by Judith Gould
Her body arched then and she gave a deep-throated cry. This was it. The promise and the passion. The other side of dying. The reason for having been born. As though possessed, her own hands fumbled inside his silk pyjamas, and then she had her hands around his manhood. Power seemed to surge through it, and she could feel it pulsate. She could not believe how huge and hard it felt. She was at once frightened of it and desperate for it.
'I want you,' she whispered hoarsely. 'Louie, I want you. I need you.' She began kissing him urgently, little moans escaping from her lips. 'Please, I need it. Oh, God, how I need it.'
He moved away from her, slid the robe from her shoulders, and watched it glide down the smoothness of her body. His breath caught in his throat. It was as though a curtain had slid away, exposing a priceless treasure. He had had no idea that her body was such perfection. The orbs of her breasts were tipped with strawberry areolae and jutting nipples, her waist was tiny, her hard abdomen rose and fell with each breath, and her hips had more curvature to them than he had thought possible when he saw her dressed. Between her muscular thighs he could see a glistening, almost oily sheen.
Wanton lust burned in his eyes. She had the face of an angel and the body of a whore. And she was his. His for the taking. His for loving.
Without taking his eyes off her, he slipped out of his pyjamas and then stood straight and tall before her. She stared at him. Now it was her turn to catch her breath. He looked like a Greek god, more like the conception of a man than a real flesh-and-blood one. His shoulders were thickly muscled, his arms and chest powerful, his abdomen rippled. He was so lean. So tight. So muscular. Swirls of curly hair matted his chest and legs, softening the carved alabaster hardness of his chiselled physique. Slowly her eyes fell. And held. She was transfixed, and stared with breathless wonder. His engorged penis jutted out from the base of his abdomen, curving high, its purplish circumcised head appearing to be precariously balanced. A drop of clear nectar oozed from within and glistened like a dewdrop. Below, like ripe heavy fruits, hung succulent testicles.
Effortlessly he bent over and scooped her up like a prize. She snaked her arms around his neck as he padded over to the eiderdown softness of the bed. Solemnly, almost ritually, he gently laid her down on it and in one smooth, fluid move slipped on top of her. She stared up into his eyes, nervously licking her lips as she spread her legs. He knelt in a wide stance, bowed his head deeply, and reverently kissed her mound. Then, as he lay forward, his penis found its home between her fleshy thighs, rubbing teasingly against her clitoris.
And he entered her.
Her jaw dropped, her lips parted without a sound. She thrashed her head from side to side on the pillow and closed her eyes. A mere touch, an infinitesimal slide forward inside her, and her nerve endings burst into full, glorious life. This was ecstasy.
Slowly he moved in her centimetre by exquisite centimetre. Deeper. Deeper.
She gave a faint cry of disappointment as he hit the obstruction.
His eyes widened and she caught his look of surprise. Quickly she looked away.
'Why didn't you tell me?' he whispered gently.
She tightened her grip on his shoulders and turned her head so that she stared into his eyes. 'Does it matter?' There was a weak tremor in her voice.
He bowed his head again and kissed a jutting nipple in reply, and then with one savage thrust he burst through. A white-hot kaleidoscope of pain exploded in front of her eyes. She gave a violent jerk, and her sudden scream became a whimpering moan as he slid deeper and deeper inside her until his groin touched the very lips of her vulva. He was all the way inside, filling her completely, and she was shaking, waves of shuddering spasms coursing throughout her body.
Slowly his firm buttocks drew away as he pulled himself out, and then without warning, they contracted as he thrust himself in again. In. Out. In out in out in out. She jerked her legs up, gripping his buttocks as she forced him toward her, dug her fingers into his back, scratched her nails across his flesh. In out in out in out. She gasped and gasped again as he thrust away at her, and then he abruptly began moving his hips into a wide, circular grinding movement, and she wanted to cry out. He was massaging her womanhood, touching every inch of her being, manipulating her every sensation. She thought she was going to go completely out of her mind. His penis was hers, her vagina was his, their sweat mingled as one. She was no longer Tamara, and he was no longer Louis. They were one and the same, a gasping, moaning monster of savage fulfillment.
In and out he pumped frantically, faster and faster, and then when he was afraid that he might burst prematurely, he slowed to fight off the impending climax, before continuing with a steady, relentless, ever-mounting rhythm. Like a horseman possessed, he rode her as her hips rose and fell to meet his every thrust. This was living. This was dying.
She twisted and writhed, greedily manoeuvering her body to take advantage of his every thrust. The breath seemed to be pounded out of her. His cock seemed to skewer her all the way up to her throat. The world blistered and burned. Radiant orange suns burst in front of her shut eyes, searing her nerve-endings, flashing and flaring with volcanic heat. And then, thunderously, the world seemed to black out completely for her and the cry burst from the depth of her being. She dug her nails into his shoulders, clamped his legs together in a scissor hold, and all her pent-up passions, her innermost dreams and hopes and desires, her very womanhood, seemed to burst into a soaring symphony as wave after wave of orgasm crashed through her. And still that purest ecstasy kept on coming. rolling over her and drawing her in its smashing surf. Gradually, as though a storm had spent itself, the waves of spasms stilled.
At her climax, he whipped himself to even greater fury. His thrusts became fierce, furious. 'I'm coming!' he breathed hoarsely from a choked throat. 'I'm commmmiiinnnggg . . .'
The assault upon her became more pitiless, and with one last superhuman lunge he reared like a bronco and threw his entire body at her vagina and let out an earth-shattering bellow. Tamara hugged him tighter and then felt his body jerk. Inside her, his penis lunged and throbbed, and then a moist warmth stole through her.
His body went slack and he slowly drew himself out of her. He flung himself face-up alongside her. They were both swallowing huge, deep noisy gulps of sweet mountain air.
'God,' she marvelled between her pants, 'that was . . . good.' She turned sideways on her pillow to look at him. 'Is it always this . . . good?'
'Or better.'
'Or better. God.'
Her breathing had barely returned to normal when her hand drifted lazily down to her mound. She was still tingling deliriously inside. Idly she wondered at the miracle of lovemaking. She had never imagined it could be as heavenly as this.
Before she knew what she was doing, she parted her legs and started to massage herself. After a moment, her hips rose off the bed as her masturbation brought her to a second orgasm.
Louis slid alongside her. 'You're wonderful,' he whispered playing with her mussed hair.
She smiled and made a little catlike mew as she snuggled into his warm arms. She had never felt quite so good, so totally content, so completely a woman.
Now at least she knew what her body was for. She had discovered the mystery of her passion.
For this night, at least, he had chased away her fears.
She let her eyes droop shut and her breathing suddenly became shallow. He raised himself on an elbow and looked down at her marvellous naked body. Very gently he tugged the duvet out from under her and covered her. She seemed to smile.
She was sound asleep.
The lovemaking might have blessed Tamara with silent sweet dreams, but Louis found he could not sleep. Nor did he want to. He spent all night staring at her serene sleeping form beside him, his heart filled with rhapsodies. God, but she's beautiful. I want her like no woman I've ever met, he thought with a lightning bolt of incisive knowledge. Sex had always been a driving, purely physical act for him, but this he recognized as some
thing greater. Far greater. He had fallen in love, something which had never happened to him before, and to his surprise, his heart surged and he felt like he was floating on a puff-ball cloud. He had thought there couldn't be a woman alive he'd want to share his life with, but here she was lying beside him, in the perfumed flesh. And ah, what superb flesh, what a sublimely magnificent face. She was his living, breathing golden goddess, the stuff of which movie dreams were made. And like a movie he had worked on and subsequently grown to love deeply because of his personal commitment and the life he had breathed into it, so too he had been more than a little responsible for moulding Tamara into the awesome, nonpareil beauty she had become. Unbelievable as it still seemed to him, he had been the one to discover her. And she was his treasure.
Careful, so as not to wake her, he bent low over her face and kissed her marvellously sculptured lips ever so lightly. She smiled and murmured in her sleep, snuggled closer to him, and then her regular breathing continued.
Ah, what dazzling witchcraft could have wrought such an exquisite creature? he could only wonder in amazement. 'You're mine,' he whispered proprietarily, 'all mine.'
As though to reply, she shifted her head and smiled up at him in her sleep, her white-blonde angel hair fanning out across the pillow like phosphorescence in a pacific sea.
Chapter 10
Tamara, like many a prospective bride, looked forward to her first encounter with her future mother-in-law with the same enthusiasm the eighteenth-century French nobility had shown for the tumbrels which would transport them to the guillotine. Not knowing quite what to expect of Zelda Ziolko, but fearing the worst and knowing full well that first impressions were lasting ones, and thus of utmost importance, she was determined to win the woman over by sheer personality and a wholesome girl-next-door image, no easy feat for a woman whose hair was dyed spun-sugar platinum and who was already being hailed as 'the most beautiful woman in the world'. For once, Tamara believed that ordinary looks would have served her better. After all, Zelda was another woman and one who, herself, was "enjoying a relatively exalted status as mother of 'The Director'. She wouldn't want her thunder stolen, and therefore Tamara must be prepared to be met by a very finely honed verbal axe. She enlisted Inge's aid to transform herself into as down-to-earth a girl-next-door as possible. The first step, rummaging through her vast new wardrobe—courtesy of IA—made it evident that there was nothing suitable for the look they were trying to achieve, amid that sea of extravagant satins, chiffons, and silks that ranged from bright and showy white to ashes-of-roses.
'There's nothing I can wear!' Tamara had lamented, flinging aside dress after dress. She stamped her feet in frustration. 'Oh, Inge, what am I to do?'
'Don't worry, we find you something,' Inge assured her in a calm and measured voice. 'You have five days, no?'
'I suppose you're right,' Tamara said broodingly. She pressed her hands against the sea of froth and hastily slammed the closet door shut. 'Why is it that mothers-in-law are so notorious for being picky, anyway?' She scowled.
'Because they love their sons,' Inge replied wisely, reopening the closet door to release a wedge of chiffon pinched between the door and frame. 'I would be no different myself.'
'Yes, but you're no ogre. And you like Louie.'
'Who says his mother will not like you?'
'Oh, slim chance she will.' Tamara plopped herself down on the bed and sat there morosely.
Inge took a seat beside her and touched her arm. 'Tell me, why do you worry so much about this?'
'Because ... I love Louie.' Tamara looked down at her slender, fidgeting fingers. 'I don't want anything to go wrong.'
Inge smiled reassuringly and drew her closer. 'Then it will not, I assure you. Just calm down.'
'How can I calm down?' Tamara cried. 'Can't you see I'm nervous?'
'Have a sandwich.'
'That'll make me fat,' Tamara said morosely.
'Then think about pheasant things.'
'Pleasant things,' Tamara corrected humourlessly.
Inge ignored her. 'If I were Mrs. Ziolko, I would be happy for my son to marry you.'
'But you're not,' Tamara pointed out with her typical, maddening sense of reality. 'She'll think I'm a streetwalker, or worse. I mean, just look at me! This hair!' She grabbed a handful and yanked until she grimaced in pain. 'It looks fine on film, but I feel like such a freak in public!'
'Stop worrying. Try to take one, two hours off work sometime this week and we go shopping and have lunch. We find the right thing to wear. It will be fun.'
'Fun!' Tamara's eyes slid sideways with liquid green venom. 'I hate shopping,' she mumbled.
'Since when?' Inge looked at her in surprise. 'You always like it.'
'I did,' Tamara admitted heavily with a sigh, 'but that was when I went shopping for myself and didn't have to please the whole country ... or Louie's mother!'
'Ah, there is that,' Inge said. 'There is that.'
The Sunday of the visit Tamara wore a minimum of makeup, brushed her hair casually back, and dressed in the slim-cut conservative tweed suit with near-ankle-length skirt and beautifully tailored green jacket she and Inge had picked out together. Her platinum hair looked hopelessly out of place with the nubby tweeds, but Inge had resolved that problem by the inspired act of knotting a silk scarf, which matched Tamara's hair colour precisely, around her throat. When she heard the unmistakable honk of the Duesenberg klaxon from the kerb, Tamara picked up the platter of fresh-baked apple strudel, Inge's specialty, swiftly blew Inge a goodbye kiss, and pushed her sunglasses onto her nose with her free hand.
'No, no. No classes,' Inge said, waving her hand back and forth. 'Makes you look too much like a moving star.'
Tamara thrust the glasses at Inge, and on sudden impulse yanked the extravagant bouquet of white lilies out of the vase on the foyer table. Water dripped down from the long green stalks.
'What you do that for?' Inge demanded.
'I'll give them to Mrs. Ziolko,' Tamara said.
'You take flowers to a woman?'
'Why not?'
'I thought only men brung flowers,' Inge said.
'I'm desperate.' Tamara grimaced more than smiled.
Louis, as was his custom when he visited his mother, forwent his chauffeur and drove the huge car himself. Seeing it, Tamara felt her pervading sense of doom brighten, as if the Duesenberg were a lucky charm. It had taken her to Oscar Skolnik's mansion, where it had been decided she was to become a star. Why shouldn't it portend good luck now as well?
She deposited her peace offerings on the back seat and climbed in up front, beside Louis. He kissed her and they drove off.
As they neared the neighbourhood where Zelda Ziolko lived, Pasadena's large, pleasant houses with their generous lawns gave way to small cookie-cutter bungalows, each a carbon copy of the next except for the colour of the stucco. Despite her attempts at dressing down, Tamara began to feel foolishly overdressed and acutely conspicuous, definitely a fish far from water. She would have felt far more confident among the worst tenements or the priciest mansions, but the sameness of these low-roofed bungalows lining both sides of the street on brownish postage-stamp lots depressed her. The Duesenberg attracted undue attention, as though it had washed up on a drab beach from some distant wealthier continent.
'Here we are,' Louis announced as he pulled up alongside the kerb. 'Mother's home, humble home.' He smiled wryly.
Tamara turned to look at the neat little bungalow and saw the living-room curtains move. Quickly she snapped open her compact and repaired her windblown hair while Louis got out of the car. He opened her door and helped her down. She opened the back door, gathered up the strudel and flowers, and followed him up the tiny concrete walk.
The front door flew open before they reached it, and Zelda burst out, her plump hands outstretched. A tragedy seemed clearly in the making as she flung herself straight on a collision course with Louis, her thick legs with their swollen ankles carrying her as swiftly as
they could, her heaving bosom jutting forward like the imposing prow of a ship, her every breath wheezing out of her lungs as if emerging from a giant bellows. 'Louie!' she cried. 'Louie! My bubbale!' Just as Tamara was about to shut her eyes in anticipation of her knocking Louis down, Zelda came to a sudden stop, hopped up on tiptoe the same moment that Louis bent down, tilted her crinkly-haired head way back, and deposited a resounding kiss on his lips.
'Hello, Mother.' He embraced her, dutifully kissing her rouged cheek.
' "Hello Mother" ,' Zelda scolded. 'That is all you can say? A peck on the cheek, that is a way to kiss your mother? That's what they teach you to do in that Hollywood?'
Oh-oh, Tamara thought, steeling herself. This is not going to be a bed of roses. She looked on as Louis, obviously embarrassed, kissed his mother dutifully on the lips.
'That's better,' Zelda said, her eyes narrowing. 'I missed you, Louie. You should visit your poor old mother more often!' She wagged an admonishing finger at him. 'Everyone asks, when is that nogoodnik son of yours coming? What can I say? That I don't know? A fool you make me look!'
'Mother,' he interrupted gently, 'I'd like you to meet Tamara.'
Tamara stepped forward and smiled shyly. 'Hello, Mrs. Ziolko,' she said softly. 'It's a pleasure to meet you at last.'
Zelda's eyes were appraising as they swept Tamara from head to toe and back to her head again. For a moment she did not speak. 'You're very pretty ... in your way,' she said finally in a grudging, almost accusatory voice.
'Mother,' Louis said in exasperation, 'is that any way to greet your future daughter-in-law?'
'Nu?' Zelda, arms akimbo, glared challengingly up at her son. 'So she's pretty. I said she was pretty. Next I suppose you're going to tell your mother to her face that she tells lies?'
Tamara could see the muscles in his cheeks tightening as he held his anger in check, and her heart went out to him. No wonder he didn't come to visit her more often. 'I brought you these flowers, Mrs. Ziolko,' she said brightly to cover up the awkward pause. She thrust the bouquet at the woman.
