Chapter 23
It was, perhaps surprisingly, Jennifer who was the catalyst for the final cataclysmic episode of our study of not so everyday life in a suburban setting in the Midwest. Her libido (previously so passive) had undergone a transformation more dramatic than any of the other players on this small town stage. The object of her desires was no other than her house group leader - a man she had always liked and respected, but who now occupied almost every waking moment. Her dreams too were now centered on Connor, a state of affairs which only made matters worse, as the glaring disparity between her fantasy world and the real world added to her frustrations, and, it goes without saying, her lustful state.
When she suggested to Dean that they invited Connor and Marcia over for dinner one Saturday evening, to say his response was enthusiastic would be an understatement. As we have already seen, his feelings for the house group leader's wife were similarly volcanic. The fact that she continued to play so hard to get only added fuel to his already molten fire. The idea of finally getting to give her the pleasure he knew she couldn't be receiving from Connor became for him like a seed that could only become a thriving, healthy, flowering plant when it had been fertilized by her own sweet pollen.
When Marcia mentioned the invitation to Connor, his dormant desire for the former beauty queen was likewise kindled. So much so that on the evening of the day his wife had floated the possibility of a dinner he had made love to her with a passion, the intensity of which did nothing to hide the fact that he was - if not actually thinking about Jennifer - unbearably turned on by the idea of bringing her to a state of ecstasy she had never reached before.
This left poor old Marcia as the odd one out. For her feelings towards Dean were anything but intense. Indeed, anything approaching intensity of feeling was only of the negative kind. What kind of joy could she receive from such a shallow, selfish individual, from someone who had even placed her on his bucket list of women he wanted to fuck?
To make matters worse, she had noted the change in Jennifer towards Connor. She had always considered that her husband's yearning for the bimbo (as she called her in her more uncharitable moments) would remain unrequited; but now she realized that, try as the bimbo might to hide it, Jennifer was ripe to be taken by Connor. If they accepted the invitation, she knew what the others would be planning, even if they never put their heads together to put it into so many words.
After dinner had been finished, the men would watch like horny adolescents as Jennifer made a play for Marcia. Would she be able to resist, Marcia wondered. On that hinged the outcome of the whole evening. So she developed a strategy to stave off the silly bimbo's advances. First, she would touch no alcohol throughout the whole evening. That would enable her to stay in control whatever the others had planned for her.
Secondly, she would permit no physical contact. A furtive placement of the hand on Marcia's knee by Jennifer would simply result in her returning the hand from whence it had come. She knew that Dean wouldn't try anything on, however frustrated he became, for fear of being rejected. Again, the best way to keep him frustrated was to ensure that there was no contact between herself and Jennifer. She had begun to tire of the blonde, anyway, she told herself. Her ability to turn her on simply didn't exist any more. Problem solved.
The reality, as may be imagined, proved to be a little different. The first test of Marcia's will occurred the moment when the door was opened at the palatial Schwartzmann residence. There was Jennifer dressed in a virginal white gown with a plunging V-neckline that showed off her breasts to optimal effect. Marcia was as certain as she could be that she wasn't wearing a bra. Moreover, the deep slit in her long gown meant that she would be showing more than generous portions of her long legs when she sat down and crossed her legs - something she was bound to do as soon as she got the opportunity, probably in the living room while they (the others, at any rate) were having pre-prandial cocktails.
Marcia herself had decided to wear a button-up blouse and jeans, albeit nicely tailored ones, which showed off her figure to good effect. No stray hands would be inching their way up her unguarded thighs on this particular evening.
So far, so good. They had gone into the kitchen to eat the food Jennifer had prepared (with help from Dean, she said proudly, which made Marcia feel nauseous - why this sudden outbreak of lovey-doveyness in the Schwartzmann household?) having insisted despite much cajoling from Dean on drinking mineral water. Jennifer sat opposite her (not beside her) at the table, and Dean kept his hands - and his feet - to himself. In fact, everything was going swimmingly. The conversation was adult and broad-ranging, and there was no gratuitous mention of Harper and Todd, the two Oriental hussies, or of anyone else, whose names were bound to elicit a smirk from the two men. They spoke of Daryl and Alicia, but the conversation centered on some work they were doing on their house.
So confident was Marcia feeling in her ability to maintain levels of conversation and conduct on a decorous plane that she allowed herself a glass of wine; but even then only when the dinner was nearly over. It was a French wine that Dean had been recommended by a friend at the country club who really knew his wines, and Marcia had to admit it tasted very good. It was so smooth she could have been drinking blackcurrant juice. So she allowed herself a second glass, and then one to take through into the living room with her. This, she decided, would be her last, and then she would be back on the water.
What she hadn't noticed was that the others had made their first glass last for the entire meal, which meant, of course, that by the time they sat down (Jennifer next to Marcia on the couch - the two men in adjacent easy chairs) it was Marcia who was feeling a little tipsy. A glimpse of Jennifer's inner thighs as she quickly crossed and uncrossed her legs made Marcia's heart race. What should have acted as a warning to her instead worked on her as an aphrodisiac. When Jennifer crossed her legs again, they stayed crossed. Unnoticed by Marcia, the blonde had also moved closer to her friend, so that they were almost touching. When she became aware of the abbreviated distance between them, Marcia made no attempt to shift away.
All the while, the others were talking - gaily, about this and that. Marcia couldn't be sure what, as she wasn't really listening. Instead, she was entranced by the strange feeling that had had crept up on her - without caring, or daring, to call it what it was: arousal. Her eyes kept returning to Jennifer's thighs, and each time they did so, she could see more of her creamy, toned thighs. The last time she looked, she could swear she could see her panties - lemon in colour. For now Jennifer had uncrossed her legs and had turned to face Marcia. Marcia had to admit she looked very nice. She'd put on a nice shade of lipstick. Plus some eye shadow. Maybe other stuff - she couldn't be sure.
Nice music was playing in the background. Marcia recognised it, but couldn't put a name to it. It was intoxicating, Marcia remembered thinking. And so it was to the ethereal ("Yes, other worldly," Marcia thought) strains of "White Rabbit" ("Yes! That's the one," Marcia thought) that Marcia found herself leaning across the short distance that separated her mouth from the other woman's ("She's very beautiful!" Marcia thought) until her lips locked onto Jennifer's.
"This is so nice, so very nice," she told herself, as her tongue gently probed the other woman's sweet opening.
She started to rise into the air, floating high above the room. She saw only herself and this other woman, this lovely woman, who asked nothing of her, who only wanted to show her love, only wanted to make her feel good. She slipped the dress off the woman's shoulders, hoping that she would not be upset with her, hoping that she would understand that she didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable, that she only wanted to return the love that she was offering her.
How happy she was that the woman was not angry with her, that she did not mistake her simple, innocent gesture for anything but what it was, her expression of gratitude for the pure, unalloyed love she was showing her. The other woman responded by kissing her with just the amount of passion she felt was appropriate for the passion she herself was feeling. Two women should be able to show their love and appreciation for one other just like this, Marcia reflected. There was no need for sex to get in the way. They didn't need to get naked and become like animals. They could just kiss and enjoy each other. They didn't need to let their bodies get in the way. They didn't need to take each other's clothes off. The woman was wearing a beautiful pair of lemon-coloured panties. There was no need to take those off.
But what she could do, Marcia reasoned, was to show the woman what she thought of her beautiful breasts. She had been admiring them all evening, imagining touching them softly with her hands. Hoping she wasn't going to spoil things by caressing them, Marcia let one hand move to one beautiful breast and waited to see how the woman would respond. She was thrilled when the woman responded to the touch by kissing her harder, signalling her approval of Marcia's gentle fondling.
