Just. Push. It. Back. Push. Back. Back! Yeah.
Oh honey, look … look out, here comes a, here comes, Susan, a car! Here comes a car, ohh.
I don’t give a good God damn, don’t stop, don’t stop, hear? Don’t stop please, please.
It’s so good. It’s so fucking good. That son of a bitch Alex!
Fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me.
Bent over the desk with her beautiful behind in the air and her tweed skirt up around her waist and her slip too and her pink step-ins wrapped around one ankle and her jacket open and her blouse open and her breasts hanging out of her chemise. So that Tom could hold them one in each hand as he thrust into her. Her knees quivered and she lay her head on the desk and bit her knuckle looking at a letter. Dear Mr. Thebus: In reference to your letter of the 16th inst. inquiring as to the feasibility of an all-purpose slicer being. She felt a flicker of fire from her nipples down to her crotch. Go fast! she said very calmly and conversationally. She began to throw her buttocks up in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. Tom groaned and started to come.
Hold my skirt up! Jesus! OH!
I’m coming! Susan, Susan? Susan.
Hold my skirt up, dammit. OH! OH! OHH!
Oh yeah that’s. That’s. It, baby.
Now Susan had everything off too but her shoes and stockings and they were all three tangled together on the couch like some real goddamn dirty picture. It’s funny that Janet started all this. Not really. But yes, really. She took her clothes off, just like that. Oh, Janet said you can really screw, Tom, Susan said. She did? I just told her you really liked it, you know? you liked to… you know? How? How do I like it? I’m ashamed. Ashamed? They all laughed. I told her you like it dog-style. Oh? Susan said. I didn’t believe her but if you do, and she immediately got on the floor on her hands and knees and stuck her beautiful backside in the air, her cheek on the rug, looking behind her. Tom knelt between her thighs and Janet massaged his penis lasciviously, kissing him and bringing his right hand to her breasts. Alex likes this too, Susan said. You men are all the same. Then Tom leaned forward and pushed into her and took her breasts in his hands and Janet’s eyes got wide watching.
Somebody’s at the door!
Fuck me. Fuck me.
There’s a car! Oh, there’s a goddamn car coming!
Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck the car. Fuck me.
The bell?
The bell? At this hour?
Oh, Jesus Christ, I bet it’s Alex come to pick you up, Susan.
I don’t care. Don’t stop, Tom! My God, you can really screw!
But the car’s stopping! It’s my secretary I think and she’s got a key
to the office and besides, she’s shining a light right in here, maybe it’s a cop. I don’t care if it’s Mahatma Gandhi, fuck me! Oh baby, please please please make me come off, oh Jesus, please?
Oh, hello Alex. Yes, Susan’s in the living room but she says you should wait a minute, she’s got a surprise for you. The robe? Yes, Tom and I were going to bed early but we all got to talking. Ha ha. Susan meant to leave ages ago. You know your brother, once he gets started.
Let’s do it in the front seat too!
It is my secretary and she … uh, Miss Thompson, uh. Ha ha. Miss Thompson? Why are you, uh, undressing?
Alex! I wouldn’t go in there if I were … Susan is standing in the middle of the room, her bare breasts just visible under her open blouse and jacket, her hair in disarray, sweat running down her face. Her tweed skirt is over the back of a chair. She is struggling to pull her step-ins on but they have caught on one of her high heels. She leans against Tom, who is completely naked. What in the God damn hell? Alex says. Janet shrugs and opens her bathrobe, slips it off, and lets it fall to the floor. The doorbell rings again. The doorbell? Now what? Susan sees her husband and gives up the struggle with her underwear. Tom shrugs and grins. They all look at the door as it opens slowly to reveal Miss Thompson. She closes the door behind her and begins to pull her clothes off, whimpering. Oh, Mr. Thebus! she says, I can’t stand it! Tom looks modestly at the floor as Miss Thompson advances on him, scattering her garments. And who’s this other handsome man, she says, looking at Alex and licking her lips.
Then, through the still-open door enter, in various stages of undress, Tom’s eighth-grade English teacher, Greta Garbo, a typist currently employed by Uneek Metal Parts, Inc., a woman in powdered wig and domino, and Tillie the Toiler. Their eyes are bright with sexual frenzy.
~ ~ ~
Marie went into town with that simp, Dave Warren, and wouldn’t tell Tom why, and he went along with her little mystery, asking her twice, hell, three or four times, her reason. As if he didn’t know anything about women! But with a dame like Marie it was best to play dumb, she’d get a kick out of it and he’d score a few more points, the attentive beau. He even made some sappy cracks about being jealous of Dave, as if that rube even knew what to do with it. What in hell wouldn’t he do to get her drawers off? Not that he didn’t like her a lot, really, she was swell. Tom could easy see that she’d be a great girl friend, but the way she was acting ever since that night he French-kissed her on the road, Christ, she was hell-bent for the altar, anyway that’s how it looked to him. Jesus, she almost fainted — a hell of a long time between drinks! If he played his cards right, just right, he could get into her before the time came for him to go back to the city, what? ten days more, nine. She kept telling him about Catholic this and Catholic that but if he asked her to marry him she’d chuck the whole goddamn thing. They’re all the same. Billy thought he was God almighty Himself, he was a nice kid, a little too nosy and under your damn feet all the time, but he was a great information service. Nothing to be done with that old bastard John, though, he knew what Tom was after, all the fucking castor-oil smiles in the world wouldn’t soften him up. He had half a mind to cross the old fart up and ask Marie to marry him, just to see his face.
He finished shaving and patted some after-shave on, thinking that he’d want to shave again after supper, smooth as a baby’s ass and heavy on the bay rum too, that always got the janes in the mood. Marie wasn’t really a jane, or just another jane, she had class. Besides, it had been a hell of a long time since he’d had a shot at a doll with such a shape on her — Jesus, even that ugly rag of a bathing suit couldn’t hide her build, she must have been something at eighteen, but who knows? She’s probably better now, a little more meat on her and her behind had just a little bit of a spread, my God, the way it felt when he was pulling her skirt up, he could feel the soft cheeks right now in his hands. He began to clip his moustache.
She was going to buy something special in Hackettstown, of course. If she wasn’t who he goddamn well knew she was, he’d lay odds it was some new underwear, but not with her, brother, not with her. She wasn’t the kind who thought that anybody else would ever see it, what would it be then? Maybe earrings or a bracelet. Something nice for a nice lady. She looked damn good dressed up, the day she got out of Stellkamp’s car in that polka-dot dress, wow. The cunt her old man ran out on her for must have been some lay, that’s all he had to say, and no two ways about it. Probably played the old skin flute for him to beat the band. If the old lady had looked like Marie, hell, who knows? Maybe he wouldn’t have spent so much time chasing all those skirts. Maybe. It’s funny you get used to a dame and then she just don’t get you hot anymore, same old crap, stick it in, drop your load, good night sweetheart. Might as well hump a piece of liver. A guy could probably get tired of fucking Jean Harlow — well, nobody had to worry about who was or wasn’t screwing her anymore, a shame. In his room, Tom put on a pair of shorts, anklets, sandals, and a pale-blue polo shirt. He’d maybe take a little walk for himself to the Bluebird and have a Coca-Cola. He would have got a kick driving Marie into Hackettstown but that was laying it on a bit thick, yowza. The old bastard had his Irish mug down to his shoes already about tonight, got to be a goddamn prize sap to rub it in. It was a miracle she even said she’d go, the way the sour old geezer had her at his beck and call, you’d think she was his wife the way he gives her all that guff, do this and do that and do the other thing. His wife was probably a battle-ax who led him around by the nose. Now he’s the big shot, huh, don’t forget to dot the “i.”