Who can judge a person's reactions during stress situations? The prisoners of war who give in to their captors' demands, the kidnapped heiress who joins forces with her abductors-both must act without past experience to guide them. Both must make decisions in a vacuum, without the benefit of familiar people or situations to guide them. The end result can be either a very negative or a positive experience.
In GANG-RAPED TEASER, Lydia Pembroke finds herself in just such a situation. Afraid of her sexuality, hating all men because of a traumatic childhood experience, when she is kidnapped by three rejected suitors she finds herself reacting in a way that surprises and shocks her.
For Lydia, her kidnap and rape becomes a turning point in her life, a positive experience that enables her to exorcise her old fears and hatred and start a new life, finally freed from the devils of her past.
-The Publisher
Chapter One
"Would you like to come in for a drink?" Lydia asked, pausing at the door. She tilted her lovely heart-shaped face to one side and smiled, just enough to show a glimmer of perfect white teeth.
Keith nodded. He put his hand on the small of her back and she wondered how long it would take him to grab a feel of her ass. "That sounds very inviting," he said. "Nearly as inviting as you look, Lydia."
There! His hand was sliding downward. Lydia braced herself. Mmmm, she thought, this one's a gentleman. He's content just to touch it-none of the pawing and grasping for Keith Waters. Isn't that sweet! She turned the key in the lock and led him into her apartment.
"This is very nice," he said, looking around. "You have a very tasteful sense of decoration."
"Thank you," Lydia replied. "Why don't you do the honors-men seem to be so much better at making drinks, don't you agree darling? I'll put on some music, and then I promise I won't be gone a minute." She slipped a cassette tape into the player-soft, romantic orchestral music, with lush weepy strings and horns-and then said, "Make mine a Dubonnet on the rocks, please," before disappearing into her bedroom.
She took off her shoes and let her toes sink into the plush material that carpeted her bedroom floor. It felt very nice, especially after an evening of disco dancing, to be standing on her own feet instead of the elevated platform shoes.
The bedroom was small, dominated by a large brass bed Lydia had found at a remarkably low price in a thrift shop. She walked past the bed, opened the small walk-in closet, and began to remove her clothes, hanging up shirt, jacket, and slacks as she took them off. Wearing only her bra and panties, she went back, pausing a moment to look at herself in the large mirror on the inside of the door. The blue underthings went marvelously with her pale creamy skin, she decided for the hundredth time, and she turned about full-frontally, throwing back her long hair as she eyed herself.
Beautiful, she thought, and totally seductive. What would Keith think if she strolled out now, clad in these wispy undies, the bra which struggled to contain the milky tits threatening to spill out and free, the bikini pants low-riding, of such translucent nylon that her dark bush was clearly visible through the material! Lydia smiled, and her hands came up to cover the splendid thrust of her breasts.
She petted them a moment, squeezed their rich curves, and felt nipples erecting against the blue nylon binding. Her reddish areolae were visible too, plain and obvious in the mist of blue that seemed pathetically inadequate to contain them. Lydia tested her nipples with long slender fingers, sighing softly as little throbs of excitement shot through her body from that delicious point of contact. She stroked herself downward, the long waist, the flaring, totally feminine hips, and onto the upper reaches of her lissome thighs, then turned and regarded herself first in profile then, over the shoulder, from the rear. Even the cleavage of her ass was on display in the wispy panties, and the upper cleft of the crack showed above the waistband. Lydia brushed the back of her hand across her bottom and she smiled.
Now for the coup de grace, she thought, opening her dresser and extracting a long white silk negligee, that covered her from shoulders to ankles but, in reality, covered nothing at all. She slipped into it, did another turn before the mirror. Through the silky white, her peach-ripe skin and blue underwear showed vividly, and the effect was so much more perfect than if she were nude beneath the wrapper. Tantalization, she reminded herself. The name of the game is tantalization. And she was ready to start playing. In earnest.
"Did I keep you waiting?" she asked, emerging from the bedroom in a swirl of white silk. Keith was sitting on the sofa, a Scotch-and-water in one hand, but he was damned quick to put down the drink when he saw her. Lydia glided toward him and he stood up, hands extended. Laughing like silk a-rustle, she moved past and felt only the tentative brush of his fingers across one flank and thigh. Lydia deposited herself on the sofa and looked up at him, her eyes full of smoldering challenge. Keith settled beside her, crossing his legs as he turned to face Lydia, and he passed her the glass of Dubonnet and ice. She took it, sipping thoughtfully, her eyes regarding him across the tilted glass.
"This is excellent," she said, emphasizing the lisping sibilance in her voice. Men had always found that attractive, for some reason that eluded her. Still... He clinked his glass against hers and Lydia smiled. "To you," he said. "Blue is a very becoming color for you."
She pretended to blush. "You're very naughty to notice," Lydia countered. Keith put down his glass and leaned toward her. She knew he was going to kiss her, but first he took the glass of Dubonnet and placed it on the coffee table.
"Mmmmmmm ..." Lydia purred as his mouth ground against hers, as his hand came up to clutch a tit. She sucked in her stomach, and her tits lifted, blossomed, filling that grasping hand, persuading Keith to lift his other hand and grab her other breast as well. And he had beautiful handfuls, she wasn't too modest to admit. Her tits were full without being fat, firm without being rock-hard, and invitingly warm, and his hands cupped and caressed the delicate treasures as he eased her back on the sofa.
Lydia moved a leg and her robe opened in front. A long bare thigh was visible through the opening, bare all the way to the lacy trim of her blue panties. She was watching Keith with half-opened eyes and she saw him take in the sight of her leg, saw his eyes sparkle. His hand left her right breast and dropped into her lap. He began to stroke and pet her leg, so carefully, so precisely, that tingles rippled through Lydia's flesh, made her slide a little closer to Keith so he might do more of those sweet things to her thigh.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered into her open mouth, his purred utterances humming on her moist lips. "So beautiful, so sexy ..." Even as he spoke, his fingers were climbing her leg, and in a moment-no, now!!!-he was touching the crotch of her blue panties.
They were tight panties, and skimpy panties, and the crotch-strip was stretched like skin across Lydia's plump, thrusting mons. She heard-she felt-her pubic hair crackle as Keith stroked her there, and his fingers found and fondled the well-defined lips of her slice. Lydia gasped, and her groin arched to meet his insistent caress. "Oh," she said. "Ohhhhh ..."
The entire front of her gown had fallen open by now, and her breasts too were arched toward Keith. He looked down at the ripe tits straining in their wispy blue prison, and she saw drool forming in the corners of his mouth. Her nipples were stiff and noticeable, punching out the filmy nylon cups of the bra. Keith looked at them another moment, and then his face descended, and he began and lick her tits through the nylon, wetting it with his saliva, strumming her erected paps with his frisky tongue.
"Ahlihhh," she sighed as he licked circles round the stiff nips, then covered the ends of her tits with his mouth for some furious sucking and biting. Lydia reached up, her fingers twining through his long sandy hair, making new curls in Keith's mop. With her other hand she caressed her own hair, long, dark, wavy-thick, and she inhaled the musky scent of her tresses until her head swam with the sweetness of it.
"Naughty," she whispered then, for his hand was inside her panties and he was cupping and flexing the puffy mound of her pussy. His fingers were tangled in her pubic hair and one of them lay directly upon the line of her gash, slipping into the tight moist mouth rhythmically. Lydia bucked upward, filling his hand with her twat, and she felt her heart increase its beating to a rapid tempo that thrilled and frightened her. Her legs clenched around his fondling hand and she squeezed him with sure, precise pulsations. In his mouth, her nipple was grown even stiffer, hotter, and she longed for him to strip the brassiere and anoint her bare flesh with his spittle.
"Let's go to bed," he suggested. "Let's go to bed and fuck."
Lydia chilled a little. Men usually said "Let's go to bed and make love"-a concession to what the regarded as woman's basic squeamishness about the facts of life and the four-letter words that described them. Still, she smiled, showing a trace of teeth between her daintily parted lips-no doubt he was already imagining those red lips clenched around his penis-and she nodded. "Why don't we?"
He picked her up in his arms and carried her across the room, through the bedroom door. Goodness, she thought, he's a strong one! But she could handle that. As easily as her dangling fingers handled the growing stalk of hard-on in Keith's pants. He was like a rock by the time he deposited her gently upon the bed, and the front of his trousers thrust out with the weight of his eager erection.
She lay there, her silk gown fallen open, her almost nude body on display, and she looked up at him with heavy-lidded, sultry eyes. "Undress me," she said, the hint of a gasp in her voice. "Strip me.
His hands shook as he eased the robe from her shoulders. Lydia shrugged. "Just toss it out of the way." He did, and then he put his hands on her bra cups. She sighed, allowing him to feel the tremors of her breasts, and then she leaned forward so he could reach behind and undo the bra's clasp. It loosened, and she shook her shoulders so that the cups fell away from her tits, and then she straightened up. Keith removed the bra and for a moment he did no more than stare at her perfect breasts and their small, red-tinted nipples, the tips beautifully erect.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed, hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her panties, and pulled them slowly down her quivering thighs. Lydia watched him carefully, but his eyes were trained upon the core of her cunt, waiting for the hair and then the slice to spring into his view.
She had a beautiful pussy. Men had told her that so many times. It was plump, and deeply cleft, the slice neat and clean, with no protrusion of inner lips, and the curling swirl of dark hairs around the gash veiled it demurely, like the mantilla of a Spanish virgin. Inside, she was slick and moist and coral-fleshed, with a sucking maw and a red clitoris that swelled majestically when aroused.
As she was aroused now. Lydia moved back on the bed, her snatch retreating from his lecherous eyes, and he moved with her, unwilling to surrender his full-frontal shot of that pretty cunt. She reared up, supporting herself on her elbows, and she smiled at him. "Now undress yourself," she commanded.
He stood up, and it was clear that he was anxious to feast himself on her body. Keith undressed in a hurry, ripping a button from his expensive shirt, but he didn't curse, didn't even kneel and search for the lost button. He threw the shirt away with vigor, and she smiled at the sight of his broad shoulders and hairy chest. The hair thinned out down his belly, but God, it sprung back with a vengeance when he dropped his pants! His loins were thick with fleece, and he reminded her of a black sheep with a hard-on when he pulled down his shorts and his pecker sprang loose.
A big pecker, too. Seven or eight inches long, massive in its thickness, and presently in raging erection. Lydia stared at it, trying to imagine that enormous cock rammed up her cunt, thrusting, penetrating, stabbing-fucking her. A chill rippled down her spine and she felt her anus puckering in defense.
"My," she said, "you're well hung, aren't you?"
His answer was to leap onto the bed with her. Lydia fell into his embrace, and his hands roamed over her body as his lips covered her mouth. Again and again that fierce pecker bumped her leg, tapped her in the stomach, and she felt herself instinctively pulling away from it, retreating, evading. No! she told herself. No!!
Keith worked a thigh between her legs and he moved his hairy flesh insistently on the pouting crease of her pussy. Lydia squirmed, but she let him have his way. Indeed, she even reached down with one hand and wrapped long, sensual fingers around that bumping cock of his and she caressed it in dreamy, lazy strokes, her fist closing around it, working up and down to a slow dancing beat. She fondled him from tip to balls, the heel of her fist grinding down upon his stones, and she felt him shiver in response. Slow down! Lydia warned herself. After all, we didn't want the dear boy to have an accident, did we?
"Oh, Keith, darling," she purred as soon as he'd broken off the kiss for air, "oh, Keith, darling, I want you to eat my pussy. Lick me with your sweet, sweet tongue. Suck my clitoris. Kiss me, suck me, make me scream and sigh and-" her voice fell away, as if passion were tumultuous in her bosom. The uttered wish gave Lydia an opportunity to emphasize the sibilance in her voice, and she used it to full advantage. His face got red and his eyes slitted with arousal.
"Yes," he said happily, "yes, I want to do that very much. I want to eat your pretty pussy." And with that he began to lick and kiss his way down her body, renewing his attentions to her pointing, stiff-nippled breasts and to everything between them and her moist-mouthed twat. Even before he'd brought his mouth into play on her snatch, while his tongue was eagerly rimming her navel, darting in and out like a miniature pecker invading a miniature cooze, he was fingering Lydia's gash, one of his digits spreading the tight lips and penetrating ever so slightly inside them.
"Aaaaahhhh," she moaned as the tip of his little finger nudged her clit. She felt her button erect and engorge, just as Keith's pecker had filled and stiffened, and it was a delicious, sensual feeling. "Eat me out," she panted, pushing the side of his head, urging him toward her twat.
"OHHHHH!!!!" she cried, in unfeigned approval, when he spread her labia with his fingers and visited her twat with the tip of his playful tongue. Up and down the gulley of her cunt he licked, and drool spilled from his tongue, only to be worked into the fabric of her flesh as he kept licking and licking and licking. Lydia felt her clit enlarging, even before his tongue nuzzled it, bat it back and forth, and even before his mouth closed upon the fat, sensitive stub of flesh for some suckling that was out of this fucking world!
He blew across the surface of her bared vulva, and she squirmed, arching her twat up against his face so he could do it again. "Oh, do it again," she moaned then, reaching down to catch Keith by the ears. "Do it agaaaaainnnnnn!"
He did it again, and this time his tongue followed up with a pass that took it into the mouth of her vagina, through the twitching mass of muscles that formed Lydia's open hole, and beyond them, into the well of her sex. She snapped at him with her twat, and she loved what he was doing to her, almost as much as she loved what she was doing to him. Her cunt dripped moisture, moisture suctioned from the depths of her body, and she could smell her own hot arousal, musky and tangy in the small bedroom. God, what a sensation! Was this how a bitch in heat felt? She hoped so. She was a bitch in heat, a bold, beautiful bitch, heated with the passion, the desire .. .
He grasped her clit then, pulling it between his clenched lips, and she almost came all over his face. It was hard to resist the impulse, but he ate cooze so prettily she wanted to hold it off, to find out how good he might be. After all, she'd never get another chance. Richard wasn't very skillful at licking snatch. Neither was Jake. God, how long had it been since she'd met a man who knew how to use his mouth the way Keith did? Not since business school, at least. What was his name? Tom? Doug? The very act of trying to remember kept her from coming prematurely, and if for no other reason, it was worth the while.
"Harder," she gasped, "suck me harder! Oh, Jesus . .. my clit... your mouth! God! Don't bite! I mean ... don't bite so hard! Oh, yes, Christ, God, shit, do it, do it, do it..."
The need to come was growing stronger and stronger. Lydia clutched at the bedsheets, pawing, tearing, her knuckles white from the strength she exerted. Keith's prick was out of reach now, thank God, else she might do something very foolish. Instead of his hard phallus, she fisted up big handfuls of bedspread, and she squeezed them, dug in her fingernails, felt them heat in her clutching palms.
While he continued to feast on her pussy, her labia were swollen now, swollen and tingling, awash with the moisture flooding from her quim. Each time his fingers pushed at the flanges of her cunt, Lydia's heart throbbed harder, and she knew that a creamy climax wasn't far away.
It hit her when his tongue was deep in her cunt and the tips of his thumbs prodding, prodding, prodding alongside her quivering clit. Suddenly he stabbed furiously with his tongue, and his thumbs rammed together, and it felt as if her clit were being pierced in two, ripped apart, and she screamed, "Alihhh, Goddddd, I'm commm-iiiinnnngggggg!!!" and her pussy unloaded its wet, sticky load of girl juice into Keith's hungry sucking mouth. Lydia rammed her twat up, slamming his face with her sex, and she coated his face with the discharges of her raging orgasm.
Through it all, Keith ate like a gentleman, dipping into her slot to tongue up helping after helping of tasty pussy goo, and his thumbs massaged the erupting bud of Lydia's clitoris until the tender trigger had no choice but to pull back into its little hood of flesh, where his rough fingers could no longer tempt and tease it. She felt her orgasm begin to fade, and the agitated humping of her crotch subsided. Lydia's ass came to rest firmly on the bed. Panting with the aftermath of her release, she looked down at Keith. "That was very good," she told him. "You have a way about you, all right."
He rose onto his knees and moved toward her, hard cock hobbling. "Now it's your turn," he grinned, taking her by the hair. He lifted Lydia's head, brought it nearer the tip of his cock, and with his other hand he steered his dong toward her lips, ready to stuff it in, ready for the sucking he'd probably been anticipating all night. ..
Lydia squirmed, her head rocking, and then she broke free of his handhold. "Stop it!" she blurted. "What are you trying to do?" she demanded furiously.
Keith took hold of her once more, trying to bring her head into play for his penis. "I'm trying to get my cock into your mouth," he said. "So you can eat me for a while, the way I just ate you."
"Drop dead."
He let go, and Lydia rolled away, pulling herself up into a huddle across the bed from him, where he knelt with his pathetic cock sticking out. "What the-"
"If you think I'm going to suck your trashy dick," she went on, "you've got another think coming. And-" she warned him off with a shake of her fist, "if you think I'm going to let you put that ugly big thing in me, you've got still another think-"
"So," he said. "It's true. What they said about you."
Lydia's eyes brightened. "What do they say about me?"
"That you're a cockteaser .. . that you come on all honey and cunny, then kick a man in the nuts."
Mmm, she thought. Kicking a man in the nuts. What a lovely idea! She closed her eyes and imagined it. Her foot slamming into the defenseless gap between a man's thighs, making contact with his dangling sac of nookie-balls, with his poor little limp cock. Sometime, soon, she thought, very soon ...
"If that's what they said," she purred, "why did you ask me to go out with you?"
He flushed. Angrily. His cock was still hard as a rock, sticking out from his loins in what had to be a bitter reproach.
Lydia enjoyed that very much. "Because I thought it was all a hype. A woman who looks as good as you do, who comes on as sexily as you do I thought-"
"You thought more than you a right to think," she said frostily. "As for now . .. I'm tired of this stupid game. Why don't you put your clothes on and go home."
"What about this?" he asked, tapping the end of his hard-on.
Lydia grinned. Evilly. "Why don't you stand on your head and stick it up your ass?"
He colored, very red, and she saw him clench a fist. Keith didn't look like the type who'd hit a woman, but you never knew. "If you touch me," she said, "I'll scream bloody murder. And the walls in this building are thin as paper. The neighbors are probably listening already, so why don't you-"
She didn't have to tell him a second time. Angrily, he bounced off the bed and began to get into his clothes. His cock hadn't gone down yet, and she could guarantee him a miserable night, unless he resorted to the adolescent practice of jerking himself off. Oh, yes! She could see him now, blushing even in the darkness of his bedroom as he fisted his pecker and stroked until it spurted cum all over his sheets. Bet he hadn't counted on that kind of Friday night!
"Go on," she said. "I'd like to get some sleep. I have a hairdresser's appointment at eleven tomorrow." Lydia settled back on the bed, legs still drawn up to protect her pussy.
He was like all the rest of them-a weak, whipped puppy too cowardly even to protest. She turned her back and didn't even look when he went out the bedroom door. Good riddance to him, she thought. And another notch for the handle of my sex-gun. Another notch.
How many more would there be? Oh, she prayed, a great many more. A great many!
Chapter Two
After he was gone, Lydia rose nude from her bed and went into the living room. She took the tape out of the player, emptied the half-consumed drinks down the sink, locked the door (both locks), and shut out the lights. It was almost two in the morning, and she really needed to get some sleep, with that beauty salon appointment at eleven, but she wasn't at all sleepy. Not yet.
She went back into the bedroom and closed the door, then examined herself in the mirror. "Oh, you were beautiful, baby doll!" she told the reflected Lydia, a sinuous hand stretching out to caress the breasts of that glass image of herself. With her other hand, she fondled her tits, feeling the nipples, still up, still tingly under her caresses, and it was such a turn-on, touching herself, watching herself. Sometimes she felt that her mirror was the only real friend, the only confidante, she had. Oh, they'd shared so much, Lydia and her mirror! She leaned forward, kissing the image of herself on its cold glass lips. But the lips felt so warm, so responsive ... She rubbed her front against the mirror, drawing strength, arousal, most of all deriving pleasure, of a sort she'd never known with a man, could never know with a man ...
Men. Goddamn them, they were all the same! They only wanted her body, only wanted to make her a vessel for their cocks and their sperm, only wanted to feel her erupting beneath them as they fucked hot sticky cum up her pussy. Her blood ran cold as she thought of the men she'd known, but it warmed as the remembrance stole upon her, the remembrance of the men upon whom Lydia had retaliated. Yes, she thought, I've had my revenge, had it in full measure, but had it so sweetly I want more and more and more . . .
Somehow she found herself on the bed, sitting on the edge, her long legs dangling to the floor and spread widely, her fingers buried in the wet pink slice between her smooth thighs, her clit throbbing as she stabbed herself with those long fingers, as she fondled her aroused sex trigger, as image after image passed before her half-shut eyes.
* * *
Eleven years ago. She was only fourteen, her body a magical storehouse of newly-found sensations. During the past two years her breasts had grown, slowly but surely from training bra size to marvelous, sensitive 34-Bs, proud and noticeable under clingy shirts and sweaters. Skirts were short then, not mini or micro but short all the same, and : had lissome legs jutting from her high hems. Once she'd heard a couple of boys at school commenting on the way her ass twitched and wiggled when she walked. It was something Lydia had never noticed before, but as soon as it had been called to her attention, she found that the boys were right. She did wiggle. Sometimes she'd walk, just for the sake of practice, and watch herself over a shoulder in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. Her hips had a definite sway to them, a marvelous sway, and she'd watch till her neck muscles ached.
Often she'd strip off her clothes and simply look at herself, naked, in the polished glass. She'd stand facing the mirror, then turn profiles, and last of all reverses, entranced at the beauty of her development. Oh, God, what could be better than being young, than being in bloom? She'd cup her breasts, lift them even higher than nature had set them, and her nipples would stiffen, stiffen, so that she had no choice but to sit down carefully on her bed and stroke those nipples with her knowing fingertips, pinching and squeezing until thick moist juices oozed on the slice of her pussy.
And, God, what a pussy! Each time she touched it with her hands it was like receiving a brand-new Christmas present! Sometimes it was most exciting to slip a finger into the tight pussy mouth itself, reaming her cunt with awkward but effective strokes, and other times she preferred to rub the full, ripe bud of her clitoris until her head swam and her heart was racing and her entire body shook and trembled with the onrush of what she found out was an orgasm, clinically speaking. It was like nothing else on God's earth, and that was one thing Lydia Pembroke knew for certain.
But if it was delightful in the privacy of her bedroom, it was even more so in the bath. Of course, she had to be picky about the times she chose for indulging herself, because it was such ecstasy to immerse in water and caress her pussy that she frequently flopped about in the tub and splashed water everywhere. Once Aunt Martha had even come to the door and asked if anything was wrong, and it had taken Lydia a moment to collect herself and lie her way out of the potential embarrassment.
She'd been living with Aunt Martha and Uncle George since she was eleven, when her parents had been killed in a car crash. They were older than her parents. Uncle George was bald and paunchy, biding time until his retirement, and Aunt Martha was very tall, with iron-gray hair and a face nearly as severe. The two of them spoke little-to one another or to Lydia-though lately Uncle George had shown a little more interest in his blossoming niece. Just the other night she'd been in her room, dressed only in bra and panties, studying her figure and her walk in front of the mirror, when she felt a shuddery little chill run up and down her spine, as if cold eyes were focused upon her. And then, in the mirror, she'd seen it.
Uncle George, standing in the darkened hallway, peeking through her half-opened door. A little dart of light reflected on the shiny pate of his head, and it was obvious that he was watching her, studying her as she studied herself. Lydia's heart jumped into her mouth but she didn't cry out or cover herself, conscious as she was of her almost bare body. Instead she moved very slowly, as if she were unaware of his presence, moved toward the chair where her housecoat lay. She picked up the concealing garment and donned it, almost casually, and when she looked at the door again, Uncle George was gone. Lydia breathed heavily, in relief, and she sat down on her bed. The boys at school enjoyed looking at her-looking at her with all her clothes on. Did older men like that sort of thing too? Especially when the nubile young figure was almost completely uncovered? She didn't know. She couldn't even guess. Not at that moment.
Two nights later, while Aunt Martha was out of the house, attending a club meeting, Lydia decided to take an early bath. She was alone, for Uncle George had been working overtime all week and rarely came in before eight o'clock. The opportunity was too good to pass up, so Lydia stripped, filled the tub, sprinkled a liberal helping of bubble powder, and climbed in. She soaked in the sudsy aromatic water, massaged her tight young pussy, and thrashed in the tub as three separate orgasms rippled through her body. It was delicious and delightful.
"Oh, beautiful, too!" she said aloud, standing on the white furry mat beside the tub, drying herself with a fluffy soft towel. Her body glowed with the health of its blooming, and her heart sang joyously. Faster and faster her hands moved with the towel, until Lydia wondered if she might not be justified in hurrying into her bedroom and taking advantage of this luxurious feeling. It would be so sweet, so very sweet, to stretch out naked on her bed (with the door prudently shut, of course) and let her fingers trace each responsive curve, explore each little nook of sensuality. Lydia worked the towel between her legs, swishing and sawing across the impudent puffy swell of her pussy, until her knees twitched and her head felt fantastically giddy. That was when the door opened.
"Aaaaggghhhh!" she cried, freezing for a moment. Only for a moment, but long enough for Uncle George to fill his leering eyes with the sight of her naked front. Late, too late, Lydia remembered that she had a means of preserving some modesty. She pulled the towel from between her legs and hurriedly brought it up to cover the front of her body.
Uncle George's face was red, and his eyes gleamed. He made no effort to back out of the room. "I didn't know you was in here," he said.
"I. .. I was taking a bath. I didn't hear you . . . didn't hear you come in."
"Well," he said. "I'm here, all right." He looked her up and down, and it was as if his eyes were ripping away the flimsy shield of terrycloth towel. Lydia tried to shrink, so that her tall, limber body could more easily skulk behind that protection, but she felt just as naked, just as embarrassed.
"You're filling out nice," Uncle George said. He took a step toward her, and Lydia shrank back. The cool, damp rim of the tub blocked her from going very far, and she nearly fell over. Her eyes lowered-she couldn't look up at his face. Instead, she focused her attention on his belt buckle and the roll of paunch just above.
"D-d-don't," she stammered, raising a hand to fend him off. She didn't know why the thought of his touch filled her with alarm; she only knew that she didn't want him to come any closer.
But instead of approaching, George brushed past Lydia, so close she could smell the heavy scent of his workday sweat. "I came in to take a leak," he announced, raising the lid of the John.
He was profiled from where she stood, and Lydia shifted about, to keep him from getting a side view of her nudity. But even when she moved, it wasn't far enough to keep her from seeing what Uncle George did. He unzipped his pants and fished out a long, rubber piece of flesh, which he aimed down at the toilet bowl. She knew what it was, even if she'd never really seen one before. It was his penis. Cock, pecker, dick, peter, rod, as the kids at school variously called it during bravado conversations. And even as she stared, realizing that she'd never seen a full-grown penis before, Uncle George began to piss through his, a thick splashy stream of golden urine that jetted from the end of his cock down toward the toilet.
He knew she was watching, and he stared at her as he urinated, studying Lydia's face. When the stream ebbed and ceased, he shook his cock, a couple of drops of liquid falling from it, and then he turned. "You were looking," he said. "That isn't nice. Good girls don't look at peckers. So do you know what that must make you, honey bunny?"
She clutched at the towel as he came toward her. He hadn't put his cock back inside his pants, and it flopped and bounced with each step he took. Lydia stared at his jiggling dong in goggle-eyed horror, and she tried to retreat, but her legs were made of jelly and she couldn't move.
Uncle George grabbed her by the wrist-the same wrist that held the towel against her body-and the towel fell to the floor as he jerked her to him. Lydia screamed, but it was a muted whimper of a scream, one that barely echoed in the confines of the bathroom, let alone seeped out to tell the world that a young girl was in some mysterious danger she couldn't quite understand.
"I've seen you," he went on, smacking her against his chest, so that her firm high breasts rubbed him vigorously. She tried to pull loose, but he still had her wrist and, as she struggled, he jerked that wrist up, behind her back. Lydia's eyes enlarged and she moaned with the pain of it. He'd never hurt her before. He'd never been especially affectionate either, but certainly he had never inflicted pain like this.
"Ohhhhhhh ..." She closed her eyes and tried to endure it, but her wrist hurt so much.
"I've seen you," he went on. "When you thought nobody was lookin'. The way you stand around in front of that goddamned mirror, lookin' at yourself. Naked, or almost naked. Bet you like to look at yourself when you got no clothes on, huh? Huh?" He twisted her flesh again, and abused her wrist until she nodded, more from fear than the need to reveal.
His free hand clasped her shoulder, then slid down the slender arm, onto the hipbone, down her thigh. Lydia rose onto tiptoes, moaning as he kept squeezing her wrist, as he began to pet the bare damp flesh of her just-bathed thigh and hip. "Please, Uncle George-don't do that. Don't touch me there. It's not nice. It's not right."
"Goddamn it, I'm your uncle, and I'll tell you what's wrong and what's right, what's nice and what ain't!" He ground his loins against the girl, and she felt the nasty, snakelike wriggling of his limp cock. "There!" he said triumphantly. "Feel that? Bet it ain't the first one you've had rubbed up against you, is it, Lydia? Girl as pretty as you are, girl built the way you are-bet the boys are followin' you like a pack of dogs after a butcher's wagon. Do you ever let them catch you? Ever let them touch you? Like this?" He pinched off a roll of soft flesh on her ass. His fingers were vicious.
"No-no-no-"
"Don't lie to me!" Again a painful twist of her hand. His fingers dug more savagely into the flesh of her butt. "A sweet piece of tail," he added. "I haven't touched anything so sweet and soft and spongy since I was your age. There was a girl I knew back then, her name was Lucy, and if you asked her real nice, she'd do anything you wanted. She'd let you touch her all over, just the way I'm touchin' you now, Lydia-" His fingers abandoned their pinching hold and began to slide across the young girl's trembling ass. "Let her rub her, just like this-" He put his middle finger into the bold cleft of Lydia's bottom and started to rub, back and forth, his knuckle sliding across her terror-struck anus, the tip inching down to jiggle her pussy from behind. Lydia squirmed again and tried to lift herself even high on tiptoes, but she couldn't gain any extra height. And Uncle George's finger kept on with its unnatural rubbing, till her teeth chattered and her eyes blinked in fright and she moaned, pleading for him to stop, stop, just stop- "A pussy, too," he said, grinning lewdly. "You've got a little pussy down there in the hair, haven't you, girl? Did you know that your Aunt Martha sewed up her pussy a couple of years after we got married? She didn't really sew it up, but the old bitch might as well've, for all the good she's done me. Yours ain't sewed up, though. I can feel it, all moist and hot, and crinkly when I rub my finger through the hair. Spread your legs a little."
"I can't, Uncle George!" She strained against the hand that still immobilized her wrist. "You're hurting too much!"
Warily, he relaxed his pressure. Lydia gasped as her hand's agony slacked. "Now spread 'em!"
She had no choice. She opened her legs, blushing scarlet, and Uncle George brought his fingers tickle her around from rear to front, taking time to ticker her ass on the way. "AAAAAAHHHHH!!!" she wailed as he started fingering her little twat from the front.
"Stop yelling," he said, "or I'll bust your face!"
She ceased her cries at once, knowing that he meant what he said. Still, it was hard not to cry out when he parted the petaled lips of her cunt and slipped a finger inside, where only her own smaller, softer fingers had ever been invited. His fingers were big and callused, and they explored her without mercy or subtlety.
"Please don't," she whispered, reaching down to touch the back of his hand. "You're hurting me. You're hurting me so much. Oh, please, Uncle George-"
He jerked his finger out of her cunt, grabbed her hand, and forced her to make a fist around his cock. "Come on," he invited. "Play with me. Make my dick stand up big and hard. And then I'll do something nice for you, Lydia. Something real nice."
She shook her head, fist still wrapped around his limp tool. "No," ,she said weakly. "I don't want to."
Uncle George let go of the hand behind her back, but before she could catch a breath he'd seized her by the earlobe. It pinched, and it hurt like hell when he squeezed there. "I'll rip your ear off," he threatened. "I'll rip off your pretty little ear, girl. Unless you do exactly what I say. Get down on your knees. Come on! On your fuckin' knees!"
Reluctantly, Lydia sank, the white furry bath mat providing at least a comfortable kneeling place. "Now," Uncle George went on, "take my cock and put it in your pretty little mouth. And suck me."
"I... I... I can't!!" Her stomach turned at the very idea of putting his red sausage in her mouth, of... of... sucking it! No! She couldn't! She wouldn't!
Again pressure on her earlobe, and she felt her flesh stretching, stretching, ad if he really did mean to tear off her ear. Slowly. So she could feel it happening.
"Pretend it's a big juicy tootsie roll," Uncle George suggested. The fourteen-year-old girl blanched. She looked at the cock where its ruby tip protruded from her fist. God, it was so long! And he wanted her to make it even longer, even bigger! She looked at the tip, where her fist had peeled back his foreskin, and she saw the slitted opening from which he'd shot his piss only a few moments ago. Oh, Lord, she could even smell the lingering aroma of urine. Put it in her mouth? Never! She'd sooner die first. She told him. "I'd sooner die!"
"Don't talk back to me! The only lip I want from you is the lip you're gonna wrap around my pecker!" And he jerked on her earlobe, jerked so hard she felt her skin tearing, wondered if he'd torn off that entire side of her face. Oh, God, it hurt! He could hurt her! He was a big man, she was only a fourteen-year-old girl caught in a trip she didn't understand, couldn't escape.
I don't want to, Lydia thought miserably, opening her mouth to its fullest. She leaned up on her knees and she allowed her hand to guide that cock into her mouth, but she kept her lips in an enormous G, tongue drawn back. She didn't want to touch the ugly, dirty thing.
"Suck!" he commanded, rapping sharply on the top of Lydia's head. Her jaws snapped shut and before she knew what was happening, she was really, honestly, truly sucking Uncle George's cock. Uggggghhhhhh!!! she thought.
But he kept feeding it into her, his hands guiding her head as she kept him in her mouth, and by now her tongue was upon him, touching the barrel of his limp organ. She could taste piss on him, or at least she thought she could taste piss, and her stomach heaved in revolt. Lydia gagged and she wondered if she'd heave her cookies all over Uncle George and his ugly cock. Oh, God, and if she did, what might his revenge be?
She struggled to contain her revulsion, and the impulse to vomit slid by. Indeed, after a few minutes of her sucking, nausea was the least of Lydia's worries.
Uncle George's cock erected suddenly, without warning. One moment she was using her lips and tongue and cheeks on a limp, floppy pecker that jiggled about every time her lingua nudged it, and the next moment her mouth was full of an even thicker, even longer, steely hard-on, one whose swollen tip lanced and thrust toward the back of her throat, as if it meant to fuck a path down her gullet.
"Arrrggggghhhhh!!!" Lydia gurgled, drawing back in self-defense. She was beginning to strangle. She couldn't breathe. Her mouth was totally full of pecker and her lungs ached for air.
Uncle George withdrew himself carefully, lest her front teeth injure his organ, and he looked down at Lydia and at the hard-on she'd sucked up. "Pretty good," he said. "Been a long time since I been sucked so nice without paying for it. Get up." She rose. He cupped her chin with a large, strong hand. "Do you know what I want to do now?" Lydia shook her head fearfully. "I want to take this cock-" he moved against her belly so she could feel the instrument of which he spoke, "and stick it into that pretty little tight cooze of yours. I want to stick it up you so far it'll tickle your tonsils every time I shake it around. I want to fuck your cute little buns off, Lydia. Come on!!"
Chapter Three
She'd heard the word "fuck" before, and she knew pretty much what it meant. That was how a man and a woman made babies. He deposited his sperm in her uterus where they fertilized her egg and in nine months ...
"No!!!!!" Lydia screamed, backing away. "I don't want to do that!!" Her legs bumped against the tub again, and she rocked on her heels. Uncle George caught her wrist just before she fell and he snapped her erect, dragging her toward him.
"Come on," he said. "I won't tell you again. We've got to hurry. Your Aunt Martha will be home before long, and I want to bury my dick in your little baby hole before she gets here."
Lydia whimpered and sobbed like a whipped puppy as he pulled her across the bathroom floor, through the doorway, into her own bedroom. His cock still thrust from his unzipped pants, hard where she'd sucked it up, glistening with tiny bubbles of Lydia's spittle. George pushed her into the bedroom, then hastened after, slamming the door behind him. "Over there," he said. "Stand in front of the mirror and touch yourself, the way you like to do. Feel your tits. Feel your pussy. Turn around and look at your ass. Wiggle your ass. Wiggle it just for me. Oh, Christ, Lydia, I've been watching you for the last year or two, wondering how I could get around to plugging you, and now I'm gonna do it! I'm gonna fuck your little pussy till you moan and scream and drip hot juice all over me, and those lips of yours snap at my cock like a snapping turtle's jaws, and your legs wrap around me while I fuck the bejesus out of your twat!!!!"
His face was red and drool oozed from his mouth. He was like a madman, and she didn't dare speak in reply or contradiction. Instead, she hurried to the mirror and did as he commanded. While Uncle George watched from the bed, Lydia posed before the shiny reflective glass, touching herself lasciviously. Most of the time this kind of self-caress brought her incredible pleasure and delight. Now it only brought her shame and sadness. As she cupped her breasts, offering them to the mimicking Lydia who shined at her in the glass, as she let long, slender fingers stroll across the puff of her pussy, she could see him in the mirror too, sitting on her bed, stroking his cock as he took in her display. What had happened? What had become of the old Uncle George, the potbellied, balding man who came home from work, ate his supper, and settled down with his evening paper and a can of beer? That wasn't the man she was seeing in her mirror now. Wasn't him Lydia turned around, and by that time Uncle George had lowered his trousers and shorts. His cock still thrust up, big and erect, the foreskin now drawn completely back to reveal a gleaming purple knob, so big, so thick, so dangerous . ..
"Come here," She moved toward him. "On your knees, I want you to suck it some more."
Lydia knelt. It wasn't as fearsome as the first time, but it was no more pleasant. She took his prick in hand and moved her face closer. A thin watery liquid had begun to ooze from his slitted opening, and the tip of him was wet. Was he pissing slowly or something? What was this? She didn't know. With a sinking heart she licked the underside of his prick, finding that the strange liquid, strange as it might still be, wasn't piss. It had no taste of its own. At least she could be grateful for that.
"Suck," he told her. "Suck my cock. And then I'll fuck you. Have you ever been fucked before, Lydia? I'll bet you have. Girl with titties like yours-" He reached down, pinching her reddish nipples. Lydia moaned as she felt her teats expand and stiffen between his fingers, just the way her teats stiffened when she plied them with her own, more delicate hands. Closing her eyes, she took his cock into her mouth and began to suck it.
He tasted hot and salty in her mouth, his cock furiously hard. She couldn't get much of him in, not this time, not when he was so stiff. "Suck me deep," he commanded, trying to lance his penis up into her mouth, to fill her oral cavity with the thing. She gagged and groaned, and her teeth scraped unknowingly at the barrel of George's dick.
"Aaaaaahhhh!!" he yelped, jerking his cock from her mouth. Lydia looked up in surprise and George slapped her angrily, first on her right cheek, then on her left. It hurt, and her head snapped with the blows. "Damn you, don't bite me! You little bitch! I'll teach you to bite a man!" George grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to her feet. Lydia shrieked in dread, but the shrill cries didn't save her from Uncle George's wrath. He stood too, and he cuffed her lustily, the slaps resounding throughout the confines of her bedroom, and she felt salty tears running down her livid cheeks. She'd bit her lip, too, and she could taste the bitter spurts of her own blood, and she looked up at the man, hating him, despising him, wishing there was some way she could be as strong as he was, some way she could brutalize him the way he was brutalizing her.
"There!" he said. "And if you ever do it again, you'll get twice as bad!" He threw Lydia down upon the bed. She fell on her face and stomach and lay there, sobbing, unable to move. She felt the bed groan as George too crawled upon it, and then his hands were on her ass and thighs, opening her, parting her trembling legs. "Lift your ass," he said, and by then she had no will to resist any further. She couldn't bear the thought of being slapped and pummeled again. Lydia reared her ass up, and Uncle George moved into the gape of her legs.
"Dog style," he told her. "Just like a dog and a bitch, and you're the hot bitch this dog is gonna fuck. You ever get it dog style before? Ever get it in your pussy from behind? Huh?"
She didn't answer. What good would it do to tell the man that she'd never done anything like this before, that she was a virgin, innocent of man, of man's cock? He hadn't listened to anything she'd tried to say. He'd only been interested in making free with her body, forcing her to suck his prick, striking her when he found fault with her technique. And now- oh, God, now she felt the tip of his hard organ lurching up and down the slightly splayed crease of her cuntal slit. Lydia arched her back and started to move on the bed, away from him, but as she moved, so did Uncle George, and he worked the point of his stiff, swollen cock into her virginal cunt.
"Oh, my Godddddddddd!" He felt enormous, just the tip of him wedged between her tender cuntal lips, and she seemed to be on fire. Pain spurted through her body. "Oh, please, it hurrrrrrrrrrtsssss!!" she moaned, and there was a sibilance to the "s" sounds. If anything, it seemed to inspire Uncle George with more desire, for he lunged against the resistant sphincter of her pussy.
"Does it feel good?" he crowed. "Does it feel as good as all those young boys' cocks? Mine's as hard as theirs any day of the goddamn week! As hard, as horny! Here goes, baby, I'm going to ram my cock into your guts!!"
And he thrust, into the tightness, into the heated well of her pussy. "Oh, shit," he griped, "you're too goddamn tight! Wiggle your ass! Suck me up with your pussy the way you sucked me up with your mouth!"
"No!" Lydia screamed. "I don't want to do this! It's all wrong! You're my uncle, you're not supposed to be fucking me!"
"I told you that I'm the one who decides what's wrong and right, you little bitch! Your parents had to get killed in that car wreck and leave you for us to take care of. If I want a little bit of your pussy now and then, it's the fucking least you can do to pay for your keep. Now fuck me, the way a woman's supposed to fuck a man! Move your goddamned ass! Shake your hips! Swallow my cock with your hot tight little cunt!"
He slapped her ass, cheek to cheek, the way he'd slapped her face, and he pinched at the soft fleshy buttocks. Lydia found herself moving against her will, hips undulating, up, down, and as she moved, Uncle George began to work his cock into her with more determination. "Take it," he grunted. "Take my cock up your snatch! I'm fucking you, Lydia, and I'm gonna fuck you as many more times as I feel like. I always knew there was a good reason for having you in the house, and this is it!"
As he spoke, he punched forward with his penis, and the heat of him battered Lydia's cherry. She screamed, despite a mental resolution not to irritate him further, but her scream had no effect. "Goddamn my soul," he said. "I think you're a virgin. Are you cherry, Lydia? Haven't you ever been screwed before? Tell me, damn it!" And he made his cock jerk in the agonizingly tight clench of her pussy.
Lydia moaned. "I tried to tell you," she whimpered. "But you wouldn't listen."
"Hot shit," he gloated. "I haven't busted a cherry since I was about your age. But I'm gonna bust yours, Lydia. I'm gonna ram my cock through your cherry and I'm gonna put my prick in the tight wet part of your pussy where nothing's ever been before, and I'm gonna watch the blood leak out of your snatch. I'm gonna fuck you, little girl, I'm really gonna fuck you! Take this!!!"
And he rammed her, bursting like a jackhammer upon the fragile bud of Lydia's cherry. She didn't scream now. She was beyond screaming. The pangs were unendurable as he thrust furiously into her tender, splayed cuntal sheath, as he hammered the head of his dick onto her stretched, groaning maidenhead. She worked her ass up and down, back and forth, trying to pull herself away from him, but it only heightened George's pleasure. He grabbed her buttocks and manipulated them a little faster, still prodding with his dong.
"I'm gonna tear you," he announced. "I'm gonna rip that fuckin' cherry right out of you, Lydia! I'll be the first man, the first cock that ever made your pussy cream, the first cock that ever bulged your eyes out because you were stuffed full, the first load of cum that ever fired off in your snatch! Oh, Jesus, let me fuck her! Let me pop her goddamn cherry! Let me screw this hot little kid!"
And he rammed again, and this time his cock burst through the tissue of flesh. Lydia felt something very hot, wet, sticky, in her pussy, and he was in her, reaming out the unimaginably tight upper reaches of her cuntal tube. Her fingers had delved as far as the maidenhead, and her junior tampons had gone a bit further, but there was nothing in Lydia's experience to prepare her for this-for the sudden invasion of a rock-hard hot piece of flesh swollen to impressive size, far too big for her virginal twat to accommodate without pain.
"Oh, Jesus!!!" she moaned, burying her face in the bedclothes to muffle the screams of agony she longed so much to give off. Her ass lurched up as her face went down, and she felt Uncle George's groin slamming in to bang against her bottom.
It took her a moment to realize what it meant-that her uncle's cock was buried to the hilt in her tender young cunt-but as the realization swept upon her, so did the pain, and she wailed out her agony. "OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"
When he pulled back for a second stroke, she was innocent enough to think he'd finished his obscene demands upon her and was extracting his pecker. She'd just started a sigh in relief when he rammed it up her again, nearly tearing the poor girl asunder. Again she felt his groin bang against her ass, and again she felt the ticklish presence of his balls, riding on her flesh when he was fully buried.
But the second time he pulled back, he seemed to move with a little less friction in h was still tight around him, all around him, but his cock moved easier, less painfully. There was wetness seeping from the mouth of Lydia's hole, and she assumed it must be her virginal blood leaking out, but Uncle George said, "I can feel you, Lydia .. . you're greasing yourself for me. You're leaking pussy juice, and I'm oiling my cock with it. You like this, don't you? You like being fucked by me, don't you? Tell me you like it!!" And he pinched her ass savagely.
"I like it!" she screeched, hoping the lie wouldn't choke her. "I like it!!"
"Beg me to fuck you," he said. "Beg me to fuck you with my big cock. Say 'Uncle George, I want you to fuck me crazy!' Say it!!"
She gasped. How could she say anything like that? She didn't want him to fuck her. She wanted him to take his cock out of her ravished pussy, wanted him to button and zip his pants, wanted him to go out of her room and, hopefully, die in the hallway. But he was pinching her flesh, abusing her, nails of his fingers tearing into her skin. Groaning, Lydia repeated the words he had commanded.
"Yes, I'll fuck you!" he moaned. "I'll fuck you seven ways from Sunday, you little bitch, you hot, cunty little bitch!" and he began to fuck her with a vengeance, his cock slicking in and out, filling Lydia to overflow so many times she lost count of how often he invaded her, plugged her, screwed her to the gills with his fat, driving cock. She only knew that she trembled and shook as he raped her, that her hips quivered and bounced, that Uncle George leaned in as he fucked, that he nibbled on the flesh of her shoulders, that he reached underneath to entrap her titties, to squeeze and pinch the stiffened nipples.
She was wet inside now, and she knew that some of what he'd told her was right. If she were bleeding this much because of her ruptured hymen, then her cherry must be the outlet for a major artery. Some of it had to be her own interior cuntal juices, the same kind of juices that fomented in such abundance, sticking on her fingers, wetting her gash, when she masturbated. Somehow that seemed a double outrage, that such a pleasant experience as fondling her pussy could be in any way connected to this brutal rape.
But she felt herself straining, more with each passing moment, as his cock kept on its inexorable series of plunges, withdrawals, fresh insertions, and her tongue chilled in her mouth. "NNNNNGGGHHHHHH!!!" Lydia grunted, bucking up against Uncle George, and there was no way she could halt the flood of feelings that ran through her body. His cock was driving deep at that moment, and she nearly broke it off at the root with her sudden lurch, but he rode with her, and he took advantage of the agitated trembling of her pussy to stab deep, deep, deep, all the way to the mouth of her fluttering uterus. Lydia felt him strike, and her orgasm broke loose.
She thrashed, and her legs widened their gap as he screwed himself into the very depths of her snatch. Uncle George fell across her back, his hands coming in to grab her titties, and he buried his face in her hair, nuzzling at the nape of Lydia's neck. "Come for me," he groaned. "I can feel you coming all around my cock. You're milking me. God, what muscles you've got in that hot little hole! It's a tight cunt, but it's so sweet and so fucking hot! I can feel your juice Lydia, and Pm gonna give you my juice. I'm gonna fill your pretty little tummy with my cum. Get ready, 'cause . .. here . . . it. . . coooommmmessss!!!!"
And with that he slicked his cock in and out perhaps half a dozen times, grunting with each fresh penetration, and she felt it explode deep in her pussy, felt each blasting eruption that sent cum splattering even further up her sex channel. His cock swelled even more as he ejaculated, and her pussy was stuffed full and overflowing with Uncle George. She could hardly breathe, the congestion of her vagina was so intense, and she was certain that she felt her heart stop at least twice.
In a way it was very much like diddling herself in bed or in the tub, but in another way it was quite different. Her orgasm was different from her normal ones, principally in its ferocity. She'd never come so hard before, not even during her most splendid interludes of masturbatory love.
But mixed with it, and strangely wondrous to her fourteen-year-old mind, was the sensation of his cock exploding inside her, of that sticky hot goo being poured up her cunt. She heard him moan, felt his teeth gnawing at her shoulders, his fingers like bands of iron clutching her resilient firm tits, pinching off the strained nipples that jutted from her juicy mounds in ripe red erections. He was like an animal, grunting out his lust, filling her body with hot juice. Even with his cock in her, stuffing the tight sheath of her twat, Lydia could feel Uncle George's cum leaking from the flanges he'd brutally invaded, and the feel of it running down her thighs, clotting on her skin like drying snot made her sick.
"Sweet and hot, oh, Jesus," she heard him moan into her ear, his fingers trembly on her boobs, his cock starting to go soft in the tight wrap of her cunt. "So sweet, so hot. Lydia, I'm gonna enjoy fucking you. I'm really gonna enjoy fucking you."
Chapter Four
Uncle George fucked her at least three and sometimes as many as five times a week during the next two years. Any time Aunt Martha was due to be out of the house for more than an hour or so, Lydia could count on being dragged off to her bed for a session of screwing with her horny uncle. The man was insatiable, and she couldn't help wondering what he'd done before she came along.
He enjoyed fucking Lydia. Sometimes, despite his fifty-odd years, he was able to take her two or three times in a row, but those were infrequent occasions. Most of the time he simply mounted the trembling, protesting young girl and fucked her for the fifteen or twenty minutes it took him to reach orgasm. And he fucked hard. Even when he only raped her once, Lydia's pussy was too achingly sore afterwards to endure the softest touch of consolation.
Sometimes she threatened to tell Aunt Martha, to expose his dirty secret. He only laughed.
"If you told Martha any of this," he said, "she'd think you were a sinful dirty girl with a sinful filthy mind, and she'd get after you with a belt. She'd beat you till you couldn't sit down for a week, and then she'd beat you all over again, and she'd bring in the preacher to pray for your soul because you were a lying little bitch with a mind like a sewer. Martha doesn't know that people have to fuck to live. She hasn't let me put my cock in her cunt for so many years I've forgotten what her goddamned pussy even looks like.
"Anyway-she isn't as good as you are, little girl, so why don't you get down on your knees and suck my cock again? I feel another hard-on coming, and I want to spill my jism down your throat. Don't you stop sucking when I shoot off, either. You swallow every drop of my cum, or I'll get my belt and I'll whip your perky little ass black and blue."
And since she knew that he would have done precisely that, Lydia had no choice or defense. She descended from the bed, knelt to the floor between his widespread legs, and she took her uncle's cock in her mouth and sucked furiously until he swelled and jerked and fired off a salvo of thin, watery, bitter sperm. She swallowed his milk, swallowed it though she wanted to be sick, and after she'd sucked and swallowed, she sucked again, keeping him hard for yet another invasion of her tender, unwilling pussy.
When she was sixteen, Uncle George died. He simply collapsed on the job one afternoon, and it was all over. He'd even died too soon to collect any of the social security checks he'd been anticipating.
Aunt Martha didn't cry, for crying wasn't in her stock of emotions, and neither did Lydia. Instead, the girl sealed herself in her bedroom (Aunt Martha was gone to the funeral parlor and looked at the mirror, at the bed, at the room that would never again be defiled by Uncle George's brutal rapist demands. As a special treat, she undressed to the skin and, pussy aimed at the mirror so she could see every stroke, every pass of fingers, every deep, response-inducing plunge, Lydia masturbated herself to the most delicious climaxes of her life. Nearly as thrilling as that first time she'd felt Uncle George's cock go off inside her and had erupted in spite of herself.
She never dated in high school. Aunt Martha thought it unfit for a young girl to be spending time with boys, saying and doing God knew what, and, while he was alive, Uncle George backed her up. "After all," he used to tell Lydia on her bed, "ain't I givin' you all the fuck you need? Huh?" And his cock would jab vigorously in her tight snatch, emphasizing the question more strongly than mere words ever could.
There were boys who showed interest in Lydia, but she knew what they were really interested in. They might speak of cokes and burgers, of dances at the school gym, of movie shows at the town's only theater, but all they really wanted was to fuck her. Just like Uncle George. They wanted to strip away her clothes where no one could hear Lydia's cries for help, they wanted to feel her mouth slipping up and down their cocks all wet and hot and slurpy, they wanted to penetrate to the very mouth of her womb with their stiff driving peckers, to fill her belly with scalding, viscous cum, to make her cry and whimper and respond no matter how much she resisted- And she'd have none of it! Uncle George had used her like a breeding animal, but no man would ever abuse her that way again. No man would ever force her to betray the integrity of her body the way Uncle George had. She'd see to it, by God!
So it really started in high school, Lydia decided later. She wasn't allowed to go out with boys, but she could meet them in the wooded reaches of the school grounds or, when winter set in and it was too cold outside, in the sub-basement of the main building.
Of course, those early high-school sessions had been little more than practice runs for the full-scale, perfected brand of cockteasing she was capable of now. Sometimes it got out of hand when she was still learning the ropes, but not often, One noon, in the dark, cobwebby sub-basement, she had been stroking a boy's bare cock while he fingered her pussy and made her feel very good, and then-before she could stop her-he was upon her, sliding his tool into her snatch.
"Oh, stop, damn you!!!" she had screamed, a shrill wail that bounced off the walls of the dark room. The echo must have frightened him, because he jerked his dick out of her with such speed and friction that he shot off almost at once, his thick sticky jism dripping onto Lydia's legs and belly.
But that was a rare instance. High-school boys were so eager just to touch and kiss a girl that she had little trouble manipulating them. And it was so much fun, when she'd fixed the rules firmly in her mind. She delighted in allowing boys to use her body, to feel and kiss and play with her, and it was a red-letter day indeed when one brave lad volunteered to use his mouth on her pussy, to lick and tongue her wet slit until she erupted in a moaned climax that wrapped her legs around his neck and almost drowned him in sloppy cuntal fluids. Uncle George had never done that to her, though he'd been more than happy to accept oral favors from his young niece. In time, Lydia made it compulsory upon her men to worship her twat with their mouths.
But when it was over, when she'd moaned and sighed and pumped her milky liquor from her twat, she let them know definitely who was in charge. "PLEASE!!" they used to beg her, standing there with stiff cocks that longed for release, and sometimes she'd jerk them off with her delicate hand, always letting go just before the cock spurted, so that the boy had to finish himself, provide that necessary last stroke with his own fingers. It seemed to make everything perfect. Instead of being Lord and master of a quivering nubile maiden, the boy ended up jerking himself to a climax while Lydia watched with emotionless eyes and a brain seething in her contempt for men and their ugly cocks.
Occasionally she had to vary the procedure. A notorious high school heartthrob, quarterback of the school's football team, actually received a blowjob from demure Lydia Pembroke out in the woods. Not much of a blowjob, to be honest. She knew how to suck a cock-Uncle George had taught her, using his fists whenever she made a misstep-but with the young athlete, Lydia was strangely inept, biting him, gagging, little tears rolling down her cheeks. He too had ended up masturbating himself to orgasm while she watched, and it was a lovely sight indeed. At home that evening, secure in her bedroom, she frigged herself to come after come remembering relishing.
After high school there was no hope of college for Lydia. Aunt Martha didn't approve, and there wasn't enough money. "A woman's duty is to marry and have children, to serve her husband and propagate the species," Aunt Martha used to say. Bullshit! Lydia used to think. How many children did you and Uncle George have? And if you'd served your husband a little better, maybe he wouldn't have been so horny. Maybe he wouldn't have raped his little fourteen-year-old niece, not one time but a hundred times. Bullshit, Aunt Martha, and bullshit till it runs out your ears!
Lydia had her father's social security, paid till she turned eighteen or till she completed her education. She weighed the alternatives and, a month after graduating from high school, she moved out of Aunt Martha's house, caught the bus to Clarksburg, and enrolled in a business school there.
The old game took on new delights in Clarksburg, which was a much larger city than Sutton. Lydia grew a little taller-at nineteen she was five feet six and weighed a beautifully distributed 120 pounds. Her breasts were 34-Bs, high and nicely separated, peaking into delicious red points; her waist was a trim 21 inches, and her hips were a full and eye-catching 35 inches. She was long-legged, and the miniskirts that had just come boldly into fashion were perfect for Lydia. There were men in Clarksburg, and she worked her wiles on so many of them, so many! Lydia had entered her prime; she was a one-woman blue balls epidemic.
"You never go out with the same guy twice," her roommate and classmate at business school used to observe in the small apartment they shared. "I mean, Christ, Liddy-you're a knockout, you could prob'ly be a movie star if you wanted to be. Guys are crawling after you on their knees, for Chrissakes, good-looking guys, guys with good jobs and money. But you given them all the gate. And you just take it in stride. How do you handle it? Don't you ever think about settling down?"
Settling down? Lydia thought. Settling down? When there are millions of men out there, millions of men to lead on and then humiliate where it really hurts, in their goddamned cocks? Settling down, for shit's sake?
What did Kitty mean by settling down? Did she mean her own goal in life-learning to be a good secretary so she could go back home to Glenville and marry that garage mechanic, that dark, greasy-haired stud whose picture hung on the wall above her bed, who used to come up to visit on weekends, wearing a t-shirt with a pack of Camels rolled up in one short sleeve like something left over from a James Dean movie? Kitty talked of nothing else but that asshole. Presumably she was fucking him when she could, panting for the day when she'd be his by virtue of a preacher's say-so.
And when they did marry-Kitty and her Junie-he'd take her to his bed and do all those horrible things to her, and it was his right and privilege as her husband. He could fuck her, make her suck his cock, could stick his prick up her ass if he felt the urge. Being a wife was nearly as bad as being a fourteen-year-old girl living off the charity of relatives who included a vicious, horny beast of an uncle. She shuddered and changed the subject. She didn't want to think about men.
Lydia graduated from business school, top in her class, and she could take shorthand at breakneck speed, type like a whirlwind, file, answer telephones, do everything that a good secretary needed to do. She found a job almost immediately, at the state university in Morgan town, and there disaster almost overtook her.
* * *
It was during her third year at Morgantown, and she was a secretary in the department of Languages and Literature. It was a good job that paid her enough to live comfortably, and she enjoyed both the work and the surroundings. Morgantown was a city of 20,000 souls, and there were an additional 14,000 students at the university, over half of them males. She could have taken a different man each night if she wanted, but she willed herself to restraint. On weekends she went out with men and left them drained of their obnoxious male superiority, and through the week she kept up her strength by masturbating and remembering. Her pleasure came in healthy doses, until. . .
Until she met him.
His name was Jerry Tracy, and he was a first year instructor in American Literature. In his middle twenties, just a couple of years older than Lydia, not handsome, not pushy, not at all the macho type. He was almost disarmingly friendly. "Are you back again?" she'd ask when he entered the department offices for the tenth time in a morning.
"I just wanted to make sure you were still here," he'd say, smiling a smile that made little shivers climb her spine.
He wasn't like other men. He looked at her, and she could see interest gleaming in his eyes, but it was a different kind of interest, as if he saw her as a person rather than a sex object. She felt strangely comfortable around him, and after a few days she began to look forward to his stop-in visits. They went out for coffee when her breaks coincided with his out of class time, and when he asked her for a date, she almost gasped to hear herself say "Yes."
She could talk to him, Lydia discovered that evening, and it was nice. She'd never really talked to a man before. When he took her hand in the movie theater, her fingers and his seemed to intertwine like living, growing flowers, and a warmth flowed from Jerry into Lydia, a warmth that touched parts of the young woman she had thought unreachable by anyone, anything, except herself.
He came to her apartment on their third date, and he was a perfect gentleman. He kissed her, and his fingers skated lightly across one of her round breasts, but he didn't demand anything of her. Later that night, alone in her bed and masturbating to the memory of his kiss, she wondered if she mightn't be falling in ... in love, if she weren't finally opening her heart to another human being. The idea thrilled her with its unexpected surprise, and she kicked her twitching legs high into the air as orgasm swept across her body like a riptide.
A few nights later they sat in her apartment, sipping drinks, listening to music on her stereo. "I feel different when I'm with you," she said. "You probably don't know what I'm talking about, but I do. I'm like a whole, new person, just because you're sitting there and I'm sitting here and we're together. Why should that be?"
He smiled. "I'm sure I don't know. Who are you most of the time? When you're not with me, I mean?"
Lydia put down her drink and took a deep breath. Then she kissed him, very forcefully. Her arms locked around his neck and shoulders, and she pressed him with the curvaceous mounds of her tits."Jerry's lips warmed in the kiss and he put his arms around her. One of his hands encircled her completely, slipping beneath her arm to cup, from the side, her right breast. She was braless under a loose silk shirt and her nipple hardened at the touch of his fingers, throbbing into the base of Lydia's brain. She moved her legs as the kiss continued, and she found that the crotch of her panties was sopping wet inside the flowing slacks she wore. And the warm presence of his body now, so close to hers, so close-oh, God, what was tingling in her head? Why did her heart beat so fast? Why were her loins flaming with need and desire? Why did her pussy drip sweet honey? What did she want?
"I don't even know who I am now," she said finally, sighing as their lips parted. She looked into his eyes.
"Let's find out," Jerry suggested. "Let's find out together, Lydia. All right?"
He took her hand and pulled her gently to her feet. Lydia's breath caught, deep in her lungs, somewhere near that racing, skittering, pulsating heart of hers. "Yes," she whispered.
She couldn't speak, could scarcely breathe, as he led her into the bedroom. If she opened her mouth at all, she was positive her heart would jump through her parted lips and bounce across the floor like a rubber ball. It was all so strange. She'd never felt this way before. Never.
When he'd undressed them both, Jerry sat Lydia down on the edge of her bed, beside him. His cock was sticking up, hard and hot, but she'd scarcely noticed it. More pressing, more urgent, was the slow sensual caress of his fingers and lips on the most responsive portions of her body. He kissed her mouth, then her breasts, lips rolling on her stiff jutting nipples. At the same time he petted the trembling curves of her legs, stroked her flanks, let his fingers glide softly over the swollen wet lips of her pouting pussy. If she could have gaped herself wide open then, she'd have swallowed his hand up her cunt. She knew it, knew that she wanted him, and the knowing made her shake and tremble all the more. Lydia eased against him, hungry for his mouth, hungrier for his hands, hungriest of all for his . .. for his . . . oh God, did she really want that? Did she really want him to fuck her?
She reached down, captured the tip of his erected pecker between her thumb and forefinger.
It was big, swollen with his own lusts and hungers, the flesh of his knob hot and slightly spongy in her caress. "Yes," she sighed, "yes, I want it! I want you! Take me, darling, take me! Take everything!!"
Lydia lay back, panting, and he moved with her, his lips by now on her tummy, tongue flirting with the edge of her beaver. As he licked the dark curling puff of hair, he stroked more insistently on her pussy lips, parting the tight petals with his finger, stealing inside to massage the erected bud of her clit. She closed her eyes. Hot fires ran through her body.
No one had ever touched her this way before, with the perfect, so perfect mixture of tenderness and desire. She'd never felt this kind of arousal even under the knowing caress of her own fingers. Hot milky girl cream oozed from her hungry twat, soaking Jerry's hand where he played with her.
She wanted him to eat her cunt, and she'd just raised her head to beg him for that particular pleasure, when everything went wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.
He had a finger in her pussy, tickling Lydia where she lived, and his lazy tongue glided through the curly forest of her pubic fur, but it wasn't Jerry making love to her. The face between her legs-the face that looked up, smiling-it was-oh, God in heaven-she saw the long-dead face of her Uncle George!
Lydia screamed and jerked. His finger slammed into her cunt because of her body's sudden reaction, and Uncle George's face was staring at her from down there. She studied it in horror, seeing all his well-remembered features-the balding pate, the uneven, yellowed teeth of a mouth she'd never kissed, never wanted to kiss-and it seemed that the voice which suddenly rang in her ears was Uncle George's, too. She couldn't hear what he was saying because her own screams were of catastrophic pitch and intensity. His finger sprang out of her pussy and she jerked away, crawling across the bed in panic, out of his reach, away, away, away from ugly Uncle George and the ugly fat cock with which he'd broken her cherry, the cock he'd come back from the grave to use on her again.
She screamed and screamed and screamed, evading his hands when he tried to soothe away her fears, and somewhere in the depths of Lydia's consciousness she knew that this wasn't Uncle George, that it was Jerry, that only a few minutes ago she'd thought herself in love with this man.
But not now. She recognized the deeper significance of her hallucination. He might not be Uncle George, but he was a man, and no matter how he tried to disguise it, he wanted from Lydia only the same things her hated uncle had wanted, had taken. "Lydia," she heard him whisper, and the voice was definitely Jerry's, but it didn't matter. Not now.
"Get out! Get the hell out of here! Never come near me again! Never! Never! H!" she moaned, curling into a tight little ball of huddled flesh the narrow space between the wall and the edge of her bed. She didn't even look up to watch him go.
The next morning she gave the university her two weeks' notice, and she spent most of those two weeks ignoring Jerry when he tried to approach her. He seemed to get the message, finally. Her last three or four days on the job she didn't see him at all.
Form Morgantown she moved north, this time to Pittsburgh, where she found a job with a large insurance brokerage. She returned to her teasing game with a vengeance, and Lydia thrilled in the knowledge that she had not lost the knack. Sometimes she thought of Jerry Tracy, of what it had nearly been, of what it had become after all, and the memory hardened her heart. Men! Damn them!!
Two years in Pittsburgh, and then it was on to Cleveland. How much longer would she stay here? She couldn't guess. Lydia was a valued employee of Midwestern Life Insurance. A good secretary, she knew as much about the business as most of the younger executives, and she was pretty enough to brighten up an office.
And the building was full of young trainees, all of them bright, personable, ambitious, eager to move up in the world of insurance. Young men who thought that seducing their vice president's secretary would be an excellent way to score points and improve their standing with the company. So far, in the ten months she'd been here, Lydia had responded to, then destroyed three of the arrogant bastards.
Richard Welby, all capped teeth and tight pants on a big cock. Fresh out of Ohio State, macho as a stud bull, but vulnerable where it counted-between the legs. And Greg Chastain, dark where Richard was blonde, rash where Richard was smooth. He'd been easy, too. They'd gone to a porno movie and he'd counted on the filmed antics of Tina Russell and Georgina Spelvin in quest of a hard cock as enough to make Lydia Pembroke drool with desire, to make her easy pickings for his pecker.
He was wrong, just as Richard Welby had been wrong, just as Keith Waters, still another of the bright young men, had proven himself wrong only this evening. They'd come in with bright dreams of conquest, they'd gone out with hard aching cocks Lydia didn't need, didn't want. And if she was alone now, alone in her bedroom, it was because she wanted to be alone, because she could serve herself better than any man could hope to. If only she could degrade every male in the world, just this way. If only . . .
Serious-faced, Lydia stared at her pussy in the mirror. She was sitting on a chair only a couple of feet from the polished glass, legs thrown across the chair's arm rests, her cunt gaping wide. She twined her fingers amid the delicate protrusion of pubic curls and opened herself a little further, sighing as the pussy lips twittered in response to her caresses.
Her coral-red vulva reflected in the glass, its surface slick and moist, gleaming at her from the mirror. And there, in the midst of the carmine flower, the hole of her cunt itself. She widened her legs, arching her pussy toward the mirror so she could see it better. Her cuntal mouth dilated and she looked at the reflection of her opened sex tunnel. Lydia began to stroke herself, grateful that fate had given her yet another night of revenge upon the male sex.
"Ah, yes, there, baby," she told herself, watching her twat in the polished mirror, watching her finger slide carelessly through the red furrow of her sex. Her clit was erected majestically from its little hiding place, and it glistened red, swollen, eager to be loved and fondled. Lydia closed a thumb and finger upon her clitoris, wincing at the initial pain of sensitive flesh cruelly grasped, and she squeezed her bud the way she'd squeeze a ripe pimple.
She nearly shot out of the chair as a million separate zings shot through her body, all of them emanating from that fantastically receptive button of flesh planted inside the gates of her pussy. She felt the hot juices begin to flow from her even before she looked at the mirror and saw them, thick as cream, oozing across her petting fingers. She puddled in that cum, soaked her fingers with it, greased herself for the digital journey up her cunt that she must make soon, soon-if she wanted to get any real relief this night.
"Who needs anything else?" she asked the dark-haired gin in the mirror, and then she shook her head, just as the mirror girl shook her head. "You and me, babe. Just you. .. and . . . meeeee!!!" And with that, Lydia bunched three fingers together, made them a stabbing wedge-shaped tool, a tool that she rammed into the mouth of her cunt, stabbing as deeply, as savagely as she could bear to fingerfuck herself.
She'd done it so many times now, and still it was a wonder to her the way her fingers jammed into her twat, the way they spread her lips but stopped just short of ripping her puss asunder. Up, up, into the depths of Lydia Pembroke those wedged fingers penetrated, and she writhed frantically in the chair. Her pussy turned this way and that, trying to suck up those driving fingers, welcoming them as she could never welcome the penis they imitated. Lydia's cuntal muscles ripped frenetically and her fingers squished in the milky girl-cum that leaked from her hole in greater and greater abundance.
"Fuck me," she panted to her image in the mirror. "Fuck me Lydia and fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuckme fuckme fuckme fuckme fuckmefuckmef uckmefuckmefuckfuckfuckfuck- fuck-ohhhhhhh-God! Baby nobody does it like you-nobody will ever do it like you-I won't let anybody else-you and me baby you and ... you and ... meeeeeeeeee
...."
Her pussy erupted, boiling hot inside, where her fingers stabbed through the tight sheath, scooped up the flowing cream, and her legs felt like they were on fire, all the way up, from toes to twat. And she was on fire everywhere else, too. Her tits, throbbing and pulsating, her eyes rolling in their sockets, her breath hard and raspy in her throat. She felt it all, every fantastic stimuli of that orgasm, but most of all she felt it in her pussy, in that hole between her legs, the snatch that could never belong to any man no matter how he begged for it, no matter how he lusted for it, no matter what slick tricks he attempted to use on her. They were all the same, those men, and she didn't need them, didn't want them, except as her toys, the playthings of her knowing maturity-turn them on, then turn them off... show them ... teach them ... humble them .. . destroy them ...
"Oh, Lydia!" she moaned aloud, and when she opened her eyes she was smiling at the girl in the mirror, who smiled back just as prettily, just as sexy, just as beautiful in her fulfillment.
It was time to go to bed. She had an appointment with her hairdresser tomorrow morning, and Saturday appointments were hard to get. The hairdresser was nice, as men went. Nicer. He was a homosexual, soft and sweet and nice-smelling, and she sensed no threat from him. In his hands she only became more beautiful. He helped her, made her more lovely, gave her the ammunition to bring down the rest of his species. They were like allies.
She rose from the chair, pushed it out of the way. Yawning, she moved toward her bed. It would be nice to crawl between those crispy clean sheets all naked and cunty, the way she was right now, weary with her release, and to let sleep drift in like a gentle flowing cloud. Ah, what better way to go to sleep than this, still humming from her orgasm, joyous from the humiliation of yet another man?
Keith. She'd put him in her memory book for sure. Nice, as nice went, but he was only a man. He only wanted her body, wanted to use her the way Uncle George had used her. Lydia turned off the lights and slipped into bed. She lay there in the darkness trying to recall exactly how he'd looked when he discovered she had no intention of fucking him. Oh, God, what a face he'd made! Like a constipated ape! She should wire her room, install a videotape camera and playback unit so she could record all her sessions and relive them any time she felt like it. But the equipment was expensive and, besides, she had a good memory. She could remember all the important parts without any mechanical aid.
He'd mentioned that she had a reputation for this sort of thing. Perhaps he'd been talking to Richard and Greg. Maybe they talked about her in the washroom. That executive sec who looks like a wet dream on legs but won't put out. Oh, she hoped they talked about her! Hoped they discussed her over their lunchtime drinks, cursing the fact that they'd been thwarted from fucking her. She wanted them all to know how much they were missing.
Perhaps, if another of the rising young men pm a make on her, she should go a little further. Suck his cock, say? Or even-Lydia squirmed-let him slip his cock in? Not to completion, of course, but just enough to let him taste the sweets of her body and hunger for them, a hunger that could never be sated. Wouldn't Richard and Greg and Keith shit if they found that someone else had been lucky enough to score that much where they'd struck out disgracefully? She liked the idea but she wasn't sure if she could go through with it. Not even for effect. The idea of having a penis inserted in her body was disgusting. Even now, safe in her room, she felt chilly and nauseous contemplating it.
Oh, this wasn't the time to be making such decisions! She should get some sleep, so she'd be all bright and chipper for her appointment at the salon. Confront the world of men when the time came. So many men, there at the office, all of them watching her day after day, all of them no doubt fantasizing how it would be to spread her legs and fill her with cock. Such a challenge! She wanted to destroy all of them, to deflate their cocks with her scorn and contempt. But for now- Lydia closed her eyes and slept the sleep of the just.
* * *
In a little bar off Euclid Avenue, in a booth far to the rear, Keith Waters stirred a glass of Paddy's and soda. Finally he looked up with a frown and announced to the two young men seated across from him, "Okay. You were right. I thought you were both holding out on me, but you're right. She's a cockteaser, and she knows she's a cockteaser, and I think she gets a certain sick pleasure from it." His voice level dropped. "After I left, I went to a gas station, filled my tank, then went into the men's room and jerked off. Do you know how long it's been since I've had to get myself off? Not since I was a fuckin' kid! My nuts are still aching. She got me up, big and hard, and I was ready to slam it in and fuck her till Sunday. Christ, when I think about it-"
One of the men lit a cigarette. "The way I see it," he said, "we have two choices. One, we could let her get away with it, maybe warn our better friends not to bother unless they want a terminal case of blue balls."
)
Keith sipped his whisky. "And the other choice?"
The man blew out smoke. "We could teach her a lesson. I mean a real lesson. Jesus, I remember when I was at OSU, and Gloria Steinem gave a speech on campus-man, you couldn't get a piece of ass for weeks after that. All you heard was 'male chauvinist pig' and 'exploiters of women's bodies' and all the rest of the Commie crap. I still have bad dreams about it."
"It sounds pretty good," the third man put in. "Mighty fine to these ears. I'm all for it."
"Are you?" He blew out more smoke. "This isn't any candy-ass fun and games I'm talking about. It's serious business-sticking up for our kind-for men everywhere."
Keith shrugged. "Like I said, my balls are still aching, I think she needs a lesson. What do you have in mind?"
Chapter Five
Lydia's eyes opened slowly and consciousness came upon her in little fits and starts. Her head throbbed, for a moment or two, throbbed with a dull aching pain, and there was a heaviness in her breasts. Her arms and legs had a strained feeling, and she tried to remember what had happened ...
She was on her way to the car, parked in the lot under her apartment building. It was just after ten in the morning, and she was due at her beauty salon at eleven. The morning after she'd gone out with Keith Barker. That much she was sure of.
She'd left the elevator, walked through the underground lot toward her Pinto, not really thinking of anything except the hour or two she'd spend being shampooed, clipped, blown dry, and styled, how lovely that new hairdo would look, reflected from the shiny polished glass of her mirror, how it would set off the stunning face and figure she loved to watch in her looking glass.
And she'd reached her car. Definitely. She remembered opening her purse, reaching inside for the keys. And then .. . then ...
Faces-strange faces-all around her. One looked like Frankenstein's monster, another like a gorilla, a third exactly like Richard Nixon. Horrible faces, drawn from reality and fantasy alike, faces that startled her until she realized that they were only rubber masks, that Frankenstein's monster had not joined forces with a gorilla and the ex-President to terrify her. But it wasn't Halloween, and the three bodies around her were of grown men, much too old for trick-or-treating even if it was the right season. "Hello, Lydia," one of them had growled in a strange, forced voice, and she had turned toward him-or at least toward his Nixon mask-when something exotic, something intoxicating, filled her nostrils and she felt herself suddenly sinking, sinking .. .
Lydia looked up, too weary still to move. She had never seen this room before. Of that she was positive. "Where am I?" she said aloud, looking at the low ceiling that seemed almost within touching distance of her nose tip. Her hips moved. She was lying on a bed. A solid bed but a very large one, her flickering eyes deduced. A strange bed, a strange room. Probably a strange house, too. And the more she thought, the clearer it became. That strange smell had been ether. She'd been drugged. Obvious. Otherwise, she'd remember all of it, what happened between the moment those three rubber-masked men accosted her and the moment she awoke on this bed.
Lydia blinked a couple of times. Her head wasn't hurting so much now and she decided it would be a good idea for her to sit up, take stock of her surroundings. Across the room a window let in slanted light, the light of afternoon. It had to be afternoon, for that kind of light shone only in the early morning and the late afternoon, and she'd already missed out on early morning. Perhaps if she went to that window she could look out and catch sight of a familiar landmark, something that would give her a clue as to where she was. Lydia decided to sit up.
That's when she discovered that her arms and legs ached because she was securely tied to the bed on which she lay.
It was a large bed, bigger than king-size, an old four-poster, and each of her four limbs was fastened to one of those upright phallic posts with a strong, tightly-knotted cord. She could move-at least could squirm on the mattress-but she could not sit up. Lydia's consciousness increased, and there was a cold chill in her head. Who had tied her? In the name of God, WHO HAD TIED HER??? Who had brought her to this room, a room she'd never seen before, a bed on which she'd never lain, and WHO had tied her to that bed with strong ropes?
A kidnapping? she thought instantly. My God, a kidnapping?
But why me? she asked herself. There was no one to pay a ransom for her return. She hadn't a soul in the world. Aunt Martha, her only relative, had died two years ago. Political terrorists, perhaps? In Cleveland? And if so, why had they picked her? She was of no importance to anyone except herself. No one. It was insane. Totally insane.
"Good God," Lydia said aloud, listening to the echo of her words as they bounced from wall to wall in the empty room. She began to smell a soft hint of must and mildew. "Good God!"
Again she strained at the ropes, found them as tight as before.
I was on my way to the beauty salon, she thought. I was on my way to the beauty salon. I am still on my way to the beauty salon. I probably stubbed my toe walking across the parking garage and my concentration has lapsed. I'm just fantasizing during that split second's lapse. If I blink twice, my head will clear and there I'll be, unlocking my car door, and there we be no men in Frankenstein, gorilla, and Nixon masks, no one saying "Lydia," no one doping me with an ether-soaked rag to make me pass out. If I blink twice, none of it will have happened.
Lydia blinked. Twice. Bravely. When she opened her eyes the second time she was still there, still on the bed, still bound fast, and she opened her mouth in a scream of terror.
"AAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"
She flopped, like a fish out of water, struggling against the bonds that allowed illusion of movement. The bed shook and rattled, and she kept screaming, screaming, screaming, tears rolling from her eyes even though the lids were tightly shut, tears that stung and burnt as they oozed down her scream-flushed face. Something touched her shoulder.
Lydia screamed again, and she opened her eyes slowly, blinking till the mist of tears had cleared and blurry vision returned. Richard Nixon was leaning over her, his rubber face so close she could smell the material of the mask, and once again his hand stroked her shoulder.
"So you're awake," he said behind his rubber smile.
"Where am I? Who are you? What do you want with me?"
Frankenstein was peering over Nixon's shoulder. He seemed to be a slightly taller man, but the mask made it difficult for her to be certain of anything. That input of fantasy, of displacement. "Hello, Lydia," he croaked, and she recognized the voice that had spoken to her in the parking garage.
To the rear, the man with a gorilla face stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He was near the window, as if he felt awkward about being too close to the other two.
"You look comfortable. Are you?" Nixon asked cordially. There was something about his voice, Lydia flashed suddenly. She'd heard that voice before. But where?
"I'm not comfortable!" she blurted, frothy spit bubbling on her mouth. Some of it must have sprayed his mask but he paid no attention. She couldn't see anything except the man's eyes, but Lydia knew that he was smiling beneath that rubber face.
He put his hands on her chest, cupping a palm over each of Lydia's tits. "Does this help any?" he asked, mirth evident in his tone. He clenched down, squeezing the pliable mounds with a firm grip. Lydia groaned and arched herself toward him. "I see it does help," Nixon commented. "Give us some help, would you, Kong and Boris? Let's try to make the lady really comfortable.'
That voice. Where, and when, had she heard that voice before? "Let go!" she told him angrily. "Let go of me!"
Frankenstein circled round the bed and leaned across from the other side. Lydia looked up at him, and her heart chilled, even though Nixon seemed bent upon massaging life into her tits. "Here," Frankenstein said, "let me lend a hand." He unbuckled her belt.
"STOP!!" she wailed, but the monster-faced man had already unbuttoned her slacks and was dragging them down her kicking, quivering legs, pulling panties along too. She blushed carmine, blood pounding at her temples. "Oh, my God!!!"
He pulled the slacks and panties all the way to her ankles, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. He couldn't take them completely off, because of the ropes, but a hell of a lot that mattered. She was bare from waist to ankles and through the eye slits of his mask she could see Frankenstein's gloating leers as he stared at her legs and pussy. "Please," she whispered, and her tits burned where Nixon kept abusing them with his hands.
"Good idea," Nixon commented. He let go of her breasts, and Lydia gasped in sudden relief. And then his hands flew, and he ripped open the front of her blouse, popping every button in one quick tearing motion.
"AAAAGGGGHHHH!!" Lydia screamed, bucking upward till the ropes tore into the delicate flesh of her wrists. Her bra-covered tits thrust as she moved, but they were bra-covered for only another moment. Nixon hooked a finger into the crosspiece between her boobs, jerked savagely, and the brassiere ripped as easily as had her skirt. He flung the cups away from the tits they no longer covered, and she felt the flush drop down from her face to her breasts. Oh, God, what was happening?
"Isn't this a lot better," Nixon asked silkily, "now that you're not wearing all those stuffy clothes? Mmmmm?" He tickled a nipple with the nail of his little finger, tickled until the pap erected automatically and Lydia squirmed in a vain effort to elude his casual stroking.
But she could only concentrate on Nixon's caresses for another second, because a spurt of pain emanated from her pussy. Frankenstein had closed her hand upon her cunt and was mauling her soft flesh and hair.
"This is the piece I want," said the man horror-movie face. He squeezed, underlining his words, and she moaned in a mixture of panic and revulsion.
"Of course, Boris," said Nixon. "We'll all try it out. That's why we brought her here."
"Oh, God," Lydia whispered, "what are you talking about? Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?"
"You have a lot of questions," Nixon replied. "Too many for a girl in your position, Lydia. Far too many."
That voice. She closed her eyes, trying to remember it. Where? When? Who? Richard Nixon. No. Not Richard Nixon. Richard .. . Richard ... RICHARD WELBY!!
"Richard!" she wailed. "You're Richard-" The last time she'd heard that voice, three weeks ago last night in her apartment, he'd been stroking an erection and threatening to stick it up her ass if she didn't come across with the cunt she'd been promising all evening. "Drop dead, you pathetic worm," she'd replied, in a voice dripping with honey-soaked poison.
Nixon straightened up, very quickly, and his hands fell away from her body. "Well," he said in a slightly miffed tone. "I guess our little surprise isn't working out." He peeled off the rubber face. "Why don't we all unmask," he added. "I think our lady friend has already been stripped of her own defenses, so maybe we should reciprocate."
"You bastard," she said. "You lousy bastard! What do you think you're doing, anyway? Bringing me here, treating me like some kind of kidnapped heiress-"
Richard Welby leaned toward her. He slapped Lydia with the back of his hand, firmly across her open mouth. She stopped speaking at once, and her tongue dabbed weakly at the trickle of blood flowing from a cut lip. "We'll tell you when it's time for you to speak," he smiled. Without the ugly mask he looked even more horrifying, for it was his own face she was seeing, and on that face evil was spelled out in huge legible characters. His eyes-oh, Jesus, his eyes! Like a snake's eyes, staring at her, piercing all her defenses, spewing degradation onto Lydia where she lay unable to move or resist.
Frankenstein removed his mask too. "I think you know my friend Gregory Chastain, of the Toledo Chastains," Richard said, making a courtly gesture toward the dark young man across the bed, the dark young man who still had a hand on Lydia's pussy, still cupped her quivering, tense cunt with fingers of iron will and determination. "And as for King Kong, over by the window-come on, join the crowd, Keith. You spent last evening with Lydia. She ought to remember you very well." Removing his mask as he walked, the gorilla became Keith Waters and joined his companions by Lydia's bed.
"So!" Richard Welby went on. "I presume you know why we've called you here today, now that you know who we are. Every revolutionary cause has its militant wing. The Black Panthers. The Jewish Defense League. The Symbionese Liberation Army. The Weathermen. Well, the Commies and subversives aren't the only ones who need a radical action wing. You might consider us the militant shock troops of Men's Liberation."
She gasped. Richard smiled. So did Greg. Keith still hung back, his face half shadowed.
"Yes," he went on. "We represent, in our humble presences, the needs and desires of men everywhere. Look at us, Lydia. Greg and Keith and me. We're good-looking, much better educated than the common man in the streets. We're athletic, in the prime and glory of our youth, and each of us is destined to do quite well for himself in the world of business. All in all, I think that if you could divide mankind into Homo Superior and Homo Inferior, we'd definitely rank among the upper twenty-five per cent. Do you agree?"
"Go fuck yourself!"
"Aha," he grinned. "That's exactly what we're getting at. Greg and Keith and I have taken careful note of you, and we've compared our findings. We feel that you are a young woman with distinctly warped attitudes. So, in the name of men's liberation, we intend to show you that our sex was created to dominate your sex, and that you'd better start toeing the line."
"Oh my God!"
Greg let go of her pussy. "Yeah," he said. "Women's lib is giving this country a case of blue balls. It's time for a change. And Lydia, baby, you're it."
They were crazy. What were they talking about? "Listen-" she began, but Richard laid his finger across her lips.
"Just relax," he said. "You gave us all the royal come-on, then lowered the boom when it really counted. We're just here to collect. And you're here to pay out what you owe. Gentlemen, I think Greg opted for the first bout."
"You're crazy-" but he touched her lips again. She could still taste blood from the time he'd struck her and she was afraid he'd do it again. Oh, God, he was crazy enough to do something really weird! Lydia closed her eyes. He'd already done something really weird! He and his friends had doped her and brought her here, to ... to ... to wherever she was now, and they'd stripped her clothes off and given her a fruitcakey spiel about men's liberation, and now-Jesus, what were they going to do now?
She looked at Greg. He'd taken off his shirt. Lydia's heart chilled with alarm. Oh, Jesus, he was unbuckling his belt, too! Broad shoulders, very smooth chest with small hard nipples standing up on it, a small ring of hair around his navel, trailing downward into his pants-dear God, not into his pants now, because his pants were dropping to the floor!
Greg stepped out of his fallen trousers, and now he was naked except for his shorts. Scratch that. He pulled down his shorts too, and his soft cock bounced into full view. Lydia closed her eyes. She didn't want to see his dick. She'd already seen it, the night she went out with him a couple of weeks back. They'd gone to a dirty movie, she remembered, and she'd toyed with his penis in the theater, turning him on manually while they watched Tina Russell on the big screen, fucking and sucking in livid color. He'd counted on getting a little fucking and, sucking too. Lydia had made sure he got that impression. All the better to bring him down later, at her apartment, when he was naked and hard and ready-only to find that she had no intention of giving him what he wanted. It was a little different now.
Greg climbed onto the bed. Lydia turned her face from him, but when she did she saw only Richard and Keith, watching from the sides, and Richard's face was horrible. He was gloating at her predicament, gloating as he watched Greg mount the bed, as he watched Lydia's mute plea for release. "He's only the first," Richard said. "We're all going to take you, Lydia. We're all going to fuck you. In the mouth, in the cunt, in your tight little asshole-in your armpits if we feel like it, and if we feel like it, you'd better clench yourself so we have a nice tight fuck spot."
Greg straddled Lydia's waist, and he was flipping his soft prick up and down. She stared at him, panting heavily. He moved forward on his knees, holding his limp cock toward her as he came. "I'm not hard, Lydia. See? My cock is too soft to fuck you with. Why don't you suck it till it's nice and thick and hard? Pretend you're Tina Russell in that movie we went to see. Lick my prick, and kiss it on the tip, and suck it till it swells up all big and red and hard in your mouth. What are you waiting for, Lydia? Open up wide. Come on, Lydia. Open up!"
He grabbed her face, a thumb pinching into one cheek, finger nudging at the other, till her mouth opened in a reluctant, pursed-lip oval. "NNNNNNNHHHHH!!" she grunted, but her cry of protest was cut off by the pressure of Greg's cock. He pushed it into her and he kept his thumb and finger in place so she could not spit him out. Gasping, moaning, struggling for breath, Lydia felt her mouth being raped by Greg's tool.
He tasted nasty, the way men always tasted. She closed her eyes, and suddenly she was fourteen again and Uncle George was making her suck his penis, and she didn't want to do it because it was horrid and ugly and nasty and it tasted bad and her mouth was full of him, she couldn't breathe, he was sticking that big ugly thing down her throat, trying to fuck her lungs instead of just her mouth, and she wanted to vomit, to spew up her discomfiture, but she couldn't, she couldn't, she couldn't do anything except suck, suck, suck, suck, suck on that piece of warm, quivery meat that snaked into her mouth, that jiggled around in her mouth, that began to grow and swell in her mouth, clamping down her tongue so she couldn't move it even if she'd wanted to, and now she was totally full of him, her cheeks puffed out, drool running from her lips, some of it flowing back down her throat, strangling Lydia, choking her- "That's good," Greg said, patting her forehead. He pulled his cock out of her mouth. Lydia's lips snapped shut, but the gesture was far too late in coming. She'd already been defiled.
Something moist and hot touched her face. First the forehead, then the eyelids, then down one side of her nose, beneath, up the other side. Oh, God, he was rubbing his pecker on her skin! No wonder she felt that crawly sensation in every pore of her being! Lydia squirmed, wishing that the ropes were longer, so that she could crawl just a little further from him.
Down her neck moved the tip of his pecker, still touching her. He rubbed himself on the nipples of her tits, rubbed until her paps tingled and throbbed and maybe even stood up a little higher and harder, and he even slipped his cock back and forth, in and out of her smooth-shaven armpits, worked it till she moaned and made gagging sounds of protest. It tickled! It sickened her! And she couldn't even lower her arms to keep him out, because of the ropes that bound her.
She opened her eyes, not really wanting to, and she looked at Richard. "Why?" she moaned. "Why are you doing this to me? Am I that important? Am I the only woman who ever kept you from getting your sick perverted jollies? Is that why you kidnapped me, why you're going to . . . going to... "
"No," he said lucidly. "You're not the only woman who ever teased a cock. You're not the only woman who ever teased my cock, or Greg's, or Keith's, and then left us high and dry. Ever since this Commie Women's Lib movement started, there's been a lot of that shit going around. We just decided that it's time for us to make our stand, to announce that we're not gonna take any more of it. All of us have gone out with you, and you've given us all the same treatment. We just intend to show you that it can't go on forever. You owe us, Lydia. You owe all three of us-and we're going to collect on that debt."
He was crazy. Absolutely crazy. Women's Lib? Commies? He sounded like a more grammatical Archie Bunker. She had no connection with the women's liberation movement. She simply hated men because of what her uncle had done to her when she was a child. And now-oh, my God-now they were going to do it all over again!
Greg was still astride her body, but moving downward, his cock playing a path across her chest, down her tummy. Without warning he jabbed the tip of his dick into her navel, as if he meant to fuck her there. "GGGGGHHHHH!!!" Lydia wailed, sucking in her stomach, though it was a futile means of avoiding the quick daring strokes of Greg's pecker.
"Hurry up," Richard said. "Keith and I are waiting. We want our turns, too."
Keith still hung back. He hadn't said anything. Lydia looked past Richard, at the man she'd been with last night, but his eyes shifted, as if he didn't even wish to look. Was he ashamed of what they'd done? Well, if he was, he was damned late about it! And when she got out of here, when she went to the police and had them arrested, Keith Waters would go to the penitentiary right along with his- Greg was no longer straddling Lydia. She looked down, quickly, and saw that he was even then moving into the widespread angle between her legs. "Oh, God," she whimpered. "Please-don't do this to me-"
It was too late. She screamed as his pecker rammed into her unready cunt, and he was in her to the balls, livid hot, as big as a fencepost in her dry hole. Lydia's stomach seemed to burst aflame-or was it only her pussy lips that were burning, scorching, where his giant cock split them to the breaking point, past the breaking point? His belly bumped her groin and she knew that he was completely immersed in her twat, prodding as if he meant to slip even more of himself into Lydia, his balls swollen and weighty, swishing against the clenched split of her ass.
"Jesus, she's tight!" Greg shouted, grabbing her waist and pulling her groin toward him. "She's tight as a fucking virgin!"
Of course she was tight! No the forbidden portals of Lydia's pussy since she was sixteen-ten years ago. Only her fingers, and they were slender, delicate fingers, no match at all for the thick throbbing penis that now filled her twat, spread her unendurably, made her wince and cry out in heart stopping pain. "OOOOHHHH!!!!" she shrieked, her voice breaking into falsetto, her lungs aching from the intensity, the agony of the cry.
Somewhere in the distance a dog began to howl. It was a muted howling, faint but unmistakable to Lydia's ears as her own shriek faded. "Damn it," said Richard. "Why don't you go feed Bruno, Keith? She's gotten him all upset with her squalling."
"Is it safe?" Keith asked. It was the first time Lydia had heard him speak.
"Of course," Richard said. "He won't attack unless you're breaking into the house. Besides, he knows you."
"Okay," Keith replied, reluctance in his voice. He looked at Lydia, turned when she returned his stare, and then went out. He went quickly, as if he were glad to be leaving the room, glad to see the last of this spectacle.
"As for you," Richard said, smiling, "I think I have the answer." He went round the bed, stooped, and came up holding Greg's discarded undershorts. He looked at them carefully. "Hmmmm. No shit stains on your jockey shorts, Gregory. A yellow spot or two in front, but that's only natural, I suppose. Open up, Lydia. Open up like a good girl."
She didn't open up. Instead, he pinched her cheeks the way Greg had done, and when her lips parted reluctantly, he began to stuff the shorts into her mouth.
Lydia gurgled and gagged, but the more she tried to protest, the easier it was for Richard. He crammed Greg's shorts into her mouth, then patted her cheeks. "Good girl," he said. "Now you can scream your head off and it won't distract any of us from our duty."
She bit down on the shorts, tasted cotton, and grimaced. In another moment she found that Richard spoke the truth. Greg pulled his hips back and he started to fuck her in quick, rabbit like punches that turned her stomach upside down each time he rocked her full of his organ, and she wanted to scream-did scream-but the shorts gagged and muffled her cries and she had not even the pleasure of strong vocal resistance to the rape of her body.
Greg's fingers dug into her waist as he moved himself against her, into her, alternating his fucks between shallow and deep plunges with a kind of mathematical ratio. Lydia squirmed, and each penetration was a new type of agony, and her legs tensed and flexed, her cunt seeming to shrink each time he prodded her, so that she became even tighter around him, so tight that she expected the friction to burst her cunt into hot yellow flames at any moment.
But it didn't happen. Instead, he became slightly easier to accommodate. She couldn't believe it was really taking place, but her pussy seemed to be growing moist around his invading prick. My God! Was she actually lubricating for rape? There was a tingle in her belly, and she squirmed, exerting a kind of quirky, fluctuating pressure on Greg's sex organ. "That's it!" he shouted happily, reaming her navel with the tip of his middle finger. "Now you've got the idea!"
"Damned if she hasn't," Richard observed, leaning in to watch. He stared at Lydia's face from an angle that made her neck ache, and then he lowered his mouth to her nipples. She moaned as he began to suck her teats, whimpered when he started biting. His hands kneaded and teased her tits from their curved sides, locating each vein that pumped agitated, terror-filled blood into them. Oh, Jesus-there were two men working on her! Never in her wildest, sickest dreams had she imagined that this could be possible! And now, when she wanted to scream, needed to scream, if for no other reason than to assuage the pain and shame she felt, Lydia found herself virtually mute. She could cry out, but the shorts crammed into her mouth made the cries a bitter travesty of screaming. She had not even that petty consolation.
Damn them! Damn these men! She'd see them all in prison, wearing stripes and breaking up rocks! God! Richard was chewing her stiff nipples now, literally chewing them, like they were pieces of steak, and her teats throbbed, throbbed, throbbed in his mouth. Lydia tried to rock her body but the ropes held her in place. She could only endure.
Greg's fucking wasn't nearly as painful as when he'd started. There was no reason her pussy should have grown moist, given the situation, but that moisture was all that kept her from being ripped apart by Greg's dick. He kept slipping into her, ramming his belly against her pubic mound, pressing down the splayed lips of her twat until Lydia's clit began to tingle in response to the continuous pressure.
"Look out, buddy!" she heard Greg yell, and suddenly Richard was no longer suckling her titties. He lifted his face quickly, and then Greg's cock was out of her pussy and the dark-haired man was rising up, onto his knees, leaning up with his red, swollen cock in his hand. She watched in revulsion as he stroked himself twice, three times, and then the scarlet knobby tip gushed forth a seemingly unending stream of liquid cum.
He bathed her in his ejaculation, splattering her belly, shooting the stuff onto the tits Richard had just been sucking. Some of it even struck her in the face, and it was hot, slimy, sticky goo, landing upon her in thick gobs that flowed with unendurable slowness across her skin. She looked down, saw the white soup heavy upon her boobs, oozing toward the upstanding nipples, and she gagged. The shorts crammed into her mouth were strangling, and somehow she hoped they would strangle her, that the cotton briefs might slip into her gullet, entangle themselves in her throat, and let her die now, now!! Before it got any worse. Because Lydia knew that it was going to get worse. A lot worse. .
Greg kept fondling his pecker, and each time his hand skinned the outer layer of flesh up and down, a fresh dripping of cum fell onto Lydia's tummy. She writhed in sick discomfort, watching it happen, feeling it happen. Once she'd delighted in seeing men squirt their jism, but that had been in another time, another world. Lydia Pembroke had been in charge of things then. She'd been the one who made the rules. Now it was all different. She hadn't chosen this game and she didn't want to play, but it looked as if she had no choice.
"Jerk off on your own time," Richard Welby said. He unzipped his pants and hauled out his cock. Not a giant cock, but a solid one. Lydia knew all about Richard's prick. She'd seen it before, seen it erect in her stroking hand, and she'd sent him packing from her apartment with that cock still hard and unsatisfied. Well, he was hard now, but she was certain he wouldn't go away unsatisfied.
Greg descended from the bed and started to dress. Lydia fixed her eyes upon him so she wouldn't have to see Richard climb onto the bed, arrange himself between her thighs, but the hope and wish were futile. Richard's cock slipped into her with deceptive gentleness, and as soon as he was firmly lodged between her labia he began to fuck like a maniac, ramming in and out, hurting her, abusing her, raping her- He was crazy. Greg was crazy. Keith was crazy. There could be no other explanation for their behavior. Normal men didn't act this way. Did they? What did she know about normal men, for the love of God? What did she know about men, except that they lived and breathed only for the joy of degrading women?
Lydia looked down at her body, at the face of the man who was busily fucking her. She could feel his cock moving in and out but his face and body were a blur. In her mouth, the gagging shorts were soggy with drool, and her eyes seemed to be drooling as well. She blinked, trying to clear away the mist, and she saw him then. It was Uncle George. She'd known it would be. That face-God, she'd never forget that face! Sometimes she even saw it in her dreams. The man had been dead for ten years, but she wondered if he would ever die, as far as her mind was concerned. Lydia blinked again, and she saw that it wasn't Uncle George. It was Richard Welby fucking her . .. fucking her .. . fucking her ... his cock thrusting deep, plunging home to the accompaniment of deep, low-pitched groans from his half-parted lips .. . plunges that rocked her, shocked her, sent darting twinges of revulsion through her pussy-She was wetter now inside, and the fucking wasn't so agonizing as before. The more he fucked, the wetter she seemed to become, her cunt weeping its own kind of tears while Richard stuffed her time and again with his driving pecker. It was almost bearable now. She didn't want to cry out-not exactly. She could survive this. She'd survived Uncle George, hadn't she? And he'd taken her virginity, popped her cherry, made her do all those horrid things- Not until she heard Greg say, "She's got more moving parts than a cheap wristwatch," did Lydia realize that she'd begun to undulate her hips. She looked down, saw Richard's hand planted upon an abdomen that jiggled like a plate of jello. Still fucking, he reached up her body and clamped his hands upon her quivering breasts. Lydia moaned, but much of that moan was due to the sudden pinching of his fingers upon her stiff nipples.
"Fuck me sweetly, Lydia," he panted, working his belly against hers, caressing her tits in rough but aroused fashion. "I can feel you leaking around me. Your pussy is like a hot musky swamp. This was what you really wanted all the time, wasn't it? To be taken forcibly, if necessary, by a man who knew what he needed, what you needed? The cockteasing was only a provocation. I should have raped you that night we went out together. Should have raped you just the way I'm raping you now, you bitch!" And with that he slammed his dick into her so hard it made her teeth chatter. She bit down ferociously on the shorts in her mouth, then ground her teeth in numb despair. He was crazy.
Richard pulled his cock out of her. For the briefest moment her pussy seemed empty, devoid of something, and she snapped her loins toward him, cunt twitching, slobbering, eager to be full once more. Lydia had no control over herself now.
Her body was a stormy sea, sloshing over its banks in a paroxysm of quivers and flutters.
"Let me fuck your tits," he was saying. "Of course, there's no need to ask your permission, since you're not quite in a position to refuse me anything. Are you, Lydia?" Laughing, he threw a leg across her stomach and settled down, his cock pointing up the vale between Lydia's breasts. As she watched, he leaned toward her, then crushed her titties together upon his hard rod.
She felt a vague disgust looking down, watching his cock slide back and forth between her boobs, and his prick was hot and moist where her tits came together. When he fucked forward, his prick point bumped her lips. She snapped her head back but to no avail. She couldn't move far enough to avoid the almost rhythmic frequency of his Up-touching strokes. The end of him was wet with cum, but she couldn't taste it. Thank God they'd filled her mouth with those shorts!
Richard squeezed her tits a little tighter. "You know," he said almost casually, "you have the kind of tits that were made to be fucked. Spongy but firm. That's the best kind. Hard breasts scrape a cock too much, and floppy, flabby breasts are no fun at all. Yours are just the right size, too, Lydia. What are they? I'd guess about a 34. C Cup? No, B. Definitely a B. And the B stands for beautiful.
"But you already know that. You're a very beautiful woman, Lydia, and you've been a very naughty woman, too. I think that the three of us can open your eyes, however. Lydia-your eyes are closing. Open them. Open them at once!!"
Reluctantly, she did so. The sight of that swollen prick sliding between her tits had been too much to bear. Her eyes open, she still found it too much to bear.
"I wanted you to open your eyes, Lydia, because I'm about to come. And I want you to see my sperm flying into your face, because it's going to fly, Lydia. My testicles are so full they hurt-just the way they did the night you pulled your cockteasing act on me. But I think I'm going to make up for that, Lydia. I'm going to make up for it right now! Tell them about this in Moscow, you Commie bitch!!!!"
And with that, his prick exploded, spewing, vomiting, gushing. Cum erupted from the tip of his dick in enormous spurting gobs, and Lydia closed her eyes in defense, feeling the stuff blast into her unprotected face. Richard crushed her tits together, his prick nestled between, and her flesh could pick up the telltale shudderings and throbbings as orgasm hurtled through his penis and the fruits of that orgasm blew forth like the eruptions of a volcano.
Her face was drenched with cum by the time he'd finished, and she lay on the bed no longer able, willing to move. What else could they do to her? She'd already been degraded so savagely she felt no desire to keep on living. If she could just loosen one of her ropes-if she could loosen all of them-she'd hang herself from the light fixture in the ceiling, hang herself and get it over with. Lydia choked on the undershorts clogging her mouth and she felt a trickle of cum run across her eyelid.
Chapter Six
Richard jerked at the end of the shorts hanging from Lydia's mouth, and suddenly she wasn't being choked by them any longer. Air filled her oral cavity, but it was bitter air indeed, and she almost wished that she were being strangled again.
"Not as good as I'd figured you for," Richard commented, touching the base of his cock, "but certainly not a bad piece of ass, considering." He looked down at his prick, at the thick cum which coated his knob, the last oozing traces of his orgasmic release. "Clean me off," he commanded then, moving his prick between her aching breasts, toward Lydia's mouth. "Lick me dry."
He bumped her lips with his dong and she felt his sticky, cummy touch, and she thought, What have I left to lose? She opened her mouth and he thrust inside.
Reluctantly, she sucked at the knob of Richard's cock, her tongue sloshing across him, taking away the lingering juices of sperm. At first she thought the taste of him would make her deathly sick to her stomach, but it didn't happen. There was a strange, tangy, almost nutty flavor to his cream, and she tried to remember if Uncle George's semen had tasted like this. It hadn't, she was positive. Her uncle's cum had been tart and bitter, like venom in her mouth. She tightened her lips a little, and felt Richard's dong begin to harden slightly in her grasp. "GGGGGG!!" Lydia whimpered in protest as the cock continued to stiffen. Richard leaned in and fed her a bit more of his organ, sliding it deeper into her mouth, so deep she felt his knob flirt -with the back of her throat, just as if he meant to fuck her there, too. She gargled on the large boner and he withdrew it partially, so that only the knob was still imbedded within her lips. Lydia raised her eyes in a weak, pathetic plea but she saw no sign of pity or remorse on his face.
"Are you gonna do her again?" Greg asked from the side of the bed. "You've already had your turn."
"So I'm greedy. Sue me." He stroked the sides of her face, nudging at her mouth with his erected pecker. Fully erect he was, now, as stiff as he'd been in her cunt, and it filled Lydia with dread. His cock moved into her mouth, a fraction of an inch, pressing down her tongue, and she swallowed hard.
She heard the door open at the other end of the room, but she couldn't turn her head because of the cock that impaled her lips, pinned her in this position. His flesh was warm and wet on her tongue, with the slightest bit of saltiness in its flavoring. She'd almost forgotten what a cock tasted like, Lydia thought. It had been such a long time.
"Well," Richard said, "did you get Bruno taken care of?"
"Yes," she heard Keith say. Of course it had to be Keith. So far she'd seen no evidence that anyone else was in on this abduction and rape. The only other creature around was apparently Bruno, whom she took to be a dog of some kind. He didn't matter.
Richard slipped his cock from Lydia's mouth. "Now," he told her, "I want you to worship my prick. Kiss it. Lick it. Treat it like a pagan idol. Breathe softly across the knob, then moisten it with your tongue. Improvise. But make it good."
"You son of a bitch," she whispered, but he only smiled. He pressed the underside of his cock against her lips and nudged his cockhead at one of her nostrils. Lydia's nose flared instinctively and he pushed a little harder. Her face froze, and she wondered if he intended to fuck her nostrils, too. He was crazy enough to try it. She began to breathe softly on his prick, just as he'd asked her to do. It seemed the easiest way out.
"Some tongue," he said. "Give me some tongue." She gave him tongue. She licked his pecker until the salty pre-cum oozed from his red slit and onto her tongue. Above her, Richard Welby smiled, his hands caressing her face. She didn't like his smile. The Nixon mask was preferable by far.
"Well," he said, turning to Keith, "since you've done your chores and fed Bruno, I think it's only fair that you should get your share of our special treat. Miss Pembroke's mouth is rather busy, but she has a cunt going to waste. Indeed, that's the reason why we brought her here today, I believe."
Keith said, "Jesus, I don't know if I can go through with it."
"Of course you can," Greg cut in. "We all agreed. It was the only way to teach her a lesson. This is no time for any of us to get weak-kneed."
She couldn't see what happened then, but she heard zipping, rustling, and in a few moments the bed sagged as a third person climbed aboard. Richard's body blocked her view of the foot of the bed, and she was trying to fulfill his commands about worshiping his hateful cock. Her tongue glided faster and faster, up and down the rigid shaft, and he lifted himself higher so she could lick into his undone fly and tap with her tongue on the sac of his balls. The tab of his zipper scratched her chin and her tongue picked up some stray hairs that made her cringe in shame.
Keith was on his knees between her legs. At least he'd had the grace to take off his pants. She couldn't see him but she felt his hands stroking her cum-smeared belly, rubbing up and down the sensitive area between her thightops and the puffy swell of her twat. In spite of her fear and humiliation, Lydia began to sense a subtle difference in her cuntal temperature. Her flesh was growing warmer with each caress of his fingers.
She squirmed, tongue still going up and down Richard's cock. Keith moved with her squirming, opening her cummy snatch and fishing inside with his middle finger. He found the mouth of her cunt and stole into it with quick, provocative penetrations, then withdrew his finger and brought it up to circle the region of her clitoris.
"Aaaaaaahhhhh," she sighed when he pushed down her rising button, working it furiously against her pubic bone. Her cunt seemed to jump up of its own volition, making itself more accessible to his caresses, and she opened her mouth in an oval-lipped sigh. In another moment that sigh was cut off and her mouth was full of Richard's cock.
"Suck now," he told her. "Suck me, if you please!"
If you please! Did it matter if she pleased or not? Lydia didn't think so. She closed her eyes and concentrated on sucking Richard's cock, but it was so hard to ignore the definitely interesting fingerwork Keith was giving her pussy.
She remembered last night, when she'd allowed him to lick and suck her cunt. He had shown a nice gift for the act, Lydia recalled, and warm pleasant memories flooded her as he continued to play with the lips and hole of her vagina. His technique was nowhere near so well developed as her own masturbation, but it wasn't bad at all. He kept pressing her love button, another finger tickling her pussy maw at the same time, and she felt her juices begin to flow-for real, this time. Her body was turning on!
In wonderment, Lydia began to suck harder on Richard's cock. The good feeling from her snatch was beginning to filter upward through her body, and her head swam with a growing sense of pleasure. Even rape, she thought, even rape mightn't be all bad, If only she had some freedom of motion ... if only she weren't tied down .. . oh, God, her arms and legs were aching from the strain of their bonds-Keith was still touching her, but not with his fingers now. Something larger, something very much larger. Lydia writhed, unsure whether she wanted to escape it or welcome it. His cock. She remembered it from last night, too. "You're hung like a horse," she'd told him, and his face had beamed with the pleasure of the compliment. He hadn't known that it was only part of her come-on, a buildup for the letdown.
"Uuuuuunnn nnhhhhhh -" Lydia grunted around Richard's thrusting cock as she felt Keith press his own against her slit. She'd been fucked twice in the past half hour, fucked for the first time in so many, many years, and Keith's prick was easily the largest of the bunch as it started to make the third penetration of her pussy. Her labia strained where his cock pressed against them, and she moved her hips nervously, unwilling to be used this way, but, since it was happening and she couldn't prevent it- "There!" Keith yelped as he broke her initial resistance and buried half of his pecker in her vaginal tube. Lydia squirmed and her cunt angled up to a small degree, but, large as he was, he didn't hurt as much as the first and second men had. And he'd used his fingers on her with such instinctive cleverness that the lining of her puss was already moist with honeycum. She tensed her lips on Richard's dong and let her tongue ride lightly across its inserted point. He grabbed at the sides of her head and leaned against her, shoving another inch or two into Lydia's mouth. She gulped but she took him, and her cheeks sucked in tightly upon the driving prick as it slid in, pulled out, slid in and fucked her again.
The deeper Keith slid his cock, the wetter her pussy grew, and the more agitation seized Lydia's hips and thighs. She was squirming frantically now, skinning up the bed from his advances, until she reached the limit of her rope and the knots dug into her ankles cruelly. And then she could move no further, and Keith's cock rammed home in her melting twat and she felt herself turn into oozing jelly all around him.
She relaxed, and the ropes loosed their strain a trifle, and Lydia realized that she was pushing her cunt toward him, not retreating. His belly was warm against her pubes and his prick was hard within her. He ground himself on her, making his cock do strange rotations inside her clutching wet walls, and she felt something ticklish on her clit-his pubic hair, Lydia surmised after a moment. Stiff and wiry it was, bristly, like masturbating with a hairbrush. She rebelled at the contact and started to slide away, but he came with her and again the tight ropes cut off her illusion of freedom. And his cock remained in her, thick and very hard, content for the moment just to spread the gap of her dilated twat.
She knew, almost as soon as he began to fuck for real, that she was going to climax.- The realization was stunning, and Lydia wasn't at all prepared for it. She knew, however, the makeup of her body, and she was no stranger to the emotional convulsions which accompanied her orgasms. It was all there. The sensation of tightness in her pussy, the increased tenderness of her clit, the foment of milky cream deep within her tunnel, the twitch of muscles halfway down her thighs-they were too plain to mistake. And to feel those warning signals here, now, with a man's cock in her mouth, another man's cock slithering in and out of her pussy-her astonishment affected Lydia's sense of control and she found herself slipping even closer to the brink of shattering release.
"Jesus," Richard commented, twining his fingers through her hair, "she's sucking like a piranha! Women! Give them a little and they want it all. You only have to show them who still runs this world. Isn't that right, Lydia?" he patted her forehead, almost gently. "Don't stop, for Chris-sake! When I come, I want to see it running out your ears!"
She wasn't listening. She could feel his hands on her, taste the cock that plunged in and out her mouth, flavored already with preliminary leakings of the cum he'd mentioned, but much more important to Lydia at that moment was the cock reaming her pussy, sliding up her to the balls, jiggling when he'd made full penetration, then withdrawing and coming up again like an army with banners.
His hands caressed her splayed twat lips, peeling open the tight, tender flanges as his cock ravished her, and Lydia felt a trace of cool air brush across her clitoris. In another moment that cool air had been replaced by a pair of hot fingers which pinched off the base of her love button and sent shudders of ecstatic pain telegraphing through her entire body.
"MMMMMMMMMMMMFFFFFFFFFFF!!!!!" she croaked around Richard's cock, and her tongue seemed to freeze in her mouth and her pussy became a pit of wet flame. Keith squeezed again on the base of her clit and she exploded like an H-Bomb, her pussy slapping at his stabbing cock in a nonstop series of convulsions, hot goo streaming through her gate.
She opened her mouth wide in a shriek, then snapped shut on Richard Welby's penis. Snapped too tightly. Her teeth clenched upon his cock, which had ceased to matter a split second ago, and despite his rigid erection, she proved capable of repaying her rapist for some of the injury he'd caused her. That the action was not at all intentional mattered little.
"You bitch!!" He pulled his cock from her mouth, past the clench of her gritting teeth, but in the process he had to force her mouth open with his thumb and she managed to bite that as well. She was numb from the neck up, she didn't even feel him strike her.
"F-f-f-f-fffffffffuuuuuuuuuu-" she snarled, her ass vibrating, swallowing in its convulsions the penis Keith continued to feed her in long, sure strokes that penetrated the ripples of her churning twat and socked home, banging Lydia where she lived.
She might have begged him to fuck her. Certainly the cry which burst from her lips could have gone in that direction. But Richard Welby stilled her voice in one quick, demeaning gesture. He laid his prick across her lips and shot his cum.
She snorted and choked as the thick mucus-like substance shot across her face, most of it, or so it seemed, squirting into her wide-flared nostrils. It burst up her nasal passages and into the chamber of her throat and she was choking and gagging and strangling on the stuff, even while her eyes blazed and batted to expel the lashings of semen that had blasted into them. Lydia's head swam and she hated this man with all her mind and heart, but she couldn't stop coming-not as long as Keith kept on stabbing her ecstatic twat with his logjam of a dick.
She felt him go off, erupting with tumultuous shudders and convulsions, deep in her vagina, and her pussy sucked at the cum almost contrapuntally with the efforts of her nose to blow out the jism Richard was still shooting up it. Her head was in hell and her cunt was in heaven. Somewhere, Lydia thought .wildly, it has to even out.
Dimly, she was aware of Keith going soft inside her, and she knew that he extracted himself despite the urgings, the rippled invitations of her pussy, to stay a little longer. She couldn't control her twat. Was it her fault if that treacherous hole was now betraying everything in which she believed? She felt the cock slither from her, felt a moist hot rush of mingled Keith and Lydia juices seeping from her pussy, coagulating in her bush, on her pussy flesh, and then, before she could moan or shudder or twitch her twat, another cock was being fed into her greedy snatch.
It was Greg. She couldn't see him but she eliminated Richard, for he was still perched atop her breasts, spilling the last of his second load on her face, and Greg was the only one left. He was hard, too, and his cock stabbed her pussy in a quick motion that brought their bellies together with a squishy "whoooopppppp" and his nuts were tickly on the cheeks of her ass, all over again.
She swallowed him with her cunt, and he thrust in a frenzy of motions. The dramatic explosion of her pussy was making Lydia numb all over-except in the slitted gash of her femininity. There she could feel everything. Each stroke, each crinkly swish of his pubic hair against her cunt. Even the throbbing of blood in the rigid shaft of his dong resonated through Lydia as if she were an echo chamber. She found herself anticipating the explosion of his cock, too, deep in her gash, and her pussy continued to bubble its way through little cum after little cum.
Richard descended from her, after wiping his smeared cock in her hair, and she could smell his man-milk all over her face, taste it in her mouth, but it didn't matter. "Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," she moaned over and over again, her voice slurry with the increase of saliva inside her mouth. She slobbered and drooled from her lips, and her tongue fluttered wildly in her mouth, battering her teeth from behind, tracing their smooth white lines, showing now and then in the crack of her lips. Her pussy lifted and plummeted as Greg worked his cock inside it, and she was nothing but raw wet flesh molded around the hard, cylindrical shape of his ramrod. Her legs strained at the binding ropes and she wanted them to be free, wanted them to kick in the air, to wrap and enfold his body as he plunged his sickle-like tool into her, time and time again.
She looked to the sides. Richard and Keith were both watching, one flanking the bed in each direction. They were beaming, as if they'd done something worthy of praise and merit. Damn them! Damn them!! Damn them to hell!!! They'd only abducted and raped a helpless woman, forced her to betray herself with her own body. Hell was too good for them. Oh, Christ!! She felt it in her guts, a churning, massive explosion of feeling that rumbled and tossed like a storm at sea, and then she was coming . .. really coming ... exploding with it. Her heart swelled as big as a fucking pumpkin in her breast, swelled so enormously she couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't think ... could only feel... feel... feel...
"AAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!" Lydia bellowed as darkness settled upon her and that driving prick continued its relentless assault upon the depths of her sex.
Chapter Seven
When she came to, it was past dark and she was still tied to the bed. Lydia opened her eyes and looked about, as best she could, and she remembered-oh, God, she remembered-every detail of the degradation that had been performed upon her. Three men, each of them using her body, fucking her mouth, fucking her pussy, one even fucking her between the soft, delicate tits, squeezing her breasts together while his cock coursed between, eventually to spill its hot scummy load all over her face.
And that wasn't the worst of it! Oh, Jesus God, not the worst! They'd broken her! They'd broken and humiliated her, there at the last. Keith had made her come, and Greg had built upon it, making her orgasm even harder, and-Lydia blushed furiously-if Richard Welby hadn't been temporarily out of action, he too could have mounted her, slammed in his prick, and fucked until her climax heightened and burst with even more feverish abandon.
She wanted to die. Why didn't they kill her, now that they'd had their pleasure? Or-oh, Jesus-could that be their plan? They must know that she'd certainly go to the police about this. Was a piece of reluctant pussy worth the long sentence they'd surely get? Of course it wasn't! Then .. . then ...
The bedroom door opened and she turned her face, straining against the ropes which confined her. It was Keith. Somehow she was glad. He seemed the most rational of the three. Richard was definitely nuts, with his talk about commies and women's lib, with his brutal assaults. Greg? Well, apparently Greg would go along with whatever Richard suggested. Keith had at least shown a little reluctance.
He had a cup of coffee and two sandwiches. "These are for you," he said. "Your supper. Richard thought you might be hungry."
She was. Ravenously. "It's very considerate," Lydia snarled, pulling at her ropes, "but I'm not exactly in a position to eat it, am I?" At least he had the courtesy to blush. And blush he might, for she lay there on the bed, just as they had left her, blouse and brassiere ripped open, pants and panties still heaped at her ankles, cum clotted all over her body.
"I'm sorry about this, Lydia," he said, kneeling by the bed so she wouldn't have to crane her neck up to look at him. "I'm really sorry. I had no idea it would turn out like this. Maybe I should've told Richard to stick it up his ass when he first broached the plan, but I'd just come from being with you, and I was about half drunk and really pissed off, and it seemed like a really great idea-you know, to put your ass in a sling, to show you that you couldn't fuck around with guys like us ..." He shook his head. "It's ugly and I wish I was somewhere else."
"Where are we, just for the record?"
"In Painesville. Well, just outside Painesville. You can almost see the lake from the front yard, on a clear day. The house, belongs to Richard's aunt, but she's in Florida for the winter, and he has the key, so this is where-oh, Jesus!" His face paled.
"Help me," she whispered. "Help me escape. My God, Keith ... this is insane. Don't they know that I'll go to the police as soon as they let me go? Have they made any plans for the future? The three of you kidnapped me and you've all raped me. They could electrocute you for it."
He shook his head again. "I know. I've thought of nothing else. Since you passed out on us. But-there's only one of me, and there's two of them. Plus Bruno. That's Richard's aunt's guard dog. He's a German Shepherd, mean, trained to kill. I... I can't..."
"You mean you won't." He frowned, as if the words hurt. But she was right. Lydia knew it. He was a coward. He'd gone along with the plan because he was afraid not to. He'd raped Lydia, along with his friends, because he feared their disapproval. In Hitler's Germany, he'd have been an SS man because of that same kind of fear. At My Lai or Kent State or Jackson State he'd have been jerking his trigger, looking round furtively to make sure that all his comrades in arms saw that he was shooting, doing his bit for the common effort. Never go against the crowd. She'd never felt so much contempt for a man. Not even for Uncle George.
"How about if I untie one of your hands so you can at least eat something?" he suggested, smiling a college-boy smile, as if he'd come up with something brilliant.
Lydia shrugged as best she could, tied down. "It would be sweet of you," she said acidly.
Keith untied one of the cords and freed her right hand. She took the coffee and sipped at the hot liquid. Then she ate both her sandwiches and finished the coffee, and felt about as good as a woman could feel, stripped, almost completely nude, tied to a bed, fresh from being gang-banged.
Keith took the empty cup, then apologetically retied her right hand. She understood. His friends might be upset. "I guess I'd better get back downstairs," he told her. "Lydia, I'm really sorry about all this."
But before he could open the bedroom door, it was opened for him, from the other side, and Richard and Greg entered the room.
It was hard to look at them with equanimity. She hated them with all her heart because of what they'd done to her. But mixed with the hatred was something else, something she didn't really understand. No matter how she tried, Lydia could not forget the sensations that had rolled outward from her guts during the climactic moments of her prolonged rape-agony. How she'd slumped despite her will to resist-how her pussy had exploded in a vivid onrush of sensation that made her head spin in fuck-drunkenness, just like-oh, God-just like-Just like that time with Uncle George, when she was only a child and he had surprised her in the bathroom and forced her to do all those awful things with him! It had been almost exactly the same. His thick, hard cock, the first she'd ever known, that cock digging into her pussy, breaking her cherry, piercing past, to the untapped depths of her sex . . . her tongue growing chill in her mouth ... her head swimming ... her snatch tingling with the forceful exploration of his dick ... the degradation she'd known then ... the degradation, yes, but with it the strange exultant soaring as her youthful pussy quivered its way into a tummy-wrenching orgasm- My God! she thought suddenly. Exactly what have I been afraid of all these years? The humiliation or ... or ... oh, Jesus ... the exciting, the gut-wrenching delightful- "I see you've recovered," Richard smiled, cupping her tits. He leaned close, as if he meant to kiss her, but his head snapped back. "Christ, she smells like a Chinese whorehouse!" He turned to Keith. "Did you feed her?" Keith nodded. "Well. We ought to clean her up a little."
Lydia was beyond caring. They'd all seen her nude body, they'd all sated their lust. In her. On her. If she was dirty, they'd made her dirty. It seemed a little hypocritical to be finding fault now.
Richard leaned close. "Would you like to take a bath, Lydia? Would you like to wash the scum off your pretty body? It is a pretty body, you know. If it hadn't been, we wouldn't have brought you here."
"I don't care," she said. "If you're going to fuck me again, fuck me. Do whatever you want. It doesn't matter if I'm clean or dirty, does it?"
"It matters to us," Richard replied. "We're gentlemen and we prefer to make love with women who smell like women and not like she-goats in heat. So if you promise not to be unruly, we'll transport you to the shower room where you can get all clean and shiny."
"If it means being untied, then untie me," Lydia said. "I am goddamned sick of being strapped down."
"Of course you are," Richard agreed. "Greg-Keith-undo the lady's ropes. I think she'll behave now."
They untied her, and it was such a fantastic feeling to be able to move her arms and legs again. She lay on the bed for a moment, relishing that sensation, until Richard took her by the hand. "Shall we go?" he asked.
Lydia swung her feet off the bed and onto the floor, and it was so wonderful to be sitting up, stretching her arms, wriggling her toes-she looked down and grimaced. There, where they'd been pulled, were her slacks and underpants. And her tits were hanging out, too. Did it really make a difference? She wriggled out of the pants and panties, then stood up.
It was unlikely that they had her welfare in mind with this suggestion of a bath, but her skin crawled, and even if she couldn't wash away the filth that had clustered on her soul, Lydia could at least cleanse her sullied flesh. Richard took one hand, Greg the other, and they led her toward the door, out of that room where she'd been gang-raped and humiliated. Keith followed after, like the coward he was.
The house seemed large, what she could see of it. Her room was apparently a kind of spare bedchamber in the attic. Little used, too. Dust coated the soles of Lydia's bare feet as she walked across its floor. A short flight of stairs led down to a hallway, plushly carpeted. There must have been seven or eight doors along that hallway, reinforcing her impression of the house's size. Richard opened one door, reached inside, and turned on a light switch. "Voila!" he said, with a moderately good accent. "C'est le salle de bains!"
It was a large bathroom, luxuriously large, the walls painted white to reflect and re-reflect light, flooding the room with luminosity. The tub filled one side of the room, sunken into the floor with a low marble rim, and even the John looked elegant. Lydia could hear the soft hum of fluorescent lighting and she imagined herself in that tub, neck deep in aromatic suds. She'd wash it all away in a tub like this one-all the cum smears, all the sweat, the pain, the residual terror-Richard went to the tub and knelt, reaching in to turn on the water. She saw steam begin to rise. He turned, looked up, smiled. My God! she thought. He looks almost human again! But in view of what he'd done to her-for it was obvious he was the ringleader of the conspiracy-"Soap and towels are in the closet," he said blandly. "Probably bubble powder, if you want any."
She opened the closet and saw that he was right. Lydia grabbed up an armload of bath accessories-towels, washcloth, a packet of scented bubble bath-and clutched them to her breasts. "Thank you," she said earnestly. "Now, if you'll all go outside-"
"Oh," Richard cut in, "we'd much rather stay and watch. Greg and I were just agreeing that there's nothing quite so erotic as the sight of a beautiful woman luxuriating in her bath. Weren't we, Mr. Chastain?" Mr. Chastain nodded.
She'd known it was too good to be true. They weren't finished humiliating her. And she had to piss, too. Obviously it would do no good to ask for privacy for that, either. Lydia sighed, then sat down on the commode and emptied her bladder, pretending that six male eyes were not staring at her from around the room. When she was done, she wiped her cunt with a piece of tissue paper, flushed, and strode to the tub. It was nearly full now. She squatted as modestly as she could and poured bubble flakes into the water. Just as she rose to take off her ripped shirt and brassiere, someone grabbed between her legs.
"Ouch!" As she turned angrily, Richard Welby relieved her of the load in her arms. Lydia clenched a fist and raised it, but he caught her by the hand, bending back the threatening arm. With his other hand he slipped the shirt and bra strap off her shoulder, pulling till they were free. Lydia unclenched her fingers and let her arm drop. Richard finished undressing her.
"Into the tub we go, now," he smiled, and by that time she knew his repertoire of smiles. This was not a smile that boded well.
She stepped into the water, foam started to boil around her legs. Bubbles rose as she sank into the tub, and the bubbles smelled like a herbal garden. Lydia closed her eyes and let that aroma surround her, enfold her, protect her.
"Isn't she a gorgeous sight?" Richard said.
"Like a magazine advertisement," Greg concurred.
"The white of her skin blends perfectly with the pinkish cast of the bubbles," Richard went on. "And look at the way her red nipples float in and out of view. Ah, such a seductive vision-" she looked up just in time to see Richard peeling off his tight t-shirt. "I can't resist," he announced, as his hands fell to his belt buckle. "The vision has seduced me."
She'd known it was too good to be true. His pants fell, and then his shorts, and his cock was already half erect. He stepped over the marble rim and his foot splashed in the water. Lydia shrank back, toward the far end of the tub, but as Richard settled into the water, he grabbed her ankle and pulled her toward him. She slid, kicking up little waves of resistance, and then he rose to meet her halfway.
"I can't help myself," he said. "I told you that women bathing was an enormous turn-on for me. And I'm turned on. Can't you feel that?" He tugged her hand downward, made her stroke the fully risen shaft of his erection. She wasn't quite as repulsed as she would have been yesterday, her fingers not quite so unwilling as he made them encircle his cock. Lydia closed her fist upon him and squeezed.
Richard pulled her back, toward the other end of the tub, and he braced his back against that end, cock sticking up. The suds were thinner here, and she could see his penis through them, see (as well as feel) her hand fitted around it. "Now you have the idea," he smiled. "Straddle me, Lydia. Ride me. Slide my cock into your soapy cunt and fuck me."
She breached in the water, still holding his pecker, wondering what she should do. If she refused, he'd hit her again. Or . .. or ... God knew what he might think of doing to her! Her belly tightened, and for the quickest fleeting moment Lydia remembered how it had been on the bed no so many hours ago, with Keith fucking hell out of her pussy while Richard's cock ravished her mouth. The dynamic buildup of tension in her twat, the sudden explosive release, the release that had gone on for a seeming eternity. She moaned, and her head began to shake timidly. "I... I... I .don't..."
"You're weakening, aren't you, Lydia?" he sneered. "Not so very long ago you'd have been fighting like a tigress. Now .. . now I think you really want it but you're too embarrassed to say so. Is that it, Lydia?"
She turned away, unwilling to face him, but she heard his laugh, his mocking, cynical laugh. Richard wriggled his tool from her grasp, then prodded her butt until the was perched atop him. She felt, in the water, the caressing stroke of his pecker tip, and then he lunged up, spearing himself into her pussy. Lydia closed her eyes and groaned. "Ohhhhhhhhh-"
Richard pulled her down, till her ass rocked atop his loins. "Fuck me, Lydia," he chanted, "fuck me now, fuck me, fuck me! Move your butt! Milk me with your tight wet pussy!"
Sobbing, she began to bounce, the water rocking from her in little waves. His cock stabbed up, into the pit of her sex, and there was no physical pain in the act now-only the mental anguish as she realized what she and her pussy were doing.
"You son of a bitch," she panted, her head shaking, hair flopping about in wet stringy locks. He hit her deeply with his pecker then, so deeply that Lydia bit her lip to keep from crying aloud.
"You like it, don't you?" he whispered into her ear, sandwiching the words between the wicked flicks of his tongue around her lobe, into the ear itself, down her jawbone, down her neck. Lydia's flesh tingled where Richard licked her, and she couldn't sit still atop him. She lifted herself again, plummeting down with a sinuous wiggling action she hadn't guessed herself capable of. Her pussy swallowed up Richard's prick, swallowed greedily, hungrily, and when she had all of him in her cuntal trap, she squirmed her ass against his loins restlessly, grinding down on his balls.
She'd never uttered those words before, not to any man, not to anything on earth except her masturbating fingers, but she was screaming them now, screaming them as though her soul itself poured into the words and spat from her lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and crushed her mouth upon his, and then she began to rise and fall tumultuously upon his imbedded penis.
He accepted her kiss, though her mouth must have tasted of the cum she'd drunk on the bed, and he clutched the fleshy cheeks of her ass. She groaned into his mouth as he split her bottom even wider, and she moaned savagely when he prodded with one finger at the puckered ring of her asshole. And still she fucked like a demon, lifting herself as high as she could, so that nearly all his cock emerged from her twat, then plunging dramatically to suck him up her to the hilt. Her belly boiled like an overcooked pot of soup and she knew that for the second time today she was about to achieve massive orgasm with a male cock rampaging in her cunt.
Lydia threw her head back. "AAAAAAAAAH-HHHHHHHH, you baaaaaasssss-taaaaaarrrrrdddddd!!!!" His middle finger had not let up its relentless exploration of her anus. He poked the little hole, he tickled it, stabbed vigorously, and his fingering had paid off. She jerked forward as he rammed his finger up her asshole and worked it there like a hard, brutal penis that had found her second opening.
She rocked back, only to swallow more of his finger up her asshole, and in self-defense she squirmed forward again. The overall effect was to increase the agitated questing of his prick in her pussy, and her guts began to dissolve inside her. "Goddamn you," she moaned again and again. "Goddamn you!"
Oh, Jesus, the things he was doing to her! That finger, going like ninety in and out her anus. That cock, swelled to incredible size within her pussy-or was her pussy merely clamping tighter upon him, making him seem bigger than he really was? It was no time to be wondering about the petty distinctions. Lydia closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and fucked for dear life.
"Is her asshole tight?" Greg asked, leaning over the edge of the tub, watching as Lydia's bottom rose and fell in the water, Richard's middle finger stabbing in and out of the tiny rose-petal opening.
"Why don't you find out for yourself, John?" Richard chuckled. "I think there's room for three.
Aunt Franny likes everything big. This tub, for example."
Greg didn't have to be asked twice. He stood up and shucked out of his pants and shorts, not bothering to remove his shirt. Keith came up, caught him by the arm, "Listen," he said nervously, "we could get in a lot of trouble-"
"Fuck off," Greg said, shaking off his friend. "We're all in this, so we might as well milk the experience for everything it's worth, and I'm going to shoot off about a gallon of fresh warm milk, right up her shit chute." He stepped into the tub.
Lydia wasn't entirely aware of what was going on. She felt an extra pair of hands on her body, squeezing her nipples, tracing the lush curves of her tits, and then a stiff hot dick was evident, touching her from behind. She gasped as Richard's finger popped out of her asshole, and then Greg's cock slipped down, touched her anus, pushed insistently.
"Oh, my Goddddddd-" She squirmed, unwilling to go through with it. "You'll kill me ... I can't... I couldn't. . . I've never . . . nobody's everrrrr-"
It was agony!! His cock dug at her asshole, the big velvety tip prying her tight aperture with forceful, insistent lunges. Lydia gnashed her teeth, then snapped her jaws shut, grinding, grinding, grinding. She was cunt-full of Richard's penis and now Greg meant to feed her yet another, a bigger, organ from the rear, stuff it up a hole that God had not created with fucking in mind, a hole that had been reamed cruelly by Richard's finger, a hole that could not endure the treatment Greg had in mind- "No, please, not that," she whined, and her words would have been more sincere, perhaps, if she hadn't been perilously close to orgasm already. She couldn't understand what was happening to her body. Men were raping her, for God's sake! She'd been brought to this house under duress-drugged, kidnapped from her building's parking garage. They had forced her to engage in bestial, degrading acts ... yet... yet.. .
"Oh-Jessssssssuuuuuuussssssss!!!" she groaned through clenched teeth, her voice more sibilant than usual. Each "S" sound was like the hiss of a snake ready to bite. Her guts were turning over and over and her tits felt heavy as lead, capped with fiery nipples. It would take only the lightest friction on those nipples to bring her moaning and screaming-Greg fought passionately with the reluctant anal sphincter and, as he tried to stuff Ids cock up her, he brought his other hand around to paw at the swollen, aching tits. Lydia felt him brush her nipples, felt her nipples seem to explode vibrantly where his fingers pinched and stroked them. She threw back her head and screamed.
And then it happened. Undulant thighs clamped in on Richard's legs, and her pussy began its unmistakable series of rippling, milking convulsions around his still-driving prick. She seemed to melt, from the neck down, and part of that melting took place at the rear of her body. Her asshole broke down, surrendered its hopeless cause, and Greg's pecker slammed up her rectum. "God, God, God, Lydia," he panted from behind, slithering his long rod into her, "God, Lydia-I'm fucking you in the ass, you bitch! Take me up your hot tight ass!! Oh, Christ, Christ, Christ-"
She was full of maleness then, her pussy, her rectum. They were both in her, fucking like maniacs, and she didn't know where to turn, which to assault with her responsive body. Her cunt slammed down upon Richard, then lifted, and the rising action brought her back and up, brought her into full, open play for Greg's dong, and she was stuffed to the gills with him. No matter how she moved, her motion sent a throbbing fuck-tool into her body.
"Oh my Jesus-I'm coooommmmmmmm-innnnnggggggg . .. feel me come . . . feel me come .. . ohhhhhhhhhh-"
Her head flopped about, and she saw Keith, squatting on his haunches beside the tub, staring down at the two-way fuck laid out before his wide eyes. His prick was hard, pushing out the front of his pants, and, almost unconsciously, one of his hands stroked the hardened shaft. Lydia looked at him, and her mouth dripped with saliva.
"YOU!" she wailed. "Yoooooouuuuu!!" He jerked with surprise as she spoke, and she stretched a long, sudsy arm toward him. "I want you too!"
Her stomach churned, and her ovaries were upside down with overwork, but there seemed to be no end to the pleasure flowing through Lydia. She kept bucking her body, forward onto Richard's penis, back onto Greg's, swallowing each man in his turn up one of the sex holes of her body. She didn't know which of them was responsible for the fuck-fever that possessed her-she hadn't know any man could make her feel this way-she only knew that she was exploding and exploding and exploding, but still she wanted more-oh, God, so much more!!!
Keith rose onto his knees, face white as he unzipped his pants. Lydia stroked his thigh and left soapy bubbles on the fabric of his trousers. He brought out his stiff pecker and she seized it in her wet fist. "I can't reach you from here," she gasped. "Lean in closer! Lean in closer, goddamn you to hell!"
He moved toward her then, his cock jutting before him all red and swollen, the tip glisteny from his pre-cum, and she found that by leaning slightly in his direction she could reach the end of his dick without too much trouble. It was moist when it kissed her lips, moister still when she suckled the knob inside and began to massage it with her lips and tongue. Her hand fastened around his shaft, just below the part she nursed avidly, and she began to shuck the loose outer skin up and down the length of his bone-hard tool.
Chapter Eight
Never in her wildest, most fantastic dreams had Lydia Pembroke foreseen herself in this situation. Accommodating a man in each fuckable hole of her body, she rocked and splashed and sucked and fucked and gobbled the cornholing tool that seemed to be screwed a mile up her rectal chute.
One orgasm after another boiled out of her pussy, yet she knew that she was good for more-oh, God, so many more! She oozed down upon Richard, felt his prick ram fully up her juicing twat, to the very mouth of her Uterus where he fucked with limber strokes as if he meant to go inside even that sanctuary. The downward motion unsheathed most of Greg's cock, and he was pushing against her back, reburying his pecker. At the same moment Lydia rose from Richard and squirmed her tail into reverse gear so she could suction that prick once more up her cunt. And through it all, she was tilted to the side, her lips and tongue busy on Keith's throbbing penis.
"Oh, Christ," Greg panted from behind, slamming her with his bone-hard dick. "She's flipped, man! She's totally flipped!"
Richard groaned. She could feel his pecker twitching inside her clutching twat; he didn't have long to wait before his orgasm mixed with Lydia's. For once, he seemed to have nothing at all to say. His hands clutched Lydia's hipbones, pressing flesh down upon the bone, pinching, holding her like iron claws, and he jerked upward, into her, in short, desperate, impassioned strokes. Each time he thrust, Lydia bounced up, and when she bounced up, it felt as if more and more of Greg's cock entered her anus. But how could there be any more? He'd already fed her that tool to the hilt, fucking till her intestines were displaced by his steely presence. Jesus! She gulped. It felt as if her guts were being pushed up her goddamned throat!
She tried to think of them as beasts, degrading, abusing her body-but it didn't work. She was a beast, too. A bitch in heat. Her orgasm wouldn't stop. Contractions buckled in her pussy and she was hot from her neck to her thighs, with a blazing internal heat that scorched her skin from the inside out. Someone-she couldn't tell who-was clawing her tits, and the nipples throbbed and quivered in the grip of his tight fingers.
Her tits were heaving; they were swollen, too, as though full of milk. When he-whoever he was-jiggled her boobs, she could almost hear the milk squishing in them, she waited for it to squirt from her frigged nipples, to gush in hot spurts that mingled with their body oils and the warm bubbles that filled the tub.
She tried to remember Uncle George, how awful it had been with him when she was no more than a child, raped into womanhood, but as the orgasms kept rolling down her cuntal tube and setting her twat lips afire, she could remember only the crazy, freaky ignition of that first time, when his cock had suddenly gushed deep in her slot and her insides erupted to mix her cum with his. And it was just like this. No, God, no, it wasn't nearly so good!
Then, she had been a pussy-fledged baby, too young to understand, to appreciate-she was a flower picked too soon. If only he'd been gentler. If he'd taken her by sweet seduction .. . She'd not have spent those years afraid of sex. She'd have known this pleasure from the start. She wouldn't have had to be raped into discovering herself, as a fullblown, passion-charged woman. Oh, Jesus, she thought, if I'd only known, if I'd only known it could be so ... so ... so goddamned good!
Richard exploded while her tongue was busy fluttering like a honeybee round the tip of Keith's prick. She felt the man lunge up, felt his cock swell inside her, felt the convulsive irresistible blastoff of his cum, squirting in massive doses up her pussy. As his cum rocketed up her cuntal sheath, her jism was seeping downward, leaking from the splayed, cock-stuffed lips, dripping onto his root and balls and groin. She could feel it despite the wetness in which they groveled, the bathwater that immersed their fucking, and she moaned, humping down, down, down, until his cock wilted inside her and shrank like a frost-killed flower.
"Ohhhh-" She took her mouth from Keith's tool for a moment and looked across her shoulder at Greg. "For God's sake, don't stop! Fuck me faster! Fuck me harder! Keep me coming! I never want to stop cominggggg ..."
Richard slid from beneath her, and she was able to turn now, Greg still connected to her asshole. Keith wriggled forward, his hard, spit-frothy cock extended, his eyes full of silent pleas, and she leaned across the high rim of the tub, swiveling back to meet Greg's cornholing penetrations. She opened her mouth wide, and slid it down over the lance of Keith's dick, swallowing him so deeply her ears popped.
Lydia was sideways in the tub now, her ass arched high, above the crest of the water, bubbles splashing on her thighs as she fucked back to meet Greg, headed forward to suck up Keith. Greg had one hand covering her tits, mauling them in his big paw, and his other fingers made instant, electric contact with the split of her pussy.
"CHRIIinillSSSSSTTTTT!!!" she bellowed, unmounting Keith for the instant it took her to scream. Her pussy ached from the fucking it had already taken, but when Greg's fingers latched upon her swollen, agonized clitoris, a whole new series of convulsions started to barrel through her twat. She was going to climax again. But how could she? She'd already exhausted her come potential. Hadn't she? Another orgasm like the last one and she'd .. . she'd . ..
"Deep in the shit," Greg called from swooping up her rectal tube until his balls nestled in the crack of her ass, jiggling as though they too wanted to enter Lydia. God! It was like being fucked by a Cadillac! She was so tight, so fucking tight! And he was so big! But he moved easily in her, as if her rectum was eager to cooperate with his sodomy, and she made gurgling noises around Keith's dong each time she felt Greg stab up to his deepest penetration.
Deep? Jesus Christ, she could feel each vein in his hard pecker, feel the blood that pumped in faster and faster relays to keep that pecker hard, keep it within her snug clutching ass. And his hand, his goddamned hand, plying her pussy, fingers dipping inside to flirt with her vaginal mouth, to abuse, in the most delightful way, her weary clit.
Keith lunged into her mouth as she dipped down to swallow him. Her throat dilated, and for a long, almost unbearable moment, she felt him there, fucking her in the gullet. The big head of his cock slid past her tonsils. It was too much to bear, too, too much. She raised her head, unsheathing most of his cock, and her lips closed upon the tip, the velvet, throbbing tip. She sucked it. She nursed it. She bruised it gently with her teeth, flipped her tongue in provocative circles round and round the bulging, swollen knob.
It bulged! It swelled! God, did it ever! She'd felt this reaction years ago, with Uncle George, the times he had her kneel and suckle his prick. The same kind of response-cock engorging in her ravenous mouth. She could taste the cum that already thick and tangy on Keith's glans. Just like Uncle George. Even before he shot off the major part of his load, the stuff had begun to ooze from Ids slitted cum-dumper. She lapped with her flitting tongue, and she drank greedily, knowing that in a moment-oh, surely no longer-he'd unleash himself and give her the full treatment. Fill her mouth with his seed, squirt till jism gushed from her twitching lips and ran down her chin in a dozen sticky trails-Richard and Greg were both fingering her cunt now! Two fingers on her clitoris, two fingers in her twat, still another finger sliding across the perineal gap between pussy and anus, tickling the flesh that abutted on the cock-crammed asshole. She squirmed, lifting her groin so that Greg's dong thrust high and deep, then dropped down to feel once again the erotic agitation of those hands on her pussy.
"I'm gonna come!" Keith barked, biting off each word as he spat it out. His cock stiffened, twitched, and the first blast of his cum fired into her mouth.
"Mmmmmmmmmm-" Lydia purred as the liquid love poured into her, and some of it she swallowed dutifully, the way Uncle George had always wanted her to do, but he was firing off so fast, so thick, she couldn't keep up with his ejaculation. Cum flowed down her chin where it had spilled from her mouth, and more of the stuff oozed down the sides of Keith's penis, toward the hand she still had wrapped around his shaft, holding him steady while he creamed.
Lydia smacked her lips on the juicy pecker, slid her mouth down its barrel, sopping up some of the escaped jism. Her fist was sticky with the abundance of his goo, and slowly she worked that fist toward her mouth, scooping cum as her hand moved. Her lips touched her thumb and finger, and she slurped at this additional helping of Keith's man-milk. It was thick and tart, and her tongue roved about searching for more, still more.
"You're getting soft," she gurgled, her throat filmed over with a sheen of semen. Lydia's heart was pounding deliriously and she could feel blood rushing in her ears, at her temples. They were still abusing her, but such abuse! Such sweet goddamned abuse! Greg's cock moving in her quivering, undulant ass, someone's hands cupping her tits, pulling the nipples until they must be stretched six inches or more, those hands, those other hands, roving through her crotch, stroking her, pronging her, clit-tickling, arousing her from pussy to anus- Lydia braced her hands on the edge of the tub, threw her head and shoulders back, and screamed bloody murder. " AAA A AAAIIIIIII-EEEEEEE!!!!!" she bleated. "FUCK ME-FUCK MEEEEEE-I'M COOOMMMMM-IIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG!!!!!"
At almost the same instant Greg panted, then groaned behind her. She didn't hear him, for she was too busy screaming out her own tumultuous release, but by God she felt him! That cock seeming to double its normal size in her wrenchingly tight asshole, and then he was doing it-pouring his cum up her shitter-drenching her guts with the lover's enema. She soared high, still wailing, and for all it mattered, Lydia was positive that she was in the air, suspended six feet above the bathtub where she'd just been gang-banged with a vengeance.
"Christ," Greg sighed, "we've gotta tie her down! She's gone fucking crazy!"
"You're telling me," Keith said wistfully, rubbing his sticky, sucked-out cock.
"Didn't I tell you?" Richard put in. He was relaxing in the water, scooping up soap bubbles with one hand. As Lydia reared and convulsed, he rubbed soapsuds across her jiggling, hard-nippled tits, then reached beneath to cup her pussy for a moment. She moaned, "Ohhhhhhh," rose higher, then came down hard on his hand. He stroked her a couple of times, then withdrew his fingers. Greg was still pronging her asshole, gasping each time a fresh jolt of cum flew from his dick and up her chute. His face was pale, drained, as if the effort of keeping his prick stiff had sucked all the blood from the rest of his body. But he only gritted his teeth and rammed Lydia again, rammed until she squealed like a trapped mouse and her head slumped forward and her body seemed to turn into jelly.
She sank, and she tasted soapy water, before Richard and Greg salvaged her. "Upsadaisy," Greg told her, and her asshole felt unbelievably empty with his cock no longer imbedded. Still trying to catch her breath, Lydia reached back to rub the crack of her bottom. Her finger slid through the deep cleft, across her just-fucked anus, and she gasped weakly. The hole was still dilated somewhat from Greg's pecker, though it was quickly returning to its normal tightness. She could slip the end of her finger into the gape, however, something she'd never been able to do before, and, now that she'd been fucked anally, she knew that her asshole would never be quite so tight again. Cum was leaking from the rosy aperture, cum that stuck to her touching finger, and she was positive she could hear the cum sloshing in her guts, too.
They took her from the tub, and it took all three of the men to keep Lydia erect until she could stand unaided. Her head swam giddily, and her eyes had trouble staying open, and her knees were trembling, threatening to buckle every time she stood up straight. "What have you done to me? Oh, my God," she whispered. "What have you done to me?"
"We've conquered you," Richard sighed into her ear as he supported her too-limber frame. "You'll never cocktease another man, Lydia. Will you?" She looked at him, not wanting to agree, but knowing that she did agree. Her life had been changed completely. The memory of those tumultuous orgasms was so vivid she could never forget it as long as she lived, and she wondered how she had, indeed, lived this long without knowing that sensation, without searching for it avidly-with the same avidity she'd once used finding men to humble.
"No," she sobbed, "no, no, no!" She raised her hands, not knowing what she meant to do.
Before she could decide, Richard spoke up. "Very good, Lydia. Very good. But we're not quite finished with you yet." He released her and she sagged only a little. Greg stepped away, and Lydia remained on her feet.
"What are you going to do now?" Greg asked. Richard stooped and picked up his shorts. He put them on, then draped pants and t-shirt over his arm. Greg noticed that he was wearing only a shirt he hadn't bothered removing before entering the tub to cornhole Lydia. He slipped into his own shorts and left the pants where he'd dropped them.
"We've conquered Lydia," Richard said lucidly. "But it's not enough. Not quite enough. There's one more step. We're going to break her."
"Break her?" Keith interjected. "What do you mean, 'break her'?"
Richard took her hand. "Come along," he invited. "You'll see exactly what I mean. Lydia, precious, let's all go downstairs. There's someone else you have to meet."
Still groggy from her orgasm, still weak on her feet, she allowed him to take her hand. Water dripped from her body as she walked and she could smell soap and cum, strongly scented, emanating from herself. "What's he talking about?" Keith asked Greg as they tailed along behind. "Got me,"
Greg answered.
The carpeted hallway floor felt elegant under her toes and Lydia sighed, not entirely recovered from that all-encompassing sense of well-being that was her legacy from the fucking in the bath. She let Richard take the lead, and when he conveyed her down the wide, sweeping staircase, toward the darkened first floor of the house, she felt exactly like Scarlett O'Hara making the grand entrance at Tara.
"This is a big house," she said lazily, squeezing his hand warmly. He'd turned out to be fairly normal after all, she told herself-once they'd gotten over that initial difficulty. It was strange. All those years she'd been playing her cruel games on men, she'd never once considered that anything like this might happen to her as a consequence. Maybe that was her trouble. Maybe she'd just picked the wrong men. I was a fool, Lydia thought. God, why had it taken her so long to wake up? Sex was magic. It was liquid dynamite! Uncle George might have molested her, but she'd picked the wrong means of getting revenge. Instead of punishing all men for his crime, she should have given herself to those men, allowed them to fuck her, to kiss and lick and touch, to make explosive passionate love that would heal and salve her childhood scars. Lydia shook her head.
"Yes, it's a large house," he said. "Aunt Frances's first husband made a great deal of money bootlegging during Prohibition. This is how he spent it."
"Who are we going to meet?" she asked. They were passing through a very large dining room. Ahead, there was a faint sliver of light, seeping round a nearly closed door. Keith and Greg had fallen back; she could hear them talking but she couldn't hear what they were talking about.
"A friend of the family," Richard said. He stopped, for they had reached the cracked door which she'd noticed. "Hurry up," he told his accomplices, "or you'll miss the third act!"
Lydia didn't understand, but her tummy tingled and her pussy was tender, but oh so moist and perky, and the nipples of her high firm tits stood up in nubile, inviting erections. Richard opened the door and she saw that it led into the kitchen-a mansion-sized kitchen, nearly as big as her apartment.
She looked round, at the high ceiling, at the windows which looked out into the night's darkness, at the cellar door, at the kitchen facilities. Anyone with a homemaker fetish would go wild in a spread like this, she thought with a smile. An eight-burner range, two large ovens. "Does your Aunt entertain a lot?"
"Almost never. She only stays here a few months out of the year. She travels a lot." Greg and Keith entered the kitchen. "I thought you'd gotten lost," he snapped, and then he pursed his lips and whistled.
Immediately there was a howl from the other side of the cellar door, and Lydia stiffened, the hair standing up at the nape of her neck. A scratching, too, as if something pawed at the door's far side, wishing to get past. Bruno, she thought. Wasn't that the dog's name? The one Keith was afraid of? Bruno?
Richard opened the cellar door and the largest dog Lydia had ever seen came through. A German Shepherd, black and gold, his ears standing straight up, his muzzle imperious. She remembered the Rin Tin Tin films she'd seen on television as a child. Rinty was a Shepherd too, but all pussycat where it counted. This dog-Jesus, he looked like a Nazi, somehow! Bruno was an excellent name for him.
"This," said Richard, as Lydia instinctively moved somewhat behind him, "is Bruno. Aunt Frances hired him to keep an eye on the place while she's gone. Isn't he handsome?"
Lydia shivered, looking over his shoulder. "He's frightening. But if your aunt isn't here most of the time, who feeds him? My God, he looks hungry!"
"Oh, there's a caretaker. Aunt Frances doesn't know how much of a wino the man is. In fact, I bribed him to stay away this weekend, since this seemed the ideal place to carry out your re-education program. Bruno! Come here! Bruno, my friend, I'd like you to meet Ms. Lydia Pembroke. Say hello, Bruno. Lydia, step out where he can see you. Yes." She moved cautiously, keeping both eyes on the ferocious-looking dog. As its bestial eyes returned her stare she became vividly conscious that she was still completely naked.
Oh, for God's sake, she thought. He's only a dod!"
"Richard-" It was Keith. "Richard-what in the hell is going on?"
Richard turned. "It's simple," he said. "Lydia thinks that she is now a liberated woman, totally liberated, I mean. And this is her chance to prove it." He put his hand on her shoulder. "Lydia-" She turned to face him. "Lie down on the floor. Your next assignment is to fuck Bruno."
Chapter Nine
She looked at him, her eyes bulging from their sockets. At first she thought she'd heard him wrong, and then perhaps he was only joking, but the words echoed in her ears and she was looking into the most serious, most insane eyes she had ever seen in her life.
"Oh, my God, you're joking ..." "Not at all." Richard tossed his shirt and trousers onto the stove. He pointed to a large oval rug on the kitchen floor. "Lie down there. With your legs up and apart. Let Bruno see what he'd going to be getting into."
"Hey, man," Greg volunteered from behind, "this is a little heavy. Why don't you knock off the funny stuff and send Bruno back to the basement? He gives me the creeps."
"Tell him," Richard said flatly. "He's a very sensitive animal and he doesn't like to be insulted.'
"He's right, Richard. You're talking crazy."
Richard spun around. "I'm in charge here!" he shouted, and at the cellar door the great dog growled menacingly, as if in counterpoint. "And I told you-it isn't enough to tame her. I want to break her, too! And by God I'm going to break her! Lydia-stretch out on the carpet or I'll have to stretch you out."
She looked at Keith and Greg. "For the love of Christ," she whispered, "don't you have any decency? I don't mind what you all did to me. Jesus, I probably needed it! "But. . . but this is... oh, God, it's too much! Can't you stop him?"
They didn't answer. Both of them turned away, unwilling to return her stares, and Lydia's heart sank. "Go on," Richard told her. "Lie down. We'll see if Bruno is interested."
Her feet were like lead as she stepped onto the carpet. She looked at Greg and Keith one last time, praying that one of them could find the moral courage to oppose their friend, knowing even as she prayed that it was a hopeless cause. In everything that had happened today, they'd followed Richard Welby's lead, obeyed his commands and instructions. And now they intended to stand by while their leader turned her over to the brutal lusts of that. .. that...
She sank to her heels, squatting, ten or fifteen feet from Richard and the dog, her eyes focused upon the dog's face. She'd never had a pet, never learned to interpret the expressions and moods of an animal's face. What was the dog thinking? Could he understand what Richard had said? People claimed that their pets could indeed understand them. Richard stroked the dog's ears and Bruno made a throaty noise, almost like a purr. "Come on, Bruno," he said, moving toward Lydia. The dog followed.
"I told you to he down," he repeated. "Bruno can't fuck you unless you lie down. Or would you rather be on your knees with that darling ass thrust up? Dog style, you know?"
Something about his voice, his choice of words-she couldn't put her finger on it, not exactly, but-Lydia blinked, and suddenly the face that leaned in close to hers wasn't Richard's. It was Uncle George's .. .and she was fourteen years old, surprised in the bathroom, forced to suck a man's cock for the first time in her young life, dragged to her bed, and told to pose in a certain way for him. "Dog style. Just like a dog and a bitch, and you're the hot bitch this dog is gonna fuck."
"No, please, Uncle George, don't make me do it," she whined, her voice breaking, tears welling in her eyes. Her breasts were hard on her chest, the nipples tight and aching, and she felt as if she had to pee. "Please, Uncle George, please. Pretty please with sugar on it-"
"Lie down! Lift your knees and spread 'em! Here. Bruno!" It was Richard again. At least she thought it was. Lydia didn't know. Who was she, for that matter? Was she Lydia Pembroke, age twenty-six, or was she the little Lydia, aged fourteen and about to be deflowered through force and terror? Her heart hammered behind her left tit as if it meant to pound its way through her ribcage. She eased back, resting on her elbows.
Richard pulled on one leg, and she fell, right onto her ass. With a thump. Lydia cried out, and again she heard the dog growl. Richard straightened her leg, then extended the other. She was parted widely, and if the dog had any perception of female human anatomy, he must know that he was looking right at her sliced gash.
"Beautiful," he said. "Isn't she beautiful?" Greg and Keith said nothing. Richard knelt beside her and began to stroke her cunt. "You're dry, Lydia. What's wrong? Just a little while ago you were so wet, so hot-" He slid his middle finger up and down the crease of her twat. "Get wet for me, Lydia. If not for me, then for Bruno. Look at him. He isn't sure what's going to happen, but he trusts me. He knows I wouldn't steer him wrong."
"How .. . how can you ... I mean, that animal .. . and me. He's savage ... an attack dog ... He could ... he could ..."
"But he won't hurt you, as long as you're polite and your natural honey-pie sugar bunch sweet self, Lydia. And that shouldn't be a problem. Just treat him the way you treated us. Moan a lot, and wrap your legs around him, and make your pussy ripple up and down his cock while he's fucking you. He'll love it, and he'll love you too. Maybe he'll even let you suck him off. Just be sure you don't bite. Bruno doesn't seem the type to tolerate being bitten."
As he spoke, he continued to massage her pussy, and without warning his finger slid into her, right up the mouth of her vagina. Lydia moaned, her ass lifting from the floor, and she swallowed him with her tense, twitching cunt. "Ohhhhhh," she whimpered. "Please ..."
Richard wormed around inside her, digging till his finger was musky with the smell of her snatch. He extracted the finger and thrust it toward the dog. "Smell, Bruno," he commanded, and the dog came nearer. "Smell!"
Bruno's nostrils twitched as Richard waved his cunty finger back and forth. Richard smiled. "Yes, that's a good dog," he said. He pointed to Lydia's cunt. "Right here. There's plenty more where that little whiff came from. Sniff her, Bruno. Lick her. That rough tongue should drive her crazy. Come on, boy. Lick her pussy. And then we'll see if she'd be interested in about six inches of your cock. Hmmmm?"
The dog came nearer, his toenails clicking on the floor. Lydia looked down her belly, saw the muzzle sinking lower, twitching as the dog homed in on the aroma he'd been tempted with. What in the name of Christ was the animal thinking? Was he sick, as weirdly, horribly sick as Richard Welby?
"Want to smell her again?" Richard worked his finger into Lydia again, and she said "AAAAAGGGHHH" in a high, shrill voice. The dog didn't like it. His ears bristled and his eyes set in a stare which chilled Lydia's heart. She choked off the need to scream, afraid that somehow she'd offend the dog, cause him to pounce, to rip out her throat- "Smell," said Richard, offering the dog his finger. Bruno made that same purr-like noise he'd made when his ears were stroked. His nose dipped down and for the briefest, most frightening moment Lydia felt him sniff directly at her twat. She ached to close her legs, but she was too frightened.
"Wait a goddamned minute," Keith said, clearing his throat. "This is just too fucking much, Richard."
"Ssssshhhh-you'll disturb Bruno."
Greg chimed in. "You can't do it. We didn't agree on this, goddamn it!"
"We didn't have to. I'm the leader. What I say, goes."
"This is no playground game," Keith said angrily, stepping toward them. "And I'm not going to stand here and watch you pimp Lydia to that fucking dog."
Bruno's head snapped round. He growled. Keith stopped.
Richard put his hand on Lydia's cuntal puff. "You'd better apologize to Bruno. I think he feels you've insulted him."
The dog looked back at his friend. "Go ahead," Richard advised. "They're just playing dog in the manger. If you'll excuse the expression, my four-legged friend." Again he tempted Bruno with the smell of his pussy-soaked finger. "Go ahead Bruno. Taste it for yourself."
The dog bowed his head and sniffed Lydia's snatch. She recoiled as he whiffed her female organ, and she covered her mouth with a fist when he flipped out his tongue and brushed it across her slice.
"Aaagggghh-" Her voice was small and tense, and she found herself biting that fist to keep from screaming. God, Jesus, his tongue was so rough-like sandpaper on her pussy. He kept licking ... licking ... up and down ...
"Good boy, Bruno," Richard said, patting the dog's shoulders. He stood up and took a couple steps back. "Go to it, Bruno. Bon appetit! She ought to be moaning and whining in just a few minutes, but don't let it bother you." He looked at his companions. "There," he said. "I think I can safely say that she's well on the way to being broken. Completely."
Keith's face was white. "You're a sick fucking bastard! How can you do something like this, goddamn you-" Greg wasn't saying anything. He looked as if he were hovering on the verge of vomiting.
Lydia was crying. Her breasts heaved. Her stomach undulated. Now and then Bruno looked up, his eyes questioning, and she found his brown dog eyes fully as human as Richard Welby's. For all the good that did!
"We agreed that she had to be an example, didn't we? An example to all the women's libbers, all the communist elements that have been trying to subvert American morals for the last fifty years? Goddamn it, there was a time when the American man was the king! Whatever he said went, by God! And now what do we have? Women are trying to cut our balls off! Our balls! What else can we count on, you and me and Greg?" His voice was getting higher-pitched, intense.
"She's only a practice run, anyway. Before much longer, you and me, Keith, and you too, Greg-and of course, Bruno-we're going after bigger game. Gloria Steinem! Shirley MacLaine! Jane fucking Fonda! We'll crush women's lib where it's most vulnerable-right in their goddamned pussies! We'll make them fuck us, suck our cocks, take it up their tight smug asses. We'll sic Bruno onto them, too. We can turn this country around, save our heritage as American males-"
"My God," Greg whispered tensely. "He's gone bananas."
Richard snapped erect, like a Nazi soldier who's just seen Hitler and Goering and Goebbels walking past. He pointed an index finger at Greg and Keith. "If you're not men enough-"
"This has gone too far already," Keith said. He clenched a fist and hit Richard firmly on the point of his chin. Spitting blood, Richard reeled across the room, landing in a heap against the far wall.
Bruno's tongue made its last swipe across Lydia's pussy. The dog raised his head, growling.
Lydia shrank back, drawing up her legs. Richard climbed to his feet, brandishing his fists. Greg strode across the room and hit him again, this time right in the mouth. Richard spat more blood. "BRUNO!!!!" he screamed.
Lydia screamed too, as the dog tensed, then made a flying leap at Greg, aiming straight for his throat. Keith ran to join the fray, bumping the dog's body. Bruno screeched as he was shoved aside, and he landed in a heap near Richard, but the dog was strong and in a heartbeat he was on his feet again, snarling, baring his teeth. With a roar he sprang upon Keith and Greg. "KILLLLL!!!" Richard shouted. "KIIIIIIILLLLLLL!!!!!"
She covered her ears but it couldn't drown the sounds of men and dog in ferocious combat not ten feet away. Lydia scooted across the floor, getting further and further from the fray, and then she bumped her shoulder on something and she realized that it was the kitchen door, the door that led outside, into the dining room, and, beyond that-oh, God!
She stood up, panting, and nobody paid any attention. Richard and Greg and Keith and Bruno were tangled in a mass at the other end of the room, growling and cursing and fighting, and it was a tossup who would come out on top. Keith was already red with blood where the dog had bitten and ripped him, but it was a red badge of courage. .She'd misjudged him. He might be a passive member of the crowd, but in him was the urge to heroism. Oh, God, he'd finally come through!
Lydia's eyes darted round and round. She didn't want to look at the melee because she was afraid-afraid that Richard and Bruno would win. Strength and madness were on their side She clutched her pussy defensively. It was still damp from Bruno's spittle. Clothes. She wanted to clothe herself. Jesus! Richard's pants and t-shirt, which he'd thrown carelessly out of the way. They were lying on the range. She could reach them from where she stood- Richard was choking Keith, and the madman's face was the whitest white Lydia had ever seen. He looked like a piece of paper. Greg and Bruno rolled about on the floor, Bruno's fangs making inexorably for Greg Chastain's throat. Oh, God-she couldn't wait to see who won. She grabbed the t-shirt and trousers; she kicked open the door; she ran!
"Goddamn it!" Lydia cursed, tears filling her eyes, when she bumped headlong into the huge table of the darkened dining room. A chair fell to the floor as she straightened herself and, still holding the shirt and pants, she fumbled through the dark, seeking a way out. Behind her-oh, God-behind her were Richard and that horrible dog! Ahead-ahead she could only hope-Through two rooms she stumbled, both rooms dark as night, and then she was flooded in light and she found herself at the foot of the staircase Richard had escorted her down. When she pretended to be Scarlet O'Hara, she thought bitterly.
"OOOOWWWWWWWWW!!!!!" It was the unmistakable cry of the dog Bruno. But was it a howl of victory or a death groan? She didn't want to find out. Lydia pushed the door which loomed before her, and the chill winds of a late winter night enfolded her naked body. She stopped short, realizing that she was outside, that the house and its battling occupants lay behind her. Her lungs heaved and she felt faint. Only the cold night air revived her.
Quickly she slipped into the t-shirt, put on the slacks. The t-shirt was tight, the slacks loose. She stood a moment adjusting herself to the feel of this strange clothing, and she looked around. To her left, perhaps 300 yards away, lights moved at a steady rate. A road? Of course! She sucked in her breath and ran toward those lights, praying that Richard and Bruno didn't overtake her before she got there.
She clambered across a fence and found herself in the midst of a two-lane rural road, reasonably well cared for. All she knew about her location was what Keith had told her-that this house was somewhere near Painesville. She didn't know which way to turn, which direction would carry her to safety, but she knew that she had to get away from here, at all costs. Lydia stood on the yellow lane in the middle of the road, panting as she waited for another car to pass.
"STOP!!!" she screamed, waving her arms frantically at the approaching lights. When the vehicle stopped, she hurried toward it.
"Something wrong?" a male voice said. He turned on his inside light, and she saw that it was a young man, smooth-faced, long hair. Lydia pulled down the hem of her t-shirt and stepped closer.
For a moment she was ready to tell him what had happened-that she'd been kidnapped, raped-that her kidnapers and rapists were even now engaged in a life-and-death struggle in the house a few hundred yards from the highway, but- What the hell did she owe any of them? If Richard and his dog killed Greg and Keith, or if Greg and Keith finished off Richard and Bruno, what difference did it make? Come Monday, she'd see who turned up at work and who didn't. The only person whose welfare mattered to Lydia-was Lydia. The rest of them could go straight to hell.
"My car," she lied fluently. "It broke down, need a ride into Cleveland."
"You're lucky," the boy grinned. "I'm just on my way into Cleveland myself. Saturday night, y'know? Time to howl." He looked at her, and she knew that he was examining the thrust of her unfettered breasts under the t-shirt, which fit her like second skin. Did he like what he saw? If the gleam in his eyes was proof, he found the vision worthy of appreciation. "You're welcome to come along."
She went around the car and eased herself in. When she closed the door she was trembling a little, but there was no need to tremble. She'd escaped that house. Relatively unscathed, at that. Lydia slid across the seat, moving closer to the young driver. "I'm Lydia," she said. "Lydia Pembroke."
He nodded. "John," he said. "John Dolan. Nice to meet you. Where's your car? I could maybe take a look at it."
"No, it's the engine. Blown to hell. Oh, it was only a junker anyway." The important thing was getting to Cleveland, back to her apartment, where she could sort things out, decide what this strange day had really meant in terms of her life and its overall pattern.
The hell with overall patterns! She knew what today had meant, what it had done to her, for her! Lydia closed her eyes. God, she thought, I've been such a fool! I'm twenty-five years old and I've wasted most of those years.
She felt a wrenching in her guts. What a day it had been! She could still feel those orgasms exploding in her belly, feel her pussy creaming its hot liquids as a thick hard cock dredged in her tight channel. She could taste the explosion of cum in her mouth, the tangy juice coating her tongue, squishing stickily down her throat, seeping from her lips in an abundance too great to swallow. And to think how long she'd hated, feared, those sensations!
She looked at John Dolan. He had a nice profile. Was he any good in bed? From now on, her criteria for men would not be how gullible is he? How easily can I break his balls? But how does he swing his meat? CAN HE FUCK?
Lydia smiled. If he'd seen her smile he might have wondered what kind of lady had flagged him down on a lonely rural road. But John had his eyes on the road ahead, and the first touch of her hand on his leg made him jump.
Lydia moved closer before that jump had done any damage, and she pressed her lips against his ear. Her hand shot to his crotch, covering it, and, even soft, John made a respectable bulge against her palm. He didn't stay soft for long. She breathed across his cheek, her tongue swirling in his ear.
"You said," she purred, "that this was your night to howl. Well, I feel like howling, too. Why don't we bark at the moon together?"
"Heyyyyyy," he said, only a fair imitation of the Fonz.
She cupped his growing pecker bulge a little tighter, felt him twitch promisingly inside his pants. "Listen," she added, "do you know how to rape a woman?"
John shivered. "I don't think so." Still, he removed one hand from the steering wheel and slid it around Lydia where she melted against him, her stiff nipples punchy and evident in the tight cling of her borrowed t-shirt. She breathed, and her tits bobbled softly against his arm.
"It's okay," she husked. "I'll show you what to do. You won't have any trouble picking it up. I think I like being raped. As long as it's done in good taste." Yes, she thought, it's going to be a lot different from here on out. And a lot more fun. She unzipped his pants and fished inside. Finding his cock was no problem. Maybe she'd rape him. Jesus, she thought, it ought to be my turn, after all I've gone through today. I wonder who's winning that fight? Not that she really cared.
"Oh, what the hell?" she sighed, cupping his cock and balls. "We'll rape each other. It's the only fair way."
