The little men who looked like cigarettes - or were they cigarettes who looked like little men? - marched across the screen of the television set and smartly saluted. After they faded into the distance, the movie started. It was one Meg Powell had seen a dozen times before, but she was too depressed, too dispirited, to get up and switch to another channel. She sat, slumped in her chair, staring mindlessly at the exploits of a couple of comedians who seemed to do nothing but hit one another over the head with what seemed to be cucumbers, which split and shattered, sending slivers out into space. She hardly noticed them; her mind, her thoughts, were first on her daughter, fifteen year old Wendy. And as far as her thoughts of Wendy went, she couldn't quite focus them. They were all confused, like a snapshot that is superimposed on another.
Meg remembered that she had done that once -- snapped not two pictures, but three or four, one on top of the other, because she had forgotten to turn the knob. And she had ended up with some wild, far-out, modernistic photo, in which one could see the subject in a whole series of poses and positions. Well, that was just the way she saw Wendy, now. Sometimes she was little more than a baby, all innocence and dimply smiles. At other times, she was a small child, clinging to her hand - or to John's - her face wreathed in smiles as she explored the local zoo, or watched the zany antics of the clowns at the circus. But most of all - for this was the last photo taken, the one which partially obscured the others, she was a troubled and troublesome teen-ager.
Oh, she was lovely to look at - the melody of the old song came back to Meg as she sat watching, but not really seeing, the movie on television. She was lovely to look at. Already, at fifteen, her body was well developed, ripe and ready, Meg thought wryly, for plucking. For an instant, she seemed to see the girl standing before her, her young breasts round and firm, her waist small enough to be spanned by two hands, her hips flaring, her long legs slender and tapering. When she walked, the two half-moons of her buttocks swayed enchantingly, an open invitation. And that invitation had been accepted, the mother thought. It most certainly had.
She glanced at the small screen, where a man was chasing a dog, or perhaps the dog was chasing the man - she couldn't tell, and knew it didn't matter - finally managed to pull herself from her chair, cross the room and snap the switch that shut off the set. She went back to the easy chair she had been sitting in, curled up in it, and lit a cigarette. And then, as if it were a sweater she had been knitting, she picked up her thoughts.
Something had gone wrong, she told herself, terribly wrong with Wendy. She was lovely, there was no doubt about that. And God knew, she and John had done their best to bring her up right. They, certainly had tried to instill in her a sense of virtue and decency. They had done their best. But their best, apparently, wasn't enough.
The tears welled up in her eyes, as they had done a dozen times that day. Oh, God, she thought, if only I weren't alone.
But she was alone, and would be for still a few days. Not that they seemed important, after the long three months that she had been a "grass widow."
It had seemed such a good idea, she remembered, when John had been given the chance to go abroad. He would gain valuable experience, experience that would stand him in good stead in the years to come. Moreover, it would add considerably to their income, for the present, and that was an important consideration, what with prices soaring like kites in the wind, and Wendy at the age where she was dating, needing new clothes all the time, wanting to have everything the other girls had. Yes, she thought now. It had seemed such a good idea! But everything had seemed to go wrong, almost as soon as John had left. At least it had with Wendy. She had become rude at first - little Wendy, the most docile, the most obliging of children - and then insolent. And now she was uncontrollable.
Suddenly, sobs shook Meg's body. Uncontrollable, that was what Wendy was. Out at all hours, like tonight. And when she asked her where she'd been, all she got was a toss of the girl's head, her long hair flying out in all directions, and some smart-aleck reply like "Yah-yah-yah !"
That had been bad enough, Meg thought, wiping away a tear. Oh, God! That had been bad enough. Still, they'd always been able to - what was the word everyone was using nowadays? communicate? Well, they'd been able to communicate. At least she'd thought so. And then, this morning. Oh, dear God! This morning.
She certainly didn't want to pry into her daughter's affairs ... Meg sat up with a start. Now why had she used that word! Well, she didn't want to pry, and she certainly never had before, and it was all an accident, really. But that morning, when she had gone up to Wendy's room, with a pile of freshly laundered blouses and some of her panties and her slips and brassieres, and had been putting them away in neat stacks in her bureau drawers, the way she always did, something caught her eye. It looked like a little compact - that was what she had thought it was at first - and then, when she'd glanced at it a second time, her heart had sunk to the pit of her stomach, or maybe even lower. She had stood there trembling, afraid to pick up the thing, and look at it, examine it. And then she had, and her worst fears were confirmed, as she saw the little pink pills nestled within, like oysters in their shell, with the days of the week inscribed above them - Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday ...
She had stared at it for a long time, holding it in her hand, unable to put it down. When, she wondered, had Wendy started taking the Pill? And why?
And then she had asked herself where she was getting the contraceptives. She brushed that question aside after a short while. Did it matter? She had them, didn't she? Wasn't that the main thing?
Meg's thoughts went back to the other questions. She must be sleeping with someone. Well, who? And, why, dear God, at her age?
There were other, less important questions, too. Where, she wondered, was she meeting him?
Her thoughts wandered back to her own adolescence, her own youth. She had dated, yes, at fifteen. Of course she had. But that was about it. She had dated, and once in a while, she had permitted the boy she was with a chaste good night kiss. But that was all.
Later, though, alone in her bed, in the little room her mother had fixed up for her, with white organdy curtains, and a white organdy bed spread, and her collection of dolls and Teddy bears - she had never been able to part with the toys of babyhood - on one shelf, and her books on another, Meg had lain awake. What, she had wondered, would it have been like if she had let him unbutton her blouse and run his hands over her firm, ripe breasts, cupping them excitedly, even playing with the nipples, teasing them, perhaps, until they stood up, taut and erect? What if she had let him do that?
And what if she had let him take her clothes off, her petticoat, her panties, her stockings, and run his hands up and down the whole length of her smooth body? Even in bed, even thinking about it, she had felt excitement that was more intense than anything she had ever known.
And with that excitement, she had even let herself wonder what it would have been like if she had done what some of the other girls in her class at school did. What if she had lain back on the couch or the back seat of the car, and let him stroke her, run his hands down over the smooth curves of her belly until they reached the tiny triangle of curling golden silk at the base of it, if she had let him part her legs, let his fingers caress the soft smooth folds of flesh of her pulsating pink vagina.
But she hadn't! She hadn't! She had never let one of the boys she dated unzip his fly, although later, she wondered what it would have been like if she had. Had wondered how she would have felt if he had taken out his bulging penis and placed it right up against the tiny glistening hole there between her legs. She had even - even -wondered what it would have been like if he had pressed forward then, into her tight little hair-lined pussy slit, past the resisting muscles and on, on into the narrow channel of her still unplundered cunt.
She had wondered, and there were even times when she had wished that that had happened. But she had made up her mind, long before, that no one - no one - would ever do such a thing to her except her own husband.
And later, when she had met John Powell, she had known how right she was. She had been pure, unsullied, on her wedding night, and she had known that her virginity was one of the greatest gifts she had brought to their marriage.
Meg's thoughts flitted back to her daughter. Why had Wendy permitted a boy to take such liberties with her, to ... to ... she shuddered at the thought ... to go all the way? Was it her fault? Tears filled her eyes again. If only John were back, she thought. If only he were here and she could talk to him.
But he wasn't back, and she knew she could never write to him about Wendy and what she was doing, the sort of person she had turned into. He had enough problems without that. He'd only hinted at them in his letters, but she had read between the lines, knew his loneliness. He missed her as much as she missed him.
Her face brightened, her, heart rose for a brief moment. At least he would be home soon. But what would she tell him about Wendy? How would she explain all that had happened? She shook her head. There was nothing she could say, she knew. And now she almost dreaded his return. Instead of a joyful reunion, there would be the dreaded moment when he would learn the truth. It seemed almost more than she could bear.
But bear it she must. And she must face the situation alone, and now. The first thing, she thought, was to find out who the boy was.
But the answer to that seemed simple. It was - it had to be - young Ted Clark. Hadn't Wendy gone out with him, this very evening?
Wendy hadn't actually told her so. When she had asked, "Who's your date, honey?" Wendy had practically refused to answer.
It was only when Meg had questioned her again - and should she? she asked herself. Perhaps that was the problem, she was prying too much ... Still, she had asked a second time, and Wendy had shrugged her shoulders and then suddenly exploded.
"Really, Mom! Do I have to tell you every little thing I do? Everywhere I go? Do I have to ask your permission? My God! You act as if I were two years old or something. That's all! Two years old! I'm supposed to come running to you every time I have to wipe my nose, and let you help me ... "
"Oh, no, Wendy! You know that isn't so! You know I let you do whatever you want... "
"Then why are you bugging me now?"
"I'm not, darling. I just asked a civil question."
"Civil, my eye. You might as well have me trailed by a couple of dicks. You want the FBI on my trail, or something? Want me watched? That's it, isn't it?"
"No, Wendy. I just asked ... "
"You just asked. You're always asking, Mom. And I've got news for you. I'm not telling."
"But, honey. What's the big secret?" Meg had said. "I mean, it's perfectly normal, isn't it, for me to know who you're going out with?" She had smiled, trying to placate her daughter.
But Wendy had lashed out at her again.
"Oh, my God!" she had howled. "There you go treating me like an infant. Mom, for God's sake! I'm grown up now. Hasn't that ever occurred to you?" She stared defiantly at her mother, her dark eyes flashing their hatred, their anger. "Hasn't it?"
"Well, of course, dear, I know that you live your own life and..."
"Then just keep out of it, will you?" She turned and scurried to the door, her brief mini-skirt flouncing above the firm young thighs, flaring out to reveal the two voluptuous half-moons of her ass-cheeks.
Meg stared after her, thinking how lovely she was. And then the front door had slammed, as she called, "But Wendy, honey. What about dinner? You haven't eaten yet." When there was no answer, she had followed the girl to the front door, had seen her climb into a yellow Mustang, had recognized the boy driving it as Ted Clark.
She had been shocked when she saw him. She didn't know Ted herself, but she'd heard a lot about him. "Fast," was what the neighbors called him. There were stories that he'd been caught with drugs, too, and that it was only the standing of the family in the community - Russ Clark, his father, who sold insurance to everyone else, and headed the Red Cross drive each year, and worked on the Community Fund Drive, too - that had saved young Ted from a jail sentence.
There were other stories about Ted. Meg shuddered, trying to get them out of her mind.
She had collapsed on the sofa, sitting there, not knowing what to do. If John were home, she had thought, he would take care of this. She wasn't sure what he would have done; at fifteen, Wendy was too old to be spanked. But she certainly deserved to be, Meg had thought. She certainly deserved to be.
Finally she had dragged herself into the kitchen, eaten the dinner she had prepared -overcooked now, the vegetables watery, the roast like leather - by herself. And then she had tried to watch television.
But it was no use. She switched off the set, and then sat in the living room for a long time, trying to decide what to do. She had no idea when Wendy would be back, and she was worried, frightened, even. Oh, dear God, she thought, if only John were here - if only John were here.
But he wasn't, and she had to face things herself, work out some solution. If Wendy were home, she thought, now, she might be able to talk to her, although that seemed improbable, after the way the girl had left. But Wendy wasn't there, and there didn't seem to be anything to do. Moreover, it seemed senseless to wait up for her. There would only be another scene, Meg knew full well. She sighed, got up, went into the kitchen and checked to make sure there were Cokes in the refrigerator, and snacks on the shelves. And then, with another sigh, she went up to her room.
She puttered around for awhile, not really wanting to go to bed before Wendy came back. She undressed and showered, then sat down before her dressing table, brushing her long dark hair the required hundred strokes, searching for the first sign of wrinkles - why shouldn't she have them, she wondered, with all she'd been through recently. She squinted at her image in the mirror, but saw only the same lovely face staring back at her, the wide brown eyes dark-lashed, the mouth generous, the skin pale and perfect. And then, at last, she got up, slipping her robe from her slim shoulders, and climbed into bed.
She tried to read, but couldn't concentrate. When she switched the light off, though, she found it impossible to sleep. She lay awake for a long time, listening for the sound of a car pulling up to the curb, for the slam of a door, the key in the lock downstairs. She had no idea when it was that she at last dozed off into a troubled sleep - she had heard the clock strike midnight earlier - and no idea when it was that she awoke.
She sat up, suddenly startled by a faint, strange sound. For a moment she had no idea where she was, or what the sound could be. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, her mind troubled. She wasn't sure what bothered her, either, just at first. And then she remembered Wendy, and her fears for her. She knew then that the sound she heard came from the girl's room. She was back, then! Perhaps she should go in and talk to her.
Meg hesitated a long moment. Again, she thought, there would be a scene, a bitter, unpleasant scene, with Wendy, half-hysterical, screaming out her vituperation against her mother. She scarcely dared to chance it.
And yet she knew she wouldn't sleep unless she made the effort. She sipped from the bed, shivering a little in the cold night air, and pulled a light woolen robe around her. She slid her feet into little satin slippers, then padded silently across the room, opened the door and glided through it, then made her way down the hall.
The sounds were louder now - strange sounds, Meg thought. She wondered if Wendy might be ill. She hurried the last few feet to her room, and paused outside the door, listening. She heard a moan very clearly, and then another. What on earth was going on?
Oh, dear God! What had happened to her? She'd been poisoned, that was it! Poisoned! She knocked, calling Wendy's name, softly at first, then louder and louder. She heard another low moan, and then a strange, rhythmic pounding, as if the headboard of the girl's bed was bumping against the wall. Meg rapped on the door, called "Wendy," one more time, and then turned the knob and edged the door open.
The light inside was dim; it was a few seconds before Meg could make out the scene before her. And then she blinked. Wendy was lying stretched out on her bed, her lovely young body completely naked. And then her mother gasped in horror. Oh, God! It couldn't be, she thought, biting her lip to keep from crying out. It just couldn't be! Not here, right in her own home, not in her own bedroom! Had she really brought Ted here? Really?
Oh, yes, she had, Meg thought bitterly, as she saw the boy - it was unmistakably Ted Clark as naked as her own daughter, kneeling above her slim white body. As Meg watched, he began to explore it, caressing her firm, ripe breasts, tracing the swell of her belly, stroking her milky thighs while she mewled, now, with obscene pleasure. He trailed his hand across her smooth white belly once more, and then, as Wendy spread her legs wide, eased it between them, to tangle his fingers in the silky patch of dark hair nestling there. Wendy moaned with pleasure at the touch of his hand, and then gasped, "Oh, my God! It's good. It's soooo good, Teddy boy!"
She's been drinking, Meg thought. She's been drinking! Weren't her words slurred, wasn't her speech sloppy? Oh, of course she had. And so had Ted. He must have been.
She wanted to disappear, sink into the floor somehow, pulling the floorboards over her. Or to die! She would rather die than watch this horrible spectacle. But she couldn't even close the door on it, even less turn and go away. Her hands hung limp at her side, refusing to do her bidding; her feet were rooted to the spot on which she stood.
She began to feel a little sick at the sight, now, of Ted's tongue flicking out to force Wendy's mouth open, to slip between her two moist lips, while her own tongue shot forward into his. Why on earth did she let him? What was wrong with her?
And why did she let him cup her firm young breasts in his two hands, the way he did, teasing her nipples into a taut erection? Meg felt goose flesh rising on her neck and arms as she watched the teenaged boy rub the stiff little buds between his thumbs and forefingers, then trailed his tongue down her daughter's throat, and over the smooth snowy mound of her breast. As his hand slid down to her belly again, his mouth closed over one hard tiny nipple, and he began to suck at her breast, relishing it, savoring it as if it were a bit of tender fruit, sweet and succulent.
Meg turned away at last, her head lolling against the open door, overcome by the sight that had confronted her. And then a sudden gasp of pain that tapered off into a sigh of pure pleasure seemed to send a blast of Arctic wind rippling up her spine. She whirled around, clapping her hand over her mouth, to stifle her own scream, and saw that Ted had fastened his mouth over Wendy's other breast, his teeth biting cruelly at the tender flesh. The young girl's body flexed at the electric contact, and then relaxed, her legs splaying out again until Meg could see the soft pink folds of vaginal flesh high up between them.
Oh, God! she thought. What next? What next? Again she longed to disappear, to wipe out this vivid scene which she knew would be forever imprinted on her memory. And yet she still stood mesmerized, staring transfixed as Ted ran his hand one more time down her own daughter's naked belly to the little triangle of pubic hair at the base of it. He paused a moment, his hand poised above the tiny dark triangle, and then carefully he parted the thin strands of silken hair, exposing the moist coral slit of Wendy's vagina. Standing at the open door, Meg could clearly see the firm little bud of her daughter's clitoris; and then, as she watched, the boy began to stroke it, gently but firmly, coaxing the tiny pleasure nub into quivering hardness.
He looked up suddenly - had he noticed Meg, standing there, trembling in the doorway? - and then Wendy's voice rang out clear and pleading, "Oh God, Teddy, boy! Don't stop. Don't stop ... Do it ... DO IT!"
Do what?" he asked, his voice lewd, evil.
"Come on," she whimpered. "Come on. Do it!"
"Do what?" he asked again. "Tell me what, Wendy." He paused, waiting for her answer. And then his voice took on a roughness, a cruel edge to it. "Tell me!" he demanded harshly.
She lay with her head thrown back against the pillow, her long hair spread, fan-like across it. Her eyes were closed, her young, once-innocent face contorted with lust. Now her eyelids fluttered open, and Meg thought she saw a glimmer of fear in them. And then it passed, and now there was only wanton desire mirrored in their depths. "Fuck me," she begged, her voice low and husky. "Oh, my God! Fuck me, Teddy boy. FUCK ME!"
Meg felt her knees go weak as the obscene word struck her ear like a bolt of thunder, and a little murmur of horror rose to her lips. "Wendy, Wendy ... my little girl! How could you? How could you think such a thing, even? How could you say it? Where did you even learn a word like that?" She felt tears well up in her eyes, and brushed them away angrily. Did it matter where? She knew them, didn't she? Wasn't that enough?
And then she heard Ted's voice, arrogant and evil. "You bet I will," he boasted. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk. Is that what you want?"
"I'm going to screw you silly, you little bitch. Is that what you want?"
"Oh, yes!"
Watching the obscene act, listening to the soft little mewls of pleasure that Wendy emitted, Meg felt faint. Her mouth fell open, slack with shock; her whole body trembled. What, dear God, what would Ted do next? She looked away at last, unable to bear it any longer. Her little girl, she thought, her baby! Oh, yes, she might be fifteen years old, but she was still a baby! And now the scalding tears spilled down her cheeks.
When she turned back, she saw that Ted had spread Wendy's legs even wider, and was once again stroking the throbbing bud of her tiny clitoris. Now he began to probe the glistening hole between the fleshy lips of her cunt with his middle finger, while Wendy whimpered anew, tangling her fingers in his tousled hair, drawing his head down toward the twin mounds of her breasts again.
"What do you want, baby?" he asked. "Tell me. What do you want?" Once more, he fastened his mouth over a taut little nipple.
For an answer, Wendy merely sighed her pleasure, and then she reached down and took his hand in hers, guiding it as he thrust his middle finger out, then inserted it slowly into the throbbing cuntal opening up between her legs. She groaned as he burrowed deep into the moistened softness of her pussy, his finger twisting and turning now as it teased along the narrowly clasping walls.
She began to writhe and twist beneath him, her head flailing back as he probed deep inside her moist vagina, groaning again in ecstasy. "What do you want?" Ted repeated, lifting his head from her breasts. "Tell me, kid. What do you want?"
"I want you to fuck me," Wendy sighed.
"Where?"
"Down there!" she nodded vaguely.
"Where's there?"
"In my cunt," Wendy gasped. "Oh, God. Down there, in my cunt."
"Okay, then," he said, grinning lewdly at her. "You help me!"
He took Wendy's hand with his own, and placed it firmly around his virile young cock, and Meg, watching, gasped. It was so big, she thought. So big! Her poor daughter's fingers could scarcely go around it. She could never take it all. Never, never, NEVER! It would split her wide open - it would kill her! The mother covered her face with her hands in horror at the thought.
But Wendy, sighing ecstatically on the bed, began to massage the fleshy shaft, pushing the thick foreskin back, running her finger along the sensitive underside of it, while Ted, in his turn, groaned with excitement. "Jees, kid, you're good," he said. "Where'd you learn to do that?"
Meg pricked up her ears, waiting for her daughter's answer. Where had she learned it? But Wendy's answer told her - and Ted - nothing. "Wouldn't you like to know?" she whispered seductively.
"Not 'specially," Ted answered.
"No?" Wendy's voice sounded surprised.
Once again Ted groaned, as she continued to stroke his thickly swollen penis. It was already stiff, rock-hard, jutting out from his slender loins like an obscene lance.
"No," he said once more, "I don't care where you learned it, as long as you do it!"
"Okay," Wendy sighed lasciviously. "And then what?"
There was a long silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of the young couple on the bed. And then Ted ordered, "Put it in!"
Meg heard her daughter suck in her breath, then let it out slowly. And then she asked, "In my cunt?" Her eyes flicked open, and she gave the boy a look of such lewdness that the mother wanted to cry.
His answer was just as lewd, though, just as suggestive.
"Your cunt will do for now." he said, hinting at still further depravity in the future. "Christ, it will do for now!"
With a swift movement, he grabbed her outstretched legs behind the knees and shoved them roughly back against her shoulders, and now his stiff rigid cock brushed against her pubic hair, already damp with her rising passion. He planted his hands on either side of her shoulders, locking her ankles tightly behind his neck. Her lewdly upturned ass-cheeks were completely exposed to him now, and her narrow cuntal slit was spread open, the moistly glistening furrow held wide apart by the pressure of his thighs against her own.
Wendy screamed with the sudden pain of his brutal assault against her flesh, and then accepted it gratefully, the scream diminishing, changing as it did so into an ecstatic moan of pleasure. Her hand flew from Ted Clark's throbbing penis and her two arms snaked out around him, grasping him tightly, her fingernails trailing across his sinewy buttocks, leaving thin red welts mingled with the white scratches on his naked flesh. And then she seized his wildly lurching cock between her two small hands, guiding it until it was poised right between the hair-fringed lips of her vagina. She held it there with one hand, and placed the other on the boy's anxiously tensed buttocks, pulling him with all her strength to her, until the lips around her throbbing pussy slit were finally pushed open.
And then he shoved forward, mercilessly thrusting his lust-inflated cock deeper and deeper. Wendy squirmed beneath him, her whole body resisting at first, just as the elastic rimmed tightness of her vagina resisted the intrusion of his huge, desire-gorged penis. And then as it forced its way in almost to the hilt, welcomed him with little mewls of pleasure.
He speared again and again up into the young girl's sensitively flowering passage, while his sperm-filled balls slapped against the upturned cheeks of her buttocks. He quickened his strokes, breathing heavily, while she writhed and squirmed beneath him.
Wendy's horror-stricken mother stood almost motionless now, watching, listening to her own heart flailing against her ribs. She was helpless to stop the lewd couple, helpless to save her own child. She had done her best, she thought, she had always done her best. If only she hadn't been alone! If only John were home. He would have known what to do, how to handle the situation.
The thought of her husband sent a wave of longing coursing through her body, and with it, a shock of sensual excitement. She realized, with another shock - this time of horror - that there was a tingling up between her legs that she could not suppress. Dear God, she thought! I'm as bad as they are! She pressed her thighs together and felt moisture between her thighs, and blushed with shame. Her body seemed to take fire now, she felt lewd stirrings churning her body to a fever pitch.
As Meg watched, Ted's lust engorged penis disappeared into the soft, hair-fringed folds of Wendy's vagina. Only a tiny stretch of it was left showing now, wet and glistening, and that, to the watching mother, was more obscene than anything else she had seen.
At last she found the strength to flee, to turn and run. Her body was on fire, while her blood exploded, like little stars, maddeningly. As she stumbled from the doorway, she heard Wendy's wail of pleasure as she reached her climax.
Meg turned once, like Lot's wife looking back ... and saw the girl jerking and thrashing as Ted's rock-hard cock hammered into the soft recesses of her cervix. She shuddered with overwhelming pleasure, as if she, too, were set on fire, and then moaned once more, "Oh, Ted ... Ted ... Teddy boy!" Then with a final, convulsive spasm, she lay back, legs splayed out obscenely, as Ted pumped his hot, white sperm into her nakedly quivering young belly.
A moment later, as Meg still paused, it spilled from Wendy's still throbbing vagina, flowed down over her thighs, and dripped into the crevice between her buttocks. The mother gave a little scream, whirled around, and ran to her room, slamming the door behind her. Then she threw herself on the bed, her own body still on fire, and began to sob.
Chapter 2
Meg awoke the next morning, surprised to find herself still lying, face down on the bed, her face buried in her pillow. Moreover, she was still wearing her robe. Why, she asked herself? Why?
And then she remembered what she had seen the night before seemed to hear again the lewd and lascivious sounds that had come from Wendy's room, culminating in her screams as she reached her climax. Instinctively, Meg clapped her hands over her ears, to shut out the sound still reverberating in her brain.
She shook herself, knowing how foolish she was. There was no such sound, now. That had ceased long, long ago. Still, the remembrance of it was unbearable, and she crawled under the covers, pulling them over her head. She would have liked, she thought, to hibernate like a bear until John came back, but she knew that that was impossible.
At last Meg found the strength to lift her head above the covers. A little later, she was even able to slide from the bed and make her way to the bathroom. She took a couple of tranquilizers, and a large dose of vitamins, thinking that together they might help her get through the day. She went downstairs, and was about to switch on the radio, then decided against it. She wasn't sure why, at first, and then knew it was because she was still listening for sounds from Wendy's room.
She hated herself for that. It was past, wasn't it? And then she remembered her own excitement. Once again, she asked herself, am I any better? No, she thought, shaking her head, she wasn't. Then what right had she ... ?
She switched on the radio, and heard Tiny Tim Tip-Toeing Through the Tulips. She could live without that, she decided, and switched the radio off. But the silence in the house was deafening, and she turned the radio on again. Even so, she found that she was listening for sounds from Wendy's room. When she could stand it no longer, she went back upstairs. She knocked, quietly at first, and then louder. When there was no answer, she opened the door a crack.
She saw that Wendy was still asleep, her dark hair forming a kind of halo around her head on the pillow. She looked like an angel, Meg thought. An angel! A sob caught in her throat, and she closed the door, stumbling down the hall as she had the night before. She went downstairs again, wondering if she would have the courage to talk to her daughter when the girl woke up.
She went into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, sipped at it, made toast, tried to eat it, then got up and started pacing around. She realized she was listening for some sign of life from upstairs and told herself sternly to stop it. She tried to concentrate on other things, but thoughts of Wendy blotted out everything else. She was on the verge of tears when she heard her daughter come down the stairs, her footsteps light.
Meg called to her, but got no answer. She called again, then heard the front door slam. Wendy was gone again. Where? Well, it wasn't hard to answer that question. And when would she be back? That was more difficult. Or would she come back at all? Meg didn't know and was too upset to try to answer herself.
She spent most of the day wandering around the house, too upset to leave, too depressed, really, to accomplish anything. She could think of nothing but her teenaged daughter; certainly there was some solution to the problem, some way to help the child. But, if there was, Meg couldn't figure it out.
The day passed, somehow, snail-like, with Meg growing more and more depressed. If only she could talk to John, she told herself. If only he were here! And then, admitting that he wasn't, that he couldn't be, she began to think, if only there were someone else to help me. Some man! Any man! Wendy needed a father, even a substitute father. And she herself needed a man's strength, his strong shoulder on which to lean.
It was late when the idea finally came to her of going to see Russ Clark, and his wife, Helen. They were Ted's parents, weren't they? And they were fine people. She didn't really know them, she admitted to herself. Still, she'd heard enough about them. Gradually the idea grew, took shape, until it seemed the most normal, the most natural thing in the world to do. She would go to see the Clarks and ask them to help her. They certainly must be concerned with Ted, as much as she was with Wendy.
She decided she would go after dinner. That would be best. And she thought of telephoning first. Then she decided against that. She didn't know what she could say to them on the telephone. On the other hand, if she turned up, and they were busy - had guests, perhaps - or some such thing - it would be easy enough for her to make an excuse and leave. It would work out; she would play it by ear.
It was still light when Meg Powell left the house. Wendy hadn't shown up all day, and she had eaten lunch alone, and then a light supper. She had a drink before she left - she needed it, she thought - and then drove off to the Clarks' place. She knew exactly where it was since she had looked up the address in the phone book before she left.
She was nervous when she reached their split-level place on the other side of town. She parked her car, and switched off the ignition, then sat there awhile, gathering her courage and sorting out her thoughts. It won't hurt, she reassured herself. What can they say to you? Why, they'll probably be glad you came around.
But what if they weren't? What if they didn't believe her? What if they turned on her, blaming Wendy? Well, she'd just have to take a chance on that, she decided. She slid from the car, slamming the door behind her, then squared her shoulders and marched up to the door.
She rang the bell and waited. When no one answered, she rang again. She was just about to leave when she saw a light switched on at the back of the house. She rang a third time, almost ready to leave now. It was strange, she thought. Very strange.
Just as she turned, and started down the steps, the door was flung open, and a gruff voice said, "Yes?"
She whirled around. There was a man standing in the doorway, his face haggard, his clothes rumpled. "Yes?" he said again.
"Mr. Clark?"
"That's me."
She walked toward the door, holding out her hand to him. "I'm Meg Powell," she said. "I wondered if I could talk to you."
He shrugged. "Why not?" he asked. And then he added, "Come in," leading her into the living room. "Sit down."
"Thank you." Meg perched on the edge of the sofa, sitting opposite Clark. Her eyes roved around the room; it looked pretty much like the homes of all her friends. The chairs were slipcovered in gaily printed chintz, to match the draperies at the picture window. The floor was carpeted wall-to-wall, in the same shade of beige that Meg had chosen for her own house. With a start, she realized that the Clarks even had a poster by Toulouse-Lautrec - almost like one the Powells had - on the wall.
Even so, there was something out-of-place in the room, something different. Meg glanced around quickly once more, and then noticed the dust on the mantlepiece, the dirty ashtrays -they looked as if they hadn't been washed in a week - the curtains that needed straightening. Mrs. Clark, she decided, wasn't much of a housekeeper. The place looked as if she hadn't lifted a finger to it in a long time.
She caught Russ Clark staring at her, blushed a little, and then said, "I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Clark. And Mrs. Clark, too."
He dropped his eyes, staring at the floor, now, fidgeting just a little. Finally he said, "Helen isn't here."
"Will she be back soon?"
Clark stared dejectedly at the floor, scuffing the carpet with his foot. When he spoke, his voice was so low it was hard for Meg to catch his words. "She isn't coming back," he said.
"Oh?"
He looked up at her, now, shaking his head. "She left me," he said bluntly.
Meg stammered, wondering what to say. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "I ... I ... didn't know. I'm awfully sorry."
"That's all right," Clark said. "I guess it's better, after all."
Meg pulled her gloves off, folded them carefully, creased the fingers one by one, drew one on again, smoothing it. She pulled it off, then found her handbag and searched for a cigarette, trying all the time to think of something to say. At last she repeated, "I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Clark."
He got up, found a match, and lit her cigarette, then lit one for himself. He sat down again, tapping his foot on the floor. "Yes," he said, "she left me. Just like that!" He snapped his fingers. "Just like that."
"And ... and ... you're all alone, now?" Meg asked.
"All alone. Except for Ted, of course. And I practically never see him, so I might as well be alone."
"It's very hard," Meg said, "bringing up children all alone."
"It sure is."
"I know. I've been alone, myself, for the past three months, you know," Meg said. She smiled diffidently at him, then catching the look of surprise on his face added hastily, "Oh, nothing like that. Like what's happened to you, I mean. John hasn't left me, and I certainly haven't left him. But he's been away, you know."
Clark shook his head. "I didn't know," he said politely.
"Oh, yes. His office sent him to Europe - can you imagine? - to Europe - for three months. It was a great opportunity for him. Yes, and a great honor, too, I guess. It shows what confidence they have in my husband, doesn't it?"
"Yes, I guess it does. But aren't you, well, lonely?"
Meg nodded. "Yes," she said, "I've been lonely. But that hasn't been the worst of it. The worst of it has been the way things have been going with Wendy. She's my daughter, you know." She picked up her gloves, began to smooth and crease them again, embarrassed to go on. Finally she added, "She's only fifteen."
"What's with Wendy?"
"Well," again Meg was embarrassed, telling her story to a man who was almost a complete stranger. But she had to; she just had to! He was as much involved in it as she was, wasn't he? Wasn't it his son who was involved with her daughter? Even so, she hesitated, not knowing quite what to say, how to explain it. Finally she said, "I thought I'd come and talk to you, Mr. Clark because you see, the other day ... " she paused again, trying to find a discrete way of putting the matter. "Well, I've been worried about her. Awfully worried."
"We all worry about our kids, Mrs. Powell."
"Yes, I guess so. But you see, I'm more worried than usual. You see ... " again Meg paused, not knowing quite what to say. "You see, I found out she was taking the Pill, the other day."
She suddenly felt her face grow hot, knew that it was scarlet. Oh, God! Why had she said that to him? He must think she was out of her mind, coming up here to tell him that.
Clark looked at her politely, obviously puzzled. "The Pill?"
Meg squirmed again, feeling an utter fool. But she had said it, and she had to go on. "Yes," she said. "The Pill. The contraceptive." Her face seemed to be on fire now, and she brushed her hand across it, as if she could scrub it white again.
"You mean she's ... ?" He, too, had no inclination to call a spade a spade. Still, he seemed sympathetic, although still puzzled as to why she had come to him.
"Yes," Meg said, knowing she had to go on, ridiculous though it seemed. "That's just what I meant."
Clark nodded sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Powell. I know how difficult this must be for you."
"It is. Oh, it is." Her eyes filled with tears and she brushed them away angrily.
"Your daughter - Wendy - she's very young, isn't she? How old did you say she was?"
"Fifteen."
"Yes. She's young." He thought about it. "You know," he said, "that's, well, 'jailbait.' "
"Yes."
He thought again.
"I know that if something like this happened to me," he said, "I'd ... why, by God ... " he had a sudden flash of anger. " ... by God, I'd break the neck of the bastard who was responsible."
Meg nodded, too miserable to speak.
"Have you thought of going to the police, Mrs. Powell?" Clark asked.
"No, I hadn't thought of that," Meg replied miserably.
"Well, I would, if I were you," Clark said. "I'd send the bastard who did this to your little girl to jail. Do that! Go after him hammer and tongs. I mean, after all, anyone who would do that to a child, why he's just no good, is he? Go after him, I say. Go to the police. And do it now!" His voice was gruff with his mounting fury, and then a sudden thought struck him. "Do you know who this bastard is?" he asked.
Meg nodded, turning away from Clark, staring at a speck of dirt on the carpet, studying it intently.
"Yes," she said at last, swallowing hard. "Yes, I do."
"Well, go after him, then!" Clark ordered. He stood looking at her, his face florid with his indignation. "What's his name?" he asked at last.
Meg hesitated, licking her lips, trying to find her voice. She started to speak, choked, cleared her throat, and swallowed again. She felt Clark's eyes boring into her, felt herself impaled on them. More ill at ease than ever, she shifted her position, trying to escape, then got up and crossed the room. She stood with her back to Clark, now, facing the logs that were stacked ready for lighting, in the fireplace. She had left her gloves on the couch, and began to pick at the polish on her fingernails.
She felt, rather than saw, him staring at her still, and was almost as uncomfortable as before.
"You know his name?" Clark asked again.
"Yes. Yes, I do."
"Well."
She swallowed again, then said, almost in a whisper, "It's Ted."
"Ted?" Clark's voice was flat, uncomprehending. "Ted?"
"Yes," Meg said. "Ted. Your son ... "
Her voice trailed off and there was a long silence, when nothing could be heard. And then, as the words struck home, Clark gasped.
"Ted," he said. "Oh, Christ! Ted."
Meg turned, saw the grief on the man's face, and her heart went out to him.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I really am."
He sat down, burying his face in his hands, "Ted," he repeated. "Ted."
It seemed ages before he spoke again. Meg stood, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, searching frantically for something to say. But there didn't seem to be anything, and she began to wish she hadn't come here. She wondered if she should leave now, quietly perhaps, not saying good-by. She moved cautiously toward the door, thought better of it, stood awkwardly before Clark again, and waited.
At last Clark began to speak, though, not looking at her although he lifted his face. His voice was even flatter than before, droning on in a low monotone.
"It was Helen," he said. "She was the one who spoiled him. That's what we quarreled about, you know. All the time, practically." There was a long pause, and then he added, "Well, there were other things, too."
Again there was a pause. Meg broke it, saying, "I didn't know, Mr. Clark."
"Call me Russ," he said. "Will you. I think I'd like you to."
"Of course, Russ."
"And can I call you ... ?" he paused, not knowing her name.
"Meg," she said. "Yes, you can call me Meg."
"She was the one who spoiled him, Meg," he said quietly. "Everything that kid wanted, he got. Things we couldn't even afford - Ted wanted it, he asked his mother, and then he got it. His own car, for example. She made me buy him that." He looked up for the first time, and managed a wry grin. "It isn't even paid for yet," he said.
Meg smiled sympathetically.
"Wendy's pretty spoiled, too," she said. "I guess it's my fault. And John's, too. He adores her, you know." She sat down, now. "I don't know what he'll say, when he finds out about ... about this ... "
Russ Clark ignored her.
"And then there were his friends," he said. "Ted's, I mean. He was running around with a wild gang - has been for a long time."
"They're pretty awful," Meg agreed. "Almost everyone has heard about them."
"They're a bunch of bums," Clark said bitterly. "A bunch of bums. I never thought my own kid would get caught up with them. But he did ... he did. And you know what happened when I tried to put a stop to it?"
Meg shook her head.
"No, what?" she asked quietly.
"Helen ... that's my wife - Helen raised the roof. She said something about how I was wounding his psyche - something like that. Can you imagine? Dr. Spock, she kept telling me - get that! - Dr. Spock, she said, thinks kids should be free to choose their own friends and to do whatever their peers are doing." He looked up at Meg, his mouth set in a grim line. "That's just what she said, would you believe?"
Meg nodded.
"Yes," she said. "I know how people feel about their children. They don't really know what to do and then they read books, and they decide that that must be the way to bring them up." She sighed, remembered the magazines she had subscribed to, the P.T.A. meetings she had gone to. And now, she thought, now!
"Anyway," Clark went on, "Helen said Ted had to have his freedom. 'Let him do what he wants to,' she said to me, every time I tried to stop him. 'Let him do what he wants to.' " He paused, staring off into space. "Of course," he said, "I guess that was pretty natural for her, that attitude. Because God knows, she did what she wanted to do. Running wild herself, that's what she was. No wonder Ted went bad."
Again Meg, wondering what to say, could only murmur, "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Mr. Clark."
There was a long silence again, and then Russ Clark said, "I'll do what I can to help you ... Meg."
* * *
Ted drove slowly along the road that led to his home.
"I don't know," he told Wendy. "I just don't know. Maybe he's there, maybe he isn't. Who knows?"
"Well, you ought to know," Wendy said. "I mean, after all, he's your old man, isn't he? And you ought to know whether he's going to be home or not. I always know where Mom is... "
"That's different," Ted said. "We can do what we want at your place, whether your mother's home or not. All she does, anyway, is sit around and twiddle her thumbs and read all those dumb psychology books and then have snits if you're out after dark."
"So, who cares?" Wendy asked, shrugging.
"Not me, for God's sake. Certainly not me. I'm only saying that's what it's like at your place."
"So that's the way it is," Wendy admitted. "So Mom was sitting up wringing her hands last night. It didn't seem to make much difference to you, did it?"
"Nothing does, kid," Ted boasted. "Especially when I'm with you. Man, I could just go on and on ... "
Wendy leaned back against the seat, her arms raised above her head, her sheer blouse tightly pulled across her plump ripe breasts, outlining the taut little buds of her nipples.
"Well," she said. "Why don't you, then."
"Here?"
"Sure, here. Why not?
"Look, you little bitch. I could do it here. It's just that it's a lot more fun where you're more, you know, horizontal. I mean, the back seat of a car is fine, and I've made out plenty of times on one. But it's just a lot more fun, as far as I'm concerned, if I've got a little more, like, elbow room."
"So," Wendy said. "Let's go find some."
"Sure. Sure. That's just what I'm planning to do," Ted said.
He turned the corner, nearing his house.
"I couldn't care less whether my Dad's home or not. If I want to take you in the living room, I take you in the living room. If he doesn't like it, he can leave. Or else he can just sit there and watch. You willing?"
"I'm willing," Wendy said.
"Okay, then."
He circled the block, driving with one hand, his other on Wendy's soft, full thigh.
She nestled her head on his shoulder, and sighed. It was great, she thought, just great, to be the girl friend of Ted Clark. He was a big man in town, the head of a real fun gang. There were plenty of girls in her class at school who would have liked to be in her shoes, she thought. Or in her bedroom slippers. She sighed again, then said, "Gee, Ted," very softly.
As they approached the Clark house, she peered out the car window, twisting her head, now, to see if Mr. Clark was home.
"There's a light on," she said. "Your Dad must be there."
"Maybe, maybe not," Ted said. "He leaves the light on in the kitchen sometimes, even when he's not around. Just forgets it, I guess. He's been like that - forgetful, I mean - ever since Mom left."
"It's in the living room," Wendy said. "Not the kitchen."
"That's funny. He hardly ever goes in there, any more. I mean, when he does, he just sits there in the dark, sort of thinking."
"Maybe he has company."
"Who? Dad?" Ted laughed. "Nobody comes to see him. And anyway, he doesn't want to see people these days."
"Well, there's a light on in the living room," Wendy said. "Just as sure as ... " she stopped suddenly, seeing a familiar car parked in front of the house next to the Clark's. "Oh, good grief! That's Mom's car!"
"What?"
"Mom's car," Wendy repeated. "Look. There!"
"What the hell is she doing up here?"
"Search me," Wendy said, shrugging. "I never even knew she knew your old man."
"Me neither. Maybe she's collecting for the Red Cross, or something," Ted suggested.
"Who? Mom? No, she isn't. Anyway, the Red Cross drive is over, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Well, what's she doing up here, then?"
"Maybe she's making it with my old man!" Ted said, grinning lewdly.
Wendy let out a little squeal of laughter, twisted free of Ted's arm, and poked him with her elbow.
"Boy," she said, "that will be the day!"
"Why not?" Ted asked. "I mean, she's human, isn't she?"
Wendy sighed.
"I wouldn't know," she said. "I just wouldn't know."
"Well, look," Ted said. "Your old man's been away, how long now?"
"Three months," Wendy said.
"So ... she hasn't been getting any, all these three months. Right? Or maybe she has," he added evilly.
"You don't know my Mom!" Wendy said.
"Well, I know my old man. And I know that he hasn't been getting any, ever since Mom left him," Ted said. "So you know what I was thinking?"
"What?" Wendy let out another little squeal of laughter, just wondering what Ted had in mind now. Never a dull moment with Ted Clark, she thought. That was what was so great about him.
"I was thinking," he said, pausing, looking at her, letting her wiggle impatiently before he told her, "I was thinking, maybe we could do your Mom and my Dad a great big favor."
"Like what?"
"Well, now, look, here's your Mom, and she's just panting for someone to slip her some, on account of she hasn't had any for so long. Is that right.
"I haven't noticed her exactly panting," Wendy said.
"Okay ... okay ... so it's a figure of speech. But she's been pretty bitchy lately, hasn't she? I mean, even more than she used to be?"
"You said it. She's on my neck all the time."
"Well ... she's frustrated. See what I mean?"
Wendy shook her head.
"Look, she isn't getting anything and she feels like hell and so she takes everything out on you. Isn't that right?"
"I guess so."
"Like my old man. Now, ever since Mom walked out on him, he's been acting like a miserable son of a bitch. You know why?" Ted didn't wait for an answer. "It's cuz his balls are aching so - you know what I mean? - he's going stark out of his mind. That's why."
"Okay, maybe you're right. But what's the big favor we're going to do for them?" Wendy wanted to know.
"Suppose my old man got the hots for your Mom. And suppose ... your Mom was willing... "
"She wouldn't be. Not her!" Wendy made a face.
"Well, just suppose that Dad offered your mother a drink. I mean, suppose that, first. Would she take it? Would she drink it?"
"Oh, sure," Wendy said. "She'd take a drink from him. She drinks, you know." And then she added bitterly, "Of course, it's a different matter if I drink."
"All right, Wendy," Ted said. "Cool it."
"Well, it is different," she pouted.
"Cool it, I said." He glared at her, and she clamped her lips shut tight. "So, your mother takes a drink, just like my father."
"So ... they drink. So?"
"So what if we've slipped a little Spanish fly into the drink, beforehand?"
Wendy's eyes opened wide.
"Spanish fly?"
"Sure. It's an aphrodisiac," Ted said. "Look, I know you're a dumb broad, and all that, but even you must have heard of Spanish fly."
"Oh, sure," Wendy said. "Sure. I know what it is."
"So?" Ted smiled at her, triumphantly.
"Well, gee, Ted, I think it's a great idea. I mean, I really do!"
He tapped his forehead significantly.
"Okay. So we slip the Spanish fly into their drinks. And before you know it ... " he snapped his fingers " ... before you know it, they'll be rolling in the hay!"
"No kidding!" Once again, Wendy's eyes were wide.
"No kidding."
"So what do we do now? Where do we go from here?" Wendy asked.
"We go right into the house, through the kitchen, and we get the bottles out of the liquor closet, and we drop the Spanish fly into them."
"Into all of them?"
"Into every motherfuckin' one!"
Wendy winced at the foul word he used, then smiled. She was grown-up, wasn't she? Used to things like that? Why, she liked to use such words herself, didn't she? Bravely she said, "Okay, into every motherfuckin' one."
"And then, later," Ted laughed, and nudged her. "Later, after it's taken effect, we'll watch them. Won't we, Wendy? Won't we?"
"Oh, Sure," Wendy said. "Of course we will. But..."
"But what?"
"Nothing," she said hastily. "Nothing."
"Okay. Let's go then." He edged the car over to the curb, cut the motor and set the brake. "Come on, Wendy," he said. "What are you waiting for?"
She opened the door and slid from the car. She started toward the path leading to the front porch, but Ted stopped her with a curt order. "The back door, for Christ's sake! Do you want them to see you?"
Wendy jumped back, ducking down now, waiting for Ted. He led her around the house, keeping close to it, hiding in the shadows of the shrubbery which surrounded it, and then, on tip-toe, into the kitchen. The light was still on there, and there were signs of disorder; unwashed dishes piled in the sink, a dish of warm, melting butter on the table, crumpled paper towels beside it. The girl stopped to look around, but Ted hissed at her, "Do you want them to see you?" and hurried her through the room. He opened the door to the laundry room. "Wait here," he ordered. "I'll be right back."
"Where are you going?"
"To get the stuff," Ted explained impatiently. "You don't think I carry it around with me all the time, do you?"
He tip-toed off again, while Wendy waited, shivering a little with excitement. What if she were caught here? What would she say? Or what if they were caught -right in the act - of dropping the drug into the bottles? But they wouldn't be, she told herself. Ted knew what he was doing. She thought of her mother getting screwed silly by Mr. Clark, and almost burst out laughing. Ted really had some great ideas, she told herself. Some great ideas! Life had been a ball, since she'd started going with him.
And he sure could fuck! It had been just great, the night before at her house, in her own bedroom, and it was going to be that way again. Yes, and again and again.
Ted was right, too, she mused. They were really doing their parents a big favor, doctoring their drinks this way. A great big favor. And boy, she could hardly wait to see them, lying naked on the couch - or maybe they'd go into the bedroom - with Clark shoving his huge cock in and out of her mother's cunt. If what Ted said about Spanish fly was true, her mother would let Mr. Clark do anything to her - anything. And then she'd beg for more. Wendy shivered again with excitement. She could hardly wait to see it.
She heard footsteps, and flattened herself against the wall. Oh, God! What if it was Mr. Clark!
But it was only Ted, who beckoned her to follow him back to the kitchen. There, working quickly and quietly, he opened the cabinet, took out the five or six bottles inside and lined them up on the counter. Just as quickly, he unscrewed the tops, slipped a small amount of the aphrodisiac into the bottles, then capped them again. He was just putting them back when he heard footsteps coming toward the kitchen.
"Well, what do you know?" he whispered. "The plan's working already!"
"It is?" Wendy was wide-eyed.
"That's Dad," Ted said. "And I'll bet anything he's coming out to mix drinks." He grabbed the girl's arm. "Well, we'd better not wait around," he said, pulling her after him. "Come on."
Chapter 3
Russ Clark thought he saw the door close, as he went into the kitchen. But he knew that couldn't be. Only he, Ted and Helen had the key to the back door. Helen was hundreds of miles away, and as for his son, he'd never come in that way in his life. He brushed the idea aside. Damn it, he thought, I've been so lonely these past weeks, I'm beginning to see things.
He was glad Meg Powell had stopped by to see him, even if she'd been the bearer of such bad news about his son. She was a fine woman, he thought, and a gorgeous one, too. For just a moment he permitted himself to reflect on her loveliness - her luscious figure with her firm high breasts, her voluptuously curving hips and thighs. Her skin was as smooth and white as alabaster, her features finely chiseled.
Her skirt had crept up over her thighs as she had talked, showing a patch of white above her stocking, and miserable though he'd been, Russ Clark had still felt a twinge of excitement at the sight. He'd been ashamed of it almost at once -this woman had come to him practically begging for help, and he'd lusted after her like some dirty old man. Still, it had been so long since he'd even looked at a woman, let alone had one, that he just hadn't been able to help himself.
Fortunately, Meg hadn't noticed, and she'd seemed pleased when he had at last suggested that they have a drink. It would do them both good, he'd decided, calm their nerves. And their nerves certainly needed it.
He plunked ice into two glasses, poured in a shot of whiskey, then added a second shot -they could both use stiff drinks, he told himself - and added soda. Then he carried the drinks into the living room.
He thought that Meg had been crying, but wasn't sure. Whether she had or not, she seemed so sad, so pathetic, that he would have liked to put his arm around her, to comfort her as if she were a child. He put that thought out of his mind, too, smiled feebly, and was rewarded with an answering smile.
He handed her a drink, and she smiled again. "Thank you. You're very kind."
"I'm glad you stopped by. I mean, it's better for me to know this, isn't it?" Clark said. "It's the only way I can do anything about it - about Ted, I mean, isn't it? I mean, if I didn't know ... " he couldn't think of anything more to say, and began to feel foolish. "Well," he said at last, holding out his glass to Meg's. "Cheers!"
"Cheers!" Meg took a sip, and made a face.
"What's the matter? Too strong?"
She choked, coughed, but shook her head. "No. No. It's all right. It's just ... I don't know. Maybe it's not the brand I'm used to."
She smiled again. She sipped at the drink once more. It was strong, she thought. But she needed it that way. It seemed to warm her more than any drink she'd had, relaxing her in a sense, too. She settled back on the couch, feeling better already. Maybe things weren't as bad as she'd thought they were. At least she'd found a friend. She was glad, now, that she had come here, had taken the bull by the horns as she'd known she should.
She glanced at Clark over the top of her glass, really observing him for the first time. He was a handsome man, she thought, strong, broad-shouldered, but lean, too, with a sunbronzed face. She wondered why on earth his wife had left him. Any woman, it seemed to her, should feel herself lucky to be married to such a man. Why, if it weren't for John ...
She set her glass down so quickly the ice rocked back and forth in it, and a few drops sloshed over the edge. What on earth was she thinking about? Just because she'd been alone so long was no reason for her to think like a common... a common whore! She felt herself blushing again, and hastily picked up her glass and drained it. When Clark suggested a second drink she accepted, only because his brief absence in the kitchen would give her a chance to compose herself.
But as soon as she had drunk it, she stood up, holding out her hand to Russ Clark.
"It's been such a help to be able to talk to you," she said. "But I have to go, now."
"Let me drive you home," Clark suggested.
"Thank you, but I have my car here."
"Doesn't matter. I can drive that."
"But ... but how will you get home?" Meg asked.
"I'll take a taxi back. Really, I don't like the idea of your driving across town alone at this hour," Clark said. "Come on."
Sitting next to her, driving her car, Russ Clark managed to run his eye over her luscious figure, noting again the firmly rounded spheres of her full breasts, teasingly outlined against the tight fabric of her dress. His glance took in, too, her full, sensuous hips, her slender, shapely legs, and the sight suddenly seemed to set his loins on fire. He felt his penis lurch beneath his trousers, and wondered if Meg had noticed the bulge there. Well, he couldn't help it if she had! She was gorgeous, and he was human, after all. Wasn't he?
And then he told himself to forget it. What kind of bastard was he, getting excited about this poor woman who'd only come to him because she had such terrible problems. Like son, like father - that was the way that adage seemed to go, now. Well, he wasn't that rotten. He would take her home, say good-night, and leave.
But her nearness was driving him out of his mind. His balls ached now, as if they were caught in a vise. He looked again at her, staring so long at the twin mounds of her breasts, outlined beneath the bodice of her dress, that he nearly smashed into a tree. From then on, and with the most strenuous effort of will, he managed to keep his eyes on the road.
But his mind was on Meg, sitting beside him, whose very presence was sending hot flames of lust licking maddeningly at his body. And long before they reached the Powell house on the other side of town, he knew he had to have her.
"This it?" he asked, at last, slamming on the brakes in front of the white Colonial house she had pointed out.
"Yes."
He cut the motor, hardly daring to look at Meg. But when she started up the path to the house, he followed her. And when she unlocked the front door and stepped inside, he followed her in, not even waiting to be asked.
She switched on the hall light, and then went on, into the living room, with Russ Clark right behind her. Oh, Christ! He couldn't wait much longer. He hadn't wanted to do this at all - he'd never even thought about it when she turned up at his place. And now he couldn't help himself. In the semi-darkness, she brushed against him as she moved past, her breasts soft and ripe against his hand. He sucked in his breath with a low, lewd sound, and then let it out slowly. He felt the pounding of his heart, seemed to hear an echoing from hers, and then suddenly grasped her shoulders, digging his fingers cruelly into the tender flesh. He spun her around, crushing her body to his, feeling the tender buttons of her nipples digging into his chest like bits of steel. He ran one hand down the soft, smooth curves of her back, then let it rest on one of the twin half-moons of her buttocks.
Meg gasped in pain as his fingers bit into her shoulder, and stood rigid and resisting for a long moment. And then she let her body go slack against his lean, firm figure. Little prickles of delight suddenly surged through her blood, and her head fell to Russ' shoulder, while she ground her pelvis up against him. Oh, God! What was the matter with her! This was wickedness - pure wickedness! The thought of her own husband, John, so far away, flashed through her mind. She was being unfair to him. Oh, God! Worse, much worse! She was being unfaithful. Just letting Russ caress her in this way was an act of infidelity, wasn't it?
She answered her own question. Yes, it was. And yet she was powerless to help herself. An intense, pleasurable throbbing had begun up between her legs, in the soft little triangle there, and it grew more and more insistent with each passing moment. Deep within her veins her blood stirred, then raced tingling through her lovely body from her head to her toes. Her now desperately aching loins seemed to burst into flame, fed by her passion.
Futilely, she struggled to regain control of herself. What was she? A whore? An adultress? Oh, no! No! Not that!
And yet she was! She trembled now, her passion growing, and once again the thought of John flickered through her conscious mind, rousing stirrings in her conscience.
"Oh, no," she suddenly murmured, burying her head against Russ' shoulder. "I don't want to ... I don't want to." But she knew she wanted this - and more - as she had wanted nothing before in her life. She was wanton, she was evil, yes. She knew it. Yet she was powerless to resist. She wanted Russ Clark to run his hands over her smooth body, to stroke it gently, arousing her still further until she finally exploded.
She wanted to take her clothes off, and stand before him completely naked. She, Meg Powell, who had never let any man except her own husband touch her, now wanted to be ... to be ... oh, dear God ... fucked ... fucked by a man who was practically a stranger to her.
She felt him now, slipping his hand into the deep "vee" of her dress, running it enticingly over the sensitive skin of her snowy breast, then easing it beneath the lacy nylon of her brassiere. He cupped one roundly swelling mound in his huge hand, squeezing and kneading it, while Meg mewled with pleasure. And then he began to roll the tiny bud of her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, teasing and taunting it until it stood throbbingly erect.
She lifted her face to his, her moist red lips parted. He bent down, fastened his mouth on hers, and then his tongue flicked out to dart into it, to force it further open until it sank deep into the warm dark cavern.
Her whole body ached unbearably with her unsatiable desire. She longed to feel his hands roaming gently over her breasts, her hips, her thighs, over the twin half-moons of her quivering white ass-cheeks. She longed to feel him, rock-hard and throbbing, as he burrowed into her narrow cuntal passage, sinking deep into her womb. She longed to clasp him there, impaled on his virile cock while she writhed and thrashed beneath him. Only then would this terrible aching cease, only then would the tongues of fire that seemed to consume her finally be quenched.
But now they burned like the fires of hell, roaring through her with excruciating pain. Maddeningly lie pulled her close again, and she ground her trembling pelvis up against his loins once more, feeling the lurching of his thickly bulging penis underneath his pants. She couldn't wait, she thought, she couldn't, knowing, instinctively, that his excitement matched her own. When? she thought. Oh, when?
And then she felt him fumbling with the zipper at the back of her dress, drawing it down to her waist, felt the touch of cool air wafted across her body. She shimmered slightly, wriggling the dress down over her hips, helping Russ, hurrying him along. As it slid to the floor, she stepped out of it, kicking the pile of printed cotton off to a corner. His fingertips played over her half-naked body, now, running over the quivering mounds of her breasts, and down over the soft curves of her belly.
Meg moaned quietly, and then slipped her own hand underneath the narrow strap of her brassiere and slid it off her shoulder.
"Help me," she begged, plaintively. "Oh, God!" And then, as Russ unfastened the hooks at the back, releasing her softly rounded breasts from the constricting garment, she sighed with relief, and murmured, "Oh, Russ! Russ! "
The sound of her own voice sent new shivers of excitement racing through her. She had called this strange man by his name, and it had seemed the most natural, the most wonderful thing in the world. She had no idea what had prompted her to speak out that way. The words had spilled out spontaneously, unthinkingly, without volition on her part. But wasn't everything she did now involuntary, too? She seemed possessed by a power beyond her, one seemed moved like a puppet on a string, a pawn on a chessboard. And she knew only one thing - that she had never felt such excitement, such pleasure, such ecstasy.
She tangled her hands in Russ' hair, pulling his head forward until his lips touched her throbbing breasts, and his tongue flicked out to run lightly over the tender white mounds. He fastened his mouth over a tiny nipple, then took it deep into his mouth, swirling his tongue over it, sucking at it like some exotic bonbon. Meg moaned again, again murmured, "Russ, Russ, oh, dear God!"
She seized his hand, twining her fingers into his, then drew it half the length of her body, to just below her waist. There she guided his fingers beneath the tight elastic waistband of her almost transparent panties. She seized his other hand, drew it over her tender flesh in just the same way, helping him insert it, too, beneath the flimsy nylon fabric, then stood perfectly still as he edged her panties down over the fully blossomed curves of her hips.
She stood before him, naked now except for her high-heeled slippers, her stockings, and her garter-belt, while her eyes closed blissfully. When she opened them, she saw that Russ was tearing at the buttons of his shirt, unknotting his tie, stripping off his clothes as he had done hers. Her slim fingers darted out bird-like to help him, to ease his shirt and undershirt off. He struggled out of them, dropped them on the floor, and then quickly, clumsily, unbuckled his belt. Now his hand found the little metalic pull of the zipper and yanked at it. With Meg's help, he eased his pants and then his undershorts down over his hips. As his thick cock sprang free, she gasped, then grasped it in her hand, curling her fingers around it.
Russ groaned, and trailed his hand over her magnificent breasts, down over her gently swelling belly, over her firmly rounded hips. His touch seemed to kindle anew the fires which had raged before, fanning the flames higher, until once more she seemed consumed by them. When she felt a few warm drops of moisture seep down between her legs from her hotly pulsing vagina, and guided Russ' hand there, to the very lips of her throbbing cunt.
She looked down, and saw that she was still wearing her shoes and stockings. She didn't want that, she thought. She didn't want that at all! She wanted to be naked for this man, completely naked. She bent over, and tugged at her garters, pleading, "Take them off. Take everything off. Please Russ. Take everything off!"
Quickly he bent down, unhooked the garters, pulled the nylons off, helping Meg to slip off her shoes, as well as the garter belt at the same time. She stood before him a moment and then whispered hoarsely, "Where? Where?"
Russ shook his head. "There?" he asked. "On the couch?"
"Yes, oh God, yes!" Suddenly she changed her mind. "No. No, not here. In the guest room."
"Where is it?"
"This way. Oh, Russ. Russ! Hurry. For God's sake, hurry!" She darted across the room, through a door, and down a hall. She opened the door at the end of it, and switched on a tiny night light. "Here," she said. "Oh, my God!"
He followed her in, followed her across the room. And then he pulled her down on the bed, pushing her backwards, until she lay spread out on the white coverlet. As her legs splayed out, he dropped to the bed himself, poised, kneeling, above her recumbent body.
* * *
Ted Clark, hidden in the shrubbery around the Powell home, peered through the window, a lascivious grin twisting his thick lips. "Oh, God, Wendy," he whispered. "This is good. I mean, man, it's really good."
"Yeah? What's going on?"
"They're standing there in the living room, and my old man is naked as a jaybird. I mean, honest, man. He's naked as a jaybird. "
"Yeah? What's he look like?"
"What the hell do you think he looks like?" Ted asked contemptuously. "You know what a naked man looks like. What are you asking for?"
"Sure I know," Wendy said. "But you know. I mean, what does he look like?"
"Oh, that!" Ted said. "Man, he looks like a bull or something. What I mean is, he's got the biggest cock you ever saw ... "
"But I didn't see it," Wendy complained. "Move over, Teddy body, and let me have a look."
"You can't see anything, Wendy. You aren't tall enough."
"I could see if you moved."
"No, you couldn't. Anyway, I don't want to move." He peered through the window again, then laughed coarsely. "He's got the biggest cock you ever saw, and it's sticking straight out in front of him, too."
"And Mom?" Wendy asked. "She naked, too?"
"Practically."
"What does that mean? Is she or isn't she?"
"She's only wearing stockings and shoes," Ted said. "And now she's talking to my old man, she's telling him something ... oh, Jees! She's making him take her stockings off, too." He turned to Wendy, winked lewdly, then turned back to the window. "Any minute now, kid," he said, "he's going to be shoving that cock of his right smack into that hot little pussy of hers."
He was silent for awhile, still staring. By the dim light of the moon, Wendy could see him licking his lips lasciviously. "What are they doing?" she asked. "Now what are they doing?"
"My old man is running his hands all over your Mom. And now ... wait ... I can't see. Oh, Jees! She's saying something to him, and he's pointing to the couch. I think he's going to screw her on the couch. No, she's shaking her head."
"Maybe she's not going to let him screw her," Wendy said, her voice filled with disappointment. "Maybe that stuff you put in the whiskey ... "
"Spanish fly."
"Maybe the Spanish fly didn't work!"
"Sure it did," Ted said. "It always does." He turned, pressing his face against the window pane. "They're going somewhere," he said.
"You mean they're getting dressed again?" Wendy was incredulous now.
"Noooo! They're both naked, but they're going somewhere. They're not staying in the room."
"The guest room, maybe?"
"Yeah," Ted said. "I guess that's it." He stepped back from the window. "Let's go watch," he said. "You got the key."
Wendy unlocked the door, and they tiptoed through the house. As they approached the bedroom, they heard Meg's moans of pleasure, Russ's groans coming from it. "They're in there, all right," the girl said. Slowly, carefully, she turned the doorknob and pushed the door slightly ajar. "Oh, my God! Look!"
Ted moved closer, standing behind her in the doorway, peering over her head, to see his father kneeling up over Meg's prostrate body, running his hands again over her smooth white skin. They roved lewdly from the wildly heaving mounds of her breasts over down her quivering belly, then to the soft little triangle of pussy hair at the base of it. Slowly he parted the sparse dark curls, exposing the moist red slit of Meg's impatiently waiting vagina.
Wendy sucked in her breath at the sight, and her mouth fell open, gaping. "Ooooooh!" she finally sighed. "Look at that, would you?"
"I'm looking, kid," Ted said. "Man, they're getting me all excited, too. You, too?"
"Yeah. Me, too," Wendy said.
"How'd you like a little screwing?" Before she could answer, Ted moved so close to her that the full length of his body pressed hard into her back. His arms shot out, encircling her, and he began to massage her breasts, at the same time that his father began to stroke the tiny red bud of her mother's clitoris. As the boy cupped the young girl's breasts, teasing them in a circular motion, she squirmed back hard against his loins. She could feel a stiffness growing under his pants, pressing through her dress into the crevice of her buttocks. The grating of the bunched material against her tiny, sensitive anus sent beginning spasms of excitement coursing through her blood.
She began to rotate her hips, undulating rhythmically, and then felt a faint breath of cool air wafting across her as Ted pulled down the zipper that ran down the back of her dress. His hands slipped into the opening, briefly stroked her bare midriff, then snaked around her lovely young body, pushing her tight, restricting brassiere up and away from her full ripe breasts. Again his hands cupped the resilient mounds, squeezing and kneading them, massaging the sensitive little nipples until a cry of pleasure-pain escaped Wendy's open lips. He pressed forward with his pelvis, sinking the still-clothed length of his stiffening penis into the comfortable split between her trembling buttocks.
Wendy pushed her quivering ass-cheeks back tight against Ted as she watched her mother on the bed in front of her, the woman's face a lust-contorted mask. Ted's father's thick, fat cock stood straight out from his belly now, with the rubbery, scarlet head just a few inches from Meg's widespread vagina. With a quick flick of his wrist, he shoved his middle finger deep between her openly splayed legs, skewering it up into the moistly glistening hole of her cunt. She jerked as he twisted and turned it, teasing the wet sensitive cuntal walls until she began to pant and gasp with pleasure.
Wendy, watching from the doorway, jerked too as she reacted to Ted's maddening fondling of her lithe young body. She began to breathe heavily as one of his hands left her breast to trail a slow, teasing path down her soft, unresisting belly. He inserted it beneath the narrow elastic waistband of her panties, and let it slide down, down to the base of her belly, now, teasing at the dark little "vee" of pubic hair that covered the tiny triangle there. His hand played for a moment, then suddenly curled down into the moist, warm slit between her legs. A fingertip brushed gently at the tiny bud of her clitoris, and it sprang immediately to quivering life, sending new thrills of pleasure coursing through the teenage girl's body.
His hand curled still farther down, to part the soft wet lips of her vagina and snake its way up inside the tight elastic opening of her cunt. As it did, Wendy ground back against the rigid hugeness of his cock, pressed deep now into the perspiration-moistened crevice of her buttocks, throbbing as if it had a life of its own.
There was a passionate moan, now, from the bed on which Meg lay, and then Wendy heard her mother's breathless voice pleading, "Oh, fuck me, Russ. Fuck me ... f . . u ... c . . k ... me!"
The teenager watched as her mother, drugged beyond reason, grabbed his rock-hard penis with her slim hand, curling her fingers around it, and began to slide the thick foreskin slowly, tantalizingly back and forth, back and forth, while her body quivered and trembled visibly with her excitement.
"Oh, my God!" Meg groaned. "I want you to fuck me!"
With her hand still wrapped tightly around Russ' thick blood-engorged penis, she guided it to the small glistening hole up between her legs. There was a lewd wet, sucking sound as abruptly he withdrew the finger which had been sunk deep inside her cunt, and then he planted his hand firmly over the woman's hand still grasping his cock. Together, they guided it forward to the tender hair-fringed vaginal lips, parted them with the huge bulbous cock-head, and forced it up inside the tightly clenched ring of flesh that guarded the entrance to the secret depths of her womb.
With a sudden forward thrust, Russ speared deep into the moistly streaming pussy while Meg moaned out her exquisite pleasure. She opened and closed her eyes, glazed with sheer lust now, and spread her thighs even wider to receive the huge instrument fucking into her. It plunged in the last remaining inch, and brought a weird little explosive gasp from her.
She'd never been fucked like this before, Russ thought, never been fucked this deep! He felt the soft fleshy ridges of her cunt deep inside her giving way before his lust-crazed assault. The soft, cock-split walls of her pussy now held him in a squeezing clasp that gripped him tightly, and he thrust in again, until his giant cock rammed against her tender cervix. It made Meg gasp as if the wind had been knocked out of her, and then she began to mewl with pleasure, moving obscenely back and forth on his thick, impaling rod.
In the doorway, Wendy stood motionless, mesmerized by the sight of her mother - her own mother - "that square", she breathed - fucking so lewdly on the bed - and then she felt Ted lift her own dress above her hips, bunching it around her waist, and then draw her thin white nylon panties down over the cheeks of her ass. They fell to the floor, and he hissed, "Step out of them!"
"What?" She scarcely knew where she was, scarcely understood what was said to her.
"Step out of them!"
Still not understanding, Wendy did as she was told, while a rush of cool air grazed her backside, completely, lewdly exposed to Ted now. And then she heard the metallic rasp of a zipper, as he opened his fly, and his own virile cock burst free. She felt him push his pants and shorts down to his thighs, and then he dropped to his knees, and ran his hot, moist tongue the entire length of her perspiring anal crevice.
Wendy groaned as he flicked the tip of his tongue into the tightly puckered ring of her anus, and then she screwed her buttocks back in small circles, as an almost overpowering excitement mounted in her. She had never had a man - a boy - anyone - do this to her before! And she had never known that such lewd, wild pleasure existed. She trembled like a leaf in the wind until at last he slithered his tongue back up the moist crevice again, to the base of her spine.
Ted Clark stood up and then suddenly pressed the huge swollen head of his penis into the temptingly deep split between her buttocks. His hands closed around the tops of her thighs, gripping them tightly, squeezing them into tight balls. "You do it, too!" he suddenly ordered.
"Do what?"
"Put it in. Like your Mom did with my Dad's cock."
"Oh ... Teddy!"
"Come on. Put it in!"
"I'll ... I'll ... try!"
"Damn right you will!" Ted said coldly.
Almost frightened by his tone, Wendy reached back between her legs and closed her hand over his penis, then placed its huge, throbbing head up against the wetly pulsing lips of her vagina. Suddenly she felt her thighs swept apart, and Ted's thick cock burrowing into her tight little pussy.
On the bed, Ted's father thrust deep into Meg Powell's warmly clasping cunt, withdrew, and then fucked in again. He quickened his strokes now, straining his cock forward into her with all the strength of his hips and thighs, and then his hands slipped beneath the rounded moons of her buttocks, raising them up.
Meg moaned, and wound her legs up around his hips as he continued to thrust into her. The powerful drug she had swallowed in her highball such a short time before had turned her into a lust-crazed demon - little more than an animal. "Fuck me harder," she suddenly gasped. "Oh, God! Fuck me harder!"
For answer, Russ sent the full lust-inflamed length of his huge, throbbing penis smashing into her nakedly exposed vagina. His body dropped heavily on top of hers, crushing her breasts beneath his chest. As he withdrew, still one more time, his lewdly glistening cock pulled thin soft ridges of her pink pussy flesh out with it, clasping his penis hungrily. And still again he fucked deep, deep inside her.
She was straining to cum, now - the warm female secretions of her vagina were beginning to flow, and there was an obscene wet sucking sound from the in-and-out sawing movement -and then, with a groan that seemed to emanate from the depths of her body, she began to vibrate uncontrollably.
At the same moment, the white-hot sperm boiling in Russ Clark's aching balls seemed to explode, to spurt forth the length of his fiery hot penis and burn its way along until it erupted like flowing lava, shooting deep into her frantically writhing womb. She bucked and twisted desperately beneath him, thrusting her hips, her buttocks up hard against his loins, while the walls of her cunt sucked hungrily at his throbbing cock. At last it gave a final spasm, and then he collapsed across Meg's body, while she, too, gave a last jerk and quivered to a limp stillness. Her legs splayed out to the sides, and one, like a dangling arm, hung loosely over the edge of the bed.
As Wendy watched, she felt Ted behind her, gasping and panting, and he began to rock gently in and out of her softly receptive vagina. "Oh, God!" she whimpered. "Go on! Go on, Teddy boy! Go on!"
She began to undulate her buttocks against the long thick cock fucking into her from behind, moving them in lascivious little circles while he speared in and out with long, hard lunges. He gripped her thighs harder, squeezing the soft, tender flesh until she clenched her teeth with the pain. He plunged forward, plunged deeper, and Wendy felt the wiry pubic hair around the base of his penis brush teasingly against her nakedly backthrust ass-cheeks. Her face was contorted with passion now, with lust, just as her mother's had been a moment before, and she gasped out her ecstasy as Ted fucked relentlessly into her soft, receiving belly. The smooth velvet folds of her vagina held him, squeezing tightly around his thick rigid column, until it seemed that she could feel every tiny spot of skin on his lust-engorged young cock.
Now she gave herself to Ted completely - she was his girl, wasn't she? - screwing her buttocks up tight against his pelvis until his sperm-bloated balls pressed with tantalizing tightness, into the wet crevice beneath her vagina. The soft smooth skin of his testicles slapped lewdly against her naked thighs, sending shivers of ecstatic joy racing through her like thunderbolts. As he speared in and out, pink folds of glistening wet flesh clung tightly to his thickly pistoning cock.
Again his rock-hard penis jabbed deep into her sensitively flowering vagina, bringing low moans of pain to mingle with her moans of bliss. And then, even as she held Ted's hotly throbbing cock deep in her aching cunt, she heard the rustle of his clothes as he stripped off his shirt, and thrust his pants and undershorts the rest of the way off his legs. His hands pulled, tugging, at her cock-split thighs and buttocks again, pulling them so far apart she was sure he would rip her in two. The fiery rod of male flesh stabbed in again, as Wendy ground back on it, impaled. She was nearly ready to cum., and was almost out of her mind with the tingling excitement deep inside her. Her half-naked body, glued back against Ted's, was wet with perspiration now, and then she felt the moisture begin to flow, seeping slowly at first, and then gushing forth like a spring freshet to flood the soft, sensitive walls that sheathed Ted's hugely gorged penis.
At almost the same time, the teenage boy himself sobbed forth a long, low groan that swelled ominously to half-fill the silent hallway. He began to spew his boiling sperm deep up into her hot slippery passage, gushing into her in great torrential spasms. She felt his lewd thick semen pool and mingle with her own orgasmic juices, and for a long moment seemed joined to him in the most basic act, the most fundamental of all: copulation. There was nothing in the whole world but their two thrashing, writhing bodies, the ecstasy of their mutual climax, the fulfillment of each by the other.
And then as his penis deflated with each spurt, he gradually withdrew, and the warm fluid trickled down the narrow furrow between her buttocks, flowing over the soft, smooth skin of her inner thighs. With a final gasp, Wendy, all energy spent, her mind a blank, but her blood seemingly filled with downy feathers, slipped to her knees on the floor, and then slid forward, her body unfurling like a flag. She lay for a few minutes stretched out, blissfully unaware of anything but her own sense of pleasure, until at last Ted took her arm and dragged her to her feet. "We'd better get the hell out of here," he said, jerking his head toward the bed on which Meg and Russ Clark still lay, their bodies obscenely entwined.
He pulled his girlfriend away from the door, and closed it softly behind them. As he did, Meg's eyes fluttered open, and from the corner of one she saw the slight motion of the closing door. The thought penetrated her lust-deadened mind that someone had been watching them. But she was too exhausted by the lewd degrading act she had just performed to even wonder who it had been. She sighed deeply, then turned over, closing her eyes again and falling into a deep sleep.
Chapter 4
When Meg awoke, she was alone. She yawned and stretched sleepily, feeling as peaceful and contented as she ever had in her life. She wasn't quite sure why - she just knew that she felt wonderful. Maybe the weather had something to do with it, she thought, as she slipped from bed and raised the window shade to let the sun pour in.
"It's a beautiful day," she told herself. And she felt, too, that she could somehow face everything and anything, now. Oh, she had problems - plenty of them, she admitted to herself. But who didn't? And if they didn't let other people get them down, why should they get her down?
She pattered into the bathroom and turned on the shower, then slipped off the robe she had thrown around her. She stepped under the refreshingly cool spray, and began to sing as the water coursed over her lovely shoulders, down across the twin mounds of her snowy breasts, running in little rivulets in the valley between them. It flowed quietly over the soft, smooth plane of her belly, down over her hips, then teased delicately at the tiny tangle of dark curls between her legs.
She soaped herself, running her hands down over her sides, dimly aware that Russ Clark had caressed her there the night before in almost the same way. Russ Clark? She stopped her tune in mid-song, trying to remember. She had been alone this morning, when she had awakened. And the night before seemed long ago, the events already dim and fading from her memory. And yet, as she focused her clearing mind on them, they became vivid again.
But it couldn't be true, she told herself, quickly. It must have been a dream she'd had. Yes, that was it. A dream. Well, she thought, she must really be desperate for a man, if she could get such pleasure from what was nothing but a reverie, and an unconscious one at that. She sighed, thinking again of John. It wouldn't be long now, she told herself. And she would be so glad to see him again. She hoped he wouldn't go away again. It had been so hard this time, being a grass widow. And she had to admit that she had longed for him in the most sensual way possible, been driven half-mad, at times, with sheer lust. Yet, she told herself smugly, she had been completely faithful to her husband, except for her dream of the night before.
She began to sing once more, throwing her head back, warbling like some cheerful canary. Still singing, she stepped from the shower, wrapped a thick, thirsty towel around her, and began to pat herself dry. She dusted herself with powder, too, using a huge, downy puff, and then sprayed lemon-scented cologne over her breasts and shoulders.
She hurried back into the bedroom, pulled on panties and a brassiere. She considered stockings for a moment, then decided against them, and slid her bare feet into a pair of Mexican sandals. Then she slipped a frilly white blouse over her head, and zipped up the gaily-colored cotton skirt she had taken from her closet. After running a comb through her hair, and painting her mouth in a fresh, happy red, she went downstairs.
Wendy was in the kitchen, hunched over a bowl of cornflakes set on the table there. "Good morning, darling," she said, flashing a brilliant smile her way. The girl grunted something incomprehensible into her bowl of cornflakes, and continued to chew on them sullenly.
"Did you sleep well?" Meg went on. This time there was no answer at all. She ignored the silent treatment she was being given. "Would you like some eggs, honey?" she asked her daughter. "And bacon?" I'll put it on for you if you like."
This time, at least, the girl answered her. "No, she said curtly.
"Well, I think I'll have some," Meg said briskly. "Sure you don't want any?"
"Oh, for the love of Pete," Wendy said. "I already said `no', didn't I?"
"Just thought you might have changed your mind, darling," Meg said.
She bustled about the kitchen, opening the refrigerator, getting out eggs, butter, and bacon. She started to hum the tune she'd been singing, before, then turned suddenly to see Wendy staring at her with an expression of scarcely concealed scorn. Her eyes, Meg noticed, were hard and cruel, the corners of her mouth drooped unpleasantly. "Anything the matter?" she repeated.
"Not with me," Wendy said, her voice almost a snarl. "Anything the matter with you?"
Meg shook her head. "Oh, no," she said. "I feel fine. I really do."
"Why?" Wendy demanded.
"Why not?"
"That wasn't the question," Wendy said. "I said 'why'?"
"I suppose it's because it's such a lovely day," Meg said, tossing her head back, her hair flying out around her. It caught the sun, and gleamed like polished metal. "And it's because Daddy's coming home, soon, too," she added. "I've missed him, Wendy. Haven't you?"
"Sure, I've missed him," Wendy said. "But you ... " she paused dramatically, and her eyes bored cruelly into her mother's smiling ones. "But you ... well, you've had Mr. Clark around to keep you company."
"What do you mean?" Meg said.
Her eyes wide and puzzled. Had Wendy seen her at the Clark house the evening before? Was that what she had in mind? Meg herself remembered that well enough. Russ had been so kind to her, so understanding of tier problem. She remembered having a drink with him, too. But why shouldn't she have had? There was nothing wrong in having a drink with a friend, was there? She even remembered that he had driven tier home, because he was worried about her safety. She had been grateful for that. too. She had to admit that there were muggings and robberies even in this normally peaceful, sleepy town. Things just weren't what they used to be, with young people running wild, drinking so much, taking drugs. She sighed, wishing the pendulum would swing back, that people would be kind and trusting and helpful, the way they'd been when she and John first moved here.
But hadn't Russ gone home, almost straight away? She remembered his saying something about a taxi, and even remembered that he'd come in the house with her. What for, she wondered, a bewildered frown wrinkling her lovely brow. Why, to call a taxi, of course.
The frown deepened, as her eyes met her daughter's.
"I only saw Mr. Clark for a little while last night," she explained patiently. "I had something important to talk to him about. That was why I went there."
"And why did Mr. Clark come here?" Wendy asked.
Meg still spoke calmly, patiently.
"He merely brought me home, honey. You know, it isn't even safe to walk the streets here in Hartsdale any more." She sighed, as if to ask what the world was coming to.
"And why did he stay?"
"Stay?"
Russ Clark hadn't stayed, Meg told herself firmly. What had happened - and she blushed to think of it - had merely been in her dream. Surely Wendy wasn't so endowed with occult powers that she knew what happened in her mother's dreams!
"But he didn't stay, Wendy," she said. "He just came in for a minute to make a telephone call ... "
"Yeah?" The girl's face was twisted in a sneer.
Meg was beginning to lose her patience.
"Yes," she said. "Wendy, what on earth is the matter with you?"
"There's nothing the matter with me, Mom. It's you. And you know, I'm beginning to worry about you! I'll bet Dad will, too!"
"Oh, now, Wendy! Aren't you being a little bit ridiculous? Just because Mr. Clark came in to make a telephone call ... "
"He didn't come in to make any telephone call. He came in to make you!" Wendy's eyes narrowed with sly laughter.
A little prickle of horror seemed to flick at the base of Meg's spine, and then to move slowly, chillingly up it. Why, this was eerie, this was supernatural. Wendy knew her dream! She remembered reading about mental telepathy, about ESP. There had been experiments made in some of the great universities, by eminent professors. Well, this was certainly a case for them. Not that she would ever have breathed a word of it to a living soul - not when it cast such a sordid reflection on her, and on her daughter, too.
The horror seemed to spread through Meg's body, tensed as if against an expected blow. She stared at her daughter's face, at her insolent expression, at the sheer hatred hidden now beneath her half-closed eyelids. What on earth was happening to her - to both of them? She had had a dream - an evil, lascivious dream. And somehow Wendy knew about it. That was all that had happened. That was all!
Yet how could it be? Was there, perhaps, something in what the girl said? Was there some grain of truth? Oh, no! God no! Meg suddenly caught her breath, and the horror engulfed her in a freezing wave, washing over her from head to toe. She felt as if she were drowning, being swept out to sea, helplessly tossed about like a bobbing cork. She tried to fight her way free of the engulfing wave, to keep her head above it. And yet she seemed to be going down ... down ... down.
She held out her hand to steady herself. Her head began to reel, and her life to pass before her eyes. It wasn't true, she told herself. This, too, was a dream, a bad dream now, a nightmare. And then, as the breaking wave crashed against her again, she knew that it was reality. This, at least, was happening to her. Wendy was sitting opposite her, no apparition, but real flesh and blood. And if the girl was real ... ? The question began to form in her mind, and she brushed it away.
No, the other was not real. It was a dream. It had never happened. Never. NEVER! She closed her eyes, and once again remembered the dream. She was standing before Russ Clark - Russ Clark - a stranger, almost - a stranger - letting him run his hands up and down her as if he possessed her. And then she was letting him strip her naked - pulling off her dress, first, then her brassiere, her panties. And she had helped him! She had made no protest at all, even at the beginning. Oh, she had known what was in his mind! She had known he was going to fuck her. Yes, that was the word - fuck her! And she had wanted him to, and had helped him, in the most brazen ways possible. She was evil and wanton, no better than the most common whore. No, she was worse than a whore. Whores were poor, unfortunate creatures who were forced into their depraved, degraded way of life by circumstances over which they had no control. They were wretched women, too, battered by fate to earn a living in only that way, and so forced to sell their bodied to the lewd men who were as depraved as they were. But she had merely been weak. And she had wanted to be ... to be ... fucked ... yes, fucked - she sucked in her breath as the crude word registered on her brain - had wanted to take this man's huge cock deep inside her, feel it twisted and turned, filling her belly with its hard fleshy length.
It was a dream, she told herself again and again. A dream. But Wendy's face told her she was lying to herself. It had been no dream, but something as real as the flesh over which she now ran her hand in her agony. Suddenly she covered her face with her fingers and began to moan, "No, no! Oh, my God, no!"
She heard Wendy's voice then, in a terrible parody of her own, such a short time before.
"Anything the matter?"
She shook her head, as she seemed to feel Russ Clark lewdly pawing at her breast again.
"No," she said. "Nothing's the matter. Nothing at all!"
She closed her eyes, trying to blink back the tears welling up in them. Oh, dear God, she prayed silently, don't let me break down. Not now. Not here in front of Wendy. The girl stared at her, her eyes burning into her flesh like red hot pokers, and then she asked, in a voice as sharp as a buzz-saw, "Let's level with each other, Mom, shall we? Just this once?"
"Level" with her? How could she? How could she admit the terrible thing she had done. She searched for something to say, finally mumbling, "Honey. I just don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm talking about telling the truth. Calling a spade a spade. and all that sort of thing."
"But Wendy ... " Meg began.
The girl interrupted her.
"What do you think Dad will do?" she asked.
Meg tried to cover the panic she felt by acting bewildered.
"Do?" she asked. "Why, he's coming home, and he'll do everything he did before. And in just the same way, too. Oh, won't it be wonderful to have him home again, Wendy?" Her voice rang false, like a counterfeit coin.
"Oh, sure," Wendy said, "as far as I'm concerned, it's going to be great. But you!" She paused, her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand. "I think Dad's going to be pretty disappointed in you, Mom. Pretty damned disappointed. I mean, he's probably had this special idea about you. You know, sitting here, eating your heart out for him. That's probably what Dad's been thinking about you."
"Well, I have been awfully lonely, Wendy," Meg said, trying to brazen it out. "You were lonely too, weren't you, darling?"
Wendy ignored the question.
"Of course," she went on, "when I tell him what I saw last night ... "
Meg tried to control the panic in her voice.
"What did you see? What did you see?"
"I saw you and Ted's old man," the girl answered, cool as a cucumber, "the two of you stark naked in the bedroom. And he was screwing you silly." She laughed bitterly. "You were lying there with your mouth open and your legs spread out, just screaming for him to ram that thick cock of his into your cunt!"
She lowered her lids, staring at her mother, waiting.
Again Meg tried to bluff.
"That's a rotten thing to say," she snapped. "A rotten thing!"
Wendy shrugged her slim shoulders.
"It was a rotten thing to do," she said.
Meg chewed on a fingernail, trying desperately to fight her way out of a corner.
"I didn't do it. Oh, Wendy. You know I didn't."
"I thought we were going to level with each other," Wendy said. "You know. Tell the truth for a change."
"I am telling the truth," Meg lied, her voice tinged with hysteria. "And I deny everything you're saying. You're making it up, Wendy. You know you are."
Wendy's eyes narrowed with hatred as Meg recoiled in fear. What if the girl struck her? Seized a weapon, perhaps, or tried to kill her? As if reading her thoughts, the girl rose, stepped forward menacingly. Meg tried to duck, but the girl seized her forearm, gripping the tender flesh with an almost incredible strength. She gasped with pain as her daughter's sharp fingernails clawed cat-like into her, cutting deep, bloody scratches across the white skin.
The memory of Russ Clark's fingers clawing cruelly into her shoulders the night before came back to her with vivid horror. How had she ever convinced herself that it had been a dream? How? How? She shuddered, wrenching free of Wendy's grasp, and covered her face with her hands, beginning to sob.
"Oh, God," she moaned as the scene passed through her mind, with every lewd, hideous detail clear as day.
She backed away from Wendy, and collapsed, crying bitterly, on a chair.
The girl followed her mother, her posture still menacing. The hatred had faded from her eyes, to be replaced by a look of withering contempt.
"You whore!" she spat at her through clenched teeth. "You whore!"
"Oh, no! No, Wendy. Don't say that. Don't! You know it isn't true."
"What isn't? You know damned well Mr. Clark screwed you silly last night." She seized her mother again. this time by the shoulders, and shook her savagely. "Isn't that true? Isn't it.
Meg, her hands still hiding her face, and sobbing softly now, nodded feebly.
"Yes," she said at last in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "It's true. Oh, God, it's true."
"Boy, it's going to break Dad up when I break the news to him!" Wendy sneered.
"Wendy! You wouldn't!" Meg dropped her hands, and raised her horror-stricken eyes to meet her daughter's cruel ones. "Oh, no," she begged. "You wouldn't, darling. You wouldn't do that to me?"
"Why not?"
"It would almost kill him."
"You should have thought of that last night," Wendy said cooly.
"Yes ... no ... I ... " Meg was too confused, too miserable to speak coherently, even to collect her thoughts. "Oh, Wendy. I don't know what happened last night ... "
"Do you want me to tell you?"
The child's words slashed through the mother's mind like a razor blade.
"Oh, no. No! That isn't what I mean. I just don't know ... know..." the distraught mother searched for words. "I don't know why ... why ... I ... I ... did such a thing. I'm not like that, Wendy. You believe that, don't you? You do believe it?" Her eyes pleaded silently, pitifully, for mercy.
"Sure, I believe it," Wendy said arrogantly. "But do you think Daddy will?"
Meg flinched, as if she had been struck, and a look of terror crossed her face.
"You're not going to tell him, are you?" She barely whispered the words. "You can't really be planning to tell him."
"Oh, yes I can!" she said.
"Oh, Wendy! Please. Please! I'll do anything - anything on earth ... "
"Yeah?"
Meg had flung the words out in panic, but now a ray of hope pierced the hitherto unrelieved gloom, the sense of despair that had pervaded her whole being.
"Yes," she said. controlling her sobs, now, although her body still trembled with fear. "Oh, dear God, yes!"
"Anything?"
The sobs subsided.
"Anything," she said quietly.
Wendy shrugged.
"That's great, Mom," she said.
"What would you want me to do, darling?"
Meg was standing now, still wringing her hands, but otherwise outwardly calm. But a terrible feeling of guilt gripped her tightly around the throat, making it hard for her to breathe.
Wendy's mood seemed to change with the swiftness of light. She smiled and patted her mother's hand.
"Let's do something together, Mom," she suggested. "Have fun. You know."
Meg breathed an audible sigh of relief. The girl was showing good sense; she was sensitive, too.
"That's a great idea," she said with false cheer. "What would you like to do? Dinner out, tonight? And a movie after? I think there's something good at the Bijou."
Wendy shook her head.
"Sounds square," she announced.
"Well, what would you like to do, honey?"
"I'd sort of been counting on going to the party over at Joe Marshall's place," she said. "Want to come along?"
Meg's heart sank.
"Joe Marshall? I didn't know you knew him, Wendy."
"Sure I know him."
"But Wendy ... "
Once again, she stammered, searching for words.
"But what?"
"Joe Marshall is ... is nothing but a ... "
She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence. Whoremaster? Was that the word? Pervert? Sex fiend? Something of the sort, she thought. And dear God, he was scarcely more than a kid.
She remembered the stories she'd heard about him, remembered that he'd been in trouble of some kind or other for years. No respectable girl would even speak to him, let alone go out with him. And now Wendy was inviting her to a party at his place.
"Oh, no," she said, shaking her head. "I couldn't go to Joe Marshall's place. And you mustn't go there, either, Wendy."
"I'll go where I damned please," Wendy said, her eyes narrowing once more, her mouth twitching contemptuously. "And you'll come along."
"No. Absolutely not."
"Yes."
"No, Wendy." She sighed, tired of the constant battle with her daughter, worn out by the conflicts of the day. "Let's go to a movie," she suggested again, knowing before she spoke that she was fighting a losing battle.
"I want to go to Joe's party."
"Well, I don't. And I'm not going there." Meg spoke calmly, but firmly.
"You're going, Mom."
"No."
"Yes."
"You can't make me."
"You want me to tell Daddy about you and Mr. Clark?"
Wendy's face was cruel now, the face of a malicious child, an evil, sadistic young woman.
Meg shuddered. The sheer hopelessness of her position suddenly dawned on her. She was in Wendy's power, now, and would be for the rest of her life. There was no exit, no escape. She would be forced to do the child's bidding, no matter how depraved her demands. And they would be depraved; she knew that well.
She closed her eyes, imagining what would be in store for her, even tonight, at Joe Marshall's place. She would be forced to watch every lewd act conceivable. She could see the boys and girls, the men and women, their naked bodies entwined, thrashing about, writhing in the ecstasy of their lust-incited climaxes. She would see ... suddenly her mind went blank, with the horror of the idea which struck her. She would see, yes! But the others would see, too. They would see her, Meg Powell, in every perverted act Joe Marshall - urged on by Wendy - would demand she perform. And he would dem and every perversion he could think of. She had heard of such things - of women being forced to suck a man's penis until his white-hot sperm spurted forth into her mouth. That would happen to her. She knew it! Oh, she knew it! She would have to swallow the thick liquid, licking up the last drops that dribbled from the corners of her mouth.
There were other things he would make her do. She would have to lie back on the bed, her legs spread wide, while some man knelt over her, his head poised above her naked loins, his tongue darting out lizard-like to lick the pink-fleshed lips of her throbbing vagina. He might even make her do things with two men at the same time! She shuddered, her head reeling. The room was hot, the evening warm, and yet she was chilled to the bone. Her teeth chattered, and icicles formed along the length of her spine. She would have to do it, she knew. Tonight, and then again. And even again, from here on, until these evil creatures had had their fill, and she was tossed aside, broken in mind and body.
She would have to do it.
She looked up at Wendy, and struggled to her feet, swaying slightly before her. With a supreme effort of will, she held herself erect. She squared her shoulders, and her own eyes met those of her daughter.
"All right, Wendy," she said quietly. "You win. I'll go."
* * *
Russ Clark awoke late, showered quickly, and dressed hurriedly. He was in the kitchen, drinking a cup of thick black coffee, his mind miles away, when a noise startled him. Looking up, he saw Ted staring at him from across the room, his lips curled contemptuously, an evil expression in his narrowed eyes. When at last he broke his silence it was to ask coldly, "Have a good time with her, last night?"
Startled, not thinking, Clark began, "With M ... " He clamped his mouth shut so hard his back teeth ground together. Christ! Did Ted know? Well, if he didn't, he'd have a good chance of finding out, if he weren't a little more careful, if he went around shooting his mouth off. And Jesus, he'd nearly done it that time!
But Ted couldn't know. Christ, no. He had only thought so because he was all tensed up, feeling guilty about doing a rotten thing like that to Meg Powell, last night. But she'd wanted it, too. She'd been hot as a firecreacker, ready to explode. And God but she'd been good. She must have wanted it as much as he did. Even so, he knew she'd be feeling guilty as hell right now. She was a decent woman, not like that bitch Helen. It was just a case of two lonely people. What was that line in those crummy plays and movies, ten, twenty years ago? "This is bigger than both of us." Well, it didn't seem so corny, now. Because it had happened. They'd been lonely, and miserable, the two of them. And it had seemed the most natural thing in the world, and he didn't regret it at all. He wouldn't do it again, though. There was too much chance of someone's finding out, and making trouble. By God! If anyone tried to make trouble for that poor woman, he'd have him, too, to contend with, Clark told himself. He sure as hell would.
His thoughts were interrupted by the rasp of Ted's voice.
"Well," he said, "have a good time with her?"
Clark gave his son an oblique look.
"With who?" he asked guardedly.
"That broad you were screwing last night," Ted said. He advanced toward his father. "Looked like Meg Powell to me."
"You mean it wasn't Mrs. Powell? You mean you fucked someone else over there in her house, in her bed?"
Clark's heart sank. So Ted did know! How had he found out? Christ, how? And if Ted knew, did any one else? If they didn't, he thought, they would soon. He sighed, feeling sick, disgusted. When people found out ... oh, Christ! He looked up, realized that Ted was still standing there, staring at him, waiting for his answer. He swallowed, and cleared his throat.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
"No?" Ted sneered.
Suddenly, Clark flew into a rage, his face red as a beet, the cords of his neck quivering like stretched ropes.
"Shut up," he bellowed. "Just shut up, will you?"
Ted flashed his father a cruel, gloating look, that said as plainly as words, well, Dad, I won this one. He tossed his head, triumphantly. He would make the old man crawl, he thought. He would make him grovel. It would serve him right, the bastard. Christ, he'd been pushed around enough by the old goat. And now he could turn the tables, drive his old man half-crazy, and get exactly what he wanted from him, too.
"Sure," he said. "I'll shut up ... for a price!"
Clark felt as if he'd been hit, as if the breath had been knocked out of him by a heavy blow to the solar plexis. He tottered unsteadily, then sat down heavily on the nearest chair. That was blackmail, he told himself. And he wasn't going to stand for it. But even as the thought raced through his tormented brain, he knew that he would pay off his only son. He would do it to protect Meg Powell. For a brief second, he felt almost heroic, a knight in shining armor, protecting a woman's honor. And then he forced himself to face that reality, too. He was doing it for Meg; oh, sure he was. But Christ, he had to save his own skin, too, didn't he?
He passed his hand across his brow, wiping off the beads of sweat that had gathered there. Whatever Ted's price was, it wasn't going to be cheap. Goddamnit, he thought, for the thousandth time in the last few months, this was all his wife's fault. If Helen hadn't spoiled their only child rotten, he wouldn't have run wild the way he had. And if he hadn't run wild ... but Christ, what was the use in thinking about that. A groan of sheer misery escaped his lips. He was being blackmailed, and by his own, his only son. He stared at the floor, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a cork on the surface of a lake. He tried to speak, and found he couldn't. He sat there where he was, while the memory of Meg Powell's voluptuous body flicked through his brain. He heard the seconds ticked off on the electric clock that hung on the wall, an age between each one. His eyes swept the room, lingered on the clock, drifted to the door, lingered there as if by merely staring at it he might somehow escape through it. And a long while later, when at last he found his voice, he groaned. "What is your price?"
"I want money."
"That figures," Clark muttered. "How much?"
"Whatever you've got," Ted said.
"Well, I haven't got very much. Your mother saw to that. Goddamn her, she took me for practically everything I had."
Ted shrugged his shoulders, and Clark winced. Christ, the kid not only acted like his mother, he looked like her! Even his gestures were the same.
"I'll take the rest," he said cooly.
Well, that figured, too.
"I don't doubt it," Clark said, almost to himself.
He stared, as helpless as before, at his hand, examined his fingernails with the utmost care. And then he heard the door slam.
He cupped his hands, now staring into them as if they were a crystal ball. He could see the past in it, and see the future, too. And the future looked very, very dark.
Chapter 5
Meg Powell sighed deeply, and her frightened eyes met their image in the rear-view mirror. The butterflies were swarming in. her stomach again, as they had been all day. It had been a long day, too, perhaps the longest in her life. Even now, she felt as if she were walking the last mile, instead of driving to a party.
She adjusted the mirror, and caught Wendy's reflection in it. Her expression was smug, and it added to Meg's terror. If the girl was already gloating, what would she do later, after shaming and humiliating her mother? The distraught woman began to tremble.
Wendy noticed that - she would notice everything, from now on, Meg thought - and shot her mother a sidewise glance.
"Something wrong?" she asked, her voice almost gleeful.
Meg shook her head and choked back the sob in her throat.
"No," she swallowed hard. "Nothing's wrong." What on earth could be wrong, she asked herself bitterly. Wasn't life going to be beautiful - just beautiful - from now on? Oh, hell! God damn it all, anyway. You don't have to rub it in, she admonished herself sternly, adding, Meg Powell, I think you're a masochist. And if you are one, you're going to have a ball from now on. Life's going to be hell, and that ought to make you happy. So happy you'll never know what hit you. And then she ordered herself to knock it off.
She concentrated on the road, trying to block out all thoughts but those of driving, following Wendy's directions almost automatically.
"Take a left here, Mom. And a right at the stoplight." And then at last the words which were like a death sentence. "Here we are."
Meg parked the car, and set the brake. When she followed her daughter up the path to the house, her knees buckled, almost giving way. She steadied herself, and fixed a smile on her face. It seemed to give her the courage to walk the rest of the way. Even so, she was trembling as she stood waiting for Wendy to ring the bell, and then for the door to open.
She noticed as she stepped inside that the lights throughout the house were turned down low. It made the place seem even more sinister than she had imagined it to be. The only bright spot in the living room was the bar at the far end of it. Meg followed Wendy to it, heard herself being introduced to several people whose names she didn't quite catch, and then to Joe Marshall. Fear clutched at her heart as she looked up into his evil, dark little eyes, saw his lips curled in an ugly mocking sneer. He glanced at her quickly, glanced away, and then stepped back, to let his eyes rove lewdly over her body. Oh, God! He was looking at her, appraising her as if she were livestock he was considering buying - a filly to add to his stable, perhaps, a heifer to add to his herd.
He licked his lips lasciviously, and his eyes gleamed with lust. Meg shuddered, and brushed her hand across her breast involuntarily, as if some dirty little bug were crawling there. Even after he wandered off, she flicked at the imaginary bugs, feeling dirty and degraded already.
She noticed people looking at her out of the corners of their eyes. But no one spoke to her, and she stood, twisting her wedding ring nervously. She stepped closer to the bar, wishing someone would at least offer her a drink. She really needed one, she thought. A good stiff one, to give her strength for what she was certain was to come. At last she found a glass herself, dropped a couple of ice cubes into it, and poured herself one.
The drink made her feel a little better, and she finished a second one, too. It suddenly occurred to her that she'd had nothing to eat all day - nothing but her breakfast coffee - and she realized then why the drinks had gone straight to her head. She shrugged; it was better that way, she thought. If only she could get drunk enough so that she wouldn't know what was happening to her - drunk enough to blot out the shame and terror now, the memories later. She wouldn't have such luck, though, she told herself bitterly. She couldn't even count on something as simple as that.
But there wasn't any reason not to try, was there? She marched grimly back to the bar, poured a straight Scotch this time, then downed it. Her head was beginning to spin, her stomach felt a little queasy, and she found a chair and sat down on it, crossing her legs primly. She could at least act like a lady, she thought, and the idea struck her as funny. She laughed shrilly, and was startled at the sound of her own voice.
She began to feel sleepy; her head began to nod. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, there was a man standing beside her. She recognized him as one she had met earlier, one of those whose names she didn't catch.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Howard Hughes," he answered.
"Really? I'm Meg Powell."
"Well, now, hi, there, Meg Powell," he said.
"Are you really Howard Hughes?"
"What do you think?"
Meg wrapped her arms around herself, grinning foolishly.
"I don't think so," she said. She shook her head, pondering. "You know what I think?" she asked, her words blurred by alcohol. "I think you're drunk!"
"You know what I think?" the man inquired. And when Meg shook her head, he said, "I think that makes two of us."
Meg was silent, for a while. At last she said, "What's your name?"
"Howard Hughes."
"No. You said that before."
"Okay. So I'm the Duke of Windsor."
Meg studied his face carefully.
"You don't look like him," she said at last. "What's your real name?"
"Can you keep a secret?" Meg nodded. "Well, I'm really Harry Truman ... " Meg made a little face " ... but around here they call me Hank Goodman."
"My name's Meg Powell," Meg said.
"Yeah," Hank said thoughtfully, "you told me that already."
"Did I?"
Goodman nodded.
"Yeah." He, too, was silent for a while. Then he asked, "You having a good time, Meg?"
"I s'pose so." Again she was silent, trying to think. But her head was whirling now, and it had begun to ache, too. "Am I s'posed to have a good time?" she asked, plaintively.
"Sure you are. It's a party, isn't it?"
For the third time, Meg answered, "S'pose to..."
"Tell you what," Goodman said. "If you're not having a good time, I'll fix things so you will."
Meg opened her eyes wide, trying to focus them, but Goodman seemed to move forward and back. She squinted, and he faded out of range. She opened them again, and managed to catch him in a weird, distorted close-up.
"How you goin' to fix things?" she asked.
"Got me some little happiness helps," he answered.
"Like what?"
"Like these cigarettes. Ever try them, Meg?"
She tried to remember. Finally she shook her head.
"Nooooooooo."
"No?" Goodman's eyebrows shot up. "Baby," he said, "you don't know what you're missing."
He held one out to her, and she looked at it with an expression of mixed curiosity and disgust on her face.
"They're brown," she said. "And skimpy." Still faintly disgusted, she took one. "What brand is it?" she asked.
"Brand new brand," Goodman told her. "It's called 'Hashish.' "
"Hash Eesh?" Meg took the cigarette Hank had lit for her, and inhaled deeply on it. "Tastes funny, too," she said. She began to laugh, her voice unnaturally shrill. "Hash Eesh. That's a funny name."
Goodman watched her.
"Hey," he warned. "Take it easy. That stuff's strong."
Meg took a couple of quick puffs, and then, following Goodman's example, inhaled deeply again, holding her breath as long as she could. She wasn't quite sure what was happening to her now, but everything seemed different. Everything seemed suddenly beautiful, too. The music that floated up from the basement playroom was rich and full, and although the song was an old one, and the record, one she had heard a hundred times, it wasn't quite the same. She heard new and wonderful things in it, sounds she had never dreamed of. The room she was in looked different, too. Everything in it seemed clear and bright. She saw colors she had hardly noticed, and found them lovely. Best of all, she felt completely relaxed, felt she could do anything she wanted to. She was certain she could fly away like a bird, or swim like a fish. She looked up at Goodman and smiled.
"Hash Eesh is for happiness," she said, and it seemed the most profound statement ever made.
And she had said it ... she, Meg Powell, had thought of it, just the way those philosophers with the long names she could never remember said things that people remembered for years and years and years.
"So you're happy, Meg?" Hank asked, and she nodded, smiling, pleased with herself. He smiled back, then said. "I know something that will make you happier still."
It took a long time for his words to sink in -the whole world was moving in slow motion now - but when Meg understood at last, she asked, "What?"
"Follow me. I'll show you."
She got up slowly, feeling like a ball of yarn unwinding as it rolled across the floor, and followed Goodman out of the room. He led her downstairs, to another room, where there was another bar. There were more people here than there had been upstairs, and she saw Wendy was wandering around, seeming to float, too. Ted was over in a corner, and Hank led her straight to him.
"You know Ted Clark, don't you?" he asked, as he edged away toward the bar.
Meg nodded. Of course she knew Ted Clark! He was Wendy's friend. She had a vague memory that she had been angry with him for some reason, but she couldn't quite remember why, right now. Anyway, that was all past. Now she wasn't mad at anyone in the world. She loved everyone in it. Everyone.
And Ted was such a nice boy. He was like his father, and Russ Clark was a nice man. Meg shivered, suddenly remembering the way he had stripped her naked in her own living room the night before, had run his hands over her voluptuous body, sending thrills of excitement coursing up and down her spine. Just the thought of it sent new thrills through her, started a tingling sensation up between her legs, lighting little fires of desire in her belly. Oh, dear God! She wondered if she really was a wicked woman, a wanton creature. She puzzled over the problem, but could make no decision. All she knew was that she felt good - felt even better than she had when she had first smoked that funny cigarette.
Anyway, she told herself, she wasn't going to do anything, not tonight. She had felt so awful all day long - so guilty - that she just wasn't going to do anything she shouldn't, anything that would make her feel guilty again.
She looked at Ted's face, and was answered with an evil glance from him. His lips curled back over his teeth, just the way Joe Marshall's had, earlier, and some of the fears that had been overcome by the effects of the drinks and the drugs began to crawl back into her consciousness. They would expect her to watch the most lewd, the most lascivious acts, wouldn't they? And then go beyond that, to perform them herself?
But she hadn't seen anything upstairs to shock her. Nothing like the scene she had watched when Ted was kneeling over Wendy's naked body on the bed, his tongue flicking out over her tender pink flesh, his virile young cock jutting out and teasing at the glistening pink hole of her vagina. And nothing like the scene that the two youngsters must have seen, just the night before, when she herself lay beneath Russ Clark, writhing and moaning and thrashing about on the bed while his thickly throbbing penis speared in and out of her own softly clasping cunt. Maybe she'd been wrong, after all! Maybe Joe Marshall wasn't nearly so evil as she had thought.
She looked at Ted again, and smiled once more, then caught the eye of Hank Goodman, striding toward her now.
"Hi, Meg" he said, slapping her on the back. "Having fun?"
"Having fun," she admitted.
"Like my little happiness help?"
She nodded vigorously, and then, with a new shock, realized that he had slipped his hand into the neck of her blouse and was drawing his finger across the snowy mound of one breast, easing the sleeve down over her shoulder at the same time. She sucked in her breath as a little ripple of wicked delight spread through her. He slid his hand beneath the filmy nylon lace of her brassiere, cupping one swollen white breast in his hand, squeezing and kneading it until a maddening burning sensation bubbled in her belly, then spread through her, making her loins ache. She let out her breath with a low whispering sound, and then began to shake her head helplessly. This was wrong, she told herself, and yet, for a moment, she was powerless to stop it.
But she must! She must! She shook her head, now, backing away from Hank.
"No," she whimpered. "Oh, noooooo!"
"Why not?" Hank asked, continuing to massage the tender flesh of her breast.
He trailed a finger over it again, then began to roll a tiny brown nipple between his thumb and forefinger, teasing the small pointed bud into a taut erection.
"Why not?" he asked again, continuing to torment the soft smooth skin of her breast with one hand while with the other he cupped her chin, lifting it to his face.
His head flicked forward, and suddenly he fastened his thick lips cruelly over her own warm moist mouth. His tongue darted out to force it open, to press its way inside until it seemed to her that it reached almost to her throat. She gasped for breath, close to suffocation, struggling to free herself. Her heart was pounding like a tom-tom as she at last pushed Hank away from her, sucking in the life-giving oxygen she needed so desperately.
"Oh, don't," she gasped, brushing at his huge hand that still massaged her breast beneath the tight blouse, the restricting brassiere she wore. "Don't! Don't!"
Hank shrugged, still pawing lwedly at her breast.
"Turn-about is fair play," he said.
"Wh ... wh ... what d ... d ... do you m ... m ... mean?" she stammered.
"I mean, I made you happy, didn't I?" Meg nodded. "So now it's your turn to make me happy. And Teddy, over there. You can make him happy, too. You can make the whole world happy, if you want to."
Meg thought about his words. What he said seemed right ... so right. Wasn't that the golden rule? But what he wanted her to do was wicked.
"I want to make you happy," she said at last. "I do. I really do. But I can't let you do that to me."
Hank shrugged again.
"Okay. So I won't do it. Will you do anything else I want, to make me happy?"
Meg breathed a deep sigh of relief.
"Oh, yes," she murmured. "Anything. Anything but that."
"Okay," Hank repeated. He turned brusquely, giving her a sharp glance that sent a chill of fear through her. "Promise."
Why not, Meg asked herself. He had practically promised not to do anything evil or wicked to her. Hadn't he said "anything else?"
"Yes," she said, nodding. "I promise."
A lewd grin spread across his face, a lascivious gleam brightened his eye.
"Come on, then."
"Where?"
"In here," Hank said, leading her across the room, and opening the door to another one.
It seemed to be a bedroom, and Meg saw with surprise, that the walls were lined with mirrors, and that there was a mirror on the ceiling. Hank switched on a lamp, and she looked up, to see her own face staring down at her. And then she caught sight of Ted Clark, standing behind her, with Wendy behind him. The girl had a curious expression on her face, one Meg had never seen before. She seemed to flit into the room, and around it, noticing nothing. Her eyes were glazed, and she walked as if, as if ... Meg puzzled over it. Why, she walked as if she were in a dream, of some sort. She might have been sleep-walking.
"What's happened to her?" she asked Hank, nodding at her daughter.
"On a trip," he said laconically.
"On a trip?" Meg was as puzzled as before.
"Yeah. LSD."
Meg gasped. That was a dangerous drug! She'd seen something about it in the newspaper only the night before. And now Wendy had taken it. Oh, my God. She trembled slightly, her heart plumetting while a cold fear gripped her.
"LSD," she repeated. "That's a drug!"
"So?" Hank's voice was cynical.
"But ... but ... Wendy's been taking drugs!" Meg's voice was shrill, frightened.
"Who hasn't?"
Meg threw her head back proudly.
"I haven't," she boasted.
Hank's lip curled in mocking amusement.
"What do you think hashish is?" he asked.
Hashish? Meg had heard of marijuana, of course. And heroine, and LSD, but not hashish. Her eyes darted from one to the other, the frightened eyes of a hunted, and now trapped animal. She had to get out of here. She simply had to. She whirled around suddenly, and broke toward the door.
Hank's hand shot out, to catch her brutually by the shoulder.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he spat at her.
"Home," Meg said, her voice shrill, almost a shriek now. "I'm going home. And Wendy's coming with me."
"You are like hell. You're staying right here. And you're doing what we want."
Panic-striken, Meg shook her head.
"I'm not!" she screamed. "I'm not."
Hank shook her savagely.
"Shut up. You're going to cooperate with us ... or else ... "
"Or else what?"
"Or else you'll be sorry." Hank pushed her over toward the bed, and she stumbled, falling to her knees beside it. "We'd like to see a little show," he said, his eyes more evil than ever. He licked his lips lasciviously. "We sure as hell would."
"Show?" Meg whimpered.
"Sure. The kind of show you put on the other night for Teddy here, and Wendy."
Meg stared at him speechless, shaking her head. She hadn't! She hadn't! Hank was an evil man, and he was making up these terrible lies, just to frighten her. Suddenly she began to scream hysterically, sobbing out the words. "I didn't. I didn't! I would never do such a thing."
Hank's lips curled again in a cruel sneer. "Cool it," he said. As Meg subsided, sobbing softly now, burying her head against the bed, he added, "The show you put on with Teddy's old man. Remember?"
Meg shook her head, moaning now.
"Well, Teddy and Wendy remember, don't you kids?" Before they could answer he went on, "and we just thought we'd like to see a repeat performance. Only with Teddy, this time around."
Meg's body was racked with her deep but quiet sobs.
"Oh, no," she whimpered. "No. No!" She lifted her tear-stained face to Hank. "You promised," she said pitifully. "You promised."
"I promised I wouldn't do anything to you," he said in a dull flat voice. "And I'm not going to, I don't get my kicks that way, Meg. I'm what you might call a voyeur. I just like to watch. And, to be frank with you, I've been looking forward for a long time to seeing Teddy here screw you silly." He yanked at her arm, jerking her to her feet. "Take your clothes off," he ordered in a voice of steel.
"No," Meg screamed. "No!"
"Then I will," Hank snarled.
He grabbed at her roughly, ripping the blouse off her, the little pearl buttons shooting off in all directions. Meg screamed again, and. he slapped her across the face, sending her reeling back against the bed.
"Shut up!" he ordered.
"NO!"
Hank slapped her again. "I said `Shut up'." He watched, impassively, as her face crumpled with pain. "Now look, Meg," he went on. "I'm going to do something for you, just because I'm such a decent guy, see? I'm going to give you your choice." He paused dramatically. "I'm going to let you decide whether you co-operate with us or not. If you don't co-operate, Teddy, here, is going to fuck you silly, and we'll tell your husband about you and his old man, to boot." He paused again.
"And if I do co-operate?" Meg asked, choking back her sobs.
"If you do co-operate," Hank said, licking his thick lips lewdly, "then Teddy's just going to fuck you silly." Meg got to her feet, swaying, her knees about to buckle under her. He couldn't do this to her, she told herself. He couldn't be so cruel, so inhuman. Oh, God! Even animals didn't torture other animals this way. She stood up and caught the sadistic sneer on his face, and then felt weak again. This man could do anything, she knew. Anything at all that would hurt her.
The world seemed to whirl around her, the light from the lamp shining into the mirrors, the reflection shining back into her eyes, almost blinding her. She heard Hank bark out a command, but stood numbed by terror, unable to follow it. The command came again, this time accompanied by a slap across the face, and Meg desperately willed herself to comprehend the words. "Take off your clothes!" The words finally penetrated her shocked mind, branding themselves deep upon it. And then at last, moving like a robot, she began to comply. Her blouse already hung about her hips, torn and tattered. She eased it and her skirt down off them now, almost sick with her shame and degradation, while Hank's lewd laugh split the silent air. She stood before the trio, clad only in her brassiere and panties. Her face was scarlet, her eyes had filled with tears which spilled down her pale cheeks. Humiliated almost beyond endurance, she crossed her arms over her breasts, trying to shield herself from the lewd stares of the others.
Suddenly she heard Ted Clark's vicious snarl. "For Christ's sake, Mrs. Powell, get a move on, will you? I'm just about ready to cum in my pants, for God's sake."
Hank laughed raucously, and then rasped, "Hear him, Meg? Hurry it up!" His hand shot out as if to strike another blow, and Meg, with a little cry, ducked, stepping out of his reach. She fumbled with the clasp of her brassiere, her fingers, clumsy with fear, tearing vainly at the metal hooks. "Oh, God," she said, bursting into tears again. "I can't. I just can't."
Ted stepped forward. "There are easier ways," he said. With a quick, brutal gesture, he ripped the bit of lace from her, crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room. Meg felt the rush of cool air across the tender pink flesh as her full ripe breasts were released from the tight band of cloth. Ted sucked in his breath as her full, ripe breasts sprang free, then drew a grubby forefinger over one of the snowy, quivering mounds. His touch set a ripple of involuntary excitement coursing through her, sparked off a tingling between her legs, an aching throb in her belly.
Ted teased at the tiny bud of her nipple, coaxing it into rigid hardness. Suddenly he pulled her close to him, grinding his loins against her pelvis, and then his head slashed forward and he fastened his lips over the quivering red tip of her breast. Meg's knees wobbled, and she was afraid she might collapse and fall to the ground. She backed away, bumping against the bed, and her fear-glazed eyes wandered around the room. She noticed that one or two other men had drifted into the room, staring lewdly at her, licking their lips lasciviously.
Someone in the back began to chant drunkenly, "Take `em off! Take `em off!" and the words throbbed in Meg's tormented mind, thundering like the rush of an on-coming train. She closed her eyes, and the chant continued, taken up by the others now, to the rhythm of their clapping hands. As the sound swelled, the tempo of the chant increased, and then she felt Ted slide his hand down her trembling body. He slipped his fingers beneath the thin elastic waistband of her nylon panties, stroking the white half-moon of one quivering ass-cheek, sending another tingle of excitement coursing through her fearfully tensed body.
There was a round of applause as Ted eased the flimsy panty-fabric down over her hips, her thighs, then let them fall to the ground, to bunch around her ankles. Once again the chant began: "Take `em off! Take `em off!" while Meg stood, listening, bewildered, too frightened to move. A quick, hard push from Ted set her reeling backwards, once more, bumping again against the edge of the bed. Losing her balance, she sat down heavily on it, stifling a scream. Instinctively, she pressed her thighs together, hiding as best she could the tangled triangle of dark pubic hair at the base of her belly. She folded her arms across her breasts, struggling to conceal the twin mounds from the lecherous stares of the crowd. Oh God! How could these evil people degrade her in this way? Had they no decency whatsoever? A tear slid down her face along the crease beside her nose, tickling unbearably, yet she knew she would expose herself if she lifted a hand to brush it away.
She huddled on the bed as the second hand of a little gold clock on the dresser swept around, clicking faintly. She closed her eyes, hardly daring to breathe, as she waited for whatever horrible fate these crazed, inhuman beasts had in store for her. For a moment the idea flashed through her mind that she would - she could -resist. She would never, never submit to Ted Clark, she told herself. But what could she do? She was far outnumbered and would be easily over-powered.
Reason? Couldn't she reason with them? She opened her eyes, and knew from the lust-maddened expression on Ted's face that he would no more listen to her than fly. She sighed pitifully, closed her eyes again, and waited, trembling, for the ordeal to begin.
She heard the metallic rasp of a zipper being pulled down, and then the rustle of clothing being removed. Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw Ted wriggling out of his sweatshirt, unbuckling his belt, pulling off his pants. He stood before her for a moment dressed only in socks and cotton shorts, while he ran his tongue over his lips in gloating triumph. With a start of pure horror, Meg saw the huge bulge beneath the knitted white fabric, saw the lurch and jerk of his swollen, rock-hard penis. Oh, dear God! He would be so big - so big! She knew he would. And she would be forced to take that enormous rod of hardened flesh deep inside her. She couldn't! She just couldn't!
With a sudden war whoop, like that of an Indian chief, Ted snatched violently at his shorts, pulling them off, while his stiff young cock sprang forth to freedom like a far-flung javelin. Meg gasped, her eyes widening with shock! She had known he would be huge! She had known. But she had never, in her wildest imagination, been prepared to see a cock this size! Good Lord! It must have been eight inches long, and as thick around as a baby's arm. She screamed again, then felt herself being pulled from the bed, and pushed to the floor on her knees.
She looked up, to see Ted towering over her, the blood-engorged head of his huge penis poised a few short inches from her trembling lips. Oh, dear God! He wasn't going to ... "No," she screamed. "No!"
Ted grinned obscenely down at the pathetic kneeling figure. "Ever suck cock before?" he demanded cruelly.
Meg shook her head, turning away. But Ted grabbed her by her flowing hair, tangling his hands in it until she screamed with pain, and pulled her around to face him again. Christ, Ted thought, this bitch was half out of her mind with fear already. He liked that. He liked seeing a woman grovel before him, liked making her crawl, making her beg. It gave him a sense of power that nothing else in the world did. Even when he tripped on hashish, or, better still, LSD, he didn't get the lift he got out of degrading a woman. Especially a prude like Meg Powell. This was going to be good, he thought. It was going to be the greatest.
He remembered that he had asked Meg a question, and waited an instant for her answer. He jerked brutally at the handful of hair he still held. "I asked you a question," he said. "Answer me, will you?"
"Oooooh! Nooooh!"
"No? What no?"
"I've never ... never ... " Meg stopped, unable to bring herself to use the obscene expression. "I've never done what ... wha ... what you said."
"Yeah? And what did I say, Mrs. POWelI?" Ted demanded. He tightened his grip on her hair, pulling on it until she was afraid he would pull it from her scalp. The pain was unbearable, and Meg screamed, "Oh, God. God! Don't! You're killing me!"
Ted watched her impassively as tears streamed from her eyes. "Yeah?" he grunted. "Maybe I will, if you don't tell me what I said."
Meg stared at his little fox-like face, at the narrow green eyes filled with hatred and contempt that bored right into her. He would do it, she thought. This vicious boy was capable of anything! "You asked me if I'd ever... ever sucked cock," she said, the words tumbling out in quick succession. "Sucked cock," she repeated, like a phonograph record. "Sucked cock."
"Have you?" he cut her short with his curt question.
"No! Oh, dear God! No!"
"Time to learn," he sneered. He caught her head between his two hands, holding it now in a vise-like grip. He pulled it forward, until her lips grazed the rubbery scarlet head of his penis. A thin trickle of male pre-cum oozed from the tiny slit at the tip of it and trailed across her mouth, dribbling down to her chin. He shoved his hips forward, and the blunt end of his penis pressed against her moist, tight-clamped lips. She struggled desperately to turn her head, to escape the rock-hard flesh, but Ted held her too tightly for her to move. He tried to press the throbbing pole-like mass into her mouth, but she resisted with the strength of an ox, the fury of all hell.
With a quick, angry gesture, he grabbed her face, cupping her chin, and then pressed his thumb and middle finger into her cheeks, squeezing them painfully. He forced her mouth into a pointed pout, squeezing it still harder until her jaw gaped open. Without warning, Ted rammed his hard erect cock between her moist red lips, sending it in so deep that it seemed to brush the back of her throat. Meg gagged, trying desperately to swallow, to suck in the air she desperately needed. It seemed impossible, and she flailed about like a fish out of water, impaled on the huge, hard instrument.
Her eyes had filled with tears again, before she managed to free herself, to breathe. And then she felt Ted's huge thick member spear deep into her mouth once more, plunging halfway down her throat, the full length disappearing into her lewdly ovalled lips almost to the hilt. His balls slapped harshly against her chin, the soft fuzz covering them tickling like a light airy feather.
She struggled to breathe again, catching small gasps of air as he withdrew. "Oh, God!" she groaned, as the sudden sense of her degradation overwhelmed her.Here she was, before all these people - her own daughter among them - on her knees, being fucked - fucked - in the most obscene way possible, in her mouth! She had never known such evil before, such sheer depravity, and now, dear God, she was a part of it.
Shocked by the very thought of what she was doing, she fought back her disgust, and began to feel the tiny waves of involuntary pleasure that somehow, despite her most desperate efforts, spread thrillingly through her. Cautiously at first, and then with increasing abandon, she sucked at the cock in her mouth, her cheeks hollowing and filling with each cruel thrust. She had never, even in her wildest dreams, thought of sucking cock, and now, in her drug-induced haze, she slowly gave herself willingly to the weird, perverted act.
Her tongue swirled around the iron-stiff rod probing deep inside the warm wet cavern of her mouth, exploring every recess. It licked voraciously at the blood-filled head, the tip probing hotly into the glans on the end.
Her lewd actions sent crazy little whirlpools of delight surging through her naked body, setting her belly on fire. The tingle between her legs increased, throbbing until she thought she would go out of her mind.
All thoughts were gone now except those of the maddening joy that came from this wicked thing she was doing. Her husband, John, was forgotten. All the moral strictures which had been impressed on her throughout her life seemed to have flown out the window. There was nothing now, nothing at all but the maddening ecstasy that enveloped her, setting her blood on fire.
She sucked crazily at the spearing lance of male flesh, as if she could milk it dry. Oh, God! If only it would shoot its warm sticky load into her mouth. She wanted to swallow his obscene white cum, she wanted it to run down her throat and fill her stomach.
And then Ted lunged forward still another time, burying his thick cock to the hilt in her madly sucking mouth. He emitted a wild groan, and then exploded, spurting the pungent liquid forth in great gushes. She swallowed quickly, voraciously, to keep from choking on the thick milk-like substance, gulping it down crazily. She fastened her lips around the jerking, ejaculating rod, closing them tight so as-not to lose a single precious drop. Even so, small rivulets of it ran from the corners of her mouth and dribbled across her chin as Ted collapsed in front of her, withdrawing his deflating, dangling penis.
Meg licked frantically at the thin sticky strings of semen which he trailed across her chin, and a sudden feeling of desperate frustration swept through her. Oh, God! The fire still burned in her loins, the triangle between her legs ached and throbbed with unsatisfied desire. She screamed out her anguish, sounding like an alley cat on the back fence at midnight. Oh, God! Why didn't someone fuck her, the way she wanted them to? Why? Ted had sunk to the floor, all energy spent, seeming lifeless except for his now heavy breathing that was the aftermath to his incredible climax. Yet she was as tense as a fiddle string tuned too high, every muscle and sinew in her body tight and quivering. Oh, God! She screamed again, and began to beat her tiny clenched fists against the bed.
She heard voices behind her, heard Wendy say, "Oh, my God! Look at Mom! She's like a cat on a hot tin roof." Heard a man's gleeful voice answer, "Christ, she's hot as a firecracker."
And then she felt a pair of hands slipped beneath her arms, felt herself being lifted from the floor on which she still knelt, being dumped unceremoniously on the bed. She twisted her head, and saw through her lust-crazed eyes the boy she had been introduced to earlier, Joe Marshall. A momentary fear chilled her, and then she knew nothing but gratitude. She had to be fucked. She had to. She had to feel a thick cock deep in her belly, twisting and turning and sending sparks of indescribable pleasure shooting like comets to the tips of her fingers, the soles of her feet, trailing a path of fire behind them. And Joe was ready and willing and able! She sank back on the bed, making no protest as he grasped her brutally by the wrists and ankles, stretching them out until she lay obscenely spread-eagled before him.
As she watched, panting in anticipation, he quickly stripped off his own clothes and tossed them on the floor. He stood for a moment beside her, his young body lean and strong, and her eyes wandered to the thick shaft of his penis, quivering in a stiff erection in front of him. She could already feel the moisture seeping between her legs in her wild excitement, little drops of it running over the smooth pink flesh of her inner thighs. She stared up at Joe's evil face, twisted now with the most lascivious expression she had ever seen, and silently begged him to hurry.
He caught her glance, and leered at her. "Mrs. Powell," he barked, "I'm going to screw you until you can't walk. Think you'll like that?"
Meg groaned, tossing her head, and then Joe flung himself on the bed, half-kneeling above her, and ran his hands over her smooth white flesh. They cupped the two full mounds of her magnificent breasts as he tweaked the nipples between his fingers until they hardened beneath his teasing caress. She shifted beneath him on the bed, moaning softly now as her blood stirred with her mounting passion.
His hands slid away from the satin-smooth mounds of her breasts, and one grasped his thick shaft-like penis and stroked it slowly, while the other roved lecherously down over Meg's heaving belly to the soft fleshy folds of her cunt below. His maddening fingertips playing over her defenseless nakedness coaxed her flesh into an even hotter sheet of desire, and then he slithered down over the full length of her body to crouch above her milk-white thighs. With a quick sharp motion that sent a shaft of pain winging through her and made her utter a little scream, he seized her ankles and pulled her thighs brutally apart. Between her open legs, the nakedly exposed hair-lined lips began to contract spasmodically, while dewdrops of moisture trickled once again from her throbbing cunt. Joe ducked his head into the widesplit "vee" of her loins, and ran his tongue up into the soft-rimmed flesh, flicking for a moment at the palpitating opening of her cunt, then withdrawing it to tease at the sensitive pink edges.
The helpless young mother whimpered in ecstasy at the hot desire that scorched her throbbing vagina, quickly brushing aside the momentary twinge of shame and humiliation as the idea of what she was doing crossed her mind. It couldn't be wicked, she assured herself. Not something like that, that made her flesh erupt in goosebumps, sent her whole body into quivering spasms of delight. She lay immobile, basking in the warmth of her desire as if in the rays of the shining sun. And then Joe seized her ankles once again and levered her unresisting legs up off the bed, pushing them back over her head, and pinning them against her shoulders. Her body was bent almost double, when he aimed his thick, jerking cock straight at the glistening pink hole of her lewdly upturned cuntal split.
Suddenly his sinewy young body dropped down on her quivering form, smashing her full ripe breasts tightly back against her chest. His rigid pole-like cock shot forward, plunging into Meg's hungrily gaping cunt like a lunging sword, pushing the unresisting folds of rippling pussy-flesh in moist waves before its blood-engorged head.
Meg groaned in relief as the thick shaft filled her greedy cunt, while his balls smacked into the deep wet crevice of her buttocks. Her head rolled wildly from side to side as he began a heavy deep fucking in between the moist warm walls that clasped the fleshy cudgel. Her mouth opened in ecstatic abandon, and her hands darted behind Joe's relentlessly driving buttocks, pulling him frantically into her widespread loins. She felt a gush of warm wetness deep inside her, and suddenly screamed, "Oh, God! My God! I'm ....I'm cumming! Oh, dear God! I'm cumming!"
Joe's iron-hard cock drove deeper and deeper as he fucked into her like a jack-hammer running wild. The hot wet walls of her vagina clasped and unclasped, sucking desperately at the frantically jerking organ. And then hot, powerful spurts filled her with his seething male cum as he too groaned above her in his throbbing climax.
At last his clawing grip on her legs was released, and he rolled off her firm lovely body to lie beside her, breathing heavily now with the exertion of his orgasm.
Chapter 6
Meg puttered around the kitchen of her own house, putting things in order. She was glad of the chores to be performed. They helped her forget the shame, the degradation of that night a few days earlier.
She had come home, almost devoid of feeling - a few more hashish cigarettes had gone a long way to help ease her conscience. But the effect of the drug had worn off, and she had been alone with her guilt. It seemed to grow, as if by magic. And soon her guilt had almost overwhelmed her.
Wendy had come in one afternoon and found her alone in the unlit living room, twisting the fingers of the hands folded in her lap, as she sobbed quietly.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" she had asked. "Boy, you look about as cheerful as a corpse."
Meg had found no more to say than, "Oh, Wendy."
"Oh, for the love of Pete, Mom. What's eating you?"
Again Meg had been incoherent. Wendy, of course, had quickly guessed what was on her mother's mind.
"Are you still moping about what happened at the party?" she asked. When she said nothing, Wendy had gone on, "Well, knock it off, will you? Nobody cares what you did, except for you. And you had one hell of a good time from what I saw."
Meg had managed to mutter, "But that's ... that's what's so ... so ... awful, Wendy. So awful!"
"Why shouldn't you have a good time?" the girl demanded. "You're human, aren't you?"
Meg had stammered something unintelligible. Wendy had shrugged.
"Maybe not," she said, passing judgement. "Maybe not."
The cruel words had stung Meg to the core.
"Of course I'm human," she had snapped.
Wendy had snapped right back.
"Then act it, for the love of Mike. Act human for a change."
Meg had gone on, twisting her hands, while Wendy glared at her, her eyes scornful, her mouth twisted with contempt.
"Oh, you must hate me, Wendy. You must hate me!" the mother said.
Her own eyes filled with tears at the memory of the party at Joe Marshall's. She couldn't blame the girl, either, she thought. Why shouldn't she hate her mother? Hadn't she acted like an old whore, the lowest possible creature?
Suddenly, Wendy stamped her foot, startling Meg almost out of her wits.
"You know why I hate you?" she asked bitterly. "You know? It's because you sit around the house moping all day long. It isn't what you did. Cripes, all you did was have a good time like practically everybody else. But now you have to sit around and try to spoil everybody else's fun." She stamped her foot again. "Sometimes I think that that's all you ever want to do. Spoil everybody's fun."
The tears in Meg's eyes spilled over now, flowing wetly down her cheeks. At the sight of her mother crying, Wendy's expression of contempt deepened.
"For the love of Pete," she said, "snap out of it." And then she turned and stalked from the room.
Meg sat still, crying softly for a while.
Gradually, though, she regained her self-control. She wiped her tears away, biting her lips, shaking her head. In a way, she thought, Wendy was right. Oh, not that she tried to spoil people's fun, or that what she had done at Joe's place wasn't wrong. As wicked and evil as anything could be. But it was past now, and she had to pull herself together and forget it. She just had to, for John's sake. Her husband was on his way home now - it was only a matter of a day or so before he would arrive. And what kind of homecoming would he have if she were to sit around "moping" as Wendy called it.
Meg sighed and blew her nose, then crumpled up her handkerchief and stuffed it back into her pocket. It was there, she thought, even though she couldn't see it. And she would do exactly the same thing with her memories - crumple them up and put them out of sight. And then go on living as she had before this all happened.
She had done wrong, there was no doubt about that. And she would forever be scarred by it, in a certain way. But she couldn't let this past mistake, no matter how grave it was, this sin of hers, no matter how wicked, spoil her life, and spoil her husband's, too. She would have to lock the secret in her heart, hold up her head and go on living.
And the time to start was now, she told herself. There were things to be done, and she would do them. She got up and went into the kitchen, and began to assemble the ingredients for a cake. Cooking always sent her spirits soaring, and Wendy would be pleased, too, to find a freshly-baked chocolate cake, dripping with fudge icing, when she came home later.
She wondered idly where the girl was. She had heard the door slam as she left the house, but had no idea where she had gone. Well, it didn't matter very much. She would be home as soon as dinner time rolled around. With all her other worries about Wendy, Meg had never had cause to complain about her appetite.
She worked quickly, skillfully, sifting flour, beating eggs, adding sugar and flavoring, then popped the cake into the oven. She admired it when she took it out, and set it aside to cool. She had just finished frosting it when Wendy came in.
"Hi, Mom," she said lightly. "What are you doing?"
"I just thought I'd bake a cake, honey." Meg said. "We haven't had one for a long time."
Wendy bounced across the room, to run a forefinger around the close-to empty bowl, scooped up a gob of the thick, sticky paste, and plopped it into her mouth.
"Uummmmm! Good," she said, licking her finger.
"You always did like chocolate fudge," Meg said. "We'll have it for dessert tonight."
"Great."
Meg smiled happily. Things would work out, she told herself. Time would go by, and memories would fade and finally this terrible burden of guilt would be lifted completely from her shoulders. She had picked up the pieces of her life and put them together again, and now she looked forward to a calm, trouble-free future. She nodded at Wendy, smiled again and said, "Dinner's almost ready. Would you set the table, honey?"
She opened the freezer and took out a thick juicy steak. Wendy would like it, and she felt like celebrating, too. The last few months had been such hell. But now things were coming up roses. Why not splurge a little, enjoy life?
Wendy had disappeared again, so she set the table herself. She got out her best linens and china, used the silver she had inherited from Grandmother Powell. She even went out to the garden, cut a few roses and put them in a vase in the center of the table. When everything was ready, she called Wendy.
The girl shot a surprised glance at her mother.
"Fancy," she said. "Something special happening?"
Meg shook her head.
"I just thought it might be fun," she said. "Don't you?"
"Yeah," she said, sitting down, helping herself to mashed potatoes. She slathered butter over them. "You doing anything tonight?" she asked suddenly.
Meg shook her head.
"I hadn't planned anything," she said. "I thought I might watch television, or something like that. Is there something you'd like to do?"
"Uh-huh." Wendy cut a piece of meat and popped it into her mouth.
Meg waited.
"Well?"
"Another party," Wendy said at last.
Meg's blood ran cold, and drops of cold sweat erupted on her forehead. Oh, God. Another party. She stared down at her hands, amazed to see that her fingers were hanging lifeless from limp wrists, as if she had no control over them. There was a terrible sinking sensation at the pit of her icy stomach, and she shuddered, then gasped involuntarily. Another party? Oh God, no. No! Somehow she would have to persuade Wendy to stay home, to visit friends, perhaps decent people of whom she herself approved. She opened her mouth, heard her words rush out, heard her voice rise hysterically, although she had no idea of what, exactly, she was saying.
It's a nightmare, she thought. No. Not like a nightmare. It is one. She struggled to awaken, as she had once or twice from some unbearable dream. But the horror still held her, tightening its grip on her trembling form. She heard voices, as if from a distance, detached voices which seemed to have nothing to do with her, and yet she was aware that they belonged to her and to her daughter. She heard them rise and fall in bitter argument, in threats and pleas and angry recrimination. They coaxed and wheedled, and then stormed and thundered.
She heard Wendy, insisting that they go together to the party, and understood that it was to be held at Joe Marshall's place again. She heard herself refusing flatly to have anything to do with those who had degraded her so shamelessly. She was aware of Wendy's threats to tell John of what had already transpired ...
"What will Daddy say?" the girl had sneered, "when I show him the pictures of you that Teddy took last night?" And later - much later - Meg realized that she had given in. She was going to Joe's party; she really was.
But she knew, too, that she would never have to go to another. Wendy had given her solemn promise oil that.
"Just tonight," she had said. "Just tonight, Mom, and I swear I'll never ask you again."
"Oh, Wendy! Wendy. How can I believe you?"
"Cross my heart and hope to die." Meg still hesitated. And then Wendy added, her voice shrill with evil, "Do you want me to tell Daddy?"
"No, Wendy! No!"
"Okay. Then come with me tonight."
Meg's eyes wandered about the room, darting toward the floor, now, then toward the ceiling, flitting to the window, back to the room. And then, as she had nodded her head, too sick at heart to speak, she had known how powerless she was. She would go with Wendy, simply because there was no alternative.
She had dressed slowly but carefully, dreading the evening ahead, trying desperately not to think about it. Then she and Wendy had driven to what she thought of, grimly, as "the scene of the crime."
Her head was high as she walked to the door and knocked, although her knees wobbled and her heart flailed against her ribs in terror. She accepted at once when a young girl - Meg never did catch her name - offered her another of the thin brown cigarettes she had smoked the night before. She knew now what their effect would be, and welcomed it. How else, she thought, would she survive the horror that lay ahead.
She wandered over to the bar, and picked up the drink poured for her. She sipped it slowly, then reached for the potato chips in a bowl. She wandered off, munching them, pacing slowly around the room. She stubbed out the cigarette in a copper ash-tray, wandered about nervously again, and then, to take her mind off that which was certain to happen, went back to the bar.
Ted Clark was standing beside it, holding a folded paper in his hand. He looked around the room, then quickly sprinkled the contents over the potato chips.
"What's that?" Meg wanted to know.
"Special flavoring," he answered. "Want to try it?"
"Why not?" She scooped up a handful, and nibbled on them. "Tastes just the same to me," she said. "What is it?"
Ted gave a short, hollow laugh. "It might taste the same," he said, "but it's really something special. Something mighty special."
"But what?"
"Tell you later," he said.
Meg wandered off again, wondering what the big secret was. She would ask Wendy, she thought. She began to feel lightheaded, even more so than she had the night before. That seemed strange to her; she had smoked less of the hashish, and yet she was already floating off into space like a balloon, seeing things in strange new ways. Her whole world changed, became something wonderfully light and frothy. Every sensation magnified a hundred times, every feeling blown up out of all proportion. The jokes people told were funnier than she had ever thought possible, their slightest remarks frought with deep meaning. And she herself felt absolutely wonderful. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, the happiest, too. And the world was nothing short of perfection.
She found Wendy at last, her lovely daughter, the most wonderful child any woman could ever have, beautiful and charming. And good, too, she told herself suddenly. Had anyone ever had a better child? It seemed, now, as if the girl had never given her a moment's trouble. Like the world itself, Wendy was perfect.
"Hi, Mom," she greeted Meg.
"Hello, darling."
"Everything okay?"
"Perfect, Wendy. Just perfect."
"Having a good time?"
"Wonderful," Meg said. She put her arms around her lovely daughter, and hugged her. "I feel so funny," she said. "But I feel so good, too. I don't know why - I just do."
Wendy let her head drop to her mother's shoulder, let her cradle it in the hollow of her neck.
"I feel good, too, Mom," she said.
"Do you, honey? I'm glad."
"You know what, Mom?" Wendy said dreamily. "You know what? I think you're on a good trip. Just like me. A good trip."
"A good trip? What's that?" Meg asked softly.
"You know. A good trip. Like you've been taking LSD or something."
"Oh, but I haven't been doing that, Wendy," Meg said. "Why would I do a thing like that? And where would I even get any?"
She looked down at her daughter, then ran her fingers lovingly through the girl's soft dark hair. As if from a distance she heard her voice, sweet and mellow.
"I don't know," she said. "Ted had some. Some LSD, I mean. I saw him, a little while ago. He told me he had some." She thought for a while, a contented little smile playing about her lips. "He told me he was going to mix it with the potato chips." Again she paused, staring off into space, her eyes not quite focusing. "I had some potato chips," she said at last. "Did you, Mom?"
It was hard at first for Meg to remember. Even that seemed so long ago. And then it suddenly came back to Meg! She had watched Ted as he sprinkled the powder over the bowl of chips, had even asked him what it was. And when he had given her an evasive answer, she had come looking for Wendy, to ask her.
So it was LSD! And that was what made her so happy. She hugged Wendy again. It was good to be so happy. Oh, so very, very good!
Meg felt, rather than saw, the shadowy forms of other guests around her, knew somehow that everyone was looking at the two of them. She hugged Wendy again, cupping her chin now, lifting her head, brushing her moist red mouth with her lips. She loved her little girl. She really did. And she didn't care who knew it.
From the shadows she heard a voice asking, "You happy, Mrs. Powell?"
She nodded vigorously in assent. "Why don't you make Wendy happy, then?" the voice went on.
Why not? "I want to," Meg answered. "I want to make her as happy as I am."
"Well, what are you waiting for?"
Meg stared toward the corner where the voice seemed to come from. Little clouds, light as feathers seemed to drift across her mind, obscuring her thoughts. She tried to shoo them away, to peek beneath them. There, she thought, she would find the meaning of the strange question she had been asked.
But the clouds remained, and she heard her own voice saying, "What am I supposed to be waiting for?"
She heard a lewd, loud laugh now, out of place in this euphoric world which she had entered so recently. "You're not supposed to be waiting for anything," a voice rasped. "We're the ones who are waiting."
Meg turned the statement over and over in her drug-befuddled mind, examining it in minute detail. What was that person talking about? She was about to ask, when she heard another question. "Ever fucked a woman, Mrs. Powell?"
Meg winced slightly at the obscene word, and then deep furrows ploughed across her smooth brow. Women didn't ... didn't ... well, "fuck" other women. That was what men did to women. But the question was repeated, "Ever fucked another woman, Mrs. Powell? Ever fucked Wendy?"
"Oh, no," she said. "Oh, no. Of course not." "Well, we're waiting for you to do it now."
But that was all wrong, wasn't it? That was perverted. Oh, no, she could never do such a thing.
She patted Wendy's head, smoothing her hair down, pushing it back from her forehead. The girl sighed contentedly, and smiled again at her mother.
She couldn't do what they asked, Meg thought. She just couldn't. It was indecent ... that was what it was. But still, if it made Wendy happy ... ? Wasn't that really what she had always wanted ... just to make her daughter happy? And if she'd made her happy before, wasn't it possible that she wouldn't have gotten into trouble the way she had?
She was a little vague about what the trouble was. But she knew that something had been bothering her about Wendy for a long time. Well, whatever it was, it would go away, if she made her happy, wouldn't it?
She tried to weigh all the factors before deciding what to do, but her mind seemed fuzzy. She couldn't make up her mind for herself, she decided, thinking that that was a funny way to think. She brushed her own hair back out of her eyes. She would let the others decide for her, she resolved at last. That was the easiest way, and the best way, too. And they all wanted to see Wendy happy, so it was really all right, whatever she did.
She felt someone take her by the arm and propel her across the room, with her arm still around Wendy, and into another, smaller room. It looked a little like the one she had been in the night before when Ted had done such wicked things to her, and Joe Marshall had, too. At least there was a bed in it, and she sat down on it now, pulling her daughter down beside her.
She wondered vaguely what, exactly, she was supposed to do to the girl, and then thought again of Ted and Joe, and of Russ Clark, too. Why, she was supposed to do to the girl what they had done to her. That must be it!
She tried to remember just what that was, just how they had started, and then, almost automatically, she inserted her hand into the ,'vee" of Wendy's dress, slipping it beneath the filmy nylon of her white brassiere. She felt the soft, smooth mounds of her tender breasts, and a little thrill of wicked pleasure ran through her. She had never known it would be like this, doing such a forbidden thing, and yet finding it so exciting.
She trailed her finger down over one snowy mound, finding the tiny bud of the nipple, teasing and taunting it into a quivering hardness. She had a sudden urge to take the tiny throbbing bud into her mouth, to swirl her tongue over it, to fasten her mouth on the little nub, sucking all the goodness and sweetness from it as if it were a fresh ripe cherry. Something, though, prevented her, and she felt a terrible wave of frustration wash over her. What on earth was the matter? She puzzled over it, before it came to her what the problem was. Why, Wendy was still dressed.
But she needn't be! Meg could take her clothes off, couldn't she? She withdrew her hand and began to touch her here and there, looking for whatever it was that held her dress closed around her. Her hand at last touched a tiny piece of cold metal, and she recognized it as a zipper pull. Slowly, she drew it down to the girl's waist, just as slowly, just as cautiously, found the sleeves of the little cotton dress the girl wore, and slid those off her shoulders. It bunched around her hips, and again Meg was puzzled. And then she realized that she must slide her hands beneath her daughter's buttocks, lifting her from the bed, and pull the dress down beneath them.
She unhooked the brassiere next, removing that, too. And then, just as she had slid the girl's dress off, she slid her thin white nylon panties down over her hips and buttocks, drew them off over her firm white thighs.
She heard a lewd whistle from one of the men watching them, and knew that he found Wendy's ripe young body maddeningly exciting. And why not, she thought, as the same excitement thrilled through her, too. She stared for a moment at the voluptuously naked figure, at the full rounded spheres of her throbbing breasts, the little tips hard as buttons, the waist so small she could span it with her two hands. She smiled approvingly at the flare of her hips, the softly swelling curves of her buttocks. She had a sudden impulse to run her hands over the smooth white skin, trailing it over the swell of her belly to the triangle of dark pussy curls nestling between her thighs. She wanted to touch the girl, to fondle her as she had wanted to be touched and fondled that night when she had been so thoroughly fucked by Russ Clark.
She wanted to hold her close, too, to crush her against her own excitedly quivering body, and as she thought of that, she ran one hand down her own side. There was something strange, she thought, something wrong. Wendy's skin was so warm, so smooth. And hers? It was rough, and cold, too. She stared at herself, focusing her eyes with difficulty, and then she saw what was wrong. Why, she was still dressed, still wearing the clothes she had come here in.
It would be better if she were naked, too. She wanted to feel Wendy's smooth skin against her own skin, wanted Wendy to stroke her breasts, her sides, the white cheeks of her buttocks while she trailed her tongue over the girl's lovely form.
She pushed her aside gently, then stood up and pulled her own dress over her head. Her brassiere came next, then her stockings. Finally, she eased herself out of her panties, and dropped them on the floor.
She sat down again beside Wendy, pulling her close again. And now, as she had longed to, she fastened her mouth over the quivering little nipple that stood erect on her rounded young breast.
Wendy nestled close to her, their two naked bodies touching, and moaned faintly with pleasure. Her eyes rolled upwards, their gaze fogged by the drugs, and Meg felt her slipping from her grasp. There was a soft sound as she slid back onto the mattress, lying there as limp as a rag doll. Her legs splayed out to the side, her head lolled, her mouth hung open as she breathed rapturously, responding again to her mother's gentle caresses.
Meg looked at the girl adoringly, then trailed her fingers the full shapely length of her body, pausing to rotate one in a circle over the smooth pink flesh of her belly, while her own magnificent breasts seemed to catch fire, the nipples hardening spontaneously at the electric contact between the two. Her finger paused again, at the tiny dark triangle of hair between her legs, then slowly, deftly, parted the sparse fringe of curls. It dipped then between the hair-lined lips of Wendy's wetly throbbing cunt, searching for the tiny pleasure bud of her clitoris.
It touched it at last, and she ran it lightly, gently around it in a maddening motion that made Wendy jerk excitedly beneath her. The small bit of flesh grew tautly erect, and sent shivers of ecstasy crawling up the girl's spine. She groaned and opened her eyes as Meg, still stroking the miniature phallus, suddenly twisted and flipped over onto the bed, her own body positioned above that of her daughter, then slithered the length of it. Slowly ... slowly, she lowered her head, and her hot moist lips closed over the soft mound that hid the girl's secret treasure. And she planted wet kisses, one after another, on it.
She raised her head momentarily, then dropped it into the "vee" of her young daughter's loins. Her tongue shot out, its soft flicking tip circling Wendy's quiveringly erect clitoris. Meg sucked the warm soft folds of her cunt deep into the cavern of her mouth, while her tongue continued its, maddening licking at the straining pink bud.
Wendy's body was taut now, tense with the wild excitement induced as the hot probing tip of her mother's tongue worked its way up and down the full throbbing length of the narrow wet slit, slipping teasingly into the crevice of her flexing buttocks. Little mewls of animal pleasure escaped the girl's sensually parted lips, and with a quivering shudder, she ground her hips deep into the mattress. And then she suddenly began to writhe and thrash about beneath Meg's searing, darting tongue, her voluptuous young body contracting spasmodically as she reached her climax. Little beads of moisture seeped from her warm cuntal walls, to run slowly over the tender pink flesh of her inner thighs. She gasped once or twice in her ecstasy and then gave a long drawn out sigh. A moment later, she lay quiet and relaxed beneath her mother, who smiled contentedly at the sight of her lovely young daughter's face, etched with the most peaceful expression she had ever seen.
Meg was almost unaware of where she was -was totally oblivious of the dozen pairs of eyes which stared in lustful fascination at the two of them - mother and daughter - until she felt a pair of strong hands gripping her by the shoulder, steel-like fingers biting into her fragile skin. She screamed with surprise, as well as fright, and heard Joe Marshall's harsh voice rasping, "My turn now, Mrs. Powell?"
She lifted her face, to stare uncomprehendingly at him. Turn for what? Before she could ask, she found herself rolled roughly over, stretched out beside Wendy, and then she saw that someone else - was it Ted Clark? - had lifted Wendy's limp form and placed it on the floor.
"My turn," Joe repeated, and then she realized that he was as naked as she was, once again his virile young cock rigidly hard and erect. In one quick movement, he flung himself on the bed, his sinuous legs straddling her voluptuous body. With another quick movement, he positioned himself, kneeling, above her, and then his hand shot out to brutally seize one snowy white breast.
Joe began to knead it, squeezing the tender flesh between his strong fingers until it stood out in little white ridges. Meg groaned in pain, and bit her lips, as Joe tweaked mercilessly at a tender nipple, then closed his teeth over the now erect little bud, nipping cruelly at it.
His other hand trailed the length of her body to the dark hair-covered "vee" up between her legs, and then his middle finger was inserted between the fleshy folds of moist pink skin, seeking the tiny hole that glistened lewdly there.
He felt it beneath his fingertip at last, gliding over and around it, sending exquisite excitement raging through her loins. Joe sucked in his breath, as Meg twisted into a provocatively obscene position. Her lips were wet and parted in a come-hither smile, as she anticipated the joys which she had bestowed on her daughter, and which were now in store for her. Her magnificent breasts had already begun to rise and fall in tormented pleasure, her dark red nipples were erect and throbbing.
She moaned and ran her fingers through his shoulder-length hair, pulling his head forward until his lips were a few scant inches from the moist, tight slit of her cunt. She rotated her hips sensuously, expectantly, grinding her milk-white ass-cheeks deep into the mattress beneath her. Once again, she entangled her hands in his hair, winding it around her fingers. She pulled him forward, until she could feel his hot breath blowing across the moist coral slit that was fully exposed to him.
Joe placed his thumbs flat against the inside of her thighs, resting his thumbs on the soft pink edges of her cunt, and then with a weird cry of almost animal passion, he moved forward, and sent the full length of his hot slippery tongue thrusting deep between the throbbing walls of her quivering pussy. It rotated wildly against the soft rigid walls of her vagina, while she moaned ecstatically, doubling her hands into fists, throwing her head back, tossing it from side to side.
With mounting sensual enchantment, Joe sent his tongue careening into the wide-spread tightness of Meg's openly dilating cunt, driving it faster and faster, working its way maddeningly up and down the moistly glistening pussy-slit. Christ, it was great, the way she squirmed beneath his unmerciful ministrations. He'd never seen anyone as hot as this - and this, he chuckled to himself, was the prudish, prune-faced Mrs. John Powell. He felt her soft, wet pubic hair grazing his cheeks, listened with the most intense pleasure to her agonized groans. He would be able to do anything he wanted - no matter how obscene - to Meg Powell, now. Not only that, she would be begging for it. He slithered his tongue up into the soft pink cuntal flesh, teasing at it before withdrawing to taunt maddeningly at the edges again.
His ovaled lips continued to suck lewdly at the clasping, viscuous opening, his tongue to sink deep into it, while Meg, purring like a kitten, suddenly tightened her soft warm thighs about his gently bobbing head. The velvet-smooth flesh of her cunt opened and closed around the tongue penetrating deeply into its depths in a lewd sucking performance of his own.
As Meg clawed and struggled to pull him even deeper into her throbbing vagina, he broke free of her hands with a lightning quick movement and, with the speed of a fleeing deer, shot forward until his aching cock was poised just above the open lips of her widespread cunt. She groaned as he plunged deep inside her soft moist channel, the blunt rubbery head of his cock plowing everything before it until it battered against the soft cushiony tip of her cervix, filling her completely.
Suddenly, Joe slipped his hands beneath the quivering half-moons of her buttocks, lifting the two rounded spheres above the bed. His middle finger explored the smooth soft surface, until it touched lightly on the tiny puckered hole of her anus. Cruelly, he forced the tip inside the throbbing, warm flesh, causing Meg to squeal with the sudden pain. But it quickly dissolved into a pleasure such as she had never known before, as she became accustomed to the brutally abrupt invasion. An instant later she began to skewer her buttocks down on his impaling middle finger until it was buried in her rubbery anal flesh up to his palm.
Meg moaned again at this new and double ravishment of her wildly throbbing loins. As Joe speared deep inside her, quickening his rhythm now, lengthening his strokes, she gasped, open-mouthed. Her eyes were closed tightly, and she sensed, rather than saw, the standing figure of another youth beside the bed on which she writhed and twisted. She felt something warm and rubbery brush against her lips, as the boy stepped forward, his rock-hard penis stiff in front of him. Without a word, he rammed it viciously into the warm wet cavern of her mouth yawning before him, thrusting in so deep his blood-engorged cock seemed to brush against her throat.
Meg gagged, almost choking as the thick warm mass of male flesh filled her mouth. She couldn't breathe! She was going to suffocate! She squirmed violently beneath this new cruelty, twisted free at last, and gulped down great draughts of cool fresh air.
Once again she felt the thick, rigid pole of flesh shoot beneath her lips to spear deep into her throat. Now, though, she felt no pain, but only pleasure from this newly invading object. Joe's penis, fucking in and out of her wetly invading vagina had begun to send maddening thrills exploding like tiny bombs throughout her flesh. In her ecstasy, she clamped her lips tight around the huge, blood-engorged penis thrust between her lewdly ovalled lips, her mouth working diligently as she sucked at it.
She ran her tongue wetly around and around the lubricated cock-head, and flicked the tip teasingly into the tiny open slit of the moist glans until she felt it throbbing as if it had a life of its own. Her head bobbed up and down over the thick shaft of flesh fucking deep into her openly receptive mouth. Her drug-clouded mind was empty of all thought; she knew nothing but the wonderful joy of surrendering completely to the lure of the flesh. There was nothing else in all the world but the maddening, mounting excitement that seemed to flow outward from her moistening cuntal channel, to spread like spilling water to every cell of her body, to set on fire every inch of her quivering skin.
For the passion-aroused woman, there was nothing but this moment of ecstasy. The memory of her husband John, her child Wendy, had been erased completely as she gave herself in wild abandon to this all-pervading pleasure of the flesh. It seemed to her that she had reached heights that had never been scaled before, and yet the blissful pleasure continued to mount until at last she was sure she would explode from it.
Crazed with her approaching orgasm, she at last let out a wild ear-splitting scream. "I'm cumming... " she wailed. "Oh, my God! I'm cumming ... I'm cumming... " the words half choked by the penis in her mouth. And then, as she writhed and twisted insanely, her warm female moisture flowed forth from her brutally ravished pussy, and her body contracted in one convulsive spasm after another.
At almost the same moment, the thick milk-white semen gushed from Joe's lust-tightened, sperm-bloated balls, to spurt deep into her belly, to pool and mingle there with her own steaming wet cum. A moment later she felt the balls of the other youth smash against her chin, and then felt his hot young semen pumped into her greedily swallowing mouth. Her cheeks hollowed and expanded, hollowed and expanded, as she tried to draw into herself every last precious drop of the pungent thick liquid spurted from the boy's now slowly deflating cock. And when, at long last, the mass of flesh had been milked dry, she reluctantly released her hold, letting her lips go slack so that he could withdraw his now softening member.
Beyond all reason, now, beyond all reality, the blackmailed young mother slowly licked at the few drops which had splattered across her lower lip, had dribbled from the corners of her mouth. And then with a shudder so intense that it shook her violently from head to toe, her legs splayed out over the sides of the bed, and she collapsed, while Joe, equally spent, rolled over to lie beside her.
Chapter 7
The taxi drew up in front of the Powell house, and John Powell, looking tanned and fit, got out and glanced at the meter. He picked up the two suitcases the driver unloaded, then waited for him to help him carry the third up the flagstone path to the door. He paid the driver then, and tipped him. The man touched his hand to his cloth cap. "Thanks, Bud," he said. "Thanks very much."
He turned and caught sight of the labels Paris, Rome, London - pasted to the leather of one of the suitcases.
"See you've been a long way from home," he commented.
"That's right. Long way - long time." John told him.
He fished through his pockets for his keys, found them at last, sorted out the house keys from the others on the ring. He had almost slipped it into the keyhole when the driver suddenly asked, "What's it like over there?"
"Not bad," John admitted. "Expensive, though."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. Mighty expensive. Bought a couple of little things for my wife and daughter, and they sure as hell set me back a pretty penny."
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
"You got a wife and daughter?" the driver asked.
"Yup. Two gorgeous gals." He grinned, then fumbled with the key again.
The driver turned, and started toward the taxi, its motor still running. But he whirled around suddenly, coming back to the porch, jabbing John with his elbow.
"Nice girls over there?" he asked.
God damn! Why didn't the old fool stop bugging him? Why didn't he go away? Couldn't he see that John didn't care about a single Goddamned thing in the world except getting into that house, finding Meg and Wendy?
"Yeah," he said flatly. "Yeah."
The driver's tiny, evilly gleaming eyes shone through the semi-darkness of dusk.
"What are they like, Mister? Huh?"
John slid the key into the lock, and twisted it. Nothing happened and he tried again. The driver seemed to be flitting about him, buzzing like an angry bee, and John wished to hell he could brush him off, make him go away.
"Who?" he asked, his irritation showing plainly in his voice.
"The girls over there. You know ... " he pointed at the labels on the luggage. "Paris," he said. "Rome. London."
"Look," John said, almost angry now. "I really can't tell you about them. I didn't ... " he paused, wondering what to say. "I wasn't interested in the girls over there."
"Why not?" The driver grinned toothlessly at him, and nudged him playfully.
A lewd expression crossed his face, and he licked lasciviously at his thick lips.
"Everybody's interested in the girls over there," he said, "at least every normal man is."
John suppressed his almost-overwhelming impulse to punch the bastard.
"Look," he said, biting back his fury, his disgust. "I'm a happily married man, with a wonderful wife and kid. I'd no more cheat on her than I'd ... " he paused, searching for words.
"Yeah," the driver said, taking off his cap and scratching his head. "Sure. And I suppose they're waiting for you, right now."
"You're damned right they are, buster," John said between clenched teeth. "So why don't you just..."
"If they're waiting for you," the driver asked with maddening logic, "why don't you just ring the doorbell, instead of standing there playing with that key that way?"
"Yeah," John said, staring at his now retreating back. "Yeah. Sure, of course. That's a good idea."
He saw the driver climb into the cab, heard the slam of the taxi door. Then he pushed the bell. From within the house he heard the chimes that went ding-dong. He waited, then rang again. Still there was no answer. He rang a third time, then inserted the key in the lock again, tried to turn it, and found he couldn't. He tried another, then a third. He wondered where the hell Meg was. He hadn't told her exactly when he would be back; still, though, he had expected her to be waiting for him.
Once again he tried the door bell, choking back his disappointment, liberally mixed with his anger. He told himself to cool it. They had probably just gone to a movie. And he couldn't really expect them to sit at home, with their tatting - wasn't that what women used to do? -until he got back. Hell, no.
But it would have been nice for them to be there, anyway. He mildly cursed liberated women, then managed to turn the lock in the door at last. He pushed it open and went in. The place seemed completely deserted, although a light burned in the lamp on the end table next to the living room sofa. John set his bags down in the center of the floor there, put his hand to his mouth and called, "Hey, Meg! I'm home."
He heard nothing but the faint echo of his voice, reverberating through the house. He called again - "Meg! Wendy! I'm home" and waited for what seemed an eternity. When there was still no answer, he bolted up the stairs, taking the steps three at a time.
He went from bedroom to bedroom on the second floor. The one he shared with Meg was empty, looking almost unlived in. Her cosmetics were laid out in neat rows on the bureau, catching, now, the last rays of the dying sun. But somehow they looked forsaken, unused. The bed was neatly made, with everything in order. John found that depressing; he would rather have seen some signs of life here. Untouched by human hands, he thought grimly, and then pushed the thought from his mind.
He went down the hall to Wendy's room. The bed there was unmade, and looked as if it had been for days. Her clothes were scattered about in piles on the floor, with skirts and sweaters and dresses draped over the backs of chairs. One loafer lay against the wall, another had been kicked into the very center of the room. John thought the whole place looked as if it had been stirred by some giant hand wielding an eggbeater, but that, he reflected, was par for the course.
He went out, kicking at the carpet, and went downstairs. He peeked into the den, which was as empty, as depressing as the room upstairs. He passed through the dining room and went into the kitchen. That too was empty, with only a solitary glass sitting in the sink to show that people had actually been here. When, he wondered. When?
He opened the refrigerator, and saw the usual supply of cokes, plus a plate of leftovers. He nibbled at them, pondered over whether he wanted a beer or a highball, decided on the highball, and took out a tray of ice. He fixed himself a drink and carried it into the living room, and sat there sipping at it, wondering where the hell Meg and Wendy had gone.
He thought they might have left a note for him, and got up and searched the house once more. But he found nothing, and went back to the living room. His drink was vapid, now, diluted with the melted ice. He took it into the kitchen, poured it down the sink, and fixed another. He took that into the living room, too.
He had no idea how long he sat there - nor how many drinks he had - before the sound of the doorbell startled him. He waited a moment, and heard it sound again. And then he called out, "Who's there?"
"It's me," a voice called back.
"Yeah? And just who the hell is `me'?"
"Ted," the voice said. "Ted Clark."
John racked his brain, trying to remember who Clark was. He didn't think he'd met him. In fact, he was sure of it. And he didn't feel like meeting him now. But he had nothing better to do, so he got up and went to the door, and opened it.
"Hi," Ted said again. "I'm Ted Clark."
"Yeah, you said that." John leaned against the door jam, waiting to find out what the boy wanted. He ran his eye over the slim figure, glanced at the mouth, curling scornfully, caught the evil glimmer in his eye. No, he thought, he hadn't met him before, and he was glad he hadn't. You couldn't trust him, he told himself, wondering why he'd come around here.
"You must be Mr. Powell," the boy said.
"That's right. You want something?"
The boy shook his head.
"Not specially."
"Well look, kid. If you don't want anything special, why don't you come around some other time. I just got back a little while ago, and I'm kind of tired."
"Yeah, I know."
John looked puzzled.
"You know I'm tired..."
"Naw. I know you just got back. Been away a long time, haven't you?"
John nodded, and the boy went on.
"Been far away, too, haven't you?"
"London and Paris," John said. "And Rome."
"Well, welcome home, Mr. Powell," Ted said, his arms sweeping wide in a mocking gesture. "Find everything all right here?"
John nodded. He didn't feel like telling this twirp anything more than that. But he might, he thought, know where Wendy and Meg were.
"You a friend of my daughter's?" he asked.
"Uh-huh."
"Well, she isn't home right now," John said. "She's gone to the movies or something. So has her mother."
"That so?" Ted asked.
Once again he mocked John.
"Yes, that's so," Powell said, angrily.
"You wouldn't happen to know what movie they went to, would you"
Ted was sarcastic, now.
"No, I wouldn't," he said, closing the door.
But he found Ted's foot in it, holding it ajar.
"Are you looking for Wendy, too?" he asked.
"I know where she is."
"At the movies, isn't she?" John asked. "Do you know which one she's gone to?"
"Sure."
John was thoroughly exasperated, his nerves frayed by the long trip home, his spirits dampened by the silent household.
"Would it really be too much," he snapped, "for you to tell me where she is? And my wife, too. I suppose they've gone together."
"That's right, Mr. Powell."
"Well?"
"Aren't you going to invite me in? Offer me a drink or something? You're not," he said, grinning sardonically, "very hospitable."
John suddenly realized that he was still pressing the half-open door against Ted's foot. He sighed.
"Okay," he said, "come in."
He led the boy into the living room, indicating a chair with a nod of his head.
"What do you want to drink?" he asked brusquely. "Coke?"
"I'll have what you're having."
"Okay." John got out a glass and poured another highball, glancing uneasily over his shoulder from time to time. Something was up, he told himself. It had to be. How had this kid known he would be coming home tonight? Or had he? Had he just turned up by chance?
That didn't seem likely. He couldn't have been looking for Wendy or Meg, since he knew where they were, which meant that they weren't at home. And if he'd turned up, knowing he would be home - well, his wife and daughter must have known, too. So why hadn't they come home, or even met him at the airport? He shook his head. Something was strange - very strange indeed.
He felt the boy's eyes boring into his back, and it sent little shivers of anxiety up his spine. He tried to compose himself before he turned around, knowing instinctively that any sign of fear would put him at this kid's mercy. Even so, when he handed him the glass, his hand shook, and the drink spilled over.
"Guess I must be more tired than I thought," he alibied.
It was obvious that Ted didn't believe him. His eyelids flickered, and once again the sardonic grin flitted across his face.
John sat down, leaning back in the wooden rocking chair that Meg had insisted on buying a few years before ... "If the President has one," she had explained, "you should have one, too." He crossed one leg over the other, and then said with forced gaiety, "So Meg and Wendy have gone to the movies."
"They've gone to a show, Mr. Powell. Not a movie."
"A show?"
"That's what I said."
But there hadn't been any real shows - any live theater - in the town for years, except for a couple of amateur companies that put on something by Shakespeare every spring. Wild horses couldn't drag Wendy to that, and it would have taken all their strength to get Meg to it, too.
But maybe things had changed in the three months he'd been gone. Maybe the town now had some sort of theater company. Still, Meg would have told him about it. Her letters had been full of every bit of gossip she could dredge up, chit-chat about the most trivial things. Certainly she would have told him. He was aware of Ted's shifty eyes studying him again, again making him uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and asked, "Is this a professional company'? Or amateur?"
"Amateur, I guess," Ted said. "I mean, nobody gets paid for anything."
"Local people, then?"
"That's right. Local people."
"Anyone I know?"
"Sure. Lots," Ted said.
"Like ... " John prompted.
"Well, like Mrs. Powell," Ted said. "She's sort of the star."
But that wasn't possible. Certainly Meg would have told him about it. He knitted his brows, more puzzled than ever. And then his face brightened. This was to be a big surprise for him. Oh, now it was all clear. Meg and Wendy had been rehearsing practically since the time he'd left. Naturally, since it was to be a surprise, they hadn't told him. And it was just as natural that they wouldn't be here to greet him. They had sent Ted, instead, to fetch him. Wasn't that it? Of course it was.
He leaned back in the chair, relaxing, now, and finished his drink.
"I suppose they sent you to get me," he said. "They want me to see the show; isn't that it?"
Ted nodded.
"Wendy sent me to get you. Want to go?"
"Just let me freshen up, will you? I'll be with you in a minute." He went out, then poked his head into the room again. "We won't miss the curtain, will we?" he asked.
"Not if you hurry."
"Be right with you," John said again.
He was back a few minutes later.
"Let's go," he said. "Do you have a car?"
Ted nodded.
"It's out in front," he said.
The two got into the blue Mustang parked at the curb, and Ted started the motor. He headed the car toward the business center of the town, but drove straight through it, to John's surprise.
"Where are we going?" he asked at last.
"You'll see."
He was even more surprised when the car drew up before a house, in a residential section.
"Here?"
Ted nodded.
"Here," he said. "Come on."
John followed him, waiting beside him as he rang the doorbell. Once more, the feeling of uneasiness shrouded Powell. Something was strange, he thought. Awfully strange. But it was hardly worth while asking questions. He would find out soon enough just what was going on.
The door opened, and the man and boy went into the living room, dimly lit as it had been when Meg had first seen it. Now as then, it was almost deserted. Ted crossed the room to the bar.
"Do you want a drink, Mr. Powell?" he asked. "You'll probably need it," he added.
The words, spoken so casually, sent a shudder through Powell. What did Ted mean? Was he trying to tell him that Meg was so bad an actress - such a ham - that people were laughing at her efforts? He shook his head. That couldn't be true. She wasn't a professional, certainly. But she was graceful and lovely, and while she might never reach the heights of Helen Hayes or Katherine Hepburn, she would certainly turn in an adequate, even a moving, performance. No, it couldn't be that. Maybe Ted just thought he might be nervous for her. That happened sometimes, didn't it?
Oh, for Christ's sake, he told himself. Why don't you stop all this theorizing? Drink the drink, Powell. And then go and watch your wife. He laughed inwardly. What was she playing? Little Women? Well, he'd find out soon enough. Even here, in the deserted living room, he could hear a murmur of voices, like that of an audience waiting restlessly for the play to begin.
"Curtain going up!" he said, and raised his glass in an unspoken toast to the success of his wife.
He heard the murmuring voices again, louder this time, and then a round of applause. So he was right about Meg! She was pretty talented, after all.
"Come on," he said impatiently. "What are we waiting for? I don't want to miss the first act."
"Seating in the orchestra only," Ted said, flippantly. And then he flashed a lewd, evil grin. "That way." He pointed to the stairs just beyond the living room.
John clattered down them, with Ted tagging after. It was almost as dark downstairs as the living room had been, and the two groped their way toward a door with a thin line of light creeping out beneath it.
"In there?" Powell whispered.
"Yes. Go on in."
John pushed the door open slowly, and saw a group of people standing around what he took to be a platform at one end. There weren't very many, he thought; Meg was hardly packing them in for her first performance. Still, the audience seemed to be making up in enthusiasm for everything it lacked in size. Someone sucked in his breath, and then let out a long, low whistle of admiration; another person cheered, while still a third clapped his hands, applauding the performance loudly.
John shoved aside a rough looking man in a dirty sweat shirt, who was standing ahead of him as if mesmerized, craning his neck to peer over the head of still another man.
"Turn her over," one of them yelled, and then the others took up the cry. "Turn her over, turn her over."
It was a chilling cry, something inhuman, like the baying of hounds after a fox, or the even more vicious sound of a lynch mob, lusting for human blood. John shivered, appalled by the amount of evil in the world.
Once again, he pushed himself forward, peering toward that end of the room that was the center of attention, the focus of every eye. And then ...
"Oh, Jesus!" he screamed. "Sweet loving Jesus," his voice dwindled into nothingness, then he let out a loud, animalistic howl that split the air.
He screamed again, and pounded his fists on the back of the man who blocked his path as he tried to dart forward.
"That's my wife," he shouted, "my wife, Goddamn you all. My wife. "
"So that's your wife," someone said. "So who cares?"
Powell, transfixed now with horror, scarcely heard the question. It was no platform at the end of the room, he saw. It was a bed. And Meg was lying on it, her eyes glazed by drugs, staring, unseeing, into space. Her voluptuous body was naked, her magnificently sculpted breasts exposed to the lewd stares of the watching boys and men. A man leaned over her, stroking them, turning the nipples into hard quivering little points. He flicked at them with a middle finger while the watchers roared approval and she moaned and twisted with animalistic passion.
The horror that had turned Powell to stone seeped away, leaving his body drained and helpless, but now his belly began to churn with a slow, burning anger that slowly mounted into murderous fury. Christ, he would kill the man beside Meg, the man running his foul hands up and down her luscious naked form. He would kill his wife, too!
His hatred gave him a sudden strength, and his hand shot out to land a stinging blow on the jaw of the man who still blocked his path. He leapt forward, tackling the man still stroking Meg's breasts, her firm, rounded hips and thighs.
"You bastard!" he screamed. "You Goddamned bastard!"
He had wrestled him to the floor, had jabbed at his jaw, too, with his doubled fist, before he was pounced upon in turn, and pulled away. He felt his arms pinned behind him, twisted with excruciating pain, and then felt himself pushed heavily into a chair that nearly collapsed beneath his sudden weight.
He struggled desperately to free himself, and saliva foamed from the corners of his mouth. He spat furiously at his captors, until a sharp slap cracked across his mouth, flecking it with blood. He closed his eyes, sickened by the sight of Meg, twisting and writhing now in a groaning mass of passion.
Once again the obscene chant of "Turn her over ... turn her over ... " assailed his ears, reverberating through his brain like endless bolts of thunder. His eyes fluttered open, almost against his will, just as the thick-set man beside the bed pulled off his shirt and unzipped his pants. He pulled them off hurriedly while the others cheered him on with their obscene comments, their hoots of loud lewd laughter. And then, as the man eased his cotton undershorts down over his hips, his thick virile cock sprang into the open, already rigidly erect.
John groaned, but the scream in his throat stuck there, like a bone in the craw of a bird, choking him almost into insensibility. He felt himself grow faint, and for a moment thought he would pass out completely. But the longed for oblivion that would shut out the revolting rape of his wife escaped him, and he continued to watch as her flailing body twisted and turned.
There was a sudden roar of approval as Meg was flipped over deftly, expertly, until she was lying flat on her stomach, with her belly grinding down into the mattress as she writhed against it. The man who had been caressing her took her by the ankles and spread her slim legs apart. He hurled himself on the bed - there was more applause, more obscene encouragement -and sank to his knees, his body hovering above hers, spanning it.
He spread the milk-white cheeks of her buttocks with his hands, and Powell could see, from where he sat, her tiny asshole nestled deep in the crevice. It seemed to throb in excited expectancy as the man's hand ran up the inside of Meg's thigh to her wide-open cunt. And then his head dropped to kiss the smoothly ovalled ass-cheeks, while his tongue trailed down to lick at the crevice between them.
His fingers probed at the puckered little hole of her anus, while Meg groaned.
"Spread your legs," he barked suddenly, as she struggled to comply with his command, he seized her by the thighs and pulled until John was afraid his wife would be split wide open.
She groaned again and then her legs opened until her toes were hanging over the edges of the bed, almost at right angles to her body. Once again the man probed at the tight little hole and then he plunged his middle finger abruptly into it, while she winced and moaned with the unexpected pain.
He moved the finger around, digging it in up to the first knuckle, sawing to expand the tiny anus, while Meg strained back against him, rotating her hips lewdly. And then he dug a second finger into the tight rubbery opening, while each merciless twist of his hand brought a squeal of pain from her.
He continued to skewer into her, while the helpless Powell watched him, reminded cruelly of a skewered animal on a turning spit. And then, as his wife became accustomed to the prodding deep up inside her widely-stretched rectum, the squeals faded and changed gradually to little cat-like mewls of pleasure.
Still prodding lewdly into her defenseless asshole, the man turned his head to his spell-bound audience, his mouth open in an obscene grin. He licked his lips lasciviously, and yelled, "What do I do now, boys? What do I do now?"
"Screw her ass," someone shouted in a half-drunken screech. "Come on! Fuck her in the ass."
"Ram it in," someone else screamed. "Ram it right up to her belly button."
He plunged his fingers in and out in a final spurt of energy, his arm driving them like a piston. And then, with an obscene wet sucking noise that made John's stomach sicken, he pulled the fingers out, the clasping pink skin still clinging to them.
"You bet!" he leered. "Boy, will I ever!" He barked another command to the prone woman, lying with her head buried in a pillow. "Kneel up!" he ordered.
There was no movement, and he snapped again, "Kneel up, you bitch. God damn it! Did you hear me?"
She still lay, uncomprehending, face down on the bed. Her legs were still spread wide, and now she raised her head and looked back over her shoulder as if searching for whatever had filled her rectum, delighting her so, such a short time before. The man above her, now aroused to his own wild excitement, suddenly sent a swift slap slashing across one quivering buttock, a second slap across the other. Meg howled at the sudden pain, and opened her eyes wide, glancing pitifully around her.
"Kneel up!" the man screamed again, and at last the words made meaning to her drug-dulled brain.
And then she understood! This man who had been teasing her into such a wild frenzy was telling her to kneel. If she did, she slowly realized, he would continue to stroke and taunt and delight her, bringing a new and different joy to her, one she had never dreamed of before.
She struggled up to her knees, presenting the rounded white half-moons of her buttocks to the lust-maddened beast behind her. He turned to catch John Powell's bloodshot eyes, still staring sickly at the lewd spectacle, then grinned triumphantly at him, gloating over the torture he was inflicting on the helplessly pinned husband. It added a certain fillip of pleasure to what he already felt, making his victory almost complete.
Almost, but not quite. He still could force this woman wriggling her buttocks so obscenely in the air to one more degrading act.
"Take my cock," he suddenly ordered. "Reach back and put it in!"
Meg hesitated a moment, and then groped behind her for the rock-hard length of flesh which now rested in her split anal crevice. She stroked it softly, curling her fingers around it. With a start, she realized the enormity of the man's stiffly swollen rod of flesh. Oh, dear God! She could never take it all.
"Put it in!"
"Oh, no," she wailed. "I can't!"
He gave her another swift slap across the buttocks.
"The hell you can't."
John Powell, watching the whole depraved spectacle, lurched froward, breaking free of his captors for a brief moment and at the same time letting out a blood-curdling yell.
"Take your hands off her!" he screamed. And then, as the two men who had been holding him down seized him again, he shouted, "And take your hands off me, too, you Goddamned bastards."
Meg turned her head to look at him, and her eyes flickered with the faintest glimmer of recognition. Was that John, she wondered? She shook her head. How could it be, when he was in Europe on business? She couldn't quite remember when he had left, or when he was supposed to be back. But she was sure it wasn't yet. And then she felt the harsh fingers of the man behind her digging into the tops of her thighs.
Stung by the sharp sudden pain, Meg again reached behind her and placed the blood-engorged tip of his cock against the tight little hole of her anus. The man strained forward, trying to worm his way up into the hairless little opening. Suddenly the brown nether ring gave way before the relentless probing, and the lust-bloated tip popped inside while Meg screamed. Her face contorted with pain, and she screamed again.
"Oh, God, no. It hurts. It hurts! It's too big!"
But the man continued to ram forward with all his strength, while he pulled her futilely waving hips back tightly against his own pelvis.
As the hard fleshy rod sank deep into the rubbery rectal flesh, he began to saw back and forth, until his piston-like cock was buried deep in the pinkly inflamed passage. And now Meg moved backwards to meet his forward thrusts, turning her head from side to side.
Watching the lewd sodomizing of his wife, John groaned. Oh, Christ! She was enjoying this obscenity - this depravity! She was enjoying it! He groaned again, and tried to turn his own head away from the degrading spectacle. But he was drawn to it, with an irrepressible masochistic urge. Sickened though he was, he continued to stare as the vicious red penis sank to the hilt, buried almost to the balls, in his wife's tightly resistant back passage.
Meg moaned with a growing pleasure, despite the pain that caused occasional gasps to mingle with her little mewls of contentment. They incited the man to a further assault upon her voluptuously naked body, and as John watched, his hands crawled over her buttocks and back, kneading and squeezing her soft, resilient flesh. It erupted in cruel red welts, and yet Meg still moaned, seeming even to enjoy this new pain.
Puffing now, gasping, almost out of breath with his increasing effort, the man reached down and brutally pulled her ass-cheeks wide apart. He began to thrust forward with almost superhuman force, driving his pelvis into her softly yielding buttocks with hard vicious smacks. His balls, hugely inflated by the load of boiling sperm they carried, hung down heavily, almost ready to explode.
It was too much for John. He closed his eyes, and his head drooped to his chest, shutting out the horrible sight at last. But Meg's crazed chanting of "Ooooooh! Oh, yes, yes!" and then, "Harder, harder", assailed his unwilling ears. And then, unbelievingly, he heard her beg, "Fuck me! Fuck me harder! Oh, please fuck me harder!"
One of the men still holding John, still twisting his arm so painfully behind him, called out, "Fuck you where, Meg? Where do you want Chuck to fuck you?"
"In my ass," she answered. "I want him to fuck me in my ass."
A chill of the utmost horror crawled up John's spine, like a horde of dirty little bugs. Then something seemed to snap in his mind, and all the tenderness, the love, he had ever felt for his wife was washed away in one quick moment. She was a whore, he thought. A whore! The woman who had shared his life for nearly seventeen years was the most evil, the most wanton - and now the most disgraced creature who walked the earth.
He had loved her. He had loved her with all his heart. But now that love had turned to loathing, and he longed to hurt her as she had hurt him, even to kill her. He had lost the thing most precious to him in all his life, and a throbbing, aching emptiness spread through him. He felt dead, somehow, and yet knew that if he were, the terrible pain he felt would cease. He would have to live with this for the rest of his life, and he closed his eyes, longing for death real death - to give him ease, to lift this burden from him.
The idea of suicide flashed through his mind, and quickly following it, the thought of Wendy. Oh, Christ! He couldn't betray his poor little daughter by running out on her, no matter how unbearable his own life might be. He would have to go on living, just for her sake. He could hardly, he thought grimly, leave her with a woman as wanton as Meg.
His eyes darted once more to his wife, kneeling on the bed, waving her ass salaciously back against the eager thrusts of the man called Chuck, still fucking into her with bestial abandon. Christ! She loved it. She loved it! Jesus! He was right; he had to live for Wendy, no matter how heartsick he was himself.
Meg felt the sweat dripping from Chuck's face fall in huge wet drops onto her smooth-skinned white back. She shivered a little with pleasure at the feeling, and ground back against his relentlessly pounding hips. She felt him filling her as nothing ever had before, and it gave her a pleasure she had never felt before, either. She wanted only one thing now, and that was for Chuck to cum, to spurt his warn, thick semen deep into her forever expanded rectum.
Almost as if she had willed it, Chuck's body jerked convulsively, and he began to utter strange, lust-crazed and incoherent sounds. He was cumming! He was.
Chuck uttered a final shriek, half-scream, half-wail, and then his pounding body sent shattering waves of white-hot cum spurting out into the depths of her cruelly split rectum. It ran through her, filling her even more completely, and then she felt her own climax, mounting to its own violent explosion. She screamed as she felt Chuck's thick orgiastic cum drip back, to run down the crevice of her wide-split buttocks, drenching them, just as her own seething cum gushed forth from her openly climaxing cunt.
As the spasms and convulsions of the two lewdly spliced bodies subsided, John Powell slumped in his chair. He no longer had any desire - and certainly not the strength - to tear Chuck limb from limb as he had promised himself to do earlier. And as for Meg ... he knew he could never face looking at her, let alone speaking to her again. He wanted one thing and one thing only, and that was to get out of this house of hell at once. He started for the door, and then he remembered Wendy.
He had to find her. Oh, Christ! Had she seen her mother submitting to this unnatural act? Dear God, he prayed, no. Please, God, let her be as sweet and innocent as before.
He went out into the room beyond the bedroom in which he had witnessed the utter degradation of his wife. There he saw a young couple and thought at first it might be his daughter. But as he went toward the girl, he knew he was mistaken. He was about to turn away, to go on into the next room, when he saw that this girl, no older than his own child, was stripping off her clothes, pulling her dress over her head, wiggling out of panties and brassiere.
She stood before the boy completely naked now, and even John, shocked and sorrowed though he felt, could hardly help noticing how lovely she was. Her body was slim, and yet so youthfully voluptuous that he had a sudden wild impulse to run his hands over its smooth length, to stroke the ripe young breasts, to trail his finger over the quivering white ass-cheeks.
And then he saw that that was exactly what the young boy was doing to her. For a second time that evening, he was transfixed, mesmerized by a salacious spectacle. This time, the participants were strangers. Yet he was almost as shocked as he saw the boy, now stripped naked himself, push the girl back onto a couch, drop effortlessly above her, and then, holding his already rigid penis in one hand, guide it to the little "vee" of pubic hair up between her softly trembling legs. She opened them wide to give him easy access, and then pulled his hips forward, as she raised her own, until the blunt head of his cock brushed against the fleshy lips of her cunt. A moment later, it parted them, burrowing into the glistening pink hole half-hidden there, and worming deep inside her soft, warm cunt.
She seemed to ride back and forth on his desire-hardened cock, up her shapely legs and throwing them out around his lean, lithe body, to pull him as far into her as possible. The two of them rocked back and forth lasciviously on the couch, his pelvis smacking against her loins in an obscene, crescendoing rhythm. They moaned ecstatically, one drowning out the other, as John watched mesmerized. He had no idea how long it was that he stood there, watching the boy's long thick cock sawing into the girl's tight little cunt. And he had no idea why he stood there. But he seemed unable to move until the two wildly flailing bodies had clung together for a long moment, the one impaled on the other, had seemed to hang suspended in some other world, and then had collapsed, shuddering, in a little huddle, bodies still entwined, grunting out their mutual climax.
John wandered on then, feeling like some creature in one of the inner circles of hell, watching other couples performing every possible perversion except the one he had seen his wife perform.
He was almost crazed with worry, and with his own excitement which he tried desperately to suppress, when he finally found Wendy. She looked at him for a long moment, as if she didn't know him. Then she cried "Daddy!" and threw her arms around him.
He merely said, "We're going home."
Chapter 8
John found his wife's car down the block, and opened it with the keys on his own key ring. Meg could walk, he told himself. Wherever she might be going. He really couldn't care less!
He shooed Wendy into the vehicle, then got in beside her, and drove off. He was still shaking with uncontrollable rage at the very thought of Meg's taking the child to that evil place. He wondered if the girl had seen what he had, but hadn't the courage to ask. He shot an inquiring look her way from time to time, but her calm, sweet face told him nothing.
Grim and intent, and hunched tensely over the wheel, he drove home, shut the car in the garage, and went into the house with Wendy following him.
He fixed himself another drink, remembering Ted's admonition: "You'll need it!" That was for sure, he told himself, listening to the splash of the Scotch over the ice, like a spilling fountain. He thought of offering his daughter a drink, then decided against it. He, at least, had no wish to corrupt her. Instead he asked, "Hungry, darling?"
Wendy shook her head. "Not really," she said. "But I'll fix you something if you want it."
John's heart began to thaw at the sound of her childish voice. Thank God, he had her, he thought. Nothing on earth could ever make him forget completely the terrible experience of this night. But Wendy would dull the sharp, cutting edges of his memory, and eventually make his life worth living again. He heard her repeat her offer, and said, "That would be wonderful, honey. Just wonderful."
He went into the living room, and waited until she brought in a chicken sandwich. She had forgotten the mayonnaise - something Meg always remembered - but it hardly mattered. All that was important was that he had brought her home, rescued her from the evil companions to whom his wife had introduced her.
He ate his sandwich slowly, chewing on it thoughtfully. There was something he had to ask her, something he had to know. But it was a long while before he could summon his courage. Then he cleared his throat, and asked, "Why did you go to that awful place, honey?"
"Mommy wanted me to," she said, batting her eyes at him, her voice sweet and smooth as honey.
"Oh, Christ," John said, whistling low through clenched teeth. "Jesus Christ." He looked over at Wendy, sitting primly beside him, her hands folded on her lap, now. The position she had taken made her look very young - not much more than eleven or twelve, he thought. And God! So vulnerable!
An overwhelming sense of guilt enveloped him, driving out all other emotions. He sank his head in his hands, feeling closer to tears than he had at any time since he had been a child. He remembered the year - he had been ten, then -when his little dog had died, and how he had struggled manfully not to cry. He had almost succeeded, too. But his grief had been unbearable, just as his grief was now. He had been blameless then, though. Now he felt the whole, awful responsibility for everything that had happened.
He should have known better than to go away for so long. Oh, sure, the offer had seemed too good to turn down. He had thought of all the little luxuries he could buy for Meg, with the extra money. He had wanted to, then. He had looked upon his wife as one of the most wonderful women on earth.
Well, he'd been a fool. A Goddamned fool! Trusting a woman like that -- "whore" he said under his breath, but Wendy had caught it and looked at him quizzically.
"Whore," he repeated. Then he asked, "Did you go there often, Wendy?"
She shook her head. "No. I didn't like the place, Daddy. I mean, there were all those awful people doing all those awful things ... " she lowered her eyes, pretending to be ashamed of what she had seen. John reached out to her, brushing the hair back off her face with infinite love and tenderness. The poor child! The poor little thing!
Wendy smiled diffidently at her father and he took her hand, enclosing the small fingers in his own large ones. He began to stroke it gently, and little chills of excitement rippled through her. It was wonderful to be alone with him like this, the way she'd always wanted to be, the way she'd dreamed of so often. She was a big girl now, and she wanted him to treat her like one; she wanted him to treat her the way he treated her .mother. She wanted him to bring her presents, when he came home from trips - the same sort of things he brought for his wife, and not the baby things, the small rememberances, that came her way. She wanted to go out to dinner with him, and to the theater, where he would give her all his attention.
She'd hated it when the three of them had gone out together, and she had felt as if she were just tagging along, unwanted, while he and her mother talked. She'd hated that! And she'd hated her mother, too. It made her sick, the way Daddy made so much of her, bringing her breakfast in bed on Sunday mornings, sending her flowers all the time.
She looked up at her father now, smiling happily. He was the handsomest man in the world, she thought, even if there was a little touch of gray at his temples. Once upon a time, she had dreamed of marrying someone just like him, and then she had realized that there wasn't anyone just like him. She'd made up her mind at that moment that she would never marry at all. And sometimes, lying in bed at night, she had wicked thoughts about her mother, lying sick in a hospital at first, and then dying. She'd even thought of what the funeral would be like, of how she and her father would stand at the edge of the grave hand-in-hand. He would be crying, of course; husbands always cried at their wive's funerals. And she would pretend to cry, too, because people would expect it of her.
But underneath it all, she would be glad - yes, glad - that her mother was dead, and then, when her father got over his terrible sorrow, they would have so much fun together, just the two of them.
She would help him get over the sorrow, too. She would talk to him and comfort him if he needed it, cheer him up if he got depressed. And she. would take such good care of him! She would cook his favorite meals all the time. It hardly mattered that she could barely boil an egg yet; she would learn for her father, and she would make him all those wonderful foods like crepes suzette and strawberries Romanoff and a banana rum mousse that were served in the fanciest of fancy restaurants, and that she had seen pictures of in magazines from time to time.
A terrible thought had crossed her mind once. What if he wanted to get married again?
Well, she wouldn't let him, that was all. She wasn't sure just how she could prevent it, but she vowed that she would. She would get sick, maybe, and he would have to spend all his time at the hospital, taking care of her. She would do something like that. And if that didn't work, she would tell the woman he wanted to marry that she would never let her. And if even that didn't work, she would be so mean to her new stepmother that she would finally leave her father, and then the two of them would be alone together again.
Once that was all settled, Wendy brushed the thought from her mind, and never considered it again.
She liked best to think of her father when she was lying in bed, just before she fell asleep at night, or in the morning when she woke up, still drowsy and warm. And sometimes she did an evil, wicked thing. Sometimes she slipped out of her thin cotton nightgown, and lay naked between the sheets, running her own hands over her voluptuous young body, while she imagined little scenes where she would be alone with her father.
The thought of him excited her so, at those moments, that the little "vee" between her legs would begin to tingle. Sometimes, she pressed her thighs together to stop the maddening sensation, but it only seemed to increase the excitement. Little lights seemed to pop like firecrackers under her skin, and she was unable to stop herself from running her small soft hands over her excitedly trembling body.
One hand would massage the soft white skin of her plump young breast in tiny teasing circles, tweaking the soft nipples into hard little buttons. Her other hand would slide with tantalizing slowness, its touch light as air, over the soft curve of her belly, and on down, tracing a path to the thin slit of her vagina, nestles teasingly in the sparse dark hair so recently sprouted between her thighs.
She knew it was a shameful thing to do, and yet she could never help herself. Her legs would scissor out, and her middle finger slip between her thighs, searching for the tiny erected bud of her clitoris.
She would stroke it into quivering hardness, her finger teasing and taunting the tiny pleasure bud, while she twisted her buttocks back against the mattress, adding further to her wrongful pleasure. She would often have to stifle a groan, afraid that her mother and father, sleeping in the next room, might hear her, and come to find out what she was doing. She could never have let them know that, of course; she would have died on the spot, from sheer embarrassment.
Terrible feelings of guilt mingled with the wonderful feelings of pleasure that suffused her voluptuous young body with its rosy glow, and she would go on and. on. Her legs would fall open even wider, and he would begin to work her shamelessly probing fingers all around inside the moist pink edges of her softly contracting cunt, slowly widening the smooth pussy-lips. She would feel the moisture seeping down, warmly wetting them, and would slip her middle finger in and out between them. Her legs would jackknife back, her knees smashed against her breasts and her soft rounded buttocks rising and falling as her middle finger slipped smoothly in and out.
Her face would contort with her ever mounting lust, and suddenly she would clench her teeth and shove two more of her tiny fingers deep inside the wetly glistening hole.
She would rock back and forth, thus lewdly impaled on them, and her body would tremble with this new and wicked pleasure. As the hungry pink folds of her vagina closed around her expertly teasing fingers, her imagination would run wild. She would hardly know that she was doing this obscene thing to herself; it was a man doing it to her, and it wasn't wrong at all, because they were married, weren't they?
She would lie back, kneading and squeezing her own breasts, yet almost unaware of what she was doing. It seemed to be her father whose gentle stroking of her soft resilient skin set her trembling belly on fire, turned all of her voluptuous young body into a sheet of flame. Her passion would continue to mount until it was unbearable, and then she would groan, and moan his name. "Oh, Daddy ... Daddy ... " She would tense, not moving, as the bubbles that sparkled in her blood like bubbles in a glass of champagne rose to tingle delightfully against her skin. She would groan as she felt a gush of warm moisture flow from the velvet-smooth depths of her cunt, to flood wetly down over the fingers still deep inside her hungry cavern. She would shudder in the ecstasy of the moment, and a deep peace would settle over her, and she would know that she loved her father with all the passion of her young teenage soul.
The memory of those perfect moments came back to her now as she sat quietly beside her father. His face was drawn and clouded with his misery, but he still seemed the handsomest man in the world to her. And now her mother was gone and she was alone with him, just as she had always dreamed she might be. And she could be with him like this forever, if she -what was the expression? - played her cards right.
Well, she was going to. She looked up at him adoringly, and was relieved to see that the expression in his face seemed less intense than a few minutes earlier. His voice was gentle as he asked a question that clouded his eyes with pain.
"Honey," he said, still clasping her hand tight, "how did you happen to go to that place?"
She shook her head, opening her eyes in mock innocence. "I...I told you, Daddy," she almost whispered. "Mommy took me."
"Had you ever gone there before?" he asked, swallowing hard, feeling as if the words were being torn from him with tongs. "I mean... " he continued, miserably, "I mean there were a lot of young people there, too, you know. All those dirty old men, but a lot of young people, too. You never went there with any of them, did you?"
"Oh, no, Daddy!" Wendy said in a shocked voice, lying glibly, "no!"
"I just wondered," he said. "I just wondered if you'd ever heard about it or anything, before."
Again Wendy shook her head, acting innocent, telling an even bigger lie. "I didn't know anything about it, Daddy. Nothing at all. But Mommy had, I guess." She managed to look sorrowful, as if almost moved to tears by her mother's wickedness. "She told me, just before you left, you know ... just a little while before you left ... "
"She knew about it even then?" John interrupted. "Even before I left?"
"Oh, yes, Daddy." Wendy dropped her eyes, and stared at the carpet. "I mean, I guess she did." She seemed to think about it, biting her lip reflectively. "She must have known," she said at last. "Because she went there, she told me!" Wendy suddenly clapped her hand over her mouth, and tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh, Daddy," she added, "I shouldn't have told you that ... I promised Mommy I would never, never tell a soul. And now I've gone and told you."
The tears spilled over, and John, overwhelmed with his feelings for his fifteen-year-old daughter, drew her toward him, patting her hand gently now and running his hand through her soft dark hair. "Oh, darling," he soothed her, "don't cry. I don't want to see you cry."
He was a bastard upsetting his daughter this way. And yet he was powerless to stop the interrogation of her, the inquisition. He had to know more about his wife, even if it killed Wendy, even if it killed him, too. Which was more likely, he thought grimly.
"Wendy," he said, "I hate to do this to you, sweetheart ..." She lowered her eyes demurely, and he went on. "I really do. I know you don't want to talk about these things, and I really don't want to make you. But I just have to know. I have to. You understand that, don't you?"
"Yes, Daddy." She smiled bravely.
John hesitated, briefly, then taking a deep breath he plunged ahead. "When did ... what was the first time Mommy went to that house up there?"
Wendy shook her head. "I don't know," she said in a tight little voice.
"Try to remember," John urged. "Try, darling."
Wendy pretended to think once again. At last she said, "I don't know what was the first time, Daddy. I really don't. But ... but ... "
"But what, dearest?"
"Well, I know she went up there once, oh, it was a long time ago. A long time before you left, even. She said she was going to a P.T.A. meeting, and she didn't go." Wendy paused dramatically, as if too heartsick to go on.
She brushed another tear from her eye, and John's heart went out to her with pity. He squeezed her hand hard. "Try to go on," he begged. "Try, Wendy. For my sake."
"That was the first time I knew about, Daddy," she said. She shrugged her slim shoulders, implying that there had been other, earlier times as well.
John sat, his head sunk in his hands. Christ! How could he have been taken in this way? His wife, dear God. She had pretended, from the day they met, to be so good, so pure. She'd been a virgin until they were married!
He sat up straight in the rocking chair, as a terrible doubt crossed his mind. She'd said she was. And God knows, she'd never let him touch her. She'd fought him off as if he were a mad rapist, every time he'd tried. A good-night kiss was about as far as she'd let him go.
He closed his eyes, rocking back and forth now, remembering the time he'd been almost crazy with desire for her - well, Christ, they'd been in the back seat of the car, parked down by the mill pond, and she'd seemed almost as excited as he was, and had let him unbutton her blouse, and even stroke her breasts. And when he just couldn't help himself, couldn't control himself any longer, he'd put his hand up under her skirt, and trailed it the length of her soft white thigh, all the way to the top of her stocking. He'd felt the cool smooth expanse of skin above it and it had driven him crazy, and he had slipped his fingers beneath the tight elastic legband of her flimsy white panties.
She had sucked in her breath, but she had let him - Christ! she was probably as hot as he was - and he had felt the narrow hair-lined slit of her pussy, had even cautiously inserted a finger between the soft folds of flesh there. Suddenly she had turned on him, her eyes flashing in the dark like those of a wounded tiger, had fought him off with the strength of a bull, clawing at his arms, his face, his chest. She had been sobbing when he drove her home, and hadn't spoken to him for days afterward. Which was just as well, since it took that long for the scratches she had inflicted to heal.
And she'd convinced him she was a virgin! Jesus Christ, what else was he to think?
Well, he sure as hell thought something else, now. That whole bit was just one great big phony act meant to lead him to the alter. She'd probably been screwing everyone in town, whenever she was out of his sight. Christ! Had he ever been taken for a sucker!
He felt Wendy's eyes, filled with pity, staring at him, and his heart went out to her again. She was as lovely looking as her mother, with her dark shoulder length hair framing her pert little heart-shaped face, her cupid lips closed now over her straight, even white teeth, her long dark lashes shading her sparkling black eyes. God! She was the spitting image of Meg.
But she was as different from her as night from day, at the same time. You'd never catch Wendy screwing around the way Meg did, by God! The girl was so sweet and pure and innocent. Oh, Jesus! He choked back a sob. To think of that slut, Meg, taking their child to a place like that. It was the most despicable thing he'd ever heard of.
His throat tightened. Meg hadn't been out of his thoughts, day or night that whole lousy three months he'd been in Europe. God, he hadn't even looked at another woman. Not that he hadn't had plenty of chances. They'd swarmed around him like bees around honey over there. Why not, what with his expense account that guaranteed them entry into the smartest nightclubs, the swankiest restaurants on the Continent? But there wasn't one of them he'd given a second look. No! Like an idiot, he'd stuck to all those old-fashioned ideas and values about fidelity. Well, he'd been the biggest sucker on earth. He'd been the patsy. Jesus! Missing Meg so much he'd almost gone out of his fucking mind.
There was that night in Rome he'd been so Goddamned hot for her he'd been ready to rape a lamp post. And another night in Paris, up in Pigalle, when some of the guys he'd met through the company insisted he go to a striptease joint with them. And there'd been that girl there, and she'd reminded him so much of Meg he'd been ready to tumble her.
He hadn't, though. He'd gone back to his hotel and gone to bed. He hadn't been able to sleep, of course. He had gotten up and taken a cold shower, and that hadn't helped him much. His balls had ached as if they were caught in a vise and his penis had throbbed incessantly, lurching and jerking until it stood, swollen and erect, beneath the cool sheet.
Knowing sleep was impossible, he had got up and dressed, going out into the night. He strolled down the Champs-Elysees, and a window filled with dainty lingerie - nightgowns and lace-trimmed slips and panties and petticoats -had caught his eye. His thoughts were still on Meg, and he had wanted to buy everything he saw for her.
He'd stared at the display for a long time, choosing those things he thought would please her most. And he was there the next morning when the place opened, trying to explain, with the help of the glossary in his guidebook, just what he wanted. The salesgirl, it turned out, spoke English, and she had asked suggestively, "Monsieur has met someone here, in Paree, is that not so? And wants to leave her something with which to remember him. Is that not so?"
"No," John had snapped. "That is not so. This is for my wife."
The girl gave him a smile which said, plainly, that she was quite willing to believe his little lie - that there was no need for him to get excited about it - that she would most certainly never even hint at his little secret to anyone. He had come close to turning on his heel and walking out, and then had decided not to make a fool of himself. "Would you please wrap it up," he had asked, amused at his own pun, and then had signed his Traveler's Checks, taken the package and walked out.
He'd packed it away in his suitcase - Jesus! It was still there, still nestled in the folds of tissue paper in which it had been wrapped. Well, he'd never hand it over to Meg now. Not on your life. But Wendy? The things would be almost her size. "Wendy, honey," he said suddenly, "I forgot. I didn't give you your presents."
She sucked in her breath, and her eyes sparkled with expectation. "Oh, Daddy," she gasped. She threw her arms around his neck in a great bear hug. "What are they? What did you bring me?"
He got up slowly from the rocking chair, and went out. When he came back, he handed her the tissue-wrapped box. She tore it open quickly, pulling out the nightgown, the slip, even the panties, holding them up against her, squealing happily, fingering the soft fabric. "Oh, Daddy!" she exclaimed at last. "It's so beautiful. And all for me?" she questioned him, as if she couldn't believe it.
"All for you, precious."
"But Daddy! It's silk. Real silk. I've never had anything made of real silk before. Never in my whole life."
"You'll have lots of silk, from now on," he promised. "You'll be beautiful in it. Just beautiful."
"I want to wear the nightgown tonight," Wendy said, throwing her arms around her father and kissing him. "I want to put it on right this minute." She kissed him again, then ran from the room, carrying the tiny wisps of cloth over her arm.
A moment later, John heard her door slam upstairs. He leaned back in the rocking chair once more, suddenly realizing how completely exhausted he was. It had been a long, tiring trip - he had had little, if any sleep, for nearly twenty-four hours now. The shock of seeing his wife degraded to the level of an animal had not yet worn off. Would it ever? He had been drinking, too, and pretty steadily, almost since he got home. And now his mind was whirring, his thoughts blurred.
But he knew he couldn't sleep. He was too Goddamned tense, too troubled. Christ! His whole world had crashed around him, smashed to bits in the last few hours. He didn't feel like trying to pick up the pieces. Not yet. How could he, living as if in limbo now, shoved about like a particle spinning in space?
He needed another drink, that was what. And a smoke to relax him. He went into the kitchen, found a bottle and drank straight from it, pouring a healthy slug down his throat. He patted his pockets, looking for his cigarettes, but they weren't there. He couldn't remember where he'd left them, wasn't even sure he still had any.
He went searching for others. Meg must have left a pack around, he thought. He laughed hollowly. That was one thing, at least, she could have done for him.
He carried the bottle with him as he searched, taking short nips from time to time. All the places - the likely places - he looked in seemed to be cleared out. Finally, in the back of a drawer, carefully hidden, he came across a couple of reefers - the thin brown cigarettes he'd seen being smoked at the house he'd gone to.
So Meg had been on the stuff around here, too! Probably smoking it for a long time. And in front of Wendy, too. He felt a little sick once more, and put the cigarette down. Then -"What the hell?" he asked. He might as well get a little lift from the drug, too. Take a trip -wasn't that what they called it? Forget his troubles, just like everyone else.
He put the bottle on a table near the rocking chair, sat down, and lit the cigarette. The first few puffs were irritating, and he began to cough. But a few moments later, he felt a warmth and comfort spread through him. His problems seemed to melt away, and for the first time in what had seemed an eternity, he began to feel happy. His head was light, and his body even lighter, seeming to float around in space. He had trouble focusing his eyes, but that didn't bother him. Nothing did, any more. Only this moment seemed real, and this moment seemed good, as well.
His thoughts wandered to Meg, but he felt no anger, no bitterness towards her now. He put aside his most recent memories of her, and dwelt instead on the lovely young girl he had married.
He was still sitting in the rocking chair, when Wendy came down, dressed in the sheer silk nightgown he had brought from Paris. She stood in the open doorway, and John, looking up, sucked in his breath. To his drug-and drink-blunted mind, it seemed to be Meg posed like a lovely young goddess before him.
She was younger than he had thought she was, and slimmer. He must have forgotten her size, he reasoned, because the nightgown he had chosen so carefully for her in Paris hung loosely around her slender, but voluptuous form. And then he was certain that time had flown backwards - that was possible, wasn't it? Didn't those people who practised all those far Eastern religions say so? He had read that somewhere, and even read an explanation of it. There was some point in space where time stood still, and you could see the past and the present and the future. And one reason they took all those drugs, like the hashish he had just smoked, was to reach that point. He racked his brain, trying to think of the word for it. Nirvana? Wasn't that it? Well, whatever it was, he had reached it, and now he was sitting here in his own house, in his own rocking chair, and he was living through his wedding night, or at least he was on his honeymoon, and his lovely young bride had just come in, wearing, for some reason he couldn't quite fathom, the silk nightgown he had brought her from Paris.
He stood up - it seemed to take a very long time - and crossed the room to her. She smiled happily at him, and said, "How do I look, Daddy?"
The name charmed him, sent little ripples of pleasure spreading gently through him. "Daddy." It seemed to express all her feelings towards him, and her attitudes as well. It told him that she looked to him to love and cherish and protect her, told him she would submit to him, just as a modest young bride should. "Daddy." It would be her pet name for him, forever.
He cupped her chin and lifted her face to his. He had forgotten how tiny she was, but he found a new pleasure in it. He fastened his mouth over her moist warm lips, and his tongue flashed out to part them, to slip between them, to swirl across the surface of her own kitten-like tongue.
His hands roamed down her back, to the slender waist, the gently flaring hips, then to the firmly rounded half-moons of her quivering little buttocks. He pulled her close, and felt her warm, throbbing loins grind tight against his pelvis.
Her ripe young breasts crushed against his chest, the nipples biting like bits of steel into his chest. She began to move her body up and down against his, pressing her hips forward, while his penis jerked maddeningly beneath his pants. He glanced down to see the bulge there, wary lest his innocent young bride be frightened or even shocked. She was such a child, he thought, marveling once again over the fact that she called him "Daddy."
But she seemed eager for him to continue his caresses, and he gently lifted the filmy new nightgown, holding it up almost to her waist, exposing the little triangle of dark curls at the base of her slender, gently curving belly. He drew his hand the length 'of the smooth white skin, from the little indentation of her navel to the secret treasure which would soon be his.
As he did so, she opened her legs slightly, welcoming him, and he could feel warm dewdrops of moisture rising there, could feel the now nakedly exposed hair-lined lips begin to throb wetly, spasmodically against each other.
"Oh, Daddy, Daddy," Wendy moaned, and again John thrilled at what he was certain was her special term of endearment. Again he thrust his tongue deep into the child's mouth, and she sucked gently on it, nibbling with tiny sharp nips of her teeth that sent chills running the length of his spine. She moved her thigh up against his loins again, and his cock sprang into a hurting hardness.
Oh, God! He'd waited so long for this moment, almost gone beserk with passion. He smiled inwardly now. He'd been so worried, so concerned about his sweet young bride, too. He'd vowed he would do nothing to hurt her, to frighten her. He would be the gentlest of men, the most considerate of husbands. And now his lovely little bride was taking the initiative, encouraging him to do all sorts of things he would never have dared to do otherwise. It had always seemed to John that his own Meg - his little Meg, as he had called her - had gently but firmly pushed him away when, on the few occasions he had attempted this, when he had trailed his tongue down the length of her body, toward her throbbing little bud, her soft, fleshy cuntal lips.
But now she tangled her hands in his hair and' just as insistently as she had resisted before, pulled his head down to the tempting "vee" of her loins, the quivering pink flesh of her pulsing vagina. He dropped to his knees, pressing his face against that most sensitive, closely guarded passage.
She spread her legs wider, placed her soft white hands against his face, drawing it forward gently, even discreetly. And yet he had no doubts as to her intentions. And when he rested his thumbs on the tender folds of pussy-flesh and slowly, lovingly drew them apart, laying open her moist, coral cunt to his hungry eyes, now glazed over with his passion, she moaned in utter ecstasy.
"Oh, Daddy, Daddy!" she murmured, as she felt the hot wisps of his breath graze her secret flesh, and then she caught her breath as the full length of his long tongue shot forward to slide wetly up into her velvet-like vagina.
It raced up into her moistly unresisting cunt, and she mewled with pleasure. She threw back her head, lolling in complete abandon to the thrilling sensation he was inflicting on her trembling body. Suddenly his hands shot up, under the fragile, almost transparent nightdress, up over her quivering belly to the full firm flesh of her soft young breasts. He cupped them, and the feel of the satin-smooth mounds incited him to further sensual excitement and agony. His loins were on fire, his penis throbbing now, aching beyond endurance. His thumbs and forefingers moved tantalizingly up over the snowy mounds, to close around the tiny nipples that crowned them, to tease at them, and bring them to pulsing erections.
As he massaged the sweet, tender breasts, he continued to tongue into the wide-spread split between her legs with obscene sucking sounds that were like the strains of beautiful music to the lust-crazed couple. Wild, blissful sensations coursed maddeningly through Wendy's veins, matched with equal ecstasy by those of her father.
He clasped her closer, his tongue slithering deeply up inside her, licking hungrily at her moist cuntal passage. "Oh, Daddy," she moaned. "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy... "
"My little Meg," he answered. He withdrew his tongue from the innermost recesses of her velvet-like vagina, and felt, with an exhilaration always before denied him, the warm moistness seeping softly from it. The strange, pungent taste that lingered on his tongue as he licked the fluid trickling down between her thighs drove him increasingly mad. He began to probe and explore with his lips until he found the tiny pulsing bud of his daughter's clitoris, and took it between his teeth. She moaned her pleasure as he ran his tongue around and around it in continuously decreasing circles, sucking insanely now at the button-hard miniature phallus.
He fucked the child orally, listening to her cries of pleasure until he could stand it no longer. Suddenly he raised his head, stood, and swooped the girl up in his arms. He saw her as his lovely young bride, and he carried her upstairs to the bedroom, and over the threshold, as grooms had done from time immemorial, and placed her gently on the bed. He knelt beside her, his eyes roving over the luscious figure barely concealed by the pale pink nightgown.
He fell to his knees beside her, and his hand crept beneath the gown, as it had done before. He lifted it to her shoulders, and he trailed his tongue from her quivering little pussy to the little indentation of her navel, to the smooth little mounds of her breasts. And then he lifted her as carefully as if she were a fragile china doll, and pulled the gown up over her head.
She lay naked on the bed then, trembling ever so slightly, as he sank to his knees to stare in awe and wonder at her perfection. Her skin was like alabaster, covering finely chiseled bones. Her breasts were ripe and full and firm, wonderfully rounded spheres. Her shoulders were fine and slender, her waist wasp-like and tiny. Her hips flared sensually, sloping into her shapely thighs. She was a young goddess, John thought, yearning to touch her, yet hardly daring to.
But once again Wendy invited him, taking his hand, placing it gently on the little swell of her belly, guiding it to her breast, stroking his hand as he stroked her own tender skin. In the most demure way possible, she let him know that she wanted him to play with her tiny nipples, to run his finger lightly over them, to tease them by taking them between his fingers, crushing them until she moaned with delight.
She pulled his head forward, and without the slightest trace of lewdness or obscenity held it to one of the snowy mounds, his mouth barely grazing a tiny button-like nipple. "Oh, Daddy," she pleaded in her innocent, sweet voice, "Suck it. Oh, please. Suck it. It feels so wonderful when you do."
John's mind reeled with the erotic wonderfulness of it all. His little virgin bride, whom he had been afraid of frightening, hurting even, had all the love-making skills of an accomplished courtesan. Had there ever been such a mixture of innocence and wordly-wisdom? Meg's very naturalness, her undisguised joy in sensual pleasure, increased his own to heights he had never dreamed of.
Yet even that seemed to pale beside the delight he felt as he heard the childish voice pipe, "Oh, fuck me, Daddy. Fuck me hard and long." The very incongruity of the obscene word, tumbling from the lips of this guileless creature set his loins on fire, made the throbbing ache in his balls unbearable.
Suddenly the long-lashed eyes fluttered open, and Wendy's glance took in John's fully-clothed body. "Oh, Daddy," she scolded gently. "You aren't even undressed yet." With her slim white hand, she unbuckled his belt, opened the waist and unzipped his trousers. Then she slid it inside the cotton material of his shorts to slowly encircle his long, desire-thickened cock and draw it out.
John groaned aloud as her small, cool fingers encircled the angry red shaft of his penis, as he saw the tiny drops of male pre-cum that had oozed from the tip in his mounting lust. Her soft little hand massaged and stroked it, drawing the heavy foreskin back and forth, up and down. Christ! It was heavenly! He had to get his clothes off, he had to have her. Frantically, he pulled at his shirt and pants, stripping them off rapidly, kicking them out of his way. And then he was on the bed with her, his hot, hungry mouth all over her face and lips, his tongue sinking into her mouth, his hands kneading her ripe young breasts, exploring her voluptuous young body eagerly.
Wendy ran her hands through his hair, then gently urged him over until he lay on top of her. Now it was her turn to run her hands exploringly down over his lean form, sending bolts of molten fire through his throbbing hot flesh. The narrow, hair-lined split of her cunt-lips already lay poised and ready while his cock pressed almost savagely up against her thighs, as if it might plunge into her at any second.
Wendy groaned now, wanting nothing more than that in all the world. Suddenly, she flexed her hips, lifting herself so that she could move her anns around her buttocks, and with both hands spread her soft, fleshy vaginal lips, opening them up further to her father. As his rock-hard penis pressed more tightly against her wetly sensitive cuntal flesh, she dropped back on the bed, his thickly throbbing rod gripped tightly between her naked thighs. She writhed her smooth flat belly up against him, her fingernails raking the flesh of his back, mewling cat-like and mashing her lips against his own.
He slid his hands down beneath her, to cup her roundly straining ass-cheeks and draw her loins closer to him. Her tiny moist lips were hot with passion, and he moved slowly up and down her body, insinuating the full length of his hardness along the wide-spread slit of her pussy. Its growing wetness seeped down now, and then she began a frantic rotation of her firm little buttocks until at last her legs shot out to the left and the right of his nakedly grinding body. Her tiny hand reached down between their two lewdly writhing bodies to grab his lust-hardened cock and guide it to the glistening little hole between the fleshy hair-lined lips of her cunt. The thick shaft of flesh hovered there briefly, and then John suddenly thrust forward, driving his pulsating cock up deep inside the tight, warm channel.
Wendy let out her breath in a long low moan of pleasure, and undulated excitedly beneath him, as the walls of her velvety wet pussy closed fast around his sensitively pulsing flesh. The movement brought a grunt of delight from deep in John's chest. He thrust wildly now, sending his aching hot cock between her madly flailing legs. The warmly flowing moisture of her cunt eased the passage of his driving, pounding member, and he plunged on until the heavy rod was buried to the hilt, while his balls slapped hard against the smooth rounded cheeks of her tightly clenched ass.
Wendy whimpered in ecstasy, twisting and thrashing beneath her drug-befuddled father as his lust-maddened cock probed the very depths of her warm soft belly. Now she strained up against him, arching her naked loins up to him, as he ground harder and harder into the hot moist cuntal flesh. She began to work up and down his lewdly thrusting rod, tightening her legs around his hips, releasing them, moving now in a frantic rhythm that matched his own. Her mouth fell open in wild abandon, and she tossed her head from side to side in her excitement.
She moaned again, and then, in her quivering, child-like voice suddenly begged, "Oh, Daddy ... Daddy ... put your finger in my ass. Do it, Daddy. Put it in my ass!"
The salacious words, coming almost from the mouth of a babe, sent another exciting current of lust surging through John's body. His little Meg was the most adorable creature on earth. She shocked him and delighted him by acting like a whore - yes, a whore - and yet, at the same time, she was indescribably sweet and simple. He had never dreamed that such a thing was possible. And he had certainly never thought his bride capable of it. She had been so demure that he had almost been ashamed of his own carnal lust for her. And now it was she who was encouraging him to perform every lewd and degrading act possible.
Once again he heard the soft, mellifluous voice begging, "Daddy, put your finger in my ass. Please, Daddy. Please!"
He sucked in his breath, continuing . to hammer his throbbing cock into the soft smooth wetness of her seething cunt. Reaching down under her into the wide-spread furrow between her buttocks, he searched with his middle finger, until he found the tight, puckered little hole of her anus, wet now with the moisture that had seeped along the smoothly undulating crevice. He probed at the hairless little ass-hole with his fingertip, then pressed in between the soft, resisting nether ring. Suddenly, it seemed to pop, sucking his finger in to the first knuckle joint.
He thrust again and felt his finger slide all the way in to the palm of his hand, while his precious little bride cried out with the intense pleasure-pain that racked her body. She screwed her buttocks wantonly back onto his plunging middle finger, and he rotated it madly around inside the soft fleshy depths of her rectum. He could feel his hard driving penis fucking into her tightly clasping vagina through the thin wall separating the two channels, and he knew that he couldn't last much longer. His cock seemed to grow with every thrust, his balls burning with their swelling load of white seminal fluid until he thought they would explode. Oh, God! He wanted to shoot it into her now, shoot it deep into his precious bride's soft smooth belly, feel it mingle there with her own sweetly seeping cum. He prayed that she was ready to cum, too, to reach her own ecstatic climax as he gasped out his own. They would be one, then, one forever and evermore.
He thrust into her with longer, harder strokes, as his finger mercilessly pummeled her wide-stretched rectum. She groaned beneath him, her hands clawing into his naked buttocks in her lust-fed delirium. And then she screamed, "Oh, Daddy ... Daddy ... Daddy ... I'm going to cum. I'm going to cum." She thrust her loins up at him with all her strength, and then John felt the sudden spurt of his own semen, like boiling lava, as it raced the length of his iron-stiff penis, spilling forth in wild hot waves between the moistly sucking walls of her cunt.
The two clung together, bodies entwined, locked in the desperate moment that united them, made them indivisible. At last John withdrew his now deflating penis, while Wendy collapsed, exhausted, beneath him, still quivering in the aftermath of her frantic ecstasy. Gently she pushed her father's limp body from her own, and lay beside him, turning to nestle close, her voluptuous young body crushed against his lean hardness. She sighed happily. She loved Daddy so much, and now she knew that he loved her, too, and always would. Nothing, she vowed, nothing on earth, would ever come between them.
Chapter 9
Meg waited at the elevator in the grubby little hotel where she had taken a room, pushing the button again and again. It was sad and depressing; its one advantage was that it was cheap. And Meg had no money to spare these days.
John had refused to give her any but the barest subsistence, ever since that terrible night tip at Joe Marshall's place. The mere thought of what had happened there ... my God! that awful man actually had shoved his thick hard penis deep into her rectum, plundering her in the most perverted of all acts. And she had let him. She had welcomed this obscene ravishing of her once chaste body.
Why? She didn't know, herself. Oh, she had had plenty to drink that night. And those cigarettes she had smoked. Hashish. She'd been so damned innocent, so naive - so stupid - she hadn't even known what it was before she'd gone to Marshall's. Well, she knew now. And she knew the effects of it, too.
But how on earth did she get herself into such a situation? She poked her finger at the buttons again, wishing to hell the elevator would come, open its doors like a pair of welcoming arms, take her into its shelter. And then what? Spew her out on the fourth floor of this dingy place, leave her standing there until she could face walking down the hall to the tiny room that looked at the magnificent view of a brick wall, with garbage cans set at the base of it. You've come a long way, Meg Powell, she told herself. And every step of it has been down.
She heard the whirring sound that meant the elevator had arrived, waited until the doors unfolded, then stepped into the dimness of the small enclosure. She pressed the button for her floor, and was slowly born skyward. When the doors rolled open at last, she stepped into the dirty corridor, sighed and walked slowly to her narrow room at the end of it. She unlocked the door and went in, dropping her handbag on the bed, letting her coat fall to the floor. She sat down heavily in the one shabby easy chair -springs sagging, upholstery torn - and kicked off her shoes. There was a hole in the sole of one, and she made a mental note to take it to the shoemaker. But she knew she wouldn't. It was just too much effort for her to do anything, these days.
She got up and looked at herself in the streaked and dirty mirror above the scarred dressing table. Her image was distorted by its flaws and imperfections. Even so, she thought, she looked like hell. She seemed to have aged fifteen years in the last - how long was it? - a few days, a few months? It didn't seem to matter which; time had dragged unbearably, with one dreary day following another. She saw no one, or almost no one. Who would want to talk to anyone as depraved as she was? And everyone in the town seemed to know about her, all avoiding her like the plague.
She went back to the chair again, and leaned back in it, eyes closed. Once again, she tried to collect her thoughts, tried to understand what had happened, and how.
It was Wendy, she knew. It had been Wendy's fault. Hadn't it been her own daughter who had dragged her into that house of hell? But she had gone willingly, hadn't she?
She shook her head, gasping, "No. Oh, God, no!"
Then how? Why?
She had been threatened, she remembered. The girl had forced her to go there, to do what she had done. That she remembered clearly enough. But how had she been able to? What was she so afraid of that she submitted to her own child's depraved demands?
The memory of the first evening at Joe Marshall's place came back to her. But again she asked herself "Why? Why?"
And then the memory she had tried so hard to suppress surfaced, that of Russ Clark, of their wicked love-making, there in her own home, in her own bed. What had possessed her to submit to him, to give herself to him so totally that night? She shook her head, uncomprehendingly. She had turned the matter over and over in her mind countless times, lying awake on the lumpy narrow cot in this wretched little room, unable to sleep, weeping softly into her pillow. And she had yet to find a satisfactory answer.
It was different, those other times, at Joe's place. What she had done there was evil, was lewd and disgraceful. She had been drunk those times, spaced out on drugs as well. She should have resisted, she admitted. But at least she could understand what had happened then. But that first night, with Russ Clark? She shook her head. That she could never understand.
She knew well enough why she had gone there, and she gasped a little, even now, thinking of it. She had been shocked - shocked - at the sight of Wendy and Russ's son Ted, their naked bodies twined together, at the obscene sound of flesh smacking against naked flesh as Ted had rammed his iron-hard penis deep between her daughter's wide-spread thighs, thrusting lewdly in and out of her clasping vagina. Oh, God, it had sickened her. She hadn't been able to believe it. Not Wendy, not the little girl who had been her whole life, the source of her greatest joy.
But it had been true. It had been true! Horrified by what she had seen, she had gone to see Ted's father, to beg for his help. He had understood! He had known how she felt.
Gratefully, she thought of Russ Clark, of his kindness to her. And then ... then? How had it happened?
She didn't know. She just didn't know.
She sat with her head sunk in her hands for a long time, trying to shut out all thought. When it crept up upon her and overwhelmed her, she went out.
Down again in the decrepit elevator. Through the grimy, spotted lobby. And out into the deserted streets.
She wandered around, looking in shop windows filled with dresses she could no longer afford to buy, filled with the small luxuries which she had always taken for granted and which were now far beyond her. When it grew cold, when the wind whistled through her light coat and chilled her to the bone, she stopped in at an all night diner. She wasn't hungry, but she ordered a hamburger, anyway, forcing herself to eat it. She couldn't remember when she had eaten last; it had been the day before, she thought, probably at breakfast. She hadn't felt like food since then, and had had only black coffee. She still didn't feel like eating, but she was weak, her knees wobbling, her hands trembling. She ate out of necessity, merely to keep going.
She felt a little better, and asked for another cup of coffee. She dawdled over it, having nowhere to go except back to her hotel room, and that was too depressing even to think about. When the diner was about to close, she paid her bill and went out. But she knew she could never go back to her hotel. Not in her present depressed state of mind. Once again, she walked along the main street, looking into shop windows. She found them more depressing than ever. She walked to the end of the street, where the swank shops dwindled into the more mundane, and finally petered out, with nothing left but the Salvation Army and a thrift shop.
She turned around and started back, and walking half the length of the section. She stopped in front of a display of minks and laughed sardonically. John, she remembered, had planned to buy her one. And now? The coat she was wearing was spotted, needed pressing. Oh, she'd fallen far, she had.
She felt the presence of someone behind her, caught sight of a face leering back at her from the plate glass window. She turned, to see a florid-faced man there, staring lewdly at her. Oh, God! she thought. She should have known better than to stop here, to window shop at night. That was what the whores did, it was an open invitation for a pick up.
"Hi," he said, his evil little eyes roaming over her body, making her feel dirty. Instinctively, she brushed at her coat, as if she could cleanse herself, body and soul, that way. She started to walk away, but he followed her. "Buy you a drink?" he asked.
Meg ignored him, walking faster. But he kept at her heels, persisting. "Buy you a drink?"
Finally she whirled around. "Leave me alone!" she half screamed.
"What the hell's eating you?" he asked, genuinely surprised. "All I did was ask if I could buy you a drink."
Meg drew herself up to her full height. "I know what you want," she said haughtily.
"Sure you do," he said. "If you didn't know that I want a good lay, you wouldn't be out walking around now."
"Goddamn you!" Meg screamed. "Goddamn you. Leave me alone, will you, or else I'll call the police."
He laughed. "That's a good one," he said. "Soliciting, and now you're going to call the police!"
"I am," Meg insisted, shrieking hysterically now. "I'm going to call the police!"
"They'll run you in, sister," he said laconically. "You'll get ten days, if it's a first offense. More, if you've been hauled in before. And from the looks of you, I'd say you have."
Meg felt the color rising to her cheeks, felt the scalding tears sting her eyes. "You're a dirty old man," she screamed, devoid of all self control now. "A dirty old man."
He laughed again. "That's good," he said, "coming from an old whore like you."
The words stung Meg like a lash across her face. Suddenly, blindly, she struck out against him, her hand slashing across his mouth, striking again and again, drawing blood. Stunned, the man stepped back, and then his fist shot out, smashing into her eyes. She reeled backwards, caught off balance, then went down, her legs crumbling beneath her. She lay on the ground a few minutes, her head whirling, her eye closed tight against the excruciating pain. She opened it at last to see the man standing over her, a viciously cruel expression on his face. "You slut," he spat at her. "I've a good mind to call the cops right now."
Meg struggled to her feet, stared at him terrified, then turned and ran. At the corner she looked back, and saw that the man was walking away in the other direction. She stopped, leaning back against the brick walls of the nearest building, panting, exhausted. She noticed that her coat was torn, felt the swelling of her eye, still closed, knew that it was turning purple.
She was trembling like a leaf, chilled, weak and sick as well. She wanted desperately to lie down somewhere, to crawl into a warm, cozy bed. Yet she dared not go back to the hotel, looking like this.
Frantically, she tried to think of some other place to go, some place where she could at least wash the mud from her face, brush off her coat, make some effort to look respectable. But who would take her in, let alone talk to her? Even her oldest friends shunned her these days.
Once more, she reviewed in her mind the events which had led her to this pass, going back to that first evening with Russ Clark. She wondered vaguely what had happened to him, and then it occurred to her that he, at least, might speak to her. Certainly, it was worth chancing; there was no one else who would, no other place for her to go.
She walked slowly through the town, keeping to the back streets as much as possible, hoping to avoid recognition. It was late when she arrived at the Clark place, and she was afraid there was no one home. But the light was shining from the kitchen, and, still trembling, she climbed the steps and rang the doorbell.
When no one came, she rang again. She waited, and was about to leave, when a voice called, "Who's there?"
"Russ?" she asked. "It's Meg. Meg Powell."
The door was flung open, and Russ stood before her. His clothing was unkempt, and he needed a shave. He peered at her through bleary eyes, and Meg knew that he had been drinking. "What do you want?" he asked gruffly.
Meg started to cry. "Oh, God, Russ. I don't know. I just ... I don't know. I just wanted to talk to you. I don't know... "
"Come in." He led her in to the living room where they had sat before. She noticed that there was a glass on the table there, with a half empty whiskey bottle beside it. Clark followed her glance, and asked, "Want some?"
She nodded. She certainly could use it, she thought, and then she remembered Ted's remark when he had offered her a drink, so long ago: "You'll need it."
She picked up the glass, and drank slowly. Still holding it she said, "I know I must look just awful."
Russ nodded. "You look pretty bad," he said. He poured her another drink. "I heard what happened Meg. And I don't know what to say, except that I'm sorry. And that doesn't help much, does it?"
"Oh, it does," she said. "It does." She looked around the room, saw that it seemed shabby, now. Russ, she knew, was having a hard time, too.
He smiled sadly at her, and cleared his throat. "I wish I could help you more, Meg," he said. "You know. Give you money. You must need it.
She nodded, and Clark went on. "But I haven't any," he said. "Ted pretty much cleared me out. And I just haven't been able to work, since all this happened." He laughed bitterly. "Who the hell's going to buy insurance from someone with my reputation?"
Meg's eyes were filled with pity for the man, with sympathy and understanding. "I didn't know it was so bad," she said. "I'm sorry, too."
"And now that Ted's gone ... " Clark said.
"Gone?"
"Yes. Cleared out."
"When?"
"A while back. After he found out about Wendy and your husband."
"Wendy?" Meg asked, her voice hushed. "My husband?"
Russ looked at her, looked away, embarrassed, looked at her again. Christ! She hadn't known! And he'd had to go and open his big trap. Oh, Jesus!
"Wendy?" Meg repeated. "John?"
Russ wrung his hands, his palms wet with sweat. "I thought you knew," he said. "I didn't mean to tell you, but I thought you knew."
"Knew what, for God's sake?"
"Well, I guess they're ... they're ... " he swallowed, trying to find a discreet way to express it, a way to soften the blow. "I guess they're living together," he said at last. "You know. Like man and wife."
"What you're trying to tell me," Meg said grimly, "is that my husband is screwing his own daughter." It was a lewd expression, but what the hell? Why not call a spade a spade?
"I guess that's it," Russ said, apologetically. "Yes, he's screwing the kid silly."
Meg chewed on a fingernail, silently. She had felt too much pain in the last few weeks to be hurt by anything more. One more blow hardly mattered. Still, she was curious, skeptical, even. "He couldn't be," she said at last. "John wouldn't do anything like that. Why, it's ... it's the most wicked thing there is. It's ... it's not normal ... it's not ... " Suddenly, the enormity of the evil struck her, and she covered her eyes, sobbing loudly.
Clumsily, Russ patted her shoulder, trying to sooth her. "He's on drugs, Meg," he said. "All the time, I guess. He just doesn't know what he's doing."
She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. "Where is he getting them?" she asked.
"From Wendy. She's been on them for a long time."
Meg sat, twisting her fingers, as all the pieces of this terrible puzzle began to fall into place. It had been Wendy who had caused the trouble, Wendy who must have plotted, who had lied, who had blackmailed her. And it was this ... this ... obscene, incestuous desire for her own father which had prompted it. She had deliberately destroyed her own mother, had used Ted for her evil purposes, had destroyed Russ Clark, too.
Meg understood it now. Oh, dear God! Wendy.
But wasn't she, herself, guilty too? If she had been able to resist temptation that night, if she had not been so crazed with her lewd, illicit passion ... if ... if ...
Russ Clark interrupted her thoughts with a question. "Are you thinking again about us, Meg? About the way we made love then?"
She nodded, sorrowfully. The memory came back to her, vivid as if it had been yesterday. Russ Clark pulling off her clothes, running his hands over her body, bringing her to a fever pitch of excitement so that she willingly opened her thighs, let him fondle her most secret parts. And then they had ... yes, fucked ... fucked the way Wendy and John now fucked. Why? Why had she done it?
Suddenly Russ spoke again, answering her unasked question. "That night, Meg ... you remember?" She nodded. "I've never forgiven myself for it. And I never will. But there's something you should know." He paused, then cleared his throat. "Have you ever heard of Spanish fly?" he asked.
She nodded. "It's an aphrodisiac, isn't it? Yes, I've heard of it."
"Ted slipped it in our drinks that night. Ted and Wendy."
"Oh, no!" And now she was crying, sobbing her heart out, here in thus shabby living room, amid the wreckage of two lives. Her body was racked, shaking violently, as she saw one horrible event after another passion before her eyes again. And the worst had been tonight, on the street. No wonder that man had thought her a whore - hadn't she considered herself one, too? She knew now that she might have gone on to become one, if it hadn't been for Russ, for his sympathy tonight. He had held out a helping hand to her. More than that, he had told her the truth, and that truth would help to save her. It would be a long, hard road back, but Meg thought she might make it. God knows, she would try.
