Friday evening found Frank and Madeline alone at their indifferent dinner, staring past each other. Neither wanted to confront the obvious, to indulge...idle talk just to fill the long, silent spaces between them. During such an interlude, the doorbell rang."Who?! Damn, who would that be?" Frank muttered, half in anger, irritated at being disturbed. Madeline gazed bleakly at her plate."Probably nobody," she offered. "Or maybe it's that silly television reporter again, doing her breathless survey. Actually, Joe was making her feel better than she had on her wedding night. Her husband had passed out drunk after they got to their room. Joe’s lips continued to move, down through the valley between her breasts, across the area where they rose from her chest, and on down over her abdomen. Helen clawed at the sheets, her toes clenching, her legs trembling. Slowly, spreading delight through Helen’s body, Joe’s lips moved slowly downward. They trailed fire across her belly, then he tongued her. More

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