tagLoving WivesThe Temptation of Felice

The Temptation of Felice


Author's note: This standalone story includes elements from the RON'S JOURNAL series, but reading the other chapters is optional. The tale contains seduction, betrayal, violence, and dust devils. The story is probably fairly fictional. All sexual acts involve live humans over age 18. Felice is mostly the McGuffin. Your feedback is appreciated.

***** The Temptation of Felice *****

-- early 1978 --

It was a dark and stormy night, no shit. Meters-deep snow piled around the tiny crazy-quilt mountain cabin near mile-high Lake Arrowhead, a hundred miles east of Los Angeles. The latest blizzard promised to block us inside for days; the lowest of the stuffy witch-house log-cabin's three narrow floors was already buried in frozen packed powder.

The dark days passed all too slowly. We had edible and drinkable supplies for the three of us but we did not have space, or patience. We could not all stay in the big bed fucking and sucking the whole time. Taut nerves frayed. Squabbles boiled. I moved out of the cramped attic's king bed that Will and Cassie shared with me.

The storm abated. Another black night swept over us.

Cassie joined me in my sleeping bag on the parlor floor in front of the small brick fireplace sometime after oh-dark-thirty hours. She pressed her thin body's small breasts and dark fuzzy muff against me. We snuggled for warmth, and she opened up for sex. We fucked a nice, slow, almost tantric fuck. A farewell fuck, as it turned out.

"This just isn't working, Ron. Will is, like, really, really disappointed that you couldn't talk Gwen into fucking us the other night."

Cassie lay with her hips straddling mine, clutching my softened cock inside her with forceful PC muscles. I would miss her practiced skills as well as her London accent, long black ponytail, and dry, peppery-sharp scent.

I shrugged in the dark. I would not make excuses for my old fuckmate.

"Gwen said she was being faithful to her son's father, the bastard, even if they're divorced. I don't try to break a woman's promises. If a promised or married woman like you wants me, I don't object, fuck no. But I won't try to force her into anything. I don't set the rules. Gwen isn't my property."

My hands massaged Cassie's cat-hammed cheeks. She purred.

"I want you to stay, I really do." (She kissed me.) "You know Will is so tired all the time. I really love, no, I need fucking you when he can't." (My best pal and near-twin's as-yet undiagnosed non-Hodgkins lymphoma would kill him two years later at age thirty.) "But Ron, he feels threatened. And I really love him, and I'm having his baby." (The infant Charity would be a most troublesome child.) "I'm sorry, I really am. But..."

I muzzled her words with my mouth. We breathed together.

"I understand, Cassie. I'm tired of being stuck in the snow up here anyway. I've been thinking of moving out to the desert. All my books and stuff are already packed. I just have to schlep all the crates down that steep slushy slope from the cabin to my car. Probably break my leg trying."

I reached to the woodpile and tossed another little spicy cedar log in the smoky fireplace. Cassie's proficient cunt muscles roused me back to hardness. Our lazy fuck continued until dawn threatened the darkness.

Then Cassie climbed the narrow, twisting staircase, back to her slowly-dying husband, my best friend. And I stared into the flames.


Will and Cassie, and their cabin and bookstore, were my refuge after I left the US Army and my years in goddam barracks. I did join the Army Reserves; I could stand monthly meetings as a weekend warrior and I could sure use the pay. But right now, I was weary of living close to others, even with a shared wife and free rent. I wanted space.

I got it. I found a cheap rental, eighty-five bucks a month, a twenty-seven-foot-square cinder-block cabin far out on the high Mohave Desert past Joshua Tree village. The agent from Jack B. Renfro Realty was disappointed; he thought I meant to buy the place. Not on my limited budget: Reserves pay, unemployment for a few more months, and eventually some G.I. Bill money.

[A note for spelling Nazis: MOHAVE is a Yuman Indian word and that's how it's spelled in Arizona. MOJAVE is the Spanish rendering and is legal in California. But dammit, MOHAVE is NOT a Spanish word! I always spell the desert name as MOHAVE. I get like that with NAVAHO vs NAVAJO also. You do not like that? So sue me. But I digress.]

The house's south side was screened from the crackled one-lane road by bulky dark-green creosote bushes taller than the shack's flat roof. I could step naked out the narrow side door, straight from shower to sunshine and my herb garden. The front door on the west side's tiny covered porch opened onto a dense cactus garden. The north side's gravel driveway obscured nothing. The kitchen door on the east faced sunrise and a zillion miles of open desert.

My nearest neighbors were a half-mile away. Yes, I got the space I wanted.

A water seep supported a small stand of cottonwood and palo verde mesquite trees to the south. I appreciated the shade, and the birds and wildlife they hosted. I hooked a web hammock between two trunks for a meditation space.

A closed-off bathroom occupied one corner of the cabin. A block wall two-thirds down the middle separated a minimal kitchen from the main area. The cabin boasted three outside doors and, except for a portal over the kitchen sink, the scattered glass windows were all covered with tinfoil to reflect the merciless sun. Yes, a simple jackrabbit shack, better built than most.

Back in the day, citizens could homestead open desert land by 'proving' it and erecting a minimal residence, a jackrabbit shack. Not quite luxurious...

Concrete cinder-blocks are poor insulation. I ignited a clattering fuel-oil heater in cold weather; a ninety-buck fill-up lasted two winters. I slept on the shack's flat roof under sharp, bright stars on hot nights. Desert nights soothed me. Roadrunners zipped across the roof (and me) at sunrise for a unique alarm clock. No, roadrunners do not go 'beep-beep'.

I possessed many books, hauled and stored in many stolen (I mean liberated) wire milk crates. I built a desk-and-shelf structure of concrete blocks and milk crates, pine planks for shelving, and a four-by-eight-foot plywood sheet painted bright orange for a desk - a study area along one wall. Just what every impoverished student needs!

A king-size bedframe boosted on stacked milk crates filled the front corner; plenty of storage underneath. I threw sleeping bags on top of the mattress's fitted sheet. A cheezy formica-and-tube-steel kitchen set supplied me table and chairs. A not-too-unsanitary easy chair with escaping stuffing, a beat-to-shit Danish-style coffee table, and a yard-wide electric fan to ease the hot times comprised the rest of the furnishings.

I loved the high desert. My cheap 10-speed bike loved long, straight paved roads and gentle grades. I pedaled endless frugal miles; I only drove my car when necessary. I ate too little and drank too much but kept my body trim and tight.


I moved from the mountains to the desert in January - still winter. Those early days' weather did not suit bicycling. On my second day in the J.T. jurisdiction I drove my big old caca-brown Dodge station wagon to the village market on the barren town square behind the statue commemorating Joshua Tree's DESERT TORTOISE RACES festival. Every village needs a festival, right?

The clerk was a lean chestnut girl in a well-filled tee, denim overalls, and combat boots. She said her name was Zandra, after Zanzibar. I liked her.

Her light blue eyes appraised me. "You're new. Don't look like a tourist. You passing through, camping out, or what?"

"You've got me pegged already?" I teased her. She looked serious.

"It's las ondas, guy, the vibes. You just don't feel, like, insubstantial. I catch a vibe like you're going to be around a while."

"Well yeah, I rented a shack out past the Orgasmatron dome."

The Orgasmatron. That is what locals call it. You may have seen photos of its futuristic geodesic architecture menaced by lightning. It's even cooler than the Mentalphysics pyramid down the road.

"Why here? What do you do? I'm catching an 'escape' vibe."

"I guess I escaped, yeah. I'm just out of the Army. I'll go full-time in school, then see what happens. Why here? It's cheap and quiet and the sky is clear. I can watch the stars; can't do that down in sluburbia."

"You been here much before?"

"Lots. I grew up the other side of San Bernardino just a couple hours away. Dad brought the family up here at least once a month. I've hopped all over the Wonderland of Rocks, skidded all over the dry lakes. How about you?"

"Me? Not much to say. I'm from San Diego. I came up here to meditate and it all just sucked me in. Really great vibes around here, y'know, especially at the UFO beacon at Giant Rock, and up in the Wonderland of Rocks. Those boulders are mystical - strong ju-ju. So now I paint and sculpt my visions, and do dreamwork. But what did you do in the Army? See any combat?"

"I worked in commo, that's communications electronics, and photography, and now I'm in the Reserves, training to be a medic. Nope, no combat, and I'm pretty happy about that. I look forward to student life."

The county's junior college had a branch campus down the road in Twentynine Palms. Locals called it Twentynine Stumps because, y'know, drunk tourists drove into the palm trees and knocked them over, leaving only stumps. Right. If you believe that, I have a rock to sell you.

"The 'student' vibe, sure, I'm picking up that vibe now."

I am sure the "impoverished student" vibe was hard to miss.

She rang-up my purchases. My diet was obvious. I would be eating lots of spaghetti with thin marinara sauce and cheap sausage washed down with raw jug wine. Eggs and potatoes, beans and lentils, onions and coffee were my other staples. I splurged on artichoke hearts, fresh produce, cheap Mexican spices, two bloated avocados, and the best olive oil in the store.

Zandra eyed me again. "You know what to do with this stuff?" she asked, waving at the spices and oil.

I grinned. "My folks divorced when I was fourteen and I was sent to live with my dad. I had to learn to cook out of self-defense. Care for a taste?"

She appraised me again. "I just might, Ron; I just might. Ask me next week."

My grin widened. "Why wait?" I could work magic right at the cash register.

I pulled my knife from its belt sheath and sliced one fat avocado in half. I pulled the big seed and set it aside on the counter, atop the local free advertiser paper. (Always minimize messes.) My carefully-honed razor-sharp blade swiftly halved a tomato. I sliced the tomato into small chunks and scored the avocado's flesh. I nipped the corners off spice packets and sprinkled doses of ground chili, cumin, onion powder, and something secret. I poked a hole in a lemon and squeezed a couple of splashes, and eeked-out a drachm of olive oil for each.

I stirred each half-avocado's contents into chunky mushes.

"Got any chips?" I asked.

Zandra wordlessly opened a small bag of Fritos - horribly over-salted, but they would work with my impromptu guacamole.

She dipped a chip. A thin nose sniffed the offering. A red tongue snaked out to taste my concoction. Pink lips pursed around the loaded chip. White teeth nibbled, then crunched the construct. A tanned throat swallowed. A rosy wet tongue licked wet lips.

Zandra nodded and turned to the cooler behind her. She extracted a quart of Burgomeister beer, popped its cap, and took a swig. She looked into my eyes.

"You don't mind sharing slobber, I hope, Ronny." She slid the bottle across the counter to me and dipped another chip.

"Not at all, not at all. More spice, Zanzi." I dipped and munched a chip and took my own first swig. I tasted her on the bottle mouth.

Yes, we quickly reached the 'Ronny' and 'Zanzi' stage of our relationship.

We lunched on chips and dip, a chunk of cheddar, and more beer, donated by Zandra. We chatted about the area: the desert, college, Marine Corps base, National Monument (now Park), whatever. We discussed current culture, arts and music. My guitar was at my cabin but I pulled a chromatic harmonica from my pocket and played LIGHT MY FIRE and BESAME MUCHO.

Zandra took that last as an invitation, I guess; BESAME MUCHO {BESS-ah-may MOO-choh} translates as "Kiss me a lot". She pulled my head across the counter to her oval face and gave me a deep, corn-and-salt, beer-and-guacamole-spiced kiss. I returned her tangy flavors. Our tongues danced.

She pushed off me, walked to the little market's front door, and flipped the sign from OPEN to BACK IN 1/2 HOUR. I slid my grocery bags aside and scraped our lunch debris into a trash can behind the counter. She walked back to me.

"I'm catching some other vibes from you, Ronny. C'mere."

Zandra took my hand and led me through a KEEP OUT door. We climbed rickety stairs to a thin alcove over the back of the market. The small resting space contained a bed on citrus crates, a table and chair about as rinky-tink as my kitchen set, and a bookshelf with magazines and a Bakelite radio. She switched the just-audible radio to a jazz station and looked at me.

"I'm not usually like this on a first date, believe me."

She sat on the edge of the bed and stuck her feet out.

"Give me a hand, hey Ronny?"

Would I assist? Duh.

I helped pull off her combat boots. She stood, dropped her overalls, kicked them away, and stood erect and lean in white panties, white socks, and clean white tee, no bra underneath.

"You're overdressed, Ronny." Smiling, she jiggled.

I quickly remedied the situation, at least down to the briefs-and-tee level. My size sixteen sneakers and honestly-faded denim jeans and jacket hit the floor. I stood straight.

From there, we undressed each other, not too slow, not too fast. Tops first, tees peeled overhead, faces kissed, chests handled, then underpants pushed down and off, and bodies touched and admired. Jazz softly filled the air.

All was revealed. Her chestnut ponytail reached her kidneys. Her athletic body was like mine, lean and muscular with winter's faded tan lines, but a bit shorter, curvier, and infinitely more feminine. A thin silver choker circled her alluring neck. Her cantaloupe breasts were topped with pop-tart nipples awash in wide areolas. A flat tummy and an inny navel pinnacled her fluffy muff.

And me? I showed Reserves-short black hair, a neatly shaved face, thick curly pubes, and a measured eight inches of hard boner. My round wire-rim glasses were cast aside. My silver-and-stone Navaho ring remained.

From there, we tasted each other. Our mouths remained corn-salt-and-beer-infused. Her skin was salty, her navel musty. Her engorged nipples burst with flavor. On her back on the bed, her legs spread, my head between her thighs, her pussy tasted sweaty and salty and also musty but oh! so rich.

After her first two loud orgasms on my tongue (well, my fingers assisted) she had me lie back. She kissed down my body as I had hers, and licked and nibbled my sensitive nipples, and tongued my sweaty navel. Her tongue teased my cock before she swung around atop me and took me in her mouth with her pussy back in my face. I resumed clit-licking. She came again. I came close.

From there, we fucked. Not spiritual joining, and not slow, infinitely intimate lovemaking, but not frenzied animal pounding, either; only steady, respectful mating, her long legs wrapped around me, my long lingam deep inside her, our lips joined, our fingers locked, music swirling around us.

The trembling of her fast-approaching orgasm triggered my grunt and spasm. My cock became a flamethrower shooting burning love into her willing womb. Her legs tensed; her body froze; she screamed into my mouth, long and harsh.

"Welcome to Joshua Tree," she panted.

Okay, so it was a bit more than a half-hour. Someone banged on the market's front door, louder than we had been banging.

"Guess it's time to re-open," Zandra said. "I hope it's not my husband. Maybe you should go out the back way."

"Umm, I have a few bags of groceries on the counter downstairs, Zanzi. I'd kind of like to leave with them." Husband?

She was off the bed and dressing after a fast towel-down. My togs were back on a moment later. Clothed, we hugged. Her combat boots were loosely laced.

"So leave out the back, then come around front and pick them up like you'd called in an order, okay?" She kissed me and pushed me toward the stairs. "Turn left at the bottom. It's the door with the NO EXIT sign."

I skipped out the rear as Zandra moved to flip the OPEN sign and unbar the glass front door. I eased my door shut, no banging now, and walked around the little market to the bar next door, just to use the urinal. A bit of beer to get rid of, yesssss...

I pushed through the market's front door. Zandra, her supple body encased again in plain tee and overalls, waved her pointed index finger in the face of a pale, short, husky man wearing a gray fire-fighter's coat.

"I don't need this shit, Harry. You're sending out really bad vibes. I took a lunch break, and a nap, that's all. Oh hi there, are you Ron? Here's your stuff." Her eyes warned me to play along.

"Uh yeah, thanks, I'll just haul it out now." I grabbed two full grocery bags to tote to my station wagon. I returned for my other two bags; Harry had Zandra backed into a corner and was whispering in her ear. He did not seem to notice that I left without handing over any money. (I paid earlier.)

I was Zandra's regular customer from then on but we never repeated our WELCOME TO J.T. fuck. Only a few kisses, nothing more. She was a good wife.


My next day was busy. I rolled my clunky ten-speed bike to the community college in Twentynine Palms to enroll in the winter session. The dusty, barren branch campus was an old Catholic day school the county leased till a real campus could be budgeted. That would not happen for a long time.

The school spread on the southwest edge of Twentynine Palms's thin sprawl, across from the Oasis of Mara (where the palms were) and the then-National Monument headquarters. The craggy, fried, mile-high Pinto Mountains rose a couple miles south; east was a 150 mile run of open desert to the Colorado River, and Arizona, and yet more desert. This was the rim of civilization.

I waved my veteran's papers and signed up for classes: English and Spanish, Desert Botany, Rock Climbing / Backcountry Rescue, Geology / Earth Science, pre-med Biology, and Anatomy.

The pre-med stuff was important. I had taken an EMT (Emergency Medital Tech) course the previous autumn to fill out my Army Reserves medic training. The Reserves promised a full ride through medical school if I qualified. Play my cards right and I would jump from Sergeant Carson to Doctor Carson!

The next days were even busier. Get organized, learn the layout, buy books and stuff I forgot, dash around till it becomes routine. And start classes.

My Spanish teacher was a plump Cubana, a physician's wife. They were of the elites that ran from Castro's revolution. Mexicans laughed at my accent.

I practiced Spanish with fellow student Jenny, a freckled Scandinavian girl-next-door a little younger than me. On warm days we lay on the town park's shaded lawn with flash cards, memorizing vocabulary, exercising diction. We practiced other oral actions, too, in bed, not the park. She had obviously practiced a great deal already.

I thought I did her well when she repeatedly screamed '¡Caramba!' under my tongue and fingers. Alas, Jenny Lynde proved too insatiable for me alone. She moved in with five Marine Corps cooks from the nearby base. I do not know what languages she screamed in for them.

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