Chapter 11 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 ...

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

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As soon as Roger was dressed, he left the house and did not return all day. When he finally came home, about eight-thirty in the evening, he was coldly furious and would not speak to her. He did not even ask her where she had been.

Gay was worn out from the train ride, a sleepless night, and the housework she had done when she returned. But she could not sleep that night, tossing and turning more than she had done on the lumpy studio couch in her mother's painting room. Life wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. She had tried to do her best. She had come back to Roger prepared to forgive him and begin again. Instead—

She boiled with fury when she thought of the sight that had met her when she had walked into the bedroom.

Roger—and Doris. In her bed. As though Doris belonged there. As though they belonged together.

She groaned, turned over again.

Roger left early the next morning. She heard him leave, but did not speak to him. She was tired, bewildered, unable to cope with the situation. She didn't know what to do next.

She finally got up, showered, dressed, went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Maybe she should have stayed in New York. Roger evidently had not missed her, was angry that she had returned. She rubbed her hands over her face. But they were married, he had loved her. . . .

Martin York telephoned about noon. "Gay, darling, I only just heard that you have returned."

"How did you know I left?" she asked wearily.

"Sweetheart! The whole campus knew it! One of the students was the taxi driver who took you to the train station! He said you went to the bank, came out with a wad of bills thick enough to choke a horse—I quote his trite phrase—and caught the train for New York."

"I might have known. You can't do a thing around here without—" She choked a little on a sob. He sounded more interested and concerned than the husband had been.

"Gay, honey, what's the matter? Why don't we meet in town and talk about it?"

His voice was teasing, soft. She was tempted. She wanted to talk to someone who was kind and considerate.

Of course, he didn't just mean talk. But he was kind in bed also. She could use a big dose of kindness.

"Oh, I don't know, Martin," she said listlessly. "I'm worn out."

"Poor darling. Roger is a bastard. But I could have told you that before you married him."

"You didn't know me then."

"I should have. You would never have married such an idiot. Why don't you meet me at the hotel, darling? You need a bottle or two of champagne, and a shoulder to cry on, and then some comforting." Her mouth twisted. Darn it, it sounded good to her!

He had called her several times since the other episode, cajoling her for another night with him. Well, that would be no hardship. It would keep him quite, and it would be satisfying to her.

"Why don't we meet tonight, darling? It's Friday night, and I don't have classes tomorrow. We can sleep till noon, drink champagne for breakfast, anything your lovely heart desires. How about it, sweet?"

He did sound eager. She decided impulsively.

"Yes, I believe I will. Why not? Shall we say, the same time and place? Let me know the room number and I'll come on up."

"Great, darling! I'll phone for a reservation and call you right back."

She closed her mind to doubts, packed a small suitcase.

She left a brief polite note for Roger this time, saying she was going to Shelby for the night, and would be back the next afternoon. She gave no reason.

She was not going to do any shopping, and she wasn't going to lie about that.

She called a taxi and went into Shelby. She had a good dinner alone at the hotel, and by eight o'clock she was up in Martin's room. He greeted her with a breathless hug and a series of kisses.

"Darling—honey—sweet. You came. I can hardly believe you came to me."

"Let's not have any illusions about this," said Gay brisquely, detaching herself from the embrace. "We both know why I came. I'm not in love with you and you're not in love with me. I just need some sex, that's all."

He shook his head at her, his mouth faintly smiling under the black mustache. "This is why you and Roger don't get along, darling. You're too honest. You don't belong in the campus crowd."

"What do you mean by that?" she snapped angrily.

He was voicing her own doubts, and it hurt.

He sighed. "I guess we talk first, all right? Here, sit down, darling. We'll have some champagne."

She sank down in the large easy chair, and watched him moodily as he poured the champagne. Why had she come? She didn't really want him, good as he was in bed.

He handed a bubbling glass to her, lifted his own glass in a toast. "To you, darling—may you find what you want."

"Thanks, but what is that? I suppose you can tell me all about it, in your psychological terms." She didn't know why she felt so sarcastic all of a sudden.

He grinned, and sat down opposite her in a straight backed chair. "Gay, darling, you are very suspicious of me. You think I am selfish and consider only my own desires. You are so correct. But occasionally I do have the impulse to meddle in the lives of those around me, especially those whom I can see are bound for trouble. And you, darling, are in the middle of a bad mess."

"Let's get out a special edition of the newspaper.

Flash. I'm in a mess." She drank the rest of the glass in a few gulps, held it out for more. He poured it full.

"The trouble is this," he pontificated. "You, Gay, are essentially a single-minded artist, honest, frank, the true Bohemian. Nothing matters to you but the honest answering of emotions."

"You mean I'm a crude barbarian," she flashed.

"Is that what Roger says? That is his interpretation.

You make him uneasy, you know. He doesn't understand you, or anyone like you. He is used to complex people, people like himself, the intellectuals who think it necessary to hide their emotions and pretend a cold disdain for sex and passion. They split themselves in two, these foolish intellectuals. They pretend they are all mental, when they are only half mental and half physical. But they deny the physical part of themselves. They are ashamed of it."

She frowned at him in bewilderment, wishing she had not had two glasses of champagne. She wanted a clear mind right now. She had a feeling that what he was saying was very important and necessary to her.

"I don't—get that—"

"Some people are simple. Like you. You are all passion and emotion. You don't know how to conceal your feelings. You are as easy to read as a child.

That's why people like the Sweetmans love you, even though they don't approve of you. That's why the whole campus was furious when you left, and they knew it was because you couldn't stand Roger's affair any longer. Did you know that the Sweetmans went to the Dean and asked that Roger be expelled?"

She sat bolt upright. "No. Oh, no!"

"They did." He nodded in satisfaction. "It came as no surprise to the rest of us, believe me. Mrs. Sweetman says you are a true artist and a genius, and no one should be allowed to treat you as Roger has been treating you. Oh, she made quite a speech in your behalf, my dear!"

"Oh, but—but she, Mrs. Sweetman is—" Gay felt tears coming to her eyes. She had not expected that from Mrs. Sweetman, nice as she had been. "She's very conservative. She doesn't think I am nice or—"

"No. But essentially, you see, you are alike. Mrs. Sweetman would no more conceal an emotion or pretend a feeling than you would. She dotes on her children and grandchildren. She thinks Professor Sweetman is God's gift to the world. (He agrees with her, so their marriage is perfect.) She believes that marriages are made in heaven, and that men ought to be faithful as well as women. She thinks that you are a genius. You are, probably. I wouldn't know, since you won't let me see your paintings."

"Absolutely not," murmured Gay, thinking of Pan and Apollo.

"Anyway, the Dean suspended judgment. When you came back, he decided to wait and give Roger another chance."

"Oh! Oh, dear. You mean it depends on me—Does Roger know—"

"He knows by this time. He was to have a meeting with the Dean this afternoon." Martin drained his glass, watching her over the edge with a sardonic yet pitying gaze. "That is one reason I decided to invite you to spend the night with me. Dear Roger won't be feeling good this evening, and he might want to take it out on his dear loving wife."

"Oh, I should have stayed. I should be with him—"

"Nonsense. It will do him good to brood alone on his sins. Now, enough of talking. I mean to have a good time tonight, and I've been sufficiently impersonal and helpful and friendly to last me a hell of a long time. To bed, woman!" He came over to her, took the glass away, and lifted her from the chair. He drew her to him with a sudden hug that took away her breath. His kisses fell on her hair, her cheeks, her mouth. She lifted her head to accept his kisses. She wanted them, his comfort, his kindness, his intelligent catering to her needs.

He undressed her with the slow sensuous delight of a man who valued pleasure for its own sake. He revealed her body to his gaze, lingering to touch over her soft breasts, her waist, her thighs, her legs. His long fingers stroking her flesh, he enumerated in poetry and love words all her beauties. It was comforting and relaxing. But she still was worried about Roger. Maybe she would have been able to help him if she had stayed home tonight.

She lay down on the bed, sprawled out comfortably, and waited for Martin to join her. The champagne had loosened her limbs, loosened her few inhibitions and she was ready for Martin's expert attentions. She stretched lazily, aware of his eager gaze on her breasts and thighs. Soon he was naked and came over to her.

He had switched out all the lights except the one that glowed pinkly from the bedside table.

"Ah yes, my beautiful pink nymph," he murmured as he came to her. "With the rose-flesh, the red hair, the rosy limbs. Study in red. Picasso would have loved you, but he wouldn't have done you justice. He would have made you angular and you have no angles, it's all curves, delightful soft curving lines that long for my hands—"

He put his hands on her slowly, lingeringly, sliding his fingers over her flesh. He put his mouth on one breast, pushed against it, bit the nipple with gentle lips. She felt the breast swelling under his treatment.

He put one long leg over her legs as he bent above her. She cuddled under him, put her arms around him and drew him closer. She caressed his dark head, pressed it convulsively against her breast. Her hips wiggled to find his hard body. Her limbs were moist and loose and hot, seeking release and mindless delight. She rubbed her legs together, then put one up around his legs to pull him closer. He came closer, closer yet, then jolted her body with one swift sure lunge.

"Ah—ah, that's what I want," she breathed.

She smiled at his soft laughter. He did understand her. She didn't need to worry about hiding any passion.

He understood her needs. He surged farther, higher, and it was good. Oh, it was good and direct and firm and wonderful.

She rubbed her hips and he groaned with delight.

She lifted up and swung free under him. He was far and high and tight. Their bodies were learning how good it could be, each helping the other to build up and up and up. He pushed her down in the pillows, down in the bed, holding her down while he lunged back and forth, again and again. It was faster, harder, higher, swifter. She could feel the end coming now.

She gasped to him that it was coming. Yes, yes, he answered, rushing her onward—

They burst up to the sky together, right up to the moon on a rocket that was bursting with them, blazing into sparks and fire and heat lightning. She cried out, and clutched him tight, and the firecrackers and rockets and stars were bursting and blazing, crashing and spinning.

They recovered slowly, luxuriously clasped in each other's arms, hugging and cuddling tight, kissing and rubbing and smoothing with hands and lips.

"No one like you," he whispered. "No one like you at all."

She smiled and kissed his chest where her head was cuddled. "Sweet," she said dreamily. "Sweet, so good."

He kissed her body, looking and caressing, touching and kissing again and again. She did not object to anything he did. She wanted all that he was doing to her with his hands and lips and legs. She closed her eyes in ecstasy; it felt so good to be loved all over.

Then he wanted her to do it to him, and she did, searching his hard masculine body with her mouth and lips and tongue. She raised up and studied him curiously in the pink light, her eyes delighting in his sturdy maleness, his hard muscles and flesh.

"Studying me, darling?" he asked, stretching lazily under her. "Going to paint me?"

She giggled. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe I already have." She poked him curiously in the thigh. "Interesting muscles you have."

"Oh, I have even more interesting muscles than that." He took her hand and put her fingers on them.

She squeezed hard. "Ah—do that again. Again."

Soon they were involved again in a long slow embrace, drawing it out longer and longer the way two such sensuous people loved to do. It wasn't just the final ecstasy that they wanted, it was the looking at each other's bodies with the delight each felt in beauty, it was the caressing with hands and lips and legs, it was being caressed and touched, it was the drawing out of a deep embrace, it was lying close, knit together with limbs and thighs. She wriggled to let him come farther, he pushed and strove to come closer. In their struggles for delight, their bodies flushed pink, their limbs and torsos were bathed in perspiration, they rolled across the bed, back and forth. In the final embrace they lay deeply embraced, still, waiting, moving only slightly, stirring to feel the movements, then becoming silent again to enjoy the complete unity of him and her.

When they had drawn it out as long as possible, Martin raised up and took her in a long sweeping glorious movement that burst the dam and flooded them with waves of passions deep down, high up to the stars. She lay shaking convulsively when he had finished.

They made love most of the night, lying across each other, tangled, happy, lazily caressing.

Once she asked him, remembering his words, "What should I do?"

"What would you do, Martin?"

"You should have stayed in New York," he said.

Then he kissed her pointed nipple. "But I'm glad you came back."

She thought about his words. She should have stayed in New York. Didn't he believe she had any chance for happiness with Roger? He was a very smart man, was Martin York. But he was also a cynic. Maybe he didn't have as much faith in her marriage as she did.

If she tried hard, very hard—

Toward morning, they slept, tangled together. Whenever she woke a little, she felt his hard chest under her cheek, felt his sure, strong arms around her. She could—almost—have loved him. But she knew this was not love, just a satisfaction with the sexual delights each could give the other. When she left him at noon, she would forget him again.

But for now, he was good.

She slept, wakened, slept again.

It was morning, late morning, when she wakened, delighting in her sleepy surprise to find him already in possession.

"I often wondered if I could do this," he said.

"Oh, you're—you're terrible—" she said lazily.

"Don't—not that, darling—wait—"

He waited for her to catch up with him, which she soon did. They wakened each other thoroughly to passion, then lay back and lazily watched the morning sun creep higher on the ceiling.

He offered her champagne for breakfast. She drank some, but it was warm. Still—champagne for breakfast.

It was a romantic thought.

"Quite romantic," said Martin, pleased. "I'm surprised I thought of it. Maybe you're making me a romantic instead of a cynic. Just think, if you keep working on me the way you are right now—keep right on, sweet, I love it, the way your legs churn—I may end up a romantic man."

She laughed down at him, and bounced more vigorously.

Her breasts jiggled, and he reached up to hold one in his hand.

After that they needed more rest. She slept about an hour, awakened to a pounding on the door.

"Who's that," said Martin, without much interest.

"Do you suppose it's your furious husband? I don't feel like a duel this morning." But he finally got up and went to the door, naked.

He opened the door, peered around it. The door was flung open and Karl Lucas marched in.

Gay sat up. The sheet was on the floor, far out of reach. There was absolutely nothing to cover herself with.

"Kah—Karl," she said faintly.

He glared at her, flung around at Martin and glared at him too. "You—bitch," he half-sobbed. "You bitch! You're here—with him!!"

"She sure is, and you're in the way, sonny," said Martin, with hard insolence. "Get out."

Karl slammed the door shut and stayed, glaring at Gay. His gaze lingered over her body. "You bitch.

The whole campus is sorry for you because your husband is with one girl. And you're sleeping with everybody!"

"I am not," said Gay hotly. "Just you and Martin;

that's all."

Martin leaned over the back of a chair, obviously interested and completely unworried by his nakedness.

"Me and Karl Lucas? You do like variety, Gay. I never thought of him as a rival." His gaze went over the boy's lean figure. "Still—youth has its moment, I must admit."

Gay remembered that Martin had seen her and Karl in the woods. She flushed red all over her naked body. Martin probably had not realized it was more than a passing incident.

"I thought you were in love with me," said Karl, panting hard. "You—you don't love anybody! You just sleep with anybody you want to."

"Why not?" said Martin, trying to divert his attention from Gay. But the boy kept staring, staring at Gay's naked limbs.

"I'll pay you back," said Karl to Gay. "I'll show you that you can't fool around with me. I thought you were in love with me!"

"Oh, Karl," she said. "You're only a boy. You don't understand—"

"I may be young, but I'm not a boy!" he said furiously, his face beet red. "You ought to know that?"

She shrugged, so embarrassed she did not know what to say. It would be awful if Karl blurted out everything on the campus, as he well might.

"Karl, you don't realize—"

But he was leaving, flinging words back over his shoulder breathlessly. "You're a bitch! I'll pay you back. You'll see if I'm a boy. You'll see—I'll find a way to hurt you the way you hurt everybody else! I don't blame your husband for having an affair with that Doris. You're a bitch!" He slammed the door behind him.

"I should never have gone to the door," Martin sighed thoughtfully. "Serves me right for behaving in a conventional manner. I should have ignored his knocking."

But Gay could not laugh. She sat there, worried and frightened, until he pulled her into his arms again.

Please let us know in the comments if you like this story. If there is enough interest, we will publish more of this story.