The Marital Corporation Ch 01

Chapter One

The signature ticking that signaled the start of CBS's 60 Minutes filled the room. Peter was quickly engrossed in the program. Nearly an hour and two drinks later, however, he began to wonder what was keeping Kenny and his wife. Quietly, he climbed the stairs. Upon reaching the landing, he heard a telltale creaking coming from Timmy's old room down the hall.

Peter followed the sound, and sighed when he came around the corner and saw Kenny's muscular backside, still wet from his recent bath, energetically pumping as he thrust himself with youthful exuberance between Marge's bare, welcoming thighs. Her shorts and panties flew from an extended ankle like triumphant battle flags.

Mindful of the boy's earlier confession, Peter cleared his throat. "That's not a very good idea," he said dryly.

Kenny froze. Marge glared at Peter over the boy's shoulder.

Peter shook his head at her. "I'm sorry, kiddo, but we don't know where that boy's cock has been," he said.

Kenny, in the meanwhile, had leaped to his feet and scrambled into his pants. His impressive erection was now little more than a reddened flap of skin. He started to leave, but Peter held out his hand to detain him.

"Sit down, son. We need to talk."

Kenny looked doubtfully at the older man and then anxiously at the door. To Marge, Peter said, "Kenny told me this afternoon about hustling on the street in L.A." Then, to Kenny, he added, "You know about HIV and hepatitis. Have you ever had a blood test?"

The boy still looked fearful, but he shook his head.

Peter smiled grimly. "Well, you're going to have one, and as long as you're healthy, I'm not mad. But if you have something nasty, I'll probably kill you," he said pleasantly.

Later, after Marge and Peter had gone to bed, she told him what had happened. Thinking that their young guest might still be suffering a mild concussion, she had led him to Timmy's old room; then, across the hall to the bath. She had smiled at the him, trying to put him at ease. "I'm going to draw a nice, hot bubble bath," she had said. "I want you to soak the soreness out of your muscles. You'll feel a lot better. You get undressed and hop into the tub. I'll get one of Pete's old robes for you."

Marge had closed the door, and had gone to their room, where she rummaged in Peter's closet for an old terry cloth robe he never wore. She returned to Timmy's room where she made the bed with fresh linen, and put some of Timmy's things away.

Then she stepped quietly across the hall and listened at the door. When Timothy was bathing, she could usually tell how far along he was by the sounds he made. This boy, however, was very quiet. Too quiet. Again thinking of the lump on his forehead, Marge had quietly opened the door and peeked into the room.

Kenny's head rested against the rim of the tub. His eyes were closed and his face was taut with strain. He had slid down in the tub so his chest and neck were covered by the hot water. His knees stuck out of the water at a wide angle.

Alarmed, she tiptoed closer. Suddenly, it occurred to her that the tension she saw in the boy's face was sexual. As if confirming her guess, the water started swirling around his midsection, and instantly, she realized he was masturbating, possibly to a remembered image of her and Anne's earlier lush nudity.

Marge felt suddenly moist. She dropped to her knees and crept to the tub. Then she whispered into the boy's ear, "Let me do that for you," and reaching into the warm water, she seized his sturdy erection.

His eyes shot open in fear and surprise, but his turgid manhood was not so easily intimidated. On the contrary, it seemed even stiffer.

Marge was empty, and nearly faint with aching need as she rinsed the boy's sticky seed from her hand. Silently, she took his hand, urging him to his feet.

"Now you know how it happened," she concluded, adding thoughtfully, "For a boy his age, he's pretty good." She darted a quick look into her husband's face as she flashed her gamine smile.

Peter refused to rise to the bait. Instead, he was reflecting on the day's events, beginning with their get-acquainted sail with Anne and Gordon Schaefer. He smiled faintly as he remembered how he and Marge had met the Schaefers.

It had been during the formal spring reception for new yacht club members at the Seattle Yacht Club the previous Friday evening.

Ordinarily, Peter's membership in the yacht club would have been an unnecessary extravagance, but his law partners at Robbins, Glat and Semens had thought it good business for one of their number to mix socially with Seattle's upper crust.

Peter was the only boat-owning partner, even though his status as a junior partner scarcely qualified him otherwise, so he and Marge were the logical beneficiaries of that policy. Nobody claimed that the slight increase in billings justified the expense, but only Peter seemed to notice, and he wasn't sufficiently concerned to resign from his membership.

He had virtually fallen in love with Anne Schaefer the first time he had seen her. She was standing next to her husband in the receiving line with other newcomers, smiling and nodding as she chatted briefly with each passing member.

She was a slender woman with the bearing of royalty. As the line moved, bringing Peter closer to her, he was almost relieved to notice her slight overbite, which softened her otherwise classic profile, thus making her seem more human and accessible.

Her face was surrounded by dark auburn hair that fell in gentle waves below her shoulders. Her head was supported by a long, slender neck that seemed the longer, partly because of the choker collar of pearls that she wore, partly because of the revealing way her dark blue gown was cut. In addition to her beauty, the woman obviously had both taste and the apparent means to satisfy it.

Almost automatically, as men will do, Peter compared Marge, his irrepressible wife of 11 years, in front of him, with the lovely stranger they were approaching. Anne was at least two inches taller than Marge. Her dark, thick hair that fell in soft waves around her face, offered a sharp contrast to Marge's hoydenish carrot colored feather cut which was tamed only by lavish applications of conditioner.

Compared to Anne's svelte form, Marge's lush body seemed almost overripe, but Peter knew that beneath the green and gold cocktail dress that emphasized her full bosom and bold hips, and set off her striking hair, was the firm body of a lusty Aphrodite. Anne's legs were concealed by the gown she wore, but he was sure they were as shapely as Marge's.

Searching for clues about Anne's personality, Peter looked closely at the man she had chosen to marry. He expected a hero, but found instead, a short balding man, heavy for his height, and utterly undistinguished. Peter felt oddly embarrassed by the man's demeanor.

Quixotically, he thought she deserved better. The man's fungible features and ingratiating smile were topped by a conservative crew cut. He could have been a waiter working for tips in an upscale restaurant, or perhaps an accountant, rather than the founder and CEO of SoftNet, a hot new computer software company.

As the line inched forward, Peter tried to analyze the unexpected attraction he felt for a woman he had not yet met. When their turn to be introduced came, he was startled by her striking pale blue eyes, so light they seemed almost white, under prominent but delicately arched eyebrows almost on a level with his. He took her offered hand, and experienced a series of tiny electrical tingles at the cool, silken, sliding feel of her skin. Before moving on to the next newcomer, he risked a quick peek at her decolletage, which exposed enough of her modest bosom to qualify for a Hollywood awards extravaganza.

After the receiving line dissolved, and new and old members were sipping sherry and getting acquainted while waiting for the dining room to open, Marge grinned at Peter, "I saw how you looked at Mrs. Schaefer. I'm going to find Mr. Schaefer and see if we might have something in common." She gave him a conspiratorial wink and turned away. Peter watched her merge into the crowd, and as usual, was gratified to see other male eyes tracking his wife's unconsciously sensuous stride.

Lost in thought, he was startled to hear someone behind him noisily clear his throat. He turned. It was the club secretary, Bill Knowles.

"How're you, Pete?" Knowles asked, flashing his insurance salesman's smile as he extended his hand.

Peter warily returned the greeting, knowing that Knowles seldom wasted time in idle conversation with subsidized members unless their sponsor was someone important like Boeing. He began turning away to look for Marge when Knowles said, "Not so fast, my boy. We need to have a chat."

However it may have been intended, Peter found Knowles'`my boy' to be uncomfortably patronizing. His lips thinned as he turned away again. Despite his florid manners, Knowles evidently realized he had misspoken. His tone was suddenly apologetic. "I'm sorry if I sounded abrupt, Pete; I don't see you often, and I'd like to have a few minutes of your time this evening. It's important. It won't take long."

Marge had disappeared into the crowd, so Peter shrugged. "Sure, why not right now while we're waiting for dinner?"

Bill silently led him across the colorful Oriental rug to a pair of club chairs in the corner behind the piano. He looked earnestly into Peter's face, and almost before they were seated, asked, "What would you say if I told you some of the members think you ought to run for the state legislature?"

Normally a shy man, not wanting to offend, Peter's initial reaction was simply to demur. He smiled slightly, and stood up. "They can't be serious, Bill. I don't know anything about politics. It was good to see you again." He offered his hand.

"Will you at least think about it?"

Pete shrugged. "Sure," he said, "but not seriously."

"Just think about it," Knowles said earnestly. "That's all I ask. Talk it over with Marge and your partners. See what they think. The time for filing is running short, so if you don't mind, I'd like to ask Doc Porter to give you a call in the next day or so. Would that be all right?"

Peter paused. He had never met the man, but Doc Porter's name was frequently mentioned in the papers as a mover and shaker in state politics. It was obvious that Knowles was serious, for the moment, at least, about enlisting Peter as a candidate. Peter nodded, and waving a noncommittal farewell, walked into the crowd, seeking Marge or better, Anne Schaefer.

He caught a glimpse of Marge's hair through the crowd and soon reached her side. She was talking to a seemingly overwhelmed Gordon Schaefer. Mrs. Schaefer, unfortunately, was nowhere in sight. As Peter approached, Marge seized his arm. "The Schaefers are going sailing with us Sunday," she said.

Peter was surprised, not that the Schaefers apparently didn't own a boat -- only a small percentage of yacht club members did -- but because Marge did not ordinarily enjoy sailing. She was, quite frankly, a white knuckle sailor. A puff of wind; the slightest degree of heel, and he knew he would feel a pair of frightened eyes boring into the back of his head, silently pleading for an early return to land. Concealing his skepticism, he said, "That's great."

Peter chatted briefly with Schaefer. They agreed to meet at Shilshole Marina where the Baylis boat was kept. Later, on the way home, Marge and Peter compared notes. He told her about Bill Knowles' political proposal, and she told him about her conversation with Gordon Schaefer.

"I swear to God, Pete, he all but handed me a motel key. Do I really look that easy?"

"The guilty fleeth where none pursueth," Peter said with mock solemnity.

"Aw, come on, Pete, tell me; is that the impression I give?"

"What? That you're a loose woman with the morals of an alley cat?" he said, grinning at her. "I don't think so. That's what makes being married to you so much fun." Thinking of Gordon Schaefer, Peter looked appraisingly at his wife as he imagined the other man had seen her.

While both wives were uncommonly attractive, and where Anne narrowly missed being a classic beauty, Marge exuded a raw, pungent magnetism that habitually sucked men into her orbit. "Aw, you're just saying that to make me feel good." Marge playfully slapped his arm and laughed. "You men are all alike."

The following Sunday, when Peter saw how enthusiastically Marge stowed the beer, set up the galley, and untied and folded the sail covers on their old wooden 28 foot Alden sloop, "Love Boat", he was surprised by the impression Gordon Schaefer evidently had made on her. He was filling the water tank when he glanced up to see the Schaefers coming down the dock, walking toward their slip. Peter raised an arm in greeting.

Anne clapped her hands together. "Oh, it's beautiful!" she exclaimed, looking at the boat. Peter silently echoed the sentiment as he looked at her. It wasn't her clothes. She made the jogging sweats she wore seem regal. The broad brimmed straw hat that covered her thick mane threw the elegant planes of her face into a soft shadow.

Her husband looked at Peter and flashed his waiter's smile while he offered his hand. "It's good to see you again, Pete," he said. The two men shook hands. Then Gordon looked in the general direction of the boat. "She is a beauty, Pete. I envy you."

Peter followed his gaze. He wasn't sure whether Gordon was referring to the boat or Marge, who was wearing an oddly mismatched sweatshirt above a thong bikini bottom which had disappeared into the crease between her buttocks as she bent over the boom, reaching for an imaginary object. It pays to advertise, he thought sardonically.

"Come aboard, come aboard," Peter said. Anne was wearing rubber soled sneaks, while Gordon wore leather soled shoes.

Peter pointed to them. "You'll be more comfortable and a lot safer if you'll just slip your shoes off," he said. "You can go barefoot like we do."

Marge's muffled voice came from the opposite side of the boom. "I didn't know we had company. Give me a minute and I'll get decent."

Anne spoke up, "Don't bother on our account, Marge. I imagine we'll all be peeling down when the sun gets a little higher."

The Schaefers knew nothing of boats or boating. Marge and Peter persuaded their guests to sit in the cockpit while they prepared to get their little sailboat underway.

Peter started the boat's engine and cast off the dock lines. Then he skillfully backed his boat out of the slip, and steered past rows of varnished wood and gleaming fiberglass until they reached the end of the high stone breakwater. Once in the open sound, Peter shifted the clutch into neutral, and went forward to set the sails.

Marge seized the tiller. Anne sat next to her while Gordon, evidently thinking this was man's work, awkwardly followed Peter around the cabin to the mast.

"We've never sailed before," he confided.

"There's not much to it," Peter replied, "but just to be on the safe side, why don't you go back to the cockpit while I raise the sails?"

Gordon nodded and retreated to the cockpit, while Peter quickly hoisted the jib and mainsail. Then he returned to the cockpit, where he shut the engine down and, glancing at the weathervane on top of the mast, hauled the jib sheet taut and pulled the tiller.

Both sails immediately filled. The boom swung lazily over their heads. Peter looked at Marge as Love Boat gently heeled and began to gather way, water gurgling along her sides and under her counter. Marge bravely smiled. Turning to Anne, she said, "Don't you just love that feeling of power when the boat gets underway?"

Peter smiled at Anne's response. Like many people who have never experienced the magic of virtually silent propulsion, she whispered, wide eyed, to her husband. "Listen to the water go by." Turning to Peter, she asked, "Is it safe to stand on the side?"

"Sure. This boat weighs several tons. Your weight isn't going to have much effect. You'd better slip on a life jacket, though, when you leave the cockpit. Unless, of course," he added hopefully, "you plan to sun bathe or something."

Gordon looked at Peter and grinned. "I must tell you, Peter, this is our lucky day! I had no idea sailing was so easy and relaxing. What does a boat like this cost?"

Peter said, "Oh, somewhere between $5,000 and $50,000." Then, realizing his guest's interest was genuine, he added, "Since you're now yacht club members, you ought to learn something about sailing. Here, let me show you." Peter stood, and motioned for his new pupil to take his place. Gordon slid uneasily into the helmsman's seat and gingerly put his hands on the tiller. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Marge beckon to Anne to follow her down inside the boat through the companionway hatch.

"OK," Peter said, "take the tiller firmly like you mean business." Gordon nervously did as he was told. Peter guided him though a series of short, simple maneuvers. Then he said, "Now, I'll show you how to stop the boat. Let go of the tiller."

The small boat turned, weathercocking into the gentle breeze and stopped, her sails gently luffing.

"I'll be damned," Gordon said. "That's amazing. Is that all there is to it?"

Peter smiled and shook his head. "Not quite," he said. "But nearly everything is an adaptation of the basic stuff you just learned. Sailing is like life. There's always something new and unexpected around the corner, but mostly it is simply a lot of fun."

The sun was directly overhead by this time, and the cockpit was getting very warm. "I'm going to peel down a bit," Peter said. He had his Speedo trunks on under his clothes, so he quickly undressed, tossing his clothes down the hatch, and resumed the helmsman's seat. "I'm getting pretty dry, Gordon. Would you like a cold beer?"

Gordon poked his head down the hatch and relayed Peter's request.

Anne climbed the companionway ladder first. She wore her hat and sweat pants, but was topless. Peter's eyes widened when he saw her exquisitely shaped little breasts adorned with puffy brown areolae and hard little nipples. She carried an opened beer can, which she offered to Peter.

Marge was right behind her. She was, of course, also topless. She had a sprinkling of freckles on her shoulders, the slopes of her bountiful, breasts, and her upper arms.

For a moment, Peter wondered if Gordon had noticed that her thong bikini bottom had also disappeared, displaying a naked cleft between her thighs, because his attention seemed riveted on Marge's heavier breasts swaying enticingly as she presented a can of beer to him, but the truth was that each man was inspecting the other's mate while secretly noting the other man's reaction to his own.

Oblivious or indifferent to this not-so-subtle male byplay, Marge turned happily to Peter. "Gordon said a little while ago that this was his lucky day. I think it's ours, too, dear. Gordon and Anne seem to think like we do about lots of things."

Peter turned his attention from Marge back to Anne. Gordon grinned at him, saying, "I see you're looking Anne over pretty carefully, Pete. I'll bet you don't see any tan lines, do you?"

Peter quickly averted his eyes, cursing himself for being so obvious. I must have been gawking like a schoolboy, he thought. He shook his head. "Nary a one," he said.

"You won't, either," Gordon continued, "you see, we're naturists." As if to prove it, he stood and pulled his sweat shirt off. Then he untied the string holding his sweat pants, and let them drop around his ankles. He wore no underwear.

Peter glanced at Marge and saw her eyes widen at the sight of Gordon's thick circumcised cock dangling from a forest of coarse black hair that nearly concealed his heavy scrotum. "Oh my," she said in a mock Southern accent, "I do believe I feel faint and need to lie down. Is there a kind gentlemen in the house who will help me?"