Dales Women Ch 11

The remaining day or so of Charlotte's visit passed quietly. Everyone seemed to have decided that the best course of action was simply to avoid discussing the subject and pretending that everything was fine. For everyone but Charlotte, everything

was

fine—but they were not confident that Charlotte would really come to that conclusion anytime soon.

For appearance's sake, Dale spent the night in Gloria's bed, where they remained duly celibate. He had been desperate to snuggle up with Lois, but Gloria's sharp and censorious look put an end to that fantasy. The next morning, a Sunday, there was a lavish breakfast that made them all feel stuffed and contented. In due course of time Charlotte packed up her things and prepared to head back to the airport.

She gave her mother a warm goodbye hug as they lounged in the back yard, and a somewhat less cordial hug to Gloria. When she went out of the house to load her suitcase into her rental car, she saw Dale sitting on a stone bench in the front garden. He looked curiously elfin, his short physique and pensive look making him seem like a leprechaun lost in thought.

Charlotte gazed at him intently, debating what to do. Putting her suitcase into the car, she strode up to him.

"Hello," she said tentatively.

"Hello," he said, looking up at her as she loomed over him.

"May I sit down?"

"Be my guest."

Charlotte sat demurely on the bench. It was quite small, and there was only about half a foot of space between them. Her mouth worked, and it became obvious to Dale that she was having trouble articulating whatever it was she was trying to say. At last she came out with:

"I—I think I misjudged you."

"Oh?" Dale said neutrally. "How's that?"

She let out a sigh. Dale wasn't making this any easier for her. "Well, I thought you were just— Oh, I don't know what I thought!"

I know exactly what you're trying to say, lady. You thought I was just interested in getting into your mother's pants. Well, now you've found that that's not true.

Dale took pity on her. "I care for your mother very much."

"I know that now. It's very sweet of you."

"I'm not doing it out of charity," he said with some asperity. "Any man would be delighted to be with her."

She put a hand to her head. "You'll have to pardon me if I have trouble taking that in. She

is

my mother, after all—I find it hard to imagine her . . ."

"Yes, I can see that. But you have to step back a little bit—"

"Okay, fine," Charlotte said hastily. "That's not really what I wanted to talk about. I just wanted to say that you—you've been good to her, and I thank you for it."

"That's nice of you, but you don't need to."

"I just hope—" She paused, then went on in a rush: "I just hope you don't hurt her."

"I'd never do that," Dale said huffily.

"I know you wouldn't—not intentionally," Charlotte said, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. It was the first time they'd touched since that fleeting handshake on her first arrival. "But sometimes things happen."

"Of course they do. No one can predict the future. All I can say is that I'd never willfully cause your mother any pain."

"Okay," she said resignedly, "that's all I can ask."

Charlotte didn't seem to know what more, if anything, to say. Maybe she should just get the hell out of there and back to the airport. So she was taken aback when Dale said:

"So how's

your

marriage?"

After several seconds she said defensively, "It's fine. It's good, in fact—really good."

"I'm glad to hear it."

For some reason Charlotte felt the need to elaborate. "Maybe we don't do all the things you do"—

in bed, that is

—"but he's a good man and I love him."

"I hope he loves and respects and cherishes you the way you deserve."

She gaped at him open-mouthed, then abruptly got up and headed toward her car. "I need to go."

He followed her languidly. As she was about to open the driver's side door, he came up to her.

She seemed somehow surprised at his presence and gave a little yelp. Coloring, she extended a hand. "Goodbye."

But instead of taking the hand, he wrapped her loosely in his arms and kissed her on the mouth.

She struggled for a bit, but relented after a few moments. She could easily have broken out of his embrace, but for reasons unknown even to herself she found herself unwilling to do so.

But I'm

not

going to throw my arms around him! My God, he's my mother's lover! This is really obscene . . .

She was so fixated on the kiss—and on how warm and soft his lips felt against hers—that she at first didn't notice the hand that had slipped under the elastic waistband of her wraparound skirt and also beneath her underwear. Only when his fingers came into contact with the moistness between her legs did she pull her head back and say, "You really shouldn't do that . . ."

She cursed herself for being weak and indecisive. How could she allow a man like him to take such liberties? As he continued his motions, sometimes rubbing her clitoris and at other times inserting one or more fingers deep into her, she did in fact throw her arms around his neck and press her body up against his. She felt his big erection, and an added dollop of wetness poured out of her.

More quickly than had ever happened in her whole life, a wave of pleasure cascaded over her, and she had to restrain a loud cry by burying her face in his neck and shoulder. His fingers remained fixed on her sex, gently coaxing out the last remaining phases of her orgasm. Her mind was in a whirl, and her knees almost buckled. She would have fallen if she hadn't been clinging to him.

He held her tightly and whispered in her ear, "I hope you feel better now."

With a choked moan she pulled herself away and slid clumsily into the driver's seat. "I have to go," she said harriedly.

Then she slammed the door and drove off.

*

"I have another mission for you, should you choose to accept it," Gloria said one day late in summer. She doubted that Dale would have picked up on the reference to the old TV show—she barely remembered it herself from her girlhood.

"And what may that be?" Dale said without much interest.

"I have a niece named Bethany—my sister's daughter," she said blandly. "She's awfully young."

"How young is young?" Dale said suspiciously.

"I think she just turned twenty-two. Much too young for you, no doubt."

"No doubt. So where do I come in?"

"Well, I thought you could do her a favor."

"A favor? How? What?"

"Here's the thing." Gloria suddenly got serious. "This silly girl has managed to convince herself that she's asexual—has no sexual feelings of any kind, and claims she doesn't want any."

"That's the most preposterous thing I've ever heard. You can't

decide

that that's how you are."

"Well, she has. Evidently it's kind of a fashion on college campuses—maybe a reaction to the oversexualization of our society. You know, there's sex everywhere—the media, the Internet, and on and on. Not the way it used to be fifty or a hundred years ago."

"Oh, I imagine there was plenty of sex a hundred years ago."

"True, but it wasn't out in the open the way it is today. Anyway, Bethany actually formed something called the Asexual Club at college—she went to the Stamford campus of UConn. She's just graduated and looking for work."

"Why haven't I seen or heard of her until now?"

"Oh, she used to come over here fairly often—usually to get a good meal, unlike what they serve at the cafeteria. But her mother lavishly took her to Europe for a month or two as a graduation present, and they've only just returned. I invited her over here next Saturday for dinner."

"And what," Dale said, "exactly do you want me to do?" But he had a sinking feeling that he already knew the answer to that.

"I want you to show her how wrong she is."

*

Bethany Wright was delighted to get home after more than six weeks in Europe. Oh, it had been a wonderful trip, even though she could probably have picked a more interesting companion than her mother. She had enjoyed all the cultural riches the continent had to offer—she was, after all, an art history major—but she was most proud of having preserved her virginity amidst the innumerable temptations she was faced with.

She knew she was quite attractive—at least in most of the areas that men liked. Petite, no taller than five foot four, she had a fetchingly untidy mass of blond hair that surrounded an oval face with soft, delicate features—bright green eyes, slim nose, small cupid's-bow mouth, rosy cheeks—and a slender but curvy figure that got more than its share of attention from boys and men alike. She'd had her fill of stares from callow college boys, but that was nothing compared to what she had to endure in Europe.

There were the suave French guys who made no secret that they wanted to bed down with this scrumptious American girl, and there were the lewd Italians whose butt-pinching was only a prelude to the more intimate contact they plainly had in mind. Even the staid German men looked her up and down as she wandered in and out of old cathedrals and had beery lunches in quaint taverns. But she had resisted them all. She could easily have succumbed—there were any number of times when she went off by herself, leaving her mother to haunt the tacky tourist shops for gifts to send back home—but she had retained her purity without a blemish.

The stories she would have to tell to the Asexual Club!

She had to admit that the club hadn't been all she had imagined it to be. When she had spoken, almost in shame, of the matter to her friend Bridget Parsons, toward the beginning of senior year, she had expected her to scoff in derision. Instead, Bridget had lapsed into an unwontedly pensive brooding, then said:

"I think it's a good idea."

"You do?" Bethany had said incredulously. "Do you know of

any

other people—guys or girls—who feel this way?"

"Well," Bridget had said, "to be honest, no. But I bet there are lots—lots of people sick of sex, sex, sex all around them every minute of the day. It's so disgusting!"

"I'll say it is!"

But in the end they had managed to find only one other person to join the club—Marcia Caton, another senior whom Bethany had met in a comp lit class. So it had been just the three of them. They met about once a month, and they regaled each other with all manner of stories about their friends—mostly girls, but some guys also—who had had disastrous sessions between the sheets. Girls who'd had their bottoms "accidentally" touched by some passing stranger; girls who'd made the mistake of going to a frat house for a party, drunk too much, and had come close to succumbing to some boy's lascivious desires; even a few who had suffered the worst thing a girl could suffer, but who were so ashamed and conflicted that they hadn't reported the incident to the police or the college administration. Bethany knew that that was probably the most underreported crime in our society, and she was going to make damn sure

she

would never be put in a position where it was even a remote possibility.

But in some rare moments of honesty, Bethany blushingly admitted to herself that she wasn't perfect.

She of course played with herself from time to time. She had done it a lot in high school and early in her college career, but after rigorous self-discipline she was down to about once a month. That's all she really needed to relieve herself of those unwanted urges, and she figured this was a lot more harmless than actually putting a guy's unclean and smelly thing

into

her. Some of the stories she had heard from classmates who had yielded had turned her stomach: it was one thing to let that horrible thing go into the slit between your legs—but to put it into your

mouth!

Yecch! And she'd even heard incredible stories of it going somewhere else . . .

Well, let's see what happens if a guy ever tries to do

that!

Bethany was looking forward to seeing her Aunt Gloria. She had always admired that bold, dynamic, amusingly cynical, and at times foul-mouthed woman—so self-assured, so successful in her work, and yet so quintessentially female. Why she'd ever married Harvey Washburn was more than she could say: he seemed a bit of a drip, his big bulk masking a meek and mild temperament that struck her as almost effeminate. Bethany had liked him well enough, but couldn't help chortling when he ran off with that silly secretary, then came running back with cap in hand begging for a forgiveness he didn't deserve. Bethany had heard from her mother that Gloria had given him a royal tongue-lashing—good! Men needed to be put in their place every so often—especially after doing something so egregious.

Gloria was a real role model for Bethany—especially now, since she'd just graduated from college and had to face the prospect of making her way in the "real" world. She was immensely proud of her art history degree, but at the moment hadn't the faintest idea how that could translate into paying the rent and putting food on the table. She didn't have to worry about that right away, as her mother had set her up in a reasonably nice, if quite small, apartment in Stamford and given her a modest stipend that would last at least through the summer. But her own cooking left much to be desired, so she welcomed the prospect of getting a home-cooked meal from someone who'd spent much of her adult life doing just that for herself and her no-good husband.

And yet, Bethany couldn't quite believe the stories she had heard from her mother about a new man in Gloria's life. Okay, sure, she was a splendid, accomplished woman whom any man would find appealing—any man, that is, who wasn't intimidated by her accomplishments. Bethany chided herself at her vague surprise, even incredulity, at the idea of a fifty-two-year-old woman having a "boyfriend"—especially since she couldn't get any information about the guy. Did they really get between the sheets and—?

Well, why not? Aunt Gloria had never declared herself a candidate for the Asexual Club. If she really wants a man to paw her in all her secret places, well, that was her choice.

But Bethany hoped the guy wouldn't be there for this dinner. What on earth would she say to him?

And then there was the even stranger circumstance that Gloria's longtime friend Lois had moved into the house. What was

that

all about? Okay, the poor woman had suffered a horrible bereavement, so maybe it was just Gloria trying to help a friend over a rough spot. It couldn't possibly be a permanent arrangement. Bethany had no trouble living alone—she'd hated nearly all the roommates she'd been stuck with in college—but she knew that some people (women especially) had trouble fending for themselves.

I guess I'll get some idea of the lay of the land in a matter of minutes.

Bethany had just pulled into Gloria's driveway when she saw her aunt come placidly out the front door. They hadn't laid eyes on each other for two months, and there was no doubt a lot of catching up to do. Gloria greeted her niece with a warm hug, and they began chattering almost immediately about this and that—Bethany's trip to Europe, how her mother was doing, and so on and so forth.

As she entered the house, Bethany pointedly noted the absence of both the boyfriend (whatever his name was) and Lois. Maybe Aunt Gloria had told them to make themselves scarce so that she could have some quality time with her only niece.

To her surprise, Gloria offered her a cocktail. It was only four o'clock in the afternoon, hours before dinner was to be served—but more than that, Bethany couldn't remember Gloria ever letting her have alcohol of any kind at her house. Maybe a tiny glass of wine over dinner, but that was about it. Perhaps, Bethany thought to herself, this was Gloria's way of making her feel like an adult, now that she was a full-fledged college graduate.

Bethany asked for a martini, since that sounded pretty grown-up to her. Gloria began making it without batting an eye. She made one for herself also, and they continued talking about this and that as they sipped it.

Then Gloria said, "Bethany, dear, there's a book I left in the big bedroom upstairs. It's on the nightstand. Would you mind getting it? I have some prep work to do to get dinner ready."

The request struck Bethany as odd: was Aunt Gloria going to cook dinner while reading a book? Well, it was a pretty inconsequential thing, so Bethany tripped up the stairs, knowing exactly where to go. She knew that Gloria didn't use that bedroom much, if at all: it had been tainted by her husband's abandonment of her. And that made her a bit more puzzled why there would be a book up there that Gloria was in the process of reading.

As she entered the room, Bethany let out a cry that was halfway between a gasp and a scream.

There was a naked man there.

That was bad enough, but he had this immense erection that Bethany found herself staring at the way a rabbit is mesmerized by a snake's eyes. Was it even possible that a man's thing could be so big? She'd never seen one in the flesh before, so she was hardly in a position to judge.

But the whole point was:

What was he doing here?

She was about to turn around and bolt out of the room when she heard the door being locked from the outside. Aunt Gloria must have run up behind her.

What the hell was going on here?

"Omigod!" Bethany managed to say. "Who are you? What are you doing here? Why are you—?" She couldn't finish.

"I'm Dale," he said in a soft, gentle tone. If he hadn't been naked, he would have struck Bethany as a mild-mannered young gentleman, even something of a wuss.

"What do you want with me?" Bethany whispered agitatedly.

"Gloria thought," Dale replied in that same comforting tone, "that maybe you and I should get better acquainted."

What was

that

supposed to mean?

Bethany literally backed herself into a corner of the room. She peered beyond Dale—trying her best to avoid looking at the most prominent part of his anatomy—over to the big king-size bed that took up most of the room. Her mind in a whirl, she still managed to notice that there was no book on the nightstand.

What is Aunt Gloria trying to do to me?

Then an even more horrible thought entered her mind. "

You're

Aunt Gloria's boyfriend?"

Dale was getting tired of women saying that to him in that incredulous tone. "Yes," he said wearily.

Bethany had a flash of intuition—God knows where it came from. "And—and you sleep with Lois too?"

Dale raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch, impressed with Bethany's astuteness. "Yes," he said blandly.

My God! What kind of den of iniquity have I stumbled into?

"I need to get out of here," Bethany said, more to herself than to her disconcerting companion. "You have to get Aunt Gloria to open the door. I'm—"

Just then Dale started walking slowly over to her.

"Please!" Bethany cried. "Don't come any closer!"

The thought of what might follow—the thing she dreaded more than anything in the world—suddenly overwhelmed her. She was rendered all but speechless. All she could do was gape at this horrible man. And yet, she couldn't help thinking that he was fundamentally harmless. He wasn't at all like the guys who'd ogled her at college or on her recent trip, who had made no bones about mentally undressing her or licking their lips or even making rude remarks to her. As if that was going to make her fall for them! But this guy, looking at her with a sort of gentle benevolence, was different.

I don't know what's going on. Maybe I'm not so scared anymore, but I don't like it.