Forbidden Nectar by Bob Maxwell - Chapter 01

Genre 1963: Vintage Sleaze / Suburbia

He was a sex addict. A husband whose extramarital flings so over-powered him that his need for other women grew greater with each transgression!

Torn between lust and love, he no longer knew if he could control his desire, even though further infidelity meant the end of marriage to the one woman he loved!

"You know it can't—ever be anything except—this for us," he said, already experiencing the first pangs of bitter remorse.

The unclad blonde wriggled into a sitting pose on the leather lounge. She pressed her glowing thighs together and looked down at the flushed discolorations visible on the satiny roundness of her breasts.

"This—is enough, darling! We'll—make it do," she murmured. "I couldn't—stay away from you. Not any more!"

He proceeded to dress, thinking dully that he'd just proved that once a married man gets the taste for the wild sweetness of forbidden nectar, there was no permanent cure.

Linda Markow had been unable to control sexual excesses. Now, as Linda Whorton, she was on her way out of the bubbling pit of destructive passion, while he was being sucked down into the whirlpool of wrongful lusts that he hadn't really even tried to escape from.

CHAPTER 1

He didn't know there was anyone else in the employee's lounge adjacent to the large cafeteria until his gaze caught the tantalizing flash of sheer nylons as the blonde quickly whipped down her skirt and smiled at his entrance.

"I thought I was having a garter problem," Joyce Avery said, not particularly embarrassed. She walked across the lounge and picked up her lightweight tan cashmere coat and handbag.

Bruce Grant felt the heat on his cheeks. Although the glimpse he'd had of those long, luscious legs was over in the flick of an eyelash, the figure filling a pleated, turquoise blue frock was there to remind him of what a gorgeous young female the new secretary to the engineering department totaled to.

He grinned to cover his rather obvious stares at the rounded perfection of her breasts, saying, "And I thought Dennis Whorton and I were the last to leave today. I misplaced my lighter sometime this afternoon. Thought it might have slipped out of my pocket in here."

Joyce Avery smiled back at him. "Can it be that our Accounts Payable and Receivable Supervisor is unable to look after what belongs to him?"

Bruce laughed. "Don't let it get around. See you Monday."

She waved and left the lounge but her perfume lingered on. So did the memory of that brief exposure of ivory-tinted thigh above those nylons.

Bruce rattled such thoughts from his head, frowning as he gave his head another grim, annoyed shake and concentrated on hunting for the missing Zippo.

He was down on all fours, peering into the darkness beneath one of the lounges, when another lean, good-looking young junior executive sauntered in from the cafeteria a few minutes later.

"You left it on your desk," Dennis Whorton dryly informed him, tossing the slim-line lighter up and down in his hand. "I just went back and lifted up the Frieden and there it was."

Bruce grimaced, climbing to his feet. "Now, why didn't I look under the calculator?" he muttered, hiking over to take the recovered Zippo from his friend.

"Probably because you were too busy looking at—shall I say more well-rounded figures?" amiably leered the sandy-haired young methods engineer.

"You and me both-along with every other red-blooded male in the office."

They walked back through the cafeteria. Bruce Grant groaned with a sudden realization. He stopped, clapping his hand to his forehead in a gesture of renewed exasperation.

"This is class reunion night!" he gasped, not at all happy about the prospect. "The last Friday in Mayand that's now!"

The slightly shorter male grinned in puzzled interest.

"So, what's so tragic? I went to my high school reunion a couple years back. We had a swinging good time; big dinner, numerous cocktails and lots of gab about good old days that really weren't that good."

Bruce shook his head while they resumed departing from the deserted downtown Milwaukee plant office.

"Obviously, you weren't picked as the boy most likely to succeed," he moaned. "That's the horrible tag they pinned on me in our senior yearbook."

"Most likely to succeed at—what?"

Bruce shrugged. "Everything. Career. Life." He made a disgusted, impatient gesture with both hands. "Everything.”

"Oh, you poor, stark failure!"

They both laughed as they emerged into the waning sunlight. Dennis pulled back the sleeve of his medium gray suit coat and checked his watch.

"Looks as if you may have something planned for tonight, too," Bruce said. They walked around the side of the building towards where their cars were the last vehicles remaining in the shadows.

Dennis Whorton nudged the big, brown-haired male beside him. "I wish I could fit that somewhere in my plans," he wistfully muttered.

Bruce followed his friend's gaze. He saw the shapely golden-haired secretary standing at the corner bus stop.

A mild breeze fluttered the hem of Joyce Avery's pleated blue skirt and played idly with her long, wavy blonde tresses. She was outlined in dramatic profile, unaware that the pair of admiring males were standing beside the factory building, ogling that deliciously-curving profile.

"Don't take one no for a final answer," Bruce severely admonished his bachelor buddy. "Gals with her looks always say no the first few times or so just on general principles. They don't want to make things too easy."

"Gals like her make things too hard," sighed the once-refused young engineer. He clapped Bruce on the shoulder, moving between their cars. 'Well, have fun with Peg at tonight's shindig. You lucky dog!

Wish I had a honey-like your wife and those kids of yours waiting for me at home."

"Wishing won't make it so. Be a man. Stop on your way past the corner and offer to play chauffeur," Bruce said, opening the door to his own laurel green, Bel Air sedan.

Dennis Whorton rolled his tongue around one cheek, halted in the process of sliding in behind the wheel of his rakish new Lark Daytona two-door Convertible.

"You know, I might just do that," he decided, completing the entry.

Bruce took his time getting in, allowing the younger man to pull out and cruise away from the plant parking area first.

He watched Joyce Avery notice the good-looking, sandy-blonde occupant of the light blue convertible, as Dennis carried through on his decision and pulled up at the curb beside the bus stop sign.

They talked for a few seconds but the luscious blonde secretary finally shook her head, smiling her second refusal. Bruce watched his friend slide back across the seat and pull away. He started the engine and backed the Chevy away from the dark red bricks of the office addition to the huge industrial plant.

In the rear-view mirror, he saw a city bus swing in and stop for the pretty, nicely-curved passenger.

He was glad his route home took him in the opposite direction. Otherwise, he might have been tempted to try his luck.

Bruce frowned without knowing it, guiding the sedan through moderately heavy downtown Milwaukee traffic.

Okay, so life hadn't yielded the fruits of that silly class prophecy. So, instead of being a big wheel, here he was ten year later, just one of the minor cogs that helped big wheels turn.

What did he have to complain about?

He'd married Peggy going on seven years ago.

They had a princess doll of a blonde, blue-eyed daughter who'd just recently celebrated her fifth birthday. They had a husky, plump-cheeked tiger of a baby boy who wasn't really a baby anymore because he was almost three years old.

And, what if the house they'd finally bought via a low down payment and a long-term mortgage wasn't as new and as much of a showplace as the palatial house he'd promised Peg, along with all sorts of other unfulfilled dreams, when she'd consented to become Mrs. Grant?

It was a neat, well-maintained four-bedroom colonial house in the pleasant suburb of Brookfield.

what did it matter if some of the plaster was faintly cracked and most of their furnishings were inadequate and scuffed, at best?

A man should be satisfied with what he had.

Bruce found that he was saying things like that to himself with increasing oftenness. It was true, though, wasn't it?

He jammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a news-paperboy who'd carelessly veered his bike out of a driveway without watching for oncoming cars.

In another few minutes he'd be home. He'd sit down to the supper his lovely brunette wife would have ready. He'd play with the kids for a few minutes.

Then, he and Peggy would get dressed for the 8:00 P.M. reunion at Grandview High School and a teen-aged baby-sitter would arrive to stay with Betsy and Mike.

Sure, it was all settled in an easy, pleasant domestic routine that dovetailed nicely with a job he could tolerate even if it wasn't as far up the totem pole as he would have liked to climb.

He caught his scowl in the rear-view mirror just before turning the car into the nicely-wooded Brookfield avenue that led to home several blocks further down.

Bruce Grant got rid of the scowl. He couldn't do much about the expression of his dark blue eyes. He couldn't get rid of the impatience with life and the hints of vague discontent staring back at him from the mirror above the windshield.