Incestuous intercourse is the name of the game for Jonathan Rogers and his beautiful blond sister, Jennifer. The two live together as man and wife, indifferent to those who might think the arrangement perverse.
Robert Darrow, sadistic artist and photographer, is another who enjoys being very familiar with his family. Included in his collection of available females are his mother, Christine, and his salacious sister, Pamela, a girl who thinks her brother an egotistical bore but who thrills to his sexual prowess.
And then there is titian-tressed Joyce Patrick, petite and pretty wife of Adam, whose masochistic impulses compel her to repeatedly visit her father, Edward Clarington, and receive from the aging art connoisseur the punishment she craves. And Clarington, who enjoys seeing to his married daughter's needs, has as his mistress the lovely Julie Wingate, aspiring model and tempting nymphomaniac.
But not everyone is happy. Henry Wingate, Julie's uncle, is deeply concerned about his niece's relationship with Clarington. He is more than a little jealous since it was he who introduced Julie to the delights of sex.
Adam Patrick is on the verge of a breakdown and no longer able to tolerate his wife's wanton behavior with her father. He loves Joyce deeply, yet knows that there must soon be an end to her sick lusts. And Christine Darrow is fearful that one day her son will leave her high and dry, perhaps for a prettier, younger woman.
Things come to a head at an orgy hosted by Edward Clarington. Jennifer discovers her brother committing an act of "infidelity" and decides to seek revenge with Bob Darrow. Disgusted with his wife's antics, Adam Patrick also leaves the orgy and in a neighborhood bar meets Henry Wingate.
And then, four days later, Edward Clarington and Robert Darrow are murdered.
CHAPTER ONE
Jennifer Rogers wiped her hands on an already badly soiled cloth, then stepped back to appraise her latest effort. It's neither fish nor fowl, she thought sadly, her soft blue eyes roaming over the 24" by 36" canvas which was resting on the new easel she had brought home from Colorama Artists.
Jennifer had gotten up early this Saturday morning, slipped into a pair of cream colored panties, faded blue jeans and a paint-smeared smock, and had then set about collecting her materials. Feeling refreshed after a good night's sleep, hoping to be inspired by the sense stirring, intoxicating beauty of a crisp, sun-drenched autumn day, she had gathered her brushes, her paints, a fresh canvas and the easel, lugging everything out to the small terrace which adjoined the three room apartment she shared with Jonathan.
The triangular shaped terrace was, in fact, the one redeeming feature of the antiquated Riverside Drive apartment. Although small and, like the apartment itself, rather confining, the terrace did offer an almost unobstructed and, on low pollution days, beautiful view of the New Jersey skyline.
It was here that Jonathan did nearly all of his writing and Jennifer most of her painting, the terrace acting as a kind of studio for them both. Monday through Friday, Jennifer worked as a salesgirl at Colorama, an undistinguished but reputable little place which had been furnishing struggling and successful painters all over the country with materials for almost half a century.
Jonathan, meanwhile, toiled nine to five in the shipping department of a perfume manufacturer. Packing bottles of perfume into large and not-so-large cartons was not exactly his idea of a meaningful job. A nine year old could have performed the dull duties of a packer, he often thought.
But the lousy job did have one saving grace, and so Jonathan resisted the impulse to break every last bottle of perfume over the manager's bald pate and merely grunted when Max, telling all his "boys" to "be real careful now-easy does it," made one of his many silly inspection tours.
Since the position of packer required minimal intellect and not much concentration, Jonathan was able to spend a considerable portion of his time contemplating his novel, the one he had been working on in the evenings, after work, and on weekends.
The book, tentatively titled "Lions 2, Christians O", was going to be a savage indictment of all those poor slobs who allowed themselves, their hopes and dreams, to be trampled upon by an uncaring society that still equated success with money in the bank. It was a little more than half finished and Jonathan had yet to interest anyone in publishing his very own "Grapes of Wrath."
But he was determined to see it through, to finish what he considered a "good book, a necessary book." And so every day he would suffer the tedious boredom of his job, endure the ego-deflating sameness of a routine that never varied ("Careful, careful, boys. Large bottles on the bottom, small ones on top. Use paper, lots of paper. Don't break the merchandise.") and count off the minutes until he could run from his table in the large musty room to his typewriter at Free at last, he would lug his typewriter out to the terrace and proceed to record those thoughts he had had during the day. (Three oz. spray of cologne here, large bottle of bath crystals there-how would he flesh out an important character introduced rather late in his book? Did the second scene in chapter six really work?)
Jennifer would either be on the terrace already, paint brush in hand, canvas propped on easel, or she would arrive minutes later and begin work while Jonathan pounded away on his typewriter.
Together they would labor, each devoting much concentration and limitless love to their respective crafts. Jennifer Rogers, struggling artist who wanted desperately to make it big in the art world; Jonathan Rogers, persevering writer who cherished the thought of seeing his book in print, who wanted just enough in the way of royalties so that he could begin another manuscript and forget forever those fucking bottles of stinking perfume.
"Well, good morning," the twenty-seven year old aspiring novelist said, his greeting proceeding a yawn of great proportions as he stretched his arms over his head.
Jennifer turned, startled by the intrusion. She had been lost in her own world, trying to determine just what should be added or subtracted to the canvas to imbue her painting with a suggestion of character. A touch here, perhaps, a dab over there. A little more color in the sky, maybe.
Jonathan smiled. "I hope this silence isn't indicative of your mood for the day, beautiful. I mean don't I even get a lousy little 'good morning, John?' And here I went and prepared us a nice brunch."
Jennifer managed a weak smile and soft chuckle. "Oh, I'm sorry, John. I'm just disgusted with myself, that's all. I had hoped to accomplish so much this morning, but...." she left the thought unfinished, her gaze once again returning to her painting of the New Jersey skyline.
"You just need a break, baby," Jonathan said, stepping across the terrace to stand next to Jennifer. "I guess I woke up just in the nick of time. Who knows, in a fit of despondency you might have thrown yourself off the terrace."
Jennifer chuckled again, louder this time. "I hope I haven't reached that point yet." She was silent for a few long seconds, a small warm smile playing over her beautiful face as she studied the handsome man who stood next to her studying her painting. "It was thoughtful of you to prepare brunch, John."
Jonathan grinned, draped his arm over Jennifer's shoulders. "Well, I've got to do my bit for women's lib, you know. Everything is in the kitchenette-the sandwiches and the beer. But I thought I'd first check if you were ready to eat. If you like, I'll bring the stuff out here on the terrace."
"Yes, good idea. It's so lovely today, John.
It would be a shame not to take advantage of this gorgeous weather." Jennifer paused, nodding in the direction of a small white table and two chairs which were jammed into one corner of the terrace. "We'll bring the food out and eat over there."
Jennifer sighed, one arm slipping around Jonathan's waist. "It won't make it to the Whitney Museum, will it?" she asked, her pale blue eyes again drifting down to her canvas. "And I've been working on this damn thing for almost two weeks now."
"I don't think it's bad at all, baby. The detail is good ... coloring is nice."
"There you go again, lover. You're just humoring a hopelessly inept artist. Sometimes I think I should stick to those paint-by-number kits. You know, the kind we had when we were kids."
Jonathan chuckled. "Oh, go on, baby. You know I always give an objective opinion. I call 'em the way I see 'em. And I say this is a damn good piece of work. Not great, but good. You're much too hard on yourself, princess." Jennifer shook her lovely head slowly side to side. "No, something is missing. The painting might be structurally perfect but it has no character. I've got to find a way to breathe some life into it."
"Keep in mind, though, that a skyline is a skyline is a skyline. I mean how much more fooling with it will help?"
"Who knows?" Jennifer shrugged. She ran a hand through her long golden tresses, smoothing down the silky strands until her hand was pressing the back of her slender neck.
"You know, maybe what you need is a change of pace."
"Huh? What's that suppose to mean?"
"Well, for the past ten months you've been working only with oils. Perhaps it would be an idea if you took a breather and worked for a while with watercolors. Do some charcoal sketches. Portraits, maybe. Then, after a little while, you can come back to the oils. The change might do you good, baby."
Jennifer shrugged. "Maybe, but I don't think that's the answer. As my art teacher at college once said, never overestimate your capabilities as an artist. Be satisfied with your talent, otherwise your life will be one continuous disappointment. I'm beginning to think I've siphoned off the last bit of talent from my pool of creativity."
Jonathan grinned. "Hey, that's not a bad line. Maybe I can use it in my book."
"Be my guest, luv," the beautiful blond smiled wanly. "Maybe I can at least make some contribution to your artistic efforts."
"There is something else you might try, you know," Jonathan said, shifting his weight from one leg to the other but still keeping his strong arm around Jennifer's shoulders.
"Sure there is. I could chuck my going nowhere career as an artist and concentrate on becoming the best little old salesgirl Colorama ever had. God, no. Just the thought of returning to that place Monday morning is enough to turn my stomach."
Jonathan chuckled. "You just don't know how fortunate you are, beautiful. You get to sell paint and brushes all day. I'm stuck in a foul-smelling old dump with a bunch of guys who can hardly speak English. Packing perfume into boxes all day while some idiot keeps reminding me of my obligation to the perfume proprietors of the world is sickening beyond belief. If I don't get out of there soon, I'll start drinking the stuff."
Jennifer laughed for the first time this morning, a large and radiant grin bathing her smooth, unblemished face as she tightened her hold on Jonathan's waist.
"Well you could find something else to do, you know," she said finally. "No one is forcing you to remain a perfume packer."
Jonathan nodded. "True, very true. But one menial job is just as bad as the other. If a person isn't doing something he's really interested in, then he's miserable no matter where he works. That's why I've just got to finish my book and scout around for a publisher."
Jennifer thought for a moment, then said, "If you wanted me to, I could work a little overtime at the store ... maybe get another job during the weekends so that we could pay the rent and you could...."
"And I could devote all my time to writing, right. I should quit my job at the plant and allow you to carry all the freight, huh?"
Jennifer smiled up into Jonathan's handsome face. "Well, I'm very willing, luv."
"And also very wrong if you think for a minute that I'd even consider such a ludicrous proposal. Your career as a painter is every bit as important as my writing. You want success and recognition just as much as I do. And you deserve it, baby. You're probably more entitled to a modicum of success than I am. After all, it was only because you sold that harbor scene to Rosenberg that I was able to afford those three writing courses at Columbia."
Jennifer's smile gradually faded as she recalled the sale of "Harbor at Twilight" to Jack Rosenberg, a wealthy and more than a little opportunistic art collector who cherished the idea that one day a painting bought cheap would be worth considerably more. The aging Rosenberg attended many art shows, purchasing from young hopefuls those paintings he thought reflected a growing talent.
But his reasons for purchasing the work of promising artists did not revolve solely around the possibility of future profit. Nor was he the gracious giver of hope, the benevolent friend of those struggling to pay their bills while working at a craft that at times seemed to be of interest only to a handful.
He did enjoy lending encouragement, took pleasure in the smile of triumph which would wash over the face of those whose works he praised and purchased. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that you were furthering a youngster's career, in realizing that your few words of commendation would inspire the struggling artist to continue the never-ending pursuit of perfection.
But the price the artist had to pay for Mr. Jack Rosenberg's encouragement was very often high. Especially if that artist was female and attractive.
And now the painful memory of the price she had paid was returning to Jennifer, her thoughts growing dark as she remembered bumping into the rapacious Mr. Rosenberg just a little over a year ago.
Their meeting had occurred in the Village, Jennifer once again showing her wares during the Washington Square Art Exhibit and hoping to make a few sales so that Jonathan could take the writing courses he wanted very much. They lived on such a tight budget, their combined salaries just about covering the rent, telephone and light, and food. What she needed was a sale-a real big one.
And so she had taken pains to display her work just so, placing those paintings she thought her best up front, moving to the curb those that were smaller, not quite as well done, less salable. Almost twenty paintings in all, there on the sidewalk for passers-by to study and, hopefully, purchase.
Enter Jack Rosenberg. Smiling his sweetest, most fatherly of smiles, thinking already how delightful it would be to have this stunning creature's lips curled around his pecker, he approached Jennifer and after only a perfunctory glance at her work decided to buy the one called "Harbor at Twilight", a painting done all in black and shades of yellow.
Jennifer was thrilled, stunned into speechlessness by the prospect of returning to the apartment with four hundred and seventy-five dollars to hand over to Jonathan. She herself liked the painting and had been quoting a figure of two hundred to those who stopped and expressed interest in it.
Even two hundred dollars was steep, she knew, realizing that it took some nerve to ask that kind of money for a painting done by a complete unknown. But one always started high, the quoting of a large amount at the beginning providing her with a certain leverage when it came time for serious bargaining.
But the man hadn't even asked the price of her painting! Without hesitation he had said he would take it for four seventy-five, if she thought that a fair figure.
Did she think it fair? Holy smokes!
But Jennifer's happiness was short-lived, for while holding the money in his hand, his smile now faintly feral, Jack Rosenberg had explained the conditions behind his purchase. It was simple, really. If she would accompany him to his penthouse in the East Sixties, spend an hour or so in "licentious labors", then he would buy her painting for the amount he had stated previously.
Jennifer hesitated.
Rosenberg persisted, quietly but firmly. Didn't she want to sell her work? He was offering her a lot of money for....
For her body, Jennifer realized. He didn't care at all about the painting she had worked on for four months. He was willing to lay out almost five hundred dollars for her nakedness. The painting? Throw it in for good measure. A little something extra.
But the disgust and disappointment which welled up within her was not enough to squelch Jennifer's interest in the money. She and Jonathan needed that bread-needed it very much. And Jonathan would be so horribly disappointed if he wasn't able to attend those writing classes, classes which were to be conducted by three of the country's most able craftsmen.
And so in the end she had relented, deciding that her body could withstand the assault of the rotund man's cock. Her pussy didn't need filling but her purse did, and when one is on the verge of bankruptcy, living pretty much from day to day with very little money left over for the so called luxuries of life, well, then it is time for ruthless reasoning and to hell with the niceties.
After informing a friend of her departure and asking said friend to watch her paintings for a little while, Jennifer took off with Rosenberg. It took a suicidal cab driver ten minutes to reach Jack's penthouse, and then, almost before she could catch her breath, Jennifer found herself standing bare-assed naked in the man's fabulously decorated bedroom. Round bed and all.
Jack, showing surprising virility for a man of fifty-seven, fucked Jennifer three times in two hours. Once in each orifice. After churning her not well-lubricated cunt with his stubby prick, he crawled up her luscious body, straddled her creamy boobs and stuffed his gooey cock into her mouth.
Then, to add to what would be a most delightful memory of this encounter, he rolled Jennifer over onto her smooth tummy and plunged his turgid tool into her plush posterior. Mission accomplished. Now he had something to cherish.
In the days and weeks to come, when he was alone and quietly contemplating "Harbor at Twilight", he would recall with great pleasure the delicious cunt who had painted the picture, the one who had harbored his stiff prick in her three most precious cavities.
Tired and wanting to forget the whole incident, Jennifer left Rosenberg's apartment and returned to the Village, there to once again take her position on the sidewalk next to her paintings. One was missing, of course. And although she found it rather curious in lieu of what had transpired, Jennifer started wondering where Rosenberg would hand "Harbor at Twilight"-Perhaps in his bedroom.
That night, having sold one more painting-a forty dollar sale-she returned to the apartment and Jonathan. She said not a word about Jack Rosenberg. There was no need to. And the look on Jonathan's face when she handed him the four hundred and seventy-five dollars, a smile of such warmth and happiness, was almost enough to erase the memory of the three hard reamings she had been subjected to.
And to this day, Jonathan still believed that God had intervened and placed in Jennifer's path a well-heeled art lover.
"Hey, I don't think you've heard a word of what I've been saying, princess," Jonathan complained, his voice rising several octaves as he gently shook Jennifer's shoulders. "Wake up, huh? Tell me what you think about my idea, baby."
"Sorry, luv," Jennifer smiled. "What idea was that?"
"See, you weren't listening to me. Here I am trying to explain how you might benefit from a change of style and you're still wrestling with the idea of fixing the New Jersey skyline."
The lovely blond smiled broadly. "Yep, that's just what I was doing. But I apologized. Now how do I discover this rebirth of creative imagination you're speaking about?"
"How 'bout getting into the abstract bag? You know, do some way-out stuff."
"You mean like soup cans?"
Jonathan grinned. "Well, you can't do that, I guess. I mean pop art is pretty much dead these days. But ... well, I don't know, I just think a drastic change in subject matter might help put back some life in your regular work. Follow me?"
"Yeah, I think so. But I'm afraid I'm just a square. Give me a seascape or landscape or skyline and I'm happy. Tell you what, though, I might just try to do a portrait of you. How would you like that, luv?"
"No dice, baby," Jonathan grinned. "I'd never be able to sit still that long."
"You don't have to," Jennifer countered. "I'll work from that eight by ten photograph that's sitting on my night table. That's the best picture of you that was ever taken."
Jonathan shrugged. "All right, baby. If you're game then go to it. But right now what say we start tackling those sandwiches. My stomach is starting to growl somethin' awful."
"Mmm, agreed. Lead the way, darling. And after we eat you had better sit yourself down and get to work. Novels don't write themselves, you know."
Jonathan grinned, turning with Jennifer and taking her hand as they proceeded into the apartment for the sandwiches.
"Boy, that hit the spot, didn't it?" Jonathan asked, after consuming his third turkey and tomato on rye.
"You really wolfed those down, John," Jennifer smiled. "And I'm the one who worked all morning. You just got up a short time ago. How can you eat so much so fast after...."
"Hey, look who's talking." Jonathan interrupted, feeling suddenly very happy and carefree, the small meal having acted as a tonic for his system. "You put away almost all of the potato salad."
"I did not," Jennifer laughed, reaching for her coffee.
Grinning broadly, Jonathan emitted a groan of mock annoyance. "Oh come on, sis, I...." He froze, the words he had intended to speak seemingly stuck in his throat. His happy expression was immediately replaced with a frown.
He had made a mistake. Not a serious mistake because he and Jennifer were alone, but a mistake nonetheless. And from the look on Jennifer's beautiful face he knew he was in for a brief but stinging lecture on the merits of tact and self-control.
Which, of course, he deserved. When brother and sister are living together as man and wife, a slip of the tongue can be disastrous.
CHAPTER TWO
"That's what is known as a faux pas, isn't it?" Jennifer said, frowning as she ran the tip of her index finger around the rim of her coffee cup. Then, looking at her brother, she added, "But then again maybe our relationship is one big faux pas."
"You know you don't mean that, Jenny," Jonathan said softly, a quiet urgency in his voice. "I'm sorry it happened. Honest I am. I'll never make that slip again, baby. I promise."
The smallest of smiles began to form on his beautiful sister's face. He loved Jenny, loved her with a passion, and would willingly have sacrificed everything if he could magically erase from memory the last minute or so. How now to soothe her hurt?
"Suppose you had revealed the true nature of our relationship at the party tonight?" Jennifer asked. "It would have made for a messy situation, wouldn't it, John?"
Her handsome brother nodded slowly. "Yes, yes you're right, Jenny. But I swear to you I'll never slip up again." He reached across the small white table (as planned, they had brought the sandwiches and coffee out onto the terrace) and gripped his sister's hand. "Believe me, baby. From here on in my lips are sealed."
"That's the way it has to be, John. Maybe years from now, another time, another place, people won't be so quick to condemn the love we're sharing. But...." she stopped, leaving the thought unfinished as she brought the coffee cup to her lips, and took a sip.
Jonathan Rogers patted his sister's free hand, the one resting limply on the table. He remembered that once before he had made the very embarrassing mistake of telling a few so called good friends about Jenny, informing them while in a drunken stupor that she was in fact his sister and not his wife.
And he had paid dearly for divulging this secret. Friendships were terminated immediately; Jennifer, hurt and angry for days after the party, had refused to have anything to do with him sexually. And it disgusted Jonathan to realize that those whom he thought broadminded and sincere, those with-it people, were just as petty and mean and shallow as the suburban morons they were always putting down.
His "friends," Jonathan had decided, were emotional and intellectual innocents, hypocrites of the highest order. It was perfectly all right to swap wives and hold wild orgies and tell the filthiest of jokes, but when confronted with an incestuous relationship (and why the hell was sleeping with your sister so bad?) they folded like weak-stemmed flowers in a summer rain.
This unfortunate incident had occurred almost six months ago, and from it had sprung the decision, one decreed necessary by both Jennifer and Jonathan-that from here on in they would never, never refer to each other as brother and sister. Not even when they were alone.
This self-imposed silence would, they hoped, serve as a kind of training. For if they were able to keep from addressing each other as brother and sister while in the privacy of their apartment, then they would be less likely to blurt out the truth of their relationship and run the risk of being immediately ostracized.
And both Jennifer and her brother had, until Jonathan's slip a few minutes ago, managed to avoid calling attention to their frowned upon relationship. Neither could nor wanted to forget that they were brother and sister. Not only was this impossible, it was also more than foolish. They were deeply in love and had been screwing for the last six years.
But the pretense must be continued. As far as their friends and neighbors were concerned, Jonathan and Jennifer Rogers were man and wife. Jonathan didn't really give a damn what others thought about him, but he didn't want Jenny hurt and scorned by those supposedly mature and very hip people.
"Am I forgiven, baby?" he asked softly, breaking through the wall of silence that had suddenly separated them.
Jennifer turned her eyes from the Hudson and looked at her brother. She smiled, placing her right hand over the one of his that was squeezing her left. "Sure you are," she answered, somewhat sad and yet very sincere. "You know I'd forgive you almost anything, darling."
Jonathan smiled warmly. "Will you prove that, honey? Right now-this minute?"
"You mean . ... "
"Yes. The bedroom, baby. Come, let's make love."
Jonathan stood, urging his sister to do the same by pulling firmly on her hand. Jennifer wriggled out from between the small table and her chair, a warm glow of anticipation beginning to suffuse her body as Jonathan led her inside the apartment, then to their bedroom.
When brother and sister arrived in the bedroom, Jennifer released Jonathan's strong hand and began to remove her clothes. She smiled as she unbuttoned her smock, drew it away from her creamy breasts and then off her shoulders.
Jonathan grinned. He had known all along that his sister was braless yet couldn't resist the temptation to comment. Then, too, he wanted to destroy whatever irritation still lingered over his foolish slip of the tongue.
"No bra again, huh?" he asked, peeling out of his tan sport shirt and throwing it aside. "One of these days you're going to be arrested, honey."
Jennifer frowned. "For what, not wearing a bra? Don't be silly. And this isn't a see through smock, you know. It's much more comfortable to work when you're not strapped into a confining bra. I feel freer, that's all."
Jonathan chuckled. "Of course, I understand that. I was just teasing you, princess."
His gorgeous golden-haired sister smiled and resumed her undressing, her paint-smeared hands fumbling with the buttons and zipper on her faded blue jeans. She worked the garment down off her shapely hips, then sat on the edge of the bed and peeled it down her sleek legs to her feet.
Meanwhile, her brother was skimming out of his slacks, his cock now stirring in the sweltering confines of his jockey shorts. He kicked off his slippers and then stepped out of the black slacks, his hands now hurrying to his tight-fitting briefs. And by the time he was bare-ass naked, Jennifer was stretched out on the bed.
"Didn't you forget something?" he asked, climbing onto the double bed and crawling over to his succulent sister.
Jennifer smiled. "My pants? I thought I would leave that little chore to you, love. But you prefer...."
"Hold it right there, baby. You know I'd pull down your panties anytime. It's not what I'd call a chore."
"Guess I should wash up a little first," Jennifer said, shifting slightly on the bed as her brother snuggled in close and began a tender massage of her gelatinous boobs. "I've got some paint on my hands and my feet are dirty from not wearing-"
"To hell with it," her brother said, again interrupting. "Even if someone splashed a bucket of paint all over you I'd still want to fuck. Any man would, baby. You're the most desirable creature-" he let his voice trail off, his mouth now descending to chew on Jennifer's left nipple.
"Ohh. that's nice," she cooed, the memory of Jonathan's mental lapse of a short time ago now fading quickly into oblivion.
She loved the feel of his strong hands on her nakedness, the gentle yet demanding way he stroked and kissed her rapidly warming flesh. He was an expert at arousing a woman, masterful but compassionate, concerned as much with a female's pleasure as with his own. He was never in a hurry to get his rocks off, never used her cunt or mouth or asshole as if the three were simply three convenient holes into which he could bury his bloated bone.
Jonathan was considerate and knowledgeable, intelligent and at times very witty. He was terrifically good-looking, too. His curly blond hair framed a well-chiseled face, his eyes were a crystal blue, his one hundred and ninety pounds rested beautifully on his six-foot two-inch frame.
Without question, her brother was the greatest guy, the best lover, she had ever come across. In Jonathan she found all that which other males lacked to one degree or another. And she had not the slightest doubt about his love for her, nor did she ever want their relationship to end.
She was truly happy and content, she thought, her arms moving to encircle her brother's hard back as he turned his attention from her tingling tits to her face and neck, bathing her with moist, warm kisses.
Forever would she play the role of his wife, if that was what he wanted. They had their share of silly spats, of course, just like every other couple who live together. But these were inconsequential, totally meaningless little arguments that ended almost as quickly as they began.
The only time she became peeved, truly irritated, was when Jonathan slipped up, as he had done earlier on the terrace. She cared not at all that society frowned upon the coupling of sister and brother, but at the same time was not ready to announce to the whole bloody world that she was living in incestuous sin.
It was no one's damn business, anyway. She was twenty-four, young, beautiful, reasonably intelligent and, as some knowledgeable people had noted, possessed considerable talent.
And what harm could come of fucking her brother? They were hurting neither themselves or anybody else. There was the Pill to prevent pregnancy, (What would people say if she produced a misshapen child? The hell with them.) and the deep love she felt for her brother. Why, she was a hundred times happier than all those legitimately married females who are saddled with intolerant, uncaring husbands.
"Mmm ... you're delicious, precious," Jonathan was saying, moving downward now to trail his moist tongue over his beautiful sister's melons once again. He dropped lower still, his strong hands squeezing Jennifer's quivering breasts as he worked himself down her succulent nudity.
"Yes, darling," Jennifer purred. "You know what I like. Do it to me, baby. My cunt-eat my cunt." She placed her hands on her brother's head, pressed his nuzzling face even harder against her smooth, flat tummy.
"Lift up, baby," Jonathan urged, maneuvering into position between the lovely legs his sister splayed for him, his hands hurrying to the elasticized waistband of her cream-colored undies.
Jennifer did as directed, arching her back and lifting her plush posterior off the bed so that Jonathan could peel away that last article of clothing, that flimsy piece of material which when removed would permit his gaze to fix on her purring pussy in all its golden-hued glory.
Without delay did Jonathan denude his sister, dragging the thin pants downward and working them around and off her heavenly hips, tugging the sheer garment down her smooth thighs to her knees. He lifted her legs, worked the undies off her calves and around her feet, then tossed them over his shoulder.
"Now...." he breathed heavily.
"Yes, now, my luv," echoed Jennifer, her delectable body waiting in trembling expectation for that first soul-searing kiss of her cunt. "Chew on my pussy, darling. Eat me all up; You do it so good."
Jonathan delayed only a few seconds, just time enough to take a final look at this luscious female who was his to devour. Jennifer was breathtakingly beautiful, a vision, a female so perfectly proportioned (sculptured by the Creator in a moment of great love) that she was almost too good to be true.
And she was his. His sister. His mate. His love.
"Go ahead, darling," Jennifer again beseeched her husband-brother. "Stick your wonderful tongue into my twat. Feast on my hot love hole, my lover."
The request, that deliciously obscene and urgent request, would have triggered action in all but the impotent and senile male. And being of sound mind and healthy as a horse, Jonathan jerked to attention and started supping on his sister's golden snatch.
Crouching low on the bed between Jennifer's still spread legs, he dropped his head and buried his attractive face in the delicious wet warmth of her sex nest. His thick tongue snaked out of his mouth, curling slightly as he slid it into her hot, leaking hole.
"Ohh, good," Jennifer moaned. "Oh, it's so damn good, baby. I want to die with you eating me."
"Quick, give me the pillow," her brother snapped, jerking his face from Jennifer's sizzling snatch as an idea popped into his sex coated mind. A pillow under his sister's ass would provide better leverage, enable him to better worship her fuzzy love hole.
Jennifer quickly took one of the two pillows from under her head and threw it down to her brother. Seconds later she was again lifting her bottom off the bed, short grunts of excitement bursting from between her lips as Jonathan jammed the fluffy pillow between her spongy derriere and the hard mattress.
But then all was ready, pussy in its proper place, and Jonathan resumed eating his beautiful sister. He began to feast like one famished, his darting, probing tongue scurrying up and down and all around inside Jennifer's viscous love box.
That fleshy serpent shot up to attack the female's clitoris with a vengeance, lashing it into quivering submission. Jonathan's hot tongue whipped and punched and stroked without mercy, sighs and grunts of unmitigated delight tumbling from Jennifer's mouth as she very willingly endured the vigorous assault on her blood-filled clit.
"Argh ... ohh, Yes, it's so-so fucking good!
Jonathan extended his arms and commenced a firm massage of his sister's trembling tits, his hard hands wrapping around those two mouth-watering mounds of warm flesh. He trapped the hard, crinkled nipples between his fingers and pinched, the artful maneuver causing Jennifer to emit a tortured moan of pleasure.
Her long golden tresses danced about her face as she jerked her head side to side on the pillow. Rational thoughts were fleeing from her passion-drenched mind like the unwelcome intruders they were. All that mattered now was her brother's dexterous oral massage of her hotter-than-hot twat.
And always present, lurking in the back of her mind like some outrageously delightful wish, was the knowledge that before too long she would have Jonathan's beautiful big cock rammed into her burning vagina.
"More ... more," Jennifer begged, her hands moving to cover those that were savaging her tits so pleasurably. "Feast, darling. Eat at my smelly cunt."
His sister's lovely love hole was anything but foul-smelling to Jonathan. Her sex scent was intoxicating, thrilling to the senses. And so he breathed deeply, inhaling the heavenly aroma emanating from her lubricating cunt.
Using his tongue like a scoop now, he shoveled into his hungry mouth the sweet fluid being manufactured by her cock-famished love hole. The sticky substance was like the most refreshing tonic, like that long awaited first drink of water after an hour or two of strenuous exercise.
Jonathan burrowed his face into his sister's crotch and sucked for all he was worth, spurred on to even greater effort by Jennifer's continuous cries of lust and pleas for more and more and more of his very talented tongue.
Never would he forget the first time he had eaten his sister, the first time he screwed her, the first cornholing he had administered. They were delicious memories all, memories to be savored, treasured.
The actual screwing had started six years ago, although even before that, when both were in their early teens, he was harboring dark thoughts about burying his bone in Jennifer's juicy twat. And he guessed that she, too, secretly yearned for a much closer relationship than the ordinary brother-sister routine.
That initial fuck, the taking of his sister's cherry, had really been great, Jonathan thought now, the memory of the thrilling event piercing the fog of his passion-crazed mind. He had been twenty-one at the time, Jennifer a very desirable eighteen.
They had always been close and so it was no surprise when she came to him with tears in her eyes, complaining that the boys she dated were rough and ruthless and cared only about fucking her. Or trying to. How angry they became when she resisted what they thought were clever seduction attempts.
The boys always laid it right on the line, Jennifer had said, her voice mirroring her misery. If she didn't put out like a good girl they wouldn't date her again. Simple as that. No fucking, no dating. To Jennifer, who was just starting her freshman year at Longdale College, it seemed that all college males were majoring in screwing. And to a girl who wanted very much to be popular and still retain her much sought after virginity, this was , a situation that was more than a little disturbing.
And so to her brother for consolation. Advice, maybe. And he had given Jenny more than that, Jonathan thought now, his face still plastered to his sister's steaming snatch, his tongue still probing and his hungry mouth still munching.
He remembered the scene clearly, as if it had happened only a few days ago. He and his sister in his bedroom, the house empty, no one to know and no one to care. Their parents? Off to still another party. Mom and Dad would return later, their drunken laughter scorching his heart and wounding Jenny as well.
He remembered they chatted a while and finally his sister stopped whimpering. He had been petting her tenderly, strokes of brotherly affection and understanding. But he didn't cease when Jenny ceased her tearful lament. And she didn't tell him to stop.
One thing leads to another. The law of nature. Slowly but surely clothes were removed, kisses were exchanged, the would-be lovers soon finding themselves naked on the bed, arms and legs entwined and hearts racing. And then, of course, the fuck. One which was to signal the beginning of an affair that neither wanted ever to terminate.
Jennifer had given her cherry to the one male she really loved. And that meant more than words could say.
Jonathan had fucked a number of girls before and after deflowering his beautiful sister, but all paled in comparison to the utterly charming, understanding, loving Jennifer. He was absolutely certain that if he searched forever he'd never encounter a female who could match his sister in looks, sensitivity, prowess between the sheets. He was more than satisfied to remain with her for the rest of his life.
"Now, darling," Jennifer suddenly blurted out in a hoarse voice. "I want your hard cock now, John. Ram me with it, baby."
The passionate pleas shocked her brother back to reality, scattering from his mind those memories of that thrilling first fuck. And so now, his six-inch cock rock-hard and throbbing, shivers of intense lust rippling up his spine, he clambered up the bed and positioned his muscular body over Jennifer's soft, pliant one.
"Oh, it's beautiful ... beautiful," Jennifer crooned, reaching down to grip her handsome brother's thick tool. Perhaps later, after Jonathan had thoroughly reamed her twitching twat, she would go down on that lovely length of warm flesh. But right now she wanted it crammed into her aching vagina.
"Ready, baby?" Jonathan grunted. He was hovering over his sister, his blood-packed prick scant inches from her hungry hole.
"Yes, of course, baby," was Jennifer's quick, anguished reply. "Stuff me with it, John. Smash that cock into my cunt."
The ravishing blond directed her brother's bone to her needy sex hole, at the same time tried to still her jerking hips to permit the insertion she craved.
And then ... success. Cock slid wetly into welcoming womanhood and almost at once belly slapped belly as brother and sister began the primeval rite of passion.
"Hard, honey," Jennifer pleaded, her usually lyrical voice now thick with lust. "Bang that cock deep!"
"You're the greatest, baby," Jonathan huffed, dropping down atop his squirming sister and grinding his hard chest into her spongy boobs. He slid his arms under the pillow that was supporting Jennifer's head, buried his face in the hollow between her left shoulder and neck and proceeded to pump his prick with abandon.
"Yesss...." Jennifer hissed, her flushed face contorted into a grotesque mask of lust. "Give me that hot cock. Pound my pussy to hell, lover. Screw it. Screw it!"
In and out of her hot hole went Jonathan's jabber, his taut buttocks bobbing crazily as he pistoned his pulsating prick. She was tight, deliciously so, even after the many reamings he had administered.
Jennifer wrapped her arms and legs around her brother's humping body and held on tight as he scoured the tender walls of her viscid vagina with his meaty cudgel. Her plush posterior squirmed hotly on the pillow and grunts of delight burst from between her lovely lips as he battered her box with mindless glee.
"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," she chanted, every fiber of her being attuned to the glorious gouging her weeping cunt was receiving. "Stick it deep, John. Ream me, you big stud!"
The muscular Jonathan was doing just that, his throbbing tool time and again booming up into his whimpering sister's heavenly sex canal. Grunting and groaning, he plunged his prick to the depths of her hot twat, withdrew until only the bulbous head of his stiff organ was sheathed in that love glove, then sent his cock crashing home again.
Jonathan was determined to make this screw one of the best ever, one that both he and his beautiful sister would remember for days to come. He always did his utmost to pleasure Jenny, but this time he wanted it to be especially good for her. Fucking her to one or two or three memorable orgasms was perhaps the only way he had of making up for his earlier boo-boo.
And so he spent the next ten minutes driving her up the wall with pleasure, calling upon all the self-control at his command, pausing briefly when he sensed his eruption and then resuming his passionate plowing of her pulsing pussy. He was determined not to let loose until Jenny had experienced at least two sizzling orgasms. He wanted her to have the best ones she'd ever had in her life.
But the lust-crazed blond did better than that, her sharp fingernails raking across her brother's hard back as three beautiful orgasms, of similar magnificence, shocked her nervous system and catapulted her into a sea of unadulterated bliss.
She was drowning in pleasure, spasms of lovely lust rippling up her spine and causing her mind to quiver. That prick, that magical hunk of solid meat still slashing into her snatch, was prodding her into oblivion and scorching her soul with ecstasy.
"Ohh ... argh ... argh ... eiii...." she moaned, theories tumbling crazily from her mouth. It was so beautiful, so gut-jumbling divine. How was it, she wondered in a daze, that each screwing session with her wonderful brother seemed better than the last? They were all so good and they kept getting better, more thrilling and intense.
Each fantastic fuck with Jonathan served to strengthen an already very strong love for him.
It was while Jennifer was shuddering through her third beautiful orgasm that Jonathan unleashed his flood of creamy sperm, the warm muck streaming from the tip of his throbbing tool into her quaking vagina.
"Squirt me, stud," Jenny rasped. "Drown me in sperm."
"Take it, baby," was her brother's throaty reply, the pleasure provided by his ejaculating organ making it almost impossible to speak.
Gasping and grunting, he plunged his gushing bone to the hot depths of his sister's clasping cunt. Now, in this all too short moment of ecstasy he was seemingly possessed by the need to get as deep as possible into Jennifer's wonderful warmth.
His sticky semen spewed from his prick to splatter her molten sex oven as he clamped his mouth over her warm flesh and bit down on her shoulder. Jennifer emitted a strangled cry of delight, the passionate bite serving only to heighten her great joy.
But then it was over, a thoroughly sated and content Jonathan rolling off the plush softness of his sister's warm body and onto his back next to her. His slimy shaft, beginning now to return to its natural state, rested between his legs as he gulped for air and tried to regain control of his breathing.
A very happy Jennifer rested beside him. Some of the creamy gunk which her brother had deposited in her love bank began to trickle out, the milky semen dribbling from her reamed twat and slipping down her warm crotch to form a slimy pool at her anus.
It was minutes before either spoke, Jonathan and Jennifer content to bathe in the sweet euphoria washing over them in the aftermath of their sizzling screw. Then, purring like a contented kitten, the lovely blond rolled onto her side and snuggled close to her handsome brother.
"Good, baby?" Jonathan asked, knowing full well his question was superfluous. He smiled, one hand slipping downward to rest on his sister's hip as she settled her head on his strong shoulder.
"It's always good, luv," Jennifer replied, her voice soft and tender. "You do me so good, darling." She placed a hand on Jonathan's chest and began to stroke gently.
"Then you're not angry with me any longer?"
"Angry?"
"Because I referred to you earlier as my sister."
Jennifer chuckled softly. "No, I'm not angry, John. But please, whatever you do, remember to keep your lips sealed tonight. We'll be hobnobbing with some very influential people tonight and ... well, I'm sure you know what I mean."
"Have no fear, princess. I intend to lock my lips and throw away the key."
"Good boy," Jennifer smiled. "We wouldn't want anything to ruin my chances with Mr. Clarington. I mean he's so wealthy and influential. If he likes us, who knows how far he'd go to further our careers?"
"Your career, baby, not mine. After all, you're the one he invited to his big party."
"True enough," Jennifer said. "But think of the opportunity you'll have, luv. I mean you'll be bumping into some pretty important people tonight. Editors, book publishers, film writers, people you might be able to interest in your novel."
"Yeah, I guess it's a possibility," Jonathan said, his hand moving now from his sister's waist to cup one of her spongy breasts. He squeezed tenderly and added, "You don't think the two of us are going to be lost in that crowd, do you? I mean like you say, most of those attending Clarington's party are well-heeled and important. Clarington himself is a rather well-known art collector and critic. I'm just afraid we'll get lost in the shuffle."
"Well, we'll just have to make sure that that doesn't happen, darling. Tonight you and I are going to promote ourselves and our work. Everyone else does it-even those writers and painters who are rich and successful. So why shouldn't we blow our own horns? It can't hurt, that's for sure, and who knows, maybe if we make enough noise somebody important will sit up and take notice."
"Well, I'll admit that the name of the game is luck, baby. Talent can take you only so far. Then you have to start hoping for the big break."
"Right. And tonight our numbers might be called."
"I'll say one thing, baby," Jonathan smiled. "Getting that invitation to Edward Clarington's party was a break in itself."
"Boy, I'll say. I started shaking the second he entered the store and approached me. I recognized him immediately, you know. He seemed reluctant to leave after placing his order for some canvases and paint, so we sort of fell into a conversation. And even though I was nervous I had sense enough to inform him that I was an artist as well as a salesgirl. Strangely enough, he seemed impressed. And the next thing I knew I was accepting his invitation to tonight's party at his apartment and jotting down the address."
Jonathan chuckled. He was silent for a moment, then said, "Yeah, you just could be right, princess. This might be a night that we'll both remember for a long time. And now I'm wondering-" He left the thought unfinished, his fingers toying with his sister's rosy nipple.
"Wondering about what, hon?" Jennifer asked, sliding her hand slowly from Jonathan's hard chest down to his crotch. Her fingers curled around his limp pecker and she commenced a delicate fondling.
"About whether or not I should bring along a few pages of my manuscript. You know, just in case I find somebody who-"
"Hold on, hon. I said we should promote ourselves, not act like two pushy juveniles. I mean I don't intend to show up at the party with three or four of my paintings on my back."
Jonathan laughed. "Yeah, of course you're right, baby. We'll concentrate on cornering those people who might be able to help us up the ladder."
"Agreed," Jennifer said, squeezing her brother's limp tool. "Now you had better get yourself back to the typewriter. Why don't you work on the terrace this afternoon? Give me a few minutes to clean up and I'll join you out there."
"Going to finish your painting?"
"Mmm, I don't think so. Perhaps I'll start a new one. Your portrait, maybe."
"Fair enough, baby," Jonathan grinned, easing himself out of his sister's warm embrace. He moved off the bed and headed for his clothes. Then, when he was dressed, he winked at Jennifer and started out of the bedroom.
"Love me?" his beautiful sister asked, a smile lighting up her smooth, unblemished face.
"Yeah, a little," Jonathan answered, blowing her a kiss while smiling broadly.
CHAPTER THREE
Adam Patrick did not share Jonathan's and Jennifer's hope that nice things might result from the party being hosted by Edward Clarington. In fact, he dreaded just the thought of having to attend the affair with his adorable, titian-tressed wife, Joyce. A more embarrassing experience he found hard to imagine.
His loathing for the noted art connoisseur and sometime critic was nothing less than great. He detested the aging Clarington with a passion and had, during moments of severe depression, even considered the possibility of killing the man.
Adam's intense distrust and hatred for his wife's father was, he believed, very well-founded. After all, how would any normal man react to such a sickening situation, one which found him sharing his wife's favors with her very own father!
How any one man could so callously warp his daughter's sex life was beyond Adam's comprehension. How low could a father sink?
Of course, Joyce was as much to blame for the relationship as was her coldly calculating father. For it was his wife who ran to Clarington for the satisfaction he could not, would not provide. She needed punishment, Joyce said often, needed the total domination her father very willingly and gleefully served up.
Just why she craved abuse and complete subjugation was something his wife couldn't explain even to herself. It had all started, she thought, that very first time she was punished, when, draped across her father's large lap, she had received at least two dozen sizzling swats on her pert posterior.
She had been thirteen at the time, a rapidly maturing thirteen. At first, there had been considerable pain, tears of shame coursing down her reddening cheeks as her daddy delivered stinging slap after stinging slap to her hurting heinie. But then, the transformation.
A curious, most unusual kind of pleasure began to take over, a strange satisfaction which slowly but surely proceeded to smother the pain of her punishment. And before long she was actually enjoying the fierce spanking, her cries of outrage and shame gradually diminishing and being replaced by shrill whimpers of delight.
That had been the beginning, the launching of the masochistic rocket, so to speak. From that time forward, Joyce had actively sought out chastisement and the deliciously wicked feeling of total helplessness which suffused her entire being when her body was receiving a vigorous pummeling.
She requested that her dates spank her soundly if she argued too long or too loud about going down on them, something she did almost always in the hope of igniting a sadistic impulse in the boys. She teased her father, deliberately disobeyed his many directives and often unnecessary commands, taunted him until, livid with rage, he would throw her over his lap and beat bloody hell out of her rapidly reddening rear end.
Dear daddy never suspected her love of abuse, Joyce had told Adam during one of the many times he had questioned her about the perverted relationship she enjoyed with her father. But there came a time, when she was seventeen and still being spanked, when she admitted the strange truth to him.
No longer able to conceal her enjoyment of his chastising hand, she had blurted out a wish to be fucked by her father. And Clarington, whose wife had died when Joyce was ten, and who had secretly savored those moments when he pounded on his blossoming daughter's backside, was made very happy by Joyce's desire to be dicked.
And so at age seventeen Joyce was screwed by her father, this first fuck triggering an "affair" that had not been terminated even when she fell in love and married Adam.
So much in love was the twenty-one year old Adam that he had accepted this most unusual condition to the marriage. Joyce would live with him, sleep with him, do all that commonly associated with the loving wife, but on occasion she would visit her father and receive from him that which Adam didn't care to provide.
But now, two years later, Adam was reaching the end of his rope. He had tried without success to pleasure Joyce the way she demanded to be pleasured. He would begin to beat on her shapely seat and then suddenly stop, his uplifted arm poised in mid-air as Joyce begged for the hard blows, the sight of her glowing fanny, the thought of what he was doing, turning his stomach and making it impossible to continue.
How much more could he be expected to take? The prospect of spending the rest of his married life with a woman who, when the mood struck, dashed off to her father to be physically tormented was just too much to bear. Too painful to contemplate. He still loved Joyce very much, but the fact that he had to share her with Clarington was eating away his insides, tearing at his gut.
His wife seemed perfectly happy with the situation, he thought, watching her thumb through a woman's magazine. They were in the living room of their four room apartment on the West side, relaxing after having recently returned from the weekly trip to the local supermarket.
Joyce had no qualms about loving two men at the same time, Adam mused. To her, it was all cunt-and-dry. He was sure she loved him, at least she often told him so, and in a very different way she loved her father.
If only there were some way to snap her out of this prolonged masochistic trance, some method of breaking the disgusting, despicable relationship she needed with her father. The answer-what and where was the answer?
"Do you like this outfit, darling?" Joyce asked suddenly, turning the magazine and holding it so that her husband could view the picture of the bikini-clad model. "I think it might look good on me."
"Anything would look good on you," Adam answered, his voice a little tired, a little sad. "You'd look nice in a potato sack."
"Oh, you," Joyce smiled.
"No, I'm serious. You know you're a very pretty female. I'm sure...." Adam paused here, about to say that he was sure her father had commented often on her beauty. Changing his mind, he said instead, "I'm sure many men have told you, you're beautiful."
The smile gradually left Joyce's lovely face. She had caught her husband's hesitation, the fact that he had substituted one thought for another, and she had a better than fair idea why tact had replaced honesty.
"There haven't been 'many men', darling," she said, trying to assure Adam of her love.
One too many, her husband thought, not taking his eyes off his petite, green-eyed, titian-tressed wife.
"And I've told you about all of them. There were some boys in high school and then, of course...." Joyce let her voice trail off, refusing to meet her husband's stare as she turned the magazine and started flipping through the pages.
"And then, of course, your father," Adam said sternly, finishing his wife's sentence for her.
"Don't, Adam," Joyce snapped back. "Please don't start up again. "Can't we just try to relax and...."
"And what?" Adam barked. For the thousandth time the anger and hurt which were his constant companions rose to the fore. "Relax so that we'll be well rested for your father's big orgy tonight? It's not bad enough that I've got to endure the humiliation of sharing my wife with her depraved daddy, but I've got to accompany you to one of his regular sex parties. It stinks, Joyce. It's rotten right down the line."
"Please, darling," Joyce pleaded. "You don't have to attend the party tonight. I've told you that."
"Maybe it's not compulsory, baby," her husband shot back, "but I intend to show up nevertheless. Because one of these days I'm going to work up enough nerve to kill the old sick bastard."
"Adam, I'm begging you. Let's not get all tangled up in another violent argument."
"And there's no reason for your attending the orgy, either," Adam persisted. "Why can't we stay home and maybe make love like other married couples? I guess that wouldn't be very exciting, though, would it?"
"I love you very, very much, Adam," Joyce said softly, hoping to squelch her husband's growing rage. "But ... this is something I've got to do. You know that. I've explained it to you at least a hundred times already. I need to be hurt once in a while, darling, and if you can't oblige me then...."
"And why you refuse to see a psychiatrist is something I'll never be able to fathom," Adam growled, leaving the sofa and proceeding to pace nervously back and forth in front of his wife. "If anyone could help you, a trained specialist could. He's the man who would be able to cure you of this stinking disease."
"How could I visit a doctor?" Joyce asked, looking up at her handsome husband. "How can I admit that I need to be punished like a misbehaving child? It would be too, too humiliating."
"I'm sorry, I just couldn't do it. It is sooooo humiliating!"
"Humiliating? And how the hell do you think I feel all alone in our apartment while you're at Clarington's place being beaten black and blue? Suppose the situation was reversed, baby? Suppose I was the one who had this compulsive desire to be mistreated and every so often visited my mother to be spanked? Wouldn't you think that just a little sick?"
"Honey, I'm getting a headache. If you don't stop, I'll have to go inside and...."
"And what? Flagellate yourself with a hairbrush?"
"That's just enough," Joyce mumbled angrily, quickly throwing her magazine aside and pushing herself up out of her chair. She took only two steps before her husband grabbed her.
"Wait, baby," Adam pleaded, jerking his wife around to face him. He held her arms firmly, fingers digging into the smooth flesh. "Honey, I love you so much-so damn much. If I didn't love you, I wouldn't care if your father whipped you to death. But it's because I'm so concerned about you that I rant and rave."
"Please, no more talk," Joyce said, shaking her head and trying to free herself from Adam's strong grip. "I'm tired and...."
"You need help, honey. Psychiatric help. If only you'd relent and see a doctor. We can scout around, find a competent man in the neighborhood. To hell with the expense. We can afford whatever he might...."
"I can't do that, Adam. Now please let me go." The redhead glared at her husband, her green eyes burning defiantly.
"A doctor could help you, Joyce," Adam persisted. "He could get at the root of your problem. Maybe your need to be punished has something to do with your mother's death when you were so young. Who knows? I don't know the first thing about handling a psychological problem, but someone who's experienced could work wonders. I'm sure of that, baby. He could give us the answer. He could cure you of this sick need to be brutalized. Then we could move away from New York, settle down in the suburbs and begin living like every other married couple."
"But who says I want to be cured?" his wife asked, her voice cold and hard, her bright eyes riveted to Adam's hazel ones. "Maybe I'm afraid that a doctor will cure me-and so destroy my happiness."
That did it. Once again Adam's always boiling rage bubbled to the surface, a blind fury such as he seldom experienced now enveloping his entire being. Emitting an animalistic growl of anger, he picked up his wife and started carrying her toward the bedroom. How dare she suggest that she didn't want to be cured, that she was willing to continue making an ass of him for the rest of her life?
"Adam! What are you doing? Put me down right now."
"Like hell, baby," her husband spat. "Maybe I've been approaching this from the wrong angle. From now on I won't be so soft with you. No more arguing and pleading for you to change your ways. Perhaps I can turn your love of abuse to my advantage. Maybe I can beat the need to be beaten out of you."
"Adam, that's crazy," Joyce whined, kicking and flailing her arms about as her husband kicked open the bedroom door and carried her to the bed, where he dumped her without ceremony.
"Yeah, sure it's crazy, sweetheart. But you're crazy and I'm crazy and the whole damn world is crazy. In any event a beating won't do you any harm. I'll either knock a cure into you, or you'll love the way I'm blistering your ass. Now come on, get out of those hot pants and roll over onto your belly."
No, Adam. You don't know what you're saying. You know you can't stand to hurt me. This will only...."
"I said move it, baby," her husband growled. "Maybe I've failed in the past to punish you the way you like, but I'm sure as hell going to give it a good try this time."
Joyce hesitated for just a few seconds longer, watching as her well-built, sandy-haired hubby skimmed out of his clothes. Then, knowing that to argue further would be futile, she started tugging down her yellow hot pants.
She found herself caught between conflicting emotions, contradictory feelings. She never liked to see her husband upset and had never tried to provoke his anger. She saved her naughtiness for her father, whom she would tease unmercifully until he was raining blow after blow on her quivering fanny.
But while it saddened her to see Adam so irate, so uncontrollably angry, she could not deny the strange sense of anticipation which was welling within her. She wondered (hoped?) that perhaps this time her husband would indeed administer the type of savage strapping she had learned to enjoy so thoroughly.
And so wordlessly she lowered her fanny-hugging hot pants and then turned over onto her stomach. She cradled her head between her slender arms, her pretty face pressed hotly against the pillow. A pair of pink panties sheathed her shapely seat, a seat that would once again feel the sting of ... of what? With what did Adam intend to beat her?
"This should do the trick," a now naked Adam said, holding up the hairbrush he had snatched from his wife's vanity. "Guess your father uses something like this all the time, k baby, but for me, it'll be a first."
Joyce remained silent. She wanted to ask her husband to cease this madness and, at the same time, she wanted to beg him to smack her ass with the hairbrush until she screamed for mercy. God, maybe she was going mad.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Adam climb onto the bed, his still flaccid cock swaying to and fro as he positioned himself on one side of her. Right now he looked especially handsome, she thought. One hundred and eighty pounds sat comfortably on a six-foot one-inch frame, and the thought that he would be putting all that muscle into the beating of her poor bottom was sending bolts of lust flashing to her fogging brain.
"All right, baby," Adam snarled. "First a little with your pants on, then we work on the bare ass for a while. Sounds like a good idea, right?"
Joyce didn't answer. She bit down on her lower lip, awaited that first stinging wallop of the hairbrush. Do it, do it, she silently implored her husband, resisting the urge to thrust up her exquisitely-shaped, pantied-posterior and ask point blank for the sweet kiss of the bristles.
"Answer me, baby," Adam breathed hotly. "I said it sounds like a good idea, doesn't it?"
Joyce refused to answer.
"Isn't it!" Adam raised the hairbrush over his shoulder and brought it crashing down against his wife's ass, eliciting from her a tortured moan of pain. "Answer me, damn you."
"Owww ... ohh ... yes, yes it's a good idea, Adam."
"Why the delay in answering, sweetheart? You should be trained in obedience by this time. Big Daddy must be falling down on the job."
Unable to control his anger, furious with his wife, her father, and himself for tolerating a relationship he considered despicable, Adam wielded the hairbrush with a vengeance. It was as if he thought a brutal beating would make everything all right.
For one full minute he took out his frustration on his hapless wife. Kneeling next to her on the bed, he pounded on her beautiful, panty-clad bottom with the hard hairbrush.
Joyce squirmed on the bed and jerked her ass, each painful blow to her fanny causing shrieks of pain to burst from her mouth. She hugged the pillow hotly and buried her face in its softness, tears of pain slipping down her cheeks.
"This, this is what you like, isn't it, baby?" Adam Patrick huffed, his left hand on the small of his wife's back, his right raised high over his shoulder.
"Adam, you're hurting me," Joyce whimpered.
"Lying cunt," Adam barked. "You're loving it. You live for these moments."
Suddenly, he yanked down his wife's panties, baring to his hot stare the luscious contours of her delectable derriere. Her ass was turning a rosy red, her rounded flesh growing increasingly warmer.
But the sight sickened him. There she was, the woman he loved, lying on her belly and whimpering with pleasure, no doubt waiting impatiently for the sizzling beating to resume. Her twisting and turning had worked her sheer white blouse up around her bra. Her rosy rear was glowing, the bristles of the hairbrush having easily penetrated the thin material of her panties to leave their mark on the smooth, rounded flesh.
Joyce's hot pants and panties were bunched together around her thighs, just under her well-formed fanny. On her small feet were a pair of sandals. In her present position she resembled a young girl, Adam thought, a misbehaving teenager whose bottom had been bared for a beating.
The obscene sight would probably turn most men and all sadists on, their imaginations fired by the lewd spectacle of this pretty female lying belly down on the bed, clothes in disarray, ass exposed for punishment.
The problem, though, was that he wasn't a sadist, Adam thought, holding the hairbrush over his shoulder as his wife whimpered and waited for the next burning blow. In fact, with each passing second he was becoming more and more disgusted with himself and with Joyce.
He couldn't bring himself to use the hairbrush on her trembling tail any more. He couldn't stand to see his wife crying, even if he knew full well that she was shedding tears of pleasure.
And so, a semblance of sanity now returning, Adam threw away his wife's hairbrush and began to pummel her fanny with his hand. He smacked her once, twice, three times, each resounding blow to her bare bottom wrenching a moan of pleasure-pain from Joyce's lovely throat.
But this wasn't satisfactory, either. Angry though he was, wanting very much to hurt his wife for continually corrupting their marriage, he couldn't bring himself to abuse her further. Beating Joyce, he reasoned, made him no better than her foul father.
He stopped spanking her.
Trying to fight back tears of frustration and hurt, he began to tug down his wife's hot pants and panties. He worked quickly, violently, dragging the garments down her shapely legs and then around and off her sandaled feet.
Joyce, who was wondering what was going on, offered no resistance. Nor did she complain when she felt herself being lifted into a kneeling position on the bed, placed so that she was braced on elbows and knees, her taut ass pointing toward the bedroom ceiling.
The belt, she thought hopefully. Adam was positioning her so that he could strap her bottom with his belt! Wonderful.
But the soul-searing blows did not come. Joyce, her eyes shut tight, waited impatiently for the wonderful walloping some strange voice in the back of her mind told her she deserved. What was wrong? Why wasn't Adam wrapping his leather belt around her aching ass?
And when she felt her husband maneuvering into position behind her crouched form, his totally tumescent tool brushing up against her copper-colored sex nest, she realized sadly that she was not going to be strapped. He intended only to fuck her from behind.
"Adam, please," she called out to him, her voice shaky with the keen desire to be further humiliated. "You were doing me so good. Why did you...."
"Shut up!" Adam snapped, the order exploding from his throat in a tortured whine. "Just shut up, will you?"
Without further ado he shuffled forward on his knees, inching closer to his wife's warm body. Then, with his hard hands on her shapely hips, he plunged his erect prick into the mushy warmth of her sex canal.
He began to work immediately, rocking back and forth quickly as he boomed his bone into Joyce's viscid vagina. He wondered how it was possible to feel so miserable at this moment. Here he was, banging his thick dick into his pert and pretty wife, the one female he loved dearly. He should have been awash with pleasure, the ecstatic sensations provided by the fierce fucking thrilling him to no end.
But instead, he was miserable. He felt cheap and somehow sullied. He was like an outsider, one who is incapable of the smallest pleasures, one who stands alone in the midst of others conditioned to enjoy and explore life's treasures.
And so Adam tried to communicate his anguish, his feeling of inferiority, in a series of pulverizing plunges into his wife's warm twat. There was Joyce and there was her father. And then, finally, there was one Adam Patrick, an ordinary guy who had willingly but sadly locked himself into a most perverse predicament, one wherein he found himself sharing his wife with another man.
Indeed, he was an outsider.
"There, baby," he grunted. "Take this ... and this." In and out he worked his fat cock, employing his organ like a fleshy knife and slashing away at Joyce's womanhood.
"Adam ... oh God, Adam," his pretty wife cried. "No more, please. Stop it now. I don't...."
"Tell me you love it, you whore," Adam demanded, his flushed face, twisted into an expression of hurt and misery, so very accurately mirroring the state of his mind at the moment.
"Adam, don't!"
"It's good, isn't it, baby? Tell me you love the way your husband fucks you. He's the greatest, right?"
"You're crazy," Joyce groaned. "You're acting like a madman."
"Bitch!" Adam barked, punctuating the vile epithet with a particularly brutal plunge into his wife's mushy cunt.
"All right, all right," Joyce groaned, wanting to get this fucking session over with just as soon as possible. "It's good, the best fuck I've ever had. Do it to me, Adam. Fuck your fat prick into my hot twat. Smash me with it!" Adam chose to believe that his wife was getting aroused, that she was beginning to respond to his repeated thrusts and not just encouraging him because she wanted the act frequently. And so, placated for the time being, he wordlessly continued the savage attack on her velvety soft love chute.
And then Joyce began to help. Turning from passive recipient to active participant, she commenced a rolling, bumping motion with her hips and thus greeted her husband's hammering organ as it thundered up into her twat.
This wasn't what she wanted. Not at all. She craved a continuation of her beating, desired to have her bottom slashed with a belt, smacked with a hairbrush, slapped with a hard hand. Any instrument used would be all right, she thought. Provided it afforded her the pleasurable pain which was her rightful due.
But it wasn't to be. Once again Adam had failed to satisfy her seemingly unquenchable need for severe punishment. She truly loved her hard-working salesman-husband, hoped to bear his children, but feared that he would never be able to adjust to her demoniacal desire to be chastised brutally.
There would always be the need for another man. Her father, a man who understood her curious worship of the whip, who was willing to administer the pain she craved, would have to come to her rescue in the future as he had so beautifully in the past.
Only ten days ago had she visited him to revel in her masochistic trance. Her father, at his fiendish best, had thrilled her with a vicious whipping with his specially made whip, one that miraculously left very few scars but hurt like the devil.
And she needed her father again. Perhaps tonight, at the party he was hosting, she would be able to catch him alone for a little while. Maybe he could give her some satisfaction-a brief but hard spanking, perhaps. A little something to hold her until the time when she could spend a full day with him being used as he wished.
"Yeah, this is good, isn't it, sweetheart?" a huffing, puffing Adam Patrick asked suddenly, grinding his hard middle against his wife's full fanny and stirring her snatch with his hard cock.
"Yes, yes it's good," a weary Joyce lied, already thinking ahead to her father's fuckfest tonight.
CHAPTER FOUR
Among those who intended to attend Edward Clarington's no-holds-barred orgy was his friend, Robert Darrow, a surly, arrogant artist of twenty-nine whose abrasive manner and boisterous conceit had, perhaps surprisingly, achieved for him all those things his work had not and would never achieve for him.
With the cunning of a fox, the lean, almost too thin Darrow had managed to maneuver himself into a valued position. He was "in" with those who counted, the wealthy society folk and many of the hard-working, honest artists and show business people who, while quick to dismiss his work as something slightly better than amateurish, enjoyed his eccentric behavior and ribald talk. (What would that crazy guy do next?)
It bothered Darrow not at all that here was a world which merely tolerated his presence, that the more perceptive in his crowd considered him a blatant opportunist even while laughing at his lewd tales and dirty jokes.
He knew that he'd never be a great painter, the realization arrived at not long after he had enrolled in his first art class. But he didn't give a damn about success, anyway. The fact that his work would never be shown at one of the better art galleries disturbed him not at all. What did it matter? Fame was a fleeting thing, anyway. Here today and gone tomorrow, one's worth depending in large measure on the mood of the public at the moment.
And besides, three-quarters of those who ogle the paintings at the Museum of Modern Art don't know what the hell they're lavishing praise on. They were putting on a show, Darrow decided. Mr. and Mrs. Westchester trying to impress the City Sophisticates. But these clowns didn't contribute financially to an artist's welfare.
And that's what it was all about, Darrow had figured out early in life. Money, bread, loot, call it what you will. Without many of those almighty dollars you were a nothing, a poor slob denied the great pleasures which a fat bank account could guarantee.
Pleasuring himself was to Darrow as vital as the garnering of great wealth, it following that the more money one had the better and more voluptuous the pleasures, legal and illegal, in which he could indulge.
The black-haired, blue-eyed Darrow lived for those moments when he could wallow in a sea of pleasure. He was a searcher, a seeker of experiences, a dedicated hedonist determined to wrest from life every last moment of joy.
Fond of luxury and all that was sensual, he was a follower of Epicuris in matters pertaining to the palate. He relished the prospect of a grand feast, quickly accepting dinner invitations from those he knew would set a table fit for a king. How remarkable, his friends thought, that Bob could gluttonously devour all that good food and exquisite wine and still remain lean and hard. Nervous energy, perhaps?
And pussy. No man had any greater love for a warm cunt, moist, pink lips parting to accept a hard cock, a hot, clenching rectum, than did Robert Darrow.
He worshiped the feel of a female's warm, yielding body, thrilled to her whimpered moans of delight as into her tingling flesh he cork-screwed his hard eight inch cock.
Cunt and cash, these were of paramount importance to Bob Darrow. And as a member of the "club" he had access to plenty of both. Pussy was plentiful in his circle of friends, sex was cheap. There was always the young starlet, the nubile model, the female editor, and an occasional teeny-bopper whose pussy could be plowed with very little, if any, argument.
Orgies were held every so often, salacious sex parties during which wives would be swapped, homos made happy, and, on rare occasions, virgins deflowered.
As for cash, he could always depend on his male friends to supply him with enough to get by. All he had to do was ask and the money, one, two, three hundred dollars, was slapped into the hand. The rich, Darrow had learned, are usually willing to pay well for their entertainment.
And while he was not really thrilled to be thought of as some kind of clown, an occasionally witty diversion, he intended to continue gladly suffering this minor indignity so long as his pockets were lined with the good green stuff.
It was not too often that he needed some quick dough, though. Darrow did on occasion sell one of his paintings, usually to some innocent who didn't know which end of the painting was up and which was down. And to this he added the income derived from the sale of pornographic photos to his friends.
If Darrow was considerably less than a master with the brush and paint, he was most adept with a camera. It was almost unanimously agreed by those who purchased his lewd pictures that Bob Darrow had a rather remarkable knack of breathing life into his shots. His paintings could be dismissed with a ho-hum and a shrug. But those photos-they were something else again. And his movies-too much.
It was as if he were making love to the camera. His films, which he made on request, were not the stilted, unemotional kind one thinks of when the term "stag movie" is mentioned. They were well-acted and carefully edited, appearing to the viewer that those in the film actually cared about what they were doing.
Director Darrow's rapport with his performers was a beautiful thing, all agreed, no one realizing that his star actors were members of his immediate family.
Christine Darrow, his forty-eight year old mother, was a most well-preserved blond who all her life had been trying to control her exhibitionism. She just adored stripping down and prancing before the camera, as did her twenty-seven year old daughter, Pamela, another featured player in Darrow's sex spectacles.
Darrow employed others, of course, but his mother and sister, who participated simply for the fun of it, were the big stars. His aunt, a big-boned brunette of forty-five, would occasionally do her stuff in front of the camera. Her specialty was masturbation.
At the moment, Darrow was in his studio. He was filming the lewd antics of his attractive mother and pretty sister, who a few minutes ago had dropped down onto a mattress to commence a little lesbian love.
Christine took very good care of her face and figure and as a result looked at least ten years younger than her true age. She watched her diet, exercised regularly, and visited the beauty parlor on the average of three times a month. After all, she reasoned, a film star had to keep herself presentable.
Her daughter, the passionate and popular Pamela, was a perfectly proportioned creature whose long golden tresses framed a face that was delicate, rather angelic. Her clear blue eyes were forever twinkling merrily, as if she were the possessor of some salacious secret. One which, after perhaps a little coaxing, she just might be willing to divulge.
Pamela, although certainly a very eligible female, was not very marriage-minded. She preferred being free to date a variety of men, some of whom she would sleep with if she were in the mood for a thick prick. Then, too, if she were saddled with a husband, it would be rather awkward to engage in lesbianism. She couldn't just up and say, "Excuse me, darling, but tonight I feel like sleeping with a girl."
"That's the way to do it, Mom," Darrow said suddenly, moving this way and that as he sought out the best camera angles. Holding the movie camera to his face, he would step toward the females writhing on the mattress, move back a bit, dance to the left and right and, as he had just done, occasionally voice his approval and encouragement.
"Ohhh, Mom," Pamela moaned. "You do me so good. I love your mouth on my twat. You're the best-the very best."
Christine Darrow was crouched between her lovely daughter's splayed legs, nibbling and munching on the girl's leaking love hole. Gargled groans of pleasure slipped from her mouth as she feasted on Pamela's golden snatch.
"Let me ... please," Pamela pleaded, unable to still her squirming hips. She was stretched out on the mattress, every fiber of her beautiful being attuned to the salacious sucking of her hot, twitching twat. "I want to do you now, Mom. Please ... ooooo."
"All right, Mom," Darrow said. "Let Pam go down on you. I want the two of you together. You know, eating each other's cunt."
"Yeah, all right," his sex-happy mother said, somewhat reluctantly lifting her face off her daughter's steaming snatch. "My pussy needs a real good licking, honey."
"Yes, I'll do it real good," Pamela promised, the prospect chewing on her attractive mother's sex mound thrilling her no end. Tingling with excitement, she watched through passion-clouded eyes as Christine maneuvered into the proper position.
"Yeah, that'll be good," Darrow informed his mother and sister, stepping close and starting the camera again. "The two of you will suck each other for a few minutes, then Pamela will hold the camera while I fuck Mom. All right?"
Christine and Pamela were too interested in each other's cunt to care what some third party was yammering about or what the eventual effect would be. Christine's ass hovered over the girl's angelic face, the pulpy lips of her salivating pussy scant inches from her daughter's lovely lips.
"Mmmm, you smell so good, Mom," Pamela crooned, her slender arms slipping up to embrace Christine's still shapely hips.
"Eat me, honey," her mother said. "And don't forget to work on my clit for a while. You know how sensi-"
"I know, I know," Pam interrupted excitedly, most eager to ram her tongue into her pretty mother's odorous love oven.
Christine emitted a throaty chuckle, then without further ado she dropped her head and stuck out her warm tongue, mashed her face into her daughter's dripping snatch.
"Ooooo ... it's good," Pamela cooed.
Seconds later, the exquisite sensations produced by her mother's cunning cunt lapping rifling through her, Pam was parting her lips and plastering her face to her fun-loving mother's molten mound. She proceeded immediately to attack Christine's throbbing clit, wrapping her lips around that mini-penis and then sucking it hotly into her hungry mouth.
"Good, very, very good," was Darrow's comment.
Like his mother and sister, he was bare-ass naked. The thought of once again boffing his beautiful mother was causing his already erect prick to throb in anticipation. Mom's cunt was not the tightest he had ever slipped his dick into, but she knew all the tricks and like the most skilled courtesan could provide a man with a memorable orgasm.
Writhing on the sheet-covered mattress, their lips seemingly locked forever on each other's sex hole, Christine and Pamela labored licentiously for the next five minutes. In a passionate pursuit of pleasure they feasted like gluttons, each determined to provide the other with a thrilling cunt lapping.
Braced on her elbows, Christine Darrow bobbed and weaved her head and mashed her face into her daughter's golden pussy. With sucking lips and poking tongue she worried Pamela's erect clit, all the time inhaling the delicious fragrance emanating from the lovely girl's pulsing cunt.
In return she received a munificent mouthing, her daughter's drilling tongue and munching lips providing her with many, many orgasms. Christine considered this session of lesbian love a warm-up, a prelude to the plowing her pussy would receive from her son's big eight inch cock.
And so when he called a halt to the proceedings she obeyed at once. She loved sucking on her daughter's twat, relished the ever so sweet torture of a thrilling cunt-lapping, but it could not replace the joy which was hers when Bob was banging his beauty into her hot sex canal.
"That's it, that's enough, Pamela," Darrow ordered unsmilingly, bending down to address his still sucking sister. "I want you to work the camera now. I'm going to fuck Mom."
Pamela was lost in a world of her own. She neither heard nor wanted to hear her brother's command. She was feasting like one who hadn't eaten in days, her hard-working tongue scouring her mother's molten cunt as she slurped up the older woman's sticky sex juices.
"I said that's enough," an irritated Darrow shouted, administering a gentle blow to the side of his sister's head.
"Owww!" Pam cried. "You didn't have to-"
"Yes, I did, baby. Now get your ass off the mattress and let me screw Mom."
"You're a rat, Robert," Pamela complained, pouting as her mother, who had been unable to budge because of her daughter's surprisingly strong grip on her hips, rolled away and onto her back. "I wasn't finished eating Mom, you bum. Couldn't you let us at least-"
"Will you get on your feet," Darrow again interrupted, grabbing his sister's left arm and hauling her erect.
"Ouch!" Pam squealed. "Don't be so goddamn rough."
"Now look, sweetheart, don't go messing up like you did last time. The film we shot last week came out horrible because you weren't able to control yourself. My friends are not interested in a detailed study of my studio walls. And that's just what you filmed for a full minute last time."
"I did? Ohh, yeah, now I remember. Sorry about that."
"Well you should be. This film is expensive so don't let it happen again. Otherwise I might decide to film a sado-masochism sequence with you the victim."
Pamela groaned. "Can I help it if the sight of you fucking Mom turns me on? How do you expect me to just stand here and work the camera when my cunt is on fire?"
"Well, you're going to try, my sexy sister. And if there are no mishaps I might just decide to feed you some of my cock. It'll be your reward for behaving."
"Is that a promise, dear brother?" Pamela asked, her voice softening considerably. She thought her brother to be inconsiderate, temperamental and egotistical, and the two of them had never really gotten along very well. Pam did, however, simply adore one part of Bob. And that, not surprisingly, was his larger-than-average prick.
"Yeah, that's a promise, baby. Now here, grab the camera and get into position. And for shit's sake don't start the film rolling until Mom and I are fucking. Do you understand?"
"Of course," his sister said, taking the camera. "I'm not an idiot, you know. You don't have to talk to me as if-"
"Oh come on, you two," Christine Darrow groaned. "Stop this stupid arguing and let's get started. For as long as I can remember the two of you have been fighting. Now cut it out this minute."
Bob and Pamela exchanged faint smiles. "Pam, you do as your brother tells you. Be very careful with the camera and move around for the better angles. Bob, you get your ass down here and start feeding me that beautiful cock of yours. My cunt is crying for a screwing."
"Coming, mother," Bob said, his smile broadening into a grin.
"Don't forget, I'm next," Pam said, suddenly reaching out and down to grip her brother's hard bone.
"You just concentrate on filming Mom and I fucking, baby. Then we'll see about soothing your hot twat."
Darrow slapped his sister's hand from his pulsing prick and dropped down onto the mattress. Quickly he worked himself into the proper position between his mother's still shapely, now splayed legs. Poised on hands and knees, he looked down at his attractive mother and smiled.
"Do it, son," Christine implored her handsome heir. "Fill me with your wonderful weapon."
"As you say, Mom," was Darrow's reply, the bulbous head of his rock-hard organ brushing against his mother's steaming snatch. He dropped down atop her warming flesh, slipping smoothly between her outstretched arms and at the same time sliding his meat into her quivering cunt. A return to the womb, as it were.
"Ohhhhh ... how divine," Christine Darrow moaned joyously, her arms wrapping around her son's hard back. She squeezed his imbedded bone with her cunt muscles, wanting to keep that luscious log of firm flesh deep within her body forever. Oh, how she loved to be stuffed with her offspring's organ!
"Should I start the film rolling now?" Pamela asked, scooting around her brother and mother and then dropping down onto the mattress. Holding the camera in position, she waited for instructions.
"Yeah, go ahead," Darrow directed. "Start it ... now."
"Lights, action, camera," his sister intoned, as her brother began now to pump his prick in the wet warmth of his mother's hungry hole. Being a boffing buff and not a camera buff, Pamela found it difficult to maintain her composure while filming a couple copulating. It was really rather silly, she thought. She much preferred the more active role of participant to that of passive film maker.
"Screw it, son," Christine cried out, her voice laced with desire. "Pound that meat to your mother. Kill me with your hot cock!"
"Easy, easy does it," Darrow cautioned. "We've got to make it last, remember?"
"All right, all right," was his mother's breathless reply. "I just love your big bone so much, my son."
"I know, and I'm glad. I love your cunt, Mom. You're one of the best-best pieces of tail I've ever had."
"Yes-that's good," Christine grunted, rapidly losing her ability to reason. "Fuck me hard, Bob. Burn me with your prick."
Christine had been enjoying sex with her children for the past five years, ever since she lost her loving husband in an automobile accident. Frank had treated her with great tenderness and understanding and she had loved him dearly.
For months after his most untimely death she would wander aimlessly about the empty, lonely house, wishing he were alive and breaking into tears at the memory of the good times they had shared.
But then her need for sex, always urgent, began to take hold of her senses. More than a little conscience-stricken, not wanting to soil the memory of her departed husband, she had scouted around for a male to douse the fire raging in her hot twat.
She knew she was still attractive, her figure still svelte. A mere eight pounds had she gained since her wedding day. And so she didn't have to look long for the cock she craved. Her dates were all eager to screw this mature and experienced female, a female they found likable and interesting.
Screw followed screw as Christine worked her way through a series of sexual adventures, none of which she truly enjoyed. Always in the back of her mind was the thought that she was "cheating" on Frank, that she was freely giving to others the pussy he once worshipped with his mouth and cock.
And then to the rescue came her son, Robert.
Feeling sad and lonely one night, the memory of her departed husband once again shoving her into the well of despair, Christine had sought solace in a bottle of scotch. Bob had arrived home to find his mother sobbing drunkenly on the living room sofa.
Although he himself was more than a little intoxicated, he had carried Christine into her bedroom. After undressing his mother and putting her to bed he had moved to leave the bedroom, but she refused to let him go.
Clinging tenaciously to her son, Christine began to babble incoherently. She hugged Robert passionately, held him close, at one point kissing him full on the lips. To Christine it was as if she were kissing Frank.
A spark of lust was ignited in her loins, and before long she was groping at her son's crotch, her fingers fumbling for the zipper at the front of his slacks. Darrow, who was horny as hell because his date had refused to screw, offered minimal resistance. Soon he was helping his mother undress him.
There followed a fiery fuck, mother and son writhing on her bed in passionate embrace. Although both were soused, their minds clouded by alcohol, Bob and his mother thoroughly enjoyed this initial intimacy.
They screwed holy hell out of each other, then fell asleep in each other's arms.
And when they awoke the next morning there were no doubts, no self-recriminations. No shameful memories. The day dawned bright and clear, bringing to Christine a new life. It was a wonderful new world she had entered, she thought. It was a new beginning.
Surely there was no better way to get close to Frank than by screwing the child they had created in a moment of love. Through her son she would find her husband, his cock would comfort her. She could find nothing wrong with loving her son, and when a few weeks later her daughter joined them in bed she was made all the more happy.
Mother and son and daughter, truly a loving trio.
As for Darrow, he considered the fucking of his mother a little unusual at first, but very, very pleasing. Mom, he quickly learned, knew how to handle a hard-on. And sister, Pamela, well she was a pretty fair lay, herself.
Right now, sister Pamela was hovering over her brother and mother, darting to and fro, stepping back and moving in close as she filmed their incestuous coupling. As usual, the sexy sight of Bob and Mom locked in lewd embrace, the sounds of their passionate lovemaking, was making her hotter than hell.
Oh, brother, how she needed Bob's big bone charging up her weeping womanhood!
"I'm goin' ... goin' to come soon," Darrow suddenly announced in an excited, breathless voice. He pushed himself up so that he was braced on his hands and knees, his cock still firmly imbedded in his mother's syrupy sex chute. "Get a shot of my cock working in Mom's cunt, Pamela."
"Yes, all right," his sister said quickly.
"And focus on her face once in a while," Darrow added, resuming the fucking of his whimpering mother;
"I know, I know," Pam breathed hotly.
Christine's face was contorted into a mask of pure pleasure, sharp grunts mingling with tremulous sighs of delight as her handsome son screwed his big cock into her viscid vagina. She jerked her head side to side, her nails now digging into the mattress as that mighty organ continued to pump and pump and pump her hot pussy.
Resisting the temptation to play with herself, Pamela kept both hands on the camera and moved in close for a shot of her brother's hard cock tunneling up into her mother's soggy cunt. She recorded the expression on her mother's face, then again focused on Bob's bone and Christine's cunt.
And then Darrow was coming, the thick cream gushing from the tip of his bloated tool to inundate his mother's slushy love canal. Christine emitted a moan of ecstasy, her arms again wrapping around her son's back as he fell onto her warm, supple flesh to finish the pussy plowing.
Grunting like a stuck pig, Darrow shot his love load into his mother's molten sex pot. He pumped his prick with abandon, grinding his hard chest into Christine's spongy breasts and driving his organ to the depths of her clinging cunt as the sticky substance streamed into her body.
"Son-oh, my son," Christine groaned, shuddering through a most ecstatic orgasm.
"Go, Mom, go," Darrow shouted.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later a somewhat rested Robert Darrow was loading a second camera for his mother. Now Christine would film a fuck, record for posterity the incestuous coupling of he and his sister. Darrow, however, was not all that eager to plow Pamela's pussy. He had already filmed some nice sequences and had gotten his rocks off with his mother. And in the back of his mind was the party he planned to attend at Clarington's penthouse.
"I'm not so sure about this," he said, handing the loaded camera to his mother.
"What the hell does that mean?" Pamela asked. She was already stretched out on the mattress, both hands massaging her leaking love hole.
"It means I don't know if I should screw you, baby," Darrow replied, standing next to the mattress, hands on hips.
"You don't know if you should-but you promised me, you bastard. You can't leave me high and dry."
"Look, sweetheart, I'm going to an orgy tonight. I want to have something left for the party. I don't intend to walk into Clarington's apartment with a pooped pecker."
"To hell with that," Pamela exploded. "I'm dying for a cock and you're worried about wearing yourself out. You really are a selfish bastard."
Darrow grinned. "You know you don't mean that, baby. What would you do without dear brother's eight inch cock? I don't think you could live without it."
Pamela was fuming. "I'm warning you, Robert," she threatened. "If you don't get down here and shove your cock into my cunt I'll ... I'll-"
"You'll what?" Darrow chuckled.
"Ohhh, please," Pamela whined, her beautiful face twisted into a tortured expression of need. "Don't do this to me. Can't you see how badly I need it. My cunt is on fire. Please-please fuck me, Bob."
"Go ahead and do it to her," Christine said. "After all, Robert, she is your sister. You should show her some consideration."
Darrow looked at his mother, then shrugged. "All right, I guess another screw won't take that much out of me. The orgy doesn't start until eight o'clock, so I'll have a few hours to rest up after I finish with Pam.
A small frown began to form on Christine's face. "Are you sure you want to attend this man's sex party, Robert?"
"Sure I'm sure, Mom," Darrow said, puzzled by his mother's question. "Clarington hosts some of the best orgies in New York. It should be a blast."
"Yes, so I've heard," his mother said. "Well, if that's what you want."
Darrow frowned. "Mom, I can understand why you're-"
"It's not important," Christine interrupted. "Now you better start working on your sister before she passes out. I'll work the camera."
"Come on," Pamela moaned. "Stick it in me, for crying out loud. My twat is burnin' up.
"Oh, shut up," Darrow barked. "Your cunt is always itching for a cock."
But seconds later, after casting a questioning look in his mother's direction, Darrow dropped between his sister's widely spread legs and funneled his erect prick into her excited sex canal. It wasn't long before he was screwing like crazy, pumping his throbbing tool in Pam's pulsing pussy and with each jarring thrust wrenching from her throat groans of delight.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Pamela chanted, deliriously happy now that her well-hung brother had jammed his fat pecker into her burning box. Tingling with lust, she thrust up her shapely hips to greet his descending dick and moaned her approval of the way he was reaming her cock-hungry hole.
"Screw crazy bitch," Darrow mumbled throatily into his sister's neck, seconds later wincing when she raked her long fingernails over his already abused back. (Mom was a scratcher, too.)
In close proximity to the entwined couple was Christine Darrow, who, like her daughter before her, maneuvered around for the best camera angles. Having been beautifully humped by her son, her fires doused by his rampaging dick, she was now able to function rationally and film the incestuous intercourse with a reserved detachment.
Yet she was worried. Although she had decided not to pursue the matter, she was not at all enthusiastic about her son's intention to attend Edward Clarington's orgy. Nor did she like the crowd he was running with.
It wasn't the orgies that she minded. Her son was a grown man and certainly was capable of living his own life. No doubt his wondrous weapon had entranced many a cock-hungry female. In fact, she derived a certain pleasure in realizing that she had raised such a popular pussy pleasure.
But at the same time Christine found the thought of competition rather disquieting. Lurking in the back of her mind was the fear that some day she would be forgotten, that Clarington and his friends would surround Robert with so much young, fresh cunt, tight, tempting twats, and she would find herself being put out to pasture.
Her security was being constantly threatened, Christine thought. What would she do without her son's beautiful cock? How could she continue living if one day he became so enamored of all that young, tender pussy and decided his mother was an old hag who was no longer worth screwing?
Too, there was the real possibility that she would lose her daughter to a man. Or another woman. But this thought troubled her not nearly as much as the idea of one day being without her son's comforting cock.
Never did Christine want to be merely tolerated. She wanted to play a large and important role in her son's sex life. But the presence of all that nifty nooky, all those scintillating young creatures who would, without hesitation, drop their panties for her son, was slowly but surely corroding the confidence she had in her ability to hold onto him.
"Yeah, ram it deep, you big bastard!" Pamela suddenly screamed. "Smash that hot prick into my belly."
Her daughter's violent exhortation sent a bolt of panic to Christine's brain. No, never, she thought, a surge of determination welling within her. Never must she find herself having to struggle along without her son's magnificent manhood.
And it could very well be that in the near future she would have to take steps to insure her place in Robert's love life. But how to channel his cock in the right direction?
That was the question.
CHAPTER FIVE
The orgy tonight had all the makings of a truly memorable bash, Edward Clarington thought happily, as he sipped his scotch and soda and watched his mistress of the moment, Julie Wingate, perform a somewhat awkward but nevertheless interesting strip.
He had invited only those who he knew were true swingers, those hump-happy hedonists who could be depended upon to add much to the merriment of the occasion. The one exception was Jennifer Rogers, the radiant blond he had met at Colorama. He knew nothing about her except that she was working at the art supply store and trying to make it as an artist. And that she was a delicious looking piece of tail. Which, of course, was enough.
A small smile began to play over his ruggedly attractive face as he wondered how the lovely Jennifer would react when she discovered she had accepted an invitation to an orgy. Extending the invitation had been a spur of the moment thing, he recalled, nodding his approval as Julie winked lewdly at him and began unzipping her skirt.
But he didn't anticipate any problems with Jennifer. Something told him that the beautiful blond would fit very nicely into the scheme of things, and already he was looking forward to planting his prick in her golden cunt.
"Hey, you're not paying attention to me," Julie complained, a pretty pout bathing her smooth, unblemished face. "Stop all that heavy thinking and see what I've got for you, Eddie."
Clarington grinned. "But I've seen it before, my dear."
"Well gee, does that mean you're tired of me already?"
"No, of course it doesn't, child," the lean and hearty Clarington answered in his best fatherly tone of voice. "I was just thinking about the party tonight. I'm looking forward to it."
"Me, too," Julie bubbled. "It should be a blast. Real heavy, you know?"
Clarington chuckled. "Yes, it'll be a 'real heavy' affair. I'm sure my friends will all like you."
"I hope so, Eddie. I really do. I want so much for you to be proud of me."
Clarington smiled softly, then watched as the curvaceous brunette resumed undressing. She certainly was a dumb bunny, he thought. One of the silliest, most uninformed and blessedly ignorant little cunts he had ever fucked.
Yet the five foot five, blue-eyed Julie had a number of good points. Not the least of which was her perfectly-proportioned 36-24-36 body, a body, he often reminded her, that had been created for the sole purpose of screwing.
And when he added to Julie's fantastic figure the fact that the girl was a nymphomaniac, Clarington found himself willing to dismiss her lack of sophistication and subtlety as simply annoying little lacks.
When one had a mistress whose craving for hard cock was insatiable, a female who fucked every time as if it might be her last time, it was more than stupid to belabor her bad characteristics. An absolutely ravishing figure and a desire to screw till dawn made almost inconsequential a host of annoying habits.
"Yep, I think I'm getting to you now," Julie grinned, her prick-loving vagina beginning to secrete its lubricating juices. She reached back to undo the clasp of her brassiere, her eyes riveted to Clarington's rapidly rising cock.
He was truly a handsome man, she thought. One of the best-looking and most virile studs she had ever squirmed her body under. Which was saying a lot since at the tender age of twenty-two she had already managed to fuck a small army of males.
At the moment, Julie was "into" older men. Or rather, they were getting into her. Desiring a change of pace, always willing to experiment and very, very curious, Julie had some months ago decided to sleep only with men in their fifties. She wondered if vast experience and much practiced technique was better than great virility and fast, vigorous boffing.
Some of her friends had told her that sleeping with an older man was a most delicious experience, that she could expect from such a man the tenderness, compassion and understanding which younger, more horny males often lacked.
To Julie's surprise and delight, Mr. Edward Clarington had surpassed her wildest expectations. Not only was he concerned with her needs, sexual and otherwise, but his virility at age fifty-nine was nothing less than astounding.
Since becoming his mistress exactly seventeen days ago, Julie had been fucked no less than thirty-six times, a better than twice-a-day average. Clarington, she realized happily, was apparently as much "into" cunt as she was "into" cock. Which made for a very happy relationship.
Then, too, there was the possibility, by no means remote, that the grey-haired, blue-eyed Clarington could help further her going-nowhere modeling career. A girl trying to break into the competitive field of modeling needed all the help she could get, and while she had not yet made a formal request for assistance Julie figured her lover wouldn't mind pulling a few strings if she asked.
But in any event, she was thoroughly enjoying her role as Eddie's mistress. He was attentive to her needs and provided her with plenty of money. And he could fuck like a man half his age. What more could any female ask?
"Come here and sit on my lap, beautiful lady," Clarington said, when Julie was clad in only her white bikini panties. He himself was naked, his fully erect cock now jutting up and out from his hairy loins.
"What are we going to do, Daddy? Talk, maybe?"
"We'll do more than that, I assure you," Clarington smiled, setting his glass of booze down on the table next to the sofa.
"I certainly hope so," Julie cooed, stepping toward the sofa and wriggling her pantied-ass onto her aging lover's lap. She threw her arms around his neck and impulsively hugged him.
Clarington slid his right hand up Julie's smooth back to the nape of her neck. Julie was wearing her hair in the fashionable "Dutch boy" style and so her neck and shoulders were free to be stroked.
After a few seconds Julie loosened her hold on Clarington and moved back, a saucy smile on her pretty face. Clarington placed his left hand on her smooth, flat tummy, patted it lovingly.
"Oooo ... I'm getting hot for you, Eddie," Julie cooed. "Play with my boobies for a while, lover."
Clarington smiled softly. "You like having your tits fondled, don't you, sweetheart?"
"Oh yes, Daddy. I loved to be squeezed and massaged."
"And your nipples pinched?"
"Yes, I like that, too," Julie sighed, closing her eyes and swaying slightly on Clarington's lap as he began now to knead her spongy breasts. "Oh, Daddy, it's so good," she purred.
Clarington chuckled throatily. Daddy-the little nymph was starting that business again, he thought. Not that he really minded, though.
In fact he derived a certain pleasure from the paternalistic appellative, a strange sense of power and control. He was not the least bit disturbed by the fact that time was slipping by, that in three weeks time he would be celebrating his sixtieth birthday. Nor was he at all concerned about dying.
He had lived a good life, a happy life, and the only small worry he had now was that one day he would wake and discover he no longer had the cash and charm and physical attractiveness necessary to attract voluptuous females like Miss Julie Wingate.
But there was little likelihood of that happening, he thought. By watching his diet and sticking to a program of daily exercise he managed to keep trim and fit. He still had a considerable amount of money, enough to see him through at least fifteen more years of high living.
And so when Julie called him "Daddy" he minded not at all. He knew she wasn't teasing him, making sarcastic reference to his age. It was simply her way of expressing affection and it made him feel powerful and strong, a master of all he surveyed.
His daughter, Joyce, called him "Daddy" even though she was all grown up and married. Joyce-sweet, sweet Joyce. How he loved to administer the spankings she craved and then, as she squirmed in whimpering submission, funnel his hard prick into her syrupy vagina.
The more Clarington thought about it the more he realized that it was actually the age difference which turned him on, made him feel so gloriously omnipotent and totally in control. Both Julie and his daughter were in their twenties, both were beautiful and desirable females capable of attracting much younger men.
But Joyce, although married to a young, virile buck, was still realizing her greatest pleasure with him. And Julie, like a number of randy females before her, was rapidly learning that Mr. Edward Clarington could screw with the best of them.
How sweet it was, he thought, to realize that you wielded so much power.
"Ohh, that's what I like," Julie was crooning, wriggling her pantied-posterior on her lover's lap as he continued to stroke her back and massage her bountiful boobs.
"And this you like," Clarington stated, trapping the erect nipple of Julie's left breast between two fingers and pinching almost cruelly. He brought his right hand from her back, slipping it between their bodies and then clamping it over the girl's right melon of warm flesh. Now he was massaging both breasts.
"Ooo ... keep that up, Daddy, and ... and . ... "
"And what, my precious?" Clarington asked, gloating in triumph as he studied Julie's expression of pleasure. His cock, although not of unusual size, was thick and throbbing, pressed back against his belly by Julie's warm thigh. The desire to bury his hard organ in the velvety softness of the girl's slushy vagina, or perhaps in the constricting canal of her clasping rectum, was increasing with each passing second.
"And ... and I'll wet my panties," was Julie's breathless answer.
Clarington chuckled. "You mean because you're sexually aroused?"
Julie nodded. "Yes. Sometimes when-ohh, that's right, feel my pussy, Daddy."
"You're very wet, sweetheart. Did you . ... "
"No, not yet, anyway. But sometimes, when I get very, very excited, I just can't control myself. I don't know why but-oh, Daddy, it's very naughty, isn't it?"
"And naughty young girls have to be spanked," Clarington said, in a tone of voice suggesting he was addressing a misbehaving child, informing her gently but firmly that the guilty must be punished.
"Will ... will you spank me?" Julie asked, suddenly feeling very helpless, completely at the mercy of this mature, distinguished older man. She was not a dyed-in-the-wool masochist, yet there was something about Clarington that brought out a desire for mild chastisement. She wondered if it was because he was so much older than she was, so masterful and strong. The idea of being punished never crossed her mind when she was with younger men.
"Do you want to be spanked, Julie?" Clarington asked, one hand still playing over the beautiful girl's spongy globes of flesh while the other stroked and squeezed her pantied pussy.
"Yes ... I think I do," was Julie's softly voiced answer. Suddenly she looked very sad, dejected, like the little girl who had crossed her father and who, although sorry for misbehaving, would now have to endure a sound bottom-warming.
"All right then, young lady," Clarington said, his voice firm and authoritative, reflecting his intention to play the role to the hilt. "Lie across my lap and prepare to be punished."
Tingling with anticipation, Julie quickly did as ordered. Maneuvering around on the sofa, she placed her lush body over Clarington's lap and cradled her head between her arms. Now she was draped over her lover's legs, her pert, pantied ass in position to be pummeled by his hard hand.
"All set now?" Clarington asked, the sight of the young female's sheathed seat rapidly clouding his mind with lust.
"Yes, I'm ready," Julie answered, clenching the half-moons of her succulent bottom as she awaited that first stinging swat.
Clarington grinned and raised his right arm. He placed his left hand on the small of Julie's back, just above the elasticized waistband of her panties. Then, as the memory of the last time he had walloped his daughter, Joyce, drifted into his mind, he brought his right hand down across Julie's curvaceous derriere.
Smack!
"Oww!" Julie cried out, her beautiful buttocks quivering from the blow. "That hurt, Daddy," she whined.
"Isn't it supposed to, young lady?"
"Yes ... yes, I guess so."
"All right then, here's number two."
Smack!
"Aiee! Ohhh...."
As the grin slowly faded from his attractive face, Clarington began to really pummel Julie's warming rear end. His eyes grew bright with lust as again and again he raised his arm, brought his hard hand crashing down against her saucy bottom.
He was enjoying his role of irate father. Enjoying it immensely. Each stinging swat he delivered to Julie's derriere brought a cry of pain from her throat. It was just like battering his daughter's ass, Clarington thought. Although more often than not Joyce preferred a wicked strapping with a leather belt to the conventional, comparatively mild hand spanking.
"Oh, it hurts something awful," Julie complained, squirming her pert posterior. "You're doing it so hard, Daddy."
"Daddy" ignored his mistress' tearful lamentations and continued beating on her pantied bottom. He knew for certain that she was enjoying the fierce spanking, that although she was whining and would, before too long, probably ask him to stop, she was realizing great pleasure from the vigorous assault on her ass.
Spanking his beautiful mistress could be considered a warm-up, he thought, delivering" still another blow to Julie's reddening rear. One might even describe it as a peppery practice session.
It had been some time since his daughter last visited him for her satisfaction. And he figured that Joyce must be in a state of eager anticipation, all her thoughts centering on the orgy tonight. No doubt she would try to comer him at the party, beseech him to administer the kind of abuse she craved.
And, of course, he would oblige.
So now, like the baseball pitcher who warms up prior to the start of the game, he was preparing for Joyce by peppering Julie's bottom. He was getting his arm nice and loose.
"Oh, Daddy, not so hard," Julie groaned. "My ass is killing me, Daddy."
"I haven't even started spanking yet," a smiling Clarington informed his hapless mistress. "So just-"
"But it hurts. I've had enough now. I won't be able to sit for-"
"Silly child," Clarington interrupted, pausing for a moment to ran his hand over Julie's quivering ass. He savored the silky softness of her sheer panties and with one finger traced the narrow indentation which separated her lovely cheeks. He stopped when he reached her anus, then chuckled lewdly as he pressed his finger into that small neat hole and wedged a tiny portion of her panties into her bottom.
"No, that isn't nice," Julie moaned, trying to inject into her complaint a little sincerity. "I don't like-"
"You little liar," Clarington interrupted, his smile growing into a large grin as he once again raised his right hand and prepared to pummel his mistress anew. "You know you love it-love it all."
"No, not really," Julie whimpered. "Maybe I-owww!"
Smack! Smack! Smack!
What a contradictory character this little bitch was, Clarington thought, as he banged on Julie's bottom with ever increasing determination and force. Here she was, pleading for mercy, and at the very same time lifting her shapely hips and shoving up her ass to greet his punishing hand. The mixed-up little cunt.
Julie continued to whimper and complain, figuring that her lover expected some protest and realizing that her tearful moans were contributing to her keen enjoyment of the spanking. And no doubt to Clarington's as well.
It had been over a year since she was last spanked, the painful yet pleasurable bottom-warming being administered by the handsome, fifty-year-old owner of a modeling agency, who during the day was a loving father figure and at night a cunning sadist.
Not long after he had walloped her, Julie moved in with this masterful man. To this day she wasn't sure if she had decided to live with Sam as an expression of gratitude (residuals from the television commercial she had done were still trickling in, thanks to Sam who had gotten her the audition) or because her mood of the moment was masochistic.
In any event, she stayed with the modeling agency owner for a period of six weeks, moving out only after he suggested they advance to more demonic methods of inflicting pain, like chains and whips and branding irons. Enough was enough, Julie had figured, packing her bags in a huff.
But she didn't think she had to worry about Eddie on that score. He wasn't, she was certain, an honest-to-goodness sadist who might some day decide to beat her bloody. He simply enjoyed spanking the bottom of a pretty young girl. And at the moment he was pleasuring her to no end.
Clarington spent the next two minutes pounding on Julie's nicely-rounded rear, spurred on, as she had correctly reasoned, by her continuous whimpers and moans of mock pain. Then he tugged down her thin panties, lowering them to a point just below her bottom as she lifted her hips, and proceeded to whack her now naked and flushed fanny.
Smack! Whack! Splat!
"Owww ... ohhh ... ahhhh...." Julie moaned constantly, her tears slipping down her cheeks to dampen the sofa cushion.
"Naughty, naughty child," Clarington husked, his voice becoming thicker as the need to plant his prick in the beautiful brunette's body took total control of his senses.
Truth was that he found himself in the midst of a delightful dilemma. He wanted very much to continue battering Julie's delectable derriere, to hear her lust-inspiring moans and groans and sharp shrieks as with each resounding smack he reddened her already flaming fanny. Her tempting tail was so beautiful, and now so warm to the touch.
But at the same time he wanted to fuck. His stiff, pulsing prick was demanding its due, waiting impatiently while its owner decided in which one of Julie's orifices it would be planted.
Cunt, asshole, or mouth? That was the question of the moment.
And true to form, Julie came to the rescue.
"No more," she groaned hotly. "Please no more. I'm hot-my pussy is burning."
You want to get laid, huh?" Clarington asked, his question totally superfluous.
"Yes, Daddy," was Julie's quick, breathless reply. Her luscious body was trembling with lust, the spanking having triggered an almost demented desire to be banged black and blue. Her weeping cunt felt so empty, so horribly alone. "I want you to fuck me. I need your wonderful cock, Eddie."
"In your ass, baby. I want to stick it up your beautiful backside. How's that sound?" Breathing hard, Clarington ceased whacking Julie's tortured tail and waited for her answer.
His mistress did not respond immediately. She was silent for a few long seconds as she considered her lover's wish to ram his rod up her narrow rectum.
Well, why not, she decided at last. No harm could come from being banged in her bottom.
In fact she liked the idea, it having been a good six months since she had last been cornholed. And Eddie, although his prick was only of average dimensions, would no doubt administer a most delightful rectum reaming.
"How 'bout it, baby? You mind if-"
"No, I want it that way," an excited Julie interrupted. "Do it to me in the ass, Eddie. Fuck my shitty bottom."
A request like that, coming from the lips of a ravishingly beautiful female, would have triggered wholly licentious thoughts in even the most super-religious man. And Clarington was an atheist.
"The bedroom-get in the bedroom," he growled, taking his hands off his mistress so that she was free to move.
"Yes, all right," Julie said quickly.
Hurriedly, awkwardly, she climbed off her lover's lap, her thin panties slipping down her legs to form a silky puddle at her feet as she pulled herself erect. She kicked out of the flimsy garment and then scampered off in the direction of Clarington's large bedroom, which, like the rest of his apartment, had been furnished with great taste and at considerable expense.
Clarington watched her go, then reached for his drink. He was thirsty now, having expended considerable energy while walloping his mistress' magnificent behind. In one long gulp he finished the scotch and soda, savoring the taste of his best liquor as it slid smoothly down his parched throat.
Then he set the empty glass back down on the table, pushed himself out of the sofa and, like a man on a mission, marched purposefully toward his bedroom, his throbbing tool jerking to and fro.
A ready-to-be reamed Julie Wingate was waiting for him. She was perched on the bed on her elbows and knees, her mouth-watering bottom resembling some obscene offering to the gods as it pointed provocatively toward the bedroom ceiling.
"Do it to me, Eddie," she pleaded excitedly. "Shove your cock up my behind. Make me feel it, darling."
Julie was relinquishing her role of misbehaving child who had merited punishment for her naughty ways. No longer was Clarington the "daddy" whose job it was to chastise. Now again he was "Eddie," the informal appellation not really befitting a man of Clarington's age and wealth but one which came easily to her lips and one which he seemed not to mind.
That peculiar yet pleasurable feeling of helplessness was still pricking her soul, however. And it was with the utmost eagerness that she awaited the plowing of her posterior, that most deliciously obscene reaming of her narrow shit chute.
Clarington saw to it that his mistress waited not very long. Eyes bright with lust, his cock in total, throbbing tumescence, he stepped into position behind Julie's proffered fanny and allowed his hands to wander over the still warm, rose-colored flesh.
"Ohh, darling do it to me," Julie again begged, her lovely face, cradled now between her arms, pressing hotly into the mattress. "I want to feel it churning up my filthy ass, Eddie."
"My prick?" Clarington asked, leaning over and pressing his chest against Julie's arched back as he reached around and under her body to grab hold of her gelatinous breasts. "You want my prick buried in your hot ass, baby?"
"Yes, oh yes," was his mistress' fervent reply. "Fuck my dirty ass, Eddie. Burn it with your great cock."
That was it, the final fillip, and after a rough squeeze of Julie's succulent boobs Clarington straightened up and with the thumbs of his hands parted the girl's delectable ass cheeks. He directed the bulbous head of his erect cock on target, thinking that the uninitiated would consider his goal unobtainable. How, they might ask, could such a solid column of flesh penetrate such a niggardly portal?
But Clarington knew he would succeed, convinced as he was that Julie had long ago surrendered her rear door virginity. And while the man who had deflowered her derriere would have to be considered one lucky bastard, Clarington took comfort in the fact that he would be spared the arduous task of breaking in Julie's rectum.
"Hard, darling," his mistress cried out, digging her long nails into the sheet-covered mattress when she felt the warm cockhead straining against her small anus. "Just push it in, Eddie. I can take it all-every last inch."
"And that ... that's just what you're goin' to get, baby," her lover declared, breathing hard as he labored determinedly to wedge his fat, rock-hard pecker into Julie's nether hole.
And then, suddenly, success. The pear-shaped crown popped into the girl's ass. Clarington emitted a sharp grunt of satisfaction and from Julie's throat there burst a cry of pain. Her sudden, explosive shriek disintegrated quickly into a low moan of discomfort. And then, as Clarington began to work his tool into her plush posterior, Julie's discomfort magically disappeared.
He planted his hands on her heavenly hips and pushed his pelvis forward, his tool beginning its obscene journey along the old dirt road. Slowly but surely Clarington's rock-hard cock inched into Julie's near perfect posterior, burrowing ever deeper and pushing aside all in its path as it moved relentlessly, inexorably, into the female's foul bowels.
"Mmmm ... good," Julie moaned. "Deep, darling. I want it all in my dirty ass."
Clarington's reply to this was a passionate growl. Determined to bury every last inch of his rigid rod in Julie's quivering fanny, he continued his purposeful invasion of her constricting rectum. He pressed ahead, hands clamped firmly on her hips, his thick tool tunneling ever deeper into her hot and terribly tight tail.
The beautiful brunette's pain and discomfort had been short-lived, and now Clarington's thick cock was providing her with real pleasure as it trundled up into her shit chute. She was suffused with a fantastic feeling of fullness, the hard bone worming its way up into her ass thrilling her no end and suggesting that a visit to the bathroom was in order.
"More-give me more, Eddie," she pleaded, rolling her hips and shaving her beautiful bottom back to impale herself on the thick, hot bone her lover was stuffing into her expanded rectum.
"All right, all right," Clarington grunted, looking down to feast on the sight of the perverted coupling.
It was a deliciously obscene sight, he thought, fixing his eyes on the point of connection. Julie's distended asshole was gripping his imbedded rod tenaciously, sucking that column of warm meat into her rectum as if it were a life giving root.
A bolt of pure lust rocketed to his brain and Clarington suddenly thrust forward violently, the brutal plunge serving to bury the final inch or so of his bloated cock in Julie's stretched shit chute. Now he was home, his stiff prick planted to the hairy balls in his mistress' delightful derriere.
"Ohhh!" Julie cried out, ceasing all movement as she adjusted to the thick, fiery impalement. She had it all now, she knew. Every last inch of her lover's log of hard flesh was firmly imbedded in her behind. She was stuffed chock full of delicious dick. Hell, but it felt good!
"Ready, baby?" Clarington husked. "I'm goin' to-"
"Yes, do it," Julie snapped. "Ream me out, Eddie. Fuck my ass with your big prick. Be mean, Eddie. Smash me hard."
You hot little bitch, Clarington thought, beads of perspiration forming on his brow as without delay he commenced the screwing of the lovely brunette's bottom. He began slowly, his strong hands still wrapped around her hips as he withdrew his bone and then slid it back into the comforting confines of her clasping rectum.
"That's right," Julie moaned. "Fuck my fanny, you beautiful man. Plow my shitty ass."
Thirty seconds later, Clarington was accelerating the pace of this rectum reaming, thrusting with ever increasing force as a whimpering Julie Wingate rocked on the bed, swiveled her fantastic fanny, and pleaded for more and more of the meat being pistoned in her clammy shit chute.
But while Julie was realizing great happiness one member of her family was fuming. And that person was her Uncle Henry, her father's most unattractive forty-six year old brother.
He was really quite down and hurt.
How could he not be good enough for his niece? How could it happen that in one year he had been relegated to a place of deadly unimportance in Julie's sex life, erased from her list of fucking partners?
It was a shame!
It was just damned unfair, he thought, as he sat on the sofa in the living room of his small bachelor apartment and guzzled beer. Why, he had been one of the first with Julie, one of the few lovers she'd had who was tolerant and understanding.
And hadn't she vowed to love him forever, to be always available when he desired a torrid fuck? He remembered how his young and very beautiful niece would lovingly suck his limp pecker to a thick, throbbing, pulsating prick, lovingly handling him, and soon after announcing happily that he was the tastiest of all the males she had ever blown.
But it was all over now, Henry lamented. Finished. Kaput. It had been over a year since he'd last buried his bone in Julie's taste-tempting twat. And this dismal fact left him more than a little sad and very, very angry.
She had absolutely no right to leave him, he thought. None whatsoever. Losing Julie, a girl who had worshiped his cock and balls (how she used to adore giving him an "oral bath," bathing his steaming loins with a saliva-coated tongue which traveled unconcernedly over his pulsing prick and hairy testicles) was as bad as losing a daughter.
They had been a team-a magnificent fucking team. Partners in passion. And now....
It was the crowd she was running with, Henry had long ago decided. It was those damned high-living hedonists who had turned his niece away from him. What did that arty crowd care that he was miserable, that they had destroyed a beautiful relationship by filling Julie's head with a bunch of wild ideas about sex and money?
No doubt Julie found that kind of life very exciting, he mused, recalling his niece's oft-stated ambition to become a successful model or maybe even an actress. But they were using her, he knew, promising her the world while they clouded her mind with booze and non-stop screwing parties.
And tonight his Julie would be attending another of those obscene orgies. Although he had been rudely dismissed from his niece's life, he had kept a watching eye on Julie. The private detective he'd hired was presently living with a wealthy art collector, a man by the name of Edward Clarington whose circle of friends would contribute greatly to his niece's downfall.
Julie was sinking ever deeper into a quicksand of lust and perversion, Henry realized. And it was only fitting and proper that he be the one to rescue her from this sick situation and bring her home where she belonged.
He would have to act and act promptly. Otherwise, he would lose his Julie forever.
CHAPTER SIX
Tonight's party would, as Clarington had correctly figured, be remembered as one of the finest fuck fests he had ever hosted. Although scheduled to begin at approximately eight o'clock, this particular pussy and prick party had actually gotten underway shortly after seven with the arrival of the first frolickers.
Why waste time with idle chatter, the hedonists asked each other, agreeing that this was a time for fucking and sucking and should not be spoiled with unnecessary talk. Since many attending the party worked in closely related occupations and/or saw one another on a fairly regular basis, time could always be found to discuss work or politics or sports.
But now they wanted to concentrate on their favorite indoor sport. Play the intoxicating games of lust.
It was now almost nine-thirty and fifteen fun lovers were saturating Edward Clarington's penthouse apartment with sex. Unbridled, no-holds-barred sex. And still they came, those cunt-lappers and ass fuckers and cocksuckers whose dedication to their craft was matched by their purposeful pursuit of pleasure at all costs.
The genial host of the orgy was happily humping a giggling starlet named Penelope Prince, whose one claim to fame was based on the fact that a few summers ago she had spent two glorious weeks on a famous film star's yacht and been fucked nearly out of her skull. Unfortunately, Penelope's licentious labors resulted in only a badly swollen mouth, a very tired twat, and a stretched shit chute. No movie contract was forthcoming from the horny hero of western flicks.
But the blue-eyed, golden-tressed Penelope, whose pout was considered pretty by some, stupid by others, was not thinking about a career in the movies at the moment. Always alert and quick to grasp at an opportunity as it flew by, she had spotted a young, rebellious film maker and would later attempt to fuck him into giving her a role in his next epic.
But right now, her host was forcing her to concentrate on her molten cunt, a cunt he had a few minutes ago invaded with his very stiff prick.
Penelope, who liked everyone else in the sex-drenched apartment was bare-assed naked, was draped over a black vinyl armchair and moaning her approval of Clarington's cock which was being screwed into her from behind.
"That's it, baby," she was groaning, her usually melodic voice now thick with lust. "Ram it to me, lover. Fuck it deep."
"You're a hot cunt, sweetheart," Clarington huffed, his fingers digging into the resilient flesh of the girl's hips as he pumped with a methodical precision.
"Then cool me, stud," was Penelope's tart reply. "Douse those fires with your cock. Hose me, baby. Hose me good."
Positioned as she was over the back of the comfortable chair, her arms extended full length and hands hotly gripping the armrests to support her upper body, Penelope could do little more than voice her wholehearted approval of the animal-like coupling and plead for more of her host's thrusting tool.
But movement didn't matter all that much. She was perfectly willing to remain draped over the armchair all night, locked into a position that presented little opportunity for racy reciprocation. Just as long as there was always a male with a fat, hard cock to stuff into her hungry sex hole.
Nearby, also enjoying the sensual delights afforded by a hot male cock, was Clarington's mistress.
Julie Wingate, whose anus still ached from the cruel stretching it had received from Clarington's cock earlier, was squirming her lush bottom on a straight chair and feasting like one famished. Unlike Penelope, whose pussy was being so nicely pricked, it was Julie's mouth which was receiving all the attention.
She was sucking furiously on the cock that a minute ago had been plopped into her mouth. Owner of the organ was Drake Watterman, a screenwriter of some repute (Penelope had her blue eyes on him, too) whose unbelievably large ego had been discussed, debated and finally dismissed by his peers.
Drake was good, they agreed, but not that good.
This, however, was a consensus of opinion arrived at by Drake's male friends who, had they consulted the man's many female admirers, might have been persuaded to reach a different verdict. Of course, it wasn't Drake's work his women found so entrancing-it was his huge cock.
Drake and Robert Darrow, who at the moment was in one of the two bedrooms feeding his meat to a joyous, unfortunately jobless dancer and stripper, were the proud possessors of the largest cocks in the group of hump-happy hedonists. And as such they were in great demand by the lady folk.
Drake was in his glory when a luscious female was slobbering all over his erect prick. And now he stood before a feasting Julie Wingate, hands jammed against his hips, a smile of the utmost conceit washing over his handsome face as the cock-hungry nymphomaniac and would-be model showed off her cocksucking abilities.
"Yeah, baby," he grinned lasciviously. "Eat it all up like candy. Show me how much you love old Drake's big dick."
Julie's reply to this was a gargled groan, the bestial-like sound traveling up from deep in her throat only to be partially smothered by the long thick cock now stretching her jaw.
Loathing Drake's super ego but loving his super erectile, she sucked with a fiery abandon, determined, it seemed, to vacuum his meaty member down her throat and into her stomach. She was bent forward slightly, arms dangling at her sides as if they were broken and of no use.
But Julie's beautiful head was all motion. It bobbed and tilted and weaved crazily as she sucked on her lovely log of pulsating flesh. Her mouth was on his manhood, working on it wickedly, and her mind was working on the lustful thought of how it would feel when Drake, after perhaps a moment to recuperate, achieved a second erection and slammed that beautiful bone of his into her aching cunt.
Suddenly, seemingly for no good reason, Drake grabbed two handfuls of Julie's dark hair and yanked her head back, his slimy shaft popping from between her lovely lipsticked lips. She looked up at the owner of the outsized organ, the confused expression on her beautiful face mirroring her inability to comprehend this uncalled-for move. Was she doing something wrong? Wasn't he satisfied with her cocksucking talents?
"You really love eating it, don't you, cunt?" Drake asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His hands were wrapped tightly around Julie's head, holding it up so that she could not avoid his eyes if she had wanted to. She was forced to stare up into his grinning face and listen to his mocking words.
"Don't you-I mean, I thought I was-" Drake chuckled. "Yeah, you're good, baby. One of the best blow-job artists I've ever come across. Clarington got himself a real nice piece when he found you, honey."
"Then why did you stop me? Why-oww, you're hurting me."
As the grin began to fade from the blonde, Watterman's face clouded and he said sternly, "Tell me how much you like chewing on my cock, beautiful. Let me hear you praise my pecker. I want to hear some words of admiration from those lovely lips of yours. Then, if you're a good girl, I'll let you finish blowing me."
Julie hesitated. So that's his game, she thought. A little sadism to add to his enjoyment of the blow-job, a touch of torture to enhance his pleasure. By thinking that he was humiliating her he'd be feeding his already overstuffed ego. The slimy bastard.
On the other hand, what did it matter. Just as long as he didn't start beating on her face. She'd say the words he wanted to hear, provide him with the kicks he apparently needed, and then get back to sucking his tool. The tool he was at the moment waving under her nose like a carrot. And the fact remained that she was still a very hungry bunny.
"Well, come on, baby," Drake ordered. "Let's hear how you love to go down on a big juicy prick. One like mine, for instance. Or maybe you're getting tired, huh? Maybe you don't want-"
"I love your big cock," Julie whispered, looking up at her tormentor as the words spilled from her mouth. His hard hands were still holding her head firmly in place. "It's a beautiful prick-one of the best I've ever eaten. It tastes good-so very delicious."
Now again a sardonic grin spread over Watterman's well-chiseled features. He loved being in a position of power, one wherein his authority was absolute. How thrilling it was to dominate. How glorious to exalt in the knowledge that his tempting tool titillated and tamed the most sophisticated of snatches.
Now, adding insult to injury, he proceeded to use his outsized organ on Julie's face as if it were one of those battery-operated vibrators, one designed to relax tired muscles and relieve tension. Still holding her head firmly, his hands clamped over her ears, he began to stroke her beautiful face with his thick cock.
"Yes, it is good, isn't it, sweetheart?" he mocked, sliding his fat bone down Julie's right cheek, under her chin and then up the left side of her face.
He tapped lightly on her forehead with his thick erectile, then moved the pear-shaped crown of his cock down over her nose to the lips she had seconds ago closed. Julie slowly opened her eyes.
"You want to start eating me again, huh?" Drake asked.
The beautiful brunette nodded.
"Well then open up, baby. Part those lips for your lollipop."
No sooner had Julie opened her mouth to permit entry of Drake's big dick than he was thrusting forward, shoving his hips toward the female's face in an apparent attempt to push his thick prick down her lovely throat.
Julie gagged and tried frantically to escape, her hands flying up to Watterman's hips and pushing hard against them. Panicky, realizing that no one was about to come to her rescue, she struggled with all her might against the choking cock now battering the back of her throat.
But her efforts were to no avail. Drake merely chuckled and held her head in the vise-like grip, enjoying the sight of the tears which began now to slide down Julie's fear-drenched face as he continued fiendishly filling her mouth with hot cock. Only when he was satisfied that he had clearly demonstrated his supremacy did he loosen his grip, allowing Julie to jerk her head back and away from the suffocating shaft.
"Arghh! You beast!" she cried out, one hand instinctively flying to her throat as she coughed and coughed and swallowed hard.
Drake laughed. "Why, I thought you liked my prick, baby. What's the matter, too much of a good thing, maybe?"
"Stinking pervert," Julie groaned, her voice softening considerably as she gently stroked her throat. "You could have killed me, do you know that."
"Not likely, baby," Drake grinned. "Not a cock-hungry bitch like you. Now come on, wrap those lovely lips around my prick and start sucking. If you do a nice job I'll give you a big reward. And you know what I have in mind."
"Pig," Julie spat. "You're just an egotistical bum who-arghh!"
Once again Watterman had clamped his hands over Julie's head and shoved his hard cock into her mouth, driving the rest of her sentence back down her throat. But this time he didn't pursue the matter, quickly withdrawing his hard rod and loosening his hold on her head so that she could resume her salacious sucking.
Which Julie did almost immediately. Knowing it would serve no purpose to argue and not wanting to be choked to death by the huge organ, she proceeded to methodically suck Drake's hard dick. Up and down her beautiful head bobbed, her teeth scraping ever so gently over the warm column of flesh.
The little cocksucking cutie, Watterman thought. Just wait until she gets a bucketful of warm cream in her prick-hungry mouth. That should make her even happier.
Already very happy and eager to remain so was Linda Larkin, a stunning titian-tressed beauty of thirty-three, who was sinking very quickly into a sea of pure bliss while rapturing about her partner's divine tongue technique.
Linda, whose husband was busy boffing his private secretary, was being ministered to by Reid Lewis, a producer of television documentaries dealing with various aspects of nature. And to the tall and lanky Reid nothing was more natural than paying oral homage to a beautiful female's warm body.
Reid and Linda could be found enjoying themselves under Clarington's copy of the "Mona Lisa", that female's most curious half-smile seeming to question their licentious labors. Was da Vinci himself a master with his mouth?
The blue-eyed Linda was sprawled over a large cocktail table, the gelatinous globes of her creamy breasts and her svelte hips resting comfortable on the two large pillows which had been provided by her thoughtful lover.
Reid had just finished bathing Linda's front with his saliva-coated tongue and now he was attending to her beautiful back. Lovingly and knowledgably he worked his way down from Linda's smooth shoulders, his tongue moving in salacious circles over her neck and then tracing the line of her spine.
"Ooo, honey lover," Linda cooed. "It feels so nice. I'm so wet and warm and tingly. You do me so nicely, Reid."
"Enjoy, enjoy," was her lover's terse reply. This was no time for small talk, Reid thought, his thick lips wandering down to the succulent redhead's waist.
He licked around the small of her back for a while, then dipped still lower to her shapely derriere. He inserted the tip of his talented tongue in the crevice of her ass.
"Yes, do me there, " Linda moaned softly, her body tensing as Reid's tongue began its purposeful journey to her anus. How she loved to have her asshole licked!
And it wasn't long before the licking Lewis arrived at his destination. With his thumbs he drew apart the delicious half-moons of Linda's quivering bottom to completely expose her ringed nether hole. Then without delay he thrust his tongue into that small opening and proceeded his probe, at the same time inhaling the faint, tell-tale odor emanating from the female's shit chute.
"Oh, it's so good," Linda sighed happily. "Stick it deep, baby. Ram that tongue up my filthy ass."
While his wife was welcoming another man's hot tongue into her posterior, James Larkin, magazine editor and published poet, was pumping his tumescent tool in Sally Petersen's slushy love canal. The brown-haired, hazel-eyed Sally and her very excited employer were locked into lust in Clarington's large kitchen.
Sally was perched on the kitchen table, her arms around Larkin's neck and her legs scissoring his ample waist. Her taste-tempting tail, which was in danger of sliding off the table, squirmed heatedly as her stud-for-the-moment repeatedly banged his hard bone into the mushy warmth of her twitching twat.
"Oh-uhh-ahh," she grunted, the sharp exclamations of lust popping from her throat each time she was jabbed by Larkin's log of thick flesh.
"I'm goin'-goin' to come soon," her thirty-six-year-old boss huffed. "Can't-can't hold it much longer, baby."
"Do it then," Sally moaned, locking her legs even tighter around Larkin's waist. "Come in me, James. Give me your cream."
"You bitch-wonderful, wonderful bitch," James rasped, realizing again that not only was this girl a most efficient secretary, a hard worker and uncomplaining typist, but also one of the best lays in the land. He'd had a number of pretty secretaries since becoming feature editor at "Nighttime," almost all of whom found themselves lowering their panties for his prick at one time or another. And usually more than once.
But none compared to Sally Petersen, gal Friday par excellence. Competent, cute, cock-hungry-these were the requirements he demanded from those females seeking employment, the ones he considered absolutely essential. And pretty, perky Sally filled the bill perfectly.
There was no place in Clarington's magnificent apartment that was off-limits to the hump-happy hedonists. Singly and in pairs, in groups of three of four or more would they arrive, strip quickly, and then begin the salacious search for a fucking partner and a place where they could screw themselves silly.
Furniture was moved out of the way, rooms were checked for occupancy. Even Clarington's ultramodern bathroom was considered an appropriate screwing spot, its use, however, posing a rather large problem to those who heard the call of nature.
Wendall Jones, respected black art critic, and Sylvia Coulder, his cocoa-colored girlfriend, were at present tying up the bathroom. Sylvia, twenty-two-year-old semi-successful model and aspiring actress, was sitting on the toilet seat and sucking Wendall's thickened cock.
"Yeah, go to it, princess," Wendall was whispering hotly, his large black hands entwined in his girl's bushy, Afro-styled hair. "Gobble it all up like candy, sweet baby."
Spurred on by her lover's obscene request, Sylvia accelerated the pace of her lewd cocksucking. Brown bottom squirming restlessly on the white toilet seat, one hand squeezing Wendall's hairy scrotal sac and the other holding his cock at its base, she munched and sucked for all she was worth.
And then, as could be expected, a brief interruption. Hearing the male's unnecessarily loud cough, Jones turned to see Tim Saunders, young painter and writer, gripping his flaccid tool while a pained expression twisted his handsome face.
"Hey, man," Tim began, "awfully sorry but-"
"Use the other bathroom, man," Jones suggested, somewhat annoyed at Tim's appearance.
"Can't do that," Saunders hastened to explain.
"And why not?"
"It's being used. Some guy and gal are in there and-well, the door is locked so-"
"All right, all right," Jones mumbled. "If you got to go, you got to go."
Turning back to his girlfriend, he moved his hands from her head and placed them under her arms. Lifting slightly, he helped Sylvia off the toilet seat and, with his fat prick still imbedded in her warm mouth, maneuvered her awkwardly over to the bath tub.
No sooner had the brown-skinned beauty lowered her luscious ass onto the edge of the tub than she was resuming her lewd labors, her head bobbing rhythmically as she worked on Wendall's magic wand.
Tim Saunders, in real pain now, dashed for the toilet.
And as Tim let loose so did Robert Darrow. Showing unusual patience, Darrow had spent the last twenty minutes methodically reaming the surprisingly tight twat of Melinda Watson, a twenty-year-old blonde beauty who was presently studying ballet and occasionally working in strip joints to pay the rent.
Keeping himself in check, Darrow had pumped with precision-like fluidity into the girl's viscid sex canal. But now, no longer able to hold back, he delivered a few final thrusts and sent his milky semen spurting into her womanhood.
"Ohhh, Bob-Bob!" Melinda shrieked, her slim, sweat-slick body bouncing on the bed under Darrow as his thick cream gushed into her pulsing pussy.
"Come, baby," Darrow growled. "Let it go, dammit."
"Yes-oh yes, lover. I'm coming-coming!"
And come Melinda did, spasms of exquisite pleasure rippling through her heated body as Darrow continued smashing his prick into her hot hole and drenching it with sex fluid.
In a surprising display of strength, she arched her back and shoved up her hips. She remained in this position, supporting Darrow's humping frame and moaning incoherently as he smashed into her churning cunt one last time and deposited the last of his seed.
Only when it was over, only after a pooped Darrow had rolled off her body to stretch out next to her on the double bed, did she gradually relax and allow her hips to fall gently back to the mattress.
"Oh, honey," she said, when her breathing was once again under control and she could speak without effort. "That was something else. Where did you learn to screw like that? I thought I'd go out of my mind with pleasure."
"I was born with the talent, I guess," was Darrow's terse answer. Now that he had gotten his rocks off with the comely blonde dancer he couldn't care less about her. For all he cared, Melinda Watson could dance right out the window. And he certainly wasn't in the mood for meaningless chatter. Hell, why was it that after being soundly screwed so many women became talkative? Damned annoying was what it was.
"Mmmmm, well aren't I the lucky one," Melinda purred, snuggling up close to the stud who had just provided her with a most memorable pussy plowing. "I mean you're the first guy I've fucked tonight, Bob. I got here a little late and-well, I'm just glad you let me sample your big beautiful cock."
"The pleasure was mine," Darrow said abstractedly, unmoved by the fact that the satisfied female was now tenderly massaging his wilted cock and empty balls. No doubt she expected an encore, he thought, wincing a few seconds later when one of her long fingernails poked against his anus.
"All right, lover," the blonde smiled. She was silent for a moment, then said, "Maybe you know of a place where I could find some work. I'm a stripper, you know. Well, I'm really a dancer but a girl has got to eat. Can't feed yourself on dreams, you know. I'm sure a handsome stud like you knows a lot of interesting people and places. I mean you've been around, Bob. Maybe you could introduce me to somebody who needs a good stripper and then-"
Growing more irritated by the second, Darrow listened only half-heartedly as Melinda rambled on and on about her qualifications as a stripper. What a boring little bitch she is, he thought, wanting to tell her that she'd be better off saving the bump and grind routine for those times when she was being fucked.
He was far more interested in Jennifer Rogers, that succulent piece of pussy he had met earlier. There were always a few cunts at Clarington's sex parties that he didn't know, wild-eyed nymphs who were crazy for cock and driven by the need for attention.
Clarington invited them to give the fests a little "oomph", as he called it. As if any of the orgies he hosted needed more "oomph."
But the lovely Jennifer didn't strike him as being just another cocksucking cutie, another babe whose box was always being crammed full with stiff prick. She was different, delightfully so. Although he had spent only a few minutes with Jennifer, it was enough to tell him that she was intelligent and sincere, a dedicated artist.
Melinda Watson was still babbling away, seemingly unaware that Darrow wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention. He was recalling Jennifer's shock when she realized that Clarington had invited her to an orgy.
It had been a dirty trick, Darrow thought, smiling inwardly at the memory of the stunned expression on the woman's beautiful face when he'd suggested they start screwing and sucking. Why, she had almost slapped his face when he tried putting a hand up under her fanny-hugging mini.
But Clarington was like that, he mused. He enjoyed tricking people, putting them on the spot. And this time the old man had pulled off a beaut.
Darrow wondered if Jennifer was still where he had last seen her, sitting primly on the living room sofa and trying to keep her clothes on. Maybe one of the guys who had taken his place when he'd left to fuck Melinda was at this very minute throwing the meat to her.
Maybe she had finally relented and allowed some stud to strip and screw her.
On the other hand, maybe she had decided to cut out. Could be she collected her husband-what was his name, anyway. Yeah, Jonathan it was. Maybe she and Jonathan had just up and left the orgy.
But he hoped not. There were few things he enjoyed more than sampling a strange snatch, and some sixth sense told him Jennifer Roger's twat would simply adore his eight inch cock.
Neither that persistent painter, Bob Darrow, or anybody else was going to get in her panties tonight, Jennifer defiantly declared to herself. It was like sitting on a tiny island, she thought, once again slapping away the hand of the balding bon vivant who had moments ago deposited his bulky frame next to her on the sofa.
Here she was sitting almost in the middle of Clarington's huge living room while all around her there raged a hot sex storm. She was like the sole survivor of a shipwreck, one hapless individual clinging precariously to the raft lest the sea swallow her up as it had the others.
Look at them all, Jennifer said to herself, her eyes roaming lazily around the living room to take in the devilish doings of the sex-mad throng. They're wallowing like pigs in a mud bath, copulating crazily as if this might be their last orgy.
Orgy. How naive could she be, Jennifer wondered, berating herself for not realizing that a man like Edward Clarington didn't go around inviting strange girls to a party simply out of the kindness of his heart. There was always the ulterior motive.
"Come on now, sweetie," urged the pudgy man of forty who had moved in to try his luck with the succulent blonde. "What's the matter with you, anyway. You goin' to sit there all night and not!"
"Oh, go to hell," Jennifer snapped, her voice not loud but firm, the words slurred just a little.
Angry because she had been duped and more than a little upset with herself for behaving like an adolescent when Clarington invited her to his "party", Jennifer had sought to calm her nerves with a few drinks. And that had been another mistake.
One strong martini could start Jennifer's head spinning and make her legs feel as strong as toothpicks. And so after three potent drinks, double shots all, she was finding it increasingly difficult to defend herself from the groping paws of those whose hard pricks wanted inside her vagina.
Already she had managed to lose her blouse and mini-skirt and white shoes. She couldn't remember when or how her clothes had been removed, but the fact was that at the moment her attire consisted only of cream-colored brassiere and panty-hose.
"I know what you are," the fat man pawing her suddenly said, the broad smile basking on his smooth, unlined face mirroring his happiness at discovering what he thought was an important truth.
"And what am I?" Jennifer asked, her voice listless, tired. She stared at Walter Benjamin and for the fifth time removed his pudgy hand from her bra-encased left boob.
"You're a tease," Benjamin announced.
"You like to be coaxed into screwin', right?"
"Wrong," Jennifer said, smiling weakly. "Dead wrong."
"Then you must be sick, baby. In the head, I mean.".
"I'm not insane, friend."
"You're a prude.
A stupid little bitch who-"
"Wrong again, pal," Jennifer interrupted, sensing the man's growing irritation but enjoying his discomfort.
"I've had enough of this silliness, baby. This is an orgy, cunt, you understand that? And you and me are goin' to start participating in the fun. Now we'll just-" he let his voice trail off, his heavy arms wrapping around the beautiful blonde's shoulders as he attempted to turn her toward him.
"Stop it, you big bastard!" Jennifer shouted, pushing against Benjamin's hairy chest in an effort to extricate herself from his clutches. "I told you that I didn't-"
"But I do, cunt," Benjamin snapped. "And you're goin' to. Now come here and get a nice big kiss."
Pig. He's like a foul-smelling pig, Jennifer thought, finding the idea of kissing the two hundred twenty-five pound would-be lover more than a little repulsive.
"Damn you, let me go," she shrieked, twisting her head this way and that as he attempted to mash his thick lips on her soft, pliant ones.
"Yeah, you're a wildcat, all right. But I'm the guy who can tame you, beautiful." Benjamin grabbed Jennifer's left hand and pushed it into his lap, forcing her to feel the thick rigidity of his pulsing pecker. 'There, baby. That's what's going to chum up your hot little twat."
"Bastard!" Jennifer screamed. Calling upon all the strength at her command, she shoved the fat man back and then stood up. Her head was swimming and her legs felt weak, but she managed to maneuver her nearly nude body away from the sofa and over to the archway which separated the living room from the dining area.
"Come back here, you cunt!" Benjamin roared, shaking his fist at the lovely female now trying to catch her breath and quiet her nerves.
Got to get out of here, Jennifer thought, her alcohol-clouded mind clearing to permit a few seconds of lucid reasoning. Got to-Jonathan? Where was Jonathan? Now that she thought of it, she hadn't seen her brother in some time. She would have to find him, then together they'd get the hell out of this place.
A quick glance around the dining room told Jennifer that her brother wasn't there. There was a couple copulating on the dining room table, a trio of pleasure-seekers happily entwined under the large table. But no Jonathan.
Where the hell was he, she wondered, moving awkwardly through the dining room and poking her head over the swinging kitchen doors. There was no one in the kitchen except two obviously randy females, a statuesque brunette and a petite redhead. They were writhing in passionate embrace on the linoleum floor, each with her mouth plastered to the other's pussy.
"Dammit," Jennifer muttered under her breath, hurrying back through the dining room and into the living room. She looked around the sex-saturated salon, her eyes flitting from one screwing couple to the next. But why was she looking here, she asked herself. Her brother wouldn't be fucking. Or would he?
Growing more nervous by the second, Jennifer made her way over and around the copulating couples. She moved to the left and right, side-stepping the passion-drenched merrymakers and avoiding the grasping hands of those who sought to pull her down into the huge bed of lust.
Reaching a hallway, she stopped and turned for one last look. She chuckled derisively when her eyes settled on Walter Benjamin. The fat slob was now being placated by a too plump peroxide blonde, a gal who obviously enjoyed sucking his hard cock. It was a good match, Jennifer thought. The two of them belong together.
Turning again, she started down the wide hall. She passed a bathroom, poked her head in the door to see a lust-happy male and female fucking in a tub full of water.
"Hi there, beautiful," the man called out. "Want to join us? I think we can squeeze you in here."
Jennifer just shook her head and moved on. Animals, that's what they were, she thought. The whole motley bunch of them. Heaven knows she wasn't a prude. She loved getting laid as much as the next girl. But an orgy was just too much.
Seconds later she found herself looking into a bedroom, emitting a groan of disgust when she discovered Bob Darrow and some blonde bitch chewing on his prick.
"Hey, there she is," Darrow cried out, grinning broadly. "I was afraid you and your hubby had left the party. Come on in, baby. I'm sure Melinda won't mind if we make it a threesome."
"Have you seen my bro-my husband? I can't seem to find him anywhere."
"Nope, not recently," Darrow answered, placing his hands on Melinda's bobbing head. So engrossed was the dancer/stripper that she was totally oblivious to Jennifer's presence.
"All right then, I'll just look-" Jennifer let her voice trail off as she left the bedroom doorway and started down the hall, almost afraid to peek into the other bedroom.
Jonathan wouldn't be screwing another girl, she told herself. He couldn't do that to her. Her brother had stated flatly that since they had started living together as man and wife he hadn't touched another female, that he intended to be the faithful "husband" and would do nothing to soil their "marriage."
But suppose after a few drinks Jonathan had lost control. Maybe-but no, it couldn't be.
Almost fearfully did Jennifer approach the second bedroom. She listened for a minute at the door, her right ear pressed hotly against the white wood. She could hear lewd moaning and groaning, the unmistakable sounds made by lovers locked into lust. But she couldn't distinguish the voices.
"Now, now," a voice behind Jennifer said suddenly. "Don't you think that's a little childish, my dear?"
Startled, Jennifer turned to see Edward Clarington's smiling countenance. He was as she had seen him last, nude and sweaty. But now he held a drink in one hand and his limp pecker in the other.
"You played a lousy, rotten trick on me, Mr. Clarington."
"Oh, come on, Jennifer. You're a big girl. What harm can come from participating in a little friendly orgy? Why don't you start acting your age and-"
"Have you seen my husband?" Jennifer asked, cutting Clarington short. "As soon as I find him the two of us are getting out of this place. It may shock you, Mr. Clarington, but the fact is that not everyone enjoys fucking in public. So you and your exhibitionist pals can all go to hell."
Clarington shook his head. "It's unfortunate that you feel that way, Mrs. Rogers. You and your attractive husband would have-"
The bestial moan of passion stopped the art connoisseur in mid-sentence. Jennifer spun around to face the bedroom door. Seconds later there was another moan of lust, a high-pitched wail of ecstasy wrenched from the throat of a female obviously in the grips of an overwhelming orgasm.
Jennifer grabbed the doorknob.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Ohhh, no," she groaned. "No, no, no." Clarington took a few steps forward and peered over the beautiful blond's shoulder. He chuckled loudly, the sight of the climaxing couple hotly entwined on the double bed renewing his desire to fuck.
"Busy as bees, aren't they?" he said. "It would appear that your husband doesn't share your distaste for my parties, Mrs. Rogers. In fact, I think he's having one helluva good time."
"Jonathan!" Jennifer yelled, unable to tear her eyes from the shuddering frame of her ejaculating brother. In her heart she had known that she would find her brother boffing a girl, but the reality of the situation, the soul-searing sight which confirmed her worst suspicions, made her tremble with anger and hurt.
Jonathan heard nothing. He was in another world, lost in a timeless infinity where all that mattered was his semen-spewing cock and the waves of ecstasy washing over his sweat-soaked body. Squirming under him, receiving his discharge of lust with wholehearted abandon, was a fiery Spanish female with long black tresses and eyes the color of coal.
Clarita Peron was her name and fucking was her game. She was a sculptress who specialized in obscene statues, which she sold, sometimes with her body, to most appreciative customers. But right now she wasn't fucking for a fee. It was on the house-and she was getting it where she lived.
How could he, Jennifer asked herself, standing as if mesmerized by the salacious sight of her brother coming in another female's cunt. Jonathan had vowed his undying love, had told her time and again that she would be the only girl he'd ever fuck. And now....
Blinded by anger and shame, she spun around only to bump into the grinning Clarington. She tried to move past him, stepping to the left and the right, but he blocked her exit by moving with her.
"Let me get by, please," Jennifer pleaded, tears of humiliation now beginning to trickle down her cheeks.
"Why in such a hurry, baby? Now that you've seen how much your husband appreciates-"
"Move away!" Jennifer yelled, pushing the much larger man aside and then hurrying into the hall.
Her clothes. She would find her clothes and then leave this stinking hellhole, she thought. Quickly she moved down the hall and into the living room, there to begin the search for her blouse and skirt and shoes amidst the array of orgiasts still sucking and fucking as if tomorrow would never come.
It took a few minutes but finally she retrieved her blouse. Clutching it to her bosom, she went in search for her mini and found it under the cocktail table atop which a whimpering brunette was being pussy-licked. And finally she found her shoes, one of which she had to yank from the hands of a moaning blond who was merrily masturbating herself.
Once Jennifer had collected her things, she made her way back to the hall and proceeded to slip into her blouse. She wondered what time it was-not that it made the slightest bit of difference. Who cared about time after discovering that the man you love more than life itself is playing around?
And that's what disturbed Jennifer more than anything. Seeing Jonathan actually fucking another girl was bad enough, but the sight brought with it the thought that maybe he had been screwing other women all along. Was this the first time that her brother had buried his bone in another girl's cunt, or did he have two, three, maybe four females on the side?
It was a painful, gut-jumbling question, one she knew could never be answered to her satisfaction. For how could she ever trust her brother again? She would confront him, of course, later when he returned to the apartment they were sharing. But how could she believe whatever wild story he might come up with?
No doubt he would be sorry, full of remorse and most eager to apologize for his wanton behavior. But how could she tell if he was sincere? their future together would be clouded by suspicion and doubt, by nagging fears and distrust.
Why did he have to do it, Jennifer asked herself yet another time, as she prepared to step into her tight-fitting mini. Why did....
She left this second question hanging in her mind, half finished. Another question, one which she found equally disturbing and strangely intriguing, suddenly shot forward to take its place. Why, Jennifer wondered, shouldn't she seek a measure of revenge?
Didn't the cold fact of her brother banging another girl give her the right to screw another man? Wasn't she entitled to repair her wounded ego with a vigorous fuck? Tit for tat. What's sauce for the goose....
"Yes, dammit," Jennifer said aloud, throwing her mini on the floor. Why should she deny herself the pleasure of a little loving? Jonathan thought nothing about cheating on her and would probably not even mention the incident unless she brought it up. If he could sink his cock into some strange snatch, then she had the right to get reamed by a fat prick.
She didn't intend to go on a wild screwing spree or turn overnight into a promiscuous slut. But the more Jennifer considered the idea of a little revenge the more appealing it became. She would fuck one, just one male to get even with her brother. Then later, when she was home alone with Jonathan, the two of them could hash the whole thing over and try to reach a workable understanding.
So then, what lucky male would have the opportunity to sink his shaft into her golden pussy. Who would she choose?
As she unbuttoned her blouse, Jennifer looked again around the large living room. Never before had she seen so many cocks and cunts on display. The seemingly tireless pleasure-lovers were still going strong. The room reeked of sex and sweat; moans of lust and sighs of rapture filled the air.
Jennifer looked for an available stud but could find none. All were busy boffing or eating, too engrossed in their licentious labors to even notice that the foolish girl who had been so difficult earlier had changed her mind and now desired a stiff dick.
Come on, somebody, Jennifer said to herself. Here I am, ready, willing and able. Doesn't anybody want to fuck me?
Reaching around and in back, she undid the clasp of her bra and then dropped the constricting garment on top of her skirt. Suddenly she felt very wild and wicked, her transformation from disgusted viewer of the orgy to one seeking a sexy revenge through participation in it now complete.
Jennifer kicked her shoes out of the way and then headed for the bar, her succulent breasts jiggling happily now that they had been freed from their warm prison. Nude now except for her thin panty hose, she made herself a strong scotch and water and then again surveyed the room for a possible fucking partner.
But still there were no takers. How ironic, she thought. When I wasn't interested I was besieged with offers. Bare-assed naked, with their cocks at the ready, the men swarmed around me. But now that I'm willing to have my pussy plowed I can't buy a screw.
Jennifer wasn't about to climb up on a table and announce to one and all that she wanted to get laid. That would be gross. On the other hand, she was getting tired of waiting around for a stiff prick to come her way.
She thought of her brother, who no doubt was still with his "friend," and silently cursed him as she sipped her drink. Then, not many seconds later, she was cursing her own stupidity.
Here she was, standing at the bar like an idiot waiting for some male to wake up and take notice. And all the time there was a stud in the barn. Or to be exact, in the bedroom.
Jennifer was sure that Bob Darrow would appreciate presence and hungry mouth by this time. Of course he might be a little tired. But she could remedy that in a hurry.
Her pussy beginning to purr in anticipation of Darrow's large organ, Jennifer raised the glass to her Ups and in one long swallow drained all of her scotch. She shook her head and made a face, unaccustomed as she was to the potent drink.
Jennifer realized she was more than a little drunk, the fact of her inebriated state attested to when, trying to set her empty glass down, she missed the bar and dropped the glass on the floor. The hell with it, she thought, watching the glass roll along the carpet and bump into the squirming left hip of a redhead who was being banged out of her mind.
After taking a deep breath, Jennifer began her journey to the bedroom and the man who was going to help her forget, at least for a few moments, her deceitful, untrustworthy brother. Feeling dizzy, her eyes unable to focus as they should.
She still felt a little reluctant to go through with it, but booze and anger were having their effect.
Once there she removed her sheer panty hose using one hand while the other held onto the wall to maintain her balance. When she was totally naked she threw the panty hose on top of her other clothes and then went back down the hall.
"Screw you!" she yelled, passing the bedroom in which her brother was banging the girl for a second time.
Jennifer arrived at her destination to find her chosen stud still being washed orally by Melinda Watson.
"Shit, doesn't that broad ever get tired?" she asked, her voice thickened by the alcohol she had consumed.
"Well, back again, I see," was Darrow's greeting.
"Did you come to say goodbye or ... no, I guess you didn't. It looks like you've stripped down for action, Mrs. Rogers."
Jennifer was tempted to inform Darrow that the owner of the slimy prick now fucking the breath out of that Spanish slut wasn't her husband but her brother.
In her drunken condition she figured that would, in some unfathomable way, hurt Jonathan as he had hurt her. Fortunately, she merely smiled a silly smile.
"Tell her to go away, darling," Melinda urged, lifting her blond head from Darrow's right kneecap. "I don't want her here. We don't need any-"
"Can it, baby," Darrow said, silencing the female who had seconds ago swallowed all but a small amount of his creamy discharge. "You shouldn't be so selfish. You've had my cock twice now, right? Give another randy gal a chance at it."
"But, Bobby-"
"I said no more arguing, cunt. Now move over and make room for Jennifer."
Jennifer stood leaning against the door, her eyes trying to focus clearly on Darrow's limp organ. Although flaccid, it was still a menacing sight, she thought, noting that the powerful prick was now resting quietly on Darrow's left thigh, curled up like some small slumbering snake.
"Well, you plan to stand there all night, baby?" Darrow asked, a lewd grin bathing his face. "Come on in and join the party. Now that you've loosened up we can get down to some serious screwing."
"I'm gonna wring that fuckin' thing dry," Jennifer stated flatly, unemotionally and without a smile.
The grin gradually left Darrow's face. He didn't know what had brought about this delightful change nor did he really care. But he sure as hell was happy that the beautiful blond was now available for servicing. And it was readily apparent that she meant business-boffing business.
"That's big talk, baby. You think your pretty pussy can hold my tool?"
"Big talk for a big cock," was Jennifer's slurred reply.
"Get your ass over here, baby," Darrow said. Although he had already drained his balls twice, the prospect of knifing his prick into the luscious blond's tender twat was causing his mind to fill with thoughts of passionate sex.
"Comin', big boy," Jennifer husked, weaving toward the bed and then falling onto it next to Darrow.
"What's the matter? Can't hold your booze, baby?"
"Screw you," Jennifer said, smiling drunkenly and at the same time reaching down to fondle her stud's prick and balls. "Drunk or not, I'm a match for this fuckin' thing."
"Think so, huh?"
"Know so, handsome. Now come on, get it hard for me."
Darrow grinned. "That's your job, sweetheart. If you want it hard then get down there and start sucking."
"It's been in her cunt, hasn't it?"
"So what? Melinda's twat juice won't kill you. Besides, she just got finished licking me clean."
"No, it's mine," Melinda said suddenly, dropping her head and stuffing Darrow's pecker into her swollen mouth. Immediately she began to suck hard on the organ, hoping that Darrow would appreciate her efforts to make him stiff a third time and decide to throw the other woman out.
But such was not the case. Darrow simply chuckled at Melinda's fervent feasting, then turned again to Jennifer and said, "Looks like she beat you to it, beautiful. The early bird gets the worm, you know. But no matter, we can play up here while she's busy down there."
"Sure we can," a bleary-eyed Jennifer agreed. She couldn't understand it at all, but it seemed she was getting progressively drunker. Liquor must be flowing (through the bloodstream, she reasoned, slipping easily into Darrow's strong arms as he drew her down against his hard chest.
The painter and pussy pleaser mashed his thick, demanding lips over Jennifer's soft, yielding ones, his tongue snaking out to invade the warm cavity of her mouth. Jennifer moaned hungrily into Darrow's mouth and rubbed her spongy breasts into his chest with a sensuous grinding motion.
You couldn't beat a set up like this, Darrow thought, running his fingers through Jennifer's long silky hair. One good-looking blond kneeling at his right, passionately sucking his prick into throbbing tumescence, an even more attractive blond grinding her tempting tits into his chest and returning his kiss with abandon. What more could he ask?
He was perfectly willing to spend the remainder of the orgy comfortably sandwiched between these two lovely dishes. He neither knew nor cared how the other orgiasts were pleasuring themselves. He was getting his and that's all that mattered.
Of course, Darrow had no way of knowing what was happening in the host's living room while he was busy with Jennifer and Melinda. And chances are he would have remained with the two blonds even had he known.
But in Clarington's large living room an outrageously obscene spectacle was being presented, courtesy of Clarington himself and his married masochistic daughter, Joyce.
The titian-tressed beauty had at last succeeded in prying her father loose from his female friends. She had been fucked a few times and spanked once, the rotund Walter Benjamin gleefully administering the bottom-warming.
But neither the screwings nor the spankings had been very satisfactory. They had lacked the savagery, the ruthless, mind-bending viciousness which she found so necessary for her happiness. So once again she had sought out her father, knowing that he could be counted on the provide the pleasurable pain she craved.
And Clarington was about to do just that.
Smiling lewdly, he looped the leather belt in his right hand and prepared to punish his daughter. Joyce was perched provocatively on a huge white hassock, her flaming tresses shielding her face from the orgiasts who had gathered around to watch her chastisement.
And perhaps to lend a helping hand.
Only Adam Patrick, who was at the bar trying to drink himself unconscious, knew that Joyce was Clarington's daughter. Some of the pleasure-seekers had seen Joyce at other orgies hosted by Clarington, some had participated in her punishment, but none were aware of the father-daughter relationship. Most of the sex worshippers figured that the petite redhead was just another one of Clarington's weird girlfriends, a sick little slut he invited to his sex parties just for the fiendish fun she provided.
"Are you ready, my dear?" Clarington asked, circling the round hassock and tapping the looped belt in his left hand.
"Yes, I'm ready," Joyce said softly. She was on her hands and knees, her head down and her rounded rump up.
Clarington grinned, then turned to the assembled orgiasts who were inching closer for a better view of the proceedings. "Gentlemen," he began, "I'll ask for your help in a few minutes. No doubt you would all enjoy delivering a few blows to this beautiful bottom. And so to be fair, I suggest that we all administer five lashes. I will begin and then the rest of you can take turns. Is that satisfactory?"
"Most satisfactory," Drake Watterman said, echoing the sentiments of the others.
As Clarington moved into position behind his daughter, the other male merrymakers scurried about the living room in search of their slacks and the belts they would use on Joyce's derriere. One by one they returned to the middle of the room to form a circle around the hassock with the female frolickers.
Many considered the redhead's strapping as a sexy sort of intermission, a most interesting interlude between boffing bouts. Tired twats and pooped pricks would enjoy a moment's respite. And, at the same time, by punishing this pretty creature they would rekindle the spark of desire.
"We begin then," Clarington announced, bringing the leather belt up over his shoulder.
Seconds later the belt was whistling through the air and landing with a sickening swish against Joyce's proffered posterior.
"Aiee!" the pain-loving redhead screamed. "Ohhhh...."
"Four to go," said an excited Timothy Saunders, who was standing next to the cocoa-colored Sylvia Coulder and squeezing her tight, compact bottom.
Clarington again raised his belt, again brought it crashing down against his whimpering daughter's derriere. Joyce emitted another wail of pain, tears beginning now to trickle down her face.
"Again," Wendall Jones hollered. "Beat on that ass, man."
Wendall had one beefy black arm draped across Sally Petersen's shoulders, his hand busy massaging the woman's creamy left breast.
Sally in turn was fondling Wendall's semi-rigid cock, looking forward to the moment when that thick black organ would come tearing into her tender white twat.
"How can she stand it?" Linda Larkin asked Drake Watterman, who was peering over her shoulder and at the same time stroking her oft-reamed cunt. "It must hurt something awful."
"Some women find pain very pleasant, baby," Drake answered, thinking how enjoyable it would be to strap Linda's rounded rump. "Hasn't your husband ever spanked you?"
"No, never," Linda replied abstractedly, unable to take her eyes from Joyce's rapidly reddening rear. "James doesn't go in for that sort of thing. And I think I'm glad, too."
"You'll never know how it feels if you don't try it, sweetheart."
"Thanks but no thanks, Drake."
"Well, we'll see. Maybe later we-"
Drake was cut short by the mind-piercing howl of agony which exploded from Joyce's throat. Her father, wanting to make his last lash the most brutal, had reared back and struck her quivering ass with all his might.
"All right," Clarington huffed, stepping back and letting the belt hang limply at his side. "She's ready for the next five. Somebody step up and-"
"That's me," James Larkin interrupted, leaving his place in the circle and positioning himself behind the sobbing redhead. Without delay he raised his belt and sent it slashing across Joyce's striped seat. Once again her screams rent the sex-saturated air. He whipped her a second time, and then a third.
"See, look at that, baby," Drake whispered. "I think that hubby of yours is a sadist at heart. Look at the expression on his face, will you."
"I'm looking, I'm looking," Linda said, realizing that she was becoming increasingly hot in the twat.
Nearby, watching with avid interest, were Julie Wingate and the man with the talented tongue, Reid Lewis. Reid was pumping his middle finger in and out of Julie's asshole, an asshole which Clarington had stretched earlier in the day.
James delivered the last of his five lashes, then stepped aside to allow Wendall Jones to move into position. The big black raised his belt and whipped it across Joyce's horribly abused backside.
"Aiee! Owww!" the redhead moaned. "Ohh, it hurts. You're killing me. It-arrrgh!"
But the truth was that some of the females watching the wicked whippings were suffering more than Joyce. They could almost feel the sting of the belt on their own bottoms while watching the lewd lashing of the redhead's trembling tail.
Although her pain was intense, Joyce was sinking ever deeper into that perverse well of strange lust where every bone-jarring blow to her flaming fanny brought not only agony but intense pleasure. A quick calculation told her that there were approximately twenty males in the apartment.
Which meant that if each one administered his five lashes to her aching ass she'd have been strapped a hundred times by the time this particular session of punishment was over. And that thought alone was enough to fill her dazed mind with ecstasy.
Up stepped Timothy Saunders for his turn. Pausing for only a moment to study the pretty female's burning bottom, he slowly brought his belt up over his right shoulder. Then, seconds later, he was strapping Joyce's behind, whipping it unmercifully as the other orgiasts laughed and lent their encouragement.
It was too much for Adam Patrick. Much too much. He couldn't take it any more, not for another second. Once again his wife was making a public spectacle of herself, humiliating herself without regard for his feelings.
What must the other men think of him, he wondered. True, no one knew that Joyce was Clarington's daughter, but almost all the hump-happy people present knew that she was his wife. No doubt they considered him the biggest jerk in the world, the stupidest slob alive.
And he was painfully aware that if he remained at the orgy he would be subjected to even more gut-jumbling humiliation. For Joyce, if she acted as she had at prior parties, would not be satisfied with this bestial whipping of her tortured ass. Once the last man had delivered the final flurry of blows to her bottom, she would ask, no, she would demand that they fuck her in the ass.
And then he would be forced to watch as his wife, the woman he still loved in spite of everything, spread apart the cheeks of her bloodied backside and babbled for a hard cock in her rectum. Once before he had seen her cornholed by half a dozen men in succession, her pitiful pleas for a savage rectum reaming having the effect of a knife thrust into his heart.
No, he didn't intend to witness a scene like that ever again. More to try and forget than anything else, he had started drinking and screwing almost immediately after arriving at the orgy. But now he'd had enough. More than enough. If he didn't get out of this sex-drenched, horribly perverse atmosphere he would lose his mind.
Drunk but still in control of his faculties, Adam weaved away from the bar and headed for the front door. Trying to close his ears to Joyce's wails of pleasure-pain, knowing that still another man was now beating on her lovely bottom, he flung open the door and stumbled out into the corridor.
He took the elevator down to the lobby of the building, then awkwardly made his way out into the refreshing night air. He walked one block before trying to hail a cab without success. Then, out of desperation and feeling more miserable than at any other time in his life with Joyce, he stumbled into a corner tavern.
It was here that he met Henry Wingate, the two men falling into conversation almost immediately since the television set wasn't working and they were alone and eager to converse. A sense of loneliness, of being not wanted, often triggers the urge to confide in strangers-to talk and by so doing relieve the tension somewhat.
And so it was with Henry and Adam, both men soon realizing that they shared a similar problem-the loss of a female they held dear.
Downing one beer after another, they discussed their similar situations. And it was only natural that their conversation soon centered around seeking solutions to their problems. How to wrest Joyce from Clarington's clutches. How to make Julie see the light and return home where she belonged.
"It's him, that bum, Clarington," Wingate muttered, setting his stein of beer back down on the bar. "He's the one causin' all the heartache. It's like he has some hold on my niece, some fierce grip that she can't break."
"It stinks," Adam agreed, weaving slightly on the bar stool next to his new friend. "My wife ... my wonderful wife. But she's sick, very, very sick."
"Yeah, so is my Julie. Lovely girl ... but very sick. And if I don't ... don't get her away from that bastard, she'll get sicker. You know what I mean, right?"
Adam nodded. "Clarington is a pervert. He's sick, too. I think we're all sick."
"You know what I'm doin' in this place?" Wingate asked.
"Drinkin' beer, that's what you're doin', friend."
"I'm tryin' ... tryin' to work up my courage. I was goin' to crash Clarington's sex party, you know."
Adam looked puzzled. "Why? What for?" Henry smiled drunkenly, then reached into his jacket pocket. "Look here. See what I got? I call this my peacemaker, buddy. You know, like those guys in the old West. I'm gonna make my peace with Mr. Edward Clarington."
"Hey, you better put that thing away," Adam said, his eyes riveted to the gun Wingate was waving in his face. "Somebody might-"
"Nah, nobody around but us two."
"The bartender."
"Fuck him," Wingate snapped, looking down the bar to discover the bartender with his back turned. "He's readin' the newspaper, anyway. He don't give a shit about us."
"Yeah, but jus' the same you better-"
"All right, all right. If it makes you so damned nervous."
After Wingate had shoved the thirty-eight back in his pocket, Adam asked, "You say you were goin' to shoot Clarington?"
Henry nodded vigorously. "Fuckin' right I was, pal. I was gonna bust in there and pump the bum full of lead. But ... but I lost my nerve and came in here instead."
"That's a drastic step. Shooting a man, I mean." Adam picked up his stein of beer and took a healthy swallow of the foamy liquid, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Sure it is," Wingate said. "But I gotta do somethin', man. I can't just stand by and watch him ruin my niece. She belongs with me. I'll give her all the love she needs."
"Yeah, but you could go to-"
"Look, don't you agree we gotta take some action? Don't you love your wife? You wanna see her get beat up all the time?"
"No, I love Joyce. She's good and kind and...."
"And the only way you're gonna get her back is by gettin' rid of her father. As long as he's alive ... well, do I hafta draw you a picture?"
Adam was silent for a long minute, lost in thought. In his present condition, Wingate's suggestion that Clarington be eliminated permanently made considerable sense. In fact, the more he mulled over the idea the more reasonable and appealing it became.
With her father out of the way he'd stand a much better chance of persuading Joyce to visit a psychiatrist. If she knew that she couldn't go running to him whenever she felt the need for abuse, he might be able to talk some sense into her. But while her father was alive to administer her punishment there was little likelihood of Joyce changing at all.
And Adam knew for a fact that he couldn't tolerate many more months living as he was. Half vegetable, half man. Having to live in a state of constant worry, dreading the next time his wife would decide to visit her father and wondering if one day she might just up and leave him altogether. Maybe she would talk Clarington into kicking out his present mistress so that she could move in with him.
Now wouldn't that be something-his very own daughter for a mistress.
"Well, whadaya say, pal?" Wingate asked after a while. "You with me on this? Workin' together the two of us can solve our problems once and for all."
"All right, I'll help," Adam said softly but with conviction. "What do I have to do?"
"Nothin' for the time bein'. You just sit tight while I make the necessary arrangements. I got a private detective trailin' Mr. Clarington. Good man, too. He don't give a shit about my motives so long as he gets his sixty clams a day."
"What's his part in this?" Adam asked.
"It's obvious. If we're gonna pull this off then we gotta be careful. That's where the private cop comes in. He's gonna watch Clarington's every move and then tell me the best time to hit him. Simple as that, friend." Adam thought for a moment, then said with a small smile, "Yeah, I like it. I like it a whole lot."
Wingate grinned and put his arm around his friend's shoulders. He leaned close and whispered confidentially into Adam's ear. "You and me, pal. We're gonna murder that stinking bastard and get our women back where they belong."
"Yeah," Adam chuckled. Then he called to the bartender and ordered another round of beers for himself and his partner.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Pretty nice place you've got here," Jennifer said, casually inspecting the decor of Darrow's studio.
Darrow chuckled. "Yeah, it's not much but it's home. I live here, too."
After pleasuring Jennifer with a mean, tempestuous tooling of her golden twat, Darrow had suggested that they leave the orgy and go to his studio for an encore. Jennifer had hesitated at first but then agreed, thinking it would be good to get away for a while. Away from Jonathan and that Spanish slut who was clinging to him like a drowning man clings to a life preserver.
And so after a few moments spent watching Joyce receive her first assfuck of the night, Darrow and Jennifer had left the orgy and hailed a cab. Some fifteen minutes ago they had arrived at his studio and were now engaging in some light, casual conversation. Already they were old friends, or so Jennifer liked to think.
She had truly enjoyed Darrow's turgid, eight inch cock and, while not about to state it openly, was looking forward to having that hard fleshy spear thrust into her pussy a second time. The fresh air and the suicidal taxi ride to Darrow's studio had helped sober her considerably.
"Wonder what Melinda is doing right now," Darrow said, chuckling softly as he remembered the way the stripper had tried to dissuade him from leaving with Jennifer.
"She took our departure as a personal affront, I'm afraid," the beautiful blond said, plopping now into Darrow's sofa. "For a minute there I thought she was going to claw my eyes out."
"She's one dizzy dame, that's for sure. But what the hell, why are we talking about Melinda Watson? I brought you here so that we could be alone." He settled himself into the sofa next to Jennifer and draped his arm over her shoulders. With his free hand he began to massage her left breast through her blouse. "Come on, baby, why don't you peel out of those duds."
Jennifer grinned. "So soon, Bob? I mean you're not even going to offer me a drink or-"
"We don't need anything more to drink, sweetheart. Now let's get this show on the road, huh?"
"I think you're insatiable, you know that. I mean you've already screwed me once and ... how many times did you lay Melinda?"
"Only once. Of course she blew me, too."
"That's three erections in a matter of hours. Do you have any strength left, Mr. Darrow?"
"Plenty, baby," Darrow grinned, wondering what Jennifer would say if he informed her that this afternoon he'd fucked his mother and sister. Five hard-ons in one day and his prick was again beginning to stir. Not bad for a guy approaching thirty, he thought.
"All right then, I'll put you to the test," Jennifer said, pushing herself up out of the sofa and reaching for the buttons on her blouse. "Dress, undress, dress, undress, that's been the story of my life this evening."
"I like you best undressed, sweetheart. Now hurry it up. My cock doesn't like to wait too long for its pussy."
"You're a horny hunk of male, all right, Mr. Darrow."
"You better believe it, baby," Darrow shot back, his voice somewhat sinister. He stood and began working out of his clothes.
Already he was trying to devise a plan, some workable scheme wherein he could apply pressure to Jennifer and force her to return again and again for more cock. She was a damn beautiful piece of ass and he intended to keep her around for awhile. She was so beautiful, he'd do anything to keep her.
But he knew it would take more than his eight inch cock to keep her knocking at his door. After all, she was married and probably thought of this as a little fling. Curious, though, how she had suddenly become so prick-hungry after behaving like a bump on a log for much of the orgy.
Well, be that as it may, he still needed something that would force Mrs. Rogers to make many return visits to his studio. A gal built like Jennifer probably photographed very well, and in his mind he could see the succulent blond writhing on the mattress while he filmed her in the act of masturbation. A film like that would bring a lot of bread.
"You're slow, baby," he said when he had stripped to his skin.
"Sorry about that," Jennifer cooed sexily. "Maybe you'd like to help me."
"Be a pleasure, sweetheart." Darrow moved quickly to assist in Jennifer's denuding. All that remained on the lovely blond's body was her sheer panty-hose, and this he removed almost before she could take a deep breath.
"Now that's more like it," he said, straightening up and tossing the panty-hose on the pile Jennifer had made with her other clothes. His eyes roamed appreciatively over the female's desirable nakedness. "Baby, you're one nice piece of ass, you know that?"
"And you're very crude, Bob. Is that how you think of women-as 'pieces of ass?' I don't think I like being referred to as-"
The rest of Jennifer's sentence was smothered in her throat as Darrow suddenly stepped in and roughly drew her to him, his thick lips mashing against her supple ones. Jennifer resisted for only a few seconds, then her arms came up to encircle his back as she pressed her crotch up into his semi-hard prick.
"Mmmm, you're delicious, baby," Darrow said, breaking the kiss. "Now if you'll just turn around and bend over...." he let his voice trail off as he turned Jennifer around, then pressed firmly on her neck and back indicating that she should bend forward.
"What is this, Bob? What are-"
"Don't argue, Jennifer. Just do as I say. There, that's the ticket."
Jennifer was now bent over at the waist, her hands gripping her knees for support. Suddenly it dawned on her what he was up to. Animal style, she thought. Darrow intended to screw her cunt from behind. They'd mate like a pair of animals in heat.
Well why not, she asked herself. It sounded like fun and she was in the mood for something different. In fact, the idea of coupling in the doggie position was bringing lustful thoughts to her head and juice to her pussy.
Unfortunately for Jennifer, Darrow was not of a mind to bang her from behind. He had already thoroughly explored the lovely blond's vagina with his eight incher, back in Clarington's bedroom. Now he wanted to test the elasticity of her rectum.
Wondering if Jennifer's ass had been screwed often, Darrow spit into his right hand and immediately began smearing the viscous fluid in and around her anus. Jennifer jerked forward and cried out when one of his fingers popped into her asshole.
"What? No, that isn't what I-"
"Can it, sweetheart?" Darrow barked, turning suddenly vicious. "You're goin' to get fucked in the shit chute whether you like it or not. Now just stay put and-"
"No, I don't want that, Bob," Jennifer argued, trying to straighten up. "Do it to me the reg-"
"I said shut up and stay put, cunt!" Darrow grabbed a handful of Jennifer's long golden tresses and yanked her back down into position. "Now stay like that or I'll really give you something to complain about."
"You bastard," Jennifer whined. "Why are you acting like this all of a sudden? Why do you want to hurt me?"
Darrow didn't bother to answer either question, too busy was he preparing the blond's bottom for penetration. Again he spit into his hand and smeared the glob of spittle in and around the female's small nether hole. Something told him she was going to be a great assfuck.
Jennifer didn't really expect her questions to be answered. Nor did she need answers. Although more than a little drunk when he had screwed her in Clarington's apartment, she had been able to sense Darrow's wildness, that streak of sadism which might at any moment take control of his mind.
He had screwed her beautifully, passionately, his plunging prick almost making her forget that she had decided to fuck him to get back at her unfaithful brother. And yet there had been a meanness to his dexterous dicking of her twat, a rough, almost cruel determination connected with his passionate fucking.
As if he were determined to dominate, Jennifer thought, remembering now how irate Darrow had become when she had started to thrust up her hips to meet his plunging prick. He didn't want her assistance, none whatsoever. He had demanded that she remain motionless, her hips still, as he slammed his thick organ into her cunt and pinned her to the mattress like a butterfly on a pin.
A clue to his true character if ever there was one, Jennifer thought, becoming, strangely enough, more and more sober with each passing second. She silently cursed herself for being so stupid, for permitting Darrow to talk her into coming to his studio. Now she was going to pay for the mistake with what she feared would be a vicious, agonizing assfuck.
"Yeah, guess that'll do the trick, sweetheart," Darrow said, after rubbing still more of his sticky spit in Jennifer's asshole.
"Please don't do this to me. I won't be able to take the pain. I know I won't."
"What's the matter, cunt?" Darrow slipped in behind the bent over woman and commenced to caress her, his hands wandering up, down, all around the warm flesh of her back and hips and taut buttocks. "Don't tell me you've never been assfucked. Hasn't that husband of yours screwed you in the fanny yet?"
"Yes, but he-"
"Well then, no sweat. Another cock up your ass won't make any difference."
But it would, Jennifer thought. Not only did she fear the sodomizing itself, one she knew would be savage and soul-searing, but she shuddered when she thought of Darrow's huge hard-on burrowing up into her narrow shit chute.
On occasion, when he was in the mood for something a little wild, something different, Jonathan would work his hard tool into her ass and then ream her rectum. But he was always considerate and patient, never brutal and indifferent to her pain.
But Darrow would be just the opposite. He would slam into her aching ass with all the strength at his command, oblivious to her pleas for mercy and moans of agony.
And now she felt him back there, the bulbous head of his thick prick knocking at her rear door and demanding entrance into her warm bowels.
"Don't ... don't," Jennifer whimpered, trying to move forward and thus escape the imminent impalement
"No you don't, baby," Darrow growled, his fingers digging into the resilient flesh of the blond's shapely hips as he dragged her back into position. "Now you just behave yourself, hear?"
"Damn you," Jennifer muttered under her breath. "How could I ever let you touch me. You're nothing but a pervert-a sadist."
Darrow emitted a throaty chuckle. Eager now to sink his pulsing cock into the dank, dark canal of Jennifer's warm rectum, he leaned forward slightly and pushed against her quivering bottom.
Head down, her long blond hair falling around and over her neck and shoulders, shielding her beautiful face from view, Jennifer whimpered softly. She closed her eyes and bit down on her lower lip, her hands gripping her knees tightly.
The scream she knew would come bursting from her mouth when Darrow's monstrous member tore up into her rectum waited impatiently in her throat. Be gentle, please, she prayed silently, knowing in her heart that her prayers would go unanswered.
Suddenly she felt the large head of Darrow's dick pop into her anus. She jerked forward and cried out, the ache at her widened asshole already intense.
"Don't be childish, baby," Darrow said, grinning lewdly as once again he pulled Jennifer back onto his turgid tool.
"It hurts," the lovely female complained.
"We haven't even started yet, cunt. Now stop squirming around or I'll whip your ass instead of fucking it."
Jennifer moaned in frustration. Not wanting her bottom bloodied-she thought of that girl at the orgy and trembled-she remained bent over at the waist while Darrow proceeded to work his hard cock up into her backside.
She could feel his meaty member moving into her rectum. Like a fat snake seeking shelter, it inched inexorably forward into her constricting shit chute. She thought of clenching her asscheeks and thereby expelling the invading cock, but knew that such action would serve only to further provoke her tormentor.
Man, but she was tight, Darrow thought gleefully, relentlessly and with determination pushing ever deeper into the blond's heavenly bottom. She hadn't been cornholed very often, that was for certain.
Emitting tiny grunts of pleasure, he continued packing Jennifer's posterior with his large prick. Inch after precious inch sank into her seat. It was like sticking your prick into a velvet-lined vice, he thought, savoring the sweet sensations provided by the woman's clasping rectum.
Then at last he was home free, his pulsating pecker solidly imbedded in the hot, dank confines of Jennifer's tight shit chute. He was buried to the balls in her beautiful ass, he realized happily, his eyes drifting downward to focus on the obscene connection. Not an inch of his cock could he see.
"Ohhh, no," Jennifer moaned. "Take it out, please. It's too much ... too big. It's killing me.
"Act your age, bitch," Darrow snapped. "I'm going to make a real woman out of you."
Although Jennifer's pain was intense, she was surprised to discover that it was bearable. The cock filling her rectum did hurt horribly, made her feel like a chicken on a spit. Yet her rectum had stretched to accommodate the stuffing of the fat, fleshy pole into her behind.
She knew, however, that the worst was yet to come.
"All right, cunt," Darrow stated, "now you get reamed." There was a slight quiver to his voice, an excitement which mirrored his anticipation of widening the woman's shit chute with his eight inch instrument.
"Easy, please," Jennifer pleaded. "Do it carefully. Don't hurt me too much."
She knew it would be futile to argue further. He wasn't about to remove his fat bone from her hurting ass and just forget the whole thing. All she could do now was request that he act with a measure of tolerance and spare her unnecessary pain. But that, too, she knew to be wishful thinking.
Kindness and consideration were the furthest things from Darrow's mind. And now, as he began the reaming of Jennifer's stretched nether canal, he wanted only to rejoice in her whimpers of pain and fuck her fanny until he shot his hot load up into her foul bowels.
Hands planted firmly on her hips, he withdrew his already besmirched bone and then pressed forward to bury it again in her quivering tail. Again he withdrew, again he plunged forward, Jennifer's squeals of torment stimulating his senses and spurring him on to greater effort.
Gradually he increased the pace of the lewd sodomizing, his quickened thrusts into the blond's lovely bottom choking her with shame and humiliation.
Jennifer grunted and groaned and tried to lurch forward, only to find herself being dragged back onto Darrow's mighty member. He was spearing her fanny with the utmost contempt, booming his rock-hard bones into her aching shit chute with demonic glee.
It was as if he were out to teach her a lesson, to punish her for sins committed, she thought, tears of pain and shame beginning now to slide down her face and drip noiselessly onto the floor as the murderous fanny fuck continued without pause.
"How's it feel, cunt?" a highly aroused Darrow asked, his face drawn up into an expression of satanic lust.
"Beast," Jennifer whimpered softly. "You're an animal. A no good, stinking-owwww, ohhhhh...."
"A beast am I?" Darrow husked, after delivering a particularly brutal thrust. "Baby, I'm goin' to bust your hot ass for that crack."
"No, please. I'm sor-aieee! Arggghh!" Angered by Jennifer's words, the sadistic Darrow proceeded now to fuck with furious abandon. Caring naught for the woman's discomfort, able to think only of ripping her rectum to shreds, he plundered her posterior with a satanic savagery.
Again and again he sent his bloated cock trundling up into her burning shit chute, withdrew until only the bulbous head of his shit-stained organ was contained in her bottom, then plunged back inside the tight, clasping canal of her rectum.
Jennifer thought her ass was on fire, Darrow's tremendous tool feeling like a white hot poker which had been thrust into her aching rectum. She whimpered piteously, tortured groans of agony bursting from her mouth when an especially pulverizing plunge sent a bolt of pain to her brain.
She thought of her brother, the memory of his "infidelity" now somehow of little consequence. She would have sacrificed her soul to be with Jonathan at this moment, to be free of the fiery lance slashing her rectum to ribbons.
"You ... you got a real hot ass, bitch," Darrow panted, beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead as he continued battering the female's sizzling seat.
"Bastard!" was Jennifer's retort. "Stinking pervert. Scum."
"Bitch. Hot-assed bitch."
"Sadistic bum," Jennifer countered, the shocking pain and unmitigated shame of the foul fanny-fuck flooding her mind and providing her with foolish courage.
When would it end, she wondered miserably. When?
Darrow had the answer. It would end soon, very soon. For not much longer would he be able to enjoy this bestial boffing of the beautiful woman's bottom. He was near the bursting point, his bloated cock about to erupt with shuddering ecstasy and deliver to Jennifer's stretched shit chute the contents of his sperm-back balls.
Quickly he maneuvered the sobbing female over to a table, bumping her forward with his knees and steering her on course. Then he shoved her face first on the table, pausing only a scant second before resuming his tortuous practices.
"Come, damn you," Jennifer cried out, wanting an immediate end to her agony. "Get it over with, you bastard."
She pressed her face into the table top and shut her eyes tight, waiting for Darrow's creamy sex fluid to come streaming into her ass. She clenched her hands, her long fingernails digging into the tender flesh of her palm.
Still that turgid length of hot meat thundered up into her behind, driving, it seemed, ever deeper into her violated rectum. In and out, in and out, in and out; the burning bone scorching the walls of her after passage and sending electric-like shocks of pain through her body.
But then, at long last, she knew the end was near.
A grunting Darrow reared back and then viciously thrust his hard tool into Jennifer's nether canal. Seconds later he was shuddering through a magnificent orgasm, his ejaculating erectile throbbing hotly in the woman's gripping rectum.
The semen shot from the tip of his imbedded organ and flew into Jennifer's bowels, drenching her just stirred turds.
The lovely blond moaned, a sense of relief washing over her now exhausted body. She bit her lip and waited, praying for the moment when he would remove his big bone from her ravished rectum. She continued biting her lip hard.
This time Jennifer's prayer was answered. After the last of his sticky seed had bolted from his erupting cock, Darrow pulled out of the woman's behind and stumbled backward to collapse in a nearby straight chair. Breathing hard, he looked down at his shit-coated cock and smiled tiredly.
Darrow's stiff prick had popped out of Jennifer's ass with a lewd plopping sound, her distended anus winking shut slowly. Now she was left with only the dull, throbbing ache in her after passage. The rotten bastard, she thought, ever so carefully pushing herself up and off the table top.
"How was that, baby?" Darrow asked, a weary grin on his face. "I think maybe you like it. Just a little bit, anyway."
"You creep, I hated it," Jennifer shouted. "Only a madman would treat a woman like that."
"Knock it off, will you? Stop playing the sweet innocent. I'll bet you love it when Jonathan stirs your turds."
"He's a real man," Jennifer shot back, her anger growing by leaps and bounds. She wanted now to hurt this evil, arrogant bastard in someway, anyway. "He has respect for a woman. He doesn't have to prove his masculinity by hurting her."
"He's a weakling," Darrow chuckled. "He doesn't know anything about a female. The guy is just a schnook."
"You filthy pig! My brother is not...." Jennifer realized her mistake instantly. She wanted to take back her words, snatch them out of the air before they reached Darrow's ears.
"Did you say 'brother,' baby? You mean Jonathan Rogers isn't your ... well, if that isn't an interesting bit of news."
"Please, just forget that," the beautiful blond said softly, now suddenly very meek and confused. "I didn't mean to-"
"Oh, that's quite all right, sweetheart," Darrow interrupted, his curiosity pricked. "I'm a very broadminded guy, myself. In fact, I...." he left the thought unfinished, realizing it would serve no purpose to inform Jennifer of his relationship with his mother and sister.
"You won't ... I mean I wouldn't want anybody to-"
"Don't worry 'bout a thing," Darrow assured the woman who had taken a few tentative steps toward him, her hands nervously folded under her chin. But already he was wondering how best to use this highly interesting information. To his advantage, of course.
CHAPTER NINE
It was Friday evening, almost a week after the fucking fest.
Edward Clarington was relaxing at home with his mistress, Julie Wingate, and for a change the two of them were fully clothed. Clarington was ensconced in his favorite chair, a large overstuffed brown armchair, and the sexy Julie was curled up on the sofa. The art lover and cunt connoisseur was enjoying a scotch and soda while his mistress sipped on a rum and coke.
It was not unusual for Clarington to spend Friday evenings in his expensively-decorated penthouse apartment. While he enjoyed dining out and attending the theatre, taking in a good film or popping into an art gallery to catch a new exhibit, he detested crowds of any size and refused to stray from his castle on nights when he knew the peasants would be out in full force.
Suburbanites and tourists took over Friday nights, he at times sadly declared to his wealthy friends. And he was not about to mingle with "middle class morons" who, and of this he was positive, cared more about dressing up and making the proper impression than viewing the work of a talented artist.
And so tonight Clarington was trying to appreciate, on an intellectual level, the stunning beauty of his mistress. Julie's ability to converse intelligently on any subject was not the greatest in the world. Not by a long shot. In fact, she had difficulty remembering what had been said just seconds before, often supplying an answer which had no bearing whatsoever to the question prompting her reply.
But while Julie's rather low intelligence quotient could be annoying and at times frustrating, Clarington realized that in one bundle he couldn't expect to find everything. Julie was a sexy bundle of beauty and lust, a nympho pure and simple. Therein lay her charm. A charm which more than made up for a lack of intelligence and the inability to reason perceptively.
"That really was some swell party last week, Eddie, " Julie was saying, a pretty smile on her face. "I really enjoyed it a lot."
Clarington chuckled. "Now what brought that up, baby? I thought we were talking about your Uncle Henry."
"Yeah, I know. But talking about my uncle made me think about how much he dislikes the kind of life I lead. And thinking about that made me remember the party last Saturday."
"I see," Clarington smiled, bringing his glass to his lips.
'The only thing I didn't like very much was my experience with Drake Watterman. He's a mean one, all right."
"He didn't hurt you, did he? Physically, that is."
"No, not really. But he's very sadistic. He's a lot like your friend, Robert Darrow."
"Well, both men are a little rough, I guess. They like to show a female who is boss, if you know what I mean. Unless they're in control at all times they're not happy."
"That's for sure," Julie said. "But still and all-" she let her voice trail off and took a sip of her drink.
"And speaking about Mr. Darrow reminds me that he'll be here any minute. So why don't you be a good girl and leave the two of us alone for an hour or so."
"You're not kicking me out, are you?" Julie pouted.
"Only for a little while, baby." Clarington smiled. "Mr. Darrow and I have some important matters to discuss." He looked at his wristwatch, then again at his mistress. "It's not yet eight-thirty, Julie. If you hurry up and finish your drink, you'll have time to do some shopping. The stores are open late on Friday nights, aren't they?"
"Some of them are, Eddie, but I don't really feel like-"
"Now, let's not argue, Julie. Be a good girl and do as I say. By the time you return, let's say around ten o'clock, Darrow will have left and you and I can spend the remainder of the night in bed. How does that sound to you?"
Julie grinned. "Sounds just super, Eddie. And now that I think of it, I did have my eye on a really beautiful dress in-"
"Say no more, baby," Clarington interrupted, a broad smile on his attractive face. "Let's just see what we have here." He reached into his smoking jacket and fished out a handful of bills. He selected two and then stuffed the others back in his pocket. "This should do the trick, I think."
"Wow, it certainly will," his mistress smiled, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the two fifty dollar bills.
"All right then," Clarington chuckled. "Now come on, move that pretty behind of yours. Darrow will be here any minute."
"I'm on my way, Eddie," Julie said, quickly lifting her drink to her lips. She drained the glass in one long swallow, then set it down on the cocktail table and pushed herself out of the sofa. She stepped over to Garington and took the money he had placed on one arm of his chair. "Okay, see you later, darling."
After pecking her lover on the cheek, Julie moved quickly out of the living room and toward the front door. Seconds later Garington heard the door slam shut.
The little nut, he thought, as he left his chair and headed for the bar to prepare himself another scotch and soda.
Less than five minutes later he was greeting Darrow and escorting his young friend into the living room. After making Darrow a drink, he returned to his favorite chair while Darrow settled himself into the sofa.
"Am I mistaken or is this cushion warm?" the painter, photographer and pussy lover asked.
Garington smiled. "Miss Wingate's saucy ass was warming it for you, Robert."
"Really? How thoughtful. Where is the cock-hungry little babe, anyway?"
"I sent her out shopping. I figured you would prefer to discuss our business without interruptions."
Darrow shrugged. "Doesn't make all that much difference. Julie knows about the pictures, doesn't she?"
"Yes, I guess she's aware of the fact that I have a special interest in your work. Now tell me, my young friend, what have you got for me tonight? Over the phone you said you had something very interesting for me, something you thought would make my art collection even more valuable."
Darrow laughed. "Well, that's one way of putting it. Here, take a look at these and tell me what you think." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a rumpled envelope, then threw it to Garington.
"Something special, huh?" Garington said with a small smile, reaching for the envelope which had landed in his lap.
'Take a look, Ed. I think you'll find what's inside the envelope very interesting."
Darrow sipped his drink while the older man opened the envelope and took out the pictures. Garington looked at the first photo, then the second. It was obvious that he was pleased, yet Darrow sensed the man's disappointment.
"Well, what do you think? Great shots, aren't they?"
Garington nodded. "Yes, they are good. Very good, Robert. But I don't find anything exceptional here. In fact, I think the last batch of pictures I bought from you were just as good."
"In quality, maybe. But take a closer look, friend. Don't you recognize the woman in the photos?"
Garington looked at a few more of the obscene pictures, a small frown creeping over his face. The photos were all excellent, he had to admit. As usual, Darrow had captured the moment beautifully. The details were all there, the action defined perfectly. Yet he couldn't place the beautiful blonde whose nakedness adorned all the eight by ten pictures, of which there were about twenty.
"Ed, you must be failing," Darrow said. "Sorry, but-wait just a minute, yes, isn't that-now what is her name, anyway?"
"Jennifer, Jennifer Rogers," Darrow said, a faint smile on his face as he once again brought the glass to his lips.
"Yes, of course. Mrs. Rogers. How in the world did you get her to pose for-"
"Correction, friend. Jennifer Rogers is not the housewife we thought she was. She's Jonathan's sister."
"His sister?"
"Yep, how 'bout those apples?"
"Surprising-and very interesting, I'll admit. But I still don't understand why she would consent to be photographed in these lewd positions. Look at this one. Here she's masturbating with a shoe horn."
"Besides those photos, I've got a roll of film with Jennifer as the leading lady. It covers lesbianism, anal sex, you name it."
"Yes, but why in the world would she-ohhhh, now I'm beginning to see the light. A bit of blackmail, is it?"
Darrow chuckled. "You remember that I left with Jennifer before the orgy was over, right?
Well I took her to my pad and in the course of, shall we say, the proceedings, she blurted out the truth about her relationship with Jonathan. Needless to say, she was most upset when I threatened to make things very sticky for her by exposing this incestuous love match."
"And so for your silence she was willing to star in one of your classic productions."
"Right as rain, friend. And because she can't afford to lose her job, because she wants to continue living with Jonathan in New York, because she dreads the thought of a messy scandal, she's agreed to star in several more of my sex flicks."
"Well, I'll be," Clarington smiled, looking over a few more of the pornographic photos. Finally he set all the pictures aside and began to chuckle, his chuckle growing rapidly into a full-fledged laugh. Soon he was laughing and shaking his handsome head as if he had just been told a hilarious tale.
"What the hell is so funny?" Darrow asked, the sight of Clarington in the throes of a hearty laugh causing him to grin.
The aging art connoisseur finally quieted and said, "My friend, if you only knew that-well, why not, I'm fairly certain that I can trust you. We probably know enough about each other already to cause trouble."
"You're losing me completely, Ed. I don't know what the hell you're getting at."
Clarington was silent for a long moment, then said, "Do you remember that lovely redhead who was strapped and then assfucked at the orgy last week?"
"Sure I do. Real nice looking broad, too."
"Well that 'nice looking broad' just happens to be my daughter."
Darrow's eyebrows arched. "Well, son of a bitch, if that isn't one helluva surprise. Who would've thought that-" he let his voice trail off as the smile on his face began to grow. Now it was his turn to puzzle Clarington with a loud burst of unrestrained laughter.
"I don't know that it's all that humorous, Robert. Joyce is a woman who happens to need the pleasure of my company, so to speak. She loves me, I'm sure, but it's only because her husband is unable to satisfy her sexually that she comes to her father."
"No, that isn't the point," Darrow said when he had stopped laughing and brought his breathing under control. 'That's not what I think is so damn funny."
"Well then what is?"
"What would you say if-if I told you that for the past few years I've been fucking my mother and sister?"
"No."
"Yep, I kid you not, friend. Mom, sis and me-we're just a regular fun-loving trio of fuckers."
Again Clarington started to laugh. "Well then, it would seem that we all have our little secrets. Of course, I see nothing wrong in, how shall I put it, family fun?"
"Hell no. No one gets hurt and it's a real kinky thrill to screw a member of your family. Tell me, how long have you been banging your married daughter?"
"For quite some time now," Clarington answered, growing more serious. "You see it all began back-what was that? Did you hear that noise, Robert?"
"Noise? No, I didn't hear-"
"But you must have. It sounded like my front door had been slammed shut."
Darrow shrugged. "Maybe it's Julie returning from the store. You probably didn't give her enough money."
"No, couldn't be. I told her not to come back before ten o'clock. Excuse me, I'm going to take a look."
"All right, but I think you're hearing things," Darrow grinned, watching as Clarington moved from his armchair and started out of the living room. When Clarington was out of sight, in the large foyer, he added loudly, "You're just getting old, Ed. Next thing you know you'll be on social security."
And then, seconds later, Darrow heard the shots. Three of them in rapid succession, followed by Clarington's agonized moan and the sound of someone falling heavily to the floor. Quickly he set his glass of booze down on the cocktail table and got to his feet. He hurried out to the foyer to see Clarington sprawled on the floor, blood oozing from his temple, chest and stomach.
"Oh, my God!" he gasped, his eyes riveted to the lifeless form of the art collector who dabbled in pornography and from time to time fucked his married daughter.
And then he looked up and saw the gun. It was pointed right at him.
"No, please don't," he said softly, his face a mask of terror. "I won't tell anybody, I promise. You have my word, honest. Just don't-no, stay away from me. Please, you can't do this to-ahhhhhhh."
The first bullet thudded into his stomach, the second smashed into his jaw. Darrow toppled over, a look of frightened disbelief still on his face as he crashed against a small table before collapsing in a heap on the floor a few feet from Clarington.
He had already taken his last breath when the third and fourth bullets were pumped into his body.
CHAPTER TEN
Pamela Darrow made her way down the attic stairs and then into her mother's bedroom. Smiling sadly, she sat down on the edge of the bed and took her mother's hand.
"I'm all finished, Mom," she said. "I put everything away nice and neat in one comer. Nothing will happen to them."
"That's a good girl," Christine Darrow said. "It was nice of the police to allow us to collect some of Bob's things, wasn't it?"
"Sure it was, Mom. I guess they had done all the searching they were going to do in Bob's studio. Besides, of what value would his painting be to the police?"
"What do you think they were looking for?
I mean for days they wouldn't allow us in Bob's apartment."
"For clues, I guess," Pamela answered. "Maybe the police thought that in Bob's apartment they'd find something that would lead them to his killer. I think it was just routine."
"And the questions," Christine sighed. "All those countless questions. Why, anyone would think that they suspected us of the murder. Imagine that, a mother killing her own son."
"Well, Mom, you know what Lieutenant Warren said. Until they have reason to believe otherwise, the police have to suspect everybody. It's just the nature of their business."
"Yes, I guess you're right, dear," Christine said, again with a sigh. "But still-oh, Pam, what are we going to do without Bob? I loved him so much."
Pamela patted her mother's hand. "We'll just have to go on, Mom. You'll see, we'll be all right."
"Yes, but don't you see-ohhh, it's all so horrible. So utterly despicable. Why would anyone want to kill my son?"
Once again Christine Darrow started crying. Tears washed down her face and she trembled on the bed, her body racked by great, heaving sobs. She held her daughter's hand hotly, squeezing it for comfort and assurance.
"Don't, Mom," Pamela pleaded. "That won't bring Bob back. Please, pull yourself together now."
It was a while before Christine quieted down. Then, as she dried her eyes with the hanky given to her by her daughter, she said, "Yes, I know you're right, dear. I'm sorry, really I am. I'll try to control myself in the future."
"Neither one of us will ever forget Bob," Pamela said. "But-we still have each other, you know." She looked carefully at her still attractive mother, her eyes trying to convey that which she wasn't sure should be verbalized. At least not at this moment.
But Christine got the message. A small, sad smile began to creep over her tear-stained face.
"Yes, of course. And thank goodness for that, too. Surely you know that I love you as much as I did Bob."
"I know that, Mom. You don't have to-"
"Come here, darling. Come and comfort me."
Christine held open her arms and her daughter carefully eased herself into her embrace. Pam pressed her breasts into her mother's mammaries, kissed her lightly on the cheek and neck.
"Yes, that's the way, dear," Christine said very softly. "Lie down next to me, Pamela.
Like a good girl."
Pam moved without delay, maneuvering herself on the bed until she was snuggled close to her mother. The two women arranged themselves on their sides, their arms locked around each other's warm body.
"I love you, Mom," Pam said, undoing the top button on her mother's thin robe.
