"I'm not hurting you, am I?" he repeated when there was no response to his first question. "I don't want to hurt you, honey."

The dark-haired young man set the bottle of Merthiolate down on the coffee table, but an instant later his left hand was back on the warm softness of the young wife's upper thigh while his right hand gradually began a persuasive massaging motion upon her smooth belly that eased the diaphanous orange nightie all the way up to Sandi's slender waist. Much to his gratification, he felt her stomach muscles ripple beneath his suggestive touch.

"You feel so tense, Sandi," he breathed into her ear, letting his lips linger longer than necessary in the silken strands of her naturally blonde hair. Most of the women Larry knew, including his wife Clare, favored wigs, hair pieces, and dyes which made their hair rather coarse to the touch. In contrast, his best friend's wife's shoulder-length curls felt as fine and soft as those of a child, and this plus her clean-scrubbed face and slim-hipped, girlish figure gave her a certain vulnerable, almost virginal quality which the older man found extremely exciting.

"Verne wouldn't want you to be feeling all tensed-up like this," he continued, his concerned, soothing voice betraying nothing of his lewd intentions. "He'd want you to relax, Sandi. Why don't I give you a massage?"

A massage? Just what did Larry mean by that? Sandi asked herself a little uneasily. It was a loaded word, for her sole conception of a massage was derived from a recent Chicago Tribune expose of that city's scurrilous purge of massage parlors. But the stinging pain from the Merthiolate was making her feel more disoriented than ever, and it seemed too much effort to question him.

In any case, Larry slid his hand up underneath the skimpy nightgown and began to knead the pliant warmth of her naked flesh without giving her a chance to voice any objections. His hoarse breathing echoed loudly in his own ears, and he hoped that the quivering young wife had not noticed his growing lust.