"That's the way," Bettina panted. "That's the way to lay that rich cunt up to me, baby. Oh yeah, yeah – you can really grind it, Lauralee. Oh wow, and I thought you were frigid, all uptight. Man, how wrong I was – oohh! – you're a hot lay, a real – hot – screw!"

Lauralee pushed back at the girl's plunging crotch, grinding to bring their clits together, because she was a hot lay, because it felt so good to be wanted and loved and appreciated. They were giving to each other, not one of them simply taking from the other because he was bigger and stronger. Pussy to pussy, they churned and hunched, bringing themselves inexorably to a shivering climax. It was sweet and piercing, that orgasm, fulfilling and warm.

In lassitude, Lauralee clung to this wonderful girl her son had married, cuddling the slim, delicate body close and holding their tingling cunts plastered together. The water bed beneath them rocked sensuously, cradling them, lulling them. Somewhere beyond, the porno movie went on, or maybe it was another one. This time, the moans of the women and the gasping of men seemed like music; now Lauralee could read the notes and catch the rhythm. It was a melody for lovers.

Bettina rolled easily off her body and lay to one side, a forearm across her eyes, small, round breasts rising and falling rapidly. Lazily, Lauralee watched the movement of the pink nipples. She wondered how they would taste, if she dared to wrap her tongue around them. Funny, she thought; she had never entertained such a thought before. Did it mean that she was a lesbian, that what had gone wrong in her marriage had been HER fault, and not Marshall's?

She kept staring at the delicious-looking cones of the girl's breasts, and her eyes wandered down the supple length of the delicately formed body, so small and youthful, to the patch of curly, darkly golden hair nestled between slender, perfect thighs. No wonder her son had been so intrigued by Bettina; no wonder he had run away and married her.