Love without Sentiment

He said, "Darlene was damaged. You found out about that, didn't you? From Cynthia?" He added, "I admit that I'm guessing, now."

"I knew." She had begun to move her hips. Just slightly, but she couldn't stop.

He said, with a soft laugh, "You could think better if I weren't playing with your tits, couldn't you?"

"No...," she began to say. Then, she said, "I just need maybe to lie down." She nodded. "Please. Just lie down."

She felt his hands on arms, just below her shoulders, steering her. She moved where the hands pushed her. He said, "Down here." It was the big leather bean bag. She felt her knees bend, as though of their own will, and she let herself fall back over the bag. Her head hung over its edge, her hair flowing down. Her back was arched over the bag, pushing up her breasts; and her hips rested in the hollow of the bag, so her thighs parted. She closed her eyes. She could not go on resisting, resisting when there was nothing to say, no argument. She didn't want to resist, because it had been so, so long...

She jerked a little as she felt his lips on her nipple, nibbling it, teasing it. Then, she let herself sink into the bag as though with no ability to hold up any part of her body. The lips were on her nipple and that filled her whole consciousness, just that... She knew that her hips were stirring, rotating, even pushing upward—wanton, whorish. But what could she do?

After a moment, she reached up and her hands went behind his head. She pulled him so his lips pressed harder on her nipple. She breathed, "Yes."

When she felt his hands on her thighs, pushing them apart, she reached down and placed her hands on his head. The pressure on her thighs stopped. She felt his lips pressed, not moving, on her belly—on her belly where the thick hair curled around the dark lips. His lips moved ever so little in the dense thicket of hair, but his hands on her thighs were still.

After several moments, she lifted her thighs, slowly lifted them and parted them. When her bent knees were raised almost to her breasts, her hands took them and pulled them back a little farther. She felt herself open down there, but still his lips did not come. She push her hips upward, seeking him. At last, she asked, "What's the matter?"

From somewhere, his deep, gentle voice said, "Nothing is the matter. What do you want, Verna?"

"Kiss me there," was all she whispered. "Kiss my cunt. Kiss it."

And then he did. And he went on kissing it, for so long, with such unthinkable tender attention, his tongue and lips leaving nothing untouched, that at last she had to murmur, "Now put it in me, please."

And after a moment, "Please, Carl? I want your prick in me. Please..."

But she felt him move up over her body, and she jerked back with surprise when his lips touched hers. But then, she could not get enough of them, simply couldn't, holding his head pressed to her, devouring something that she must have, must have...

And only after some time, when she could not keep her hips from heaving against him, when she felt as though down there her whole womanness threatened to melt and flow... Only then, did she say, "Now, you must do it. I'm ready. Now, I can't wait. I can't. I will go crazy...

And then he did it, so that she cried out and cried out, and her strong hands seized his back and drew him to her with convulsive strength and her thrusts upward met him, again and again, so that he stabbed deep inside of her until her cries were so manic that he pressed his hand over her lips and murmured, "Yes, yes, yes, Verna," and "Hush, now, Verna..."

"You didn't come home last night, did you?" Daniel sat at their massive maple breakfast table in the big kitchen. It was placed under the window, where morning light hit it at about 9:15—at least this time of year. He had said it conversationally, almost casually. But he was looking at her as she bent at the stove. She had not worn that particular negligee since—when was it? Their vacation in Crete, and that was seven years ago. Although it was transparent, she was not nude beneath it. But she wore brief black panties and a black bra. Her curves beneath it seemed extravagant. He waited, watching her.

"No, I didn't get back till an hour or so ago. You were still in bed."

Another man might have asked, "Asleep at the lab bench?" or some other veiled attack. But that was not Daniel. He said only, "I didn't realize it till I woke at about 3:00, I think."

She straightened up and turned to him. The sweet aroma of fresh scones came from the oven as she closed the door. "Did you worry? You must have. I'm sorry..."

"Well, I did, I suppose," said Daniel. "I can't recall that this has happened before, Verna."

"I thought I would be home in an hour or two. I really did, Daniel. I'm sorry if you worried."

He nodded slowly, as though to himself. Suddenly, he asked, "Verna, do you still want to make love with me?"

She came to the table with coffee, plates, a little pitcher of skimmed milk. As she set them on the table, her body was very close to him. When she straightened up, she said, frowning, "Well, not more than ever. What do you mean?"

"And when did 'ever' begin? Let me rephrase. When did 'not more than ever' begin?"

After a few moments, she replied, "Do you know? Do you know when you weren't excited about me, anymore?"

She added, "Not counting a few times when we had gone so long, you just needed to come, no matter what. Not counting those."

"But even that hasn't happened in so long."

She stood very straight, looking down at him. She was aware that he had been staring at her body beneath the negligee. She said, "No, of course it hasn't."

"Maybe you would like to make love right now."

She smiled, then slowly shook her head. "No, maybe later, though." She glanced at the wall clock. "Actually, Darlene is supposed to be here in a few minutes."

He nodded, looking up at her.

"And I have to get to the lab," she said. "Can you tell her what to do?"

Carl held open the door, looking down at her. He nodded. "Weren't you worried someone might see you dressed like that?"

"It isn't illegal."

"No," he said. He smiled as he looked down, again, at her long slender legs, bare below the briefest of short-shorts, shorts that ended just below the creases where her thighs met her belly. She had not even made the concession of trimming her hair; if someone looked closely, he would have spotted the dark, curly hair below the verge of the shorts. Above, her big breasts were only barely restrained by the white halter, with its narrow straps over her bare shoulders.

"But why do it? I'm curious." Then, he said,

"Come in, though."

"No stripping naked outside the door?"

"Once is enough."

"I came like this because I'm tired, Carl. I'm tired of everything, but this." She made no gesture, no indication, of what she meant by 'this.' She only stood facing him, open to his examination.

He tilted his head. "You didn't know you were so ready? Two days ago, you had no idea?"

"You mean because I'm a psychiatrist?"

He shrugged.

She said, "Do you know what I've been thinking about? Thinking about for two days, now?"

"Show me."

And she slowly sank to her knees, there in the middle of the room, and she reached up and began to unbuckle his belt. For a moment, she looked up into his face. He smiled. She quickly reached behind her back and released the halter; it came forward, pushed by the pressure of her breasts. She took it and threw it to the floor and then looked up at him. When he only gazed down at her, waiting, her hands came up to cup the big breasts and held them up to him, an offering. She raised her eyebrows.

His hands came down and finished what she had begun, unbuckling his belt, pushing down the blue jeans.

When she leaned forward to take him in her hands, she could not suppress a low moan of terrible, long-denied need. And then she had taken him in her mouth, as though she would devour him.

Suddenly, she raised a hand to sweep the heavy dark hair away from her face, so she could look up at him, let him see her face servicing him. He looked down at the broad, bare shoulders, the heavy-lidded eyes in the face lifted to him, drawn as though with suffering, and slowly he closed his eyes. He said, "I never wanted anything as much as this."

"I've left you alone? I've kept that promise?"

"Oh, yes!" Darlene turned to her, as they walked along the deeply shadowed old brick sidewalk on Benefit Street. It was the street of dreams for generations of art students; the haunts, once, of Edgar Allen Poe; the street walked by H.P. Lovecraft, master of horror, fantasy, and science fiction. "Yes, you've done everything that you said..."

They had walked farther, this evening, down the hill from the city's old, historic upper east side to this legendary street. They walked arm in arm, now, at ease. The late summer evening had faded almost to darkness so that here, in the narrow, brick-paved street, the lights had blinked on. "I have to ask you something," said Verna.

"Of course."

"Did you tell Carl about all this? I mean, it would be natural, so..."

"No! Never! I never did!"

"All right," said Verna easily.

"But why would you ask?"

"Well, are you seeing him? Didn't that end?"

"Yes, it ended. I think Carl was upset. He wanted to know why. Of course, he wanted to know..."

"He doesn't know what you're doing?"

"No!"

"Why are you so sure?"

"He knew I didn't do permanent. He knew that."

Darlene pulled on Verna's arm, now, stopping her. "Why are you asking? Tell me."

Verna looked into her face, as though seeking there some answer. Then, she said: "Because he does know. He knew from the very first."

"He couldn't! How could he know?"

"He came to me. It was almost at once, almost as soon as you and Daniel were involved. He had photographs, evidence of everything."

"No..." It was moan, a denial. Suddenly, Verna felt a contempt, a contempt she did not want to feel.

She said, "Yes, he had it all. Photographs of our meetings. He forced me to become his mistress, to do anything he wanted me to do..."

"Verna!" It was a cry so loud that Verna quickly looked around them. The girl never had called her 'Verna.' Verna said, "You have to be quiet, even here..."

"Yes, I know. I know... Oh, my God, how could that happen?"

Verna spoke evenly. "He just found out more than you thought, Darlene. And he decided it was a fair trade. I had arranged things between you and Daniel—and I must be his."

"No, it can't..."

"Stop it!" said Verna suddenly. "Stop it! You say the same thing, over and over." She gave Darlene's arm an angry shake. "I only wanted you to know. It doesn't change anything. Stop! Stop crying!"

"All right, yes. Yes, I'm sorry."

"Just know it. That's all."

Verna took her arm again, and they walked. She steered now from street to street, until they reached Waterman, and began to climb the hill. The first brick building of the university, and its long, sedate brick wall, had come into view before either spoke, again.

"Are you all right, now?" asked Verna, her tone gentle.

The voice that came after several moments was toneless. "Yes, yes, I am." A minute passed, and Darlene asked, her voice small, timid: "And you?"

"Yes, I am."

"He's very kind. You don't think so, at first, but he is, isn't he?"

"You mean Carl?"

"Yes."

"That's the most surprising thing, isn't it," said Verna. It was not a question.

"I can't forget that at the very beginning, you would have destroyed us both." She lay beside him on just a blanket he spread on the floor, over the thin rug. This is where they liked to be at night, with the streets lights shining in the high windows. Lights that threw patterns on their bodies, that made everything in the room slightly unreal, an arabesque of light and shadow. Verna smiled. A wedge of light lay on Carl's long, lean back, its tip pointed to his bare buttocks. She bent forward to where the sharp point disappeared and placed her lips there, searching downward with her tongue.

With her arm, she encircled her thighs, pulling them to her, owning them. She said, "I don't like to think about it."

"But I only sent the stuff to your husband. Don't you remember that? How would that have destroyed you both? Nothing would have happened to your careers, your reputations. He would have found about this farce of yours, that's all."

After a moment, he said, "You've thought of telling him yourself, haven't you? How often have you thought of telling him? How many times a day?"

When she was silent, he said. "It wasn't about your work. Or his. Just about Darlene. About the comedy."

Now, he rolled over onto his back. The streaks of light from the windows sectioned his long torso, his legs. Verna sat up. She liked, now, that the mischievous light illuminated one of her breasts, as though exposing her. When she saw him, she never could keep her hands off of him. She took him in her hand, all of him, as much as she could hold. She wondered if this, now, was all she thought about...ever wanted to think about...

"And now he knows, doesn't he?"

"That I arranged Darlene, for him?"

"Think about the timing. The tennis court and how a few days later you hired her and left on vacation. I haven't heard anyone assert that Prof. Noyes is mentally retarded."

"You don't tell me to do things, anymore," said Verna. She was moving her hand up and down, very slowly, feeling the length of him grow in her grip. "You don't order me to do things."

"I had another woman, once, who had to do whatever I told her."

"And did you run out of things to make her do?"

"I was connected with a fraternity, then. Do you know what I made her do? I took her to the fraternity on Saturday night. She had to strip. She freaked out. She thought that it would be guys; she was ready for that. Sort of ready. But there were girls, there, too. They were just as interested. I shocked, I guess. Before the end of the evening, the girls were all over her."

Verna said. "I would do that, for you. But I would have to wear a mask, you know. And no screw ups. But I would do it. Who would recognize me just by my boobs or my pussy?"

"You would do that?"

"If you told me to do it."

"You would let them all have you?"

"If you wanted them to be all to have me, yes."

"No, I wouldn't want that. Not with you."

"Then what do you want?"

"No matter what, I can't get enough of you."

"Well, try something. Start."

"Sit on me then. Put it up inside you. But move very, very gently. How long do you think you can make it last?'

She had risen to her knees. She threw one leg over his body and reached down to take him, to guide him into her. When he looked up, he saw her long, slender torso and her face, her face above the full, out-swept breasts with their erect thumbs of desire. She had not answered him. But now, she said, "How long? At least until you go screaming mad—and then a little longer."

"Big talk!" he said. And with a long, contented sigh, he let his head fall back, waiting.

"Why do you come out like that, now?" asked Daniel.

She straightened up and turned to him. She wore only the slight band of black lace that covered her pussy. She thought of it that way, now, as her cunt, and she liked it. He was at the breakfast table. Summer was in full swing, the sunlight brilliant through the window, the kitchen already too hot. She said, "I'll wear more if you want me to, Daniel."

"But why?"

"I feel comfortable, in this weather. But I know that it's...a little brazen, I guess. Should I dress up?"

"No, I like it. I wanted to know why, that's all."

"The bare boobs?"

He shrugged. "And all of it."

She came over to him with bowl of fresh strawberries. They were luscious. As she placed them down, before him, she was intensely aware of her nipples—a kind of metaphor making. When he smiled up at her, she was sure he had the same idea.

He picked up one of the full round berries, and, turning, reached out to place it on her nipple. It was chill, icy. She smiled down at him, but suddenly felt the prick of unshed tears in her eyes. She reached up and closed her hand over his, pressing it into her breast.

"I miss you in bed," he said simply.

She nodded. "All right, Daniel."

It was only noon. Verna never returned home at this hour, had not in years. She carefully opened the front door, making no sound. The house seemed silent, a ticking stillness. She slipped off her shoes and walked barefoot to the kitchen. Someone had had breakfast and left the dishes in the sink.

She walked down the long hall toward the back of the house and stopped outside the door of the bedroom—her bedroom with Daniel. Of course. And yet, she felt a jolt of anguish--for all that she knew, had known--to hear them there behind the door.

She went back to the kitchen and sat at the end of the table nearest the wall. It was not visible from the hall that went to be bedroom. The light from the high window behind her passed over her head, projecting an elongated triangle of white on the table, leaving her in shadow.

The days had been passing, now, as though life at last had found its new pattern and settled down to it. Daniel was home most days, and she knew that he was working hard, his den piled with books. Darlene came three times a week, mornings, and more or less passed Verna at the doorway, leaving for the laboratory. Nights, after cooking and serving dinner to Daniel, she often simply walked out, saying, "I'm going to the lab. Or the library. Or the bookstore."

And usually, in a couple hours, she was back—except when she wasn't, when the sex with Carl ended with her asleep in his arms. Then, she returned the next morning, very early, and was puttering around the kitchen when Daniel got up. They were a married couple in a routine.

Daniel had said several times that he missed making love to her. Not in those words. Missed her in bed. But, of course, she was in bed with him most nights, and, though he would reach out and touch her, rub her back, close his hand over her breast in a quick squeeze, rest a hand on her hip or slide it down her leg, he did not go further. Always, when he had touched her, it was Verna who actually had initiated sex: made love to him. At least until he was aroused, and then sometimes he would initiate counter-foreplay.

But now, since Darlene, Verna had not responded to his tentative touching, and he had gone no further. And yet, she knew he was aroused; she knew the signs—the restless turning, the sighs, the slight motions in the dark by which she knew he was touching himself. She wondered how long he would wait—and why he waited.

Suddenly, she sat up slightly at the table and turned toward the hall. Darlene's voice said, "I'll make some iced tea, all right? Do you want to sit out back?"

And Daniel, also just down the hall, "Not out back. I want you just like that."

Darlene laughed—giggled, really—and said, "The girl who never can find her clothes."

She walked into the kitchen and turned immediately toward the refrigerator. There was an almost unbelievable perfection at that age, thought Verna. The girl was shorter than Verna, a few inches over five feet, but her wonderfully white skin flowed flawlessly over the luscious curves—the slender legs rising to the flat belly, the high, sculpted butt, the torso defined in every muscle as it rose to the rounded, jutting breasts and the delicate bones of the shoulders.

Darlene's long auburn hair did not quite conceal the light pink nipples with the thick, perfect points. At the base of her belly, the red of the hair lightened a little, but Verna saw that Darlene didn't do much trimming, either.

Verna saw all this in a glance, as the girl walked nude to the refrigerator and opened it. In the next moment, Verna looked down the hall, saw Daniel at the same time he saw her. He, too, was naked, his tall, lanky body not especially fit but lean enough, young enough, to be good-looking.