THE WOMEN WERE WICKED...From the minister's wife to the loosest woman in town, they sinned...some brazenly and some in secret. And making them atone for their depravity was the self-appointed mission and the greatest pleasure in life for Wade Sampson...THE MAN WITH THE WHIP!
INTRODUCTION
It would be a tedious job to estimate exactly what proportion of the news that is published, broadcast, and televised every day is concerned with crime, but the percentage is obviously large. A brutal murder can shove even a war out of the front-page headlines, and hundreds of thousands of readers will pore avidly over the details of a local shoplifting. Citizens who are totally uninterested in politics as such will discuss endlessly the causes of crime and the proper treatment of criminals.
Even with this abundance of information and theorizing, few people can qualify as genuine experts on the subject. One man who does, however, is Ramsey Clark, former Attorney General of the United States and son of the retired Supreme Court Justice Tom C. Clark. Interviewed recently by Today's Health, the magazine of the American Medical Association, Clark had many relevant and perceptive things to say about crime and criminals.
"Crime," said Clark, "reflects the character of our society and therefore it's not an issue that should be treated lightly or cheaply. It's a very profound problem, affecting and infecting everyone, and to deal with it in political terms is unfortunate.
"By that I mean we must recognize that you cannot beat crime out of society any more than you can beat heroin out of the bloodstream of an addict. And that, on the other hand, we must believe there's nothing weak about quietness.
"We cannot solve the crime problems by force, harshness and violence.
"We need the strength of commitment to the eradication of the underlying causes, tempered by tolerance and gentleness.
"The most beautiful expression of those combined qualities was in Carl Sandberg's description of Abraham Lincoln.
"Sandberg said, 'Not often in history does there come a man who is both steel and velvet, hard as rock and soft as drifting fog. Who has within his heart and mind the paradox of terrible storm and peace unspeakable and perfect!'
"I believe that's it. We need to be both very gentle and very strong. To deny our gentleness at this time in our history would be too much for people."
Asked to be more specific about the causes of crime and possible effective means for dealing with them, Clark went on:
"There are two things about our crime control efforts that are clean. First, we are trying to tell ourselves that crime can be solved with police, courts and prisons. Second, we tell ourselves that we have failed to support the very efforts needed for those agencies to perform well. And we're wrong both times.
"If there's a single factor that is the greatest contributor to anti-social conduct, it is poverty that results in poor health.
"From my reading and personal contacts, I would estimate that 50 percent of the prison population is alcoholic. That's a socio-medical problem. In some cities better than half of reported property crimes are related to drug addiction - another complex socio-medical problem. Mental retardation is another example. Perhaps one in five of all in prison are mentally retarded. Prisons cannot cope with that. Most crime is committed by the poor against the poor, and these are the same people who suffer most from addiction, alcoholism, mental illness and retardation.
"Now our police, courts and prisons can't solve health and social problems, so obviously criminal justice is not the whole answer."
The Wicked and the Whipped by Amy Gray is a novel about crime-many kinds of crime. You will meet many characters in this richly complex story, and you may begin to wonder before you have finished it is any of these people completely innocent. In the beginning, it's true, Lucille Bryson and her husband, the Reverend Doctor Paul Bryson, seem to be about as free from the taint of sin as any human beings living in today's guilt-riddled world can possibly be. In fact, they seem almost too good to be true. Then, gradually, you will see that the pain and frustration they cause each other and members of Paul's congregation to suffer are in fact crimes of the worst sort-crimes that are committed in the name and under the guise of good rather than evil. Lucille is a dutiful wife who fails to realize her own attractiveness and potential for sexuality-and her failure is a well-nigh fatal flaw.
This, of course, is a kind of negative evil, and there is positive evil in the novel as well. Most of this stems from the person of Wade Sampson, a man sworn to uphold the law, but a man who is inherently savage, brutal and greedy. Lucille first incurs his wrath almost by accident, but he becomes determined to wreak vengeance upon her, and that vengeance alters the courses of many lives.
Amy Gray is a new writer, but in The Wicked and the Whipped she has written one of the most aptly titled novels of all time, and one that probes to the very heart of human passions, ambitions, wants and needs. It is a story that will remind you inevitably of today's crime headlines, and that hopefully will make you better able to understand them.
The Publishers
Chapter I
Lucille Bryson sat in the library of the manse and blandly regarded the "committee" which had come to call upon her. She knew what they wanted, and she knew exactly how she was going to handle them. She had seated them with the room-light behind her own chair and directly in their faces, a factor which left them squinting uneasily in her direction.
"Speak up, ladies," she said briskly. "My husband always has something for me to do after the midweek services just concluded."
"Well-" One of the callers cleared her throat, glanced at her colleagues for verbal support which wasn't forthcoming, then plunged ahead. "-It's about Jo Tucker. We wish-" The speaker hesitated.
"Yes." Lucille prompted.
The speaker remained silent, but one of her cohorts stepped into the breech. "We wish you'd reconsider asking for Jo's resignation from the altar committee," the second woman said.
"Why?" Lucille asked bluntly.
"Because it would be the Christian thing to do," the first woman said.
Lucille's stare at the speaker was icy. "I believe I need no instruction from you in my Christian duties, Mrs. Rogers," she said frostily. "Josephine Tucker is not being asked to leave our church; I would consider that un-Christian. I do feel that in the circumstances she would no longer be a fit individual to continue on the committee. We would be lax ourselves if we condoned it."
"But her husband will know!" the first woman protested.
"And Tom Tucker is a brute!" the previously silent member of the visiting delegation chimed in. "There's no telling what he might do to Jo."
"You'll have to pardon me if I consider that irrelevant," Lucille said coolly. "After all, we are discussing a woman who is conducting an immoral love affair with a man other than her husband, are we not. A man several years her junior?"
There was a sideways exchange of glances among the committee members, but no one spoke for a moment. "This is a small town," Mrs. Rogers said finally. "Word will get back to her husband of the committee's action. At the very least he'll divorce Jo."
"It seems to me that's his affair," Lucille said with practiced mildness. "Our duty lies merely in conducting our own churchly affairs with a dignity denied us by Mrs. Tucker's activities. Of course, you're welcome to discuss the matter with my husband, Dr. Paul." No one spoke. "Then if you will excuse me, ladies -" Lucille rose to her feet.
The woman rose, also, obviously dissatisfied but impotent. Lucille ushered them to the front door of the attractively appointed manse. "I'm sure you'll agree with me when you have time to think it over," Lucille added as she prepared to close the door behind them. "I'm sure your husbands will, too." She smiled to herself at the veiled warning. She didn't think any of her callers would care to have herself called to her own husband's attention as a vigorous defender of Josephine Tucker's escapades.
She turned away from the manse's front door, the women and their errand already dismissed from her mind. She knew she was acting correctly, for the good of the church, so what availed further debate on a matter she considered already closed? Paul might have taken a softer attitude, but she knew the women of the committee would never approach him on such a matter. Paul's chilly exterior effectively prevented communication on intimate subjects.
Lucille moved lightly toward the rear of the ranch-styled manse. She had been truthful in her statement to the women that her husband always had something for her to do after midweek services, although she knew they wouldn't dream of the actual circumstance to which she was referring. It was the part of the week she liked least, and she was always happier when it was over.
Lucille Bryson was twenty-seven, a woman of medium height and 130 firmly fleshed pounds. Raven-black hair framed features handsome rather than beautiful. Like her husband, Paul, her father had been a minister, and Lucille could never remember a time when her choices in life hadn't been automatically laid out for her. A graduate of Radcliffe, she found herself overeducated for their current congregation, a prosperous but mainly blue-collar group whose practical attitude toward life often frustrated Paul's spiritual efforts. Lucille was active in several community activities. She knew that she was regarded by many as a "do-gooder," but she consoled herself with the knowledge that the work needed to be done. As a minister's wife, she tended to regard other women as chipped vessels needing guidance. Her own four-square outlook on life was simple: sinners must suffer and repent.
She entered the master bedroom and began to undress.
Dr. Paul Bryson sat at his desk in his study, making notes in his journal as he always did after a service. Jotted observations, essentially: Mrs. Holcomb had seemed distracted during the service, while Harold Tennant had walked with a pronounced limp. Items such as these when commented upon after Sunday service helped to cement the image of a young minister in physical as well as spiritual rapport with his congregation.
Paul Bryson closed his journal with a sigh. He had been a brilliant divinity school student, but he lacked the common touch. He knew that he was regarded as a cold fish. He wondered occasionally if some of his male juices had evaporated because he had been raised from infancy by two maiden aunts. He had married only because it was a requirement in his profession before receiving his first post. It had been time to get married, and Lucille, with the proper credentials, had been available.
His wife exasperated him at times with her continued - but admittedly effective - meddling in church affairs. Lucille intimidated him with her continual righteousness; he was all too conscious of his own doubts before decisionmaking moments. He supposed that Lucille's effective upper hand in their marriage had begun with their honeymoon during which her by-the-numbers approach to sex had almost emasculated him. She had read a marriage manual prepared for minister's wives.
Paul Bryson knew that he was an attractive man. Occasionally he surprised what he could only interpret as a speculative gleam in the eyes of an attractive female parishioner although he never had the slightest inclination to follow through in such a situation. Lately he had become more fully aware that his role in life was more as a spectator than as a participant, but he was at a loss how to achieve a breakthrough.
His eyes strayed to the clock on the corner of his desk, and he rose to his two-inches-great-er-than-six-feet erectness, his tennis-conditioned 185 pounds lithely balanced.
He closed the door of his study and walked toward the master bedroom at the rear of the manse.
Josephine Tucker sat on the sofa in the living room of her apartment and considered her caller soberly. "I know you did the best you could, Elaine," she said;
"She wouldn't even listen to us," Elaine Rogers replied. "And she as much as threatened to ask our husbands why we were so interested in asking-in asking-"
"Mercy for a sinner," Jo Tucker completed bitterly. "It sounds just like her. If I ever get her in the right place-" She didn't complete the thought.
"What happens now?" Her friend Elaine broke the momentary silence.
Jo shrugged. "Tom will hear of it from someone. There's always a busybody who will stop in at the bar to give him the word." Tom Tucker was head bartender at the liveliest night spot in town. "Then he'll wear my ass out and throw me out in the street." She tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat.
"We told her that Tom was a brute!" Elaine exclaimed indignantly. She wet her lips delicately with the tip of her tongue. "Will he- will he really-ahh-he won't actually-ahh- whip you?"
"The hell he won't," Joe said briefly.
"But that's dreadful!" Elaine Rogers leaned closer to her friend. "How-what will he do?"
"Stripe my bare behind with his belt." Jo Tucker contemplated the thought in silence for ten seconds. "And then divorce me."
"Stripe your-" Elaine Rogers paused as a little shiver ran through her. "That's just dreadful!" she repeated. She swallowed as an excess of saliva filled her mouth. "You should leave right now," she said, but with no real conviction in her voice.
"Where would I go?" Jo asked logically. "And it wouldn't do any good. I'd have to face the music eventually, anyway. It's just one of those things. I've come to one of life's forks in the road. I suppose I knew it subconsciously when I first..." Her voice died away.
"But it's ridiculous for you to stay here when you know that Tom will-will mistreat you!" Elaine protested.
"I'm hoping I can make a deal with him," Jo replied. "After he works out his mad on my tail, I'll ask him if I can stay while I find a job and a room. He might do it." She thought about it a moment. "And then again he might not."
"I still say it's ridiculous to stay here when you know for a fact that Tom will abuse you physically," Elaine said warmly.
Jo hadn't heard her. Lost in her own thoughts, her tone when she spoke again was almost musing. "You know, Elaine, if I can get my nerve up I might even tell him myself."
"Tell him yourself! When you've already said-"
"I know, I know," Jo interrupted her. "But he'd take it a little better coming from me, I think. Not much, but a little. Then he might let me stay till I get a job."
"I should think you could look for help to- to the man-the man who-" Elaine Rogers found herself unable to complete the sentence.
"The man who's been fucking me?" Jo asked with an attempt at insouciance that didn't quite come off.
"How you talk, Jo!" Elaine protested, but there were two spots of high color in her pale cheeks.
Jo ignored her friend's remark. "Wade isn't going to be any happier about this being out in the open than Tom," she predicted darkly. "I know damn well I can't look for any help there."
"Wade certainly is a lot like Tom in some respects," Elaine agreed. "You seem to-seem to-"
"Let my inclinations run to the brute type?" Jo asked lightly. "I suppose I have to admit it. It's the single flaw in my otherwise sterling character." She grinned impudently at her friend.
"I don't see how you can be so casual about it, Jo."
Jo's renewed shrug was fatalistic. "What good will it do to be anything else?" She studied Elaine speculatively. "Haven't you ever strayed off the reservation, honey? Or are you off it and just a little bit more discreet than I was?"
"Of course not!" Elaine flared, but her color remained high. "I wouldn't-wouldn't think of it! I wouldn't dare!"
"It's the daring that makes it so tingly," Jo said. "When you know you're out on a limb and you can almost hear the sound of the saw and a man's big thing had you nailed to the bed, plunging in and out-"
"Joe!"
Jo Tucker laughed as her friend bit her lip nervously. "How about a drink, Elaine? Maybe with a little Dutch courage I can face Tom and get it off my chest."
"Oh, I couldn't! If Harry ever smelled it on my breath-"
Jo looked at her curiously. "It would be your lily-white ass in the grease? Harry doesn't look the type somehow."
"He's not. He wouldn't speak to me for a week, though."
"An attitude that saves wear and tear on the fundament," Jo said, trying to sound philosophical.
"An attitude that infuriates me!" Elaine said spiritedly.
"Better stick with what you have, kiddo," Jo replied. "Take it from the voice of experience. Well, I'm going to pour myself three fingers and see if a nervous stomach can hold it down. Sure you won't join me?"
"I have to rush home." Elaine evaded a second outright refusal. She picked up her gloves and handbag. "I'll-I may call you later, Jo."
"Not tonight," Jo said firmly. "You can learn the gory details in the morning. If I'm still here in the morning."
She ushered her friend to the apartment door.
Deputy Sheriff Wade Sampson sat at his desk in the sheriff's office. He had long since come to think of it as his own desk, since Sheriff Carlson, elderly, had been ill for some time. Wade was a burly man, thick-shouldered and short-necked. His belly protruded over his belt, but it was a hard belly. He had small eyes and a bullet head, close-cropped, while his expression was usually an intimidating glower. Wade Sampson was highly aware of the prerequisites of his office and not at all bashful about employing them to his own best advantage.
He had been deputy long enough to know where a lot of bodies were buried in the community, as he was fond of saying about the private peccadilloes which came within the department's province, and even influential businessmen smiled weakly at his heavy-handed, razor-edged attempts at witticisms. Wade had a reputation as a hard man, a reputation he delighted in and did nothing to refute.
He glanced at his watch impatiently. The girl was late, and he had made a special trip back to the office in the basement of the county building. Well, he'd make her butt smoke when she did arrive. His heavy lips loosened lasciviously at the thought. The sassiest of the local sassy little pullets lost their ginger when Wade Sampson got a shot at their tailpieces. And Wade Sampson spent the greater part of his waking day scheming for and arranging just such confrontations.
The iron bar on the basement's side door clanged open and a girl sidled inside. She was slim, dark-haired, ivory-skinned, and breathless. Her young face was puckered in worry. "I'm sorry, Mr. Sampson, I h-hurried as fast as-"
"You're late," Wade Sampson declared flatly. "You must not care whether I tell your mother or not."
"Oh, I do! I do! Please don't do that! Please don't-"
"Get yourself over here," Wade said heavily.
The girl approached him with obvious trepidation. "N-not so hard this time, Mr. Sampson?" she pleaded. "Please? I'll-"
"Quiet," Wade growled. "I told you a month ago you had a choice after Doug Carroll caught you shopliftin' in his store an' I brought you here. I told you that you could choose between my callin' your mother right then an' there, or takin' two bare-bottom spankings a month apart, didn't I?"
"Yes, but I didn't know-"
Wade unbuckled his gun belt and dropped it on the desk. "Get over my knees," he said.
The girl started to cry. She could have been anywhere from fifteen to seventeen. She approached Sampson with tears streaming down her cheeks and her hands nervously smoothing her dress over her stomach. "It h-hurts so," she sobbed, but she obediently draped her slender frame over the deputy sheriff's heavy thighs.
Wade Sampson reached over her pliant body to open his desk drawer from which he removed a cut-down ping-pong paddle. Half its surface and a third of its weight had been removed. The remainder was mercilessly effective in contributing a burning smart to a girlish bared behind.
"P-please!" the girl whimpered in a choked voice as she felt Wade reach for the hem of her skirt. "Not h-hard."
Sampson paid no attention. With the skill born of practice he rolled skirt and slip up the girl's back until the entire expanse of her pink-pantied bottom was exposed. The girl wriggled uneasily when she felt Sampson's big hand at the waistband of her panties. "Oh!" she exclaimed breathlessly as he drew her underwear down suddenly so that the whole of her pale-ivory petite buttocks appeared.
"Now we'll just see to it you think it over a time or two before you go into a store again with itchy fingers," Sampson said heavily.
He raised the paddle, and the girl flinched. "I won't! I won't!" the girl bleated. "I-p-prom-ise I won't ever-oww!"
The "oww!" had been immediately preceded by the explosive crack of the paddle on her bare flesh. The young buttocks clenched convulsively as the pink outline of the paddle sprang up on a soft globe. Wade Sampson aimed the paddle at its twin and snapped the smooth wood onto its resilient target-area. "Oooooh!" the girl gasped as her stomach climbed involuntarily from Wade's knees.
He thrust her ruthlessly into position again, then steadily pursued the writhing, pinkening girlish behind which threshed frantically in a vain effort to evade the accumulating heat in the young, nude hind parts. The girl began to kick at each burning impact of the little paddle, her slender legs parting to disclose downy body hair at their juncture. Wade Sampson's heavy features turned nearly as red as the hot-looking youthful hemispheres he was spanking.
"Oww! Ooooh! Oooooooh! OWWWW! Ohh-hhhh! Mr. S-Sampson! Ohhhhh!" the girl cried out. Choked sobs punctuated the increasing volume of her pitiful shrieks. "Owwww! It h-hurts! It - oooooh! - hurts! Ohh! Owww! Owwwww! OWWWWWW! Aieeeeeee!"
Sampson held the light weight on his knees despite the girl's squirming as her bare seat turned crimson. She humped herself up and down, twisted from side to side, disclosing anew mossy curls covering but not concealing a dainty-looking slit, then yelled hoarsely as she found herself totally unable to escape the paddle blistering her naked rump. She bucked and heaved, modesty forgotten in the midst of her gluteal distress.
"There!" Wade Sampson announced suddenly, stopping the spanking when a note of hysteria entered the girlish high-pitched shrieks. For an instant the girl didn't realize her ordeal had ended; then she rolled off the deputy's knees and crouched on the floor, moaning softly as she furiously rubbed her scarlet croup with both hands. Wade stared at the dark bush under the smooth bowl of her rounded belly, itself pink from its frictionizing struggle against Wade's khakis.
"Don't let me have any more phone calls from storekeepers like Doug Carroll, understand?" he said in a warning voice as the girl's half-strangled sobs and whimpers gradually died out.
"Oooooh, you w-won't, b-believe me!" the girl promised fervently. She removed her hands from her bottom to scrub her knuckles against her tear-reddened eyes, but almost immediately returned them to rub soothingly again. "Ohhhhhh, but my behind is B-BURN-ING!"
"Get yourself together," Wade said patronizingly, eyes on the vermilion flower of the budding seat cushions above the slender white stalks of the girl's thighs. "You're showin' quite a bit there, you know."
A hot tide of color flooded the young face as the girl groped for and then tugged up the panties bunched at mid-thigh. Hurriedly she scrambled to her feet and shook down the slip and dress rolled up around her shoulders. "Can-can I go now, Mr. Sampson?" she asked timidly.
"Sure you can," he said easily. "An' keep that ass of yours out've trouble, okay? I'd hate to have to give you another whalin' like that."
Wordlessly the girl moved to the door leading to the outside stairs and the street.
When it clanged shut behind her, Wade Sampson laughed heartily, held the paddle under his nose for an instant and sniffed at it curiously, then thrust it back into the desk drawer out of sight.
Tommy Johnson parked his eight-year-old car in front of Cathy Riggjns' house and turned to Cathy on the front seat beside him. His gray eyes appraised her innocent-looking face framed in blonde hair that descended her back. "You've changed, Cathy," he said softly.
"Changed? How?" she asked.
"Since we were in school together, I mean."
"You shouldn't have dropped out of school, Tommy," the girl said earnestly. "That's why you're having so much trouble finding a job. A good job."
"Oh, I make a few bucks. The factory pays me for playing with its football and baseball teams. And something comes up once in a while." He leaned toward the girl. "But I can't get over the change in you."
"You're exaggerating," she said, but she was smiling. "No, I'm not exaggerating," he replied emphatically. "In school you were so skinny it was hard to see you. Now-" He casually dropped a hand on Cathy's thigh and squeezed it lightly. His eyes were on the outline of her breasts under her blouse. "Now you've got the meat where the meat should be, Cathy."
She moved her thigh away from his hand, far more masculine than boyish despite his cherubic, choir-boy features, trying to keep from showing in her face the quick stir of inner excitement she felt at his touch. "Dr. Haley said I was a late-bloomer," she said. "But I always knew who you were in school, Tommy."
He moved closer to her on the front seat of the car, his brown-haired head so close to her blonde one that his lips grazed her ear. Cathy tried in vain to stifle a shiver that rippled through her. "Are you a virgin, Cathy?" he murmured against the captive ear. His hand dropped once more upon her thigh and this time disappeared under her skirt.
"It's no s-sin to be a virgin," Cathy retorted, groping through her skirt for the wrist of the hand advancing teasingly up her thigh.
"And I'll bet you've got the cutest little pink unused cunt," he whispered.
The forbidden word startled her. "You mustn't, Tommy," she said, as much to his use of language as to the fingers creeping-crawling up her inner leg. She had hold of Tommy's wrist but his greater strength slowed down his ascending hand hardly at all.
He half turned in the seat to get better leverage, and despite Cathy's hand attempting to restrain him his fingers first touched, then tickled, then cuddled her pantied crotch. "Ahh-hhh, that's a fat little pussy," he half-crooned.
"Tommy!" the girl exclaimed in a near-panic at the sudden flood of sensation assailing her. The male fingers danced lightly over her secret flesh, evoking a swelling of her labial lips that she could actually feel. She was afraid that he could feel it, too, through the thin fabric of her flesh-strained panties. "We're right-out on the-street!" she protested breathlessly. "Someone-might see!"
He turned his head and kissed her soft neck. "Ohhh!" Cathy exclaimed as she felt a quick gush of moisture where the probing fingers titillated her warmly glowing sex-pot. "T-Tom-my! No!"
Abruptly he removed his hand but he kissed her neck again as goose bumps rose visibly on the milky-white skin of her arms. "I'll meet you tomorrow," he said briskly. "Same time." He leaned across her and opened the car door on her side, favoring her with a brightly cheerful smile. A hand under her elbow assisted her out of the car door and she felt a friendly pat on her bottom as she stood erect on partly trembling legs. The car roared away as Tommy gave her a casual arm-wave.
Cathy stood on the sidewalk in front of her house, hoping her confused stimulation didn't show in her face. Slowly her rapid pulse and quick-beating heart subsided. In high school Tommy Johnson had been an athletic god she had worshipped from afar, uncomplainingly accepting that he couldn't even see her own skinny, straggly-haired blondeness.
She had been surprised when he appeared suddenly with his car this afternoon and offered her a ride home from her part-time job at the library. And she had been surprised-and yes, she had to admit it, she had been thrilled- by his bold advances. Tommy was a handsome boy-man, rather-and due to her late-blooming upon which Dr. Haley had remarked, Cathy had had very little experience with boys.
She sighed unconsciously before turning to the cement walk that led to her widowed mother's house. Inside, she followed her nose to the enticing odors emerging from the kitchen, again hoping that her excitement wasn't evident. "Do I have time for a bath before dinner, mother?" she asked, kissing Edna Riggins' cheek.
"If you hurry, dear," her mother replied.
In her own room Cathy approached the floor-length mirror attached to the inner side of her bathroom door. Serious-faced, she took her skirt in both hands and raised it until the crotch of her panties was visible. She stared silently at the damp spot evident upon the panties' gusset. She touched herself lightly there with a finger, watching the image of the sweet-faced blonde girl in the mirror with a finger probing between her thighs.
She still felt half-dizzy from the surfeit of emotion she had so suddenly experienced in the front seat of Tommy's car. Upon impulse she faced about, then looked over her shoulder at her pantied rear. She clamped her dress and slip under her armpits, then pulled her panties down until all her alabaster-white bottom showed in the mirror. She examined the slender stalk of her waist below which depended the surprisingly fruity twin globes of her silky-looking buttocks.
She reached behind herself to pat the resilient flesh, then palpate it, then finally swing it lightly from side to side with flirting motions of her hips. The flaring hemispheres, dazzling in their whiteness in the light reflected from the window, danced and swayed and jiggled delightfully.
Cathy turned and faced the mirror again. She pushed her panties farther down until all of the sloping bowl of her pearly white stomach was exposed with the blonde, mossy curls on her lower belly disappearing into her thigh-juncture.
She touched herself again where Tommy had touched her. For three years now she had been relieving with a finger once a week the accumulated burning itch pent up inside her chubby, silky-furred pussy, but it had never felt like it had in Tommy's car. She was ashamed every time she did it to herself. She had felt ashamed with Tommy, too, but only because she was afraid he could sense the nearly out-of-control state she had so quickly reached with him. She didn't quite understand still how it had happened or why she hadn't vigorously repulsed such advances.
She sighed again, stooped swiftly to turn on the water in the tub with her de-pantied behind pointing nudely in the air. She saw herself in the glass and wriggled her hips again, watching the expansion and contraction of the deep crevice separating her snowy hind cheeks.
Only Dr. Haley had ever set masculine eyes upon Cathy Riggins in such a state, upon the examination table.
Only Dr. Haley, until now.
Chapter II
Lucille Bryson paused in her undressing to draw the shades in the manse's master bedroom. She moved about in the resulting semi-darkness, hanging up her dress in the closet and neatly folding her slip before placing it over a chair-back. She struggled with her full-flowing curves, finally succeeding in tugging it downward and stepping out of it with a feeling of relief.
Quickly she removed bra and panties and ghosted about the darkened room like a white wraith momentarily before donning a plain, unadorned, square-neckline nightgown. She had one quick glimpse of her full-breasted amplitude and solid-looking rear in the bureau mirror, and she instinctively averted her eyes before the nightgown descended over her nudity. She sat down on the bed after stripping off the coverlet and waited with folded hands. It was the part of the week she liked least, but a wife had a duty to perform.
The bedroom door opened and Paul Bryson entered. He grimaced at the room's darkness, but made no comment. He had long since given up making comments about his wife's phobia about daylight or lamplight attending their lovemaking. He removed his shoes and then undressed speedily, approaching the bed where Lucille had stretched out on her back.
He knelt on the bed as Lucille drew up her nightgown and tucked it under her armpits. He stretched out on his right side alongside her, slipped an arm under her neck, and half turned her toward him so that his hairy chest rested against her large bare breasts. No word was spoken, nor any kiss exchanged.
With his left hand Paul searched in the dark for his wife's vagina. Lucille widened her thighs obediently, and Paul began to massage her bearded sex-crevice. It was one victory he had won in his marriage. Lucille had banned massage-stimulation at first, but he had insisted he would no longer insert his penis into a dry hole. Lucille had reluctantly given in against her better judgment. She had never heard the word "frigging," but she felt instinctively that such stimulation was un-churchly, to say nothing of being unladylike.
In their whole marriage she had never handled her husband's penis. It was no part of the marriage bargain, she had told Paul Bryson firmly when he suggested it. She suffered his manipulation of her own sexual parts only because she experienced relief herself when she became lubricated. Relief, but no pleasure.
Paul alternately stroked and penetrated his wife's labia with persistent fingering until moistness changed to wetness. He plunged the finger deeply into her sex-chute, drawing spend from the inside with which he coated the outer lips. Too often in the early days of their marriage he had risen from his wife's body with his penis-tip smarting and stinging from unlubricated friction.
Lucille stared upward at the dimly seen ceiling. She closed her eyes as Paul rose from his position beside her. He parted her legs and moved in between them. She widened and elevated them, but it was the moment of the week she hated most. She had all too vivid an image of how she must look, on her back with legs asprawl and her black-haired, spend-wet vaginal orifice upthrust boldly. It was why she insisted upon no lights. Sex was degrading for a woman.
She opened her eyes again when she felt the bulbous head of Paul's long, thick penis slowly penetrating her. Paul sank deeper and immediately began to plunge upon her. She did not hold her husband in her arms. Her arms rested laxly upon the pillows to either side. She hoped it wouldn't take him long for his masculine ejaculation.
Her body moved negligibly under her husband's insistent prodding of her flesh. She changed position slightly once to ease a feeling of strain in her back, and Paul's vigorous pounding at her at once increased. Lucille, however, went limp again as she listened uncomfortably to the wet, slurping sounds created by the rapid passage of Paul's manhood in and out of her vagina. It was all so animalistic.
Paul's deep breathing increased sharply and his hips flurried mightily as his sexual spasm overtook him. His lean belly smacked audibly against his wife's rounded one while the wrenching ejaculations vibrated through his penis, and with a coughing gasp he expired upon her stomach after a final draining spurt of sticky semen.
He rose from Lucille's loosely sprawled figure in less than thirty seconds. His wife permitted no after-sex intimacy. He went into the bathroom and performed a quick cleansing of his sexual apparatus before returning to the bedroom and fumbling in the dark for his clothing.
He left the bedroom without having said a word.
Back at his desk in the study, he looked at his watch and noted that eleven minutes had elapsed since he had departed for his bedroom.
Tommy Johnson entered the back door of his parents' home, in which he had not lived for over a year. He had a room above the local bakery which he paid for by doing odd jobs around the premises. "Hi, ma!" he sang out cheerfully to the bulky woman standing by the kitchen stove. "You gettin' enough from pa these days? I could fix you up with plenty good stuff if you're goin' short."
"You shut your filthy mouth, young man," his mother warned but she was smiling. She examined his features closely. "Are you sure you're eating the right kind of meals, Tommy?"
"Sure I am, ma."
"You don't have to live in that dirty little room, Tommy. Your own room is waiting for you right upstairs."
"You know better'n that, ma." Her son grinned at her impudently. "You'd get too nervous listenin' to me boost my girl friends up the apple tree an' over the roof to my bedroom window."
"You'll get a disease, Tommy. I worry all the time."
"Nothin' like that, ma. I take only prime stuff. About your age." He winked at his mother. "Really ripe."
"You stop that before I take the broom to you, Tommy Johnson. Before I forget it, Wade wants you to call him."
Tommy's smile died. Deputy Sheriff Wade Sampson was Tommy's uncle, the youngest brother of Tommy's mother. "I'm not so sure I want to call him," he declared.
"Why not, for heaven's sake?"
"That man comes on too strong for me."
"Too strong?"
"Ahhh, forget it. I'm not too sure I know myself what I mean. How's pa? In good sexual health, I trust?"
His mother shook her head exasperatedly. "Don't you ever think of anything else except sex?"
"You mean there is somethin' else?" Tommy expertly dodged his mother's half-hearted slap aimed at him. "Come on, ma, admit it, you love to have pa slap the saddle on you, don't you?" He broke and ran for the door as his mother advanced upon him determinedly. "See you later, ma!" he called as the screen door slammed behind him.
"You be here for Sunday dinner, Tommy Johnson, or I'll send Wade after you!" His mother's voice floated after him.
Tommy waved acknowledgment as he climbed into his car. He drove to the bakery and parked in back, then climbed the outside stairs which furnished him with a private entrance to his second floor room. He had had two late nights in a row and felt the need for a restoring nap.
He stripped to his jockey shorts and stretched out on the spartan single bed, his elbow almost dislodging the telephone on the night-stand. He had to grab quickly to steady it. He rolled onto his back and shielded his eyes with his arm. Thoughts of Cathy Riggins danced behind his closed eyelids. Young, fresh-faced, virginal-looking Cathy Riggins. The way she'd acted in his car he sensed it was there almost for the asking. And from the look of it it should be some kind of sweet.
He drifted off to sleep.
The strident ring of the phone woke him. Even as he reached for it sleepily, he became conscious of darkness outside and the sound of rain against the windows. "Yeah?" he mumbled, trying to come out of his sleep-induced lassitude.
"Are you alone, Tommy?" The feminine voice was shaky and strained-sounding.
"That's right," he said more alertly. "Who's this?"
"Jo Tucker. Can I stay with you tonight?"
"Stay with me?" Amazed incredulity threaded his voice until comprehension dawned. "Oh. Tom had found out about Wade?" His uncle's liaison with Jo Tucker was no secret to Tommy.
"Yes." The reply was almost whispered.
"Why don't you call Wade?" The line hummed emptily in Tommy's ear. "Okay, forget I mentioned it. Where"re you now?"
"In the phone booth around the corner from the bakery."
"Come around to the stairs at the rear. I'll have the door open."
"Th-thanks, Tommy."
The connection was gone. Tommy sat up in bed, then slid out and pulled on shirt and trousers. He felt uneasy about getting involved in his uncle's affairs. Wade Sampson's explosive temper was legendary. Still, Jo Tucker had sounded really shook up. Tommy went to the door and opened it. The rain thrummed steadily on the wooden stairway. There was no outside light at the rear of the bakery, but he could see via the streetlight at the corner when Jo Tucker turned into the backyard.
The way she was walking sent him trotting down the stairs barefoot. Jo was half-doubled over, holding her side. "Christ!" Tommy exclaimed involuntarily when he saw her face. It was swollen and misshapen and her eyes seemed glazed. "Take it easy now," he continued. "Let me help you." He put an arm around her gently. "Jesus, you're soaking."
He guided her up the stairway and into his room. She remained motionless in the center of the floor when he left her to turn on the light. He had been drenched himself during the short interval of the ascent of the stairs, and Jo Tucker's bedraggled-looking clothing was sodden.
"He-he threw me out," she said numbly as Tommy approached her. Her dark-red, coppery hair, ordinarily attractively upswept, was plastered wetly to her small skull. "I h-had no place to go. All my girl f-friends are married, and I couldn't go anywhere 1-looking like this." She was still holding onto her side.
"Okay," Tommy said soothingly. "Let's get you out of those wet things."
The fastener at the back of her dress was only half-zipped. "My arms h-hurt too much to reach higher to pull it up," Jo said in a half whisper. She stood doll-like while Tommy pulled the zipper down and gently eased the dress from her shoulders. He did the same with the shoulder straps of her slip, and dress and slip collapsed wetly at her feet after being steered down her body by Tommy.
He turned his attention to her face. Although her lips were swollen enough to give her a slight lisp when she spoke, it wasn't as bad as he had feared at first. There was a lump on one cheekbone and a swelling under one eye. He placed a hand under her chin and moved it from side to side to make sure the jaw wasn't broken. "You'll probably have a black eye tomorrow, but I think we can fix it up," Tommy said. "What happened?"
While speaking he unfastened the hooks of her bra and guided it down over her shoulders. It slid down her arms and joined the clothing at her feet. He pulled her wet panties down over her thighs and added them to the pile. His lips tightened when he saw dark red streaks crisscrossing Jo's plump buttocks. She appeared unconscious of her nudity before him.
"He threw me on the bed and wh-whipped me," she explained in a voice that still trembled. "Then when I stopped yelling he pulled me up and p-punched me all around the room."
"And threw you out into the rain," Tommy added in disgust. "That's about his speed. Look, Jo, a hot bath would do you more good than anything else, but I only have a shower here and that's downstairs at the back of the bakery."
"Please," she begged. "I don't care about a hot bath. I'd just like to lie down and rest."
"What's the matter with your side?"
"It hurts," she said simply.
He removed her hand and deftly applied pressure to her rib cage from the depths of his own athletic experience. Jo winced but said nothing. "Nothing broken, I'm sure," Tommy said. He waved at the bed. "Stretch out while I find a little liniment and give you a rubdown." He had noted discolored dots on her upper arms and lower belly that he knew were incipient bruises from hard punches.
Jo sat down on the bed with a tired sigh. The sigh turned into an indrawn breath as her body weight pressed down upon her striated buttocks. She rolled quickly onto her side, then reached behind her to rub her welts tenderly. Tommy came back to the bed with a wet towel he'd wrung out in cold water from the faucet down the hall. "Hold this against your eye and cheekbone," he ordered. "It will hold down the swelling."
"I'll be all right," Jo said. "I heal quickly." She tried to smile. "I've had practice." She placed the cold towel gingerly to her face. "I know I'm making a holy show of myself in front of you but I can't seem to stop hurting," she said in a muffled voice.
"Forget it," Tommy said briskly. "I've seen a female muff before. Not many as cute as yours, though." He eyed the reddish curls adorning Jo's ivory-white lower abdomen. "Very nice." He unscrewed the lid from a jar of liquid in his hand and bent down over the bed. "This will feel a little warm at first but then you'll feel better." He poured some of the liniment into his cupped palm. "Okay, Jo. On your back."
He waited while she complied awkwardly with another quick indrawn breath as her bottom touched the sheet. Tommy applied a thin film of liniment to her arms and shoulders and began to work it in with a smooth, gliding movement of his palm. Jo relaxed submissively and closed her eyes as the soothing warmth and gliding palm combined for an almost hypnotic effect.
He did her breasts when he saw a bruise on one, then moved a towel to her round belly and sore ribcage. He stopped to fold a towel and place it over her crotch, drawing it inward snugly. "Got to keep the liniment out of your gazebo or you'll be climbing the walls," he explained. ". He applied liniment to belly and thighs, working it in with circular sweeps of his palm. He had started out with only medication on his mind, but the feel of the pliant female flesh under his hand began to get to him. His prick rose stiffly in his jockey shorts, whose tight pressure added to his sensitivity. He tried to keep his face impassive. "Roll over," he ordered.
Jo turned over onto her stomach and Tommy resumed the liniment-massage, starting at her shoulders again. He did her back, stopping only when he reached the little hollow announcing the beginning of the deep cleft separating the brimful haunches. He skipped the red-streaked smooth-ivory backside and massaged the full thighs. "Liniment on your butt would be too hot right now," he said. "I've got some cream."
He finished with the liniment, put it away, washed his hands down the hall, and returned to the bed with a tube in his hand. Jo's previously tremulous breathing had eased to slow-drawn inhalations. Tommy squeezed gobs of cream from the tube onto her upturned bare globes, and Jo shivered. "It's cold," she protested.
"It won't be when I work it in," he assured her.
He rubbed the cream gently into the rotund spheres. He could feel the welts under his palm. Jo moved uneasily but made no sound. "What the hell did he use on you, Jo?"
Her face was against the pillow. "His belt," she said muffedly. "God, that feels good." She was silent after that until he stepped back after completing his task. Jo rolled onto her side again to look at him. "You saved my life, Tommy," she said soberly. "I just couldn't seem to think when I-when I found myself outside in the rain. I never felt so-so completely rejected."
"You'll bounce back in the morning," Tommy predicted.
The redhead was looking around the room. "I'm taking your bed," she realized aloud. She made a move to rise, but he stayed her with a hand on her shoulder. "I can't put you out of your own bed, Tommy."
"Relax," he advised her. "I'll take the armchair."
"We could both sleep here. I haven't many secrets from you now."
He shook his head. "You wouldn't get any sleep with me thrashing around beside you. Get some rest, Jo. I'll get you another cold towel for your eye. If you need to go during the night, call me and I'll show you where the John is." He drew the sheet up over the plump ivory-skinned body as Jo curled up with murmured thanks.
Tommy made another trip down the hall to wring out the towel in cold water again, returned to his room to hand it to Jo, then moved to the armchair. He sank down into its depths and stretched out his legs. He listened for a long time to the even breathing of Jo Tucker on the bed.
And after a while he slept himself.
Wade Sampson stared with steely-hard gaze at the defiant-looking boy in the chair beside Wade's desk in the sheriff's office. Wade was standing beside the chair as the boy looked up at him with attempted coolness that couldn't hide a touch of apprehension. "Well?" Wade rumbled. "I done told you I found pot in the glove compartment of your car. Where'd you get it?"
"First you've got to prove it's pot," the boy said.
"I don't got to prove nothin'," Wade informed him heavily. "Where'd you get it?"
"I want to talk to my father's lawyer," the boy said.
Wade reached down casually and slapped him across the face. "I asked you a question," he said.
"You can't do that!" the boy cried shrilly when the first shock had worn off.
"Don't tell me what I can do, son. Where'd you get the pot?" The boy remained silent. Wade slapped him again. The boy tried to spring to his feet. Wade punched him in the belly, doubling him over, then slammed him back into the chair. He reached down and took hold of the boy's hair to keep his head erect and slapped him hard four times, left-right, left-right. A tiny trickle of blood drooled down from the boy's nostrils, ran off his chin, and dribbled onto his shirtfront. "Where'd you get the pot?" Wade repeated.
Fear had replaced defiance in the young face but the boy tried to hide it. "Wait till my father's lawyer sees this blood on my shirt," he said shakily.
"You ain't never gonna get to show him the shirt," Wade informed him. "But even if you did, can I help it if you're the ignorant type who wipes the shit off his ass with his shirt-front? Now let's cut out the lallygaggin'. You bought pot an' you're gonna tell me from who or you'll have bells ringin' in your ears for a month."
"I want a lawyer!" the boy cried out desperately. "You can't-"
Wade slapped him so hard the chair nearly overturned sideways. The boy swayed in the chair, dazed, his hand raised defensively to his reddening face. "Talk," Wade advised him. "Before I lose my temper an' wear you out. Who'd you buy the pot from?" He raised his hand again when there was no answer.
"Mr. Allen," the boy said quickly.
Wade checked his hand in the midst of its full-armed swing. "Mr. Allen?" he repeated in disbelief. "You mean the teacher?"
The boy nodded sullenly.
"You're funnin' me, boy, an' I don't like that," Wade said dangerously.
"It's true! All the kids buy from him!" The boy's eyes were riveted on Wade's right hand.
"Well, now," Wade said. He straightened up slowly. "Mr. Allen, eh? That longhaired creep?" He thought of something. "An' how about that snotty wife of his with her hair hangin' down to her ass? Does she know about it?"
The boy nodded again.
"Well, now," Wade repeated. "Ain't that the most interestin' thing?"
The boy was beginning to regain his confidence. "But you can't use anything I say here against the Aliens. I know my rights."
"When you gonna get it through your fuggin' thick head you got no rights in this office except the ones I give you? Don't you give me no lip, y'hear? I run better ones than you right out've town. You remember Charlie Grant, the son of the previous office manager at the factory? Whole family just kind of disappeared if you remember." The boy looked puzzled. "Do you remember?"
"I remember Charlie just all of a sudden wasn't in school any more. But-"
"You're right he wasn't in school any more," Wade proclaimed with obvious satisfaction. "Young Charlie was a smartass like you're tryin' to be, my boy. He kept screwin' around the wrong party's daughter after he was told to lay off. I had a little session with him like I'm having here with you, an' he still didn' lay off. So I caught him sneakin' through the girl's backyard one night an' I busted him up a little. Then the next mornin' I went down to the factory an' kind of suggested to his father that the family leave town."
He paused for effect. The boy had been listening, wide-eyed. "But you can't-"
"So the father went to see the mayor," Wade resumed. "An' then I went to see the mayor." He smiled toothily. "An admirable if inexperienced young man whom I've known since he was in short britches. So then the mayor went to see the father, an' the family left town."
"But that's coercion! It's not legal! You can't-"
A hard edge replaced Wade's previously jovial tone. "What you can't seem to get through your head, son, is that I'm the law around here. An' from now on you don't piss till I tell you it's time to piss. Understand? I want no tomfoolery from you. For starters, I'm tell-in' you right now not to breathe a word of anythin' said here to anyone. If I hear a whisper of this has got back to that bastard Allen or his bitchy wife, I'll fracture you, son, an' I promise you that you won't enjoy it. Are you listenin' to me?"
"Yes," the boy said. His tone was still sullen.
"Then don't forget it. I'll take care of the Aliens." He was smiling again, a smile that turned down one corner of his hard-looking mouth. "Without your reluctant testimony." His mouth was smiling but his light blue eyes pinned the boy to the back of his chair with a hard glare. "Now rustle your ass out've here. Just remember I've got your fingerprints on that medicine bottle of pot."
The boy stood up nervously with his eyes again on Wade Sampson's right hand, made a wide circle around the deputy sheriff, and left the office.
Cathy Riggins sat in the semi-dark in her bedroom, her chair drawn close to the window against which the rain was pelting hard. The window was cracked open at the bottom and the damp night-breeze flowed over her pajama-clad body.
She was thinking about Tommy Jackson. His sudden appearance in the library parking lot that afternoon had jarred Cathy's well-ordered life off-center. She could close her eyes and remember him plowing through the line in high school, the shoulder pads adding little to his broad-shouldered, hard-running ability. Tommy Johnson never saw Cathy Riggins even when he looked at her in those days, but Cathy Riggins saw Tommy Johnson. Saw, and yearned silently.
She had heard the stories about his leaving school abruptly after having impregnated the banker's daughter. The banker had sent his daughter to Switzerland and the baby had been placed for adoption. Cathy remembered that her Only reaction had been envy of Barbara Meade, the girl who had borne Tommy's baby.
Coolly she assessed the afternoon. She had never permitted a boy's hand under her skirt, and yet in five minutes Tommy Johnson had been fingering her sex. Deliciously fingering it. She squirmed slightly at the memory. What did he think of her for permitting it? Of course he was probably used to fingering girls' pussies.
Cathy had developed so late she had never had a close girl friend her own age with whom to exchange confidences. She didn't consider herself ignorant about sex; she knew all about boys' pricks and what they did to a girl, although the actual mechanics of the act were fuzzy to her, and she had always been too ashamed to ask outright. She was a good girl; had always been a good girl; but it hadn't been too hard to be when she was a twig-legged sub-teen who even then had eyes for the cherubic smile of the athletic Tommy Johnson.
Her thoughts returned to the episode in the car that afternoon. He hadn't forced her; it was just that his every move was made with a masculine confidence that dazzled her and seemed to guarantee its success. What would it be like to be alone with Tommy Johnson in a place where the eyes of the public couldn't penetrate? She sat and thought about it.
Until a slow-burning itch gathered and expanded in her loins. She drew her legs up, then lowered them. The itch, tantalizingly remote in her flesh, burned on. She tried to ignore it. She never liked this aspect of herself, the moments when her usual good opinion of herself slipped askew. She found her thighs writhing together powerfully, encasing the itch which throbbed both on the surface and deep within her virginal vaginal walls. Finally she stood up resignedly. She slipped her pajama pants down and stepped out of them. She fingered her blonde pubescent curls covering her supple slit as she walked to her bed. She sat down on the coverlet, unconscious of its rough texture against the silky skin of her bare bottom.
Cathy stretched out on her back and elevated her long, slender legs, widening them to make more room for the finger at the gates of her existence. Her soft fleece was already moist. She dipped the finger inside, parting the spongy labia, and a quick tremor ran through her. She withdrew the finger slightly, wanting to prolong the sensation.
But then the burning-itch strengthened, and a slow throb generated force deep inside. Her bell-shaped behind rose slightly from the bed in involuntary tribute to what was taking place within her, and the finger seemingly of its own accord disappeared to the second knuckle. She could feel the pressure upon her hymen from the agitated fingertip.
A slow-boiling upheaval erupted inside her. Her legs climbed, writhing, and a low moan escaped her parted lips. Her finger jerked rapidly in and out of her sluice-box as it became inundated with pearly cream. Her stomach muscles fluttered as her out-of-control vagina thrust back against the probing finger.
"Ohhhhhhhhhh!" she murmured. And then upon a descending scale: "AHHHHhhhhhhh!"
A final twitch or two and the internal quivering ceased. Cathy removed her finger reluctantly. She held it aloft, not wanting to wipe it upon anything that would leave betraying traces. And she had to swab off her overflowing sex-charm. She rose from the bed.
In the aftermath she always had the exasperating feeling that good as it was it might have been better if only she knew what to do for herself. She had never discussed it with anyone. She couldn't imagine discussing it with anyone. But she couldn't escape the feeling that somehow just beyond what she experienced there was still another, more glorious experience.
With these thoughts in her mind she had opened her bedroom door and stepped out into the corridor before she realized she was still without her pajama pants. Cathy's mother, tired-faced, was just opening her bedroom door. She looked in surprise at her semi-nude daughter. "What is it, dear?" she asked. "Do you need a napkin? I have some if you've run short."
"Not tonight, mother," Cathy replied, and walked down the corridor to the bathroom.
The sweet-faced, innocent Cathy Riggins would never be suspected of masturbation.
But the sweet-faced, innocent Cathy Rig-gins had been capable of masturbation even during her mosquito-bite-sized-pink-nipple and first-flowering-fern-on-her-soft-slit days.
Especially after watching the young Tommy Johnson in some athletic endeavor that displayed his penchant for controlled violence.
Cathy returned to her bed after her ablutions, but sleep escaped her for some time.
Chapter III
Lucille Bryson remained in bed with closed eyes while she listened to her husband, Paul, moving around the bedroom in the early morning silence of the manse. She had opened her eyes once long enough while Paul was in the bathroom to observe that the rain had stopped during the night and a brilliant sunrise was in prospect. Then she had firmly closed her eyes again and remained motionless to simulate sleep.
Most mornings she rose with Paul, but never on the mornings after their scheduled mid-week lovemaking. For some reason she had* never been able to understand, Paul on such mornings showed an importunate ardency she found unsettling. No lady permitted such activity in the stark light of early morning, of course, so she had found it expedient to simulate sleep.
Once in the early days of their marriage after she had laid down a prohibition against early-morning advances on Paul's part, she had made the mistake of following him into the bathroom. She had found him there, standing over the toilet bowl, his swollen, enormous-looking penis in his hand, jetting long spurts of semen into the bowl. Lucille had removed her toothbrush from the medicine cabinet and returned to the bedroom without saying a word. Such a juvenile performance by Paul had nothing to do with her wifely duty which she performed weekly in good conscience if with no exhilaration.
She wholly failed to understand masculine preoccupation with sex, anyway. Procreation aside, she felt it had little to recommend it for the female. And procreation was denied her. They had had a tubular pregnancy in the second year of their marriage, and the resulting operation had effectively sealed off her pro-creational passage to Paul's sperm.
She had been secretly relieved, although she had never admitted it. She knew herself well enough to know that her bent was not domestic. In the kitchens of Paul's parishioners she had silently wrinkled her nose many times against the sour-milk odor of breast-fed babies and the ammoniac effluvia of unchanged diapers. No, she had never shared Paul's disappointment that they had no children.
Occasionally Paul's feverishly fumbling pre-sex handling of her full-fleshed body embarrassed Lucille. The little that she permitted, of course. Paul seemed to be seeking something she couldn't supply. Lucille felt in no way deficient as a woman, and she had come to the conclusion that it was something in the masculine psyche which made a male seek something in the marriage bed which wasn't there.
She had permitted his digital vaginal manipulation of her only because of the alternative he had proposed with a firmness unlike the usually mild-mannered Paul. He had told her that he was going to purchase a vaginal jelly, and she couldn't bear the thought of a local pharmacist or druggist's clerk knowing that much about the most intimate part of their marriage.
People weren't animals, but they surely acted like it, she was fond of saying to Paul when he related to her some episode which had brought a young female parishioner-or sometimes older-to him seeking escape from her predicament. It was incredible to Lucille the number of seemingly level-headed women in their comparatively small congregation who sat down in Paul's office to ask hesitant advice about their problems. Lucille had often thought that Paul couldn't be the easiest pastor in the world for a woman to approach in such a situation. Except on rare occasions, his response was intellectual, not emotional.
Lucille remained motionless in the bed until she heard Paul's footsteps receding along the corridor as he proceeded to the kitchen for his first cup of coffee. Then she rose and went into the bathroom where she removed her nightgown and stood in unconscious grape-nippled, large-breasted, sleek-fleshed, wide-spanned female magnificence while her bath was filling.
Early-morning sunlight was streaming in the windows of the room above the bakery when Jo Tucker woke Tommy to get him to show her the bathroom. Tommy returned to the room after escorting her with Jo swathed in the sheet from the bed. He stretched mightily to ease muscles cramped from his awkward sleeping position in the armchair.
"How are you feeling?" he asked when Jo came back to the room.
"Sore," she said frankly. "Not to mention lame and bruised. But I'll live."
"The face isn't bad," Tommy said. "The swelling has gone down and a little makeup will take care of the discoloration. Let's see the rest of it." He removed the sheet.
"Don't get any ideas," Jo warned after a moment in which he studied the mottled marks on her arms and stomach and his hand briefly caressed the reduced welts on her chubby buttocks. "I know I owe you a favor, but you're only a kid. I'd feel guilty."
"I don't have any ideas, Jo," Tommy said softly. "It's just my cock." He took her hand and guided it backward to the pronounced swelling inside his jockey shorts.
"Stop it," Jo said, but she said it with no real emphasis. She leaned backward slightly as Tommy's palm continued to stroke the red-striped warm ivory of her jutting backside.
His fingertip traced the course of a belt-inflicted ridge crossing from one plump globe to the other. "How long will it hurt, Jo?"
"Two or three days. Mostly when I squat to tinkle. That seems to stretch everything and make it more sensitive. And I'll have the marks for two or three weeks." Her own palm continued to support the swelling bulge in Tommy's shorts where he had placed her hand. His hand went between her whipped hind cheeks and traced the warm, deep crevice separating them.
She turned to face him, releasing his sexual apparatus. "Do you want to fuck me, Tommy?" she asked with the directness that was part of her.
"I'd love to, Jo," he responded at once. "You know it."
She took hold of the waistband of his shorts and drew them menacingly with a slight waggling movement. "That's a lovely piece of meat for a boy your age," Jo said in surprise. She dropped to her knees and kissed the tip of the erection, then took the bulbous purple-red head in her warm mouth and sucked it with slow, drawing movements of her clinging lips.
"Ohhhhhh, man!" Tommy groaned tensely. "Oh, Jesus! Quit it, Jo, or you're gonna get a mouthful!"
She released her mouth-prisoner and sank back on her haunches. "Not that I'd say no to that, you understand, but I take it you'd rather implant it elsewhere?" she asked.
"You bet your ass," he replied promptly. "Right in your red-haired cunt." He took her arm and raised her to her feet. "You like to suck a prick, Jo?"
"Love it, when it's a congenial prick," she answered.
He led her to the bed and sat down on it, watching her expression when her welt-crisscrossed bottom absorbed her weight. "Ass hurt too much, Jo?" he inquired. "I could take a rain check."
"It won't hurt when I'm on my back, Tommy."
He grinned at her companionably. "Now why is it I feel you're my kind of chick, Jo?" He sat down beside her before easing her onto her back after sweeping the pillow to one side. He dropped his head to Jo's breasts and lipped a strawberry-nippled excrescence into his mouth. His tongue circled the budding tip rapidly, and Jo's knees quivered. "Ahhhhh!" she sighed. "Where have you been going to school?"
Tommy made no answer as he switched to the other breast. He worked at it diligently as Joe made little cooing noises and tangled her hands in his short brown hair. She could feel his hard penis pressing against her warm thigh, and she reached for it and took it in her hand, feeling her own saliva still on its fleshy tip.
When Tommy finally raised his head, both of Jo's nipples jutted firmly from the center of their soft-fleshed twin domiciles. He stroked the sloping bowl of her stomach and then gradually worked his way farther down until his fingers were caressing the luxuriant lips of her febrile twat, expanding moistly to his fondling. "Why, Jo, you sinner!" he said in surprise. "You're all wet already."
"D'you think-I'm made of stone!" It came out as half-gasp, half-exclamation. "Oh, God, Tommy, you're getting me-hoooooo, boy!- soooo hotttttttt!"
He slithered over her body, then widened her half-parted legs. Crouching, he picked up her legs and threw them over his shoulders, then bent down and inserted his tongue in the musky-aromaed upthrust pink cunt. "Ohh, damn!" Jo panted huskily. She thrust her middle upward into his face. "Ohhhhh, lovely, lovely, lovely, Oooooooooh!"
He nibbled at the protruding lips and licked their sharp-tanged moistness. Jo's legs clutched at his neck while her hips swirled in involuntary response to the penetrating tongue. Tommy gulped two-thirds of her slit inside his mouth and sucked at it mightily. "OHHHHH-hhhhhh!" Jo's voice soared in a half-shriek. "That's - enough, Tommy! Fuck me now! PLEASE fuck me!"
He raised himself and aimed his fleshy sword at the well-moistened target. Jo's hand eagerly seized his circumcised penis and guided it into her slot. Her breath whistled between parted lips as he sank deep into her with a slight joggling movement of his lean hips. The youthful rigidity extended her hotbox deliciously, and the youthful vigor with which he began to pump his organ in and out of its fleshy, glove-fitting embrasure had Jo's eyes rolling in her head.
"Oh, damn, you're-really hitting-it! Oh, Godddd!"
Tommy humped his back as he slashed away at the sizzling cunt within which he was lodged. Jo met his every thrust, pain forgotten as she flurried her hips in wild abandon that induced redoubled response from him. "Tommy!" she exclaimed in sudden urgency. "I'm-coming! Oh, dear God, I'm COMMMMMing!!"
He felt her quivering explosion inundating his hard-boring tool, and he raised his knees slightly before returning to the attack. He pounded her belly with the vehemence of his prick-thrusts into her sex-grotto, and a slow, tingling vibration seemed to originate in his heels and race up his legs to his spinal cord. He jerked wildly in mindless ecstasy as his seed spurted in hot gushes through his vibrating joystick into the quiescent cavern in which it was submerged.
Jo's warm hands patted his shoulders lightly as he subsided upon her, spent. "You're some kind of lover, Tommy," she said quietly. "I never would have believed it of a kid like you."
"You're not-so bad-yourself," he returned with attempted breeziness. He rolled off Jo but then turned and drew her into his arms as they rested side-by-side. She snuggled against him contentedly. "I love to cuddle afterward," she confided. "With Tom he'd just about kick me out of bed if I tried to." She was silent then, Tom's name having recalled her to the present.
Tommy sensed her mood. "What about Tom?" he asked. "Are you going back to him?"
"No," she said positively. "He'll expect me to come creeping back with my tail between my legs, but I'm not going to do it. I know I can get a job clerking at Gamble's, and I'll find a place to stay. I don't mind rough handling before sex, but I'm all through letting Tom brutalize me."
Tommy raised his head to see her face. "What do you mean you don't mind rough handling?"
"You're too young to understand," she evaded him.
Jo Tucker knew herself. She knew, for instance, she wouldn't have enjoyed Tommys youthful exuberant lovemaking nearly as much if she hadn't been still hurting from the night before. A little pain always stimulated her sex response. It was what drew her to men like Tom Tucker. And Wade Sampson. She recognized it as an aberration, but had ceased fighting it.
She stirred in Tommy's arms. "I've got to get going. I'll find a place to stay and then get my clothes out of the apartment. I can't ask for a job for a couple of days until my face gets back to normal." She was silent for a moment. "It's going to be kind of tough trying to cut it alone," she said at last. "And that damn supercilious Lucille Bryson is the cause."
"The minister's wife? How does she figure in it?"
"It's too long a story to go into now, but she could have prevented the whole thing from happening. Instead, she forced it, and you can bet I'm going to plan something for her." She moved again in Tommy's arms. "I've got to go, Tommy."
He released her reluctantly. "You wouldn't like to try for an encore?" he asked.
She kissed him impulsively. "I really don't have time, but-" She hesitated. "I'll tell you what. You really saved me last night. I was at such a low ebb, and I didn't know what to do. I don't want to say no to you, Tommy, but I am in a hurry right now. Will you take a promise that I'll get together with you soon and give you the most beautiful blow job you've ever had? Would you like that?"
"You bet," he answered. "And thanks for this morning, Jo."
"Thank you," she replied with emphasis upon the pronoun.
They rose from the bed and began to dress.
Paul Bryson climbed the short flight of stairs leading to the entrance of Memorial Hospital. It was well before visiting hours, but he approached the reception desk confidently. "Mrs. Fiedler," he said to the girl behind the desk.
"Room three-twenty-three, Dr. Bryson," the girl said smilingly. "I know she'll be pleased to see you."
Paul took the elevator to the third floor. He made it a practice to call upon all of his hospitalized parishioners, but he called more often upon the younger hospitalized women. Early in his ministerial career Paul Bryson had made a discovery about hospitals. In the majority of instances ministers were regarded as so much furniture, and few of the privacy-covenants were invoked in their presence. His time was considered valuable, and he had made sickroom visits when female patients were being bathed behind a pretense of a modesty-retaining casually draped sheet, when they were receiving medication, even shots, and when they made necessary trips to the bathroom on his supporting arm.
Even walking grave-faced through hospital corridors there were titillating sights to be seen as nurses and doctors alike paid slight attention to his presence. The women's hospital bedgowns were so short, the building was so warm, winter and summer, and lying in bed produced such rumpled, sweaty sheets under perspiring bodies that tinglingly flashing glimpses of various feminine undraped postures were continually visible with no one seemingly concerned, least of all the patients who consistently greeted him heartily during sickroom situations to which they would have denied their husbands admission.
Then there was the natural feminine reaction when the first medical or surgical malaise was alleviated. Feeling friskier, and basking in the unaccustomed attention, what was more natural than to flirt lightly with the visiting minister, the most harmless of sports? The younger spirits seemed to have few objections to giving the poor dear man a slight thrill, him being married to that cold fish of a wife. And indeed where was the harm?
Paul Bryson entered Room 323 where Paula Fiedler was in the fourth day of recovery from an appendectomy. "Good morning, Paula," he said gravely. "And how are you feeling this morning?"
"Much better, Dr. Paul," she replied. Paula was a plump brunette with a hardworking husband and three small children. She had on one of her own nightgowns this morning in deference to her expected return home that afternoon, and its low-cut neckline permitted more than a glimpse of her corpulent breasts. "It's so nice of you to come to see me."
"It's nice to know you're feeling better," he returned.
"I'd really like to stay another day," she confided. "It's so heavenly without the children. But the doctor is pushing me out into the cruel world this afternoon." Her small mouth shaped itself into a girlish pout. Then she giggled. "I'd much rather stay here and have the interns hold my hand."
"I imagine they'd enjoy it too, Paula."
She giggled again. "Maybe if you put in a word for me as my spiritual advisor-"
"I'm afraid physical advisors are in the ascendancy here," Paul Bryson said with one of his rare smiles.
Paula Fiedler looked at him with renewed interest. "You're a different-looking man when you smile!" she exclaimed. "Even better-looking!" She turned in the bed until she was on her side, facing him. The upper halves of her substantial breasts bulged freely above the neck of her nightgown, and he could see the brown areolas centered by thrusting dark nipples trapped in the nightgown's almost translucent lace top. "You really are, Dr. Bryson!"
"Thank you," he said lightly. He nodded at the mammary display. "If you need any assistance in restoring order, I'd be glad to volunteer."
"Why, Dr. Bryson!" She hurriedly pushed her embonpoint further south in her nightgown. "I'm sorry!"
"Don't be," he advised her. "Even a minister has a right to a glimpse of green pastures occasionally." He smiled again at her almost childish confusion before he left the room.
The little interplay with the plump housewife amused him. And for a bonus he caught sight on the way out of a teenaged girl being capably wiped by a nurse's aide after using the bedpan. He returned to the manse and his study to begin preparing next Sunday's sermon in a more cheerful mood.
Wade Sampson reached for the phone on his desk when it bonged once with the melodious chime that announced an incoming call. "Sheriff's Department," he said gruffly.
"It's Jo, Wade."
His mouth screwed up in distaste. "Oh, yeah."
"I suppose you heard?'
"Yeah, I heard."
"I'm not going back to him, Wade."
It surprised him. "You got a sugar daddy?"
"I'm going to get a job. I've already got a room."
"Yeah? Where?"
"With Mrs. Colfax on South Second St."
He grunted recognition. For once in his life he was at a loss as to what to say. Ordinarily, it would have been simple: once the husband tumbled to the situation, Wade Sampson had no qualms about cutting the wives loose. He would have done the same with Jo Tucker except that he had a specific use for her and he didn't want to give it up. Besides, she hadn't asked him for anything. Yet. "You got eatin' money?" he asked finally.
"I'll be all right, Wade."
"Don't get your nose in the air," he growled. "I asked you a question."
"I really will be all right for a few days."
"Okay. I'll be in touch. Maybe day after tomorrow." He thought of something else. "Who you reckon blew the whistle on you?" He wasn't afraid of Tom Tucker-he knew a thing or two about Tom Tucker-but Wade Sampson was a man who liked to know from which direction they might be coming at him.
"Mrs. Dr. Lucille Bryson, that's who," Jo said grimly. "I'd give a year of my life to get even with her. If I ever get her in the right place, I guarantee you'll hear her squeak."
"Is that right?" Wade drawled. Damn, he was glad he hadn't cut Jo loose, which had been his first inclination. This could be interesting. "Maybe I could give you a little help with that."
"Really? How?"
"Oh, I dunno," Wade said vaguely. "We'll think of something." He continued before she could interrupt. "Say, Jo?"
"Yes?"
"Do you know the Aliens? Teachers at the high school?"
"I know her. We were in a ceramics class together. I don't think I've ever met him. Why?"
"I'll be talkin' to you about them later. Sure you don't need a little scratch till you get straightened out?"
"It's awfully nice of you to offer, Wade, but I'll be all right."
"Holler if you're not," he said, and hung up.
He sank back in his swivel chair, deep in thought. Finally he smiled, a hard, thin-lipped smile. Things were looking up. A pair of plums. A ripe pair of plums. All that was necessary was for Wade Sampson to shake the tree.
Cathy Riggins walked through the library parking lot, amazed at her own calmness. She had expected to feel all fluttery and squeamish; instead she felt only a mild curiosity and a tingle of anticipation. She had made two preparations for the afternoon date with Tommy Johnson; she had told her mother she might be a little late, and she had taken enough of her library money to purchase a pair of wispy, lace-edged panties.
Before she reached the end of the lot near the bus stop Tommy drew up alongside in his battered old car. He was smiling as she climbed in after he leaned across the front seat and opened the door for her. "Hi, baby," he said softly as she smoothed her dress down over her thighs. "How you doin'?"
"Fine, Tommy," she assured him. "Isn't it a beautiful day?"
"Beautiful," he echoed. "Say, I got us a place. Guy's out of town in an apartment in a building I clean, and he gave me his key." Cathy nodded, and he drove rapidly to the poorer section of town. He parked behind an old town-house that had been converted into apartments, reached in his pocket and handed Cathy two keys. "The first one opens the outside door," he told her. "Just walk right in. One flight up you'll find Apartment 2-C. The gold key's for that. We shouldn't be seen goin' in together, so I'll follow in five minutes. Okay?"
"Okay," Cathy said.
He put an arm around her waist, drew her closer to him, then fused his mouth with the girl's soft lips. Her mouth moved tentatively under his, and he darted his tongue between her lips. Cathy shivered, and her toes curled up inside her shoes.
"Oh, man!" Tommy breathed when he broke off the kiss. "I can't wait to get at you, Cathy. Hustle upstairs an' I'll be right there."
She smiled at him before she left the car. She still felt calm, aside from the stimulation of Tommy's kiss. But why shouldn't she feel calm? She'd been waiting for this day for a long time.
She negotiated the two locked doors with no difficulty. The three-room apartment proved to be much nicer than the outside appearance of the building indicated. The furniture was modern and the draperies and the artwork oh the walls tasteful. She returned to the corridor door after a quick tour of the premises and quickly admitted Tommy at the sound of his light tap.
He immediately took her into his arms again. "Oh, baby, baby, baby!" he whispered, running his hands down the clean lines of her back and then cupping her buttocks in his palms as he drew her to him more tightly. Cathy kissed his cheek, then nuzzled his neck with her soft mouth. "You're the sweetest thing!" he exclaimed. "C'mon, let's go into the bedroom."
They walked hand-in-hand into a tastefully appointed masculine-style room. Cathy eyed the old fashioned gilt mirror on the wall and the huge four-poster bed with approval. Tommy gathered her in his arms again while they were standing in the center of the room, once more thrusting his tongue into her accepting mouth, then seizing with his lips the first exploratory return movement of her tongue. He laughed gaily. "Now you're catching on, baby!"
"I want to catch on to everything with you," Cathy murmured with her cheek resting against his.
Sobered for an instant, he kissed her more gently. Then his vitality returned. "Right on," he said. "Now how about takin' off your dress an' slip so I won't wrinkle or tear anything?"
Her hands were at the back-of-the-neck fastening of her dress before he finished speaking. Unhurriedly she removed dress and slip, folding each neatly before placing them on a chair. Tommy's blue eyes darkened as Cathy's bare shoulders glistened above her bra and her long, slender legs shone whitely beneath the wispy panties.
He sat down on the bed, then beckoned to her. "C'mere," he said in a choked voice.
She went to him at once, and he placed her standing between his parted knees, facing away from him. He plucked the elasticized waistband of the panties from her warm flesh and pulled them down her thighs while she stood motionless. Cathy had one instant of regret that he hadn't appeared to notice the expensive lace, but she forgot that immediately when she felt the pressure of his mouth on the quick flare of her dainty-but-sturdy hind cheeks in half a dozen places.
She turned her shoulders without moving her lower body so she could look down at him. "Why are you kissing my bottom, Tommy?" she asked.
He nipped at a silky-skinned rotundity with sharp teeth. "Because you taste good,", he replied. He parted the soft hemispheres widely until a faint trace of downy, golden hair appeared in the deep furrow. He lowered his face again and sniffed at the depths of her fissure. "God, you taste good and smell good!"
"It's just bathpowder and me," she said apologetically. "And I never thought girls smelled particularly nice."
"That's because you're not a man!" he said jubilantly. He pulled her backward until she was sitting in his lap, and she curled an arm around his neck. "Hooooo, boy!" he exclaimed with a fingertip resting lightly upon Cathy's fleece-covered mound. "What I'm going to do to you!"
"You still have your clothes on," she reminded him.
"Not for long, baby!" he kissed her, fiercely at first, then more gently. Once more he probed her soft mouth with his tongue and sucked at her nubile lips, and a long, slow shiver rippled through Cathy from head to foot. "I'm getting goose bumps," she whispered.
He pressed his mouth to the silky juncture of her neck and shoulder. "Anything else happening, Cathy?"
"Yes," she breathed. "I'm getting - squirmy."
"Where?"
"You know where. Inside my pussy."
He could barely hear the murmured response, but it delighted him. He stroked her mound and labial lips for a moment, then cupped the whole of her sex upon his palm and squeezed gently.
"Ooooooooh!" Cathy gasped.
"Like it?"
"Mmmmmmmmm, yes!"
He inserted a fingertip into an already moist-feeling orifice. "Like that?"
"Mmmmmmmmmmm!"
He played with her for a few moments, during which her sighs, murmurs, and wriggling gradually increased, then picked her up bodily and sat her on the bed. He stood up and impatiently stripped off his own clothing, firing it at a chair. Cathy watched him calmly. After a moment she reached around and unhooked and removed her bra. Her hands soothed the faint red lines on the underside of her excellently-shaped firm breasts with their tip-tilted pink nipples as Tommy reapproached the bed.
She spoke before he could. "I want to kiss your bottom, Tommy."
He stared down at her, taken aback. "You don't want to kiss my hairy ass!" he protested.
"I do so want to!" she insisted. "I want to do everything to you that you do to me."
"Some of that might be a little difficult for you," he said drily. "But, okay, if that's what you want." He turned around and faced away from her.
She moved eagerly in behind him and lowered her face to his lean buttocks. "You are hairy," she said in a tone of surprise. "But I don't mind." She planted half a dozen butterfly kisses on Tommy's nude backside before she inhaled delicately. "Mmmm, you smell manly!" she declared.
He turned to face her. His prick, rampant while he had been playing with her, reduced to semi-flaccidity during his undressing, had soared again under the stimulation of her warm-lipped caresses of his backside. Cathy looked curiously at the stiff-pronged rigidity pointing red-eyed directly at her. She craned her neck to view better the blue-veined whiteness of its underside as it poked forth from his hairy belly.
She started to reach out and touch it, then checked her hand. "May I?" she asked. "It wouldn't spoil anything?"
"Help yourself," Tommy told her.
At once she took his erection in her hand. He came up on his toes tensely as her soft palm squeezed experimentally from side to side. "It's so hard!" she said in a hushed tone. Her hand dropped to his balls, and he flinched. She withdrew her hand quickly.
"Sorry," he said. "Very delicate. Very." He took her hand and placed his penis in it again. "Do you know what's going to happen, Cathy?"
"Partly," she answered. "I know you're going to put it inside me, although-" Her slim fingers massaged the unyielding inflexibility in her hand. "-I don't see how."
"You're a virgin?" She nodded. "You've never had anything in there?" She shook her head negatively. "Except your finger?" A deep, slow blush enveloped the pretty face framed in the long blonde hair. "Okay, I won't tease. You know it will hurt a little?"
"I've read about it. Don't mind if I yell. I'm an awful sissy."
He sat down on the bed beside her. "I'm going to look at yours," he told her, and pushed her onto her back. He took hold of one leg and raised it, then leaned closer to the parted thighs which had sheltered her cloister. Cathy's pale-gold fleece was of such a gossamer nature that it almost needed to be touched rather than seen. Tommy stared at the crinkled pink cupcake nestled in its silvery-blonde ringlets. Finally he lowered his head and kissed it.
Cathy quivered from the thrill-sensation of his lips on her most intimate place. Her hips writhed slowly as he licked at her pouting cunt, tracing its outline with his tongue. "Ohhhhhh!" she moaned in an expiring sigh. "Tommy! TOMMY!!"
He stopped his tongue-teasing of Cathy's fast-moistening girl-flesh. "Okay," he said briskly. "That's the dessert. Let's get the meat and potatoes off the plate first."
He flipped her onto her side, snuggled down beside her, and once more took her into his arms.
Chapter IV
Cathy could feel Tommy's hard cock pressing against the smoothly convex bare bowl of her stomach. He moved slightly lower in relation to her position upon the bed and took a full breast in his mouth, sucking at the nipple, then alternately licking its swelling bud. At the same time he forced a hand between the blonde girl's once again closed but unresisting thighs and began to frig her damp pussy, parting her mossy curls to reach the tight little sanctuary.
For two minutes the only sound in the bedroom was the soft slurping of Tommy's tongue and the markedly heavier breathing of Cathy. "T-Tommy!" she pleaded at last. "I'm going to-explode!"
He desisted momentarily to look up into her flushed face. "Got to get you good and wet so you'll stretch easier," he explained, then returned to his work.
"I don't-think I was-ever so wet-in my life!" Cathy got out between clenched teeth. "Tommy! I feel like I'm going to pee!"
"You won't," he assured her. "Relax, baby. That fat-and-happy little cunt of yours is about to be introduced to its piledriver. Relax."
He raised himself above her on the bed. Cathy's nipples, stimulated mightily by his mouth-manipulation, had elongated and stiffened while their color changed from rosy pink to flaming cerise. Tommy took a pillow and raised Cathy's hips while he placed it under her. When he parted her legs again the feathery-fleeced salmon-pink cunt gaped up at him.
He lowered himself upon her tensed body until his prick rested against her downy grotto. "Relax," he repeated. "Relax, Cathy, it's not going to be that bad."
"I'm-trying," she whispered. "Don't mind me, Tommy."
He wriggled himself more firmly aboard her belly, then reached down and took the leathery-feeling head of his purple-red robust rod and inserted it in Cathy's virginal cunt-opening, which he searched out by finger-touch. He pressed down upon her as the head of his stalwart cock gained entrance and eased inward slightly. Cathy drew a quick breath, then bit her lip.
Tommy joggled his hips, up-and-down and side-to-side. His rigorous fleshy organ pressed onward, easing inward fractionally. Cathy blew out held breath in a stifled gasp as she felt her tender pussy stretched unmercifully. "You're s-splitting me, Tommy!" she wailed. "Ohh, it h-hurts!"
"Hold on," he advised her when he felt the knobby end of his prick come to rest against the barrier of her hymen. He reached down and took hold of her soft, round buttocks and drew her up to him. "Here we go."
At the words he lunged into her with all he had in him. Cathy shrieked as he rebounded from the hymen, and he lunged again. She felt a searing pain amidst a tearing sensation inside her prick-stuffed vagina, and her voice soared. "Owwww! Tommy! Ohhhhhh, it s-stings! It STINGS!!" She pushed hard at his shoulders with both hands, trying to remove him from her body.
"Hold-still!" he panted, withholding movement. "You'll-be all right now."
The burning smart in Cathy's cunt subsided to an achy itch as he remained motionless upon her. He kneaded the supple globes of her bare behind gently, then released one to trace with a fingertip her perspiring buttock-rupture. He probed at her shrinking anus, which she sought to clench against his finger-intrusion. "Tommy! That's not nice!" she protested.
He responded by beginning a slow rising-and-falling upon her belly. "Ouch!" Cathy said, but in a more normal tone. Her pussy still hurt at his every movement, but not nearly as much as when he was getting it inside her. Then a thought struck her. "Is there-is there any more to go in?" she asked fearfully.
"You've-got all there is, baby," Tommy responded, tight-lipped with the effort to prolong his ride. He wanted her to come, although he was afraid she wouldn't this first time. He glided his rocklike erection in and out of the girl's widely stretched bower, which almost imperceptibly stretched farther to accept it.
The achy itch in her pussy subsided again to just an occasional twitch of pain. Cathy lay on her back with her eyes closed, almost as aware of Tommy's hands cuddling her nude behind as she was of his intractable rod skewering her poor cunny. Then a hot, glowing coal suddenly ignited in the depths of her being, and her Dresden-doll blue eyes flew open. "Tommy! Something's-happening!" she blurted.
-He didn't answer her, concentrating upon maintaining an even pace in his fucking of Cathy. He felt the round stomach beneath his own arch upward tentatively and the springy hips took on an independent life of their own despite his hands upon them. He was afraid she would lose the crest of the wave before riding it ashore.
But he needn't have worried. The glowing coal expanded in Cathy's interior to a fiery conflagration. Her breath hissed between her lips as the hands on Tommy's shoulders which had previously tried to push him away now clutched him tightly to her breasts, "I think-I'm dying!" she gasped as her interior walls began to twitch. Her cunt-lips of their own accord seemed to seize more firmly their fleshy intruder. "Ohh! Ohhh! Ohhhhh! I'm boiling-over!"
He felt her come, and he settled his shoulders to make his own run. He plowed Cathy's freshly-lubricated furrow with new intensity, and she fell silent, cradling him in her arms as she sensed the gathering storm. When she felt the tip of his prick begin to tremble inside her and the first hip-propelled jets of molten lava coating her stretched cavern-walls, she rubbed the back of his neck and murmured unintelligible but soothing sounds.
His hip-movement ceased and she felt the gradual slackening of the husky cock inside her. Still Tommy remained prone upon her until she was afraid he had fallen asleep. "My legs are beginning to ache," she whispered finally.
He laughed and raised himself. Cathy heard the diminished penis emerge from her pussy with a sucking sound. She stretched her legs gingerly as Tommy moved out from between them. She started to reach down to explore her ravished arbor but was ashamed to because he was watching. "No damage," he assured her solemnly, then grinned.
Cathy found herself smiling in return. "You must think I'm awful, always complaining. It really didn't hurt that much, but I kept expecting it to get worse. And at the finish- oooooh, that was really something!"
"It will be twice as good next time," he said confidently. "Want to clean up?"
She nodded, and he took her hand, helped her from the bed and led her into the bathroom. She stood submissively while he washed off her semen-and-blood stained pussy and thighs. He took her back into the bedroom then where she saw for the first time her own virgin-blood on the pillow upon which her bottom had reclined. Tommy began to kiss her again, first her mouth and then the relaxed nipples of her breasts. She pushed him away gently. "I really do have to go home now, Tommy," she said. "I'm going to have a hard time explaining to my mother why I'm this late."
"But we'll do it again?" he asked eagerly.
"If you liked me," she said demurely.
For answer he dropped to his knees, turned her around, and pressed fervent kisses all over the luscious amplitudes of her milk-white posterior. She had to pull herself away to pick up her panties from the floor and begin dressing.
When they were ready, Tommy performed one final action before they left the apartment. He stripped the bloodstained pillow case from the pillow, found a thumb tack in a bureau drawer, and tacked the pillow case to the wall above the head of the bed. "The guy who lets me use the place and I always hang up a flag when we score," Tommy explained.
Cathy disapproved, but she said nothing.
Men, she reflected as they went down the stairs to Tommy's car, were really strange creatures.
Wade Sampson looked up from the accident report he was writing at the sound of the opening of the outside basement entrance to the sheriff's department. He leaned back in his swivel chair as Tommy Johnson entered the office. "Well, nephew," Wade said sarcastically, "does it always take you a week to come around after I leave word I want to see you?"
"I figured if it was important you'd get back to me on it," Tommy said laconically.
"If I have to get back to you on anything, you'll remember it," Wade growled. "When I tell Alice I want to see you, you jump to it, y'hear?" Alice Johnson was Tommy's mother and Wade's older sister.
"What's so important, Wade?" Tommy tried to keep his voice neutral. He didn't want to provoke his uncle unnecessarily. Wade's temper was notorious.
"I hear you're drivin' the Riggins girl home from the library afternoons. That right?"
Tommy was silent for a moment. Did Wade know anything else? "Just a couple of times," he said cautiously. "Why?"
"That's too good for you," Wade informed him. "I've had my eye on that since it was in rompers."
"You? Why, you're old enough-" Tommy checked his remark.
But his uncle didn't seem angry. "Some day you'll realize that's when it's good - when you're twice as old as it," Wade said. He looked at his watch. "I don't have time to talk to you about it today, but I've got a little program for you in connection with that little blonde."
"Program? What-"
"Not today," Wade said, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. "It'll keep. See you later."
Tommy went out the basement entrance to the side parking lot where he had left his car, wondering what Wade had on his mind. He didn't like the sound of it. Wade and Cathy?
It was ridiculous. The best thing he could do was stay out of Wade's path, especially since he was seeing Cathy again the next afternoon. And he was really looking forward to it. She was really a sweet kid, and now that her eggshell had been cracked she should really bloom. He was looking forward to that, too.
He drove away from the city parking lot with Cathy so much in the forefront of his mind that Wade had already been dismissed to a point far in the background.
Wade climbed the stairs to the first floor city offices and walked out front to his car parked at the curb. He considered it his car even though it was the Sheriff Department's black-and-white cruiser. He drove rapidly beyond the city limits where his real jurisdiction existed although he never hesitated to act independently inside the area which was the city police's territory. Any authority he needed to invoke he could always procure afterward. A lot of snooty kids who thought they could thumb their noses at him in safety had found out different.
He slowed the cruiser when he saw Jo Tucker's bright red head in a corner doorway. She walked out to the cruiser and climbed in. Wade hadn't seen her since the Tom Tucker episode, and he looked her over critically. "Either you were exaggeratin' to me or you do a damn fine job with makeup," he opened the conversation.
"It's makeup," Jo responded briefly. "Have you found a place?"
"Sure have. I knew it'd be easy." He had started up the cruiser again and was driving farther out into the country. "People are always leavin' keys with me to check their places while they're away on vacation or whatever. This place is really isolated." He looked at Jo in the seat beside him. "It's a cinch if you don't lose your nerve."
"Don't you worry about my losing my nerve!" she said fiercely. "I've been waiting for this."
"Okay," he said, satisfied.
Jo settled a large shopping bag at her feet. "You don't know how I've been waiting," she repeated.
"Okay," Wade Sampson said again.
They continued the ride in silence.
Lucille paused in the act of drawing on her gloves when the telephone rang in the bedroom. "Lucille Bryson here," she said crisply when she picked it up.
"I have a message for you from Elaine Rogers," a female voice said. "She's sorry to change the meeting place upon such short notice but she wonders if you could meet her at the Harris' place on Columbo Road."
"The Harris' place," Lucille repeated.
"It's about five miles out of town. It's owned by-"
"Oh, yes, Columbo Road. I believe I called there once during the last United Fund drive. Well, it's a little inconvenient, but fortunately I have the car. Tell Elaine I might be a few minutes late."
"She'll be expecting you," the voice said, and there was the abrupt click of the disconnect.
Lucille hung up and finished drawing on her gloves. That voice-wasn't it familiar? She thought about it while she descended the back stairs to the detached garage, but nothing in the way of recognition surfaced. It was odd, though, that Elaine hadn't called herself. Still, it would be a coup if Elaine had somehow enlisted Mrs. Harris in the church auxiliary's program. The Harris family was one of the wealthiest in the area.
Lucille drove to Columbo Road without difficulty. She slowed then as she tried to read the nameplates over the archways of the crushed-stone driveways leading to the imposing-looking residences. She had almost passed the Harris' place before she saw the name affixed to a wrought-iron fence.
She backed up and turned into the driveway which wound back through flowerbeds for a quarter of a mile. When she reached the house, there were no other cars visible, and she hesitated momentarily before climbing out of the car. It looked as though it would be Elaine who would be a little late. It would give Lucille a chance for a few words in private with Mrs. Harris, however.
She pressed the doorbell and listened to the six-note chime inside. Then she saw that the door was slightly ajar. "It's Lucille Bryson," she called before pushing the door open wider. There was no answer, and she walked inside. The first person she saw was Josephine Tucker, standing with a shopping bag in her hand in the center of the entrance foyer.
Lucille heard the sound of the door closing behind her, and she turned to look over her shoulder. A man in a khaki uniform had closed the door and was standing in front of it. Lucille returned her attention to Jo Tucker. "What's the meaning of this?" she demanded. "What are you doing here? Where is Mrs. Harris?"
"The ground rules of the meeting have been changed slightly, Lucille." Jo's voice was clear and firm.
Lucille Bryson was annoyed at the use of her Christian name no less than at the half-smile on Jo Tucker's face. "I should think you'd have the decency to remain away from places you're not wanted," she said coldly.
"It was my phone call that brought you out here, Lucille. Where it's nice and quiet and there's plenty of privacy." The mocking note in Jo's voice caused Lucille to steal a quick glance at the uniformed man whom she had ignored before. The man was standing with arms folded over his burly chest and he was grinning widely. An alarm bell tinkled faintly in the depths of Lucille's nervous system. Jo saw the change in her expression, and smiled. "Beginning to get the picture, Lucille?"
"I've had enough of your impertinence," Lucille snapped. "If Mrs. Harris isn't here, I have no business here, and neither have you." She turned and walked to the front door where she confronted the wide-shouldered, thick-necked man standing in front of it. "Kindly stand aside, please," she said imperiously with no trace of the flicker of alarm she had felt previously.
Instead of obeying, he reached out and took her by the arm. Almost in the same instant, Jo Tucker, whom Lucille hadn't heard approaching, seized her other arm. "What do you think you're doing?" Lucille raged, trying in vain to shake herself free.
"Very simple," Jo replied. "I decoyed you out here to-in the vernacular-whip your ass."
Despite her struggles they marched her from the foyer through the ground floor of the house to a bedroom in the rear. The double-grip on her arms was so painful that Lucille bit her lip. Could she have really heard Jo Tucker aright? Inside the bedroom the door was closed and the uniformed man stood in front of it again. In the smaller space Lucille felt trapped, and she experienced the first trace of the onset of panic. "I'll-I'll report this-this manhandling to the police," she stammered.
Her heartbeat was pounding at an accelerated rate. She recognized the grinning hulk standing in front of the door now. He was the deputy sheriff with the unsavory reputation- Samuels? Sanders? Something like that. And then fresh recognition burst upon Lucille. This was the man who was Jo Tucker's lover! And here she was cornered by the unholy pair. Lucille swallowed hard from a mouth suddenly gone dry with apprehension. This couldn't be happening to her!
The uniformed man spoke for the first time. "She's gettin' the picture now, all right," he said. "Go ahead an' show her, Jo."
Jo Tucker faced about, bent over, and flipped her skirt up on her back. She had worn no underwear, and Lucille Bryson found herself staring in amazed disbelief at plump bare buttocks gridironed with bluish-purple stripes turning orange-yellow at their edges. Jo straightened up and smoothed down her skirt. "That's what you let me in for, Lucille. How do you think you'll like it when your bare ass is turned up?" Her renewed smile was malevolent.
Lucille couldn't speak. Her voice seemed to have shriveled in direct proportion to the buildup of the hard knot of fear in the pit of her stomach. These-these villains actually intended to-to brutalize a Christian woman! It was simply unbelievable.
The uniformed man-Sampson, Wade Sampson; she remembered his name how - was speaking to Jo Tucker. "How you gonna do it, Jo?"
"You get her stripped and over the end of the bed. I'll take care of the rest." "What're you gonna use?" Jo opened the shopping bag which had never been far from her side and removed a lengthy item from it. Lucille's stomach lurched sickenly when she recognized a slightly trimmed-down version of a sorority paddle. It was about eighteen inches long, four inches wide, and had a hand-carved grip. Even from where she was standing, Lucille could read the two messages emblazoned in red on either end, burned into the hard wood: APPLY WHEN NECESSARY near the handle, and HEAT FOR THE SEAT near the business end.
"That little toy?" Wade Sampson said contemptuously to Jo.
"I'm prepared to show you it's no toy, Wade."
"But listen, I got a little number in the cruiser-"
"I'm aware of your affection for leather, dear heart," Jo said in an ironic tone of voice. "Well aware. But this is my party, correct?"
Wade Sampson shrugged beefy shoulders. "Suit yourself," he agreed. He advanced from the door toward Lucille. "Shuck it, girlie. All of it."
"N-no," Lucille said faintly.
The man's smallish, close-together eyes glared at her. "I can have you bareass naked in a minute an' thirty seconds," he rasped, "but then you'd have nothin' to wear home afterward. That the way you want it?"
A lump of panic in her throat had materialized in addition to the knot of fear in Lucille's stomach. She hadn't been frightened in many situations in her life, but she was definitely frightened now. "No!" she cried out as Wade Sampson reached for her impatiently.
"Then strip!" he glowered at her.
With no conscious volition Lucille found herself removing the jacket of her suit. Her fingers were icy as she unzipped her skirt, slipped it down, and stepped out of it. She paused with her blouse half unbuttoned. "Please!" she said, unhappily aware of the begging note in her voice but unable to restrain her plea. "I didn't know that Jo's husband would-"
"You were told!" Wade barked. "Peel it, sister."
Hopelessly Lucille removed her blouse. She had never felt so helpless in her life. Or so fearful. She pulled her slip off over her head, automatically shaking her hair back into place. Lucille Bryson, half-naked before two strangers! It was incredible.
"C'mon, c'mon!" Sampson rumbled. "Speed it up. There's plenty of help handy if you don't." He winked heavily at Jo Tucker, who had the paddle in both hands and was practicing level, waist-high swings. Lucille experienced a sudden terrifying loosening in her bladder. With shaking hands she unzipped her girdle and worked it downward from her well-shaped and solidly-fleshed hips. "Now that's a real piece of meat," Wade Sampson said with sudden respect in his voice. "Unveil it, girlie. Get rid of the pants."
Numbly Lucille pulled down her panties, plain white and utilitarian in type with no adornment. Even the comparatively warm room air felt chilly upon her bare flesh, and she half crouched in front of the staring duo, half dead with embarrassment as the man's cynical gaze fastened itself upon the profuse raven-black hair triangulating her upper thighs. "That's the fourth minister's wife I've seen with it out in the breeze," Wade said to Jo, "an' every one of 'em had more cunt-beard than a rabbi. You s'pose it's a requirement?"
Jo continued her practice swings with the paddle without replying. Wade turned to Lucille again. "Off with the bra, Mrs. Righteous," he said. "Then Jo's ready to teach you to dance."
"-Will you stop talking?" Jo complained. "Get her ready."
"Only take a second," Wade grunted. "I picked this bedroom because of the bed's openwork wood slats."
Lucille removed her bra, held it in her hand for an instant, then nervously dropped it on the floor. She felt ashamed of her heavy, swinging breasts with their dark-nippled crests, but with her entire body naked to the lustful gaze of this loathsome man she experienced a paradigm of shame almost paralyzing in its intensity.
Wade Sampson unfastened a pair of handcuffs from his belt and approached Lucille. "No!" she cried out, backing away. He paid no attention. He seized one wrist and then the other, forced them into the claw of a single cuff, and snapped it shut. He half led, half dragged Lucille over to the comparatively low footboard of the bed.
"Throw me the pillows," he said to Jo. When she complied, he arranged them on their long axis over the footboard, swiftly pushed Lucille down over them with his hand on the back of her neck until she was completely doubled up, whereupon he passed the dangling cuff of the handcuffs through the openwork slats at the end of the bed and snapped it around her left calf, leaving her immobilized over the bed-board, handcuffed wrist to calf.
Lucille was horrifiedly aware that her wide-spanned bare behind was now the highest part of her, and impotent tears squeezed from her tight-shut eyes as her face pressed into the bedcover. She had never felt so helpless!
"Will you look at that ass!" Wade said admiringly.
"What about that free leg?" Jo inquired.
"I like to see 'em kick," Wade answered. "Livens up the show when they're showin' their cunt, too. Let's see what you can do with that thing."
Jo positioned herself to one side and slightly to the rear of Lucille, who struggled for composure. There was nothing she could do to help herself now. She must retain what dignity she could. Afterward she would have these people arrested and jailed. But this was no moment for threats. Best to suffer it through with a minimum of outcry, which she was sure she could.
She wouldn't give these animals the satisfaction of hearing her plead again.
Jo Tucker stared avidly at the white-fleshed expanse of Lucille's nude rump. The heavy hemispheres were so solidly fruity with bulging flesh that the crevice between appeared as a thin-lipped sneer. Jo leveled the paddle at a point four inches behind Lucille's marble-white backside. "Now see how you like it," she said, and brought the paddle back levelly in a ninety-degree arc. She swept it forward again with surprising speed and it bit deeply into Lucille's bare seat with an explosive-sounding TH-WHAAACK!
Lucille's entire body leaped into the air as a strangled gasp escaped her. The handcuffs jerked her back into position for the next swing of the paddle. The bed creaked from Lucille's violent reaction to the stark white imprints of the paddle upon her agitated posterior-globes, imprints which rapidly turned pink and then scarlet.
"Ohh!" Lucille exclaimed as the paddle impacted for the third time. The pain was unbelievably more intense than she had expected. It flared like fire, then burned and burned and burned.
TH-WHAAACK!
"Oww!" Lucille cried out, conscious of the little-girl nature of her outcry but unable to suppress it. "Oh, please, don't-"
TH-WHAAACK!
"Ooooooh!" Lucille kicked backward with her free leg in involuntary physical response to her tormented bottom.
"Told you we'd see her cunt," Wade Sampson observed satisfiedly.
TH-WHAAACK!
"Oww! Oww! Oww! You're-killing me!" Lucille gasped, all thought of restraint gone with the excruciating flame in her tender fanny.
Jo aimed the paddle carefully, searching out white-skinned areas of the ample target as yet untouched by the paddle. Her face was a study in concentration as she snapped the smooth wood into the increasingly disquieted pinkening globes which danced uneasily between bottom-searing impacts.
TH-WAACK! TH-WHAACK!
"You're really gettin' to her," Wade said with interest.
Lucille shrieked openly at each paddle-stroke, dignity forgotten, everything forgotten except the scalding pain in her excoriated buttocks. She kicked wildly, struggling madly, but was totally unable to remove her pulsating seat from the course of Jo's full-armed swings.
Jo paused just long enough between blistering swings of the paddle for the lightning-bolt of the impact to spread in red-hot waves through the entire sitting area. Then she swung the paddle again. Lucille's bottom-globes, largely pink-and-scarlet now, were turning crimson in some areas.
Wade Sampson watched closely as the minister's wife's big behind swayed, fluttered, twitched, writhed, and galloped in convulsed, cranberry-red abandon. Lucille's outcries had turned to quivering moans. Her unrestrained tears were soaking the bedcover. Her sobs were wrenching her stomach muscles painfully.
"About two more shots an' she's gonna piss herself," he announced a moment later. "See those muscles in her thighs flutterin'? I've seen it before." He hitched up his belt. "Jesus, now you're gettin' to me. I got the goddamnedest hard-on I've had in months."
Jo abruptly stopped the paddling. She reached out and ran her palm lightly over Lucille's vermillioned seat, whose silkiness now felt rough-pebbled from the paddling. "She's hot, all right," Jo said. "You can feel the heat even before you put your hand on her ass. I think about three more of the best will finish her off."
Lucille moaned hoarsely at each of the three but her fire-red-glowing backside vibrated only minimally after each crackling impact. She hurt so much over so wide an area now that the law of diminishing returns had set in. Jo stepped back after a final inspection of the meaty sacrifice and thrust the paddle back into the shopping bag. "There!" she exclaimed with satisfaction. "Now she knows how it feels."
Lucille sprawled limply over the bedboard, almost in a state of collapse. Her incarnadined twin globes, slightly swollen, swayed from side to side in slack-muscled, cleft-exposed abdication. Her long, quivering, sobbing breaths sounded loudly in the bedroom.
"Jo!" Wade Sampson said.
She turned at the note of tenseness in his voice. He had unzipped his uniform breeches, and in his hand he held his rigid, thick-jointed, purple-headed penis. "Put that back, Wade," she said.
"Bullshit! You had your fun, didn't you? An' you couldn't have done it without me, could you? Now I've gotta blow off some steam."
"We can go to a motel and-"
"Right now! I'm gonna fuck you right now, Jo!"
Her eyes widened. "In front of her?"
"In front of the Pope!" he exploded.
Jo shook her head. "I don't want to do it, Wade. It's not-"
"I'm not askin' you, gaddamit, I'm tellin' you!" It came out as though between gritted teeth. "Shag out've that dress an' put your ass on that bed!"
Jo Tucker hesitated a moment longer before resignedly pulling the dress that was her only article of clothing off over her head.
Chapter V
Lucille Bryson hadn't heard their terse conversation. She was still sobbing breathlessly as her scarlet, well-paddled bare behind wriggled uneasily in the still-painful aftermath of its anguished ordeal. But she was beginning to become aware of things other than her feverishly inflamed gluteal region: embarrassedly aware. The heat in her buttock-flesh made the rest of her body feel chilled, and during her frantic-but-in-vain struggles to evade the paddle she had perspired freely deep in her cleft. With the cessation of the paddling and the subsequent loss of heat, the evaporation of this semi-concealed perspiration created an additional chilly feeling. Arrays of goosebumps appeared and disappeared on her body.
So it was with a sense of real fear that she felt the thump of someone reclining on the bed. Perhaps her punishment wasn't over yet. She blinked the tears from her streaming, reddened eyes and raised her head slightly.
She couldn't believe what she was seeing. Poised just feet away was a red-bushed vagina fully disclosed by uplifted and parted thighs. Lucille would have known it was Jo Tucker even if she couldn't see blue-black-orange-yellow stripes covering the disclosed lower part of the buttocks. Her own head was so low on the bed that Lucille couldn't see Jo's face, the upraised legs blocking out the upper body, but she could certainly see all of everything that only Jo's husband should have been permitted to see.
Lucille's neck ached in its strained, uplifted position, but she couldn't look away. She swallowed hard as a man's hand appeared from nowhere and began to fondle Jo's well-developed vaginal lips. Jo's thighs began to open and close as a blunt finger slipped inside her crack. Lucille closed her eyes. The indecency of it! But immediately she found herself opening them again.
The finger plunged deeply in and out of the redhead's sex-chute. Then the bed was jarred heavily, shaking the disgusting goings-on from Lucille's field of vision. When she could focus again, a swarthy, hairy male body was clambering between Jo Tucker's naked thighs, a thick, powerful-looking penis projecting at her unguarded sex. Lucille stared. It was monstrous!
The male still had his boots on, she noted. The swarthy hips surged forward, and the rocklike-seeming robust penis disappeared inside Jo's channel with apparent effortlessness. At once the lusty shaft began to submerge and emerge in metronomical plunges upon Jo's reddening receptacle while the male's hairy testicles swung freely beneath.
She had to stop looking at this grossness, Lucille told herself, but she found herself unable to turn her head away. The brawny sex-prong had churned up a milky foam around the lips of the entrance of the hideaway it was swooping into with fierce thrusts matched only by the well-timed upthrusts of Jo Tucker's plump bottom as she encouraged her attacker.
Lucille tried to close her ears to the blasphemy and the profanity but she was no more able to do so than she was to close her eyes to the tremendous sexual effort being expended within inches of her nose. An unexpected twitch deep in her own interior startled her; it was the first bodily sensation she had experienced recently not connected with her still-smarting nude body-globes.
"WADE!" Jo half-shrieked. Her frantic assistance of her own degradation appalled Lucille. What was that male brute doing to her to cause her to react like that? "Ohhhhhh, I'm coming! Wade! Oooooh! I'm--COMMMMing!" Jo gasped.
Her frantic cooperation wrenched her upper body to one side, out of line of the male body plunging furiously upon her belly, and Lucille saw Jo's face for the first time. It was flushed, and the lips were working, and the eyes were rolled back in an expression of ecstasy that Lucille had never seen before. At the same time the man pounding her sluice-box roared like a lion and powerdived his hairy buttocks staccato-fashion as his ejaculation overtook him.
Lucille could see that Jo's hands clutched him tightly to her.
She marveled as all movement ceased and was succeeded by heavy breathing. She could still see Jo's face, which had been overtaken by a look of peace. Jo stirred finally beneath the masculine weight pinning her to the bed. "Do you think-she watched us?" she asked huskily but in a half-whisper.
"Who the hell cares?" Wade Sampson said loudly. "We could've charged admission to that one."
Sensing that he was about to move, Lucille buried her face in the bedcover. She would just die if they knew she'd been watching everything! And watching avidly. Now she had a belated feeling of apprehension again. Finished with each other, they would turn their attention to her once more.
Wade rolled off Jo with a satisfied grunt. He rose from the bed and slapped his hard belly with a satisfied grunt. "How are you going to keep her from talking about us, Wade?" Jo asked. "We shouldn't have done it."
"I'll stop her the same way I'll stop her from talkin' about the whalin' you gave her ass," Wade responded. "Slip on your dress an' run out to the cruiser in the back an' get the Polaroid on the back seat."
Lucille heard the bedsprings creak as Jo got off the bed and then the rustle of her dress being slipped over her head. In a moment the bedroom was quiet, and Lucille realized that she was alone in it with that dreadful man. And both of them were naked!
Her worst fears were realized when she heard him walking around the end of the bed behind her. "Well, sister," he said in the hard tone that passed for joviality with him, "you're bleachin' out pretty good. Your ass is just kind of ruby-colored now." He chuckled heavily. Lucille almost screamed when she felt his hands on her sore bottom. He spread her voluptuous globes with his thumbs and exposed her fissure and anus. "Plenty white flesh the paddle didn't reach," he assured her, probing at her rectum with his thumb. Lucille moaned in mortification and renewed pain at the rough handling.
He was still standing with his hands holding her buttocks apart when Jo re-entered the bedroom. "Did you ever see a twat with so much hair on it?" he demanded of her. "This broad could make herself a wig."
"Here's the camera," Lucille heard Jo's voice.
"Yeah, okay. Let's see now. I'll take it at an angle-" There was the sound of shuffling feet. "-like this, so I can get her ass and her face in the same picture. Put a pillow under her head to raise her face up a little from the bed." Lucille remained motionless, hardly daring to breathe. They were going to take a picture of her shame? She felt her head lifted and a pillow thrust under it. "Yeah," Wade Sampson said. "That's got it."
Even through closed eyelids Lucille saw a quick flare of light. "Give it a minute now," Jo's voice said. There was a long silence and then a sound like ripping paper. "Look at that!" Jo marveled. "You're quite a photographer, Wade."
"If you'd taken as many pictures as I have of automobile wrecks, you'd be quite a photographer, too. Notice how her ass looks even redder in the picture?"
"It certainly does. I was thinking while you were screwing me that we probably should have taken the picture first."
"Anything red comes out redder in Polaroid color. Don't ask me why. I better take a couple more for insurance."
Lucille cringed internally as the pair went through the same process twice more. "Do we let her go now?" Jo asked at last. "Now that she knows we can show the pictures around if she talks?"
There was no answer from Wade Sampson. Then Lucille gasped as she felt her smarting behind in his big, hard hands again. She squeaked in dismay when he crowded in behind her and she felt his bare stomach against her bottom. For a second she couldn't understand the pressure on her upper thighs that was moving upward. "Ohhhhhh!" she cried out when she realized that his erection was renewing itself and working its way between her legs.
Wade paid no attention to her outcry. "Damn, she's got an ass!" he said fervently. "You know what, Jo? I got to fuck this one. I just got to."
"Do you think it's a good idea?" Jo asked doubtfully. "She might holler rape."
"She ain't gonna holler nothin'. Not with the pictures we've got of her whipped ass to show to her husband an' his flock. Say, you can get a couple while I'm fuckin' her, too. Stand up on a chair an' get a good angle shot of her face while she's treadin' water on my beef."
There was a clinking sound, and Lucille felt the handcuff on the calf of her leg released. Wade slapped her sore bottom and she squealed like a schoolgirl. "Up an' at 'em, sis!" Wade told her. "Spread that fat ass on the bed."
Afraid not to move, Lucille stifled a groan as she straightened up gingerly. Sore muscles pulled in her scarified behind. Wade stepped close to her and unlocked the handcuff containing her wrists. She rubbed them fumblingly, then crossed her arms over her breasts when she sensed Wade staring at them.
"On the bed!" Wade said peremptorily. "Or would you rather try the paddle again?"
From the corner of her eye she could see his sinewy erection without looking directly at it, and her stomach fluttered queasily. "Please!" she appealed to Jo. "You've had your-your revenge. Won't you let me go now?"
"She hasn't got a goddam thing to say about it!" Wade said angrily.
"And wouldn't if she could," Jo interjected. She smiled wickedly at Lucille. "You know the saying 'Don't knock it if you haven't tried it'?"
She laughed outright at the expression on Lucille's face.
"B-but this is a-this is a terrible thing you're d-doing to me," Lucille stuttered. "You -" She broke off with a yelp as Wade slapped her nude rump hard.
"One more word out've you an' it's the paddle," Wade informed her.
"No, no, no," she said hastily. "I'll-I'll do it." She sat down on the bed, stifling a whimper as her weight on her body cushions increased her distress.
"On your back," Wade demanded.
Obediently Lucille dropped onto her back. The position was actually a relief since it took her weight off her behind. But her face turned scarlet when she saw Wade staring gloatingly at her thick black curls twined over her belly and vagina. "Get the goddam camera ready," he said, and climbed onto the bed.
Almost before Lucille realized it he was lowering his thick body upon hers and fumbling with his meaty penis between her parted legs. "She's wet already," he informed the watching Jo. "But I'll still betcha she squeaks when I shoot this to her."
Lucille closed her eyes. Could this actually be happening to her? Could this-this beast actually intend to use her so animalistically? Her mouth shaped itself into a little round O of apprehension as she felt the thick rod between her legs slip into her opening.
Wade lunged into her with a half-snarl.
With the first lunge he went into Lucille's hairy cunt so deeply that he found himself lodged to the hilt. "Sonofabitch!" he exclaimed in surprise. "She must be usin' a table leg on herself in her spare time." He began to fuck the minister's wife with long, slow strokes.
Lucille tried not to think of what was being done to her, but inevitably she found herself making comparisons. She felt that Paul's penis was longer if not quite as thick. Wade seemed to rest higher on her stomach than Paul, and his plunging rod penetrated her at a different angle. So much so, in fact, that a faint tremor seemed to be starting in her-
Her guilty reverie was rudely interrupted when Wade reached down and cruelly pinched a flaccid paddled buttock. Lucille squealed and thrust herself upward to get away from the twisting pinch. "That's-the way!" Wade barked in a hoarse rasp. "Move that thing, sister! What 'n 'ell d'you think you got it for?"
Afraid of another pinch, Lucille bucked herself upward again. She winced inwardly at the fleshy sound of his stomach on her own, but she dared not stop. She thrust her hips upward with a will, out of synchronization at first, but speedily timing her movement to Wade's. Instantly she realized she had never felt so deep a penetration. The hard gristle rhythmically immersed in her violated chasm stirred an immediate sensation she had never experienced before.
Lucille's breath caught sharply in her throat. The previous faint tremor lodged deeply within her broke into a glowing flame. "What's-happening?" she breathed faintly a second before her vagina suddenly took on an independent life of its own. "Ohhhh!" Lucille cried out as a series of throbs, pulsations, and flurried vibrations convulsed her inner flesh. Her legs climbed involuntarily and met over Wade's back. "What's-HAPPENING?"
He pounded her so hard that she heard herself grunting inelegantly, but nothing seemed to interfere with the quick fever spreading inside her. She felt herself standing tiptoe on the edge of an unknown abyss, and she tried to draw back. Instead, a hot tide of sensation enveloped her completely as she matched Wade's powerful surges.
And then somewhere a dam broke. "Ohh!" Lucille cried.
"Ohh! Ohhhhh, AhhhhhHHHHHH! AHHHH-HHhhhhhh!"
Her legs treshed wildly as an internal explosion convulsed her. Her breath stopped as she tried to raise herself higher to experience more of the sudden blissful palpitation assaulting her vagina. She squeezed her thighs and her vaginal walls desperately, trying to make the sensation last. Then the deep throbbing died out and left her feeling drained.
She sank back upon the bed, breathless, trying to understand what had happened. She sensed Wade reaching to pinch her out of her new quiescence, and she hurriedly resumed meeting his downthrusts. She caught a glimpse of Jo Tucker standing on a chair aiming downward with a camera, and felt almost indifferent. What had happened to her?
And then it started again! First the deep tingling feeling at which her breath caught in her throat; then the quick tremors and the glowing vibrations that expanded to fingertips and toes; and then the mind-bending soft explosion which convulsed her and left her temporarily mindless from the surfeit of sensation amidst which she felt she was drowning. Delightfully drowning.
In the midst of it she heard Wade snorting and heaving just as Paul did before he ejaculated. She found herself holding his furry shoulders as he emptied himself into her with fierce grunts. Her own feeling was that of a watch which had run down.
Wade blew half a dozen hard breaths before raising himself from her perspiring stomach. He looked around for Jo. "How'd you like me makin' her come twice?" he said proudly. "Get any pictures? They ought to be beauts."
"Two of them are," Jo replied. "In one your shoulders got in the way."
"Hey, that's a dandy!" he exclaimed after a look. He laughed loudly. "Give her a look."
Jo thrust the picture at Lucille, who was still on her back. She found herself looking at a clear likeness of herself-in color-taken at an angle which showed the rigorous penis halfway into her wet-moss furrow at the same time it showed the most extraordinary expression on her face: head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open, the whole thing looking like nothing so much as though she were being tickled with a feather.
She tried to get indignant about the picture, but she seemed to have run out of indignation. Everything about the afternoon seemed stopped in space. Embedded in plastic. The worst thing in the world that could happen to a woman had happened to her, and-dare she say it? Even think it?-it hadn't been so bad after all.
Wade somehow sensed her mood. "You're not a bad fuck at all, once you get it in gear," he told Lucille.
She felt no shock as she would have an hour previously. She was still trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. How could this brutish, ignorant, uncouth man have aroused in her sensations never before experienced? Of course he had done it to Jo Tucker, too.
Wade was still standing beside the bed. Lucille's eyes went to the sticky-looking shiny knob of his penis protruding from the foreskin, and then she quickly looked away. She was becoming absolutely shameless! There was no other word for it. She had drawn her thighs together after recovering from the unexpected heights of sensation during Wade's brutalizing of her, but aside from that minimal cover-up she was still needle-naked on the bed long after he dismounted from her, and right out in broad daylight, too. All of these things had simply never happened to her before. She knew she should be furiously angry, justifiably angry, but she wasn't. She couldn't even begin to analyze how she felt.
"You better be on the Pill, sis, because I don't shoot blanks," Wade announced. When Lucille made no reply, he looked at his watch. "Okay, party's over. I got to give the taxpayers a little somethin' for their money." He slapped Lucille lightly upon a plump thigh. "If you do any talkin', girlie, we show the pictures to your husband. It's that simple. Understand?" Lucille nodded. "Okay, rack it up an' drag it out've here."
Lucille got up from the bed on legs that trembled. She knew it wasn't from the paddling. Almost like a sleepwalker she picked up her panties from the floor after cleansing herself with a tissue taken from her handbag. It was only afterward that the intimacy of the ritual performed in plain sight of two strangers dismayed her. She must be losing her mind.
Then she found she couldn't get the panties on. Her paddled bottom was definitely swollen, and the constricting panties were far too uncomfortable. She didn't even attempt her girdle. She donned slip, blouse, skirt, and jacket, then fluffed out her disordered hair. She rolled up panties and girdle and put them under her arm, then looked around the bedroom, her eyes lingering longest on the bed, before confronting Wade's light blue eyes examining her curiously. Jo was standing to one side. "Is-is that all?" Lucille asked uncertainly.
Wade nodded. "Roll it," he said.
Lucille walked from the bedroom through two other downstairs rooms to the foyer, where she let herself out the front door.
Wade Sampson and Joe Tucker watched her go. "How come she took a strange prick like a kitten?" Wade demanded. "You had me think-in' she was a lioness. You reckon the paddle softened her brain along with her tail?"
"I don't understand it," Jo declared. "Could she be scheming something?"
"Damned if I know." Wade strode to a window through which he could watch Lucille Bryson getting into her car. He chuckled when he saw her edge herself cautiously under the wheel. "Man, you really teed off on her with that paddle. Although I still say my little quirt stirs up more action."
"Yes, dear," Jo said with mild irony. "I know."
He was frowning to himself. "If she's plannin' somethin'-naah, what could she do?" He thought for a moment. "We could copper the bet a little, though." He looked at Jo. "Whyn't you pay a call on the Reverend Bryson? You know, the lost sheep askin' for guidance? Lean on his shoulder an' give him a look at your tits. If he made a pass at you we'd have all the protection we'd ever need."
"Dr. Paul Bryson make a pass at me? Are you out of your mind, Wade? That man wouldn't make a pass at Cleopatra, the original or Elizabeth Taylor."
"He's a man, isn't he? You do as I say. It would be cheap insurance until I can figure out why that wife of his was such a meek little fuck. C'mon, let's go."
He locked the house up carefully when they left by the front door.
Lucille Bryson lay in her conjugal bed and listened to the snoring of her husband, Paul. Sleep had evaded her for over an hour after their retirement for the night. She had returned home in a subdued mood. She had forgotten her reddened eyes, and while Paul commented upon them, hastily fabricated a story about a sudden head cold.
She wondered what he would say if he saw the condition of her bottom. Hours after the paddling it still hadn't returned to its pristine whiteness, and the usually velvety skin was still roughened. She had examined it carefully in the bathroom mirror. Soreness still persisted, although not to the touch now; she experienced a quick thrill of pain only when she sat incautiously or put other undue stress upon that portion of her anatomy. She was sure that a couple of days would reduce the present aftermath to only a memory.
But what a memory! She drew a long breath. Had it really happened? Had she actually let that boorish Wade Sampson use her so whorishly? She should have fought and kicked and screamed and bit. That was what any decent woman did when faced with rape. Well, semi-rape. Why hadn't she, Lucille Bryson, reacted similarly?
It was no good telling herself that the smarting burn in her paddled bottom had robbed her of her judgment. She still knew right and wrong. She had experienced fear, yes; but when had fear ever excused the proper choice? No, she had succumbed like a-well a whore.
And how explain the marvelously stimulating thing that had happened to her during the ugly act? She had heard the expression "Riding the crest of a sexual wave." Actually, it was in her marriage manual. She had never believed it, but this afternoon she had experienced it. Why did it have to happen in such sordid, demanding circumstances, so crushing to ladylike behavior?
Lucille Bryson sighed tiredly, turned over carefully in bed, and sought once more for elusive sleep.
Tommy Johnson knuckled the sleep from his eyes as a persistent series of knocks at his door penetrated his subconscious. He bounded from his bed in his underwear and went to the door. "Hi sweetie," Jo Tucker greeted him when he opened it. "How about letting me in before one of the neighbors sees me and begins talking?"
"Hi, Jo," he said automatically, standing aside to let her enter. "Something else has happened?"
"Nothing else has happened except that I promised to stop by and give you a little treatment, remember?" she asked archly.
He felt foolish standing in front of her tousle-haired and crummy-mouthed while she looked cool and crisp and fresh as a daisy. "You look wonderful," he said, eyeing her colorful linen dress.
"I'm a working gal now," she said lightly. "I'm on my way to work now, and I just thought I'd stop in and see if I couldn't repay my friend Tommy for the favor he did me the other night."
"Listen, Jo," he said uncomfortably. "You don't owe me anything. You were damn nice to me then, if you'll remember. You were-"
He stopped when she came over to him and kissed him on the cheek. "I know where the favor lies," she said firmly, then smiled at him. "You mean you're refusing my expert services?"
"No, no," he said quickly. "I mean-hey, let me run down the hall to the bathroom! I'll be right back."
He took his morning piss, brushed his teeth, and slicked down his unruly hair before returning to the room. Jo had removed her dress and placed it on the bed. She came to him in her slip and with perfect naturalness slipped down his jockey shorts until they collapsed around his ankles. She placed his balls on her palm and jiggled them lightly while he drew in his breath. "Men's pricks are so darling when they're all the way down," Jo observed. "Like little boys'."
"That one's not going to stay down long with you playing around like that," Tommy said tensely.
"That's the idea, sweetie," Jo said calmly. "Why don't you sit down in the armchair?"
He allowed her to lead him to the chair and seat him in it to her satisfaction. She dropped to her knees in front of him after raising her slip to keep from kneeling on it, parted his knees, and advanced her face until her warm breath was tickling his thighs.
Tommy placed his hands on the warm bare flesh of Jo's shoulders. "How's your ass?" he asked with attempted nonchalance, as though this was something that happened to him every day.
"Improving," Jo replied.
"Gettin' along with Wade?"
"We have an understanding," she said ambiguously before lowering her chestnut head and tonguing the golden hairs on Tommy's upper thighs. The touch of her tongue on his flesh produced an almost instantaneous reaction. "Mmmmmm, lovely!" Jo said as the circumcised prick shot upward with the purple-red head trembling and the blue-veined underside throbbing. "Lovely!"
She kissed the rubbery tip lightly, swirled her tongue over the slit in the head while the muscles in Tommy's thighs quivered, then took all of the head in her warm mouth. She rolled it from side to side while flirting her tongue underneath along the beginning of the cord, and Tommy's knees came up under Jo's breasts as she crouched over his lap.
Gradually she drew more of the vigorous young cock into her mouth, alternating licking and sucking. The soles of Tommy's bare feet began to tingle. "Oh, Jesus!" he groaned. Afraid his hard-clutching hands would hurt Jo's bare shoulders, he removed them and gripped the chair-arms.
Jo's mouth ovaled still more while she began drawing upon the rigid muscle as though it were a pipestem. Her tongue deposited saliva until she could slide easily from midpoint on his erection to the bulbous head which she lipped, sucked, and teased with a swirling tongue until Tommy threw his head back and stared up at the ceiling. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!" he said fervently. "I'm warnin' you, Jo, I'm gonna boil over!"
She removed her mouth momentarily. "Give me your undershirt," she told him.
He pulled it off over his head and handed it to her. Jo draped it over her front like a bib, tucking it into the front of her slip and letting the rest of it overhang. "Now!" she said, smiling brightly upward at Tommy. "Shoot your head off."
She swallowed his penis again and began serious suction. His toes curled up as her soft mouth, fiendishly knowledgeable about male tactile hotpoints, stimulated him right out of his mind. "Jo!" he gasped as her lips slid back and forth on almost the full length of his steely cock, pausing only to nip gently at the throbbing prick-head. "Jo, I'm-coming! Jo!"
She made a flirting motion with her head, throwing his cock from side to side, still inside her sucking mouth. He had been holding off desperately, but that did it. He came halfway up out of his chair as his orgasm started, his hands reaching blindly for Jo's chestnut head and holding it firmly to his jetting tube.
Not that holding was necessary. At the first preliminary throb of the prick in her mouth Jo swallowed eagerly and kept swallowing during the deluge that followed. Some of the surplus escaped the corners of her mouth and ran down her chin onto the protective, biblike undershirt. Once she choked momentarily but immediately caught up again.
Tommy sank down in the armchair again as the ejaculation which seemed to go on forever gradually slackened. "Hoooooooooo, boy!" he whispered through dry lips. Jo released her limp prisoner and looked up at him, greasy-mouthed but smiling. She removed the bib and used a dry corner of it to wipe off her mouth. She glanced down at her front, but none of the jetting male sperm had penetrated to her slip.
Tommy patted her head gently. "Thanks, Jo," he said sincerely. "That was something else."
"I thought you'd like it," she said softly.
"Jo?"
"Yes?"
"Bring it up again and let me fuck you?" His voice turned eager. "Please?"
"I'm having my period, Tommy," she said simply. "I'm sorry."
"Ahhhhhh, damn!"
"Otherwise I'd love to have you fuck me."
He patted her head again. "Thanks anyway, Jo. You've made my day."
She rose from her knees and went to the bed, picked up her dress, and slipped it over her head. "Zip me up," she said, turning her back.
He rose from the armchair, naked, and did her bidding. He folded her in his arms for a moment, cupping her breasts in his palms, before releasing her. "Look at that," he said ruefully, pointing downward to a half-established re-erection. "It didn't hear you."
Jo smiled, reached for his cock and gave it a quick squeeze, then walked to the door. "Thanks," Tommy said again, following her. "It was great. You were great."
She gave him another quick, bright smile before opening the door and descending the stairs to the back of the bakery.
Chapter VI
Wade Sampson paced the tiled floor of the Sheriff's Department basement office, impatiently slapping his hands together. Jo's new job was a hindrance to his plans, and he didn't know what to do about it. Not that he intended to support her as an alternative; far from it. But the daytime hours during which she was working were just the hours he needed her to put into operation the scheme he had contrived to bring down the pot-selling Aliens. Especially Jessica Allen, known as Jessie to her longhaired friends.
He slowed his rapid stride and stared thoughtfully at the far wall. Did he really need Jo to bring it off? He needed a woman, and by God, he had a woman. No way was he going to coax the Allen woman-or her husband either-into his nearly soundproof basement office when they both knew they were doing something illegal, unless he applied a sugar coating to the sour pill. And that was where the woman came in. He'd been thinking all along in terms of Jo, but it didn't need to be Jo.
He went behind his desk and sat down, drawing the telephone toward him. Yes; this could be a sugarcoated job indeed. He released the phone and picked up the phone book, riffled the pages rapidly, then jotted down the number he sought. He lifted the receiver and dialed, drumming on the desk top with his free hand after listening for the dial tone and laying the receiver down.
"I'd like to speak to Mrs. Bryson," Wade said in response to the masculine "Hello" when he had the receiver at his ear again. He waited until he heard her "Yes? Who is it, please?" uttered in cool, confident tones.
"This is Wade Sampson," he said. He was enjoying himself. He could almost picture Lucille Bryson looking over her shoulder at her husband in the same room, wondering what to say.
"Y-yes?" she said again, and he grinned at the sudden hesitancy in the previously crisp voice. "You have-what is the message you have for me, please?"
"The message is for you to haul your big ass down to the Sheriff's Department office right now," Wade said in a menacing tone.
"N-now? But it's inconvenient for-can't we make some - some other arrangement? I really-"
He had no intention of letting her off the hook. "I said now," he growled. "Or would you like your husband to receive a Polaroid shot in the mail?"
"I'll 1-leave right away," she said hurriedly. "S-since you say it's so important."
Wade's hard grin extended from ear to ear. "An' never mind your girdle," he advised. "We can get to the seat of things quicker that way.
Get the picture?" The line hummed emptily. "I said do you get the picture?"
"Y-yes," she said faintly.
"Good. Don't keep me waitin'."
He banged down the phone, moved out from behind his desk, and resumed his pacing, but slower now, almost with a swagger. This was really a ten-strike, he congratulated himself. It was so much better than using Jo there was no comparison. Two birds with one stone. That was the name of the game; two birds with one stone.
He had meant to tell her to use the side entrance leading down from the parking lot, but he had forgotten. He shrugged; it really didn't make much difference. With the hold he had on Lucille Bryson, the whole town could see her walking in from the main street as far as he was concerned. And Lucille Bryson's concern was the least of his worries.
He contained himself but just barely while he waited for her. At the sound of her high heels on the stairs leading down to the basement from the municipal offices, he faced in that direction expectantly. He was almost sure he knew what her attitude would be.
Nor was he wrong. Lucille Bryson finished the descent of the stairs and walked directly toward him. She began to speak when she was still five yards distant. "I'm not sure you realize how awkward a position your phone call put me in, Mr. Sampson," she said smoothly. Wade listened admiringly. No imperious theatrics she knew instinctively it would avail her nothing. No, he was being appealed to now in the name of reason. "I had hoped you were gentleman enough to consider the episode of the other afternoon a closed matter," Lucille Bryson continued. "I believe that even Mrs. Tucker would feel I paid a steep price for-"
"Mrs. Tucker has nothin' to do with the price," Wade cut her off. "This is between you an' me, sis. Understand?"
"Not entirely," she said slowly. "What- what do you intend?" He saw that she was sorry she had asked the question as soon as she uttered it.
"You don't need to worry about puttin' ideas in my head," Wade said breezily. "I already got plenty. Involvin' you, too, would you b'lieve? Now I was sittin' here a few minutes ago, an' you know what come into my mind? All of a sudden I had a mental image of your big, handsome, tight-lookin' bare ass, an' I thought to myself, well, now, Wade, couldn't you use a little of that?"
Lucille Bryson wet her dry lips nervously. She wore no makeup, and her pale features approached dead pallor. "Please," she began.
"So I decided to get your ass down here an' backscuttle it," Wade interrupted her again.
She stared at him blankly. "B-backscuttle? What-"
"You mean you don't know? Backscuttlin' is fuckin' you dog-fashion. You'll love it."
Two bright blotches of high color appeared on Lucille's cheekbones. "That's the most indecent-"
"But first I got somethin' else for you to do," Wade went on. He had dealt with so many women that he now had a formula: keep them confused. Keep them off-balance so they couldn't set themselves for a counterpunch. From sniveling teenager to haughty matron, they all responded to the same stimuli. "Listen close, now."
Lucille listened numbly to his instructions, barely comprehending them. From the instant she heard his voice on the phone she knew it portended: blackmail. Sexual blackmail. She had thought fleetingly of telling Paul and enlisting his assistance. But to tell Paul of her experience the other day? She couldn't. He wouldn't understand. She couldn't herself.
She found herself seated behind Wade Sampson's desk while he pushed the telephone in her direction. She roused herself from the dread which had enveloped her from the moment he spoke those awful words with that sly grin. "Why?" she asked. "Why am I making this phone call for you?"
"Because I damn well good an' say so!" he snapped. "There's the number. Dial. I told you what to say. An' don't blow it or you'll wish you hadn't."
She dialed shakily, struggling to bring herself under control. "I'd like to speak to Jessica Allen, please," she said when she had the connection. At least her voice sounded steady, no matter how her nerve-ends were quivering. "This is Lucille Bryson, Mrs. Allen," she said, and waited for the polite acknowledgement. "We have a small problem involving one of your pupils, and we wondered if you'd be good enough to come downtown and give us the benefit of your experience with this individual before we try to make a determination as to the best course to take. No, not terribly serious. Pilferage. Yes. But of course a decision must be made. You will? We'd appreciate it. Yes. The Sheriff's Department. Yes. Thank you."
"Great!" Wade enthused. "Perfect!" He rubbed his hands together. "Ohhhh, what I'm plannin' for that bitch!"
"But why?" Lucille asked blankly. "I understand that the life-style of the Aliens is unorthodox, but-"
"The life-style of the Aliens includes sellin' marijuana to school students," Wade cut in. "Whaddya think of that?"
"It must be stopped," Lucille said promptly.
"It's gonna be, sis. It's gonna be."
They sat in silence then until Jessica Allen came down the stairs into the office. She had on a shapeless granny gown that swept the floor, and her hip-length black hair trailed down her back. Lucille noted with distaste that it appeared to have gone uncombed for days. She noted also that despite the free-flowing skirt of the gown it was drawn in tightly under the breasts in a manner which suggested no brassiere underneath. Lucille's lips tightened. This was certainly a poor example for a school teacher's wife. And hadn't she heard that Mrs. Allen occasionally did substitute teaching herself?
Jessica Allen looked from Lucille Bryson to Wade Sampson. "I hurried as fast as I could," she said with a little smile. She was a slim girl, high-breasted, with dark eyes set in a pale face framed in the mass of her long black hair. "Who is the culprit?"
"You are," Wade Sampson said curtly, and watched her smile die. He moved toward her with a deliberate swagger. "You an' your husband have been sellin' pot to the school kids."
"No!" she said immediately. "Whoever says so, it's a lie!" She looked at Lucille. "You didn't say-"
"Admit it!" Wade roared, startling her with his bellow so that she took a backward step. He pursued her, towering above her as she shrank away. "You been doin' it right along, haven't you?"
"No! it's not true! Somebody's lying! We've never-"
He slapped her heavily, the sound of his palm on her cheek a crackling explosive noise. Jessica Allen staggered sideways from the force of the slap, almost losing her balance. Lucille's eyes widened.
Wade pursued the girl again. "Admit it!" he said menacingly, looming over her. He seized her shoulder when she tried to evade him and slapped her again. Then he backhanded her other cheek. She gave a strangled outcry as a thin trickle of blood started downward from her left nostril. She swiped at it with her hand, looked at the hand, snuffled the blood up again, then started to cry.
"Admit it!" Wade said again, more softly but also more threateningly. "We've got signed confessions from kids who bought."
"They're lying! I want to talk to my husband! I want a lawyer! You can't-"
He slapped her while holding her arm. Her head rocked and she cried out sharply. "You're not gonna like your face in the mornin', Jessie," he observed.
She straightened up, tears streaming. "All right, you yokel!" she said defiantly. "Just leave my face alone. Sure we've been selling pot. But you need evidence of a sale, and you don't have it. My admission means nothing. You can't get a conviction without evidence."
"Nobody's lookin' for a conviction," Wade said. "You two are gonna leave town."
"You can't make us! We have contracts! You-"
"You're just about to have your mind changed," Wade told her. He dragged her by the arm to a corner of the room while Lucille struggled to keep up with fast-moving events.
"You let me alone!" Jessica Allen cried out furiously. "What do you think you're doing?" Her outburst was provoked by Wade's unhooking a pair of handcuffs from his belt and enclosing both her wrists in one cuff. Lucille swallowed hard at the memory of her own recent incarceration in just such a trussed-pig manner.
Wade held the struggling girl effortlessly while he untied a rope on the wall and lowered a steel ring which had been unobtrusively snugged against the ceiling. When he could catch the ring in the hand not holding Jessica Allen, Wade snapped the other handcuff to the ring and immediately pulled the rope through its pulley until the girl's arms were extended straight above her head and she was standing on tiptoe. "You let me-down!" she panted, but with more fear in her voice than anger. She twisted to try to watch"Wade.
"Presently," Wade said in good humor. He knotted the rope on its bracket and walked to his desk. He winked cheerfully at the watching Lucille. "Lots better solutions than draggin' a lot of local kids into court, right?" he said. He opened his desk drawer and removed a braided riding quirt, half-stiff, half-flexible with a flat popper on its end. "You'll hear some soprano singin' now," he assured Lucille.
He strode back to Jessica Allen, his bootheels ringing on the tiled floor. She eyed the quirt in his hand fearfully. "You're insane!" she blurted. "I'll sue! I'll-stop that!"
Wade Sampson had seized the hem of the granny dress and started to draw it up her back. She kicked at him, but he evaded it easily. "How about that, Lucille?" he asked buoyantly. "Not a stitch of underwear." Lucille stared at slender white legs, a trim, almost boyish bare bottom, and a smoothly curved back as Wade bunched the granny dress around the girl's neck and secured it by drawing a folded bit of it through a handcuff.
Wade pulled out the quirt from the boot into which he had stuffed it while getting the granny dress out of the way. "Now I'm just gonna show you how we feel in this town about people who sell pot to our kids."
Jessica Allen tried to twist her bottom away from Wade's upheld quirt but he stalked her calmly. "No, no, no!" she called out frantically. "We'll leave! We'll leave!"
"You're damn right you'll leave," Wade said, and swung the quirt.
Lucille shivered as the rounded leather whistled through the air and cracked viciously upon the girl's white flesh. Jessica Allen threw back her head and yelled hoarsely as a stark white line sprang up on both buttocks. It immediately turned pink and then an angry red, and Lucille could see the weal rising.
Wade whipped the quirt in a flat arc into the wildly prancing nether rotundities, and the girl bounded into the air from her tiptoe position, her stomach outthrust grotesquely. She danced from one foot to the other with her surprisingly full breasts bouncing madly. A second red line sprang up beside the first as Jessica Allen shrieked mournfully.
Cr-rack! "Owwww!" The twisting white figure displayed sparse dark hair at the juncture of her thighs, and Lucille wrinkled her nose in distaste when she saw that the armpits were similarly unshaved.
Cr-rack! "Owooooooooo!" The weals overlaid each other now, red turning to purple; Wade lengthened his arm swing and cut hard at the quivering globes which tried to turn themselves inside out at each unbearably hot kiss of the braided leather.
Cr-rack! "Agrrrrrhhhhh!" The full-throated scream echoed hollowly from bare walls and tiled floor. Lucille shifted position uneasily on her chair, horrified at the merciless whipping but unable to remove her eyes from the swaying, dancing buttocks into which the quirt almost disappeared each time before rebounding from the striped flesh.
Wade coolly walked around his victim, whipping steadily. Inevitably he caught up with each frantically pivoting turn aimed at evading the cutting quirt, and each time he had the plunging nude behind in his sights he whirred the barely pliant leather into the convulsed flesh.
The girl's screams weakened and died out to whimpering moans. She hung limply in the cuffs with only her whipped hindquarters reacting to the flaming bite of the quirt. Her head hung loosely although it jerked at each sizzling impact. Wade stopped whipping and stooped to examine more closely his handiwork. Layers of weals overran each other, and he thrust the quirt back into his boot.
Swiftly he lowered the girl until he could unlock the cuffs. He frogmarched her, still with her dress around her neck, across the room and extended her face down across his desk. Lucille listened to the panting breath and soft moans and looked at the quick tremors running through the slender white thighs below the red-white-and-purple damp-looking flesh of the skinned rump.
Wade marched around the desk until he was at the girl's head. "Send your husband down to see me if he don't like what you've got to show him," he rumbled. "An' tell him that if the pair of you are still in town next week you'll be down here for an encore. An' every week after that." He leaned down toward the sobbing girl whose strangled breaths punctuated each word. "Y'hear me?" he barked.
"Ohhhh, y-yes!" she moaned.
"Then take off. Haul your ass out've here."
For a moment Jessica Allen didn't move. Then she placed her hands on the desk top and laboriously pushed herself upright. Lucille could see the fluttering muscles in her thighs and the damp sparse triangular beard where she had wet herself a little. The girl raised her arms and freed the dress upon her shoulders, shaking it down to conceal her nudity. She whimpered and then groaned as the coarse material slid over her welted behind.
She turned blindly away from the desk and wobbled unsteadily toward the stairs leading to the first floor offices. She started to climb the stairs, supporting herself on the handrail, but paused on the second step. "Owoooo!" she exclaimed at the pull of newly used muscles in her striated seat. Then she slowly resumed her climb. A muffled sob escaped her at the top of the stairs, and then she was gone.
Lucille drew a deep breath. It had been a dreadful exhibition, she told herself. Inhuman. Savage. Then why did she feel such an E-string tightening of her body-flesh and a suspicious dampness between her own thighs? The fear that it might easily be her own bare buttocks writhing under the lacerating impact of the cruel quirt didn't fully account for it.
She looked away from the head of the stairs toward Wade Sampson, and her mouth shaped itself into a soundless O. Wade had his uniform trousers unzipped and a ponderous-looking erection in his hand. "One more cut on her prancin' ass an' I'd have come off in my pants," Wade said casually. "I'd've fucked her afterward, except I don't go for those skinny-assed broads. Not when there's one like yours around. Take your pants off an' get over the desk like she was." While speaking he had opened a desk drawer and removed a blanket which he folded and laid across the desk.
Lucille swallowed nervously. Words of protest died unspoken when she saw the quirt projecting from Wade's boot. Meekly she stood up, raised her skirt, and slipped down her white panties. She caught sight of a large damp spot on the crotch, and she flicked a glance at Wade. Had he noticed, too?
"C'mon!" he said impatiently. "Spread it out."
Lucille raised her skirt again and lowered herself upon the several thicknesses of blanket whose rough texture scratched at her bare belly but protected it from the hardness of the desk. It was an extraordinary sensation to lie there helpless with her heavy-looking, firm-fleshed, bell-shaped hemispherical globes glistening whitely in the glare of the overhead fluorescent lighting. The roughened texture of the skin of her bare behind evident after her paddling had been almost fully restored to its usual waxen glossiness.
"Goddam!" she heard Wade's voice as he moved in behind her. "That's spread enough for a forty-acre lot!"
Lucille flinched as he gripped her firmly by the waist and slid her backward on the blanket until her crotch hung over the edge of the desk and he had unimpeded access to it. Almost at the same instant she felt his muscular erection bumping the backs of her thighs and then fumbling its way in between her taut hind cheeks. She quivered all over as the head prodded her vagina from underneath.
"Ohh!" Lucille exclaimed faintly as Wade steered his blind-eyed steed expertly into her orifice. Its breadth distended her sex-passage forcefully, but the discomfort passed after a moment.
"What y'all sayin', baby?" She heard Wade's voice as though from a great distance, and she could imagine his hard grin. His words distracted her from concentrating upon a fiendish tickling arousal in her entire genital area. "That you can feel it jus' as plain?" the hard voice continued.
Lucille shut her eyes and tried to close her mind to the sound of the mocking voice. Sparklers of acute sensation were shooting volcanically eruptive quakings all through her most sensitive flesh. Wade slammed his weight forward suddenly, and Lucille almost shrieked as the hard penis rasped her already stimulated clitoris. She couldn't seem to catch her breath as the penis began a rapid in-and-out movement whose friction translated itself into additional delightfully wicked stimulation.
She was totally unprepared for the orgasm which overtook her. She felt her nipples stiffening madly as her pelvis thrust itself backward upon the rigidity boring her pink-lipped trench. Her buttocks widened and contracted furiously as she deluged the sturdy staff plunging in and out of her bristling-haired aerie.
Above her bowed back Wade Sampson chuckled cynically. "Think you might even get to like it one of these days, sweetie?" he inquired. Lucille's gasping breaths as her orgasm ran its course was his only answer. She couldn't speak. She had read about orgasms, but she had never experienced anything remotely like this in her married life with Paul.
Wade paused suddenly in his performance of herculean thrusting of his rocklike lance upward between Lucille's fruity buttocks. He removed his prick entirely, shining with her spend, and fumbled for her ass-cheeks with both hands. He spread the solid-feeling globes widely, exposing the inner recess of seldom-seen perspiration-dampened female flesh down to the brown-buttonholed anus. Deliberately he took his dripping cock and rubbed its sticky slippery coating between the hind cheeks and especially around the tight-looking asshole. He removed his prick and used a finger to work Lucille's own come inside her tight-sphinctered back opening.
Halfway back to reality after the mind-bending acuity of the series of pulsating sensations that had assailed her trembling vagina and left her mentally reeling, Lucille raised her head at the feel of activity in a part of her body she had never verbally referred to in all her life. She twitched her hips uneasily, trying to dislodge the fingertip partly inside her rectum. Then the finger was gone, and she relaxed, trying to savor mentally the recently experienced sensation.
Behind her Wade Sampson deliberately lined up the head of his tumescent prick with the brown berry he was still exposing by holding apart Lucille's hind cheeks. Then he surged forward after the blunt purple head made contact with the slight depression. Lucille gasped as the big penis forced itself forward and the taut flesh around her anus began to curl inward from the pressure applied.
"Ohhh! Ohhhhh! Owwwww! OWWWWW!" she cried out at the steadily increasing pain. "You're not-in the right-PLACE! Owwww! Ooooooh, please! P-lease! Ahhhh! OWWWW!"
A jolting, tearing sensation inside her rectum was followed by a really excruciating flash of pain. Lucille screamed and struggled frantically. Wade pinioned her writhing hips with his weight momentarily, then cautiously began an in-and-out movement in the rectum he had pierced. Lucille's struggles and pleas gradually subsided as the white-hot agony in her rectum became a dull-burning ache. Her bulging eyes and wide-open mouth slowly returned to normal as the penis continued to distend her. With the cessation of Lucille's struggles, Wade began to enjoy his ass-fucking of the plump-buttocked woman. With more restraint than he would have employed in the use of her cunt, he plunged his prick with ever-increasing ease inside her tight-clasping anus. The pressure of his knobby prick-head had him standing on his toes to avoid a premature come.
He reached underneath her suddenly and fumbled for her pussy. He inserted a finger in her dripping chute and searched for her clit. The second he touched it Lucille became galvanized. Her hips threw themselves in all directions with such force that he almost lost his prick-hold inside her distended rectum. Then he felt the uncontrollable contractions of her vaginal walls upon his probing finger as Lucille swam hazily in another semi-delirious eruption of long-static juices.
Her relaxed state permitted Wade additional penetration, and he slammed his hard belly into her sweaty backside with extra force as he frictioned himself into his own spend, which sent orgasmic shivers all the way down to his heels.
Lucille raised her head for the second time just as Wade pulled out of her anus with a loud sucking noise. She felt his overflowing semen running down the backs of her thighs as the renewed quick flirt of pain at his withdrawal failed to seriously disturb her lassitude after her second orgasm. She felt weary, and abused, but oddly at peace.
"Okay," Wade's voice said loudly from behind her. "School's out, sis." His palm cracked lightly upon her bare seat in what for him was almost an affectionate gesture. "That's a real snug little asshole you got there, baby. We'll use it again. Or maybe we'll try some-thin' different the next time."
Use it again? Try something different next time? Lucille's mind retreated hastily from the implications in Wade's remarks. She levered herself upward from the blanket on legs that threatened to refuse to support her. She picked up her panties from the floor and wiped herself, vagina and anus, before realizing that Wade Sampson was standing, hands on hips, penis restored to his trousers, watching in amusement. She thrust the soiled panties hurriedly into her handbag and shook down her skirt.
He ushered her to the door.
Lucille drove homeward with her brain a whirling kaleidoscope of mingled emotions she was unable to sort out. She knew the animal abuse and misuse of her body should have completely disgusted and alienated her. Instead, she could still feel a faint glow at the memory of Wade Sampson's thick penis plunging deeply into her vaginal cavern.
What in the world was happening to the Lucille Bryson she had known all her life?
Selling marijuana to school children was indefensible, yet how could she condone Wade Sampson's judge-jury-and-executioner approach to the solution of the problem?
The comfortable judgments of the world she lived in seemed to be collapsing all around her.
"It's because I've been so deeply disturbed since I left my husband that I came to see you," Jo Tucker said to Dr. Paul Bryson. She was sitting on a low sofa in the church study while he lounged in a swivel chair. "And I thank you for the opportunity of talking out my problems like this."
"I suppose you miss him sexually, too," Paul Bryson said in a sympathetic tone.
Could Wade be right about this bird, Jo wondered? It was the third time he had steered his counseling to a sex area since her arrival. She had worn her lowest-cut bra and a loose blouse, and she had caught him eyeing her once or twice, but a man wouldn't be human if he didn't look. Her skirt was ridiculously short, too, hugging her bottom and then flaring inward to shape and hobble her upper thighs despite its brevity. She sat on the low couch which thrust her knees upward with her legs primly together. She had already tugged her skirt downward with no appreciable lower-thing coverage a dozen times during the interview.
"I'm ashamed to say that I do, Dr. Bryson," she answered his question with pretended embarrassment. "It's-it's very difficult for a woman alone."
"I'm sure of it," he agreed. "But I'm afraid the ministry to this day hasn't come up with any better solutions than enough physical labor to cause tiredness and a cold shower. Are you thinking of going back to him?"
Jo hesitated. The simulated counseling was coming dangerously close to parallelling her own musings at night in her lonely room. She wasn't the type of woman who was meant to live alone. It was ridiculous in the extreme to think of returning to Tom Tucker's belt, and yet-
"I can't make up my mind," she confessed. "He's such a brute, and yet I miss him." She smiled brightly. "I suppose you feel a woman is insane to return to a man from whom she can expect bare-bottom thrashings?"
His eyelids flickered. "It depends upon the woman," he said gravely. "If there were sufficient compensations..." He didn't finish it.
What the hell, Jo thought, there's one way to find out about this guy. She stood up from the couch with exaggeratedly parted legs showing a distinct flash of bared upper thigh. "Excuse me, Dr. Bryson, do you have a bathroom near? I'm ashamed of myself, but talking about Tom I have such a feverish-" She stopped and closed her eyes. "I feel so-s-so dizzy," she resumed in a faint voice. "I think I'm- going to-"
From an upright position she allowed her knees to sag. Her hips struck the couch, bumping her onto the floor as she let herself collapse limply. She was careful to let the friction applied by the couch elevate her short skirt front and rear. She rolled onto the floor, partly on her back, with all of her thighs and her pink-pantied crotch exposed.
For an instant there was silence in the church study. Then she heard movement. Eyes closed, she sensed Dr. Paul Bryson kneeling beside her. Then, incredibly, she felt a hand cupping her sex through her panties. She had all she could do to remain motionless.
The hand departed but was at once replaced by a linger which traced the whole outline of her sex-furrow inside her panties. Delicately the finger wandered until she could barely restrain a shiver. She slitted one eyelid carefully. Dr. Paul Bryson was staring downward at his wandering finger, a bemused look on his handsome features.
He's not afraid that I'll come to suddenly and catch him at it, Jo realized suddenly. I'm already a lost sheep whose word against his would count for nothing. That's why he feels he can be so bold. She sighed deeply, twisted onto her side, then farther onto her back. She opened her eyes and looked around her. The wandering finger had removed itself at her first movement. "Let me help you up," Paul Bryson said smoothly. "I'm afraid you fainted during a hot flash."
"Oh, my heavens!" Jo exclaimed, glancing down at her exposure as though just realizing the extent of it. She scrambled up with his assistance but refused to look him in the face. "I'm just simply mortified, Dr. Bryson," she said with seeming earnestness.
"Don't be," he responded. "You do have a real problem." He hesitated. "I think further therapy might be helpful. But not here. Perhaps if we made an appointment to meet at your place some evening?"
Jo nodded numbly. This was a sexual iceberg? She hadn't met many men in her life who moved as quickly or as surely. Of course the circumstances were somewhat special.
"Shall we say tomorrow night?" Paul Bryson continued. "Talking this out and perhaps some additional mental therapy will do you good, I'm sure."
Jo nodded again. She was thinking that it was a good thing her landlady was deaf as a mackerel and went to bed at seven p.m. evenings. She had a feeling that mental therapy wasn't going to be the only happening in her hitherto lonely room.
And looking at the handsome visage of Dr. Paul Bryson, she found herself anticipating it.
Chapter VII
Tommy Johnson sprawled on his back, naked, with Cathy Riggins, equally naked, astride him but with her upper body lowered upon his until her soft breasts were mashed upon his hard chest. Tucked deeply within her snug cunt was Tommy's upstanding prick upon which he had gently sat her down. Lamplight bathed the bedroom in a soft glow.
Cathy moved her hips languidly, pressing down with her knees as she guided herself up and down slowly on Tommy's rigid pole, then waggled her hips friskily from side to side as thrill after thrill titillated her simmering hot-box. "Like it?" Tommy whispered into a small ear almost concealed by Cathy's flowing blonde hair.
"Mmmmmmm!" she sighed wordlessly. "It's just scrumptious, Tommy." Blithely she continued her self-propelled ride on the flesh-rooted spear lodged securely within her, every movement in tranquil slow motion. She opened half-closed eyes to look down into Tommy's blue ones. "It's better for you the other way, isn't it though? With me on the bottom?"
"It's good for me any way," he assured her.
"You're just saying that because you know I'm enjoying it on top," she said wisely. She gave an extra flirt of her wide-flaring bare hips, then gasped at the surge of sensation in her platinum-haired pussy. "Oooooooooooh!" she breathed contentedly. Then she giggled high-spiritedly, girlishly gleeful. "Just give me another couple of minutes like this," she begged winsomely, once more easing her well-lubricated vagina up and down on Tommy's robust young cock. "Then we'll do anything you want."
"You can stay right there the rest of the night if you like," he insisted. He had been stroking her shoulders; he ran his hands down her smooth back and cupped in each palm a velvety buttock, patting and kneading both malleable spheres. Cathy kissed his neck rapturously, and he returned the kiss with equal passion.
"Ohh, this is wonderful!" she exulted. Her eyes sparkled as she agitated her hind parts in sprightly fashion in Tommy's hands. "I just love it when you feel me, Tommy."
"Feel you where?" he teased.
"Anywhere," she said lovingly. "Anywhere you want to feel me." Her tone was a mixture of carefree vivaciousness and sweetly refreshing unembarrassed delight. She slowed gradually in her hip-jogging to a serene immobility. "I'm ready, Tommy. Turn me over."
"You're the most perfect little thing!" he said fiercely, giving each nude bottom-globe a sharp spank before transferring his hands to her slender waist. "All right, tuck your arm and shoulder under, and over we go." He propelled himself up and over her slim figure and balanced himself on his knees above her, his cock still in her grotto. "Now I'm gonna make you squeak, Miss Priss!" he gloated with pretended ire.
"I'll squeak for you any time you like," Cathy said soberly. She smiled up at him seraphically, then grinned a gamin, unladylike grin. "Fuck me hard, Tommy," she whispered almost inaudibly.
"Why, you little devil!" he exploded with laughter, then bent his shoulders and back to the task. Slowly at first but then with ever-increasing force he plunged his stout rod into Cathy's yielding elastic crypt. Her soft arms crept up and locked around his back as she held him tight against herself while the hard male tool ravaged her willing, cooperative pussy. She raised her legs higher and tried to anticipate Tommy's movements so that every quarter-inch of her sex-purlieu would be ready to welcome the broad-gauged intruder.
A quick stirring in her interior caused a quick intake of breath. "Tommy!" she murmured. "Ohhh, Tommy!" Her voice soared jubilantly in a paean of well-being. "Tommy! It's-doing it- again!"
Her legs writhed and her pelvic muscles fluttered madly as her hip-jerking, stomach-wrenching orgasm overwhelmed her. "Ohhhh!" she groaned blissfully. "That was-so nice!"
Beneath her hands his shoulders flurried mightily. He came up higher on his knees and pounded Cathy's warm belly as the tip of his scouring prick trembled warningly. In seconds the jet stream was thundering from his vibrating cannon into Cathy's semen-scented bower. He rested on her breasts for several moments before lifting himself off her.
Cathy sat up immediately and leaned forward to look down between her parted legs. "Look at it!" she exclaimed with mock concern. It's so red in the face!"
"It looks like such a delicate, fragile, dainty little thing," Tommy observed. "Instead it has an appetite like a longshoreman and a fabulous expansion joint."
Cathy smiled peacefully. "I'm soaking," she said cheerfully.
"We can fix that," Tommy told her. He slid from the bed onto his knees beside it. He took hold of Cathy's legs and drew her toward him, elevating her knees and placing them over his shoulders. In seconds the flowerlike, crimson-lipped, golden-haired, crinkled rosette was directly beneath his mouth.
He lowered his head and began to lick at the overflowing juice oozing from the softly distended lips. A long, slow shiver rippled through Cathy as she felt his darting tongue cleaning her up. She lay docilely, unperturbed, her pulchritudinous thighs raised slightly to offer more freely to Tommy what he wanted. Both her small hands played lightly with his hair as the busy tongue cleansed every niche and cranny of her centerpiece. Tommy breathed the delectable woman-fragrance as he licked clean the glowing, coral-red chalice.
Cathy smiled at him happily when he gently took her legs down from his shoulders. "What are we going to do now?" she asked eagerly.
He laughed deep in his throat. "What would you like to do?"
A soft blush enveloped her pretty face. It spread both up and down, clear down to her pink-nippled, tip-tilted breasts. He had never seen such a blush, and he touched her skin wonderingly. It was warm to the touch. There was nothing diffident in her clear-eyed gaze or in her zestful young voice, however. "I'd like to be fucked again," she said composedly.
He reached for her and buried his face in her warm little belly-roll, lipping at the plump, silky white flesh.
"Fucked you shall be," he promised. "If I don't eat every inch of you first."
The immediately ensuing uninhibited proceedings in the bedroom were voiceless but not soundless.
In another lighted bedroom in another part of the city Jo Tucker made a lifting movement with her hands under the shoulders of the man between her legs. "No, Paul," she said quietly. "Come up higher on me. You're too far down."
She elevated her legs higher as Paul Bryson shuffled his nudity upward on her stomach. "That better?" he muttered.
"Much." She placed her hands on the upper slopes of his buttocks. "Slowly now. Let's get in tune."
She pressed down with her palms when he started to screw her at a jackrabbit pace, and he got the message and restrained himself slightly. "That's the way," Jo encouraged him, swinging her hips upward from the bed to meet his quick-stabbing thrusts into her cunt.
Immediately he began to shiver and shake and in seconds he spent into her interior with a muffled groan. He at once started to roll off her, but Jo seized his shoulders and held him. "Hold it, buster," she warned. "You're not going anywhere till I come, too." She began to contract her pelvic muscles upon the scarcely diminished big prick engulfed in her febrile nest.
Paul Bryson tried to control his rasping breath while he raged inwardly at his incontinence. He was no better than a schoolboy. What had triggered his sudden overflowing was the unexpected accompaniment of this earthy but pleasant woman's plump hips. It had been an agreeably new sensation which had caused him to lose control.
He raised his head from her grape-nippled breasts, startled. Something deep in the woman's vagina was nipping at the head of his still-retained penis. Her thighs were slowly frictioning his sides. "Move your ass," he heard her voice. "Slowly."
He lowered his head again and began to move upon her. He felt a surprising resurgence in his penis as he glided in and out, controlled by her hands on his rump. With the keen edge taken off his excitability by his ejaculation, he found it much easier to maintain the indicated pace. In his new, higher position he exerted much leverage which gave him a heady, heretofore unrealized feeling of power. Beneath him the woman's body rose metronomically to meet his every thrust.
He felt a slow-rising tide of excitement seeping through him again. The deep, warm clasp of the woman's vaginal walls upon his re-aroused penis seemed a perfect fit. Concentrating on maintaining the pace she was regulating, he was startled anew when like a hissing teakettle she exploded under him. Writhing, her legs clamped over his back as her behind flurried in a new rhythm. "Ohhhhh!" she cried in his ear. "Ahhhhhh, God! Oooooh!" Her panting breath signaled her extremity. "Whooo -ooOOHH! I'm-coming! Ahhhhh, sonofabitch, I'm-COMMMMMing!"
Her outcries roused him almost as much as the pelvic contractions signaling the inundation of his probing penis. He never heard a sound from Lucille. This woman gave him a definite sense of accomplishment, juvenile undoubtedly, but still there it was. He reached tentatively for the wide-spanned hind parts which had intrigued him when she undressed; would she reject his action?
"That's-the boy," Jo croaked from the depths of her sensual gratification. "Ride-it, cowboy."
Paul Bryson rode it. It took him a full two minutes longer, but he came again in a coruscating starburst of semen-draining immersion that left him feeling faint. When he recovered slightly, he felt so ridiculously pleased with himself that it should have been ludicrous. Instead, he felt proud. Looking down at Jo's shining face, peaceful in voluptuously satisfying carnality, he knew that he had never come close to such a totally satisfying experience before.
"Can we do it again?" he asked anxiously.
Jo opened eyes that had been hedonistically closed. "Right now?"
"I-I think so."
"You're in the saddle, aren't you?" she said briskly. "Here, take it out for a minute and I'll give you a little help."
Dr. Paul Bryson withdrew from the female flesh and eagerly presented himself for a little help.
"You mean he actually screwed you?" Wade Sampson exclaimed in delight. He and Jo Tucker were standing in the basement office of the Sheriff's Department.
"Three times, practically handrunning," she confirmed.
"Goddam, I'd have given a farm to see it!" Wade paused. "Three times? What the hell did you do, shove an electrified cattle prod up his asshole?"
"He's hung heavier than you, Wade," Jo said bluntly.
"The minister?" he asked in amazement.
"I felt sorry for him, though," she went on. "He was doing everything wrong. If my legs had been straight he'd have been lying on my knees instead of my stomach. If he didn't have a whang on him like a belaying pin he couldn't even have made contact."
"He's really got that much meat?"
"He really has. And now that he's got the hang of things since I showed him a few little tricks, I think he's going to chew up some scenery in this town. He's a handsome man, you know, and once he learns the racecourse he could be quite a stud."
Wade Sampson was shaking his head slowly. "You've got to be puttin' me on, Jo," he said coaxingly. "It's a gag, isn't it?"
"It's gospel," Jo affirmed. "When I sucked him up after-"
"You sucked off Bryson?"
"Up, not off. All he wanted to do was get it back in me."
Wade started to laugh. He was convulsed in a roaring gale of merriment, his big shoulders shaking helplessly. "Sonofabitch if-that isn't the-damnedest thing-I ever heard," he got out between gasping breaths. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "The goddam minister is a stud. How about that? Say, why do you suppose his old lady is such a sad sack in the hay?"
"I told you," Jo said patiently. "He's got the horsepower but he never had driving lessons. They've probably been going at it like a pair of ten-year-olds. Wade?"
"Yeah?"
"What are you going to do about it?"
"About Bryson?" He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Damned if I know right now. I got to think about it. There's got to be a jackpot somewhere in this thing."
"Suppose he calls me? He said he would."
"Crissake, keep feedin' it to him. Till I think of a payoff, anyway. So he's gonna call you? He learns fast, don't he?"
"Would you believe he learns well?" Jo said lightly.
Wade stared at her with narrowed eyes. "You fallin' for him? Sure sounds like it."
"I told you I felt sorry for him," Jo replied defensively.
"Okay, keep on feelin' sorry for him till I lower the boom. Any free servicin' after that an' I'll take it out've your ass." He grinned at Jo's look of unease. "Your ass bleached out yet? You must be just about ready to be hung up on a door."
"No!" she said quickly.
Wade's grin had disappeared. "Then stay in line. Or I'll feed you a dose of the quirt 'til you pray for a better world. Run along now. I'll call you when I've got an errand for you."
He watched her climb the inside stairs, not really seeing the flashing sweep of her good-looking legs as much as he saw a mental image of Dr. Paul Bryson's handsome face.
He felt a quick stirring of the savage lust that was never very far below the surface.
There had to be a way to set up the minister and his wife for a good hard fall.
Lucille Bryson sat on the edge of the bed in her nightgown in the bedroom of the manse and waited for her husband, Paul. It was time for their ritualistic midweek lovemaking, and she was wondering uneasily if there was any way Paul could tell that a penis other than his own had been forcefully inserted in her since a week ago. She had always wanted to ask how married women who cheated on their husbands solved this problem, but it wasn't something that a Christian woman could bring up at a Ladies' Aid meeting.
Her rectum had been terribly sore for the past two days, also, but there was no way Paul was going to know that. She still felt lewdly debauched and wantonly unchaste when she mentally pictured herself face down on the blanket in the Sheriff's Department office with the brutal Wade Sampson standing behind her brimful nude buttocks with his thick penis savaging her helpless anal passage. She cringed every time she thought of it. She should have fought instead of meekly acquiescing in her own degradation, but she had been so afraid of the merciless quirt.
And she was still subject to Wade Sampson's every sexual whim. She had told herself repeatedly that she should confess her predicament to Paul and remove herself from the onus of the deputy sheriff's blackmail, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. Paul would scorn her as no better than a bitch in heat if he ever saw those dreadful pictures, Lucille thought as hot tears trembled just behind her eyelids. The way unbidden images of Wade's ravaging penis in her own sinfully eager vagina popped continually into her mind the phrase was painfully apt.
Paul Bryson walked into the semi-darkened bedroom and began to undress. He hadn't been able to make up his mind how to act with Lucille in this first conjugal encounter after his experience with the incredible Mrs. Tucker. Dared he employ any of his newly acquired expertise? For that matter, would it work with Lucille as it had with the dewy-skinned Jo Tucker? And Lucille would consider such abandoned activity the devil's handiwork.
He approached the bed as Lucille rolled her nightgown up under her neck as was her custom. He wondered if Lucille's bare bottom approached in attractiveness Jo Tucker's cute plumpness. He had never seen Lucille nude in their entire married life. He was tempted to turn on the bedroom light suddenly, claiming an absentminded moment, but he shrank from the certain aftermath of Lucille's chilly disapproval.
Lucille stretched out on her back tensely as Paul lay down beside her. Could he tell? Would he disown her as a dissolutely profligate wife? She quivered in the darkness when she felt Paul's hand on her body. Could he tell when he employed the usual digital manipulation to lubricate her dry vagina?
Paul hesitated when he felt Lucille's sudden flinching movement. Was something wrong? Her body felt stiff, and her sex zone was unusually moist, although that sometimes occurred a day or two preceding her period. He proceeded cautiously with the customary insertion of a finger in her orifice, and he felt her gradually relax. Everything seemed normal again by the time he mounted his wife.
Lucille was so thankful that disclosure of her shameful activities-even though they weren't her fault-had been avoided that it was an instant or two after her acceptance of Paul's weight that she realized something felt different. She couldn't decide what it was. Something about the position of her husband's body -Paul was inside her, no question about that, but somehow differently. Should she say something? Or was her reaction simply due to her anxiety about discovery?
And then Paul began to move on her, and at once the mystery deepened. Instead of the quick-thumping assault on her vagina to which she was accustomed, Paul was moving in long, controlled surges that inexplicably seemed to bury his masculinity far more deeply.
Lucille's first thought was that her husband had somehow hurt his man-parts and hadn't told her that he was attempting to maintain the weekly tryst when he wasn't feeling up to it. She started to question him, but paused when she felt a distinct tingling swelling in her labial lips. She shifted position uneasily; what was going on?
At her movement Paul's rhythmic plunging upon her accentuated markedly. Lucille caught her breath as the tingling became a hot-glowing coal throwing off heat all through her sex-receptacle. In seconds she was wallowing in a blissfully sensual state of semi-suspended animation as her whole body writhed. "Paul!" she exclaimed in amazement as her previously slack arms came up instinctively and seized his shoulders. Her pelvis began to throb. "Paul!" Her pleasure was so intense she thought she would faint.
He didn't even hear her. He had felt her unusual body activity but had been overwhelmed by the result without having opportunity to question the cause. His penis had never felt larger to him, and its swollen tip as he engulfed it with ever more and more vigor in his wife's clutching sanctuary seemed super-sensitive. He slashed mightily at the yielding suppleness containing him as he felt himself trembling on the brink. Then he exploded as thick sperm jets splashed vibrantly in to Lucille's vagina.
Eyes closed, Lucille floated dreamily even though pinned by her husband's body. Her orgasm has preceded his by a few seconds. The refreshing sexual easement was so enjoyable that she basked in unaccustomed zestful relish. Then a nagging thought intruded upon her well-being. Had the experience the other day triggered her unusual response? Would Paul be disgusted at her animality? Suspicious, even? Guiltily she removed the arms she was surprised to find holding him.
Paul pulled away from his wife's body hastily. He was pleased that he had brought Lucille to orgasm, but also apprehensive. What could he say if she started asking questions? For that matter, did she even approve of the natural force which he had felt shaking her? He needed time to think, he decided as he pulled on his clothes hurriedly.
Lucille felt an urge to talk, but Paul's quick departure from her slack, overflowing, still-sensitized woman-cell stifled the urge. What could she say that might not be self-betraying? Better to wait and think it through.
So the Brysons' postconjugal bedroom silence remained customarily unbroken.
"My mother is getting suspicious of my being away from the house so much," Cathy said seriously to Tommy. They were sitting in an armchair in the borrowed bedroom, Cathy on Tommy's lap, both nude except for Tommy's socks.
"Yeah?" he said lazily, one hand almost out of sight between the blonde girl's thighs as he played gently with her pubic hair, tweaking the fleecy golden curls. "Maybe we should invite her along?"
Cathy giggled infectiously, then turned serious again. "She keeps asking questions about why I have to spend so much time at the library, which is where I tell her I am. If she ever checks with Mr. Hardesty, she'll find out I'm lying. Then what?"
"More questions, I s'pose."
"That I won't be able to answer."
Tommy sighed. "D'you think your mother would adopt me an' then I could move in?"
Cathy smiled. "I'm afraid that's not the solution." She clambered up from Tommy's lap, dislodging his probing hand, then climbed onto his thighs, balancing herself on her knees. Leaning forward so that her full breasts brushed his chest, she kissed the tip of his nose, both cheeks, and finally his mouth. "Tommy," she said earnestly when the long kiss ended, "what are we going to do?"
He sighed again and made no answer for a moment. He smoothed Cathy's long blonde hair away from her eyes before he spoke. "Since I'm in love with you, it looks like I've gotta get a real job so we can get married."
Cathy's entire nubile body became motionless. "'Love'," she said softly. "That's the first time you've ever said it. I mean you've had me, and I knew you didn't exactly hate me, but you never said it."
"Ahhhhh, you just weren't listenin'," he teased. "I also mentioned marriage in case you didn't notice."
"As long as you said 'love' I don't care if you never said 'marriage,'" Cathy informed him. She kissed him again, then leaned back to look down into his face speculatively. "When did you decide you loved me?"
"When you turned up your little pink cunt and let me suck it," he said solemnly. He laughed at the quick blush that enveloped her pretty face. "No, baby, who the hell knows? I wouldn't lie to you that when we started out I was thinkin' of anything more than gettin' inside your pants. You just kind of grew on me, I guess."
"You never had to grow on me," Cathy said soberly. "When you didn't even know I existed, I loved you. As a girl at school used to say, since before I even had any hair on it."
"Not that you've got all that much now," he said. "Sometimes I still feel I'm contributin' to the delinquency of a juvenile."
"But she's your juvenile," Cathy said softly. "Right?"
"Right."
She slipped down from his lap and knelt in front of him, pulling urgently at his thighs to part them. She dropped her face down into his groin, then raised her head again. "I can't reach it," she complained. "Move out farther on the edge of the chair."
Obediently he shifted position until his penis and scrotum extended over the leather cushion, semi-reclining with his shoulders against the chair-back. Cathy stared down at the wrinkled-looking appendage. "Every time I see it like this I always get the most awful feeling it might never come up again," she said.
Tommy's flat belly trembled from his laughter. Cathy smiled at him apologetically before once more lowering her blonde head. She lipped the soft cock into her mouth and rolled it between her lips, teasing it with a quick-flirting tongue. She began to hum deep in her throat as Tommy had taught her, the vibration from her lips transferred to the prick which began at once to swell.
"You're really puttin' somethin' into it this afternoon, kid," Tommy said as his thighs tautened.
Cathy nibbled at the blubbery tip of the circumcised prong, then sucked at it gently. She widened her mouth and took in more of the stiffening rod, sliding her lips back and forth on the shaft whose continued extension tickled the back of her throat.
She pulled away momentarily to look at the bulging, purplish head she had sucked to instant readiness. "I just love to hold you in my month, Tommy," she said quietly.
"Very touching!" a rasping voice sneered.
Cathy whirled on her knees, her soft mouth a round O of surprise. Tommy came halfway up out of the armchair.
Wade Sampson stood in the bedroom doorway. "I been wonderin' why my nephew was so hard to get in touch with at home," he said. "So when I recognized the car-"
He strode into the bedroom, grinning. Cathy's hands flew to cover her nudity, and Wade's grin widened. It disappeared as he stared coldly at his nephew. "Lucky I happened along, huh? Since you were just gettin' it ready for me?" With a slow, deliberate movement he unzipped the trousers of his uniform. Cathy stared wide-eyed.
"Hold it!" Tommy blurted.
"Hold shit!" Wade seized Cathy's arm and dragged her several feet away from the armchair, her knees sliding on the carpeting until they burned. "Didn't I tell you I had my eye on this little gash?" He produced from his shorts a semi-erection which he dangled in front of Cathy's face. "Suck that one up if you want a man, little girl."
Tommy bounded to his feet from the depths of the armchair. "You sonofabitch, we're gonna get married!" He took two quick steps in Wade's direction, then halted when Wade raised his arm menacingly.
"That's right, boy," Wade said, brandishing a huge clenched fist. "You wanna see her with a busted nose? A few broken teeth? Then just keep comin' this way." He nudged the dazed Cathy with his knee. "Get to work down there, sis."
The muscles in Tommy's bare back bunched in frustrated inactivity. "Will you listen?" he demanded in anguish. "I said we're gonna get married!"
"Why don't you ask me to be best man?" his uncle suggested blandly. "Or maybe you don't think it'll be necessary after this afternoon?"
"If you pat one finger on Cathy I'll catch you in the dark some night an' put your lights out!" Tommy cried.
"You try it an' I'll hang you out to dry," Wade responded. He looked down at Cathy. "I'm not gonna tell you but this last time, girl. Suck that prick. And gimme the same performance I just saw from the doorway if you know what's good for you."
Tommy watched agoniziedly as Cathy's blonde head gingerly approached the semi-dangling blunt-headed big cock. He couldn't tell her not to do it because he knew his uncle well enough to know that Wade was easily capable of smashing the beautiful face. His heart went out to the shrinking girl, and he raged at his own impotence. If he could only get Wade away from her somehow-
But Cathy had decided to get it over with as quickly as possible. She moved her head quickly and took the semi-rigidity into her mouth with a moue of distaste. The odor was much stronger than Tommy's and almost gagged her. She closed her eyes and began to swirl her tongue around the shaft which at once grew harder.
"Goddam!" Wade grunted, widening his leg-stance. Cathy licked the prick-head and began to suck the increasingly turgid beefy prong. "Jesus-to-God-Almighty, that's quite a vacuum cleaner you got down there, blondie!"
Cathy swiveled her mouth back and fourth on the saliva-slippery cock, intent only upon ending her intensely degrading position. She felt the prick-head start to throb, and she started to back away. At the same instant Wade Sampson gripped the back of her blonde head and held her onto his spurting prick.
She had taken Tommy's sperm, but when she was prepared. Wade's hard-jetting semen-bursts overpowered her. She swallowed desperately, gagged, coughed, and swallowed some more. The excess of what she was able to get down ran along her chin and dribbled onto her breasts.
Wade didn't release her from her ignominious position until the last of his come had drained into her straining mouth. Then he pulled out roughly and stepped back from the miserable-looking girl.
Wade looked at the furious Tommy. "Not bad for an hors d'oeuvre, as we say in society," he jeered. "Now for the entree."
Speedily he divested himself of his uniform and underwear.
Chapter VIII
Cathy paused in the act of surreptitiously wiping off her mouth with the back of her hand. She glanced at Tommy in panic, then at Wade with his barrel chest, hairy belly, and sneering smile. Tommy responded instantly.
No carpeting could completely deaden the sound of his furious charge. Wade looked up from pulling off his boots just as Tommy arrived in front of him, his muscular upper body already in the midst of launching a powerful right-hand swing. It landed on Wade, and Wade went backward a step, but the punch Had landed high.
Wade shook his head to clear it and went into a crouch. "When I get finished with you, kid, you're gonna remember me every time you look in a mirror!" he raged. "Every day of your life you're gonna-"
Tommy rushed him again. Wade stumbled backward as Tommy's weight sledged him. He flung up his arms as he started to fall, and Tommy nailed him with three solid shots on his way down to the floor, right-left-right. It felt to Tommy as though he had splintered every bone in his right hand of Wade's craggy features.
His heart sank when Wade rolled over and bounded to his feet like a rubber ball, mouthing inarticulate curses. Blood was streaming from a cut under one eye, and lumps were already springing up on his face from Tommy's razorlike knuckles, but the big man charged.
The two naked bodies collided heavily, and Wade grabbed Tommy around the waist. Tommy found out at once why Wade had such a leave-strictly-alone reputation around town. He had hands like steel hooks. Everywhere he grabbed Tommy, he hurt. Tommy slugged his way free only to catch a wild-swinging right hand on the top of his head. The blow was so powerful that he felt the hinges of his knees loosen.
Cathy stood terrified, one palm cupping a bare breast, as uncle and nephew fought like animals. A sweeping left hook by Wade knocked Tommy down, and the girl gasped. Wade kicked Tommy twice before Tommy seized a leg and upset him. They swapped punches on their knees, snarling at each other. Wherever the solid blows landed, red welts sprang up on the naked bodies.
Wade growled threateningly and surged upright. Tommy made it to his feet just as Wade sizzled across the bedroom head-down like a billygoat. Tommy barely diverted his course by blocking him to one side. Wade missed the desk in that corner but went right through a hi-fi. Tommy dived for him, arid they thrashed around in the fragments of expensive cabinet-wood.
Cathy screamed when she saw blood on Tommy's face. The battlers paid no attention. They rolled under the desk with Tommy momentarily on top, hard-punching fists and flailing elbows connecting savagely. They rolled against the legs of the desk, and wood screeched in protest before two legs collapsed. The desk sagged down upon the pinwheeeling bodies.
The remains of the desk sailed up into the air and smashed down drunkenly in the center of the room. It dissolved like a house of cards while Cathy ducked flying wood. Wade snatched up a broken-off leg and smashed Tommy alongside the ear, knocking him over sideways. The ear puffed up like a toadstool. Adrenalin-charged anger powered Tommy upright again. He took the next swing of Wade's club on a shoulder, wrenched it away from him, and with one savage swing smashed Wade's mouth and teeth into a bloody smear.
Incredibly, Wade didn't even take a backward step. Roaring, he tackled Tommy and brought him to the floor. They rammed around the room, rolling over and over, crushing the lightweight furniture in their path. In close contact Wade's superior weight and strength began to tell. He levered himself up over Tommy's prostrate body and began to smash at his face. Tommy's blows weakened and finally ceased.
Cathy screamed again and ran forward. She dropped on her knees and tried to interpose her slender nudity between Tommy's unconscious body and Wade's sledgehammer fists. Wade flung her aside like a rag doll, but the interruption brought him partly back from that blood-lust world he was occupying. He scowled at Cathy, who had landed hard on her butt and then slid on the carpeting. Blood ran down from his forehead into his left eye, obscuring his vision, and he slapped at it impatiently.
He looked down at Tommy's chest pinned under Wade's massive thighs, and he backed off slightly. "Good thing-you stopped me, blondie," he mumbled through mashed, blood-smeared lips. "Cert'ny didn'-wanna kill the -kid."
He pushed himself up to his knees and then to his feet. His legs felt heavy as iron posts and the large muscles in his thighs were jumping uncontrollably. He looked down at Tommy again and shook his head in disbelief. Cathy had crawled to Tommy and was crouched beside him, patting his blotchy-looking features with her hands, and crying openly.
Wade looked around at the splinters of furniture in the bedroom and shook his head. Some of the iron-banded tightness had already left his chest. Cathy tried to soothe the black-and-blue puffball that was Tony's ear, but at her touch it exploded. Blood ran down his neck onto his shoulder, and Cathy wailed aloud.
"For crissake, he'll be-practic'ly good as- new in an-hour," Wade said irritably. "Who'd a thought the little bastard had-it in him? Nobody's given me-a go like that-in fifteen years." His huge chest heaved from his hard-drawn breaths. He looked down at Cathy crouched over Tommy. "Get the hell-out've the way so's-I can put him-on the bed."
When she didn't move, he put his big toe into her bare behind and rolled her over on her side. He stooped and with seeming effortlessness picked Tommy up and carried him to the bed, where he deposited him. Cathy ran into the bathroom and wrung out a towel in cold water, but when she came back to the bed Wade took it away from her.
"He'll keep," he told the girl. "You'n me have a little unfinished business first." She stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Did he tell you I told him I just been waitin' for your peach fuzz to grow to fuck you?"
"N-no," she faltered.
"Well, I did, an' when Wade Sampson waits that long for somethin', he fuckin' well gets it."
She looked at him fearfully. His breathing had returned almost to normal, but blood still oozed from half a dozen places on his face, and rivulets of sweat rolled down from his hairy chest over his hard belly into the groin where Cathy had been forced to suck his meaty penis. He was a bear of a man, seemingly indestructible.
"You hear me, blondie?" he said when she remained silent. She nodded slowly. "The kid fought for you, an' he fought pretty good, but he lost. So I'm gonna fuck you." He grinned at her through swollen lips that displayed chipped teeth. "On'y just to show there's no hard feelin's, I'm gonna give you a choice."
"A ch-choice?" she repeated shakily.
"Yeah. You ain't gonna leave this bedroom without gettin' it, but you can take it in your cunt or your asshole."
Cathy swallowed. Her knees felt weak, and her dry throat made her words scratchy. "What -what kind of a choice is that?"
"Think about it," he invited her. "Like for ten seconds, before I put you on the bed."
She thought about it. Tommy and she were going to get married. She didn't want this cruel monster to even touch her vagina. She spoke up well before the elapse of ten seconds. "Not my-not my-" She didn't finish it but covered her golden-haired mound with one palm.
His grin was satanic. "Mind tellin' me why?"
"You might give me a baby, and I want only Tommy's baby."
"Spoken like a true little square. It's just what I figured you'd say. So now you turn up your fat little ass while I plug it, correct?"
Cathy felt a nauseous surge in her stomach. "P-please," she begged. "We didn't do anything to you. We didn't do anything to anyone. We -we were just enjoying each other."
"An' will continue to do so," Wade pointed out with a leer. "What's a plugged asshole among friends?"
She knew he was baiting her to add to her humiliation but she knew no way to prevent it. Intransigence on her part would result not only in bodily injury for herself but perhaps an additional beating for Tommy. She couldn't risk it. She didn't know exactly what was involved in her choice, although Tommy had sometimes kidded her about it during their bed-frolickings, telling her he'd get around to it some day. Wade's seeming mildness in offering her a choice had been no choice at all. "Let's-let's get it over," she said with a rush.
"Fine," he said casually. "Just suck my prick up again an' we're in business."
Cathy almost gagged. Even from where she was standing she could smell the pungent masculine odor made more rank by Wade's fight-induced perspiration. To put her face down into that, and then have to suck the perspiration and the previous residue of spend from the greasy-looking, down-drooping penis.
Do it fast, she told herself. Get it over. She dropped to her knees and forced herself to move her face close to the repugnant flesh. She swept her long blonde hair over her shoulders to get it out of the way, then without giving herself time to think or feel further, she opened her mouth and swallowed the limp peter. She tried to hold her breath but the acrid, ammoniac smell filtered into her nostrils and the nasty taste-not at all like the flavor of Tommy's sweet cock-trickled down her straining throat.
Cathy tongued and sucked busily, eyes closed, trying to shut from her mind what was going to happen to her next. She knew it would hurt, but how much? Tommy would have made it hurt lovingly, but this brute-
The prick swelled in her mouth, forcing her backward on the gristly shaft. She licked and sucked and swirled her tongue along the ragged cord on the underside, and Wade Sampson's thighs stiffened. He took Cathy's blonde head in both hands and pushed her away. She had one quick glimpse of the purple-headed monster she had created before Wade seized her arm and half-dragged, half-assisted her to the bed. Bits of broken furniture crunched under their feet as they crossed the room. Cathy winced as a sliver penetrated the sole of one foot.
Wade pulled a pillow from under Tommy's unconscious head and placed it over the footboard. He doubled up Cathy as casually as though she were a side of beef and placed her over it. Her heart beat faster as she hung there, helpless, straining with her toes to touch the floor.
Wade stood behind her, admiring with his eyes the long slender back flaring into surprisingly sturdy velvety buttocks, the full-fleshed lower globes on a direct line with his renewed erection. He parted her sleek globes with his thumbs, exposing her cleft and buttonhole. Saliva flooded his mouth as he savored the thought of piercing that tight passageway. He advanced his prick-head between the widened hind cheeks, and Cathy squirmed at its first light impact upon her puckered anus.
Wade would have liked to prolong her distress but a tell-tale tingling in his loins warned him not to procrastinate. He fitted his leathery tip into her shallow depression and shoved. "Ohhhh!" Cathy exclaimed, her voice high-pitched. Her breath fluttered in her throat. Wade Sampson thrust mightily against the dry hole, and the blonde girl yelped in pain.
"Shut up an' shove back on it!" he said between his teeth. Lodged beyond the coronal rim, he bucked his way farther inside in a series of plunging, ramming jousts.
"Owwwww!" Cathy wailed. Her knees flailed the bedstead haplessly. The pain was so acute she thought her entire cleft was splitting in two. "Aieeeeeeee!" she screamed as Wade shoved in farther with another series of jerks. Her head was twisted around trying in vain to see what was going on behind her. "Ouuuuu!" she bayed, sure that her torturer was using a hot poker on her instead of his prick.
Wade thrust with his hips, and thrust again. Suddenly he was past the barrier of the tight sphincter and wallowing in the warm, buttery-feeling smoothness of Cathy's rectum. The sensation intoxicated him. In recent months the best of cunt-fucking had begun to take second place in his mind to a good tight asshole.
"I'll fuck the shit out've your asshole now!" he told the blonde girl hoarsely, and began to propel himself in and out of her clinging flesh. She still cried out with each renewed penetration, but he recognized a different quality in her cries. "Gettin'-to like it, hah?" he grunted. He gave his steely rod an extra-hard shove, and Cathy shrieked.
Six feet away from them Tommy opened his eyes. Cathy? Had he heard Cathy? Where-? Oh, the fight. Wade. Wade? CATHY? Where was Cathy? Sick and dizzy, he tried to sit up. The room whirled around him nauseatingly. He started to sink back on the bed, but Cathy's agonized scream rang in his ears.
Galvanized, he rolled toward the edge of the bed, nearly landing on the floor. While trying to stand up he saw them: Cathy doubled up over a pillow at the end of the bed, and Wade Sampson bucking his big belly into her soft buttocks while harrowing cries issued from Cathy's straining throat.
Whimpering in frustrated rage, Tommy reached the end of the bed by balancing his weight with his hands on the bed itself. His legs felt like spaghetti and his face, chest, and upper arms throbbed painfully. He rounded the end of the bed and tried to launch a punch at Wade Sampson.
Wade, who had seen him coming, countered with a jolting blow to the ribcage. Tommy doubled over and sank to his knees, almost blacked out. He panted for breath as he crouched at his uncle's feet, his eyes scarcely inches away now from a spectacle he did not want to see but from which he lacked the strength to move away.
So close he could almost have bumped it with his nose, his uncle's thick gristle fucked Cathy's distended asshole, disappearing almost to the last half-inch on the instroke while her flesh drew out along its length on the return trip. Sick and helpless, Tommy swayed on his knees while Wade increased the speed of his lunges and Cathy's sweaty-looking soft buttocks began to tremble. She was still crying out at each thrust into her rectum, but even Tommy could hear the entirely new note in her ululations. Cathy was coming off, and so was Wade.
Still kitten-weak, Tommy tried to throw himself against Wade's knees, but missed. He sprawled on the carpeting, unable to move again. Above him he heard the combined beseeching yips of Cathy peculiar to her moments of highest sexuality and Wade's bull-like roar. It seemed to go on for hours.
Then there was silence.
He tried to push himself up from the floor, and failed.
Cathy was suddenly on the floor beside him, crying hysterically, trying to burrow into his arms.
He cuddled her tenderly while he looked upward, trying to focus on Wade's face. "Next time-I see you," he rasped from a dry throat, "I'll kill you." His uncle's features were a shimmering haze.
"Time you eat another barrel of flour or two, maybe," Wade's voice said equably. "In the meantime when you see me comin' on your side of the street, cross over. An' make some arrangement for payin' off the man who lent you the room. He ain't gonna like it when he sees his furniture."
The voice stopped, but it was some minutes later that Tommy, crooning softly to Cathy while he tried to soothe her naked shuddering body by stroking it lightly, realized that they were again alone.
Jo Tucker couldn't sleep in the narrow bed in her tiny room. Too many thoughts buzzed through her mind. Wade... Dr. Paul Bryson... Tommy Johnson... but most of all her husband, Tom Tucker.
She'd gone back to him twice before. He never came after her; he waited. And when she went back, he whaled her. Her knees drew up into her stomach at the remembrance.
But after he whaled her, he loved her. A soft glow dissolved the hard knot in her loins when she remembered that. Wade was about to cut her loose; she knew the signs. She didn't fit into Wade's future plans. Better to ease away from the relationship before his sexual cruelty became cruelty without sex. Wade stirred her; there was no doubt about it. She responded to him as she did to all forceful men. But Wade was a butterfly always seeking new sexual flowers, and the end was in sight.
She rolled restlessly to the other side of the bed. She wasn't meant to live alone. At least Tom understood her. She didn't know what it was that made sex without pain a blah experience for her after the first couple of times with a new man, but it was a fact of life she had to live with. Tom had remarked once that her bed-hopping occurred in the intervals when he neglected her with his belt. And he had been right. Tom understood her.
But to go back to Tom again? There would be a thrilling pain-sex homecoming, of course. Her pussy itched at the thought. But then familiarity would breed its usual contempt, and she would begin responding to the glances and verbal sallies of men at parties. And she would begin making dates, and eventually Tom would catch her at it, and the entire cycle would renew itself.
Jo Tucker sighed deeply, turned onto her stomach, and finally fell asleep without having made up her mind.
Wade Sampson drove the cruiser well above the speed limit to the Harris estate on the outskirts of town. He had arranged the afternoon's confrontation with care. He had Jo Tucker call Dr. Paul Bryson and set up a supposed rendezvous, while he called Lucille himself. Paul Bryson was due to arrive fifteen minutes before Lucille.
Lips still puffy from Tommy Johnson's hard fists distorted Wade's grin into a gargoyle grimace as he thought of the upcoming meeting, which would be an unpleasant surprise to both husband and wife. Experience had taught him not to prolong these things. It was impossible to do anything to a woman, no matter how outrageous, that she wouldn't eventually confide to someone, bringing unwanted outsiders into the picture. Not that Wade feared outsiders; in his time he had eliminated a few of them, too. But it was messy.
No, hit-and-run was best. Straight women responded to the stimulus of shame only for the first two or three times. New depths of shame had continually to be contrived for them or they'd be calling up for a date. Most men didn't understand this facet of the female nature, but Wade Sampson did. He'd been exploiting it for years.
Lucille Bryson was no exception, despite her cloistered background. With just a little more experience she'd be as fast off the reservation as any of them when a willing prick beckoned. Wade Sampson prided himself that he had opened many a woman's eyes into what was really going on in the world around her. Once a woman got the feeling that she was missing something, the rest was easy.
But he wanted them only in small doses. To fuck them, sure, but even more to humiliate them, and then to move on. There were so many women available to a forceful man he had no intention of concentrating his energies upon a few. He already had his eye on the gorgeous-looking, big-titted receptionist who worked for Doc Leonard in the Forester Building.
And then there was the mousy-looking but broad-assed wife of Joe Kearns, who Wade had learned was having an affair with her dentist. Both of them should respond nicely to having their noses shoved into Wade's hairy balls.
He parked the cruiser at the rear of the house and went around and unlocked the front door. He was barely in time. Paul Bryson drove up the driveway and parked near the front entrance. Wade met him in the foyer, enjoying Bryson's surprise. "Jo couldn't make it, Reverend," he said, grinning hugely. "So she deputized me." The look of shock on Paul Bryson's handsome face delighted him. "I'm Jo's assistant at marriage counselin', Reverend."
He removed from the pocket of his uniform blouse the best-of the worst-of the pictures Joe Tucker had taken of Wade and Lucille. "Here's one of my references," Wade said, handing the picture to Paul, who took one look and blanched at the sight of his wife in the throes of sexual ecstasy. "You wouldn't care to have that mailed to your Board of Trustees, would you?" Paul Bryson shook his head numbly. He thrust the picture at Wade, then pulled it back and looked at it again. "Then I'm sure you'll have no objection to my marriage counselin' this afternoon," Wade continued. Paul stared at the picture, only half hearing. Could that really be Lucille with that flagrant look of hedonistic sensuality on her face? But he knew it was.
"I understand you're a sinful man, Reverend," Wade went on. He grinned widely. "Enthusiastically sinful, correct? But as you preach every Sunday, it's the woman who pays, an' so we've got to be a little hard on your erring wife. Would you believe that erring wives expect it, Reverend? They-"
He broke off at the sound of the taxi he had instructed Lucille to take to the Harris home. "Be right back, Reverend," he said, and hurried to the foyer. He was in time to see through the glassed-in portion of the front door as Lucille stopped stock-still in her purposeful stride when she saw the Bryson car parked near the front entrance. Wade opened the door. "Paul's here," he called to the shocked Lucille. "C'mon in."
"Paul? What-? How-?" Lucille swallowed; she couldn't even think. "Why?" she got out finally.
"I sent for him," Wade said. "Did you know he's been fucking Jo Tucker?"
She knew instantly that it was true. It explained so many things. I drove him to it, she thought miserably. If I'd been half a wife he'd never have had eyes for her.
"I've got pictures of 'em together," Wade lied. "Just like you 'n me." He paused for effect. "I'm gonna mail 'em to the church trustees unless-"
"Unless what?" Lucille said, at once protective.
"Unless you cooperate enthusiastically in our fun-an'-games this afternoon."
"I'll do anything you want if you won't hurt Paul's career," she said quietly. I certainly owe him that after my behavior, she thought.
"Then strike up the grand march," Wade said ushering her inside. He led her to the drawing room in which he had left Paul. "Dr. Paul Bryson, meet Mrs. Bryson," he introduced them.
Husband and wife looked at each other, then looked away. "We're here this afternoon for some marriage counselin', in case I forgot to tell you," Wade said to Lucille. "So I suggest we all strip an' get comfortable."
He proceeded to follow his own dictate. He was standing before them, thick-shouldered and hairy-bellied, clad only in his boots while Paul Bryson had removed only his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Lucille had been unable to nerve herself up to begin. "Need any help, you two?" Wade asked.
"No," they said in chorus.
It was with a sense of glee that Wade watched the Brysons undress. They avoided looking at each other, and they avoided looking at him. Lucille suffered her usual struggle with her girdle. Paul hesitated when he was reduced to his shorts, then stripped them down when he saw Lucille removing her panties. "A little closer together now," Wade urged them. He had looked at Paul's sexual apparatus with interest, bearing in mind Jo Tucker's admonition that the handsome minister's equipment was out of the ordinary. There was no doubt about it; the reverend was really hung.
Paul Bryson stared openly at his wife's big breasts with their perky dark nipples and nut-brown areolas, then swept his eyes downward to the rounded sweep of her belly and the thick black curls surmounting her thigh-juncture. Lucille gazed at her husband's clean-limbed leanness of frame and his bushy sexual pod with its penis looking stalwart even in quiescence.
"Shake hands with his prick," Wade urged Lucille.
Timidly she reached out to touch the member heretofore known only as a visitor during hours of darkness. Paul flinched at her touch, but then remained motionless. Lucille's fingers encircled the drooping fleshy tube, which at once began to swell in her hand. She blushed and dropped it.
"No bashfulness now," Wade's voice boomed. "We're all among friends, aren't we? Paul, why don't you give her cunt a good feel?"
Lucille stood with eyes closed as her husband's fingers slipped between her bare thighs and fondled her fleshy labial lips. Muscles twitched in her legs and her nipples stiffened unbidden.
"Nice to see you two gettin' along so well," Wade commented. Lucille opened her eyes in time to see Wade draw the too-well-remembered quirt from one boot and slap it across his palm. She hadn't noticed it before, and her stomach lurched nervously. "Now we're all in agreement that you've been a naughty girl recently, right, Lucille?" Wade went on.
She nodded, dry-mouthed. Wade handed the quirt to the surprised Paul. "My marriage counselin' experience tells me it's time for you to exercise your husbandly right arm, Reverend."
Paul tried to hand him back the quirt. "I'm just as guilty as she is," he said somberly.
"But we just got done agreein' that it's the woman who pays," Wade said suavely. Then the previous false geniality in his voice was replaced by a hard-edged rasp. "So she gets about fifteen of the best from you in the proper wifely place. Or I mail the picture." He took Lucille by the arm and hustled her to a straight-backed chair. Seating himself, he pulled her upper body down until he could thrust her head between his thighs while her nude buttocks pointed straight out into the room. "You got to be careful how you do this," he explained to the wide-eyed Paul, "because when they really get to squealin' they tend to bite. Let's go now with a little wifely correction. I'll count for you."
With her nose and mouth clamped tightly into Wade's rank-smelling groin just to one side of the penis which rested on her left cheek, Lucille could feel her husband's eyes upon the sleek-fleshed swelling amplitudes of her bottom-extension. "Maybe you'd rather I did it?" Wade inquired when Paul made no move.
"No!" Lucille blurted muffedly. "You do it, Paul!"
He took up a position behind and to one side of her. He took an experimental cut at the air with the quirt, and Lucille instinctively clenched her buttocks when she heard the hissing whir. "This thing is murderous!" Paul protested to Wade.
"She'll live," Wade said laconically. "Just remember that if I don't like the way you do it she'll get it all over again from me.'
Paul set his lips, drew back his arm, and flashed the quirt through the air with what he felt was moderate force. He was startled at Lucille's convulsive leap when the braided leather thwacked into her soft body cushions and a hot-looking crimson streak jumped up on them. "One!" Wade counted.
Paul swung again, fascinated by the continual swaying, rotating, and twitching of Lucille's otherwise immobilized dancing globes. By the third stroke he knew he was swinging harder but he couldn't seem to restrain himself. Wade counted steadily as Lucille began to yell. Even in her flaming-bottomed distress she could feel additional pressure on her face as Wade's penis swelled in a giant erection.
Paul couldn't see that, but he felt a trembling tingle in his own loins as his wife's bell-shaped, full-fleshed, red-striped bottom cheeks continued to gyrate wildly. His traitorous arm whipped the quirt around and into Lucille's bare seat with flesh-galvanizing force. Even her outcries, muffled though they were against Wade's groin, excited him. One part of him couldn't understand himself while another urged additional toll of the helplessly bared quivering behind.
Lucille's shrieks soared as the pain in her bottom spread to an all-encompassing fiery incandescence. She kicked lustily at each implacable cut of the dreadful quirt, but Wade held her firmly. Her whole backside felt as if it were burning up. "Owoooooo!" she yelled at a slashing cut.
"Fifteen," Wade intoned.
Lucille could hardly believe her ears. She had long since lost count. Was it really over? Or was this the preliminary to a further whipping? She gasped in relief when Wade released her from her doubled-up position. She straightened up shakily, her two hands at once going to her bottom and frantically soothing the fast-rising weals.
"Notice your hubby's prick now," Wade told her.
Lucille glanced over her shoulder and saw Paul, quirt still in hand, with a fierce-looking tumescence standing rigidly out from his belly. "I think you ought to give that a kiss since it's standin' up for you," Wade remarked. He took Lucille's arm and led her in front of Paul.
Helplessly she knelt before him, one hand still rubbing her scourged backside. With the other she took Paul's tremendous erection in her palm and awkwardly guided it to her mouth. She kissed the bulging head gingerly, then let it go. "Ahhh, g'wan, take a taste," Wade said, grinning.
Afraid to refuse, Lucille took hold of it again and inserted it partway into her mouth. She breathed through her nose as her lips closed around the fleshy spear. She worked her mouth gently, uncertain what to do. The taste was salty-sweet, hardly unpleasant at all.
"I think you've got the makin's of a first-class cocksucker on your hands, Reverend," Wade commented. "Okay, let's take her into the bedroom for the next marriage counselin' item on the agenda."
Lucille felt a masculine hand on each arm as she was raised and half-supported during her stumbling-legged walk to the bedroom.
Chapter IX
Wade stripped the coverlet from the wide bed, disclosing the sheet. "You get down on your back," he told Paul Bryson. "Since we're gentlemen, we wouldn't ask a lady with a sore ass to get on the bottom right now. She can ride you from on top."
Lucille watched, blinking away tears, as Paul slid onto the bed on his back and stretched out with his rugged-looking erection waggling in the air.
"First time I fucked your wife I couldn't understand how I went in so easy," Wade said coolly. "That's really a piece of machinery you got there, Reverend." He lifted Lucille onto the bed on her knees. "Stand up and then lower yourself down on that until it slides into your cunt," he commanded.
She did as she was told, inexpertly but with no mishaps. She whimpered when the new position stretched her discolored rump, but she straddled her husband's thighs, lowered herself slowly until she could insert the big head of his penis in her orifice, and then sat down on it. "Ohhhhh!" she breathed, wide-eyed at the extent of the penetration.
This whole incredible experience can't really be taking place, Paul Bryson thought. He would wake up presently to find it all a dream. But the feel of his wife's quirt-hot bottom on his thighs and the tight-clasping grasp of her slippery vaginal walls upon his rigid shaft continued in exquisite tactile sensibility.
Wade pushed Lucille's upper body forward until her heavy, grape-nippled breasts brushed her husband's chest. "Put your arms around her an' give her a little ride from underneath," Wade instructed. "She'll like that." Paul Bryson raised and lowered himself underneath his wife while he held her in his arms, and his jogging penis inside her clutching cunny caused her to sigh deeply and move her own hips tentatively.
Her new position had elevated and spread Lucille's scarlet-streaked hindquarters. Prick in hand, Wade straddled Paul's lower legs as he approached Lucille's plumped-out hemispheres. "Hold her, now!" he warned. He shuffled closer on his knees and applied the head of his prick to the minister's wife's disclosed anus.
Lucille quivered at the contact. All too well she recalled the pain of the assault upon that part of her body in Wade's office. She switched her hips from side to side despite the pain it caused her, trying to dislodge the intruder. Wade sized her waist and held her firmly, boring harder with his big tool. "What are-you trying-to do!" Lucille gasped, the pain in her bottom partially offset by what all her movements were doing to her internally with Paul's inflexible rigidity stirring up a different kind of heat in her vagina.
"You know the old sayin'," Wade answered. "If one prick's good, two's better." He had his prick-head lodged between Lucille's wealed globes, and he thrust steadily. He wormed his way in an inch, slipped in another inch, and then burst through Lucille's brown-ringed barrier with a corkscrew movement while she squalled shrilly. He rested for a moment with his cock in to the hilt and his belly resting against Lucille's hot-feeling bottom. "How's that-for a sandwich!" he panted.
Lucille thought she would lose her mind with the two big penises separated only by a thin flap of flesh. When Wade began to join his movements to Paul's which had never ceased, the two cocks actually rubbed together against the elastic membrane as well as in both her agitated apertures. Lucille's senses reeled with the impact of the multi-faceted sensations assaulting her.
Paul's penis banged upward into her suddenly from below, and Lucille almost bit her tongue as she felt his quick flurry of movement and the hot gush of sperm he shot into her gaping maw. Lucille's behind went into an uncontrolled little dance as she gushed madly all over the quivering lance. "Ohh! Ohh! Ohh!" she moaned in shamed delight, inwardly stricken at the realization that Wade, too, had not only felt her orgasm but in fact had helped to trigger it.
Wade's thick cock was stimulated by the contractions of Lucille's pussy-walls which seemed to induce sympathetic squeezing activities in her sphincter muscle. He plunged and plunged into her blubbery-feeling rectum while he built up a nerve-tingling head of steam that was relieved only when he shot jet after jet of boiling come into her interior. His back ached with the effort he put into showering her entire internal anal area.
Lucille was still making small, tentative movements with her hindquarters when Wade pulled out of her with an audible sucking sound. The raped anal ring snapped to like a trout upon a May fly. A tiny trickle of sperm emerged from its reddened center and oozed down Lucille's plump white thighs.
Wade glanced down at her once-more-exposed welted croup, grinned, and backed away on his knees. Lucille was prostrate on Paul's chest, her head buried in his shoulder-and-neck juncture. Her husband's hands stroked her back and gently kneaded the upper slopes of her languidly moving handsome bottom cheeks. Wade slipped from the bed and began to dress.
When he was ready, with gunbelt on and handcuffs attached to a belt-loop, the tableau on the bed had changed in only one respect. Paul Bryson was moving rapidly under his wife's body again with a renewed erection.
Wade Sampson laughed jauntily.
He glanced at his watch.
If he hurried, he might just manage to catch Geraldine Kearns when she was ready to leave her motel-room assignation with her great-and-good friend, her dentist.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Wade Sampson said to the pair on the bed as he started for the doorway.
He doubted that they even heard him.
Tommy Johnson escorted Cathy Riggins up the back stairs of the bakery and opened the door to his room. Cathy stood just inside and looked around curiously at the small space. There were dark shadows under her eyes, but she was being determinedly cheerful. Cuts and bruises marked Tommy's young face, but they were healing.
Tommy took Cathy's handbag from her, opened it, and removed a stiff-feeling sheet of parchment with a legal seal upon it. "What are you going to do with our wedding certificate?" Cathy asked.
"The term is marriage certificate," Tommy corrected her. "And I'm going to tack it up outside the door here for everyone to see."
"You'll do nothing of the kind!" Cathy said, blushing. She snatched it away from him and returned it to her bag.
"We'll have a real honeymoon as soon as I get straightened out," Tommy promised. "And I'm sorry the bed is so narrow."
"In some circumstances a girl can make do with a narrow bed," Cathy said demurely.
"Don't you mean in some positions?" Tommy smiled.
Cathy's blush deepened. "Why do I feel so- so strange with you?" she asked.
"Maybe because you're just about to be fucked by your legal husband for the first time," Tommy guessed. "Do you think that could be it?"
Cathy placed a finger over her husband's lips. "You're going to have to watch that kind of talk when we go to live with mother until you get a good job," she warned.
Tommy sighed with mock solemnity. "You don't suppose your mother is allergic to creaking bedsprings, do you? Wouldn't that be terrible?"
"You're the one who's terrible," Cathy retorted. She slipped inside the circle of Tommy's arms and nestled her blonde head on his shoulder. "But I feel so good, Tommy. So good."
He rocked her curvaceous slenderness to and fro in his arms while he kissed the top of her regal little head. "Everything's going to be all right now, baby," he said gravely. "Everything's going to be alllllll right."
His young wife stood quietly while he unzipped the back of her dress.
Jo Tucker drew a panting breath and stared up at the ceiling. She was suspended by bound wrists from the top of a door, one arm on either side of its narrow wedge. Her wrists were cushioned by a pillow heavily taped in place across the top edge of the door. Waist high, another pillow was taped in place covering the door's edge.
The doubled-up belt whistled through the air and cracked loudly upon her scarlet buttocks. "Oh, Jesus!" she begged as a white-hot flame scalded her seat. Her legs climbed slowly until all her weight was suspended from her bound wrists while her thighs and pussy rubbed against the waist-high pillow which kept the door from scratching her. Her inner thighs writhed frantically for a moment before she again put her feet on the floor. "Oh, God, Tom, you're burning m-me up!"
The burly man standing behind her made no answer. He took a long drag on his cigarette, glanced at the second hand on his watch, and swung the belt again. Jo's buttock-globes puckered in a convulsed shudder as her legs once again performed their climbing action and her vagina rubbed against the pillow. When her trembling legs stretched out and her feet again touched the floor, the burly man stepped forward and lifted her down from the door.
She dropped to her knees in front of him, holding out her bound wrists. "Th-thanks for letting me h-have the pillow to f-frig myself," she said as Tom Tucker freed her wrists. She rubbed them once, then immediately unzipped his trousers. "Let me get it nice and big," she whispered feverishly as she extracted his penis from his shorts. "Oh, God, Tom, I want it! I want it!"
Her shining chestnut hair moved in against the front of his thighs and settled there.
Lucille Bryson and her husband Paul sat on the edge of the bed in the manse's bedroom. It was their usual midweek conjugal-relation time and the shades were drawn as usual, but not much else was the same.
Two lamps were on in the bedroom, for instance, as husband and wife sat nude, holding hands. Lucille's free arm circled Paul's waist while his free hand toyed with the nipple of a springy, velvet breast. Lucille's head was inclined slightly forward and down so that she could see her husband's penis slowly elongating in his lap.
After a moment he removed her arm, took hold of her waist, and slowly urged her first sideways and then face downward over his lap. Lucille relaxed complaisantly while Paul alternately stroked, patted, and pinched lightly the magnificent white orbs upon which the weals had receded but the purple-and-yellow stripes were prominently visible.
"You enjoyed whipping me, Paul, didn't you?" Lucille asked quietly, moving her bottom slowly in a graceful semicircular rotation. "Because I'd been such a poor wife?"
"Not because you'd been a poor wife," he answered. "I stand equally accused of being a poor husband. No, it was just the unfamiliar titillation caused by the sight of that marvelously heavy-laden posterior shown off in its exquisite entirety by its agitation." He drew a deep, remembering breath. "I was-I was dazzled." He removed a hand covering one hind cheek to stare down at the whole intensely. "I hope to be dazzled more often in the future, my dear, without use of the quirt. Perhaps not at the breakfast table-"
"But some mornings say ten minutes later?" Lucille queried.
Paul Bryson laughed, and Lucille turned over on his lap to smile up at him. She widened her thighs obligingly when he dipped a finger down amidst her raven-black curls. "How am I going to learn to be the wife you deserve, Paul?"
"We will learn together," he said firmly. "Enjoyably, I'm sure. The Lord moves strangely his wondrous miracles to perform. That might be considered slightly blasphemous in the present context, but not by this minister." His finger was out of sight within his wife's fleshy grotto. "We've earned something better, Lucille, and we're going to have it."
Dr. Paul Bryson picked up his wife and placed her on her back in the center of the bed, and she held up her arms to receive him.
