June 1959

From the diary of Alice Jane Baker:

Sunday, June 28, 1959

Today’s entry must remain obscure; no one can know what happened last night. I hesitate to write anything at all, but I need to nestle in your comfort, dear diary, and I need a record for myself, even if my lack of candor muddies the account into mere silhouettes. 

The one thing I can reveal is that their plan worked: I am pregnant. All of my nerves are awake, my every cell ignited. His life swims in me, embers flicker and thrive, hurling me toward a new future, one in which I fear I may never be satisfied again.


Alice hadn’t tasted gazpacho before. Its coolness on her tongue surprised her.

“Do you like it?” Mr. Egan asked.

She looked from his black bowtie to the silver spoon poised in his right hand. She wasn’t sure how to answer.

They were at the annual Egan Motors Corporation company banquet on the evening of Saturday, June 27th at the Egan estate. Although Alice and her husband, Stuart, had attended all of the company banquets since their wedding three years earlier, this year was special. They were among the dozen couples Mr. Egan had selected to share his table.

Alice couldn’t fathom what had caused her to be plucked from the anonymity of the two hundred employees and over-perfumed spouses that filled the palatial, candlelit ballroom. Her recent advancement from the secretary pool to office manager was hardly notable. So being granted a place at the Egan table was surprise enough, but when a butler had directed her and her husband to the seats flanking the head of the long table, she was astounded.

And now Mr. Egan wanted to know if she liked the soup. She glanced across the table at her husband, who downed his second martini before saying, “It’s a bit cold.”

If only she hadn’t hesitated, she could have spared them the embarrassment of Stuart’s feeble joke.

A broad smile stretched over Mr. Egan’s cleft chin. “My thoughts exactly.”

Perhaps it was that smile that surfaced regularly, or maybe it was due to some magic of the lush hydrangea centerpieces that seemed to block the rest of the guests from Alice’s view, or maybe it was merely the succulence of the filet mignon, somehow the ceremonious banquet began to feel as if it were the most intimate of dinners.

Mr. Egan had insisted they call him Henry, and by dessert she could almost bring herself to do it. Except Stuart was on his fourth martini by then. He was pliant with gin when the topic of children came up.

“I shoot blanks,” Stuart said, lighting a cigarette.

“That so?” Henry leaned in.

“You don’t want to hear about this,” Alice said to Henry Egan, but her husband kept talking.

“Three years, not even a single miscarriage.” Stuart exhaled smoke towards the purple blossoms.

“Stuart stop,” she said.

“It’s okay.” Henry put his hand on top of hers and left it there. His skin was warm.

Stuart continued. “My parents suspect Alice is frigid. If she weren’t frigid, they say, surely they’d have a least one grandchild by now.”

Despite the shimmers of humiliation her husband’s words brought to her cheeks, Alice fixated on Henry’s palm pressing lightly on the back of her hand. She was torn between wanting to recoil from Stuart’s inappropriateness and wanting to lift her hand into Henry’s touch. So she did nothing. She sat motionless, too tipsy to be mortified.

“But Alice is not frigid,” Stuart went on, visibly drunk. “It’s me. Me! I’m shooting blanks night after night.”

Now Henry enveloped her hand with his and squeezed gently. With his other arm, he reached out to Stuart’s shoulder and grasped good-naturedly.


An hour later when the crowd had cleared, Alice wasn’t sure whose idea it had been. The only thing she remembered for sure was that Stuart had said more than twice, “It’s not cheating as long as I’m inside you at the same time.”

“It’s not cheating as long as I’m inside you at the same time.”

She knew he desperately wanted a family. He did not consider a wife and a Cocker Spaniel fulfillment of that. You can’t teach a dog to ride a bike. So he lay down on the bed in Henry Egan’s east wing and unzipped his pants and pulled out his half-hard cock and told his wife to pull down her nylons and panties.

Alice did it. She obeyed her husband when she bent over his groin and held his penis up straight and placed the head of it onto her tongue. She still wore her dress. Layers of taffeta and tulle hung heavy over her bare ass when she felt the mattress give slightly under the weight of Henry joining them on the bed.

“Keep it in your mouth, Alice.” Stuart was drunk enough to believe he was in control.

Alice tightened her lips a bit lower over his shaft and suckled the skin, but all she could think about was Henry’s hands gliding up her thighs under dress. His fingertips found the slit between her labia and slid slowly back and forth along her opening, pulling her wetness up to her clit, circling, circling.

She made her torso long, pressing her vulva into his hand. She wanted to know what his cock looked like, she wanted to turn back to see it. She’d never seen anyone other than Stuart. But her husband was harder now and beginning to thrust in and out of her mouth. If she kept sucking, he might remain quiet.

The first time Henry pushed a finger into her vagina straight and deep, Alice called out letting air surround Stuart’s cock without removing it from her mouth. Henry’s finger massaged her vaginal walls in a spiral as he pulled out only to return with two fingers, now pressing along the curvature of her cunt, hooking her from the inside. She pulsed her hips, fucking his hand, wishing he would fill her entirely. And with that thought, she swallowed as much of Stuart’s cock as she could.

She imagined Henry’s fingers boring into her far enough to reach Stuart’s penis. She cupped Stuart’s balls and jammed her cunt into Henry’s hand harder with each buck. She breathed louder and deeper through her nose. Stuart said he was going to come, he was going to come.

They had to slow down. Alice needed Henry’s cock inside her but she couldn’t stay still. She rode between them for a few more thrusts until Henry bent over her, licking the back of her neck. He breathed the words into her ear, “Alice, tell me you want this.”

“Yes.” The word came as a kiss on the head of her husband’s penis.

“Tell me you want a child.”

“I want your cock,” she said. And because she took Stuart deep into her mouth again, her husband let himself believe she was talking about him.

But Henry knew.

He slipped his penis past her labia slowly, knowing from her gasp at the first inch, knowing from seeing Stuart, that she hadn’t experienced anything like him before. His hand had prepared her, her hunger had prepared her, and soon they moved together with Stuart as if they were born for nothing else.


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