Chapter 14 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 ...

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Gay felt so jubilant about her new conquest, so self-satisfied that she had done something definite about Roger's affair with Doris, that she began a painting the next morning. This was going to be a good one, she thought, humming as she sketched a rough draft in charcoal.

Little Doris lying on a bed of roses, blond hair spread out, soft limbs sprawling, blue eyes dazed and half-closed.

Nymph after Jupiter's visit, thought Gay—giggling.

Yes, that was what she would call it. It would be a girl alone on the roses, but there would be no mistake in anyone's mind that this girl had just been with a lover, and a powerful lover at that. She sketched some soft curves with loving fingers. Doris had been sweet, she would make a good subject for Gay's art.

She visualized the painting in her mind as she mixed the paints. She was impatient to work on this, hated the thought of stopping for lunch. The rose petals would be the softest pink, spilling out from under the girl's sprawled body, emphasizing the pink nipples of her breasts and the pink of her half-opened mouth. A few yellow roses would echo the yellow of her hair, and near her hips would be some blue flowers to echo the blue eyes. The rest would be the palest cream color—the breasts, waist, hips and legs.

She grinned with mischief. She could bet Doris' mind was in a turmoil this morning. She had enjoyed last night, would be very upset about that pleasure.

She wouldn't be able to understand herself. It would certainly help get her mind off her single-minded pursuit of Roger.

Gay hummed as she worked, stood back and looked critically as the sketch. She erased one line, made it softer and more curved. Doris had felt like a kitten in her arms, a soft responsive kitten. Gay shivered with remembered passion.

But she still preferred men. There was nothing like a man to make a woman feel the most terrific excitement and ecstasy. Like Martin, the skillful way he built her up then drove at her with such masculine fury that she bent like a willow before him, unable to think, unable to do anything but moan and writhe and respond as he willed. That was the way she really loved sex. The passion of a man for a woman, the passion Roger once had felt for her.

Her eyes grew wistful. What had happened to them?

She was fighting for her marriage, but she no longer felt the same toward Roger. She did not feel the same blind wild passionate longing to be with him, touch him, love him, inspire him with love for her. Now it took conscious will to consider him, to think of what was best for him, to think of herself as his wife, to let him come first in her life.

But they were married, and she was going to fight to preserve that marriage. She was determined to do that. She nodded her head at the painted face of Doris beginning to take shape under her fingers. "You shan't have him, not if I can help it," she muttered, working with controlled viciousness at the curve of a cheek.

Roger came home at noon for lunch. He was cheerful, full of his students and their papers and their appreciation of his teaching. He was a good teacher, thought Gay, and encouraged him to talk. He went back to school at 1:30 and she settled to the dishes.

If she hurried, she could paint till after 4:00.

The phone rang. She cursed under her breath, wiped her hands and went to the phone. If it was little Doris, she would invite her over, the sexy little bitch.

It was Karl Lucas. Her heart sank.

"Oh, hello, Karl," she said, without much warmth.

"Let me guess—you're feeling passionate? Yes?" She said teasingly.

"Yes," he said curtly. "Meet me in the woods right away. I want to see you."

She bit her lips. "Honey, I just can't this afternoon.

I have to—"

"Meet me! Or I'll go see your husband and tell him all about us. Do you want me to do that?"

"No, of course not." She frowned at the wall. Damn, if she ever in her whole life got involved with a boy like this again ... It served her right, she should have known a boy with such passion would be a troublesome lover to get rid of. "But darling—"

"Meet me in half an hour, or I'll go see your husband!"

He banged down the receiver.

"Oh, hell," she groaned. She went back to the bedroom and changed to a dress. She would get this over with fast, not let him have much pleasure and tell him she couldn't meet him again, ever. If Roger had one hint of this he would scurry back to his ladylike Doris, and Gay's whole campaign would be ruined.

This time Karl was there first. He seemed jumpy, nervous, uneasy. He pulled her down in the grass with him, had her skirt up in moments.

"Look, Karl, you hurt me when you do it so fast!"

She was angry with him, and pulled away. "Do it slow and nice, or I won't let—"

"Let? Listen, Gay, you won't have any chance to let. I know what you are."

She frowned, lay back resignedly. Then she jerked her arms in surprise. He was fastening a rope around them, and had flung the rope around a tree!

"What in hell are you doing?" She tried to sit up, pull away, but the rope pulled tight. It hurt her arms.

"Untie that, you crazy boy!"

"Nope, He tied it tighter, grinned down at her, his eyes excited and angry. "This time you aren't going to enjoy sex. This time you aren't going to use us for yourself, and your painting! We're going to have the fun!"

"Wah—we?" she said faintly. She tried to twist around to see who was behind her. She sensed someone or several people were in the woods behind her had. But she couldn't move except to kick her legs.

He took a scarf and wrapped it around her eyes roughly. He tied it tight. She was blindfolded and a gag was thrust into her mouth.

"Hey, take it easy," said another voice. "Don't hurt her, Karl boy."

"Oh, she can take it. She's had lots of experience with men," jeered Karl.

She heard a stirring of feet in the leaves, a few chuckles. Then Karl's hands, or someone's, ripped her dress up from her legs, ripped off her panties.

"Wow!" said one boy's voice, a deep one that sounded familiar. "Let me have it first!"

Gay began to understand what Karl meant, what he was going to do to her. She kicked her legs helplessly, unable even to grunt anything. The gag was tight, so was the blindfold, and her arms were pulled tight, bound to the tree.

"We're going to initiate you, Gay," said Karl mockingly.

Someone's hand was on her thighs. "These are my frat brothers. We're going to make you an honorary —or should I say dishonorary-member of our frat! This is your fraternity initiation. I would have brought more boys, but we thought this was all you'd have time for today!"

The boys laughed. There must be at least four of them, maybe five, thought Gay in wild panic. What five wild ignorant boys would do to her body she shuddered to think. They were so stupid about sex—and she wasn't ready—her body was dry and passionless—they would hurt—

She groaned in her throat as the first boy knelt upon her. She felt his bare thighs scrape against her, then he pushed. Oh he was stupid—oh, he was so foolish—

She tried to wriggle away.

He held her thighs tight, and thrust.

If she had not been gagged, she would have cried out with the pain of it. These stupid boys didn't know enough about sex to know she was not ready. Or did they—did they know they were hurting—she groaned again as he thrust again and again, then burst in a wild fury of crude passion.

He moved away, and she was alone for a blessed minute. Then another boy crouched between her legs.

"Do it hard," said Karl's rough voice. "Make it hurt.

She likes it that way!"

"I think it would hurt her," said the voice of the boy who crouched above her. "I think you're supposed to get her ready first."

"Go ahead!" said Karl angrily. "Pay her back—make her hurt—"

"Aw, Karl," said another boy. "She ain't that bad.

She was nice to us."

Karl snarled "I'm next. I'll show you how to treat the boys, thought Gay. He was angry because he had caught her with another man. He was jealous.

The boy above her was kinder than the first one.

He went at it more slowly, in spite of Karl's rough urging. He worked over her, and she tried to concentrate on responding to him, so she would be more ready for his passion. This time it was easier, but it still hurt when he pounded at her with inexpert eager passes at her body. He treated her then like a punching bag at football practice. She felt half-faint when he finally lay panting, his full weight crushing her body.

Karl snarled "I'm next. I'll show you how to treat a bitch like this."

He moved between her legs. She was so weak by this time she could not even kick as he held her with hard hands. He thrust hard at her, brutally, holding her with fingers that bit into her flesh. She moaned, tried to pull away. He went at her like an animal, until even the boys protested.

"Don't do that, Karl. You're hurting her bad. Cut it out—"

"Let me alone," he said roughly. "I know how to handle her."

He hurt her so badly that she finally fainted from the pain, lay limply in their grasp. When she came to another boy was there, trying fumblingly to reach a climax. They hurt her over and over, playing eagerly with her body, laughing excitedly when her body feebly and convulsively reacted.

"Look—she likes me!" cried the boy.

Little did he know how she hated him thought Gay as her mind slipped away in a haze of pain. She hated them, hated every one of them, but Karl most of all.

These boys, inflicting themselves on a woman because they were stronger. They were brutal animals, and she despised them. The worst dope-fiends, the most perverted creatures she had ever met in Greenwich Village had been far kinder than any of these men.

She fainted again, and this time she was out long enough to terrify even Karl. When she came to, the gag and blindfold were off and one of the boys was splashing water in her face. Karl stood sullenly nearby, staring at her.

Steve was the boy bending over her, his face anxious and concerned.

"Hey—she's coming to," he said. "No, let her alone," he said, as Karl came over to her, and bent over her legs. "She's had enough. Look, cut it out! You want her to go to the hospital? I think we went too far."

Gay tried to speak, but her throat was choked. She could utter only feeble sounds. Steve gave her some water to drink, but it was brook water, and brackish.

She vomited. Steve held her head.

He ordered one of the boys to take the rope off her hands. Karl protested and one of the other boys kicked him. They were as brutal with each other as they were with her, thought Gay. As the rope fell off, Steve helped her sit up.

"Are you all right now?" he asked.

"Foolish—" she whispered. "Stupid—"

He did not understand. "I think we'd better get her home." They tried to get her on her feet. Her knees gave way, and she fell.

Finally Steve and one of the other boys picked her up and carried her home. They dumped her on the bed in her room, backed away timidly.

"All of you," she said, her voice finally clearing. "All you—you—you animals—cruel-mean—You don't know what you did—Hate every one of you—Curse you—every one of you—"

The boys ran away.

She lay in bed and could not even cry. She was furiously, crazily angry. Stupid, terrible boys, not understanding how a woman was made. Not realizing how they could hurt. Not knowing what a woman was.

She cursed them aloud, cursed until her throat hurt.

This was the result of their ignorance. They had never known a woman before. They had been anxious only to "try one out," not knowing what sex meant, what love could be. She cursed vigorously the middle-class homes they came from, their stupid parents, the stupidity of the whole society that had created them.

She could not get up. She lay until Roger came home.

When he came in and called her, she answered feebly from the bedroom.

He came in, looked annoyed. "Do you have another headache?" he asked.

She could have shrieked. "Headache! I was raped!"

He sat down limply on his bed. "Raped?" he asked.

He listened as the raved about the boys, what they had done to her. He showed no sympathy.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" she cried at last. "Don't you understand what I said? Those fiends raped me! They forced me and hurt me till I can't move!"

"It serves you right," he said brutally. "It's just what you did to Doris last night."

"D—Doris?" she said faintly.

She stared at him. His face was hard and unforgiving, his eyes blazed with fury.

"Yes. Did you think you could do a cruel thing like that to a delicate and sensitive girl, and get away with it? She was so upset she was still crying. We had to go out in the car to talk about it. She cried and cried, the poor child. She is so humiliated she could scarcely speak about it."

"Why, the little devil. She enjoyed every minute of it," Gay gasped.

"You're a liar! She told me all about it, how you forced her to give in, how you hurt her. I saw the bruises on her arms and legs. You're the one—I'm glad you were raped today! Now you know how she felt, the poor child!"

He got up and walked out, leaving her lying limply on her bed.

"That—liar," said Gay aloud. Her throat hurt, and she rubbed it. "She lied—and he believed her! He never even listened to my side. He never even cared—he didn't even care what happened to me today!"

Roger got his own supper, rattling the pans with irritation but never offered to bring her any. She lay quietly, her body hurting, the pain coming and going in waves. She closed her eyes whenever he went past the doorway; she did not want to speak to him.

He had comforted Doris, he had no comfort left for his wife. He thought more of Doris than of Gay.

She meant more to him, her words meant more to him, than any evidence Gay could show.

The evening was long and painful. She heard Roger eating his supper, leaving the dishes, she guessed, since he did not rattle the pans again. She heard him settle down in the living room to grade his papers. She heard the phone ring. He murmured into it for a long time.

Doris, probably.

Her body ached and stung. She could not get up.

She hurt all over. Tears came to her eyes, but she blinked them away. She would not cry, she had to think clearly.

She did not understand the people in this community.

The Sweetmans were okay, they were fine. So were some of the others. But Martin York, with his ruthless shedding of a wife who was "too old" for him; Karl Lucas with his brutal treatment of a woman he claimed to love; the college boys who were so idealistic—and who could rape a woman with no second thoughts about the act; and Roger himself.

Roger—so romantic and passionate in Rome, so ashamed of his artist wife when he got back into the college environment. Ashamed of her for being an artist, an honest impulsive woman.

And he had changed her, or tried to. She was turning into something she did not like. She was becoming a woman who would have affairs behind her husband's back. She was turning into a woman who would seduce boys. She was learning to lie and cheat. She had enticed a girl into a lesbian relationship with her—and been furious when the girl lied about it!

She did not understand what she was becoming, but she didn't like it. She did not want this kind of life.

With another professor as her husband, it might have worked out. From her respect and admiration for him, she would have become a good faculty wife, trying to tame herself and forcing herself into the faculty mold. Maybe it would have worked.

But not with Roger. He was two-faced, a dignified professor on the surface, a passionate animal ashamed of his sexuality underneath. He would always want sex under the covers. He would dress his wife in exotic lingerie in the bedroom, but want her covered up when they went out in public—covered with long grey cloth so no one would know she was beautiful. He was ashamed of passion and sex. It was something that belonged to Bohemians and nightclubs, it was dirty. He didn't know anything about the kind of sex that was related to love and warmth and home and children.

Roger came to bed about eleven o'clock. He looked at her curiously as she lay, still dressed, on her bed.

"Aren't you going to bed?" he asked.

"Pretty soon," she said.

He turned out all the lights and went to bed. Soon he was snoring peacefully.

She lay awake, her dark thoughts for company. So this was the way her marriage would end, the marriage begun in such passion and hope and laughter and joy.

It ended when she was unable even to tell her husband how she felt—because he would not listen, would not believe. All communication lines were down. And they would not be established again, ever.

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