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could bunch his wool pants around his prick and stroke.
    It’s wearing a mitten, he thought, and wanted to giggle at this silly idea. He was happy! He felt like a gurgling infant, secure in the grasp of this small woman who seemed to see right through his dark suit, tortoise glasses, dark beard, and formal manner. She knew how to handle him: with the confidence of a mother soothing her baby, and a whore’s precise manipulation. He was at her mercy.
    He had become so fascinated by the drama below that he lost interest in returning her kiss and became a receptacle: her tongue probing his mouth restlessly. He closed his eyes and rested his head back on the couch. She leaned over him, her mouth covering his, her hand rubbing and stroking his penis. I’m being raped, he thought with a thrill of delight.
    Her hand left. He felt his stiff member twitch, begging for more contact. But it was only a pause for her to unzip him. His pants sighed open as if exhausted by her. He felt cool air while her fingers scurried under the elastic band of his Jockey shorts, and, awkwardly, pulled them halfway down. She nudged his ass, again with a combination of motherliness and business practicality; with another yank his underpants were off. How completely he was in her spell: flattened against the couch, his tail wagging in the air, waving shamelessly for love!
    Her small hand took his penis by its base, and her fingers twined around it. While she kissed, pressed, tongued, and bit his lips and mouth, she ran her grip up and down its length. His position and her matter-of-fact manipulation struck David as comic, but nonetheless pleasurable. His penis arced in the cool air, yearning for more, and yet was soothed with each stroke. The world was obliterated but for one sensation: the planet had been reduced to an appendage.
    Her mouth was gone. But he didn’t care. His head was thrown back, his legs spread and turned outward … and then, a hot liquid touched the head of his penis. When it departed, the cool air was cooler. And then lava covered him again, became a sea, a sauna, a sucking furnace, a bath—he opened his eyes and looked down to watch her blond head move up and down, her cheeks puffed, her lips opening and closing on the tip of his aching sex.
    “This is rape,” Betty said. Laughing, she tried to wriggle away and, in the attempt, her short red curls tickled Tony’s neck. He was on top, pressing his pelvis onto hers, groaning melodramatically.
    “Love me like a rock, oh baby,” Tony said, but in a basso classical actor’s voice. “Let me put the pedal to the metal.”
    “What!” Betty laughed helplessly, her body trembling from her giggles.
    “Whoa,” Tony said, gripping the bed to steady himself.
    “Pedal to the what!”
    “It’s a macho phrase, darling. Oh, that’s right, you didn’t come to the screening of Smokey and the Bandit. Pedal to the metal. It means floor it.”
    “Floor what?”
    “The car. The accelerator. My God!”
    “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said, and now kissed him languishingly, her lips lingering as she ended the contact, pulling away reluctantly.
    “More,” Tony said.
    Betty moved her head back to get a more distant view of her husband. Her pale blue eyes studied him lovingly. But there was pride and possession in the look also, as though she was contemplating a family heirloom. She brushed his hair off one ear. “You need a haircut.”
    Tony leaned in and kissed her again. “Oh, that’s sexy.”
    She winked. “It’s late for me, Tony. I have to be up in six hours. Your day is just starting.”
    “Come on, that’s not true. I have a meeting at eleven-thirty.”
    “With whom?”
    Tony groaned and rolled off his wife. And then kept on rolling, his arms and legs flailing in the air as he went off the bed. He hit the floor with a harsh thud.
    “Tony!” Betty sat up, alarmed, and peered over the edge of the bed to see him.
    “Yes, darling,” Tony answered casually.
    “You’re