Her Secret Sex Life (13 page)

Now fully absorbed in the complicated position, the attractive young redhead no longer glanced at her opponent with the frowning, faint hostility she had shown at the outset. Instead, cupping her chin in one hand, sitting sideways in the chair and crossing her shapely nylon-sheathed legs, she morosely pondered a full two minutes before making a defensive move. Instantly the architect followed through with the attack, and for the next quarter of an hour, Heather was busy defending herself, for the least slip could mean the shattering of her king's security. At last, thanks to his transposing a move, she was able to save herself by sacrificing a bishop for two pans to bring about a perpetual check with the queen, and gasped, "Boy, did I ever need that!"

"That was extremely well planned, Heather!" he congratulated her as he began to set the pieces up for another game.

"Yeah, for a girl, I suppose you mean," she flung at him as she reached out to take the second cookie off the plate and munch it, staring almost defiantly at him.

"I didn't say that at all. I'd have been very happy myself, in your shoes, to have dreamed up a clever diagonal file sacrifice like that."

Heather visibly softened, "Oh, yeah. Well, th- thanks." She said the words hastily, as if ashamed of them; apologizing wasn't customary to her iconoclastic nature.

"You're welcome. No, I'm not a male chauvinist, If that's what you were thinking. When I play over the score of a good game, It doesn't matter to me who the player was, If he was white or black or even a Red, so long as the Ideas are sound and instructive. That's what we learn from chess, just as in life."

"And now you're getting to sound like a professor instead of an architect."

"Probably because I was a senior assistant to the instructor in my post-graduate days at the institute," he smiled back at her. "How about another game? This time I'll see if I can hold you off with white."

"Sure. You know, Mr. Cantwell, you're not a bad guy."

"I will be unless you stop calling me that and say Arnold, Heather."

This time, unexpectedly, Heather dimpled and blushed becomingly as she played the Caro-Kann Defense to his opening P-K4. And when, half an hour later, she bad to topple her king in defeat, she found she didn't mind losing. It had been an exhilarating struggle, and best of all, he'd treated her like an equal with no hint of sex.

"Are we going to the airport to pick Dad up, Rachel?"

"No, Heather. He wasn't sure when he called this morning what flight he'd make; he might even be back home already."

"Oh, yeah, sure." The redhead lay back against the front seat, stretching her voluptuous legs, tilting back her head, closing her eyes, the flicker of a smile on her insolent red mouth. "Say, this client of yours isn't a bad egg. Sorta square, but nice. Not as old as I thought, either."

"That's fine, Heather. Did you enjoy the chess game?"

"I did, a lot. Fact is, he asked if he could invite me over for dinner and a return bout maybe next week. So I said to call me-and I'd see."

"I'm glad."

"Uh huh." Heather opened her eyes lazily, turned to look at her stepmother. "You let your hair grow, didn't you, Rachel?"

"Why-yes, I did, dear."

"I like it." Then, with a flash of her old cynicism. "It came in handy the other night, didn't it, Mummy?"

Rachel flushed but did not take her eyes off the road. In a coolly level voice, she flung back, "I guess it did, Heather."

"I'm wise to you, Rachel You're pretty smart, you know. That Arnold Cantwell looks almost like a dead ringer for Dad first time around. 'Course, he's lots younger, and he's different in lots of ways. But the way he talks, and his eyes-I just wonder-"

"What, dear?"

"You sort of hinted some time back I might have the hots for Dad, didn't you? So you fixed me up with a guy that could pass for Dad in the dark. That's being a real hep amateur headshrink, Rachel, I have to hand it to you."

"I wasn't trying to fix you up, as you put It, Heather."

"I wouldn't make book on it, Mummy. But you're not a bad joe, at that. Only, we got a deal, don't forget, and it won't be much longer than two week now, you know."

"That's understood, Heather."

"Fine. Now, what've you got up your sleeve to make little brother happy, Rachel?"

"Nothing, Heather."

The red-haired young woman gave her stepmother a mocking look. Then she shrugged, closed her eyes again. "Have it your way. Only it better be good. Timmy really has a man-size yen for that tight hot little pussy of yours, Mummy. Wake me up when we get home. Those chess games wore me out… hmm, wonder if Arnold is as nifty handling real-life flesh-and-blood queens as he is wooden ones?"

Timothy Woodling had gone back to New York for most of the week, and so Rachel had been able to spend all of Monday and Tuesday at the Cantwell house, in the company of her capable shop foreman Patrick Gregory, taking measurements for replacement furniture, carpets, tapestries and other bric-abrac, as well as showing Arnold's mother and sister samples of fabrics recommended for new upholstery. The job was progressing very smoothly. Most of all, Rachel looked forward to the following week, when her husband would have finished his hectic commuting schedule to the new account in New York. Only last Friday night, his mind occupied with plans for the firm's campaign, Timothy had tried to make love to her again-and the same disastrous short-circuiting had occurred again: for all of his ardor and commendably massive erection, be hadn't been able to hold back so as to prolong their union and achieve the simultaneous rapture she wanted so much for both of them to enjoy.

This Wednesday afternoon, Rachel was catching up at the office on North Michigan Avenue, while Patrick Gregory was on Franklin Street buying from the wholesale suppliers the sizable list of items required at the Gantwell house. And that was why, about half an hour before quitting time, she picked up the phone to ask the alternate sandy-haired receptionist Jane Carlton to send Dinah Williams into her office.

Golden-haired Dinah was twenty-two, had been hired by Patrick Gregory himself not quite a year ago, and Rachel was certain the two were having an affair. That didn't matter, since both had behaved discreetly enough on the job; but what did was that Dinah was exceptionally flirtatious with male customers, and on two occasions had broken Rachel's unwritten law about accepting after-hours dates with them. Now, however, that breach of propriety might well be turned to Rachel's own advantage.

She looked up at the sound of a timid knock at her door and called, "Come in!" Dinah hesitantly entered, her large sky-blue eyes meekly downcast, and her soft pink cheeks already suffused with a becoming blush.

"Sit down, Dinah. I want to have a very personal talk with you," Rachel sternly gestured towards the chair opposite her desk, and smiled to herself to see how flustered the golden-haired beauty had suddenly become. Her snug blue pullover sweater and hiphugging matching blue cotton skirt emphasized lush curves of breasts and thighs and bottom, while her heart-shaped, demure face, with ripe, sensually red, moist mouth, dainty little snug nose with widely flaring wings and deeply dimpled round chin suggested a submissive femininity exceptionally stimulating to the aggressive male.

"Y-yes, Mrs. Woodling?" Dinah anxiously quavered as she seated herself and crossed her luscious legs, smoothing her skirt self-consciously.

"Dinah, this is just between the two of us, and I want you to be as honest with me as I'm going to be with you," Rachel began with a brisk preamble. "Your work is acceptable, all except for your habit of trying to make an impression on some of our male clients. Now, let me ask you-are you and Mr. Gregory going to get married?"

The receptionist gasped and her color deepened at this blunt query. "Well, er, you s-see, Mrs. Woodling, Pat-I mean, Mr. Gregory-he met me over at Northwestern when I was taking night classes, and-well, we got to be sort of good friends. But-but I don't know about marriage. I guess there's lots of time, I'm still young enough."

"Of course you are, dear. But I gather, from some of the office scuttlebutt, that you aren't always, shall we say, a one-man woman.

Now Dinah Williams' face was flaming as she studied her twisting fingers in her lap. "I-I guess not," she finally managed. "I mean, it isn't as if I belonged to Mr. Gregory-we-we're just friends, that's all."

"I see. But I also gather you enjoy sex, Dinah?"

The blonde raised her scarlet face, then giggled: "Sure, doesn't every girl?"

"Some more than others, some less, Dinah. Now to come to the point-you're a most desirable young woman, and I'm sure that practically every capable male, even in his teens, wishes he could go to bed with you just from seeing you once on the street."

Again Dinah Williams giggled. "You oughtn't to flatter me that way, Mrs. Woodling, it might go to my head. I-suppose fellows do stare at me-"

"You know they do and you like it," Rachel impatiently interrupted. "Now pay attention, Dinah. I happen to know a very precocious teenager, who's never had a girl; well-educated, from a well-to-do home, who's going through the usual adolescent tortures of wanting sex but not being able to get it. I don't want to see him helped out by his chums in school or fall into the clutches of some streetwalker or scheming slut. But if he were to be initiated by a nice decent girl-a girl who enjoys sex and doesn't have hang-ups about it and knows the score-it would make a man of him."

Dinah's blue eyes widened. "You-you mean-you want me to-to break some boy in? My gosh, I don't know-"

"You'd be giving him the gift of manhood, and I think, since you love flattery, you would be enormously flattered by the way he'd respond to you. Plus which, my own gratitude would take the form of a very substantial bonus long before our regular profit-sharing dividend in October. As much as a thousand dollars, I should say."

Dinah stared at the brunette matron for a long moment, her cheeks still vividly red. Then, cat-like, she flicked her ripe lips with a pert pink tongue, squirmed in her chair, and murmured huskily, "That sounds keen, Mrs. Woodling. What would I have to do? Of-of course, I wouldn't want Mr. Gregory to-"

"I told you, this is just between us girls, Dinah. He won't find out from me. As to that, I might even help you make up his mind to marry you so you wouldn't go on being a distraction to every eligible male who walks into the shop."

"Gosh-would you, really? Well, I-I guess it- wouldn't do any harm, if nobody found out. Who is this fellow, Mrs. Woodling?"

Rachel Woodling took a deep breath. Then she leaned forward and began to explain…

Rachel Woodling had treated herself to supper at, Don Roth's Blackhawk at Randolph and Wabash, that nostalgic restaurant where, a generation ago, such famous bands as Kay Kyser, Hal Kemp and Coon Sanders had played for Windy City night-on-the-towners. It was a little after eight-thirty when she let herself into the old Gothic house, her eyes widening with surprise to find her blond stepson sprawled in a liv-mg-room armchair, wearing only pajamas and slippers, puffing nervously at a cigarette and watching her entry with an ill-disguised smirk of satisfaction.

"Hi there, Mummy," he greeted her with a nasty little chuckle. "Heather's off on a date-I guess you know that, though-and she won't be back till late, most likely, so it's just you and me for now."

"You and I, you mean, Timmy," she corrected with a friendly smile which took more effort than the youth realized. Turning back to lock the door, then to face him, her pulses began to quicken and there was a hollow feeling at the pit of her belly, for his eyes were fixing appreciatively at her charcoal-brown nylon-sheathed thighs,- then detailing the rest of her with a deliberate.and prolonged intent.

"Yeah, sure. You still gonna do what you said you would for Heather'n me, are ya, Mummy?"

"Till the month's up, Timmy. Yes, I always keep my word."

"Great!" He got to his feet, moving towards her, the cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth. "Let's go to bed, then. Only this time, I want you to blow me, Mummy. Okay?"

Her face turned crimson. Though she understood the nakedly crude term, she had never done that, certainly not for brutish Matt Varney and not even for Timmy's own considerate and sensitive father. That was why it took a tremendous effort to retain her poise and to adopt a conciliatory, even cordial tone as she said, "Let's go upstairs, then. Besides, I've something to tell you, Timmy. A little secret just for the two of us."

"Sure, I'll listen. Now let's go," he ordered callously.

As she led the way into her bedroom, she could feel the boy's eyes on her, and a warm wave of sensual awareness made her shiver, knowing that in a few minutes she would be little more than a whore to her husband's precocious, young son. And, since she was gambling her entire future on this infamous bargain, Rachel Woodling suddenly determined to play her role surpassing well; in short to be a more than competent whore. For if she could bring it off with young Timmy, then, once with his father whom she truly loved and respected, it would be so much easier to take an erotic initiative which might once and for all be the very cure which Timothy Woodling needed for his humiliating impotence.

And so, just as the blond boy moved to the door to lock it with a smug bravado that proclaimed his perverse desire to exploit their bargain to the fullest, Rachel quietly said, "Timmy, do you know whether your sister has a vibrator?"

Startled by the unexpected question, he gaped at her for a moment; then, with a snigger, retorted, "Yeah, sure she does. Heather's hep, she's no square bimbo like you, Mummy."

"Would you get it and bring it to me, Timmy? I think I can give you some fun tonight that you'll like very much. And when you come back, I'll be ready for you."

"Oh no you don't, Mummy! I wanna see you do a striptease for me when I'm here, get it? No-go otherwise."