Chapter 08 of Campus Nymph by Greg Caldwell

1962 GENRE: Vintage Sleaze | Promiscuous Wife

CAMPUS NYMPH by Greg Caldwell

... 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 ...

Read the entire book as an EPUB eBook that can be downloaded from the Fox Library.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Elinor Ryan sold the last of the three paintings Gay had sent. She wrote a happy triumphant note, and ended, "Darling girl, do paint more of these! I sold all three to some bachelor-girls who adore your nudes!

I could sell dozens more of these darling males. I might even buy one myself! And Don urges some clothed men for ads, if you want to do them. You would love what one girl did with your painting she hung it in her bedroom and looks at it every night!"

Gay laughed out loud at that note from her exuberant mother. Pleased, she finished the painting of Martin as Pan, and the nymphs dancing for him, and sent it right off. Then she looked around for other subjects.

Just at that time Roger had to take a trip of several days to a convention of English teachers. He grumbled about going at that time. "Just now, horrible. Why do they schedule things at this time of year? Only one month till the end of the school year."

It was a planning board for a major convention, though, and he was proud to be chosen, and went off rather cheerfully. Gay called Karl Lucas as soon as she was sure Roger was on the plane.

"Karl, darling, would you do me a great big favor?" she asked, coaxingly.

"Return your panties? Not a chance!"

She grimaced at the phone, but kept her sweet tone. "I would like to have them back, but I was calling about something else. You know I paint."

"Yes." He sounded more interested. "Are you working on something now?"

"I want to work on something for an ad. I know it sounds commercial but they do pay nicely! I need several men and I wondered if you and a couple of your friends would come over tomorrow and let me sketch you."

"Oh—I guess I could get a couple of guys. What kind do you want? Like the ads in magazines?"

"Yes. You, and maybe a dark-haired man, and maybe a red-haired man, if there's one around. Mostly I need proportions. They should all be about five feet ten to six feet tall, and well-built, you know, darling."

"Sure, Gay. Sure, I'll see what I can do. Anything else?"

"Yes. I—I wish you'd keep it quiet. Not that it's bad or anything. But Roger, my husband, won't like it. He's away just now—"

"Don't you worry about a thing, honey!" She didn't like the sudden warmth of his tone. "We'll be over tomorrow afternoon right after lunch. I'll get guys who don't have afternoon classes. The profs are getting nasty about cuts, and they don't want to miss."

"Oh, I wouldn't want anyone to miss class," she reassured him. "Just a couple of the fellows who can spare the time. I'll pay them for modeling."

"You don't need to worry about that."

She felt a little uneasy, he was so cheerful and so unlike his sullen self. But she made the arrangements with him, and the next afternoon he came.

He brought four men, and they were—thought Gay rapturously—absolutely darlings. Bud Noland was stalwart black-haired man, Harry Forsythe was red-haired, Steve Cordier looked like the epitome of the curly-brown-haired men in cigarette ads, and Jack Day was a clown with the cutest and most mobile expressions she had ever seen. She caught her breath at seeing them gathered around her in the living room, could not conceal her pleasure.

"Oh, this is marvelous, this is wonderful," she said, beaming at them. "Do sit down, boys, make yourself comfortable. Did Karl explain what I want?"

They exchanged bland glances. "Yes, he explained,"

said Bud Noland, sitting down on the couch and stretching out his long legs. "You want us to pose for you."

"Yes." She got her sketchbook and pencils hurriedly.

"Now—let me see. Who first?"

She chose Bud Noland. He leaned back on the couch and let her arrange his arms and legs the way she wanted. He sat stone-still while she sketched hurriedly. She imagined him leaning against a tree instead of the couch, his outstretched hand touching a girl instead of the innocent cushion. But he needn't know that.

They cooperated so beautifully, falling into the poses she wanted and holding them patiently, that by three o'clock she had sketched each one of the five.

"You've been just marvelous," said Gay, closing the pad with a sigh of rapture. "I can't tell you how grateful I am. What do I owe you? I can't pay high, but—"

"We don't want money," interrupted Bud Noland, who seemed to be the spokesman for the group. "But we want to be paid."

Karl sat up, scowling. Evidently he knew nothing about this. "You said you wouldn't ask for pay," he growled.

"Not money," said Bud cheerfully. "But we agreed, we want kisses. Let's see—about ten minutes of kisses apiece. That's what we want, isn't it, boys?" His eyes shown with devilish merriment. The others except Karl were grinning.

She couldn't tell if he meant it or not. She stared around uncertainly. "Well—good grief I hadn't counted on—"

"Each one of us goes back in the bedroom with you and has ten minutes. That's all. Practically painless,"

said Bud, grinning like a devil, his black eyes staring at her.

"Oh, no, no!" said Karl, jumping up threateningly.

"None of that. You don't get that."

She wondered how much he had blabbed. She bit her lip. If she didn't give in, give them something, they were quite likely to tell Roger what she was up to.

Oh, hell, thought Gay, turning over the various possibilities in her mind.

Karl was furious, balling his fist at Bud. "That wasn't in the bargain. You don't get anything like that!"

"Now, wait, Karl," said Gay. "l don't mind kissing the boys. But out here in public only. I'm certainly not going back in the bedroom with any one of you strong guys." She laughed flirtatiously. ''I'll kiss each one of you, but only in the presence of the others. How's that?"

The other boys quickly agreed, but Bud held out stubbornly for privacy. He teased her, as much to get Karl's anger up as to see Gay blush.

"Ah, no," said Bud. "I want to kiss you alone. Just us two. And touch you. I never touched a real artist before." Behind his remarks she guessed what he meant. They had, none of them, ever come so close to a Bohemian girl, one whom they suspected knew a lot more about life and love and sex than any of them ever would. They were curious, interested, wanting to know a lot more.

Well, she could give them a thrill they wouldn't forget.

''I'll tell you what I'll do," said Gay deliberately "Wait, Karl. Let me talk." He sat down, scowling. "I need some nude poses of men."

The fellows gasped, open-mouthed, staring pop-eyed.

She could have laughed aloud at them.

"Nah—nude?" gasped Bud, gulping.

"Yes, for my paintings, Now, don't tell! I don't want my husband to know what I'm painting. But I want some nudes of men. And if each one of you will strip for me and let me sketch him, I'll kiss each one of you. In privacy, but in my painting room, not in the bedroom."

"Gah—golly," said Bud. "I didn't know men did that.

I thought only girls did."

"For girl artists? I'm not unnatural," she said bluntly.

She grinned at their shocked faces. "Of course, if you don't want to—"

Bud swallowed.

"I will," said Steve Cordier quickly. "Let's go to that back room." He was up and about to catch her hand.

"Now, wait a minute," said Gay coolly. "First, the conditions. We leave the door open. Each fellow strips, poses for me, gets his kisses, and then gets dressed again. And no attempt to rape me, or I'll scream bloody murder."

They looked at each other, wide-eyed, gulped a couple more times and finally agreed, even Karl. Gay was overjoyed. She would have a wonderful, stupendous collection of drawings to use for her paintings. And they would have something to dream about privately for the rest of their probably conventional lives.

Steve Cordier insisted on being first, as he had volunteered first. She went to the back room with him.

He stripped to the skin. She gasped. He was a gorgeous hunk of a man, brown-haired, brown-eyed, brown-skinned.

He posed kiddingly, his muscles showing in his arms and legs.

"No, not like that," she said, all artist now. She went up to him, posed him against a tall stool. "Half sit on that. Yes. Head up, chin up, look the other way.

Hold it."

She drew him rapidly, drew two sketches while he posed patiently. The door was open. She heard the fellows laughing and talking excitedly in the front room.

No wonder male artists liked to sketch girls in the nude, she thought, as she worked. Half of her mind was occupied with the drawing, but the other half was admiring the lean muscular body before her. She felt pure lust rising up in her, the desire for that body bending over hers, possessing hers. It took all her effort to concentrate and not think how he would feel, lunging at her.

Finally she laid the pad aside. "Done," she said.

"Thanks very much." She tried to talk briskly as she saw him coming toward her. "That's fine. You make a good model. I appreciate—"

He muffled the words as he kissed her thoroughly.

His naked body pressed hungrily against her dress, his arms gripped her, his legs pushed her back against the wall, leaned against her legs. She was kissed, caressed, mauled, handled, as much as he could through her clothes.

"Wow!" she said, finally, getting her lips free. "I can't breathe. Take it easy, honey!"

"Easy, hell," he said. He got his hand under her dress and fumbled.

"None of that," she said, pushing his hand away firmly.

"Listen, I have to have—"

She realized what he had to have. He leaned against her, almost crushing her between his body and the wall, let her satisfy him. When it was over he was gasping, his face red and lustful.

"Had enough?" she asked calmly, half-laughing at him. Boys were pretty easy to manage, they had one-track minds.

"Yes. Good. Good," he gasped.

"Get dressed then. I'll be right back."

She called the next one in. Bud Noland came. She brought a chair, and posed him sitting down as soon as he had stripped. He was a little more bashful than Steve, covered himself uneasily with his hand for a few moments.

She posed him briskly. "Sit back, your legs out.

That's it. Now one arm up behind your head, turn sideways, that's it. Put your hand on your knee," she added, to get his hand away from the part he covered.

He moved it shyly.

"Good," she said, and went back to stand at the easel. She tacked sketching paper on the easel and went to work. She made this one a larger sketch, worked longer on it. She might as well take advantage of this rare opportunity to get a good bunch of drawings.

She worked till he was tired, over half an hour, and got three good ones. She noted colors with crayons, then said, "That's fine, Bud. That's all."

He came over to her, began kissing her hungrily. But he was not so bold as Steve. She didn't have any trouble with him. She let him kiss her thoroughly and ran her hands over his body, her fingers digging into the male flesh that felt so good under her palms.

When she went to call the next boy, she noted that Steve had left. Harry Forsythe was red-haired, and his freckled body was interesting to her. She got two good one of him, let him kiss her, then sent him out briskly.

When she went to call Jack Day, she saw that Bud had left. She felt rather uneasy. By the time she drew Karl, he would be the only one left in the house. Oh, well, she could manage him.

Jack's face was wonderful to draw. She drew his face over and over, he had such marvelous expressive qualities. She did only one of his body. Her hands were beginning to get very tired.

Finally there was only Karl left. And the others had left. Karl came back to her, stripped deliberately. She tried to look away, but couldn't do it. She had to stare at his lean hard body that her own body had learned to know first in the woods.

He posed silently, turning the way she wanted. She drew several of him, and he did not object to posing for long stretches of time. It was past seven o'clock when they finished.

"You must be hungry. That's all, Karl. Thanks very much."

"I'm not hungry. Except for you," he said, coming over to her.

"Do you want kisses also?" she asked coyly, to cover her uneasy feeling.

"Kisses, yes," he said, and began to kiss her face and throat. She felt his lean naked body pressed against hers, his naked arms gripping her. Then his legs began to push her back, back to the door.

"Karl," she gasped, as they went through the doorway, into the hallway. Don't do that—" He was pushing her to the door of her bedroom.

"You let the others kiss you. You let them maul you!"

"Because I promised. You saw how it was—I didn't have a choice—"

"You did have a choice. You asked them to pose for you nude. Because you wanted to see them. Well, look at me. Am I a man?"

He held her off from her, his sullen face glowering with anger. She looked slowly down his indicated body.

"You sure are, Karl. Quite a man," she breathed.

He was furiously jealous that she had let the other boys kiss her. She would have to placate him before she sent him on his way.

She let him push her into the bedroom, let him strip the clothes from her. Together they fell across the bed, and he began lunging at her immediately. She let him.

Her body was eager from looking at the male bodies she had sketched.

He was punishing her with his hard limbs, his rude hands and hard muscles. She gasped, "Karl—slowly, darling—please—"

He did not listen to her. His face was dark with fury, his eyes blazing with jealous rage. "I wonder—"

he panted. "You make me wonder—how many lovers—how many you have. How many men you know."

"Karl, honey," she began. He shut her up, his lips open on hers. She quieted, drew his hear down to hers on the pillow. They kissed long, hard, hungrily.

He thrust his tongue into her mouth, explored. All the time his hips were thrusting at hers, pushing, punishing, hurting. She tried to slow down his pace, she could not.

She gave up at last, let him set his own pace. She was aroused by the afternoon session, by looking at the nude bodies of men and desiring them. The artist had sketched, the woman had wanted. She had longed to touch each one of them, and afterwards when each man kissed her she had gloried in the touch of firm male flesh under her hands. She grasped Karl's back, ran her hands down over his spine, down to the hard-muscled thighs. Oh, he was young and beautiful, so firm and hard and lovely to touch ...

He lunged higher, crushing her soft body under his hardness. Her breasts were squeezed in ruthless hands, her hips flattened under his insistent drive. His breathing came faster, hers was as fast. Blackness blurred her vision, she closed her eyes as the fireworks began.

She felt him explode, and the convulsions sent her blazing high in the sky. He rolled with her across the bed as they blew up together in the glorious ecstasy of release.

When she recovered, he was lying limply beside her.

His blond head was nuzzled against her breast and arm.

She touched his head tenderly. "Oh, Karl, honey, that was so good."

"You should know," he said, his head moving irritably away from her touch. "You should know how good a man is. You—have such a lot of experience."

Her eyes narrowed. "You seem to think because a woman is an artist—"

"I know what you are," he said crudely. "You don't have to make excuses to me."

She felt like slapping him. But he drew his body over her, and made love to her again, and she could forgive him anything for the way he made her feel so soft, and loose, and hot, and frantic, and loving, and wanting, and crying—

And then she was begging him, and they came together harder and faster and farther—all over the world, exploding and crying out and rolling over and over ...

He did not leave until early in the morning. When he had gone, she lay there clenching and unclenching her hands in intense satisfaction. It had been so good, so very good. Not as good as she had experienced with Martin, but very very good for the boy Karl was.

Boy? What a man, she thought, wearily, smiling with receding passion. Boy, man, Karl was quite a guy.

All those sketches, she thought, rolling over in bed sleepily. All those perfectly marvelous sketches. She could paint and paint for weeks with all that material to work from.

She would do Steve Cordier first. He was a beautiful hunk of man. She would paint him surrounded by beautiful women. Apollo, she thought dreamily. Apollo, with that brown curly hair, that slightly open mouth, that reddish flush on his cheeks when she had put her hand on him and squeezed and squeezed ...

Tired as she was, she got up early in the morning, showered, and set to work. She forgot everything in the world as she put Steven on the canvas, lovingly stroking in the beautiful male body. She made him the center of the canvas, sketched in the nude women around him, recklessly painting in the nude and checking herself in the mirror so she could see exactly how to do a breast a thigh. She kept the doors locked, did not answer the phone. She would not be distracted today.

She worked 'til late that night, and finished the canvas.

When she stood back and looked at it, she knew it was the best thing she had ever done. She sat back in a chair, smoking one cigarette after another. She had not stopped to eat that day. It was good, it was very good. Apollo and the nymphs, fascinated as he sang to them.

She turned out the lights, went to the bedroom, flung on a robe, and went out to the kitchen. She fixed a sandwich, ate it, still thinking about the painting and the boy who had inspired it.

Campus life, mused the faculty wife-artist, was not nearly so dull as she had thought it would be. In fact, sometimes it beat Greenwich Village!

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