Feeling more ill at ease then ever, the nineteen year old wife made a deliberate effort to stare at the pictures on the walls rather than at the rippling muscles of the photographer's golden-tanned torso, which somehow reminded her of Benjamin Johnson.
Don't be ridiculous! she scolded herself. They don't look the least bit alike, aside from both having dark hair, and besides I'm not going to let myself think about last night. I'm not!
The guilt-tortured young housewife had been resolving to block out the sinful, obscenely vivid memory pictures from the moment she'd woken up to find herself nakedly draped over the living room chair, her lurid apricot-lace nightgown crumpled on the floor below. Now, hours later, she couldn't hold back a shudder as she recalled how filthy she'd felt and how
