The subject of victim psychology has become an area of great interest in recent years, due mostly, perhaps, to the widely publicized "conversion" of Patricia Hearst to the radical SLA. Why a victim will turn and become a party to his or her own abduction is a question open to hot debate.
The woman in this story finds herself a pawn in a vicious white slavery racket, and through torture and repeated sexual assaults, she eventually becomes docile and obedient, a slave to her master. What becomes of women like her after her "training" sheds some light on the subject of man's potential for depravity? But what of the women? Are they also guilty because of their behavior? Or are they simply robots carrying out their assigned tasks? Who can say?
CAPTIVE HOUSEWIFE-a thought-provoking story of a young woman's reaction to brutality and slavery. A word of warning to us all.
-The Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
I was driving across the desert, listening to a hysterical preacher on the only station the car radio could pick up when I first saw them. The merciless orange ball of the late afternoon sun was joined in my rear-view mirror by a flashing blue light.
At first I thought they were Highway Patrol, but when they got closer I realized they were local police. Gila Flats P.D. it said on their car.
I was starting to slow down to pull over, so I didn't think it was necessary for them to turn on the siren, but they did it anyway. Then, with absolutely no excuse, they ran me off the road.
My car lurched to a stop in a ditch. Fortunately I wasn't hurt. I was indignant, however.
After a few seconds I heard a couple of car doors pop open and shut. Then, through the mist of the dust I had kicked up, two figures in khaki approached me.
The color of their clothing matched the flying desert dust. They seemed almost ghost-like, appearing to materialize out of nowhere.
I couldn't help myself. I stopped being indignant and started being scared.
Then I could make out their faces. But it was no help-they were both wearing dark glasses and five-gallon hats. Each was chewing gum.
"Out of the car," one of them said. I couldn't tell which.
For a second I thought about defying them. Showing them what I really thought of their cheap stunt.
But I rejected it. I wanted to get to Dan and the kids and our new home. Trouble was the last thing I needed.
Besides, the air-conditioner had clunked off when I'd crashed in the ditch. It was suddenly sweltering in the car and I felt faint.
"Out!" the order was sternly repeated.
"All right, all right, I'm coming."
I opened the door and got out, immediately choking on the dust. My giddiness was starting to change to nausea.
The gritty dirt blinded me, too. It was only after thirty or so seconds of blinking that I was able to focus on what I'd gotten myself into.
Guns. They were pointing their guns at me!
"Up against the vehicle, lady," one of the cops said in a voice as metallic as his weapon. "Hands on the roof and legs spread behind you."
I was in no position to argue. Quickly I did as I was told. The top of the car broiled my fingers and I could feel the hem of my short skirt sliding revealingly up the backs of my thighs, but I made not a sound.
"Her legs ain't bad," one of them noticed.
"What are you doing out here, lady?" the other one ignored his partner and addressed the back of my head.
Seeing a chance to explain myself, I decided to answer. "I'm on my way to the East Coast," I said rapidly. "My husband was just transferred by his company back there and I'm on my way to join him and our children in the new house he's getting ready."
"Can you prove it?"
"Well, of course. Of course I can prove it."
"Then do it."
"Well, well, not right here. I mean I can't do it right here," my composure started to break down. "But, a phone. If I had a phone, a long-distance call to my husband would-"
"There ain't no phone within ten miles of here," he said disgustedly, as though I were an idiot for not knowing this fact. "Where's your I.D.? "
"In my purse," I panted, not knowing whether it was from fright or the intense desert heat. "It's in the car."
He brushed by me to get it. The instant he was inside, his partner moved directly to my rear.
This time when he admired my legs he did it with his hand rather than words. I could feel his fingertips running along the side of my left thigh. Soon they were under my skirt and touching the elastic at the bottom of my panties.
"Where you coming from?" the cop in the front seat wanted to know. I could see him checking the contents of my wallet.
"California," I said.
"Then how come your driver's license says Minnesota, Mrs. Fuller?"
"Oh, well, that's where we lived before my husband was transferred to California," I hastened to explain, trying to ignore the hand at my hip.
"You move around a lot, do you?" the cop with my wallet asked dryly.
"Yes. It's my husband's company," I hung in there. "They transfer their young executives around a lot. And when we moved from Minnesota to California and I still had several years left on my old driver's license, I just decided to keep it."
There was a silence as he apparently contemplated my story. At the same time the other cop's exploring fingers slipped under the leg of my panties and began searching for my cunt.
"What you're talking about, Mrs. Fuller, is a violation of the law," the interrogator broke his pause.
The obvious answer would have been to note one could hardly be held accountable for the motor vehicle laws of California while traveling in another state. My reply, however, was a squeal. One of the fingers filling my panties had just found my clitoris.
"I didn't get what you said, Mrs. Fuller," the cop in the car said. There was a tone in his voice subtly suggesting he knew what was going on with his partner's busy hand between my thighs.
"Uh, nothing-it was nothing," I lied, timid enough from the humiliation of being felt-up at gun point not to cause any trouble. "I guess I should have gotten the license changed. When I get back East I'll be sure and do it."
He paused again. I wondered whether he was doing it to think, or to permit his partner to stick three fingers inside my cunt without any distraction.
By the time the questioning resumed, I was being finger-fucked. I could feel the cop's nails scratching against the delicate knot of my cervix. This time I somehow managed to remain silent despite the initial shock of the unwanted stimulation.
"Let me put it this way, Mrs. Fuller," the guy in the front seat said. "If you were us, would you believe you?"
"But I didn't do anything," I protested.
"How about driving with a phony operator's license?" he chilled me with his forwardness.
What could I say? He was a cop and by his definition I had clearly broken the law. This wasn't a courtroom with judges and juries and lawyers. Out here, there was only one interpretation of justice.
"I'm sorry," I said with great sincerity, even though I had no idea for what. Intellectually I knew I was a law-abiding citizen, but emotionally the two cops had me feeling increasingly guilty of something.
What they were doing to me was so degrading I guess my innate shame had taken over. No matter how much in the right I technically was, it was difficult to cope psychologically with one cop brow-beating me, while his partner blatantly finger-fucked me. I felt improbably like a hooker picked up for soliciting in the middle of the desert.
Still, I wouldn't outwardly admit that I was squirming under their harassment. Somehow I still kept the faith that polite behavior on my part would eventually lead to my release.
Just be nice to these guys and they'll let you go, I told myself. However, even as I was trying to comfort myself with this wishful thought, the cop behind me inserted the rest of his fingers into my pussy. Balling his hand into a fist, he began fist-fucking me.
With knuckles ramming the sensitivity of my cervix, I had no alternative but to moan. An entire fist pumping within my twat felt like nothing I'd ever experienced before.
As though my sigh of pain were a pre-arranged signal, the officer in the car got out. As he joined his partner at my rear, I could see his reflection in the roof of the car eyeing the exposed distention of my crotch. However, he said nothing that would indicate he was a witness to his partner's lawless fist-fucking of my helpless cunt.
"You got any way to prove this car ain't stolen, Mrs. Fuller?" he dropped his bombshell. "Or are we gonna go on the merry-go-round again between Minnesota and California and the East Coast?"
"If you'll take me into town, I can call my husband," I desperately tried to make my case.
"Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Fuller," he replied. "We were gonna take you into town anyway."
Despite the clarity of his words, I couldn't understand what he was getting at. It seemed apparent that his statement had a hidden meaning. I didn't know whether to challenge him and get it over quickly, or wait silently for the inevitable catch to surface.
While I tried to make up my mind I became suddenly aware of a wet, squishing sound. Finally I put two and two together and realized it was the noise of my pussy being fist-fucked.
Involuntarily my cunt had become soaking wet. There was nothing I could do about it. Friction had taken over and my abused twat was gushing.
The abrupt diversion of my attention to the moist condition between my legs resulted in a mute response to the cop's cryptic comment about being taken to Gila Flats. Thus, it was in passivity that I assimilated the latest development in this horrible incident.
"You're under arrest, Mrs. Fuller," the talkative cop laid it on me. At the same time, one of his partner's knuckles nudged a point deep within my pussy that had never before been stimulated. I gasped from both aspects of the double message.
It was beginning to seem more and more that I wasn't going to get out of this without trouble. Naturally, the prospect frightened me.
However, it was debatable whether the shuddering now wracking my body was generated by fright. The involuntary orgasm I was abruptly having probably had a lot more to do with it.
"Suspicion of car theft," I was formally accused. "We'il talk about proof of ownership and all the rest of this mess in town at the jail. It's air-conditioned."
"How long will I be tied up?" I forced myself to ask through teeth that were clenched from unwanted but intense orgasmic spasms.
"Could be days," he chuckled. "You might wind up as a non-paying guest if you don't come up with better answers than you have out here."
What he was suggesting was unthinkable. Dan and the kids would go out of their minds wondering what happened to me. It was time to stop playing things by the book and think of some way to slither out of this bind.
"M-maybe there's s-something I could do," I stammered, self-conscious in my first attempt at bribery, and breathless from continued sexual climax.
"You mean to make it up to us so we'll let you go," my interrogator said without affect, putting all the burden of proof on me.
The hot sun had been making me sweat all along. Now I drenched my clothing as I contemplated how far I was willing to go to obtain my freedom. Accompanying my thoughts were the steady grind of probing knuckles in my gooey cunt and constant orgasmic convulsions.
"Yes, I'll do anything you want," I surprised myself with my extremism.
"I like the sound of that, Jack," the cop with his fist in my twat spoke for the first time since his comment about my legs.
In my agitated condition, this statement seemed like a possible light at the end of the tunnel. Impulsively, I decided to follow up on it.
"Look, my cunt is already wet," I astounded myself by reporting the obvious. "I could fuck you both without any trouble if you let me go when we're through." There was no doubt that the condition of my pussy, in conjunction with the broiling sun and my fear, had affected my thinking. I knew it, but I couldn't help myself.
All I wanted to do was get away. Nobody need know what happened to me out in this desert once it was all over.
I thought of having sex with them in the same vein as the figurative tree falling in the uninhabited forest that makes no noise because no one is there to hear it. Once I was back with my family, this incident would seem like it had never happened.
"I'm sure you can lay us without any trouble," the cop now identified as Jack said. "But what makes you think you wouldn't have to anyway?"
That took all the wind out of my sails. I was speechless. I'd never felt so helpless in my life.
The silence was even more explicit than the words. It was filled by the unmistakable whine of two yielding zippers. Then, in the reflection from the car I could see them both pulling their cocks out of their open flies.
It was clear that in any screwing I wasn't going to have the upper hand. In trying to call the shots, I'd made a fool of myself. Suddenly I knew that after they were finished with me, I would be worse off than before.
Now that he was going to use his prick on me, the cop fist-fucking me removed his hand from my cunt. It came out with a loud, wet pop that reverberated in the still desert air.
My pussy throbbed moistly from his prolonged assault. Whether I liked it or not, it was in perfect condition for fucking.
While I remained spread-eagled against the police cruiser, the cops went to work disrobing me.
They'd probably done it plenty of times when searching suspects and operated with quick efficiency. In little more than a minute, the sun's rays were burning every pore of my naked body.
Then, inevitably, I felt the head of a prick working its knotty way between the sweat-licked cheeks of my ass. Falling right in to my gaping pussy, it began fucking me.
It was the first hard-on I'd felt in my cunt since Dan, my husband, and I had made love a month ago on the night before he left for the East. I had missed the sensation of several inches of hard male meat engorging my slit, and was now paying the price for my abstinence with feelings I couldn't control.
"I think she likes it," my attacker turned out to be Jack's nameless partner. "Her pussy muscles are grabbing my cock like a noose."
"Point your gun at her head and she'll wiggle her ass," Jack replied like an old hand at this sort of thing. "The more scared you get these roadside bitches, the better they put out."
Just like that the muzzle of a .38-special pressed menacingly against my temple. It was the only cold thing in the desert.
Yes, I wiggled my ass.
"Mmmmmm, she's a tiger," the one fucking me responded favorably. "She's got a cunt like a teenager's."
"Well, let's see what her mouth is like," Jack said.
He got back in the car, sitting on the edge of the front seat with his legs dangling outside. His stiff prick seemed to loom almost a foot from his lap.
"Bend down and suck my cock, Mrs. Fuller," he ordered. "And in case your hands being free gives you any funny ideas, remember Charlie and I will have our guns pointed at you the whole time you're servicing us."
So now I knew both their names. Jack and Charlie. The dynamic duo of the Gila Flats P.D.
Needless to say I had no desire to force Jack and Charlie into a put-up or shut-up situation. I doubted their capacity for restraint in light of their option of attributing anything violent to resisting arrest.
In other words, if Jack wanted me to suck his cock like a slave, I'd suck his cock like a slave. I was beginning to realize something about myselfthat I'd rather be alive over anything.
He didn't have to worry about my free hands. I wouldn't use them for anything more than squeezing his balls-and maybe fiddling with his sweaty asshole.
All I could do was play it by ear. Take one thing at a time. Get through the sex and wait and see what happened next.
So, right now, I was parting my lips and lowering my mouth over the throbbing head of Jack's prick. It seemed as big as a fist.
At my rear, Charlie had his cock in my pussy to the hilt. His balls were churning against my sticky labia. He was really fucking-I could feel it so deep.
The prick in my mouth was surprisingly sweet. Before I knew it I had gobbled it half way down to the root.
"Deep throat me, Mrs. Fuller," Jack rasped. "Eat my cock to the balls."
I did. Just like that I swallowed so much hard-on I was gagging. The head of his tool was blocking my windpipe.
But I didn't let go. I just kept on sucking.
And fucking. Charlie was plowing away from behind. It seemed that every minute or so he would discover a sense-rippling new way to twist his hilted dick.
Let's face it. It felt and tasted good. A month without sex had left me more susceptible to stiff cock than a respectable, middle-class woman would like to be.
To assuage my guilt at becoming so aroused in this degrading situation, I tried to close my eyes and imagine that it was my husband's cock plowing a furrow up my snatch. And also, miraculously, Dan's hard-on engorging my throat. Somehow I felt I could retain my virtue by doing this.
It was a fizzle. I couldn't concentrate on the imaginary Dan for more than a few seconds.
I kept coming back to reality. The tough cops with the big cocks fucking me in the cunt and mouth. Their action was what was making me horny, not anything in my imagination.
Suddenly I had an intense desire for nothing else in the world but male cum. I had already orgasmed several times, but knew a couple of loads of hot jizz would top all that.
To make it happen, I shook my ass and suctioned my mouth like a second pussy. Just to make sure with Jack, I grabbed his balls and rubbed them together.
At once both of their pelvises slammed forward. Their hard-ons seemed to grow an extra inch a piece in the wetness of my orifices. I could feel their balls slam violently together, one set in my hand, the other against my pussy lips.
I'd had enough experience with men to know they were ready to come. Almost automatically, I shoved my finger up Jack's asshole and pulled the cork.
The jism exploded in simultaneous twin bursts. All of a sudden it was steaming in my stomach and backing up into my womb. Both of these characters shot their wads like fire hydrants.
The feeling was intense. As I'd anticipated, the climax I now had put all the others preceding it to shame.
If I had dared to admit it, I would have had to acknowledge that even my husband had never made me come like this.
They kept blowing in my two fuck-holes longer than I had ever dreamed possible a man could spurt. Apparently the desert climate was good for a man's virility. I couldn't get enough of their cum.
It was only when the last of their spunk had flowed that I started to think about what I had just done.
I had let a man fuck me without a struggle. Worse, I had sucked his partner's cock and swallowed every drop of his sperm.
My climax was ebbing. Guilt was seeping in. My whole mood was changing.
Quickly the heat of passion gave way to the heat of the day. It seemed to ignite my guilt.
One minute I was writhing with orgasm. The next I was quivering with shame. It didn't seem that both of these people could be me.
I was hopelessly confused. And not only was confusion wracking my brain, the naked sun was frying it.
When the cops finally pulled their cocks out of my body it was like a couple of props had been removed. Overcome by the torrid desert and my own degradation, I pitched forward and fainted.
CHAPTER TWO
When I came to, we were speeding down the highway bisecting the desert. I was in the back seat of the Gila Flats police cruiser, staring straight ahead into the steel mesh separating the prisoner from the arresting officers. When I tried to unsuccessfully move my arms out of the uncomfortable position in which they were tangled, I realized I was hand-cuffed.
I could hear Jack and Charlie in the front. They were talking about me.
"Boy, her cunt was really tight," Charlie was telling Jack.
"As tight as that teenage runaway we plugged last week in the gulch?"
"Tighter. If I'd closed my eyes, I'd have thought I was fucking an asshole instead of a pussy."
"Hmmm," Jack mused. "Maybe when we get her back in town and booked, I'll have to draw some guard duty and see for myself. Tight pussies are hard to come by."
With this callous discussion of my body, it was no wonder I looked down at it. For the first time I noticed I was no longer nude, having been sloppily clothed during my unconsciousness. With my garments filthy from being thrown to the ground, I looked like a vagrant. I despaired that anyone in Gila Flats would believe anything I told them.
It looked like a long ordeal was ahead of me.
All of a sudden my attention was diverted from myself by the violently tipping car. When I looked out the window the whirring landscape told me we were taking a corner on two wheels. As we came out of it, Charlie gunned the engine like a hot-rodder and we sped perpendicular to the highway.
Gila Flats was about eight miles down the two-lane road. At the police car's rate of speed we were there in about five minutes. When Charlie slammed on the brakes in front of the jail, I felt like I'd just completed a roller coaster ride.
They pulled me out of the car, drawing then-guns to prod me into the building. As we proceeded up the steps a small crowd gathered.
Apparently hanging around the jail was a popular form of recreation in Gila Flats.
"Hey, Jackie, whatcha got there?" and old man called from a toothless mouth.
"No comment," the cop answered tersely. But he was smiling.
"You shouldn't talk to your Grandpa that way," Charlie chided.
"Hell, if I tell Gramps police business I'll have to tell all the rest of my relatives," Jack said. "And that's half the town. And the other half are related to you."
My heart sank, as we cleared the top step. I had no reason to believe they were exaggerating. I could never get a fair hearing in this town; nor, if it came to it, a fair trial.
And it turned out to be even worse than I expected. The Chief of Police was Jack's uncle. He was also the mayor-the only authority in town. His name was Roy Dean.
Apparently half the town were Deans. According to the equation that meant the other half were Hatfields, Charlie's last name. The matron who was assigned to process me after I'd been booked for suspicion of car theft was named Miss Hatfield.
"Listen," she said once we were alone, "did my brother's boy, Charlie, do anything funny to you? He's always been a wild one."
"No," I lied. Needless to say, under the circumstances I didn't trust her as far as I could throw her.
And that wouldn't have been very far. She was a big woman, even though she didn't seem to have an ounce of fat on her. The kind men called an Amazon. I guessed she was at least six feet tall and much stronger than most men I had known.
"Do you mind if we don't talk," I said, realizing how uncomfortable I felt with her.
"But I like to talk," she informed me. "People arrested on the highway are the only new faces we get in town outside of the Comstock."
Since she pinched my arm with a firm grip when she said it, I presumed I had no alternative but to comply with her wishes. Independence got you no place in Gila Flats. I guessed I'd find out what the Comstock was later.
"What would you like to talk about, Miss Hatfield?" I gave in.
"Are you married?" she asked. At the same time she began to unbutton my blouse.
"What are you doing?" I blurted incredulously.
"Just a simple skin-search," she replied in a bored voice. "Routine for all prisoners. Believe me you won't even notice it if we keep talking."
"Okay," I yielded again, as her fingers loosened my top button. "Yes, I am married. Very happily."
"Kids?" she smiled, undoing more buttons.
"Yes, two. A girl twelve and a boy eleven."
I was surprised at how easily I answered. Despite my apprehension she was putting me at ease. It didn't even bother me when my blouse came fully open.
"You have nice breasts," Miss Hatfield said with obvious sincerity.
I looked down and saw them hanging nakedly. When they'd dressed me, the cops had thought my bra was too much trouble.
"Thank you," I answered, pleased with a compliment after all the hassle I'd been through. A woman always likes to be praised by another woman about her figure.
"Did you breast-feed your children?" Miss Hatfield asked, peering closely at my nipples. Under her gaze they seemed to stiffen.
"No," I replied. "It wasn't as popular then as it is now."
"I thought so," she said. "That's why they're still so pink-like a young girl's. The baby's sucking makes them eventually turn brown."
She seemed so interested in my family that I thought it natural to ask if she had ever been married. The conversation made me feel relatively comfortable because it seemed more like one I would have with an old acquaintance in the aisle of a supermarket rather than with a matron skin-searching me in a jail.
She laughed at my question. "No," she said, "I've never been married. Never even considered it."
"But you seem so interested in children," I noted, as she began tinkering with the waist of my skirt.
"I am," she stated. "But I loathe where they come from."
"You mean men?"
"I don't mean the stork," she chuckled good-naturedly, undoing the top of my skirt.
"But here you are working with them," I pointed out. "You must be the only woman in the jail."
"Not the only one," she softly reminded me. "You're here, too."
"I-I was talking about on the job," I stammered, nervous from the suggestiveness in her voice.
"Working with men isn't the same as going to bed with them," she said tersely.
When she was finished speaking, my skirt slid down my hips. When the air hit my crotch I realized that my panties had been forgotten as well as my bra. Except for the open-hanging blouse, I was totally naked.
After she lifted the blouse from my shoulders, Miss Hatfield stepped back and surveyed my bare body. Repeatedly her eyes shifted back and forth between my breasts and my cunt.
It was clear she was pleased by what she saw. She was smacking her lips.
I didn't know how to react to her obvious lust. The only person I was used to having look at my nudity this way was my husband.
"You turn me on," she blatantly informed me of what I already knew.
Then she started to move toward me. There was no place to go because my back was against a wall.
When she began running her fingers around my nipples, I had to freeze and take it.
"Your nipples are getting hard," she observed after several seconds' stimulation. "Have you ever had a woman play with them before?"
"No," I admitted.
"Another woman knows just where to touch," she crooned, vigorously rubbing the miniature spikes of tactile flesh. "I'll bet I've already made your pussy wet just by playing with your tits for a minute. Let's see."
Both of us looked down at my pubic triangle together. Even with my legs closed, it was easy to see my cunt was dripping wet.
"I told you," she said, dropping one of her hands from my breasts so she could feel my pussy.
I shivered as she wiggled her fingers between my thighs. Then I tingled when she worked them inside my twat.
"Another woman's even better in the pussy than at the breasts," she leaned forward and whispered hotly in my ear. After her lips had skidded across my cheek, she kissed me.
It was a deep soul-kiss. In an instant her tongue was down my throat, joining her hand at my breasts and the fingers in my cunt as erotic stimulators.
Miss Hatfield had so much height and weight on me that the intensity of her kiss bent me over backward. As I arched my spine, my legs automatically opened, sending her fingers past the second knuckle in my box. The increased penetration was loud and wet.
After awhile, I was bent backward so far that I had to throw down my arms to prop myself up. But it was a shaky arrangement at best, and I wasn't helped by the breath-stopping endlessness of Miss Hatfield's passionate soul-kiss. My lungs were burning and my head spinning from lack of oxygen.
Giving into gravity at last, I withdrew the support of my aching arms and let myself fall. As I landed on the floor, Miss Hatfield was on top of me all the way. I felt like a recovered fumble.
Now her mouth pulled away from mine. As I gasped for air, she ran her lips down to my chest and began sucking my tits. Between my legs, she was just starting to really finger-fuck me.
Even after I had time to catch my breath I was still panting. My lungs may have been sated, but my libido was just beginning to hungrily growl.
"Mmmmmm, you're so hot," Miss Hatfield murmured from the hillocks of my bosom. "You really want it bad, don't you? You really want another woman to make love to you."
For an instant I felt like I was an onlooker. It was as though I were watching all of this happen while hovering from the ceiling.
As a spectator, I was shocked that somebody could think a respectable woman like myself would welcome lesbian advances. It was like the matron was talking to somebody else.
However, it was my head that automatically nodded when she asked me if I wanted to suck her pussy. Definitely my voice moaning, "Please, let me eat you. I'm hungry for your cunt."
Smiling with pleasure at my response, Miss Hatfield got to her knees and efficiently peeled her uniform from her massive form. Contrary to the usual occurrence, she looked bigger out of her clothes than in them.
Her tits were enormous. Yet they were as firm as boulders. The thick, erect nipples were even pinker than my own.
Even though she was kneeling, I could see that her large body was perfectly proportioned. She was the giant economy-size woman. Had she not been a lesbian, one man wouldn't have been enough for her.
"Show me your cunt," I shamelessly begged. "Spread your legs in my face."
She came over to me and did just that. Sitting down on the floor, she opened her knees and made my mouth water.
Miss Hatfield's pussy was just like the rest of her-big and spectacular. It looked like it could take a telephone pole.
Thick black hair curled everywhere, but still I could see her labia. Pussy lips that thick and red were impossible to conceal.
And so was her clitoris. It seemed as fat as the last joint on a thumb, pulsating in purple turgidity at the apex of her snatch.
Of course her snatch was dripping. Foaming is a better word.
However, the whole story of Miss Hatfield's twat was not told visually. My nostrils flared as I took an intoxicating whiff of pussy scent. It was like an aphrodisiac.
"Come on and eat me," she beckoned from her Buddha-like position.
Like a hungry puppy, I scrambled toward the fresh meat. Finally, when my head was buried in her crotch, Miss Hatfield compressed her thighs so I couldn't change my mind.
If I'd had any intention of doing so, it was quickly forgotten when I got my first taste of pussy. Not just Miss Hat field-but my first taste of anybody's pussy.
It seemed hard to believe, but I'd gone all these years with a cunt between my legs without even knowing what one tasted like. As I lapped up Miss Hatfield's goo, for the first time I realized that pussy juice was like the nectar of tropical fruit. I couldn't help but wonder if my own twat tasted this sweet.
It was clear I was soon going to have an expert opinion. For now Miss Hatfield was tipping over on her side, taking my head with her in a kind of rigid fetal position. When she was all the way over she reached for my waist and pulled the bottom half of my naked body toward the top half of hers. I knew enough about sex to realize this was a sixty-nine.
"I'm going to eat your pussy while you're eating mine," she confirmed my judgment.
I couldn't wait. I was so anxious to have her like it.
She dove right in. Right away I could feel her tongue tracing my labial contours and getting acquainted with my clit. Then she dipped the tip inside the pot and pulled out a glob of my honey.
"Mmmmm," she smacked her lips after sampling my liquid charms, "your cunt is even sweeter than I thought it would be."
I helplessly brimmed with pride. No compliment given to me by any man, even my husband, had ever made me feel like such a total woman. I'd never had sex where I'd felt so in tune with my partner as I did with this other female.
Like an experienced lesbian, I began deeply tongue-fucking Miss Hatfield's magnificent twat. In my uncontrollable passion it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
Her cunt was wonderfully deep. I could easily slip my tongue entirely inside and still wiggle it. However, despite the space, there was a sense of tightness. I was sure she could really turn it on when she wanted to.
I found out that I was right when the tip of my tongue pressed some magic button in the infinity of her fuck-hole. Her muscles lurched with sudden contraction, closing the powerful walls of her pussy like a steel trap.
Suddenly my tongue felt like it was being torn out of my mouth. Miss Hatfield's snatch was as strong as it was juicy.
It was instinctive that I would respond in kind. There was no way I could allow my tongue to be sucked bloodless by the matron's leeching twat without returning the favor.
Whipping my vaginal sphincters into play, I closed down between my legs. My cunt was transformed into a combination vacuum cleaner and meat grinder. I pulled her tongue so far into my crack that her teeth were grinding against my pussy lips.
Each of us squeezing our box to the ultimate, we went at it hot and heavy without relaxation. Only when we both started to come at once did we slow down the rhythm and the pressure.
In climax we became more gentle with each other. As our pussies loosened their grips and became soft and sloppy in our mouths, we gently caressed one another. The sixty-nine changed from a hard one to a soft one as we languished in the sensory velvet of prolonged orgasm.
I was so aglow from the tingling that I might as well have been tangled with my lover in satin sheets on a water bed. It hardly seemed as though it was all taking place on the dirty floor of a small-town jail.
The knock on the door broke the spell, though. After that, I wisped up fast.
CHAPTER THREE
The Chief himself came to escort me to my cell. Jack's uncle, Roy Dean.
I suppose he was in his forties, but it was hard to tell. Not that he appeared to be young-he was just so mean-looking I was willing to let him be any age he wanted to be.
After his warning knock, Miss Hatfield and I had scrambled for our clothes. Still, our most frantic efforts found us only half-dressed by the time he opened the door and strode menacingly into the room.
At well over six feet, he glared down at us like we were both fresh dog turds. Looking over, I saw that Miss Hatfield seemed as intimidated as I was.
"Get out of here, Maisie," he snarled her first name.
Dutifully, she marched forward. His authority over her was complete.
When she was halfway out the door, without warning, Chief Dean whirled around and kicked her in the butt. Since he was wearing pointed-toe cowboy boots it must have hurt like hell, but Maisie Hatfield uttered no sound.
"Goddamn dyke," he sneered. Then he flattened his heel against her rump and pushed her out the door. When she was gone, he flicked his toe and slammed it shut.
Suddenly I was locked in a room with the meanest looking man I'd ever seen. And nothing about his behavior so far had convinced me that his appearance was deceiving.
"Let's you and me get one thing straight, little lady," he hissed in my face. "There's only one boss around here, and that's me. I am the law."
Then he slapped me in the face. Believe me, it hurt. His fingers were like steel bars.
"You please me," he continued, as I wobbled to keep my feet, "and maybe you can get to first base in this town. Otherwise, you're dead."
He slapped me again. This time with the other hand. He was an ambidextrous sadist.
My reeling senses left me no alternative but to fall to the floor. I landed there in a heap.
"Oh, no, you don't," he barked. Reaching down, he grabbed me by the shoulders and yanked me to my feet. I felt like my clavicle was broken.
Flinging me like a toy, he hurtled me toward the door. I remembered he'd closed it when I smashed into it. Now my nose seemed shattered as well.
He was right behind me before I could mercifully collapse. Gouging his knee into the small of my back, he forced me to remain upright.
"Now let's go to the slams, little lady," he burned his words into my nearby ear. "Something tells me that after our little talk you're going to be a model prisoner."
Reaching around me, he turned the knob and re-opened the door. Then he put his boot to my ass and kicked me through it just as he had done to Maisie Hatfield.
With my tits hanging out I was marshaled through an office and down a long corridor. Everybody we passed ogled my bare breasts. I'd never felt so cheap.
Then, after an electronic door was opened, I was shoved into a cellblock. It seemed awfully modern for an out-of-the-way burg like Gila Flats.
"Federal money built this," the Chief seemed to read my mind.
God, I hoped clairvoyance wasn't part of his power.
"Your government wants you to be locked up in maximum security," he went on. "The country is tired of law breakers."
By this time the Chief had hustled me down a narrow passageway between two rows of formidable looking cells. Each of them contained one or two wretched looking souls, except one overcrowded with several female inmates.
Well, I thought, at least I'll have company.
However, it was not to be. At the end of the aisle we took a sharp right turn and were abruptly in an unoccupied area. A single open cell lay ahead of us, different from the others. Not only was it empty, but it had no bars. It had apparently been sound-proofed from the padding on the walls and ceiling.
"What's this?" I blurted, thinking of the third degree, solitary confinement, and bread and water.
"Quarantine," the Chief snapped officiously. "All new prisoners have to be isolated for twenty-four hours to make sure they don't have any communicable diseases. Your government doesn't want the pus from any VD epidemic messing up the nice, shiny cells it paid for with the taxpayers' money."
Then he shoved me inside. Another door was closed, sealing me off from the outside world. The heavily dropping lock on this one sounded like a death sentence.
Back, back, he kept pushing me, flattening his hand between my exposed breasts. Finally I dropped onto a cot that was bolted to the rear wall.
"Over on your belly," Chief Dean ordered in a way that could not be ignored by any rational human being. I obediently did as I was told.
When I was prone, he grabbed my ankles and pried my legs apart. Then, before I realized it, he was tying my feet to either side of the cot.
I started to say something, but a fist in my mouth stopped that. Seeming to sense just when I was going to speak, he'd casually looped his right fist forward and bashed the words back down my throat.
My mouth was bleeding. A couple of teeth felt like they were chipped. I'd learned my lesson. When he finished tying down my legs, and started on my wrists, I quelled any visible response out of stark fear.
When I was securely bound, Dean grabbed what clothes I had on in a bunch at my waist and ripped them from my body. I was naked with one yank.
Then I heard the whine of a descending zipper. Glancing covertly over my shoulder I saw the Chief of Police extracting his thick cock from his open fly.
It was as big as the rest of him and rock hard.
With my eye still on him, I watched the Chief lovingly stroke his rigid tool. When a smile crossed his face in appreciation of his own hard-on, it was the first emotion I'd seen him show.
"What are you looking at?" he caught me peeking.
"Your, your cock," I stammering admitted, instinctively using the vernacular.
"Have you ever seen a bigger one."
"I-I don't think so."
"You know what I'm going to do with it?"
"No," I gasped. But it was a lie-I was sure I did.
"I'm going to fuck you in the ass with it," he informed me through the smile that had become a cruel leer.
It was no surprise. He might as well have told me that five came between four and six.
Once the obvious had been verbally confirmed, Dean went to the rear of the cot on which I was imprisoned and knelt between my splayed legs. Then his fingers plunged into the crack of my ass and brutally pulled my cheeks apart.
Right away I could feel my anus throbbing. The instant the air hit it, the blood came rushing to its capillaries and made it turgid. My ass was suddenly so hot and pulsing it truly felt like a sex organ.
"I can hardly tell your asshole from your pussy," he showed he could laugh. "But I'm sure I'll know if I'm in the right place once I've got my cock inside you."
That said, he introduced the knotted head of his prick into the gaping cleavage of my butt. Finding my anus right away, it began forcing its rounded bulk against the sensitive outer ridges.
I expected penetration to be devastatingly swift. However, to my surprise, after the initial nudge of his cock against my rectal-hole there was no plowing insertion.
"You've got to beg for it," he cleared up the mystery. "I want to hear you beg for my cock in your ass. I want to hear you tell me how bad you want me to fuck you in the butt."
I knew I could reasonably expect the swish of his gun from his holster, then the hammer cocking, if I didn't comply. It was a question of what was worse-the possibility of being blown away for "assaulting a police officer" or the certainty of being brutally corn-holed. As degrading as it was, the latter sounded healthier.
"Fuck me in the ass," I gave in, surprising myself with how good an actress I was. "I want your big, hard cock in my tight ass."
"Very good," he evaluated my performance. "With this kind of attitude I'm sure the court will show leniency when my brother hears your case."
If I'd had any previous doubt I was doing the right thing, now I was positive I had to let him ass-fuck me. The way this town was sewed up with nepotism, I needed all the approval I could get.
So, it was on my own that I resumed pleading with him even more fervently to bugger me. And considering my desperate urge to survive Gila Flats, this time it was debatable if I was acting.
"I want to feel your cock inside my ass," I told him. "Big and hard-fucking me to the hilt."
"I'll fuck your ass until you shit," he promised me and then made his move.
His prick was like a bludgeon as it battered its way inside my hole. The tightness of the orifice may have delayed insertion, but there was no way it could stop it.
Once the head was inside, I decided to help matters by lifting my hips as much as I could with my arms and legs bound. However high I went, it widened my asshole enough for several inches of Dean's thick shaft to shoot in at once.
"Oooooh, that's it," I moaned. "Now you're really starting to fuck me, fuck me in the ass."
Could I hear myself? What in the world was I talking about?
I sounded like an old pro at this. But the truth was that I had never been fucked in the ass by anyone in my life. Not even my husband had tested that hole with his cock.
Respectable, middle-class people didn't go in for such perversions. They weren't decent.
Yet, here I was, wiggling my can and begging for more. Screaming, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!" as Chief Dean laid inch after inch of pipe up my keyster.
"Yeah, I can tell you ain't actin', baby," his voice became rough with guttural slang. The crudity of his grammar, however, did not detract from the truth of his statement.
He was absolutely right. My hip-twitching fucking movements were all natural.
And so was the crack in my shrieking voice as I pleaded with him to, "Fuck me harder, harder! Bury your cock in my ass to the balls!"
There was no doubt about it. I was out on the limb of the sexual experience of my life.
"Am I hurting you?" he grunted, as he screwed in another inch.
"Yes!" I cried. "It hurts so good-so damn good!"
"Good," he gave me another brownie-point. "I like my woman to be in pain. Makes me feel like more of a man."
I couldn't argue. Any man whose cock could put a woman through what I was going through had to be a blue-ribbon stud.
And there was no longer any pretending that I didn't love getting it from him. Loved getting my tight asshole fucked by his hard, thick prick.
"Get in my ass all the way," I gasped. "I want to feel your balls between my cheeks. I want you to get the head of your cock in my shit."
Yes, my shit. My hot, gurgling shit. Suddenly, as the crown of the Chiefs prick approached my spasming colon, it seemed a thrillingly erotic substance.
Then, with a mighty thrust, he was in me to the hilt. My ass was filled with as much hard-on as he had to offer.
"Make me shit!" I urgently begged, wiggling my rump to increase the chafing friction in my bowels. "Fuck me until I crap all over myself!"
Of course, what I'd done was to fulfill his earlier prophecy about what he was going to do to me. It should have been the most degrading experience of my life-instead I was thrilled to please him.
As he began jack-hammering me with his hilted tool, I closed my eyes and dreamed of shit. Hot shit, lapping in chocolate waves. It wasn't disgusting in my mind, but my own kind of anal cum. Within seconds I'd be spewing it.
When I bit my lip I realized an orgasm was starting. An anal orgasm. The first one I'd ever had in my life.
The reaction my climactic beginnings triggered was automatic. Like a bellows, my lower intestine collapsed. Abruptly squeezed into a lump, my shit cannon-balled out my asshole.
Now the anal orgasm was a roller coaster.
Even Chief Dean's sturdy cock couldn't withstand the momentum of my excretion. It came shooting out of my rectum, instantly followed by an explosion of crap.
I looked around in time to see the Chief splattered with brown flecks of my gruel. However, even with the mess, it was still possible to see his shit-eating grin. I was still on the right track.
The second his prick flew from my ass, Dean's hand went to work. A few strokes later and his cock was spewing a fountain of snowy white cum to join my dirty brown crap.
I could feel the two kinds of goo washing over my rump and the backs of my legs. Then, when Dean's spurting stopped, I could feel his huge hand sliding over my thighs and snagging a generous specimen of the unique emulsion.
"Taste it, baby," he directed, walking around to my front and thrusting his sloppy hand in my face like Jimmy Cagney with a grapefruit. "I know you're gonna love it."
I was still coming, so I assumed he was right. Eagerly I lapped away.
However, to my dismay, it didn't take long to realize that shit was shit. And I was eating it.
In a twisting mental lurch my euphoria turned to repulsion. My senses, tingling from orgasm, suddenly burnt out. My stomach contracted into a cold, hard ball.
"What's the matter, little lady," he picked up on my distaste, "too good for your own shit?"
I felt so terrible. So rotten. Even dirtier on the inside than I was on the outside.
My exhilarating climax had degenerated into utter shame. I wished I could apologize to the whole world.
"Please, please," I gagged. "I don't know what came over me. What made me behave this way."
"I did, baby," he closed the book on the matter. "Just like everything else that means diddly-shit in this town."
Then he kicked me in the jaw and left me lying there unconscious.
CHAPTER FOUR
Most of my twenty-four hours in quarantine were spent trying to sleep away the pain that wracked my naked, shit-crusted body. Even that didn't work, though. My dreams of torture were as bad as the real thing.
When I did awaken for good, I felt like I'd been run over by a truck. When my stomach grumbled, I realized I was starving.
However, my appetite was short-lived. The instant I became fully aware of the putrid reek of my own body, I puked up whatever little food I had remaining in my stomach.
When unconsciousness would not mercifully return, I stared blankly at the gray ceiling. My only concession to life were my infrequently blinking eyelids. I was afraid that if I moved I'd be wallowing in my own slime.
How long I remained like this, I do not know. I might as well have been frozen in a block of ice.
It could have been day or night when the door to the cell finally opened. As far as I was concerned, I'd been incarcerated a lifetime ago. I was so down, nothing seemed to matter.
Two cops came in and started hauling me away like a bag of garbage. When they started talking I realized they were Jack and Charlie.
"How do you think this little pigeon's gonna like all her new friends, Charlie?" Jack asked his partner.
"She can't help but love it," Jack replied in a cool chuckle. "One of those dykes'll shove a shiv up her snatch if she don't."
Then they both laughed uproariously. Something told me it wasn't going to be long before I wished I was back in isolation.
They carried me into the main cellblock and threw me in a cell. Unlike all the others, it was occupied by more than two prisoners. In fact, there were five women in there ahead of me. It was the cell I'd seen on my way to quarantine.
"Oh, shit!" one of them cursed as I sprawled on the cold floor. "Now you're gonna pack a half dozen of us in this crummy sardine can."
"Shut up, Kitty," Jack growled, running his billy club across the bars so it rolled over her nose.
"The man don't have to put up with this shit," she continued, undaunted. "The most they've got is two to a cell. It's discrimination!"
Jack turned on her, really mad, poking the billy club through the bars so it rammed her eye. "Don't start none of that Commie bullshit in this town," he clicked off the words so she would be sure and get his meaning. "Uncle Roy says everybody's treated the same in Gila Flats."
"Yeah, like pigs if they're not a Dean or a Hatfield," she spat like a cobra. When he tried to conk her again with his stick, she still had enough spring in her legs to dance away from danger.
"Now, listen here, Kitty," Charlie interjected himself into the conversation, apparently in an attempt to cool down his steaming buddy. "You know very well that the government makes us keep you nice ladies together in the same place. Away from the men. It's the government that wants segregation."
"But in one fucking cell?" she called from the back wall. "Why can't we have at least two."
"Maybe next year, sweetheart," Charlie grinned facetiously. You see, as a civilian you probably would understand this, but in police work the budget is all figured in advance. Right now, in a way, you're locked up in last year's cell. Based on the woman we pinched last year, we thought this was all the space we needed."
"Of course," Jack said, his disposition considerably improved, "that budget was figured out before Uncle Roy opened the Comstock."
"But the Comstock ain't got nothin' to do with the police force," Charlie dead-panned. Then they both broke up laughing.
This was the second time I'd heard of the mysterious Comstock. Maisie Hatfield had spoken indirectly of it.
When Jack and Charlie finally calmed down, they secured the lock on the cell door, and turned to leave. "Hey, what do you want us to do with this bitch?" Kitty called after them. "She stinks to high heaven."
"Give the pig a bath," Jack shouted over his shoulder, and they were gone.
Looking up from the floor, I could see that I was surrounded by a circle of women. They were standing so close to me that I could see up their dresses. None of them wore panties.
A fifth pair of legs joined the oval. Knowing they were Kitty's I studied them longer than the others. They were long and lean, leading up to a crotch bristling with fiery red hair.
"Okay," Kitty took over, "let's get this over with."
The picketed enclose of female legs disbanded as they all went to get the stuff to wash me. Since no explicit instructions had been given, I gathered that bathing each other was a routine chore for the prisoners in the women's cell.
Before lone one of them had come back with a pail of water. As I looked up into it she poured the contents over my head. Unfortunately, it was ice cold.
However, before my teeth could start to chatter, four of the five were on me with sponges. Then Kitty stepped to the middle and spurted my body with liquid detergent, giving them some suds to make.
As the quartet of women lathered up from head to toe, Kitty squatted Indian-style on the floor and watched the proceedings with a bemused smile on her aggressively beautiful face. She didn't seem to care that I could look right up between her spread thighs at her open pussy.
Then, in the midst of hypnotically gazing at Kitty's cunt, I was abruptly reminded of my own. Some soapy fingers had slipped inside and were reaming it out.
"Cooties, deariee," one of the girls giggled. "Gotta check for cooties. Uncle Roy doesn't want the whole town comin' down with the clap."
Before long a hand clasped my right breast. Then another hand clasped the other. "Have to check for sores," their pretty blonde owner explained.
"And infectious hemorrhoids," a third proper joined in, jamming her index finger up my ass.
"What about trench mouth, Sheila," Kitty coached the fourth girl from the sidelines.
"I don't wanna stick my finger in the bitch's mouth," Sheila complained in a tough-sounding Eastern accent. "She might bite me."
"Who said anything about your finger," Kitty smiled. "You need something a lot more sensitive than that to pick up all the rough spots on her lips and tongue."
"That would, of course, be my pussy region," Sheila improved her diction and replied as though she were answering a question on an oral exam.
"A-plus, dear," Kitty smiled some more. "Now go the head of the class."
There was no adjustment of clothing required for what Sheila wanted to do. Wearing nothing underneath her loose prison dress, all she had to do was straddle my head and ease down. Just like that she was sitting on my face with her bare, wide-open pussy.
Trying to get some air through the cracks, I opened my mouth. This sent her squishy labia spilling over my teeth and gums. She had more meat between her legs than I'm sure some guys have in their cocks.
Finally, when I still wasn't getting any air from the outside world. I began sucking up her cunt for some. Maybe there was an air-pocket in her womb.
I hit pay dirt. Upon tickling my tongue against her cervical sensitivity, Sheila let a devastating cunt-fart. Abruptly my lungs were filled with the funky air of her collapsed uterus.
With four distinct sources of erotic stimulation, orgasmic excitement welled automatically within me. I couldn't stop it. Women are sexual beings-even when they've lived their life under the wrap of respectability.
I was so stirred that my middle-class world seemed light years away. Aroused beyond morality, there was only one environment in the universe in which I was interested-this small jail cell, throbbing at its core with love-making women.
And, as if the fingers, hands, and pussy working me over weren't enough, I had the added visual turn-on of Kitty's wide-open cunt beautifully spreading itself just a couple of feet in front of me.
"Mmmmm, this is making me hot," Kitty announced, as she watched the action at my naked body. Slipping her hand under her dress, she began explicitly masturbating.
As I watched her, I realized with incredulity that I had never actually seen a woman play with her pussy. Of course I had masturbated some as a girl, but I always thought it was nasty and certainly never would have looked at myself. As for the sexuality of others of my own gender, I avoided it as none of my business.
It was fascinating to see just how much Kitty could do to her twat with her fingers. I was starting to see that it was a naive fool who believed only the penetration of a male hard-on could satisfy her sexual needs.
Kitty's fingers could do so much. They could spread her pussy lips. Digitally fuck her. Play with her clit. Wipe up the juice and transport it to her mouth for a slurping taste.
Eventually Kitty made herself so excited that she jumped to her feet, her hand caught between her thighs as she continued finger-fucking herself. "I want in on the action!" she declared. "You girls have done enough inspecting for a while. Hold her down!"
Just like that the sucking and feeling stopped and I was flattened. Sheila and some other girl then grabbed my legs and yanked them apart.
Somebody sat on my chest, her knees on my shoulders so I couldn't move. Coincidentally, her sopping blonde bush was right in my face, the cheeks of her ass flattening my tits.
"Go get it, Jenny!" Kitty snapped impatiently at the only member of the original four not involved in my restraint.
The girl scurried over to a corner with the alacrity of someone who knows who's boss. When she returned it was with a scummy plumber's helper. One of those things they use to unclog toilets.
Kitty snatched it from her hands and immediately set to work unscrewing the rubber cup. When she was finished she had a thick pole about two and a half feet long.
"Are, are you going to use that thing on me?" I stammered, my shaky words further obscured by the muffling blonde pussy tickling my face.
"You mean rape you like they did that Linda Blair chick on the tube?" Kitty asked with wide-eyed facetiousness. "Y-yes."
"What do you think?" she snapped. "Y-yes."
"The jailer will give you your prize when your sentence is completed," she clapped her hands like a game show MC. "And now that you know the truth, are you ready to face the consequences."
She paused, as if waiting for something. When it didn't come, Kitty snapped at the others, "Get it? 'Truth or Consequences."
It was a dumb joke. But when Kitty told the others to laugh-they laughed. She seemed to wield as much power in this cell as Uncle Roy Dean did in the jail and town that surrounded it.
"Okay, that's better," she decided. "Now let's get down to business. Jenny, get the gunk."
The girl acting as servant went to another corner and returned with a battered can full of something rancid.
"Bacon grease," Kitty informed me on its contents. "A trustee in the kitchen smuggled it out to me. It's the best thing for a tight pussy."
With that, she snagged a big glob of the stuff and flung it like a mud ball between my legs. Landing with a splat at the top of my crotch, it quickly oozed down the face of my cunt with greasy viscosity.
"Rub it in, Glorida," she said to one of the girls holding my legs apart. "Make her pussy shine." As Gloria's fingers began to work the goo into my snatch, I watched Kitty begin to grease her pole. I noticed that she was equally generous with the glob at both ends. What this could mean was beyond my innocence.
"There we go," she finally announced, her work finished. "Now for the first pop."
I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, waiting for the brutal thrust I thought inevitable. However, to my astonishment, it didn't come.
When I re-opened my eyes I saw to my amazement that Kitty was sticking the pole into her cunt. She had about six inches of thick stick inside her.
Satisfied that it was securely locked into place, Kitty began strutting around, showing off her new wooden phallus. Looming from between her thighs, the pole resembled an incredibly long brown cock.
"Fuck her, Kitty," Sheila rasped impatiently. "Stop posing with your big prick and fuck the little bitch."
"Yeah," Gloria joined in, "we wanna see some action."
"Don't worry," Kitty cooled their clamor with an icy efficiency in her voice, "you'll get it."
Having promised a show, Kitty stopped posing and got down to business. The business of splitting my tender cunt with her greasy wooden dildo.
"Believe me, sugar," Kitty cooed as she closed in, "this is gonna make you glad you broke the law."
Although I still had no idea which law I had allegedly broken, I was starting to hunger with anticipation for this phase of the penalty. Frightened and degraded as I felt, I couldn't help but lust for the incredible opportunity to be fucked by anothe woman. Someone of my own sex who would know just where it felt good.
"Fuck me, fuck me!" I gave into my libidinous will and exclaimed. "Let me feel you inside me!"
"You asked for it, sweetie," Kitty grinned. Then she grimaced and shoved. Like a huge splinter, the pole shot into my cunt.
"More, more!" I feverishly begged.
Grinding her hips, she twisted the pole deeper and deeper into my twat. By the time she paused, whatever of the immense wooden phallus not engorging her cunt was filling mine. We were fucking each other to the hilt.
Simultaneously we began wiggling our asses. The thick shaft jiggled within us like a brace of throbbing cocks. Yet, we were both moaning for the other one to, "Fuck harder, harder!"
Around us the other girls were getting so excited watching the action that they could no longer restrain themselves. The ones at my legs abandoned their posts and went to work on each other. Soon their clothes were off and they were sixty-nining.
With no orders from her leader to carry out, Jenny, Kitty's handmaiden, paid a visit to the blonde girl sitting practically on my face. Lifting her dress, Jenny stuck her pussy in the blonde's face and started rolling her hips.
"Oh, Brenda, eat my cunt," Jenny identified the girl with her crotch in my face. "Stick your tongue inside my fuck-hole and made me come!"
As Brenda apparently did as she was asked, she also slid her own twat up over my mouth. Now I was sucking pussy, too.
In the meantime, the action connecting Kitty's cunt with mine had become even hotter and heavier. It turned out I had the end of the pole in my snatch on which the rubber plunger had been screwed. Those twisting grooves and ridges chopped into the tender tissues of my pussy like a miniature lawn mower. Even the lubricating bacon grease couldn't soften the exquisitely painful friction.
I wanted to scream out in joy, "Oh, God, I'm coming harder than I ever have in my life!" But, of course I couldn't with Brenda's big, fat blonde pussy sealing my hungrily suctioning mouth.
So I just writhed. My ass jiggled more and more furiously. I came harder and harder.
And by the moans that permeated the cell, I wasn't the only one. My eardrums throbbed with the lowdown sound of a half dozen horny women coming at once-one of them definitely me.
Even though we were in jail, and Jack Dean was a cop, it seemed a crime he had to break it up.
"All right, you dyke bitches," he rattled the bars with his billy club to get our attention, completely unfazed by the lesbian orgy he had stopped in progress. "Time to get cleaned up. Uncle Roy has got Comstock on his mind."
Quickly I looked around at the faces of the others to survey their reactions. It was immediately clear that I was the only who didn't know what he was talking about.
CHAPTER FIVE
The instant Jack Dean was gone, I asked my five cellmates the inevitable question-who, or what, was Comstock?
They all laughed. Then, finally, one of them, Gloria, drawled, "Baby, you gotta lot to learn about Gila Flats."
"Please explain," I beseeched them. "It's simple," Kitty took over as usual. "Last year, Uncle Roy Dean decided what the town needed was outside money. Tourists. Except that who would ever go out of their way to come to a sun-baked dump like Gila Flats? Unless-"
I was hanging on her dramatic pause. Something told me that this story was going to be one of the most bizarre I'd ever heard.
"Unless Uncle Roy came up with something new to make Gila Flats more attractive to outsiders than it used to be," she continued in an almost documentary voice. "What the old tyrant dreamed up was directly tied to the federally built jail. He used the kickbacks he'd pocketed on the deal to build himself a big pink motel on the edge of town called the Comstock."
"What does that have to do with us?" I wondered aloud.
"Simple," she licked her teeth. "The Comstock's really a big pink whorehouse, and Uncle Roy keeps it stocked with poon-tang out of the jail. In other words, us."
I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe that justice could be so perverted. This was a world totally alien to my own.
"You, you seem to know so much about it, Kitty," I gasped. "Are you from Gila Flats?"
"No," she scoffed, "nobody in their right mind would be."
"Then how do you know so much?"
"Actually," she said, "I'm a newspaper reporter. Kitty Morgan from the Star-News chain. I was sent here on an undercover assignment by my editor to investigate rumors of graft and vice in Gila Flats. Unfortunately, my disguise was so effective that I was immediately arrested, and here I've been for three months since. They won't even let me near a phone so I can call my editor."
"How did you pick up all this information if you were locked up?" I wanted to know.
"At the Comstock," she confused me.
"I don't understand."
"They let us out to go there," she explained. "It's part of our sentence. Really all of it. See, after we turn so many tricks at the Comstock we're supposed to be released."
"How many?" I desperately inquired.
"Well, let me put it this way," she said. "It's kind of like the flight quota in 'Catch 22.' The more you do, the higher the magic number goes up."
"What about the rest of you?" I asked. "Who are you?"
The blonde who'd sat on my face was Brenda Fargo. She was a professional stripper who came looking for gas in Gila Flats on her way to a gig in Yuma. They'd busted her for no reason before she could get out of town, and she'd been here ever since. Two months.
Gloria and Jenny were sisters. They'd been on their way to Hollywood to try and break into show business. They'd been arrested on the highway-something about a smoking tailpipe was said. They'd already served thirty days.
With just a couple of weeks in jail, the tough-talking Sheila was a relative newcomer. It turned out she had actually committed a crime.
"You might as well know it right off," she explained, "see, I'm a hooker."
Well, she certainly seemed tough enough to be one.
"Anyway," she continued, "I was workin' my way west from Newark, where I deserted my husband and kids to become a whore, and wound up stranded in the middle of the fuckin' desert. Some goddamn truck driver dumped me there after I gave him a blow-job without collateral.
"How'd you get to Gila Flats?" I asked.
"It just happened to be nearby," she said. "When I first staggered in there I thought it was a mirage."
"Now, of course, she knows it's a nightmare," Kitty laughed.
"Did they pick you up for vagrancy?" I wondered.
"No, I gotta admit I really put my foot in it a lot more than simple vag," she chuckled. "What I did was go sit in the shade, recover from the heat, and then find the nearest alleyway and proposition the first dude I saw."
"Who happened to be named Dean, or Hatfield," I figured it out.
"Exactly. Actually, Dean."
"Tell her which Dean, Sheila," Jenny prompted.
"Uncle Roy himself," she laid it on me.
"What'd he do?" I asked, wide-eyed.
"Took me in the alley, just like a horny John, fucked the shit outta me, didn't pay me, and then arrested me for soliciting. Said he didn't want no outside competition. If I was gonna peddle my ass I'd do it at the Comstock."
Then some gap in the story occurred to me. "There's something wrong here," I said. "Something that doesn't make sense."
"You must be thinking about the other girls," Kitty picked up on my vibes.
"Yes, that's it," I recognized my concern. "What about the female prisoners who were here before you. Were they ever released? What happened to them?"
"Nobody knows," Kitty said grimly. "But it's a cinch they're not back in their old hometowns. Chances are the co-operative ones are those girls we see living over at the Comstock. The uncooperative ones-all the girls I happened to meet while I was here-just seem to disappear. I'm betting the coyotes know where they are."
"You mean they were murdered and thrown out into the desert to be eaten?" I blurted in repulsion.
"Something like that," Kitty replied. "Now let's get fixed up-you know what happens when we're late."
"No, what happens?" I controllably whispered like a little girl saying the unthinkable.
"Uncle Roy has ways, very unique ways, of punishing 'his girls,' as he likes to call us," Kitty told me as much as I cared to know at the moment. Suddenly all I was interested in was getting to the Comstock on time so I could avoid
Uncle Roy's wrath.
When we were ready, Jack showed up again, this time accompanied by a cop I'd never seen. Handcuffing us, they marched us out of the jail and loaded us into the back of a paddy wagon. Then they drove us down the main street, maybe a half a mile.
"Okay, ladies, here we are," the cop I didn't know called into the paddy wagon as he opened the door. "We gotta big party of Air Force personnel helicoptered in from a base in Nevada. Uncle Roy wants you to treat 'em real special. You know how he loves that government money."
Even I got that one. I was already getting wise about the corrupt ways of Gila Flats.
"And listen," Jack came around the wagon and joined, "we ain't kidding on this one. There may be generals in there-maybe even one of them astronauts-and Uncle Roy wants 'em goddamn well impressed so they'll pass the word along to their friends in the Army and Navy about the kinda action we got here."
"Now let's get goin', " the other cop said sharply. If he'd had a whip, he'd have cracked it.
We were herded out of the paddy wagon and marched toward the pink monstrosity that was the Comstock. In case anybody couldn't guess, there was a great big neon sign flashing the name of Uncle Roy's creation off and on.
Inside, we were cuffed and hustled into a room full of the most bizarre clothing I'd ever seen. A little gray-haired old lady was in charge of it.
"Uncle Roy's mother," Kitty whispered in my ear. "Sometime I wonder if maybe the old bag isn't really the brains behind the whole operation."
"Come on, dears," the little old lady said, sounding for all of Kitty's suspicions like a kindly soul. "Let's get into our duds."
We were all handed something. I was given a springy bundle of black rubber. I hadn't the slightest idea what to do with it.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" I whispered to Kitty.
"The best you can," she answered. "And I'm not kidding."
So, after I was stripped, I did my best to figure out the mystery of the weird costume and tried to slip into it. The main problem, though, was that I couldn't tell which end was which of the latex garment that seemed to be the main item of apparel.
The thing seemed to be a riddle. "Why are there six holes and two slits?" I impulsively blurted, breaking the code of whispering.
"Very simple, sweetie," the old woman said. "One set of holes for your arms. Another for your legs. And then there are your breasts, of course."
"Tell her about the slits, granny," Sheila butted in.
Seemingly unperturbed, the aged woman continued. "One slit is for your head. The one closest to the openings for your breasts. Now, the final slit is self-explanatory."
"That's the nice way of saying your pussy's going to be hanging out all night," Kitty told the end of the tale. "Every fly-boy in the place will be grabbing your snatch."
"Right on," Gloria said. "I wore that thing a couple of times ago and my crotch was black and blue for a week."
"Girls!" the old lady suddenly shouted in a high-pitched voice that was as piercing as she was ancient and diminutive.
When we were all quiet, she continued in a more reasonable voice.
"It is not only my job to see that you are dressed properly," she said sternly, "but also see that you behave. And if you knew Roy Dean the way only a mother can, you'd consider it a favor to be kept in line. Now stop blabbing and get dressed so you can go meet the Air Force."
Despite her unimposing stature, Mrs. Dean could effectively throw her weight around when she wanted to. Even the gabby Kitty and Sheila shut up after the old lady's warning and started to put on their whore costumes.
When we were through changing clothes the six of us looked like the chorus line in an obscene musical comedy. Clad in a variety of lace, rubber, leather and garter belts, we still had a lot more showing than we had covered.
As for myself, my torso was encased in tight rubber. Only my head and my sexual organs were free.
My costume was a fiendish device to degrade a woman's body. It turned me into nothing but a sex object.
Squeezed through holes that were too tight, my tits ballooned in front of me. Below, my pussy lips bulged through a slit in the rubber that extended all the way between my thighs and up my ass. If somebody wanted to fuck me in either hole, they wouldn't have too much trouble.
"Come on, girls, let's stop stalling," Mrs. Dean snapped impatiently. "We don't want the Air Force to think we're unpatriotic in Gila Flats."
"Okay, okay, let's go," Sheila muttered. "It's nothin' I ain't done a million times anyway." When she fell in behind Mrs. Dean, the rest of us followed. Even Kitty seemed to defer to Sheila's exceptional experience in this area.
After a trip down a long corridor, we found ourselves at the closed entrance to something called "Uncle Roy's Hospitality Pen."
"What's this?" I asked no one in particular.
"Convention headquarters," Kitty mouthed off.
"Shhhh, girls," Mrs. Dean shushed us like a nanny. "They're watching movies in there."
"Air Force training films, I suppose," Sheila wise-cracked.
"Hard core porno," the old lady snapped. "Just like they always do, you mouthy-bitch." From out of nowhere she reached out and slapped Sheila. "And you know what happens around here to mouthy bitches."
Apparently Sheila thought she did, because she gulped and shut up. Kitty breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn't been similarly humiliated for her mouthiness.
"Now go in and mingle," Mrs. Dean ordered when she had our full attention. "Men always like warm bodies to play with when they're watching that triple X porno my son gets special from a brothel in Tijuana.
With that, she pulled open one of the large exit doors with the vigor of someone a third her age. Then she shooed us inside, not hesitating to kick some of our rumps, my all but bare ass included.
Only when the door banged shut did I look at the screen. A girl, not more than twelve, about the age of my own daughter, was being brutally fucked in the grainy black and white movie by a grown man. The camera technique was atrocious, but the impact was shattering.
The man's cock seemed enormous as it gouged into the girl's narrow little pussy. When the hand-held camera moved in for a jerky close-up, I had to look away.
However, if I didn't watch the screen, that meant I was forced to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness around me and notice what the audience was doing. Over a dozen men in uniform were panting, snorting, slobbering, and in some cases jacking-of f.
"Fuck that young pussy, you spik bastard," some joker called to the flickering image of the swarthy actor, misusing the young girl. "Let us see some goddamn blood."
In case you wondered, he was one of the guy beating his meat.
One of the ones who wasn't was the guy I sat down next to. I was close enough to him to see that he looked decent. Maybe he was just along for the ride.
Maybe, just maybe, I could get him alone and talk to him. Conceivably, he could be a way out of the trap of Gila Flats.
"Mind if I watch the movie with you?" I asked.
He didn't answer, looking straight ahead. Apparently he was more taken with the smut on the screen than I had anticipated. Unexpectedly rebuffed, I couldn't think of anything else to but sit and watch it too, until I came up with a new plan.
The close-up of the man's cock splitting the child's almost hairless pussy was tighter than when I had looked away in disgust. The screen was filled with adult prick and girlish cunt.
Then, when his balls jerked so violently that they wound up flexing on either side of phallic root, I knew he was going to come. I considered it a sickening prospect, yet, this time when I tried to turn away, my head was locked in place. Whether I liked it or not, something deep within me wanted to witness the celluloid image of a grown man ejaculating in a helpless little girl's abused pussy.
Right on cue, the man's cock lurched its way to the hilt in the child's twat. With his hairy nuts squashing her tender labia, he jerked and spasmed, obviously in the throes of male orgasm. Soon, the camera revealed a thick flow of milky gruel leaking out of the corners of the girl's prick-filled slit and down her slender thighs.
Then, as if that wasn't enough, the actor in the film abruptly withdrew his hard-on and finished his coming in the child's face. The innate innocence of her twelve-year-old features was abruptly blotted by the onrush of splattering adult jism.
Seeing a child with fresh cum all over her face was an experience for which I was not emotionally prepared. Then, when the little girl actually smiled, and semen dripped from her teeth, it was all too much for me again.
This time when I looked away, it was into the face of the man whom I was sitting next to. Apparently, while I had been watching the movie, he'd been watching my reaction to it.
"It makes you think, doesn't it?" he said to me somewhat cryptically.
"About where the nearest receptacle is," I rejoined. "So you can vomit."
He surprised me by laughing.
"What's wrong?" I blurted, suddenly self-conscious. "What'd I say?"
"Excuse me," he apologized. "It's just that a guy doesn't expect a whore to be so morally indignant."
"I beg your pardon," I huffed instinctively, my middle-class background exerting itself.
"This is a whorehouse, isn't it?" he said.
Well, yes, I had to agree that it was.
"Then I'm safe in assuming that you're a whore," he rationally concluded.
All of a sudden, in the face of his eminently logical reasoning, I actually felt like a whore. Becoming aware once again of the perverse rubber costume I was wearing certainly didn't help my opinion of myself.
In an attempt to avert my shame, I turned away. But that didn't help, I was looking again at Uncle Roy's hard-core porno.
The cum having been spent in the last one, a new film was showing. In this one the roles were reversed. A grown woman, with the hairiest cunt I'd ever seen, was breaking in a young boy.
Right now she was rubbing the head of his slim, erect cock against her huge breasts. Then she compressed the phallic stalk between her jugs and began tit-fucking him. The kid was about as old as my son.
As I watched the boy on the screen getting his young cock worked over by an older woman's heavy breasts, I thought about my son at home. Then, about the rest of my family. I convinced myself that I had to get back to them, no matter what.
I turned back to the man sitting next to me. If I was going to be cursed by a whore's identity in
Gila Flats, at least I could be clever enough to use it to get out of Gila Flats so I could return to my normal life as wife and mother.
"Do you want to fuck me?" I said to him without batting an eyelash.
"Sure," he enthusiastically answered. "You can sit on my lap while we're watching the movie. Imagine we're watching ourselves do it to each other."
Which meant, in his fantasy, that he was the boy and I was the older woman. I'd picked a lulu for my first trick.
"Okay," I agreed. "There's just one thing, though."
"Yeah?" he asked impatiently, obviously eager to get his cock inside me. Already he had reached down into my lap and was massaging the exposed bush of my snatch.
"When you leave, take me with you," I whispered urgently. "Smuggle me out."
"No way," he said. "What would I do with a broad back at the base?"
"You can just drop me off somewhere," I told him. "Where-in mid-air?" he scoffed. "We're traveling by Air Force helicopter. If General Turnbull found out I was even talking to you about this, he'd throw me in the stockade. All we need is to get caught with a hooker on our hands and our little excursions at Air Force expense to places like the Comstock are over. I don't think General Turnbull would like giving up his favorite form of R & R on account of some cheap, little whore."
His reply was humiliating. Yet even the degradation could not quash an inspired change of tactics that occurred to me when I started hearing about General Turnbull.
"Tell you what," I revised my offer. "I'll sit on your lap and fuck your balls till they're dry if you promise to introduce me to your General."
"All right," he agreed. "But after I steer you to him, you're on your own."
"Then it's a deal."
"Right," he said. "Now let's fuck while the movie's really getting hot. I saw this one the last time we were here, and the part's coming up where the kid starts to fuck that great, big hairy pussy with his skinny weenie."'
Getting out of my chair, I sat down again on his lap. Swinging a leg over each of his thighs, I faced toward the screen and watched the flickering image of a woman's pussy spreading its thick lips as far apart as they could go.
"The kid could drive his Lionel train set up that tunnel," the man I was sitting on laughed. "I hope yours is a little tighter than that, honey."
"Don't worry," I assured him. Nobody'd ever accused me of having a sloppy pussy yet.
While I watched the beginning of penetration on the screen, I felt the same thing began to happen between my splayed flanks. With a quick zip my partner had his prick out of his pants and was working it toward the widely gaping slit of my cunt.
Just as had been predicted, the young boy in the movie had difficulty getting traction for his slender hard-on within the gooey expanse of the grown woman's pussy. However, unexpectedly. The real-life man whose lap was supporting me had precisely the same problem.
It turned out that his identification with this particular film was not all fantasy. In reality, he owned a hard-on that was only about the size of the pre-teen boy in the dirty movie.
I'd been confident that my cunt was tight enough for anything. Now I was beginning to wonder.
In the movie I watched the boy's prick slip and slide in the seemingly cavernous adult twat. Below me, the grown man with the erection the size of a child's, struggled equally.
He was so pathetic. Now I understood why he hadn't been masturbating like some of the others. He was undoubtedly embarrassed to risk having his puny peter seen in public. In a macho outfit like the Air Force, public knowledge of inferior sexual equipment would probably result in constant ridicule.
At least, I gratefully decided, I wasn't in his shoes. A lot of things were going wrong for me, but at least I was proud of what I had between my legs. In fact, if anything was going to get me out of Gila Flats, it looked like my cunt was.
"I told you, you couldn't do it," he redirected his inner hostility toward me, as if the fact I had a normal pussy were responsible for his genital deformity. "You women are all alike. I'm glad the only time I have to have anything to do with you is when the General drags me along to his whorehouses."
"So you think we're all nothing but whores," I extracted his meaning.
"That's right," he hissed. "Always teasing a man. Flashing that stuff between your legs and never coming across."
"What about the woman in the movie?" I asked,, pointing to the screen, where a new development was taking place. "She's going to let him fuck her in the ass so it'll be tighter. She looks like she's coming across."
"I think she's his mother," the man twisted things to his liking. "Mothers aren't so bad, sometimes."
From the droning quality of his voice he seemed to be slipping into a trance of some kind. Taking a chance that some kind of extraordinary childhood flashback had seized him, the actress in me began to improvise in a most bizarre role.
"Do you want to fuck Mommy in the ass?" I cooed, becoming his mother. "If the little boy in the movie is doing it, so can my little boy."
"Will you let me, really?" he gushed like a kid.
"Just promise to introduce me to the nice General," I got in my points. Then I quickly added so as not to break the trance, "Mmmmm, sonny's prick is going to feel so big in Mommy's tight ass."
Trembling with anticipation, he slipped his small cock out of my pussy and moved it back a notch to my ass. There, it went inside like a pen-knife. To each of our satisfaction, it was reasonably tight at last. There would be enough friction to make him come. I wouldn't escape without an assful of jizz, no matter how tiny his dork was.
On the screen the bogus mother and son were going at it hot and heavy now that they had discovered the constrictive nature of anal sex. The kid was ass-fucking the old lady like he'd been doing it all his life. His slim cock fit perfectly into her asshole.
Heavily stirred by this, my real-life man-child was attempting to emulate his screen idol. Plugging my rectum with all four or five inches of his hard-on, he repeatedly dragged his foreskin over the throbbing sensitivity of his cockhead.
By now the woman in the movie was having no trouble pelvically responding to her youthful sex partner. Neither was I.
When she wiggled her hips to take full advantage of the meat inside her, I automatically did the same. Once I had started, the sense-searing results made it impossible to stop. Big cocks were nice, but in my asshole a little one would do just fine.
"Oh, keep fucking me," I instinctively moaned. When I looked at the screen, astonishingly I could read the lips of the writhing woman in the silent movie saying the same thing. I really was starting to get the impression I was watching myself.
The cock in my ass and the cock on the screen pumped faster and faster within the shit-pits at their disposal. Balls squashed and churned against anal ridges.
"Come, sonny," I urged him. "Come in Mommy's ass! I want it so bad."
The youthful male loins on the screen bucked. So did the ones on which I was sitting.
The woman in the movie and I gasped at exactly the same time. The reason was that we had each just had our asshole filled with an eruption of scalding cum.
It turned out that the size of his prick had no relation to his coming capacity. Both the boy in the film and the man corn-holing me seemed to endlessly spurt their thick white gruel.
There was only so much cum that a woman's ass could hold. That limit reached, I watched the excess spunk gush from the anus on screen while the same thing happened to my own.
There, however, the similarity stopped. Because even though the projector ran out of film and the movie was over, I was still being royally fucked in the ass.
And most noticeably when the house lights abruptly came on. All eyes were on me.
The other girls from the jail had passed their bodies among the audience of horny men, but none of them had gotten herself hung up quite as conspicuously as I had. I felt like a freak.
Finally, after a pause of deadly length, a white-haired man of rigidly erect bearing broke the silence. Instantly I realized that nobody dared speak until he did.
"Introduce us to the young lady, Lieutenant Myers," he addressed the trembling owner of the cock inside my ass.
"Her, her name is Trixie," he improvised a name for me. "Trixie, this is General Turnbull."
"Well, I'm sure you can spare her," the General said. He made everything sound like an order.
The next thing I knew I was being pushed off Myers' lap.
"Come her, my child," the General beckoned with open arms, showing off the dazzling collection of ribbons and medals on his chest. "I want to get to know you better."
The words were reasonable enough, but again it was clearly an order. I decided it would be in my best interest to follow it.
"Okay, I kept up my end of the bargain. You met the General," Myers whispered softly so only I could hear just before I left to join Turnbull. "Now you're on your own. Don't blame me for what happens to you."
CHAPTER SIX
After Myers' warning I didn't have to be a psychiatrist to figure out that General Turnbull's sexual tastes were undoubtedly kinky.
Well, it figured. I'd read in "Cosmopolitan," or someplace, that the more powerful a man was the more erratic his sex life was. Apparently Air Force generals were no exception to the rule.
"Trixie," he called me by alias, as he draped his braided arm around my shoulders and guided me from the Hospitality Pen, "do you like people."
"A lot of people?"
"Yes," he said, directing me down a long corridor of rooms.
"You mean like a party?" I asked.
"Yes, something like that," he chuckled. "Sort of like a birthday party, in a way."
"Oh, whose birthday is it?"
"Nobody's birthday," this hawk-visaged, beribboned Air Force general actually giggled. "Just birthday suits."
Christ, I was stunned. Turnbull was a man with direct influence over the finger on the button that could blow us all to kingdom-come. I'd read about more than one President consulting the eminent silver-haired General on potential ways to annihilate everybody.
Somehow it chilled me that a man in a position of such awesome responsibility should have the sense of humor of a ten-year-old boy. That kind that thinks it's funny to pull the wings off flies.
"Let go of my tits," I almost hollered when he reached out and started twisting my nipples. Somehow I suppressed it, though, knowing how crucial the General's goodwill was in my plan for escaping from Gila Flats.
He was so arrogant the way he contemptuously used my body for his amusement. He was so casual about it-as though he took it for granted that, as a woman, I was automatically at his disposal. God, his touch made me feel so damn cheap.
"You're an interesting looking little whore," he pushed me even further down in the dregs of degradation. I felt like his shiny boot was on my neck.
Even though it tore me up inside, there was no rational way I could contradict the old satyr. He, of course, had no reason to believe I was not a hooker. And that was to my advantage, at least for now, if I was going to please him.
Frankly, I was playing it close the vest. Conservative, like the General's well-known politics.
As a woman in trouble, it was safest to play the prostitute. Feminine intuition counseled that this was the best way to ingratiate yourself with a man from whom you wanted something.
"You have the interesting quality of a housewife gone to seed one doesn't often find in the hardened faces of most cathouse personnel," General Turnbull was telling me, as he maneuvered me backward down one of the Comstock's garish pink and black corridors.
Here, I could have taken a chance. Sprung the truth on him right away. Gone for broke.
But I didn't do it. There was no denying it-in this perverse environment, I felt more comfortable in the part of a hooker than I would have as my real self.
"No, I'm a full-blooded whore," I assured him. "Just a fucking machine. Now what about this, uh, birthday party you were telling me about?"
"Oh, yes, it's right in there," he grinned a mouthful of teeth that seemed almost to be made of stainless steel. He was a most metallic man.
The General pointed toward a door bearing the words, "Uncle Roy's Play Pen."
"But, before we go in," he said, "I want to bite your cunt."
"I beg your pardon."
"It's an old habit I picked up from my father," the General gave me an apparent insight into how he became such a sadist. "He was a Yankee Trader in New Hampshire. Any coins that came his way worth over fifty cents, he bit into it to see if they were sound."
"And you just like to do the same thing with your women," I concluded.
"Say, I wish my staff were as quick to catch on," he unexpectedly said.
"Not to mention some Presidents you could mention," I instinctively fielded the conversational ball, and fired a strike in return.
He laughed out loud. Guffawed. I really thought I was getting someplace.
And just in the nick of time for my morale. Because I needed all the inner strength I could get when, still chuckling the General dropped to his knees and sank his teeth into my bare pussy.
The cunt is by far the most sensitive part of a woman's body. The flesh and skin and tissue there are so delicate that they're like body-lace. Can you imagine what it feels like to have fragile perfection torn apart by a set of gnashing fangs?
"Oh, my God!" I shrieked, hopping up and down when he let me loose. "It hurts, it hurts!"
"Is that right?" the General said with an air of smug triumph. The smile turning up the corners of his lipless mouth indicated that he was more than pleased by my excruciating pain.
I wanted to kill him. Stomp off his nuts. Cram his pile of fucking medals down his throat.
But nice whores don't do that. When a man hurts them, they just whisper as I now did, "It hurts so good, hurts sooo gooood."
"Mmmmm, I think you've survived the test, young lady," the General passed the favorable judgment I'd been eagerly awaiting. "Incidentally, take a look at your cunt. I'm sure you'll be intrigued by the beneficial results of having it bitten by the son of a Yankee Trader."
I looked down and was astonished. The still indented teeth-marks formed a crown circling the heart of by vulva. Distended by adjacent swelling, my pussy lips splayed jaggedly out like bear claws. No hard-on could have been more conspicuous than my mutilated twat.
"I wonder what I'll look like with my legs spread," I verbally contradicted my inner concern over permanent vaginal disfigurement.
"Let's find out at the birthday party, shall we?" the General said, gesturing me toward the Play Pen.
He opened the door on a huge room covered with a wall-to-wall water bed. Its occupants were the same people who had been watching the blue movies, including Kitty, Sheila, Brenda, Gloria and Jenny. Their birthday suits were unanimously in evidence. Apparently they'd taken a quicker route to the Play Pen than the General and I.
"One last thing, Trixie," the General whispered in my ear as my mind boggled. "At this birthday party, everyone is the birthday boy or girl. Except for you, that is-you're the gift."
Then he put his boot to my backside, a familiar gesture around Gila Flats, and kicked me through the doorway. Toppling head over heel on the springy water bed, I eventually wound up landing with my legs spread in the center of a rapidly assembled circle of naked bodies. A kaleidoscope of hard-ons, tits, and cunts seemed to swirl around me.
Then it abruptly closed in on me. Suddenly I was buried by an avalanche of rippling bare flesh. Cock and balls and pussies and tits smeared all over me. Hungry mouths nibbled at my most private parts.
I felt like a human sacrifice. The meat thrown to the wolves. Wolves of sex.
Through it all, the General was watching. Of course I couldn't see him, but I could certainly hear him commenting from afar. He sounded like a football coach exhorting his team. Or, come to think of it, like a General firing up his troops.
"Eat her tits, someone," he barked. "Somebody get a dick inside that pussy. Get a fist or a hard-on in her ass and punish her. She needs something in her mouth."
The platoon scouting over the terrain of my all but naked body was obedient to a fault. They were all soldiers in this particular cause of the General's. Even Kitty, Sheila, Brenda, Gloria and Jenny were marching to his beat.
In fact, it was the latter two that sat on my tits. Sitting side-saddle on my torso, they each captured a breast, nipples leading the way, within their spread pussies.
I had no idea who it was who abruptly filled my mouth with stiff cock. The only thing I could be sure of is that it wasn't the boyishly endowed Lieutenant Myers. The hard-on hurtling down my throat had already penetrated nine inches, and its hairy balls seemed to be a third of that away from my lips.
"Fuck her mouth to the maximum, soldier!" the General stridently ordered. "Make her feel it in her belly."
It happened before long. The testicles were oozing against my lower hp and chin. The cockhead was ticking like a time bomb at the mouth of my abdominal cavity.
Now the General shifted his attention specifically to my cunt. He proclaimed that he wanted to see it engorged with not one, but at least two pricks.
"Tear her up inside, boys," he commanded. "The rougher you treat her the better she'll like it. The cheaper these tramps are, the more brutal they like it. They expect to be abused. When you ravage trash like this, you win their hearts and minds."
The two heads of the volunteering cocks began to jockey for equal shares of my fuck-hole. Hot that much meat got inside me at once, I'll never know.
But, even more incredibly, it was only the beginning. The head of a cock in your cunt means the certainty of several inches of shaft to follow. Two cockheads mean a pair of shafts in the same tight orifice. And, in this case, exceptionally thick ones.
"Oooommmmppphh!" both guys grunted at once. Wedging so the corners of their pelvic girdles ground together at the crux of their lewd design, they collapsed their loins on me.
Both hard-ons penetrated my snatch at once. Since there was a brace of them, they couldn't, of course, achieve maximum insertion. But they got in plenty far.
Far enough for me to experience the incredible sensation of the crowns of two pricks rubbing simultaneously against the sensitive nodule guarding my womb. An inch or so away my uterus was spasming like an interior cunt.
"Now her asshole," the General concerned himself with my last unplugged orifice. "Find the man in the squadron with the biggest cock. I want him to fuck her ass."
"Glenn Johnson," was the name a number of my Air Force bedmates said at once.
I recognized the name immediately. Glenn Johnson, the astronaut! A genuine celebrity was going to corn-hole me.
A cock that had traveled the surface of the moon was going to tunnel up my anus. Under normal circumstances, I'd have been tugging at his sleeve and asking for an autograph. Now I was going to get something far more intimate to remember our chance meeting by.
And then, suddenly, there was the great man himself looming over me. Everything about him I recalled was exactly in place-the closely cropped sandy-hair that receded from his forehead, the bland but Ail-American handsomeness, the piercing blue eyes that helped set him apart from the ordinary man whom he so closely resembled in most ways. He looked like a wax statue of himself.
An obscene wax statue, however. Something like you'd see if Madame Tussaud went porno.
In any case, Glenn Johnson had a cock that definitely wasn't made of wax. It was so big I wondered how he'd kept from tripping over it when he was walking around on the moon in that clumsy space-suit.
He was stroking it affectionately, letting its shadow fall over my belly and the bare backs of Gloria and Jenny as they continued to suck my tits up their pussies. It was clear that he wanted me to see every rock-hard inch of what he had to offer before he rammed my ass. I could only guess that for all his acclaim, the super-hero astronaut was one of those insecure men who could only get their kicks by terrifying women.
Even though it was demeaning, I could easily play it his way. Why not let Johnson ritualize taking me in the ass if it would bolster the fortunes of his apparently short-changed ego. Especially if it would ingratiate me further with the big man himself-General Turnbull.
However, Glenn Johnson was not faring so well in the approval department.
"You're not a hot item on the six o'clock news anymore, Colonel Johnson," General Turnbull thundered impatiently at the cock brandishing astronaut, emphasizing the man's inferior rank so there would be no doubt who was in charge. "Just stop prancing around like a chorus girl and corn-hole the little bitch. Can't you see how badly the filthy slut wants it? We all know you've got a big prick to go with your inflated reputation, now let's see you use it in the tramp's tight ass."
"Yessir!" Johnson answered and saluted like a raw cadet. The General could have told him to go shit in his own face and he'd have done it.
And, for that matter, all the others would have too, not excluding my cellmates. It occurred to be that being a General was like being in command of your very own human circus, if you wanted it that way. Power over your minions was absolute.
I couldn't help but wonder how the General got along with the equally autocratic Uncle Roy Dean. A meeting of those two power-made minds must have been like a clashing of two rabid dinosaurs.
"In her ass, Colonel, without further delay," the
General reiterated his insistence that the astronaut get down to business. "Just remember, Johnson," he continued contemptuously, "except for your big cock you're just another fly at this carcass of meat. Moon acrobatics don't impress anyone at an orgy."
Abruptly Glenn Johnson disappeared from the view I had of him. The next time I sensed him it was with the tactile nerve-endings of my anal rosebud rather than my eyes. He'd wormed his way underneath the tangle of humanity and was obediently beginning to make his phallic insertion up my quivering, waiting shit-pit, starting to fuck me in the ass on orders from his General.
When I'd seen it with my eyes, the astronaut's hard-on had seemed immense. But when it started to ram up my butt it seemed much, much bigger than that. I felt like I had a missile in my crap-chute.
"That's it, my boy," the General's attitude toward Johnson softened considerably now that orders were being properly discharged. "Really fuck the little whore in the ass. I don't want her sitting down again for a week after you're through with her."
An anxious to please his master as a puppy, Colonel Johnson shoved harder and harder with his huge tool. His cock was no popgun like Lieutenant Myers' had been-accepting inch after inch of it and remaining conscious took me to the limit of my physical resources, especially when there was so much other juicy action titillating my body simultaneously.
That's right, despite their briefly passing interest in the ass-fucking astronaut's little pre-hump dance and show, the original quintet of feasters at my body had kept up the erotic rhythm of their specialties. And once Johnson had about six thick inches of cock in my ass, the individuality of his effort faded. His presence became lumped with the cumulative effect of the group.
There were no longer a half-dozen entities servicing my erogenous zones. Instead it seemed a single organism that was ravishing me-a six-headed hydra with multiple limbs and a plentitude of the turgid genitalia of both men and women. A monster of sex.
I felt like Beauty being ravaged by the Beast. The ugly brutality of what was happening to me in this obscene fairy-tale was what seemed to excite me most of all.
Meanwhile, the monster was showing its versatility, taking on a new humanoid appendage through the generation of lust. A man stuck his stiff cock into one of my armpits and started fucking me there.
Immediately I was glad I hadn't shaved under my arms for several days. With the man's big hard-on sliding back and forth in the curly hair and sticky sweat, my armpit felt just like a cunt.
And so did the other one when somebody slipped his iron dick into its cleavage. Now I was being fucked in both of them.
My hands lay at my sides. They were the only part of me that I could think of that should be giving and receiving erotic stimulation and weren't. Sex without meat-filled fingers is somehow incomplete, no matter how many people are screwing you.
By my count there were only three unoccupied pussies remaining in the Play Pen. My cellmates, Kitty, Sheila and Brenda, I ached to dip my fingers into at least two of their honey-pots.
Quickly I became aware of an additional talent possessed by General Turnbull's trained sex monster. It could read minds. Just like that it added Kitty and Sheila to its proliferating mass, placing at my digital disposal the wet cunts I craved.
With their legs apparently spread as far as they could go, their pussies were gaping. I stuck an entire hand in each on the first try without any difficulty. Balling my knuckles, I began vigorously fist-fucking them.
My debauchery seemed complete. There seemed none of my body left to pillage. Brenda was forced to take her left-over blonde twat and join the daisy-chain by sticking it in Kitty's face. Alas, I had no more vacancies for her golden muff.
Meaning that General Turnbull had dealt himself out. Apparently the old tyrant was just a voyeur. A star-spangled peeping Tom.
God, how I wished that mild assessment were true when I caught my first glimpse of the old man since the orgy had begun. As the only clothed person in the Play Pen, instead of whipping out his cock, he whipped out a knife.
A switchblade. The same kind teenage punks, whom the General probably hated, carry. A menacingly long stiletto thrusting out of a black bone handle with a simple click. Deadly.
Of course I assumed he intended to slash me with it. He was that kind of guy. They're called sadists.
The others didn't seem to mind, though. They were too busy doing it to me in their sundry ways. Apparently they didn't care if I was alive or dead as long as I was there to fuck. It was clear that when human beings joined together for an orgy, sexual pleasure mattered above all. If the General got his kicks carving up helpless women, then so be it.
I tried to scream with terror, but of course it was impossible with a big cock down my throat. A cock whose bulging veins seemed like metal rims against the delicate tissues of my esophagus.
I tried to throw my hands up to shield myself from the knife-wielding General, but they were hopelessly snagged in cunts. Apparently wise to what was going on, Sheila and Kitty had abruptly closed their thighs. My fists were going nowhere in their pussies but deeper.
My legs were useless. They had been paralyzed by the intense, three pronged fucking action at my crotch-two dicks in my cunt, another the size of a forearm to the hilt in my asshole.
I couldn't even lift myself up. Not with Gloria and Jenny grinding their snatches against my breasts.
I was bound as surely as if I were in chains. A sacrificial feeling invaded me and I made the only movement of which I was capable. I trembled.
General Turnbull was amused. It was clear that he liked scared women.
In his right hand, the long blade of his knife twitched like an erect penis. To the General, I was sure it was his penis. I suspected his real dork was as limp as a noodle. I'd read about these types in Dr. Joyce Brothers.
Then, with my eyes bugging out of my head, I caught the silver flash of the blade. By the time I lost sight of its descent, I knew it was heading for my belly. It looked like disembowelment was my fate.
I was certain I could hear my own flesh being cut open with a quick incision. However, to my astonishment, I could feel nothing.
And where was the hot blood that I had expected to well to the surface? The entrails oozing out?
The hissing rip that I now heard should have split me in two, as the General tore at my belly. Still, I felt nothing.
There had to be a simple explanation for what was happening. The General's hot breath against my navel solved it.
He'd used the switchblade to slash my rubber corset, not my flesh. Now he was drooling over the hole in my tummy.
I'd had the old pervert all wrong. He wasn't a sadist, after all-he was a belly-button freak.
And now he was diligently tonguing that usually neglected orifice. Getting the tip right down into the hardest to reach cracks. Believe me, that old boy could really do it.
Will you believe me if I tell you that General Turnbull actually made my navel feel like a miniature cunt? Well, he did. I actually felt orgasmic ripples spreading in concentric rings across my abdomen.
But as good as his tongue was, his cock was even better. Unzipped and out of his pants, it skidded across my tummy and notched itself in my umbilical crater.
Did I say that I thought General Turnbull was impotent? Forget it-the old man had a cock like a stallion's. He must have constantly exercised with it to keep it so fit.
The head of his prick was like a fist as it pushed through my navel against my guts. With Glenn Johnson's monstrous hard-on engorging my adjacent colon, my insides roiled. I felt like I was having an intestinal orgasm.
With the General's unique contribution as the frosting on the cake, the orgy could now continue to its logical conclusion. Everybody was humping like crazy, now-and that meant coming. Lots of it.
"Jesus, I'm gonna blow my nuts," one of the stalwarts fucking my cunt warned his slit-mate. Undoubtedly the. pressure a load of fresh cum would add to my already engorged pussy would be enormous.
"Me, too," his partner gasped. "This is the tightest fucking I've ever had."
Abruptly they both grunted, sending their cocks an extra inch a piece up my tortured cunt. The twin explosions of cum followed like clockwork.
Flooded with the sperm of two men, my pussy did its best to accommodate it all. However, it was a hopeless task. Soon the excess was spewing out of the corners of my slit. Eventually semen was washing down my thighs.
Of course some of the jizz trickled down to my ass. There it inadvertently lubricated the steadily pumping cock of Johnson, the generously endowed astronaut. His momentum accelerated by the slick moisture, the Colonel began pistoning rather than merely pumping.
The friction of his cockhead inside my colon was intense. No lubrication could soften this abrasion.
My shit was gurgling. My lower intestine was shipping itself around like a serpent. I felt like I was getting an enema.
An enema of cum. The cum that suddenly surged into my bowels from the erupting head of the astronaut's over-sized cock.
Hot, sticky cum. Volumes of it.
More, I thought, thatn the two guys in my cunt combined. If there were no women there, Glenn Johnson was wasting his time on the moon.
But I couldn't concentrate on it too long. Something was stirring in my mouth that I couldn't ignore.
There had been about ten inches of steel-hard cock down my throat for a lone time now. Then, with a violent jerk, there seemed to be eleven. A spurt in phallic growth like this meant only one thing. Ejaculation!
I opened up my belly for him, eager to catch every drop of his hot jizz. When it came, it was in buckets. It was the first real nourishment I'd had since I'd been arrested, and it was damn good.
Then, as I savored the glow in my stomach, the boys in my armpits got busy proving their manhood. I could feel their balls tightening at the crux of arm and torso, getting ready to blast out their contents.
They came simultaneously, each on a pulling stroke. That meant most of the cum sloshed over on my chest. Which was fine with me because it got all mixed up with the pussies fucking my tits.
The cunts I had been fist-fucking had been coming all along. But now with so much excitement in the air, they really began to orgasm. New waves of juice saturated my arms halfway to the elbows. It was a discharge as thick and rich and voluminous as most men's cum.
Only my navel remained free of any liquid evidence of passion. The General was taking his time with the hole of his preference, apparently coveting the center-stage he would get by coming last.
When he was sure everyone was finished shooting their wad, Turnbull finally cranked up. His cock heaved into my guts, making the muscular wall between my flesh and stomach seem nonexistent. He made my belly-button feel a foot deep.
His orgasmic explosion was like taking a grenade in the bread-basket. For an instant I really felt that his cum was rushing inside me rather than spewing all over my torso.
My navel had, of course, been filled at once. The overflow then spread immediately until the middle of my body was lumpy with jizz. It must have looked like I'd spilled a quart of curdled milk all over myself.
By the time the General finished ejaculating, I was covered from head to toe with sperm and pussy juice. At the end of my first orgy, I resembled a used scumbag.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Eventually we all cooled down from the orgy and left the Play Pen to go hose down in a big coed locker room Uncle Roy had built with his windfall from the government. Naturally, I stuck close to General Turnbull the whole time, even soaping down his cock and washing it in the shower.
He liked the way I groveled, but still I could tell that he was starting to become more aloof from me. Apparently I was no longer a novelty now that he had carnal knowledge of my belly-button.
Realizing that I had to act fast before I let him get off the hook, I forced myself to ask the General permission to speak. At the time I was kneeling, looking up at him with his soapy cock and balls in my hands. It seemed the perfect posture in which to confront him.
"Yes, what is it?" he snapped impatiently, rubbing some lather across his broad chest. Despite his age, the General's body was in perfect shape.
"I, I have something to tell you about myself," I stammered at first, and then picked up steam. "A sort of a confession to make."
"Do I look like a priest?" he snapped, moving his weight from one leg to the other so his cock and balls squashed against my face.
"Please!" I implored him in a harsh whisper. "You're the only one who can help me. You've got to take me seriously."
"All right, I'll indulge you for a moment, who are you supposed to be?"
"A housewife," I began my incredible story. "I was abducted off the highway by some Gila Flats policemen, thrown in jail, and then forced into prostitution. The Chief of Police is running a white-slave ring here, and using government money to finance it.
To my ringing humiliation, it got me a big laugh. Taking no interest in my charges of corruption, the General was convulsed by my contention that I was a respectable woman. "If you're a housewife," he guffawed, "I'm a card-carrying Commie. And I assure you that's the last thing General Matthew J.
Turnbull is."
"But you said yourself when we met that I looked like a housewife," I somehow got the nerve to remind him.
"For a whore," he leered contemptuously. "Only for a whore."
By now everybody's attention had been attracted to us. I must have looked a sight, begging on my knees with the General's cock in my face. It wasn't hard to figure out why it was so easy to conclude I was nothing but a cheap hooker.
Unfortunately, I didn't become aware of our audience until I had made one last plea for the General to believe me and help me escape from Gila Flats. When I heard the collective gasp that brought, I turned and saw them all.
"Uh-oh," I heard Kitty whisper to Sheila, "she's really put her foot in it now. Wait'll Uncle Roy finds out she tried to use one of his best customers to escape."
"I don't wanna think about it," was Sheila's barely audible reply. Knowing I'd blundered, neither did I.
There was no way my cellmates could help me without meeting a fate as disastrous as mine portended to be. They were so much more experienced than I, I'd been a fool not to consult with them on my plan. Now I would pay for my rashness.
When General Turnbull ordered one of his flunkies to hold me until someone could notify
Uncle Roy, I saw that my situation was hopeless. I jumped up and bolted from the shower Miraculously I got to temporary safety without slipping on the slick tile and breaking my neck.
"Charge!" the General yelled at his troops when he saw I was in flight.
Fortunately for me, the Air Force was not as lucky with the slippery tile as I'd been. After a momentary surge in my direction, they all began sliding chaotically. Since the General was too regal to personally give me chase when he had a roomful of lackeys who were supposed to do it for him, I was suddenly presented with a head start.
I ran. God, how I ran. Pure fright was making my legs perform like a world class sprinter's.
But my track was a maze. No matter how fast and far I propelled myself down this hallway and then that one, I couldn't find a way out of the Comstock.
Eventually I wondered if anybody was even bothering to chase me any more. Perhaps Uncle Roy had heard about it already and told them not to worry. Sooner or later they'd find my body propped up in a corridor, collapsed from exhaustion.
Finally I became so absorbed with this supposition that I pulled myself to a halt and listened for pursuing footsteps.
There were none. Even after I caught my breath and stopped panting I still couldn't detect any sounds that were not my own. I should have been relieved, but I couldn't help but regard it as an eerie, eerie silence. I couldn't stop thinking it was a prelude to something worse than I had been running from.
Then I head the padding, not footsteps-padding. Coming closer. Closer.
It was really close now. Something that sounded like toe-nails striking the floor had been added to the aural mix.
Then, I couldn't believe this-sniffing.
But I did when I saw the yellow eyes. And then heard the murderous growl that accompanied them.
An enormous German shepherd materialized from the shadows and leapt at my throat. The next thing I knew I was flat on my back with a set of fangs pricking against my jugular.
A police dog. Leave it to Uncle Roy to find a way to put one of these monsters to use. Ten human members of the Gila Flats P.D. would not have been nearly so effective in tracking me down.
When my throat was not immediately shredded, it occurred to me that perhaps if I didn't move too suddenly, the dog wouldn't decapitate me. Maybe, I boldly speculated, I could even coax him off of me.
Slowly I brought my hands into place, lightly stroking my fingers along the animal's rib cage. To my encouragement, he seemed to like it, even though he kept me pinned to the floor.
He wagged his tail when I scratched his belly.
When I accidentally bumped the end of his cock, he actually licked me.
Whether I liked it or not, I had discovered the key to this animal's disposition. I was too desperate to do anything but seize the dubious opportunity unexpectedly presented me.
"Do you like to have your cock stroked, boy?" I asked him with a gentle coo. He vigorously wagged his tail and licked me again. He was acting just like Muffin, our fox terrier at home, did when you offered him a can of Alpo.
Feeling I had no realistic alternative, I placed my hand against the fuzzy sheath of his prick and began rubbing. After a few seconds I realized I was dealing with about a foot of cock-and every inch was hard as a rock.
My curiosity about a dog's hard-on suddenly mushrooming, I peeled back the sheath. Abruptly my trembling lingers were filled with the throbbingly hot knot of his exposed cockhead.
I began jacking him off. Maybe if I could get him to come it would subdue him. Dog-cum all over my body was a lot less unsightly than teeth marks.
He liked it, but obviously he wanted more than a simple hand-job. Poking his damp nose further and further down my sprawled body, he was sniffing toward my cunt. The conclusion I was forced to make was undeniable.
"You want to fuck me, don't you, dog?" I expressed the obvious. His piercing bark definitely meant yes.
I didn't know what to do. Just when I thought I'd been as far down the road of degradation as I could go, a new crossroads of shame had popped up.
And the chilling truth was that my life could depend on which direction I took.
In the final analysis I was forced to conclude that my dignity was inextricably tied to my potential demise. If I was to have any chance at survival, I seemed compelled to come down on the side of raw sexuality rather than the morality which had seen me through a lifetime.
The dog had to be distracted and caught off-guard before I'd have a chance at escaping him. Clearly, the only thing with any probability of succeeding was letting him fuck me.
"You cock is so big," I accepted my fate. "Stick it in my cunt."
To my surprise he pulled away. However, my comprehension of his actions was quickly restored when he slid his nose between my back and the floor and tried to tip me over.
"Don't worry, I get it. You want me on all fours like a bitch in heat. I should have realized you'd want it doggie-style."
He wagged his tail, slobbered, and then backed off so I could roll over. Maneuvering to my hands and knees, I dutifully shot my ass in the air, opened my haunches, and showed my cunt from the rear.
When I was in the proper position, the dog trotted around behind me. The next thing I knew his claws were gouging through the rubber of my corset and digging into my back, as he draped over me.
The thick head of his cock wedged immediately between the cheeks of my rump. For several seconds it slid up and down the crack back there, bumping back and forth between my anus and my pussy lips.
His phallic hardness was unbelievable. I tingled in anticipation of actual penetration. Being fucked by this beast would be like having an iron bar up my cunt.
"Stop playing," I got tired of waiting and urged him to get down to business. "I want you to fuck me now."
When he didn't respond as quickly as I wanted, I reached around behind me and pulled one of my cheeks radically apart. This opened the mouth of my pussy to such a gaping extent that his prick lurched right in.
The head of his dick split my labia, dragging several inches of shaft with it. He was fucking me at last.
With the insertion of more and more of his cock, I suddenly remembered something I'd read about dogs once. Their body temperatures are higher than humans'. No wonder if felt like I was being reamed out by a soldering-iron.
The effect of the additional heat was immediate.
My pussy rapidly melted. All of a sudden I was a sopping quagmire from the mouth of my twat to the crux of my being.
Genital friction had extracted its inevitable toll. I was horny whether I wanted to be or not.
Automatically, my first dog-fuck became more than a means to an end. As any woman would after accepting several inches of hard cock up her twat for more than a few moments, all I could think about was coming. When the chips are down, the only meaningful release is sexual release.
"Mmmmmm, fuck me," I moaned. "Fuck me hard. Make me feel like a woman."
He was a real stud and didn't waste a stroke. Dogs penetrate deeply to insure conception, and my beast with whom I was tangling was certainly no exception. My spasming womb would be flooded with cum when he finally ejaculated. In the meantime, it seemed as though I were being split in two.
Now I knew what they meant when they talked about a dog's life. Bitches in heat got all the hard-on they could handle, and it remained in their cunts a long, grueling time.
When I was a kid I'd seen dogs screwing in the street and, not knowing it wasn't nice, had stopped to watch them. They could go on and on.
Just like me and Uncle Roy's German Shepherd. This fuck could take ten or fifteen minutes. I was going to be thoroughly humped in the way nature intended for its female beasts.
After all, how could my canine lover know I didn't want to have his puppies.
Adjusting to the situation, I modulated my fucking movements into a rhythmic groove rather than a frantic one. Rather than wriggle my ass, I undulated my hips, squeezing the dog's massive cock rather than yanking it. It was a style of screwing that was almost dream-like.
Slow-fucking gave me time to concentrate on every detail of the cock moving back and forth to the hilt in my cunt. The sensitive walls of my pussy picked up the ridge of every bulging vein. My labia repeatedly kissed his slapping balls.
It occurred to me that I had every reason not to be so mightily affected by the dog's assault. I had been sexually abused so many times since my forced arrival in Gila Flats that a sensual freeze-up would have been understandable at this point.
However, as I've graphically described, such was not the case. There was something about a dog cock in my pussy that made the whole experience of fucking seem fresh and new. I was as aroused as I'd been the first night of my honeymoon when Dan had put an end to the virginity I'd guarded so jealously until then.
Dan had been afraid of hurting me that night with his big cock. But I urged him to go at me with full force. On my wedding night I wanted a cock in my cunt with its full power.
My first fuck with a dog was the same. I couldn't stop giving the German shepherd encouragement. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," I virtually babbled.
He rammed me with his hard-on incessantly. For several minutes I was joyously fucked by a dog. It was the longest and best fuck I'd ever had.
Almost a foot of cock continuously drilling up my ass seemed to give me amnesia. After a while I'd forgotten all about the danger I was supposed to be in. About Gila Flats, Uncle Roy, forced prostitution, the Air Force, and all the rest of it.
The only thing worth concentrating on in the universe seemed to me to be the tireless cock of the dumb animal fucking me. The thrill of raw, lowdown sex made everything else pale into insignificance.
"Mmmmm, you fuck so good," I complimented the beast more than once. He seemed to understand, yapping sharply and giving his prick an extra thrust on those occasions.
Then, after about seven or eight minutes of steady fucking the animal's disposition abruptly changed. He became suddenly tense. His muscles stiffened. His claws dug so deeply into my back that they split the rubber of the corset and lacerated my bare flesh.
And, most disturbing, he began growling. Rather nastily.
Incredibly, in my cunt, his cock seemed to get harder and meaner. The tip seemed to sharpen. His fucking motion became a stabbing motion. The continuous orgasm I'd been having was papered over by a wall of pain.
The dog began snapping his teeth in mid-air. When his jaws slammed shut, I could feel the vibrations against the back of my neck. It made the hairs stand up.
"What's the matter, boy?" I hazarded an inquiry.
It got me a snap that grazed my nape. In my cunt, his cock sliced to new depths. His claws tore down my sides, slashing the rubber to the ribs. Blood dripped from my body.
I couldn't imagine what I'd done wrong. We'd been fucking so peacefully, and then, wham! All of a sudden he was behaving like a wolf guarding a fresh carcass of raw meat for the rest of the pack.
Who would, of course, by Uncle Roy Dean and the assorted goons of the Gila Flats P.D. Reaching the end of my twisted metaphor, I realized I'd been had.
With a blinding flash I saw that it was all supposed to happen this way. The German shepherd has been especially selected because of the size of his cock for this role, and then expertly trained to seduce runaway women instead of chewing them up.
In apprehending fleeing hookers, Uncle Roy chose to rely on finesse rather than his customary brute force. Putting his faith in the constrictive maze of the Comstock and the fundamental baseness of a woman, he essentially forced the victim to trap herself.
I suspected that Uncle Roy and his stooges would be along any minute now. The dog undoubtedly barked when he climaxed. It was probably their signal to close in.
Having sorted things out, I now realized that the animal's sudden meanness had to do with the turmoil in his balls. They burned like white-hot pieces of charcoal at the mouth of my pussy, searing my labia. Obviously he was preparing to come at last.
Now would have been the time to try and get away. If the dog really was going to come, his threatening behavior was probably misleading. He was so wrapped up in emptying his balls that he would have had to ejaculate before he was capable of going after me. And, even then, he'd probably be weak from so much fucking, as in animal-sex the males do most of the work.
But I didn't move. Although my intellect kept telling me to get the hell out of there, my muscles refused to respond.
The anatomical answer, of course, to this dilemma was simple. My body was no longer ruled by my brain. After approximately ten solid minutes of fucking, it was totally under the control of my cunt.
And my cunt was thirsty for about a quart of hot cum after so much grinding screwing. The species of the male was not a factor to the sensory equipment of my vagina.
Only my brain was a hold-out. And it soon gave in. The lure of sperm in my cunt won a unanimous decision over the instinct for survival.
Incredible as it may sound, under the circumstances, I don't think there's a woman in the world who would have acted any differently. If you've ever been fucked by a well-hung dog you know what I'm talking about. Just because it isn't nice doesn't mean it isn't irresistible.
I had more time invested in this fuck than in any single lay I'd ever given out. Let's face it, as a woman proud of the abilities of her cunt, I wanted to stick around for the finish. A couple of pints of scalding dog-jizz was the least I deserved.
"Oh, do it to me, you horny wolf!" I cried with excitement. "Come in my pussy! Come, you son of a bitch, come!"
I laughed. Of course, the dog literally was a son of a bitch. What a stimulating coincidence.
I felt so wanton without the scruples and morals which had guided my life before Gila Flats.
I guess it comes down to this. A cunt has no conscience. And with a dog about to come in me after ten minutes of non-stop fucking, I was nothing but a great, big cunt. Woman at her most elemental.
"Come in my cunt, you monster!" I repeated. "Let me feel your hot jizz between my legs!"
The growling turned to rapid barking. His loins shook. The claws reached my belly.
This was it.
His prick lurched forward in my cunt and he came. It was like sitting on a meteor.
The spunk spurted up my fuck-hole like I was being screwed by a fire-hose instead of a bodily organ. No wonder there are so many pups in a Utter, There was so much cum that it was a natural consequence I would soon begin leaking it. The human cunt apparently couldn't take quite as much procreative juice as the pooch variety. Before long, it inevitably began seeping from the sides of my snatch. The backs of my thighs became coated with it.
When the gushing pressure in my cunt finally abated, I was disappointed. "Don't stop coming," I begged, but the dog's hard-on was already starting to die. I slammed my fist to the floor in frustration.
"I don't know what you expect of him, Mrs. Fuller," a chillingly familiar voice sliced through the orgasmic layers to my consciousness. "After all, he's only canine."
Lifting my head, I looked straight into the merciless eyes of Uncle Roy Dean. He was all alone-he'd tracked me down himself.
"Why don't you just kill me and get it over with," I came to my senses and said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I should have known that a capitalist like Uncle Roy Dean would never murder anyone until he'd exhausted their potential. It was clear that if the Air Force liked my body, a lot of other paying customers would too. Only when my appeal had dissipated would he seriously consider scratching me.
However, if I was going to be an asset in his stable of whores, obviously Uncle Roy had to teach me a lesson in absolute obedience. Not only did I accept the fact that I was going to be brutally disciplined, I felt like such a fool for being captured while fucking a dog that I believed I probably deserved it.
The cuffs to the side of my head and the swift kicks in my rump, as Uncle Roy moved me down the corridor, seemed fully apt. In his commanding presence I felt like a worthless piece of female trash. It's a power some extraordinarily macho men have over women.
Eventually we came to another one of the Comstock's labeled doors. This one, considerably less playfully than the others, was marked "Torture Garden."
By now the dog had been given a milk-bone as a reward and sent off to roam again for stray hookers. It was just Uncle Roy and myself stepping inside the ominously-named room. When it came to dishing out the hard-stuff, the big man apparently didn't trust any surrogates for his cruelty.
Not to keep you in suspense any longer, Uncle Roy's Torture Garden more than lived up to its name. It was a dimly lighted cave of a room, filled with every device of torment imaginable. The laboratory of a sadist.
However, one item caught my eye more than any of the others. Right in the middle of the room stood a human-size cross. Apparently Uncle Roy wasn't adverse to crucifying his victims.
"Do, do you expect me to climb up on that thing?" I stuttered with fright.
"Don't you want to?" he leered. "Can you think of any more appropriate way to pay for your sins?"
"No," I agreed. He had me in such a trance of self-loathing that the atrocity he was proposing seemed perfectly reasonable.
"Good girl. You can use that step-ladder over there to get yourself up there," he replied matter-of-factly. He took my acquiescence to my own torture for granted.
Even more incredibly, so did I.
Like a robot, I walked over to the stepladder put it in place, and began climbing up on the cross. When I was on the top rung, I turned around facing Dean and automatically spread my arms. I didn't have to be told it was a perfect fit.
To my surprise he didn't use the proverbial nails to tack me up with. However, I quickly understood the reason for the alternative leather straps at my wrists and ankles. Uncle Roy explained that I wouldn't be able to walk for days if he nailed me to the cross. "And there aren't enough paying customers who like to fuck cripples," he summed it up. "Got to keep my money-makers on their feet."
Well, in any case, the leather straps were certainly painful enough in themselves. I presumed that they had been specially designed by some mail order house dealing with an invisible nation of sadists and masochists. Having my limbs set in concrete would not have immobilized them as efficiently.
When I was finally hanging there by my own weight-literally crucified-I looked down from the cross at what Uncle Roy was up to. He was uncoiling a whip.
"I promise you this is going to hurt," he said when he noticed my bug-eyed attention. "And I'm the type of fella that always likes to keep his promises."
The whip suddenly danced in mid-air from his flicking grip. Then, its tip reared back before it shot across the room like a bullet and incised the soft flesh of one of my exposed breasts. Even as the blood began leaking from the welt on my tit, the crack of the lash was still reverberating in the dungeon-like room.
When he whipped me again, the cutting edge extended across both of my breasts. The nipple of one felt like it was hanging on only by the merest shred of flesh.
When the blood started to cover my chest, Uncle Roy decided to shift his attention to my cunt. Wide-open between my forcibly splayed legs, it was a perfect target for the surgically precise tip of thee lash.
Crack! He snapped the whip back. Crack! He propelled it forward again.
"Arrrrggggghhhh!" I screamed as my pussy was suddenly set on fire with pain. The tip of the whip had caught my clitoris.
No woman has ever known anything beyond the pain that I knew then. Suddenly, my clitoris, the most sensitive organ of my body, was split and bleeding. I could feel every throb of pain as though some fiend were driving a railroad spike into my crotch.
Crack! Crack! The whip did an encore. Only this time it laid itself across my pussy lips. It felt like my groin was being branded. There were several more lashings. But now the bloody welts were crisscrossing all the way down my thighs.
Through it all Uncle Roy Dean maintained a steady chuckle of amusement. Watching me suffer put him in a very good mood.
"You like it, don't you?" he asked when he stopped flogging me to rest. "The pain feels good."
I should have spit in his eye in defiance. After all, what did I have to lose? He was going to have his way with me no matter what I did.
But I didn't. At first I told myself that I was too weak to waste my breath. However, when Dean reiterated how good I must hurt, I realized my passive acceptance of sexual torture had an entirely different motivation.
I liked it. Through all the agony, the excruciating anguish, the suffering, I liked it.
Women are built for pain. Born martyrs, they feel it to their soul. A woman's most memorable lover is almost always her most sadistic tormentor.
You don't consciously want it to start happening. However, when the brutality comes, a woman can't resist being hurt more and more.
"Whip me!" I cast aside the last of my inhibitions and shamelessly begged. "Cut the lash into my tits and cunt!"
"Good girl," Dean chortled smugly, and then began cracking the whip like a lion-tamer in a circus. It sounded like there was lightning in the room.
At the end of the carnage I must have resembled a side of beef. The remains of the rubber corset had been shredded to the floor so that my total nudity ran red with blood.
Oh yes, one more thing. My pussy was dripping with hot juice. The pain had given me a sopping orgasm. I'd been driven over the brink of sensual sanity.
"My cunt is on fire," I passionately informed him of the obvious. "Do something terrible to it."
"I intend to," he promised me. Then he came up with a dildo with a brass head the size of a door-knob at the end of it.
The thing was well over a foot long. When he strapped it around his waist, even with all his clothes on it was more erotic than if he'd pulled out his real dick. I wanted something in my pussy big enough to really hurt-and this was guaranteed to do the job.
"I'm ready for it," I drooled. "I'm ready for your big cock in my cunt." I was talking about the dildo as though it were real.
He shoved it between my legs and then slammed the brass head between my pussy lips. The fuck-hole automatically widened as far as it could go, just in time for inch after inch of surging penetration.
When he stopped for a breather, and I glanced down, there seemed to be only about a third of the dildo still showing. That meant there were at least eight inches in my pussy. I was getting fucked.
But something was wrong, it felt too good.
"You're not hurting me enough," I wailed. "I can't come if you don't make me suffer."
My bizarre confession seemed to make him mean. Apparently working up hostility toward women was the man's role in this kind of sex. Just as it was inevitable that I, as a woman, would ultimately love being humiliated; it was just as natural that the sadism inherent in a man would rage to the surface.
Sadomasochistic sex seemed a distillation of the basic relationship between men and women to me. I was crucified, with my body bleeding from the lash of the whip, my cunt ripping at the corners with thick dildo, but I still wanted more. I finally realized with absolute certainty why God had put two sexes on earth.
It was all really very simple. Men were born to give it-women were born to take it. A woman's submission to a man's will was what made the world go around.
"That's right," I told Dean, "get mean. Get good and mean. Tear me to pieces, you mother-fucking son of a bitch!"
"You filthy whore!" he raged, his innate scorn for women building by the second. Still fucking me with the dildo, he began slapping me. Then he began using his fists.
My jaw rocked one way, and then the other. My tongue kept getting caught between my grinding teeth and was soon like a piece of fresh round steak.
My eyes were slammed shut. My ears were cauliflowered. I must have looked like a female Rocky at the end of a fight.
Somehow I hung on to my consciousness and withstood the attack. That permitted me to experience the thrilling pain when he lowered his fists and began pummeling my breasts.
"Beat my tits!" I frantically urged him. "Bet them black and blue!"
The stark pain was exquisite. After every howl of agony, I moaned with pleasure.
Now he dropped to my belly. Just a single punch there. A slamming blow to my solar plexus.
My stomach collapsed, the rearrangement of my guts squeezing my lungs like a bellows. The breath whooshed from my gaping mouth. My senses entered the twilight zone.
But I hung on. I wanted to be there for the whole thing. Every glorious spasm of horribly wonderful pain.
By the time I'd recovered enough to concentrate on something beyond remaining conscious, Dean had turned all of his hostile attention to the essence of my femininity-my crotch.
The way the dildo split my pussy wasn't enough for him now. He'd grabbed my pussy lips and was pulling them apart-no, ripping them apart.
The dildo surged forward in my twat far beyond the eight inches of its initial thrust. I estimated ten inches, eleven, twelve-a foot.
Thirteen. Thirteen inches!
"Oooommmppphh!" Dean grunted with perspiring exertion.
Fourteen!
I looked down. There was no more dildo to be seen. It was in me to the hilt.
I was being fucked with fourteen inches of cock. Fourteen fucking inches!
"Split me in two!" I begged him.
But he had something better up his sleeve. Or, should I say, dangling from the gun belt he wore as Chief of Police.
Pulling his pistol from the holster, he brutally shoved the barrel up my ass. The sight tore into my tender rectal lining like a sharp nail.
"Russian roulette," I picked up on the action as though gun-fucking a woman's ass was the most orthodox sexual practice around. "Fuck me with my life!"
The chamber clicked open and fell to its side. Five bullets rattled to the floor. Then he closed the gun and twirled the remaining slug into an unknown position.
He pulled the hammer back and squeezed the trigger. There was no explosion of gunpowder, but the steel barrel did surge much further up my anal fuck-hole upon the failure to blast my ass.
He pulled and squeezed again. Another failure. Another surge of cold metal up my ass.
Pull and squeeze. Another hollow cock. Another thrust. The sight was now in my colon and reaming me out.
Through meaningless separating tissue, I could feel the pumping gun-barrel colliding with the brass knob of the dildo. Something that felt like hemorrhaging was beginning within me.
Now, after an ominous pause, the hammer of the pistol was being pulled back a fourth time. I only had a one in three chance on this one.
Clink. Another miss. The gun barrel shoved even higher in my screeching bowels.
Only one chance in two. Even money that I'd be blown away when Dean yanked back the hammer for the fifth time.
Cling. The last empty chamber.
As the hammer squeaked back for the half-dozenth time, I realized that I was now dealing with certainty.
The blast was deafening. A stick of dynamite couldn't be any louder than the explosion of gunpowder up close. My ears rang with the reverberation.
But why, it occurred to me, were my ears able to ring. I should have been oblivious to any echo of the gunfire.
I should have been dead.
"A blank," Uncle Roy grinned mischievously. "I'm just trying to scare the piss out of you, not ruin my investment."
Looking down I saw that my crotch was black with carbon. My pubic hair was singed to a stubble.
I should have been grateful to be alive. Instead, I disappointedly whimpered, "Are, are we through? Are you done with me?"
"Except for one last reminder who's the king," he sneered.
To my dismay he pulled the dildo and pistol out of my cunt and ass respectively. Then he unfastened the straps at my ankles and wrists, completely freeing me.
I fell from the cross like a sack of garbage. When I splatted to the floor, Dean began kicking me into a corner. When I was cowering there, he unzipped his pants and pulled out his real cock for the first time in the torture session.
He started stroking his tool with quick efficiency, masturbating with no frills. His face was etched with contempt.
He quickly got results. Before a minute was up, his cum was showering all over my cringing body.
Then, when he was through ejaculating, he pissed on me. Writhing under the golden shower, I reveled in the sewer of total degradation. I only hoped he'd shit on me to make his contempt complete.
CHAPTER NINE
After the Torture Garden, I was taken back to the jail and dumped down a dark hole in the bowels of the building to lick my hard-won wounds. Uncle Roy didn't want any tacky bruises showing when he trotted me out for his customers at the Comstock.
I don't know how long I spent in solitary confinement. All I remember is how I passed the time. Masturbating and dreaming of sex.
Gila Flats had finally gotten the best of me. I'd-gone over the edge into the pit of shameless lust. Sex seemed the only point of my existence as a woman.
My self-image had been so debased by Uncle Roy's brain-washing process that the only way I could see myself was being brutally fucked. Awake or asleep I was on the receiving end of a parade of cunt and ass-wracking sexual abuse.
In my lewd dreams, I imagined everything up to telephone poles engorging my cunt. Awake, I used my fist between my legs to give me the punishing fucking action I craved more than food in my stomach, air in my lungs, or life itself. Most of the time I couldn't tell the difference between fantasy and reality.
Hungering for sexual gratification the way a junkie does for heroin, I was the classic female version of a sexual psychopath. Just dirt. Nothing but a cunt.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I would rhythmically chant as I slumped against the wall with my legs spread and beat my meat with my clenched knuckled. It was frequent that after a prolonged work-out in my pussy, I'd drop a notch to my ass and fist-fuck myself there, too.
"Fill me with your big cocks," I would implore the gang of naked men that invariably popped en masse in my dreams. They fucked me everywhere, long and hard, just like at the real life orgy in which I'd participated as a Comstock hooker.
My past as a devoted wife and mother seemed about as far away to me as the doings of my stone-age ancestors living in caves. Now that the soul of my essential femininity had been bared, I felt like I'd always been what I was now-a cheap cunt.
Dan and the kids seemed distant relatives. Who are these people, anyway? I would sometime think when their images flashed through my mind.
Even their fleeting presence was a bore. Of all the persons I envisioned, my husband and my children were the only ones whose sole function wasn't sexual. They seemed to want to communicate with me on a level I couldn't understand.
I didn't want people smiling at me and saying good morning. I wanted them snarling with lust, sweating from every naked pore as they brutally fucked me in one of my tight holes. Dan and the kids just didn't measure up.
"Go away," I yelled irritably at them during a dream when they interrupted a double-fuck of my cunt and ass. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
"But, Mommy," a young girl whimpered. "We miss you so much."
"Barbie?" I tentatively called the name of my twelve-year-old daughter. "Is that you?"
"Yes, Mommy, it's me," she said. "Won't you please come home?" I thought I could see her holding her arms out to me.
Then her brother joined her. "Hi, Mom, this is Donnie," he boyishly said. "What Barbie said sorta goes double for me. I miss you real bad. Please come on home."
"No, no, I can't," I vigorously shook my head and replied. "You don't have what I want at home."
"What is it?" Dan joined the children and asked. "Just tell us and we'll do it."
"Can't you see?" I blurted in exasperation. Surely the hard-ons fucking my ass and pussy were abundant evidence of where my interests lay. Christ, did I have to draw these turkeys a diagram?
But I'd forgotten this was a dream. What was visible to me was not necessarily apparent to the other inhabitants. Things and people seemed to invent themselves in dreams.
Of course, they could dis-invent themselves with ease. Which in what the two guys fucking me now did.
I was pissed off. Neither of them had come yet. I felt like Dan and the kids had cheated me out of what was rightfully mine.
"Okay," I finally settled down a little. "You've had your way. You've got my undivided attention. What do you want from me?"
"J-just for you to come back home and be our mom," Barbie muttered with obvious sincerity.
"And be my wife," Dan interjected in that firm voice that sold so many insurance policies. Come to think of it, it was the same convincing tone he'd used the night he proposed to me.
He'd had his cock out at the time. I'd been jerking him off, something we always did in lieu of going all the way. He seemed like he was about ready to come. I was just tensing myself to lean down and swallow the jizz when he asked me to marry him.
"Of course I'll marry you, Dan," I answered with stars in my eyes, oblivious to the cum that was now shooting all over my blouse.
"Good," he leered. "I can't wait to get you in our own bed and legally fuck you. I want your pussy to belong to me."
God, it all seemed so long ago. It was hard to remember how sexual Dan's and my relationship had been back in the days when we were courting. Our sex-life had settled into such a bland groove after we were married, paradoxically after we thought it was finally okay to actually fuck.
Somehow, as I reminisced, our pre-marital sex seemed infinitely more erotic than our marital variety. All the respectable fucks in a marriage didn't pack the thrills of a single clandestine blow-job in the back seat of a car before marriage.
"Remember the way we used to carry on when we were dating?" I surprised myself by saying to Dan in front of the children.
His reply, however, was astonishing. "Yes," he grinned, "I remember how you used to down on me at the drive-in. One night at a double-bill, I came in your mouth six times. You swallowed every drop."
I hadn't thought about that for years. When I stepped on the scale the next morning I'd gained three pounds.
"Is that true, Mom?" Donnie asked in awe. "Did you really fuck Dad's cock with your mouth six times during two movies?"
Now I was flabbergasted. I'd never even thought about either one of my children in connection with sex, and now my eleven-year-old son was grilling me about how much head I'd given to his father.
But Barbie shocked me the most. Even though she was a year older than her brother, as an innocent young girl I'd always assumed she knew nothing of hard-ons. Now, however, she asked me what her daddy's dick tasted like.
I was rendered speechless. What kind of wet dream was this anyway-where a person's family intruded into their lust fantasies.
"I'll bet your dick is sweet, isn't it, Daddy?" Barbie turned and cooed coquettishly. She was acting just like a twelve-year-old whore.
"Stop it!" I shrieked. "I won't have my daughter behaving like a slut, especially with her own father."
"Why not, Mom?" Donnie said bluntly. "Is what you've been doing any better?" All of a sudden he seemed a lot older than eleven.
So they had noticed, after all. Witnessed me being simultaneously fucked in the cunt and ass when they'd crashed my dream. They'd seen what I was and were using it as their license to come clean with me after so many years of living behind the emotional barriers of the middle-class family structure.
It occurred to me that through the miracle of my dream there were suddenly no holds barred between my family and me. Instead of being threatened, I realized a golden opportunity was being handed to me-indeed, in the context of my dream, to all of us.
No more bullshit. While we had the chance, it would be criminal for each of us not to explore who the rest of the family members really were.
If Barbie wanted to know if her father had a sweet-tasting cock, why shouldn't she be able to find out first-hand? If she was old enough to know about it, she was old enough to suck dick.
"Blow him," I told her in an even voice. "Take your father's prick out of his pants and fuck him with your mouth."
"I don't need to," Barbie giggled. "He's already naked."
I blinked my eyes and stared in disbelief. Dan was indeed nude. His stiff cock was jutting out from his hairy loins its full ten inches.
But I'd just seen him with clothes on. He'd been wearing one of the business suits he wears to work.
Then it hit me. Of course he was naked. His dick hard. This was a dream. Such fantastic things happen in dreams. People can become naked just because of some unconscious whim.
There was no doubt about it. Something buried deep within me wanted all this to be happening. Some incestuous instinct I had always repressed.
"Go down on him, Barbie," I reiterated my desire for action. "Get down on your knees and suck Daddy's dick until he comes in your mouth."
Behaving as though it were the most natural act in the world, my little girl knelt before her naked father and slipped the petals of her lips over the throbbing crown of his cock. "Mmmmm," she immediately gave her verdict, "it is sweet."
"What about me?" Donnie jarringly interrupted. "Isn't anybody gonna suck my prick? I can get cream, too."
"Why you're only eleven," I indirectly contradicted him. When I was that age I hadn't even experienced my first menstrual period. I'd never even considered the possibility of sperm from a boy that age.
"Just fuck my prick with your mouth and I'll show you what I can do," he said defiantly.
I saw now that Donnie had become as nude as his father. And like his dad, his dick was a blue veiner.
"Your cock is so long," I blurted in awe. "I didn't know it was so big, or that you had hair on your crotch. Or that your balls were so fat. You're almost a man, Donnie."
"Stop gabbing and suck me," he hissed in a junior macho pose that thrilled me to the core. "I want to fuck your mouth."
All of a sudden I was on my knees, pushing my face into the flexing crotch of my own son. Opening my mouth, I greedily swallowed every thing-all six inches of his youthful hard-on, both nuts, and his tuft of blossoming pubic hair.
Choking with my son's maleness, I began suctioning my oral cavity like a super-charged cunt. Catching up with the erotic rhythm, Donnie began expertly moving his hips in a perfect fucking motion.
Driven by excitement, I slipped my hand between my son's legs and began searching in his downy crack for his asshole. When I found it pouting and aroused, I immediately penetrated it, wiggling downward toward the prostate.
"Ooooh, Mom, that feels so fucking good," he moaned, retreating from the aggressive posture he'd employed to buffalo his cock down my throat. Neither adult or boy, he was charmingly in-between, my precious man-child.
Thinking about Donnie naturally made me think about Barbie. Glancing around the loins whamming my face, I got a clear glimpse of what she was up to with her father.
They were both on the floor now, in a better position for Dan to play with her cunt. Not totally nude like the rest of us in the dream, Barbie was wearing her training bra and white cotton panties.
At the crotch of the panties was a great big lump. Her father's hand was inside the fabric feeling up his daughter's twelve-year-old cunt.
She was lying on her side, still sucking Dan's cock of course. And just like her mother, she had her finger up his ass.
Both father and son started warning us that they were about to come in our mouths. Desperate from the pressure in their balls, Dan and Donnie bridged any generation gap that might have been between them with their primal moans.
With technological precision, my finger hooked into a talon and pulled out of Donnie's tight, young asshole at just the right instant. To my maternal pleasure, its pop was immediately followed by Barbie's clawed digit making a similar exit from her father's shit-pit.
Dan and Donnie both "Ooooommmppphed," at once, sending their clothes into our faces with their thrusting grunts. Then Barbie and I sighed with equal solidarity-the hot cum was pouring down our throats.
I quickly learned that my son had been telling me the truth about his man-sized supply of cream. His eleven-year-old nuts were producing fluid like his cock was a faucet.
Dan must have been producing the same kind of results in Barbie's mouth. I could hear her snorting and gagging as her breathing passages were invaded by the sticky male goo.
When her dad stopped coming and she sat up, rivulets of white cum were streaming from her nose and mouth. My little girl looked like her face was melting.
The instant I had swallowed the last drop of Donnie's boy-jizz, I went for her. I wanted to hold her, show her how much I loved her, exchange cum with a deep, tonguing soul-kiss.
Quickly we were embracing. My knee was in her crotch, with only the thin cotton of her panties to keep it from her cunt. My fingers slid beneath the tiny cups of the training bra and began to titillate the nipples of her diminutive breasts.
Our lips met in a grinding clash, and our tongues explored the depths of each other's throats. In the process, Dan's familiar tasting cum passed from her mouth to mine, and Donnie's from mine to hers. With the accompanying probing action of our tongues, it seemed as though we were fucking and coming in each other's mouths.
Now my free hand dropped between us and I slipped under the elastic of her panties. Her cunt was there waiting for me, its wet lips open and pouting. Immediately I began finger-fucking her tight, little slit.
"Oh, Mama, do it to me," she broke the kiss and whispered wetly in my ear. "Make me come."
Faster and faster I worked my index finger in her pussy. At the same time I pressed my thumb into the folds at the top of her labia and gouged her clit for the first time.
Barbie responded to clitoral stimulation like a woman. Her twat foamed like a snail smothered with salt. Leaking pussy juice flowed down my forearm and dripped from my elbow.
Crazed by desire, I borrowed my hand from her breasts and ripped her underpants from her loins. I had to see my daughter's pussy.
It was beautiful. Simply gorgeous. Is there anything more delectable than a young girl's cunt?
My index finger was splitting the rose-petal labia. My thumb pressing the pink pearl of a clit like a doorbell. The girlish juice that leaked out seemed like honey.
At the mound of the gently sloping vulva was just a wisp of chestnut brown hair. A slender curl of puberty.
"I love your cunt," I told her. "Can Mommy eat it?"
"If you don't, I'll never forgive you," she answered girlishly.
Twisting around, I fell between her slender thighs and got my first taste of her pussy. It was even sweeter tasting than it looked.
In the process of going down on my daughter, I had to swing my legs around so that the bottom half of my body was parallel with the top part of Barbie's. Without even realizing it, I had put us in the perfect position to sixty-nine.
But I still have to credit my daughter for having the brains to exploit it. If she hadn't thrust her face in my crotch and started eating my hairy cunt, I might have never noticed how we were lying.
The minute Barbie's lips touched my labia I began coming. By the time her tongue had rigidly traveled up my fuck-hole, the orgasm was as intense as any I'd ever received from her father.
Speaking of Dan, he and his son were not about to be left on the sidelines. Their pricks restored to full power, the two of them dove into the action.
Dan's cock went right for his daughter's pussy.
My mouth was driven downward until I was sucking Barbie's clean-tasting asshole. Once I got my tongue within the tight orifice I hardly minded the switch.
The same thing, of course, was happening at the center of my own spread loins. Donnie wanted his cock in his mother's cunt, and Barbie would just have to eat my ass. I hoped she found it as delightful as I found hers.
She did. Her tongue went far, far inside. I squeezed my anal sphincters around it until it was trapped to the root. Her expert oral thrusts made the shit gurgle in my bowels.
It was only gradually that I started to feel Donnie's prick. He slipped it in very slowly, almost as though he was afraid of my pussy.
"It doesn't have teeth, Donnie," I reassured him. "Just go ahead and shove and your cock will slide right in."
Recapturing the nerve that had brought him this far, he finally let go and began whamming. His prick traveled to the hilt in my pussy, the balls rubbing against my labia. My son was fucking me. Mother fucking me.
"Harder, harder, harder!" I implored him.
Then Barbie began crying the same thing to her father. Glancing upward, I could see that he was buried to the balls in her all but hairless cunt.
Man and boy responded with machine-gunning pelvic thrusts that were completely synchronized. Fucking us in tandem, father and son got closer and closer to ejaculation.
Confident the semen was soon going to flow, I returned my tongue to Barbie's sweet, young asshole. Colonic goo had started to flow and it was thick and sugary indeed. It was the perfect complement to the cum I expected in my cunt.
My son's cock was so alive, it jumped. He was getting ready to blow.
In an instant, my womb would be swamped with the sperm of the child who had been nurtured to life in that fecund enclosure. I had a separate orgasm just from the anticipation.
The spasms increased. Mine, Donnie's, Dan's, Barbie's.
Donnie's cock grew an extra inch in my pussy. I was sure Dan's did the same in Barbie's.
The boys were groaning. We girls were moaning, even as we tongued one another's asshole.
Hips were bucking. Pelvises grinding. Fucking, fucking, fucking.
And then they came. Simultaneously father and son turned their balls inside out and flooded our cunts.
As I felt my own pussy being filled with male lava, I glanced up into Barbie's pink crotch and saw the same miracle occurring there. Excess welled at her vaginal corners, and then began smearing the taut flesh of her all but hairless groin with alabaster lumpiness.
From the feeling between my own thighs, I realized the same type of overflow was slopping my own twat. The only difference between my twelve-year-old daughter and me was that my crotch possessed infinite stalks of curly hair to become entangled with the viscous sperm.
With the spillover of cum, Barbie and I abandoned each other's assholes and started using our tongues to lap up the male goodness. Our thirsty gulps made us sound like horses at the trough.
As I drank my husband's jism from my daughter's cunt, my heart was pounding. My mind reeled with the various positions the four of us could try once we got this multiple orgasm over with. Two cunts, a brace of hard-ons, four assholes, tits, mouths-the possibilities were endless.
Too bad the light had to shine in my eyes and end it all. The light from the outside world that I hadn't seen in days.
Light that penetrated my eyelids and woke me up, evaporating the fantasy image of my naked family.
"Come on out, bitch," a coarse male voice growled into my cave. "Uncle Roy passed the word down you oughta start earnin' your keep."
The dream was over. I realized that my family was as far away as it had ever been from Gila Flats.
It was time for me to return to the demeaning treadmill of forced prostitution. I'd better not think about my loved ones again if I wanted to retain my last vestiges of sanity.
CHAPTER TEN
Back in the jail, a revolt was brewing in the women's cell. Kitty had decided she had enough material to win the Pulitzer Prize if she could just get back to her newspaper and write the story ripping the lid off the steaming cauldron that was Gila Flats. Promising to share the glory with the others, she had Sheila, Brenda, Gloria and Jenny ready to roll.
The five of them were so wrapped up in plotting their escape that they were hardly interested in my experiences in the hole. So heady were they in their plan that they seemed to pay no heed to the fact that I had just been severely punished for trying the same thing.
I tried to get them to listen to me, to tell them that the risk wasn't worth it, but they weren't having any. The dynamic Kitty had them too enraged up. All of them were thinking of themselves as heroines with their pictures in the paper. Undoubtedly there were fantasies of talk-show appearances.
Finally I gave up. Slumping on a bunk in a corner, I silently listened to them set their own trap.
Their plan was straight out of an old movie. Kitty had carved a bar of soap into a facsimile of a pistol. She was going to stick it through the bars into the guard's ribs when he came with dinner.
The guard was Charlie Hatfield, one of the cops who'd originally arrested me. When he came with the food I knew him well enough to realize that he was acting cutesy because he thought he could knock himself off a little extracurricular pussy.
Since Charlie was busily preening, he walked right into the girl's trap. The greasy food splattered like vomit to the floor as the soap-gun barrel suddenly pressed through the bars against his ribs.
"If you make one false move, I'll blow you to hell," Kitty snarled. "Now, slowly, very slowly, hand over your keys."
He was too much of a coward to defy her. The keys were hers. So far the soap gun was as effective as a real one.
By the time Charlie found out he had been tricked, Kitty and the others were out of the cell and a real gun had replaced the crude copy-his own. Its butt was used to smack him against the back of the head and knock him cold.
Armed with a .38-special to bolster their soaring confidence, the five women rushed toward the cellblock's exit. As they triggered the electronic door to the outside, I looked away. I knew they had no chance, and didn't want any part of their downfall.
"Aren't you coming?" one of them noticed my absence and called back to me.
"I can't do it," I croaked. Then I wished them good luck, knowing they wouldn't get any.
Actually they got further than I anticipated. They shot up the administrative offices of the jail, getting the drop on everyone so they could run outside and steal themselves a police cruiser.
Turning on the siren to clear the way, they laid rubber out of town. The screeching of their tires filled the desert air like the screeching of some giant, agonized bird.
Their plan was to make it to the highway where they would go for broke. Even though their progress so far was exciting, I gave them no chance.
I had to wait longer for my pessimistic prediction to come true than I'd expected, but I suppose Uncle Roy was playing with them a little. He liked to let women twist in the wind before he closed the trap on them.
After a few minutes the siren was too far away to hear. However, the subsequent crash and the barrage of gunfire weren't. The violence of the end of the chase carried all the way back to the jail. Later I found out that there'd been a roadblock about a mile from the turn-off to the main highway. Uncle Roy had radioed ahead to some of his men he always had patrolling the perimeter of Gila Flats. He'd made his domain escape-proof a long time ago.
The next time I saw Kitty, Sheila and Brenda, they were encased in plastic bags. They were dead.
I later learned from Maisie Hatfield, the jail matron, that the sisters, Gloria and Jenny had survived the shootout. However, their fate may have been worse than death. They were hustled out of the country, according to Maisie, and sold into bondage to a Mexican whorehouse deep in the interior of Yucatan where escape was improbable.
I'd saved my skin. I was the only woman left in the Gila Flats jail. I would soon regret my uniqueness.
During the period immediately following the debacle of the escape I was left alone. However, I was smart enough to realize that such peace was an illusion.
After a couple of days, Uncle Roy himself came to visit my cell. He put it right on the line.
"Five girls are gone," he said. "That means the town of Gila Flats is short five moneymakers. Meanwhile, the customers are beating down the doors of the Comstock. Unless we make some, uh, adjustments, looks like we're gonna have to raise the property taxes of the good citizens. And that's bad politics."
"And politics around here is bad business for the Mayor, Chief of Police, and chairman of the local board of directors." I wearily filled in the rest of the gaps. "All three, of course, being Uncle Roy Dean."
"You know," Uncle Roy grinned, "General Turnbull mentioned to me that it's too bad you're so skittish, because along with having a nice body, you've got a pretty good head on your shoulders for a whore. I can see what the old pirate meant."
"You're hardly keeping me around to think," I kept the conversation firmly rooted in the sludge of reality. "What do you expect of me? You must know that since I didn't try and escape with the others, I'm willing to do anything."
"Well, frankly, Mrs. Fuller, I like your enthusiasm."
"The enthusiasm of a slave."
"Whatever," he said. "Just so long as you keep it up. After all, until we apprehend some fresh female suspects, you're gonna have to do the work of the five missing girls, not to mention yourself. You're gonna have to do the work of six whores."
"I can hardly wait," I said sarcastically.
"Neither can the six guys who just rolled into town and are willing to go up to a grand if a gang bang can be arranged," he informed me.
"I see," I choked, my sauciness abruptly scrubbed.
"I thought you would," he evilly smiled. Then there was an ominous pause before he cheerfully added, "I hope you like violence."
Whether I lid it or not, I was going to get it. The six sadists with all the money turned out to be big enough to be the core of the Oakland Raiders offensive line.
What they were, however, were six professional wrestlers. I won't go into their names, but if you follow that so-called "sport" you know who they are.
An arena they'd been scheduled to perform in had burned down. Presented with a night off, the grunt-and-groaners decided to get in their Cadillacs and speed across the desert for a little wholesome recreation.
Of course, given the casual violence of their profession, their idea of wholesome recreation differed somewhat from the general public's.
A barbecue in the backyard, maybe fishing on the lake, for the average Joe. A gang bang for these professional thugs.
Uncle Roy let them do it in an old junk yard on the outskirts of town to make it more authentic. In fact, they even put me in the backseat of a wrecked car. The typical pro wrestler must have had a hell of an adolescence.
I was nude, needless to say. Also banged up a little. The boys had playfully worked me over before the main attraction. Resigned, I took it like a medicine ball.
When I was bruised and bleeding, one of the brutes threw me over his massive shoulder with no effort at all and carried me to the derelict auto, a dark, green '54 Ford, where he deposited me in the back. He performed the task like he was stuffing trash into a barrel.
"One more thing," he said just before he left to get in line.
There was no point in answering. By now I took anything for granted.
"Your legs are too close together."
He pinched his rod-like fingers into my thighs, lapping the massive thumbs over the top and around to the other side for added power. My legs came apart like they were tied to two horses galloping in opposite directions.
Suddenly feeling like a wound, my cunt gaped in a vertical yawn at the center of my wide-open crotch. It was so splayed, I guessed I could probably have taken all half dozen cocks in it at once.
But one-at-a-time was the name of the game for now. My suffering would be serial. Each chapter of my degradation would inevitably lead to one even more debasing.
Spread-eagled and alone in the backseat of the derelict Ford, I heard the boys raucously laughing in the center of the junk yard. Through the cracked prism of the front windshield I could see that they were drinking beer and playing games like a bunch of teenagers to see who would go first. I felt like a guest star on an obscene episode of "Happy Days."
Finally a big hairy guy with a beard, who wrestled as a Russian, was the winner. He opened his pants in front of the others, and then walked across the junk yard toward the car with his stiff cock twitching in front of him like it was pulling him forward. I guessed it was about ten inches, but with the thickness of a handle of a baseball bat.
He was carrying a can of beer. When he stuffed himself into the Ford he handed it to me. I started drinking from it as he worked his hard-on between my legs and we began fucking.
As the cool beer rolled down my throat, my cunt caught on fire from the skidding friction of the Russian's thick cock sparking up my pussy. Even though my cunt was as wide-open as it had ever been in my life, his huge prick was still an uncomfortably tight fit.
I kept drinking beer while he kept fucking me. On my empty stomach the alcohol worked quickly and helped dull the pain of so much broad cock in my cunt.
The Russian was a quick worker, burying his prick to the hilt in three or four efficient thrusts. Then he began rapidly stroking in and out, torturing his cockhead with his constant chafing foreskin.
He came before I even had a chance to anticipate it. All of a sudden my twat was swamped with hot cum and he was pulling out for good.
Another big dude was next. From the sound of his thick drawl he sounded like he came from Alabama or Mississippi.
He handed me a beer, too. At the same time he guided his enormous cock into my crotch and began pushing its nightstick-head between my pussy lips.
While I drained the dregs of the can, he began fiercely fucking me. His technique was soulful, and by the time I had finished the beer I could feel something for the first time besides pain.
You can be on satin sheets with your dream lover, or gang raped in the backseat of a broken-down Ford, if a big cock grinds away inside you long enough, your pussy is going to get wet. All women know this.
The friction of a cock in a cunt, regardless of the species of the owners reduces all of God's creatures to the same horny denominator. Female humans become as much like bitches in heat as bitches in heat.
"Fuck me harder, you big stud!" I cried to the wrestling prince. "Fill my cunt with cum!"
He did just that. Now my pussy was sticky with the sperm of two men. Four more to go.
The wrestling version of the Ail-American boy was next. He looked like Pat Boone with muscles.
And about eleven inches of throbbing cock.
"Oh, fuck me with that big thing," I begged him when he crawled in the Ford.
Another can of beer was in my hand and another cock between my legs before I could blink. Swigging down the beer, I got a little drunker as I was fucked by the third different man in mere minutes.
"Your cock feels so good," I honestly told him. "The other cum in my cunt makes it squirm around like a rattlesnake."
"The next guy'll have to have a telephone pole to stay inside," the All-American boy put it like a jocular pimp.
This kind of sex brought out the slimiest in everybody. I was sure that my twelve-year-old son, Donnie, would be alarmed to learn that one of his good-guy TV wrestling heroes saw the weaker sex as nothing but hairy cunts to be abused.
Of course, by now, Donnie's mother could take it all in stride. Hefting another beer to my lips, I gulped it and wiggled my ass. The cock of the Ail-American boy felt good in my twat, even if it did belong to a thug.
His cum was even hotter than the previous two. It seemed like molten lava as it bloated my fuck-hole. With three wads saturating it, my pussy felt like it was filled with marshmallows.
Then Pat Boone was gone, replaced by the furthest image from him possible. It was like being ravaged by a werewolf.
This two-hundred-and-fifty pounder was supposed to be some kind of Amazon wild man turned wrestler. His burly body was covered with hair, and it shot electrically from his head. There was even a ring in his nose.
I felt like King Kong was giving it to me as he brutally slapped it to me. His hard-on was the biggest one yet, and it hurt as good as it felt.
"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!" I chanted in rhythm with his deeply thrusting strokes. His huge cock felt like a piston inside me.
"Your cunt's got so much cum in it I can't feel nothin', " he complained in a voice that revealed Brooklyn as the more likely source of his origin than the jungles of the Amazon.
I could understand what he was talking about. My cunt was so slippery that his prick must have felt like it was coasting in and out on oily ball-bearings. It was time for a little inspired sphincter action.
Squeezing my pussy muscles like a vise, I cut through the jizz and suddenly clamped the wildman's hard-on. His gasp told me that he had taken back his criticism of my equipment.
With cock and pussy tight, we really began fucking in earnest. The springs of the ancient back seat squealed like trapped rats as I bounced up and down from the sexual fury.
When the cum came it was like a ruptured fire hydrant. There was so much sperm that if this guy had really spent any time there, the jungle would be overpopulated.
Waiting in the rear of the Ford for the next fucker, I took brief stock of myself. Needless to say, I was a scummy mess. The congealing cum of a quartet of men was everywhere.
Fifth was an alleged Indian. I'd heard the kids ooh and ahh more than once when they were watching him apply his patented death-lock on Saturday afternoon TV wrestling when we were living in California.
I don't know if he was a real Indian, however, his cock was a tomahawk. It chopped into my crotch like a hatchet.
The strokes were so brutal that they managed to overcome the copious slime of cum that drenched my pussy. I could feel his slashing cock like I was on my first fuck.
Writhing with orgasm, I clattered my head against the beer cans that were lying around it. Then I grabbed the Coors from the Indian's hand and had a fresh brew.
"Come in my cunt," I burbled with a mouthful of suds. "My pussy's not wet enough yet."
Excited by my dirty talk, he went on the warpath, swinging away with all he had. As he violently ejaculated in my snatch, I made a mental note to be sure and fuck more men claiming to be Indians.
Then, the Indian was gone, and I was waiting with my cunt hemorrhaging with cum for the last man. I hoped he brought me a full can of beer along with his stiff cock-all this fucking was making me thirsty as hell.
I recognized him. He was the heavyweight champion of wrestling on the West Coast. He'd won the title from the All-American boy and defeated him in three re-matches-all by foul tactics. They showed the tapes on the Saturday matches the kids watched in California.
He had a deep sun tan and long platinum blonde hair. He looked like a two-hundred-and-seventy pound confection at an ice cream counter.
He was also two-hundred-and-seventy pounds of sadistic brute. This was one wrestler whose ring antics were not contrived.
He worked me over as he fucked me, pummeling me with forearm smashes and judo chops. The whole time he was cursing about how much he hated women. "This is like one of them mixed tag team matches," he snorted, "where you get to stomp them cunts!"
He came quickly. I suspected that his hostility had a lot more to do with it than the chafing walls of my cunt.
So I had taken all six. Don't think for a minute I thought it was all over.
They started coming back all over again. It was all right with me, I hadn't gotten my beer from the Champ, and my throat was as parched as my pussy was dripping.
When the first repeater climbed on top of my fuck-stained body, I took his beer along with his cock. As I took a long, welcome swig, I realized that I was getting humped in the ass. My pussy had finally become too sloppy to produce any friction.
He came in me so quickly that the last dregs of tepid beer were sliding down my throat as the hot cum surged up my ass. Closing my eyes it was easy to imagine he was ejaculating in both top and bottom.
I was drunk and orgasming constantly. My senses were of no use to me except for gauging my intoxication and level of climax. When the next repeater crawled between my legs and began fucking my ass, I was hardly aware that he was someone different than the man he had replaced.
A new can of beer. A new cock in my ass. "Fuck me harder, harder!" I screamed.
Whoever it was ground his loins into the crux of my thighs. His hard-on was in my butt to the hilt, his balls wedged between my spread buns and the inflamed head scorching my colon.
His prick surged. His hips bucked. The force sent the beer can crashing against my teeth just as the jizz flooded my bowels and loosened the shit in there from its moorings.
I spit out a piece of tooth just as my lower intestine collapsed. The grayish gruel of crap mixed with more than an equal portion of cum came spewing out.
Then there was somebody different in the backseat of the Ford with me. He cleaned up the mess with a piece of upholstery stuffing he'd gouged from one of the car's split seats, and then began cornholing me like his two predecessors.
Then I heard someone laughing. Even in my daze I could figure out it was the guy fucking me in the ass. Somebody-else was looking on.
I looked out the window. There wasn't just one of the others there-all five of them were watching. And all five of them were laughing.
"Pull her outta the car," one of them yelled. The guy ass-fucking me did it just as soon as he came.
Outside, I was thrown to the ground and surrounded by a circle of hard-cocked men. Then it closed in on me like a noose.
Somebody began fucking me in the cunt. Somebody else stuffed their cock in my ass.
They both shoved at once. As I took it, I moaned and spit out another chip of tooth.
Another can of beer was thrust in my face. The corner of another tooth shattered and my lips were split and bloody.
Somebody had the decency to wipe my sweaty forehead with a beer soaked rag. Then he collected the fee for his brief kindness by knocking away the beer can and beginning to brutally fuck me in the mouth.
A cock began scraping itself across my tits. It was soon joined by another one.
The sixth guy was jacking off in my hair, entangling his thrusting tool in the strands.
When they came, it was in a squirting chain. First one, then the next and the next.
Finally all six of them were shooting their wads in and on my naked body. The smell of raw sex and stale beer filled the junk yard.
I passed out. One of them brutally slapped me back into consciousness. They didn't want me missing out on a second of my degradation.
They began gang-fucking me all over again. They came again. I got sorer and stickier and gorier.
They called me a "bitch," and a "cunt," and a "whore," and every other dirty name they could think of. I was trash to them-human trash. When they were through fucking me, they'd leave me along with the rest of the cast-offs in the junk yard.
I had never felt so much a woman.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The story ends the way it started. I am driving across the desert on my way to join my family in the East. The same preacher is even on the radio again.
No, it wasn't all a dream. Everything I've told you really happened.
But don't get the idea for a second that I'm the same person I was before Gila Flats. The three months I spent imprisoned there changed all that. Simmering under my placid, middle-class exterior for the first time was a real woman.
However, I'm getting ahead of myself. First you need to know that I was completing my long-delayed trip East courtesy of the FBI.
After Dan reported me missing, they were the ones who finally traced me to Gila Flats. When the agents started coming around and asking questions about me, Uncle Roy panicked that the lid might be blown off his operation.
"You've got to go," he told me.
"But I don't want to," I protested. The gang bang in the junk yard had turned the tide for me. After that I knew the only way I could reach my potential as a woman was to be a whore. The life of a respectable, middle-class housewife now seemed the real imprisonment to me.
"Gotta go," he reiterated. However, his voice was not gruff but gentle.
"Please, Uncle Roy," I pleaded.
"No, it has to be this way," he stood firm, even though I could sense he didn't like it any better than I did. "You're the best whore I've ever had, but I can't let down the whole town over one piece of ass."
"But what about the rest of it?" I wailed. I had been living with him as his mistress, as well as being a hooker, and I'd thought maybe there was a kind of love developing between us.
"Forget it for now and go back to your husband," he said with some difficulty.
I argued with him some more, but it was no use. I had to go back home.
Before the FBI could blow my cover, Uncle Roy got in touch with Dan and told him a story we'd concocted about me being in an automobile accident near Gila Flats and having amnesia. Supposedly all my identification was destroyed in the fire of my car.
"Well, is she all right now?" Dan wanted to know.
Yes, I'd finally regained my memory after three months in the Gila Flats hospital. Dan could talk to me now.
I got on the phone and said hello to my husband for the first time in four months. He was so bowled over by hearing my voice that it was easy for me to convincingly tell he after he. Had I explained that I'd been on Mars, he'd have believed it.
Uncle Roy arranged for me to get another car and all too soon I was getting ready to leave. Of course I knew that now no matter how far away I went, some piece of me would always be in Gila Flats.
