulder as he pushed again and again until he exploded, and convulsions shook her in response.

He wanted to lie down on the bed with her again, but she refused.

"No, no more, Karl. Dry yourself. Hurry, he might come home any minute."

Reluctantly he dressed, and she pulled on her clothes, while he watched her with possessive pride.

She had to push him to the door before he would leave.

"Tomorrow?" he asked eagerly at the doorway, lingering.

"Tomorrow? Absolutely not!" she said, making a face at him. "Do you think I can do this every day?

Darling, dearest, I'm just not that strong! Wait a week."

"A week! Not a week, not a whole week," he protested, backing slowly away.

"Go on!" she urged. "Go on before he comes!" She closed the door softly in his face.

Behind the closed door, she said, "Whew!" and smiled in reminiscent delight. She had gotten what she wanted today. Her hips swinging with satisfaction she went back to the bedroom to air it out of what she called "the sex smell," and make sure the telltale clothes were put away.

She straightened the bed, aired it with the window opened wide to the cool afternoon air and the warm sunshine. She hummed as she picked up her stilt-heeled shoes and put them away. She found the brassiere under the dresser where Karl had slung it as he had pulled it off her. But she searched in vain for the black lace panties.

They were Roger's current favorites. A little panicky, she unmade the bed and searched under the sheets. No panties. No black bows peeking from the black lace insets. She searched under the bed, under the dresser, even in the bathroom. No panties.

"Karl," she said aloud. He had stolen her black lace panties for a souvenir. "Oh, damn that boy. I've got to get them back. Roger will be sure to ask for them."

Oh, hell, she thought, making the bed again. It would be just like Roger to want her again, want her to wear those very panties. She would have to put him off. Make up some story. They were in the laundry, or she had mislaid them, or surely they were in one of the drawers. She would have to think up something.

That crazy boy, carrying off her panties!

She had another idea. She would go into Shelby and buy some new exotic lingerie, the kind Roger liked. The next time they made love, she would wear the new set, something so entrancing he would forget to ask for the panties. Something red and black, or maybe a green and gold set. Yes, that was what she would do.

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