And then this. This terrible suspicion that he was closing his eyes and thinking of someone else as he fucked her, or when she sucked on his cock, was just too much to bear.

Why did this nagging suspicion persist so strongly, though? What other substantiation for it was there, besides her own intuitive feminine suspicion?

Guy's performance was as adequate as ever, even though he closed his eyes more and occasionally mumbled a name that she scarcely caught. Or was it a name?

Perhaps it was merely an obscenity breaking from his lips from time to time in appreciation of the way her loins were moving beneath him and around him.

Her suspicions were spoiling her enjoyment of sex. Several times recently, she had found herself straining more desperately than was normal for her orgasm and, indeed, for the last month, had missed several of them. She was becoming increasingly frustrated, at an age when any normal woman is more hypersexed than ever. And, if she didn't make it this morning, she didn't know what she was going to do.

Trying to elaborate her excitement, the troubled housewife thought back to the first time she and Guy had ever made love. She had been just fourteen then and obsessed with curiosity about sex, despite her puritan upbringing. Guy had been just seventeen but already known as a slick operator about school. Rumor was that he had bedded almost the entire female half of the junior class with the masterful domination of his sexual technique, and that his penis was of appreciable size and quality.

Naturally, talk like this had only served to titillate her, when she should have been afraid and cautious about him. So that, when the older student asked her for a date, she had responded affirmatively with almost bubbling eagerness, her heart racing frantically in her fulsome young chest.

True to his reputation of being "fast," he slid his hand inside her brassiere with almost their first drawn-out passionate kiss.