West 47th Read Online Free

the length of time it took for his need to humiliate and fester. When he skipped a month she presumed he’d taken it out on another woman.
    He would have her sit on the floor in a corner, trapped-like, or on the toilet commode. No need for her to undress. He would stand fully clothed before her and require that she take his cock out, grope in eagerly and find it as though compulsed. He’d have her include the softness of it with her mouth and remain perfectly still while it hardened. Then, grasping her hair with both hands, he would hold her head in place. Her head an object, a receptacle, that he’d jam himself into thrust after thrust.
    She was tempted to bite into it, through it. Each time she vowed she would next time. He must have sensed that, for he hadn’t demanded it of her for the past several months.
    Last Christmas season was when Roudabeth’s self-worth stopped draining. She remembered the exact day, in fact, the very instant when it started being replenished.
    She was gift-shopping in the city, had gone into Saks to buy Kal some evening socks. The young male clerk who waited on her showed her the best, black silk. He inserted his hand into one of a pair to have her see the fine weave. To that point he’d been nothing more than a helpful, informing voice. Her attention went from the sock with his nice hand in it up to his face, and for a long moment, a moment communicative because of its length, she remained eyes to eyes with him.
    Young, fair-haired man who had lived at least two decades less than she. Clean-shaven young man with a straight, narrow nose and healthy, even teeth within what appeared to be a gentle mouth. Not a pretty young man but nearly. What must he think of her staring? she thought.
    She found out later when he got off work for an hour.
    His name was Roger Addison.
    Next he told her, or perhaps not next but what had registered with early indelible impact, was how stunning he thought she was. How lovely, how aristocratic were her hands. How mellifluent her voice. That was the very word he used, mellifluent.
    She believed him. She was empty, famished for such beliefs. She adored his fairness, his hair and complexion such a contrast to that which she’d been accustomed. His name sounded well-off, but he wasn’t. He’d completed four semesters at Columbia, would go back when he’d saved up.
    They usually met at his apartment, an everything room that fronted on Second Avenue above a fruit and vegetable market. Every so often she’d treat their lovemaking to an afternoon in a high room of the Plaza: vintage wine and delicious nibbles.
    Now in the limousine being transported through the damp New Jersey night, she recalled the most recent afternoon she’d spent with Roger, certain joys of it: him kissing her thighs so lightly, his blue-green eyes glancing up to verify her pleasure.
    On the opposite side of the limousine husband Kal stirred, as though disturbed by her thoughts. He now had his tasseled loafers off. He re-crossed his ankles. Eyes closed to remain within his self, he lowered his chin to his chest and rotated his head tensely to cause a little unctuous, realigning snap.
    He had one of his many strings of prayer beads in hand, these of sapphire. Roudabeth watched his fingers work the beads and wondered if he was supplicating or hoping to pay off delinquent dues. He’d never catch up, she thought, and returned her attention to outside. They had reached and taken the Martinsville turn-off. Then came Liberty Corner and Far Hills and the familiar winding way where large homes self-consciously hid behind high walls or tall impenetrable hedges.
    A swing to the right.
    A short distance to the steel gate.
    The gate responded obediently, slid aside so the stretch could continue up the paved drive. The appropriate door of the four-car garage was equally obedient, completed its opening by the time the limousine got to it. Sherman drove in and cut the