amusement.
“Oh, Bugs— ha, ha —the way you looked, like some old bear just out of its cave! And when I asked you if you’d been asleep— ha, ha, ha —when I asked you— oooh-whoops, ha, ha, ha, ha… ”
Bugs grinned, chuckled self-consciously, tried to keep his eyes off those long, luciously fleshed legs. He said he guessed he had acted like the king of the grouches, and that she shouldn’t let it bother her.
“Now, don’t apologize. I’m glad. I feel like I’m finally getting acquainted with you, and I was beginning to think I never would…Come here.”
“Uh—where? What for?” Bugs said.
“ Here, silly!” She held up her arms, wiggled her fingers at him. “Here to mama. And what do you think, what for?”
So that was how it came about. That was how Bugs wound up in the hay with Joyce Hanlon, the wife of his employer. By talking ugly, telling her to go jump, to go to hell and like it or lump it. That broke the ice between them, advanced their relationship to a point which might ordinarily have taken months to achieve.
But it was a hay-roll only in the literal sense. Just a petting spree, with plenty of kissing and clinching, and probing and pinching, but without the usual climax. And it was no fault of Bugs’s that the climax was missing.
He might be strait-laced, prudish, but a man changes under enough stress. Also, he couldn’t feel that he was depriving or injuring Hanlon; the old man would be disappointed in him, perhaps, but he wouldn’t care about her. So, such credit as was due for their continence, was due to Joyce. It was she who held off, holding him just far enough, letting him go just far enough, to keep a firm grip on him.
That, she said, was a bedtime story. That wasn’t nice. That was something she really couldn’t bring herself to do—yet.
“But why not, dammit! If you didn’t intend to—”
“Because, that’s why. Now, be a sweet darling, hmm? Give Joyce one of those real pretty smiles.”
“Horseshit!”
“With sugar on it? Hmm? Hmm? Come on, now, grouchy. Let’s see you smile.”
She tickled him in the ribs. Bugs squirmed, grinned unwillingly.
“Now, that’s better…What did Mike want with you this morning, honey? What did he talk to you about?”
“Nothing. How do you know he talked to me at all?”
“Now, Bugs. I’m a very bright little girl, and the wife of the owner finds out lots of things.”
“Then, find out what he talked to me about…Well, hell,” Bugs said, “it wasn’t anything much. Just wanted a report on the suicide. Why I thought Dudley had done it, and so on.”
“Yes?”
“Well, he was short in his books I know. At least, Westbrook said he was. Incidentally, I suppose you’ve heard that Westbrook has—”
“Yes, yes,” Joyce cut in. “Forget Westbrook. All I’m interested in is Dudley.”
“Why? You and him pally, were you?”
“Now, silly. I hardly knew him to speak to. I doubt if I’d ever passed a half-a-dozen words with him. Why—”
“Whoa, whoa up, now”—Bugs drew his head back to look at her. “I just asked you a question. It’s not a federal case.”
“Well, I didn’t know Dudley at all! He was just another one of the employees, as far as I was concerned. I only asked about him because of you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes! Now, stop it, Bugs! This is serious. Did Mike—did he blame you? I mean—well, you know. Do you think he, uh, held it against you for any reason? That he, uh, trusted you any the less because of it?”
Bugs was getting tired. Perhaps because of his increasing awareness that that was all he was going to get. He studied her covertly, noting the tiny wrinkles around her eyes, a thin furrow of powder on her neck—a dozen distasteful things which the excitement of sex play had blinded him to. Self-disgust rose in his throat. He felt ashamed, dirty, filthy. He told himself—and he meant it—that he wouldn’t take her now if she was served up on a platter.
God, what had he been
“Oh, Bugs— ha, ha —the way you looked, like some old bear just out of its cave! And when I asked you if you’d been asleep— ha, ha, ha —when I asked you— oooh-whoops, ha, ha, ha, ha… ”
Bugs grinned, chuckled self-consciously, tried to keep his eyes off those long, luciously fleshed legs. He said he guessed he had acted like the king of the grouches, and that she shouldn’t let it bother her.
“Now, don’t apologize. I’m glad. I feel like I’m finally getting acquainted with you, and I was beginning to think I never would…Come here.”
“Uh—where? What for?” Bugs said.
“ Here, silly!” She held up her arms, wiggled her fingers at him. “Here to mama. And what do you think, what for?”
So that was how it came about. That was how Bugs wound up in the hay with Joyce Hanlon, the wife of his employer. By talking ugly, telling her to go jump, to go to hell and like it or lump it. That broke the ice between them, advanced their relationship to a point which might ordinarily have taken months to achieve.
But it was a hay-roll only in the literal sense. Just a petting spree, with plenty of kissing and clinching, and probing and pinching, but without the usual climax. And it was no fault of Bugs’s that the climax was missing.
He might be strait-laced, prudish, but a man changes under enough stress. Also, he couldn’t feel that he was depriving or injuring Hanlon; the old man would be disappointed in him, perhaps, but he wouldn’t care about her. So, such credit as was due for their continence, was due to Joyce. It was she who held off, holding him just far enough, letting him go just far enough, to keep a firm grip on him.
That, she said, was a bedtime story. That wasn’t nice. That was something she really couldn’t bring herself to do—yet.
“But why not, dammit! If you didn’t intend to—”
“Because, that’s why. Now, be a sweet darling, hmm? Give Joyce one of those real pretty smiles.”
“Horseshit!”
“With sugar on it? Hmm? Hmm? Come on, now, grouchy. Let’s see you smile.”
She tickled him in the ribs. Bugs squirmed, grinned unwillingly.
“Now, that’s better…What did Mike want with you this morning, honey? What did he talk to you about?”
“Nothing. How do you know he talked to me at all?”
“Now, Bugs. I’m a very bright little girl, and the wife of the owner finds out lots of things.”
“Then, find out what he talked to me about…Well, hell,” Bugs said, “it wasn’t anything much. Just wanted a report on the suicide. Why I thought Dudley had done it, and so on.”
“Yes?”
“Well, he was short in his books I know. At least, Westbrook said he was. Incidentally, I suppose you’ve heard that Westbrook has—”
“Yes, yes,” Joyce cut in. “Forget Westbrook. All I’m interested in is Dudley.”
“Why? You and him pally, were you?”
“Now, silly. I hardly knew him to speak to. I doubt if I’d ever passed a half-a-dozen words with him. Why—”
“Whoa, whoa up, now”—Bugs drew his head back to look at her. “I just asked you a question. It’s not a federal case.”
“Well, I didn’t know Dudley at all! He was just another one of the employees, as far as I was concerned. I only asked about him because of you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes! Now, stop it, Bugs! This is serious. Did Mike—did he blame you? I mean—well, you know. Do you think he, uh, held it against you for any reason? That he, uh, trusted you any the less because of it?”
Bugs was getting tired. Perhaps because of his increasing awareness that that was all he was going to get. He studied her covertly, noting the tiny wrinkles around her eyes, a thin furrow of powder on her neck—a dozen distasteful things which the excitement of sex play had blinded him to. Self-disgust rose in his throat. He felt ashamed, dirty, filthy. He told himself—and he meant it—that he wouldn’t take her now if she was served up on a platter.
God, what had he been
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