Her Secret Sex Life (5 page)

The drumming of the rain on the windows had grown even more insistent, and there were frequent rumbles of thunder in the distance, heralding a violent storm. If only Timothy could be home with her now, so they could comfort each other and resolve that one special problem which she hadn't even anticipated… and neither had he. Again her fingers trembled as she took the cigarette out of her lips and stared nostalgically into the mirror.

Rachel was remembering her second wedding night. This time, it had been with a man she respected and loved, and in the most romantic of settings. Their suite at the Sheraton-Wakiki had been on the twenty-fifth floor overlooking the vast blue Pacific. After a gourmet dinner at the Hano-Hano Room, they had come down to their rooms and gone out on the lanai. The soft cool tradewinds had welcomed them to the paradise of Hawaii, and there had been a full moon.

Remembering how foul-mouthed and ruthlessly selfish Matt Varney had been on that other hymeneal night, Rachel had found herself longing for consummation. Proud of her mature and as yet unflawed body, she had undressed before him and2 donned the black chiffon nightie she had bought especially for this moment. Timothy Woodling, six feet tall, with regular handsome features, closely cropped gray hair, could still boast an athletically supple body and no paunch, as so many executives of his own age had to hide with expensive tailoring. He had put his arms around her, kissed her, and they had moved to the huge double bed. And then it had been a tragic, almost heartbreaking fiasco.

Not that he wasn't everything she had known he would be: gentle, thoughtful, considerate to a fault. His kisses and the soft knowing touches of his fingers on her breasts and thighs and between them had made her blood quicken in her veins, made her nipples stiffen and darken with the anticipation of passionate cohesion. And then when she had whispered, "Take me, Tim dearest, I want you so I", he had groaned and turned away. He had been impotent.

Rachel had done her best to console him. It could happen to anyone. The nervous excitement, the tension, but of course most of all his feeling that his own children didn't want her as their new mother. And she told him as much and then told him, too, that after all this was only the first time, that it sometimes took weeks for a new couple to learn each other's foibles and likes and dislikes in bed.

And yet it still hadn't worked. All through the honeymoon, he had tried to make love to her. He'd had an erection, a quite adequate one, too, several times during their idyllic two weeks in Honolulu. But even after he'd 'entered her, he hadn't been able to hold himself back; premature ejaculation had ruined the delicious, pulsating harmony that had just begun to vibrate between their enmeshed naked bodies.

And then of course, coming back home, there had been more of the same. He'd plunged himself into new projects at the agency, of which this New York presentation was a culminating part. She could attribute some of his failure to his driving himself too hard, but they both knew what the real reason was. He was even more concerned about the failure of Tim and Heather to take to her, and it was blighting their love life together. And that was why Rachel wished he could be home right now so that perhaps during the primitive fear of thunder and lightning they might cling together and overcome the psychological blocks that were halting their eagerness for each other…

At the other end of the hall, blond Tim Jr., wearing only his pajama bottoms, was seated on the edge of his sister's bed. He was lean and wiry, with a thin mouth, straight nose, and suspicious, closely set gray-blue eyes. He was smirking as he contemplated his twenty-year old coppery-haired sister, who was sitting with her back propped up against two pillows, wearing a yellow cotton shortie nightie and reading the latest issue of Playboy.

"You ought to be in their centerfold, Sis," young Tim insinuated, leaning forward to put his right hand on Heather's bare, milky-sheened calf. "You've got a snazzy shape, just the kind I've got a yen for."

"I know you've got a yen, little brother,' Heather cynically drawled. Her face was heart-shaped, her eyes a luminous cat-green, with dainty Grecian nose and full sensual mouth. Of medium height, her body certainly justified her brother's carnal praise: her breasts were high-perched, narrowly spaced young cantaloupes, her waist slim and thus setting off all the more mouth watering lush hips, full, upstandingly rounded buttocks, and ripely curved, full womanly thighs and calves, "But I'm not exactly in the mood for brotherly fun and games, if you don't mind. I was thinking about Daddy."

"No you weren't, you were thinking about our new Mummy," young Tim sneered, his hands sliding boldly up his sister's knee onto the middle of her thigh just under the hem of her thin clinging nightie.

She slapped his hand. "I told you no, little brother. If you'd quit jacking off and reading all those books you've got hidden in the bottom drawer of your dresser, and go out and get yourself a girl, you wouldn't be bothering me all the time. One of these days Daddy might just catch on."

"About what?" the blond adolescent assumed an injured look of astonished innocence. "I haven't ever screwed you, Sis. That's not because I don't want to, you know. But all you ever let me do is play around with my fingers or maybe give you a tongue job. Come on, be nice, I know you're not cherry. And it's all in the family. Besides I know where Dad keeps his safes, so I won't give you a baby, if that's what you're scared of."

"You're really a perfect idiot, Tim!" Heather Woodling sniffed as she tossed aside the magazine and swung her luscious legs out of bed, slapping at his hand as he tried to sneak it under her nightie once again. "And while we're on the subject, just keep your dirty little mouth shut about my one big fling. I did it just to find out what it would be like, and it's something I can take or leave depending on my mood, get me?"

"Whatever happened to that hippie writer you let bang you, Sis? Is he still living in Old Town?" her brother wanted to know with a lecherous grin.

"It's none of your goddamned business, but the answer happens to be no. He went back to Frisco and his folks. He couldn't earn a dime here, and besides he talked a better fuck than he gave me. And that's all I ever want to hear on that particular subject, dear little brother mine."

"Hell, it's a rainy night and Dad won't be back till maybe Monday morning. What's a guy gonna do for kicks?" the blond boy groaned.

Heather gave him a long hard look, her eyes narrowing as they studied his wiry half-nakedness. "Are you feeling horny enough tonight, little brother, to get some real kicks?" she at last demanded.

"Sure, Sis, if you mean am I up to giving you a good hot poke, the answer is hell yes, with bells on."

"Get that idea out of your head right now, Tim. I'm not after a brotherly fuck. Oh sure, I don't mind your working me off and helping you out sometimes, but I'm just a little older than you and when I really need a fuck it's going to be from a guy who's got plenty of savvy and knows how to make a girl come before he does. No, that wasn't what I had in mind at all"

"Then really what the hell are you talking about, Heather? I guess I'll go read one of my books or maybe run a new stag movie my buddy Jeff Morley picked up for me at Weird Harold's last week."

"That's it!" Heather Woodling slid out of bed, her hands smoothing the filmy shortie nightie about her delectably curved hips, her eyes suddenly glistening with malice. "I've got a much better idea for that movie camera and projector set of yours, little brother, if you're man enough."

"Hey, Sis, you're really stacked-come on, let's do a sixty-nine, you've got me all worked up in that sexy nightie of yours!" the blond boy sniggered as he moved closer to his sister and, his left hand moving round to palm one of her opulent, firm buttocks, cupped her left breast with his other hand and tried to kiss her on the mouth.

"Cut that out, you randy little no-good bastard! All you're good for is jacking off and reading dirty books and watching fuck movies. What I've got in mind calls for a man," Heather snapped as she twisted out of his grasp.

"No cause for you to run me down, Sis. You know damn well I could screw if you'd only give me the chance," he glowered. "Look at what I've got, just looking at you in that nightie. Take it off, Sis, and I'll show you if I'm a man or not!" He pointed to the visibly projecting thrust of his penis against the taut fly of his pajama pants.

"Oh sure, so you've got a hard-on! Big deal!" Heather sneered. "Let me ask you one question, little brother. How do you feel about our new stepmother?"

"What's that got to do with my hard-on?" He gave her a surly look.

Heather's laugh was brittle and mocking. "Maybe everything. But answer the question."

"Okay, I'll go along with it. I hate her guts. So what does that get us? Dad married her and they're going to live happily ever after."

"Maybe not," the redhead mused. "Maybe if Dad found out she's just a dirty bitch, he might kick her out, and then we could go back to being a family threesome, the way we were before he went off his rocker and brought her into this house."

"Hey, Sis, you're talking crazy. How are we going to do that? Me, I think he was a damn fool to go off and get married at his age, even though it's been ten years since Mom died. Why couldn't he have gone on with one-night stands, the way I'll bet he's done until he met up with that fancy interior decorator bitch?" Timothy grumbled.

"You can be sure about it. I found his little black memo book in the secretary drawer downstairs last spring when I was looking for Mother's last letter from the hospital. He gets his ashes hauled by some call girl every so often. Well, I don't mind that at all. But what I do mind is his thinking that any other bitch is going to come in here and boss us around and be our mother after we lost the only one we had and the only one we'll ever care about. Are you with me or not?"

"I said I was," the blond boy whined. "And it gripes me to see her sucking up to Dad and then coming around us with that gooey smile of hers and trying to be so sweet and nice and thinking she's going to make us love her like her own kids."

"You hit the nail right on the head, Timmy. That's why I asked you just now if you were man enough to prove that she's just a no-good bitch. We'll need your Kodak Instamatic."

"Hey now, tell me morel" his eyes widened as he studied his sister's flushed, spite-contorted lovely face.

"All right. I'll tell you. And just shut up while I'm talking. What I want from you is -action, not conversation. Now listen." She moved to him, put her-hands on his shoulders and began to talk softly and swiftly…

It was after midnight, and the storm had subsided, though the faint rumble of thunder was occasionally heard and the rain still beat against the windows as if demanding entrance. Rachel Woodling had smoked a last cigarette before going to bed, then removed negligee, bra and panties, put on a pair of green satin pajamas and taken a sleeping pill. It had worked almost at once, despite her troubled thoughts. Yet even as she lay on her left side with an arm flung out towards the headboard, her exquisite face was taut with anxiety evoked by a kind of strange hallucinatory dream that had seemed to begin the moment she had closed her eyes and let the sleeping pill carry her off into the black void of slumber. She was walking in a canyon, whose, rocky crags towered high above her head, blotting out even the leaden sky. She was naked, and the wind was cold and pitiless, and the pebbles and rough ground bruised her bare feet. She kept calling out for Timothy, but she could not hear even the echo of her own voice, and there was no one in the canyon to respond.

Very slowly and silently the door of her bedroom opened, and Heather and young Timothy tiptoed in. The boy set his movie camera down on a chair near the door and nodded to his red haired sister, who put her finger on her lips, then whispered, "Lock the door, Timmy and remember what I told you.

"Sure, Heather. Boy, this is wild-I've really got to hand it to you!" he whispered back excitedly.

As he turned the key in the lock, Heather felt for the light switch and flicked it on. She moved towards the double bed, her lips curling in sadistic contempt as she studied Rachel's sleeping figure under a single sheet. Then, beckoning to her brother, she tugged the sheet off and began to unbutton Rachel's pajama tops.

In her dream, Rachel Woodling shrank with terror as she saw two masked figures garbed in black approaching her from the distant end of the canyon. She turned to run, but she could not move. The cold air sent its penetrating gusts against her naked breasts and loins, and her toes crispened as the bite of the harsh earth and the pebbles chafed them.

"Wake up, Mummy!" Heather sarcastically crooned, pulling the unbuttoned flaps of the pajama tops apart to expose the magnificent olive-sheened, dark coral-tipped pears of her stepmother's rhythmically swelling breasts.

"Boy, has she got a pair of bombers on her, though! I'll bet Dad really goes for those!" young Timothy breathed, his eyes narrowed and fixing on Rachel's naked bosom, while he surreptitiously slipped one hand to his bulging fly.

"You stupid little bastard, I didn't bring you in here to jack-off looking at her, now you just remember!" Heather hissed as she fixed him with a withering look. "Get the camera, I'll wake her up!"

As her brother hurried back to take the movie camera from the chair, adjust Its controls and set it on the bed, his red-haired sister bent to Rachel's still inert figure and, with a malicious giggle, applied her lips to one dark-rosy nipplebud and began to suck and flick it with the tip of her pert pink tongue.

"Boy, this is better than those stag movies," Timothy enthused as he pressed his finger down on the starter button and the whirring sound of picture talking was heard.

Rachel Woodling moaned softly, rolled over onto her back, her arm still flung out beyond her head, but her other hand tentatively groping, brushing Heather's shoulder as the redhead, sitting on the edge of the bed, pursued her oral ministrations. Between her lips she could feel the soft bud she was nuzzling grow turgid and flinty, and she could feel also the quickened rhythm of her stepmother's breathing. The boy holding the movie camera was shivering with sexual arousal, and he had already unbuttoned the fly of his pajama pants to liberate his taut, lean, rigid penis, the large mushroom-cap-like glans set off from the shaft by a wide, shallow circumcisional groove.