Isabel Fairbanks was a lovely, dark-haired woman in her late twenties. Her husband, Ralph, was tall, dark-haired, handsome and built like a college halfback. He was also the town's minister, and knew more about God than he did about Freud. Deputy Sheriff Curt Sylvester was an ape of a man with an insatiable lust, and when he saw Isabel for the first time, he knew he could show her more of heaven than her husband could.
Chapter One
Isabel Fairbanks sat in the library of the well-appointed manse and blandly regarded Monica Simpson sitting in the straight-backed chair opposite. Isabel knew what Monica wanted, and she knew exactly how she was going to handle the situation. She had seated Monica with the room light behind Isabel's chair and in Monica's face, causing her to squint slightly.
"Speak up, Monica," Isabel said briskly. "My husband always has something for me to do immediately after the mid-week services we've just concluded, and I really should be getting at it."
"I won't take long," Monica promised, but she hesitated, as though having difficulty in getting started. "I'm here because, well, it's about-" She stopped.
"Yes?" Isabel prompted her.
Monica drew a quick breath and plunged ahead. "I wish you'd reconsider asking for my resignation from the church's ladies' aid committee."
"Why?" Isabel asked bluntly.
Monica's half-smile vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. She was a pretty redhead whose well-rounded curves were emphasized by a dress a half-size too small. "It would be the Christian thing to do," she said.
Isabel's stare was icy. "I believe I need no instruction from you in my Christian duties, Monica," she replied frostily. "If I asked you to leave the church, that would be un-Christian. I feel under the circumstances you are no longer a fit individual to remain a member of the committee. As committee chairman, I would be lax if I condoned it."
"My husband will want to know why I resigned," Monica said quietly. "And he won't be satisfied with any answer I can give him. You may not know my husband, Isabel, but I can assure you that any dissatisfaction with me on his part takes drastic forms."
"You'll have to pardon me if I consider that irrelevant," Isabel said coolly. "Since you force me to speak plainly, we're discussing here the situation of a woman who is conducting an immoral love affair with a man other than her husband, are we not? A man several years her husband's junior? A man, in fact, her junior?"
There was a momentary silence before Monica spoke again. "This is a small town," she said finally. "Word will get back to my husband of the committee's action. At the very least he'll divorce me."
"It seems to me that's his affair," Isabel said with practiced mildness. "And yours. Our duty here lies merely in conducting churchly affairs with a dignity denied us by your behavior, since you compel me to be frank about it. Of course, you're welcome to discuss the matter with my husband."
"You know I couldn't do that,"
"Then we're wasting time, aren't we?" Isabel rose to her feet. "I hardly think an appeal to the committee will avail you much, Monica." She smiled coldly. "The committee members are unlikely to call to their husbands' attention their possible defense of your escapades."
Monica rose to her feet, too. "You really are a bitch, aren't you?" she observed. "I can't stop you from doing this, but I'll tell you something. You do it, and I'll get your ass. I'm not helpless."
"You'll forgive me if I don't see you to the door," Isabel said frigidly. She left the library with her head held high. The statement was typical of Monica, she thought in disgust. Lashing out blindly at all around her. Isabel knew she was acting correctly, so what availed further nasty debate on a subject she already considered closed? She knew Monica would never approach her husband, Ralph, who might well have taken a softer view of the situation, but Ralph's chilly exterior effectively prevented communication with his parishioners on intimate matters.
Isabel moved lightly toward the rear of the ranch-styled manse. She had been truthful in her statement to Monica that Ralph always had something for her to do after the conclusion of mid-week services, although she knew Monica would never dream to what Isabel was referring. It was the part of the week she liked the least, and she always felt a sense of relief when it was over.
Isabel Fairbanks was in her twenty-seventh year, a woman of medium height and one hundred and thirty firmly fleshed pounds. Upswept black hair framed features that were handsome rather than beautiful. Her father had been a minister, like her husband, and she could never remember a time when her choices in life hadn't been automatically laid out for her.
A graduate of Radcliffe, she found herself over-educated for their current congregation, a prosperous but mainly blue collar group whose practical attitude toward life often frustrated Ralph's spiritual efforts. Isabel had become active in several community matters she knew characterized her in the eyes of many as a do-gooder. She consoled herself with the knowledge that the work needed to be done.
As a minister's wife, she had come to regard other women as chipped vessels needing both restraint and guidance.
Her own four-square outlook on life was simple: sinners must suffer and repent.
She entered the manse's master bedroom and began to undress.
Dr. Ralph Fairbanks sat at the desk in his study, making notes in his journal as he always did after a service. Jotted observations, essentially: old Mrs. Holcomb had seemed especially distracted, while Harold Tennant had walked with a pronounced limp. Items such as these when commented upon after the Sunday service helped to cement the image of a young minister in rapport with his congregation.
He closed the journal with a sigh. He had been a brilliant divinity school student, but he lacked the common touch. He knew that he was regarded as a cold fish. Occasionally he wondered if some of his male juices had evaporated because he had been raised from infancy by two maiden aunts. He had married only because it was a requirement in his profession prior to receiving his first post. It had been time to get married, and Isabel, coolly attractive and with the proper credentials had been available.
His wife exasperated him at times with her continued meddling in church affairs. She intimidated him, too, with her constant self-righteousness; he was all too conscious of his own doubts before decision-making moments. He supposed that Isabel's effective upper hand in their marriage had begun with the honeymoon, during which her by-the-numbers approach to sex had almost emasculated him. She had insisted upon reading aloud to him a marriage manual prepared for ministers' wives.
Dr. Ralph Fairbanks knew he was an attractive man. More than once he had surprised a speculative gleam in the eye of an attractive female parishioner, but he had never felt the slightest inclination to follow through. It would be folly. He was aware that his role in life was more as a spectator than as a participant, but he had given up attempting to plan a breakthrough.
His glance strayed to the clock on the corner of his desk.
He rose to his feet, his tennis-conditioned body lithely balanced.
He left the study, closing the door as he turned and walked toward the master bedroom at the rear of the manse.
Monica Simpson sat on the worn sofa in the living room of her apartment, staring moodily into the contents of her glass. It was her third drink, but she didn't feel them. In consequence, her friend, Lucille Garvey, sitting across the room, looked flushed and bright-eyed.
Monica knew she might just as well take an ad in the paper as tell her troubles to Lucille, but she felt she had to talk to someone. "She wouldn't even listen to me," she concluded her tale of the conversation with the minister's wife.
Lucille paused to shape her words. "What happens now?"
Monica shrugged. "Pete will hear about it from some busybody." Pete Simpson was head bartender at the liveliest nightclub in town. "And then he'll come home and wear out my ass before he throws me out in the street." She tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat.
"Everyone knows Pete's a brute," Lucille said sympathetically. "Didn't you tell Mrs. Fairbanks that?"
"I wasn't going to get down on my knees to her."
Lucille took a sip from her glass. "Will Pete really whip you?" "Yes."
Lucille circled her lips delicately with the tip of her tongue. "But that's dreadful!" She leaned toward her friend. "What will he do?"
"Stripe my bare behind with his belt." Monica contemplated the thought in silence for several seconds. "And then more than likely lock me out on the other side of the door."
"Stripe your-" Lucille Garvey paused as a little shiver ran through her. "But that's dreadful, Monnie!" she repeated. She swallowed an excess of saliva in her mouth. "What are you going to do?"
"Holler like hell while I'm getting it," Monica said wryly.
"You should leave right now!" Lucille said indignantly.
"Where would I go?" Monica asked logically. "I haven't a quarter. And under the circumstances, I don't think any of the local women will invite me for a visit." She smiled when Lucille looked away guiltily. "I have to face the music, that's all."
"But it's ridiculous for you to stay here when you know that Pete will mistreat you!" Lucille protested.
"I'm hoping I can make a deal with him," Monica replied. "After he works out his anger on my tail, I'll ask him if I can stay while I find a job and a room. He might say yes." She brooded about it for a moment. "And then again he might not."
"I still say it's the height of foolishness for you to stay here when you're sure that Pete will abuse you physically," her friend said warmly. She hesitated before continuing. "I should think you could look for help to the man who-" She stopped, floundering.
"The man who's been fucking me?" Monica asked with an attempted insouciance that didn't quite come off.
"Monnie! How you talk!" Lucille exclaimed, but there were two spots of color in her cheeks.
"He isn't going to be any happier about this being out in the open than Pete is," Monica predicted darkly. "I know damn well I can't look for any help there." She shook her head ruefully. "I don't know why it is I seem to run to the brute type." She grinned impudently at her friend. "But you'll have to admit it's the single flaw in my otherwise sterling character."
"I just don't see how you can be so casual about it, Monnie."
Monica's renewed shrug was fatalistic. "What good will it do me to be anything else?" She studied her friend speculatively. "Haven't you ever strayed off the reservation, honey? Or have you been off it and been more discreet than I was?"
"Of course not!" Lucille flared, but her color deepened. "I wouldn't even think of it! I wouldn't dare!"
"It's the daring that makes it so exciting," Monica said. "When you know you're out on a limb, and you can almost hear the sound of the saw, and you know you're going to get blistered if you're caught, but a man's big prong has you nailed to the bed, plunging in and out-" "Monica Simpson!"
Monica laughed. "You ought to try it sometime, Lucille. Greatest thing in the world for tired blood. How about another drink?"
"Oh, no! I've had too much already. Harry might smell it on me now."
"You sound nervous about your own lily-white ass. Although Harry somehow doesn't seem the type to work out on it."
"He's not, but he wouldn't speak to me for a week."
"An attitude that saves wear and tear on the gluteal region," Monica observed.
"It's an attitude that infuriates me!" Lucille said surprisingly.
Monica looked at her curiously. "Better stick with what you have, kiddo. Take it from the Voice of Experience. Sure you won't join me in one more?"
"I have to get home." Lucille picked up her gloves and handbag. "I may call your later, Monnie."
"Not tonight," Monica said firmly. "You can learn the gory details in the morning. If I'm still here in the morning."
She ushered her friend to the apartment door.
Bobby Maxwell parked his eight-year-old car in front of Cindy Gaynor's house and turned to Cindy on the front seat beside him. His gray eyes appraised her sweetly innocent features framed in soft blonde hair that descended in sweeping wings to her shoulders. "You've changed, Cindy," he said softly.
"Changed? How?" she asked. "Since we were in school."
"You shouldn't have dropped out of school," the girl said earnestly. "That's why you're having so much trouble finding a good job."
"Oh, I make a few bucks," he said carelessly. "The factory pays me for playing with its football and baseball teams. And something comes up once in a while." He leaned across the front seat toward the girl. "But I really can't get over the change in you."
"You're exaggerating," she said, but she was smiling.
"The hell I am. In school you were so skinny it was hard to see you. Now ..." He dropped a hand on Cindy's thigh and squeezed lightly while his eyes caressed the outline of her breasts under her thin blouse. "You've got the meat where the meat should be, Cindy."
She moved her thigh away from his hand. Despite his choir boy features, Bobby Maxwell was far more man than boy. Cindy tried to keep from revealing the quick stir of inner excitement she felt at his touch. "Dr. Haley said I was a late-bloomer," she said lightly.
He moved still closer to her on the front seat of the car, his brown-haired head so close to her blonde one that his lips grazed her ear. Cindy tried to stifle a shiver that rippled through her. "Are you a virgin, Cindy?" he murmured against the captive ear. His hand dropped once more on her warm thigh and this time disappeared under her skirt.
"It's no sin to be a virgin," Cindy retorted, groping through her skirt for the hand advancing teasingly well up on her thigh.
"And I'll bet you've got the cutest unused cunt," he whispered.
The forbidden word startled her. "You mustn't, Bobby," she protested, as much to his use of language as to the fingers crawling up her inner leg. She seized his wrist, but his greater strength slowed the ascending hand hardly at all.
An electric shock ran through her when, despite her best efforts to restrain him, Bobby's fingers first touched, then tickled, then cuddled the whole of her pantied crotch. "Ahhh, Jesus, that's a fat little pussy!" he crooned.
"Bobby!" the girl exclaimed in panic at the sudden flood of sensation assailing her. The male fingers played lightly with her secret flesh, evoking a swelling of the labial lips she could actually feel. She was afraid he could feel it, too, through the thin fabric of her flesh-strained panties. "We're . . . right out ... on the street!" she protested breathlessly. "Someone ... my mother . . . might see!"
He turned his head and lingeringly kissed her soft neck. "Oh!" Cindy breathed as she experienced a quick gush of moisture where the probing fingers titillated her glowing sex spot. "Bobby! No!"
He moved his hand abruptly, but he kissed her neck again as goosebumps rose visibly on the white skin of her forearms. "I'll meet you tomorrow behind the library," he said briskly. "Same time." He gave her a brightly cheerful smile. "Bring flesh. Heated." He leaned across her to open the car door on her side, and a hand under her elbow assisted her out of the car door. She felt a friendly pat on her bottom just before she stood erect on near-trembling legs. The old car roared away as Bobby gave her a casual wave.
Cindy stood on the sidewalk in front of her house, hoping her confused stimulation didn't show in her face. Her rapid pulse and fluttering heartbeat slowly subsided. In high school Bobby Maxwell had been an athletic god she worshiped from afar, uncomplainingly accepting that he couldn't see her own skinny, straggle-haired blondeness.
She had been surprised when Bobby appeared suddenly with his car this afternoon and offered her a ride home from her part-time job at the library. And she had been surprised-and yes, she had to admit it, thrilled-by his bold advances. Bobby was a handsome boy, and Cindy had had very little experience with boys.
She sighed unconsciously before entering the manless home of her widowed mother. Inside, she went into the kitchen with its enticing odors, again hoping that her excitement didn't show. "Do I have time for a bath before dinner, Mother?" she asked, kissing Rochelle Gaynor's cheek.
"If you hurry, dear," her mother replied.
She went up to her own room where she approached the floor-length mirror attached to the bedroom-side of her bathroom door. There she raised her dress and slip in both hands until the crotch of her panties was visible. She stared silently at the damp spot visible upon the gusset. She touched herself lightly there, the mirror faithfully reflecting the image of the sweet, blonde girl with a finger probing between her thighs.
Cindy still felt half-dizzy from the surfeit of emotion she had so suddenly experienced on the front seat of Bobby's car. She removed her dress and slip, then on impulse faced about and looked over her shoulder into the mirror at her pantied rear. She pulled the panties down slowly until all her white behind showed. Quietly, she examined the slender stalk of her waist below which glistened the surprisingly fruity-looking twin globes of her silky, nude buttocks.
Cindy reached behind herself to pat the resilient flesh, then swing it lightly from side to side with flirting motions of her hips. The flaring hemispheres danced and jiggled and swayed delightfully, dazzling in their whiteness. Bobby could never call her skinny now, Cindy reflected.
She turned and faced the mirror again. She pushed the panties farther down in front until all of the sloping bowl of her pearly white round stomach was exposed. Blonde, mossy curls on her lower belly trailed downward into the juncture of her thighs. She touched herself again where Bobby had touched her, then shivered.
She was ashamed every time she relieved herself in her bedroom with a finger inserted inside her chubby, silky furred pussy. It temporarily relieved the itch, but it had never felt like it had in Bobby's car. She had been ashamed with him, too, but only because she was afraid he could sense the uncontrolled state she had so quickly reached with him. She still didn't quite understand how it had happened, or why she hadn't more vigorously repulsed his advances.
She went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub. Returning to the mirror, she posed once again with her nude bottom pointing at it. She wriggled her hips again, watching in the glass the expansion and contraction of the deep crevice separating her snowy hind cheeks.
Only Dr. Haley, upon the examination table, had ever set masculine eyes upon Cindy Gaynor in such a state.
Only Dr. Haley, until now.
Deputy Sheriff Curt Sylvester led the weeping girl into the sheriff's office on the lower floor of the courthouse building with a hard hand upon her elbow. "Sit down over there," he ordered, pointing to a chair. Reddened eyes streaming, the girl complied with a choked sob.
He sat down behind his desk, glancing at the wall clock. Had he been away long enough to miss Monica Simpson's call confirming their date for that night? Actually it was Sheriff Carlson's desk at which he sat, but the elderly sheriff had been ill for some time. Curt had long since come to think of it as his own desk.
Curt Sylvester was a burly man, thick-shouldered and short-necked. Although only twenty-five a belly protruded over his belt, but it was a hard belly. His eyes were small and his black-haired, bullet head close-cropped. His expression was usually an intimidating glower. He was highly aware of the prerequisites of his office and not at all bashful about employing them to his own best advantage.
He had been with the department long enough to know where quite a few private skeletons were buried in the community. Even influential businessmen smiled weakly at Curt's heavy-handed, razor-edged witticisms. He had a reputation as a hard man, and a man with a hot temper, both of which he delighted in and did nothing to refute.
He glanced at the clock again. Should he call Monica and see if he had missed her call? No, better to finish up here first. He regarded the sniffling girl in the chair with lips slightly drawn back from his heavy-looking teeth. Not much to look at, he concluded silently. Red hair, a blocky-looking body, fat calves with coarse-looking tufts of hair the same hue as that on her head adorning them, a round, vapid face surmounted by thick glasses. No beauty here.
"Well?" he demanded so suddenly that the girl jumped.
"Yes, sir?" she responded timidly, gulping back a sob.
"What's your name?" "Lucille Redmond." "Where do you live?"
"Two twenty-nine South Hartford Street."
"What's your father's name?"
"He doesn't live here. My folks are divorced, and my mother remarried and lives in California. I live with my aunt."
His interest increased. No parents on the scene. "How long have you lived with your aunt?"
"Over five years."
He got up from his desk, walked around it, strode to the girl's chair, and bent down over it. She shrank back at his nearness. "Do you know the penalty for shoplifting?" he blared at her.
Silent tears streamed anew down the pale roundness of her cheeks. "No, I don't!" she sobbed.
"How many times have you done it before?"
"This was the first time, the very first time I ever even thought-"
"You mean it's the first time you got caught," he cut her off sharply.
"No, no! You've got to believe me! You've got-"
"What's your aunt going to say when I telephone her, Lucille?"
"Oh, please! She'll die! She'll just die!"
"Does she spank you when you need it?"
Surprised, the girl stared blankly at him. "No-not for a long t-time," she said shakily.
"Did you hear what Doug Carroll said to me when he turned you over to me in his store?"
"No, s-sir."
"He said he didn't care if I brought back a bill of particulars for him to sign to prefer charges against you or if I just saw to that you got a good ass-blistering." The girl remained silent. "Well?"
"W-well, what, sir?" she asked.
"What's it gonna be, Lucille? Charges preferred against you for shoplifting or an old-fashioned bottom-warming?" The girl stared at him helplessly. "Take your pants off," Curt said in pretended disgust.
The girl swallowed. "Y-you mean n-now? Here?"
"I mean I'm either gonna tell Doug I fanned your butt or I'm gonna take charges for him to sign. Your aunt's not in the habit, so it's up to me. I don't like to see a kid like you with a criminal record, Lucille, but I'm damned if I'm gonna encourage you at the game, either. Take your pants off."
She rose to her feet slowly. "What about Donna? My aunt? Will you tell-"
"There's no point in upsettin' her about somethin' for which you've already paid the tab," Curt said with practiced ease. "You take your lickin' an' we'll forget the whole thing."
"You won't spank me and then tell her anyway?"
Solemn faced, Curt Sylvester crossed his heart.
The girl reached up under her skirt and began to draw down her panties without disclosing more than a glimpse of her white, heavy-looking thighs. Curt returned to his desk when Lucille's panties collapsed around her thick ankles and she stepped out of them. "Put your belly right down here," he told the girl, patting the desk top. She shuffled slowly toward him, crying again.
Swiftly he stooped and removed from a bottom drawer of the desk a rubber sheet which he spread under the knee hole of the desk and slightly in front of it. "How old are you, Lucille?" he asked to distract her as he stood her on the rubber sheet and bent her forward over the desk.
"Seventeen, sir."
Almost in the same motion he bent and seized her left ankle, drew it sharply to the left, and cuffed it with a legcuff the other end of which was attached to the leg of the desk. When he did the same with her other ankle, the girl was flat on her stomach on the desk top with her legs spread-eagled the width of the desk. "What are you d-doing?" she asked in rising panic as Curt rose and casually flipped her skirt and slip up on her back.
He gazed with satisfaction at the solid, blocky bare buttocks ornamented with downy bronze hairs. A sprig of bushy-looking reddish hair thrust backward from between the girl's parted thighs. The girl tried to raise herself from the desk, but Curt placed a hand in the small of her back. "Don't make it hard on yourself," he said coolly.
"But you can s-see everything!" the girl panted, struggling in vain against the cuffs.
"This is the only thing that concerns me," Curt announced, slapping a bare haunch sharply. The girl flinched and whimpered as the imprint of his palm sprang up upon a nude hind cheek, first in stark white and then in blushing pink. "An' baby, I'm gonna make this ass of yours really smoke till you'll think three or four times about shoplifting again."
He began to spank in earnest, sonorous-sounding, crackling impacts of his palm upon alternate naked hind cheeks that resounded throughout the office. He hadn't been too surprised to find a totally acceptable-looking female behind despite the girl's fat calves and heavy thighs. Long ago he had grown used to finding pleasant surprises under unprepossessing-looking skirts. His heavy lips loosened lasciviously as the girl wriggled and rotated her buttocks. The sauciest of the local little pullets lost their ginger when Curt Sylvester got a shot at their tail, and he spent the greater part of his waking days scheming for and arranging just such confrontations.
The girl cried out at each increasingly heavy blow upon her smarting flesh.
Curt paused while he opened a desk drawer and removed a ping-pong paddle. A third of its surface had been removed along with a quarter of its weight. The remainder was pitilessly effective in contributing a hellish flame to a feminine behind.
A new note entered the girl's outcries with the first impacts of the paddle upon her agonized bottom. Her hind cheeks clenched convulsively at each burning kiss of the paddle. She screamed as her stomach climbed involuntarily from the desk top. Curt thrust her back down again, spanking mightily, his face nearly as red as the hot-looking, youthful hemispheres dancing madly under the paddle's severe stimulation.
Lucille humped herself up and down as Curt's big hand held her while the paddle pursued her flaming seat. She twisted frantically from side to side, revealing again the bright red bush that covered but did not conceal a husky-looking pink slit. She yelled hoarsely as she found herself totally unable to escape the terrible little paddle blistering her naked rump.
The gyrating buttocks had turned to a deep rose color. Curt watched until the girl's thrashing thighs began to tremble and then suddenly became flaccid. He gazed in satisfaction as Lucille lost control of her bladder and urine gushed down her legs onto the rubber sheet. He withheld the paddle, studied the rough, maroon hind parts for a moment, then returned the paddle to the desk drawer.
"Can you hear me?" he demanded after a time during which Lucille's whimperings had died to throaty sobs.
"Y-yes," she whispered.
He unfastened the cuffs and she raised herself from the desk painfully, cradling her big, scarlet cheeks in both palms. She rubbed herself feverishly, looked down at the puddle between her feet, and began to cry helplessly, great round tears cascading down her round cheeks, flushed from yelling.
"You be here a month from today," Curt told her. "I don't know if you got the message yet. You-"
"Ohhh, I have! I have!" the girl pleaded.
"You be here a month from today," Curt repeated inexorably. He was staring at the girl's plump belly, pink from scraping the desk top, and her bronze-haired crotch as she half-faced him.
"An' we'll see if you can talk me out've repeatin' this dosage. Now get yourself cleaned up an' get out of here," he concluded abruptly.
Ashamedly aware of his gaze upon her semi-nude body, the girl awkwardly pulled down her slip and dress, wincing as she tugged them over her cherry-red behind. Tears still streamed from her reddened eyes.
"When are you gonna be here?" he pressed her.
"A m-month from today," she responded. "But please-"
"Don't make me come lookin' for you," he said warningly. He looked up at the wall clock. The bunched tightness in his groin, always an aftermath of these deliberately staged spankings, made Monica's presence desirable. "Hurry it up," he urged the sniffling girl.
Five minutes after her departure he locked the office door and left, too.
Chapter Two
The shades were already drawn in the manse's master bedroom, but Isabel Fairbanks paused in her undressing to draw them more closely. She hung up her dress in the closet in the resulting semi-darkness, then neatly folded her slip before placing it over a chair.
She struggled with her tight girdle, a well-armored type advertised as restraining full-flowing curves. She finally succeeded in tugging it downward, and she stepped out of it with a feeling of relief. She quickly removed bra and panties and ghosted about the darkened room momentarily, like a substantial white wraith, before donning a plain, unadorned, square-neckline nightgown.
She had one glimpse of her full-breasted amplitude and massive-looking rear in the bureau mirror before the descending nightgown covered her nudity, and she instinctively averted her eyes. Then she sat down on the bed after stripping off the coverlet and waited with folded hands. A wife had a duty to perform, regardless of her personal inclinations in the matter.
The bedroom door opened and Dr. Ralph Fairbanks entered. He grimaced at the room's darkness, but made no comment. He had long since given up protesting his wife's phobia about daylight or lamplight attending their lovemaking. He undressed speedily before approaching the bed where Isabel had stretched out on her back.
He knelt beside her as Isabel drew up the nightgown and tucked it under her armpits. He lay down alongside her, slipped his arm under her neck and shoulders, and half-turned her toward him so that his hairy chest rested against her large, bare breasts. No word was spoke, nor any kiss exchanged.
With his left hand he searched in the dark for his wife's vagina. Isabel widened her thighs, and Ralph began to massage her bearded crevice. It was the one victory he had won in his marriage. Isabel had banned stimulation initially, until he insisted he would no longer insert his penis into a dry hole. Isabel had reluctantly given in against her better judgment. She instinctively felt such stimulation was unchurchly, to say nothing of unladylike.
In their whole marriage she had never touched her husband's penis. It was not part of the marriage bargain, she told Ralph firmly when he suggested it. She suffered his manipulation of her own sexual orifice only because she experienced relief when she became lubricated. Relief was not illicit pleasure, she told herself.
Ralph stroked and penetrated his wife's labia until moistness changed to wetness. He drew spend from inside with which he coated the outer lips. Too often in the early days of their marriage he had risen from his wife's body with his penis smarting and burning from unlubricated friction.
Isabel closed her eyes as Ralph rose from his position beside her. He parted her long legs and moved in between them. She widened and elevated them, as per instruction, but it was the moment of the week she hated most. She had too vivid an image of the picture she must present, sprawled on her back with legs askew and her black-haired, wet orifice boldly upthrust. It was why she insisted there be no lights. The sex act was humiliating and degrading for a woman.
She opened her eyes again when she felt Ralph sink down upon her as the bulbous head of his long, thick penis slowly penetrated her. She did not hold her husband in her arms as he began to plunge into her. She hoped it wouldn't take long for him to come.
Her body moved hardly at all under Ralph's insistent prodding of her sex. She changed position slightly once to ease a feeling of strain in her back, and Ralph's vigorous frictioning of her at once increased. Isabel, however, at once went limp again as she listened uncomfortably to the slurping sounds emanating from the darkness. It was all so animalistic.
Ralph's heavy breathing took on a rasping note and his hips flurried mightily as his orgasm overtook him. His lean belly smacked audibly against his wife's rounded one while the wrenching ejaculations vibrated through his penis, and with a gasp he expired upon her after a final draining spurt of sticky semen.
He rose from Isabel's comatose figure in less than a minute. She kept her face averted. His wife permitted no after-sex intimacy. Ralph went into the bathroom and performed a quick cleansing of his penis before returning to the bedroom and fumbling in the dark for his clothing.
He left without having said a word.
Back at his desk in the study, a glance at his watch revealed that thirteen minutes had elapsed since his departure.
Bobby Maxwell entered the back door of his parents' home in which he had not resided for over a year. He had a room above the local bakery which he paid for by doing odd jobs around the premises. "Hi, Ma!" he sang out cheerfully to the bulky woman standing by the kitchen stove. "Gettin' anything strange these days? I can fix you up with plenty of good stuff if you're goin' short."
"You shut your filthy mouth, young man," his mother warned, but she was smiling. She examined his features closely. "Are you eating regular meals, Bobby? You look thin."
"I'm eatin' fine, Ma. It's just the women keep me thin."
She chose to ignore the remark. "Your own room is waiting for you right upstairs. I don't know why you don't use it."
"Yes, you do, Ma." Her son grinned at her impudently. "You get too nervous listenin' to me boost my girl friends up the apple tree an' over the roof to my bedroom window."
"You'll get a disease. I worry all the time."
"Nothing' like that. I take on only prime stuff. About your age, Ma." He winked at her. "Really ripe."
"I'll take the broom to you, Bobby Maxwell! Before I forget it, Curt wants you to call him."
Bobby's smile died. Deputy Sheriff Curt Sylvester was Bobby's uncle, the youngest brother of Bobby's mother. "Why should I call him?"
"Why not, for heaven's sake?" his mother wanted to know.
"The man comes on too strong." The boy waved a hand in dismissal. "Forget it. How's Pa? In good sexual health?"
His mother shook her head. "Don't you ever think of anything else except sex?"
"You mean there is somethin' else?" Bobby expertly dodged the half-hearted slap aimed at him. "Come on, Ma, admit it, you love to have Pa slap the saddle on you, don't you?" He broke and ran for the door as she advanced upon him determinedly. "See you later, Ma!" he called back as the screen door slammed behind him.
"You be here for dinner on Sunday or I'll send Curt after you!" his mother's voice floated after him.
He waved acknowledgement as he climbed into his car. He drove to the bakery and parked in back, then climbed the outside steps which gave him a private entrance to his second floor room. Two late nights in a row left him feeling the need of a restoring nap.
He stretched out on the single bed in his jockey shorts. His elbow almost dislodged the telephone on the night stand. He rolled onto his back and shielded his eyes with an arm against the early twilight. Thoughts of Cindy Gaynor danced in his brain. Young, fresh-faced, virginal-looking Cindy. What a change in a girl! The way she'd acted in the car he knew it was there almost for the asking. And it should be some kind of sweet.
He drifted off into a light sleep.
The strident ring of the phone woke him. He sleepily reached for it, conscious that twilight had turned to darkness and the sound he heard was rain against the windows. "Yeah?" he mumbled, trying to revive from his lassitude.
"Are you alone, Bobby?" The feminine voice was shaky and strained-sounding.
"That's right," he said more alertly. "Who's this?"
"Monica Simpson. Can I stay with you tonight?"
"Stay with me?" Incredulity threaded his tone until comprehension dawned. "Oh. Pete found out about Curt?"
"No, but he might just as well have."
"Why don't you call Curt?" The line hummed emptily in Bobby's ear. "Okay, forget I mentioned it. Where are you now?"
"In the phone booth around the corner from the bakery."
"Come up the back stairs. I'll have the door open."
"Thanks, Bobby," the feminine voice said in heartfelt relief. The click of the broken connection sounded in his ear.
Bobby pulled on his shirt and trousers. He felt uneasy about getting involved in his uncle's affairs.
Curt Sylvester's explosive temper was legendary. Still, Monica really sounded shook. He kind of liked her, too. She wasn't a small woman, but there was a cuteness about her that tickled him.
He opened the door. Rain thrummed steadily on the wooden stairway. There was no outside light at the rear of the bakery, but he could see via the streetlight at the coiner when Monica turned into the back yard. The way she was walking sent him trotting down the stairs barefoot. She was half-doubled over, holding her side. "Christ!" he exclaimed involuntarily when he saw her face. It was swollen and misshapen, and her eyes seemed glazed. "Take it easy, Monnie. Let me help you." He put an arm around her gently. "Jesus, you're soaking."
He guided her up the stairway and into his room. He was drenched during the ascent of the stairs, and Monica's bedraggled-looking clothing was sodden. "He threw me out," she said numbly as Bobby put on the light. Her red hair, usually in an attractive upsweep, was plastered wetly to her small skull. "I had no place to go, Bobby, looking like this." She still held onto her side.
"Okay," he said soothingly. "Let's get you out of those wet things."
The fastener at the back of her dress was only half-zipped. She stood like a mannequin while Bobby pulled the zipper down and carefully eased the dress from her wet shoulders. He did the same with her slip, and dress and slip collapsed suddenly at her feet after being steered down her body by Bobby.
"What about your side, Monnie?" he asked.
"The punched me," she faltered.
He tested her rib cage while she winced. "I don't think there's nothin' busted. Who hit you? Pete? Or Curt?" "Pete."
He knew it could have been either, but he refrained from mentioning her choice of men. He examined her face. It wasn't as bad as he had first thought. "You've got a lump an' a beautiful shiner, but I've got some skin paint. Maybe we can fix it in the morning."
He unfastened her bra and removed the cups from her breasts. He pulled down her wet panties and added them to the pile of clothing at her feet. He whistled softly when he saw the multiple red streaks crisscrossing her plump white buttocks.
"He threw me on the bed and wh-whipped me," Monica explained in a voice that still trembled. "Then when I stopped yelling he pulled me up and punched me all around the bedroom."
"And then threw you out into the rain," Bobby added in disgust. "That's his speed." He could see discolored dots on her upper arms and lower belly he knew were incipient bruises from hard punches. "All I can give you to wear is underwear."
"I don't want anything touching my behind," she said quickly.
"Okay. Stretch out on the bed."
She did so with a tired sigh, carefully refraining from placing her body weight on her hind cheeks. Bobby came to the bed with a wet towel he'd wrung out in cold water from the bathroom down the hallway. "Hold this against your eye an' cheekbone," he ordered. "It'll hold down the swelling." He looked at the welts on her mottled backside. "Christ, girl, you've got an unhappy-lookin' ass!"
"I'll be all right," she said. "I heal quickly." She tried to smile. "I've had practice." She held the cold towel to her face.
He found a jar and brought it to the bed and showed it to her. "Liniment," he explained. "It'll feel a little warm at first but then you'll feel better." He poured some onto his cupped palm. "Okay, zebra ass. Onto your back." She tried to smile again while awkwardly complying, her breath hissing loudly as her bottom touched the bedsheet. Bobby eyed appreciatively the reddish curls adorning Monica's white lower abdomen. "That's a hell of a muff you got there, pardner."
He applied a thin film of liniment to her arms and shoulders and began to work it in with smooth, gliding movements of his palm. Gradually Monica relaxed and closed her eyes as the soothing warmth and gliding palm combined for an almost hypnotic effect. Bobby did her breasts when he saw a bruise on one, then moved down to her dimpled round belly and sore rib cage. He stopped to fold a towel and place it over her crotch, drawing it snugly inward. "Got to keep the liniment out've your gazebo or you'll be climbin' the walls," he explained.
He worked liniment into her belly and thighs with circular sweeps of his palm. He had begun with medication only on his mind, but the sensation of the pliant female flesh under his palm began to get to him. His prick rose stiffly inside his jockey shorts. The tight pressure added to his risibility. He tried to keep his face impassive. "Roll over," he ordered.
Monica hitched herself onto her stomach, glad to get her weight off her whipped bottom. Bobby resumed the massage. He did her shoulders and back, stopping when he reached the little hollow at the beginning of the deep cleft separating her cheeks. "This stuff is too hot for your ass," he said matter-of-factly. "I've got some cream."
Monica's previously tremulous breathing had eased to slow inhalations by the time he came back to the bed with a tube of cream. He squeezed some of it onto her upturned bare globes, and she shivered. "It's cold!" she protested.
"It won't be when I work it in," he assured her.
He spread the cream gently over the rotund spheres. He could feel the welts under his gliding palm. Monica moved uneasily but made no sound. "God, that feels good!" she said, her face against the pillow.
Bobby stepped back after completing his task. Monica half-rolled on her side to look at him. "I'm a pig to push myself on you like this," she said soberly. "But I panicked when I found myself on the street in the rain. I never felt so completely rejected."
"You'll bounce back in the morning," Bobby predicted.
The redhead was looking around the tiny room. "I'm taking your bed," she realized aloud. She made a move to rise, but Bobby stayed her with a hand on her shoulder.
"Relax," he advised her. "I'll take the armchair." He pulled the sheet at the foot of the bed up over the plump, ivory flesh. "I'll get you another cold towel for your eye. And if you need to go during the night, call me and I'll show you where the John is."
Monica curled up gingerly with murmured thanks.
In ten minutes deep breathing sounded from the bed and the armchair.
Curt Sylvester stared with a hard gaze at the defiant boy in the chair beside Curt's desk in the sheriff's office. Curt was standing beside the chair as the boy looked up at him with attempted coolness that couldn't hide a touch of apprehension. "Well?" Curt rumbled. "I done told you I found a medicine bottle of pot in the glove compartment of your car. Where'd you get it?"
"I want to talk to my father's lawyer," the boy said sullenly.
Curt slapped him heavily across the face. "I asked you a question. Where'd you get it?"
"You can't do that to me!" the boy cried shrilly when the first shock of the hard slap had worn off.
"Don't try to tell me what I can do. Where'd you get the pot?" The boy remained silent. Curt slapped him again. The boy tried to spring to his feet. Curt punched him in the belly, doubling him over, then slammed him back into the chair. He reached down and grabbed a handful of the boy's hair to keep his head erect and slapped him four times. A trickle of blood dribbled from the boy's left nostril, ran onto his chin, and dripped onto his shirt. "Where'd you get the pot?" Curt repeated.
Fear had replaced defiance in the young face, but the boy tried to hide it. "You wait till my father's lawyer sees this blood on my shirt," he said shakily.
"You ain't never gonna get to show him the shirt," Curt informed him. "But even if you did, can I help it if you're the ignorant type who wipes the shit off his ass with his shirt? Now you start payin' attention to me. You bought pot, an' you're gonna tell me from who or you'll have bells ringin' in your thick head."
"I want a lawyer!" the boy cried out desperately. "You can't-"
Curt's slap was so hard the boy's chair nearly overturned. He swayed in his chair, dazed, a hand raised defensively to his reddening face. "Talk," Curt advised him. "Before I lose my damn temper an' wear you out. Who'd you buy the pot from?" He raised his hand again when there was no reply.
"Mr. Allen," the boy said quickly, flinching.
Curt checked his hand in the midst of its swing. "Mr. Allen?" he repeated in disbelief. "You mean the teacher?"
The boy nodded resentfully.
"You're funnin' me, boy, an' I don't like that," Curt said dangerously.
"It's true! All the kids buy from him!" The boy's eyes were riveted upon Curt's right hand.
"Well, now." Curt straightened up slowly from his half-crouched position in front of the boy's chair. "Mr. Allen, eh? That creep?" He thought of something. "What about that snotty wife of Allen's with her hair hangin' down her ass? Does she know about it?"
The boy nodded again.
"Well, now," Curt repeated. "Ain't that the most interestin' thing?"
The boy was beginning to regain his confidence. "You can't use anything I say here against the Aliens. I know my rights."
"You do try a man's patience," Curt said. "When you gonna get it through your fuckin' skull you got no rights in this office? I run better types than you the hell out've town. You remember Charlie Grant? Whole family just kind of disappeared?"
The boy looked puzzled. "I remember Charlie just all of a sudden wasn't in school any more. But-"
"Young Charlie was smart just like you're tryin' to be, my boy," Curt said heavily. "He kept screwin' around the wrong party's daughter after he was warned to lay off. I had a little session with him like I'm havin' with you now, an' he still didn't lay off. So I caught him sneakin' through the girl's back yard one night an' I used him up a trifle. Nothin' serious. I just left my fingerprints on his balls." The boy in the chair swallowed hard. "Then the next mornin' I went to see young Charlie's father, an' I suggested the family leave town."
"But you can't ..." The boy didn't finish what he had been about to say.
"So the father went to see the mayor," Curt resumed. "But a little bird in the mayor's office told me about the father's visit, an' then I went to see the mayor." His smile was cynical. "So the mayor went to see young Charlie's father an' told him the girl's father who'd turned me loose swung too much weight locally. An' the family left town."
"But that's coercion!" the boy blurted. "It's not right! It's not legal! You can't-"
"You don't never learn nothin', do you, boy?" Curt said sadly. Then a hard edge replaced his previously jovial tone. "Now you listen to me real close. From now on around this town you don't piss till I tell you it's time to piss. Understand? I don't want no tomfoolery from you. For starters, I'm warnin' you right now not to say a word about this little conversation to the Aliens or anyone else. If I hear a whisper that any of this has got back to that bastard or his bitchy wife, I'll fracture you, an' I'll guarantee you won't enjoy it. You hear what I said?"
"Yes," the boy mumbled. His tone was sullen again.
"Then don't forget it." Curt smiled again. "I'll take care of the Aliens." The smile turned down one corner of his hard-looking mouth. "Without your reluctant testimony." The smile disappeared, and his pale blue eyes pinned the boy to the back of his chair with a hard glare. "Shuck your shirt an' leave it here, then rustle your ass. An' you might just kind of keep it in mind that I've got your fingerprints on that medicine bottle of pot."
He threw the shirt on the desk, made a wide circle around the glowering deputy sheriff, and left the office hurriedly.
Cindy Gaynor sat in the semi-dark in her bedroom, her chair drawn close to the window against which the rain was pelting hard. The window was cracked open at the bottom, and the damp night breeze flowed over her nightgowned body.
She was thinking about Bobby Maxwell whose sudden appearance in the library parking lot that afternoon had jarred Cindy's well-ordered life. She could close her eyes and remember him in high school, smashing a halfback to the turf in a grotesque heap with a crushing open-field tackle. Bobby had looked at Cindy without seeing her in those days, but Cindy Gaynor saw Bobby. Saw, and silently yearned.
She had heard the stories about his leaving school after having impregnated the banker's daughter. The banker had sent his daughter to Switzerland and the baby had been placed for adoption. Cindy remembered that her prime reaction had been envy of the girl who had borne Bobby's baby.
She thought of the afternoon wonderingly. She had never permitted a boy's hand under her dress, not that all that many had tried until recently, yet in ten minutes Bobby had been fingering her, deliciously so. She squirmed in her chair at the memory. What would Bobby think of her for permitting it? Of course he was probably used to feeling girls' pussies.
She had developed so late she had never had a close girl friend her own age with whom to exchange sexual confidences. Her mother had dutifully instructed her in the mechanics of sex; Cindy knew about boys' cocks and what they did to a girl, although many of the details were fuzzy to her. She had always been too ashamed to ask outright. She was a good girl, but it hadn't been too hard to be when she was a gawky teen who even then had had eyes for the cherubic smile of the broad-shouldered, athletic Bobby Maxwell.
Her thoughts returned to the episode in Bobby's car that afternoon. He hadn't forced her. It was just that his every move was made with a masculine confidence that overwhelmed her, dazzling in its seemingly guaranteed success. What must it be like to be alone in a place with Bobby Maxwell where no eyes could pry? Where a girl's inhibitions would be at the mercy of his confident manipulations of girlish flesh?
Cindy sat and thought about it, dreamed about it, until a slow itch started and expanded in her loins. She drew her legs up, then lowered them. The itch, tantalizingly remote inside her secret flesh, burned on. She tried to ignore it. She never liked this aspect of herself, the moments when her usually good opinion of herself slipped. But her thighs writhed together of their own volition, encasing the itch which throbbed deep within her virginal vaginal walls.
She raised the front of her nightgown and folded it back on her thighs. Her right hand caressed the soft, warm bowl of her nude stomach, and she tangled a finger in the blonde curls surmounting her supple slit. She widened her thighs and curved the finger downward to touch her pussy, and at the first contact a powerful shudder rippled through her whole body and her thighs clenched convulsively.
She was lost, and she knew it. She rose to her feet with the nightgown pinned under her armpits. She walked to her bed, the curved finger still dipping between her thighs. She sat down on the coverlet after elevating the nightgown to her smooth shoulders, unconscious of the coverlet's rough texture upon the silky white skin of her bare bottom.
She stretched out on her back and elevated her long, slender legs, widening them once more to make additional room for the finger at the gate of her existence. Her soft platinum fleece was already damp. She ran the finger inside, parting the spongy labia, and another tremor shook her. She withdrew the finger slightly in a desire to prolong the sensation.
But then the itch magnified itself suddenly, and a slow, deep throbbing enveloped her moist pussy. Cindy's cute, bell-shaped nude behind rose involuntarily from the coverlet in an unconscious twitching tribute to what was taking place within her. Her finger groped frantically for her tight little bud and rubbed it hard.
And then a boiling upheaval erupted inside her. Her legs climbed, writhing, and a low moan escaped her half-parted lips. Her finger jerked rapidly in and out of her box as the finger became inundated with pearly cream. Cindy's stomach muscles fluttered wildly as her pussy thrust back against the probing finger.
"Ohhh!" she murmured. A final twitch or two and the internal quivering ceased. "Ahhh!" Cindy sighed. She removed the wet finger reluctantly. She held it aloft, not wanting to wipe it upon anything that would leave betraying traces. And she had to swab off her overflowing cloister. She rose from the bed and stood on shaky legs.
Always during the aftermath she had the exasperated feeling that good as it was, it might be even better if she only knew better what to do for herself. She had never discussed it with anyone; she couldn't imagine discussing it with anyone. But she couldn't escape the feeling that somewhere beyond what she had just experienced there was another, more glorious experience.
She stepped out into the corridor before she realized that her nightgown was still draped around her neck and shoulders. Cindy's mother, tired faced, was just opening her bedroom door, and she looked in surprise at her semi-nude daughter. "What is it, dear?" she asked. "Do you need a napkin? I have some if you've run short."
"I have plenty, mother," Cindy replied, keeping her voice steady with an effort. She walked down the hallway to the bathroom.
Mrs. Gaynor would never suspect her sweet daughter of masturbating.
Cindy returned to her bed after her vaginal ablutions but sleep escaped her for some time.
Chapter Three
Isabel Fairbanks remained in bed with closed eyes while she listened to her husband, Ralph, move around the bedroom in the early morning silence of the manse. She had glanced outside long enough while Ralph was in the bathroom to observe that the rain had stopped during the night and a brilliant sunrise was in prospect. Then she closed her eyes again and simulated sleep.
On most mornings she was an early riser, but never on the mornings after their scheduled mid-week lovemaking. For some reason she couldn't understand, on such mornings Ralph showed an importunate ardency she found unsettling: No lady permitted such untoward activity in the stark light of day, of course, so she had found it expedient to let him start such days alone.
During the early days of their marriage after she had laid down a prohibition against morning advances on Ralph's part, she had made the mistake of following him into the bathroom. She had discovered him there, standing over the toilet bowl, his swollen penis in his hand, jetting long spurts of semen into the bowl. Isabel had returned to the bedroom without saying a word. Such a juvenile performance had nothing to do with her wifely duty which she performed weekly in good conscience.
She wholly failed to understand the masculine preoccupation with sex, anyway. Procreation aside, she felt it had little to recommend it for the female. And procreation was denied her. They had had a tubular pregnancy during the second year of their marriage, and the resulting operation had effectively sealed off her procreational passage to Ralph's sperm.
She had been secretly relieved, although she had never admitted it. She realized her bent was not domestic. Many times in the kitchens of Ralph's parishioners she had silently wrinkled her nostrils against the odor of breast fed babies and the ammoniac effluvia of diapers too long unchanged. No, she had never shared Ralph's disappointment that they'd had no children.
There was still things about sex that puzzled Isabel. Even now she was occasionally embarrassed by her husband's fumbling of her full-fleshed body. Ralph always seemed to be seeking something she couldn't supply, yet she felt in no way deficient as a woman. She had come to the conclusion that it must be something in the male psyche which drove a man to seek something in the marriage bed which simply wasn't there.
The one sexual battle she had lost with Ralph represented a concession on her part. She permitted his digital manipulation of her pussy only because of the alternative he had proposed with a firmness unlike his usual mild-mannered self. He had told her that he was going to purchase a jar of vaginal jelly, and she couldn't bear the thought of a local pharmacist or druggist's clerk knowing that much about the most intimate part of their marriage.
People might not be animals, but they surely acted like animals, she was fond of saying when Ralph related an episode which brought a young female parishioner, or quite often an older one, to him seeking escape from a sexual predicament. It was incredible to Isabel the number of seemingly level-headed women in their comparatively small congregation who sat down in Ralph's office to ask hesitant advice about sexual problems. She had often thought that Ralph couldn't be the easiest pastor in the world for a woman to approach in such a situation. Ralph's response was intellectual, not emotional.
Isabel remained in bed until she heard Ralph's footsteps receding along the hallway as he proceeded to the kitchen for his first cup of coffee. Then she rose and went into the bathroom where she drew her bath. When it was ready, she removed her nightgown and stepped into the tub in unconscious female magnificence.
It was a relief to be able to start her day without fending off her husband's silent advances.
Early-morning sunlight streamed through the windows of the room above the bakery when Monica woke Bobby to get him to show her the bathroom. Swathed in a sheet, she went with him while he pointed out the somewhat primitive facilities. He returned to the room, stretching to ease muscles cramped from his awkward sleeping position in the armchair.
"How's it goin'?" he asked when Monica came back.
"I'm sore," she said frankly. "Especially when I squat to pee. But I'll live."
"The face isn't bad," he said after examining it. "The swelling's down quite a bit, and a little make-up will take care of most of the discoloration. Let's see the back of your lap." He went to her and raised the trailing sheet.
There was a moment of silence in the room during which he studied the black and purple stripes crisscrossing her buttocks. He stroked them with a curious palm, noting that the prominent welts of the previous night had almost completely disappeared. "You're not kiddin' when you say you're a quick healer," he remarked.
"Don't get any ideas," she warned as his hand continued to fondle her bare hind cheeks. "I owe you a favor, but you're only a kid. I'd feel guilty."
"I don't have any ideas, Monnie," he said softly. "It's just my cock." He took her hand and guided it backward where he stood behind her until the hand encountered the swelling bulge in his jockey shorts.
"Stop it," Monica said, but she said it with no real emphasis. Bobby's palm continued to soothe the stripes on the warm ivory of her jutting backside. His fingertip traced the deep chasm between her fruity globes, and she sighed. Her hand continued to support his balls and increasing erection. His hand dipped lower and reached upward between her thighs.
Abruptly she turned to face him. "Do you want to fuck me, Bobby?" she asked with her usual directness.
"You know it," he said huskily.
She drew down his jockey shorts, freeing his cramped penis which stood forth menacingly with a slight waggling movement. "That's a lovely piece of meat for a boy your age," she exclaimed in surprise. She dropped to her knees and kissed the tip of Bobby's erection, then took the bulbous head into her warm mouth and began sucking it with slow, drawing movements.
"Ohhh, man!" Bobby groaned. "Ohhh, Jesus! Quit it, Monnie, or you're gonna get a mouthful!"
Monica released his cock. "Not that I'd say no to that little caper, but I take it you have other ideas?"
"You bet your purple striped ass," he said promptly. "I'm gonna lose it right in your cunt." He looked at her curiously as he took her arm and raised her to her feet. "You like to suck pricks?"
"Love to, when they're congenial pricks," she answered.
He grinned at her frankness. He sat her on the bed and watched her expression as her hind cheeks absorbed her weight. "Ass hurt too much?" he inquired.
"It won't when I'm on my back, Bobby."
He shook his head slowly. "I was gonna say I'd take a rain check, but you're my kind of chick, Monnie." He swept the single pillow to one side and eased Monica onto her back. He bent down over her, dropped his mouth to an upstanding breast, and lipped a nipple into his mouth. His tongue circled it rapidly, and Monica's knees quivered.
"Ahhh!" she sighed. "Where have you been going to school, young man?"
He made no reply as he switched to the other breast. He tongued and mouthed it diligently while Monica murmured little cooing sounds and tangled her hands in his brown hair. She could feel his hard cock pressing against her warm thigh, and she reached down and took it in her hand, feeling her own saliva still on the hardened shaft.
When he finally raised his head, both her nipples thrust firmly upward from the darker center of their softly fleshed twin domiciles. Bobby stroked the sloping bowl of her sleek stomach and gradually worked his way farther down Monica's body. She parted her legs and the questing fingers palpated the luxuriant, coral-colored lips of her febrile twat which expanded moistly to his fondling.
"Bobby!" she exclaimed after a hissing intake of breath. "You're getting me so goddamn hot!"
He slithered over her prostrate body, gripped her thighs, and widened them. Crouching, he picked up her legs and threw them over his shoulders, then bent lower and inserted his tongue in the musky, upthrust pink cunt. "Oooh, damn!" Monica panted, thrusting her middle upward into his face.
He nibbled at the protruding cuntlips and licked their moistness. Monica's legs clutched at his neck while her hips swiveled in involuntary response to his tongue. Bobby took a deep breath and gulped two-thirds of her slit inside his mouth and sucked at it mightily. "Ohhh!" Monica's voice soared in a half-shriek. "That's . . . enough, Bobby! Fuck me now! Please fuck me . . . now!"
He raised himself, bent over her, and aimed his fleshy sword at the well-lubricated target. Monica's hand eagerly seized his circumcised rod and guided it into her steaming slot. Her breath whistled as the boy sank into her with thrusting movements of his lean hips. His youthful rigidity distended her deliciously, and as he began to pump in and out of her fleshy glove, Monica's eyes rolled.
Bobby slashed away furiously at the hot cunt within which he was lodged. Monica met his every thrust, the pain in her whipped behind forgotten as she flurried her hips in wild abandon that induced redoubled effort from the muscular boy on her nude belly. "Bobby!" she exclaimed in sudden urgency. Her heels thrummed on his back. "Bobby! I'm ... coming! Ohhh, God, I'm . . . coming!"
He felt her quivering explosion inundating his boring tool, and he raised his knees slightly before returning to the attack. His lean belly pounded her soft one with abandon until a slow, tingling vibration seemed to originate in his heels and race up his legs to his spinal cord. He jerked wildly in mindless ecstasy as his seed spurted in hot gushes through his vibrating prick into the humid cavern in which it was submerged.
"Man, oh, man," he groaned when he could speak. "That was some kind of . . . fuck!"
Her hands patted his shoulders lightly. "You're some kind of lover, Bobby," she said quietly. "I never would have believed it of a kid like you."
He rolled off her perspiring stomach but immediately turned and drew her into his arms as they rested side by side. Monica snuggled contentedly closer to him. "I love to cuddle afterward," she confided. "But with Pete, he'd just about kick me out of bed if I tried." She fell silent, Pete's name having recalled her to the present.
Bobby sensed her mood. "Are you going back to him?"
"No," she said positively. "He'll expect me to come creeping back with my tail between my legs, but this time I'm going to fool him. I can get a job clerking at Gamble's, and I'll find a place to stay. I'm all through trying to hide my ass from his goddamned belt. I don't mind a little rough handling before sex, but ..." Her voice died away.
"What do you mean you don't mind rough handling?"
"You're too young to understand," Monica evaded.
She knew herself. She knew, for instance, she wouldn't have enjoyed Bobby's youthfully effervescent lovemaking as much as she had if her bottom still hadn't been hurting from the night before. A little pain always stimulated her responses. It was what invariably drew her to men like Pete. And Curt. She knew it was an aberration, but she had ceased fighting it.
She stirred in Bobby's arms. "I've got to get going. I'll find a room and then get my clothes out of the apartment. I can't look for a job for a couple of days until my face gets back to normal." She was silent for a moment. "It's going to be tough trying to cut it alone. And that damn Isabel Fairbanks is the cause of it."
"The minister's wife? How did she get into it?"
"She could have prevented the whole thing. Instead, she provoked it. Some busybody told her about Curt and me, and she threw me off the church committee. When Pete heard it, it confirmed a few suspicions he'd had lately. He like to wore out my poor ass." She was silent again, remembering, and a shiver rippled through her. "You can bet I'm going to plan something for Isabel Fairbanks," she promised. She moved again in Bobby's arms. "I really do have to leave."
His arms tightened around her plump nudity. "Only if you promise me an encore sometime, Monnie."
She kissed him impulsively. "You can have it under the main square traffic light at high noon," she agreed. "With a blow job to boot." Her brown eyes darkened. "I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't let me in last night."
"You're okay now, Monnie," Bobby replied.
He nuzzled her soft neck with his lips before releasing her, and they rose from the bed and began to dress.
Dr. Ralph Fairbanks climbed the short flight of stairs leading to the glass-doored entrance of Memorial Hospital. It was well before visiting hours, but he approached the reception desk confidently. "Mrs. Fiedler," he said to the girl behind the desk.
"Room Three-twenty-three, Doctor Fairbanks," the girl said with a smile. "She'll be pleased to see you."
He took the elevator to the third floor. He made it a practice to call upon all of his hospitalized parishioners, but he called more frequently upon the younger hospitalized women. Early in his ministerial career Ralph Fairbanks had made a discovery about hospitals and hospital personnel. In the main, ministers were regarded as so much furniture, and few privacy covenants were invoked in their presence. Ministers' time was considered valuable, and Ralph had made visits when female patients were being bathed behind a casually draped sheet, when they were receiving shots, and even when they made necessary trips to the bathroom on his supporting arm.
Just walking grave-faced through hospital corridors there were titillating sights to be seen as doctors and nurses alike paid scant attention to his presence. The womens' hospital gowns were so short, the building was so warm, both winter and summer, and long stretches in bed produced perspiring bodies tinglingly visible in undraped postures as their owners sought relief. It continually amazed him that the women consistently greeted him warmly while admitting him to situations to which they would have denied their husbands admission.
Then there was the natural feminine reaction when the initial medical or surgical malaise was alleviated. Feeling friskier, and basking in the unaccustomed attention, what could be more natural than to flirt with the visiting minister, the most harmless of sports? The younger spirits, especially, seemed to have few objections to giving the dear man a thrill.
Ralph Fairbanks entered the room where Paula Fiedler was in her fourth day of recovery from an appendectomy. "Good morning, Paula," he said gravely. "And how are you feeling today?"
"They say well enough to go home, unfortunately," she replied with a smile. Paula was a plump brunette with a hard-working husband and three small children. "I was just beginning to enjoy myself." She had on one of her own nightgowns in deference to her expected return home that afternoon, and its low-cut neckline afforded far more than a glimpse of her corpulent white breasts. "It's so nice of you to come to visit me."
"It's nice to know you're feeling better, Paula."
"I'd really like to stay another day," she said wistfully. "I feel guilty saying it, but it's heavenly without the children." Her small mouth shaped itself into a girlish pout. "I'd rather stay and have the interns hold my hand."
"I imagine they'd enjoy it, too," Ralph said suavely.
She giggled softly. "Perhaps if you put in a word for me as my spiritual advisor ..."
"I'm afraid physical advisors are in the ascendancy here," he said with one of his rare smiles.
Paula Fiedler looked at him with renewed interest. "You're a different-looking man when you smile, Doctor Fairbanks!" she exclaimed. "Far better-looking!" she had turned onto her side so that she was facing him. Ralph could see brown aureoles centered by thrusting dark nipples trapped in the nightgown's almost translucent lace top. "You really are, you know!" she insisted when he shook his head.
"Thank you," he said lightly. He nodded at the mammary display. "If you need assistance in restoring order, I'd be glad to volunteer."
"Why, Doctor Fairbanks!" Paula Fiedler hurriedly pushed her points farther south in her nightgown. "I'm so sorry!" she said, blushing.
"Don't be," he advised her. "Even a minister has a right to a vision of green pastures occasionally." He smiled at her confusion, patted her shoulder lightly, and left the room. The little interplay with the plump housewife had amused him.
For a bonus he caught sight on his way out of the ward of a teen-age girl being wiped briskly by a nurse's aide after using the bedpan.
He returned to the manse and his study in a more cheerful mood to begin preparation of next Sunday's sermon.
Curt Sylvester reached for the telephone on his desk when it rang. "Sheriff's department," he said gruffly.
"It's Monica, Curt."
His mouth screwed up in distaste. "Oh, yeah." "I suppose you heard?" "Yeah, I heard."
"I'm not going back to him, Curt." It surprised him. "What are you gonna do?" "Get a job. I've already got a room with Mrs. Colfax on North Third Street."
He grunted in recognition. For once in his life he was at a loss what to say. Ordinarily it would have been simple: once the husbands tumbled, Curt Sylvester had no qualms about cutting the wives loose. Except that he had a specific use for Monica. And she hadn't asked him for anything. Yet. "You got eatin' money?" he asked finally. "I'll be all right."
"I asked you a question," he growled.
"I really will be all right for a few days, Curt."
"Okay. I'll be in touch." He thought of Pete Simpson. He wasn't afraid of Pete Simpson, but Curt Sylvester was a man who liked to know from which direction they might be coming at him. "Who blew the whistle to Pete?"
"Mrs. Isabel Fairbanks, indirectly," Monica said grimly. "If I ever get her in the right place, I guarantee you'll hear her squeak."
"Is that right?" Curt drawled. Damn, he was glad he hadn't cut Monica loose, which had been his first impulse. This could be interesting. "Maybe I could give you a little help with that."
"You could? How?"
"Let me think about it," he answered, purposely vague. He continued before she could speak. "Do you know the Aliens? He teaches at the high school."
"I know her. We were in a ceramics class together. I don't think I've ever met him. Why?"
"I'll be talkin' to you about them later. Sure you don't need a little scratch till you get straightened out?"
"It's awfully nice of you to offer, Curt, but no." Her tone was warm; she really hadn't expected such consideration, knowing his steely-eyed outlook on life.
"Holler if you do," he said, and hung up.
He sank back in his swivel chair, deep in thought. He smiled, finally, a hard, thin-lipped smile. Things were looking up. He was contemplating a handsome pair of plums on the horizon, a ripe pair of plums. All that was necessary was for Curt Sylvester to shake the tree.
Cindy Gaynor walked through the library parking lot, amazed at her own calmness. She had made two preparations for her afternoon date with Bobby Maxwell: she had told her mother she would be late getting home, and she had purchased an almost shocking pair of wispy, lacy panties she was now wearing.
Before she reached the bus stop Bobby drew up alongside her in his battered old car. He leaned across the front seat and opened the door for her. "Hi, beautiful," he said softly as she smoothed her dress down over her round thighs. "How you doin'?"
"Fine, Bobby," she assured him. She had expected to feel nervous, but instead she felt only a tingle of anticipation.
He looked away from her. "I got us a place to go, Cindy. A guy in a building I clean is out of town, an' he gave the key to his apartment."
"If you say so, Bobby," she said steadily.
"That's my girl," he approved, and drove rapidly to the poorer section of town. He parked behind an old town house that had been converted into apartments, and he reached in his pocket and handed Cindy two keys. "The first one opens the outside door," he told her. "Just walk right in. One flight up you'll find Apartment Two-C. The gold key's for that. I'll be up in five minutes. Okay?"
"Okay," she responded.
"Will I find you undressed an' on the bed?" he teased.
"I'm afraid I'm not brave enough for that," she smiled.
He looked serious for an instant. "You know what's gonna happen upstairs?"
"I'm sure I do," she answered, feeling shy for the first time since his appearance in the library parking lot.
He put an arm around her waist, drew her closer to him, and kissed her on the lips. Her soft mouth moved tentatively beneath his, and he darted his tongue between her lips. Cindy shivered, and her toes curled up inside her shoes.
"Oh, man!" Bobby breathed when he broke off the kiss. "I can't wait to get at you, baby. Hustle the package upstairs."
She smiled at him before she left his car. Aside from the stimulation of his kiss, she still felt calm. But why shouldn't she feel calm? She'd been waiting for this day for a long time.
She negotiated the two locked doors with no difficulty. The three-room apartment proved to be much nicer then the outside appearance of the building indicated. The furniture was modern, and both the draperies and the artwork on the walls were tasteful. She returned to the corridor door after a quick tour of the premises and admitted Bobby quickly at the sound of his light tap.
He took her into his arms again immediately after the door closed. "Oh, baby, baby, baby!" he whispered, running his hands down the clean line of her back. He cupped her flaring buttocks in his palms as he drew her to him more tightly. Cindy kissed his cheek, then nuzzled his neck with her warm lips. "You're the sweetest thing!" he exclaimed. "Oh, goddamn, I'm gonna bust!"
He led her into the bedroom, a masculine room. Cindy eyed the huge four-poster bed and the old-fashioned gilt mirror on the wall with approval. Bobby gathered her in his arms once more while they were standing in the center of the room, again thrusting his tongue into her mouth. He seized with his lips the first exploratory return movement of her tongue, then laughed gaily. "Now you're catchin' on, sweetness!" he said exultantly. Cindy stood quietly in his arms with her cheek resting against his slightly bristly one. "Okay," he went on. "How about takin' off your dress an' slip so I don't wrinkle or tear anything?"
Her hands were at the fastening of her dress before he finished speaking. She slowly removed it and followed it with her slip, folding each neatly before placing it upon a chair. Bobby's gray eyes darkened as he surveyed Cindy's bare shoulders glistening above her bra as she tossed her long blonde hair to one side, and her long, slender legs shining whitely beneath her wispy panties.
He sat down on the bed, then beckoned to her. "C'mere," he said. His voice was choked.
She went to him at once. He stationed her between his parted knees, facing away from him. He plucked the elasticized waistband of the panties from her warm flesh and pulled them down her thighs while she remained motionless. She had an instant of regret that he hadn't appeared to notice the expensive lace, but she immediately forgot that when she felt the warm pressure of his mouth upon the upper slopes of her bared hind cheeks.
When he stopped, she turned her shoulders without moving her lower body so she could see his face. "Why are you kissing my bottom, Bobby?" she asked.
He nipped at the silky rotundity with sharp teeth, and she jumped in surprise. "Because you taste good," he replied. He parted the girl's soft hemispheres widely until a faint trace of downy, golden hair appeared in her deep furrow. He lowered his face again and sniffed at the depths of her fissure. "God, you smell great!"
"I never thought girls smelled particularly nice," she said apologetically.
He laughed in delight, skinned the panties downward completely, unfastened her bra and removed it, then pulled Cindy backward until she was sitting on his lap. His hands raced over her perky, jutting breasts and the soft bowl of her nude stomach before he dipped a finger lightly into her fleece covered juncture. "What's that?" he teased.
"You know," she whispered.
He kissed her, fiercely at first, then more gently, until a long, slow shiver rippled through the girl's nubile body. "Tell me," he coaxed.
"It's my pussy," she murmured with her lips against his ear. "Mmm, I'm getting goosebumps!"
He pressed his mouth to the satiny juncture of her neck and shoulder. "Anything else happening, Cindy?"
"Yes," she breathed. "I'm getting . . . squirmy." "Where?"
"You know where. Right where you have your finger."
The finger searched out her labial lips for a moment, and then he cupped the whole of her sex with his palm and squeezed lightly. "Oooh!" Cindy gasped. He reinserted the finger tip into her already moist slit to the first knuckle. "Ohhh!" she squealed softly. "It's . . . it's inside!"
"As the sayin' goes, baby, you ain't felt nothin' yet," he said dryly. He lifted Cindy and sat her on the bed, stood up impatiently and stripped off his own clothing, firing it at a chair. Cindy watched composedly as Bobby's husky prick preceded him back to the bed.
She spoke before he could. "I want to kiss your bottom, Bobby."
He stared down at her, taken aback. "You don't want to kiss my hairy ass!"
"I want to do everything to you that you do to me!" she insisted.
"Some of that might be a little difficult," he observed. "But if that's what you want ..." He turned and faced away from her.
She stretched out flat on the bed and eagerly advanced her face toward his lean buttocks. "You are hairy," she agreed before planting half a dozen butterfly kisses on the nude backside.
He turned to face her again, his rampant cock soaring. Cindy eyed curiously the rigidity pointing its purplish head directly at her. She craned her neck to view better the blue-veined whiteness of its underside protruding upward from Bobby's hairy lower belly.
She started to touch it, then checked her hand. "I wouldn't spoil anything?" she asked.
"Grab hold," he said. "It's all yours."
She took his erection in her soft palm, compressed it lightly as his thighs tensed, then waggled it experimentally from side to side. "It's so big!" she said in a hushed tone.
"You've looked over forty or fifty for comparative purposes?"
"What if I said yes?" she replied pertly, then smiled at him. "No, the only one I'd ever seen before was on Jessica Simmons' baby."
He moved close enough to bump a soft breast with his rubbery prick as Cindy sat up again. "Do you know what's going to happen?"
"Mostly," she answered. Her slim fingers slowly massaged the unyielding inflexibility to which her hand had returned. "Although I don't see how."
The sensation engendered by her warm constriction of his lusty cock was driving Bobby up the wall.
"Let's play," he said, his voice husky again, and dropped to his knees in front of the girl.
Chapter Four
He pushed her onto her back, and Cindy settled back agreeably. "I want to see it," he told her. He took hold of one slender leg and raised it, then leaned closer to the parted thighs which had shielded the girl's crypt. Her gold, fluffy ringlets were of such a gossamer nature they almost needed to be touched to determine their existence. Bobby stared hungrily at the crinkled pink cupcake nestled in its blonde bower. Finally he lowered his head and kissed it.
Cindy quivered from the sensation of his hard lips on her most intimate place. Her hips writhed slowly as he traced its outline with his tongue, licking at her pouting cunt. "Ohhh!" she moaned softly. "Ohhh, Bobby! Bobby!"
He stopped his teasing of the delicate flesh. "Okay," he said briskly. "That's the dessert. Let's get the meat and potatoes out of the way."
He got up and moved onto the bed beside her. He lipped a perky breast into his mouth, sucking at the nipple, then alternately licking its stiffening bud. His right hand parted her thighs again and frigged her tight little sanctuary. Cindy sighed heavily. "I'm going to . . . explode!" she pleaded.
He stopped momentarily to look up into her pink face. "Got to get you good and wet so you'll stretch easier," he explained, then went back to work.
"I don't . . . think I was ever ... so wet in . . . my whole life!" Cindy got out through clenched teeth.
"Okay," he said at last. "That fat little cunt of yours should be about ready."
"Don't pay any attention if I holler," she said anxiously. "Mother says I'm a big baby."
Her nipples had lengthened and protruded while their color changed from a rosy pink to a flaming red. Bobby raised her hips and placed a pillow under them. When he parted her legs again, the pink, wet cunt gaped up at him. He lowered himself upon her tensed body until his prick rested against her downy grotto. "Relax," he said. "I'm trying," she whispered.
He wriggled himself more firmly aboard her belly, then reached down and took the leathery head of his robust rod and inserted it in Cindy's virgin pussy which he searched out by touch. The stalwart cock gained entrance and eased inward slightly while Cindy held her breath.
Bobby joggled his hips, up and down and side to side. His rigorous fleshy organ pressed onward fractionally. Cindy blew out her breath in a stifled gasp as she felt her tender pussy being stretched unmercifully. "It h-hurts!" she whimpered, her attempt at stoicism fading.
He felt the knobby end of his prick come to rest against her hymen. Bobby reached down and took hold of Cindy's soft, round buttocks and drew her up to him. "Here we go!" he said.
At the words he lunged into her. Cindy shrieked as he rebounded from her hymen. He lunged again, and she felt a searing pain amidst a tearing sensation inside her stuffed vagina. "Owww!" her voice soared. "Bobby! It stings! Oh, it s-stings!" She pushed at his shoulders, trying to remove him.
"Hold . . . still!" Bobby panted, resting on her. "You'll be ... all right now."
The smarting in Cindy's pussy subsided to a burning itch as Bobby remained motionless upon her. He kneaded the supple globes of her bare behind, then traced with a finger her perspiring rupture. His finger probed at her shrinking anus which she sought to clench against the intrusion. "That's not nice, Bobby!" she protested.
He had accomplished his purpose by giving her something new to think about. He began a slow rising and falling motion upon her smooth stomach. "Ouch!" she exclaimed, but in a more normal tone. Her cunny still hurt, but not nearly as much as when it was being expanded by the monster now residing inside it. "Is there any more to go in?" she asked fearfully.
"You've got it all, baby," he responded, lips compressed from the effort to prolong his ride. He wanted Cindy to come, although he was afraid she wouldn't this first time. He slid his rock-like penis slowly in and out of Cindy's chalice which expanded almost imperceptibly to accept it.
Cindy lay on her back with her eyes closed. She was almost as aware of Bobby's hands clutching her bare behind as she was of his intractable prong skewering her. The burning itch had subsided to an occasional twinge. Then a hot, glowing coal ignited suddenly in her depths, and her eyes flew open. "Bobby!" she blurted as her elevated legs tensed. "Something's . . . happening down there!"
He didn't answer her, concentrating upon maintaining an even pace in his fucking. He felt the round stomach beneath his own arch upward tentatively as the girl's breathing accelerated. The yielding hind cheeks took on an independent life of their own despite his grip upon them. Cindy's bottom galloped madly as the glowing coal in her interior was fanned to a fiery conflagration. "I think ... I'm dying!" she gasped as her interior walls began to twitch. Her hands on Bobby's shoulders which had previously tried to push him away now clutched him tightly to her breasts. Her cunt seized more firmly its fleshy intruder. "Oh!" Cindy exclaimed. "I'm boiling . . . over!"
He felt her come in a series of jumping motions and he settled his shoulders to make his own run. He plowed Cindy's freshly lubricated furrow with a new intensity, and her murmured exclamations died away as she cradled him firmly in her arms. When she felt the tip of his prick begin to tremble inside her, she rubbed the back of his neck gently and made soothing sounds.
"Ahhh, God!" he groaned as his cream jetted into her stretched cavern. His movements slowly ceased, and Cindy felt a gradual slackening of the husky cock still immersed in her. Bobby remained prone upon her until she became afraid he had fallen asleep.
"My legs are aching," she whispered finally.
He laughed and raised himself from her. Cindy heard the diminished penis emerge with a slight sucking sound. She sat up and looked down at the stained pillow upon which she was sitting. She started to reach down to explore her ravaged arbor but was ashamed to because Bobby was watching her. "No permanent damage," he assured her solemnly, then grinned.
She found herself smiling in return. "I'm a baby. It really wasn't all that terrible, but I kept expecting it to get worse. And then at the end . . . Oooh, wasn't that something?"
"It'll be twice as good next time," he told her confidently. "Want to clean up?"
She nodded, and he led her into the bathroom. She stood submissively while he washed her stained pussy and thighs. Back in the bedroom he started to take her into his arms again, but she gently restrained him. "I'm going to have a hard time explaining to my mother why I'm this late," she said.
She stooped to pick up her panties from the floor, and Bobby dropped to his knees, seized her middle, and pressed fervent kisses all over the luscious amplitudes of her white posterior. "Bobby!" she protested, but her lips were curved upward in amusement.
He released her reluctantly so she could begin dressing. "You wait till next time, baby," he promised. "I'll make that gorgeous ass of yours whistle Dixie."
He performed one final act before they left the apartment. He stripped the blood-stained pillowcase from the pillow, found a thumb tack in a bureau drawer, and tacked the pillowcase to the wall above the head of the bed. "The guy who lets me use the place an' I always hang up a flag when we score," he explained.
"I don't think that's very nice," Cindy disapproved.
"I didn't ask you to autograph it," he grinned.
"It's a good thing you didn't, Bobby Maxwell!"
He laughed and led the way down the stairs to his car.
Men, Cindy reflected, were certainly strange creatures.
Curt Sylvester looked up from the accident report he was laboriously making out at the sound of steps on the stairs leading down to the basement office of the sheriff's department. He leaned back in his swivel chair as Bobby Maxwell appeared.
"Well, nephew," Curt said sarcastically, "does it always take you a week to get around here after I leave word I want to see you?"
"I figured if it was important you'd get back to me," Bobby said laconically.
"I'll get back to you with my foot in your ass," Curt rasped. "When I tell your mother I want to see you, you jump to it, y'hear?"
"What's so important, Curt?" Bobby tried to keep his tone neutral. He didn't want to provoke his uncle unnecessarily.
"A couple of things. Number one, I hear you're drivin' the Gaynor girl home from the library afternoons."
Bobby hesitated. Did Curt know anything else? "A couple of times," he said cautiously. "Why?"
"That's too good for you," Curt informed him. "I've had my eye on that since it was in rompers."
"You? Why, you're old enough-" Bobby checked his remark.
But his uncle didn't seem angry. "I'm old enough to appreciate a good piece when I see it. I'm not so sure about you." He paused. "Unless you're fucking Monica?" His stare probed his nephew.
"I just took her in out of the rain," Bobby protested.
"Not a bad night's work," Curt agreed. "I might even owe you a favor for that. If you don't get too big for your britches. Well," he waved a dismissing hand, "I don't have time to talk to you about it now, but I've got a program for you in connection with the little blonde."
"Little blonde?"
"The Gaynor girl," Curt said impatiently. "Oh. A program? What?'
"It'll keep," Curt said, pushing back his chair. "See you later."
Bobby went out the basement entrance and climbed the outside stairs to the parking lot where he had left his car. He could feel a damp spot between his shoulder blades. Curt affected him like that quite often; the famous temper was a tiger barely on a leash. This was worse than usual: Curt and Cindy? It was ridiculous.
The best thing he could do was stay out of Curt's way, especially since he was seeing Cindy again the next afternoon. And he was really looking forward to it. Now that her shell had been cracked she should really bloom sexually. He was looking forward to that, too. He drove out of the parking lot with Cindy so much on his mind that his Uncle Curt had already been relegated to a point far in the background.
Curt climbed the inside stairs to the first floor city offices and walked out to the Sheriff Department's black and white cruiser at the curb. He drove rapidly to the city limits, then began watching doorways. He slowed when he saw Monica Simpson's bright red head. She crossed the sidewalk to the cruiser and climbed in. Passengers were illegal, but departmental strictures never fazed Curt Sylvester. He hadn't seen her since the rainy night episode, and he looked at her face critically. "Pete must be losin' his punch," he opened the conversation.
"It's make-up," she responded. "Did you find a place?"
"Sure did. I told you it'd be easy." The cruiser was moving again, farther out into the country. "People are always leavin' keys with me to check their places while they're away on vacation. An' this place is really isolated. It's a cinch if you don't lose your nerve."
"Forget it," she told him. "I've been waiting for this. Stop at the next pay phone."
"Okay," he said, satisfied.
Monica hefted a shopping bag she had brought with her. "You don't know how I've been waiting."
"Okay," he said again.
They rode in silence until he pulled into a crossroads filling station with a pay phone.
Isabel paused in the act of drawing on her gloves when the telephone rang in the master bedroom. "Isabel Fairbanks here," she said crisply when she picked it up.
"Elaine Rogers is sorry to change the meeting place upon such short notice," a feminine voice said, "but she wonders if you could make it at the Harris place on Columbo Road."
"The Harris place?" Isabel repeated.
"It's about five miles out of town. You go-"
"Oh, yes, Columbo Road," Isabel remembered. "I believe I called at the Harris home during the last drive. Well, fortunately, I have the car. Tell Elaine I might be a few minutes late."
"She'll be expecting you."
Isabel hung up and finished drawing on her gloves. It would be a coup if Elaine somehow enlisted Mrs. Harris in the church's auxiliary program. The Harris family was one of the wealthiest in the area.
She drove to Columbo Road without difficulty. She slowed then as she tried to read the nameplates over the archways of the crushed-stone driveways leading to the imposing residences. She almost passed the Harris place before she saw the name affixed to the wrought-iron fence.
She backed up and turned into the driveway which wound through flower beds for a quarter of a mile. There were no other cars visible when she reached the house, and she hesitated momentarily before leaving the car. It looked as though it would be Elaine who was a little late. It would give Isabel a few moments a few words in private with Mrs. Harris, however.
She pressed the doorbell and listened to the six-note chime inside before she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and walked inside. "It's Isabel Fairbanks," she called. "Elaine seems to be-" She broke off sharply when she saw Monica Simpson standing to one side in the foyer, a shopping bag in her hand.
Isabel heard the sound of the door closing behind her, and she turned to look. A burly man in a khaki uniform was standing with his back to the closed door. Isabel returned her attention to Monica Simpson. "What's the meaning of this?" she demanded. "What are you doing here? Where's Elaine? Where's Mrs. Harris?"
"The ground rules of the meeting have been changed slightly, Isabel." Monica's voice was clear and firm.
Isabel was annoyed at the use of her Christian name by Monica no less than at the half-smile on her face. "I should think you'd have the decency to remain away from places you're not wanted," Isabel responded coldly.
"It was my phone call that brought you here, Isabel. Where it's nice and quiet and we have plenty of privacy." The mocking note in Monica's voice caused Isabel to steal a quick glance at the uniformed man who was standing with his arms folded across his broad chest. A knowing grin shaped his hard mouth into scarcely more attractive lines, and an alarm bell tinkled faintly in the depths of Isabel's nervous system. Monica smiled when she saw Isabel's change of expression. "Beginning to get the picture?"
"I've had enough of your impertinence!" Isabel snapped. She turned and walked to the door where she confronted the man standing in front of it. "Kindly stand aside!" she demanded imperiously, willing herself to show no trace of the alarm she had felt previously.
Instead, he took her by the arm. Monica Simpson, approaching silently, seized her other arm. "Stop it!" Isabel raged, trying in vain to shake herself free.
"You can leave in twenty minutes, Isabel," Monica said with another smile. "After I've whipped your ass."
"Whipped my . . . Ohhh!" Isabel sputtered as she was half-marched, half-dragged from the foyer of the handsome house to a bedroom in its rear. Could she really have heard right? The bedroom door closed, and she felt trapped in the smaller space. "I'll report this manhandling to the police!" she stammered, still trying to keep her rising panic from reflecting in her voice.
Her heart was pounding at an accelerated rate. The grinning uniformed hulk, she'd seen him before. Wasn't he a sheriff's deputy? With an unsavory reputation? What was he doing here with Monica? And then recognition dawned: this man was Monica Simpson's lover! And she, Isabel Fairbanks, was cornered by the unholy pair. This couldn't be happening to her!
The uniformed man spoke for the first time. "She's gettin' the picture now, all right," he said. "Show her, Monica."
Monica Simpson faced about, bent over, and flipped her skirt up on her back. She had worn no underwear, and Isabel Fairbanks found herself staring in dry-mouthed disbelief at Monica's plump bare buttocks with their bluish stripes, orange at their cores. Monica straightened up and smoothed down her skirt. "You let me in for that, Isabel. How do you think you'll like it when your own bare ass is turned up?" she asked. Her smile had turned malevolent.
Isabel couldn't speak. She was having difficulty trying to breathe. She felt a hard knot of fear in the pit of her stomach. Monica actually intended to brutalize a Christian woman! It was unbelievable.
"How you gonna do it, Monnie?" Curt Sylvester asked.
"You get her stripped and over the end of the bed. I'll take care of the rest."
"What're you gonna use on her ass?"
Monica opened the shopping bag and removed a lengthy item from it. Isabel's stomach lurched sickeningly when she recognized a trimmed-down version of a sorority paddle. It was about eighteen inches long, four inches wide, and it had a hand-carved grip. Two messages were emblazoned upon the hard looking wood: APPLY WHEN NECESSARY near the handle, and HEAT FOR THE SEAT near the business end.
"That little toy?" Curt Sylvester said contemptuously.
"I'll show you it's not toy, Curt."
"Listen, I got a little number out in the cruiser -"
"I'm aware of your affection for leather, darling," Monica said sardonically. "But this is my party, correct?"
Curt shrugged beefy shoulders. "Suit yourself." He advanced upon Isabel. "Shuck it, girlie. All of it."
"N-no," she said faintly.
His smallish, close eyes glared at her. "I can have you naked in seconds," he rasped. "But then you'll have nothin' to wear home afterward. That the way you want it?"
Panic blended with the knot of fear in Isabel's quivering stomach. She was dreadfully frightened. "No!" she cried out in renewed alarm as Curt Sylvester reached for her impatiently.
"Then strip!" he glowered at her.
She found herself removing the jacket of her suit. Her fingers were icy as she unzipped her skirt, slipped it down, and stepped out of it. She paused with her blouse half-unbuttoned. "Please!" she said, unhappily aware of the begging note in her strained voice but unable to help herself. "Please don't make me-"
"Peel it, sister!" Curt barked.
Hopelessly Isabel removed her blouse. She pulled her slip off over her head, automatically fluffing her hair back into place. Isabel Fairbanks, half-naked before these two grinning idiots! She couldn't believe it!
"C'mon, c'mon!" Curt rumbled. "Speed it up. There's plenty of help handy if you don't." He winked at Monica who had the paddle in both hands and was practicing level, waist-high swings. Isabel experienced a sudden, terrifying loosening in her bladder. With shaking hand she unzipped her girdle and worked it downward from her capacious, solidly fleshed hips. Curt Sylvester whistled. "Now that's a real piece of meat," he said admiringly. "C'mon, girlie, unveil it. Get rid of the pants."
Numbly Isabel pulled down her panties, plain white and without adornment. The air felt chilly upon her nude flesh, and she half-crouched in front of the watching pair. She felt half-dead with embarrassment as the man's cynical gaze fastened upon the profuse black hair triangulating her upper thighs. "That's the fourth minister's wife I've seen with it out in the breeze," Curt said to Monica, "an' every one of 'em had more beard than a rabbi has on his chin. You don't s'pose it's a requirement?"
Monica made no reply. She had continued to perform her swings with the paddle. Curt turned to Isabel again. "Off with the bra, Mrs. Righteous. Then Monnie'll teach you to dance in four-four time."
"Will you stop talking?" Monica complained. "Just get her ass over the end of the bed."
At an impatient gesture from Curt, Isabel removed her bra. She held it in her hands for an instant, then nervously dropped it to the floor. The bedroom's cooler air caused her nipples to crinkle and stiffen. She felt terribly ashamed of her heavy, swinging breasts with their dark, protruding crests, but with her entire body exposed to the lustful gaze of this loathsome man Isabel experienced a paradigm of mortification almost paralyzing in its intensity.
Curt unfastened a pair of handcuffs from his belt and approached her. "No!" Isabel cried out, backing away fearfully. He paid no attention. He seized first one wrist and then the other, forcing them into a single claw of the cuffs, then snapped it shut. He half-led, half-dragged Isabel over to the comparatively low footboard of the bed.
"Throw me the pillows," he said to Monica. When she complied, he arranged them on their long axis over the footboard, then swiftly pushed Isabel down over them with his hand on the back of her neck until she was completely doubled-up. He passed the dangling loose cuff through the openwork slats at the end of the bed and snapped it around Isabel's left ankle, leaving her immobilized.
She was horrifiedly aware that her taut, spread, bare behind was now the highest part of her, and impotent tears squeezed from beneath her tightly shut eyelids as she pressed her face into the bedcover. This was simply awful!
"Will you look at that ass!" Curt breathed reverently.
"What about her free leg?" Monica questioned him.
"I like to see 'em kick," he responded. "Livens up the performance when they're flashin' their cunts around, too. C'mon, let's see what you can do with that thing."
Monica positioned herself to one side and slightly behind her victim, paddle at the ready. Isabel struggled for composure. She must maintain what dignity she could. Afterward she would have these creatures arrested and jailed. But this was no moment for threats. Best to suffer it through with a minimum of outcry. She wouldn't give these animals the satisfaction of hearing her plead again.
Monica stared avidly at the white-fleshed broad expanse of Isabel's nude rump. The heavy-looking hemispheres were so solidly fruity with bulging, firm flesh that the crevice between appeared shallow. Monica leveled the paddle at a point several inches behind the white backside. "Now let's see how you like it!" she gritted, and brought the paddle back, then swept it forward again with surprising speed, and it bit deeply into Isabel's bare seat with an obscenely explosive-sounding THWACK!
"Ohhh!" Isabel gasped despite her resolution to be silent. The handcuffs jerked her back into position for the next swing of the paddle as she tried in vain to evade it, the bed creaking from her violent reaction to the stark white imprint of the paddle upon her agitated posterior. The imprints rapidly turned pink, then vermilion.
THWACK!
"Ohhh!" Isabel exclaimed. The pain was unbelievably more intense than she had expected. It quickly flared, then continued to burn.
THWACK!
"Owww!" she cried out, ashamedly conscious of the girlish nature of her outcry but unable to suppress it. "Oh, please-"
THWACK!
"Oooh!" Isabel kicked backward with her free leg in involuntary response to the smarting in her bottom.
"Told you we'd see her cunt," Curt quietly observed. THWACK!
"Oww! Oww! Oww! You're ... killing me!" Isabel gasped, all thought of restraint gone with the excruciating flame in her tender fanny.
Monica aimed the paddle carefully, searching out areas of the ample target as yet untouched by the paddle. Her face was a study in concentration as she snapped the smooth wood into the disquieted, crimsoning globes which danced wildly between searing impacts.
Isabel shrieked at each stroke, dignity forgotten, everything forgotten except the scalding heat in her excoriated flesh.
"You're really gettin' to her," Curt remarked interestedly.
Isabel kicked wildly, but was totally unable to remove her hot, pulsating seat from the explosive-sounding impacts of the paddle.
Monica sadistically paused just long enough between blistering swings for the bolt of the paddle's impact to spread in wildfire shock waves through the entire sitting area. Then she swung the paddle again. Isabel's plunging globes, mostly pink and crimson, were turning maroon in some places.
Curt Sylvester watched closely as the minister's wife's big, bare behind nearly turn itself inside out in convulsed abandon. Isabel's outcries had turned to quivering moans. Her unrestrained tears were soaking the bedcover, and her hard sobs were wrenching her stomach muscles painfully.
"About two more shots an' she's gonna piss herself," Curt announced a dozen spanks later. "See those muscles in her thighs flutterin'? I've seen it before." He hitched at his belt. "Christ, I dunno if it's her or me you're gettin' to. I've got the goddamnedest hard-on I've had in months."
Monica stopped the paddling. She ran the palm of one hand lightly over Isabel's bare seat. The former silkiness felt rough from the paddling. "She's hot, all right," Monica said. "But I think she can stand three more."
Isabel moaned hoarsely after each of the three, but her glowing backside danced only minimally after each smacking report of the paddle on her burning posterior. She hurt so badly over so wide an area that the law of diminishing returns had set in. Monica stepped back after a final inspection of the reddened, meaty-looking sacrifice and thrust the paddle back into her shopping bag. "There!" she exclaimed with intense satisfaction. "I feel better now that she knows how it feels."
Isabel sprawled limply over the bed, almost in a complete state of collapse. Her twin globes, swollen slightly and still twitching, swayed from side to side in slack-muscled, cleft-exposed total abdication of all womanly reticence. Isabel's long, sobbing breaths sounded loudly in the bedroom.
"What do you think of the paddle now?" Monica asked Curt.
"Not bad," he admitted grudgingly, his eyes on Isabel's mossy bush at the bottom of her widened thighs. "But I'll still take my quirt for real action. Say, Monnie?"
She turned at the note of tension in his voice. Curt had unzipped his breeches, and in his hand he held his rigid, thick-jointed, purple-headed prick. "Put that away, Curt," she said impatiently.
"Like hell!" he retorted. "You had your fun, didn't you? An' you couldn't have done it without me. Now I've gotta blow off some steam. I wanna fuck you."
"We can go to a motel and-"
"Right now! I'm gonna fuck you right now!"
Her eyes widened. She glanced at the bed. "In front of her?"
"In front of the pope an' his mistress!" he exploded. "I'm gonna fuck you!"
"Not here, Curt. I don't want to do it. It's not-"
"I'm not askin' you, goddamn it, I'm tellin' you!" It came out between his gritted teeth. "You shag out've that dress an' get your ass on that bed!"
Monica hesitated only a moment longer before pulling off over her head the dress that was her only article of clothing.
Chapter Five
Isabel Fairbanks didn't hear much of the preceding conversation. Her breath was still coming in rasping sobs as her scarlet flesh writhed slowly in the painful aftermath of its anguished ordeal. Only the persistence of the forbidden Anglo-Saxon in the exchange between Curt and Monica belatedly engaged her attention.
And she was beginning to become aware of other things than her feverishly inflamed gluteal region. The heat in her behind made the rest of her body feel chilled. She had perspired freely during her unavailing struggles against the paddle's burning kisses, particularly in the deep cleft between her smarting hemispheres, and heat-loss now created a process of evaporation, adding to her chilliness. Goosebumps appeared and disappeared all over her body.
Isabel flinched as someone thumped down onto the bed, close to her head. She opened her eyes fearfully, blinking the sticky tears from their red-rimmed corners. Her lips parted in an O of mute surprise as a vaginal orifice was pointed at her, fully disclosed by uplifted legs and parted thighs. Isabel stared at the stripes crisscrossing the lower part of the buttocks, identifying the behind as Monica's.
Isabel's head was so low on the bed she couldn't see Monica's face, the upraised legs blocking out the upper body, but she could certainly see everything that only Monica's husband should have been permitted to see. Isabel's neck hurt in its strained, upraised position, but somehow she couldn't look away. She gulped hard as a man's big hand appeared and began to fondle Monica's well-developed vaginal lips. Monica's thighs trembled as a blunt finger slipped inside her crack. Isabel forced herself to close her eyes. The indecency of it! But at once her eyes opened again with no conscious volition on her part.
The finger was plunging deeply in and out of Monica's chute. Then the bed was jarred heavily, shaking Isabel's field of vision. When she focused again, a swarthy, hairy male body was clambering between Monica's naked thighs, a thick, powerful-looking penis projecting toward her unguarded sex. Isabel stared. The penis was as long as Ralph's, and thicker.
The male still had his boots on, she noted. The hairy hips surged forward, and the blunt, rocklike erection disappeared inside Monica's gaping channel with seeming effortlessness. The male made a grunting sound as he lodged himself while a flutelike sound escaped Monica that seemed not so much a response as an accompaniment. The male's lusty shaft began to emerge and submerge in a slow-reaming assault upon Monica's reddening receptacle while the male's hairy testicles swung freely beneath. Long shudders rippled through the redhead's clutching thighs.
She had to stop watching this, Isabel told herself. But she found herself unable to turn her head away. The brawny prong had churned up a milky-looking foam around the lips of the hideaway into which it was swooping with slow, fierce thrusts matched by the well-timed upthrusts of Monica's well-rounded bottom as she plainly encouraged her ravisher.
Isabel tried to close her ears to the blasphemy and the profanity. She was no more able to do so than she was able to close her eyes to the tremendous sexual effort being expended within inches of her nose. An unexpected twitch deep in her own interior startled her; it was the first bodily sensation she had experienced recently not directly connected with her deep-glowing bare behind.
"Curt!" Monica shrieked. The woman's frantic assistance of her own degradation appalled Isabel. What was the male brute doing to her that caused her to react like that? "Ohhh, I'm . . . coming, Curt!" Monica moaned.
Monica's frantic hip-swinging cooperation wrenched her upper body to one side, out of line of the hairy male still furiously plunging into her, and Isabel saw Monica's face for the first time. It was brightly flushed, and the lips were working, and the eyes were rolled back in an expression of, yes, ecstasy, a look Isabel had never seen before. The man roared like a penned alligator that Isabel had seen once and hammered his hairiness into Monica's swimming box. Isabel could see her arms tightly clutched him to her.
Monica stirred finally beneath the masculine weight pinning her to the bed after Isabel marveled at the cessation of movement disturbed only by heavy breathing. "Do you think she watched us?" she whispered.
"Who the hell cares?" Curt Sylvester answered loudly. "We could've charged admission to that fuck."
Isabel buried her face in the bedcover, sensing he was about to move. She would just die if they knew she'd been watching everything! And watching avidly, to her avowed shame.
Curt rolled off Monica with a satisfied grunt. "How are you going to be able to keep her from talking about seeing us, Curt?" Monica asked with a note of apprehension in her voice.
"The same way I'll stop her from talkin' about the whalin' you gave her ass," Curt responded. "Slip your dress on an' run out to the cruiser an' bring me the Polaroid on the back seat."
Polaroid? Isabel heard the bedsprings creak lustily as Monica got off the bed. That was followed by the quick rustle of her dress being slipped over her head. Then the bedroom was quiet, and Isabel realized she was alone in it with that dreadful hairy man. And they were both naked!
Her worst fears were realized when she heard him walking around the end of the bed behind her. "Well, sister," he said in the hard tone that passed with joviality with him, "you're bleachin' out pretty good. Your ass is just kind of ruby-colored now." He chuckled heavily.
Isabel almost screamed when she felt his big hands on her sore bottom. He spread her voluptuous globes with his thumbs and exposed her fissure and pale anus. "Plenty white meat the paddle didn't reach," he assured her, probing at her anus with a finger tip. Isabel moaned in mortification and also in renewed pain at his rough handling of her paddled rear.
Curt was still holding Isabel's buttocks apart when Monica reentered the bedroom. "Did you ever see a twat with so much hair on it?" he demanded. "This broad could make herself a wig."
"Here's the camera," Isabel heard Monica's voice.
"Yeah, okay. Let's see now. I'll take it an angle-" there was the sound of shuffling feet "-like this, so I can get her ass an' her face in the same picture. Put a pillow under her head to raise her face a little from the bed." Isabel hardly dared to breathe. They were going to take a picture of her shame? She felt her head lifted and a pillow thrust under it. "Yeah," Curt Sylvester's heavy voice said. "That's got it."
Even through closed eyelids Isabel saw a quick flare of light. Curt rose from a crouching position. "Give it a full minute now," Monica said. There was a silence, and then Isabel heard a sound like ripping paper. "Look at that!" Monica marveled. "You're quite a photographer, Curt."
"If you'd taken as many automobile accident pictures as I have, you'd be quite a photographer, too," he said complacently. "Notice how her ass looks even redder in the picture?"
"It surely does. I was thinking while you were screwing me that we should probably have taken the picture first."
"When I'm screwin' you, baby, you're not s'posed to be thinkin' about anything else than gettin' screwed. But anything red comes out redder in Polaroid color. Don't ask me why. I better take a couple more for insurance."
Isabel cringed as Curt went through the same process twice more. "Do we let her go now?" Monica asked at last. "Now that she knows we can show the pictures if she talks?"
There was no answer from Curt Sylvester. Then Isabel gasped as she felt her smarting bare behind gripped in his big, hard hands again. She squeaked in dismay when he crowded in behind her and she could feel his bare stomach against her bottom.
For a second she didn't understand the increasing pressure between her thighs, moving upward. "Ohhh, no!" she cried out when she realized his erection was renewing itself and working its way between her half-parted legs. She tried to squeeze them tightly, but he had already advanced too far.
"Damn, she's got an ass!" he said fervently. "You know what, Monnie? I got to fuck this one. I just got to fuck her."
"No!" Monica protested. "She'd holler rape!"
"She ain't gonna holler nothin'," Curt argued. "Not with the pictures we've got of her red ass to show her husband an' his flock. For that matter, you can take a couple pictures while I'm fuckin' her, too. Stand up on a chair alongside the bed an' be sure you get her face while she's treadin' water on my beef."
There was a clinking sound, and Isabel felt her ankle released. Curt gave her a slap on her bare bottom, and Isabel squealed like a school girl. She hated herself immediately. "Spread that handsome big butt of yours on the kip, sis," Curt ordered.
She was afraid not to move. She stifled a groan as she straightened up gingerly. Sore muscles pulled in her behind. Curt unlocked the handcuffs containing her wrists. Isabel crossed her arms over her large breasts when she saw Curt appraising them.
"On the bed!" he demanded. "Or would you rather try the paddle again?"
From the corner of her eye she could see his robust erection without looking directly at it, and her stomach fluttered. "Please!" she appealed directly to Monica. "You've had your revenge. Won't you let me go now?"
"She hasn't got one goddamn thing to say about it!" Curt interjected angrily.
"And wouldn't if she could," Monica said curtly. She looked coolly at Isabel. "I don't remember your being so solicitous on my welfare."
"But I'm a m-married woman," Isabel stuttered. "You can't-" She broke off with a yelp of anguish as Curt once again slapped her bare rump hard.
"One more word out've you an' it's the paddle again," he informed her.
"No, no, no, no," Isabel said hastily. She sat down on the bed, stifling a whimper as her sore buttocks absorbed her weight.
"On your back," Curt demanded.
Obediently she lowered herself onto her back. Her features turned scarlet when she saw Curt staring gloatingly at her furred juncture. "Lift up your ass," he commanded, and when Isabel did so, he shoved a pillow under it. "Get the goddamn camera ready," he said to Monica, and climbed onto the bed.
Almost before Isabel realized it the meaty penis was fumbling between her legs. She shuddered heavily. Could this really be happening to her? Could this beast actually intend to use her so animalistically? She jerked convulsively as she felt the thick rod part her labial lips and slip into her opening.
Curt plunged into her with a half-snarl. The first lunge took him so deeply into the minister's wife's hairy cunt that he found himself lodged to the hilt. "Son-of-a-bitch!" he exclaimed in surprise to Monica. "She must be usin' a table leg on herself in her spare time." He looked down at Isabel's averted face. "Here's to good fuckin', you big assed twat."
Isabel tried desperately not to think of what was being done to her as the animal astride her shrinking belly began to rise and fall in long, slow strokes. A corner of her mind insisted on making comparisons, though. Ralph's penis was longer, if not as thick. This plunging rod seemed to be penetrating her at a different angle somehow. Could it be the pillow? Something felt different, so much so that a warming glow and a distressing wayward tremor seemed to be- She gasped and thrust herself upward to get away from a twisting pinch Curt administered to a paddled globe. "Move that thing, sister!" he barked at her. "What 'n hell d'you think you got it for?"
She bucked herself upward again, afraid of another pinch. And she dared not stop. She flung her hips upward repeatedly, out of synchronization at first, but quickly timing her movements to that of the steadily plunging penis violating her arbor. She bit her lower lip. The rhythmical immersion of the hard gristle in her vagina was stirring a sensation she had never experienced before.
Isabel's breath caught sharply in her throat. The previous faint tremor lodged deeply within her was amplified outrageously as her vagina suddenly took on an independent life of its own. "What are you . . . doing to me?" she breathed an instant before a series of throbs, pulsations, and quick-flurried vibrations convulsed her secret flesh. Her legs climbed involuntarily and met over Curt's muscled back. "What's ... happening?" she whimpered.
"Shut up an'. . . move your ass," Curt snarled.
He speeded up and pounded her so hard she heard her own inelegant grunts. Monica watched curiously as the fleshy prong plummeted into Isabel's crevice. Belatedly remembering her instructions from Curt, she pulled a chair to the bedside and stood up on it, camera in hand.
Isabel closed her eyes as she felt herself standing on the edge of an unknown abyss. She tried to draw back, but instead a hot tide of delicious sensation enveloped her completely as Curt's big prick massaged her clitoris. "Ohhh!" Isabel cried out in startled wonder. "Ohhh! Ohhh!"
Her legs threshed wildly as an internal explosion convulsed her. Her breath almost stopped as her thighs squeezed Curt while she tried to extract still more of the blissful palpitation wringing out her vaginal walls. Then the deep throbbing slowly died out and left her feeling drained.
She sank back upon the bed, breathless, trying to understand what had happened. She sensed Curt reaching beneath her to pinch her sore behind again, and she hurriedly resumed meeting his thrusts. She saw Monica standing on a chair aiming a camera downward, and felt almost indifferent. What had happened to her?
And then it started again! First the tingling tremor which caught her breath in her throat; then the glowing vibrations which expanded to finger tips and toes; and then the mind-bending soft implosion which catapulted her into temporary mindlessness from the surfeit "of sensation tingling and twitching every nerve end. She felt herself drowning in sensation, drowning delightfully.
A flashbulb went off above the bed as Curt began to snort and heave on Isabel's belly. To her shamed amazement she found herself clasping his furry shoulders as he ejaculated into her with fierce grunts. Her own feeling was that of a watch which had run down.
Curt blew half a dozen hard breaths before raising himself from Isabel. "She's sure as hell some kind of fuck," he said. There was an almost thoughtful note in his voice. "Get any pictures, Monica?" Silently she handed him down a Polaroid shot. "Hey, that's a dandy!" he exclaimed. "Here, take a look at yourself in action, sis."
He thrust the picture at Isabel. She found herself looking at a clear likeness of herself in color taken at an angle which showed the rigorous penis thrust halfway into her wet furrow at the same time it showed the most extraordinary expression on her face: head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth opened widely. The whole thing looked like nothing so much as what she might have looked like if her pussy had a feather up it.
She tried to get indignant about the picture, but was unable to do so. Everything about the experience seemed frozen in space, imbedded in plastic. The worst thing in the world, supposedly, that could happen to a woman had happened to her, and- Dare she say it, even think it? No, she thrust the thought hurriedly away.
She had been so deep in thought that Curt's hand on her arm startled her. "You're not a bad fuck once you get it in gear," he told Isabel.
Even the verbiage didn't shock her the way it would have an hour before. She was still trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. How could this brutish, ignorant, uncouth male have aroused in her never-before-experienced sensations?
Her eyes went to Curt still standing beside the bed. The sticky-looking, shiny knob of his reddened penis dangled limply, and Isabel quickly looked away. She was becoming positively shameless! She simply couldn't understand herself. She should be furiously angry. Instead, she couldn't begin to analyze how she felt.
"You better be on The Pill, sis," Curt warned. Isabel made no reply. She was on The Pill, at her own insistence, not Ralph's. She had never felt able to cope with sweaty, smelly babies. "Okay, the party's over," Curt continued. "It's time I gave the taxpayers a little somethin' for their money." He looked down on Isabel's plump nudity still sprawled on the bed. "You do any talkin', girlie, an' we show the pictures to your husband, understand?" Isabel nodded. "Okay, rack it up an' drag it out've here."
She got up from the bed on trembling legs. She knew it wasn't from the paddling. There was only a faint heat in her behind now to remind her of the dreadful experience. Almost like a sleepwalker she picked up her panties from the floor after cleansing herself with a tissue taken from her handbag. It was only afterward that the intimacy of the act performed before the watching male and female eyes dismayed her.
She couldn't get her panties on. Her paddled bottom had definitely swollen, and the constricting panties were far too uncomfortable. She didn't even attempt her girdle. She donned slip, blouse, skirt, and jacket, and fluffed out her disordered hair. She rolled up panties and girdle and stuffed them into the depths of her bag. She looked around the bedroom with a stranger's eyes, her gaze lingering longest on the bed.
When she looked at him again, Curt's pale blue eyes were examining her curiously. Monica was standing to one side. "Is that all?" Isabel asked uncertainly.
Curt nodded. "For now," he said. "Roll it."
Still in a sleepwalking mood, Isabel left the bedroom and walked to the foyer where she let herself out the front door.
Curt Sylvester and Monica Simpson watched her go. "How come she took a strange prick like a kitten?" Curt demanded. "You had me thinkin' she was a lioness. You reckon maybe the paddle fevered her brain along with her tail?"
"I can't understand it," Monica declared. "Do you suppose she could be scheming something?"
"She's got to have more sense 'n that when she knows we'd show the picture," Curt reasoned. He strode to a window through which he could see Isabel getting into her car. He chuckled when he saw her edge herself cautiously under the steering wheel. "You really teed off on her with that paddle. Although I still say that ounce for ounce my little quirt stirs up more action."
"Yes, dear," Monica said with mild irony. "I know."
He was looking at her speculatively. "We could copper the bet on her runnin' to her husband with the story after she's had time to think it over. Whyn't you pay a call on the Reverend Fairbanks? You know, the lost sheep seekin' guidance? Lean on his shoulder an' give him a look at your tits. If he made a pass, we'd have the pair of 'em locked up."
"Doctor Fairbanks make a pass at me?" Monica exclaimed. "Are you out of your mind? He wouldn't have made a pass at Cleopatra."
"He's a man, isn't he? Give him a chance to get his hand up your dress. It'd be goddamn cheap insurance till I can figure out why that wife of his was such a meek little fuck. C'mon, let's go."
He locked the house carefully when they left.
Isabel Fairbanks lay in bed and listened to the snoring of her husband, Ralph. Sleep had evaded her since their retirement for the night. She had returned home in a very subdued mood. She had forgotten her reddened eyes, and when Ralph commented upon them, she had hastily fabricated a story about a sudden cold.
She wondered what he would say if he saw the condition of her bottom. Hours after the paddling it still hadn't returned to its usual whiteness, and the usually velvety skin was still roughened. Isabel had examined it carefully in the bathroom mirror. Some soreness still persisted, although no longer to the touch; she experienced a quick thrill of pain only when she sat incautiously or put undue stress upon that portion of her anatomy. She was sure in a couple of days it would only be a memory.
But what a memory! She drew a long, slow breath. Had it all really happened? Had she actually let that boorish man use her so whorishly? She should have fought him. That's what decent women did when faced with rape. Why hadn't she reacted similarly?
It was no good telling herself the terrible burn in her paddled behind had robbed her of judgment. She still knew right and wrong. When had fear ever excused the exercise of proper choice? No, she had succumbed like a, well, whore.
And how explain the inexplicably marvelous stimulation that had occurred during the ugly act? Isabel sighed tiredly, turned over carefully, and sought once more for elusive sleep.
Bobby Maxwell knuckled his eyes when a persistent series of knocks at his door penetrated his subconscious. He bounded from bed in his underwear and went to the door.
"Hi, sweetie," Monica greeted him. "How about letting me in before one of the neighbors sees me and creates a scandal for the jaybirds?"
"Hi, Monnie," he responded, standing aside to let her enter. "What's happened now?"
"Nothing except that I had a wonderfully cleansing experience and it reminded me I wanted to finish paying off my debts. Like I promised to stop in and give you a treatment, if you remember?" she said archly.
Bobby felt foolish standing in front of her, tousled haired and crummy mouthed as he was, while she looked crisp and fresh. "You look wonderful," he said, eyeing her colorful linen dress.
"I got the job at Gamble's, and I'm on my way to work," she said lightly. "But I thought I'd stop in and see if I couldn't repay my friend Bobby for the favor he did me the other night."
"You were damn nice to me then," he said warmly. "You don't owe me a thing, Monnie. You-"
She went to him and kissed his cheek. "I know where the favor lies," she said firmly, then smiled at him. "D'you mean you're refusing my expert services?"
"No, no," he said quickly. "I'll be right back!"
"Bring back a towel," Monica's voice floated after him as he ran down the hall to the bathroom. He took his morning piss, brushed his teeth, slicked down his unruly hair, grabbed up a towel, and returned to his room. Monica had removed her dress and placed it on the bed. She took the towel from him and made a bib from it, draping it over her front as she tied it behind her neck. Her expression was serenely unselfconscious as she slipped down his jockey shorts until they collapsed around his ankles.
She placed his balls upon her palm and jiggled them lightly while Bobby drew in his breath. "Men's pricks are so darling, when they're all the way down," Monica observed. "Just like babies'."
"That one's not going to stay down long with you fooling around with it," Bobby said tensely.
"That's the idea, sweetie," she told him calmly. She knelt down in front of him and advanced her face until her warm breath was tickling his groin. He placed his hands on the bare flesh of her sleek shoulders.
"How's your ass?" he asked with attempted nonchalance as though this was something that happened to him every day.
"Improving," she replied.
"You gettin' along with Curt?"
"We have an understanding," she said ambiguously before lowering her chestnut head still farther and lightly tonguing the golden hairs on Bobby's upper thighs. The touch of her mouth upon his sleep-warmed flesh produced an almost instantaneous reaction. "Mmm, lovely!" Monica murmured as the circumcised prick shot upward with its head trembling and its veined underside throbbing. "Lovely!"
She kissed the rubbery tip lightly, swirling her tongue over the slit in the head while the muscles in Bobby's thighs bunched. Then Monica took all the head in her warm mouth. She rolled it from side to side while flirting her tongue at the cord underneath, and Bobby's knees quaked.
Gradually she drew more of the rigorous young cock into her mouth, alternately licking and sucking it. The soles of Bobby's feet tingled. "Ohhh, Jesus!" he groaned. Afraid his clutching hands would hurt her bare shoulders, he removed them and placed them behind her head where almost at once they roved instinctively in the mane of her hair.
Monica's mouth ovaled still farther while she drew on the rigid muscle. She slid easily from beyond the midpoint on his erection to the bulbous head and back again, licking, sucking, and teasing with a searching tongue until Bobby threw back his head and stared up at the ceiling. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!" he said fervently. "I'm warnin' you, Monnie, I'm gonna shoot!"
By way of reply she completely swallowed his penis. His toes curled up as her soft mouth, fiendishly knowledgeable about male tactile points, stimulated him right out of his mind. "Monnie!" he gasped as her lips slid back and forth on almost the entire length of his steely young cock, pausing only to nip gently at the pulsating head. "Monnie! I'm . . . coming! Monnie!"
She made a sudden motion with her head, humming deep in her throat, and the resulting vibration triggered the orgasm he had desperately been holding off. His hands gripped Monica's head blindly and held it firmly to his jetting tube.
Not that holding was necessary. Monica swallowed eagerly after the first preliminary throb of the pulsing prick in her mouth, and she kept swallowing through the deluge that followed. A bit of the surplus escaped the straining corners of her mouth and ran down onto her bib. She choked once momentarily but immediately caught up again.
Bobby's knees sagged weakly as the ejaculation which seemed to go on forever gradually slackened. "Hooo, boy!" he whispered through dry lips. Monica released her limp prisoner and looked up at Bobby, greasy mouthed but smiling. She removed her bib and used a dry corner of it to wipe off her face. She glanced down at her front, but none of the pulsating male sperm had penetrated to her slip.
Bobby patted her head gently. "Thanks, Monie," he said sincerely. "That was really something else."
"I thought you'd like it," she replied softly.
"Monnie?"
"Yes?"
"Bring it up again, please?" His voice was eager. "And let me fuck you?"
"I'm having my period, Bobby. I'm sorry." "Ah, damn!"
She stroked his hairy bare thighs. "Otherwise I'd love to have you fuck me."
He patted her head again. "Well, thanks anyway, Monnie. You've made my day."
She rose from her knees and went to the bed, picked up her dress, and slipped it over her head. "Zip me up," she said, turning her back.
He did her bidding, then folded her in his arms for a moment, his palms cupping her brassiered breasts. "Look at that," he said ruefully, releasing her. He pointed downward to another erection. "It didn't hear you."
She smiled, then reached for his prick and gave it a quick squeeze before she walked to the door. She paused there and looked over her shoulder. "Don't ever let on to Curt about any of this," she said.
"You know it!" he agreed fervently. "Well, thanks again, Monnie. It was great. You were great."
She gave him another quick, bright smile before she opened the door and descended the wooden stairway to the rear of the bakery.
Chapter Six
Curt Sylvester paced the floor of the Sheriff Department's basement office, impatiently slapping his palms together. Monica's new job was a hindrance to his plans, and he didn't quite know what to do about it. He certainly didn't intend to support her, but the daytime hours during which she was making a living were the very hours he found most fruitful for his own schemes.
There was the situation with the Aliens, for instance. Especially Jessica Allen, known as Jessie to her shaggy-looking friends. Curt's upper lip lifted in a sneer. That one was going to dance one of these days, really dance.
He slowed his rapid stride and stared thoughtfully at the wall. Did he really need Monica to bring it off, as he had first planned the affair? No, all he needed was a woman, and by God, he had a woman. No way was Curt Sylvester going to coax the Allen woman or her husband into his soundproof basement office when they both knew they were doing something illegal. No way, unless he applied a sugar coating to the sour candy, and that was where the woman came in. Originally he'd been thinking in terms of Monica, but he could see now that it didn't need to be Monica.
He went to his desk and drew the telephone toward him. He looked up the number in the book and dialed, drumming rapidly on the desk top with his free hand. "I'd like to speak to Mrs. Fairbanks," he said to the masculine voice that answered the phone.
"Yes? Who is it, please?" Curt finally heard in coolly cultured, feminine tones.
"This is Curt Sylvester," he said. He was enjoying himself. He could picture the haughty Isabel Fairbanks looking over her shoulder at her husband in the room, wondering what to say.
"Y-yes?" she said at last, and he grinned at the hesitancy in the previously crisp voice. "What is the message you have for me, please?"
He hardened his voice deliberately. "The message is for you to haul your big ass down to the Sheriff Department's office right now," he said menacingly.
"N-now? But it's inconvenient. Can't we make some other arrangement? I really-"
"I said now," Curt growled. He had no intention of letting her off the hook. "Or would you like Doctor Ralph Fairbanks to receive a Polaroid shot in the mail?"
"I'll Heave right away," she said hurriedly. "S-since you feel it's so important."
"An' never mind your girdle," he advised with a grin. "We can get to the seat of things quicker that way. Get the picture?" The line hummed emptily in his ear. "I said d'you get the picture?"
"Y-yes," Isabel Fairbanks replied faintly.
"Good. Don't keep me waitin'."
He banged down the phone and moved out from behind the desk, resuming his pacing with a swaggerlike stride. This was so much better than using Monica there was no comparison. Two birds with one stone. That was the name of the game.
He built himself up to a high pitch of expectancy while he waited for her. At the sound of her high heels on the stairs leading down to the basement from the municipal offices above he faced in that direction. He was almost sure what he knew Isabel Fairbank's attitude would be.
Nor was he wrong. She swept directly down the stairs and walked to him. She began to speak while she was still five yards distant. "I'm not sure you realize how awkward a position your phone call placed me in just now, Mr. Sylvester," she said smoothly. Curt listened admiringly. No theatrics; she knew instinctively that it would avail her nothing. Instead, he was being appealed to in the name of sweet reason. "I had hoped you were gentleman enough to consider the episode of the other afternoon a closed matter," she continued. "I believe that even Mrs. Simpson would agree that I paid a steep price for-"
"Monica has nothin' to do with the price," Curt cut her off. "Or with the phone call. This is between you an' me, sis."
"I don't understand," she said slowly. "What do you intend?" She was sorry she asked the instant she spoke.
"You don't need to worry about puttin' ideas in my head," Curt informed her breezily. "I already got plenty. Now I was sittin' here a few minutes ago, an' you know what come into my mind? All of a sudden I just kind of saw a picture of your big, handsome, tight-lookin' bare ass, an' I thought to myself, well, now, Curt ol' boy, couldn't you use a little of that?"
Isabel wet her dry lips nervously. She wore no make-up, and her pale features approached a dead pallor. "Please," she began.
"So I decided to get your ass down here an' backscuttle it," Curt interrupted her again.
She stared at him blankly. "B-backscuttle? I'm afraid I don't know what-"
"You don't know what I mean? Backscuttlin's fuckin' you dog-fashion. You'll love it."
Two bright blotches of high color appeared on Isabel's smoothly rounded cheekbones. "That's the most scurrilous, indecent-"
"But first I got somethin' else for you to do," he went on. He had developed a formula for dealing with women: always keep them off balance. Never let them set themselves for a counterpunch. From sniveling teen-ager to haughty matron, they all responded to the same stimuli. "Listen close now," he said.
Isabel listened numbly to his instructions, barely comprehending them. From the instant she had heard his voice on the telephone she knew what it portended: blackmail. Sexual blackmail. She had thought fleetingly of telling Ralph and enlisting his assistance. But to tell Ralph of her experience the other day? She couldn't. He wouldn't understand. She didn't understand it herself.
"C'mon, make the call," Curt said impatiently, pushing his phone in her direction.
Isabel roused herself from the feeling of dread which had enveloped her when he had spoken that awful word with such a sly-looking grin. Backscuttling? Her mind hurriedly retreated from the thought. She forced herself to concentrate on the telephone in her hand. "W-why?" she asked unsteadily. "Why am I m-making this telephone call for you?"
"Because I'm damn well tellin' you to make it!" he snapped. "Go on. Dial. I told you what to say. An' don't blow it, or you'll sure as hell wish you hadn't."
She dialed uncertainly, struggling to bring herself under control. "I'd like to speak to Jessica Allen, please," she said when she had the connection. At least her voice sounded steady no matter how her nerve ends were quivering. "This is Isabel Fairbanks, Mrs. Allen," she said, and waited for the polite acknowledgement. "We have a small problem involving one of your pupils, and we wondered if you'd be good enough to come downtown to the sheriff's office and give us the benefit of your personal experience with this individual before we try to make a determination as to the best course to take. No, not terribly serious. Theft. Yes. But of course a decision must be made. You will? We'd appreciate it. Yes. Thank you very much."
"Great!" Curt enthused as Isabel hung up the phone with a hand that trembled. "Perfect!" He rubbed his hands together. "Oh, man, what I'm plannin' for that bitch!"
"But why?" Isabel asked. "I know the Aliens just slightly, but while I understand their life-style is unorthodox, I don't-"
"The life-style of the Aliens includes sellin' marijuana to high school kids," Curt cut in. "Whaddya think of that?"
"It should be stopped," Isabel replied promptly.
"It's gonna be, sis. It's gonna be. Like today."
They sat in silence until Jessica Allen swept down the stairs into the office. She had on a shapeless granny gown that swept the floor, and her hip-length black hair trailed down her back. Isabel noted with distaste that it appeared to have gone uncombed for days. The flowing material of the gown was drawn in tightly under the breasts in a manner that suggested no brassiere underneath. Isabel's lips tightened. It was certainly a poor example for a schoolteacher's wife to be setting. And hadn't she heard that Mrs. Allen sometimes did substitute teaching?
Jessica Allen looked from Isabel Fairbanks to Curt Sylvester. "I hurried as fast as I could," she said with a little smile. She was a slim girl, high-breasted, with dark eyes set in a pale face framed in the mass of her long black hair. "Who's the offender against society?"
"You are," Curt said sharply, and watched her smile die. He moved toward her with a deliberate swagger. "You an' your funky husband who've been sellin' pot to the kids."
"No!" she said immediately. "Whoever says so, it's a lie!" She looked at Isabel. "That's not what you said on the-"
"Admit it!" Curt roared, startling her with his bellow so that she took a backward step. He pursued her, towering above her as she shrank away. "You been doin' it right along!"
"No! It's not true! They're lying! We've never-"
He slapped her heavily, the sound of his palm on her cheek a cracklingly explosive noise. Jessica Allen staggered sideways from the force of the slap, almost losing her balance. Isabel's eyes widened at the use of such force.
Curt loomed up over the girl again. "Admit it!" he demanded menacingly. He seized her shoulder when she tried to evade him, then slapped her again. He backhanded her other cheek, and she gave a strangled cry as a thin trickle of blood started downward from one nostril. She snuffled it up, then started to sob.
"Admit!" Curt said again, more softly but with just as much of a threat in his heavy voice. "We've got signed confessions."
"They're lying! I w-want to talk to my h-husband! I want a lawyer! You can't treat me like-"
He slapped her while still holding her arm. Her head rocked as she screamed. "You're not gonna think too well of your face in the mornin', Jessie," Curt told her.
She tried to pull away from him, tears streaming. "All right, you yokel!" she declared defiantly. "Just leave my face alone. Sure we've been selling pot, but you need evidence of a sale, and you don't have it. My admission means nothing. You can't obtain a conviction without evidence."
"Nobody's lookin' for a conviction," Curt said. "You two are gonna leave town."
"You can't make us! He has a contract! We-"
"Would you believe you're just about to have your mind changed, Jessie?" Curt dragged her by the arm to a corner of the room.
"You let me alone!" the girl cried out furiously. Her outburst was provoked by Curt's unhooking a pair of handcuffs from his belt and enclosing both her slim wrists in one cuff. Seated at Curt's desk, Isabel swallowed hard at the recollection of her own recent incarceration in just such a manner.
Curt held the struggling girl effortlessly while he untied a rope on the wall and lowered a steel ring which had been unobtrusively snugged against the ceiling. He caught the ring in his free hand, snapped the other handcuff to it, and pulled the rope back up again through its pulley until the girl's arms were extended straight above her head and she was standing on tiptoe. "You ... let me . . . down!" she panted, but with more fear than anger in her voice now. She twisted to try and watch Curt.
He knotted the rope on its bracket and walked to his desk. He winked cheerfully at the apprehensive Isabel. "Lots better solutions than draggin' a ream of local kids into court, right?" he said. He opened his desk drawer and removed a braided riding quirt, half-stiff, half-flexible, with a flat popper at its end. "You'll hear a soprano solo now," he assured Isabel whose stomach had turned over at the sight of the wicked-looking quirt.
He stroke back to Jessica Allen, his bootheels hitting hard on the flooring. She eyed the quirt in his hand fearfully. "You're insane!" she blurted. "I'll sue! I'll . . . Stop that!"
He had seized the hem of the granny dress and started to draw it up on her back. She kicked at him, but he easily evaded it. He threw the material up on her shoulders and bundled it around her neck. "How about that, Isabel?" he demanded buoyantly. "Not a stitch of underwear!"
Isabel stared at long, slender white legs, a smoothly curved back, and a trim, almost boyish-looking bare bottom. Curt secured the upraised dress by passing a fold of it through the handcuff containing her wrists. He pulled the quirt from the boot into which he had stuffed it while getting the granny dress out of the way. "Now I'm just gonna show you how we feel in this town about people who sell pot to our kids," he informed the shrinking girl.
Jessica Allen tried to twist her behind away from the upraised quirt, but Curt stalked her calmly. "No, no, no!" she called out frantically. "We'll leave! We'll leave!"
"Damn right you'll leave," Curt said, and swung the quirt.
Isabel shivered as the rounded leather whirred through the air and cracked viciously upon the girl's bare flesh. Jessica Allen threw back her head and yelled hoarsely as a stark white line sprang up on both buttocks. The line immediately turned pink, then an angry red. Even from where she sat Isabel could see the weal rising.
Curt whipped the quirt around again in a flat arc into the wildly prancing, nether rotundities. The girl bounded into the air from her tiptoe position, squalling, her nude stomach grotesquely outthrust. She danced from one foot to the other with her surprisingly full breasts, grape-nippled, bouncing wildly. A second red line sprang up beside the first.
Another crack and Jessica shrieked mournfully. The twisting white figure displayed sparse dark hair at the juncture, and Isabel wrinkled her nose in distaste when she noted the armpits were similarly unshaven.
The weals overlaid each other, red turning to purple. Curt lengthened his swing and cut hard at the quivering globes which contracted and expanded in contorted gyrations at the unbearably hot kiss of the braided leather.
With each blow her full-throated screams echoed hollowly from walls and floor. Isabel shifted uneasily in her chair, horrified at the merciless whipping, but unable to remove her eyes from the swaying, dancing, plunging buttocks into which the quirt almost disappeared each time before rebounding from the striped flesh.
Curt walked around his victim, keeping the gyrating behind within range as he whipped it steadily. Each time he had the convulsed bare bottom in his sights he whirred the leather into the convulsed flesh. The girl's screams weakened and died out to soft moans. She hung limply in the cuffs with only her tortured nude behind reacting to the flaming bite of the quirt. Curt stopped whipping to lean down and examine his handiwork closely. Layers of rising weals overran each other, and he thrust the quirt back into his boot.
Swiftly he unfastened the rope and lowered the girl until he could remove the handcuffs. He frog-walked her, still with her granny dress around her neck, over to his desk where he extended her face down. Isabel looked at damp, streaked buttocks and the quick tremors running through the slender bare thighs; she listened to the panting breath and soft moans, and she knew to her shame that she, Isabel Fairbanks, could never hold out against the quirt, that she wouldn't even try.
Curt rounded the desk until he was at the girl's head. "Send your hubbie down here to see me if he don't like what you've got to show him," he rumbled. "An' tell him if the pair of you are still in town next week you'll be down here for an encore." He leaned down toward the sobbing girl whose strangled breathing was half-choking her. "Y'hear me?" he growled.
"Oooh, y-yes!" she bleated piteously.
"Then take off. Haul your whipped ass out've here."
For a moment Jessica Allen didn't move. Then she placed her hands on the desk top and laboriously pushed herself upright. Isabel could see fluttering muscles in her thighs and the damp sparse triangular beard where she had wet herself a little. The girl raised her arms and freed the dress from her shoulders, shaking it down to conceal her perspiring nudity. She stifled a groan as the coarse material slid over her striated behind.
She turned blindly from the desk and wobbled unsteadily toward the stairs leading to the first floor offices. She started to climb the stairs, but paused on the second step to moan at the pull of smarting flesh in her wealed seat. Then she slowly resumed her climb. A final muffled sob escaped her at the top of the stairs, and then she was gone.
Isabel drew a deep breath. It had been a dreadful exhibition, she told herself, inhuman and savage. Then why did she feel such an E-string tautness in her own body and a suspicious dampening between her thighs? The wholehearted fear that next it might be her own bare buttocks writhing under the quirt's cruel impact didn't fully account for it.
She looked toward Curt Sylvester, and her mouth shaped itself into a soundless O. The deputy sheriff had his uniform trousers unzipped and a ponderous erection in his hand. "One more cut on that prancin' ass an' I'd have come off in my pants," he said casually. "I'd have fucked her afterward, except I don't go for those skinny-assed broads when there's one like yours around. Take your pants off an' get over the desk like she was." While speaking he had removed a blanket from a desk drawer. He folded it three times and laid it across the desk.
Isabel couldn't breathe. The sight of the quirt projecting above Curt's boot top checked at once any protest she might have been about to make. She stood up meekly, raised her skirt, and slipped down her white panties. She caught sight of a wet spot on the crotch, and she flicked a glance at Curt. Had he noticed, too?
"C'mon!" he said impatiently. "Spread it out!"
Isabel lowered herself upon the several thicknesses of blanket whose rough texture scratched at her bare belly but protected it from the hardness of the desk top. She shivered at the extraordinary sensation that assailed her as she sprawled helplessly with her globes glistening whitely in the glare of the overhead fluorescent lighting. The previously roughened texture of her bare behind after its paddling had been almost fully restored to waxen-looking glossiness.
"Goddamn!" she heard Curt's rough voice as he moved in behind her. "That's spread enough for forty cattle to feed off!"
She flinched as he gripped her firmly by the waist, then slid her backward on the blanket until her crotch hung over the edge of the desk and he had unimpeded access to it from behind and below. Isabel felt his muscular erection bumping the backs of her thighs, then pushing its way in between her taut hind cheeks. She quivered all over as the head prodded her vaginal orifice from underneath.
"Ohhh!" she whispered faintly as the steed was aimed expertly into her moist cranny. Its breadth distended her forcefully for an instant, but the discomfort passed.
"What y'all tellin' me, baby?" she could hear Curt's voice as though from a great distance. She could imagine his hard grin. His words distracted her from concentrating upon a fiendishly tickling arousal in her entire genital area. "That you can feel it jus' as plain?" the hard voice continued.
She shut her eyes and tried to close her mind to the sound of the mocking voice. She could feel his hairy thighs rubbing against her nude buttocks, but somehow she felt no mortification at the picture she knew she must present. Sparklers of acute sensation were shooting all through her tender flesh, creating volcanically eruptive quakings. Curt slammed his weight against her suddenly, and Isabel almost shrieked aloud as the hard penis scraped her already stimulated clitoris. She couldn't seem to catch her breath properly as the fleshy prong began a rapid in-and-out movement whose fiery friction speedily translated itself into a wicked but delightful stimulation.
She was totally unprepared for the orgasm which overwhelmed her. She felt her nipples stiffening madly as her pelvis thrust itself backward upon the rigidity boring her trench. Her buttocks alternately widened and contracted as she deluged the sturdy staff plunging in and out of her silky aerie.
Above her bowed back Curt Sylvester chuckled cynically. "Why do I get the feelin' you might even get to like it one of these days, sweetie?" he inquired. Isabel didn't answer.
Curt paused suddenly in his Herculean performance of thrusting his lance upward between Isabel's fruity globes. He removed his prick entirely, shining with her spend, and grasped her bountiful cheeks in both hands. He spread her globes widely, exposing the inner recesses of female flesh, right down to the brown anus. He took his dripping cock and rubbed its sticky coating between the hind cheeks, especially around the asshole. He removed his prick and employed a finger to work Isabel's own come inside her rear opening.
She was only halfway back to reality after the series of pulsating eruptions that had assailed her vagina and left her mentally reeling. She raised her head uneasily at the feel of activity in a part of her body to which she had never referred verbally in all her life. She twitched her hips uneasily, trying to dislodge the fingertip still partly inside her rectum. Then the finger was gone, and she relaxed. She tried to savor mentally the new sensation she had just experienced.
Behind her, Curt Sylvester deliberately lined up the head of his tumescent prick with the brown berry he was still exposing by holding apart Isabel's lusty hind cheeks. The blunt purple head made contact with the slight depression, and he surged forward. Isabel gasped as the huge erection forced itself inward and the taut flesh around her anus began to curl inward from applied pressure.
Suddenly she cried out between struggles for breath as the steadily increasing pain seemed to envelop her whole pelvic area. "You're not ... in the right . . . place!"
A jolting, ripping sensation inside her rectum was followed by a blinding flash of excruciating pain. Isabel screamed and struggled desperately. Curt momentarily pinioned her writhing hips with his weight, then began a cautious in-and-out movement in the rectum he had pierced. Isabel's struggles and pleas gradually died away as the agony inside her rectum subsided to a dull ache. Her bulging eyes and open mouth slowly returned to normal as the penis continued to agitate the wrong retreat.
With the partial cessation of Isabel's struggles, Curt began to enjoy his reaming of her asshole. He plunged his prick with ever-increasing ease inside her clasping anus. The pressure on his knobby prick had him standing on his toes to avoid a premature come.
He reached underneath Isabel and fumbled for her pussy. He inserted a probing finger inside her dripping chute and searched for her clit. The instant he touched it Isabel was galvanized into action. Her hips threw themselves in all directions with such force he almost lost his hold inside her distended rectum. In seconds he felt the uncontrollable contractions of her cunt on his finger as Isabel swam hazily in another semi-delirious eruption of static juices.
Her relaxed state permitted Curt additional penetration, and he slammed his hard belly into her sweaty backside with extra force as he frictioned himself into his own spend which sent orgasmic shivers all the way down to his heels.
Isabel didn't move until Curt pulled out of her anus with a loud sucking sound. She felt his semen running down the backs of her legs, but somehow it didn't seem to matter. She felt weary, sore, and abused, but oddly at peace.
"Okay," his voice said loudly from behind her. "School's out, sis." His palm cracked lightly upon her exposed bare seat in what for him was almost an affectionate gesture. "That's a real snug little bunghole you got back there, baby. Maybe we'll use it again. Or try somethin' different next time."
Again? Next time? Isabel shrank from considering fully the implications of the words. She pushed herself upward from the blanket on legs that threatened to refuse support. She wiped herself, vagina and anus, with her panties before thrusting the soiled garment into her bag and hurriedly shaking down her skirt.
Curt Sylvester ushered her to the foot of the stairs. "You got it, kid," he said to the bemused Isabel. "You may not know it yet, but you got it. You 'n me are gonna let it all hang out." He patted her rump again as she started up the stairs.
Isabel drove homeward with her brain a whirling kaleidoscope of intertwined emotions she was unable to sort out. Her insides hurt. She knew the abuse and misuse of her body should have completed disgusted and alienated her. Instead, she could still feel a faint glow at the memory of Curt Sylvester's thick penis plunging deeply into her during the backscuttling. . She blushed suddenly at the word and at the memory.
What in the world was happening to the Isabel Fairbanks whom she had known all her life?
Monica Simpson sat on a low sofa in the church study while Dr. Ralph Fairbanks lounged in the swivel chair behind his desk. "It's because I've been so deeply distressed since I left my husband that I came to see you," Monica was saying. "And I do want to thank you for giving me the opportunity to talk out my situation like this."
"I suppose you miss him sexually, too," Ralph Fairbanks remarked in a sympathetic tone.
Could Curt be right about his bird, Monica wondered? In the ten minutes she had been in his office it was the third time he had steered his counseling to a sex area. She had worn a low-cut bra and a loose blouse. She was lower on the sofa than he was in his chair, and she had caught him eyeing her once or twice. But a man wouldn't be human if he didn't look when there was something to look at.
Monica widened her legs casually. The low sofa thrust her knees upward, and her skirt was ridiculously short, hugging her bottom and then flaring inward to shape and hobble her thighs. The exposure was considerable even with her legs closed. With them parted . . .
"I'm ashamed to say I do, Doctor Fairbanks," she answered his question with pretended embarrassment. "It's difficult for a woman alone. It's said about men, but women have a hard time, too."
"I'm sure of it," he agreed. "But at this point I'm afraid the ministry has come up with no practical solutions. Unless you're thinking of going back to him?"
Monica hesitated. This simulated counseling was coming dangerously close to paralleling her own late-night musings in her lonely room. She wasn't the type of woman meant to live alone. It was crazy to think of returning to Pete Simpson's belt, and yet . . .
"I can't make up my mind," she confessed. "He's a brute, but I miss him." She smiled brightly, widening her legs still more. "I suppose you'd consider a woman insane to return to a man from whom she's guaranteed to receive bottom thrashings?"
His eyelids flickered. "I'd say it depends upon the woman," he said gravely. "If there were sufficient compensations ..." He didn't finish it.
His eyes were upon Monica's parted legs. What the hell, she thought, there's one way to find out about this guy. "Excuse me, Doctor Fairbanks, but may I use your bathroom?" She stood up, showing a distinct flash of bared upper thigh. "Talking about Pete I have such a feverish . . . She paused. "I feel so dizzy. I think . . . I'm going ..."
She allowed her knees to sag. Her hips struck the sofa which bumped her to the floor as she collapsed limply. Friction applied by the sofa elevated her short skirt, front and rear. She was partly on her back with her pantied crotch exposed.
Eyes closed, Monica sensed Dr. Ralph Fairbanks kneeling beside her. Then, incredibly she felt his hand cupping her sex through her panties. The hand departed but was replaced by a finger which traced the whole outline of her furrow. The finger wandered until Monica could barely repress a shiver. She slitted an eyelid. Dr. Ralph Fairbanks was staring downward at his wandering finger, a bemused look upon his handsome features.
He's not afraid if I come to and catch him at it, Monica suddenly realized. I'm already a lost sheep whose word against his would count for nothing. That's why he feels he can be so bold. She sighed deeply, then twisted farther over onto her back.
"Let me help you up," he said smoothly. "You fainted during a hot flash."
"Oh, my heavens!" Monica exclaimed, glancing down at her exposure before scrambling to her feet. "I'm just mortified!"
"Don't be," he responded. "You have a real problem, but I think further therapy might be helpful. But not here. Perhaps if we made an appointment to meet at your place tomorrow evening?"
Monica nodded numbly. This was a sexual iceberg? She hadn't met many men who moved as surely. Of course he felt perfectly safe.
"A bit of additional mental therapy will do you good," he said.
Monica nodded again. Damn good thing the landlady's deaf as a mackerel, she thought. She had a feeling that mental therapy wasn't going to be the only happening in her hitherto lonely room.
And, looking at the handsome face and broad shoulders of Dr. Ralph Fairbanks, she found herself anticipating it.
Chapter Seven
Lamplight bathed the bedroom in a soft glow as Bobby Maxwell, nude, with Cindy Gaynor, equally naked, played on the bed. The girl sat astride Bobby but with her upper body lowered upon his until her soft breasts were mashed upon his hard, hairy chest. Tucked deeply within her snug pussy was Bobby's rampant cock upon which he had sat Cindy down.
Cindy moved her girlish hips languidly, pressing down with her knees upon the bed as she guided herself slowly up and down on Bobby's rigid pole, then waggling her bare bottom friskily from side to side as thrill after thrill titillated her simmering box. "Like it?" Bobby whispered into a small ear almost concealed by Cindy's flowing blonde hair.
"Mmm!" she sighed. "It's just scrumptious, Bobby." Blithely she continued her self-propelled ride on the fleshly spear lodged securely within her, all her movements in tranquil slow motion. She opened half-closed eyes to looked into Bobby's gray ones. "But it's better for you the other way, isn't it, though? With me on the bottom?"
"It's good for me any way," he assured her. He raised her slightly to fondle her swinging breasts, then lowered her again and reached down and cupped her curvaceous hind cheeks in his palms.
"You're just saying that because you know I'm enjoying it up here," she said wisely. She gave an extra flirt of her nude rump, then gasped at the surge of sensation in her pussy. "Oooh!" she breathed. She giggled gleefully, again easing her well-lubricated sanctuary up and down on Bobby's robust prick. "Give me another couple of minutes like this," she begged winsomely. "Then we'll do anything you like."
"You can stay right there the rest of the night," he insisted. He squeezed her velvety buttocks gently, kneading and patting her hemispheres. Cindy kissed his neck in rapturous abandon, and Bobby returned the kiss with equal passion.
"Ooo, this is wonderful!" Cindy exulted. Her eyes sparkled as she wriggled her hind parts in sprightly fashion in Bobby's hands. "I just love it when you feel me, Bobby."
"Feel you where?" he teased.
"Anywhere," she said lovingly. "Anywhere you want to feel me." Her tone was a mixture of carefree vivaciousness and unembarrassed delight. She gradually slowed down her bottom. "I'm ready," she whispered. "Turn me over, Bobby."
"You're the most perfect little thing!" he exclaimed. He dealt each nude globe a sharp spank before transferring his hands to her slender waist. "Tuck your arm and shoulder under, and over we go." He propelled himself up and over her slim figure in a rolling motion until he could balance himself on his knees above her, his cock still firmly rooted in her grotto. "Now I'm gonna make you squeak, Miss Priss!" he gloated in pretended ire.
"I'll squeak for you any time you like," Cindy informed him. Her smile turned into a gamin grin. "Fuck me, Bobby," she whispered almost inaudibly.
"You little devil!" he exploded with laughter, then bent his back and shoulders to the pleasant task. Slowly at first, but then with ever-increasing force he plunged his stout rod into the depths of Cindy's crypt. The girl's soft arms crept up and locked around his shoulders as she held him tightly while the brawny male tool ravaged her willing cunt. She raised her legs still higher and tried to anticipate Bobby's movements so that she would be able to engulf every inch of the rugged intruder.
A quick fluttering in her interior caused a hiatus in her breathing. "Bobby!" she murmured. "Ohhh, Bobby!" Her voice soared jubilantly in a paean of well-being. "Bobby! It's ... doing it... again!" Her legs writhed and her pelvic muscles contracted in a prolonged orgasm. "Oooh!" she moaned blissfully. "It's so . . . nice!"
His shoulders flurried mightily under her hands. He rose higher on his knees and pounded Cindy's warmly curving belly with his own until the tip of his scouring prick trembled warningly. "Ahhh . . . Christ!" he said jerkily as the stream from his vibrating cannon thundered into Cindy's scented bower. "Oooh man!" He rested on her breasts for a moment before raising himself from her.
Cindy immediately slipped from the bed and trotted, nude, to the large boudoir mirror. She raised one leg as high as she could manage and examined her crotch curiously. "Look at it!" she exclaimed in mock concern. "It's so red in the face!"
He rolled onto his side to watch her. "It looks like such a dainty little thing," he observed. "Instead it has a fabulous expansion joint and an appetite like a longshoreman."
Cindy smiled. "I'm soaking," she announced cheerfully.
"Come back here and we'll fix that," he told her. When she promptly obeyed, he placed her on her back with her legs dangling over the edge of the bed, then knelt in front of her, between her legs. He raised her legs and put them on his shoulders, then slid her closer to him. The rosette was right under his mouth.
He began to lick at the overflowing juices oozing from the softly distended lips. A long, slow shiver rippled through Cindy as she felt his quick-darting tongue on her private parts. She relaxed, content, her thighs raised slightly to offer more freely to Bobby what he wanted. Her small hands played lightly with his hair as the busy tongue cleansed every niche of her centerpiece. Bobby breathed in the delectable fragrance as he licked clean the glowing chalice.
Cindy smiled up at him when he finally removed her slender legs from his shoulders. "What are we going to do now?" she asked eagerly.
"What would you like to do?" he countered.
She blushed prettily, a soft blush that spread down to her perky breasts. Bobby touched her skin wonderingly; he had never seen such a blush. Her silky skin was warm to the touch. Despite the evidence of the blush, however, there was nothing diffident in Cindy's clear-eyed gaze or zestful young voice. "I'd like to be fucked again," she said composedly.
His laugh was almost a groan of delight. He reached for her again and buried his face in the girl's warm little belly, lipping at the plump, satiny white flesh. "Fucked you shall be, my girl," he pronounced. "If I don't eat every inch of you first."
The immediately ensuing uninhibited proceedings in the bedroom were wordless but not soundless.
Dr. Ralph Fairbanks addressed Monica earnestly as they stood in the living room of her apartment. "I see no purpose in beating around the bush, Mrs. Simpson," he said firmly. "You not only have something I want, you have something I need."
"Namely?" she said with attempted lightness.
"A receptacle for my maleness."
There probably wasn't another guy in town who would so phrase it, Monica thought. She felt an odd compassion for this handsome man, obviously so uptight. "Give me two minutes," she said. She went into the bedroom and undressed rapidly, then sat on the bed. "All right," she called.
She saw Dr. Ralph Fairbanks' eyes widen when he entered the bedroom, but he said nothing. He shed his own clothing with a good deal of awkwardness, but he approached the bed with the firm stride of a man who has made up his mind. Monica was surprised at the dimensions of the lazy erection which preceded him.
For long minutes there was no sound in the bedroom. Dr. Ralph Fairbanks fingered and stroked every inch of Monica's fullsome nudity. His surprisingly big prick prodded her thigh as he leaned over her for some of his explorations. She could feel herself becoming deliciously wet. "Ready?" she asked when he finally stopped.
He nodded. He was breathing hard. Monica went down on her back, elevated and widened her legs, and raised her buttocks. "Put a pillow under my ass," she said.
He looked surprised, but complied. He crawled in between her legs and lowered himself onto her plump stomach. "No, Ralph," Monica said quietly. "Come up higher on me. You're too far down."
He shuffled his nakedness upward on her belly.
"That better?" he muttered. "I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me when I'm doing something wrong."
"That's much better," she assured him. She reached down and took hold of his prong which she guided to her slot. He started at her touch, but said nothing. A galvanic shudder rippled through him as he slid deeply into Monica's grotto. "It never . . . felt like that!" he gasped.
"Slowly now," Monica said, placing her hands on the upper slopes of the minister's buttocks. "Let's get in tune."
She pressed down hard with her palms when he started to screw at a jack rabbit pace. He got the message and restrained himself, throttling back to a steady plunging into the delicious feeling cunt. "That's the way," Monica encouraged him, swinging her hips upward from the bed to meet his thrusts.
The reverend boiled over immediately. He began to shiver and shake, and in seconds he spent into Monica's interior with a muffled groan. "Damn!" he exclaimed in unministerial tones. He started to roll off Monica, but she seized his shoulders and held on.
"Hold it, buster," she warned. "You're not going any place until I come, too." She began to contract her pelvic muscles upon the scarcely diminished prick still buried in her nest.
Ralph Fairbanks tried to restrain his rasping breath while he raged inwardly at his own incontinence. He was no better than a schoolboy. The unexpected accompaniment of this earthy but pleasant woman's hips had triggered his sudden overflowing. It had been an agreeably new sensation which had caused him to lose his small measure of self-control.
He raised his head from the cushioned platform of Monica's large breasts, startled. Something deep inside the woman's vaginal apparatus was nipping strongly at the head of his penis. And her thighs were slowly frictioning his sides. "Move your ass," he heard her say. "Slowly."
He cushioned his head again and began to move upon her. He felt a surprising resurgence in his penis as Monica's hands on his rump controlled his movements. With the ejaculation having taken the edge from his arousal, he found himself easily able to maintain the indicated pace. The pillow under her buttocks and his new, higher position gave him leverage, resulting in a formerly unrealized feeling of power. Beneath him the woman's soft body rose to meet his every thrust.
He experienced a rising tide of renewed excitement seeping through him again. The deep, warm clasp of the vaginal walls upon his penis seemed a perfect fit. He concentrated on maintaining the pace the woman was regulating, and he was startled anew when she exploded beneath him like a hissing kettle. Writhing, her legs clamped over his back as her bare behind bucked up to him in a new, flurried rhythm. "Oooh!" she cried in his ear. "Oooh! Ahhh, God!" Her panting breath signaled her extremity.
Her fervent outcries roused him almost as much as the pelvic contractions signaling the inundation of his lancing penis. He had never heard a sound from Isabel. This woman gave him a definite sense of accomplishment, juvenile undoubtedly, but there it was. He reached tentatively beneath her for the naked, spanned hind parts which had intrigued him when he played with them before; would she reject his action?
"Attaboy," Monica croaked from the depth of her sensual gratification. "Ride it cowboy."
And Dr. Ralph Fairbanks rode it. It took him several minutes longer, but he came again in a starburst of draining immersion that left him feeling faint. When he recovered, he felt so ridiculously pleased with himself it should have been ludicrous. Instead, he felt proud. He knew he had never come close to such a totally satisfying experience before as testified to by Monica's shining face, peaceful in satisfied carnality.
"Can we do it again?" he asked anxiously.
"You mean right now?"
"I think so," he answered, suddenly uncertain.
"You're still in the saddle, aren't you?" Monica asked briskly. "Dig in your spurs. No, wait. Take it out for a minute and I'll give you a little help."
Dr. Ralph Fairbanks withdrew from the warming female flesh and eagerly presented himself for a little help.
"You mean he actually screwed you?" Curt Sylvester exclaimed in amazed delight. He and Monica were in the basement office of the Sheriff's Department.
"Three times," she confirmed.
"Goddamn, I'd have given a farm to see it!" Curt proclaimed. He paused. "Three times? What the hell did you do, shove a cattle prod up his ass?"
"He doesn't need any prod. He's hung as heavy as you, Curt." "The minister?"
"The same. Poor bastard, he was doing everything wrong. If he didn't have a whang on him like a belaying pin he couldn't even have made contact."
"He's really got that much meat?"
"You'd better believe it. And you know something? Once he's had a chance to practice a few little tricks I showed him, I think he's going to chew up some scenery in this town. He's a really handsome guy, and once he learns the course he could be quite a stud."
Curt was shaking his head slowly. "You're puttin' me on," he said coaxingly. "Aren't you? The whole thing's a gag, right?"
"It's gospel, Curt. When I sucked him up after he-"
"You sucked off Fairbanks?" "Up, not off. All he wanted was to get it back in me."
Curt started to laugh. His big shoulders shaking helplessly, he was convulsed in a roaring gale of merriment. "Son-of-a-bitch if . . . that isn't the damnedest . . . thing I ever heard," he got out finally. "The goddamn minister is a stud. How about that? So why do you suppose his old lady is such a sad sack in the hay?"
"I told you," Monica said patiently. "He has the horsepower, but he never had the driving lessons. They've probably been going at it like a pair of ten-year-olds. He said he'd call me again. What should I do?"
"Damn, keep feedin' it to him. Till I think of a way to set up him an' his old lady for a fall."
"He's not a bad guy, Curt."
He stared at her from narrowed eyes. "You fallin' for him? It sure sounds like it."
"I just think he's never had any fun," she said defensively.
"Okay, keep on supplyin' it till I lower the boom. But any free servicin' after that an' I'll take it out've your ass." He grinned at her look of unease. "You about ready to be hung up on a door again?" "No!"
His grin disappeared. "Then stay in line, or I'll feed you a dose of the quirt till you pray for a better world." He made a flicking movement with his hand. "Adios."
He watched the flashing sweep of her good-looking legs as she climbed the stairs. What Dr. Ralph Fairbanks was getting was far too good for him.
Curt felt a quick stirring of the savage lust never very far below the surface.
When he set the minister and his wife both up, oh, man!
Isabel Fairbanks sat on the edge of her bed in her old-fashioned, square-necked nightgown, waiting for her husband. It was time for their mid-week lovemaking, and she wondered uneasily if there was any way Ralph could tell a penis other than his own had been forcefully inserted within her since a week ago. She had always wondered how married women who cheated on their husbands solved the problem, but it wasn't something a Christian woman could bring up at a Ladies' Aid meeting.
Her rectum had been terribly sore for the past two days, also, but Ralph would never know that. Isabel still felt lewdly debauched and wantonly unchaste each time she pictured herself face down on the blanket in the Sheriff Department's office with the brutal Curt Sylvester with his thick penis thrust between her nude buttocks, lustfully savaging her helpless anal passage. She cringed each time the memory reoccurred. She should have struggled instead of meekly acquiescing in her own degradation, but she had been afraid of the merciless quirt.
She found it appalling that she was still subject to the deputy sheriff's every sexual whim. The thought of those dreadful pictures kept her from confessing her predicament to Ralph. He would scorn her as no more than a bitch in heat if he ever saw those pictures. And the way unbidden images of Curt's ravaging prong in her own sinfully eager vagina popped continually into her mind, the phrase seemed only too painfully apt.
Ralph Fairbanks walked into the semi-darkened bedroom and began to disrobe. He still hadn't been able to make up his mind how to act with Isabel in this first conjugal encounter after his experience with the incredibly efficient Mrs. Simpson. Dare he attempt any of his newly acquired expertise? For that matter, would it work with Isabel as it had with the delightfully skillful Monica? Isabel would undoubtedly consider such abandoned activity the devil's handiwork.
He approached the bed as Isabel nervously rolled her nightie up under her neck as was her custom. Ralph wondered if Isabel's bare behind approached in attractiveness Monica's cute plumpness. In all their married life he had never seen Isabel nude. He was tempted to suddenly turn on the bedroom light, claiming absent-mindedness, but the thought of Isabel's chilly disapproval deterred him.
Isabel waited tensely while Ralph stretched out beside her. Could he tell? Would he disown her as a dissolutely profligate wife? She quivered in the darkness when she felt his hand between her legs.
Could he tell?
Ralph found his wife's sex zone unusually moist, but he proceeded with the usual finger insertion and manipulation of her vaginal orifice. Isabel's tension gradually relaxed. Everything felt normal by the time Ralph mounted her.
She was so thankful that disclosure of her shameful activities, though they hadn't been her fault, had been avoided it was an instant or two after her customary acceptance of Ralph's weight that she realized something felt different. She couldn't decide exactly what it was. Ralph was inside her, no question about that, but somehow differently. Should she say something? Or was it her previous anxiety that was misleading her?
And then Ralph began to move into her, and at once the mystery deepened. Instead of the quick assault to which she was accustomed, he was moving in long, controlled surges that seemed to bury his masculinity far more deeply.
Her first thought was that her husband had somehow hurt his genitals and hadn't told her, that he was attempting the weekly tryst when he wasn't feeling up to it. She started to question him, but a distinct, tingling swelling in her labial lips checked her query. She shifted position uneasily; what was going on?
"Wait a minute!" Ralph said hoarsely. He reached blindly above their heads and caught up a pillow which he handed to Isabel. "Put that underneath you."
"Underneath me?" she asked uncertainly. "How?"
"Under your behind!"
He raised himself so that she could do likewise, and Isabel found herself meekly inserting a pillow under her capacious bottom. Ralph at once resumed movement upon her with his rhythm markedly accentuated. She caught her breath as the previous tingling became a swelling, glowing coal that threw off heat all through her arbor. In seconds she was wallowing blissfully in a sensual state of suspended animation. Her entire body writhed in lascivious abandonment. "Ralph!" she exclaimed in horrified amazement as her previously slack arms came up and seized his shoulders. Her pelvis began to throb. "Ralph! Ohhh, Ralph!" Her feeling of enjoyment was so intense she thought she would faint.
Ralph rode the range lost in his own sensations. He had felt Isabel's unusual body activity, but he had his own preoccupations: his penis had never felt larger to him, and its swollen tip as he plunged in with ever-increasing vigor into his wife's squirming sanctuary seemed super-sensitive. He slashed -mightily at the yielding suppleness containing him as he felt himself trembling on the brink. Then his toes curled up and the muscles in his thighs vibrated as his sperm splashed mightily into Isabel's box.
Still pinned by her husband's body, Isabel floated dreamily, eyes closed. The refreshing sexual easement was so pleasurable that she basked in the unaccustomed felicity. Then a nagging thought intruded upon her sensation of well-being. Had her experience with the dreadful Curt triggered her unusual response? Would Ralph be disgusted at her animality? Guiltily she removed the arms she was surprised to find holding him.
Ralph pulled out of Isabel hastily. He was pleased that he had brought her to orgasm, but he was also apprehensive. What if she started asking questions? He needed time to think, he decided. He went to his clothes and pulled them on hastily.
Isabel felt an urge to speak, but what could she say that might not be self-betraying? The new experience needed consideration. Better to wait and think it through.
And so the Fairbanks' post-conjugal bedroom silence remained unbroken as usual.
Cindy Gaynor sat on Bobby Maxwell's lap in an armchair in the borrowed bedroom. Both were nude except for Bobby's socks. "My mother is getting suspicious about my being away from the house so much," Cindy remarked.
"Yeah?" he murmured lazily. His right hand was almost out of sight between the blonde girl's thighs as he played gently with her pubic hair, tweaking the fleecy golden curls. "Maybe we should invite her along?"
Cindy giggled, then turned serious. "She keeps asking why I have to spend so much time at the library, which is where I tell her I am. If she ever checks with Mr. Hardesty, what then?"
"The hairbrush for Cindy," he teased.
The blonde girl smiled. "Up to a couple of years ago, yes," she admitted.
He threw back his head and bayed at the ceiling. "Is that the way you sounded when you were getting it?"
"Worse. But seriously, I do need a story."
He sighed deeply, bent his head, and kissed a nippled breast. "D'you think your mother would adopt me an' let me move in?"
"Somehow I don't think it would work," Cindy replied after another giggle.
Bobby smoothed Cindy's long blonde hair away from her eyes before he spoke again. "Since I'm in love with you, it looks like I've got to get a real job so we can get married."
The girl's nubile, silky body became motionless. "That's the first time you've ever said you loved me, Bobby," she said softly.
"I also mentioned marriage in case you didn't notice."
"As long as you said 'love', I don't care if you ever said 'marriage'," Cindy informed him. She kissed him on the lips, then leaned back to look speculatively into his face. "When did you decide you loved me?"
"When you turned up your little pink cunt an' let me suck it," he said solemnly. He laughed at the quick blush that enveloped the girl's pretty face. "No, baby, who the hell knows? I wouldn't lie to you that when we started out I was just thinkin' about gettin' into your box. You kind of grew on me, I guess."
"You never had to grow on me," she said soberly. "As a girl at school used to say, I loved you before I even had any hair on it."
"Not that you've got all that much now. Sometimes I look at your little slit an' I think I'm contributin' to the delinquency of a juvenile."
"I owe everything to my instructor!" she said dramatically. She slipped from his lap and knelt in front of him, tugging urgently at his thighs to part them. She dropped her face into his groin, then raised her head again. "I can't reach it," she complained. "Move out farther on the edge of the chair."
He shifted position until his penis and scrotum extended over the leather cushion. Cindy stared pensively at his wrinkled-looking appendage.
"Every time I see it like this I get the most awful feeling it might never come up again," she said.
Bobby's flat belly trembled from his laughter. Cindy lowered her blonde head once more and lipped the soft cock into her mouth. She rolled it between her lips, teasing it with her tongue. She began to hum deep in her throat as Bobby had taught her, and the vibration from her lips was transferred to the cock in her mouth. Bobby's prick began to swell.
She nibbled at the blubbery tip of the prong, then sucked at it. The girl widened her mouth and took in more of the stiffening rod, sliding her lips back and forth on the shaft whose continuing extension now tickled the back of her throat.
Cindy pulled away momentarily to examine the bulging, purplish head she had sucked to readiness. "I just love to have you in my mouth, Bobby," she said quietly.
"Very touching!" a harsh voice rasped.
Cindy whirled on her knees, both hands instinctively covering her bare breasts. Bobby came halfway up out of his armchair until Cindy's nude body blocked further movement.
Curt Sylvester stood in the bedroom doorway. "I been hearin' about a car parked out in back here," he said with a sneer. "So when I recognized the car ..."
He strode into the bedroom. His hard grin fastened upon Cindy as the girl's hands flew to her lower belly to conceal her fleecy mound. The grin disappeared as Curt stared coldly at his nephew. "Lucky I happened along right now, huh?" he rumbled. "Since you two were gettin' it ready for me?" He unzipped his uniform trousers while Cindy stared, wide-eyed.
"Hold it!" Bobby blurted.
"Hold it, shit!" Curt leaned down and seized Cindy's arm. He dragged the girl several feet away from the armchair, her knees sliding on the carpeting until they burned. "Didn't I warn you I had my eye on this little gash?" He produced a semi-erection from his shorts which he dangled in front of Cindy's face. "Suck that one up if you want a man, little girl."
Bobby bounded into the room's center, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet. "You son-of-a-bitch, we're gonna get married!" he yelled at Curt. He took two quick steps in Curt's direction, then halted when Curt raised a menacing hand.
"That's right, nephew," Curt said, brandishing a huge, clenched fist. "You wanna see your little sweetie with a busted nose? A few broken teeth? Then just keep comin' this way." He nudged the dazed-looking girl with his knee. "Get to work, sis."
The muscles in Bobby's bare back bunched in frustrated, impotent anger. "Will you listen?" he demanded in anguish. "I said we're gonna get married!"
"Why don't you ask me to be the best man?" his uncle suggested blandly. "I'll test for the job right now."
"If you put one finger on Cindy I'll catch you some night an' put your lights out!" Bobby exclaimed.
"You try it an' I'll hang you out to dry," Curt responded. He looked down at the kneeling Cindy. "I'm not gonna tell you but this last time, girl. Suck that prick. And gimme the same performance I just saw from the doorway."
Bobby watched agoniziedly as Cindy's blonde head gingerly approached the dangling, blunt cock. He couldn't tell her not to do it because he knew his uncle well enough to know that Curt was easily capable of smashing his fist into the girl's beautiful face. His heart went out to the shrinking girl. If he could only get Curt away from her somehow . . .
But Cindy decided on her own to get it over with as quickly as possible. She was afraid of this man, afraid for Bobby, too. She leaned forward and took the semi-rigidity into her soft mouth with distaste. The odor was so much stronger than Bobby's it almost gagged her. She closed her eyes and began to swirl her tongue around the hardening rugged shaft.
Curt grunted aloud and widened his leg stance as the girl licked his prick and began to suck the beefy prong. "Jesus, blondie, that's some vacuum cleaner you got down there!" he rasped.
Cindy swiveled her mouth rapidly on the slippery prick, intent only upon ending her intensely degrading position. She felt the knobby head start to throb, and she started to pull away. Curt Sylvester gripped the back of her head and held her onto his spurting cock.
She had taken Bobby's spend, but lovingly, and when she was prepared. Curt's jetting bursts overpowered her. She swallowed desperately, gagged, coughed, and swallowed again. What she was unable to contain in her mouth ran down her chin and dribbled stickily onto her swinging breasts.
Curt held the girl in her ignominious posture until the last of his come had drained into her straining throat. Then he stepped back from the miserable-looking girl. Curt looked at the furious Bobby. "Not bad. Now for the main course."
Speedily he divested himself of gunbelt, uniform, and underwear.
Bobby responded instantly.
Chapter Eight
Cindy had just paused in the act of wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked in panic at Curt's barrel chest, hairy belly, and sneering smile. He grinned at her, delighted at her evident fearful disgust.
No carpeting could completely deaden the sound of Bobby's furious charge. Curt looked up from pulling off his boots just as Bobby arrived in front of him, the younger man's muscular upper body already launched in a powerful right hand swing. The punch landed, but high on a cheekbone. Curt went backward a step, then lowered his head like a rutting bull as he went into a crouch. "When I get finished with you, kid, you're gonna remember me every time you look in a mirror!" he raged. "Every day of your life you're gonna-"
Bobby rushed him again. Curt stumbled backward once more as Bobby's compact weight hammered into him. Curt flung up his arms as he started to fall, and Bobby nailed him with three solid shots on his way down to the floor, right-left-right. Bobby put everything he had into all three blows, and it felt as though he'd splintered every bone in his right hand on Curt's craggy features.
Bobby's heart sank when Curt rolled over and bounded to his feet like a rubber ball, mouthing inarticulate curses. Blood streamed from a cut under one eye, and lumps were already springing up on Curt's face from Bobby's razorlike knuckles, but the big man charged.
The naked bodies collided heavily, and Curt grabbed Bobby around the waist. Bobby found out at once why his uncle had such a hard reputation around town. Curt had hands like steel hooks. Everywhere he grabbed, he hurt. Bobby punched his way free only to catch a wild-swinging right hand on the top of the head. The blow was so powerful Bobby felt the hinges of his knees loosen.
Cindy stood petrified as uncle and nephew fought like savages. She could have run from the room, but it never occurred to her. She winced at each blow that Bobby absorbed. A sweeping left hook by Curt knocked Bobby down, and the girl gasped. Curt kicked Bobby twice before Bobby seized Curt's leg and upset him. They swapped punches on their knees, snarling at each other. Red welts sprang up on the bare bodies where solid punches landed.
Curt emitted a roar and surged upright. Bobby staggered to his feet just as Curt sizzled across the room, head down like a billygoat. Bobby shoulder-blocked him to one side, and Curt's momentum carried him across the room. He missed a desk in that corner but smashed right through a hi-fi. Bobby dived for him, and they thrashed around on the floor in the fragments of expensive cabinet-wood.
Cindy screamed piercingly when she saw blood on Bobby's face. The warriors paid no attention. They rolled under the desk with Bobby momentarily on top, hard-punching fists and flailing elbows connecting savagely. They crunched against the legs of the desk, and wood screeched in protest before the desk collapsed. It sagged down upon the pinwheeling bodies.
The desk's remains sailed into the air and crashed down drunkenly in the center of the room. It dissolved like a house of cards. Curt snatched up a broken desk leg and smashed Bobby alongside one ear, knocking him over sideways. The ear puffed up like a toadstool.
Anger powered Bobby upright again. He took the next murderous sweep of Curt's club on a shoulder, wrenched the desk leg away from his uncle, and with one savage swing of his own fused Curt's mouth and teeth into a bloody smear.
Incredibly, Curt didn't even go backward. Roaring, he tackled Bobby and brought him to the floor. They rammed around the room, rolling over and over, the heavy bodies crushing the remains of the lightweight furniture in their path. In close, Curt's superior weight and strength began to tell. He levered himself upright on his knees above Bobby's prostrate body and rained blows down at his face. Bobby's return blows weakened and finally ceased.
Cindy screamed again and ran forward. She dropped to her knees and tried to interpose her slender nudity between Bobby's semi-conscious body and Curt's fists. Curt flung her to one side like a rag doll, but the interruption brought him partly back from the blood-lust world he was occupying.
He scowled at Cindy who had slid across the carpeting from the force of her landing. Blood ran down from his forehead into Curt's left eye, and he slapped at it impatiently. He looked down at Bobby's chest pinned under Curt's massive thighs, and he backed off slightly. "Good thing . . . you stopped me, blondie," he mumbled through mashed, blood-smeared lips. "Didn'. . . wanna kill ... the kid."
He pushed himself up to his knees and then to his feet. His legs felt heavy as iron posts, and the large muscles in his thighs were jumping uncontrollably. He looked down at his nephew and shook his head in disbelief. Cindy had crawled back to Bobby and was crouched beside him, smoothing his blotchy-looking features with her hands, openly crying.
Cindy tried to soothe the puffball that was Bobby's ear, but it exploded at her touch. Blood ran down his neck onto his shoulder, and Cindy wailed aloud. "Damn it, he'll be . . . practic'ly good as . . . new in a couple . . . hours," Curt rasped irritably. Some of the tightness had left his chest, but it still heaved mightily from hard-drawn breaths. "Who the hell 'd a thought ... the little shit . . . had it in him? Nobody's given me ... a go like that ... in ten years."
He glared at Cindy crouched over Bobby. "Get the hell out've . . . the way so's ... I can put him on the bed." When she didn't move, he placed his big toe between her bare buttocks and rolled her to one side. He bent down and, with seeming effortlessness, picked Bobby up and carried him to the bed. He deposited him there, and Cindy ran into the bathroom and returned with a towel wrung out in cold water.
Curt took it away from her. "He'll keep," he told the girl. "You 'n me have got a little unfinished business first." She stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Did he tell you I just been waitin' for your peach fuzz to flower before I fucked you?"
"N-no," she faltered.
"Well, I told him, an' when Curt Sylvester waits that long for a fuck, he fuckin' well gets it."
She looked at him wonderingly. His breathing was almost normal again, but blood still oozed from half a dozen places on his face, and rivulets of sweat rolled down his hairy chest over his hard-looking belly into the groin where she had been forced to suck his meaty penis. Curt Sylvester was a bear of a man, seemingly indestructible.
"You hear me, blondie?" he said when she remained silent. She nodded. "The kid fought for you, but he lost. An' in this world losers eat shit." He grinned at her through swollen lips, displaying chipped teeth. " 'Course if I fuck you I might give you a baby."
She listened in rising panic. "I want Bobby's baby!" she blurted.
He nodded approvingly. "Spoken like a true little square, sugar. So instead, you just turn up your fat little ass an' I'll plug your asshole."
"What . . . what did you say?" The girl felt nauseous.
"What I meant." His voice had turned hard again.
"Please," Cindy begged. "We didn't do anything to you. We didn't do anything to anyone. We . . . we were just enjoying each other."
"An' will again," he said with a suggestive leer. "What's a plugged asshole among relatives?"
She glanced at the bed where Bobby still lay motionless. She couldn't provoke this man unduly. She couldn't fight the mortifying humiliation he proposed to inflict upon her. Intransigence on her part might well result in an additional beating for Bobby. "Let's . . . let's get it over," she said with a rush, her attitude the same as when she had confronted Curt's big prick.
"Fine," he said casually. "Just suck my cock up again an' we're in business, sweetie."
Cindy almost gagged. Even from where she was standing, she could smell the pungent masculine odor made much more rank by perspiration. To put her face down into that hairy groin, then have to tongue sweat and the previous residue of spend from the greasy, drooping prong . . .
Do it fast, Cindy told herself. Get it over. She dropped to her knees and forced herself to move her face close to the repugnant flesh. She swept her long blonde hair over one shoulder to get it out of the way, then without giving herself time to think she opened her mouth and swallowed the limp peter. She flinched at the acrid, ammoniac smell that was so strong in her nostrils. The nasty taste in her mouth, not at all like the flavor of Bobby's sweet cock, trickled down her throat.
She tongued and sucked busily as the blood-engorged cock rose in her mouth. She tried to foreclose from her mind what was going to happen to her next. She knew it would hurt, but how much? Bobby had kidded her about it, telling her he'd get around to it some day. But Bobby would have made it hurt lovingly, while this brute . . .
The gristly shaft forced her backward until she was sitting on her haunches. Desperately she licked and swirled her tongue along the ragged cord on the underside, and Curt Sylvester's thighs stiffened. He pushed Cindy's blonde head away. She had one quick glimpse of the ravening monster she had created before Curt seized her arm and half-carried, half-dragged her to the bed. Bits of broken furniture crunched under their feet, and Cindy winced as a sliver penetrated one foot.
Curt pulled a pillow from under Bobby's unconscious head and placed it over the footboard. He picked Cindy up and doubled her over the pillow as casually as though she were a side of beef. Her heart beat faster as she hung there, helpless, her toes straining to touch the carpeting.
He stood behind her, admiring with his eyes the long, slender back flaring into the surprisingly sturdy velvety buttocks, the globes on a direct line with his renewed erection. He parted her sleek hemispheres with his thumbs, exposing her golden cleft and brown bung. Cindy squirmed uneasily as the prick advanced between her widened cheeks and impacted lightly upon her puckered, shrinking anus.
Curt would have enjoyed prolonging her distress, but a tingling in his loins warned him not to procrastinate. He fitted his blubbery tip into her shallow depression and shoved. "Oooh!" Cindy exclaimed. Her voice was highpitched and her breath fluttered in her throat. Curt thrust mightily against the dry hole, and the blonde girl yelped repeatedly at the sharp pain.
"Shut up an' shove back on it!" he ordered fiercely. Lodged beyond the coronal rim, he bucked his way farther inside in a series of plunging, ramming surges that shook Cindy's whole body like a terrier shaking a rat.
The girl shrieked. Her knees flailed the bedstead impotently. The pain was so acute she thought her entire crevice was being split in two. She s[ reamed again as Curt plunged in farther with another series of lunges, and she was positive that her torturer was using a hot poker inside her instead of his prick.
Curt thrust hard with his hips, then thrust again. He lunged past the barrier of the tight sphincter suddenly and buried his beefy cock in the warm, buttery smoothness of the girl's rectum. The sensation intoxicated him. In recent months the best fucking had begun to take second place in his mind to a virginal, tight asshole.
"I'll show you what an ass fucking is now!" he told the girl hoarsely, and began to propel himself in and out of her clinging anus. Cindy still cried out with each renewed penetration, but there was a different quality to her outcries. "Gettin'... to like it, hah?" Curt grunted, and gave his steely rod an extra-hard shove. Cindy wailed despairingly.
On the bed Bobby opened his eyes. He blinked at the ceiling, then tried to focus on the room. Cindy? Had he heard Cindy? Oh, the fight. Curt. Curt? Curt and Cindy? Where was Cindy? Sick and dizzy, he tried to sit up. The room whirled, and he started to sink back on the bed, but another of Cindy's agonized yells rang in his ears.
Bobby rolled toward the edge of the bed. He almost landed on the floor, barely supporting himself with his hands. While trying to stand up he saw them: Cindy, nude, doubled up over a pillow at the end of the bed while Curt Sylvester bucked his hard belly into her soft buttocks. Whimpering little moans issued from Cindy's straining throat.
Almost crying in frustrated rage, Bobby reached the end of the bed by balancing his weight with his hands on the bed itself. His legs felt like spaghetti and his face, chest, and upper arms throbbed painfully. His ear felt as if it were on fire. He rounded the end of the bed at a staggering run and tried to launch a punch at Curt Sylvester.
But Curt had seen him coming, and it was simple for him to counter with a jolting blow to the rib cage. The already weakened Bobby doubled over and sank to his knees, almost blacking out again. His breath was a tortured gargling sound in his throat as he crouched at his uncle's feet. So close he could almost have bumped it with his nose as he swayed on his knees, his uncle's thick gristle fucked Cindy's distended asshole. The girl's choked pleas had ceased as the big prick disappeared almost to the last half-inch on the in-stroke while her anus drew out along its length on the return trip.
Curt increased the speed of his lunges, and Cindy's sweaty-looking soft buttocks began to tremble. She was making sounds again, but Bobby recognized the sounds. Unbelievably, Cindy was coming.
And so was Curt Sylvester.
Bobby tried to throw himself against Curt's knees, but missed. He sprawled on the carpeting, unable to move. Above him he could hear the beseeching yips of Cindy peculiar to her moments of highest sexuality, combined with Curt's roar.
It seemed to go on for hours.
And then there was silence.
He tried to push himself up from the floor, and then Cindy was suddenly on the floor beside him, crying hysterically, trying to burrow into his arms.
Curt's hard voice spoke above their heads. "Make some arrangement for payin' off the man who lent you the room," the voice said. "He ain't gonna like it a damn bit when he sees his furniture."
There was silence again, but it was some moments later that Bobby, crooning softly to Cindy while he stroked her shuddering naked body, realized that they were alone again.
Monica Simpson couldn't sleep in the narrow bed in her tiny room. Too many thoughts buzzed persistently through her mind. Curt . . . Dr. Ralph Fairbanks . . . Bobby Maxwell . . . but most of all, her husband, Pete Simpson.
Twice before she'd gone back to him. Pete never came after her; he waited. And when she went back, he whipped her. Her knees drew up into her stomach at the remembrance.
But after he whipped her, there were no further recriminations. Life went on as before. And Pete was wonderful in bed; a soft glow enveloped her at the thought. And Curt was about to cut her loose; she recognized the signs. She didn't fit into Curt's future plans.
Wasn't it better to ease away from the relationship with Curt before his sexual cruelty became cruelty without sex? He stirred her, there was no doubt about that. She responded to him as she did to all forceful men. But Curt was a butterfly always seeking new sexual flowers.
She turned over restlessly in the bed. She wasn't meant to live alone. And at least Pete understood her. Monica didn't know what it was about herself that made sex without pain a blah experience after the first couple of times with a new man, but it was a fact of life. Pete had remarked once that her periods of bed-hopping coincided with the intervals when he had neglected her with his belt. And Pete was probably right.
But to go back to that again? There would be a thrilling painful homecoming, of course. Her hand wandered down between her thighs and fondled her pussy at the thought. But then familiarity would breed its usual contempt, and she would begin responding to the glances and verbal sallies of other men. She would begin making dates, and eventually Pete would catch her at it, and the entire life cycle would renew itself.
Monica Simpson sighed deeply, turned onto stomach, and finally fell asleep without having made up her mind about anything.
Curt Sylvester wheeled the cruiser well above the speed limit to the Harris estate on the outskirts of town. He had arranged the afternoon's confrontation with care. Monica had called Dr. Ralph Fairbanks and set up a supposed rendezvous, while Curt had called Isabel Fairbanks and demanded her presence. The husband was due to arrive fifteen minutes before the wife.
These things couldn't be prolonged. Experience had taught him that it was impossible to do anything to a woman, no matter how outrageous, that she wouldn't eventually confide to someone, bringing unwanted outsiders into the picture. Curt had co-opted a few meddling outsiders, too, but it was messy.
No, hit-and-run was best. Straight women responded to the stimulus of shame only for the first few times. New depths of shame had to be contrived for them continually or the first thing you knew they'd be calling up for a date. Most men didn't understand this facet of the feminine nature, but Curt Sylvester did. He'd be exploiting it for years.
Isabel Fairbanks was no exception despite her cloistered background. With a little more experience she'd be as fast off the reservation as any of them when a strange prick beckoned. Curt prided himself that he had opened many a woman's eyes to what was really going on in the world around her. Once a woman got the feeling she was missing something, the rest was easy But Curt wanted them only in small doses. To fuck them, sure, but even more to humiliate them, and then move on. There were so many women available to an energetic man he had no intention of concentrating his talents upon a few. He already had his eye on the gorgeous-looking, big-titted receptionist who worked for Doc Leonard in the Forester Building. And then there was the plain-looking but big-assed wife of Joe Kearns whom Curt had learned was having an affair with her dentist. Both of them should respond beautifully to having their noses shoved into Curt's hairy balls.
He parked the cruiser at the rear of the house and went around and unlocked the front door. He was barely in time. Ralph Fairbanks drove up the crushed-stone driveway and parked in front. Curt met him in the foyer, and he enjoyed the minister's surprise. "I'm Monica's assistant at marriage counselin', Reverend," Curt said. The look of shock on Ralph Fairbanks' handsome face delighted him. "She couldn't make it today, so she deputized me."
He removed from the pocket of his uniform blouse the pictures taken of Isabel Fairbanks. "Here's my references," Curt said, handing the pictures to the minister. Ralph Fairbanks took one look and blanched at the sight of his wife in the throes of sexual ecstasy with a man who could be no one but Curt Sylvester.
"You wouldn't care to have those mailed to the church's Board of Trustees, would you?" Curt inquired. Ralph shook his head, still numb with shock. "Then I'm sure you'll have no objection to my marriage counselin' this afternoon," Curt went on. Ralph was still staring at the pictures, only half-hearing. Could that really be Isabel with that flagrant, totally depraved look of sensuality on her face? But he knew it was.
" 'Course you understand all this because you're a sinful man, Reverend," Curt continued. He grinned hugely. "Like you preach on Sunday, it's the woman who pays, though. So we're gonna be a little hard on your erring wife. Would you believe that erring wives expect it, Reverend? They-"
He broke off at the sound of the taxi he had instructed Isabel to take to the Harris home. Curt hurried to the foyer. He was in time to see through the glassed-in portion of the front entrance when Isabel stopped in her tracks as she saw the Fairbanks car parked nearby. Curt opened the door and went outside to meet her. "Ralph's here," he informed the shocked Isabel. "C'mon in."
"Ralph? How-?" Isabel swallowed; she couldn't seem to think. "W-why?" she got out finally.
"I sent for him. Did you know he's been fucking your friend Monica?"
She knew instantly that it was true. It explained so many little things that had been out of the normal pattern recently. I drove him to it, she thought guiltily. If I'd been any kind of a wife he'd never have noticed her.
"I've got pictures of 'em together," Curt lied. "Just like you 'n me." He paused for effect. "I'm gonna mail 'em to the church trustees unless-"
"Unless what?" Isabel demanded.
"Unless you cooperate in our fun-an'-games this afternoon."
"I'll do anything if you won't hurt Ralph's career," she said quietly. I certainly owe him after my behavior, she thought.
"Then we'll strike up the grand march," Curt said, ushering her inside. He led her to the drawing room where he had left Ralph. "Dr. Ralph Fairbanks, meet Mrs. Fairbanks," he introduced them mockingly.
Husband and wife looked at each other, then looked away. "We're here this afternoon for some marriage counselin', in case I forgot to tell you," Curt said to Isabel. "So I suggest we all strip an' get comfortable."
He proceeded rapidly to follow his own dictate. He was standing before them, thick-shouldered and hairy-bellied, wearing only his boots while a pale Ralph Fairbanks had removed only his tie and shirt. Isabel had been unable to nerve herself up sufficiently to begin. "Need any help, you two?" Curt inquired.
"No," they said in chorus.
It was with a huge sense of glee that Curt watched the Fairbanks reluctantly undress. Isabel suffered her usual struggle with her girdle. Ralph hesitated when he was reduced to his shorts, then stripped them down when he saw his wife removing her panties. "Let's get a little closer together now," Curt urged them. He eyed Ralph's sexual apparatus with interest. Monica was right; he was really hung.
Ralph stared at his wife's big breasts with their nutty aureoles and perky nipples, then moved his glance downward to the rounded sweep of her white belly and the thick black curls surmounting her prominent mound. Isabel gazed shyly at her husband's clean leanness of frame and his bushy-looking sexual pod with its long penis looking stalwart even in quiescence.
"Shake hands with his prick," Curt urged Isabel.
She knew there was no hope in resistance.
Timidly she reached out to touch the member heretofore encountered only during a time of darkness. Ralph flinched at her touch, but stood still. Isabel's fingers encircled the fleshy tube which at once began to swell. "Ohhh!" she exclaimed softly, and dropped it. She felt herself blushing furiously.
"No bashfulness, now," Curt's voice boomed. "Give her cunt a good feel, Ralph."
Isabel stood with eyes closed while her husband's fingers slipped between her bare thighs and fondled her crinkled cupcake. Her nipples stiffened, and muscles twitched in her legs.
"Nice to see you two gettin' along so well," Curt commented. Isabel opened her eyes in time to see Curt draw the quirt from his boot and slap it across his palm. She hadn't noticed it previously, and her stomach lurched. "Now we're all in agreement that you've been a naughty girl recently?" Curt said.
Isabel nodded, her eyes on the quirt. Curt handed it to the surprised Ralph. "My marriage counselin' experience tells me it's time for y J to exercise your husbandly right arm, Reverend.'
Ralph tried to hand back the quirt. "I'm just as guilty as she is," he said soberly.
"But we just got done agreein' it's the woman who pays," Curt said suavely. Then his hardened. "So she gets fifteen of the best from you in the proper wifely place. Or I mail the picture." He seated himself in a straight-backed chair, pulled Isabel's upper body down until he could thrust her head between his clamping thighs, and left her nude buttocks pointing out into the room. "You got to be careful how you do this," he explained to the wide-eyed Ralph, pointing to Isabel's facial position, "because when they get to squealin' some of 'em try to bite. Now let's go with a little deserved wifely correction. I'll count for you."
Isabel found herself with her nose and mouth tightly compressed into Curt's rank-smelling groin. His penis rested against her left cheek. She blushed when she thought of her husband's eyes upon the swelling amplitudes of her naked bottom. "You want me to do it?" Curt asked when Ralph made no move.
"No!" Isabel blurted muffledly. "You do it, Ralph!"
Ralph took an experimental cut at the air with the quirt, and Isabel instinctively clenched her cheeks when she heard the hissing whir. "This thing is murderous!" Ralph protested.
"She'll live," Curt said laconically. "Remember if I don't like the way you do it, she'll get it all over again from me." .Ralph firmed his lips, drew back his arm, and flashed the quirt around with what he felt was moderate force. He was startled at Isabel's convulsive leap when the braided leather thwacked into her soft body cushions. A hot-looking crimson streak jumped up on the voluminous hemispheres. "One!" Curt counted.
Ralph swallowed, then cut again. Despite himself he was fascinated by the dancing, rotating gyrations of Isabel's bell-shaped bottom. Her muffled shriek was smothered against Curt's hairy groin.
By the third stroke he knew was swinging harder, but he couldn't seem to restrain himself. Curt continued to count as Isabel yelled steadily. Even in her distress she could feel Curt's penis swelling in a giant erection against her cheek.
Ralph felt a trembling tingle in his own loins as his wife's bare behind wriggled frenziedly. His traitorous arm continued to forcefully whip the quirt around into Isabel's naked seat. Even her outcries, muffled though they were, excited him. One part of him couldn't understand himself while another urged an additional toll of the quivering behind.
Curt's count passed a dozen as Isabel's screams soared despite her facial confinement. The pain in her bottom had spread to a fiery incandescence. She kicked backward lustily but futilely at each implacable cut of the dreadful quirt, but Curt held her firmly. Her whole madly plunging backside felt as if it. were being cut with knives, and she moaned pitifully with each slashing impact.
"Fifteen," Curt intoned. Ralph's arm was raised again. "Hold it," Curt told him. The big man was grinning. "We don't want the game called because of the condition of the playin' field," he told Isabel's husband. Ralph lowered his arm sheepishly.
Curt had already released Isabel. She had straightened up and was hopping awkwardly from one foot to the other while both hands caressed the rising weals on her striped bottom. The flame in her agonized seat seemed to permeate her entire being.
"Take a look at your dear hubby's prick now," Curt said.
Isabel turned and looked with wet eyes at Ralph, standing with the quirt still in his hand, a fierce-looking tumescence standing out rigidly from his belly. She sniffled loudly and licked with the tip of her tongue at the salty tears at the corners of her quivering mouth. Each breath felt as though she could never produce another from her straining lungs.
"I think you ought to give that a little kiss since it's standin' up in your honor," Curt remarked. He stood up and took Isabel's arm, then led her in front of Ralph.
She knelt before him helplessly, one hand still soothing her excoriated nude backside. With the other she took her husband's tremendous erection in her palm and gingerly guided it toward her mouth. She kissed the bulging head flinchingly, then let it go.
"Ahhh, g'wan, take a real taste," Curt insisted. He was grinning again.
Afraid to refuse, Isabel took hold of the rigidly swaying penis again and inserted it partway into her mouth. She breathed through her nose as her lips closed around the fleshy spear. She worked it around in her mouth gently, uncertain of what to do. The taste was salty-sweet, hardly unpleasant at all.
"I think you've got the makin's of a first-class cocksucker in your household, Reverend," Curt commented. "She just needs a little trainin' with the quirt as a standby accessory. I'll make you a present of it."
He laughed at the bemused expression upon Dr. Ralph Fairbanks' face as he stared down at his wife's dark head bowed over his erection.
"Okay," Curt went on briskly, "let's take her into the bedroom for the next item on the agenda."
Isabel felt herself raised and supported by a masculine hand under each arm as she was led in a stumbling walk from the drawing room.
Chapter Nine
Curt stripped the coverlet from the huge four-poster bed, disclosing the sheet. "Down on your back," he told Ralph. "Since we're gentlemen, we wouldn't ask a lady with a sore ass to get on the bottom. She'll ride you from on top."
Isabel watched, still blinking away tears, while Ralph obediently slid onto his back and stretched out with his rugged-looking erection waggling in the air.
"First time I fucked your wife I couldn't understand how I got in so easy," Curt said casually. "That's a real piece of machinery you got there, Reverend." He lifted Isabel onto the bed on her knees. "Stand up and slide your cunt down on that," he said.
She did as she was told, awkwardly, but with no mishap. She whimpered once when the new position stretched her discolored rump, but she straddled her husband's thighs as the blubbery head of his long penis burrowed more deeply into her chalice. "Ohhh!" she breathed as she sat down~ upon it completely, wide-eyed at the extent of the penetration.
This whole incredible experience can't really be taking place, Ralph Fairbanks thought. He would wake up presently to find it a dream. Naturally he was going to do all in his power to prevent Isabel's picture being sent to the Board of Trustees, but he had never expected to have any pleasure from it. He knew he should feel guilty for having whipped his wife so severely, but at the moment the sensations engendered by the feel of her tight sheath upon his rigid shaft was all he could encompass.
Curt pushed Isabel's upper body forward until her heavy breasts brushed Ralph's chest. "Give her a little ride from underneath," he instructed the minister. Ralph raised and lowered himself underneath his wife, and his jogging penis frictioning he: clutching cunt caused her to move her own hips tentatively. She sighed deeply at the warming result.
Her new position had elevated and spread Isabel's streaked hindquarters. Hardened prick in hand, Curt straddled Ralph's lower legs as he approached Isabel's plumped-out hemispheres. "Hold her, now!" he warned. He shuffled closer on his knees and applied his prick to Isabel's anus.
She quivered at the contact. All too well she recalled the excruciating pain of the assault upon that portion of her body in Curt's office. She switched her hips from side to side despite the pain in her behind, trying to dislodge the intruder. Curt gripped her waist and held her firmly, boring harder with his big tool.
"What are you ... trying to do!" she gasped. "I'm . . . filled!" Her brain was in a ferment as the burning smart in her behind was offset by Ralph's jogging rigidity stirring up an entirely different kind of heat inside her vagina.
"If one prick's good, two's better," Curt answered. He had his prick thrust deeply between Isabel's voluptuous, wealed hind cheeks, and he thrust forward steadily.
"Oooh!" Isabel bleated as Curt wormed his way in an inch, ground forward another inch, and then burst through the brown-ringed barrier with a corkscrew movement. Isabel squalled. Curt rested for a moment with his hard cock inside to the hilt, his belly resting against Isabel's behind.
"How's that . . . for a sandwich!" he panted.
The feel of the two big prongs separated only by a thin flap of her own flesh caused hot flashes and cold goosebumps to alternate upon Isabel's flesh. Once Curt's engine had bludgeoned its way past the barrier of her stubborn sphincter, the pain in Isabel's rectum subsided to a bearable level. Then the two cocks actually began to rub together through the elastic membrane as well as in both her agitated apertures. Her senses reeled at the multi-faceted sensuality assaulting her.
Isabel almost bit her tongue as she felt a quick flurry of movement from Ralph underneath her as the hot throb of his sperm shot into her gaping maw. Her behind went into a sudden, uncontrolled little dance as she unexpectedly came herself and gushed madly all over her husband's quivering lance. She moaned in delight still tinged with shame. She was inwardly stricken at the realization that Curt had not only felt her orgasm, but had in fact helped to trigger it.
Curt's thick cock was stimulated by the contractions of Isabel's pussy which induced sympathetic squeezing activities in her sphincter. He plunged into her blubbery-feeling rectum while he built up a head of steam that was relieved only when he shot jet after jet of boiling come into her distended interior. "Agggrrrhhh!" he roared mightily. His back ached with the effort he put into drenching her anal area.
Isabel was still making tentative small flirting movements of her hips when Curt pulled out with an audible sucking sound. The raped anal ring snapped to like a trout on a May fly. A trickle of sperm emerged from its reddened center and oozed down a plump white thigh.
Curt backed away on his knees, glanced down at Isabel's welted croup, and grinned. She was prostrate on Ralph's chest, her head buried in his neck. Her husband's hands stroked her back and gently kneaded the upper slopes of her handsome behind. Curt slipped from the bed and began to dress.
When he was ready, the tableau on the bed had changed in only one respect. Dr. Ralph Fairbanks was moving rapidly under his wife once again with a visibly renewed erection.
Curt Sylvester laughed.
He tossed the pictures of himself and Isabel on the floor beside the bed before glancing at his watch.
If he hurried, he might just manage to catch Geraldine Kearns when she was leaving her assignation with her dentist.
That could be extremely interesting.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Curt Sylvester said to the pair on the bed as he started for the bedroom doorway.
He was sure they didn't even hear him.
Bobby Maxwell escorted Cindy Gaynor up the back stairs of the bakery and opened the door to his room. Cindy looked around curiously at the small space. There were dark shadows under her eyes, but she was being determinedly cheerful. Bobby's face was marked by healing cuts and bruises.
He opened her handbag and removed a stiff-feeling sheet of parchment with a legal seal upon it. "What are you going to do with our marriage certificate?" Cindy asked.
"I'm gonna tack it up outside the door so's everyone will know we've got a license to screw," he told her.
"You'll do nothing of the kind!" Cindy said, blushing. She snatched the certificate away from him and returned it to her bag.
"We'll have a real honeymoon as soon as I get straightened out," he promised. "An' I'm sorry the bed is so narrow."
"A girl can make do with a narrow bed," she said demurely. "In some circumstances."
"Don't you mean in some positions?"
Her blush deepened. "Why do I feel so strange with you now after all the things we've done together, Bobby?"
"Do you think it could be because you're about to be fucked by your legal husband for the first time?"
She placed a finger over his lips. "You're going to have to watch that kind of talk when we go to live with mother until you find a good job," she warned.
"You don't suppose your mother is allergic to creaking bedsprings, do you? That would be terrible."
"You're the one who's terrible," she retorted. She nestled her blonde head on her husband's shoulder. "But I feel so good, Bobby. Honestly. So good."
He hugged her, rocking her slender but firmly curved young body to and fro. "Turn up that little pink plaything, baby," he whispered in her ear. "From the feel of things inside my pants, I'm gonna split your zipper."
Cindy stood quietly while he removed her dress.
Monica Simpson drew a sobbing breath and stared up at the ceiling. She was suspended by bound wrists from the top of the bathroom door, an arm on either side of its narrow wedge. Her wrists were cushioned by a pillow heavily taped across the top edge of the door. Waist high, another pillow was taped in place covering the edge of the door against which she hung like a side of beef.
The doubled-up belt whistled through the air and cracked loudly upon her scarlet buttocks. "Ohhh, Jesus!" she begged as the white-hot flame scalded her bare seat. Her legs climbed slowly until all her weight was suspended from her bound wrists while her pussy rubbed furiously against the pillow which kept the door from scratching her. Slowly she put her feet down on the floor again. "Ohhh, God, Pete," she sobbed, "my ass! You're burning ... it up!"
The burly man standing with belt in hand took a drag on his cigarette, glanced at the second hand on his watch, and swung the belt again. Monica again yelped, her buttocks puckering in a convulsed shudder as her legs once more performed their climbing action and her cunt writhed frantically against the pillow.
When her trembling legs descended and her feet again touched the floor, the burly man stepped forward and lifted her down from the door. She dropped to her knees in front of him as he unbound her wrists. The room air felt chilly upon her cherry-red behind as she unzipped his trousers. "Oh, God, I want it!" she whispered feverishly. "Let me get it nice and big, Pete!"
Her shining chestnut hair moved in closely against the front of his thighs and settled there.
Isabel and Ralph Fairbanks sat on the edge of the bed in the manse's master bedroom. It was time for their usual mid-week session, and the shades were drawn as usual. Little else was the same, however.
Two lamps were on in the bedroom as husband and wife sat nude, holding hands. Isabel's arm circled Ralph's waist while his right hand toyed with' the nipple of a springy, velvety breast. Isabel's head was inclined slightly so she could see her husband's penis slowly lengthening in his lap.
After a moment he removed her arm, took hold of her waist, and urged her body first sideways and then face downward over his lap. Isabel relaxed while Ralph alternately stroked, patted, and lightly pinched her magnificent white orbs from which the recent weals had vanished, but upon which stripes were still visible.
She moved her bottom slowly in graceful rotation as her husband played with it. In contrast to her previous attitude, she felt she couldn't show him enough of herself now. He removed a hand covering one hind cheek to stare intently at the whole of his wife's buttock area. "Lovely," he said softly. "I hope to be dazzled by it more often in the future, my dear. Perhaps not at the breakfast table-"
"Why not?" she asked recklessly, turning over on his lap to look up at him.
They exchanged smiles, and she widened her thighs obligingly when he dipped a finger into her pussy. She sighed deeply. "How am I ever going to learn to be the wife you deserve, Ralph?" she asked with a touch of apprehension.
"We will learn together," he said firmly. "Enjoyably, I'm sure." His finger was out of sight inside his wife's fleshy grotto. "We've earned something better, Isabel, and we're going to have it."
Dr. Ralph Fairbanks picked up his nude wife bodily and settled her on her back in the center of the bed.
She breathed a sigh of thankfulness as she raised her bottom to receive the pillow her husband placed beneath it, and then she held up her arms to enfold him.
