Free Trophy for Eagles by Walter J. Boyne

in France. Her first husband had been an eighteen-year-old sophomore at Princeton and a virgin when they met. She was a dancer of seventeen and was not. She seduced him, and he insisted on marrying her, over his family's violent objections.
    Life with Donald Morgan had been far from perfect, but he had valued her, staying with her and their daughter, Patty, even when he was desperately concerned about the rift within his family the marriage had caused. He went to fly with the French to gain enough glory that his mother and father would have to welcome him—and his own family—back. He gained glory enough, but he didn't return, leaving her wealthy but more terribly alone than she had ever been.
    There was more than irony in the fact that when she married again, it was to a German flyer, an ace who had actually fought opposite Donald on the Western Front. She had married Bruno Hafner in large part to outrage Donald's parents. Despite the differ ence in their backgrounds, she and Donald Morgan had seemed to be a genuine pairing, liking the same things, being sufficient for each other. Their sex life, after its tempestuous illicit beginnings, had become routine.
    With Hafner, everything had changed. They had few interests in common except their joint business ventures and a driving, almost obsessive sexual communion that seemed to flare endlessly. It was a passion for which she was both grateful and ashamed. She and Bruno had a basic rutting appeal for each other that had dominated their early relationship, a mindless need for endless coupling that left them thirsty and exhausted but rarely satisfied. They could go from a bitter argument over finances to a tousled tumble on the office floor in an instant. A simple touch was enough to set them off; Bruno laughingly compared them to mating mooses.
    The heat of their loving didn't impair their enjoyment of others, and they had soon reached an unspoken tolerance. Yet they returned to each other, time and again, their mutual sexual needs providing a basis for their continued business success.
    But now she was lusting for another man, pressing her pubis against the dresser's edge in rhythm with the fast-stroked brushing of her shingle-bobbed hair, concentrating on the coming pleasure. In a box on the dresser were yesterday's purchases from Bonwit Teller. She'd bought a $24 corset for half price and picked up six pairs of chiffon stockings for under $4. She had a dozen corsets and plenty of stockings, but the lean days when she was a chorus girl were still with her, and she hated to pass up a bargain.
    "God, I'm hot. I wish to hell he would call." She tried to remember whether Bruno had said whether he'd be back for supper. The tickets on the dresser were for tonight's performance of Hit the Deck; he would probably want her to meet him in New York. It was one of their few points of difference. They had already seen the show, but he enjoyed the inevitable visit to the young show girls backstage. She'd have preferred to see Harry Langdon at the Roxy. It didn't matter. Tonight she'd watch whatever it was in a warm, satisfied glow.
    Tossing the brush aside, she examined herself critically in the mirror. A bulge around the middle reminded her of her third obsession: chocolate. Well, she couldn't stop eating chocolates, so she would just cut down on her drinking.
    It was difficult being older than everyone she ran with. Bruno never let her forget the difference in their ages. In return, she never let him forget the difference in their bank balances. He was making plenty of money, but spending it wildly; when he needed capital, he always turned to her.
    She whirled away from the mirror, vowing to lose a few pounds this summer; until then the bulge could be suppressed by a corset. She ran her fingers over her firm, large breasts, grateful for the abundant pleasure they provided. She was damned if she would strap them down. There was no way she could have a boyish look, and when it got down to