THE BACK ROOM AT THE SALOON

Donna George Storey

She pulled her wrapper over her nightgown and tied the sash snugly. It felt odd to be in her nightclothes with her hair still properly dressed, but John had asked her to leave it up tonight.

A good wife gladly submits to her husband’s desire.

Her pulse quickened at the thought. She felt like a bride, unsure what lay ahead. On their real wedding night, John was gentle and full of sweet words. Afterward, he promised their relations would become more mutual as they adjusted to married life. Men of experience assured him it would be so.

As time passed, she did indeed respond to his caresses with increasing ardor, but had yet to share his final pleasure.

Until one night, when they were tipsy on champagne after a dinner with friends, she dared ask him shyly about his education in matters of the flesh. Even in the darkness of their bedroom, her face burned with the brazenness of it. She was surprised at how readily he confessed: he first knew a woman at eighteen when his uncle took him to a parlor house. The woman was pretty, plump, and kind. That encounter lasted all of five minutes, John told her with a rueful chuckle. He’d indulged a few times more in college—always careful to take precautions for his health—but had since renounced that vice.

“Nothing compares to what we have, my love—a true union of hearts and minds.”

She was reassured of his devotion, but his story left her unsettled in a different way. The images that filled her head—the woman baring her large, pink-tipped breasts to his virgin eyes, her soft arms pulling him close, John’s grunts as he found oblivion in a stranger’s body—inflamed her so keenly that she knew the fullest joy of the marriage bed at last.

Her response delighted him, and he coaxed a shameful confession from her in return—that while he’d embraced her, she’d imagined she was his harlot.

The next time they lay together, he whispered forbidden words in her ear, painting pictures of sensual license no decent woman should see.

Once more she reached satisfaction.

She wondered aloud if there was something wrong with her that she craved such depravity.

“It’s nobody’s business what a man and his wife do in private. Trust me, dear, and all will be well.”

And so, at his confident knock, she opened the door.

She found him in his shirtsleeves and suspenders, his collar open about his sturdy neck. Gone were the coat and vest, and along with them, his proper demeanor.

“Come to the back room with me, my girl. Don’t be afraid. I’ll treat a fine miss like you just right.” His tone, too, assumed the impudence of the lower orders.

She gave him her hand and followed him down the hallway. The walls around her shimmered, melting like candlewax. Suddenly they were walking through a saloon, redolent with the earthy scent of whiskey, the hum of male conversation. The men at the bar stared, undressing her with glittering eyes. This was a place a decent woman could only dream of, half with fear, half with longing. With John as her guide, she could finally enter into the heart of this mysterious realm.

The back room—his dressing room—served their needs well: a standing closet, a washstand, a camp bed. He’d prepared the side table with a napkin and a glass of water. She caught her breath. So that’s how it would go tonight.

John closed the door and turned the key in the lock, although the hired girl had gone home hours before.

“Let’s see you in your shift.” He pulled her wrapper open and gave her an insolent once-over. “You look too proud a lady to come to a place like this, but we all know looks can be deceiving. You’ll give me what I want, won’t you?”

She nodded, her eyes trained on the carpet.

“Well, no use lingering with idle chatter. Lie down on the bed.”

Thrilled at his audacity, she obeyed.

He stretched out beside her and began to make love to her. Pushing her nightgown up to her neck, he caressed her breasts and stroked her between her legs, patiently and knowingly, until she relinquished all dignity in a chorus of soft, lewd moans.

Then came that velvet voice in her ear: “You are a frisky one. What d’you say we take a trip to Paris tonight?”

Only a few weeks before, John had taught her about “French love,” how sporting men would pay extra to get their pleasure from a woman’s mouth. Curious, she found the courage to try it, for just a moment.

A good wife gladly submits to her husband’s desire.

John lowered his trousers and sat at the edge of the bed. She knelt between his legs.

Submit to him. A good wife submits gladly.

His manhood was so long and thick, she wondered how she’d managed before. Timidly, she kissed the length, then took the tip in her mouth. He’d been thoughtful enough to wash and smelled faintly of soap. Soon she found her courage and was moving up and down like the dasher of a butter churn.

“Your French is well nigh native tonight,” he said in a thick voice.

Apparently satisfied with her progress, he lifted her to the bed and mounted her quickly. But then he was

patient again, letting her move against him as he suckled her breasts and stroked her neck and shoulders. “That’s right, my pretty whore,” he whispered, “fuck me good, you sweet, wet trollop.”

How was it that such wicked words could uplift her, free her, make her soul soar?

You like it all, don’t you, you little cocksucker?

With that final endearment, she came undone in his arms.

He held her for a moment, his own pleasure still unquenched. Usually he spent on her belly as they wanted to wait to start a family, but she found herself overcome by a perverse desire: “Darling, would you… please…finish up in Paris tonight?”

She knew John was never one to deny a lady’s wish.

He felt harder this time, and she took him so deep he knocked against the back of her throat. She could taste herself on him, but that excited her even more. In but a few minutes John stiffened and groaned. His flesh pulsed against her tongue, flooding her mouth with thick, salty wetness. Thus he revealed a new masculine secret to her—the taste of the essence of his lust.

Afterward, he gallantly offered her the napkin for her lips, the water to refresh her mouth.

“Was that truly all right for you, dear?” he asked with concern.

“Oh, yes. I felt so bold. Did you like it?”

He laughed. “So very much. That was a first for me, you know. I’m the luckiest man alive.”

On her wedding day, her mother confided that a good wife must find it in her heart to submit gladly to her husband’s desire.

She never said how easy that would be.