Thy Neighbor's Wife Read Online Free Page B

came to the exquisite pictures of Diane Webber, but he quickly skipped over them, not wanting to tempt himself now. He moved on to the Mexican girl who sat demurely with a fisherman’snet spread across her thighs; and then to the heavy-breasted blonde reclining on the floor next to a small marble statue of “Venus di Milo” and on to a lithe, lovely blonde standing in the shadows 1/25 sec. at f:22 of what appeared to be an empty stage of a theater, her arms crossed under her chin and above her upturned breasts, which were gracefully revealed, and, in the very subtle stage lighting, Harold was quite certain that he could see her pubic hair, and he felt himself for the first time becoming aroused.
    If he were not so enamored of Diane Webber, he knew he could be satisfied by this willowy young blonde, satisfied perhaps more than once, which to him was the true test of an erotic picture. In the stacks of magazines in his closet were dozens of nudes who had aroused him in the past to solitary peaks, some having done so three or four times; and some were capable of doing it again in the future as long as they remained unseen for a while, thereby regaining their sense of mystery.
    And then there were those extremely rare pictures, those of Diane Webber, that could fulfill him constantly. He estimated that his collection contained fifty photographs of her, and within a moment he could locate every one of them in the two hundred magazines that he kept. He would merely have to glance at the cover and would know exactly where she was within, how she was standing, what was in the background, what her attitude seemed to be during that special split second when the camera had clicked. He could remember, too, first seeing these pictures, could reconstruct where and when he had bought them; he could practically mark a moment in his life from each of her poses, each being so real that he believed he knew her personally, she was part of him, and through her he had become more in touch with himself in several ways, not merely through acts which Victorian moralists had defined as self-abuse, but rather through self-acceptance, his understanding the naturalness of his desires, and of asserting his right to an idealized woman.
    Not able to resist any longer, Harold turned the page to Diane Webber on the dune. He looked at her, lying on her stomach, herhead held up into the wind, her eyes closed, the nipple of her left breast erect, her legs spread wide, the late-afternoon sun casting an exaggerated shadow of her curvaceous body along the smooth white sand. Beyond her body was nothing but a sprawling empty desert—she seemed so alone, so approachable and available; Harold had merely to desire her, and she was his.
    He pushed the blankets off his body, warm with excitement and anticipation. He reached under his bed for the wooden stand he had made in school, knowing that his manual-arts teacher would be astonished to learn what use would be made of it tonight. He placed the magazine on the stand in front of him, between his widely spread legs. Raising his head, supporting it on two pillows, he reached for the bottle of Italian Balm, poured lotion into his palms and rubbed it between his hands momentarily to warm it. Then, softly, he began to touch his penis and testicles, feeling the quick growth to full erection. With his eyes half closed, he lay back and gazed at his glistening organ towering in front of the picture, casting a shadow across the desert.
    Continuing to massage himself up and down, up and down, back and forth across his testicles, he focused sharply on Diane Webber’s arched back, her rising buttocks, her full hips, the warm, moist place between her legs; and he now imagined himself approaching her, bending down to her, and determinedly penetrating her from the rear without a word of protest from her as he thrust upward, faster faster, and upward, faster, and suddenly he could feel her buttocks pounding back against his thighs,