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As Marsha had every day since she was old enough to realize, she wondered why, among her many friends and acquaintances, why, so far as she knew, was she the only person whose mother was a… whore.
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Retrospective: Chicago, Illinois; Rhea, 1933
Producing a show of lacelike patterns on the walls and ceiling, the soft breeze fluttered the gossamer curtains inward, steeping the room with the sensual kiss and soul touching scent of spring.
Savouring the breeze, the odor and warmth of the curtain filtered, early May sun, lying languorously on the sofa, stretching, Rhea brought the cigarette to her mouth, drew… exhaled, and watched through half closed eyes as the spiral of rising smoke mixed with floating, light accentuated motes of dust.
Overtaken by a sense of sheer comfort, dropping her right hand to the floor, resting it on the rim of a heavy glass ashtray, for the first time in fourteen months, since the birth of Roger, Rhea Goldman felt totally and completely at ease.
The fingertips of her left hand idly stroking the hollow of her throat, taking another drag, she watched the upwardly dissipating smoke a moment or two longer. Putting the cigarette onto the lip of the ashtray, opening her chest to the light and air, Rhea unbuttoned the top three buttons of her housedress. As the palpating breeze sensually played over her bare breasts, feeling her nipples pleasurably tighten, “Mmmm.” Not sure if she’d moaned aloud or only thought she’d moaned, moving her hands lightly over both breasts, her palms brushed the rigid projections of her turgid nipples. Stretching her legs and thighs, straining the muscles within her groin, holding both nipples, rolling the course, dark brown flesh between her thumbs and forefingers, “Mmmm!” This time knowing she had moaned aloud, Rhea moved her left hand onto her stomach. Making slow, teasingly slow, widening circles around her navel… around her navel and over her stomach, her hand, moving to beneath the band of her panties, entwining all five fingers within the thick patch of pubic hair, pulling gently, teasing herself… With her palm on her mound and her fingers stretched downward, no longer teasing, Rhea began a hard, circular rubbing motion… Stopping, lifting her hips, wiggling out of her panties, anxious now, her index finger probed through the moist lips, and lower, deeper into the wet fold… Touching, caressing the hood of tissue that concealed the sensitive nodule. Her eyes closed to the sweet sensations, dropping her right foot to the floor, stretching her left leg to the side, opening her vagina to its limit… Using both her fore and index fingers, up, down. Down the length of both long, thin fingers into the tight, slithery channel. Down, up. Up the length of both moisture slicked fingers, rubbing to either side of the minutely raised ridge of tissue, moving the membrane of tissue fore and back, fore and back… Each backward motion exposing the pink tip of her burgeoning, blood engorged nodule…
By happenstance, two stories below, a dark green, weather beaten Hudson had stopped at the curb. The driver’s side door opened and a man wearing a wrinkled top coat over a crumpled, beige colored suit stepped out. Straightening his tie, the man reached into the car, took a briefcase and his hat off the passenger seat, placed the hat squarely on his head, tucked the briefcase under his arm, and walked into the entry of the three story building and up the two flights of steps.
At the door, before knocking, out of habit he removed the hat, wiped the toe of one dark brown shoe onto the back of his calf, then the other. Then, bringing the heel of his hand to the door…
Her lips tightly pursed, short, harsh breaths of air inhaled and rapidly exhaled through both nostrils, her fingers and pelvis moving in opposition… Oh, God! On the verge…
Pounding!
Oh, God! Feeling it, “right there”….
Pounding!
Startled out of her masturbatory reverie by the pounding on the door, Rhea stopped all movement a moment, a stroke before the onset of orgasm and, taking a deep breath, attempting to focus her eyes, she looked towards the door—and whoever stood on the other side—with absolute hatred, as…
There came another salvo of pounding accompanied by, “Mrs. Goldman! It’s Gustafson from State Wide Insurance! Mrs. Goldman, are you home?”
Her fingers still within herself, not quite hearing, taking another breath, “Who?”
Not sure he’d heard her, “Mrs. Goldman!” Spoken louder, “You home?”
Thoroughly annoyed, calling louder, “Who’s there?”
“Gustafson from State Wide. Remember? I come by each month to collect the premium on your husband’s life insurance.”
Muttering, “Oh, God!” Sitting up, disorganized, Rhea attempted to put her feet through the legs of her twisted panties, giving up, stuffing them into her pocket, “Uh, hold on a minute, will you?”
Standing a bit shakily, trying to bring her still labored breathing under control, So close! Buttoning the housedress, So God damned close! Brushing the fingers of her other hand through her hair, taking a deep breath, hesitating a moment, she opened the door.
In the six months… From the very first time he came to the Goldman residence to collect the monthly insurance premium, as some men may do, especially with a woman as beautiful and as big busted as Rhea Goldman, though not the slightest hint of impropriety in his manners or speech, the insurance man had purposely misconstrue d her friendly smile and patronizing courtesy as something other than just courtesy.
Totally unaware, Rhea had become the man’s principle masturbatory fantasy.
In the six months he had been going there, he’d never seen the lady other than fully dressed with makeup on, so seeing her as he did then, as dishevelled, and with… Oh, my God! he thought, as, “Uh,” staring at her, “I, uh, almost gave up on you today, Mrs. Goldman,” he said haltingly, “and thought you’d stepped out.”
Tall, 6' 2", and thin, weighing 158, Gustafson’s thinning, greying hair made him look years older than his age of 46. His face, though not unpleasant, was hawklike in appearance with bushy, scraggly eyebrows over deeply set, dark brown eyes. His nose, fleshy at the bridge, as though it had been broken at some time in the past, was tapered thinly above the nostrils. Clean shaven at six a.m., by two thirty p.m. he had gray stubble on his cheeks and chin.
Suddenly hot in the room, innocently said, “You look hot, Mister Gustafson.” Standing aside, “Why don’t you take your coat off and sit down.” Rhea motioned to one of the easy chairs opposite the sofa.
Still looking at Rhea strangely, speaking slowly, “Whew!” Fanning his face with his hat—though thinking nothing unusual about the invitation because she had often invited him in for the minute it took her to get her purse—“This weather changes from minute to minute and I never know what to put on in the morning.” Stepping into the room, “Don’t mind if I do. Thank you.”
Not usually prone to blushing, but noticing his look and knowing what she had been doing, still feeling the heat of what she had been doing when he’d pounded on the door, Rhea did blush.
Removing his top coat, draping it over his arm, walking across the room quickly, sitting on the chair to the right of the sofa, Gustafson watched as Rhea followed him into the room.
“I’ll be right back, Mister Gustafson.”
Although regaining some of her composure, still Rhea felt something was wrong, but could not imagine what it might be.
Opening the door quietly, she tiptoed into the room.
Roger lay in his crib with his thumb in his mouth and the blanket tangled around his legs.
Going to the dresser, she took her purse, then left the room, silently closing the door behind her.
Back in the living room, Rhea sat on the middle of the sofa, to the left of Gustafson and again, feeling the man’s intense stare, when she looked at him, he averted his eyes, then…
He looked at her again, looked at the briefcase between his feet, looked up, looked down, nervously fumbled with the latch, looked up, looked down, finally got the latch open, looked at Rhea yet again, then opened the case and, reaching inside, removed a green covered ledger, opened it, ruffled through the pages and, seemingly having trouble finding the proper account, looked up again and down again.
“Uh, Goldman.” Knowing Gustafson was acting strangely, thinking he’d lost track of the name, “Eli Goldman,” Rhea said.
Looking up, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, “Yes, Goldman.”
Good Lord! What is wrong with the man? He seems so…Thinking of a word, agitated.
Looking at her again, almost staring… was staring.
Squirming on the sofa, looking back, Rhea realized that Gustafson was not looking at her face, he was looking lower. Looking down, Rhea gasped…
* * **
Big busted by the age of fifteen, the tissue of her breasts had long since lost its elasticity and, since having Roger, if not encased within a brassiere, if standing, Rhea’s breasts dropped to slightly above her navel. If sitting, her breasts would lay upon her stomach in a widely spaced, double flow of heavy flesh that she thought of as ugly. But up until then, outside of Doctor Schaffer, her husband had been the only man to ever see her breasts, or anything else, naked, and Eli, who loved everything about Rhea, had constantly told her that her breasts were just as beautiful, if not more so, then they had always been.
* * **
Although certainly not aware of the extent of Gustafson’s erotic fantasies, from the time he’d first knocked on the door, Rhea—as most women might—was cognizant of his infatuation with her. But since becoming pregnant she’d felt unattractive, to say the least, and the man’s inept attention amused her and in a way flattered her. Though she had absolutely no interest in this tall, skinny, near homely man, she did—at this self loathing period in her life—have an interest in regard to the way she affected him, as…
Sitting as she was sitting, the large, dark brown areola showed in stark contrast to the alabaster white of her breast. The breast that Gustafson saw—the breast that Gustafson thought of as the most beautiful breast he’d ever seen—was laying upon her stomach and, as though mesmerized, his mouth dropping open, he stared at Rhea Goldman’s wondrous breast openly, and if he wasn’t aware before, the insurance man certainly became aware then of the cylindrical bulge that strained against beige material of his gabardine slacks.
…As Rhea moved her hand to close the gap between the first and third buttons in her loose fitting housedress, God, she thought, no one’s looked at me like that in years!
For the first time since becoming pregnant Rhea felt desirable, and desired. Hesitating, her hand hanging in midair, it took but a second for her to realize that she liked the way this man was looking at her and, I wonder? trying to see if he “had one,” Rhea’s eyes moved from Gustafson’s face to his crotch.
Seeing her eyes shift, realizing that she was looking at “him,” embarrassed, Gustafson quickly placed the green covered ledger on his lap…
But not before she’d seen the very defined shape of the insurance man’s erection. Though Rhea still thought she had no interest in Gustafson, at that moment she felt the regeneration of heat in her vagina and the tightening sensation in her nipples that always occurred when she became aroused and—if she had not been doing what she had been doing, or if Gustafson had banged on the door a minute later, after she had had her orgasm—Rhea most certainly… probably would not have done what she then did but…
Staring at Rhea Goldman’s breast, the insurance man actually saw the areola change in shape, and as the circle of dark flesh wrinkled, tightened and elongated, his eyes became glazed and, as though a jiggling cork on a fishing line, Gustafson’s Adam’s apple began to bob under the loose flesh of his throat, as…
Having no doubt… thinking she’d be able to handle the situation, doing the exact opposite of what she thought he’d expected, watching the man’s face, Rhea pushed the first, then the third buttons from their holes, then, placing her arms from side to side across the back of the sofa, leaned back. The housedress open to her navel now, “Mister… Uh…” Under the circumstances, “Mister” seemed rather formal. “What’s your first name?”
Seeing both… Gasping at Rhea’s fully exposed, in his mind, so beautiful breasts, squirming on the chair, “Uh, M-Matthew,” he stammered.
“Well, Matthew… Mind if I call you Matt?”
Under the circumstances, “No,” he said, “M-Matt’ll be fine.”
Enjoying the game, wanting to see how far she could tempt this man, then—knowing full well she would remain the master of the situation and, when she was ready, pull out of the situation. “Well, Matt,” she said, patting the cushion next to her, “why don’t you come over here and sit next to me!” This posed not as a question, but a command.
Embarrassed to stand, afraid to come closer, he did not move.
Smiling, “Come on, Matt!” she coaxed. “I promise I won’t bite you.”
Waiting…
Looking at him… through him, imagining the cogs of his brain turning, patting the cushion again, “Come on, Matt!”
Waiting… Finally, the green covered ledger held against the front of his trousers, standing self consciously…
Rhea had always known the power she and her sexuality had over her husband, but this man certainly was not Eli. This man was practically a stranger. Suddenly feeling a euphoric sense of power, “No!” she said emphatically. “Put the book on the chair, Matt!”
Obediently, reaching behind without turning, Gustafson dropped the ledger. Missing the chair it fell to the floor.
“That’s a good boy. Come on!” Patting the cushion, “Come on, Matt!” she said as though speaking to a puppy.
Attempting to look as nonchalant as possible—while holding both hands in front of his crotch—the insurance man took the four torturous steps from the chair to the sofa. When there, sitting with his knees pressed together and his hands folded on his lap… Now closer, as if attempting to commit the texture of the breast and nipple and each widely scattered freckle to memory, the man’s unblinking eyes studied Rhea’s breasts, until…
Reaching to him, taking his hand into hers, Rhea held it a moment, then placed it palm down onto her left breast…
As though shot through with electricity, at the feel of flesh, stiffening, he jerked upright, and…
The man’s reaction just a bit more dramatic than expected… After a number of seconds, his hand still held by hers, Rhea wondered, If I let go, will it fall? She let it go, but no, Gustafson’s hand most certainly did not fall, as…
Illusory, as if in the dream of his fantasy, still sitting stiffly upward, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his eyes blinking, the insurance man reminded himself that, This is not a dream! I am really here, really touching her tit! I am touching Rhea Goldman’s tit! Caressing it, feeling the smooth, cool softness, he moved his hand to beneath and holding… Feeling the weight, feeling the warm weight within the palm of his hand, feeling, savoring the marvellous weight, his thumb, making light circles around the rough circumference of the nipple…
The touch of this man, that she had not the slightest hint of interest in, that she could stop anytime she wanted… unreasonably, unbelievably causing a fresh surge of heat—or was the heat Rhea felt the same heat—her rational being she only wanted to see it. Only wanted to compare his with that of the only other adult penis she’d ever in her life seen: her husband’s. Also, because she had never seen one, because she was curious, Wonder if he’s circumcised? Rhea wondered, as, looking at his lap, Rhea again saw the sharp outline of Gustafson’s extended penis under his trousers and, really, unable or unwilling to stop herself, about to reach to it, about to touch it…
“Ummm,” the insurance man moaned.
Rhea’s attention drawn from his penis to his face…
Breathing harshly, his eyes closed tightly, as if snapped from his neck, the man’s head lolling in a circular motion, “Ummm!” Reaching to his crotch, squirming a moment, the man then jammed the bulge of his penis between his thighs and, clamping then shut, jiggling the weight of Rhea’s breast within the palm of his hand as he rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh!” Grunting, grinding his thighs tightly… within seconds, appearing to spasm, the insurance man’s pelvis jerked sharply upward, once, twice, three times, and…
Rhea saw a dark, widening wet spot on the inseam of his light colored trousers, as…
Breathing raggedly, somewhat, and rightfully so, aware that he, quite possibly, would never again be in this position with Rhea or, quite possibly, any future woman of his fantasies, reluctantly moving his hand from her breast, with his eyes still shut, as though unwilling to return to reality, unwilling to return to “then,” the insurance man leaned back… Until his raspy breathing returned to normal, as…
Fascinated with his retracting penis and the wet spot on his trousers, My God! Rhea thought, I didn’t even touch him and the whole thing took… What? A minute, and he came! And I didn’t even touch him!
Suddenly, as though first realizing what had happened and what he had done, springing from the sofa, covering the wet spot with both hands, “My God! Mrs. Goldman! Never! I’ve never done anything like that before! Never!” Purposely keeping his back to her, rushing to the chair, grabbing the ledger off the floor, tossing it in the briefcase, quickly shrugging into his topcoat, holding the briefcase in one hand and his hat, covering the highly noticeable wet spot on his trousers, in the other, hurrying to the door, pulling it open, the insurance man was about to step through, when…
“Matt!”
Stopping cold, pulling the two sides of the topcoat closed, he turned back, as…
“Matt… uh, Mister Gustafson.” Reaching into her purse, “The premium…” Rhea held a half dollar in her outstretched hand, “for Eli’s insurance.”
“No! No, Mrs. Goldman! I’ll pay this one!” As he backed out the door, “and you’re on the books for the next six months!”
Two stories up, Rhea heard the gears to the Hudson grind as, oh, so anxious to be gone, the insurance man jammed from neutral to first and, squealing away from the curb, from first to second to third.
Laughing, “My God!” Rhea said aloud. “And I didn’t even touch him!”
Laughing even louder, she woke Roger.
