Jazzed

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Special agent Spencer arrived home ahead of his wife. He pried off his Bostonians and padded in his socks to the fold-down bar and poured himself a double scotch whiskey. It had been a busy day at Langley Field, but a satisfying one and he felt he had earned the drink. He dropped down on the sofa and parked his heels on the coffee table; he took a hearty sip of his single malt. Life was good.

He noticed the magazine. It was his wife’s copy of Dance America; the current issue. He wouldn’t be caught dead reading it normally but just the same, the photographs were glossy and he enjoyed the pictures of the leggy young girls in their skimpy dance uniforms. Some of the crotch-shots were great. His wife wasn’t due home for another few minutes, so what the hell? With a smug look he scooped up the magazine and started flipping through the pages. It didn’t disappoint. The lithe teenage dancers were hot without a doubt and a couple of the dancers were featured in gauzy costumes that revealed the smudge of cute rosebuds mounted high on flat chests. Beautiful.

He was just contemplating the increasing stiffness at the front of his slacks when he turned the page and saw the photograph of Bobby. The man had not aged well: Booze, drugs, and smoking had taken a toll.

Spencer knew of the man, of course: A world class choreographer and an award-winning movie director; everyone had heard of Bobby. But Spencer had never met the man. That had been his wife’s dubious privilege. Barely out of her teens, Jill had auditioned for Bobby; more than once, it seemed. And Bobby must have liked what he saw; she had eventually worked for him on a couple of his Broadway productions. The guy was an infamous New York City womanizer and there wasn’t any doubt in Spencer’s mind that Bobby was as familiar with his wife’s body as he was.

The pang of jealousy abruptly rose in his chest.

He knew he should just flip the page and forget about it, but like a prizefighter sizing up an opponent, he needed more. Needed to assess the man who had been lucky enough to lure his wife into a bed with the promise of a spotlight on Broadway.

Spencer felt violated but also, just a little bit foolish.

Okay. The guy had bedded his wife; used her. But Jill had been young. Certainly impressionable. And hell, he hadn’t even known her at the time, wasn’t even in the picture. It would be another couple of years before he was lucky enough to spot her at the political fund-raiser. He was an upstart field supervisor at the time, and Jill was the tallest woman in the banquet hall.

He had watched her from across the room, as did every other guy there. Jill drifted graciously between the guests, her movements languid, like she was airborne. She must be moving on the most luscious legs imaginable, he had thought at the time, but her floor length evening gown thwarted him, leaving everything up to his overcharged imagination. But happily the dress didn’t hide the high round behind. And that of itself was enough to make a man think of the price of an engagement ring. A flippin’ big one.

Out of two hundred guests, they ended up sitting across from each other at dinner. Jill was elegant but shy; though she chatted easily enough when he asked the right questions. And he was good at that. And a good listener, as well. She was the daughter of some senator, and a dancer. A pro, no less: Veteran of a dozen off-Broadway productions. And now, after her big break, Jill was cast in Chicago; currently the biggest hit on Broadway.

Bobby!

The first time they made love, Spencer had been shocked by her hunger; but mostly, he had been dismayed. First off by the fact that she had initiated the event; ambushed him a scant few days after first meeting him. Spencer was used to the old cat and mouse game lasting sometimes, several months before the woman finally allowed him to breach her defenses; allowed him to take his pleasure. But Jill’s train-wreck approach to s*x brought both her moral standards and her upbringing into question.

Spencer was an up and coming star. He prided himself on traveling in the right social circles, cultivating the proper friends. And it was important to be seen with the right woman by his side. Jill... beautiful, successful, and a senator’s daughter, certainly fit the bill. More than adequately in fact. But not if she was madly screwing every old fart between New York and the Capitol. But still, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met. A wild, wooly creature; a far cry, he now realized, from the elegant debutante he had met at the political fund-raiser. So if she was going to offer it up to him with no strings attached, he was going to take it. And offer it up she did: Splayed like sliced calf’s liver, raw and drooling on a plate.

They had gone out to dinner a couple of times that first week and then she had invited him to a Saturday night performance. She was playing Velma Kelly in Chicago and he had been thrilled when Jill arranged for him to watch from backstage. This is the life, he thought, sitting behind the scenes at a smash-hit Broadway musical. His girl dancing in a starring role. He was enthralled with the workings of a full blown stage-production: The dancers dashing to and fro, the sets, the crew, the costume changes. The lights and sounds. The thunderous applause.

Jill came running off-stage, jubilant from the exhilaration of an extremely intense performance. He was waiting in the wings, proudly listening to the standing ovation. She came into his arms, whirling him in circles and then, holding his hand, she had scrambled into her dressing room pulling him along behind. She was laughing, crying and trembling; displaying all of the emotions, all balled up like wire. She pulled him close and backed into the makeup table. Her eyes were glistening with moisture and anticipation.

She had paused for a moment, contemplating. Then the decisive move. Jill lifted her short Danskin and pulled the crotch of her underpants to one side. She was clambering to get laid, needed it: A mind-blowing orgasm. A fitting end to a stellar performance on Broadway and he happened to be the gentleman at hand.

Spencer had gaped at the hairy monstrosity. Her v****a looked all out of proportion on her slim frame.

Forget all the superlatives: p***y, beaver, nest, love-box, snatch. As elegant and refined as she was, the woman had a c-u-n-t! Plain and simple.

It was as if God had gathered up all the raunchy tendencies that a woman might possess, all the naughtiness, and with one single, outrageously bold stroke, he had splashed the result, like a crimson stain, between her legs. Her cunt was massive. And hung oozing like an open wound; squeezed out from around the tight crotch of her panties. Jill was in possession of the ultimate s*x organ.

The dense honey-brown curls were sopping with the sweat of exertion and other heady secretions. When she spread her knees the halves opened and the heat and smell rose into his face like a sulfuric vapor from a very active volcano. She looked down on herself and flushed, as if to say: Sorry. This is the one I got stuck with. It’s not very lady-like but I had no say in the matter.

Of course Spencer wasn’t looking at her face. He was too enthralled at the sight of her gaping s*x and reveling in his good fortune: Incredibly, she was offering it up to him. Feeling lucky didn’t come close to defining the exalted, tricked-up emotions that flooded his chest.

When he stepped into her, she screamed and Spencer half expected to hear her yell: “r**e!”

He didn’t know her all that well. Didn’t know she was a screamer. Startled, he began to withdraw but she grabbed him about the hips, dug her nails in, pulled him back into the wolf’s lair and she rolled her hips up expectantly to receive him. Spencer was bewildered, baffled, but forged ahead, pushing his way past the incredible gnarl of the vaginal opening and squeezing into the tight conduit that led into the pelvic cavity. He met with resistance; a muscular contraction that all but barred his way.

The girl was a dancer. And had probably spent more hours in a gym than anyone he knew, including some of the hired muscle he used in his field of employment. She was solid. And everything was concentrated around her legs and thighs. He resolved himself to meet her groin head on. “Please... ” she moaned and he pushed harder and was rewarded when she gave a little.

It was like f*****g a knot in a piece of God damned rope. It was painful. But testosterone is a powerful narcotic and with two strokes, he thrust past the obstruction. The response was dramatic. She screamed again. Then orgasmed without him. She raked fingernails along his spine, raising the blood, and sunk her teeth into his neck. It hurt like f**k but he was lost now.

He grabbed fistfuls of her hair and forced her back across the makeup table. Her feet lifted from the floor and he finally got it all the way in. And then he started brutishly pounding. She wanted it and he was prepared to dish it out. It wasn’t love-making, more like a raging war! And later, as she loosened and worked up more juices, he began to realize he was having the f**k of his life. No one was this tight. No one felt this good. Too good! Too good to last!

His orgasm was powerful and Jill sunk her teeth into his neck to stop from crying out.

After the battle, Jill had led him into her shower and they had bathed each other.

Later still, bruised and bleeding, he had limped home to his apartment. He stripped off and rolled into bed. He figured he had been single far too long.

Spencer heard the crunch of gravel on the driveway and tossed the magazine.

Jill breezed through the front door a moment later, wearing a London Fog trench coat and four-inch Capezio dance heels. She shot him a luscious smile. “I don’t smell dinner,” she teased.

“That’s because I reserved a table at Burt’s.”

“Bugger! I hate Burt’s!” she said, loosening the belt on her coat. “And since when did anyone ever need a reservation at Burt’s?”

“Well he likes you,” he retaliated. “And Burt says there’s always a run on the tables when you show up. Besides, I get a hell of a discount if I arrive with a Broadway Star on my arm.”

“Burt just likes looking at my legs.” And as if to punctuate the point, she pulled off the trench coat and went up on toes to hook the collar on the rack by the door.

Spencer’s breath caught. After sixteen years of marriage she could still do it to him. His eyes panned along the clingy lines of her Danskin dance outfit. The dress was so short it barely covered her ass. And she had the prettiest legs of any woman he had ever seen on the hoof: Just the right blend of sinew to muscle, with an overriding of buttery softness. And damn, there was no denying the fact: Jill’s legs were long.

“We could go to MacDonald’s... ”

“Look, bub,” she took a step toward the bar, “if you want a shot at sticking your nose between what you’re gawking at, it will be Ciro’s!”

He choked on his scotch. “Ciro’s! That’ll cost me a couple of hundred! I’m a lowly civil servant, remember? And I was looking forward to Burt’s fish ‘n’ chips... four-ninety five. I’ll even spring for the Cokes.”

She turned her back and reached for the scotch bottle. “Take me to Ciro’s. You’ll get your fish later, in bed.”

It was a lame promise and they both knew it. But still, it was fun.

She poured the scotch into her glass and headed directly for the stairs. No hug. No kiss. He had noticed the change in her, but wasn’t concerned; honeymoons come to an end, eventually. And it had been sixteen years.

“I need a quick shower,” she called back to him, “before we go. Better call Ciro’s to be sure they have a table.”

She ascended the stairs carefully. Slowly. Holding her thighs together; afraid he would smell the s*x. In the bathroom, she quickly peeled her Danskin off over her head and dropped it into the hamper. She wore neither pants nor a bra underneath.

Jill opened the lid of the toilet and extracted the wad of kleen-x from between her legs. She flung it into the bowl. The rank odor of stale, elicit s*x, filled the bathroom and the flush of guilt filled her chest. She wasn’t particularly proud of the way in which she had spent her afternoon and even though the euphoria had been short lived, she couldn’t help herself: She thrilled to the moisture; the feeling of another man’s semen on her legs.

Jill gingerly stepped to the side of the tub, sat down on the edge and held herself open with the fingers of one hand. With the other she reached for the shower-selector and directed the spray from the hand-set. She purged herself of the last of the stranger’s heady endowment.

Spencer heard the shower sputter to life in the upstairs bathroom while he fixed himself another drink. It had been great s*x in the beginning, but who can ride a bucking bronco night after night. They still loved each other. There was no denying the fact. But the s*x eventually cooled, reserved for Saturday nights, after the Late Show. And then as the years passed, only for special occasions: Birthdays, their anniversary, maybe Christmas.

At forty-two years of age, with a promising career, much more successful than most enjoyed, he found himself being drawn to the fresh young teens who flew in from New York to study dance under his wife’s tutelage. They were the promising professionals sent to Washington from the Parson’s College to receive advanced training under his wife’s direction. They were lovely girls, full of vitality; sexy and adventuresome. And they liked to gravitate toward older, more mature men. With a shortage of straight guys in the dance community, the girls seemed, often enough, to be wanton and available.

But Spencer had never strayed. That’s not to say he didn’t long for it. He was as red-blooded as the next guy. But he was just too afraid of getting caught. The girls were his wife’s students and the controversy would leave his career in a shambles. But what he wouldn’t give for a chance at one of those eighteen-year-old bodies. To catch one of the girls alone one night, in the studio after classes. Maybe catch her in the change room...

If Spencer had known about his wife’s answer to a sagging s*x life, he might not have been so stalwart.