"Whether you realize it or not, dear, things are getting out of hand. Do you think I'm blind? Or stupid, or something? Don't you think I know what's happening? If you can't see it, I can. Vinnie was thirty-one. Then came Jeanne. She was twenty-nine. God knows why I ever helped you with Ivy Jicha. I all but led her into this pervert's bedroom for you. She was twenty-five. Then Darlene was twenty-two. Ardyce is twenty-three." Her eyes narrowed vindictively. "Are you getting any messages, Dwight? ... I'm not helping you with Sirri."
CHAPTER ONE
It seemed extremely ironic-and more than a little shamefully titillating-to Dwight Adair that he should have noticed Sirri Stenson for the first time (of all places!) in church. Which is not to say that she had never registered on his consciousness before. After all, he and his wife had been members of St. Alban's all their lives; he'd most likely been in attendance the day infant Sirri had been baptized. But this particular Sunday morning was the first she'd ever registered as a woman-lovely and desirable-as a mind-boiling object of carnal lust.
Sirri's parents were nodding acquaintances; he and Harry Stenson had served as co-chairman upon several fund-raising campaigns, thus it was unavoidable that Sirri had often crossed his path-as tottering child, pubescent adolescent, and now as eminently alluring woman-creature-during the span of the past twenty years. In light of such, it was absolutely unthinkable that he should regard her with lecherous cravings. Sirri was eighteen or nineteen at the most; Dwight Adair was, at 48, certainly old enough to be her father.
And yet it was so; suddenly (Sirri and her mother steaming into church late) his heart hammered with a deafening, erratic roar; he simply couldn't keep his eyes off her. He stared unashamedly, the raw hunger in his eyes there for the entire congregation to see. What has she done to herself? he raged inwardly. Why haven't I noticed her-this way-before? Lovely. Dear God, she's lovely, a veritable vision of taunting, female beauty!
It was her haughty, yet self-consciously bobbing, little-girl walk as she'd hurried up the aisle, one hand holding the charming straw boater to her tempestuous black curls, that had touched him first. As she'd followed her mother into the pew across, had knelt to pray, his eyes had taken in her navy-blue dress, a pseudo-nautical creation, baggy and loose, which hadn't, nevertheless, concealed the ripe, lush voluptuousness of her hips, buttocks and breasts. Like one mesmerized, he'd studied her exquisite profile, had been enthralled by her retrousse nose, her sharp chin, by the aristocratic throat, the impishly-conceited black eyes couched beneath artificial lashes and thin, flaring brows. Sirri's lips slightly parted as she'd looked altarward, her expression rapt, she'd been the ultimate representation of chaste innocence, and Dwight's heart had felt like it was being ripped from its moorings; he'd hated himself, cursed himself for the licentious thoughts that had tumbled in his brain at that moment. It was then that Noreen nudged him for the first time.
She might as well have nudged the retaining pillars of the church itself, for by then Dwight was beyond recall, caught up helplessly in the ruthless grip of an erotic fantasy the likes of which he hadn't known in years. Tirelessly his eyes pored over Sirri Stenson's body, her legs, her enchanting face as she sat during the epistle; he became aware of his fingers convulsively digging into his knees. The stunning beauty of that patrician profile, the almost-alabaster pallor of her flawless complexion as contrasted to her dark mane, to her taunting eyes, her pink, irridescently-glowing lips, seemingly left him breathless, and he knew the most soul-consuming desire to rush to her, actually touch her! If her entire body-those vibrant, pointed breasts, her derriere and inner thighs-were equally as white and unblemished! Again he awoke to find Noreen digging him with her elbow. "Dwight!" she hissed. "You're making a spectacle of yourself."
He was able to keep his snarling lust at bay until it came time for Father Wilkinson to mount the pulpit, where he would deliver his usual lifeless, irrelevant, scripture-clogged sermon. But now as everyone sat, and Dwight saw Sirri cross her legs, he was lost again. In the process her skirts rode high on her white-nyloned legs and thighs, presented him with an almost total view of her excitingly formed limbs, of the cute, black-patent pumps she wore. Another few inches and he'd certainly have seen the shadowed threshold of her panties beneath the panty hose she so-obviously wore. The cheek! he gasped. The unmitigated cheek! And in church too. The little minx knows I'm watching; she's having the time of her life showing off for me!
Seemingly Sirri read Dwight's thoughts for just then she raised her chin in more lovely profile, slowly, deliberately swung her head, stared directly in his direction. A teasing moue formed on her lips as she fleetingly regarded him, a smile that caused Dwight's heart to jam up into his throat, seemingly choking him. Even as she turned away, she demurely reached down, tugged her skirts to as modest a concealment as the mini-skirt would allow. Abruptly Dwight's face felt feverish, his armpits erupted in a sticky flow of perspiration While he simultaneously berated himself for a fool. What's got into you? Have you taken complete leave of your senses? Usually he was content to wait for the after-Communion parade to conduct his avid appraisal of every comely woman's face, breasts, swaying hips and legs, to take in the shoes, dress and accessories each wore. While he supposedly offered up prayers of thanksgiving for the Holy Sacrament, his brain was alive with libidinous thoughts of the most volatile sort; he imagined what Mrs. Holloway looked like beneath her tight linen suit; he speculated on the thickness of Mrs. Lanier's pubic hair as she so saucily swayed down the aisle; he wondered how many cocks the supercilious Mrs. Winston had accommodated in her pouty, made-for-sixty-nine mouth. And where this corrupt pass-in-review had served to breathe life into the stale religious pro cesses previously-Now, just because this teenage tart waves her sexy legs at you-Even before Communion! The scathing self-condemnation went unfinished.
Father Wilkinson still prated gibberish about the unity of the Trinity (or was it the Trinity of the unity; none of it ever made sense to Dwight) as Noreen angrily elbowed him this time. Momentarily Dwight managed to behave himself; he contented himself with speculation upon the availability of Mrs. Donnelly, a pretty, flashily-dressed prick-teaser type of thirty who'd always fulfilled his erotic fantasies before. He fought to imagine himself indoctrinating her into the joys of fellatio, longed for that delightful tightening in his trousers which such reveries had always induced before.
But it was no good; Peggy Donnelly paled into insignificance beside the exquisite Sirri Stenson. Stealthily his eyes framed her again, and he gloried in her beautiful, innocent face, in the pearl-like texture of her skin. She was young, a veritable child, first looking on life through untainted, joyous eyes. In fact, Sirri still possessed faint traces of baby fat at jaw and cheeks, a discovery which entranced Dwight even more, and he couldn't help but compare her beauty to that of Elizabeth Taylor when she'd been Sirri's age, just starting out on her home wrecker career. As he watched, Sirri leaned slightly, gently scratched her right calf, a thing which caused Dwight's guts to knot painfully. Dear Lord, he thought. If only that could be me scratching her, touching her lovely flesh! To caress, to know every square inch of that delectable frame!
Immediately he sank into further trance, and as of that moment Sirri Stenson-totally oblivious to the manifestation, herself-was suddenly divested of her gown and slip; she sat in church dressed in nothing but her brassiere and panties, the white panty hose and stubby-heeled pumps. Before Dwight's mind's-eye the color of her lingerie fleetingly shifted, from white to pink, from pink to pastel-blue, from blue to harlot-red, from red to jetblack. Her undies became plain, severely tailored; they instantly were embellished with lace inserts and overlayers, the panty legs dripped with a frilly hem of lace; the lingerie became patterned, a riot of psychedelic color and design. Dwight Adair trembled helplessly all at once; he was sure great beads of sweat must be standing out on his forehead.
His breath came painfully now, as he shifted gears, methodically went into the second segment of his compulsive daydream. Now he imagined himself divesting Sirri of her scanties. He imagined her bounteous, firm breasts-great, ebullient hemispheres-crowned by stiffened nipples of the most crystalline pink. His fingers grazed her flesh slightly, and he recoiled, actually knew hot pain in his chest, a yearning cry stillborn in his throat. Her sweet, fluttering bowl of belly was envisioned next, and he wanted to sob at the beauty of it where her waist sloped gracefully in from her upper torso, her hips and thighs exploding voluptuously forth in cornucopia of female mystery, giving way to fleshy thighs of the most elegant creaminess and texture. That ivory convexity, lithe yet opulent, was crowned by a diadem of thick, black fur, the contrast of it against her white flesh almost blinding in intensity. Beautiful, beautiful! Beautiful beyond a man's wildest imaginings!
Dwight's eyes glazed at that moment; St. Alban's, Father Wilkinson in his silly pulpit, the other parishioners-all blurred before his eyes. As within his brain Sirri now turned and posed her breathtakingly-lovely body for him, a chance sag of one leg giving him fleeting glimpse of the swollen, fat lip of her coral-toned cunt. The sight assumed proportions of an artistic masterwork, a symphony of ivory and pink, mounted upon a swollen mound of the most silken fur imaginable. The legs clamped coquettishly then, and with a mischievous giggle Sirri pirouetted gracefully, gave him view of her saucy bottom, posed it salaciously in his direction. Dwight started involuntarily in his reverie, thought how delicious it would be to caress those vibrant rondules, how exciting to dig his fingers into her moist, aromatic snatch, to actually invade that oily pussy! To kiss! To lick! To literally suffocate himself, his entire face churning and digging into its dripping convolutions! And how-how would Sirri react to reverences, to worshippings and adorings like that! Had she ever, would she ever know sexual ecstasy of that sort?
But no, Dwight caught himself. Of course not. For Sirri was pure; she was virginal. No man had ever been allowed to touch her in any way approximating intimacy. Not this aloof, regal Madonna! Still the thought tore him up. To conceive of kissing Sirri, embracing and caressing her. What would it be like? Did she have a boy friend? Did she allow him to kiss her, to feel her breasts, to run his fingers along her legs, up under her skirts even? Did she allow him-had she allowed anyone-to-fuck her?
No! he growled in heart-strangling agony. Sirri must be a virgin! No one has ever touched her there!
Frustration crushed Dwight, and he pondered the injustice of the profligate squandering of so rare a female treasure as this. That she would allow some callow, pimple-faced clod to kiss those pristine lips, that she would suffer his pawkish maulings, his clumsy pokings of her most intimate self. Waste, an absolute waste! Pearls before greedy, unappreciative swine. When he could teach her, develop her, bring her to the fullest fruition of her female entity. She deserved better, so much better. She deserved an experienced, sophisticated man, a cultural and sensitive man, a man much like he himself was. She deserved a man who could teach her liberating philisophies, sweep away the musty cobwebs that centuries of Puritan prudery and religious self-interest had inflicted upon the world. He could tutor her, bring her to heights of ecstasy few women realized existed; he could protect her, take care of her, give her luxury, all the pretty things that should normally accrue to a goddess such as she.
Again Dwight Adair was forced to stifle groans of the most acute anguish. And yet she'd fall in love, throw herself away on some athletic cretin who, with his hunting and bowling and Sunday afternoon football games, his beer-can-littered hovel, would never once-in his entire stupid, groundling life-realize what a rare treasure he'd won. The thought was enough to drive a sentient man to mayhem, to cause him to run amok, to flee screaming from the confines of this holy edifice.
His vision cleared gradually. But still, a disturbing chord from his barely-finished reverie reverberated in his brain. And what-? Then it came to him. Luxury. The pretty things he could give her. The pretty things he could dress her in. Once more Sirri stood nakedly before him, in mendicant's pose, her eyes trusting and loving. He smiled, his expression slightly demented. And how would he caparison Sirri this first time? Which shoes, which lingerie ensemble, what color would be appropriate? White, opaque silk? Royal blue nylon, with see-through inserts that would reveal her nipples, the glorious verdancy of her sweet cunt? Or the skin-tight scarlet? The secretly-altered black? Perhaps something patterned; Sirri would look simply beautiful in polka dots. But no. What with her fairness, her majestic virginity, perhaps the white was the more fitting. White, silk hose, white pumps, with white brassiere and panties, perhaps even an abbreviated veil, a Luckily the tedious sermon came to an end at that moment. "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost," Father Wilkinson intoned. Everyone started up, Dwight included. And blinking like a startled owl, he found his erotic daydreams shattered, the suddenness of his return to reality triggering momentary vertigo within him. Somehow, realizing his folly, despair demolishing him at the futility of his fantasied liaison with Sirri, he was able to keep his eyes off her during what remained of the service; he attended to the Book of Common Prayer intently, booming the responses with a hypocritical vigor that astonished even him.
All his noble resolves to block further visions of Sirri went for naught, however, for Communion time upon them, he and Noreen flinging themselves from their pew, heading toward the altar, Dwight confronted Sirri head-on as she emerged across the aisle. In that brief second she smiled directly at him. her expression sly, almost as if she were clairvoyant, as if she had actually lived through her debauched role in his sick peepshow. Shame-facedly he averted his gaze, knew a clamorous tattoo within his chest. Nevertheless, as they proceeded altarward, he found himself purposely hanging back, the better to appraise Sirri from the back. His eyes devoured the thrilling line of her legs in the strangely-affecting, white hosiery, and he cursed his obviousness when he allowed his gaze to hang on the pistoning protuberences of her buttocks inside her skirt. Once more he dared to dream the most impossible dreams. As the line came to temporary stop, he took in her adorable shoes, the fragile trimness of her ankles; he even went so far as to glory in the faint shadow line of her panty hem where her dress briefly pulled tight against her flanks. He was searching for a similar indication from her brassiere, when the line moved, advanced on the Communion rail itself.
Almost as if performing a contrite penance, Dwight kept his head down once they'd regained their pew; he punished himself by not ogling the re turning female communicants. It was an incredible torture not to steal a last glance at Sirri as the congregation intoned the Thanksgiving together. In fact, he joined in so lustily that Noreen sent him a sarcastic glance for his pains. His resolve held; he did not stare back at the lingering Sirri Stenson, but instead marched resolutely out of St. Alban's. Shaking Father Wilkinson's hand vigorously, he muttered: "A very inspirational sermon, Father."
Then they were out in the church parking lot, and Dwight was handing Noreen into their glittering, black Cadillac. As he started the car, piloted it onto the street, headed in the direction of Mt. Pleasant, the elite suburban development in which they lived, Noreen angrily snapped, "Well, I just hope you're satisfied with yourself! I've never been so mortified in my life!"
Neither of them said another word all the way home.
CHAPTER TWO
It was mid-afternoon. Dinner long since over, nothing on TV appealing, Dwight Adair had retreated to the privacy of his sumptuous bedroom sitting room suite on the mansion's second floor. Where, particularly disturbing thoughts at large within his brain, he fought a solitary battle with himself. Though he'd attempted to resist the degrading impulse, he hadn't been successful, and now the hated scrapbook-ultimate indictment of his damnable weakness-was on his knees. Idly he leafed through it, none of the pictures, strangely enough, having much effect upon him today. Touching himself lightly between his legs, he found his prick a soft, slumbering curl, and he snorted angrily. Down? he questioned. At a time like this? Mister, you are beyond hope. You're really getting old.
That goddamned Sirri, he concluded. She's to blame. And of all the senile performances, of all the imbecilic regressions! What in hell-just what in hell has gotten into you? His despair broadened, and he found it impossible to believe that he had accredited himself so foolishly.
One of the city's most influential and respected industrialists; acting like a horses-ass in church. Before friends and business acquaintances he'd known all his life. Sweet Jesus, how tongues must be wagging all over Benton Falls this afternoon! And poor Sirri. If she noticed my display, if some of her friends-so adolescent and adult alike-get to teasing her about her not-so-secret admirer His eyes glazed, and he stared unseeing at the glossy photograph of the lingerie-clad female before him; he struggled to understand the weird relapse that had overtaken him. The vision of Sirri dancing in his mind's eye again, her impact largely diluted now, he simply couldn't believe that he'd behaved so execrably. The things he'd thought, the appalling emotions that had convulsed him, had literally wrung his heart! What did it mean? And in church besides! A hard-on big enough to stumble over, a cold sweat, the smothered whimpers of sexual need? Bad scene, Dwight. Real bad. The worst it's ever been. Now, in retrospect, he couldn't understand how the lovely nymphet had affected him so strongly. Granted, she was an exquisite creature; he would give his right arm--as would any man alive-to be allowed to worship at the altar of her virginity. But was she that much more lovely, that much more desirable than some of the other women in his life, women he'd taken to bed, fucked to near coma as recently as two weeks ago? Was her spell such that it was only effective when she was flesh-and-blood entity, in the presence of her dumbstruck idolater? What was there about her? Her beauty? Her beauty combined with pristine youthfulness and innocence? The irrefutable aura of virgin that seemingly radiated from her? Those taunting, dark eyes imbedded in that alabaster flesh? The enigmatic, fey smile which hinted at wanton tigress hidden behind that facade of childish purity?
He ground his knuckles into his eyes. Something, he groaned. Some mesmerizing something. To make me play the village idiot! What new weakness, what new descents into depravity did the morning's developments pressage? He shiveringly concluded that his libertine excesses of late were finally taking their toll, that he was verging on crackup. A nineteen-year-old girl? A sweet angelic kid like Sirri? Dwight, you've got to be going psycho!
Now, hoping his warped predeliction would intervene, scour his brain of unwanted fantasies, as it always had in the past, he shook his head angrily, bringing his eyes back into focus. A mildly-slathering grin on his lips, he studied the photograph before him, one of a series he'd ordered from a specialty house in Los Angeles, a depiction of a tall, willowy blonde posing in just her lingerie, hose and shoes. Admittedly the get-up was fetishist oriented, the pumps exaggeratedly pointed in the toe, the heels pencil thin, at least four-inches high. Then there was the obscenely pointed brassiere the virago wore, plain black silk, a garment that jacked her breasts into ultra-high uplift. The panties were equally severe in design, with a sheer, diamond-shaped panel down the front of the belly that revealed the golden snarl there, the shadowed indenttion of the trollop's cunt as well. A black garter-belt snaked its way from beneath each leg of the panty, cinched black, gleaming hosiery into snug second skin about her legs. Concentrating on the pictures, Dwight felt his cock unlimber now, stiffen, and he briefly passed his hand over himself, sensed a groin-tingling sensation as he worked concealed silk against the drooling weapon. There, he rejoiced, I'll be all right now.
The next page of his unique album revealed the same model, only this time with her panties off, just the exotic garter belt about her waist. Her pubic hair ruffled to an awry corona now, she-spread the lips of her cunt with her own fingers, plainly revealed the slippery vestibule of her vagina, the incipient pimple of her clitoris. The camera work was exceedingly detailed, crystal-clear on this shot. Dwight felt further arousal; he wondered if a brief jack-off might not be in order just now. God knew, with the lunatic stimulation he'd received this day, such certainly wouldn't do any harm. His fingers massaged his swollen prick even more urgently.
He nipped the page, came upon a foundation-manufacturer's ad he'd torn from a magazine. Staring at the beautiful model who wore an extremely lacy, high uplift brassiere, was shown only from the waist up, he wondered at the effect such representation should have upon him. She was lovely, her face perfectly made up, her lipstick luminous, her large eyes darkly shadowed, her brows in imperious sweep. Her complexion flawless, she sported an extreme mane of silky, off-blonde hair, the long tresses flowing down her back on one side, coiling about her regal throat like a muffler from the other side. The total impression was one of aloofness, of unapproachability-she was a goddess beyond the gross touch of mortal man. Momentarily Dwight was puzzled. That unexplainable tightness in his loins still existed, the same sort of jitteryness he'd felt upon looking at Sirri in church this morning. If only there could be such a woman-a woman-child like Sirri-in his life! Someone so beautiful, so above him. Someone worthy of eternal worship and adoration.
Confusedly he turned the page again. To find another such patrician brassiere model long-throated, distant, possessing diminutive breasts which were encased in a tailored, bandeau-type brassiere of white cotton. The alarm in his soul heightened, and he instantly turned the page again; to reveal a seated model, her legs in provocative stance as she prepared to pull a stocking onto one leg. Leaning slightly forward, her breasts caught in nylon cages that resembled nothing so much as the nosecones of artillery shells, her pose was such that Dwight found himself trembling again. The scrapbook was closed, then opened to the back. A harlot-type, dressed in a black, fishnet ensemble-brassiere, panties and rolled hose-immediately revulsed him, killed the tremors. Shod in black, patent-leather spikes her tits, her snatch plainly visible through the net, she seemed supremely available, a trait much needed by the agitated man at that moment.
Again his eyes glazed, and Dwight regained composure of sorts. Closing the book, determined he was through with it for today, he breathed deeply, gradually regained a modicum of composure. He was more than a little chagrined, then, upon opening his eyes, staring at his reflection in the phalanx of floor-to-ceiling mirrors covering the entire west wall of the bedroom, to discover that Noreen, a thin, scheming smile on her lips, was standing directly behind him. Momentarily he froze, said nothing. Summoning up the appropriately scathing words with which to blast her intrusion, his eyes wandered, took in the spotlights cleverly concealed in the ceiling, the satin-draped, king-sized bed; then the mirrored wall hiding the massive wardrobe again. Next he appraised the sunken pit in which the bed resided, the white-carpeted risers-three steps in all-that descended into that voluptuary arena.
Noreen spoke before he could, and patronizing disdain edging her voice, she said, "Having fun, darling? You and your adult bed-time stories?"
"How long have you been standing there?" he snapped.
"Long enough." She sneered. "You're in a very bad way this afternoon. Maybe we should take care of that."
His voice blurred. "You've no right, Noreen."
"No right? What do you mean? This is my bedroom as well as yours. I don't see as I need your permission to...."
"All right, all right!" he growled. "Leave it go, will you? If there's something you want...."
"My," she said, coming around the chair, poising herself on the edge of the boudoir's drop-off, "we're certainly touchy today, aren't we? You act like I've never caught you with your sick little book before. Really bad, huh? I don't know what you're sore about. If anyone's got the right to be angry, it's me. After that performance in church this morning...."
"Turn it off, will you, Noreen? I've said I was sorry, that I'll never let it happen again. What more do you want?"
Her eyes became slightly lewd. "You should know by now, darling. Sunday afternoons can get to be a drag at times. I thought ... since you're in such a state anyway ... A girl has to seize opportunity where she can." Then, blatantly, confidently, Noreen's eyes locking in her husband's, her smile a pagan challenge, she leaned slightly, grasped the hem of her skirt. Slowly, teasingly, she drew up the skirt in front, making an erotic taunt of the exposure. The skirt rose above her knees, then higher, to reveal the tops of the smoke-toned stockings she wore. The garter tabs came into view. Now her white, firm thighs, the black elastic straps leading up into the shadowed vale of her sex were revealed. Until, finally-strangest revelation of all-her skirts were about her waists, and her elegant belly, glossed tempestuously in black nylon, was on show. Black nylon of extremely strange design, in that her panties were uniquely altered at the heartland of her body to showcase the tawny delta of her cunt, the pink scramble of its lips and mouth.
Unashamedly, Noreen's fingers spiraled on her belly, flicked at the partially opened orifice of her sex. A motion that caused her to hiss audibly, and a pain wince crossed her face. Bawdily she let one knee sag, ground her hips at him, an action that further exposed her slippery snatch. At 38, ten years younger than her husband, Noreen Adair was still an attractive female. Slim, conscious of diet and proper grooming, pampered, financially able to keep abreast of the latest fashions, she was a handsome woman, was the envy of many of Dwight's male friends and business associates. But, sad to say, familiarity does take deadly effect, and her impact upon her husband was less than devastating; she was no longer beautiful in his eyes; she no longer had the power to unfailingly incite desire within him. As she so blatantly attempted to do at this moment. There were times-But this was not one of them.
An unmistakable shriveling of the soul registered on her face as she took a step toward Dwight, begged him to reach out, feel her. But he sat impassively, no flicker of desire lighting his eyes. "No, darling?" she smirked stiffly, attempting to gloss over her failure to allure, immediately letting her skirts fall, smoothing her dress in self-conscious flutters. "That doesn't race your motor any more? I can remember the time." She smiled wanly. "Shame. I even wore the ... dressed the way you like."
Summarily the woman's mood changed; she became brisk, business-like. Drawing up a chair, she sat to one side. Leaning forward, her eyes incisive, unflinching, she said, "Well? Do we talk about it?
It's that Sirri Stenson, isn't it? You've been pretty antsy lately ... almost impossible to live with. Getting to be that time again, isn't it?"
"Please, Noreen. Let's drop it, shall we?"
"No, darling, we won't drop it. Remember me? Old dog Tray? Ever loyal, ever faithful. The professional lecher's friend? We talk, Dwight. Before you really go off the deep end. You know it's quite impossible, don't you?"
"What?" He shammed dullness.
"Sirri Stenson, that's what. Forget her; don't waste another moment's thought on her. That one simply can't be. Those others, okay. They were older, they knew what they were doing. You could buy sluts like Jeanne Whitmore and Vonnie Schuyler. You could romance nitwits like Ivy Jicha. And that super-nit, Darlene Carter. But they were beyond the age of consent. Young, granted; but nevertheless smart enough to know how to handle your kind of weirdo affair."
"There's no need for name-calling, Noreen."
Her face worked agitatedly, revealed ineradicable hurt; she was momentarily diminished. "Oh, Dwight," she husked, "how can it be? After all this time? Any other woman would have given up by now; she wouldn't care any more. Much as I'm ashamed to admit it, I still do." Her voice caught. "I still care."
"Nobody's asking you to, Noreen. I've told you I'd give you a divorce, consent to a separation anytime you asked."
"I don't want a divorce," she choked, "I don't want to go away from you. I want to stay married to you. Can't you understand that? No matter what you do, I still love you ... still need you. What would I do as a divorced woman?"
"You're still beautiful, Noreen. You'd find someone very quickly. Someone good, who'd treat you the way you...."
"Beautiful?" She snorted. "But not beautiful enough; not something enough for you." Abruptly she wiped the mendicant expression from her face, replaced it with blase sophistication. "But that's neither here nor there, is it, Dwight? The fact is that we've got problems. Problems we've got to deal with before we bring this whole madhouse caving down on us."
"Problems? What problems?"
"Problems like that thing this morning. Whether you realize it or not, dear, things are getting out of hand. Do you think I'm blind? Or stupid, or something? Don't you think I know what's happening? If you can't see it, I can. Vonnie was thirty-one. Then came Jeanne. She was twenty-nine. God knows why I ever helped you with Ivy Jicha. I all but led her into this pervert's bedroom for you. She was twenty-five. Then Darlene was twenty-two. Ardyce is twenty-three." Her eyes narrowed vindictively. "Are you getting any messages, Dwight?"
Dwight didn't answer. His jaw set in stubborn jut, he stared straight ahead, refused to discuss the impasse with his shrewish wife.
"I'm telling you right now, Dwight," she snapped. "I'm not helping you with Sirri. She's not equipped to cope, do you understand? She's a spoiled, arrogant brat ... she'll ruin you, but good.
God knows, women are born with intrigue in their blood, but they do need some seasoning. And Sirri's not it. Give her a couple years, perhaps. And then...."
"No!" Dwight lashed out, surprising himself at his bitter vehemence. "I won't give her a couple years ... I won't have some pimple-faced snot of a boy handling her, playing dirty with her! I...."
"So," Noreen sneered, "that is the way the wind blows, after all." Her expression turned wrathful. "I'm warning you, Dwight. Leave her alone. You'll ruin every last thing I ... we ... have left." Her exasperation choked her, and she leaped to her feet. "Oh, God, what's got into you, Dwight? I thought you'd outgrow this eventually. But no! If anything, you're worse than ever. You're almost fifty, Dwight, don't you realize that? Isn't it about time you grew up?" A panicky, grasping-at-straws expression fled across her face. Plucking at her skirt, partially raising it above her stockingtops once more, she plaintively said, "You're sure, Dwight? If I can help ... even in this small way."
"No, Noreen. Thanks, but no thanks. I'm just not in the mood."
"All right, you obstinate bastard!" she seethed. "Go look at your book then! Get your kicks that way, you damned pervert!" Then she stormed from the bedroom, the shame of outrage enraging her, clouding judgment.
By the time Noreen had traversed the classic, winding staircase to the house's lower level, she'd recovered a stoic resignation of sorts. Whereupon, realizing that she had to do something to stem her husband's blind stubbornness, no matter how desperate, she sought to enlist the help of Ardyce, their outrageously paid, live-in maid. Finding the beautiful, cafe-au-lait Negress relaxing with the Sunday paper on the sun porch, she casually said, "I'm afraid Mr. Adair's in one of his states again. I've tried to talk to him, to ... do what I could to help, but he seemingly isn't interested. Perhaps you could help, Ardyce. You seem to have a ... calming effect on him. Would you? If you'd run up to your room, freshen up ... change ... you know what he likes. Please, Ardyce? I'll make it right with you."
The pretty girl, slim and neat, possessed of lustrous eyes, softly flowing hair, stared up at her employer with an impassive, vaguely contemptuous look. Momentarily, she didn't speak. Now a smoldering blaze erupted in her eyes, a thing of victorious one-upmanship. She rose from the chaise lounge, smoothed her uniform, revealing, in the process, her extraordinary mammary development, the prominent roundings of her buttocks. "Yes, ma'am," she shammed docility. "I'll do just that. Anything you say."
Watching the uppity nigger saunter from the room, her buttocks working in exaggerated waggle, Mrs. Dwight Adair knew nadir; she knew crucifying mortification.
Abruptly, however, her mood changed. A sly, enigmatic grin on her lips, she shortly followed Ardyce, reclimbed the stairs herself.
Dwight sensed extreme irritation when the bedroom door opened once more, and Ardyce, still dressed in her maid uniform, let herself in. Then as he saw her shit-eating grin, he snapped. "Yes, Ardyce. What is it?"
"Mrs. Adair sent me. She said you was having one of your bad times. She thought I could...."
"I told her I wasn't interested. What does she think she's pulling? Am I some robot you just wind up and turn on?"
"I don't know about that, Mr. Adair," Ardyce replied, her salacious grin not fading for an instant, "I just thought I'd do my best." Upon which, standing before him now, she duplicated her mistress' ploy, slowly commenced working her skirt up in front, revealing her black-stockinged legs, her bronze-toned thighs, the very prominent bulge of her pussy itself. Her hips rotating slightly, her stomach subtly socking in and out, she revealed another duplication of her mistress' behavior. In that she too wore black panties, exact match for Noreen's, similarly butchered in the crotch so that they revealed the wiry tangle of black hair on her cunt, the pink folds of her machine itself. "You sure you ain't interested, Mr. Adair?" she said, moving closer to him.
"I told Noreen no. The answer's the same for you, Ardyce. I do have some self-respect, after all!"
Ardyce's grin became absolutely obscene. "Do you now, Dwight, honey?" she teased. Upon which she bent her knees, splayed her legs just wide enough so she could slide one of her fingers into the depths of her snatch. "We'll see about that." Now she came closer to him, waved her dripping, malodorous finger beneath his nose, making pantomime of popping it into his mouth. "Can you say no to this, Dwight, lover?"
Momentarily he was revulsed. But then, the very audaciousness, the barbarity of her approach intrigued him, and he was instantly undone. Besides, there was the further goad of vengeance. Still angry with Noreen, he thought it would be a fitting retaliation upon her if he should allow this Negro bitch to succeed where she had failed. To this effect he reached forward, caught Ardyce's entire pussy in his hand, clenched down on it until she squealed. "Okay, you black bitch," he wheezed. "You win. I want some. Get out of those clothes. But your undies...."
"I know," Ardyce grumbled, her eyes flashing. "F'r Christ's sakes! After all this time...."
She barely glanced up from the sunken pit where she bounced on the bed when Dwight-naked except for one aberrated item-started down toward her. Briefly her eyes locked on his lean, still-muscular body, only a trace of a pot visible at his thickening middle, before they slid to his hips, settled on the red, nylon, bikini panties he wore. It was a tight, figure-hugging item, sporting an appliqued sequin daisy on the right hip, a panty that was now grotesquely distorted by the stiff slab of pecker that rode proudly behind that nylon screen. "Oh, lordee," she sighed bemusedly as he came toward her, "if this ain't the craziest, ofay family I ever did work for...."
For perhaps ten minutes Dwight kept the obliging Negress moving about that square area of lust, striding the rim like it was a vaudeville runway, coming down two stairs, going up one. Sitting, standing, reclining. At his direction she assumed outrageous poses-legs straddled, back arched, black brassiered breasts offered in her hands-with the capper being a painful stance wherein Ardyce caught the heels of her spicy pumps in the carpeted edge of one riser, while her back rested on the one behind. It was an extreme position that forced her knees wide, pushed her heaving belly and cunt up, caused the pink, salivating lips to grin widely, give him devastating look into the center of her black bitch heart. For long moments Dwight prowled the room, taking in the kinky sight from every angle, using the mirrored wall to their right to good advantage, studying her reflected self with equal delight, his excitement becoming more intense by the moment.
Forcing Ardyce to maintain the position for a long time, he crawled up the stairs, a demented glitter in his eyes. The Negress was just about to complain about her painful position, when she heard the liquid click of her employer's lips, shortly felt the maddening tickle of his tongue as he licked her foot, on the toes of her pumps. Gradually he worked his way up her silk-glossed ankles. Now, at her calves, he circumnavigated her knees, and Ardyce writhed ecstatically, groaned her extreme pleasure at her ascendancy over Whitey. But it was as nothing when she felt his lips tickle her inner thighs, his tongue flattening on her most erogenous flesh, closing in on the palpitating mush of her slit itself. Her hips bucked, and she released guttural, animalistic cries when she felt his tongue slide inside her there, vibrate and loll along the walls of her vagina, his nose tickling her clitoris as he seemingly fought to drive that juttering sabre of flesh deeper into her hole. Brief moments later he withdrew, commenced to suck and nibble and lick her clitoris itself, his tongue alternating between flat, fleshrasping lickings and rapier thrusts to the throbbing tip of her passion button. Ardyce's gasps became even more throaty, even more aboriginal, and verging on her initial orgasm, she became oblivious to the discomfort of her position.
Her first sizzling, cursing, argot-smothered climax out of the way, Ardyce begged Dwight to desist momentarily. "I can't stand two of those in a row, Dwight, honey," she gasped. "You know that by now. Up here now. Come and lick Ardyce's tits now." Then the tortured position still gladly retained, Ardyce suffered Dwight's lips on her nipples, an attention that was facilitated by the fact that the brassiere was also butchered, open at the tips so that her pink, frustro-conical tits shone alluringly upon the jam-packed cushions of black nylon. While he licked and nipped and sucked the nubs to painful tightness, Ardyce contented herself by pulling his great cob from the panties, honing its slimy tip on her clitoris, alternately inserting its tip into the vestibule of her gash.
Moments later Dwight came over her head, and resting his knees on the riser beneath her back, he gently fed his prick between her greedy, eager lips. As he worked the white hank back and forth into her mouth-deep, shallow, deeper-he gloried in the contrasts of color beneath him: Ardyce's brown face, her palely-lipsticked lips, the vibrant coral of her tongue, the white of her teeth-all contrasted to the comparative pallor of his cock-the tableau vwant filled him with an exalting sense of omnipotence.
Then it was time for the final seizure. And as he poppingly pulled himself from her sucking lips, immediately sought to crawl upon her belly, take her then and there, Ardyce protested. "Not here, man. On the bed. Please. My back's about broke in two."
But by then Dwight was beyond recall. Brutality, an atypical surge of sadism rampant within him, he refused to honor her request. "No, you black bitch!" he husked. "Right here. If I move, I'm gonna paint the walls. Here!"
"Okay," she relented grudgingly, "but make it quick. Drive that meat into me. I'm so hot I could die." Then, as he positioned himself between her yawning, brown thighs, introduced the tip into the greasy folds of her yearning pussy, she gasped: "Do it, you fuck! You gorgeous ofay fuck! Jugg me! Ram that grease gun home."
Dwight growled thickly, his lust seemingly rupturing his veins at that moment. Crowding forward, he buried his rod within her brown box with all his strength, the impact, as their pelvises rammed, squeezing a loud, joyous grunt from Ardyce. Then, kneeling between her legs, partially reclining on her belly, his fingers cruelly plucking and dialing the hard nipples of her breasts, he began to drive his prick into her like some runaway pile driver.
Ardyce's screams of ecstasy carried muffledly to Noreen where she crouched in the closet, the entire, debauched scene clearly visible to her where she'd had one sheet of the mirrored doors secretly replaced with one made of two-way glass. It was only a matter of entering the wardrobe in the bedroom adjoining their own, sliding aside a concealed panel she'd battered through with her own hands, groping her way through some of her husband's fetishist gear, and she was afforded an unhindered view into the madhouse amphitheater that passed for a bedroom. Not more than five feet away from her, Dwight fucked Ardyce with vicious abandon, and she felt as if she could reach out and touch them then and there. A deranged light in her eyes, Noreen stared avidly; she gloried in the contorted expression on her husband's face, the way he watched himself so concentratedly in the other side of the glass.
As always, when she conducted these secret vigils, Noreen couldn't help but become sexually swayed herself. Until now, bolstering herself against the wall, her knees wide, the butchered panties giving her instant access to her throbbing cunt, she drove her right hand between her legs, sought to affect head start by sadistically pinching and twisting her distended clitoris. And now, her fingers dipping in and out of her slit, painting the raw, screaming pearl with her own vaginal fluids, Noreen worked faster; she felt the first spine-kinking tensions of orgasm begin to grow. She wanted to scream and howl, but somehow she stifled her cries. A blood-red glare formed behind her eyelids, phlegm seemingly bubbled in her throat. Now her finger-her blessed finger-sliced faster, still faster.
CHAPTER THREE
Dwight Adair's sexual predelictions-like his wealth and community influence-had not come about through any great conscious effort on his own part. Suffice it to say that both had been more or less wished upon him. When Dwight was 34, his industrialist-empire father (Candlelight Petroleum Products) had died, and had, in the process invested his only son in the multi-millionaire mantle of his image. The transition had not been hard to take: Dwight-always a pampered child, dominated by his positivist, conservative parents-had been duly trained in the business, and the exchange of reins had been made with no noticeable fuss whatsoever. Life had gone on as always. Luxury and status and power-the very wealth and power to purchase another person's soul if such should convenience the Adair clan-had accrued to him quite naturally; indeed Dwight was often to wonder why the rest of the world didn't live at as lofty a plateau as he did, why everyone didn't embrace the libertarian values he did. Money was something he simply didn't think about. It was alwavs there, and whether it was five-dollars to tip a cabby, or five-thousand-dollars for a weekend in New York, the total impact of wealth never really registered in his consciousness.
Quite understandably, a thoughtless, stressless milieu like the one Dwight was born to could not help but engender a uniquely emancipated outlook toward fleshly joys within him. Thus it was that marriage-to one Noreen Whalen in 1950, a parent-engineered union-should quickly pall, and that Dwight, pampered, accustomed to self-gratification from his earliest years, should seek more diverse outlets for his sensual urges even within the confines of matrimony. Noreen had been twenty, a lovely, exquisite-figured, cultured, intelligent and materialistic, venally-practical creature.
Which attention to social punctilio, preoccupation with status, security and wealth had heightened, if anything, during their eighteen years of marriage. It was the only thing-Dwight discounting all her florid declarations of love undying as so much sentimental twaddle-that kept them together. All her maudlin entreaties to the contrary, Dwight was positive she lived only for her exalted status as Mrs. Dwight Adair, pillar of Benton Falls society, that she tolerated his endless peccadilloes and infidelities only because such was all part of her master plan. She would outlive him.
Thus all the privileges of the Adair name and its attendant wealth, would one day fall to her. Then, in the winter of her life, she could bask in past glories, rein as dowager queen over the insular, Midwestern city in which they lived; all the indignities of her married life could be forgotten, swathed in billowy soubriquets of saccharin recollection of: "My beloved, late-departed husband." It was for this uncertain future that Noreen suffered this denigrated present.
Almost from the outset Noreen had accepted his abnormal sexual tastes; she had dutifully attended him in same, shrugged them off as a childish fancy. They were anomalies that would soon pass, make way for the more settled, classic marriage virtues. Indeed, Dwight had been more than happy with his marriage during their first five years (he was entirely unhappy with it now), for there had been novelty and flesh-crawling excesses without end. Beautiful in mien and figure, Noreen had been realization of his wildest dreams; she had become love object worthy of his most extravagant worshippings. Then there were times, Noreen seeking to cure her husband by outdoing him, when she became an absolute Satan in the bedroom; she left Dwight gasping for breath, pleading for surcease.
But, alas, as the folksong goes: "Love grows old ... love grows cold," and Dwight was driven by a merciless need for new conquests, for fresh victims to his aberrated lusts. Even here Noreen had indulged him, looking the other way during times of direst stress. Later, despairing of ever changing her husband, she'd even been recruited as a procuress herself. Dwight in a dangerous, irresponsible mental state for a time there, there had been no alternative. Either that or risk the disgrace of a disastrous community scandal. To this effect she'd promoted a veritable platoon of comely maids for him, had virtually served as overseer at some of those sessions. Now it was she who laid groundwork for Dwight's liaisons with her prettier female friends, she leading them to believe she was completely in the dark about the fact that her husband followed through, conducted endless, erotic gambol with them at the elite penthouse apartment he maintained in downtown Benton Falls for just that purpose.
All of which caused Dwight-during certain mellow moods-to call down blessings on Noreen's name. For, though her interests were wholly mercenary, he was sure that he might have done much, much worse in his selection of a wife. Other females would have taken an exhorbitant settlement, and run, a defection that would have left his life in a horrible muddle. Yes, Noreen was a good wife, a helpmate in the truest sense of the word, and there were times when he could become sentimental about her. He still enjoyed her in bed, and those nights when there wasn't fresh flesh to be explored, he and Noreen had some rousing copulatory bouts; she was still possessed of little coquettries, mannerisms and items of demonic finesse that none of his other women, had they lived to be a hundred, would ever have stumbled upon.
And from whence had come this inextinguishable partiality toward fetishism, toward this bondage of silk? Again, the silk taste was part of his inheritance, a gift from over-indulgent parents. Or so Dwight self-righteously shifted the blame. There had been a maid at home when he was a boy, a charming, dark-eyed, prematurely concupiscient girl of eighteen named Delphine. A maid to whom, seemingly, was entrusted all minutiae involved in his care. His mother and father being very social people, they were constantly away from home, and there was limitless time for the impressionable boy and the sexually-budding girl to get to know one another. How well no one-save for Noreen-had ever found out.
Dwight a very selfish, childish sort of boy, even at thirteen, accustomed to the intimacy from childhood, had always enjoyed being bathed. If not this, then someone must at least be present to scrub his back. Delphine had demurred at the propriety of this chore, but Dwight being the prince of the household, her protests had been ignored. That had been the start of it.
A chance pass at his slack prick in the tub one night had thrilled Dwight, as had Delphine's soft lavings on his back, the sweet aura of her cologne intermixed with her woman smell. Moments later his prick had been standing up in the tub like a minor periscope, and he'd become apprised of sexual awareness for the first time in his life. An innocent conversation had followed concerning the phenomenon, and while both participants were embarrassed, they pursued it nonetheless. As result of their discussion, Delphine had saucily played with his prick and balls, had become overly excited at the flushed trance which her sport induced in Dwight. "Let's see if you're a man yet, darling," she'd chirruped. Whereupon she'd wrapped her pretty, slim fingers about the tiny, hairless tube had commenced to pump it for all she was worth. Very shortly, Dwight groaningly immobilized, unable to resist her even if he'd been inclined, the girl had been rewarded by as pretty an arcing of seminal discharge as anyone could ask for.
For a week then, every night at bathtime-it never dawning on Dwight that there was reciprocal female equivalent, totally oblivious to the fact that Delphine might have needs of her own-the masturbation became a regular rite. But one night, the house entirely at their disposal, the masturbationary procedures attended to, with Delphine in a particularly aroused state, a crossroads had loomed. And in her bedroom, Dwight's underdeveloped prick hard again, he sitting naked on her bed, Delphine sought release of her own. Would Dwight like to see her naked body? Would he like to touch her, to play with her? They could have such wonderful fun together.
Admitting that he would, he sat as captive audience while Delphine, reveling in the realization of her snug, secure sex-experimentation laboratory, had made an extraordinarily teasing show of undressing herself. It being the first time in his life Dwight had ever seen a woman's underwear (except for those few furtive times he caught his mother en dishabille), the exhibition was to have devastatingly far-reaching effect upon him. Delphine had obviously been planning forward to Dwight's final indoctrination into the mysteries of love for some time, and she purposely wore her newest, most enticing scanties. A red silk brassiere, red panties, a black garter belt to cinch the black silk stockings (nylon unheard of at that time) that were part of her maid's uniform, were revealed in teasing, tormenting fashion, until Dwight was delivered to a virtual fit of choking desire.
An unexpected detour had taken place at that moment, in that Delphine, worked to intolerable pitch of sexuality, by then, moved by sight of Dwight's straining, drooling, baby prick, had flung herself upon the bed still dressed in her undies, had immediately gathered the adorable stem, dropped her mouth onto it in crooning frenzy, had commenced sucking it dedicatedly. A homage which, taking into account Dwight's sexual agitation, had caused him to discharge almost immediately into her mouth. It was an accident Delphine hadn't anticipated, but nevertheless she made the best of it, and without a moment's hesitation, she swallowed his watery muck, commenced to suck and lick him clean, managing, in the bargain, to revive his penis as well.
The vision of the beautiful, gypsy-like naiad, clad in her silky finery as her head bobbed and tugged on his screaming prick, was to haunt Dwight the longest day he lived.
Afterwards, of course, there were the customary options of sexual love, and Dwight became a fantastically apt pupil as Delphine instructed him in the endless varieties of fucking, coached him to techniques and prowess some men never acquire. In time she taught him to suck her cunt, to torment her clitoris, to lick and nip her breasts, belly and buttocks; she even introduced him to the joys of anal byplay, in the end, adjudging that his baby stalk would be relatively painless, even going so far as to teach him how to sodomize her. But always, no matter how outre their sexual exploits might become, there was the silk, the allure of Delphine's lingerie and hosiery, the fascination of her shoes. Without fail he insisted that Delphine let him caress her body through the thrilling film, let him kiss and lick her nipples, her legs, her belly and cunt through that slippery veil. Until, eventually, the preliminary adoration became more important to Dwight than the ultimate act of slithering his tiny cock into her slimy hole, discharging a hot, reeking salvo of his muck there itself.
One day, their time limitless, both in a gay, mischievous mood, Delphine sought to affect novelty into their love by dressing Dwight in her pretty underthings. He much of a size with the diminutive maid, they found that her things fit him almost perfectly. Granted, they must stuff the brassiere with tissue paper, his prick must be crowded back between his legs; Dwight found the act of squeezing his feet into her cheap, flashy pumps difficult, but at the end he was a synthesized female. As he paraded and posed clumsily before the giggling Delphine, he knew, for the first time in his life, that evil clutch in his groin that silk against his own flesh could induce. As of that moment he knew he would never be the same again.
Of such playful sport are fetishists born.
It was one of the saddest days of Dwight's life when Delphine left the service of his parents. He was fifteen at the time, and suffered the bleakest despair, the most crushing sense of betrayal when Delphine didn't reappear at the house one day. Investigation revealed that she'd run off with one of the local bully-boys, a machinist employed at his father's plant, who, apparently, had got the amoral doxy in a "family way."
Even now, sitting alone in his bedroom-ultimate sanctum sanctorum of late, seemingly, Dwight couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness in his heart to remember Delphine. To think, he mused, after all these years. After all the women ingenues and tireless wantons alike-I've had in my lifetime. That I can still remember Delphine. He sighed heavily, slumped further into his chair, the sense of disquiet in his soul becoming oppressive. He laughed sardonically. What did it all mean? What is life all about, anyway? A farce, pointless farce. Nothing more. He took a deep sip of the Scotch sitting at his elbow, sank into further mediations, allowing the elegiac strains of the piped-in Vaughan Williams to wash over him. A monstrous ennui suffocated him, and he felt alone, utterly drained.
Thus it was that he almost welcomed the intrusion, as Noreen, dressed in a flowing, violet peignoir, her feet still in the sexy, black pumps she'd worn throughout the evening, entered the bedroom, advanced directly upon him. Seeing the pagan glint in her eyes, the fey smile, he was further innundated with boredom. Noreen would make her try again, he concluded. And why, why in heaven's name can't she wait? Why can't she let me make the first move? he rumbled to himself. Because another voice immediately retorted, if she did, she'd probably never get serviced. Grudgingly, Dwight admitted that it was so. He hadn't been very considerate of Noreen lately. And God knew, she was a healthy, sensual woman, possessed of certain needs. Needs which were, now, she in the prime of her sexual life, more dominating than ever before.
A strange sense of benevolence, intermixed with a lingering sexual stimulation which his just-concluded introspections had triggered, suffused him now. And why not? It won't take much time to get into the mood as things stand now. The least I can do for Noreen. That insidious, old shoe sort of affection was back, and he thought that sex with his wife would be rather nice at that. After all, Noreen knew the ropes; she could be emminently expertise and satisfying at times. He shouldn't punish her for the fact that she wasn't a promiscuous woman, that she hadn't once, during his long career of inconstancy, chosen to retaliate by engaging in seamy, back-street affairs of her own. By and large, she deserved better, much better.
"You look so morose, darling," she said brightly, a cute pixie tonight, as she held her hands behind her back, shielding a surprise. "What is it?"
"Nothing, my dear. That time of the night, I guess. My you look pretty tonight. The peignoir. Is it new?"
"Thank you for noticing, Dwight. You like it?"
"Yes. It's quite fetching."
She knelt before him, her eyes mischievous. "Fetching enough to investigate the mysteries beneath?"
He smiled. "I imagine I could be prevailed upon."
Her expression darkened. "Still thinking about Sirri?"
"I expect I am. I'm afraid I've got the bug. I'm sorry, Noreen, truly I am. But you know how I am when I get that way."
"Yes," she said, her smile turning rueful, "I'm afraid I do. I don't suppose any special effort on my part ... perhaps Ardyce and I could make it a cooperative effort ... would help. It can get devilishly sticky, you know."
He sighed ponderously. "I realize that. But what's to be done? When a man's been used to having his own way all his life."
"But can't you see the handwriting on the wall, dear? All good things have to come to an end sooner or later."
"I dread to think of it. Just the thought of growing that old throws me into a virtual fit of despondency. I want to scream, commit the most atrocious acts of mayhem."
"That's why you must start tapering off. Now, while there's still time. If you line yourself up with a small harem of presentable, but trustworthy old
... friends, if you exclude risks ... The transition can be made gracefully, you know."
"You're a sweetheart, Noreen. Do you know that? Sometimes I don't know how you tolerate me. All these years...."
"How many times must I tell you? I love you, dear. You should know that by now. I only want for you to be happy."
"Even to the point of helping me with Sirri?"
Noreen frowned. "I'd hoped you'd listen to reason." Now it was her time to sigh deeply. "I suppose there's no other way. If that's what you want. It will be dreadfully dangerous."
"I thought you unequivocally refused last week."
"I did. I was terribly hurt. But I've had time to reconsider. It could be managed, I suppose. I should intervene myself. Before you make a miserable botch of it. Although, as I said ... it can be extremely tricky."
"You are a good old girl, Noreen." His eyes brightened, and his heart lifted. "But how? How do you propose to swing it?"
"I haven't decided yet. There are several angles. It all depends on how you cooperate with me."
"Cooperate with you?"
Her smile turned licentious. "Surely, darling, you must understand: You be good to me; I'll be good to you."
"I will, darling," he breathed, already excited, his cannon unlimbering inside his trousers, "I promise. Tonight. But about Sirri. How...."
"I'll get her and her mother here on some pretext. Doris Stenson's been dying to see the inside of this house for years. That will give you time to sound Sirri out. Ater all, you have to contribute something. If all else fails, there's always money. Avaricious as young people are nowadays ... "
"That seems rather crude."
"As I said, I haven't really put my mind to it yet."
"When? I mean, when will you invite them?"
"I haven't decided." Her eyes glittered. "It all depends."
"On what?"
"On how good my daddy is to me between now and then."
Dwight pulled Noreen forward, placed a hard, impatient kiss on her lips. "Right now, then," he hissed. "We'll start this very moment."
Upon which Noreen brought her hands from behind her back, proffered a small, tastefully wrapped package. "I was rather hoping you'd say that. See? I came prepared. For you, Dwight. Go ahead, open it up."
Puzzledly Dwight tore open the gift-ribbons, scrabbled inside the wrappings. And as he found the gauzy hose, held it up, revealing a panty hose in his size, navy blue, with a petit-point pattern, a scanty pair of blue and gray-striped, rayon panties to go with it, Noreen said: "I was shopping for something unusual for myself this afternoon; I thought you'd like a set for yourself." With that she undid the peignoir ties at the throat, and flung it open to reveal herself dressed in a stunningly-pointed rayon brassiere in the same vertically-striped pattern, her subtly opulent belly contained in matching panties, the overlaying panty hosiery. It was an enchanting ensemble, one which combined beautifully with her black, saber-toed pumps, caused Dwight's heart to instantly race. And as Noreen rose, assumed provocative pose: "Do you like it?"
"I like it very much, darling," he gulped. "It's beautiful ... it makes you look irresistibly desirable. Look, I'm hard as a rock already."
The peignoir drifted to the floor, puddling at Noreen's feet. Now she reached for Dwight; helped him to his feet. "Come, baby. Get on the bed. I'll get you dressed." Docilely, trembling hard, Dwight shambled forward, the clutch of net and rayon held tightly in his hand. While he stood before the bed, commenced tugging off his jacket and shirt, Noreen drifted about the room like some conspiratorial wraith; she extinguished the lights, glided to the control panel built into the bed's headboard, clicked two, small, electric-blue baby-spots to life in the ceiling. The beams crisscrossed, fell upon the bed proper, made the crimson, satin sheets glitter and writhe like silken snakes as Noreen now pulled the spread back.
When Dwight had stripped himself down to the plain, black panties he wore, Noreen advanced upon him, pushing him onto the bed. "Here, pet," she breathed, "let me." Whereupon she hovered over him, matter-of-factly slid his flimsy briefs down his legs, ended with a brief, loving obeisance where she licked the shimmering love oil from the tip of his distended pecker, fleetingly tortured its swollen head with lips, tongue and teeth. Shortly she had worked the new panties onto him, making playful show of trying to tuck the offending prick back between his legs so that it wouldn't tent the front of his panties so hideously. Each time it spanged up, she gigglingly retucked it.
Now she arranged the legs of the panty hose, fastidiously began running them up his shaved legs, smoothing and stretching the garment as she did so. The panty was in a bikini cut, rose high on his hips (as did the underlying panty itself), formed a double knit cache for his still struggling prick and testicles. Noreen took special pains fitting the leotard in the crotch, saw to it that the stockings fit snugly everywhere. "You have the prettiest legs for a man, Dwight," she complimented as she did so. "Some women would give their right arms for legs as pretty." Again she leaned, gently nibbled the bulge of his cock through the double layer of nylon. "There," she said, "done. Now look at yourself in the mirror."
Dwight dreamily rose, circled the bed. Where, positioning himself in an especially provocative beam of light, he stood before the banks of mirrors in preening, twisting pride, a poseur who affected several erotic stances, ended by actually basketing and clutching his genitalia with fervid hands. An attention that drove Dwight deeper into deviate's fit, and ragged whimpers of lust broke from him. "Oh, darling," he wheezed, "you're so good to me. I don't deserve ... You know just what I want. Oh, please...." He shuddered, came completely unglued. "You know what I want...."
Noreen's eyes flared with demonic blaze. Her voice harsh-and yet somehow kind, pitying as well-she said, "Yes, darling. I know what you want." Her tone became almost as eerie as his. "You'll get what you want...." Upon which she started up from the bed, went to sit on one of the carpeted risers, almost as Ardyce had sat on Sunday afternoon. Outside of the direct glare of the spotlights, her body took on deeper blue shadowings, the silky conoids of her breasts sent back phosphorescent scintilla, further dazzling Dwight. "Over here, darling. Come to Noreen. Come show Noreen how much you love her."
"Please, please...." he babbled, hobbling toward her, falling to the floor like some shimmering snake, crawling up to incline after her. "Command me ... command...."
"I'll command you, all right, you rotten filth," she husked. "I know just what you want." She raised one foot, poised a deadly spiked heel in his face. "That's far enough, slime. Kiss it, do you hear? The sole, the heel." Then, as Dwight unhesitatingly complied, ministered to first one offered shoe, then the other: "The toes now. Suck them. Lick them. Suck, you crawly pervert!" An expression of addled bliss on his features, Dwight again complied, and his head rose and fell, his mouth consuming the entire toe of each pump, much as if he were fellating it.
Then he must remove Noreen's shoe; he must suck her toes through her stocking; one by one, then collectively. Now the other foot. He must crowd as much of her foot into his mouth as was humanly possible; he must suckle and suckle. Until her foot was sopping wet, the sick noises he made resembling a farrow of pigs at feeding time. Once more her shoes were slavishly replaced upon her feet. Whereupon Dwight rose to his knees, gathered both her feet to his naked chest, commenced to press the hard, sharp tips of her heels into the flesh of his chest and abdomen. A beatified expression distorting his face, he drove the torturing projectiles as deeply into his skin as he could endure, releasing them only with a barking ejaculation of agony. Into his stomach now, with the man lapsing further into frenzy, attempting to jam the leather daggers into his lower belly, the bundle of his masculinity as well.
At this Noreen forestalled him, brought her legs back. But when he still fought to punish himself, she let fury craze her voice. "Enough, Dwight! Enough, do you hear! My legs now. Love my legs." She endured his tickling lips, his swabbing tongue on her ankles, calves, knees and thighs as best she could, knowing all the while how dearly Dwight savored this segment of the masochistic rite. But when she could endure the maddening adoration no longer, she seethed: "My tits, you fucker! Come suck my tits." A creaky whimper issuing from his throat, he eagerly came over her, gnawed and licked her swollen nipples, tugged and gobbled them, taking as much of each breast into his mouth as he possibly could, his slobbering ministrations soon soaking the satin brassiere through and through. While, throughout, he watched himself, as often as he could, in the voyeur mirrors to his right. Until, now, at long last:
"Noreen's cunt now, you swine. Her stinking, slimy cunt! Go get it. Suck it! Suck it until Noreen tells you to stop." Again an eager bark broke from Dwight, and dropping back, arranging her knees over his shoulders, he forced her back on the riser, brought her hips high in the air, positioned her vulnerably exposed snatch so that it loomed irresistibly in his face. With a harsh growl, he buried his mouth in the odorous cache, began to gnaw and lick and suck her through her undies with fanatic fervor. Once more the liquid suckings carried in the totally-insulated boudoir, overriding his mounting growls of pleasure.
Shortly, despite the double tier of nylon protecting her cunt-ultimate testimony to Dwight's proficiency-Noreen felt the lips of her vagina open; she felt his tongue drive the nylon in on the sensitive surface of that mouth. Then his tongue was flattening itself in tireless swipe against the sopping crotch of her panties, plastering the material against the swollen bud of her clitoris. It was a mind-unhinging sensation-subtle, yet ruthlessand Noreen dug her nails into his forearms where he balanced her hips; she loosed a top-of-the-voice scream to announce the intensity of the orgasm Dwight had just induced. "More," she shrieked as he hesitated, "give me more! Make me pop again. Lick, you fucker! Lick me raw!"
Twice more she erupted, the climaxes making hot shards of exploding meteors backfire inside her brain, dragging even louder, more ragged cries of victory from her lungs. And now: "The bed, you crawly filth! Bring the scissors." Moments later she kicked and writhed upon the glittery panoply of restless satin, while Dwight rummaged in a bed stand drawer for the vastly essential scissors. A tremor paralyzed Noreen as he returned, pulled the tips of the brassiere away from her nipples, snipped the points of the bra off, the fear that he would go berserk one of these times looming large in her mind. Abruptly she pulled his suckling lips from the stone-hard buds, ordained that he should tailor her new ensemble in the crotch as well. Again there was the moment of held breath, as the scissors went snip-snip. Suddenly she felt cold air on the dripping lips of her cunt.
"Now!" she gulped victoriously. "The real thing! Suck Noreen's greasy cunt again. Like you meant it. Lick her ass. Do it, do you hear!" Her hands dug into Dwight's crotch as she felt that first searing, delectable swipe of his tongue across her clitoris, and she squeezed his balls, clenched his prick until hot grunts bombarded the erogenous petals of her most holy, most sanctified snatch. "Your tongue!" she seethed. "In, oh in! As far as it'll go. Put your finger up my ass. Darling, darling ... I'm coming already." Her voice shattered explosively. "I'm coming, coming, coming ... Lick! Suck! Suck me silly! Your finger! Shove it in and out! Yes, that's exquisite. Suck Noreen's cunt! Make her comecome-come come...."
A guttural yawp abraded her throat then, proof positive of the totality of her orgasm. "Gorgeous," she praised. "Gorgeous, gorgeous ... Yes, lick me more ... lick my asshole...."
Short moments later the sado-masochist segment of their passion was over, and Noreen feeling she would die if she wasn't immediately filled with yards and yards of cock, she pulled away from Dwight, pushed him onto his back. Then it was her turn to alter his new undies, oblivious to the damage she inflicted, she firmly intending that the ensembles be one-shot, throw-away items from the outset. Noe she drew Dwight's monstrous cudgel from that sopping slit, even going so far as to pluck out his testicles as well, arranging them just so before she swooped down, consumed the slimy mast with avid lips, restless tongue.
But Dwight could only stand a little of the barbaric homage, and now, with a guttural growl, he tore her head away, came over her, drove his pecker through the tattered opening in her undies with one cruel stroke. They both groaned their delight as the long, fat torpedo was rammed home, as he seemingly hit bottom, sprang back, hit bottom again. "Fuck it, darling!" Noreen grunted as she raised her silken legs, wrapped them about his flanks. The slippery heels of her shoes slid along Dwight's hose, snagged here and there before they came to rest in the concavity of his knee, where they dug mercilessly, both savoring the voluptuary dividend the slide of silk against silk presented to the utmost. Just as they savored the slide of flesh inside of flesh-a sensation akin to being immersed in molten glass, in a viscous broth, a broth so thick it clung, veritably milked the assaulting member.
Dwight sucked her nipples as he fucked; he chewed his wife's lips; he drove his tongue halfway down her throat. Until now, at her specific command, he oiled his finger with the overflow muck careening down the crack of her buttocks, he corkscrewed it into her anus, deep, deeper, deepest. Their bodies rocked, pistoned, ground, devoured. Dwight became aware of Noreen's staccato outbursts of ecstasy, the way the inner muscles of her pussy wrung his cock, as she came again-and again-and again-in machine-gun sequence seemingly. Then his finger drove deeper within her, gathered that thin septum to his raping prick; he almost felt the throb of his hot sperm battering against the other side of that membranous wall. He cursed, howled raggedly just before he plummeted toward the fiery cauldron of his climax: "You fuck! You magnificent fuck!"
Now the haunted bedroom was dark, and the Adairs supposedly slept. Only one member of the corrupt team was still awake. And lying stiffly beside her husband, staring into the darkness, Noreen Adair suffered a most bitter sense of despair and defeat. Perverted their love might be, she admitted. But at least it was good; it was sufficient; it had purged her of damnable tensions, at least temporarily. And so long as it was a private matter, kept within these four walls, the secret of husband and wife, all was well. But once another party intervened, once their secret was cast to the four winds. Fury and frustration rocked her, and she had all she could to do keep from screaming aloud.
Sufficient? she castigated. To whom? To me perhaps. But to Dwight? No, it hadn't been enough; she could tell. The ugly thing was staring again; there was absolutely no way on earth to stop it.
And what was she going to do now? Noreen died a hundred, tortured deaths at the irrefutable realization that now, at long last:
As it turned out, three more weeks were to pass before Dwight-aided by Noreen-was able to implement even the most vestigial strategems attendant to his seduction of Sirri Stenson. Miserable, tormenting weeks at that, for the Sunday morning seances during which he furtively ogled Sirri were something akin to Inquisitional torture. To be so close to the beautiful object of his desire, and yet so far ... Needless to say, Dwight Adair's attendance record at St. Alban's went unblemished during those weeks, with Father Wilkinson even being so gauche as to comment on his revived religiosity. One Sunday morning disaster struck, and Harry and Doris Stenson arriving without Sirri, the total impact of the child's hold on him was brought home with devastating force; Dwight suffered a debilitating despair throughout the entire service.
And yet the disappointment was not without its merits. His sexual anomaly being what it was, he was able to romanticize the setback, relegate it to symbolic punishment and suffering, infinitesimal token of what he would willingly endure at Sirri's hands in the name of their love. In addition to this mendicant posturing on his part, there were unexpected side-effects conferred by the church atmosphere, and Dwight found it inexplicably thrilling to sit in God's holy house beside his inamorata-to-be, to think all his filthy thoughts about her, formulate disgusting plans for their future. While, all about him, the religious mumbo-jumbo went on just as if the world wasn't coming down about his ears. To sit through the sermon while imagining himself divesting Sirri of her white silk panties (he had unalterably decided that it should be white), while imagining himself burrowing his face into her aromatic, virgin cunt, imagining her jejune sighs and squeaks of pleasure as his tongue curled itself around her baby clitoris, was an almost wholly sexual experience in itself, and it seemed that Satan himself intervened, that an internecine struggle between good and evil was being fought right then and there, with Satan, sad to say, usually emerging as victor. It gave Dwight the most exquisitely filthy feeling to steal stealthy passes at his silk-swatched genitals at those moments of extreme agitation, to find his prick stone hard, stretched to its fullest dimensions inside his pants. Even as his fingers furtively caressed its expanding head through his clothes, he made painfully aware of the fact that his thigh was awash with slippery discharge, the frustrated tears of his over-anticipatory-organ.
How far reaching the intervention of Holy Church in the prosecution of his nefarious affairs was to be, Dwight Adair couldn't have begun to imagine in a hundred years. For it was through the altogether innocent guise of the annual St. Alban's Fall Bazaar that Dwight finally managed to lure Sirri into the symbolic spider-web which would gradully influence, dazzle and lure the superficial child into her eventual downfall. And Noreen blithely announcing her plan that evening in mid-June, it seemed the most perfect scheme imaginable; neither could conceive of why they hadn't thought of same sooner. "I'll just ask Doris Stenson to serve on the committee with me, that's all," Noreen smirked, ulterior purposes burning like beacons in her eyes. "And what with Sirri at loose ends this summer, won't it be the most natural thing in the world for her to come along with her mother, help out. She's a dutiful child; I know she'll join in. If you can't ingratiate yourself with Sirri that way, then I'm afraid there's no help for you."
Of course, it was the answer to Dwight's prayers, and he immediately set to work to formulate long range strategies concerning Sirri. This was to be the grandest scheme of his career, his masterpiece, so to speak, and no loose ends must be allowed to frustrate his corrupt aims. From the very first time Doris Stenson brought her ravishing daughter to his house there must be a logical progression of sequences; nothing must be left to chance. He must not let eagerness betray him into a too-early expo sure of his carnal intents, either to Doris or Sirri. All his previous conquests had been child's play compared to the master tactics involved in conquering Sirri.
It was with the greatest of frustration that Dwight forcibly kept himself from the house on that first Wednesday afternoon the committee fathered to plan for the bazaar. All that afternoon at the office, knowing that Sirri was in his house, he fretted and stewed, thought of a hundred excuses for going home early, looking in on the hen-clutch, passing pleasantries with the half-dozen females present. So great had his sexual excitement been that he'd been forced, in the end, to summon Jessica Hill-a previous secretarial conquest whom he'd debauched systematically, leaving her a broken hulk whose only ambilition in life was to one day be reinstituted into his favors-into his office. Whence he'd commanded her to strip in salacious manner for him, had administered a rousing bout of mortarand-pestle to her on a convenient davenport immediately afterwards. Even this not enough, he'd resummoned Jessica later in the afternoon, had contented himself with mauling her pulled-from-the-dress tits while she'd knelt between his legs, had lovingly sucked his prick to a second, gushing ejaculation. At last, once the happily-servile pig had sucked his tool to pristine cleanliness, his lust was assuaged.
Temporarily, at least. For that night, Noreen describing in minute detail everything that Sirri had said that afternoon, describing what she wore, how she looked, Dwight became aroused all over again.
Merely imagining Noreen conducting a semi-private tour of the house for Sirri and her mother (the other ladies having departed, Noreen making point of becoming overly chummy with the social-climbing Doris Stenson), imagining Sirri bemusedly inventorying the opulence of their exotic bedroom, was more than enough to inflame the most libidinous furies in his psyche, and-as was to become tireless trademark of the weeks building up to Sirri's conquest-he had to have Noreen's most amenable body then and there. A thing which Noreen had counted on, a fee almost, for her part in her husband's scheme. She cultivated those toll-takings zealously, borrowing on Sirri's image in her husband's brain. The subtle substitution resulting turned Dwight into a madman, and he fucked Noreen tirelessly, inventively, as if tomorrow had been irrevocably called off. Knowing that she would lose Dwight once he toppled Sirri, she thought to make the most of her situation. There were even those nights when Dwight was so insatiable, his reserves so undepletable that she was forced to ring in Ardyce on their events. Working as a team-Ardyce sucking him while he sucked Noreen; Noreen being sucked while Ardyce posted upon his ceiling-sweeping prick; both heads busy, both mouths gluttonous in that stronghold of his sexuality, with Noreen sucking his rod, Ardyce mouthing his testicles-they managed to finally put his rampaging lust to rest for another night. But generally, greedily jealous as she was, Noreen kept him to herself. The fear of old age exerting as strong effect upon her as upon Dwight, she didn't know when she might pass this way again. Thus:
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a flying.
According to Dwight's painstakingly-ordered plan, Noreen more and more became confidante of Doris Stenson, and more and more she and Doris (and Sirri also, of course) chose to work on the bazaar projects as a trio. The other ladies on the committee, their handwork delegated, came less and less to the Adair home. Which, as Dwight had correctly diagnosed Doris Stenson's aggrandizing makeup, was perfectly all right with the professional do gooder. Her husband, a soft-wear salesman, perpetually on the road, she had filled the vacuum with church and civil activities; she thus found nothing awry in the quick rush the sought-after Mrs. Dwight Adair had instituted; she fawned upon Noreen's every word, lived for those days when she was summoned to the palatial, Mt. Pleasant residence.
Gradually Dwight commenced returning home early, engaging the three females in casual, bantering talk before it was time for mother and daughter to return home. A thing which, though he brought it off with fantastic aplomb, charming both Stensons completely, was incredible torture for him. Seeing Sirri in this familiar setting, in his own private world, as it were, seeing her dark curls so prettily disheveled, her face smudged from their gluing and sewing and stuffing, seeing her piquant breasts poking through cute dresses, blouses and sweaters, was an agonizing thing, and he fought eternal battle to keep his murderous lust from registering on his face. All he could think, as he forced inane chatter, was of how beautiful, how eminently desirable Sirri looked. He longed to draw her apart from the female gabble; he longed to touch and caress her, to praise her extravagantly and endlessly, telling her of her beauty, of his deathless love for her. If only the rest of the wolrd would go away, leave them be.
At first he made his look-in visits brief. Then, gradually, he lingered longer and longer, chaffed and laughed with the females, was delighted that Sirri looked upon him favorably, could be amused by his antics. There were times when she smiled quite directly at him, something vaguely admiring and wistful (a longing after the missing father image in her life perhaps?) in her expression. Those times there came a great soaring in Dwight's chest, and it was all he could to to keep from drawing her tiny, frail form into his arms, burying his lips in her glorious mane, sliding them in her velvety throat. If only I could keep her, an insane fury thundered within, if only I could protect her, take care of her, give her all the luxuries life has to offer. Needless to say, wisely safeguarding his plan, he abruptly absented himself from their company at such nearmaudlin moments.
Next on the agenda were the impromptu dinners that commenced, gala events when, Harry Stenson not in town anyway, Doris and Sirri remained to have dinner with them. Either that or Dwight generously treated at some fabulous Benton Falls restaurant. These incidences occurring at least once a week, sometimes twice, there was time for cocktails, even more frivolous conversation, and it soon be came evident that both Doris and Sirri trusted him implicitly, no inkling of his darkest motives had, as yet, penetrated. Doris gloried in his courtly attentions to her, while Sirri was thrilled that Dwight treated her as a near-equal, elicited her opinions on current events, mores, music and the like. "I like to keep abreast of what the younger generation's thinking," he explained these departures. And still another facet of his appeal to Sirri; "Come now, Doris. Don't be such a prude. Surely you don't think Sirri hasn't had a drink behind your back? A small Manhattan for her? A small glass of sherry then? You know how young people are about things which are forbidden to them?"
Generally Doris capitulated, and it was at these crucial moments, Sirri slightly tipsy, that Noreen usually found some ruse whereby she might spirit the mother from the living room for an extended period, gave Dwight and Sirri private moments in which to get to know each other better. Using these intervals to good advantage (only coming close to groping for Sirri once), Dwight skillfully brought the conversation around to her romantic aspirations, teased and probed as regards her sexual experience, her current swains and all. Once he said, "I pray, Sirri, that you won't make the mistake of getting involved early in your life. There's so much time, you've got your entire life before you. When I think of an exquisite girl like you ... a jewel among women ... marrying an immature, callous boy, a boy who wouldn't be able to bring you to the fullest realization of the potential involved in the married state, a boy who wouldn't be able to provide you with the pretty clothes, the furs, the jewelry, the rich setting a lovely girl like you deserves...." His voice became shattery with emotion and he cautioned himself to restraint.
"Mr. Adair...." she flushed prettily. "Really, you shouldn't. Such a beautiful thing to say. You can't mean those things."
"But I do," he persisted. "You don't realize, my dear, what you possess, what you are. The world, Sirri; the world wrapped in shiny paper. You can have it. If you wait. If you're wise. A house like this, fancy cars, travel, luxuries unlimited ... they can all be yours."
"Oh, Mr. Adair ... but how?"
"By waiting, Sirri. By taking stock of yourself. By knowing what you want out of life, placing a price tag on yourself, so to speak. There are men who can give you this ... older men, perhaps less physically attractive men ... but that's all part of the taking stock I mentioned. These men would worship and cherish you, spend their every waking hour thinking of ways to make your life the dream existence it should be. Men who...."
Summarily he'd caught himself in mid-sentence, and realizing how close he'd come to exposing himself, he'd switched the subject. But not before he'd glanced up, seen the long, speculative stare Sirri sent him, a flickering venality and hardness glimmering just before her face went innocently blank again.
Another time, due to some mix-up with the Stenson family car, mother and daughter were left stranded at the Adair house, a crisis Dwight solved by allowing them to take one of the Jags, he further maneuvering it so that Sirri herself was obliged to drive the sporty auto home. "Keep it for a few days if you like," he said pointedly to Sirri, knowing full well that the impressionable kid would nag her mother until she could do just that, and would use the extra time to tool the machine around, show off to her juvenile friends. Later, during a private moment, he mentioned the car, asked if she would like to have one like it. "A girl as pretty as you should drive in nothing less. Cadillacs, Continentals, DualGhias ... they were made for the beautiful people. People like you. Or perhaps you'd like a little Mustang, a Fiat. It shouldn't be hard to arrange. If a girl gets wise to herself."
Otherwise there were little gifts which he gave to Sirri-expensive gloves, scarves, a bracelet, a pinitems small enough for her to smuggle into the house without her mother's knowledge. "I just happened to see this pin in a store; I thought how pretty it would go with that green dress of yours. I couldn't resist it. You do deserve such pretty things, you know." By the very acceptance of the tokens, the matter of hiding them from her mother, a web of complicity was woven, and unwittingly, guilelessly, the avaricious child walked into his trap. If there were doubts in Dwight's mind as to the efficacy of his campaign, they were soon erased by the manner in which Sirri seldom appeared in pick-up costume any more, no matter how messy the bazaar project they worked on that day; she dressed as alluringly as she dared. There was always some excuse so she might be near Dwight when he was present, remain behind when private words might be exchanged. He noticed that she soaked up flattery shamelessly, her adolescent soul virtually flowering as he once more launched into lavish rhapsodies as to what glittering goodnesses life should hold for a princess such as she.
Yet, all of these was still in the realms of circumstance; certainly there was no proof that he had propositioned her. The gifts, the praises of her beauty, they were the most random of actions and thoughts. Until one night in early August, positive of Sirri's susceptibility, an electric something charging the atmosphere, he decided to make his move. There was a shower for a girl friend. And while Doris and Noreen made paper flowers for decorations, Dwight volunteered to drive her into the city. It was as he drove through the gathering dusk, that he decided. "You know, Sirri," he said with a dramatic catch in his throat, "I'm going to hate to see this church bazaar thing come off. It'll mean the end of our friendship. I've enjoyed this. More than you can ever know. Talking to you, being with you ... it's like I've experienced a rebirth. I feel almost young again; I'm not an old man any more."
"Old man?" She smiled coquettishly. "Everyone should be such an old man. You're not old at all. Mature, perhaps. Charming, certainly. But not old. I'm going to miss it too, you know. Mom also. She thinks you're wonderful; she talks about you all the time." Her eyes twinkled. "If you want to know the truth, I think she's got a crush on you."
"That's encouraging. There's hope for me yet. And our lovely Sirri? Does she care? Is there a twinge when she thinks of next week? Or will she be glad to be rid of her meddling old geazer?"
There was a short pause. "Please, Mr. Adair...."
"Dwight. I thought we had an understanding." ... "Dwight. Anyway, stop talking about yourself like that. You're still a very attractive man, a very...." She searched for words. "I'm going to hate to see this end, Dwight. You've taught me to look at myself in an entirely different way, I...."
"It needn't end, you know, my dear. Surely you've given some thought to the things I've said."
"Please, Dwight. Don't say things like that. It's impossible."
"Oh, you have thought about them, then? What I said about a car? You're leaving for college in October, as I understand. A car could be delivered there. A new Cougar. Would you like that?" His voice became blurry. "I can afford to be very generous, Sirri. If you can ... for once in your life ... be honest with yourself...."
Suddenly he was trembling uncontrollably, and slowing the car somewhat, he boldly dropped his right hand onto her knee. Where-the sensation of touching her for the first time electric, heart-stoppingly thrilling-he caressed her hot, silken flesh gently. For the briefest moment Sirri permitted his touch, her body tense, her eyes focused straight ahead. Then her grasp firm, yet gentle, she dropped her hand upon his, removed it from her leg.
Terror that he'd ruined everything convulsively gripping him, Dwight froze, managed to stammer: "I'm sorry, Sirri. I didn't mean ... You will think about my offer?"
"Yes...." she breathed tonelessly. "I will." They said no more about it as they entered the city.
But a week later, as they stole a private moment in the living room, Doris and Noreen occupied elsewhere, the question was reiterated. Once more he summoned up the courage to caress Sirri's knee. "Have you...?" he choked.
"I ... I have."
"And...?" His breath seared his throat as he waited for her reply, so positive was he of refusal.
When Sirri said nothing, he turned toward her, saw the panic, intermixed with an amoral resolution, in her gaze. A crooked, uncertain grin twisted her lips. Now she dropped her hand on his, and slowly, deliberately, knowing full well what she was doing, she guided his spasming hand even higher on her glossy leg.
Thus was the news carried to Ghent. Here was the answer of stunningly definitive, unmistakable sort.
Dwight-the roof of the world blown off for him at that moment-was just toying with the bare flesh of her inner thigh, leaning to embrace and kiss her, when he heard Doris and Noreen returning. He and Sirri were not given benison of a moment alone for the rest of that evening.
Later, aroused to fever pitch, Dwight couldn't help but celebrate his victory in a most depraved way. Almost before the Stensons had cleared the drive, he herded Noreen upstairs, to the safety of their erotic sanctuary. In a totally dominating mood at that moment, there was no time for slavish worship. Instead, Noreen still wearing her prescribed fetishist garb, there was aggressive, brutal sport. And Noreen dazzled, completely submissive before his whirl-wind attack, lay in brassiere, garter-belt, hosiery and high heels on the bed. Face down, two fat pillows bunched beneath her stomach, holding her buttocks high in the air, she allowed her husband to transfer lubricant from the end of his drooling prick, work it into the portals of her anus. She moaned helplessly as he corkscrewed his finger into her, prepared her for that ultimate digit.
Shortly, as he slowly, painfully cleaved his swollen, reaming cock into her ass, she was transported to a limbo of sexual excess. One hand beneath her belly, he masturbated her while he jagged his organ in and out of that miserly mouth. To which a filth-hazed Noreen exhorted: "In, oh shove it in! Shove that beautiful pole right through me. Ow, ow, oh owww! Don't stop. Don't ever stop. Fuck me! Fuck Noreen's ass. Gorgeous, gorgeous! It hurts and it doesn't hurt. Deep, oh deep! Until it comes up my goddamned throat! Baby?"
"What, Noreen?"
"Will you do this to Sirri too? Will you teach her? You must you know. Even if she doesn't think she wants it. Afterwards she will. No woman's complete without this. Rub, darling, rub. Harder now, faster!"
And after another moment's pause to better savor the vilification: "I'm almost sorry, darling. Sorry it's over. This has been so wonderful. Having you again. The little bitch! Why did she have to cave in so easy?" She thrashed more insanely. "Oooh, you baby stallion. Fuck! Oh, fuck Noreen's bottom!"
CHAPTER FIVE
If Dwight Adair's strategy relative to winning Sirri's consent to seduction was thorough and painstaking, it was almost nothing in comparison to the elaborate plans he made for the night of the seduction itself. For the two days following her telephone acceptance of assignation-Dwight calling her home at a time when he knew she was alone-he removed in a dazed trance, his brain spinning like tandem slot machine cylinders, a tireless sequence of jackpots, a ceaseless click-click-click meshing that always came up: Cherry-cherry-cherry. And where his previous conquests had required cut-and-dried preparations, he knew that for this purest of the pure special pains should be taken.
Fearful lest Shirri develop cold feet, he had set up their rendezvous for the earliest possible date.
Despite her protests, he had insisted that the event take place at the house, in the exotic atmosphere of his specially equipped bedroom. Crazy to have Sirri this first time in the sunken, satin-swathed bed, to savor the play of the vari-colored spots on her exquisite body, to have image of her figure, that of their conmingled bodies, reflected a dozen-fold in the banked mirrors, he didn't, for a minute, consider taking her to the downtown apartment. To this effect he'd given both Noreen and Ardyce strict orders to clear the house this Friday night; the strictest privacy was integral to the fullest enjoyment of his holy victory. In a separate drawer in the spacious dresser at the foot of the bed Sirri's "trousseau" waited. Expertly estimating her sizes, he'd shopped for her things himself, had spent lavishly on everything from peignoir right down to white-satin pumps. While, for "wedding night" gift there was an extravagantly-costly choker of cultured pearls. Later, when he was more positive of their relationship's footing, there would be a genuine duplication. Then money would be no object; only the rarest of the earth's treasures would be fit to grace the beloved flesh of his exquisite goddess.
Again, ignoring Sirri's plea that their first confrontation should be a brief one, he had insisted that she prepare alibi that would allow her to remain for indefinite term. Noreen would be visiting her parents in Chicago that weekend; couldn't Sirri come up with a ploy whereby she could at least spend the night? Thus Sirri engineered subterfuge with a girl friend, the story she gave her mother being one involving a slumber party.
Most of all Sirri had been concerned with what Dwight might do to her, how many times she must surrender to him in order to earn her "gift" and its attendant "allowance". Which cute gaucheries Dwight took with a smile, so sure was he that once he'd indoctrinated her into the mysteries of sexual intercourse, she would hardly be concerned with such irrelevant worries. Perhaps, in the bargain, she might even learn to feel a modicum of affection for him. Which was, in the long run, the most dear-tobe-hoped-for culmination of all. Otherwise, a designated car would be left for her in a downtown parking lot; the key would be found in a specified hiding place therein. She would drive, to the Adair residence at approximately 9:30 p.m. where she would circle the house, park in the garage itself. Dwight waiting for her, he would see to closing the door, guiding her into the house personally.
It was that heart-racing arrival which Dwight impatiently waited on at this very moment. The house empty, only the dimmest of sidelights burning downstairs, he checked cartridge components of his living room hi-fi installation, started the continuous-threading reels of Eglar, Delius and Sibelius that would saturate the house throughout the rest of the night. He mentally audited his appearance and toilette (he wore a satin paisley robe, a softcollared sport shirt, regular streetclothes otherwise; lingerie affectations had been eschew for fear of alarming Sirri), as well as his above stairs preparations. Sirri was quite daring as regarded Manhattans; no harm would be done by permitting her two mild drinks to dull her understandable apprehensions, to rout niggling inhibitions.
Nevertheless he cursed himself, his trembling limbs, the erratic tattoo of his heart, as he watched for her from a darkened window. You idiotl he lashed. You'd think this was the first woman you'd ever had! Calm down, will you! If your contagion affects poor Sirri....
Sirri! The name rumbled in his brain, and suddenly he felt quite weak and dizzy, as if he were going to faint. It can't bel Not after all this time. My blessed Madonna! She's actually going to let me touch her, possess her. An unworthy swine like myself. I can't believe-New fear paralyzed him as he glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty-five. She isn't coming; she's changed her mind; she's At that moment a brilliant glare of light exploded in the drive, and he saw the dark-blue Chrysler barrel toward the house. Instantly he was darting into the depths of the house, heading toward the connected garage.
For long moments-once the door rumbled down and Sirri could emerge from the car-they stood apart, Sirri's face dazed, her eyes unable to meet his. As per his plan, Dwight didn't rush her. Lightly placing one arm about her shoulders, he breathed, "Sirri, my darling. You did come. You are here. I was so worried. I thought...." He terminated his stupid chattering. "Here, baby. This way."
Wordlessly, her shoulders slightly hunched, her face strained, Sirri allowed him to guide her through the house. Until now, standing inside the door of the Adair bedroom, surveying the bizarre setting, the sunken pit in which the white-satined bed stood, the blue, yellow and red spotlights that played across its glittering surface, she was stunned to immobility. Great shudders swept her, and instantly her flesh was splayed with goose bumps. "Dwight ... Mr. Adair...." she gasped suddenly aghast at the incredible setting.
"Don't be upset now, baby," he soothed, coming behind her, guiding her to the dais upon which the escritoire, the tables and chairs stood. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I promised I'd be gentle. Nobody's going to hurt you. But surely you've seen the bedroom, Noreen told me she'd brought you and Doris up here...."
"Yes, but it wasn't like this. Those spotlights ... I didn't see those. Those crazy sheets. I don't understand...."
"A mere touch, Sirri. It reflects a certain aesthetic taste. You'll like it once you become accustomed to it." He caught himself. "It enhances the erotic. Here, sit down, pet. I'll fix us a drink. That'll relax you." He smiled reassuringly down at her, his hands trembling anew at prospect of soon touching, kissing, taking sexual liberties with the elegant female. "How lovely you look tonight, Sirri. You're absolutely ravishing. That gown; it's gorgeous."
He stood back momentarily, appraised Sirri with hot, hungry eyes. The dress was lovely, a skimpy, chartreuse crepe that clung to her breasts alluringly in the bodice, while flouncy pleats in the skirt emphasizing the opulence of Sirri's hips and thighs. Lime-green stockings, sheer, glistening, graced her legs; her pretty feet were stuffed into matching, green pumps. Contrasted to her dark tresses, her ivory flesh, the dress made her a vision of mouthwatering desirability, and immediately Dwight conjectured about her lingerie. But abruptly, remembering his pledge not to frighten Sirri, he turned off his lecherous stare. "You will have a drink?"
"I don't know. Do you think I should?"
"Definitely. Not too many, but just enough to loosen you up a little. Every thing ... sex especially ... is better after a little liquor." He guided her to a chair. "Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Let me feast my eyes on you." Once more, though busy with the drinks, his eyes flitted to her voluptuous body. She leaned forward slightly, the reflected light from the bed giving her complexion a psychedelic, polarized cast, creating deep, tantalizing shadows in her abundant cleavage where the low-cut gown charmingly fell away. She crossed her knees slightly; Dwight got a fleeting glimpse of white flesh above her stockings, and he became painfully aware of the sudden throb of his engorged cock inside his trousers. Dear God, he raged. If I don't shove this into someone-something-soon!
Nevertheless, he heeded his blueprint, fought for composure. Slow, Dwight. Don't crowd her. Thus, giving her drink to her, he resisted the impulse to fall at her knees, kiss her taunting, pink lips, bury his face in her ripe breasts, burrow his famished face into her fragrant, humid thighs. "To us," he toasted. "May we both find the love we seek." Still he couldn't dispel his most basic yearnings, and as she sipped the drink, he leaned, took her left hand, buried his lips in the soft, smooth palm. "Lovely," he choked, "so indescribably lovely. Forgive me, Sirri, I just can't help myself. I don't want to frighten you, really I don't."
He drew up his chair, sat facing her. For a time he erected diversion by inquiring after her escape from home. There was no trouble finding the car? What time would her mother expect her home tomorrow? Was there any chance she might call her girl friend? To which he was reassured, she inquired after Noreen, strong relief registering when she was informed she had left for Chicago. Dwight then informed her about his downtown apartment, told her they would meet there from time to time, then explained his reasons for wanting their initial meeting to be here. He neglected to mention anything of his fetishist tastes, of course. She would learn about that soon enough, there was no sense in alarming her prematurely.
"Groovy," Sirri remarked now. "That music, I mean. Not my speed, but nice. Speakers in every room. Some people have everything."
"Correct, darling. Just the way you will have everything. If you're good ... very good to me."
She shrugged, and her eyes slightly sultry, the cocktail taking quick effect, she said, "Well, I'm here, aren't I?"
"Yes, darling," he hissed. "You're here. At long last. I'm so happy, I've waited so long."
"I ... I wish we didn't have to talk. I mean, if we could just do it. I feel kind of rotten inside. Guilty and cheap, you know. Imagine ... doing this to Noreen ... Mrs. Adair. After all the nice things she's done for me."
"Please, baby, don't feel like that. Don't give Noreen a second thought. What she doesn't know won't hurt her. I'm sure, if she knew, she'd understand. It's only natural that a man ... any man ... should fall helplessly in love with you."
"It's the first time I've ever done anything like this. Honest, Dwight. Sure, I've had guys kiss me, some of them got fresh. But those jerks got a faceful of finger nails. They never tried it a second time."
"Please, Sirri," Dwight said, an insane jealousy piqued, "don't talk about those others, I don't want to hear."
"That doesn't mean I don't know what's coming off, Dwight. I'm a hip kid; I know things. I've read the books. There are some marriage manuals hidden in my room. Along with some porny books. I know things. But ... I've never done anything ... I am a ... virgin. I've read that it hurts the first time. It hurts awful. Is that the truth? You won't hurt me, will you, Dwight? You promised...."
"I'll try not to hurt you, precious," Dwight breathed, his heart bloated with joy at the longed-after affirmation of Sirri's virginity. "With some girls it doesn't hurt at all. With others there's just a little pain. I'm sure you'll be one of these. A healthy, athletic child like you...."
Sirri's face reflected surprise as she realized she'd so quickly downed her Manhattan. And proffering her glass anew: "I guess you were right, Dwight. That does help. I don't feel quite so nervous and scared now. But that bed and all ... those spotlights. It is kind of weird. Another, please?"
"Certainly, my pet." He was up, pouring refills all around. "Don't think about the surroundings then. Just think about the bed, about how wonderful those silky sheets will feel. About the wonderful things I'm going to teach you, do to you." His voice became slightly slathering. "Once you've had it, you'll never be able to live without it. That's why God made men and women the way he did."
Gradually her voice became blurred, the liquor cutting in rapidly, evidence of Sirri's inexperience as a drinker. "You make it sound so wonderful, Dwight. In a way I'm glad. Sure I'm afraid ... I'm damned scared ... but I'm glad it's someone who knows what he's doing. Like you said ... no punk kid in the back seat of a car somewhere."
"Trust me, darling. I'll be good to you. So very good." He slid to his knees before her, fervidly caressed her silken, glossed legs-her ankles, calves and knees, stopping at the hem of her skirt. "Oh, I want you, Sirri. So desperately. Will you let me take you to bed now?"
A shudder slammed her, and briefly she froze, stared ahead with glazed eyes. A moment later a helpless jittering convulsed her, she pressed her knees together, scissored her thighs reflexively. "Like wow," she giggled. "Zingies. Isn't that the craziest feeling? It's like when I read those dirty books. Only this is the real thing, isn't it?" She shrugged, heaved herself to her feet, stood bemusedly in the embrace of his arms, her belly, the bulge of her cunt equidistant to his stunned face. Until now, helplessly, involuntarily, Dwight leaned forward, buried his face in her crotch, breathed in her fragrance-flowery yet musky. An awesome spasm ripped him, and he had the most insane impulse to gobble her there, to bite her mercilessly. Somehow he resisted the yearning, contented himself with a lingering kiss. "Hey...." Sirri seethed. "Oh, hey. That's something. Oh, mister, are you one of those...?"
He didn't answer, but instead stood, solemnly commenced leading her down the risers to that erotic arena. "Here, angel," he sighed thickly. "Lie here on the bed. Let me take care of it all, let me adore you...."
Self-consciously, tremblingly, Sirri allowed herself to be pushed onto her back on the bed; she allowed him to arrange her full length-shoes and all-on the maddeningly-slippery sheets. But then, staring up, terrified as Dwight sprawled beside her: "Aren't you going to turn out the lights, Dwight? I'd much rather ... this first time...."
The angel, the sweet, innocent angel! Dwight raged. How adorable of you to ask, how typical! "Please, baby," he choked. "Let's leave the lights, shall we? This first time especially. I must see you. A body so lovely as yours must be bathed in light."
"Oh, Dwight, please...." she squeaked.
He drowned out the rest of her plaints with hot, greedy kisses. As now, at long last, he fell upon her supine body, gathered it into his arms, and burying his lips in her exquisite, velvety throat, he slowly worked them up under her jaw, advancing on the vaunted fortress of her lips. Then, as his mouth closed on hers, as the heat of her body was transfused to his own, as the points of her breasts electrified and branded him, he groaned sobbingly in his throat at the ecstasy of finally possessing her like this, he gratefully learned that her warmth, softness, the very texture of her flesh was everything he'd ever hoped it would be. He couldn't get enough of her, he wanted to submerge himself in this lush mouth, to be swallowed up in this voluptuously slithering flesh beneath him. It was all he could do to keep from driving his fingers into the slimy mush of her cunt then and there.
Nevertheless, he managed control, and knowing that such would spook Sirri, work to the detriment of his master plan, he contented himself with famished, adoring kissings, pulsing embraces, incipient passes at her charging breasts, hips and thighs. Until, very quickly, Sirri a natural child, relaxed beneath him. Then she was breathing hard, her legs jittering, her mouth amateurishly answering his kisses. Until now as he pulled away, stared worshipfully down at the rumpled virgin, he read vestigial, witless lust in her own eyes. "Sirri, my beloved," he intoned, "you're lovely beyond description, you taste ... feel absolutely divine. I'm dying ... I want you so terribly. You're all I've ever dreamed you'd be. I feel so unworthy, so humble before beauty ... virginity like yours." His voice cracked ridiculously. "May I feel ... will you allow me ... to ... undress you now?"
For long moments, Sirri's eyes rolling wildly in her head, she said nothing. But finally: "Shouldn't I?" she quaked. "Maybe I should go into the bathroom or something."
"No, darling," he pleaded. "My way. Let me." And as his fingers reached for her, groped behind her back for snaps and zippers, she stiffened one last time, made move to resist. But as his torrid lips buried themselves in the creamy valley of her brimming breasts, she sighed shatteringly, surrendered once and for all, the look in her eyes one of gratitude-gratitude that there was proficient paramour here to skillfully indoctrinate her, remove all fear of gauche ineptitude from her shoulders.
Characteristically, Dwight made a prolonged fantastically slavish ceremony of divesting' his dream goddess of her garments. Amidst a ceaseless flurry of sighs an extravagant litany of praises and kissings and adoring caresses, he floated first one item then another off her body, making the disrobing a thing of dreamy beauty. Until, despite her qualms, Sirri was gradually transported into a limbo of sexual delirium, she became proud, preening, a profligate dispenser of largesse, as her gown, the underlying slip were peeled from her, drifted off into that abyss of darkness. She whimpered, writhed luxuriously upon the slippery satin beneath her, she thought it exceedingly voluptuous to feel her sharp heels dig into the sheets. Now, at long last, her tempestuous body lay clothed in just a lazy, black brassiere, panty-girdle, pastel-green hose and green shoes. Frozen in delight, Dwight hovered over her, stared down upon her. His eyes slavishly roving her body, his brain amok, he gloried in the fact that her flesh was as white and flaw less as he'd imagined it. Until, helpless now before his transcending lust:
Sirri lurched, whimpered as his fingers grazed the tips of her breasts, as his other hand swept ticklingly along the puffing bowl of her belly, lovingly clutched and gathered the wiry matte of her by-now-melting snatch. Pinched mewlings broke from her as he parted her legs slightly, let one finger lazily strum and pressure the weeping lips of her cunt itself. Even when Dwight commenced undoing her brassiere, toying with the waist of her charming girdle, she made no move to stop him.
The adorable pink tits appeared now pouty blood-engorged plum puddings, a knurled cherry of flesh aton a minor mound of smooth, seemingly-burnished aureole. Tits Dwight raged, that all but scream for a merciless sucking! Whereupon he impulsively dipped his head, sent serpentine tongue to wrap about each succulent bud, followed each searing lashing with a compressing tugging of his lips. Attentions which caused Sirri's hips to jut up, tore blissful yips from her maiden lips. Somehow Dwight was strong enough to pull himself away from the tantalizing turrets; he proceeded to finish disrobing her. The shoes were flung aside, the stockings were undone, slowly worked down her legs, the peeling accompanied by many and many a tickling kiss. At the last Sirri gasped, blocked his hands feebly as he moved to draw down her panty girdle, reveal that most secret, most highly-guarded treasure of her body. But as Dwight's hands persisted, she whined piteously, allowed him to have his way. Then the mildly-stiff garment descended inch-by-inch, revealing her puffing, dazzlingly white belly. And now, the jet-black diamond of her lower belly, a crisp, vibrant bramble of curls that seemingly erupted as the nylon was drawn away, a hairy pompadour that careened down between her thighs, obscured the lips of her pussy itself.
The panty went sailing, and instantly Dwight's fingers sallied forth to ruffle and play with her matte, one finger, in the process, slicing deep into that lubricious heartland, grazing the pearl of her clitoris skillfully, a liberty that truly made Sirri leap and twist. It took all the will power Dwight possessed to content himself with but one fleeting pass with his lips across that wiry gorse. For the briefest wild moment he thought to fling all his carefully prepared plans to the winds, he was wild to pull those delectable thighs, to plunge his greedy, gobbling, licking, pentrating tongue and mouth onto that vulnerable target, drive Sirri to screaming fits then and there. From whence the reserve will power came, he was never to know. But suddenly a guttural gasp escaping him, he jerked his face from that maladorous font; he was up from the bed in a rush.
"Dwight...." Sirri groaned dazedly. "What...?"
"This first, my pet," he seethed. "Something special."
Whereupon he fled up the steps, opened the dresser drawer. Now he stood with a swirl of silk in one hand, a black jewel box in the other. In a rush he was upon Sirri, kissing and hugging her tender ly, raising her from the bed while he affixed the expensive choker to her throat. Then she must appraise her reflection in the mirror, she must watch as he caressed and lifted her breasts from behind, his lips busy on the nape of her neck, an homage which seemingly pulled pagan strings attached to her cunt, seemingly made it tingle and tighten delightfully. "For me, Dwight?" she gasped. "It's beautiful."
"Only the beginning, princess," he seethed. "There will be so many beautiful things in your future."
She turned dazedly, regarded the clutch of silk which Dwight, even now disentangled beside her. "What's this?"
"More pretties, baby. I bought them just for you." He shook out the hosiery, the brassiere, the panties and garter belt, he arranged the witchy pumps on the sheets beside her. "For our wedding night, angel. The only wedding night we'll ever have. It's only fitting." Whereupon he commenced to dress the bemused child in the rich, heavy, silk lingerie: The brassiere first, tailored and plain, emphasizing the high uplift of youthful breasts, the simple, unadorned garter-belt; the opaque, thigh-slashed, lace-hemmed step-ins (a special fetish in itself; then the white sheer hosiery; finally the dagger-toed and heeled slippers, with the chaste strap across the vamp.
All of which Sirri docilely, dazedly lent herself to, the rampaging sexuality within her eventually overriding the mild pangs of repugnance suffusing her. Eerie his love might be. But the incredible feelings it generated within her belly and groin were worth any and all submissions. Still there was one more weird addition to her costume. As, once more, Dwight deserted the bed, returning this time with-of all things!-an abbreviated net veil, crowned with a pearl-studded tiara-the ultimate artifice of his psychotic obsession with her virginity! Sirri's limbs were awash with goose pimples as she bowed her head, allowed him to place the veil upon her disheveled curls.
Now, numbly, nearly falling as Dwight slid her from the bed, forced her to stand, walked her to the second tier, Sirri was asked to pose for him there, the picture-so far as the man was concerned-thrillingly provocative beyond his wildest fantasies. A virgin, decked out in a virgin's costume-a costume to celebrate her impending defloration! , He could only stand the heart-wrenching vision briefly. And then, his eyes glittering fiendishly: "Come, my beloved. Walk to me. Walk proudly, walk regally." He fell to his knees before her as she reached the floor of the arena, upon which, strangled whines searing his throat, he groveled before her, kissed the toes of the shoes, the silky incline of her ankles, his tongue flicking forth in tiny stabbings, the tandem torture making Sirri moan, causing a fiery itch and constriction in the deepest recesses of her vagina. , "Dwight!" she gasped. "What...."
"Please, please," he babbled. "Let me adore you. Let me confer the adoration you deserve." How long he knelt before her, how long he slid his lips up and down her ankles, calves, knees and thighs, how long he circled his lips about those fleshly pillars, Sirri was never to remember. All she knew was that shortly she could stand no more of it, and in escape attempt, fell toward the bed. Immediately Dwight was upon her, crawling forward, his body jamming her knees, his face buried in her thighs, spiraling on the silky, puffing dome of her belly. She groaned thickly-the cry half fright, half delight-as his mouth opened, then closed on her mons veneris struggled for even more total entrapment of her entire twat. "Dwight, Dwight...." she pleaded. But then, as a heathenish, filthy yearning exploded backward within the depths of her belly, she protested no more.
For perhaps five minutes, his fingers tormenting her tits while he worked at her crotch, Dwight was derangedly content to suck and nibble her cunt through the rich silk of her ritual costume; he chewed and licked and sucked until the material was soaked completely through, impregnated with a mixture of his saliva and her vaginal liqueur. By then Sirri was beyond the pale. Enthralled with the unholy sensations, she let her legs open and close in slapping spasms; she twisted and rotated her pelvis the better to make contact with his tongue, with his gently nipping teeth. In her heart of hearts, she was crazy to have him remove her panties, to introduce the torturing tongue and mouth into the screaming flesh of her realest self.
Very shortly then, her fondest yearnings were realized. As, still kneeling, Dwight raised her buttocks, slid the sticky step-ins off her hips. Immediately his mouth reattacked her gash. His hands joining in the fray, he led Sirri's dazed fingers down to her cunt, where he guided her to hold herself to even more gaping grin as his fiery, vibrating tongue charged inside her most sacred flesh. Then, when his tongue branded her clitoris, wove incandescent bracelets of sensation about the swollen button, when it stabbed the raw, shrieking tip itself she could contain her cries no longer. "Go ahead," Dwight wheezed at her muffled outbursts, pausing briefly in his obeisance, "Let it go, darling. Nobody will hear you."
"What is it, Dwight?" she barked, her pelvis rocking savagely. "Darling, what's happening? It's so intense, I feel so wild, like I'm going to die or something! Darling!"
Sirri's final breakdown, her usage of the darling endearment thrilled Dwight to the very eore of his being, and he wrapped his tongue more demonically about the distended pearl, he formed cowl with his mouth which would seemingly create vacuum powerful enough to suck her very pussy inside out. It was further torture that caused Sirri to shriek hideously, unashamedly. "You baby," he chuckled upon again relenting, "you adorable baby! You're coming, that's what's happening. You're coming for the very first time. A pop, a climax, an orgasm ... whatever you want to call it. You're coming, darling! Let it happen. Let it go!" Once more he buried his face in her swimming, sweet-tasting cunt, he swirled his tongue in the serrated, compound lips there, ended by virtually scalpeling her clitoris with a keeling tongue, a thing that made her growl raggedly, caused her to clamp her legs about his head, almost suffocate him.
"Oh, oh, ohh...." she yawped. "It's heavenly, it's ... You're killing me. Stop, oh stop ... I can't stand any more!"
At which Dwight removed his tongue from the passion cherry, by no means deserted the tasty twat itself. Around and around his tongue went-in and out-providing soothing cornedown from that apex of sensation. Finally, as her sighs and writhings diminished, he withdrew his mouth from her crack, began slithering up her belly. Across her pubic delta, across her navel, across her diaphragm, between her breasts. Until now, in a decisive move, the act accomplished before Sirri realized what was happening, he clamped her head between his hands, drove his oily cunt-reeking lips into hers, forced his slimed tongue between her teeth, swirled it deep into the depths of her mouth. It was an uncontrollable sadism and filth designed to either outrage or to inflame the nymph beyond control, deliver her to a mindless limbo where any excess would be permitted. As it turned out, the calculated risk paid off, for Sirri exploded beneath him, her mouth clamping and sucking his tongue, her face rolling paganly upon his. "Yes," she hissed when he finally broke away. "Oh, yes, now. Do it to me, whatever you want! I'm not afraid now."
Reluctantly Dwight drew away from Sirri. Standing beside the bed, he commenced to undress. His underwear plastered to him, he tore at his robe, shirt, undershirt, kicking off his shoes simultaneously. His trousers' zipper sang; and he brought down pants and undershorts in one fell swoop. His socks then. And now, reflected light silvering a plummeting stream of his prick oil as he allowed the prodigious length to spring to its fullest extension, he turned toward the bed. Whereupon, her eyes widening in abject terror as she saw the awesome cock staring at her eye-to-eye, Sirri recoiled slightly, expelled a sibilent gasp. "No, Dwight! You aren't ... I had no idea ... You aren't going to put ... that ... big thing into me! You'll hurt me, you'll kill me!"
He leeringly advanced on the bed. "I won't, my pet. You underestimate the powers ... the adaptability of a woman. And you are a woman ... Such a woman! I'll be careful, I promise; I'll make it easy for you as I can. But first...." Once more he whirled away from the bed, reappeared from the gloom bearing two articles this time: One a fringed, white, silken coverlet perhaps three-by-three, the other a hastily-charged applicator containing contraceptive foam. Even as he placed the silk scarf beneath Sirri's buttocks, the fetishist within him demanding that he keep its stained message as memento of this conquest, he said, "I noticed that your hymen is all but non-existent. A good sign. You'll bleed, but not over much. Even so...."
The mesmerized girl stared girl stared aghast as he forced her knees, moved to insert the long, plunger-type dispenser into her vagina. "Dwight ... what is that?"
"Relax, my dearest. Only a little precaution. To keep the babies away. Later I'll supply you with pills, but for this first time...." Sirri gasped, started as he drove the syringe into her gaping slit, then gasped anew as she felt the eold foam spill into her. "There, that isn't so bad, is it?" The clouded syringe was withdrawn, flung aside. "And now, my beloved...."
She froze as he came over her, as he spread her legs, brought her knees up, delighted in the exotic starbursts her sharp heels poked into the white satin. Then, as he slid forward, the massive, hanging stalk horrifying her further, she protested, "My clothes. The bra and belt, my shoes and stockings ... aren't you going to take them off?"
His sneer became even more sick. "No, precious," he snickered. "That won't be ncessary. This will do very nicely indeed." He made a slight advance, his movement bobbing his dripping prick against her thigh, and Sirri froze anew. "Relax, darling," he soothed. "Everything's going to be just fine...."
"I'm afraid, Dwight," she rasped. "I'm so afraid.
He took the slippery snout of his phallus, gently worked it in the vestibule of her vagina, pointedly slid it across her blatantly-exposed clitoris, the hot caress causing her to whimper piteously. "There, doesn't that feel wonderful? Doesn't that excite you? How can a thing like that do you any harm? Be brave, my darling, be brave." He continued to swivel his cannon against her outer lips, against that touchstone of her passion, until, not too much later, Sirri's hips began to rotate; harsh, drawn-out sighs began striating her throat. "Be brave," he intoned a last time.
Then, his own fingers guiding the slippery, red knob of his cock into that narrow, cringing mouth-the contact of his sex machine with the hot lips of hers causing Dwight to croon viscously-he commenced his inexorable, punishing, stretching and rupturing descent into that most holy of holies. "Oh, ouch, owww, Dwight," she gasped. "Oh, darling, please don't. I've changed my mind, I can't stand it. You'll tear me. I can feel it starting, I can...." But, practiced swordsman that he was, Dwight never relented for an instant. Gentle as he could possibly be under the circumstances, he nevertheless drove on, realizing that to hesitate now would be folly of the grossest sort. His rapture was magnified intolerably as he bulldozed the remnants of Sirri's sacred seal, actually felt them tear at his passage. Appalled at the tightness of her channel, a sound of pain erupted from his own mouth. He felt a fine, hot mist splash against his thighs, he felt streams of blood, intermixed with their genital effluent, meander down the bunching rondules of Sirri's buttocks. A virgin, he exulted, nearly insane with lust and joy, a bona fide virgin! Dear God, can a man ever be more proud, more sanctified! He grunted, pushed relentessly on, knew continuing amazement at the resistance the tiny mouth threw up. Even Noreen's asshole, he admitted, wasn't this narrow. Rampaging bestiality further took him, and he twisted, dug, pressured still deeper, Sirri's pinched cries serving as spur of the most fanatic sort.
"Dwight, Dwight...." she pleaded. "Stop, oh stop! It hurts, it hurts terribly. You're going to tear me, I know you will!"
He ignored the pleas, leaned into her all the more stubbornly. Until now, finally, their pelvic bones ground together, their hairy, muck-plastered crotches fused and wove into one superabundant mat. Here Dwight paused pantingly savored the agonizing sleeve into which he'd forced himself; he delighted in the involuntary tremors and milkings the naiad's sweet cunt conferred upon his cock. Now, gradually, there was infinitesimal relaxing, s'gnal seemingly, and he began a slow steady ebb and flow. "There, baby, there...." he soothed. "It's better now, easier ... isn't it?"
"It still hurts," she whimpered. "Oh, Dwight, I don't think I'll ever get to like this. How can anything so painful ever...."
"Patience, my love, patience." Up and down he went-in and out. Until the scalding, viscous tunnel became more juicy and loose, until soft, slurping lisps carried to his ears. Dwight groaned anguishedly. He wanted to shoot, to spill his cream so desperately. And yet, seasoned provocateur that he was, he knew that if he delivered before Sirri did, he would have a devil's own time inducing her to participate again. Her own orgasm was of the essence, once she'd achieved it, she'd be a tireless devotee of cunt and cock, a convert until the day she died. Thus he forestalled his own climax, dulled his lust by chanting endless flatteries and endearments into Sirri's ears, concentrated on her pleasure. He kissed her repeatedly, cradled her bottom with one hand, flirted with the puckered, besmirched star of her anus. Now and then he paused to readjust his position, and hers, so that the can't of his penetration would afford ultimate contact between his pistoning meat and her swollen clitoris; he instructed her to wrap her legs around his flanks, the slide of silk on his flesh, the sharp stab of her heels behind his knees piquing his lust intolerably despite all his good intentions. He mustn't fail this innocent!
Then, shortly, the tenor of Sirri's pleas changed, and pained mortification was replaced by hectic desperation. "That feeling," she squeaked, pumping her hips of her own volition now, "it's beginning again! Only it's better this time, stronger; it seems perfect and holy. Oh, darling!" Her voice snagged. "Darling, darling. I'm coming! It's happening! Yes, yes ... Push, push, never stop pushing. Hurt me, tear me! I don't care! Just so long as...." Now a horrendous, deafening scream ruptured her throat, filled the room, shot to the ceiling. Where it shattered into a million pieces, descended as slow-drifting, gold-plated confetti. Confetti which stung and seared like liquid fire as it landed upon Dwight's back.
As of that moment his control was demolished, and pumping like one gone berserk, he reamed Sirri's cunt savagely, exulted in the fact that he seemingly hit bottom. Now he knew that scalding backup inside his guts; he felt the hot, gushing stream rumble down his swollen cock; he felt the recoil, Sirri's startled murmurings as the torrid charges arced repeatedly into the depths of her womb, splashed and painted her very bowels in a way she would never-in her whole life-ever tire of.
While at that selfsame moment, on the other side of those mirrored closet doors, an ugly, black, fat dildo enscounced in the depths of her gaping gash, being worked frantically back and forth over her voyeur-maddened clitoris A deceitful Noreen, who hadn't flown to Chicago after all. Who had deemed that her role in implementing this seduction most certainlv entitled her to ringside seat at the consummation itself. And now, marveling at her husband's innovationary preparations, at the fantastically skillful way he'd brought Sirri along, had delivered her to screaming climax There was no other alternative but to produce the outrageous dildo, to deliver herself to orgasm upon orgasm. Now the fiendish instrument dug and swiveled even more ferociously, made Noreen seethe raggedly through clenched teeth. As she saw Dwight buck and plunge atop Sirri, saw eviscerating agony mask his features, undeniable evidence of his own climax, of his own blistering discharge of sperm without end.
CHAPTER SIX
It was precisely as Dwight had predicted. Before a laggard dawn once more made its appearance, Sirri had been converted into a confirmed addict of sexual delights. Between the time they began and the birth of the new day, they had completed at least five separate events-speaking for himself, that is; there was no telling how many orgasms Sirri wrested for herself along the way-and neither of them would ever be the same again. Though understandably modest and at least superficially reticent as regards her desires, Sirri nevertheless managed to jettison enough of her conditioned inhibitions so that she unmistakably made her desires known. Desires there were. As was evidenced when they awoke shortly after 9:00 a.m. Saturday morning, and Dwight stealthily awoke to find an in tent-faced Sirri staring down at his residue-encrusted tumescent prick. Playing possum, he watched through slitted-lids as the adorable child raptly and carefully handled his cock, unfurled and weighed it.
It was a charmingly ingenue performance which he couldn't resist, and watching her amazement as his pecker stiffened before her very eyes, he had but to open his eyes, smirk at her, and rampant lust blazed in her eyes. The sweet nymph had but to fall back, smile pleadingly-not a single word necessary-and he was upon her, couched between her legs, glorying in her grimaces and whimpers as his rod plumbed her stiff, aching depths anew.
They had dozed again following this impromptu fuck. After which he had spirited Sirri to the bathroom. Where, in the opulent, sunken tub, they had gamboled for nearly an hour, with Dwight making a religious rite out of scrubbing her to within an inch of her life, something symbolic about the purification.
Again-as had transpired throughout that endless night-there were the enchanting, ingenue questions, the majority of them centering on nomenclature, anatomy and the "sin" connected with the variations employed. Dwight's predeliction with lingerie for instance? What did that mean? Why did he do it? Wasn't it perverted? The way he'd put his mouth between her legs, done the things he had to her there. Certainly that must be abnormal, a taboo deviation. And what about the way he'd fingered her bottom? Why had he done that? Granted, she'd enjoyed it; the liberty had triggered the most fantastic sensations within her-belly. And how could that be reason in itself? To merely enhance the ultimate gratification? It wasn't right for them to wallow as they'd done; she'd been taught that a man and a woman-correction; a husband and wife-should only make love in a prescribed manner, face-to-face, with no detours; they should take care of the barest necessities in the swiftest, most forthright manner possible. And yes, she'd enjoyed their "detours", but that didn't make it any the less "sinful", did it?
"You prig," Dwight had laughed often at her gamin questions and counter answers, "you adorable little prig. What a joy it will be for me to teach you about the endless varieties of love. And you have so much to learn."
How much Sirri had to learn-was fanatic about learning-became evident in the weeks following. Having formulated a code whereby they might call each other during the day, they were quickly enmeshed in as convoluted an intrigue as anyone might ever wish. And where Dwight had thought that it would be his place to constantly persuade Sirri to rendezvous, it turned out to be quite the other way around. She putting herself in his hands entirely, trusting him with an innocent love that made Dwight's heart melt at times, Sirri pestered him for assignation-either at the house, or at the downtown lovenest he'd introduced her to-constantly, no risk, seemingly, too great for her in order so that she might be with him, continue her lessons in love. Quite often Sirri was able to get away in the afternoon, and it was a special joy of theirs to meet at the apartment then, create a special, private and amoral world-microcosm-all their own within those luxurious perimeters.
Needless to say, Dwight was deliriously in love with the pixie; Sirri was in his thoughts morning, noon and night, the actuality of their liaison causing Dwight to founder in the most incredible of daydreams. Dreams in which there was no Noreen, no conventions, no establishment to frown on a man of 48 taking to wife a ravishingly beautiful woman of 19. Strange to say, Sirri felt an almost equally strong bond of affection for Dwight as well. Almost from the start each declared his love for the other, something heartbreakingly sincere in Sirri's tone when she said the words to Dwight. All mention of financial or material remuneration for the unstinting surrender of her holy body to him was forgotten now; it was as if such a bargain had never been made in the first place, and Sirri refused to speak of it whenever Dwight broached it. Which is not to say that there weren't constant gifts; it was one of life's greatest joys for him to shop for Sirri, to shower her with all the baubles, clothes, perfumes, shoes, and silks that the commercial world outside could provide. The apartment literally bulged with pretties of every description, and there weren't, seemingly, enough hours in their "days" for Sirri to even model her new clothes, jewels and shoes, let alone put them into service. For after all, when they gamboled in near-nakedness ninety-percent of the time Dwight came to implicitly believe in Sirri's love; there were times when it seemed he would die if that love, that innocent trust and dependency were ever taken from him. Granted, he accepted it for what it was-a father substitution-yet he eternally hoped for the time when it would become something different, when he would be loved for himself. In Sirri's eyes she had now acquired the patient, gentle, understanding patriarchal image, the man she'd always hungered after in her endlessly-absent father. Someone she could share her dreams with, question about those most fundamental philosophies regulating life itself. But still, with a miraculous, never-never land difference. For this father archetype was a paramour as well, forbidden incarnation of the most repressed, secret dreams any daughter can have. Under his all-seeing guidance she could flower into the ultimate female being, realize the potential she could achieve with no other man living. And while neither of them ever articulated these thoughts in so many words, both must have recognized the unearthly uniqueness of their relationship and treasured it zealously.
She was a child and I was a child, In this kingdom by the sea But, of course, all could not be perpetual moonlight and roses; there were bound to be thorns in their magic garden as well. Of particular distress to Dwight was the swiftness with which Sirri cast off the ingenue attributes which he prized so highly. Certainly there were moments when he wished her to be unregenerate pagan, to engage in top-of-the voice paen to lust. But otherwise he would have preferred the demure, reticent, goddess-upon-a-pedestal embodiment he had envisioned her to be from the outset. However, Sirri was not always so ready to fill her prescribed role. In the long run, he had only himself to blame, for he had thought her jejune innocence charming, and had extended himself to instruct her in the "earthy" nomenclatures of love. Thus, one night, Sirri very irritated with his fetishist overtures, anxious that he cut short his preliminaries:
"Oh, please, darling! Don't fool with me any more. I want you. I want you in me. Your thing; give it to me."
"My thing?" he'd teased lightly. "What thing are you talking about?"
"You know, Dwight; don't make me say it. Your thing. Your penis." And exasperatedly: "Your water-spout."
At which he'd laughed delightedly. "Come now, darling," he'd said, "There's nothing wrong with a little straight-forward language." He'd guided her hand to his swollen member, had wrapped her stripping fingers about it. "Let's get it straight. My thing, as you call it is a prick. A pecker. A cock. Never dick or whang or dong. Those words will suffice. Can you say that? Pecker?"
"I couldn't darling. I'd be ashamed."
"Say it, baby. Pecker?"
"Pecker."
"Prick."
"Prick."
"Cock."
"Cock."
"Now, Sirri. See if you can be more explicit."
"Oh, yes, baby," she'd said, a feral, dark light in her eyes. "I will." She grabbed his tool, ground it into the hot mush of her cunt. "Please, Dwight. Shove your prick into me. Now! I need you so bad. Your prick. Your pecker. Your cock. Inside me. Oh, I'm dying for him."
Dwight had sought to capitalize on his lesson. "Inside you?' he reproached. "You can do better than that. Inside of what?'
"My vagina?" she said lamely.
"Silly. No, not vagina. You sound like a doctor, instead of the adorable little whore you are." He shoved his finger inside her gash. "This is your cunt. Say it."
Like a child reciting by rote, Sirri had joyously joined in the game. "This is my cunt."
"This is my pussy."
"This is my pussy."
"This is my snatch."
"This is my snatch."
"This is my slimy snatch that wants Daddy's big fat cock stuck into him."
"This is my slimy snatch that wants Daddy's big, fat cock stuck into him." By that time Sirri was truly agitated, the vernacular inflaming her libido disproportionately, and her face flushed, her lovely legs flailing impatiently, she'd dug her nails into his phallus, literally forced him to immerse it in her gash, gave him as remorseless a fucking as he'd ever administered to any woman.
Another time he'd been hovering between her legs (Sirri in a maddeningly exotic scarlet and black ensemble, the brassiere's tips cut away, she in just garter-belt and black silk hose), sucking and licking her cunt, commencing his assault on her clitoris, when she'd forestalled him, inaugurated another of her ingenue question and answer periods. "Why do you do that, honey? Lick me there, I mean? What do you get out of doing that?"
Again he'd been moved by her childish frankness. "Why do you ask, Sirri? Don't you enjoy it?"
"Of course I do. It's heavenly; sometimes I can't get enough of it. But what do you get from it?"
"I don't really know. I'm just proving how much I love you, I guess. If I give you pleasure, then I'm happy too."
"Is that all? There should be something for you too."
"I can't quite explain it, angel. I just love to do it, that's all. Sometimes I feel like I love you so much that there aren't words expressive enough to show you how deeply I feel. Then I have to suck your cunt; it's ultimate demonstration of my adoration for you."
Sirri's voice broke. "Oh, lover, such a sweet thing to say."
"I suppose there's a selfish angle too. If I get you terribly excited, it can't help but be that much better when I finally get around to fucking you."
"Do my parts down there have names, too? I know about the vagina and vulva and clitoris. Labia majora, labia minora, urethra and all that. You know ... dirty names?"
"Not dirty names, precious. The ... the broader language." He wrapped his tongue around her clitoris, made Sirri yelp and writhe. "This is just called Clitoris. Sometimes clit. The French refer to it as le bouton electronique ... the electric button. I like fuck pearl. Or passion cherry. As for these other things ... we've covered them already. Some crude types refer to what I'm doing as gobbling the cabbage, or muff-diving. I don't care much for those."
Whereupon Sirri had lightly grazed her anus with a pearly finger. "And this? You play with me there sometimes."
He'd shrugged. "Anus, mostly, Asshole, shithole sometimes, depending on how horny you are. The homos call it the cornhole, plus other unsavory things. The old dirt road, when they're talking about sodomy."
"Sodomy? What's that?"
"Let's not get that far afield today, huh, Sirri? Now where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?"
"You were sucking my passion cherry," she mischievously announced. "Oh yes, baby, that's wonderful. I'll never get enough of it. Suck my hot clit, you fucker! Mmmmmmmm! Not so hard, Dwight. Run your tongue around it. Oooh! Like that! It's heavenly."
"What does it feel like?" Dwight had seized erotic initiative. "When I lick you? Can you describe it?"
"It's heard to say. Sometimes it's so peaceful; I feel like a safe, protected baby. Other times it hurts and I feel like my guts are being tied in knots. Just before I pop it's so intense I want to die; I want to stop you, but I can't. Like I'm torn between two desires; one to come, the other to claw your mouth away. But once I really get over the hump, there's no stopping me. After I come, it only takes a lick or two and I'm shooting all over again." She'd stopped talking then, had concentrated on total savorance of her hovering orgasm, assisting Dwight by moving her hips up and down, already skillful at jamming her clitoris to the minor penis of his tongue.
Afterwards, shivering like a contented puppy, she'd grown reflective. "Dwight, baby?"
"Yes, darling?"
"Would you like me to do that to you sometime too? Suck your prick, I mean?"
His heart had leaped. He'd been working up to that very thing, had prolonged his sessions of cunnilingus to inordinate lengths in the hope that she'd get carried away, would reciprocate of her own accord. But for her to offer same, in the relative calm of afterglow was more than he'd ever dared dream. "You know I would, Sirri. I'd feel like a giant among men if you would. But it's not important. Just so long as you let me do you. You have to want to; otherwise it's no good."
"Supposing I told you I wanted to. Right now?"
"You don't have to, Sirri."
"I know that. But I'm just curious about what it would be like. How you'd taste, what sort of feelings I'd get. If you enjoy doing me that way so much, there must be something to it. I'm not sure I can; I might get sick. But I'd like to try. You won't go shooting ... in my mouth, will you? I don't think I could stand that."
He'd laughed adoringly. "You angel. It's not as easy as that."
"How do you know? Have you ... has Noreen done it for you?"
"No," he lied, "I've never had a woman do that for me. I've just heard. Some men do talk...."
She'd puffed up at that. "Then this will be my gift to you. My thank you for being so good to me, for loving me. Because I love you, honey." She'd partially dropped her head, had paused in minor revulsion. "You won't laugh it I can't do it?"
"I won't laugh, angel." When her lips had paused inches from the drooling, red knob of his prick, he'd reassured her: "Just take a little taste. Lick it a little. If you don't like it, then stop."
Her voice still indecisive, she'd said, "Tell me, won't you? Tell me how it feels.'" Then she'd taken a gingerly lick of his prick. Then another. Another and another. In a moment the flat of her tongue rasped the underside of his glans; the point flirted with its weeping eye. "Well?" she prompted.
"It's heavenly, pet," he'd gasped, the idea of having Sirri reverence his sex thusly exalting, thrilling his beyond description. "It feels like a tiny bee. A bee that keeps stinging me. But a delicious sting. You angel; you sweet angel." He'd groaned thickly as her mouth had boldly ventured to consume the entire knob. Then her mouth had opened wide, had slithered down, down, down, until she had accommodated as much of him as she could. As she'd come up this time, had removed herself with a liquid pop; "How about you, Sirri? Is it as bad as you thought? The taste; is it repulsive?"
"No, it isn't. Not at all. I can't describe it. I thought it would be bitter, that it wouldn't ... smell good. But it's a nothing taste ... just nothing. I like doing it for you, though. You were right ... it is a good feeling to know you're giving someone pleasure ... like it's something only you can do. May I, Dwight? Suck you some more? I only wish he wasn't so big. I got wild there for a minute. I wanted so desperately to swallow every blessed inch."
"There'll be times," he chuckled softly. But then, anxious to have her succulent, hot mouth rewrapped around his throbbing penis, he urged, "Please, princess. More. I'm just dying to have your gorgeous, little mouth wrapped around my cock. Suck me, baby. And afterwards I'll fuck the goddamned wrinkles off the inside of your cunt."
"Naughty," she'd teased. "You know how hot it makes me when you talk dirty like that." Upon which she'd dropped her head again, had attached her mouth to him like some sort of vacuum cleaner attachment, had blown him like she'd been doing it all her life.
But that had been a long time ago, a week at least. And by now Sirri was an accomplished cocksucker; she thought absolutely nothing of sucking him to climax now, swallowing every blessed ounce of his muck, licking his prick shiny clean, hard enough to fuck her in the bargain. She also thought nothing of using the most scatological language non-stop; such seemingly enhancing-the sex act immeasurably for her.
Another highlight in their brief career in lechery-one of the happiest times in Dwight's life-was in process this night in early September, the session taking place at the Adair home. It was to be a red light night, with Sirri capitulating to his fetishist quirks by presenting him with a pair of panties, garter belt, and emerald green hosiery to match an ensemble he'd recently bought for her. Dressing him herself, making a great fuss over his appearance, rubbing her nylon-cocooned breasts, belly and thighs against him, a truce, a symbolic understanding was effected between them. And as they kissed, and caressed, as they built to exotic finale in the harsh glow of a white spotlight, both wild to indulge excesses unlimited, Sirri had queried him as to the reasons for his weird anomaly. "That's hard to say, Sirri," he'd replied, reluctant to go into the unsettling ramifications of his perversion. "I suppose it's all grounded in a person's past, a thing few people can put their finger on. It's there; I accept it, make the best of it. It does pay certain dividends in the long run. To both participants. Everyone, I suppose, has fetishist tendencies of one sort or another. Some men go for earrings, for fur, for women in boots. I happen to dig lingerie, silk and satin. Even women have fetishist traits. For instance: Think about some conditions ... a way I dress, a way I smell, a particular part of my body that turns you on. That's fetishism, whether you're willing to admit it or not. Can you think of such a situation, angel?"
Her eyes glittered. "Now that you mention it, I can. Crazy. I never thought about it that way before, though."
"Do you intend to tell me about it?"
"Not tonight, honey. Someday, but not now. It'd be far too embarrassing." She sought to change the subject.
"How about Noreeen? Does she know about this trait of yours?"
"Yes, she knows. She's been living with it, going along with it all her life."
"Well then, why weren't you satisfied? If you had a woman who indulged you?"
"I was, up to a point. At least until you came along. Suddenly Noreen was from nowhere. The first time that's ever happened." He passed off the grandiose lie without cracking a smile. "All of a sudden she didn't appeal any more. I had to have you or die."
Sirri's grin was snide. "Considering this was your first straying, you were certainly expert. You had me interested almost from the start."
"Necessity is the mother of invention," he glossed over expertly. Then doing some subject switching of his own: "Thank you for the lovely gift. You'll never know what it means to me. To have you understand what makes me tick...." He pushed her back onto the bed. "Just for that I'm going to lick your cunt until you scream for mercy."
At which Sirri pulled down his panties, allowed his monstrous, veined prick to spring forth. "Only if you let me suck a pint or so of jazz out of this sweet cock of yours as well."
Shortly the two figures, still clad in their bizarre undies, were joined in the soixante-neuf position, Sirri on top, milking Dwight's phallus as though her life depended upon it. "All of it," she snickered as she finally coaxed jetting floods of his semen from his tube. "Shoot it down my throat ... every blessed ounce."
Afterwards, Sirri's legs hooked over Dwight's shoulders, the heels of her pumps drumming his back as he dredged the furrowed channels of her cunt with a revitalized rod, she exacted still another sluicing from him. Later, made irresponsible by too much drink, there was time for still a more outre demand from Sirri. As harking back to sodomy, having heard somewhere that a twice-defeated phallus is diminished in rigidity, if not dimensions, she begged that her lover teach her this forbidden art as well. Stall though Dwight might, she was adamant, and not too much later, he stretching her with semen-lubricated fingers, he finally acceded to her corrupt request. And Sirri standing beside the bed, her palms on the mattress, her derriere charmingly offered, she had her depraved way. After much shrieking and puffing and pumping, his rod was eventually shoe-horned into her maddeningly tight ass. Not too much later, sensing impending orgasm as induced by Dwight's strumming finger, she shifted her buttocks into high, forthrightly exacted a watery tribute from him. A climax that coincided precisely with hers. "Gorgeous!" she shrieked hoydenly, "I can feel him shoot! Every single squirt! So hot; it's so hot! It burns something awful!"
Which was, all at once, entirely too much for Noreen to bear. And enduring as much of the voyeur bacchanal as she could, she suddenly found that masturbation wasn't enough; she had to have a more concrete expression of her sexual need or go stark raving mad. Thus-the first time she'd ever attempted such-she streaked for Ardyce's quarters. Where, breaking in on the drowsy, confused Negress, she flung herself into bed with her, immediately whipped up her nightgown, buried her lips in the maid's milky musky vagina. A thing which Ardyce, innured to sexual abnormalities of every description in this household by now, shrugged off, endured as best she could.
But then, Noreen flung her own clothes off, fell prone upon Ardyce's body, arranged her belly so that it touched hers, actually opening the Negress's pussy with her own fingers. Now, bringing her glistening, pink clitoris into prominence, she commenced sawing at it with her own engorged pearl. Ardyce shuddered, bitterly said: "Easy does it, Ma'am. You ain't going to no fire. The way you're abusing it, you'll scrape the varnish off before you even get close to what you're needing."
"Don't talk!" Noreen snapped. "I don't need any of your hp. Just move, damn you! Move, move...."
The dusky-skinned female stiffened momentarily at her mistress' officious tone. But then, a contemptuous smile forming on her lips, she did as she was commanded. She moved.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Whenever Dwight and Noreen had a few moments to themselves, their conversation-once the practical exigencies of household, corporate and social demands were shunted aside-invariably turned to his continuing romance with Sirri. And how were things going? Was she all the woman, the pristine innocent he'd thought she'd be? Just how was the virgin-goddess business these days?
To which questionings-Dwight totally unaware of the fact that his wife was baiting him, that via her secret vantage point she knew exactly the affair's present disposition-he usually applied in the glowing positive, assured Noreen that Sirri was sun, moon and stars, that once and for all he'd found the female, and there would never be need for him to stray again.
This particular September evening, Noreen and Ardyce dutifully departed from the house as per directions, Dwight awaiting Sirri's imminent arrival, he felt an unaccountable despair and ennui, and recalling the conversations with Noreen, he only wished he might feel as easy in his mind about Sirri as the rosy picture he'd painted for his wife might indicate. Something was definitely going wrong between him and Sirri. And what was it? Certainly he loved Sirri just as much as ever; the panic at thought of losing her was as deadly as ever. Their corybantic sex duos continued as pagan and ferocious as ever; there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that his nymphet mistress would not do to accommodate him sexually. If anything she was as avid for innovation, as instrumental in programming new expeditions into the sexual unknown as he was. And who would have believed that an innocent like Sirri, in the brief passage of a month's time at that, could develop into such a flat-out, no-holds-barred wanton?
Perhaps this was what worried him. Lurking in the darkest niches of his mind were niggling fears that in time, he himself would falter; he wouldn't be able to respond to the tireless demands Sirri made upon him; there would come a time when his overdeveloped sex drive-bolstered prodigiously lately by vitamins, testosterone shots as it was-would fail him, reduce him to a victim of mockery and contempt in his vibrant, young Lorelei's eyes. Indeed, there had already been evidence of this. That thing two nights ago, when it had taken all the concentration and will power he possessed to keep his prick hard enough to see Sirri through her third fuck of the evening? Was that ghost of Christmas to come?
He fought away the speculation, cursed himself for the fears. A man can think himself into a state, you ass! he scolded. Switching mental channels, he zeroed in on what he considered an even more crucial causative. That language of Sirri's! he concluded. The utterly conscienceless-slutty-way she throws herself into sex! As hard as he tired to reconcile himself to same, to convince himself that he was among God's luckiest creatures to have unearthed so amoral, so license-dedicated a mink as Sirri, somehow the rationalizations wouldn't sell. No matter how assiduously he assured himself that this was merely a passing phase, that he would soon accustom himself to Sirri's hoyden, piggish delight in shocking him, the unease remained. And what did it mean? Why did he allow such petty considerations to trouble him?
Basically, he supposed, it was all due to the preconceived picture of Sirri he'd manufactured. His peculiar sexual malaise being what it was, he'd desperately needed a singular female-the ultimate female-to fit into the role of aristocratic, regal and aloof mistress his most secret heart cried out for. A mistress who, though participating whole-heartedly in debauch unlimited, would, somehow, still keep a mystic part of herself in reserve; she would, even after wallowing in animalistic sex, remount her holy, supernatural dais, resume her worshipful stance. The analogy, muddled as it was, certainly didn't fit the Sirri of today.
Now Dwight withered inside as he recalled one of their most recent meetings, one in which he'd finally revealed his ultimate eccentricity to Sirri. That night, while dressing her in one of her most provocative lingerie ensembles, a groveling handmaiden of the most toadying sort, he'd described his need to be dominated and mistreated by the object of his love. A thing that Sirri hadn't understood at first, had refused to cooperate in. "But why, baby?" she'd asked. "Why would you want me to treat you like that? I love you; I only want to do nice things for you. I think I'd be ill, to have you crawling around like that. And that shoe thing ... the heels ... That's sick, Dwight. Sick-sick."
Somehow by utilization of persuasion, tactile stimulation and force-feedings of liquor, he'd eventually brought Sirri around to attempting his masochistic brand of sex play after all. Only a dim light burning in the Adair bedroom, discordant Stravinsky clogging the macabre atmosphere, Sirri regally resplendent in a butchered, tightly-boned, royal blue corset, her cunt and breasts (the tits themselves darkly rouged) almost totally exposed, she was persuaded to issue the first commands. "Here, Dwight," she'd said self-consciously. "You dirty, little boy. Come kiss Sirri's feet."
Somehow the sight of him cowering there in his black, similarly butchered panties and panty-hose, the eerie sensations of having him lick the toes of her shoes, had awakened sleeping demons within her. And as Dwight had pleadingly insisted that she verbally abuse him with more ferocity, utilize more gutty language, she had complied with in creasing, instinctive verve. "Suck the toes, you filth. As much as you can get into your rotten, dirty mouth! Suck, you bastard! Give my foot a blow job!"
The ugly fury in her voice, the demented light in her eyes had compounded swiftly, and shortly the latent sadism extant in all mankind had raked Sirri with its clawing talons, had delivered her to uncontrollable bestiality. And as he'd sucked her toes, licked her ankles, her calves then her bare thighs themselves, Sirri had twined her hands in his hair, had urged his head more fiercely to her flesh. "My tits!" she'd grated, forestalling him in his attempts to plunge his mouth into her swimming cunt, seemingly saving that for the last. "Suck 'em! Suck 'em until I can't stand it any more! Suck the little bastards raw!" At which she'd leaned, had hung her barely-cantilevered boobs in his face, had savored his abject, neck-straining pose to the utmost, at the end attempting to smother him in them.
When she'd been unable to stand his adoration any longer, the ultimate degradation had been ordained. "Now, you dirty fucker!" she seethed, completely out of touch. "My cunt! My stinking, dripping cunt. Suck that now. Put your cuntsucking mouth in my snatch, suck my twat! Suck my clit; pull my passion cherry out by the roots. Make me come again and again!" She'd allowed herself to be masticated and stripped to two quick glories, which back-breaking ecstasies had driven her to further excess.
"On your back, pig," she'd choked, tearing his mouth from her screaming gash viciously, flinging him backward. "Sirri's got something special for dirty cunt suckers like you!" Running to the upper level, she'd brought a straight chair, placed it beside Dwight's recumbent, twitching form. "Here's what you wanted, you pervert!" she spat. "And here it is. Lay still. Take your punishment like the crawly slime you are!" Whereupon, balancing her weight down on the pencil-thin heels of her black, calfskin pumps, she gingerly ground the leather spike into his flesh, exulting in his pained, grating whimpers. She prodded his near-to-exploding prick where, escaping from the opening in his panties, it stood like a minor Sequoia with the pointed toe of one shoe. "That really makes the sap rise, doesn't it? Christ! Look at the way your cock's jumping!"
Again and again she walked on his chest and belly, on his thighs even, the weight of her heels actually cutting him in places, leaving red, crescentshaped welts elsewhere. Dwight had been transfigured, driven to heights of passion heretofore unexperienced by him. Granted, he'd had women mistreat him before, but none had ever hurt him like this. Sirri was a veritable genius when it came to debauch. "You like that don't you, pig?" she'd taunted, offering a rapier heel for him to suck. "Say it, you fucker! You like it."
"I like it," he'd gasped through grunts of agony. "I love it. Oh, more, more...."
Once more she'd gone as far as to lift and massage his balls with the shiny toe of her shoe. "You love that too, don't you, creep? You can't get enough of that, can you!" She began to stroke the underside of his stalk with slippery leather, snickering viscously as the member flopped sideways, back and forth. At that moment Dwight had released a strangled howl. And then and there, a totally involuntary act, the degenerate havoc of Sirri's abuse taking irrevocable toll, Dwight had ejaculated, his sperm coursing in high arc, splashing his belly one moment, spitting white garlands of cream against Sirri's nyloned ankle, on the smooth leather of her shoe the next. "Ooh, Ooh," he'd gasped, utterly mortified.
But there had been redemption. As Sirri had stared malevolently down at him, her mouth working agitatedly. "Now that was a filthy thing to do, pig," she seethed. "You'll be sorry you did that." Summarily she'd sat back on the chair allowing Dwight to sit up. From which throne she'd imperiously extended the befouled foot and shoe. "Come here, piggy! Come here and lick all this mucky slime off me! Get me clean. Lick, do you hear!" Which further humiliation Dwight, still in the throes of a conscience-obliterating lust, had swiftly, eagerly leapt to perfom. On all fours, his head hanging down, he'd licked his semen off her shoe, off her stocking, had slavishly worked until his mistress had excused him from the chore.
"Over here, you filth," she'd commanded next, going to the bed. "You've got me all hot again. Get your head in here. Suck my twat. Suck me off a couple more times. And then...." Partially leaning, her arms supporting her, with her heels hooked on the mattress' edge, her legs brazenly splayed, she'd presented her expectantly-leering cunt, had adjusted so his lips and tongue could have free play.
"God. oh. God!" she'd screamed as first one, then another orgasm had been sucked from her, "I'm exploding. my cunt's on fire!" Then, calm temporarily established: "No. don't take it away; keep your mouth there. Keep me hot." She'd shivered convulsively. "Ooh. you got me so excited, I gotta go." Making a move to get off the bed. she'd caught herself, flopped back into her original position.
A deranged, blatantly obscene leer on her face, she'd said. "Sirri's gotta go potty. But she can't wait." Her voice took on venomous edge; her eyes were demented, heathenish. "You'll take care of it for her, won't you, cuntsucker? You'll save her the trip?" Her hand had come down, had slammed his head into her crotch, had forced his mouth to suction onto the upper regions of her vagina. "Latch on, you fucker!" she'd crowed exultantly. "Here it comes. Drink it, do you hear! Drink my piss!"
As of that moment Dwight was a mindless zombie, beyond control, beyond remorse, completely stripped of all humanity. A horrendous roaring in his ears, he'd affixed his mouth to her urethral opening, had thirstily received her hot flood. After which, incensed beyond description, his pecker miraculously revived, he'd flung himself upon Sirri, had thrown her onto her belly, cursingly burrowed his gummy weapon into the resisting portal of her ass, and all Sirri's shrieks of pain to the protest, had royally reamed her, surprising them both with the torrents of hot jazz he'd been able to bombard the forbidden channel with. "Ooh," a bemused, delightfully-sated Sirri had moaned when he'd finally unglued himself from her posterior, "that was terrible. I won't be able to shit for a week."
Abruptly now, a noise somewhere in the house jarring him from the corrupt reverie, Dwight Adair straightened in his chair, thought to go admit Sirri. He changed his mind, slumped back in his chair, knew a suffocating panic. As, passing his hand between his legs, he basketed his genitals, was amazed to find-even after the low-down, filthy introspections just concluded-that his cock was totally unaffected by same; it lay in limp curl inside his trousers. God, dear God, he agonized. It's happened! It's happened at along last!
He arose to greet Sirri as she found her own way through the house. And was further unnerved by the realization that he felt absolutely no excitement at the prospect of the impending fuck, no desire for Sirri whatsoever!
But still, as she entered, fresh and glowing, a newly ignited feral cast to her face, he managed to go through the motions of joyous welcome, thinking all the while that when the time for romp arrived, he would be ready. Once he instituted their usual preliminaries, there would be no question but that he'd be the virile, charging bull he'd always been.
Even in this he was frustrated, for Sirri displaying a singular disinterest in his fetishist fancies tonight, she begged him for more normal and forthright attentions. "None of that tonight, baby," she resisted as he attempted to caress and kiss her nyloned legs. "That scene's getting to be a drag. Is that all you think about? Why can't you just try it regular ... my way for once. That thing last time ... Wow! Like too much. You had me so far out of my tree I was afraid I'd never climb back." She fell on the bed, held imploring arms out to him. "Please, Dwight? Just a nice peaceful fuck? No shennanigans?"
Which demurral-inbred rejection large within its framework-couldn't help but devastatingly chill what small ardor Dwight still possessed. Dully, sullenly, he fell beside her, allowed Sirri to pull him into her arms, kiss him hotly. A momentary spark-initial awe at her child-like beauty, her very presence-was swiftly extinguished. "Don't pout now, baby," she coaxed. "We can do some of those things, if you like. But the silk bit I'm tired of. I'll suck you a little, you can suck me. Then you can shove that sweet prick of yours into me, fuck me blind. What's wrong with that?" A mischievous glitter exploded in her eyes. "Maybe I might even have a little surprise or two in store for you. Something I've been thinking about lately...." She pounced upon him. "Here, let's get these clothes off you...."
Dwight knew grave mortification when Sirri tugged away his trousers, found him inert inside his brightly-patterned panties. "Hey, what's this?" she teased. "A dead one? What's the matter, honey? Haven't you got it for me any more? You been flubbing the dummy on me?" She giggled, more amused at this discomfiture than chagrined, and dug playful fingers into his limp bundle. "Don't fret, love; I've got ways to put starch in that one. Trust me."
Then, Dwight lying on the bed in just his ridicu lous panties, Sirri stood before him on the first riser, made a spicy show of removing her outer clothing. As she revealed herself in a plain, juniormiss sort of white lingerie combination, the brassiere unembellished, tailored, the white, Lycra panty-girdle stiff and dull, a collage of unenticing planes, a severe diamond at belly and derriere, Dwight felt the slightest twinge in his prick. Unsexy as the underthings might be, there was still something ingenue, enough about them to restir long-interred fantasies of innocent virginity. But as quickly-Sirri briskly peeling off same to avoid his relapse into self-abasement-the fascination was gone. Briefly Sirri stood before him, her face confused as she displayed her nakedness, failed to elicit Dwight's lust.
She offered her lush breasts with her own hands, tweaked the nipples with diabolic fingers; she assumed provocative stance which had always excited him before. Her eyes narrowing, she used a favorite device and popping her index finger deep into her vagina, twisting it 180 degrees each way, she slid it out. Advancing upon the bed, she inserted the slimy digit into Dwight's mouth, bade him suck. A thing which he did dutifully, instead of eagerly. "Looks like Sirri's gotta look after her own interests," she mused. "What is it, darling? Don't you love me any more?"
Urgent panic erupted within Dwight. He did love Sirri; he didn't want to lose her, no matter what. "I don't know, baby," he muttered, mouthing the tasty finger. "It just won't get hard. I'm so ashamed. This ... this's never happened to me before."
"Don't sweat it, love. That happens, I guess. Hell, the way I've been pounding you." She came squirming up his belly, poised her snatch over his face. "Here, take a bite. This'll charge your batteries. Oooh, darling! That educated mouth of yours. I could melt on the spot."
Then, when this liberty didn't help, more drastic measures were called for. "Would you like me to suck you, darling? I'll give you a blow-job you'll never forget." Dwight's terror was multiplied a hundredfold. As, watching Sirri crouch on her haunches beside him, her back in exquisite arc, her breasts hanging like overturned beehives inches from his hands, her mouth nibbling and drawing on his deflated cock, even as she removed his bizarre costume, he still felt no stirrings of desire. Her fingers scrabbled in the mushy meat of his genitals, fought to buttress his shrunken pod long enough for her lips to slurp it in. Shortly her attentions breathed minor life into his pecker, but the feeble, crippled tube was a mere shadow of itself; he barely felt her tongue and fingers on it as she drew back the foreskin, licked and blew, licked and blew, lovingly on it.
"C'mon, little prick," she cooed, the heat of her tongue the cool of her breath generating feeble flickers deep in his scrotum, "get hard; pay attention to Sirri." She giggled. "Get hard. Simon says, 'Get hard.' C'mon, you sweet little worm; look alive. Here, how do you like this?" At which she separated the glans, sought to rape the miniature mouth with a curled tongue. "I wish I was a humming bird. So I could get way in there. I'd suck you out; I'd make you hard in no time at all. You like this, Dwight? This get to you? Mmm, your juice is beginning to flow. Yum-yum. It's delicious. Hard, you little rooster, get hard. It's coming, it's coming. Concentrate." And parodying a Peter Pan refrain: "Think dirty thoughts; think dirty thoughts...."
For perhaps ten more minutes, even going so far as to pause to retrieve a small bottle of creme-dementhe from the table on the upper level (the sticky drink a recent favorite with her), painting his prick and balls with same, sucking and licking him to fastidious cleanliness Sirri continued to im portune his penis to stiffness. All to little effect. As Dwight, more frightened by the moment, defeated her efforts by sheer mental negativism. It was only when Sirri loosed a dedicated flow of scatological language as she sucked him, that the indolent meat struggled up, fought to approximate its previous height. A minor success that encouraged her, drove her to further excesses.
Now she slid her fingers in and out of her cunt, brought the copious elixir of her Bartholin glands to the crack of her ass, where she determinedly tunneled her finger into his anus. Soon she had the tender portal runny and slippery. So much so that her finger slid in and out with easy lisp and pop. "Sweet prick," she chanted in between long, devouring suckings with her mouth, driving her finger deep with each withrawal, reversing the motion as her mouth once more descended on his firming cannon, "sweet, juicy, hard prick. Sweet fucky prick ... fucky-fucky prick. Big fat cock in my mouth. Fat, fat cock. Cock that's jamming deep into my throat. Cock that's wild to plunder Sirri's steaming cunt. Hard, hard ... that's a good boy, that's a...."
Eventually the playful, amused child was successful, and Dwight's member was rigid enough so they could risk transferring it from her mouth to her pussy. And though he didn't fail her, though the laggard weapon brought her to orgasm upon orgasm before it shot its own watery syrup deep into her bowels, it was, all in all, a lack lustre fuck. Even as he splatted the walls of her womb, as Sirri shammed an incredible delight, Dwight knew that he had failed her. Crushing presentiment of doom made itself known, and he was shattered, became the original hollow man.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cowering within the walls of his sumptuously appointed office at Candlelight Petroleum this dreary afternoon in mid-September, Dwight Adair was haunted by phantoms of the most terrifying and debilitating sort. A ponderous sigh escaped him as he admitted the grisly actuality of the infamy which had come to pass. The stand-off between him and Sirri had continued, was continuing-over a period of ten whole days now. There was no point in trying to pretend that it didn't exist any longer. Passing phase, indeed! Dear God in Heaven, how long? How long before Sirri tires of my half-man performance? How long will she continue to indulge me in the degrading workups before I'm man enough to service her? When a girl's been broken in the way I broke her in, when a girl's in her prime sexually and physically, when she can't help but draw young, capable studs like flies He would lose Sirri; money or no money, fervent promises of gifts unending to the contrary. For now the material facets would become secondary; it was the steady humping that would take precedence. For all he knew she was with another man now, some punk kid, a pawky, mauling, greedily-gobbling cretin who would never, in a hundred years, appreciate the rare largesse being bestowed upon him. The thought drove him into a frenzy. And yet, he temporized, why not? Sirri's been had. By a past master. The damage has been done. And if she passes herself around to any and all comers from here on in, what's the harm? He had only himself to blame. He'd taught her everything she knew. What was to keep her from taking in students on her own?
Dwight buried his face in his hands, fought to stifle frustrated groans. Please, Sirri, he raged. I'll be all right soon now. Which was a lie, and he knew it, for he'd been to his doctor, had out-lined his problems. To which the doctor had shrugged, had told him that his impotency was psychologically induced; head-shrinking wasn't in his line. The vitamins, the testosterone shots were, insofar as he was concerned, the end of the line. "Until you get right with God," the nihilistic Carstairs had caustically taunted in parting.
But Dwight wasn't about to consult a psychiatrist; he wasn't about to bare his soul to one of those charlatans. There was nothing wrong with his head. At least nothing that frauds like that could cure. His despair deepened. What then? Where to turn? Time was flying. and Sirri was becoming more cold, more distant bv the day. Soon she would be leaving for college: their idvll would end on a disruptive note: it would never be revitalized again. Dear God, the irony, the devastating irony of it all!
How can it be? he questioned, his hand slithering between his legs, his fingers encountering his cock, almost instantly triggering it into surging readiness. This? Now? When I'm away from Sirri? And yet, when I'm with her, when we're both working like someone possessed to make this dirty animal hard? Nothing. Sweet Jesus, why? Almost in incredulous trance, thinking to find it all a mirage upon closer inspection, Dwight unzipped his trousers. Digging inside the double layer of nylon-today he wore frilly pink panties, gauzy white pantyhose beneath his severe, dark business suit, his over-the-calf socks concealing his peculiar aberration from the outside world-he dug out the vein-garlanded length, balanced it in the palm of his right hand. With his other, he slapped it against his palm, felt pain, vestigial sexual excitement careen down its length, burrow into his scrotum, into the pleasurable nerve-center located slightly above and behind it.
You bastard, he accused. And for Sirri you won't get hard? What kind of a dirty stunt do you think you're pulling, anyway? Another thought crossed his mind. And while he hadn't once attempted intercourse with Noreen since Sirri had first capitulated-He wondered if, with any other woman besides Sirri-or was he impotent with all women? No matter; there was an easy way of finding out. Pulling his chair close to his desk, concealing his stiff-standing cock beneath it, he pushed the intercom button. "Miss Hill? Will you come in please?"
Moments later the tall blonde entered the office, note pad and pencil at ready. Her eyes went wide, her jaw fell in flustered confusion as she saw the cruel hungry glint in Dwight's gaze. "Mr. Adair...?"
"Please lock the door, Jessica," he snapped. "No interruptions." Whereupon he rolled his chair backward, unconcernedly revealed his swollen rod and testicles to her, his eyes flicking from Jessica to himself, inventorying the effect of her on his prick, his prick on her.
"Mr. Adair ... Dwight!" she gasped. "Really!"
"Don't play games, Jessica. You've seen this before. Now if you'll raise your skirts, please. I'm conducting a survey of sorts."
"Really, Dwight," she stammered, her eyes never leaving the bobbing, swaying extension of cock, "there's no need to be uncouth. Just like that? You expect me to ... "
""Raise your skirts, damnit! " he bellowed. "I've got no time, I said!"
The color draining from her face, the very-flustered secretary swiftly leaned, brought her dress up in embarrassed fits and starts. "Honestly, Dwight," she sputtered, "There's no need to be crude. You know you have but to ask in a nice way and I'll...."
For long moments Dwight stared at the prominent mound of her cunt in the cute, lacy panties; he wordlessly appraised the black straps of her garter belt where they cinched her hosiery to her shapely legs. Minor exultation filled him as he felt his prick throb in his hand, hot stars of desire pumping up in it. And, Christ! How come? "Very pretty, Jessica," he finally said. "I admire your taste in undies. If you'll come over here now, let me have a sample. Honey, the way your snatch bulges out...."
The crass language, Dwight's very dominating demeanor, all served to excite the female intolerably, and as always, she became so much helpless putty in his hands. "Yes, dear," she squeaked pathetically as she came to him, posed with her skirts higher than ever, "yes, Dwight. Whatever you say." She shuddered as his fingers pinched the fat, suddenly smoldering lips of her vagina; she even splayed her legs slightly to better accommodate his plucking fingers. "Oh, Dwight! You monster! You turn me into some kind of animal. Careful, now. Whatever are you doing?"
What he was doing was studying his prick, trying to see if there was any change in his excitation. There was; in that, if anything, he was even more swollen now, and a clear drop of lubricatory oil grew at its tip. "Like I said, Jessica: a little survey. Anything, you said? All I have to do is ask?"
The secretary shuddered in wanton trance as his fingers manipulated her cunt, completely unhinging her. "Yes, Dwight, darling. I'm your slave; you know that."
"If that's the case I think I'd like some hp action. Like last time, honey? Right here? On your knees."
Miss Hill's face collapsed; her legs turned to so much jelly. After but a moment's stunned hesitation, she slowly sank floorward, hobbled toward the inviting, drooling rod. Brushing the clinging pearl of his fluid away with prissy fingers, she slowly inclined her head, began to lick and suck. A thing which Dwight watched almost impassively, clinically, actually expecting his organ to droop and wither at any moment. But such was not the case: If anything his stalk grew still fatter, threatened to suffocate the hapless doxy; the raging flame within it became more intolerable by the moment. Until, fearing that he'd ejaculate before he had time for the ultimate test, Dwight abruptly pulled himself from Jessica, leaving her momentarily sucking at empty air. "Here," he commanded, helping the stunned female to her feet. "Over here. Lean over."
Arranging Miss Hill at the end if his desk, her palms on its edge to balance her, her legs slightly spread, he threw her skirt up over her back, immediately began drawing down the cute panties. He balanced her ankles as she stepped out of the silky cuffs, took furtive passes at her glassy legs as he did so. Now, still wearing his own trousers, he advanced on Jessica from the rear, fondled her rosy buttocks, adjusted her even more precisely. She released a surprised, pleasurable gasp as he sank his pecker into the depths of her snatch with one brutal stroke. Momentarily they froze, in order to savor each other. Now he began to plow the happily-groaning woman in earnest.
Again he halted-seemingly when a perfect rhythm and reciprocal flow had just been established-and withdrawing himself from Jessica, he gruffly said, "Not enough friction that way. Turn around, darling, will you?" When the bemused female did so, he whipped up her skirts in front, brusquely pushed her backward onto the desk itself. Her knees automatically came up-testament of countless such office seductions-her heels hooked on its edge, while her arms stretched wide across the broad expanse, fingers hooking under the desk overhang, further bracing her for the pile-driver onslaughts to come. Standing before her, his fingers toying with her golden muff, immersing themselves in the squish of her slit, he finally inserted his rod into her, began to saw vigorously, his stance allowing him to plumb her to her very depths, certain especially penetrating strokes causing Jessica to yip painfully. A gentleman to the last, he waited on Jessica's pleasure, and had but to hear her beginning wheezings of ecstasy, before he viciously plunged himself into her, blasted her mercilessly with hot salvos of sperm. Then it was Dwight's turn to be confused.
Sliding himself from Jessica with a glutinous plop, he leaned, retrieved her panties, wiped his cock on them. Handing the defiled garment back to her, he said authoritatively: "That will be all, Miss Hill. You may take the rest of the afternoon off, if you like."
After the humiliated woman had fled the office, Dwight repaired his own clothes, sank tiredly into his chair again, fought to take stock, to comprehend the incredible thing he'd just accomplished. A thousand times the everlasting "Why?" boomed in his brain. A thousand times there was only taunting silence in place of answer. What did it mean?
What had happened between him and Sirri? Was there any hope for them? Tirelessly the mocking questions cycled in his brain, until he could stand them no longer. And thinking to repair to his town apartment, therein steeping himself in the ghost-teeming atmosphere where he and Sirri had shared so many happy, revelatory moments together, he shortly left the office. He needed a greater solitude, a more eminently tangible reminder of Sirri. And since she'd refused him rendezvous there this afternoon, since the apartment would be solely his-It would be just what the doctor ordered. From somewhere the refrain echoed and reechoed: Physician, heal thyself Thus, he was quite unprepared-Dwight hovering outside the apartment door, sorting through his keys-for what he found upon reaching the tenth-floor aerie. Hearing the sound of muted music seeping from behind that door, he thought at first that he must be mistaken, that the sound was carying from an adjacent apartment. His heart jammed up into his throat, ungovernable rage consumed him as he pressed his ear to the door, heard Sirri's giggle, an unknown male voice override the music itself! For a moment it seemed he would pass out, so great was the pain this inglorious betrayal inflicted! So soon, his brain clamored, so soon! The minute I turn my back!
Nevertheless, mature man that he was, he maintained an icy control of sorts; he determined to make sure of his facts before he went off halfcocked. To this effect he stealthily inserted his key, pushed the door open. Seconds later he was inside the apartment, and his back to the door, his jaw agape at the incriminating evidence spread before him, he momentarily froze. The living room was deserted, the FM section of the hi-fi installation played rock-and-roll music. While on the cocktail table was the debris of the afternoon's drinking; a ragged trail of male and female clothing-Sirri's pumps here, her brassiere and panties, a set he'd recently given her, there-led toward the partially-closed door of the nearest bedroom. Rage gathering, threatening to suffocate him, he sucked air greedily, just before he crept toward the door from which the voices emanated. Then, putting one cautious eye around the door jamb He wanted to scream at the agony he felt at that instant. His heart bucked, a blood lust fragmented his brain! For here was Sirri, his beloved Sirri, totally naked upon the bed with a totally unknown stranger! Her eyes were closed in blissful swoon, while her legs were high on his plunging back, her ankles locked behind his waist. Her fingers dug into his roiling buttocks, left red welts in his tanned flesh as she piloted his plundering prick deep, deeper, deepest into her eagerly-responding gash. Carrying over the betrayed cacophony in his brain-grossest insult to injury-were her coarse, throat-abraiding, gutter-snipe cries: "Oh, God, Hal! God, God ... Slam it, drive it! Push that everlovin' meat right through me! Up my cunt, through my belly, up my cocksucking throat! You stallion, you gorgeous cock! Fuck the shit right out of me!"
Upon that note Dwight sank into an immobilized, unthinking trance. Mortally wounded, he could do nothing but cling to the door frame, watch the foul scene as one mesmerized; it was as if detaching his staring eyes would precipitate the world's end. He watched as Sirri reached an orgasm (her first? her hundredth?), barked her delight, something deadly fascinating about the vast variety of emotions that played across her face as she came: Pain, terror, ugly distortion, fanatic reaching. And finally-a beatific peace and satisfaction. He heard the alien male's throaty curses, signal of his own release, just as Sirri's face grimaced anew, just as he moved to storm the bastions of holy sensation herself again. "Baby," she scolded, her hips writhing as she reluctantly savored each blistering jet of his semen, "too fast, too fast. Hell, I was just starting to...."
It was here that the male named Hal-a handsome brown-haired youth of nineteen or twenty at the oldest-raised his head from Sirri's throat, his face forming laughing retort. And ran directly iota Dwight's enraged, incredulous glare. The boy lurched as if a hat-pin had been plunged three inches into his buttocks. "Holy Christ!" he blurted. "Where did you come from?"
Then Sirri's head shot up, her eyes focused on Dwight's face. Instantly her face went white, she sucked in a loud, rasping breath. "Dwight!" she gasped.
By the time Dwight could choke up scalding, bitter words, the advantage had already been lost. For even as he took one step into the room, Sirri's expression changed, became hard, stubborn and willful, the very expression one sees on the face of a spoiled child who's been crossed. Furious as Dwight's tirade was, as much fear as it put into her teenage lover's heart, it seemingly had little effect upon Sirri; the words ricocheted off an obdurate, totally closed mind. She had had her way all her life; she would have her way in this instance too.
"So now you know," she said at long last, when Dwight had run out of threats and cursings. "Ain't that a kick in the head? My first time out of the box and I get caught." Her look turned derisive. "So what, little man? What're you gonna do about it?"
"Do, do!" he sputtered. "I'll give you two minutes to get this young hood out of here. I'll give you two minutes to choose between us. Are you willing to risk everything we have, throw all the things I've done for you, can do for you, into the discard?" And as much as he hated to whine and grovel before the arrogant bitch, he couldn't help himself. His voice snagging, he said, "I'm the one who loves you, the one who cares for you. I'm the one who brought you along, taught you, made you what you are today."
"Thanks for nothing," she sneered.
"Sirri," he made ridiculous ultimatums, "I insist you come to your senses. I'll forgive this transgression. If you promise never to behave like this again. But you must make a choice; either this ... lout or me!"
"That's like no choice at all, Dwight. Christ, Hal's got a gun, a real live gun. One that shoots real bullets, not blanks. You were fine once, baby, real fine. But your day's come and gone; you're only good for seconds now. You better learn to be satisfied or else."
"Or else what?"
Her eyes carried deadly venom, sent warning which only Dwight could interpret, warning that turned his blood to ice. "You know, Dwight. We won't wash dirty laundry in public." Her expression turned even more contemptuous. "Short hairs, darling? My way or not at all. That's the way it's gonna be. Now what do you want to do? We were having a nice time before you busted in. Like th old saying goes: Shit or get off the pot. You want seconds or not? If you do, get out in the other room and get undressed." Her lips curled. "God knows what you've got on. Then come back here and mount up. That is, if you're man enough." Sh turned away, pushed the dazed-eyed youth named Hal back onto the bed. Whereupon, in full sight of Dwight, she dropped her head, commenced sucking his limp pecker back to life. Staring at Dwight as she worked, she seemingly savored the deranging anguish her disolute homage to Hal triggered within Dwight's heart; she giggled muffledly at the way his eyes all but bulged from his head. Pausing once, she raised her head, salaciously licked her lips. "At least with Hal I know I've got a winner. You I'm not so sure about."
Dwight wasn't to remember afterward just what insane power invested him at that moment. Gulled, disgraced, so foully used, he was still possessed of an overpowering lust to avenge himself upon the deceiving slut; he would not take this ultimate humiliation lying down. Beyond this was the unalterable fact that this stunning turnabout, this degrading comeuppance wreaked an eerie weakness upon him. And once more subjugated, attaining his most intrinsically basic status, he found his prick standing like a crowbar inside his trousers; he was possessed of a lust drive the likes if which he hadn't known in weeks. And this-after having finished with Jessica Hill less than an hour ago!
An animalistic growl broke from his throat, and he wheeled, darted from that hellhole bedroom. In the sanctuary of the bathroom-for Sirri had made implied pledge to honor his secrets-he stripped away his clothes, concealed the damning nylon underthings in a clothes hamper. Now, totally naked, an insane resolve glaring the inner walls of his brain, prying him further from what litttle normalcy he still knew, he loped back toward that bed upon which his beloved even now basely entertained her pick-up lover.
And seeing her derriere high in the air as she leaned to suck Hal, irresistible invitation, he fell upon her from behind, gloried in her surprised, jubilant yip as he buried himself to his testicles in her hole. Now, a bestial growl in his throat, an unearthly buzzing in his brain, his entire psyche humming before the vibrations of his lust drive, he cursed, drove his cock deep into her, up her, through her! Grabbing her by the hogridges of her pelvis, he used her like a novelty box; he thrust and groaned, thrust and groaned-his poundings more brutal by the moment. He heard Sirri screaming; he heard Hal bellowing, but the entreaties didn't register. Beyond the pale by then, he plowed on. Until the universe buckled, until the dome of heaven rent its seams with a brain-wringing creak and explosion.
A hundred years later Dwight emerged from his psychotic space-warp to find Hal and Sirri-the lad white-faced, frightened, Sirri smirking like a creamfed cat, her hips still undulating beseechingly beneath his hands-staring at him, incredulous, admiring expressions on their faces.
CHAPTER NINE
Countless times, during the harrowing, shameridden nightmare following the expose of Sirri's duplicity, Dwight almost convinced himself that it was absolutely futile to continue with their MayDecember arrangement, that nothing but evil could result from further capitulation to her sensualist whims. And just as many times, forcing himself to resist calling her, summoning her to rendezvous either at the apartment or the house, he found himself absolutely incapable of seeing his bravura resolve through. He had but to think of her sexually accommodating her juvenile stud (Hal Gilmartin, he'd discovered), and his resistance melted like snow in July. Humiliating though his participation in their quaint, troilistic orgies might be, he had no other course but to defer to same, to wallow in any corruption his daily-more-cruel, more contemptuous mistress might command.
For the truth of the matter was that he was, by now, in complete thrall to the evil child; there was no way under the sun for him to break her all-encompassing spell over him. Though she mocked and degraded him, he still loved her; more desperately than ever, if such could be. Perhaps-it was a line of conjecture he queasily preferred not to pursue this very magnification of his love was due, in itself, to the humiliations, he suffered at her hands, to the low esteem in which she held him. Certainly Dwight would be the first to admit that his sexual drive had never been stronger, it was a soul-spanning, braggart transformation, and he constantly amazed himself-and Sirri and Hal as well-at the ferocity and duration of his sexual assaults lately.
Whatever the reasons, it was painfully evident to Dwight that he could not-under penalty of a metaphysical death--terminate his tainted liaison with her. He withered inside every time he conceived of life without Sirri. Beyond these cowardly considerations were the more practical ones as regarded Sirri's potential for creating scandal in the community. And while he could not possibly see how she could implement such without jeopardizing her own sacrosanct image in Benton Falls, he was not about to put her to the test. It was vastly more simple to accede to her picayune requests for inexpensive pretties, a more adequately stocked larder and liquor cabinet at the apartment, then to venture into the uncertain quick sands of a head-on confrontation.
Needless to say, Dwight had not informed Noreen of the latest, unsavory development in his star-crossed love. Whenever she snidely inquired after the widening gap between assignations at the house, commenting on the fact that she hadn't been asked to absent herself from the premises for a long, long time now, he fabricated alibi about Sirri's growing preference for the apartment. An explanatiin which Noreen accepted with a jaundiced smile. Dwight necessarily walked on eggs when he was about Noreen, he fully realized it would be a catastrophic blunder to let her learn of the deadly double-jeopardy he had recently placed himself in. Noreen would scream and claw, create a scene of scenes.
The latest news was Sirri's startling announcement that she'd changed her mind about college. She wouldn't be going now. Her present hedonistic pursuits immeasurably more exciting than any transient allure the academic life could offer, she would sample same to the limits, reconsider an education when life had nothing better to offer. "Who needs it?" she sneered. "Who wants to lock himself up with some dusty old books when it's happening out here? The whole ball of wax. Baby's gonna swing, swing ... There's time enough to crack the books, ball the professors, when I'm old and gray. But for now ... Oh, honey, lick my pussy! Like wow, Daddy!"
Attendant to Sirri's decision to skip college was the arrangement whereby she took delivery of her long-promised Cougar in Benton Falls itself. It was left to Dwight to see to the details of how she would drive it without her parents, friends and relatives becoming suspicious as to how she'd come by same. Thus the sporty, steel-blue auto was garaged either downtown, or at a service station a few blocks from Sirri's home, the papers, the subterfuge skillfully smoke-screened by her experienced benefactor himself.
Accepting her decision to remain in Benton Falls with mixed feelings (Dwight entertaining ephemeral hopes of somehow weaning her from Hal Gilmartin's ugly influence while she was away), he also found it among his appointed chores to scout up a suitable job for Sirri, her parents insisting on same as part of their acquiscence to her headstrong rebellion concerning college. Thinking to install her at Candlelight Petroleum, he thought better of it, prevailed upon Clint Garvey, a long-standing friend and fellow industrialist, to employ her in the mailroom at his plant; which job was not too demanding, would afford Sirri ample time in which to steal away for occasional afternoon rendezvous at the apartment.
Hal Gilmartin was the unknown quotient. A relatively inexperienced youth whom Sirri knew from high school-a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, who'd not been included in her regular, fawning coterie-he didn't quite know what to make of the bizarre game he'd been dealt into. In this respect Sirri had made good her promise to Dwight, and so far as the rakishly handsome Hal knew it was merely a matter of rich sugar-daddy and over-sexed young nympho getting together for some cash-on-the-line kicks. At this point he was merely content to go along with things, not make waves. If this crazy cunt wanted to ring the old poop in on their fuckfests, if she wanted to coerce him into all sorts of sick didos, that was her business. Who was he to complain? So long as he got his. Or so Dwight deduced, understanding Hal, positive that in time he could find an angle whereby he'd be able to shoehorn the kid out of their arrangement.
Thus, for the time being at least, some superficial strata of equilibrium was once more established in Dwight and Sirri's relationship.
Equilibrium like that which he was dubiously enjoying this Indian Summer afternoon at the apartment, making the best of things, considering the fact that he was being forced to share Sirri with the ubiquitous Hal Gilmartin again. And yet, not really share, in that it was he who conducted a solo performance, an exhibition as it were, for the callow youth's edification. Both he and Hal naked, their rods standing at straining attentions (the contrast between Dwight's flabby, milk-white body and Hal's tawny, muscular one painful indeed), they were gathered in one of the pad's three bedrooms. Where Sirri, clad in the fetishist garb she knew would turn Dwight on so well-a flashy orange ensemble with black lace overlay, garter-belt beneath the panties, jet-black hosiery and Chinese-red patent leather pumps-was laid out on the bed, giggling and squealing vulgarly as she adjured Dwight to perform all his cute tricks for her.
"You dig this outfit, darling?" she taunted. "Really turns you on, doesn't it? Just like Halloween.
The Great Pumpkin, huh?" She writhed as his tickling lips climbed up her legs, meandered over her bare thighs. Then, with a convulsive lurch she reached down, grabbed his head, pulled it equidistant to her vagina, jammed his face into the simmering mush there. "Go ahead, baby, gobble it. Eat Sirri's hot, little squash. Oooh, you devil, that's delicious; it feels marvelous." While, looking over Dwight's hunched, driving shoulders, she addressed Hal. "Watch this, baby. Watch close. This gig you gotta learn. If you really want to turn a doll on. God, it's fantastic. You pay attention. It'll be your turn next."
Hal made a wry grimace. "That'll be the day. God, what some people won't do. It turns my stomach."
"What do you know, Hal? Christ, you're even dumber than I thought. What makes you think you're so damned much?" She squirmed, pulled the by-then-nearly-oblivious Dwight from her throbbing crotch. "Take the damned things off, will you, hon? Cherchez la chat. The real thing now, love."
"I can take care of you," Hal retorted.
"You call that taking care of a girl? That jackrabbit stuff?"
"You never complained before."
She sent an indifferent moue at him. "It's okay, I guess. When a girl's dying to get fucked, but fast. There are times and there are times. I suppose every girl needs a square." She snickered. "But for the long haul, you need a guy like Dwight here. Hell, I'm just getting warmed up and you're all through."
"Yeah?" Hal sneered. "Well I can come back damned fast, don't forget that. Something that old creep can't do."
"So? What're you good for that time? One more. So I got two pops out of you. Big deal. In the meantime Dwight's made me come seven or eight times. He's making me come right now." Her face distorted into an ugly mask, and transported to sexual delirium, she jittered on the bed, actually drew her knees back toward her face, braced her feet against his shoulders, the bite of her sharp heels into his flesh making his exultation the more intense. Dwight fervidly drove his tongue into her oily crack, lashed her clitoris mercilessly, built a minor orgasm atop the initial one. "You fuck," she growled, when he finally relented allowed her to topple from her high, "you ever-lovin' fuck!"
She stared ferally at Hal. "See?" she challenged. "Two already, and he hasn't slipped an inch to me yet. And, brother, when he does...." She winced in anticipatory delight. "Watch, Hal. You just might learn something." Whereupon, twisting on the bed, she pulled Dwight beside her, immediately struggled up, commenced to dandle and caress his freestanding hank. "Pretty baby," she cooed, slicing it maddeningly with pink flickings of her tongue. "I'm so glad you got him back." Her eyes became harsh. "But I had to cheat on you, I had to put you to the wall to do it. Maybe it was all for the best. Isn't that so, Hal?"
"You said it, I didn't," he snarled. "I don't know what in hell you're talking about."
"Our secret, isn't it, Dwight, baby?"
"Our secret," he chuckled delighting in the sight and sensation of Sirri playfully winding her tongue around the slimy, purplish, knob, nowingesting it as far as she could into her hot, stripping mouth. Humiliated he might be, errent slave to his perverted compulsions, but there were compensations of sorts in being praised by Sirri for his finesse and lasting power-especially in front of her arrogant, short-fuse punk. He lurched, sucked in a pained gasp, as Sirri bore down with teeth and palate in that devastating way he'd taught her, all but flayed the skin on his member.
"Staying power?" she taunted Hal. "Hell, you'd have shot all over me by now." A demonic light erupted in her gaze. "C'mon over here, baby," she husked. "Let's see just how good you really are. Something I've always wanted to try ... Stand up, Dwight. Beside the bed." Sirri sat up, dangled her legs off the edge of the mattress. "Both of you ... stand close together. No, Hal! Put your hip up against Dwight's. There, like that."
Then, something fanatically diabolic filming her eyes she gathered each man's cock, guided it toward her evilly stretched mouth. Somehow she managed to arrange both swollen stalks so that she could stuff them simultaneously into her mouth. "Sirri," Hal protested. "For Christ's Sake!"
"Shut up, damn you," she scolded, her words mangled. Almost immediately she began to exert irresistible pressure, to run her mouth back and forth in swift cadence upon the double-barreled monstrosity, was able to consume a mere two or three inches of the outre machine at the most. She applied such suction as she could muster, allowed her lower teeth to abrade the underside of each pecker, and she soon had both men-Hal especially-pleading for mercy. Then, a minute later, the inexperienced youth set up a guttural, barking howl, attempted to remove his rod from the fiendishly massaging orifice, received a vicious clamping of teeth for his troubles. Sirris mouth churned vindictively, sadistically, determinedly.
Now Hal groaned sobbingly, swayed, nearly fell. As he disgraced himself, involuntarily discharged inside Sirri's mouth, his cream sluicing down her throat in great, gushing jets. "I ... I'm sorry, Sirri," he said shamefacedly when she eventually released both of them. "I didn't mean...."
There was a brief pause while Sirri gulped down the last of his sap, lovingly licked her lips in the bargain. "Didn't I tell you? Jack-rabbit, that's all you are." She fell back onto the bed, a hand on each prick, dragged the two men down beside her. "Just for that...." She snickered salaciously. "The glory hole for you...."
Hal protested feebly, yet fascinatedly as Sirri out-lined the next barbarism on the afternoon's agenda-another variation she'd always been curious about, but had never been able to attempt for a singular lack of manpower. "At least take off your shoes ... that crazy underwear," Hal grumbled. "I like my dolls naked."
"Fuck you!" she snarled. "Dwight likes his dolls in silk. And since Dwight behaved himself ... I like it too. Sometimes, anyway. This just happens to be one of those times." She virtually handed the clumsy Hal into place behind her, became impatient. "Dwight, will you show this jerk what to do? I swear ... some people!"
Inwardly pleased by Hal's priggish reluctance and lack of savvy, Dwight tersely instructed the boy in the procedures. Borrowing vaginal wash from between Sirri's legs, he proceeded to anoint her crack with same, to work the viscous oil into her anus. "Now you do it," he commanded.
"Damn it!" Hal rebelled at the last. "I don't want to do it this way. What kind of a pervert's convention is this anyway? Regular okay. But this ... I've never done anything like this before."
"For Christ's sake!" Sirri snarled. "Will you quit whining? Seems to me there's an awful lot of things you've never done before. You're in no position to be fussy, Hal. Either do what I tell you to, or clear out. If I want it this way, that's the way it's gonna be. You want your ups regular, you do as I say. Otherwise there's the door."
Which scolding temporarily mollified the recalcitrant lad. "Well if I hurt you...." he sputtered.
"So hurt me, baby. Do you hear me complaining? Now c'mon, both of you. Let's get together on this, shall we?" The simultaneous double entry-with Dwight plugging her cunt, Hal her anal port-was not affected as easily as might be thought. But finally, their legs in a depraved tangle, Sirri twisted awkwardly, the meat in the grisly human sandwich, at the last forced to insert Hal with her own fingers, the aberrated fusion was completed.
"Oh, God," she keened as both men were totally lodged inside of her, "don't anybody move. Just lay there, let me get used to it. What a feeling! The girl's just full of pricks. If Mother could only see her little baby now. Oooh, oooh. Wonderful. A treat no woman should miss. Easy, Hal. Don't get carried away." Until, at long last, Sirri felt sure enough of herself so that she ordered her two paramours to begin. "You first, Dwight. One goes in while the other comes out. Oh, gorgeous! I feel like I'm gonna split! Now. Both of you at the same time. Oooh, oooh! Slow, boys, very slow. Easy does it. Oh, lord. There we go. It's fantastic, simply fantastic."
She instantly subverted to aboriginal trance, and her breath bubbling animalistically in her throat, she reflexively began to grind her hips, almost tearing herself in two with the desire to meet both reamings with reciprocal thrust and wriggle of her own. "I'll die, I'll die...." she grated. "In, damn you! In, deep as you can go. Together! God, dear God." Now an even more corrupt innovation struck her. "You, Hal. When you get close, let out a yell, let us know. Dwight especially. He can time himself perfectly. I want you to both shoot at the same time." She broke into pagan gruntings and lurchings. "Fuck it, damn you! Fuck like you never fucked before!"
Sirri kissed Dwight then, drove her tongue in and out of his mouth in rhythm to the pricks pumping into her, and he was possessed of the most gut-blistering desire to let his charge fly as of that moment. But there was a reputation to uphold, he must acquit himself well before this shitting-his-pants boy. Nevertheless-the sensation of Hal's cock working in the tiny channel next to the one he occupied a deranging thing-he had all he could do to control himself. He almost sobbed with relief as Hal's throat-rupturing cries began. Then all together with Sirri screaming like someone was driving splinters beneath their nails-they fell in fiery flame, like Daedalus and Icarus, arms and legs flailing, a ribbon of pure sound binding them in extricable knot all the way down.
It was, of course, too much to expect that Hal Gilmartin shouldn't, eventually, get wise to himself-and to Dwight and Sirri's sick arrangement as well. It was inevitable that the swiftly-maturing opportunist should ferret the truth about Sirri's sugar-daddy's real identity from her before many more weeks had passed. Perhaps when he caught Sirri off guard in a moment of orgasm, when she was so much helpless putty in his hands, would have given anything not to be left hanging. Perhaps he had, in his new, man-child perception and arrogance risked brutality with Sirri, had slapped the information from her.
Whatever the tactics used, it soon became apparent to Dwight there there was a new mood at large within their minor world, and he quickly resigned himself to the fact that the price of pussy had just gone up. Upon hearing Hal's ultimatum-the stupid fool demanding fifty-dollars for himself, fifty for Sirri-Dwight merely shrugged, smiled inwardly. It was cheap at the price; were it not for Sirri he might have been forced to pay twice as much weekly in call-girl fees alone. Inflation-it was everywhere.
So a few more weeks passed in daily-more-ourre debauch, the trio becoming strangely close-knit, with Dwight even benign, almost fatherly toward Hal. There were occasional interludes when Sirri excluded Hal from their sessions, and he treasured them, comforted himself with thoughts to the effect that there were a thousand hells much more agonizing than the one he existed in now. For instance, the one he inwardly writhed in whenever he knew that Sirri was alone with Hal, that she was paganly accomodating him, savoring the very gut-scrambling preludes and obeisances which he himself had taught the pawky stud.
But there was-unbeknownst to Dwight-still another hell, still another purgatory lying in wait for him. As he discovered this night in mid-November, upon appearing at the appartment at Sirri's behest, expecting, from the start, that only he, Hal and Sirri would be present for the imminent orgy. Imagine his chagrin then, as he opened the door to his luxurious pad, to find the living room awash with raucous rock-and-roll, clouded skeins of cigarette smoke, to see beer, whiskey and wine being poured like Prohibition loomed on the morrow. But the most devastating intrusion of all The extra teenagers, five in all-two unknown boys, three girls-who suddenly froze where they stood, turned to regard him with sex-smirky grins, patent derision in their eyes. "Sirri ... Hal...." he choked stupidly. "What's the meaning of this? Who are these chil ... these people?"
"A li'l party, Dad," Hal sneered his alcoholic intake already thickening his voice "that's what it is.
We knew you wouldn't mind. C'mon in, meet the gang."
The "gang" consisted of three girls named Lisa Brewster, Edith Coventry, and Cleo Trepanier, a male duo who called themselves Slade Mackey and Gary Lockman. All in all, Dwight swiftly inventoried they were a scruffy lot, the boys long-haired, weasel-eyed, the girls hardly as pretty as Sirri. There was one-the Coventry girl-who was fairly striking, a long-tressed blonde with frightened eyes whose diffident manner immediately appealed to Dwight. He couldn't help but be reminded of Sirri when he'd first known her. The lot was indifferently dressed, the boys in jeans and sloppy shirts, the girls in their version of party dress, skirts and overly-tight sweaters, the clumpy pumps that passed for high fashion these days gracing their feet. Though they all made great effort to appear casual, all greeting Dwight with a forced "Hi," an insouciant wave there was something about their eyes that made Dwight feel uneasy, warned him that there was a deadly undercurrent here. Almost immediately after he'd been introduced around (his first name only), the kids returned to their drinking and their listless jerky dancing.
Which gave Dwight a chance to collar Sirri, demand an explanation. "Surely you and Hal didn't tell your friends who I am, did you? You don't expect me to pay off the whole world do you?"
"Unlax, darling," she slurred. "They don't know a thing. A blast, a party, we told them. That's all. A party thrown by a dirty, old man. A rich, dirty old man." She giggled. "By the way; you owe us twenty-five for the booze we put in."
Though it was against his better judgment, Dwight was so confused, so disheartened, that he deliberately set out to drink himself into a stupor. Something ugly was brewing; something it would be best not to remember tomorrow. Throwing ice cubes into a glass, he attempted to drown them with straight Bourbon. Very quickly, the hard edges on everything began to soften; he knew a hazy benevolence toward the kids who tried to be friendly, and there were moments with the new girls-Cleo, Edith and Lisa-looked almost beautiful. Moment by moment things became more hazy, more riotous.
What it was that caused the females to suddenly repair to a distant bedroom, emerge moments later dressed in just their lingerie, hosiery and shoes, he never could determine. But as the four girls sidled into the room self-consciously, drew hoots and whistles from the boys, lined up against a distant wall, each staring pointedly at Dwight, he realized it had been due to some prearranged signal, that there was a method to their collective madness. Despite the chilling apprehension that immediately filled him, he couldn't help but be titillated by the variety of exotic flimsies-their Sunday best, obviously-the juvenile tarts wore. Lisa was in a lemon yellow ensemble, Cleo was in a super-frilly black, Edith in clinging red while Sirri was the most extravagantly caparisoned of all, and proudly posed herself before his gaping eyes in a pastel blue with subtle black applique at the points of her brassiere, in the crotch of the panties. Almost as if informed of his peculiar tastes, they all wore just panties, the garter-belt beneath, their hosiery a rainbow of shades. For the briefest moment Dwight thought that here was the ultimate realization of a lifelong dream. A bevy of nymphets, all dressed in the most alluring of scanties, parading before his dazzled eyes. But then the grisly significance of this charade cut through his lecherous thoughts, and he realized that he was being made victim, the butt of a very cruel joke.
"You like, Dwightie?" Sirri taunted. "This really gets you where you live, doesn't it? We dressed this way special. Wouldn't want to disappoint our generous, old Daddy, would we?" And when he continued to stand in gaping trance: "You don't get it, honey? Take your pick. Not me though ... the other girls have been looking forward to you too much. I told them what a fantastic lover boy you are. After all, the father of the feast. You should have first choice."
All at once, almost as if they'd been turned on by a concealed key, the three child-sluts began writhing before him, aiming their breasts, undulating their rears, massaging their thighs and cunts in his direction, their travesty of style show the most insulting mockery of Dwight's quirk he could imagine. Abruptly a heavy, icy knot formed in his belly. Had he been any less drunk, he would have leaped up, bolted from this hellish torture chamber posthaste. But he did nothing of the kind; instead he sat immobilized in his chair, stared fixedly at the slow-gesticulating wantons, his libido piqued unbearably, his lust in the saddle now.
"Pick one, Daddy-oh," Hal snickered. "You choose it, and it's yours. We were kind of hoping you'd give us a little demonstration of that famous bedroom style of yours, we're all willing to learn, you know."
What happened next was like something out of a surrealistic movie. As realizing that these kids were determined to hound him until he capitulated, he decided to humor them, get the abominable mortification over as quickly as possible. "Why, of course." He shammed indifference, robbed the boys of some of their sport. "Where would you like it?"
"Why not right there? On that pretty little rug by the fireplace? Where we can all see. What's your pleasure, Dwight?"
He pointed blindly, indicated the slightly scrawny blonde named Edith. "She'll do. She'll do very nicely."
Immediately her miffed sisters-in-debauch pushed the frozen-faced, shy child forward, forced her to stand in the middle of the oval-shaped rug. Without a moment's hesitation, determined to beat the young gutter-snipes at their own game, Dwight began peeling off his clothes. He was delighted, as he dropped his jockey shorts, at the chorus of "Ooohs" that escaped the girls as his stalwart cock swung up in majestic arc. With one graceful, fluid move, he fell to his knees before Edith, instantly drew her toward him, planted a long, grinding kiss upon her scraggly-haired cunt. The moistness of her squooshy lips, combined with scent of the dime store perfume she'd painted her pussy with, inflamed him, and the poignant reminder of Sirri that first time stronger than ever, he threw all caution to the winds. As of that moment it was as if his hooting, mocking, and alternatedly sighing audience didn't exist.
His procedures were no different than ever, with the exception that he lingered longer over each facet of his addled adoration-at Edith's shoes, her ankles, her knees and calves, the creamy softness of her thighs. He made flamboyant gesture of drawing down her breasts, sucking the nipples wet through her brassiere, before he finally unpinned the garment itself, gathered both breasts, worked the tits together, stuffed them both into his mouth simultaneously. By that time the clamor had died down; the boys watched attentively, while the girls were in rapt trance, their eyes dreamy, their lips pursed as if they, themselves, were sucking Edith's breasts in so gentle and loving a manner. For an eternity he sucked her cunt through the sheer red bikini panties, until Edith moaned stertorously, trembled and flung her head wildly at the fantastic sensations he was inducing within her. Seemingly Dwight was not the least surprised when he saw Hal, naked now also, draw Sirri onto the far end of the rug, kneeling commence to suck her crotch as well. Suddenly, as though possessed, everyone was wild to try duplicating Dwight's servile style.
"Please, Gary," Cleo pleaded, across the room, her fingers buried in his crotch, unashamedly massaging him. "At least try. I'll do you if you'll do me. I swear."
Moments later the remaining boys were naked, and sprawled in chairs, in isolated areas of the room, Lisa with Slade. Cleo with Gary, they tore at each other's clothes, the girls resisting until the boys had at least tried to emulate Dwight's obeisances. Had the children not been so deadly serious about their efforts, the whole scene would have been hilariously funny. Now Dwight drew down the panting, jittering Edith's panties, immediately pulled her floorward. Where, making prolonged ritual of arranging her on her back, steepling her knees, he kissed her churning belly, slowly slid his face southward, insinuated his tongue into her lubricious crack. One searing swipe across her bulging clitoris, and she began to moan incoherently, came completely apart at the seams. Her head flopped back and forth, her eyes rolled wildly as his tongue slithered deeper inside her. In the process she saw Sirri reverently fellating Hal while he swabbed her entire pussy with the flat of his tongue. Which was all she needed, and grabbing the monstrous, drooling prick that swung before her dazed eyes, she hungrily plunged it into her mouth.
When Dwight commenced to fuck Edith, he didn't recall; the consummation was an unconsciously perfect continuation of the ecstasy they'd begun, and he was amazed at the tightness of her previously-used hole, at the way a hundred inner lips seemingly sucked at him. Positioning Edith more perfectly, cleaving his rod into her with slow, precise strokes, he became conscious of a reverent silence about him. "Watch," how he does it. How he does Edith to a golden brown. Tell us, Edie. Every time it happens. Count 'em off."
A breathless hush fell over the watchers as Edith proudly, thickly announced her initial orgasm. Then her second. And a third. On and on they went. An incredulous murmur swept through the room now as Edith, screaming and thrashing ecstatically, announced her ninth, then tenth climax, even as she gasped at the simultaneous glory of Dwight's thick muck splashing into the molten grotto of her womb. Then Dwight was up, starting to move away, when Edith caught him, drew him back. Clinging to his legs, she beseechingly commenced to suck his slime encrusted prick, so avid was she to have him rejuvenated, scouring her guts anew.
But Cleo tore her away, knelt before him, wrapped her lips around the limp pod. "My turn. I want some of that. Any man who can hang in there like that ... Me, me!"
The crowd watched as Dwight drove Cleo to a dozen, claw-the-sky orgasms. "Oh, Christ," Lisa snapped at Slade. "You and your sixty-second specials. You guys all better shape up." As Dwight arose this time, leaving a blissfully panting Cleo spread-eagled on the floor, headed for the cocktail table for a desperately-needed drink, he couldn't help but notice the shamefaced, envying expressions on the boys' faces. At that moment he felt proud, fully ten feet tall.
Lisa was upon him then. Forestalling her briefly, he fell into a chair, sipped his whiskey, even as she mauled his pecker with sadistic fingers, finally relented to employ fellatio upon him. While she sucked him, he watched a self-conscious Gary Lockman permit Cleo Trepanier to mouth his cock. Her head bobbed shamelessly up and down upon the turgid meat. Moments later he stifled a laugh as he heard Cleo sputter: "You dumb ass! You shot in my mouth! Christ, don't you know anything!"
Not too much later he had Lisa in one of the bedrooms, fucking her for all he was worth. Finally, after countless climaxes, he nowhere near coming, she could endure no more, and breathlessly begged off. Whereupon Dwight stumbled drunkenly out into the other room, found Sirri on all fours, being taken dog-fashion by Gary Lockman. He thought it the most appropriate finale to the night's depravities to kneel before her, force her head up, hold her by the ears while he savagely humped his hips back and forth, all but raped her mouth.
Hearing Sirri's yips of ecstasy as Gary creamed her from the rear, he from the front, Dwight knew a strangely incongruous despair and ennui. And where there should have been elation, soaring sense of conquest Seemingly the black buzzards of doom circled in blood-red skies above his head. Now they set their wings, banked, planed lower. They spiraled closer, ever closer. He jammed his eyelids shut, blotted them out, while his hips still jutted at Sirri's suctioning mouth, ordained that she suck forth every last gram of his watery sperm.
CHAPTER TEN
Dwight hadn't been able to believe his ears; he'd felt like someone had just landed a powerful blow to the pit of his stomach, had collapsed his lungs. He hadn't been able to breath; he'd been unable to think. This? From Sirri? The one-time ingenue he'd done so much for, lavished "pretties" unending upon? The sweet virgin he'd once loved? A dull cynicism struggled its way up to the surface of his clamoring brain: It's happened. The worm does turn.
"That's how it is, lover," Sirri had said, smirking in lupine taunt. "A person can't help it if he gets the itch. Especially when we know you're good for it. Hal wants a car too. He's hot for a Buick Riviera. Can do?" She'd giggled dirtily. "Oh, yeah. We both think we should be getting a hundred a week each. After all ... the fun times we've been showing you lately...." She'd put a very strange emphasis on the word, fun.
That had been how it was. And though Hal hadn't had anything definite in mind as to what sort of trouble he might cause for the illustrious Dwight Adair, there was no doubt-if Dwight was to judge by the conniving, cruel look in the suddenly-come-of-age boy's eyes-that he could come up with something very messy indeed. And should Dwight defy the two greedy extortionists, dare them to do their worst, who-in the long run-had the most to lose? Granted the scandal would destroy Sirri and Hal. But what would it do to Dwight, to the Candlelight Petroleum empire? No, there had been no choice. No choice whatsoever. Fair value, Dwight had bitterly conceded. Fair value rendered for price received.
Even now, as he sat alone in his bedroom, a lion left for carrion, the ugly consequences of this latest sellout to the avaricious adolescents rambled sickly in his mind. A barely-tasted glass of Scotch at his elbow, the once-provocative arena of the bed in dark shadows, Dwight sat hunched in his great chair, stared hauntedly into the gloom beneath him. A tearing sigh exploded from him. The fantastic, orgiastic splendors that have transpired in that bed, he mused. With Sirri-all the rest. With Noreen even. And now Thought of Noreen generated an enigmatic throb of warmth and hope in his heart for a fleeting moment. And what-? He shook his head to recall where she'd told him she was going tonight. To some church thing? One of those concerts she was always trying to drag him to? No matter. She'd be home soon, they could go to bed at long last. He was surprised to find himself anticipating same, a weary yearning to huddle to her, to hold her prominent in his brain. After all this time The vagrant sense of peaceful security faded summarily, was replaced by sneering image of Hal Gilmartin. Once more bile rose in Dwight's throat. Thus far he'd been able to stall him on the car. Until such time as he could come to some firm decision as to whether he should capitulate or not. The hundred-dollar payments had already started; it was inevitable that they'd eventually be kited again and again. Dwight was no fool. He knew that once such a blood-sucking enterprise was launched, there was no turning back, there were no limits to the avarice of the human soul.
If I know this, he raged inwardly, writhing where he sat, then why am I so helpless to do something about it? Why have I become such a gutless wander? What is this paralyzing, unbreakable spell, this power Sirri holds over me? Why can't I see her for what she is? How can I still tell myself I love the sadistic, cheating bitch?
His brain reeled again, and in his mind's eye he saw Sirri again-definitive condemnation-as she'd been just the other night. At the apartment again, with the gang gathered for "party" once more. He envisioned her on the bed, with everyone gathered around to watch the depraved spectacular. Hal buried in her cunt, Dwight in her anus, while she somehow managed to twist her throat so that Gary could fuck her in the mouth. But even this hadn't been abomination enough; she'd insisted that Slade Mackey and a newcomer named John Kiley crowd close to the bed, allow her to simultaneously masturbate them. Had there been penises tiny enough for her ears-Dwight finished caustically.
His fury threatened to suffocate him. And I think I'm in love with this! Dear God, where had reason, sense of proportion got to?
At that moment his galling reverie was interrupted, as he heard the door click behind him, and Noreen entered the bedroom. He turned to greet her, was further shaken by the fact that he was sincerely glad to see her. "Hello, darling," she smiled gently. "Still up? I thought you would've been in bed an hour ago." She kissed him fleetingly on the lips, passed down into the sunken portion of the bedroom. Turning on a few of the spotlights, she flung open the bed, then proceeded to matter-of-factly undress, prepare for bed herself.
Dwight partially turned in the chair, indifferently watched as she unbuttoned the smart jacket of her dinner gown, ran the zipper on the matching skirt. In her slip and shoes, she went to her closet, hung her things. Now the slip was slowly pulled over her head. Watching his wife, appraising her svelte, yet opulent figure as she reached inside the closet, he was surprised to find himself actually desiring her, to find that his prick was painfully swollen, already weeping inside his pajamas. She wore a simple, black brassiere, a long-leg girdle that did marvelous things for her body. As she swept from the closet, nightgown in hand, he further savored the double and triple reflection of her faded, yet still patrician beauty in the mirrors behind her.
It was as Noreen sat on the edge of the bed, ran her fingers gracefully along her legs, prepared to unfasten her garter tabs, that it happened. And suddenly Dwight was sweeping down the stairs, he was prostrating himself before Noreen. "Here, dear," he said in a pinched, barely-controllable voice, "Let me do that for you." But then, as his fingers grazed her creamy flesh, swept across her stocking tops, and he looked up to see the tender, genuinely-pleased expression on her face, he could contain his despair no longer. His head dropped; he buried his face in her warm, woman-fragrant thighs, and let the wracking, confused sobs come.
Noreen loosed a compassionate gasp of her own, then wisely chose to say nothing. For perhaps five minutes she held his face in her lap, gently caressed his hair at the nape of his neck, allowing him to be quits with his mortifying grief. When finally the barking sobs subsided, when Dwight finally raised his head, looked imploringly into her eyes, she said, "What is it, darling? Something's happened, hasn't it? Do you want to tell me about it? It has to do with Sirri, hasn't it?"
"No," he choked, "there's nothing. It's not about Sirri. I don't want to talk about anything."
"What do you want then, Dwight?"
"I just ... just want to ... love you, Noreen. Love you like I used to do. Is that too much to ask? You're so lovely tonight ... you excite me so...."
Her smile was wan, unaccusing. "Then that does mean something's wrong. You never want me ... really want me ... otherwise." Again, intuitively perceptive wife that she was, she did not pursue the subject further. And gently disconnecting herself from Dwight's restless hands, she stood beside the bed in her exotic lingerie. "By all means, baby," she breathed, "love me. Love me any way you like. This ... outfit? Will it do? Or would you like me to put on something more exciting? My new orchid ensemble would...."
"No," he blurted. "That's just fine. That's what got me going in the first place."
"Would you like me to choose something for you? Some of your panties? Perhaps that black panty-hose...."
"No, darling, that's not necessary. Just you. The way you are. If I may just adore you...."
A dark, preening glitter erupted in Noreen's eyes, and drawing a deep, shivering breath, dizzy with delight, she posed herself before Dwight, felt her vagina tingle and tighten as Dwight threw off his clothes, began slithering closer to her. "Darling...." she seethed as she felt his first slathering kisses on her feet.
Their strange love was highly routinized, no better, no worse than any of a hundred similar fetishist ceremonies they'd celebrated over the past years. And yet it was special in that it was the first time Dwight had come seeking Noreen since Sirri had appeared on the scene. For this reason an extra excitement was visited upon both participants.
There was another singular difference, also. In that Noreen (as Dwight stared up at her beseechingly from time to time) did not regard him contemptuously; she did not shame or degrade him as Sirri might have done under similar circumstances. Instead she understood his affliction, she indulged him in it, loving him throughout just the same. Since this was his preference, she would lend herself to the love, pilot him to its most complete fruition, the stigma of perversion did not once register upon her mind.
Dwight groveled at her feet, adored her ankles and calves, buried his lips in the concavity behind her knee. Noreen well schooled in special small touches her husband preferred, introduced same to every segment of his adoration: The sliding of her shoe against his cheek; the nudging of her pointed toe in his genitals as he stretched to accept her gift of brimming tits into his straining mouth, her furry moans and purrings of pleasure as he sucked her crotch soggy, keeled his teeth across her nylon-shielded clitoris; the gentle crowding of his face into her cunt, her palms rustling on his ears. All contributed to the total and final frenzy as he flung her backward onto the bed, actually pulled off her pumps, her girdle (the stockings still attached) with ravenously restless teeth. Until now, Noreen still in her black brassiere, the skimpy black panties, she joyously tolerated his rape of the nylon itself, Dwight tearing the flimsy crotch to ribbons with his own hands, the better to permit the final oral assault upon this last bastion of her sex.
Noreen pitched and moaned on the bed as Dwight snaked his tongue deep into her slippery hole as he caught her clitoris between suctioning lips, seemingly pulled it-and her spine along with it-from her body inch-by-inch. Almost immediately her initial orgasm sundered her, and she vaingloriously shrieked her glory, a thing she knew thrilled Dwight tremendously. Next, in order to postpone the excruciating agony of a fresh sucking of her lust pimple, she lapsed into that most barbaric command Dwight loved so well. "Not yet, beloved," she hissed. "In a minute you can make me come again. But for now ... Put your tongue in my ass ... lick me there. Oooh, that's heavenly. In, shove it in! As far as it will go."
There wasn't time for a second tongue-induced orgasm for Noreen. For, sensing her husband's imminent ejaculation, she instinctively knew it was time to get on with things. Thus she pushed him down, lovingly licked his testicles, the underside of his prick, eventually consuming almost all of the gummy stalk in her mouth, gaggingly struggling to shove all of it down her cock-famished throat. But this devotion, also, could only be conferred briefly, and desperate to have his blessed sperm douche in the depths of her vagina, she forcibly pulled her mouth from its heavenly pinion, drew her husband over her turbulent hips. With her own hands she branded her clitoris with his slimy prick before she gruntingly plunged it into the screaming depths of her cunt.
Two, brain-searing orgasms thundered down upon Noreen almost immediately, as she screamed obscenities without end, flopped and writhed beneath him like some grounded tarpon. "You fucker!" she praised. "You fantastic fucker!" Then she was gone again, intent upon wresting still another fiery climax for herself. And was halfway up the mountain, symbolically stuffing bull pricks up her crack, when Dwight cursed, let loose with his own discharge. Noreen was momentarily stunned at the hotness of his cannonade, at the endless quantities of semen, at the force with which he jetted the rich cream against the innermost membranes of her bowels. But then, as his plunge slowed, indicated his completion, she administered a swift flurry of belly-writhings, ground her pearl upon his squashy prick, triggered still a last descent-into-the-sun climax of her own.
For a long time afterward, his prick still inside Noreen, his finger still tucked in her anus, Dwight lay atop his wife. Dazed, breathless, he was still conscious enough to evaluate the fantastic fuck just given him by his wife; he was sentient enough to know it was one in a million, the kind of fuck most men dream about, but never, in their lifetimes receive. And what was the difference, what had caused the incredible gap between this ecstasy and the ones he tore from Sirri's belly? It had to do with something more than home-cooking, he concluded; it had to do with that ephemeral virtue known as love. For when the woman truly loves the man she copulates with Eventually he fell away from Noreen. Snuggling in her arms, caught up in soul-down-the-drain torpor and ease-a monumental sense of tightness. She never wanted to leave this fleshly sanctuary again. Thus it was, as Noreen gently, yet firmly asked him about his troubles with Sirri, that it suddenly seemed the most natural thing in the world the ultimate, the only answer-that he should confide in her. She would know what to do, she would grant the stability and safe harbor he so desperately needed.
"And what, darling," she said levelly, no indictment in her tone, as he finished, "do you intend to do about it? Surely you don't intend to let them get away with it, do you?"
The night rustled and hissed eerily about her. And yet, Dwight asleep for an hour already, Noreen couldn't sleep herself. Black fury, a gut-clawing lust for vengeance prowled within her. As, the aftermath of Dwight's abject surrender to the degenerate hoodlums' demands still rankling, she realized the deadly jeopardy her own life was in. If she allowed Dwight to go through with this sniveling sellouts-And hadn't he been horribly ambivalent about his truest feelings toward that Sirri slut?-the entire fabric of her life would be threatened.
It isn't like Dwight, she thought. It's as if someone's eviscerated him. It isn't like him at all. Sick he might be so far as his sex needs are concerned. But spineless, no. He's come too far to be without the guts needed to survive in this dog-eat-dog world. And what's that rotten pig done to him, anyway? Even in the fetishist thing there are compensations. Once those crawling preliminaries were over Dwight invariably became all man-aggressive, dominating male animal. Ask me, I know. Ask all those other hot pants bitches he's tumbled. More man than that no woman living ever needs. The way he lasts and lasts Yet, it was so. Something had happened to Dwight. Her fury threatened to strangle her. And if he isn't man enough to stop these renegades, someone has to take hold. I haven't worked and humiliated myself, I haven't schemed all my life just to let a gang of juvenile Johnny-come-latelies move in, steal everything right under my nose. Fun is fun. But this? The gall, the unmitigated gall Now Noreen's brain spun faster; a bloodthirsty vindictiveness loomed increasingly larger. She actually chewed her lips as a plan suggested itself, as she visualized a long overdue comeuppance. Judgment Day-Noreen trembled now, breathed hard, was actually impatient for the night to pass. Tomorrow, she exulted, tomorrow--
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It wasn't until afterward-long, long afterward-when Hal Gilmartin woke up in Julian Phelps Memorial Hospital days later, that the foolish boy realized exactly what had happened to him. Then, as he found himself trussed and bound in an antiseptic bed, his left leg and his right arm in traction, his face swathed in bandages, just before the murderous pain blacked him out again, the grisly picture suddenly came back into focus. A day later, when he realized his nose and jaw were broken, when the nurse told him every finger on his right hand was snapped, the picture became even more clear. And lastly, when he begged a nurse's aid for a mirror, when he partially tugged away the bandages with his good left hand and saw the raw hamburger that had once been a face Then, had he been able to unhinge his locked jaw, he would have truly bellowed. Then the total impact and significance of the merciless beating he'd received truly swarmed over him, taught him the realest meaning of terror!
As he'd left the apartment Dwight Adair so generously maintained for his eternal convenience that cold, blustery night in mid-December Hal Gilmartin had felt strangely uneasy. Climbing into the junk-heap Ford that would have to suffice until he accepted delivery on the promised '69 Buick Riviera, he'd had distinct twinges of fear. He could have sworn that the rakish Caddy parked across from him had been empty, its lights out, its motor dead only moments ago. But then, when the tail-gating car had turned off behind him only two blocks on his way to his dumpy West Side pad, Hal's fears had been allayed. Partially drunk, weak as a cat from the demands of the tireless Sirri, he'd had much more important things to think about.
Thus he'd been totally caught off-guard as he'd parked on Grant Street, and started toward his apartment building. His mind a million miles away, he certainly couldn't have been expected to notice the same Cadillac parked a half block up the street. The voice had lashed him, galvanized him into instant immobility. Someone in the alley? At three o'clock in the morning? "Gilmartin?" the soft-spoken man said. "Hal Gilmartin?"
He should have bolted; anyone with half a brain should have known there had to be a clinker somewhere. Instead, he'd turned, had stupidly stared into the darkness. "Yeah, I'm Hal Gilmartin. What d'ya want?"
"I've got something for you, buddy." Before Hal had been able to make a move, the man had strong-armed him from behind. Shutting off his wind, he'd dragged his victim deep into the alley. Where, with a stunning ease belying his modest size, he'd swung Hal against the brick wall, the sudden stop responsible for minor skull concussion the doctors later found.
"Please, please...." Hal gasped dazedly.
"A Christmas present, Hal," the man had wheeled. "In advance. From an old friend. If you're smart, you won't need a second. The name Adair mean anything to you? He wants you to lay off. Or else." At which, with blurring speed, the dark-suited thug had buried his brass-bound fist into the center of Hal's mouth, the blow efficiently breaking off all Hal's front teeth at the gum line.
A flurry of blows had followed the initial, ox-stunning smash, the jagged metal protecting the man's fist breaking Hal's nose in two places, gouging out huge pieces of his flesh in the bargain. When Hal had commenced to scream he'd been rewarded with a larynx-paralyzing chop across his throat. As he'd gaggingly folded up, his hands to his face, the goon had knead him in the groin three times in quick succession. Hal hadn't been able to remember very much after that. One, massive, grunting ball of superhuman pain, he'd been picked up from the ground again and again, had become a human punching bag as the hired-ape had poured fist after fist into his stomach, his chest, his back and kidneys. Hal had heard ribs collapse; he'd wheezed and gasped for life as the breath was repeatedly knocked out of him. Again the knee came up, seemingly drove a jagged timber up his pelvic cavity. Until finally Hal had mercifully passed out, had crumbled into a bloody heap upon the crumbling cement.
He'd awakened to find the man kicking him in the ribs. "Can you hear me, pal?" the softly-wheezing man had called. "Listen good, you."
"I hear you," Hal had bubbled through a blood-clogged mouth.
"You ever bug my friend again, I'll kill you next time. Understand?"
"I understand."
Then Hal's very head had exploded with sirening pain; he'd screamed, his cries emerging as a muffled, "Unh, unh...." And the man had deliberately stomped Hal's right hand, as he'd jumped up and down on his leg, then his arm, until he was satisfied with the timbre of the bones breaking. Upon which Hal had once more passed out cold.
Now, staring at the mirror, regarding his Grand Guignol face, he wanted to die. He would never be handsome again; no woman living would ever take a second look at his face so long as he lived!
It was on the day following Hal's admission into the hospital-that knowledge in itself strongly jarring her-that a very wary and uncomfortable Sirri Stenson kept a spur-of-the-moment appointment at the Adair residence. But, for a wonder, not with Dwight Adair. But with his wife-the stone-faced, cruel-eyed Noreen Adair instead. "Yes, Mrs. Adair," Sirri put on her best school-girl air. "My mother told me you'd called, that you wanted to see me. What is it about?"
Noreen never smiled once during the entire interview. Impassive, curt, she was in total charge from the minute Sirri entered the luxurious Adair living room. And indicating the place beside her on the contemporary davenport, she said, "Sit down, won't you, please, my dear. I'm quite sure you know what this is all about."
"Mrs. Adair?" , "Let's not play games, Sirri. There isn't time." Her eyes drilled into Sirri's, froze her where she sat. "It's come to my attention, child, that you and my husband have become rather close of late. Intimate, shall I say?" Further vitriol erupted in her gaze. "Games, did I say?" She chewed out the remainder of the accusation: "Intimate, hell! I happen to know that you two have been screwing like fuck-crazed minks for the past four months now!"
Sirri nearly voided her bladder where she sat. Her face white, her voice blurred, she said, "Mrs. Adair! What are you saying? How ... dare you!"
"I told you, Sirri. Knock off the act. I've got you cold. This says I do." With a quick movement she drew the plain, brown envelope from beneath the davenport cushion, handed it to the girl. "Open it. Take a gander at those."
With trembling hands, terror threatening to collapse her very skull, Sirri drew out the eight-by-ten glossies-a dozen in all-which showed her and Dwight disporting themselves in sexual deviations of every description. The photographs were expert, taken with super-fast film, a fabulously wide, fast camera lens, and they showed Sirri and Dwight in simple copulation, in the soixante-neuf position, in the weird lingerie ensembles, as well as naked. They showed Dwight performing unadorned cunnilingus, as well as Sirri, with her lips blissfully wound about his massive prick. The pictures of Sirri were especially clear, her face in unmistakable close-up, her expression undeniably pagan. There were others, but the piece de resistance was the glossy depicting Sirri accommodating Dwight via anus.
"Where, where did you get these?" the ashen-faced girl blubbered as she looked up from the last photograph.
"That's irrelevant. I've got them; that's all that matters." What followed was very terse and brutal indeed, and amounted basically to an ultimatum; one which Sirri Stenson could not, in good conscience, refuse to honor. The photographs would be doctored so that Dwight's identity, as well as the background, would be concealed. And should the dim-witted little bourgeois be so foolish as to consider bucking Noreen, the photographs would be sent to her parents, to Father Wilkinson at the church, to relatives and friends. Should she dare to reveal who her seducer was, the total might of the Adair fortune would be brought to bear in Benton Falls; she'd have as much chance as a snowball in hell of proving her charges. Money does have its inherent privilege after all. So if Sirri had any sense at all The blackmail adventures would cease immediately; as would the group parties recently foisted upon Dwight. Sirri would continue to make herself available to Dwight as long as he might continue to find her fascinating. For which acquiescence she would continue to be taken care of handsomely up to such time as she and Dwight tired of her. Status quo would continue insofar as clothes, gifts, allowance, and her automobile were concerned. But for now:
"Come upstairs with me now, my dear. I've got a little surprise for you." Docilely, all will to resist dead within her now, Sirri did as she was told. Upon reaching the bedroom, once again among familiar surroundings, Sirri trembling as the door was locked behind her, an eerily-aroused Noreen said, "I think you owe me an apology, Sirri. After I trusted you, brought you into my own home, treated you like my own daughter. How did you repay me? By stealing my husband right from under my nose. That was a very naughty thing to do, don't you think?"
Noreen's voice became more arch, more pinched by the moment. "Aren't you sorry for what you've done?"
"I'm sorry...." Sirri pleaded. "Very sorry...."
"That won't do, I'm afraid, my dear. Don't you think you should show me how sorry you are?" She led the shuddering girl down to the bed. "Undress, please, Sirri. I think it's time I found out what there is about you that Dwight finds so irresistible. I am a woman of certain strong needs myself, you know."
Sirri instinctively knew what it was the wild eyed Mrs. Adair was leading up to. "Please, Mrs. Adair ... Noreen! Don't ask me to...."
"If you will undress, please!"
Shamefacedly, in agonizing fits and starts, Sirri began removing her clothes. By the time she was finished, Noreen was naked also, and she sat in an imperious pose in an upholstered chair on the top tier. "Come up, please, Sirri," she commanded, an addled ring to her voice. And as Sirri complied falteringly: "If you will kneel, dear. Here, in front of me-between my legs. You're sorry, aren't you, baby? Very sorry. You wish to make amends ... show me how sorry you are, don't you?"
Mesmerized, wholly confused by then, Sirri whispered, "Yes, Mrs. Adair. I want to show you how sorry I am." Then she was sinking to the floor between Noreen's legs; she dazedly crawled forward.
Noreen endured the child's sweet lips at her nipples as long as she could. But then, as the Satanic fires raged out of control in the depths of her cunt, she snapped, "Enough, darling! Enough of that! My cunt now, my burning cunt. Lean down, kiss it, lick it. Move, you little pig! I'm on fire, do you hear. Suck my cunt! Suck it until I give you permission to stop!" For long, brain-fevered moments Sirri swayed before Noreen, acted as if she hadn't heard. Until, finally, a strangled sob escaping her, the futility of resistance crushing her spirit, Sirri slowly slumped to her haunches before Noreen, began the long journey along her thighs.
There was a last hesitation. As Noreen now brought up her bare feet, dug the heels into the chair's cushion. A move that totally exposed her black-furred hole, the glistening film of vaginal elixir that clung, then popped like a soap bubble. Even this was not blatant invitation enough, for then Noreen's fingers dropped, pulled the lips of her yawning pussy even wider.
Sirri shuddered, abjectly forged ahead; she buried her mouth in that hot, slimy mush, let her tongue slither forth. Moments later, only the sound of wet clickings, Noreen's thick wheezings of delight could be heard in the echoing vault of that macabre torture chamber.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Another dreary winter month had passed in Benton Falls, and now it was February, bitter cold, blustery and snowy, daring all but the most hearty to venture forth on such a night as this. Inside the stately Adair residence, however, there was no trace of chill whatsoever. Especially as far as the troilistic group gathered in one of the guest bedrooms at the farthest end of the second floor was concerned. A group which was composed of none other than Noreen, Sirri, and a still-fragile, badly-scarred Hal Gilmartin. Who, his spirit crushed as definitively as Sirri's had been, had recently been prevailed upon to enter the dowager queen's corrupt menage. A pension of sorts endowed upon him also, he'd gratefully agreed to sign on with the unique repertoire company, and was, even now, engaged in another orgiastic "audition."
Granted, he was not the prettiest of specimens, but the saying having to do with cats in the dark applying here, the bedroom deep in shadow, he would serve Noreen's purposes admirably. At least until something better came along. All of them slightly drunk, fighting to forget that each was, to some extent, a castoff, they pursued sensation with a tireless dedication. And Noreen posting happily upon Hal's daily-more-proficient prick, while Sirri straddled his head, hissingly enjoyed his incisive, pistoning tongue as it scoured the membranes of her cunt and clitoris, the madcap trio took their jollies where they could.
While in the master bedroom, that fool's paradise of satin sheets, silk apparel and crisscrossing spotlights, still another travesty of love was being enacted.
A new philosophy had been instituted in the Adair household since Noreen's brutal showdown with Sirri and Hal, a philosophy encompassing the "If you can't lick 'em, join 'em" adage. Since it was painfully obvious that Dwight would never change, that his lecher-fetishist fantasies became more compelling with each passing day, it was up to Noreen to employ her waning youth as creatively as she could. More and more often lately she caustically defended her capitulation to outright sensuality with the catch-phrase: "Every woman ought to have a hobby."
Beyond this acceptance of Dwight's most intrinsic, unchanging nature, there had evolved a determination that never again should their future ever be threatened again as it had been so recently. It had been proven that Dwight was no longer .the strong, dependable male he'd once been. So be it. In that case it was up to Noreen herself to become overseer and warden-zookeeper was apropos also-all in one. If Dwight was going to engage in lifelong debauch, then she would be obliged to provide setting for same, keep close watch on his flesh preserve lest he roam too far afield, destroy them all with his reckless lust for eternal fresh conquest.
As singular case in point was the exquisite young thing of eighteen, named Elaine Cotter-an ingenue Sirri herself had been instrumental in recruiting-who was, at this very moment, in the midst of erotic trance in Dwight's fantastically-appointed boudoir. An elfin blonde, petite in every respect, she was dazedly recumbent upon the bed, savoring the insane excitement within her loins as Dwight slavishly dressed her in the white, "wedding night" costume, almost exact duplicate of the one in which he'd once accoutered Sirri. Now the odd step-ins were being pulled up her thighs, accompanied by a chewing kiss to the golden floss of her moras veneris. "I don't understand," the adorable innocent questioned when her shivers of rapture died down. "Why do you keep dressing and undressing me?"
In the guest bedroom Noreen was now lovingly sucking the depleted Hal back to life, her head moving in dreamy ebb and flow, even as Sirri, devoted aficionado of bi-sexual love by then, eagerly returned her new mistress to a relatively pristine condition.
Dwight was groveling at Elaine's feet now, kissing and licking the pretty white shoes, beginning to work his tongue up her white stockings, a thing that made the virgin whimper with intermixed delight and dismay.
"Let's get Sirri ready," Noreen snickered now as she pumped Hal's hard cock, brought droplets of his love liqueur forth. "You hold her legs; I'll get her juiced up." Even as she transferred the clear oil from the knob of his organ to Sirri's puckered star, squirmed her own finger inside her anus to stretch her, she recalled the time she'd commanded Dwight to play also; the memory of simultaneously having Dwight up her ass, Hal up her snatch, actually made her dizzy with longing.
Elaine was positioned provocatively upon the white sheets now, the glitter of her mounting fabulously exciting to Dwight. Her white lingerie, her creamy flesh, the tantalizing pinkness of her tits, her blatantly exposed pussy, as contrasted to the shiny satin, made him want to scream. He stifled the impulse by burying his face in the golden fur of her gash, making her groan naggedly as his tongue investigated that intact seal of her chastity.
Noreen positioned herself precisely beneath Sirri, pulled a pillow beneath her head the better to reach the child's pussy where Sirri, on all fours, angled her buttocks to receive Hal's swaying phallus. Noreen took a tentative swipe at Sirri's clitoris, was rewarded with an adoring lick of her own, Sirri avid to return the homage, stroke for stroke.
Elaine screamed piteously now, as Dwight forced his rod into her squeaky-tight hole, ruptured her hymen, the outflow swiftly staining the silk scarf beneath her buttocks. Shortly her cries diminished, and Dwight impaled her more vigorously.
Noreen thought the sight of Hal's brown cock, as it sallied in and out of Sirri's anal passage, eminently exciting. Even more exciting was the act of licking his flopping testicles themselves as they came in range, a ministration she alternated with searing lavings of Sirri's clitoris. The frenzy in Noreen's belly heightened by the moment.
But still there were moments of brief despair, misgivings Noreen couldn't quite identify. She should be happy; she should be satisfied. Here was her new life, her totally new attitudes. There was even promise of Elaine, when Dwight tired of her; unknown Elaines, as-yet-to-be-invented sexual games she couldn't even begin to imagine yet. And yet-this damnable uneasiness, this guilt. She worked harder, fought to shut out conscience. Her tongue lolled frenziedly, and she struggled to concentrate, to gather sensation to transfiguring magnification. Momentarily she was successful in blotting out her chagrin.
It seemed to Noreen that there should be something more to life than this. More than wholesale wallowing. Power and wealth should rightfully invest their owners with more happiness, more meaningful endeavors. But for the life of her, she was unable-at this so-crucial moment-to think of what such lofty pursuits might be.
