Chapter 06 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 SIX

Gay telephoned Karl the next day and demanded that he return the panties. But he only laughed.

"I'll bring them with me the next time I come. And if you're very nice to me, like you were yesterday—I might give them back to you!"

She hung up angrily. Just like the boy. She wondered if he would show them to everyone in his fraternity and brag where he had gotten them.

She went into Shelby to shop, but none of the rather conservative shops had sufficiently glamorous lingerie to suit Roger. She looked and looked until she was weary. Then she saw a costume shop, and on impulse went in.

They had something she decided would do very well the beaded brassieres and g-strings that show-girls wear. She chose one set in red and another in black and gold. There, that ought to satisfy Roger. She rather admired the way the g-strings looked on her after she got home. She tried them on and danced around the bedroom.

If Roger could see her now, he would not be able to resist her! The black and gold g-string set off her white flesh, her slightly plump hips, the pear-shaped buttocks, the line of curly red hair just revealed by the brief string. And the brassiere was good and tight, her breasts oozed out delightfully from the beaded glittering material. She turned every which way before the mirror, admiring herself.

But Roger did not come home that evening. He had a meeting of his writers' club, he said. In cold anger, Gay refused to speak to him before he left, and spent a miserable evening wondering whether his body was meeting Doris'. She sat and pouted, considering how to get revenge on him.

Martin York called her the next day. "Hello, Martin," say Gay, her eyes narrowed reflectively at the blank wall. "How are you?"

"Hot, darling," said Martin, with a laugh:

"Hot? This is April. Wait till July," she said, without thinking.

He laughed again. "Thinking of you, I'd be hot in January, sweet. When are you going to meet me and cool me off a bit?"

"Oh, is that what you mean?"

"That is exactly what I mean. I've been tempted to speak to your husband several times about you. But each time something stops me. I keep having the feeling that you are about to give in and pay my price."

"Why not?" she said recklessly. "I might as well."

"You will? Great!" He sounded rather surprised, but quickly took his cue. "Tomorrow evening, at the Shelby Hotel. I'll phone you about five o'clock and tell you what room, then you can come right up."

"Tomorrow—I don't know—" She wanted time to think.

"Your husband will be at the faculty social. You could have a severe headache, darling!"

"A headache, lasting all night in Shelby? Yeah—he would believe that—not. No, I think I had better go shopping in Shelby, and stay all night for a play I've been wanting to see."

"Anything, just so you come. Don't disappoint me, sweet! I've had time to make up the most beautiful emotional story about you and your woodsy lover!"

"I can imagine," said Gay. What would he have to tell if he could have seen her and Karl in bed! "I'll be there, but don't be surprised if I'm late."

"Just so you come," he repeated, and the sauve cynical man sounded unusually eager. "I've been dreaming about you, and I have all sorts of plans."

She laughed, and hung up. But she had begun to tingle with expectation. He had a reputation as a romantic lover. Maybe it would be interesting. She quite looked forward to the night with him.

Thinking it over, she had a good story prepared for Roger. He seemed scarcely interested though, treated her proposed expedition casually. It would serve him right, thought Gay angrily. He didn't care what she did.

The following afternoon she went into Shelby, shopped in several stores, then had dinner alone at the hotel she and Martin had chosen. She saw him come into the lobby and go use the elevator. He had seen her, she was sure.

She waited a discreet interval, then went upstairs. He had picked up her suitcase at a locker where she had left it, and everything was ready for her in the bedroom.

When Martin closed the door behind her, she looked at the bed and laughed. He'd even laid out her nightgown for her!

"How thoughtful of you, Martin," she said mockingly, removing her coat. He took the coat from her and hung it up beside his in the closet.

"I like my courtships to go smoothly," he said. The slight smile on his lips disappeared as he watched her undress. His dark eyes were intent as her body began to appear. She turned and flirted with him over her shoulder as she removed her slip. He did not touch her, just waited. He had more self-control than Roger, or Karl, or any of her former lovers, she realized.

"Put on the nightgown," he said, as she hesitated.

She put it on, let the transparent filmy rose gown slip over her head to cover her demurely to her knees. But it did not really cover her. Her white flesh and the red hair at her thighs shone through the filmy material.

"Lie down on the bed. Let me look at you."

She lay down on the wide bed, fluffing her red curly hair, lying with arms outstretched, waiting for him as he deliberately undressed. He knew the importance of anticipation. He showed himself to her as he undressed, just as she had shown herself to him. He was tall, lean, straight, with long legs and thighs. Black curly hair covered his chest and matted his flesh down to his thighs. She longed to touch and caress it. His arms were muscular, his chest thick, narrowing to a slender waist and slender muscular hips. She could practically feel him thrusting those powerful hips at her. She sighed in anticipation of passionate delight.

Heat stole through her body as she looked at him.

She could feel her breasts swelling, her belly warming, her hips beginning to move impatiently. She murmured to him as he finally came to her and bent over her, "Don't make me wait too long, Martin. I'm burning up."

He smiled down at her understandingly, slid into place beside her. His muscular arm Went under her neck, he drew her to him. She cuddled her body against his, moved her legs to lie between his. He put his right hand on her hips and pulled her in to him. She felt his heat, his readiness.

But he was not abrupt or rough. His hands caressed her, his mouth brushed over her cheeks, her mouth, her shoulders. Dreamily he caressed her, slowly his body rubbed against her. His hand brushed up the nightgown from her hips, his hand slid over her thighs, down to her knees, up between her thighs. His fingers were knowing, cunning, teasing at her just enough to make her want more.

His hips pushed at her so she went over on her back, her legs open to him. He lowered his body to hers, holding himself on his elbows above her. Her hands went to his chest, deliberately played with the curly hair matting it, roved down his chest to his waist, to his thighs. He smiled again, and gently he began the motions that would bring them closer together.

She had never known in any man such gentle sweetness, such deliberate building up of her own emotions, such knowing control of his own body. Martin seemed to know just when to thrust, just when to pause and wait. She did not have to say a word to him. He knew by the motion of her body, by her breathing, by her slight groan when the pressure was too much, just what to do. He drew it out, building them up and then slowing the pace, kissing her, distracting her with teasing nibbles at her breasts. He drew it out longer and longer. She could feel her body growing hotter and hotter, her breathing growing shorter and shorter. He built it up higher, higher, so that she felt him more profoundly than any man she had ever known. The sensation seemed to be reaching her heart, pressing against her lungs and heart.

Her hands clenched at his naked back, her fingers digging into his flesh urgently. With each thrust she moaned in ecstasy. She could no longer hold her eyes open, they were shut tight waiting for the peak, unable to bear any light. Her mouth was open, panting, his tongue thrust delicately into it and touched her tongue.

He held her carefully in the deepness of his embrace, and she dared not move for fear she would hurt herself, because they were so close and so tight. There was no room for anything else, not for thought, nor for feeling, nor for breathing.

She thought he was leaving her. "Don't„don't leave me, Martin. Martin, don't—stay—you must stay—"

"I won't leave," he whispered." Hold still, Gay. Hold—still—"

With a crash he came back to her, and they hit the peak in a single motion. She screamed out in ecstasy as the rockets burst inside her, carrying her high, far, higher, farther to the top of the mountains. Sparks burst in her, fireworks were going off, rockets flaming, deafening her, blinding her. She fainted with the force of her convulsions that savagely rocked her.

When she finally came to, she was lying limply beside Martin, held lightly in his arm as he too tried to recover. She could not move for a while, she was so dazed.

"Mar—Martin," she finally said. "Wha—what happened?"

He laughed softly. "Heaven, darling. Sheer heaven. I knew it would be that way with you.” He stretched lazily, with intense satisfaction. "Ah, that was perfect. I could sing, I could recite poetry. Would you like me to recite poetry to you?"

"You can do anything you want to me," she said with absolute abandon. "After that—anything you want." She had never felt that way before, so completely knocked out, so thoroughly satisfied.

"Thanks for the permission, sweet. I intend to do just that. But not for a little while. I must gather my strength. So I will recite poetry. to you.'' And he did. Lying beside him, sill in the rose-colored sheer nightgown, Gay giggled as he recited poem after poem, each more bawdy than the last. He must know every poem ever written that paid homage to the various delights of a woman's body, she thought.

He recited one about breasts that she liked, and he repeated it for her emphasized each line with kisses on the places mentioned in the poems. In the course of the bawdy recital her nightgown was moved off her shoulders, shoved gently down over her breasts, shoved lower still to her waist. He knew several poems that mentioned the curve of a woman's belly. The nightgown paused there for a while.

“You do this so well," said Gay, after one lively poem that called for kisses all the way down her spine.

"You must have had lots of practice."

"I've had my share of practice," he admitted, the mocking smile showing under the black mustache as he gently kissed her tautened nipples. "But never have I had such an inspiring subject. Venus—lovely goddess—adorable red—haired nymph—you would inspire a block of wood. Would that I could paint! I would love to paint you just as you are now!"

He raised up on his knees and hung over her, his face glowing as he cataloged her charms aloud.

"I would paint you against a red satin drape, with green fringes to match your eyes. Your hair would glow like a golden-red flame against the red satin. Then your face—softly blushing as it is now, your cheeks like velvet—your mouth like a parted red rose—let me kiss it now. Open your mouth!"

After a few breathless kisses, he went on. "Then your shoulders of softest cream, and your arms bent to stretch your breasts, curled in longing the way they were when I embraced you. And your breasts—soft plump mounds done with such a delicate brush that men would cry out in longing to touch you. Each nipple of your breasts done in softest pink-brown, taut and perfect. Then your waist, so slender, and the dark navel in your white belly."

"Martin—that's enough—Martin—" He was kissing her more fervently the farther he went.

"Then your wide hips, your downy thighs of creamy white, and the red-gold curls here where I am kissing."

His voice was muffled. "And your moist welcoming limbs that wiggle so enticingly when I touch you." His tongue flicked expertly, and she wriggled again. The nightgown was descending rapidly to her feet. "Your pretty knees, so sweet when they fold about me. And your long slender legs, that wave in the air when I—"

''Mah—Martin—wait—Martin—"

He was not waiting. His mouth was all over her, his hands playing in earnest now. The catalog had stopped. He threw himself on her, and their bodies crashed together fiercely.

He apologized breathlessly when they paused for a moment. "I was going to recite more poetry to your hips and legs. I will do that the next time. I got carried away by your beauty."

"You're—carrying me away—"

He was lifting her off the bed, swinging her hips in a circling motion, increasing her passion by leaps and bounds. They stopped talking and lunged at each other, gripped in the wild ecstasy of a passion to powerful for words. Their bodies, clamoring for release, drove at each other, lunged together again and again in an effort to satisfy the impatient burning hunger within them.

They hit the peak, she first and he soon after. The rockets went off, and she groaned with the receding desire. It was so sweet, so wonderfully pleasant to feel him there with her. His mustache tickled her breasts as he kissed her passionately, and she had to giggle.

She had never known such a wonderful lover before.

He would tease and murmur compliments with the same breath, recite poetry and kiss her until she was ready to fling herself on him for satisfaction. He would tell her mockingly she was like Diana after a hunt, beaded with perspiration, adorably weary but triumphant with the game in her bag. She blushed wildly sometimes at the things he said, and he laughed at her for blushing, then kissed her for it.

He let her sleep, and when she awakened he was ready with champagne to renew her energy. They drank champagne, sitting naked in bed, chatting about painting. The cool bubbly liquid refreshed her, presently she set aside the glass and lay down across his legs.

He caressed her breasts, still talking, still drinking thoughtfully.

"Painting," he said, "seems to me to reflect the age when it is done rather than to form it. Painting is rarely twenty years ahead of its time, except with painters like Picasso. Even he reflected the chaos of his times and the search for order."

"Um. Martin," said Gay sleepily, touching his chest with her fingers. "Do you like me?"

"I adore you, my pretty Venus," he said, and set the cold stem of the glass down on her belly. She shrieked and pushed it off. He laughed down at her.

"Why don't you paint like the Italian painters?" he asked. "Now they are worth looking at, even today after three· or four hundred years. Why don't you paint yourself looking in a mirror, beautifully nude, with your red-gold hair all curly and mussed as it is now?"

She mused about that, leaning over and taking another sip from his champagne glass. "I might. It would sell, I bet. But Roger wouldn't like it."

"All men like nudes, except the husbands," said Martin with conviction. "You could call it Bacchante After Passion. I like that title. I could come over and help you get in the proper mood. Then while I'm sleeping, you could paint."

"You are so helpful and kind," she murmured, lying back, her arms outstretched lazily. She raised one arm with an intense effort, and put her hand on his lower thighs. She tickled. "Your legs are hairy. I'll put you in the painting as a Pan. Goat legs and pipes."

"Thanks so much." There were a few drops of champagne left in the glass. He poured them carefully into her mouth. She swallowed. He set the glass aside.

''Darling—beautiful—'' She smiled as his hands came to her breasts and thighs. She rolled over lazily as he drew her about to lie on him. Soon they were deeply involved again. She loved the slow, sure manner of his love-making. She loved the way he drew it out, longer and longer, until the heat of their bodies built into a wild explosion. She loved the kisses he gave her, the passion he made her feel . . .

It was too bad, though, that she did not love him.

Not at all.

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