Sex... prejudice... politics... bigotry. These are the ingredients that go into one of the wildest sagas ever written about a race for the Governor's mansion.
... You're Tom Johnson, a handsome honkie with a beautiful bronze-skinned wife, and the latest polls show you're a few percentage points ahead of Charlie Smith, the closest other candidate. You need the women's vote and you're putting the finishing touches on a
speech to be delivered to the WWW, an important women's group. To remind yourself of how women really think, you give wife Liza a dicking that will keep her pussy churning for a week. She loves you but, most of all, she loves that turgid poke between your legs.
... Or you're Charlie Smith, the underdog black candidate married to a hot-assed honkie bitch whose pleasure is a thick black cock lodged inside that hot, tight, forbidden ring of muscle between the pink pillows of her ass. You've sunk your own money into your campaign. You stand a good chance of losing it, a thought that intrudes just as you're about to sink your meat into Alice's magnificent bottom. And as you pound into Alice, you're really pounding into every fair-skinned sonofabitch who has ever put you down in a life full of put-downs. Alice loves it.
... Or you're Senta or Arthur, the black-white boy-girl, reporter-photographer team, covering the campaign for print media and finding kicks in every Holiday Inn in the state.
Then there's the aging bigot with more money than God who vows that neither Johnson nor Smith will ever reach the Governor's Mansion.
It's a pretty kettle of fish, as they say.
CHAPTER ONE
Clutching his speech and a ball point pen in his left hand, Tom Johnson used his right for leverage as he lifted himself a few inches off the queen-sized bed and pushed back against the two pillows he had arranged against the headboard. A few seconds later, when comfortably positioned, he emitted a long, loud yawn and with a vigorous shake of his head, tried to pull away from sleep's demanding embrace.
Sitting more or less erect in bed, his back propped by the pillows, his legs extended full length, Tom adjusted his glasses over his nose and began scanning the speech he planned to deliver to an audience of three hundred or so women this coming Monday evening. He had already devoted a considerable amount of time to the speech, deleting and adding sentences, sometimes rewriting whole pages as he tried to incorporate his own ideas with the shrewd suggestions made by his clever campaign manager.
Yet, while willing to admit the reasonableness of the premise that the search for perfection could be carried to an extreme, Tom felt the speech could be improved in spots. He wanted to give certain paragraphs a bit more sting, tone down others, shape the mass into a cohesive whole that was at once both provocative and firmly rooted in realism.
Although the latest poll placed him seven percentage points ahead of his closest rival, Charles Smith, the bright black lawyer and strong civil rights advocate, he clearly recognized the danger in assuming that the race was already over and that victory was assured.
He knew a number of politicians who had awakened the day after the election and discovered, much to their dismay, that the decision to coast home had been a miscalculation of gigantic proportions. Of course, these proud politicos had no one to blame but themselves, and perhaps their campaign managers.
Brimming with overconfidence, certain of the unerring accuracy of polls that showed them leading the pack by a wide margin, and surrounded by well-wishers who, unthinkingly, helped strengthen a false sense of security, these front-runners ceased addressing themselves to the issues at hand and basked in the warm glow of the comforting, but most unrealistic, belief that they were home free, that the race had been won and that they had only to trot triumphantly to the winner's circle to collect the garland of roses.
Instead of confronting problems plaguing the electorate and suggesting remedies, instead of debating meaningful matters with the opposition, the calculating candidates for high office had elected to walk home rather than continue running briskly. With the result that they had been tagged out by disenchanted voters.
It wasn't hard to understand how easily he could be victimized by vanity. Fearful of rocking the boat now that the election was seemingly in the bag, afraid to antagonize, the unsuspecting politician chose to sail home in a sea of banalities which offended no one.
He started spouting platitudes and packed his speeches with inane references to religion, motherhood, and apple pie. Tired of running at full speed on the campaign trail, the now cautious candidate, like one weary of the race, slowed to a walk without once looking back at those ready to take advantage of his arrogant attitude.
He curtailed his activities and canceled scheduled appearances, while mocking his opponents with a sly smile that said,""It's locked up, fellas-don't knock yourselves out trying to catch me," turned on that charm guaranteed to cement his virtual victory.
And then came the election, the day of reckoning, and the stunned politician could be found drinking beer while a victorious opponent celebrated with champagne. Wondering what the hell had happened, he would tumble from his bright white cloud of carefree nonchalance and land with a resounding thud in a well of despair.
No, sir, Tom thought, as he underlined a particularly important point in his speech, that was most certainly not going to happen to him. If he lost the election it would be because the voters had decided Smith was the better man, and not because he had allowed seeming success to change him from zealous campaigner to indifferent spectator.
The politician who counted his chickens before they hatched was one destined to discover the perils of same. To underestimate the intelligence of the voter and dismiss with a shrug his ability to detect even the subtlest change in attitude was akin to playing with dynamite. Voters knew when a candidate was merely going through the motions. And there was nothing nicer than knocking a cocky bird off his perch.
So it was of paramount importance that he continued hammering away, weary as he was from having campaigned so strenuously these last few months. There was still much to be done, many more people to see and talk to.
The name Tom Johnson had to become a household word before election eve.
With the election day two months away and since he had what some regarded as a comfortable if not commanding lead, a number of the pollsters considered him a sure bet to capture the contest. Frank Leinz, his fun-loving but earnest campaign manager, was of the opinion that he could begin work on the acceptance speech.
But Charles Smith could not be dismissed lightly. Not only was the man a capable candidate, a forceful, energetic young attorney dedicated to correcting the inequalities of the System, he was also a tough, hardworking campaigner whose ability to articulate his position on a variety of issues important to both blacks and whites was helping him garner many sympathetic supporters.
And so in spite of what the polls were saying at the moment, the results of the election would not be known until all the ballots had been tabulated. It was going to be a close race, right up to the wire. The people, having listened for months to the promises and the arguments of the candidates, would eventually reach a decision and render their verdict on election day. It was just about that simple.
Tom flipped over a page of his speech and again brought pen to paper. He read the first paragraph and in the right hand margin scribbled the words "Important-Emphasize."
It was only then as his, gaze drifted over the top of the page, that he realized he had company. Standing in the doorway, arms folded, was his beautiful brown-skinned wife, Liza.
"Hi Governor. Still working on your speech, I see."
"And contemplating the democratic process at the same time," Tom said, smiling as he placed his pen and speech on the nightstand next to the bed. "How are you, sweetheart? Been spying on me for long?"
"Only for about a minute, love," Liza answered. "And do you want to know something?" Tom grinned. "Sure. If I'm going to be the next Governor of this great state. Can you tell me that, beautiful?"
Liza chuckled lightly. "I can't guarantee it but I'd be willing to bet our life savings on a win."
"Most of which has been deposited in the campaign kitty. If I don't emerge victorious from this thing, you and I will be dining on franks and beans for a year."
"I prefer soul food, darling," Liza grinned.
"All right. Black-eyed peas and hominy grits it is. Anyway, what was it you thought I should know?"
Liza moved slowly into the bedroom until she was standing at the foot of the bed.
Smiling, she said, "That I think you're the sexiest white man in politics today."
Tom grinned. "Is that a fact?"
"Yep, 'tis that, Governor."
"Well I thank you for the compliment, beautiful. Even if it was qualified."
"Qualified?"
"Sure. I mean you could have left out the words "white" and politics," right?"
Liza chuckled and turned away. "I'm afraid my compliment will have to stand as is, honey," she said, reaching back over her head to unlock the zipper of her soft yellow, stylish knit dress. "Sorry 'bout that."
"And you should be, Mrs. Johnson," Tom scolded, feigning hurt. "You're implying that there are others you find as attractive as your husband. I have been dealt a blow to the ego."
Liza chuckled. "Not a fatal one, I hope," she teased, squirming out of her dress. She stepped out of the garment and then bent to pick it up.
"You certainly do have a beautiful backside, baby," Tom stated, a small smile creeping over his face as his eyes zeroed in on the taut, succulent half-moons of his wife's pantied posterior. "I can't recall ever having come across a prettier fanny."
"Thank you, kind sir," Liza said, wiggling her delectable derierre. "Like most politicians, you have a talent for changing the subject quickly."
"It's something we learn early in the game, sweetheart."
"Well, have your beautiful baby blues feasted long enough on my sexy tail, Governor?"
Tom hesitated briefly, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet. Clad only in cock-constricting, white jockey briefs, he moved quickly to his provocatively positioned wife and placed himself directly behind her, his hands clamping warmly over her shapely hips.
Liza straightened up and smiled. "Now what are you up to lover? As if I didn't know."
"I'm up to fucking you, beautiful," Tom answered, moving to undo the clasp of his spouse's brassiere.
"Do you mean to say that I inspired this sudden surge of lust, darling?"
"Who else, honey? A face and figure like yours could trigger desire in a dead man."
Tom drew the bra away from Liza breasts and dropped it on the floor, atop her yellow dress. Then his hand snaked around and under her magnificent mammaries, commenced a demanding massage of those twin globes of spongy, cocoa-colored flesh. Liza leaned back against her husband and sighed.
"Oh, but you're the naughty one Governor. Think what the voters would say if they could see you now."
"I'm sure they would approve, baby," Tom said, his voice thickening.
"You approve, don't you?"
"Oh, indeed I do, lover," Liza crooned softly, her pussy beginning to purr passionately as she commenced a wicked rotation of her pantied posterior, rubbing her beautifully rounded rear against the thick bulge in her mate's jockey shorts. Although she had been taken somewhat by surprise, she had no intention of calling a halt to the sexy proceedings. Tom devoted the next several minutes to a skillful caressing of his wife's tempting tits. Of all his possessions, a successful career, a beautiful home in the suburbs, a very healthy bank account, a stunning, brown-skinned, black-haired wife, the one he valued most highly was naturally enough, his marvelous mate.
Liza was simply sensational. She was intelligent and warm and witty, quick to smile her approval and always ready to listen with sympathetic understanding to a problem. And only the blind, the impotent and senile could fail to appreciate her ravishing 38-24-36 figure, those beautiful hazel eyes that sparkled mischievously, the soft, carefully-crafted features of her lovely face.
At thirty-two, his wife was as attractive now as she had been when they first met. More appealing, really, since the passing years had added a certain maturity to her happy-go-lucky outlook on life. Were she so inclined, Liza who stood a shade over five feet six inches when barefoot and whose long, raven tresses tumbled merrily around her smooth shoulders, could easily enough resume the modeling career she had abandoned for marriage.
"Oh, honey, I like that," Liza breathed hotly, her desire growing by leaps, and bounds.
She placed her brown hands over the white ones stunningly massaging her tingling boobs and pushed her behind into her husband's pelvis. The heat in her loins was spreading to all parts of her body and her sticky cunt juices were seeping out to dampen the crotch of her white panties.
"Let's screw, baby," Tom husked.
"Right here, honey?"
"Sure, why not? It'll be a little something different."
The good-looking gubernatorial candidate took his hand from Liza mouth-watering melons and brought them down to her hips. Inserting a few fingers in the waistband of her pants, he proceeded to push the flimsy garment down her sleek brown legs, past her knees to her feet. Liza stepped out of the panties and with her left foot kicked them aside.
"All right, sweetheart," Tom said, "bend over and put your hands on your knees. I'll fuck you from behind."
"Yes, darling," Liza said thickly, bubbling over with excitement. "From behind, like a pair of animals."
Clad now in only garter belt and sheer hose, the brown-skinned beauty bent forward at the waist and gripped her knees with her hands. She wriggled provocatively, spreading her legs and adjusting her stance slightly as behind her Tom lowered his jockey shorts. Then seconds later, she felt her husband's blood-gorged pecker poking her steaming sex slit.
"Ready, baby?" Tom asked, his briefs remaining banded about his legs, just above his knees, as he clamped his hands over Liza curvaceous hips and inched forward.
"Do me, darling," Liza said thickly. "Put that lovely prick of yours deep in my belly." Tom quickly removed his reading glasses and flipped them onto the bed behind him, then again prepared to plow the pussy he had plowed often in the past. With his hands locked firmly around Liza hips, he eased his bloated bone up into her needy vagina and savored the feel of her viscid sex canal as slippery muscles closed around his invading tool.
"Mmmm, that's so good," Liza crooned. "Do it to me, lover. Bang me from behind."
"Nice and easy does it, sweetheart," Tom husked, refusing to succumb to the urge to batter his wife's box with maniacal force.
When the entire length of Tom's fleshy log was snugly encased in her twitching twat, Liza emitted a sigh of gratitude and then demanded a dickings. A shiver of lust shook her as Tom began his tantalizing thrusts and she began a sensuous rotation of her fanny.
"You're beautiful, baby," Tom croaked. "The most beautiful piece of ass in the state."
"Such talk, such deliciously dirty talk," Liza moaned happily. "Dick me, darling. Shove it deep up my belly."
It took the gubernatorial candidate but seconds to establish a smooth and steady reaming rhythm. In and out he plunged, carefully but with determination, each forceful stroke of his blood-packed organ thrilling his wife greatly.
Bent forward at the waist, her hands hotly gripping her knees for support, the beauteous Liza Johnson eagerly accepted her white husband's drilling dick in unlady-like language encouraged him to greater effort. Her shiny raven tresses swirled around her face and neck as she twisted her head this way and that, pushed her posterior back into Tom's loins to greet his penetrating prick. "Oh honey, I love you," she trilled. "I love your big fat pecker in my pussy. I love your hot cunt, baby," Tom said passionately, as he increased the tempo of the screwing.
This would be but a warm-up, he thought. An exciting prelude to the truly vigorous, mind-boggling fuck he intended to give her on the bed later. Although tired from another long day on the campaign trail, the scintillating sight of his lovely wife and thoughts of hot humping sessions had renewed his flagging energy.
"Yes, that's the way," Liza cried, out. "Give it to me, darling. Fuck me dizzy."
In and out Tom pistoned his prick, his hairy white thighs bumping against his wife's saucy seat and rubbing into her nylon-sheathed brown thighs. Tiny grunts of pleasure popped from his hps as he banged Liza from behind, his swollen cock like a fiery lance as time and again it knifed up into her viscous vagina.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Liza began chanting, an undisguised urgency coating her voice.
Knowing it wouldn't be long before he spilled his load in his spouse's sizzling sex well, Tom leaned forward and brought his hands around and under Liza's body. He latched onto her swaying mammaries and began squeezing those spongy delights, pinching the blood-gorged nipples between his long fingers and eliciting from his wife additional moans of joy.
"Cream in me baby," Liza pleaded. "Shoot in me."
"Soon, soon, baby," Tom panted, as again he jerked his hips forward sent his turgid tool tunneling up into the comforting confines of his mate's weeping cunt.
The gubernatorial candidate managed to stave off the inevitable for two minutes more, his body in jerking, jumping motion as he punched his prick into Liza's mushy love cove. But then came the fantastic finale to the fuck, the shivering mind-clouding climax of this cock and cunt coupling.
An animal-like snort flew from Tom's lips as he tightened his grip on Liza's beautiful brown breasts and inundated her already wet vagina with a torrent of creamy come. The love fluid spurted from the tip of his imbedded tool into his wife's womanhood, there to mix with her own passion product.
"Ohhh, Tom, darling," Liza moaned joyously, her husband's climax helping to trigger her own. She shut her glazed eyes tight and squeezed his ejaculating erectile with almost painful force, conscious only of the need to milk Tom's beautiful bone dry.
Gasping and grunting, Tom washed his spouse's cunt with sticky semen and thrilled to the feel of his bone being bathed by her flowing juices. Spasms of ecstasy rocked his body as his tool throbbed in Liza's gripping sex chute and her happy whimpers wafted up to his ears. Not until his love stick had stopped spurting did he straighten up and pull out of her bubbling box.
It took Liza a moment to recover from this most pleasurable pussy-plowing. Then, resisting the temptation to drop down onto her knees and curl up on the floor, she straightened up and turned around to face her husband. She promptly returned the smile which greeted her.
"Darling, that was heavenly," she said softly, "I have a few more heavenly ideas, sweetheart."
"Oh, really?"
Tom nodded. "But we'll work them out on the bed. I think I might be getting a bit old for this bedroom floor business."
"Okay, whatever you say. I'll be back in a jiff."
"Where are you going?"
"To the bathroom, honey. I've got to pee."
Tom watched his brown-skinned wife turn and start out the bedroom. He pulled up his shorts and adjusted them around his waist. He picked up his glasses and put them on, then climbed back onto the bed and stretched out once again. He started to reach for the speech he had placed on the night stand, but changed his mind. Clasping his hands behind his head, Tom began musing about his many accomplishments to date. It had to be that he was one of the luckiest guys around, he thought. A man would have to be a complete fool not to appreciate accomplishing so much in such a comparatively short length of time. It would be two years before he celebrated his fortieth birthday and already so many good things had happened to him.
Tucked away in one corner of a trunk presently collecting dust in the attic was a sheepskin, one signifying the satisfactory completion of credits required for a Master's degree in business administration. And resting atop that diploma as if symbolizing the fact that he had decided to switch from a career in business to one in law, was another.
Together with two other equally energetic men he was a partner in a thriving law firm, one that had been nursed from the dark obscurity of a decaying building to the bright promise of a suite of offices which took up the entire floor of a magnificent structure. The firm of Johnsin, Blum and Higgins was one of the largest and most respected in the state, and it was still growing. It was quickly pointed out by those in the know, and reluctantly admitted by rival lawyers, that when a client was represented by one of the boys from JBH he was in capable hands.
Now he had a chance to become Governor of one of the most important states. Governor Tom Johnson. Yes, Liza was right. It did have a nice ring to it. And did he ever want the job!
Not alone for the prestige and power such a high position would afford him, but because he truly cared about the state and the need of its people. Already in mind were those crucial changes he planned to make, changes which would better the lives of thousands and bolster the state's economy at the same time.
If elected, he intended to inject new life and vitality into a stagnating state legislature, to appoint various experts in the fields of narcotics and crime and set up commissions to study ways of ridding the state of hardcore drugs like heroin and LSD. Workable programs to drive out organized crime would be developed.
There were, of course, some who considered him a wild-eyed radical, a rebellious egotist who would not rest until he had undermined the very foundations of democratic government and established himself as a benevolent despot.
Well, he had but three short words for that bunch, Tom thought. Fuck you all.
It was people like this who, with almost feverish delight, steadfastly refused change of any kind and in so doing halted the country's progress. They were hypocrites at heart, flag-waving bigots who treasured tradition to such an extent that the slightest mention of anything remotely resembling change threw them into panic. They aligned themselves in public, with those espousing civil liberties and decrying government interference in the private life of the individual, yet they wondered, in the privacy of their own sacrosanct homes if their next door neighbor with the long hair wasn't really a card-carrying Communist.
They genuflected before those leaders who spoke out in favor of welfare reform, yet they trembled at the thought of one day waking to discover a black family in the house down the street. The idea of peaceful co-existence between the races was appealing, but the idea of lynching a black, a "Lyin' no good nigger," whetted their appetites even more. No, he didn't need that kind of voter. Let the bigoted bullies vote for either Hughes and Buchanan the two other men running for Governor beside Smith and himself. Both Hughes and Buchanan would need all the help they could get, since the last poll showed them trailing Smith by a wide margin. Which was most heartening.
His wife's return from the bathroom inspired the smile that now broke over Tom's face. Liza was bare-assed naked, her desirable brown body a study in female pulchritude as she padded to the foot of the large bed. "I was going to ask what took you so long in the bathroom, baby," Tom began, "but that smile you're wearing has me even more curious."
"I'm smiling because again it occurred to me how unlike a gubernatorial candidate you are."
"You don't say?"
"I do say. Look at yourself, stretched out on the bed wearing only jockey shorts and your glasses. Absolutely, indecent is what it is."
Tom grinned and removed his glasses. Placing them on the night stand, he said, "Even gubernatorial candidates are entitled to let their hair down once in a while. You can't expect us to be the personification of dignity all the time. Struck by a sudden thought, he chuckled. "Hey, how would it be if I made my next public appearance bare-assed naked?"
"Simply scandalous," Liza grinned. "Especially since you'll be addressing WWW�Women Who Care."
"Could be the good ladies would start caring more if they caught a glimpse of my pecker."
"Your pecker has my vote, hon."
"A pecker in every pussy. How's that sound, baby? A nifty campaign promise, no?"
"You're awful," Liza said, chuckling. She moved from the foot of the bed to the night stand and picked up the speech her husband had been working on. She had finished the first paragraph and was starting on the second when she felt a warm hand slip between her legs and fasten on her crotch.
"Nice little pussy," Tom said soothingly, patting his spouse's sex nest. "Pretty, pretty pussy."
"Mmmmmm, now whatcha doin' Governor?" Liza asked.
"Teasing you because you're teasing me," was Tom's state answer.
"I'm not teasing you, darling. I just thought I'd glance at your speech and perhaps suggest a few remarks. Because I'm a woman and think like one, I can tell you how best to address WWW. You'd appreciate some helpful hints, wouldn't you?"
"Not just now, baby. Not when the sight of you standing over me in your birthday suit is thickening my prick."
Liza flipped the speech back on the night stand. You can't be serious, Luv. I mean we just got through screwing. What happened to the pooped person I saw when I arrived home?"
"Your presence rejuvenated him, baby," Tom answered, smiling as he continued his massage of his wife's inviting love bush. "How about joining me on the bed for another round of mad, passionate sex?"
Liza placed her hands on her hips and shook her head. A small smile lingered on her face as her eyes roamed over Tom's body. Her husband was a beautiful man, she thought proudly, not too surprised to realize that desire was once again beginning to wend its way through her.
Lovingly appraising Tom's rugged physique, Liza noted that one hundred and ninety pounds rested comfortably on a six feet two inch frame. Her mate's eyes were a baby blue and his black hair, which he wore fashionably long, sideburns and all, framed a mysteriously sexy face. One glimpse of his manly smile was all it took to start her pussy quivering.
And now, once again, he was getting excited, the bulge in his shorts was growing large, more noticeable. It was easy enough to understand Tom's appeal to women voters, a large number of whom usually managed to show up for his campaign talks. He cut a striking figure on the campaign circuit, impressing even skeptics with his intelligence, charm and good looks.
"Like what you see, beautiful?" Tom asked.
"Enough to test its durability," Liza cracked.
With that, she climbed up onto the bed and without delay arranged herself between her handsome hubby's spread legs. A smile played on her face as she settled back on her haunches and placed her hands on her hips.
"You look like a lady with something devious on her mind," Tom observed with a grin.
Tom chuckled. "Only if she gets the urge when he's making a speech. That's a no-no."
"But we're in bed now. That makes it all very proper."
"You know something, sweetie," Tom began, lifting hips off the bed as his wife slipped her fingers in the waistband of his briefs and started tugging them down. "You're going to make absolutely marvelous first lady of the state.
"That's me, honey," Liza grinned. "An expert in the politics of passion."
CHAPTER TWO
Liza favored fellatio over the other sexual practices they engaged in, Tom thought, the sensations flowing through his aroused body as his wife labored lovingly between his legs, her lovely lips locked on his fully erect prick. Not that she didn't enjoy having her cunt tickled by his tongue and tool and her fantastic fanny fucked.
Liza thoroughly appreciated these acts and also found it perversely pleasurable to assume different, and sometimes awkward positions in which to screw. But there was something about fellatio that turned her on. It thrilled her like nothing else, and rare was the screwing session that didn't begin with Liza down there between his legs, strange, animal-like sounds of lust bubbling up from her throat as she orally massaged his manhood.
She had gone down on him for the first time on their wedding night and had not come up since. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, either at home or away, down went Liza to feast gluttonously on his prick and hairy balls. Like a hungry harlot, a cock-craving, hump-happy harlot, she would grab hold of his organ and plop it into her mouth. Then, depending on her mood at the time, she would either commence a speedy suck, one that had her vigorously vacuuming his big one into her saliva-laden mouth, or begin a lazy, methodical mouthing of his manhood designed to bring him to the brink of a truly explosive orgasm. Right at the moment, it appeared that his wife favored the less hurried approach to cocksucking. Less than three minutes ago she had removed his white jockey briefs and tossed them aside, her hazel eyes bright with mischief as she contemplated his semi-hard cock. Then crouching low between his legs, a wicked little smile dancing across her beautiful brown face, she had dropped her head over his naked loins to commence the wicked washing of cock and balls.
Now, as he thrilled to her tongue and the feel of her pursed lips gripping his stalk, Liza continued to dutifully display her exciting oral expertise. Like one devoted to a cause, he skillfully showed the experience born of innumerable encounters with her hubby's hard-on, her brown-skinned body in constant wriggle between his legs as she sucked with a passion.
"Ohhhh, baby!" Tom crooned, clenching his hands at his sides and arching his hips. "Suck it! Milk it dry for me, baby!"
"I love you," Liza said, looking not at her husband, but at the cock she had just permitted to let slip from her lips. She curled her brown fingers around the organ at its hairy base and lifted it up so that once again it loomed toward the ceiling, a perfectly perpendicular tower of warm flesh.
"Don't stop," Tom groaned. "Stick it back in your wonderful mouth!"
"You taste so good," Liza husked, still speaking to her handsome hubby's seven inch pecker. "You're so fat and juicy."
For several seconds Liza studied the rock-hard, pulsing prick, her glazed eyes feasting on the fullness that has just recently been harbored in the warm, wet confines of her oral cavity. She started inching forward and slowly opened her mouth.
Her lovely lips slid over the bulbous head of Tom's manhood and then, as her mate moaned his approval, she began to tenderly tease by sucking lazily on just that portion of his tasty, blood-thickened tool. Her head bobbed slowly and moved in maddening circles as she drew the knobby head of the pecker into her mouth, licked it licentiously.
"Baby, chew on it!" Tom pleaded thickly.
Again Liza took the slimy shaft from her mouth. Clasping the pear-shaped head of her hubby's tool with her fingers, she dipped low and commenced licking the underside of the organ. She twisted and turned excitedly as she burrowed into her husband's warm crotch, rubbed her beautiful brown face against his cock and hairy scrotal sac.
Mewing with pleasure, Liza labored like one bom to the task, her talented tongue never still as it slithered up and down and all around Tom's genitals. With a wicked willingness, she worshipped her husband's equipment, her mind a muddle of licentious thoughts as she licked and nibbled.
And then, when she had painted Tom's pecker and warm, spongy scrotum with saliva, she drew up her head and once again stuffed the tool into her mouth. Bracing her hands between her husband's spread legs, her long, raven tresses hanging down and shielding her face from view, Liza began sucking her lollipop in earnest.
"That's the way, baby!" Tom rasped, trying to keep his lips still as his wife went to town on his pulsating organ. "Gobble it up, baby!"
Strange, gurgling sounds of lust bubbled from her throat and struggled to escape her mouth, only to be partially smothered by the throbbing tool she was sucking. No longer of a mind to tease, to , tempt with a thrilling tonguing, the lovely beauty vacuumed Tom's fleshy spear into her hungry mouth with unallayed abandon.
How delicious! How wonderful to suck his prick! It was so gut-jumbling good to feel that throbbing, jaw-stretching fullness in your mouth, to inhale the pungent aroma emanating from genitals.
In servile crouch, her head bobbing over Tom's loins, Liza continued slobbering over and over her mate's meat with fevered delight. The saliva-coated cock, locked in the velvet voice of her soft lips, slid in and out of her mouth.
And it wasn't long before Liza found herself in the embrace of mini-dilemma, one she had been required to solve many times in the past.
To cease sucking and screw or continue blowing Tom until he came, that was the question. The delightful question!
Should she tear her lips from her husband's pecker and then flip over onto her back, allow him to ram his beautiful organ to the depths of her pulsing vagina? Or should she increase the tempo of the lewd cocksuck? Wait for that glorious moment? His member erupted and her mouth was thick with cream!
Liza was spared to choose between the two equally delicious options, a lust-happy Tom coming to the rescue in his usual decisive manner. He, too, had been debating the issue, trying to decide if he wanted to blast his semen into his wife's wonderful mouth or come in the comforting, plushy softness of her viscid vagina.
Now, having reached his decision, he pushed himself up on the bed and grabbed a handful of Liza's lustrous hair. He yanked once, twice and finally, managing to pull her face away from his genitals. She looked up, revealing a face flushed by desire and lips coated with saliva.
"Your cunt, baby," Tom demanded. "I've got to get in you!"
"Yes, baby," Liza purred.
And with that, desire streaking through her like a flaming meteor, the brown-skinned lovely with the near-perfect body, scrambled quickly into proper pricking position. On hands and knees she crawled up the bed, then flipped over onto her back and spread her legs apart.
"Do me, baby," she pleaded passionately, unable to still her squirming hips. "Ram your bone into my twat. Fuck me hard!"
Tom was in position before his wife's last word had entered his ears. Balancing on his knees and one hand, he reached back and down with his free hand and directed his well-greased cock to the wet portal of her pussy. He inserted only the pear-shaped head of his pecker between her flowering sex hps, then brought his hand up and placed it on the bed.
"Ready, baby?" he asked.
"Yes, lover," Liza answered, the feel of the fat, blood-hardened crown of her hubby's prick between her pussy lips triggering a violent need for more of his member.
"Put it all in! Shove it up to my tits."
"One cock comin' up," Tom growled.
The gubernatorial candidate then threw his hips forward and sent his thick prick scurrying up into his wife's belly. Liza let out a lust-thickened groan of delight and squeezed her vaginal muscles around the penetrating pole of flesh. She was stuffed now, marvelously stuffed with seven inches of throbbing meat.
No sooner had Tom plunged his prick into his happy spouse than he was pumping her pussy, his hairy, sperm-packed scrotal sac slapping up against her warm crotch as he drilled his dick deep. In and out he went, his hot, pulsating pecker scraping the walls of Liza's viscid vagina and wringing from her throat gutteral sobs of pure joy.
"Baby, it's so good," she cried out. "So fuckin' good."
"More, baby?"
"Yes, hard!"
Braced on hands and knees, his taut bottom bobbing rhythmically as he moved smoothly in and out of warm, clasping cunt, Tom looked down into his wife's passion-contorted face. Was she more beautiful now, he wondered, when fully aroused and in urgent need of a sound screwing, than she was in full control of her senses or just after orgasm.
He didn't know. Not that it made a difference. Liza was beautiful to behold any time. She was like a cat, a graceful, sleek animal that glided noiselessly through the forest enhancing, by her natural beauty, the surrounding foliage. Never would he tire of training his eyes on her velvety-smooth proportioned brown body.
As a young, up and coming lawyer, he'd had more than his share of snatch. The girls had flocked around him like bees gathering to sip the nectar of a sweet-smelling flower. Husband hunters all, they had thought of him as prime marriage material, a dashing, debonair young stud who would be able to provide very nicely.
But he had turned all the lovely ladies down, Tom thought, as he increased the tempo of his fucking while gazing at his wife's countenance. Not, of course, before he had sampled the pussy they were all so quick to proffer. And he was glad he had waited, because had he wed one of the many marriage-minded females after him, he never would have met the dazzling Liza.
And that would have been nothing short of a calamity. He couldn't imagine there being another woman like her. Not only was she a most delightful bed partner, she was also extremely bright and broad-minded. She was quick to console, sensitive to his needs, an excellent homemaker, and she owned a delightful, if sometimes maddening, sense of humor.
And there were times, especially when Liza appeared with him in public and stood at his side as he accepted the applause of the voters, that he wanted to laugh at all those, who had warned him against marrying a Negress. How utterly groundless!
Even his parents, a well-meaning couple he loved, had expressed doubts about marrying "out of his race." Pointing out the problems that would have to be met, they had questioned the wisdom of placing such a strain on a marriage, of burdening it with "a color problem."
But he and Liza had followed their plans, each madly in love, convinced that they could handle whatever trouble might arise. Ignoring the oft stated warnings of sincere, but foolish friends, they were married in a quiet church ceremony that launched them on their most happy honeymoon in Jamaica.
Now, nine years later, he was as much in love with Liza as he had been during their courtship days. The going had been rough. They had their spats, as did all married couples, and on two occasions he had been forced to tell a well-heeled client to take his business elsewhere if the fact that Liza was a Negro offended him so.
But aside from this, and the fact that they still had to suffer an occasional raised eyebrow or a behind-the-back whisper, he and his wife had successfully warded off the slings and arrows of those who favored a return to the nineteenth century, when blacks behaved themselves as slaves and didn't go causin' no trouble."
And as far as the race for Governor, Liza's color was apparently only of minimal importance to a growing segment of the public and would not adversely affect his chances of being elected.
If the poll just taken was accurate, one had to assume that most people in the state had outgrown their prejudices and would vote the man, not the color of his or his wife's skin. If this weren't so, then Buchanan and Hughes would be much higher in the polls than they were at present.
And it was just possible that his lovely spouse was an asset in the political arena, one small reason he could look with satisfaction at his lead of seven percentage points. After all, Liza was certainly an appealing woman, one whose warm, friendly smile and ravishing figure could melt the heart of the strongest, loudest heckler. So it wasn't foolish to think that he was picking up some of the male votes thanks to a wife's attractiveness and charm.
And wouldn't those same males like to be where he was right now, Tom thought, spiraling closer to orgasm as he boomed his bone into his wife's weeping womanhood. Even those fat-assed bigots he'd encountered on the campaign trail would jump at the chance to slip their cocks into Liza's leaking love hole.
"Honey, it's good," Liza was moaning, her lush brown body never still as it tossed and turned under her husband's strong white one. "Faster! Tom!"
"Tell me, tell me how good it is," Tom panted, not missing a beat as he pounded his prick into the mushy confines of his cocoa-colored wife's love chute.
"It's good-the greatest! I love your prick!"
"In your brown belly?"
"Yes! Do me, you white stud! Fuck this brown broad to heaven!"
Emitting a gargled moan of lust, Tom dropped down atop his lovely, lust-crazed spouse and began smashing his tool into her twat with all the strength at his command. His hard, hairy, white chest mashed against Liza's spongy brown breasts as he buried his face in the pillow.
Truly beyond the pale now, lust striding through her hot, trembling body, Liza began spewing into her humping hubby's ear the filthiest words and phrases she could think to match his hard, thrilling thrusts with welcoming wiggles and salacious swivels of her own hips, the brown-skinned, black-haired beauty wrapped her slender arms around Tom's white back and hung on!
"Fuck it, you bastard! Cock, hot cock!" she said hotly.
"Take it, bitch! You beautiful, hot-assed bitch!" Tom growled.
"Pound me, stud! Fuck this brown bitch!"
Out of his mind with lust, spurred to even greater heights, Tom plumbed the depths of her vagina with unmitigated abandon. Like a machine out of control, his body lurched up and down, to and fro, his taut buttocks weaving a crazy pattern in the air as he alternated between mind-blurring downward thrusts and rapid, hip-swiveling jabs that sent his blood-gorged cock spiraling up into Liza's molten womanhood.
He had not the slightest resemblance now to the distinguished erudite young lawyer running for Governor, the man some felt would one day be elected President. No longer was Tom Johnson the personable candidate whose genuine concern for the welfare of others had prompted his decision to run for office.
Now he was Tom Johnson, the supreme white stud, the crusader with cock out to challenge the elasticity of a beautiful brown woman's hot, clasping cunt. He had given up heavy ambitions and had shoved aside everything at the moment, for the demonic desire to conquer cunt!
And to that end, Tom layed the meat to his moaning, groaning wife, time and again rearing back and thrusting forward to send his cock booming up into Liza's furiously fucking sex chute with an almost fiendish delight.
"Ohhhhhhhh!" Liza grunted passionately, tears of joy filling her eyes as her handsome white mate continued ravaging her twat.
"Soon, baby!" Tom breathed.
"Come, cream me, baby!" Liza husked.
For a full minute more Tom pounded his whimpering wife, his fleshy tool like a mighty hammer as it pestled her pulsing pussy with unrelenting, bone-jarring force. Legs spread wide, her arms clinging tenaciously to her humping hubby's hard prick, Liza moaned joyously and allowed her body to be buffeted like a buoy in raging waters.
White man and brown woman�linked by love, hard cock to soft, slushy cunt, each wallowing in the pleasure of a thrilling, eminently satisfying screwing session, gelatinous brown breasts squashed by a hard white chest, slender brown arms hotly hugging a strong, white back, beautiful brown face pressed close to ruggedly attractive, stubbed white one.
And then it was upon them, that unbelievably sweet moment! Time stands still and lovers are baptized anew as waves of bliss wash over their quaking bodies in an ecstatic flood of feeling. Nothing matters but the moment! When passion's plug is pulled and bodies are drained in a sudden, ejaculative excitement.
"Oh, oh, lover!" Liza groaned in her storm! "I'm coming!"
"Grab it, baby!" Tom rasped. "This is for you!"
A mighty, mind-boggling lunge propelled the candidate's cock into Liza's quivering cunt a final time. The scalding semen streaked through his tool and spurted from the vertical "eye" at the tip into the brown beauty's sex canal. Waves of pleasure washed over his sweaty body as, no longer of a mind to pump her pussy, he stilled his hard-working hips and shuddered through a vision blurring orgasm.
"Baby! Oh!" Liza moaned rapturously, arching her neck as she pressed the back of her head into the soft pillow, and with eyes closed, in slack, open-mouthed wonder, surrendered to the sublime sensations swirling madly inside her heated body.
She was crumbling like a sheet of paper. Her beautiful depraved demon. Her body was like a slab of butter left too long in the noonday sun. Her sticky, sweaty flesh was burning up, her bones were being pulled from their sockets.
Breathing hard, Tom spilled his seed into his wife's wildly contracting cunt and savored the feel of her own passion product as it washed over his dick. He dug his fingers into the pillow on either side of Liza's head and pressed his lips against the flesh of her neck.
And then, all too soon, it was over! The last of his gooey seed had been deposited into her hole of love. Tom emitted a sigh of satisfaction and rolled off her supple flesh and onto his back. Drained of all energy, he stretched out slowly and closed his eyes, surrendered to the sweet euphoria now suffusing him in the aftermath of the torrid tooling.
Free of her husband's weight, Liza took in large gulps of air as she restored her breathing to normal. Except for her hands, which now drifted down to the damp, tangled curls of her sex nest, there to commence a loving caress and her chest, which lifted and fell as she breathed deeply, her sated body remained almost motionless.
Another fantastic fuck, she thought, her mind still clouded by intensity of her climax. Every screwing with Tom was good! Some were exceptional! They were compatible to the tenth degree and it seemed that they were getting even better with age. It was simply marvelous to imagine what their sex life would be like in the years to come. If after nine years of marriage they still humped like honeymooners, then the future must hold a million untold delights.
Liza rested for a moment, then turned onto her left side and snuggled close to her husband.
She settled her head onto his strong shoulder and then, catching a glimpse of his wilted cock, brought one hand down to begin a gentle massage of his warm genitals.
"What are you up to now, baby?" Tom asked softly, a weary smile creeping over his face. "You're not ready for a second round, are you?"
Liza smiled. "I'm thanking my favorite tool for the good time it gave me. My vagina feels like it's been through a meat grinder."
"Have I asked you lately how come after nine years of good, solid screwing your twat is still so marvelously tight?"
"Not lately."
"It must be those vaginal exercises, huh?"
"A girl has to keep in condition for the man she loves. I'm sure you wouldn't enjoy sinking your pecker into a cunt that was loose and flabby."
"No I guess I wouldn't," Tom chuckled.
"You just keep your pretty pussy in A-1 condition for me, Mrs. Johnson, and you and I will get along all right."
"So you've decided to take me along to the Governor's Mansion, huh, sweetheart? I mean instead of that teenage trollop whose been trying to seduce you at headquarters."
"Well, it's like this, beautiful," Tom answered, bringing his right arm up over his head and then slowly swinging it around to gently embrace his wife, "I've decided that it would be very foolish of me to dispose of you now. I mean, here you are, all broken in and nicely trained to obey without question."
"What am I?" Liza asked, a puzzled smile on her face. "Some kind of a mare that's been tamed?"
"It would be such an effort to break in a new girl," Tom continued, trying not to grin.
"Now I can't be sure, of course, but I suspect that the little blonde doll who would like me in her panties is still a virgin. She flirts a helluva lot, but it just could be that if I called her bluff and tried to bust her cherry... well I'm not about to involve myself in such a hassle."
"Oh, you tease," Liza giggled, giving her husband's hairy balls a playful squeeze. "I know you so well it's almost ridiculous. You wouldn't cheat on me if... if it meant winning the election. You're just, not the type."
"You don't think so, huh?"
"I know so. You're a one woman man, darling. And that one woman happens to be little old me."
"I could change."
"Never. I trust you implicitly."
"Then you'll vote for me on Election Day." Liza smiled broadly. "Darling, I'd vote for you every day of the week-twice on Sunday."
Tom chuckled and then turned quiet. Deciding not to break the silence and still basking in the glow of the furious fuck recently ended, Liza snuggled even closer to her husband's hard, well-muscled body and continued toying with his limp tool and wrinkled scrotal sac.
Closing her eyes, she wondered if he could be persuaded to munch on her pussy for a little while-just long enough to give her a tiny come. Perhaps if she went down on him again, she thought, the taste of his tool still on her hps. Maybe...
"Hey, you know what I forgot?" Tom suddenly asked.
"I don't have the faintest idea, luv," Liza purred, sensuously squirming her velvety-smooth brown body against her white mate's hairy white one. "Is my virile hubby and the next Governor of this state becoming forgetful?"
"I forgot to ask what kind of a time you had at the movies."
"Oh, is that all?"
"Well, since you had to go alone because I was tied up with my speech the least-"
"I wasn't alone, hon," Liza interrupted. "Guess who I bumped into as I was waiting on line to purchase my ticket?"
"My opponent, Charles Smith."
Liza chuckled. "No, not quite. But you're not too far off the track."
"Was this person you met a male or female?" Tom asked, stroking his wife's arm.
"Both. I mean there was one of each."
.Tom thought for a moment, then said, "I give up, baby. Truth is, I can't think of two people, friends or foes, who share your passion for old Andrew Jackson movies."
"Well then you don't know your campaign manager very well, sweetheart."
"Frank? Was he there?"
"Yep that he was. In the company of a stunning black girl, I might add."
"Now how do you like that? I stay at home to study my speech and my campaign manager is out on the town. Just wait 'till I see him Monday morning."
"Oh, relax. This is Saturday night, honey. Frank's been working very hard for you these last several months and he's entitled to an occasional night out." Liza pause, then added. "And the girl he was out with is a real beauty. So beautiful, in fact, that it was with extreme difficulty I managed to control my envy."
Tom chuckled. "That would be Betty Wilson."
"Yes, I know. Mr. Leinz introduced us. Is it serious, hon, or is my favorite campaign manager just another one of those white men looking to lay a ravishing black chick?"
"Serious? Who the hell knows? Betty showed up at campaign headquarters ten days ago and volunteered to help man the phones. She and Frank hit it off immediately."
"I'll say they did. They couldn't keep their hands off each other. I got the impression that while I was trying to contain my envy, Frank Leinz and date were trying to contain the urge to strip and fuck-right on the ticket line."
"Well, that might not have been so bad. I mean a candidate is always interested in publicity."
"If it's that kind of publicity you want."
Liza smiled, "the next that you're addressing an audience I'll just saunter up on stage in my birthday suit. That should stir up a few votes for you, right darling?"
"Or cause a small riot," Tom grinned. "Listen, how about if before we go to sleep you give my speech a quick look. You know, just give it a�"
"Oh, boy, here we go again�back to business," Liza broke in.
"You did say you'd like to read it, hon. It was because I was fondling your twat that you didn't look at the speech earlier. You were teasing me and�"
"I remember, luv," Liza interrupted again, "and I do want to read what you're going to say to all those females Monday night. It's just that... well... "
"Well what?"
"In the interim I've come up with a better idea. We'll have all day tomorrow to review the speech, right? I mean we've made plans for the day so... so if you're not too tired now... "
"I'm beginning to catch on, baby," Tom said, a smile slipping across his face as he looked down toward his crotch. Although not yet ready to penetrate a pussy, his pecker was less limp now that it had been prior to his wife's crafty caresses. Another minute more of such attention and he'd be rock-hard and able to drill clear through a wooden door.
"Remember you asked me why I took so long in the bathroom?" Liza asked, she curled her fingers to make a fleshy funnel and then proceeded to pump her hubby's root, her hand moving up and down and up and down in a scintillating caress.
"I remember it well, beautiful," Tom grinned, swinging his left arm around and clamping a hand over the beautiful brown breast he had access to, the one not pressed warmly against his side.
"Well, my delay was due to the fact that I was primping for you."
"Is that a fact?"
"It is. I washed my pussy, powered my pussy, and perfumed my pussy. But sucking your cock got me so hot so fast that I didn't have time to tell you of my preparations."
"I forgive you," Tom said, trapping between two fingers the nipple of the boob he was fondling and pinching it carefully.
"The point, darling, is that I was hoping-"
"You were hoping I'd go down on you, right?"
Liza lifted her head up off her husband's shoulder and propped herself up with an elbow. "Would you mind, darling?" she asked, smiling tenderly into the rough-hewn', very attractive face that had spent more than a few pleasant moments plastered to her steaming snatch.
"You're a little messy down there now, aren't you?" Tom took his hand from his wife's spongy melon of flesh and brought it down to her crotch.
"Yep, we got a sticky, gooey twat on our hands, beautiful."
"I'll go and wash up," Liza said quickly, starting to spin away.
"Hey, where are you off to?" Tom said, grinning as he pulled his spouse back against him. "No need to clean up for me. A httle mixture of cunt juice and semen won't kill me."
"You're sure?"
"Positive. Now if you can tear your hand away from my prick we can get the show on the road."
Liza beamed. "Oh, darling, I love you so." No sooner had the brown-skinned lovely finished planting a wet, noisy kiss on her white hubby's cheek than she was rolling away from him onto her back, spreading her sleek legs wide apart and grabbing hold of her pliant boobs with both hands.
Tom clambered into proper pussy-licking position and bent to his task. As he commenced tonguing his wife's messy twat, he thought of the huge number of infants he'd have to kiss in his role of gubernatorial candidate. He didn't mind it, really, although the pleasure he derived from kissing kids fell far, far short of that which he derived from "doing" Liza.
In fact, there was no basis for comparison.
CHAPTER THREE
Frank Leinz was as eager to get in Betty Wilsons' panties as she was to have him there. Which was by no means surprising since Tom Johnson's thirty-three-year-old campaign manager had a passion for pussy that rivaled the lusty enthusiasm with which the world's most notorious lovers perused their paramours.
Rich or poor, tall or short, fashionably lean or enticingly plump, quick-witted or given to uttering silly, meaningless cliches, a girl stood an excellent chance with Frank. He had but two requirements; one, that the girl be reasonable pretty, two, that she enjoyed getting laid.
While he remained firm on the first, he was willing to overlook the latter. But only if the female in question was an exceptionally choice piece of tail, one whose figure bordered on the outrageously obscene. Then he was willing to forgive her, her inexperience and proceed with the messy, seldom satisfying business of defloration.
Because of his charming manner and clean good looks. Frank seldom encountered problems in his hot pursuit of pussy. Females flocked to his side and waited to be plucked, like ripe apples on a tree at harvest time.
He stood six feet one inch in his stocking feet and weighed in at a trim one hundred seventy-eight pounds. His female fans, of whom there were many, enjoyed running their fingers through his coal-black, curly hair and looking into his warm blue eyes. Only the ultra-conservative and shy were able to resist the temptation to hotly massage the bulge which would develop, in no time at all, the front of his trousers.
In recent months, Frank had become particularly interested in dark-skinned girls�not, course, to the exclusion of white females. Or Oriental maidens, a large number of whom he had managed to screw, learning in the process that beautiful Chinese women were not unlike Chinese food�one wanted more an hour later.
And it was this interest that had prompted him to launch a seduction schedule for Betty Wilson considerably less complicated than it was vigorous and hectic. He wanted it in the worst way, and the sooner he broke down the walls of her resistance the better. He was a man in a hurry to hump.
To his friend, Tom Johnson, Frank had excitedly expressed his wish to pick (read;screw) Miss Wilson' petals (read;pussy). She was, he thought, one of the most tempting females to ever wander into his seduction zone, and he was determined to test the resiliency of her pussy, and perhaps her posterior (oh, those taut, upthrust buttocks salaciously sheathed in a hip-hugging mini!), just as soon as possible.
Now after almost two weeks of determined effort, Frank was about to take a firm hold, a cockhold, on Betty's elusive cunt. To one accustomed to having his way with a woman almost immediately, sometimes hours after meeting her, Betty had proven to be a formidable challenge. And Frank had spent a few uneasy minutes during the last few days wondering if his prey was a virgin.
Not that he really thought such a thing possible. Even if, up to this moment, she had fended him off with a light chuckle and a "now, now, naughty boy, don't touch the merchandise," he found it difficult to imagine her with hymen intact. Surely someone, at sometime or other, had deflowered Miss Wilson.
The two things which made Betty's virginity seem as plausible as the thought that the Atlantic Ocean would one day run dry, were her age and her fantastic sex appeal. She was a truly tempting twenty-seven-years-old whose physical charms were readily apparent to all but the blind.
Betty was a dark-skinned delight, a black beauty whose body beckoned the touch of strong male hands. Her shoulder-length black hair, which framed a soft-featured face, was always carefully combed and contributed to the over-all picture of a female who took pride in her appearance and kept herself well-groomed at all times.
She was about five feet five inches in height, had eyes the color of cinnamon, and, when provocatively attired in tight, breast-molding sweater and equally tight, fanny-hugging mini, displayed to admiring males a form that was nothing short of fuckable.
So, considering Betty's age and natural beauty, Frank had at last reached the not unhappy conclusion that, while she didn't seem to be the promiscuous type, neither was she chained to the notion that nice girls don't screw.
And now, as he slowly broke the kiss he had started a full minute ago, hard-working, hard-playing public relations genius, currently managing the political campaign of his best friend, was willing to wager a year's pay that tonight was the night. Having wined and dined the delightful Betty at a frenzied pace, he was now about to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
"Mmmm, that was nice," she purred, reinforcing his belief that she was as ready as he was to get down to the serious business of screwing. "I like the way you kiss, Frank. It's obvious that you've had a great deal of experience."
Frank smiled. "A little. Tell me, did you enjoy the dinner and movie tonight?" Throwing caution to the wind, he placed his right hand on Betty's right knee and began inching it up her smooth leg.
"Oh, aren't you the clever one, Mr. Leinz�trying to distract me while you work on my weakness."
"Your weakness?"
Betty nodded and squirmed her succulent seat on Frank's living room sofa. "I have a weakness for strong, handsome men�especially white men."
"I'm not sure I would have guessed it," Frank said, slipping his hand under Betty's flaming red mini-skirt as he continued worming his way toward her pantied-twat. The feel of his wandering hand on her warm, satiny-smooth black thigh was causing his pecker to stir, to attempt to lengthen and thicken in the hot confines of his jockey briefs.
"Why do you say that?" Betty asked, making no move to remove the hand, now just inches from her crotch, from under her short skirt.
Frank smiled. "Because we've been dating for almost two weeks and only now do you seem interested. I was almost beginning to wonder if you weren't just a tease. You kept resisting my attempts to seduce you and... "
"Oh, you're funny," Betty chuckled. "You say two weeks as if it were two years. My goodness, you didn't expect me to just lie down and spread my legs, did you? A girl wants to know a little something about a man before she�ooo, that feels nice, baby."
"You were saying, sweetheart?"
"I was-mmmm, oh, Frank-ohhh... " Betty lifted up off the sofa, allowing Frank's tantalizing hand free access to her pantied pussy. Another soft moan of approval wafted up from her lovely throat when his fingers slid under her covered crotch and, with the palm of his hand, he began a slow, meaningful massage of her snatch.
"You were telling me about this weakness," Frank reminded the beautiful black female at his side, the prospect of climbing aboard her squirming nakedness clouding his mind with an ever increasing lust.
"I was not," Betty protested meekly, not bothering to lower the skirt now riding high on her succulent black thighs. "I'm trying to, to tell you that I'm not an easy lay. Some white men think that all black women are, ooooo, baby, do you know what you're doin' to me?"
"Turning you on?" Frank asked, grinning.
"That's putting it mildly," Betty answered, as she began grinding her covered cunt up into the hand ministering to it with such deliciously wicked skill. "You're, you're starting a fire down there, you lovely man."
"Well I've got just the hose we need to put that fire out, baby," Frank cracked, a faintly evil expression basking on his carefully-crafted, fine-featured face.
While keeping the pressure on her cunt with his right hand, he used his left to lower the zipper of his fly and drag out his semi-hard cock. Freed from the restricting confines of the jockey briefs, his excited pecker quickly jerked to total tumescence. It jutted up from the opening in his beige trousers like a miniature flagpole, a throbbing column of blood-gorged, white flesh ready to be buried in the warm, willing body of a beautiful black girl.
Congratulating himself on his decision to ply Betty with considerably more liquor than she was accustomed to, he reached for her hand and brought it to his pulsating prick. Her fingers curled around the meaty member and she gripped it hotly. Through eyes somewhat glazed she stared down at the normal sized but powerful organ, as if trying to imagine how it would feel when snugly encased in her syrupy vagina.
"Someone is excited," she observed a few seconds later, turning her gaze to Frank's face.
"And that someone is you, baby," Frank grinned, "Either that or you're peeing in your pants."
"Don't be vulgar, handsome. I know what-mmmmm-I know what you did to me during dinner."
"And what did I do, sweetheart?" Frank asked, his voice thickening. He slipped his fingers under the hem of Betty's panties and, pushing the garment out, away from her warm flesh, began to tickle her leaking twat.
"You knew that sooner or later�ohh, heavens, you're driving me crazy!"
"Stroke my prick, Betty," Frank ordered, snuggling even closer to the ravishing black girl and nuzzling his face in her lustrous black tresses.
"All that booze�it was bound to catch up with me. You knew that, didn't you? You knew I get... ohhh, so good... I get very sexy when I drink."
"I knew no such thing" Frank said, whispering in Betty's ear.
"Yes, you did, you crafty character. And now�now I'm all hot and bothered and�oh, Frank, do it to me. Get my clothes off and fuck holy hell outta me."
Frank didn't have to be asked a second time. Requests such as the one just uttered by the aroused Miss Wilson, who had relinquished her strong grip on his rock hard cock and was now, with the aid of both hands, peeling off her damp white panties as she lifted her Curvaceous ass off the sofa, were never ever to be ignored.
No sooner had Betty bared her loins than she was taking hold of Frank's hand and jamming it back between her smooth, black thighs, softly moaning her approval as she worked that hand up and down and all around her steaming snatch. She smiled wickedly at the handsome white man soon to pleasure her pussy with a vigorous reaming, then looked down at the pulsing tool he would use for said reaming.
This was the way to end a date, Frank thought happily. How better to end an evening than with a desirable chunk of femininity asking for a fierce fuck, sitting next to you on your sofa, her short, sexy skirt hiked high on tier warm thighs, a look of lust lining her beautiful face as she hotly massaged her cock hungry cunt with one of your hands? Hot damn, but he was going to pound her senseless!
He would fuck this black beauty until she begged mercy. Until, in a paraxysm of mind-bending ecstasy, she swore off black men forever. But if he didn't get it in her soon he'd shoot his load all over the place. He could see it now, the semen jetting from his jerking prick and forming a lewd, viscious arc in the air before landing on his living room rug. What a waste.
"Come on, baby," he said excitedly, looking down at the panties banded around her knees. "Let's fuck."
"Yes, oh yes," Betty whimpered hotly. "I'm so hot, so very hot, I need to be fucked so badly."
Frank pried his hand from the black girl's sizzling snatch and bounced up to his feet. He quickly began shedding his clothes, working like a man with a time limit as he hurriedly removed his loosened tie, his yellow shirt and white T-shirt. He tossed the garments onto a nearby hassock and then bent to untie his shoelaces. He kicked out of his black loafers and then, straightening, quickly unbuckled the belt supporting his slacks.
Betty was a close second in this race to see who could strip the fastest. She was now on her feet and fumbling furiously with buttons, her lush black body in anxious quiver as she rushed to remove all that stood between her and complete nudity. Eyes wide with excitement, she peeled out of her cream-colored sweater and threw it onto the sofa, next to the damp-at-crotch panties she had place there less than a minute ago, removing them while still seated.
Already bare-assed naked, his blood packed prick protruding from his hairy loins, quivering like a divining rod close to water, Frank placed his hands on his hips and waited impatiently. He watched Betty step out of her red mini and fling the almost obscene garment onto the sofa.
Soon now, very soon, his eyes would feast on her luscious black body. She was reaching back to undo the clasp of her white brassiere, to bare her boobs to his lustful gaze. And when her garter belt and stockings were removed she'd be as naked as the day she was born. And considerably more entrancing.
Although darker in color, Betty was somewhat like Liza Johnson, Frank thought. Liza was a bit taller and perhaps slimmer, yet like Betty she had soft facial features and a body that could provoke an erection for all but the blind and hopelessly impotent. Both possessed enchanting smiles, both radiated charm, and both made a man very willing to accept as true the statement "black is beautiful."
Liza, now there was one good-looking broad. Not only was she downright desirable, she was also intelligent, an attribute one found too seldom in truly ravishing women. She had a nicely developed sense of humor, which, when coupled to her intelligence and sex appeal, made Liza Johnson a very nice dish to set before a king. Or for that matter, a pauper.
It was more than a little ludicrous to start thinking about his best friend's wife at this moment, Frank told himself. Not that he should be thinking about her at all. Yet such was his interest in women, and lately dark-skinned women, that time and again, in spite of himself, he found Liza creeping into his mind.
Which perhaps wasn't too strange since she was, in the words of one of the more uncouth young men who did clerical work at campaign headquarters, "a great lookin' piece of ass." But it was certainly unfair to Tom Johnson, a man he considered not only a fine choice to run the state but also, and of equal importance, a man he loved like a brother.
But those lingering questions would dart into his mind unbidden. How was Liza in bed? Did she like to suck cock and gulp down the cream as it spurted into her mouth? And what of Liza's delectable derriere? Had Tom buried his bone in his wife's choice backside? What did Liza's twat smell like? Taste like? Enough! He had no intention of ever finding out the answers to those wicked questions, Frank reminded himself. Liza belonged to Tom and that was that. And how foolish it was of him to feel envy. Tom had Liza but he had a host of panting chicks just waiting to wallow in sex with him. And at the moment there was Betty, bare-assed naked now and waiting impatiently for him to comment on her nakedness.
"You like?" she asked finally, a sexy smile brightening her black face.
"Beautiful, baby," Frank answered. "Turn around and let me see the back."
Betty turned and said, "I thought maybe you weren't too pleased since you looked and didn't... "
"I was thinking, sweetheart," Frank broke in, his wandering eyes resting for a moment on the tantalizing, upthrust tail of the gorgeous black girl. Suddenly he had an idea.
"About me, I hope."
"You bet," Frank lied. He would fuck her from behind, he decided, animal-style. He'd take this beautiful black bitch in what some figured must have been the position used by lovers before missionaries turned up and decreed it bestial. That way he would be able to enjoy the sensuous feel of her saucy fanny as she thrust it back against his pounding prick.
"What you see is what you get, baby," Betty cracked turning around to face her new white lover. Her eyes dropped immediately to his pulsating prick and a dozen tiny darts of desire stabbed her quivering cunt.
"And I like what I see, baby," Frank husked. His passion, which had simmered while he dwelt on Liza Johnson, was once again at the boiling point. "Come on, let's get in the bedroom."
"Here, let's do it right here," Betty said stopping Frank in his tracks. "I'll be exciting. You know, something out of the ordinary."
Frank, hesitated only a second. "All right, baby, it makes no difference to me. But we screw my way."
A faint frown appeared on Betty's face. "I-I don't go in for anything perverted. If you're thinking of... "
"Nothing perverted, baby," Frank interrupted. At least not yet, he added to himself.
"Well then what is it you want, Frank?"
"Here; I'll show you." The public relations expert and satyric charmer moved quickly to Betty and took hold of her left arm. He steered her over to the large tan hassock and then, with a swipe of his hand, knocked the clothes off the hassock.
"You want me on that?" a still puzzled Betty queried.
Frank nodded. "Uh huh. On your hands and knees, sweetheart. We're to do it doggie-style."
"Woof!" Betty barked. "Woof, woof, woof."
"All right, baby, let's stop the clowning."
"Hop onto the sofa like a good doggie, you mean," Betty grinned. Frank stepped back and watched as the curvaceous black female positioned herself on the large hassock. A shy smile spread across his face when he remembered all the action his hassock had seen. It was a sturdy piece of furniture, comfortable but strong, and able to support without trouble the weight of a naked beauty.
Every girl he dated was sure to wind up on the hassock at least once. And when properly positioned, her taut ass sticking up and out as if it were an obscene offering, she would receive a riotous reaming of either her sex chute or shit chute.
It would be tremendously thrilling, Frank thought, to punch his pecker into Betty's delectable, black bottom, to hear her tremulous moans of pleasure-pain as he sawed in and out of her hot nether passage. Betty's ass was designed to be dicked. That simple fact could not be disputed.
Unfortunately, tonight wouldn't be the night that he planted his prick in her impudent behind. Since Betty had expressed her dislike for anything but normal intercourse, he would have to lead her along, slowly and patiently, until she was willing to accept some of those sexual practices she termed "perversion."
"How's this, Frank?" Betty asked, looking back over her shoulder. "Am I all right now?" Frank grinned. "You're more than all right, sugar. You're damn near perfect."
"Do it to me, baby. Slip your beautiful white cock into me from behind. My twat is leaking something awful."
"I'll plug it for you, sweetheart," Frank promised, stepping up into position behind the beautiful black girl provocatively perched on the large hassock. "I'll plug it good."
Betty squirmed slightly and looked down at the hassock. While she didn't like to be penetrated anally or engage in oral sex, she was not at all averse to getting fucked in different positions. And so she was looking forward to getting humped on the hassock. It was going to be exciting, she figured. And certainly novel. Frank spent a moment caressing Betty's back and shapely hips, savoring the velvety-soft texture of her coal-black skin as his hands roamed slowly up and down and all around. Then, clamping his hands on her hips, he aligned cock with pulsing pussy and thrust forward.
"Ooooo, it's good," Betty crooned happily as Frank's rock hard bone slid wetly up into her needy cunt. "It's filling me all up, lover. You're stuffing me with prick.
"You're tight, baby," Frank said thickly. "Nice and tight."
"Give it to me good. Sock it to me."
Having waited for this moment for almost two weeks, Frank was more than willing to comply with the black girl's lewd request. He tightened his grip on Betty's hips and withdrew his pulsing prick until only the bulbous head remained sheathed in her clasping cunt, then pushed back inside the heavenly warm of her love cave.
"Yesss... oh, yesss," Betty hissed. "In and out, in and out."
As his white fingers dug into the resilient flesh of Betty's smooth black hips, Frank withdrew his pecker and then, seconds later, plunged back into her gripping, butter-soft sex chute. And it wasn't long before he established a steady rhythm, his hips moving methodically back and forth, back and forth, as he fucked at a carefully measured pace.
"Oh, I love it, Frank," Betty moaned.
"Don't ever stop screwing it into me."
"Don't wriggle around so much, baby. You'll fall off."
"Never. I'm staying on here until you hump me dizzy."
Frank emitted a husky chuckle. He remembered the last female he had fucked while she perched on his hassock, a stunning, blue-eyed blonde whose passion for prick bordered on the nymphomaniacal. He could not now recall her name, but it would be a long time before he forgot how, in the middle of it they wound up on the carpeted floor.
"Hump me honey," Betty cried out. "Hump this black girl to the stars."
"I'll hump you, baby," Frank promised. His voice thickened by lust."
"You just hang on tight."
The cunt loving campaign manager gradually increased the tempo of the doggie-style fuck. Still moving easily, smoothly, he sawed in and out of the black female's slushy sex canal from behind, his hairy balls slapping up against her warm crotch on every forceful in-stroke.
She had the kind of cunt he favored, he thought. Betty's sex chute was neither too tight nor too loose, which fact substantiated what she implied earlier; namely, that while she was far removed from a virginal state, she did not proffer her pussy to all those who requested it.
"Harder, honey," Betty whimpered happily.
"Push it way up to my tits."
"Who's in charge here?" Frank rasped. Betty hesitated, surprised by the sudden irritation reflected in her partner's voice. "Y-You are, baby," she stammered.
"Right. And you won't forget it, will you?"
"N-No... of course not."
"I'm the boss, correct?"
"You're the boss, Frank." It took Betty a few seconds to catch on but then it became very clear to her exactly what Frank had in mind. He wanted to play a game, she realized, a somewhat sinister, sexy game. The idea had apparently come to him in a flash, and now he wanted to heighten his pleasure via this wicked amusement.
It was a game she had played before, not all that often and with only her white screwing partners. Black males had no interest in this sort of thing, which was not at all surprising when one considered the sad history of the black race. But more than a few white men were fond of acting out their prejudices with a pretty black female.
And apparently, even though he was running the political campaign of a man who seemed eminently fair and unbiased, Mr. Frank Leinz had his share of prejudice. Or maybe he was just in the mood to extract from his screwing partner a note of humility. In any event, for lack of a better name she called the game "master and slave."
"So you like white cock, do you?" Frank was asking. "Stiff and throbbing white cock?"
"Y-Yes... yes, I do," Betty answered meekly, slipping quickly into the role of the hapless black female being banged by a cruel and powerful white man. "I love white cock. I love it."
"And you're getting it, black bitch," Frank growled. "My cock's buried in your black belly."
Fuck me, white man," Betty pleaded, looking back over her right shoulder. "Fuck this black bitch good."
Bending over, Frank slipped his hands around and under Betty's quivering black body and clamped them over her jiggling boobs. He continued humping her from behind, his blood-gorged pecker trundling up into her sodden vagina as he started squeezing her succulent mammaries.
"How's this, baby?" he husked, much of his weight now resting on Betty's back. "I'm squeezing your boobs."
"Do it, lover," Betty breathed hotly. "Rough me up. Pinch the nipples and-oww!"
"Like that, sweetheart?"
"Ohhh, it hurts... the pain is awful."
"You love it, black bitch."
"Yes I love it," Betty whimpered. "Hurt my tits, white man. Bruise me. Fuck my cunt and-oww!" Later, upon reflection, Frank would wonder what in heaven's name had gotten into him. He would remind himself that he most certainly wasn't a sadist�he enjoyed loving women, not hurting them�and decide that this sudden urge to defile Betty had been just one of those strange things that defied explanation.
But at the moment he was thoroughly enjoying his role of satanic white male, bumping his turgid tool up into Betty's slushy womanhood with a wicked determination as he mauled her spongy mammaries. The feel of her warm, black body, her all-fours position, the possibility that sometime soon he'd be plunging his prick into her impudent backside instead of her clinging cunt�all this combined to keep his lust at a fever pitch.
As for Betty, she only hoped that Frank wouldn't carry the game too far. She was enjoying the fuck, the throbbing fullness of Frank's rock hard organ as it thundered up into her pulsating pussy, the animal-like sounds of pleasure that accompanied by labored breathing, were driven from his throat with each mean plunge into her vulnerable vagina.
She even liked the way he was treating her tits. He was yanking them hard, pulling and twisting those spongy melons of flesh as if determined to wrench them from her chest. It wasn't all that painful and, in fact, was rather thrilling. She just didn't want Frank to get carried away and force her to do something that would cause her real discomfort. She had enough trouble keeping that bastard, George Kreske, at bay.
CHAPTER FOUR
George Kreske was one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the state and some said the most bigoted. He was a large, robust man, weighing a firm two hundred and sixty pounds standing tall at six feet three inches. Although pushing sixty, he had the stamina and enthusiasm of one half his age, a fact he was quick to remind his subordinates when they suggested, or implied, that he should go slower perhaps retire altogether.
Kreske fumed at the very mention of the word "retire," the thought of it alone was enough to start his blood boiling. He would work until he dropped, period. That was how he wanted it and that was how it would be. Never would he allow himself to be put to pasture like an overaged bull, to waste away in boring mind-numbing retirement while young eager-beavers helped themselves to a large slice of his pie.
No, that wasn't for him, Kreske thought, comfortably ensconced now in his favorite leather armchair. He had invested much too much time and energy to sit back now and, watch less capable men divide among themselves all that he had busted his balls to achieve. For him, retirement would be akin to suicide. In a personal as well as business sense.
It was like giving up, throwing in the towel, publicly proclaiming your inability to function intelligently any more. A guy couldn't cut the mustard any more and so he got out while the getting was good, while all around him greedy, power-hungry, overaged teenagers in blue business suits licked their chops and prepared to invade the financial empire he had struggled to build.
"Well shit on that" Kreske cursed aloud, shifting his bulk a little in the brown armchair. He'd be damned if he would permit even talk of a takeover while he was still alive. When he was dead, after he had been stuffed in that box and while the worms were crawling all over his decaying flesh, then and only then could his sly subordinates sink their collective fangs into his empire.
But they had a helluva long time to wait, he thought, an almost wicked smile creeping across his rough-hewn face. He still had some good years left. A lot of them, in fact. And he was going to derive some very sweet pleasure from watching his "friends" chafe at the bit while he went on and on and on.
Hell, he might even be around another forty years. That would make him one hundred, a nice round figure that. There was no reason in the world to think that he wouldn't make it to the century mark, either. No reason whatsoever.
He was still as strong as an ox. Didn't Doc Joe marvel at his physique everytime he visited the old codger's office? Gabe tootin' he did. And as far as his mental condition was concerned, well, he was as sharp now, if not sharper, than when he graduated college some thirty-seven years ago.
With what closely resembled a smirk on his large, not unattractive face, Kreske pushed himself up out of the armchair and moved toward his bar, a handsome piece of furniture that took up almost half of one wall in the living room. He quickly fixed himself a potent scotch-on-the-rocks, then eased his bulk onto one of the six black barstools fronting the bar.
He took a healthy gulp of the drink and then, with his free hand, stroked the carefully-trimmed Vandyke concealing his chin. Seconds later, after ingurgitating more scotch and smacking his thick lips, he was toying with the mustache he had grown after being told, by one of the few people he trusted, that the Vandyke alone detracted from his attractiveness.
Yes, the key word was "sharp," he thought, resuming contemplation of his health, the vast the unwanted retirement bring thrust upon him by business associates as well as by those subordinates he knew to be brilliant but power-hungry bastards, and matters relating to all three.
One had to have his wits about him in this day and age. Drop your guard for a minute and you had a peck of trouble. Everybody and his brother-in-law was out to do you in, to steal what they could while your back was turned. Especially those filthy blacks.
They were at the heart of the problem, th e real reason America was falling apart at the seams. Together with those jabbering Puerto Ricans, the niggers were taking over the whole damn country. With the help of lily-livered liberals in Congress, who seemed determined to shove integration down everybody's throat, the blacks and the spies were moving all over the country, spreading like a dread disease.
It was the niggers who were responsible for all the rapes and muggings and bank robberies. They were lazy, they were cheats, they were liars, and the sooner they were taken off the welfare rolls and shipped back to Africa the better. The nigger was nothing but a jungle bunny, anyway. He belonged in Africa. Not in a civilized country.
It was a cryin' shame, Kreske thought, slipping off the barstool and moving back to his favorite chair. This damn nation was goin' to the dogs, and if something wasn't done pretty damn soon America would be known as the land of the lazy and the home of the blacks.
Kreske settled himself into the leather armchair and took another slug of the scotch. Shaking his head in dismay, he made a silent vow to continue the fight against what he believed were the evils afflicting America. He was going to stay where he was, right here in this magnificent twenty-room estate, and continue managing his affairs.
Those crafty coons weren't going to chase him out. Sweat, blood and tears had made him what he was today, and if necessary, he would sweat some more, bleed some more, and shed a few more tears to keep what rightfully belonged to him. He would wield what power he had to keep the niggers out of the state, one his great, great grandfather had helped put on the map.
Kreske was working on his third drink an hour later when the sound of the door chimes intruded on his thoughts. He was not at all surprised to see David Einstein, the man whose arrival he had been awaiting while he pondered the problems facing his empire, the state, and the nation. It was with Einstein's help that he intended to save the state from a takeover by gutless, over-educated liberals who, he believed, were hell bent on destroying democracy and rendering impotent the very idea of private enterprise and freedom of choice.
After exchanging pleasantries with the fellow millionaire, Kreske and Einstein had a drink and then suggested that they get down to business. Einstein settled himself into a comfortable modern chair near the fireplace while Kreske deposited his bulk in the brown leather armchair once again.
The two had known each other for almost twelve years but neither regarded the other as a friend. It wasn't that they disliked or feared each other, on the contrary, they had closed many an important business deal with a congratulatory drink, but their different philosophies of life made it virtually impossible for them ever to become close.
David Einstein was a lanky six footer with close-cropped brown hair and brown eyes. At forty-nine, he was ten years Kreske's junior. He was an easy going individual with a quick smile, a man always willing to lend support, financial as well as moral, to those who needed toward the man with whom he occasionally engaged in important business ventures. It bothered him to realize that Einstein had accumulated his wealth with comparative ease, whereas he had to start from scratch and claw his way to the top.
How difficult was it, Kreske would ask himself, to become a millionaire when you had inherited a tidy sum to begin with. It certainly wasn't like starting at the bottom of the heap and battling your way to the top. All you had to do was stay and resist the temptation to relax.
In all fairness, however, he had to admit that Einstein had done just that. The man was nobody's fool�not by a long shot. He had taken the money left him by his father and through shrewd business investments, parlayed his inheritance into a fortune within the space of eight years.
That alone made him deserving of respect, Kreske thought. Unlike a few other millionaires he knew, Einstein didn't squander his money on idiotic, highly speculative deals. He was cautious, careful not to overplay his hand, yet he was a decisive individual, one who stood his ground when the going got tough.
He was unafraid and he could be trusted. And it was because of this, plus the fact that, like him, Einstein had cause to be concerned about the health of the state's economy, he had phoned his fellow millionaire and suggested this evening's chat. Together they might be able to do something to arrest the disease of liberalism now destroying the state.
"Well, I suppose you're wondering why I invited you here tonight, Einstein" Kreske began, running a hand through his shaggy, graying mass of hair and fixing his steel gray eyes on the younger man.
Einstein took a sip of his scotch and smiled. "I'm curious, I'll admit that, George. In all the years we've known each other I don't think I've been here more than three times. Whatever's buggin' you must be mighty important."
"You're damn right it's important. I can't think of anything that's more important than survival."
"I'd be inclined to agree with you, George.
But what's it have to do with you and me?"
"Plenty. I suppose you've given some thought to the upcoming election."
Einstein nodded. "Quite a bit, as a matter of fact."
"And?"
"And I'm still uncommitted. I'm very much impressed by both Johnson and Smith and I can't decide between them. They're very much alike, really. Both are honest, hard-working young men with a genuine concern for the country as a whole and the state in particular." Kreske frowned. "Haven't you forgotten a couple of candidates?"
"You mean Buchanan and Hughes?"
"Yeah. What's wrong with those two? I think either one of them would be a credit to the state. What we need today is a tough law and order man who won't take any crap from a minority group. That's why either Buchanan or Hughes."
"George, you can't be serious," Einstein broke in. "I can't believe you'd vote for, well, on second thought maybe I can. But you'd be doing the state you say you love a great disservice."
"Like hell, man," Kreske growled, his booming baritone filling the living room. "What this state needs is a man like Buchanan or Hughes at the helm. And heaven knows I'm doin' everything in my power to get one of them elected."
"Campaign contributions?"
Kreske nodded. "I've given Buchanan and Hughes close to a hundred thousand apiece." Einstein shook his head. "You're a fool, George. Not only are you wasting your money, you're putting your personal prejudices ahead of what you know in your heart is best for the state. Buchanan and Hughes are both racists, the worst kind of racists, if there is such a thing."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"They're opportunists, George," Einstein answered in an exasperated tone of voice. "Surely you can see that. In Buchanan and Hughes you have a dishonorable duo whose appeal is to man's most basic instincts.
They're a greedy, power-hungry pair trying to take advantage of what they feel is the sentiment of a frustrated electorate. Both are unscrupulous egotists willing to pit man against man, black against white, in their frenzied search for votes."
"They're telling it like it is," Kreske argued stubbornly.
They're telling it like they want it to be," Einstein countered. "Elect either one of these bigots and it'll mean the ruination of this state. All Buchanan and Hughes are interested in is the prestige and authority that goes with the Governor's job, and to that end they're willing to confuse and divide the people."
"The people are confused and divided right now, Einstein. Hell, man, can't you see what's happening in this state? We're being besieged by a horde of bleeding-heart liberals and their nigger friends. Buchanan and Hughes can see what's goin' on. They're trying to wake the people up and make em realize that unless we stop the nigger now, stop him cold, this state will be all black in another ten years."
"George, you're talkin crazy."
"I'm talkin sense, fella, the handwriting is on the wall. "You really believe that, don't you?"
"Damn right I believe it" Einstein shook his head and then downed more of his drink. "Well, George, it's obvious that the majority of people in this state disagree with you. According to the most recent poll, Buchanan and Hughes are both far behind Smith and Johnson. So it would seem that, unlike you, most people intend to vote the man and not their prejudices."
"And they're goin' to regret it," Kreske snapped.
"Regret not electing a man who fosters hatred, a man trying to capitalize on the fear of a few? Rubbish. To their great credit, the people of this state are obviously more concerned about the future than they are about the past. They're interested in a man's qualifications, George, not rhetoric designed to inflame base passions. They want peace, not war, and they're smart enough to realize that electing either Buchanan or Hughes Governor will set this state back fifty years if not more."
"And I suppose the election of a guy like Smith will be symbolic of progress."
"He's a very capable man, George. He's an intelligent, forward-looking young man whose concern for this state is genuine. He had no ulterior motive, no personal ax to grind. Like Tom Johnson, Charles Smith is interested only in contributing to the state's progress, to its continued growth as a... "
"He's a nigger!" Kreske shouted, pounding his ham-like fist on the arm of the leather chair. A no good uppity nigger who went and married a white woman."
"Johnson's wife is black, George. What do you make of that?"
"Yeah, sure she is. And it didn't surprise me one little bit when he introduced her to the voters. Hell Smith and Johnson are two of a kind. They're goin' to shove integration down our throats even if we choke on it," Kreske shook his head angrily. "Brother, if this isn't one pathetic situation. I never thought I'd live to see the day when two lily-livered liberals, one white with a black wife, the other black with a white wife, would be competing against each other for high office. It's a cryin' shame, that's what it is."
"Well, George, I'm afraid you're going to have to accept it. This is the twentieth century and neither you nor anyone else can turn back the clock. You're just going to have to learn to adjust to the changing times. There's nothing you can do or say that will influence the electorate."
"Says who? You're forgetting that my words carry considerable weight in this state, Einstein. My power to influence isn't anything to scoff at, you know. It might surprise you to learn that I've had dinner with every member of the state legislature at least once. And if you think back you'll remember that it was my...
"Oh, come on, George, knock it off," Einstein interrupted. "You know as well as I do that the value of your so-called influence is next to nothing. When you get right down to the nitty-gritty, it's worth a few oh's and ah's at a cocktail party. Nothing more or less."
Kreske stared hard at Einstein. "You think so, huh?"
"I know so, George. Look, I've got almost as much pull, if you want to call it that, as you have. I'm on friendly terms with many important men in high places. But what's it all mean, George? It's good for our egos, that's all. Sure, we can get a traffic ticket fixed for a friend, and maybe we can persuade the right people to consider our interests when it comes time to grant building permits or change zoning laws. But our wealth doesn't place us outside the law. Should either one of us commit a serious crime, you can be damn sure the same people who helped us would be among the first to condemn us. And that's how it should be."
"I'm not talking' about breaking any law," Kreske argued. "I just want to convince the people of this state that it would be suicide to elect either Smith or Johnson. If I can persuade the right people to speak out against those two, then maybe it isn't too late for Buchanan or Hughes. The election is still two months away."
"You've already thrown away two hundred thousand dollars and now you want to waste time, too. Believe me, George, the people won't stand for any kind of smear campaign directed at either Smith or Johnson. They're interested in the issues and the qualifications of the candidates. They won't be swayed by your opinion, no matter how much you rant and rave. He moved toward his bar and then returned with two fresh drinks, handed one to Einstein and then eased himself back into the armchair. He took a sip of his scotch and then smiled.
"You might be right, Einstein. Maybe the people don't respect me enough to value my opinion. But if I had something concrete, some hard facts to give to them�well, then they might sit up and start listening. And the next step after that would be a re-examination of Mr. Smith and Mr. Johnson.
Einstein's brow furrowed. "Am I reading you right, George? Are you trying to dig up something to discredit those two?"
Kreske gulped down a bit more scotch. "That's it, isn't it? Well, knowing you as I do can't say that I'm too surprised. But I think you're stooping pretty low."
"Somebody's got do something to rid this state of undesirables, Einstein. I was hopin' that you and I could reach some sort of an agreement on this thing and decide on a proper course of action. But I realize now that I was dead wrong. Like too many others, you've been tricked into thinking that a solution to the world's woes rests in a liberal political philosophy. So I guess I'll have to go it alone."
"What did you do, George?" Einstein asked, "hire a private detective to dig into Johnson's background? Or is it Smith you're out to get?"
"I'm not out to get anybody. But it wouldn't surprise me to learn that one or the other, and maybe both, are card-carrying Communists. And if that's so, then the people should know about it."
"That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard all year, George, I'm beginning to think your business associates are right when they suggest you consider retiring. I think the pressures of running a multi-million dollar corporation are catching up with you. A good long rest might help."
"Don't start givin' me that crap. Einstein," Kreske broke in. "I'm as physically fit and clear-headed now as I've ever been. It's the health of this state that bothers me. I refuse to stand around and do nothing while a nigger-loving, big-spending liberal brain washes the people into thinking themselves no good if they favor a separation of the races."
"Nobody is brain washing anybody, George. All you'll wind up doing is enhancing your reputation as a well-heeled bigot and a loud one at that."
"If a bigot is someone who standup and fights for what he believes, someone with guts who isn't afraid to speak out against those trying, to turn this country into another Africa, then that's exactly what I am. The good people of this state deserve the best, Einstein. All I'm trying to do is avert a disaster."
"George, there's just no point in arguing with you. You're entitled to your opinions of course, but to go and hire a detective in the hope that he'll unearth some juicy information which can be used to smear a candidate you oppose�well, I call that sinking pretty low. In fact, if what you're up to ever reached a reporter's ears, it could cost you in terms of status in the business community. When a man in your position attempts to promote his personal prejudices."
"I'm not doin' anything of the sort, Einstein," Kreske broke in angrily., "and don't start lecturing me on what I can and cannot do, hear? It was only to protect the honest hardworking people of this state that I put that black bitch on Johnson's tail."
"Black bitch? Who are you talking about?"
Regaining his composure, Kreske answered in what for him was a soft tone of voice. "Her name's Wilson, Betty Wilson. She's a good-looking black broad I met at a party."
"I thought you said that you'd hired... "
"I never said that, Einstein. You just assumed it."
For the first time since his arrival a broad grin blanketed Einstein's tanned, angular face.
"Well aren't you the hypocrite, George Kreske? Apparently your hatred of blacks doesn't include beautiful black females. How long have you been fooling around with this chick, anyway?"
"I'm not fooling around with her, Einstein," Kreske stated firmly, as visions of Betty, bare-assed naked, danced in his head. While it was true that he had yet to screw the dark-skinned lovely, it was only because she rejected his amorous advances. The thought of fucking her saucy fanny filled his mind more often than he cared to admit, and although his efforts had so far proved futile he was determined to ream her rectum before she departed the scene.
"Come on George. Who are you trying to kid? I'll bet the broad is living right here and her host is humping her silly."
"You're wrong on both counts. The girl has her own apartment and I haven't touched her. You think I'd risk gettin' a venereal disease just for the chance to come in some black slut's body? Not on your life."
"I think I'll withhold comment on that, George." Einstein said, a skeptical smile on his face. "But what interests me is why she's working for you."
"She needs money," Kreske explained curtly. "She wants to go to New York and study acting."
"And you're backing her, huh?"
"Yeah, but only if she completes her end of the bargain. She's going to find out what she can about Tom Johnson, then I'm going to have her do a study on Smith." Kreske paused, chuckled. "The brazen broad comes right up to me at this party and just about asks for a handout. That's a nigger for you, arrogant as all get out."
"So you struck up a bargain with her. Money to pay for her trip to New York and acting lessons in exchange for whatever she brings you in the way off incriminating details. That's more than a little underhanded for a man who prides himself on his honesty."
"The time has come to pull out all the stops, Einstein. That's what I've been trying to get across to you. I've got to work fast because the election is right around the corner. The sooner this dame gets those skeletons out of the closet, the sooner I can begin showing the people how very unwise it would be to elect either Johnson or Smith. And when the voters realize they're being duped, Buchanan and Hughes' stock will soar."
"Let me remind you, George, that contrary to popular opinion, not everybody has dirty linen they don't want aired in public. You're going to learn that Johnson and Smith are both clean and that both are as concerned about the state as you are. All you'll have when this idiotic investigation is over will be egg on your face."
"Well, we'll see about that," Kreske said, suddenly tiring of the conversation. He pushed himself up out of the armchair and again made for the bar and more scotch. "It could turn out that you're the one who's surprised. Messrs. Johnson and Smith might not be the all-American boys everyone seems to think they are."
CHAPTER FIVE
Had anyone told Senta Berger that she would become intimate with Arthur Harrison, the sexy, black photographer accompanying her on this assignment, she would have told him he was out of his mind. Not once in six years as a reporter for the Yale-Hunter had she broken the commandment, which she had received in an aside by a worldly, female instructor in journalism that went "Thou shalt not fuck a male employed by the same newspaper that had employed you."
Keeping the commandment had not been easy for Senta, a five foot five inch bundle of sex appeal, who at various times in her life had seriously wondered if she wasn't simply one of those hapless females suffering from incurable nymphomania. So great was her need for male cock, so overpowering was the urge to mate, that the blonde, blue-eyed beauty had laid every single one of her male professors in college and all but two of them at the journalism school she attended for two memorable years.
It had taken considerable effort (newspapermen were such a dashing, virile lot, Senta thought) but she had managed to avoid the clutching hands and improper propositions of those on the Yale-Hunter staff who eyed her luscious curves with sex on their minds and growing pricks in their pants.
When the urge to copulate struck, Senta would avail herself of one of many males, who, knowing a good thing when they saw it, (when they laid it), were beating a path to her apartment door. None of these handsome, horny studs had even the remotest connection to the newspaper business.
Her sexual experience to the contrary, Senta had been a rather naive girl prior to joining the Yale-Hunter staff. Although blessed (cursed?) with an insatiable hunger for thick prick, one she had no trouble appeasing thanks to her fantastically sexy figure, Senta had known precious little about survival in the "real" world when she left the cloistered classroom seeking her fame and fortune.
She had accepted the advice handed her by the worldy-wise newspaperwoman but, at the same time, questioned the necessity of keeping her distance. Why, she wondered, should screwing a co-worker be verboten? Was there any reason why business couldn't be combined with pleasure?
Soon, however, Senta discovered the wisdom in the words of caution she had half-heartedly accepted. It took her less than three months on the Yale-Hunter to learn that those who toiled in the communications industry were a breed .apart. For some reason, they were decidedly different from people in other professions.
People in the publishing world, people in advertising, and people in the newspaper business, especially, were driven, or so it seemed to Senta, by an almost ruthless ambition, a fanatical desire to achieve recognition. It wasn't so much that they desired fame and fortune�although both would be welcomed�as it was that they seemed possessed by the need to win the approval of their peers and to stamp, in the minds of those with whom they toiled, the lasting impression of one worthy of respect.
This arrogant need to distinguish themselves, in one way or another, led to considerable back-stabbing. Jealousy abounded in the communications industry, Senta discovered, and one was hard put to tell friend from foe. Distrust ran rampant and the person you lunched with yesterday might very well be the person who tricked you out of a good story tomorrow.
Nothing was sacred, certainly not friendship. Writers and editors competed not only with rival writers and editors, those who worked for other publications, but also with the men and women in their own office. Everybody was in the race, and since few things are as quickly forgotten as a well-written story, a smart scoop, or the cleverly devised advertising campaign, everybody had to keep running at full speed.
The idea was to be first, never second or third, but first and to that end people pitted themselves against each other like enemies waging a fight to the death. Amidst this hysteria, this unrelenting tension, egos were squashed and bolstered, deceit rewarded and honesty scoffed, selfishness elevated to a position of prime importance and generosity viewed with a skeptical, if not downright distrustful, eye.
But despite all this in-fighting, all the malicious gossip, Senta liked her job with the paper. She found reporting the news to be a highly interesting occupation, one that challenged her ability to write clearly and quickly with the thought of the deadline always in the back of her mind.
She asked for and usually received, sometimes to the dismay of her fellow reporters, the toughest assignments. More often than not she turned in copy chock full of interesting facts a less diligent reporter might have ignored, and this, combined with her talent for sniffing out leads and then following through with fierce determination, had earned her the grudging admiration of even those who were forever trying to do her in professionally.
And Senta, or "Sen" as she was more frequently called by co-workers and friends, had no intention of tainting the reputation she enjoyed. No sooner had she become aware of the vindictive nature of so many who toiled in the newspaper business, the spiteful gossip designed to discredit, and sometimes ruin, than she silently vowed to behave herself and not give the scandal mongers anything they could use to crucify her.
But now, smack dab in the middle of what she regarded as one of her biggest assignments, she found herself enmeshed in a wild affair with a Yale-Hunter photographer. And a black one to boot. Here she was, on the campaign trail with Charles Smith and in bed with Arthur Harrison.
She was covering the candidacy of one black man and being banged senseless by another. Either she was trailing Smith and reporting his activities to readers of the Yale-Hunter or she was flat on her back on a bed somewhere, the feel of Arthur's ebony prick in her cunt, or her asshole, or her mouth, driving her bananas.
If that wasn't integration, Senta thought, then she didn't know what was.
At the moment, she and the pussy-pleasing photographer were about to engage in another one of their torrid sex sessions. They had spent the day as usual, with Senta in hot pursuit of Smith and button-holing various members of his campaign staff in her tireless quest for answers, opinions, or anything that might make interesting reading.
Earlier in the evening, along with other people of the press, they had attended a speech delivered by Smith to an appreciative audience of college students, during which Arthur had gotten a particularly good shot of the black candidate shaking hands with the Jewish dean of the school.
Then, after Smith informed them of his intention to spend another day in the college town, for the purpose of addressing an impressive number of alumni scheduled to arrive tomorrow, Senta and Arthur deciding against the long trip back to her apartment, had dined together in a small restaurant before checking into a motel.
It had been another grueling day but now everything was in order. Senta had phoned in her story and Arthur had given his two rolls of film to a trustworthy member of Smith's party who promised to deliver them to the Yale-Hunter. Now, since everything was under control, they could settle down and start to really enjoy each other's company.
Senta commenced a not-too-gentle massage of her spongy boobs.
Arthur smiled broadly. "Now who's making with the snide remarks?"
"Just finish undressing, you clown."
As desired snaked through her smooth, compact body, Senta continued playing with her breasts and watching her black lover strip. He was in the final stages of undressing now, down to his slacks and underwear, and it was with considerable impatience that she awaited the appearance, once again, of the fantastic cock she had accepted into her aroused body for the first time ago four months.
Arthur was right, she thought, the day she refused to fuck him was the day she would need psychiatric counseling. Because only the totally blind and those females hopelessly frigid could fail to appreciate his gigantic prick, and when a gal liked all the screwing she could get and then some, well, it was like being introduced to Mr. Rod himself.
Never in a million years would she tire of Arthur's ebony prick. Art himself was not really that much to look at. He was tall, about six foot three, but was so thin as to be almost skinny. She didn't think he weighed more than one hundred sixty-five which was not nearly enough to comfortably conceal his bones.
His eyes were a dull brown and the rather large Afro adorning his head did little to disguise the sharp, angular features of his face. His mustache, which he trimmed only when in the mood, also hindered more than helped his appearance.
So all things considered, Art Harrison was not the kind of lover girls dreamed about, the kind whose fantastic good looks and muscular, powerpacked physique inspire thoughts of lust and start pussies purring with excitement. Even when fully clothed he didn't spark much interest in the opposite sex.
But when that cock of his started growing, when that truly magnificent, larger-than-life cock began filling with warm blood, slowly but surely swelling to an unbelievable, heart-stopping size of better than ten inches that, Senta thought, made all the difference in the world.
One glimpse of Art's prodigious prick and a girl was ready to throw herself at his feet and bed to be banged out of orbit. At least she was. In all her twenty-seven years, twelve or which had been spent bouncing in and out of strange beds and trying on different dicks, she hadn't once come across a tool to match the monstrous member belonging to the otherwise physically unappealing Mr. Arthur Harrison.
It was the kind of cock that triggered instant envy in men less well-endowed, Senta remembered saying to her black lover during one of their first fucking sessions. And in thinking back over her long list of lovers, recalling the many males with whom she had happily humped, she could not help but wonder why it was that some of the handsomest men had, at best, only passable pricks, while some of the less attractive had been blessed with noteworthy organs.
It seemed, Senta reasoned, that nature was trying to compensate for errors made along the way. A good size cock certainly offset a man's undistinguished if not plain attractive, physical attributes. And by the same token a girl was inclined to forgive a man with a smaller-than-average weapon if in other respects he was a vision to behold. And if he knew what he was doing.
"You know something, Art," Senta said suddenly braking the silence. "I'm just wondering if you realize how fortunate you are."
"Me? Fortunate?"
"That's what I said."
"Because I got me a gal who can't get enough cock, right?" Art said. He was bare-assed naked now, his back towards Senta as he draped his white boxer shorts over the back of the straight chair next to the one dresser in the room.
"Yes, and also because you not only have a beautiful large prick but you also know how to use it."
Art turned around to reveal a cock still limp.
"Well that makes you the fortunate one, doesn't it, sugar?"
Senta grinned, chuckle. "Yep, I guess it does, lover." She looked at the flaccid length of flesh dangling between Arthur's legs, another wave of desire washing over her as she realized how quickly his cock could come to life.
"You're staring, Sen," Art smiled broadly.
"Come here, stud," Senta said thickly. The thirty-one-year-old photographer sauntered over to the side of the motel bed. He looked down at the dazzling blonde, a wicked little gleam in his eye. She was without doubt one of the most fuckable white chicks he'd ever met, he thought. And it had been his good fortune to meet and mate with many pretty Caucasian chicks.
Senta swung her legs over the side of the bed and stared intently at her black lover's pecker. How deceiving was Art's erectile, she thought. How wickedly entrancing. Few things looked as harmless, as helplessly inept, as Art's penis did at the moment. Dangling there between his hairy thighs, limp and lifeless appearing lamentably weak and incapable of rising to the occasion.
But how quickly the change in appearance occurred! Blessed with unbelievable self-control, Art was able to contain his excitement until it was actually time to fuck. Then, as if on a given signal, his magnificent member would begin growing and growing.
Senta slipped her right hand between her lover's legs and moved it up to his crotch. Carefully, worshipfully, she rolled his hairy ball in the palm of her hands as his worm-like prick curled lazily on her wrist. She commenced a gentle squeezing of the warm, wrinkled scrotal sac, dangling his nuts as one would the eggs of a precious bird.
"You want it hard, sugar?" Art asked, a touch of arrogance in his voice.
Senta looked up. "It's amazing," she said softly. "How do you manage to keep so calm? I've never met a man who could control his cock like this."
Arthur grinned. "Watch, baby."
Senta's gaze returned to her black lover's penis. She saw it twitch and then, as it prodded by a silent command, begin to slowly swell size. As the cuddlesome blonde woman watched in fascination, her pretty blue eyes glued to Arthur's genitals, the still unimpressive organ slowly filled with warm blood.
Snake-like it crawled up his left thigh, lengthening and thickening, becoming harder with each passing second. No longer did Arthur's erectile resemble a fat, limp noodle. No longer was it a useless, woefully weak, flaccid length of flesh dangling between thighs that needed more meat.
It was getting longer and thicker all the time, beginning to suggest the great size it would eventually reach. Five inches, six inches and still growing, moving out and up, away from his sperm-packed scrotum.
Seven inches, eight inches... nine.
Was there a word or phrase that could adequately express the wondrous beauty of this erection, Senta wondered, as she dipped her left hand between her creamy thighs and parting her legs, commenced a methodical massaging of her now leaking snatch. It was truly fantastic. Unreal.
It was at times like this that she sometimes wished she had been born male, that instead of a pussy she had a prick, one like Arthur's one that could blossom so beautifully so quickly. How thrilling it would be experience, if only just once, the awesome sense of power that Arthur no doubt felt as his organ increased in size.
"Well, sugar, what do you think?" Arthur said, smiling down at the blue-eyed blonde staring hungrily at his tool. He was totally tumescent now, his ten-inch prick a mighty menace as it protruded proudly from his hairy loins.
"Fuck me, Arthur," Senta breathed hotly, seemingly unable to tear her eyes away from her black lover's prodigious prick. "Fuck me like you've never fucked me before."
Arthur chuckled softly. "Now what's that supposed to mean?"
Senta looked up to reveal a pair of eyes glazed by passion. "It means I'm especially randy tonight, lover. I want you to screw me until I see double."
"That, pretty baby, will be a pleasure." Arthur let a few seconds go by, then asked, "Feel like sucking me tonight?"
Senta shook her head. "No, I mean not now. Maybe later, after you've come in me."
Arthur watched his aroused girlfriend suddenly swing her legs back up on the bed and then, after some excited squirming around, flip over onto her belly. His smile broadened as he realized what it was she wanted.
"In the ass tonight, huh, baby?" he asked.
"Yes, that's what I want," Senta answered thickly. "A real man cornholing." She wrapped her arms around the pillow and hugged it hotly. "Do it to me, lover. Ram your big, beautiful cock way up my shitty ass."
"I'll be right back, Senta. Don't go away now."
Only too eager to oblige his white girl friend, Arthur moved quickly to the small table standing just inside the motel room door. After snapping open her small purse, he reached inside and pulled out the small squat bottle of vaseline that Senta carried with her wherever she went.
She had told him, just before he fucked her fanny for the first time, that she always kept a jar of lubricant on her person. It was a habit she had gotten into many years ago, she explained, when she first discovered the delights of anal intercourse. And since a girl never know when a man would want to hump her heinie, the wisest thing was to always be prepared. Like a girl scout.
Vaseline in hand, Arthur returned to the bed to discover Senta holding the cheeks of her ass apart. A lewd grin washed over his angular black face as he unscrewed the bottle cap and flipped it onto the nightstand next to the bed. The obscene sight of the beautiful blonde impatiently awaiting lubrication caused his mighty manhood to throb with excitement. "All right sweetheart," he said, dropping down onto the comfortably hard bed, "let us have at that pretty asshole of yours."
"Hurry, Arthur," Senta groaned. "Shove some of that stuff up my ass and then fuck me.
"How come you want a cornholing tonight, sugar?" Arthur asked, dipping a few fingers into the jar and scooping up a glob of the sticky vaseline.
"I just feel real wicked, that's all. And when I feel wicked and wanton then I oooooooo, that's cold, Arthur."
The black photographer chuckled. "Hang tough, beautiful. My prick will be hot."
Arthur spent the next few minutes carefully preparing his white girl friend's posterior for penetration. Although he had fucked Senta curvaceous bottom many times in the past few months, he realized that without proper lubrication of both his teen-inch cock and her asshole, an enjoyable, relatively painless fanny-fuck was almost impossible.
He was certainly a lucky devil, he thought, as he smeared large globs of a thick lubricant in and around Senta's shithole. He knew enough about chicks to recognize a wild one, but he also knew that Senta, for whatever-reason, was always rejecting the amorous overtures of the men at the newspaper. So he could only thank his lucky stars that he had been around when she decided to come across with her fantastic body.
Tiny grunts of desire popped from Senta's lips as she squirmed on the motel bed, her fingers digging into the succulent cheeks of her fanny as she pried them apart to give her black lover free access to her asshole. The thought of once again taking his elephantine cock in her ass, feeling its great throbbing length deeply imbedded in her foul bowels, was clouding her mind with lust and sending shivers up her spine.
The obscene preparations over, Arthur stood and placed the jar of lubricant on the nightstand. He looked down at the delectable blonde whose fantastic fanny he would momentarily fuck and tried to decide which position he favored at the moment. He could stuff a pillow or two under her stomach, thus elevating her posterior, and mount her while braced on hands and knees.
Or, and this too had its advantages, he could have her crouch on the bed on elbows and knees, her delightful derriere on a line with the side of the bed, and then screw her dizzy while standing. To have a make a choice was absolutely maddening, Arthur thought.
When at last he reached his decision, the lanky photographer took hold of Senta's shapely hips and started dragging her into position, eager to assist, the pulchritudinous reporter scrambled up onto her hands and knees and, guided by her lover's hot hands, swiveled around on the bed and squirmed backwards.
In less than fifteen seconds she was in position, wholly perverse, masochistic visions dancing in her head as she savored the thought of yet another brutal anal ravishment. Braced on knees and shoulders, her back arched and her taut bottom upthrust, poised for penetration, she reached back and with both hands again pried apart the succulent half-moons of her buttocks.
"Do it Arthur," she pleaded thickly, the right side of her beautiful and now flushed face pressed hotly onto the mattress. Shove it up my filthy ass. Ream me out, lover."
"I'll ream you, baby, Arthur promised, his voice somewhat sinister in tone.
"I'll ream you good."
Not needing a second invitation, the man who took black and white pictures for a living but who lived for black and white sex stepped up into position behind his desire-dazed girl friend. Clamping his bony hands around her creamy, hips, he aimed his monstrous organ at the well-greased entrance to her ass.
"Please, Arthur, get it in me. I need it bad tonight. Slam it to me, lover."
"Just hold them open baby," Arthur rasped. "You'll be stuffed with cock in no time at all."
"Up to my tits, Arthur," Senta moaned. "That's where I want to feel your prick-up to my fucking boobs."
"Hang on, sugar. Just hang on."
As his seldom-trimmed fingernails dug into the resilient flesh of Senta's hips Arthur pressed forward and began pushing his prodigious prick into her taut tail. He had coated his cock with a liberal amount of vaseline before setting the jar aside. Now, as he continued applying pressure, the well-greased, bulbous head of his huge manhood strained against the equally well-lubricated but still painfully small opening that was Senta's nether hole.
"Come on, dammit," Senta breathed hotly. "Ram that fucking thing into my ass. Don't waste time being gentle."
"All right, sugar. But don't say I didn't warn you."
"I can take it. You know I can."
"The pain will."
"Fuck the pain!" Senta shouted. "Just bury your prick in my stinking rectum!"
Not needing the additional stimulation provided by his white girl friend's wholly wicked, deliciously obscene request, but thrilled by it nonetheless, Arthur reared back and with a single, mind-jarring thrust sent three steel-hard inches of pulsing prick slamming up into Senta's tingling tail.
"Aieee!" Senta screamed, -searing pain shooting through her entire body as her tight, resisting nether hole was savagely stretched by Arthur's brutal lunge. The hand that had been holding her ass open now flew forward and down to dig into the mattress.
The fact that she had expected the pain made it no less difficult to endure, and now, as she felt her lover's massive prick begin tunneling deeper into her aching bowels, tears welled in her pretty blue eyes and soft, choking sobs of agony popped from her lovely Hps. It was as if a giant tree trunk had been cruelly crammed into her burning backside.
Having breached Senta's quivering white bottom, Arthur concentrated now on the thrilling task of packing his girl's behind with all ten inches of his powerful, palpitating prick. With his hard black hands still wrapped around her creamy hips, as lust snaked through his body, he began burrowing into her foul bowels, his monstrous manhood pushing aside all in its path as it inched into the forbidden treasures of a dank, clinging rectum.
"Ohhhh, owwww," Senta moaned. "It hurts so much."
"You want me to stop, baby?" Arthur asked. "If it's too much."
"No, don't stop," the whimpering blonde gasped. "Just get it all in me. Then it'll be right."
Inspired not only by Senta's salaciously servile posture, her mournful moans, but also by the knowledge that total, absolute penetration of her creamy ass was possible, Arthur continued pushing his elephantine cock into the morass of her hotly gripping rectal canal. He labored carefully but with determination, not wanting to cause Senta any more pain than was necessary but intent on burying his giant root to the balls in her beautiful behind.
Once again she was being stuffed chock full of meaty cock, Senta's pain-clouded mind told her. Arthur was relentlessly pursuing his goal, filling her fanny with his enormous tool as she cowered on the bed in slave-like submission. How many inches were in her rectum already, she wondered. Five? Six? It felt more like eight.
"Hang tight, baby," Arthur rasped. "We're almost home free."
"Go ahead," Senta gasped. "I want it all. Every last fucking inch."
Arthur stared down at the point of connection, at the incredibly obscene sight of his girl's anus clasping his turgid black pecker. Her pinkish-brown asshole, which only moments ago had been a resisting ring of flesh stubbornly rejecting his rock-hard cock, was now stretched to at least five times its original size. And that niggardly opening, that portal of paradise, was hotly hugging his deeply imbedded bone as if it never intended to let go.
Deeper, even deeper, Arthur burrowed into Senta's quivering, aching ass. The feel of her dank rectum around his tunneling tool was nothing less than fantastic. Even though he had fanny fucked the ravishing blonde many times before she was still marvelously tight. It was as if she had planted his pulsing prick in tightly-packed soil and a hundred worms were coiling their slippery lengths around it.
And then, when all but a measly inch of cock remained in view, Arthur took a deep breath and lunged forward. Now she had it all, he thought triumphantly, as his pelvis thumped against Senta's bottom and his black balls bounced up into her upturned crotch. All ten inches of his huge organ were snugly encased in her grasping shit chute.
"You got it, baby," Arthur announced happily. "How's it feel?"
"Good-wonderful," Senta groaned. "Do me now, Arthur. But go slowly at first."
"Yes, ma'am, easy does it."
Senta hadn't lied when she described the feel of Arthur's giant-sized cock in her horribly stretched shit chute. It did feel good, unbelievably so. As was always the case, the initial pain of penetration and gradually faded as her rectum expanded to accommodate the flesh invader, and by the time Arthur had planted eight inches of his weapon in her creamy bottom, mild discomfort was giving was to a warm, mysterious pleasure was increasing quickly.
And she knew it would, a strange, masochistic lust was now taking hold and riveting her thoughts to the depraved, utterly shameful manner in which she was being banged. What little discomfort remained was turning enjoyable, and now as Arthur commenced a lazy shagging of her ass, his mighty cock slipping in and out of her rectum, Senta began grinding her hips back to meet his well-paced plunges.
"That's the way, lover," she moaned into the mattress. "Stir my turds with that fucking pole. Deep-go deep, Arthur."
Slipping further still into a state of sexual saturation, every fiber of her being attuned to this wonderfully wicked reaming of her shitty rectum, Senta begged her lean black lover to never ever stop his forceful thrusts into her tail. She was being used, defiled in a most cruel manner, she told herself, and she couldn't bear the idea of losing Arthur's rock-hard, ebony erectile.
That giant cock was moving in her, gouging her tender shit chute with a diabolical determination. Arthur had plugged her ass with his monstrous organ, and now he was sawing all ten inches in and out of her clasping rectum, his cock a giant, fleshy corkscrew as it trundled into the murky confines of a dark passage not designed to harbor such huge instruments.
"Harder, lover," Senta pleaded passionately. "Do it harder now. Smash it into my stinking ass!"
"You beautiful bitch," Arthur fired back, perspiration beginning to head his brow. "You hot-assed white cunt."
A demented grin swept over Senta's face. She loved to loved him to hurl epithets at her as she knelt in shivering submissiveness and "suffered" the wild ravaging of her rectum by his powerful, prodigious black prick. It served to heighten her erotic pleasure immensely.
He was the master and she was the hapless slave, the whimpering victim of his fiery, maniacal lust. He was the angry black male venting years of frustration on a poor white female. Hopelessly impaled on his rampaging root, she was forced to endure the relentless pounding of his fleshy pestel into her trembling behind.
"Faster," Senta croaked. "Faster, damn you. Split my ass, you big-pricked stud!"
"Wallow, you white whore," Arthur spat, punctuating his words with a pulverizing plunge into the passion-crazed blonde's ravaged anal passage. "I'm gonna burn your fucking ass for you."
The exhilarating pressure on his tremendous tool and Senta's unashamed acceptance of this fiendish coupling were driving Arthur mad with lust. He sawed into her widely-distended asshole with merciless abandon, conscious only of the gut-jumbling need to empty his balls in the mulch of her shit-coated rectum.
As had happened before when he was fucking the fanny of a beauteous white female, a sadistic fantasy took hold of Arthur and he became obsessed with the demonic need to punish. Through eyes glazed by a scalding passion he saw Senta going slightly insane, her lush white body in uncontrollable quiver as, teeth bared, breasts jiggling, she lewdly gyrated her ass and sent it spinning up and back to greet his savage, soul-charring thrusts into her hot, gripping back passage.
She was his. A slave submitting to her owner. He could do with her whatever he wished. This gorgeous blonde, blue-eyed bitch was born to be brutalized, to be feverishly fucked until she begged for mercy. She was the white southern belle, the holier-than-thou, tempting piece of tail who was now getting her just desserts from the black male she enjoyed teasing.
Placing himself in the role of violent conqueror, Arthur battered Senta's behind with unmitigated fury. Time and again he smashed into her grinding ass, his big black balls slapping up against her wet sex slit as his elephantine prick surged hungrily up into her clammy rectum.
A satanic lust choking her, Senta fell to mumbling unintelligibly as the frantic fucking of her curvaceous posterior continued without interruption. The husky, animal-like grunts and groans Arthur emitted as he pummelled her behind were like music to her ears. That beautiful cock, that great horse's cock of his was tearing up her shit chute something fierce.
She had but one goal now, one outrageously obscene wish, and that was to be ripped asunder by the pile-driving prick vanquishing her fanny. She wanted to be split down the middle, to have her beautiful buttocks cleft as one might have a ripe peach with a razor-sharp knife.
And in her lust-drenched state Senta could think of no better cutting instrument than the one slicing up into her hot rectum. Many days would pass before she forgot that fortuitous moment when, quite by accident, she caught a glimpse of Arthur Harrison's mighty manhood. In no small way that very large organ contributed to her decision to break the newspaperwoman's commandment.
CHAPTER SIX
"Ohhh, honey please, baby, take them off," Alice beseeched, her lovely face a mask of pleasure as she squirmed in heat on the bed she shared with her husband.
She was referring to her pink panties, the crotch of which Charles seemed determined to nibble through. He was crouched low between her splayed knees, his tan-colored face plastered against an odorous, sheathed snatch as he sucked and nibbled like a ravenous rat on her warm, excited loins.
A rigorous schedule of speeches, luncheons, meetings and interviews, had not in any way dampened the desire of the gubernatorial candidate. Nor had the grueling campaign effected his ability to perform to his white wife's satisfaction.
After many months on the campaign circuit he was still in excellent condition, still able to lose himself in lust and forget, for a highly enjoyable hour or so, the friendly but vigorous war he was waging for the governorship.
Between all those orations and lengthy conferences, all that baby-kissing and smiling required of one running for public office, he had managed to sandwich in innumerable screwing sessions with his desirable Caucasian spouse. Much to her delight, needless to say.
Now again, with the election just two weeks away, Charles was pleasuring Alice, again demonstrating his not inconsiderable talent for cunt-licking, for twat-tonguing. And in the process driving her up the wall of lust.
"Charles, please," Alice moaned. "Pull down my pants and... you devil."
"Something wrong, sweetheart?" Charles asked, lifting his head from his wife's steaming, covered cunt. A sexy grin spread across his attractive face as he gazed between Alice beautiful breasts and saw the hungry look in her hazel eyes, the expression of need she was wearing.
"You know what's wrong, you tease," Alice whined. "You've been down there for at least twenty minutes and... "
"You no like?" Charles interrupted, still grinning.
"I do like. But... but I want something more now. Please, take down my pants and do it to me.
"Do what?" the candidate teased.
"Anything!" Alice groaned, loving and hating her husband at the same time as he continued toying with her passion. "Fuck me, suck me, I don't care. But do something, damn you. I'm almost on the verge of coming."
Charles sat back on his haunches and smiled down at his highly aroused mate. There was no doubt in his mind that she was close to climax. She was a girl who responded quickly and enthusiastically to sexual stimuli, visual or tactile, and the many minutes he'd spent munching on her sheethed-snatch, inhaling the intoxicating aroma of her passion-perfumed pussy had quite obviously brought her to the brink of orgasm. In fact, he suspected she had already enjoyed a couple of mini-comes.
How utterly ravishing she was, he thought. Alice was the picture of perfection, a five foot six inch treasure of thrills. Her shoulder-length and wavy brunette tresses framed a compassionately-crafted, altogether delightful countenance. Her smile was one of the most enchanting he'd ever seen.
And her creamy smooth body made a man's mouth water. Her breasts were two tempting globes of spongy flesh, her belly was flat, her behind was full and taut, as tender as a teenager's behind, her legs were two strong pillars of sturdy flesh, sleek stems of ivory which contrasted sharply with his hairy, brown limbs.
"Darn you, Charles," Alice moaned again. "Do I have to start playing with myself?" She brought both hands down to her crotch and began rubbing herself with abandon.
"All right, honey, all right," Charles said. "I was just admiring the merchandise."
"That you can do some other time. If you don't do something damn soon, I think... "
"Charles Smith to the rescue," the candidate cracked, smiling wickedly as he brushed his wife's hands away from her pantied pussy.
"You haven't even started the mission yet," Alice countered quickly.
Alice moved her hands up to her tingling tits as her husband inserted his fingers in the waistband of her briefs and began tugging the flimsy garment down. She lifted her shapely hips off the bed so that her mate could work her undies around and off her succulent ass. Then she dropped her derriere back down on the bed and brought her legs together, thus enabling the cotton briefs to be pulled down without difficulty.
"There, mission accomplished," Charles said, flipping his wife's pants over his right shoulder.
"You haven't even started the mission yet," Alice countered quickly, trapping the blood-hardened nipples of her beautiful boobs between her fingers and pinching them.
Completely naked now, she looked down at her brown-skinned spouse, at the juncture of his thick thighs where sprouted a normal-sized but truly thrilling tool. He was never more handsome than when he was in a state of sexual excitation, she thought, unable to still her sensuously squirming hips.
Charles was built like a catcher, which, appropriately enough, was the position he played for his college baseball team. He was five feet ten and a half inches in height and weighed in at close to two hundred pounds which made him more than a little chunky. But a regimen of exercise kept those pounds from turning to flab, and at age thirty-eight he was as strong, not to mention virile, as he had been when wed eight years ago.
His face was more round than oval, yet it was a very appealing face. His brown eyes matched the color of his hair, which he kept short and carefully trimmed. She loved to rub her hand over his head, to tell him, teasingly, that his close-cropped hair resembled the brown bristle of a scrub brush.
"Do I suck more or fuck, baby?" Charles asked suddenly, his eyes dropping from his wife's face to fix on her bared love box.
"Suck me." Alice answered. Then amending her explicit, hastily-given reply, "but just briefly for a little while."
Charles grinned. "I'll just touch you up around the edges, sweetheart. And then we'll screw."
And with that, as his blood-gorged pecker jerked up and down, and side to side, the brown-skinned gubernatorial candidate quickly assumed a comfortable cunt-chewing posture. Once again crouched between his wife's creamy thighs, he dropped his head over her warm loins and began grinding his dark face into her seething snatch.
"Ohhh, I love that," Alice crooned, planting her feet firmly on the mattress and pushing her hips up as she continued a mad manipulation of her spongy mammaries.
Eyes closed, her head lolling on the pillow she surrendered to the deliciously sexy sensations suffusing her anew now that her husband was back munching on her pulsing pussy. She decided that, as passionate prelude to the screwing to follow, she would work toward another small climax, one which, like the first robin of spring, would act as happy harbinger of greater delights.
His tongue in twat-thrilling twirl, Charles salaciously scoured his wife's pulpy, fragrant sex hps. Seemingly determined to crawl headfirst into Alice's aroused vagina, he burrowed between her warm, quivering white thighs like a huge rodent seeking shelter.
"More, more darling," Alice moaned. "My clit, get at my damn clitoris, lover."
Needing neither further inspiration or directions, Charles quickly responded to his spouse's lewd request. His hard-working, talented tongue zipped upward to commence a tantalizing massage of Alice's excited clitoris.
As tremulous sighs and mini-growls of pleasure broke from his mate's lovely throat, Charles lay siege to her passion button with a hungry enthusiasm. His tongue jabbed and then stroked, jabbed again, curled lovingly around the rosy red clit. He burrowed deeper still and ovalled his hps, drew the mini-penis into his mouth and commenced to suck it as a baby would his mother's breast.
"Ooooo arhhhhhh," Alice groaned happily darts of desire pricking her every nerve and as the wicked worship of her weeping womanhood moved her swiftly toward another come. Charles was a craftman when it came to sucking cunts, her passion-crazed mind told her. And just the delightfully-depraved thought of him down there between her legs, sniffing at her twat while he sucked same, was enough to keep her lust at the boiling point.
Pausing to catch his breath, to gulp down some much needed oxygen Charles pulled up and away from Alice's steaming love oven. Then the brief respite over, he lowered his head and again plastered his face against the fluffy brown patch, resumed feasting with renewed determination.
Holding fast to his wife's creamy thighs, the brown-skinned aspirant to the governorship glued his hungry mouth to the sopping wet, open gash of her excited pussy, sent his tongue slithering once more between the slick lips.
"Ohhhh, Charles, oh, heavens so good," Alice whimpered.
Charles lapped up his mate's sticky syrup and swallowed it, his tantalizing tongue roving up and down her hot, pulsating cleft. And seconds later, to the accompaniment of a high-pitched shriek, Alice came and splashed his face with additional love cream. Undaunted, the hungry cunt-chewer swallowed this, too, his tongue like a fleshy scoop as it shoveled the tasty gook into his mouth.
For several minutes more, as Alice quivered in ecstasy, Charles worked between her creamy thighs. Inhaling the musky scent of her sodden snatch, he slobbered salaciously. With twirling tongue and nibbling lips he worked to arouse his wife anew, to her to the brink of another, more intense orgasm.
"Flip over, sweetheart," he said thickly, once again sitting back on his haunches.
"Stick it in me, Charles," Alice breathed hotly, ignoring her husband's order. "Shove that brown bone in my hot twat."
"On your belly, Alice. I want to get at your ass."
"No darling, not tonight. I don't want my ass fucked."
"I'm not going to screw it," Charles explained a wee bit irritated by his wife's stubbornness. "I want to kiss it, baby."
A faintly feral smile crept across Alice's smooth-complexioned face. Analism had a special attraction for her, a deliciously different and genuine attraction. It was so beautifully perverse, so fantastically filthy.
"You like my white behind, don't you, hon?" Alice asked, a lewd wink accompanying her question.
"That I do," Charles answered. "But unless you flip over onto your pretty tummy right this minute... "
"Ooooo, my master threatens," Alice said, pretending fright.
Seconds later, as her husband moved a bit to give her room, the beautiful brown-eyed brunette twisted over onto her tummy. But instead of stretching out on the bed, she slowly drew her knees up under her until she was in a lust-provoking crouch, her creamy smooth ass pointed toward the bedroom ceiling.
"You like this position better, huh?" Charles asked, a rather wicked smile slipping over his brown face as he shuffled forward into position behind his white wife's obscenely posed posterior.
"You can get at my asshole better this way, darling," Alice explained, wrapping her slender arms around the pillow under her head. "Do me now, Charles. Kiss my pretty fanny."
The gubernatorial candidate placed his strong hands on his mate's delectable derriere and began to gently knead the spongy flesh, rolling it as a baker would a mass of dough. With his thumbs he traced the dark, inviting crevice of her succulent cheeks, pried open those twin half-moons to expose the crinkled little hole nestled between them.
"Your mouth, darling," Alice purred, commencing a slow insistent rotating movement of her hips, grinding her beautiful bottom up against her hubby's playful hands. "Put your mouth on my ass. Kiss my asshole Charles."
Charles dropped his head and placed a loud moist kiss on his wife's left buttock. He did the same to her right buttock, then began a lewd exploration of her entire rear end. Like a small serpent, his tongue snaked out from between his lips to trail over the provocatively positioned posterior.
As Alice hummed her approval, Charles rubbed his brown face against her curvaceous, creamy backside and licked it lovingly, worshipfully. His hard-working tongue slid wetly over the smooth, taut flesh of her bottom, dipped into the dark division of her cheeks to wander wantonly up and down that forbidden furrow.
Oh, how exciting and evil this was, Alice thought, continuing to rotate her plush behind in very slow, lazy circles as still more sex juice seeped from her hot hole. How deliciously depraved it was to crouch low and proffer her posterior, to feel her husband's lips and swirling tongue on her bottom as he paid oral homage to that portion of her anatomy.
Well did she remember her introduction to the anal arts, that memorable moment when analism's appeal was realized. She had been eighteen at the time, a freshman at college, a fun-loving, broadminded student eager to explore the unknown, to sample the strange and unusual.
So it had been comparatively easy for Andrew Abrams, a particularly fresh lad of nineteen, to reveal to her the peculiar fascination of fanny-licking. On a warm evening in early June, after watching a very sexy movie, Andrew drove her to a lover's lane and parked his old Ford on a grassy knoll.
It was there on the dewy grass, that she discovered the dirty delights of analism. After some heavy petting while both were fully clothed Andrew told her too turn over onto her tummy. And it was only seconds after obeying his command that she felt her short skirt being pushed up around her waist. Then he was tugging down her panties, exposing her beautiful bottom in all its naked splendor.
Andrew had cornholed her with care and consideration. Alice remembered, becoming increasingly excited as her brown-skinned husband continued his wicked worship of her quivering ass. After washing her fanny with his tongue and probing her puckered asshole with that fleshy serpent, he had very deliberately dicked her derriere.
Her embarrassment had been tremendous and her pain extreme, yet that initial experience had left an indelible impression of her mind. It wasn't the fanny-fuck that she had enjoyed so much, although she had derived much perverse pleasure once the pain diminished, but the strangely invigorating tonguing of her tail. Her asshole, in particular.
And now, thanks to Mr. Abrams, Alice thought, she had a keen appreciation of analism. Fortunately for her Charles also enjoyed laving her nicely-rounded rear end.
"I love your beautiful fanny, sweetheart," her husband said suddenly, as if reading her thoughts. "I could suck and nibble on it all night long."
"Mmmm... you do me so good, too, honey," Alice purred. "Work on my anus a little more, will you?"
Eager to obey, realizing it was only a matter of seconds before he buried his rigid root in the mushy warmth of Alice's slushy vagina, Charles bent low and kissed his wife fully on the anus. Once again his tongue flicked out, licked at the puckered portal, burrowed inside like a fat, juicy worm seeking shelter.
"Yes, - darling... oh, my..ohhhhh," Alice crooned, her brunette tresses falling around her face as she rolled her head on the pillow. She whimpered her pleasure, titled her taut tail up to provide an even better target for her husband's teasing tongue.
Clamping his brown hands on his spouse's creamy flanks, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, Charles proceeded to piston his tongue in and out of her nether hole. He savored the faint, tell-tale odor emanating from Alice's asshole and worked his nose deeper into the warm furrow of her fanny.
Seconds later, his prick now throbbing in defiant impatience, he turned his attention once again to his wife's sizzling snatch. Planting his lips on her fluffy patch from behind, he began to suck like a ravenous beast, to slurp up the juices flowing freely from her odorous love oven. It was too much for Alice. "Enough. No more darling."
Charles backed off and then watched his beautiful white wife twist over onto her back. She quickly drew her legs up and back, bending them so that her knees were pressed into her breasts. It was a position they had used often in the past, one that afforded deep, very pleasurable penetration.
"Now, Charles," Alice croaked. "Fuck me now. Plunge your beautiful cock into me."
"Baby... sweet, baby," Charles murmured, staring down at his wife's wonderfully vulnerable vagina. She was inviting invasion, he thought, desire blanketing his mind. Alice was posed in a posture of wicked welcome, shamefully beckoning his thick, blood hardened brown bone. She was asking for it, begging for a boffing.
Lust tearing at his gut, Charles maneuvered his stocky body into the proper position and then, with a sudden, searing thrust, sent his turgid tool shooting up into his wife's viscid vagina. The deep penetration wrenched from Alice's throat a husky moan in gratitude. Her slippery cunt muscles clasped the fleshy intruder hotly.
"You're in, lover," she exclaimed breathlessly. "You're in so deep-way up my belly."
"Squeeze me, baby," Charles rasped. "Use those twat muscles," Knowing it would be extraordinarily difficult to delay his ejaculation for very long, the brown-skinned aspirant to the governorship began fucking into his white wife's slushy womanhood. Braced on hands and knees, Alice's legs hooked over his shoulders, he pistoned his prick in and out of her hot hole.
"Do it, darling," Alice groaned. "Do it to me. Pump that cock in my cunt."
The fact that she was almost bent double, her body in awkward, uncomfortable posture, bothered Alice not a bit. Nor did she mind that with each hard thrust of her hubby's pecker into her molten vagina her knees were driven back into her soft breasts. All that mattered was the throbbing fullness in her soggy cunt, the thrilling, jarring thrusts of her husband's blood-packer brown bone.
For a full minute more Charles drilled his dick into his delighted mate's weeping womanhood, each forceful plunge of his hard organ into Alice's pleased pussy mashing her knees against her tender tits and wrenching from her a passionate, animal-like grunt of genuine pleasure.
And then... the inevitable.
Thinking that he must remember to apologize later for coming so soon, Charles emitted a long groan of satisfaction and emptied his balls in his wife's soggy twat. As the ecstasy of orgasm traveled through his shuddering body, the thick, creamy come bolted from his jerking rod into Alice's love well.
Her husband's orgasm triggered Alice's own. It was not the intense, fiery climax she had hoped for, but it was more than satisfactory since she had already experienced a number of small comes while Charles was orally worshipping her body. So while slightly disappointed in her mate's quick explosion, she was not at all angry.
When his store of syrupy semen had been deposited in his wife's sloppy vagina, Charles pulled his slowly deflating prick from between her swollen pussy lips and, with a weary sigh, rolled over onto his back to lie next to her on the bed. Alice slowly lowered her legs and eased them down on the bed.
Although she had not been required to hold her position for very long, she was suddenly very tired. She felt weak and there was an annoying, albeit small, pain in the lower part of her back. A loving smile appeared on her face when she turned her head on the pillow to glance at her husband who it seemed, had seriously underestimated the degree of his fatigue this evening. He looked like he was about to drop off any second.
Well, it was no wonder he was pooped, Alice thought. A lesser man, one not blessed with her husband's stamina, would have succumbed months ago to the fearful pressures of the campaign. Although he possessed a strong body and sound mind, Charles wasn't a superman. No one alive could keep up the frantic pace required of candidates running for political office, and it looked now, although he would probably deny it, that her husband was beginning to feel the effects of an unbelievably grueling schedule.
Despite outward appearances and the vigorous manner in which he fucked her almost every night of the week, Charles was losing his energy, and perhaps a little of his enthusiasm, as Election Day drew closer. Which was sad, Alice thought, because in the last month he had really come on strong, narrowing the gap between himself and Tom Johnson by a full four percentage points.
And since political polls, or for that matter polls of any kind, were almost never completely accurate, one could safely lop off another percentage point. That would mean that Charles was trailing by a very slim margin, indeed. Overcoming a lead of three percentage points in the next two weeks would be difficult, of course, but certainly not impossible.
When her husband yawned and rolled onto his side, with his back facing her, Alice turned her head and stared at the bedroom ceiling while continuing her musings. Win, lose or draw, she thought, her husband had put up one helluva good race. He had earned the respect and admiration of both blacks and whites during his campaign, and for that he could be justly proud.
She certainly was proud of him, not only because he was running an excellent race and would, if he didn't win, finish a close second, but because he had conducted his campaign in fine style. She loved way he handled the bigots who showed up to heckle him when he spoke before a group, the ease with which he delivered a devastating witticism designed to silence, forever, the ridiculous ramblings of the prejudiced.
Yes, come what may, her husband had been a credit to his race, Alice thought, and many years would elapse before people stopped talking about the brilliant young lawyer who had handled himself with dignity and grace, who, in the face of considerable opposition, had plunged into politics with but one goal in mind; to better to lot of the downtrodden, to nourish the minds and bodies of those impoverished souls, both black and whites, who had all but given up.
At the sound of snoring, Alice again turned to look at her husband. She smiled softly, then, sure that he Was asleep, turned over onto her side and closed her eyes.
Three hours later she was wide awake.
Clad in a beige bathrobe, Charles was pacing the bedroom floor and trying to solve the problem that had to be solved immediately. Lost in thought, he had inadvertently kicked over an unbreakable statue of a cat. To his dismay, this had awakened his slumbering wife. Alice had slipped into her nightgown and now, back in bed, was engaged in conversations with her husband.
"... So that's how it is, sweetheart." Charles said, in answer to his wife's query as to what was bothering him. "I guess you thought I was losing a little pep. A little enthusiasm. Conking out on you like that, so soon after making love, isn't like me, is it? But I've really been upset about his thing. I'm more tired mentally than I am physically."
"But I just don't understand it," Alice said, her brown furrowing. "How can there be no more money in the campaign chest? I mean, where did it all go, honey?"
"We never had that much to begin with, baby, you know that. It's always been touch and go. When I entered the race for Governor my name wasn't exactly a household word, so there weren't a helluva lot of people willing to contribute financially to my campaign. Besides which I'm black."
"That hasn't made one bit of difference, Charles. The people of this state have proven that they're not nearly as bigoted as some so-called experts thought they were. Contrary to what the political pundits believed at the start of this campaign, the voters are going to select their governor on the basis of his qualification, not the color of his skin."
"Yes, this was a pleasant surprise," Charles said, still pacing back and forth in front of the double bed. If the voters were as uptight about race as some people said they were, then Buchanan and Hughes would be where, Johnson and I are at the moment-almost tied for the lead."
Alice smiled softly. "Remember, hon, when early in the campaign you met with Tom Johnson and discussed this whole race business?"
Charles chuckled lightly.
"You were both so concerned at the time. Johnson wondered how much he would be hurt by the fact that he'd chosen to marry a black woman, and you had the double problem of being black yourself and of having a white wife. But it all came to naught, right?"
"True, sweetheart. But this doesn't change the point I was trying to make. In the beginning, when the campaign was just getting off the ground, my blackness was a distinct disadvantage. I mean, nobody knew who I was or how I stood on the various issues. Understandably, few people were willing to contribute much to the campaign of a mystery man. A black mystery man."
"Maybe so, yet-"
"We've been walking a financial tightrope from the very start, sweetheart. And it looks now as if we're about to fall right on our faces. There just isn't any money left to continue the campaign."
"None at all?"
Charles shrugged. "Oh, I guess there might be something like five, six hundred dollars available to us. But that's it, I'm afraid."
"How could Stevens just sit back and watch the money go like that, honey? I mean he must have known what would happen if he kept spending the money like water. If there was nothing coming in, then."
"No, that's not fair, baby." Charles broke in. "There's no way we can blame this mess on my campaign manager Stevens Luther is one of the most knowledgeable public relations men in the business. And one of the shrewdest when it comes to organizing a political campaign. Promoting products and people is has major concern."
"Then draining a candidate's campaign fund must be the thing he does second best." Alice said sarcastically. "I always thought that a good campaign manager was one who could get maximum results from minimum spending. Stevens knew he was working with a tight budget, hon, and I way he should have planned wisely and not left you in this predicament."
Charles dropped warily into a chair sitting near the bedroom door. "Its much easier said than done, sweetheart. To begin with, Stevens never spent a dime without first consulting me and getting my approval. And every expenditure was dutifully noted in a ledger one of his associates is keeping. What money was spent can be accounted for."
"But that doesn't answer my question, Charles." Alice persisted. "To keep spending money when none was coming in was obviously more than a little foolish. Sooner or later the bottom of the barrel would have to be scraped. You and Stevens must have realized this."
"Honey, we no choice but to keep spending. A candidate can't just curtail all spending in the midst of his campaign-especially if he's running a strong second and has a pretty fair chance of overtaking the front runner. That's plain suicide."
"I realize that, Charles, nevertheless."
"I had to keep myself in the public eye." Charles continued, interrupting his wife. "And that meant buying time on television. Placing ads in newspapers, renting auditoriums, and all the rest. Besides all this, there were a thousand and one other expenses connected with conducting a successful campaign. It was either keep pace with Johnson or allow him to pull further and further away. If I had stopped spending a month or so ago, when Stevens and I first realized just how low our funds were, then my campaign would have ground to a halt. Mr. Johnson could have coasted to the governorship.
"I wonder what shape he's in." Alice said thoughtfully. "Financially I mean."
Charles shrugged. "Could be he's running short of money. But the way he's still spending it seems to indicate otherwise. He just might be better off now than he was when he threw his hat in the ring." The brown-skinned gubernatorial candidate paused, then added, "And who knows, sweetheart, perhaps it's all for the best. Johnson is a good man who shares almost all my views on the issues. If I have to lose, then my choice for Governor would be Tom Johnson. And being white he might be able to accomplish more during his term in office than I could."
Alice thought for a moment, then said, "It's just so damn unfair, darling I mean, to be stopped dead in your tracks now, when you were picking up ground so rapidly, is just... just rotten. Did you know that one of this state's most respected political analysts is of the opinion that Johnson's campaign might have peaked too early?"
"I read his column the other day, hon, and he thinks you have an excellent chance of overtaking Johnson in the next two weeks."
"He's obviously unaware of our financial plight," Charles said, a said smile creeping over his dark face. "If I'm going to overtake anybody I'll need more money a barrel full of bills, to be exact. Without that I am very dead.
In a race as close as this the candidates have to battle right down to the wire. It wouldn't surprise me if Ton makes a television speech on Election Eve. That'll probably cement the victory for him.
Alice emitted a long, drawn out sigh of frustration. "Isn't there some hope of getting enough money together? I mean enough to see you through those next two important weeks."
"Very little, sweetheart," Charles answered "As worried as Stevens and I were about our dwindling cash supply a month ago, we didn't panic because we had been promised a very large contribution by one of this state's wealthiest men.
"Who?"
"David Einstein. You must have seen his name in the paper many times. He likes to mix with politicians and supposedly has numerous friends in the state capital."
"Well what happened?"
"The contribution fell through, that's what. Einstein was suddenly hit with some kind of law suit and had to use the money planned for my campaign to hire a battery of expensive attorneys. That left us out in the cold-to put it mildly."
"Another piece of lousy luck," Alice moaned. She thought for a few seconds, then said. "How about an appeal to the public hon? If you made known your need for money, I'm sure your supporters would come to the rescue. They could probably scrape together enough-"
"Time, baby time," Charles broke in. "Sure, I'm going to start begging for contributions first thing tomorrow morning. But what money I'll get will arrive in dribs and drabs. And five dollars here, ten dollars there isn't going to do the trick. With the election only two weeks away, I don't have the time needed to put such small amounts to effective use. What we need, and need immediately, is one very generous contributor to step forward with, say, thirty thousand dollars in hand."
"Wow, that much?" Alice breathed.
Charles shrugged. "Then more the merrier, honey. If I'm able to pull out all the stops, then I might just have a chance of sneaking pass Tom on Election Day. Otherwise it's all over but the shouting, I'm afraid."
With a dark cloud of despair hanging over them Alice and Charles turned quiet. Each felt that further discussion of the illness was unnecessary. What was needed, and needed in a hurry, was a fast-acting remedy that would magically cure their financial woes and permit a continuation of the campaign.
It wasn't until two hours later, when lying in bed next to her husband in the darkened bedroom, that Alice hit upon what she thought was an idea. At best, it was a long shot. A chance in a million, really. Or more likely, two million.
But something had to be done, Alice thought, and soon. The Governorship meant so much to her husband, and the thought of seeing his opportunity go right down the drain for lack of funds was almost unbearable. He had worked so hard and come so close. To lose out now, simply because he didn't have the money to make that one last great effort, would be a gross injustice.
Had the situation been less drastic and if more time were available, the thought of visiting George Kreske and asking him for assistance would never have occurred to her. As it was the idea repelled her, yet it did shed a faint ray of hope on an otherwise dark and dismal dilemma.
Yes, she would go and speak to Kreske, Alice decided. The possibility that she could persuade the avowed racist to contribute to the campaign of a Negro was remote, to say the very least. Yet she would have to give it a try.
Somehow she would have to accomplish the seemingly impossible during one visit to Kreske's palatial digs. It meant swallowing an enormous of pride, of course, but if by some miracle she succeeded in convincing the wealthy bigot that a Negro Governor didn't spell the death of the state... well, her dignity would be restored when her husband took office.
It was the very next afternoon, under an entirely different set of circumstances, that the wife of the other politically-liberal aspirant to the governorship found herself faced with a very unpleasant problem. Unlike Alice Smith's problem, Liza Johnson's did not involve desperate need for money.
Confronting Liza was the question of what to do with a cheating husband.
Less than a half hour ago she witnessed, from afar, her loving mate amorously embracing another woman. Now she was sitting in a small restaurant, in a corner booth, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and trying to come to grips with her shocking discovery. On the table in front of her was a whiskey sour, still untouched.
Idiot, that's what you are, Liza thought, castigating herself as in her mind's eye she saw, for the hundredth time, Tom drawing the blonde into his arms and kissing her passionately. A stupid, completely naive, trustworthy idiot who should have her head examined for not once suspecting her husband of adultery. How many times had Tom screwed the little bitch, she wondered. Five? Ten? Twenty? But what the hell difference did it make, anyway? The fact of the matter was that she had caught him embracing another female. There could be no mistake what, in wide-eyed shock, she witnessed on the sidewalk outside campaign headquarters.
How fortunate for her, Liza thought, that she had decided to surprise Tom with an afternoon visit. Had she not picked the right day, the right time, then in all probability, she never would have learned of her husband's infidelity. She knew Tom would have continued merrily mating with his mistress behind her back.
The sneaky bastard! Oh, but he thought he was the clever one. By making light of the whole situation, by laughingly describing the teenage trollup trying to seduce him down at campaign headquarters, he figured to throw her off the scent. Hell, between chuckles while in the midst of dismissing the girl's interest in him as childish infatuation and nothing more, Tom had probably been thinking ahead to their next rendezvous. Oh, the conniving beast!
But if he was sneaky he wasn't very smart, Liza thought, anger and frustration weighing heavily on her. Public exposure of his adulterous relationship with the blonde slut would cost him the governorship, and do irrevocable damage to his future in politics. The most broadminded voter isn't about the elect as Governor a man who cheats on his wife-the same wife he praised during the year. Yet there was Tom, embracing that blonde bitch in broad daylight, right outside his campaign headquarters! Either he had lost his mind or... or he had fallen in love with the girl and didn't give a damn any more about the governorship.
Could that be it, Liza wondered miserably. Would Tom arrive home tonight and announce his decision to chuck everything? Would he say, as his eyes moistened, that he was no longer interested in becoming governor and wanted only to run off with his teenage mistress?
No, that was preposterous. Tom had expended too much time and energy on the campaign to throw in the towel now. He was on the verge of being elected Governor, of having a dream come true. Surely he had no intention of throwing everything away for the sake of some stupid, cock-crazv little bitch.
Besides which, Tom wasn't the type to become seriously involved with a teenage hot-pants, Liza decided. This was a fling as far as her husband was concerned. What had happened was that the clever slut teased Tom to distraction and then, striking when the iron was hot, seduced him.
Tom, who had unknowingly encouraged the seduction by not putting and immediate stop to the blonde's flirtatious behavior, was thrilled to realize that such a young, pretty creature found him attractive. And so foolishly he had tumbled into an affair which, because it bolstered his ego, he found difficult to end.
Yes, that was what had happened. Liza thought. But what was she going to do about it?
Liza took her first sip of the whiskey sour as she mulled over her problem. Of the notions open to her, the one she dismissed immediately was the one wherein she destroyed her husband's career by publicly proclaiming her anger at his infidelity. That, she knew, would be horribly cruel.
On the other hand, she was determined to teach him a lesson. He had to be punished for his indiscreet passion. And perhaps, just perhaps, what Tom needed was to be shown that two could play the adultery game. It required further study, of course but Liza was not about to rule out the possibility that some day soon, very soon, she would break her marriage vows for the first time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
George Kreske could not remember ever having been quite this happy, so genuinely satisfied with a turn of events. It would seem, he thought, that somebody upstairs liked him after all. For how else to explain the fact that, at the eleventh hour, so to speak, the problem was resolving itself?"
Still to be wrestled with, of course, was the problem of Tom Johnson's candidacy. It was to be hoped that soon, damn soon, Betty would unearth the kind of scandalous, incriminating information needed to bring the Johnson campaign express to a screeching halt. Time was of the essence since Election Day was only eleven days away.
But at least he was making progress, Kreske thought, slowly stirring the scotch on the rocks he had prepared moments ago. Before he allowed Alice Smith to leave his house, he would have enough to blackmail her black husband into leaving the state. Not to mention pulling out of the race for Governor.
Kreske carefully swiveled his bulk on the barstool and then, as he smiled crookedly at the beautiful white woman squirming impatiently in his favorite armchair, raised his glass in toast. Her obvious discomfort pleased him to no end and it was with a sense of satisfaction that he brought the glass to his lips, savored the smooth, expensive scotch as it slid down his throat.
Pig, Alice thought disgustedly. George Kreske was nothing more than a huge pig wallowing in the perverse pleasure he derived from her stupidity. If it weren't for the gag in her mouth, which made speech impossible and breathing difficult, she would curse him to hell and back.
Of course, it would be equally proper if she cursed herself, was the reminder given Alice by small voice in the back of her mind. For she had no one but herself to blame for the mess she was now in. Had she not come up with the completely ridiculous idea of approaching Kreske for financial aid, she wouldn't be sitting here in her bra and panties, bound hand and foot.
Kreske slid off the barstool and, drink in hand, sauntered over to Alice. He chuckled and then took another sip of his scotch. As the potent liquid slid down his throat he smiled at his captive, who met the smile with an angry, defiant gaze.
"What's the matter, Mrs. Smith? Are you a wee bit upset with me? You're so much prettier when you smile, you know."
"Arrrgh," Alice groaned into her gag, thinking that if she had a gun she would shoot Kreske on the spot.
"It would seem that you bit off more than you could chew, wouldn't it?" the powerfully-built bigot said, a sardonic smile slipping over his large, beaded face. "What in heaven's name ever gave you the idea that I would be interested in helping, your husband?"
"Ammmmmm," Alice groaned.
"Did you really believe that I would come to the rescue of a man whose political views I find abhorrent? Your willingness to help your husband in this time of need is rather touching, Alice, yet your naivete is not to be believed. My assisting Charles Smith would be like the condemned man helping his executioner install the electric chair. Surely you realize that."
What she realized was her utter stupidity, Alice thought. Like the frightened lamb that carelessly stumbles into the lion's den, she had foolishly entered the home of a man who would stop at nothing to destroy her husband.
Kreske had listened to her tale of woe without so much as a nod or smile. And then, as she struggled against his great strength, he had briskly stripped her to bra and panties, stuffed the gag in her mouth, tied her hands and feet, and deposited her body in the large leather armchair.
Now she was at his mercy. Fear and anger wrestled for possession of her mind as she wondered what lay in store for her. Kreske was a brutal bigot he had already ridiculed her marriage to a Negro-and there was every reason to expect him to take full advantage of the situation. And that meant humiliating her further.
"But we won't think of this afternoon as a wasted one, will we?" Kreske said." An ideal opportunity to ruin your husband has been dumped in my lap and I intend to make the most of it. And you Alice, are going to assist me in my efforts."
"Gaaaagh... " Kreske chuckled. I suggest you save your strength, sweetheart. You're going to need it" He paused to give an idea some quick consideration, then added, "If I remove your gag, will you behave yourself, Mrs. Smith?" Alice nodded her head.
Kreske set his drink down on the table next to the armchair and proceeded to remove the small, black hand towel banded about Alice's head. After tossing the towel aside, he pulled the wadded handkerchief from her mouth thus permitting her to take her first deep breath in many minutes.
"There, that's better isn't it? But remember, if you start yelling, the gag goes right back on. understand Mrs. Smith?"
Alice swallowed hard and looked up at the beefy bigot. Eyes brimming with anger, she said, "You are without doubt the most disgusting excuse for a human being I've ever met. How can one man be so utterly insensitive, so viciously vindictive?"
"Vindictive? Insensitive? No, I am neither, Alice. What I am is determined- determined to save the state I love from bleeding-heart liberals like your husband and Tom Johnson... The two of them should have been, social workers, not politicians. If they're so bloody interested in... "
"And what's wrong with wanting to help others?" Alice asked, forgetting fear for the moment as she tried to defend her husband. "I don't suppose you're ever required."
"Enough!" Kreske barked. "I don't intend to engage in a debate with you Mrs. Smith. I have stated my position on numerous occasions for reporters and the like. The people of this state know just how I stand on the issues and how I feel about men like Charles Smith. Unfortunately, they have chosen to ignore my oft-repeated warnings about what will happen should either your husband or Johnson take office."
"You must be paranoid," Alice said defiantly.
"Again you choose the wrong word to describe me, Alice. My concern is not for myself, but for the hardworking, over-taxed, middle class American forced to worry about being mugged or raped while struggling to earn a living. There are the people I care about."
"How noble."
Kreske smiled wickedly. "Enjoy these last, precious moments of sarcasm, Alice. Because when I present to the people proof of the Smith's wicked ways, when I show them evidence of your deceit, you and your husband will be singing a different tune."
"Just what are you talking about? One minute after I leave her I'll be on the phone with the police. I intend to bring charges against you Mr. Kreske. Even a man of your influence and wealth isn't immune to justice. You're the naive one if you think you can go around stripping women and trying them up without it costing you."
"Silly, silly girl." Kreske said softly. He walked slowly to the fireplace and from the mantel took down the small piece of equipment that had been of considerable help to him in his business dealings. Smiling, he brought the object to Alice and showed it to her. "This, Mrs. Smith, as I'm sure you know, is a tape recorder," Alice looked at the recorder and then up at Kreske.
"A bit puzzled, are you? Well let me explain. When you phoned this morning and asked to see me, I couldn't imagine what it was you had in mind. I mean, for the wife of Charles Smith to visit me just didn't make sense. So, thinking it would be a good idea to have a record of our conversation, I moved my trusty tape recorder into the living room. I switched it on when you rang the bell."
"It's meaningless," Alice said stubbornly, trying to conceal her worry. "A tape of our conversation if of no value to you."
"Oh, you think not? Well let me ask you this, Mr. Smith. How you think the voters will react when they discover that the supposedly high-principle Negro candidate, the esteemed young lawyer and articulate, spokesman for civil rights, sent his beautiful white wife to me to beg for money? It's all right here, you know. Your tearful request for a loan, the implication that, when elected your husband would reward my generosity with a very lucrative advisory post in his... "
"That's a blatant lie!" Alice exploded. "I implied no such thing. Nor did my husband send me to see you. I never told him of my intention to come here. I came because we needed money desperately and because I stupidly thought I could talk some sense into your thick skull. And that's the truth.
Kreske grinned. "And who will believe it. Alice?"
"The people -the voters," Alice blurted out.
"And how will the voters regard the pictures of you taken in my home? Pictures that show you bare-assed naked and in the throes of a mindless passion."
"Pictures? What are you... " Alice's voice trailed off as she realized, with blinding, fearful clarity, just how far her sinister captor intended to go in his maniacal attempt to destroy the man she loved. She thought it absurd that a man in his position would voluntarily involve himself in such scandalous, illegal goings-on, yet so obsessed was he in "saving the state" for those as narrow-minded as he that criminality apparently no longer concerned him.
"Yes that's right," Kreske said, as if able to read Alice's thoughts. "You are going to star in the short time movie that I will direct. One that will have to be rated X, of course. "
"You... you must be out of your mind. A scheme like this will never work, not in a million years. I'll tell the police the truth and they'll believe me. I'll tell them how you stripped me, how you tied me up and how you forced me to perform."
"That's nonsense and you know it," Kreske broke in. "After listening to my tape and viewing the movie, after hearing my side of the story, no one in the world will believe you were the unsuspecting innocent of this drama. I have you and your husband right where I want you Mrs. Smith, and unless you do as I say, the damage to you both could be catastrophic."
"No!" Alice shouted. "I'm getting out of here right now."
Another evil smirk attached itself to Kreske's large face as he watched his captive struggle with her bonds. How perfect this was, he thought happily. How astonishingly easy everything was falling into place. Had he worked for weeks on a plan to blackmail. Smith and his wife he could not have come up with one better than what he had at the moment.
Circumstance had enabled him to place Alice Smith in a most difficult, most awkward situation. The first step of course, was to photograph and film the beautiful white woman while she wallowed in lust. Then, armed with his tapes and the film, he could begin the bargaining that, at the very least, would result in Charles Smith bowing out gracefully from the race. In the nick of time too, judging form the polls, which showed the black bastard gaining ground rapidly.
The Smith would have two options, Kreske thought, as he carried the tape recorder to the fireplace and set it back down on the mantel. They could go to the police and relate what transpired in his home this afternoon. By doing this, they not only exposed themselves to malicious gossip but ran the risk of losing a court battle, one he would win handily because of his reputation for honesty. Who would believe Alice's story when Charles Smith's sorry financial situation came to light.?
It was a case of simple arithmetic, his lawyers would argue. One and one equals two. Needing money desperately, Charles Smith had sent his stunning white wife to George Kreske with instructions to do whatever necessary to obtain a substantial contribution. The photographs and film of Alice in the throes of a wild passion would convince even the most ardent Smith supporter that their man had stooped to a new low to attain his personal goals.
The other option open to the Negro candidate and his pretty wife was to say nothing, Kreske reasoned. In exchange for their silence and Smith's promise to bow out of the gubernatorial contest he would give them the "incriminating" tapes and the film and photographs. And that would be the end of that.
Kreske moved form the fireplace to stand once again just a few feet from where Alice sat in agitated stupor. He placed his ham-like hands on his hips and grinned down at her. "It's useless, you know," he said, mocking her attempts to free herself. "I made very sure the ropes around your ankles and wrists were tight."
"Bastard!" Alice spat.
"Why don't you just relax and conserve your energy, Mrs. Smith? You don't want to appear all worn-out in your first, and I assume it's your first movie. A star should be... "
"You filthy pig! Alice exploded, her eyes ablaze with anger as she glared up at her tormentor, "You think you're so damn smart, don't you? You think I'm just going to meekly obey your every perverted whim and not put up a fight while you get what you need to blackmail my husband."
"Like hell I am. And therein lies your undoing. Mr. Fat-Assed bigot. You figured you had everything all worked out, didn't you? But you overlooked the fact of my cooperation. That film will be absolutely worthless to you unless... unless... Alice let her voice trail off, unable to bring herself to say "Unless it looks as if I'm enjoying it."
Aware of what his captive was thinking, Kreske said, "But you will be loving the sex you'll be getting, Alice. I've arranged for your pleasure and you-"
"Never! The very idea of my enjoying sex with you is unbelievably ludicrous. Even if you beat me black and blue, I'm not going to cooperate. You'll be doing it to a rag doll, Mr. Bigot. The only thing that film will prove is that I was victimized by a sadist. That I was forced to participate against my will."
"Alice, Alice." Kreske said with a long sigh. "You're allowing your irritation with me to confuse your thoughts. Now stop and think for a moment. Although I like to think of myself as rather dexterous, it would be extraordinarily difficult for me to fuck you and film the action at the same time. I couldn't do both at once. Unfortunately."
Alice's brow furrowed as she considered Kreske's words. If this prejudiced pig wasn't going to lay her, then who was, she wondered. What exactly did Kreske have in mind? Did he intend to move about this elegantly furnished living room, camera in hand, and film her fucking one or more of his sick friends?
"You're wondering what I'm up to, aren't you, Alice?" Kreske asked. "Well, I won't keep you in suspense any longer. Come, let's adjourn to my bedroom, shall we?"
"You'll have to untie me first."
Kreske smiled. "I intend to. But if you're thinking of doing something foolish, like running away, for instance, I should tell you that I have men posted all around my house. They compose my private security force."
Damnit, Alice silently cursed, as her captor bent down to remove the rope locking her ankles together. If as Kreske said he had his bodyguards stationed outside, she didn't have a chance in a thousand of reaching the main road before being caught.
After removing the rope from around Alice's ankles, the exceptionally strong bigot freed her wrists and then, tossing the ropes aside, grabbed hold of her right arm and pulled her up out of the armchair. He pointed in the direction of the circular stairway, part of which Alice could see from the living room.
"You just won't listen to me, will you?" she said, as Kreske started steering her out of the living room and into the large foyer. "Unless your film shows me responding to... to the lewd attention, then it's worthless to you. Even you should be able to grasp that simple fact."
As they passed under the arch separating the living room from the foyer, Kreske said," Mrs. Smith, I'm really quite hurt that you underestimated me so. I tried to tell you before that you're going to enjoy performing in my little home movie. If I thought otherwise, than I would not have included filming your fuck in my shall we say, program of persuasion."
"It's not going to work." Alice stated adamantly as she started up the winding stairs with her captor. "No man can make a woman respond sexually if she refuses to cooperate."
Kreske chuckled. "How old are you Alice?"
"Thirty."
"And you've been married how many years?"
"What has that got to do with anything?"
"It suddenly occurred to me that you don't know very much about sexual intimacy. Surely a woman your age should know that she can be aroused in spite of herself. Willingness to cooperate hasn't much to do with it, actually. A knowledgeable male can excite even the most recalcitrant female. All that is required is the proper technique and a certain amount of patience."
"Are you going to drug me, Mr. Know-It-All?" Alice asked.
Again Kreske chuckled. "I never even gave it a thought. Mrs. Smith. Believe me, any sexual stimulant I could come up with would not work as well on you as Jack."
"Jack Who is he?"
"He's a surprise I have for you," Kreske interrupted, as he and Alice reached the landing. Still holding onto his captive's arm, he proceeded to steer her down the hall. "Perhaps it's only fair that I warn you of his physical appearance. Seeing Jack for the first time can be, well, frightening."
"Frightening?"
"Unfortunately, Jack Carty is not the most attractive of men. One would have to describe him as, well, as an ugly son of a bitch."
Alice suddenly stopped and pulled free of Kreske's grip. She looked at him defiantly and said, "What you're doing to me is serious enough, but if you allow this man to hurt me, you'll spend the rest of your life in jail regretting it."
"Spunk." Kreske said smiling. "Yes, I like that in a woman. It's a pity we didn't meet years ago under different circumstances Alice. I think we would have' gotten along famously."
"Did you hear what I just said? Holding me against my will and forcing me to participate in perversion is one thing. Allowing another man to physically abuse me is another." Alice thought for a moment, then added, "Perhaps you think I'm one of those who respond to mistreatment.
Kreske shook his head. "You do have a flair for the dramatic, don't you?" He took Alice by the arm again and started leading her toward his bedroom. You have my word that I will not instruct Jack to harm a single hair on your pretty head. Not only won't it be necessary, but Jack would probably become incensed if I dared suggest he hurt you. He's a lover, not cruel sadist"
"But you said that-"
"That Jack is perhaps one of the most unattractive men I've ever met. Well, that happens to be a simple fact. I'll never forget the first time I saw Jack and I doubt if you'll soon forget him, either. A word of caution though. I advise against laughing when you meet him. While it's true that he isn't a vicious man, he does have a temper that once in a while gets out of control" In spite of the anxiety welling within her and her embarrassing near nude state. Alice found herself becoming increasingly curious about Jack Carty. She silently reproached herself for being tempted to prod Kreske for further details.
"So here we are, Alice." Kreske said. "Now you just make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a few minutes with my equipment... and Jack."
Alice watched her captor walk quickly back down the hall and enter one of the rooms they had passed. Again the thought of escape darted into her mind. She dismissed it, however, remembering what Kreske had said about having gonads all around his palatial residence. Then she slowly moved into the large bedroom and looked around.
It was the kind of room one would expect a multi-millionaire to sleep in, she thought. And play in. Although Kreske was not what could be termed the average, wealthy playboy, it was obvious that advancing age had not dimmed his interest in the opposite sex. His bedroom decor was decidedly sexy.
The predominant color was red, a flaming red, complemented by soft shades of yellow and brown. The furniture was modern in design polished, no doubt by one of many maids, to a brilliant shine. Not one picture could be found for the simple reason that on each of the four walls, from the bottom, was a mirror. The entire ceiling had also been laid with a mirror, so that regardless of where one stood in the room his or her image was seen. Despite her predicament, the fact that she would soon be forced to fuck a strange man while Kreske filmed her actions, Alice could not help but be impressed by her surroundings. She had been in a bedroom similar to Kreske's many, many years ago, when she was what today is called a "swinging single," and her cheeks suddenly colored as she remembered, with some shame, how much passion had been spent in her old flame's mirrored bedroom.
Missing from her boyfriend's bedroom, however, had been a round bed, standard equipment for those who considered themselves hump-happy hedonists, Alice thought. But George Kreske had one. And it appeared, even under these perilous circumstances, to be very comfortable.
Wondering if Kreske expected to find her naked when he returned Alice moved toward the bed and then climbed onto it. After arranging the pillows, she turned over onto her back and stretched out. Once again those annoying questions about Jack Carty skipped into her mind.
Had Kreske been exaggerating or was his friend really that frightening to behold? How old was Jack? How tall? What was the color of his skin. And if he was so repulsive than how would she be able to stomach his lewd caresses?
Alice turned her eyes to the doorway, and waited.
A few minutes later George Kreske and friend appeared at the doorway. Alice could not at first clearly perceive Jack because he stood almost directly behind Kreske, who in his left hand held what she recognized to be a Polaroid and in his right a movie camera.
There was something in Kreske's smirk that told her he was blocking Jack deliberately, that he was teasing her by purposely obscuring his friend's body with his own large bulk and thereby delaying full knowledge of Jack's appearance. After what seemed an interminable length of time, Kreske turned slightly and, taking his friend's arm, led him gently into the bedroom.
Alice gasped. Instinctively she pushed herself back on the bed as she stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the half man, half animal, who stood where Kreske had deposited him, an impassive expression on his bloodchilling countenance.
"Well, what do you think, Alice?" Kreske asked, setting the cameras down on the large round bed. "Jack here would be a great hit at a Halloween party, wouldn't you say? He wouldn't even have to wear a costume."
Struck speechless by the sight of the thing that soon would climb into bed with her, Alice didn't even make a feeble attempt to answer her captor. In fear and fascination she stared at Jack, thinking that Kreske's description of him as an "ugly brute" was a gross injustice. Then, the animal, or whatever it was, was a walking nightmare!
Never in a hundred years would she have believed that a human so hideous in appearance existed. Jack was a throwback to an age long since gone, to a period in history when man was just beginning to shed his apelike characteristics. He was Neanderthal man come back to life! "I met Jack while on safari in Africa last year." Kreske informed his shocked captive. "I gave the matter some thought and then decided to bring him back to the states with me. He's a docile chap, really. Very friendly when he gets to know you.
"Why did I bring him back? Well, for two reasons. First, Jack had the strength of four men and is, believe it or not, very handy around the house. He does all my gardening and repairs whatever needs repairing on or in my humble abode," Kreske chuckled, "I suppose a talent for survival is mandatory when one lives in a god-forsaken, seldom-explored part of the african jungle."
"You said there were t-two reasons."
"The second was more important than the first. Jack here happens to be an extraordinary lover. The tribe he belongs to has an absolutely fascinating puberty rite, one which I can't imagine existing anywhere but in the remotest sections of Africa, or perhaps in the dark jungles of South America. Shortly after her first menstruation, a young girl is required, by tribal law, to undergo defloration and then live with her first lover for a period of three months. Alice, are you listening to me?"
"W-Wha..oh, yes. Go on." he looked as if he could, eat me at one sitting Alice thought.
"Well anyway, to make a long story short, it was my good fortune to witness Jack in action. On one occasion I watched him bring a dozen or so virgins to screaming orgasms-all in the space of one hour. He himself came every instance. Well, I realized then and there that I have to bring this fantastic stud back home with me. To date, he's starred in over twenty five of my home movies. He just adores white women. Alice. I honestly don't believe he had ever seen one until we left the jungle."
How would she ever be able to mate with this monster without becoming violently ill, Alice wondered. He belonged in a creature feature, in a zoo somewhere. It was as if he had stepped out of the pages of a prehistoric history to confront her with his hideous hairy body and stony silence.
That face, that awful ugly face! It was very long and large, the jaws projecting horribly. The head was massive with heavy brown ridges. The eyes were large dull orbs painted deep in their respective sockets. The nose was broad and flat, the nostrils wide. Long, shaggy hair framed this ape-like visage.
In size and weight he appeared to be more, or less like Kreske, Alice thought. Which made Jack a hulking mass of flesh and blood, the big difference being that while Kreske was white, his uncommunicative friend was black as the ace of spades. A hairy, horrible black.
"Say something to the nice lady," Kreske urged Jack. He turned to Alice and said, "Jack is a non-verbal type, but I think if you say hello to him he'll respond. It's worked in the past."
"I can't do this," Alice stammered. "I don't care what you do to me. If this thing so much as lays a finger on me I'll scream.
"You'll scream. But only because Jack is giving you so much pleasure. Now are you going to say a few words to him or�"
"No!" Alice shouted. "I'm getting out of here!"
The beautiful brunette bolted out of the bed and stumbled for the bedroom door. An agile man for his size and weight, Kreske moved quickly to cut her off before she had advanced six feet from the bed. Alice struggled gamely but soon found herself back on the bed with her obviously irritated captor glaring down at her form.
"I mistakenly thought that you had decided to conduct yourself in a civilized manned, Mrs. Smith. And now you're going to-be punished for giving me such a wrong impression."
"What's he going to do to me?" Alice whined. Ignoring the beauty's question, Kreske draped his arm around the beast and said, "You spank, Jack. Spank woman."
Jack grunted. "Me spank. Me spank white woman."
"Good boy," Kreske beamed. Alice looked at Kreske, then at Jack, and then at her cunning captor. There was a macabre humor in their exchange, she thought. Kreske was the white hunter instructing a most humble native, praising him on his ability to comprehend spoken English. Had her situation been less grim, less unnerving, she would have been better able to fully appreciate their clumsy, jungle-movie dialogue.
"Hear that, Mrs. Smith? You're going to have your beautiful bottom warmed by Mr. Carty."
"No, I won't let him touch me."
"When were you last spanked? Not since you were a child, I bet."
"You're sick," Alice said softly.
"I don't suppose that black you married has the guts to swat once in a while. A woman needs a good spanking every so often, reminds her who's boss." Kreske grinned wickedly. "It'll be fun to watch Jack spank you. I think I'll film the moment for posterity."
"You should be put away," Alice noted sadly.
Kreske frowned. "Roll over onto your belly, Alice. And be quick about it."
"If I refuse?" Alice asked.
"You'll suffer the consequences," Kreske said. "Now get on your front before I push Jack on you."
"If he starts flailing away and strikes your breasts, you'll regret not giving him a less tender target."
Alice looked at the black giant standing quietly beside his white, master, Kreske was right, she thought miserably. It would be exceedingly dangerous to underestimate the strength of Mr. Jack Carty. Although at the moment he appeared to be as gentle as a lamb, one could easily conceive him causing considerable pain when angry. Or if he were told to get angry.
"We're waiting, Alice," Kreske barked. Realizing she had little choice in the matter, the brunette twisted slowly over onto her tummy. Kreske gazed down at her pretty pantied-posterior and smiled. Then, taking his arm from around Jack's shoulders, he moved around the bed and picked up his movie camera.
"I'll get even with you for this," Alice promised, her near-nude body in nervous quiver as she awaited the blow that would signal the beginning of her ordeal.
Kreske chuckled as he inspected the camera he had loaded earlier. "I heard that same line spoken just the other evening by the hapless heroine of a B-movie."
"Moo-vie," Jack said softly.
Kreske beamed. "Very good, Jack. We'll have you speaking like an Oxford graduate in no time at all. Now climb up onto the bed and into position to spank the lady."
"Spank," Jack said, pronouncing the word carefully.
"That's right. And if you do a good job I'll let you watch the Tarzan movie on television."
This was unbelievably ridiculous, Alice thought, feeling the round bed sag as Jack maneuvered his black bulk into position. It was frightening, of course, and certainly downright degrading. But it was also ridiculous.
Here she was, a full-grown married woman of thirty, about to be spanked by an overgrown child whose age she found it impossible to guess. And as a reward for a job well done, Jack would be allowed to view a jungle flick on television.
"All right, I'm ready," Kreske declared, camera in hand. "Alice, push your panties down."
Having resolved not to co-operate, Alice made no move to comply with her cruel captor's lewd request. Instead, she closed her eyes and dug her fingers into the pillow supporting her head. She pressed the right side of her face into the pillow and awaited the first of what she feared would be numerous blows to her poor behind.
"Have it your way, Mrs. Smith," Kreske sighed. "But you'll be sorry." He turned his attention to the black giant he had imported from the wilds of the African jungle.
"Jack, you may begin."
"Me, begin," Jack said, a child-like smile breaking over his ugly black face.
Kreske brought the camera up to his face and then, peering in the view finder, began slowly circling the bed in search of a good angle. Alice tensed and silently prayed for a miracle that would spare her this bestial bottom-warming. Yet, in her heart she knew that none would be forthcoming and she would have to suffer the gross indignity.
Kneeling on the round bed, his knees at right angles to Alice's left hip, Jack drew his right arm up oyer his head and opened his large black hand. Scant seconds later the arm was flying through the air, the hard hand landing with a resounding "splat!" on the lovely brunette's pan tied posterior.
"Aee!" Alice shrieked, her buttocks jiggling in protest. "Don't!"
No sooner had the second stinging blow landed, and Jack was raising his right arm in preparation of a third. It came quickly before Alice could recover and tense her quivering tail and again her cry of outrage filled the sexily-decorated bedroom.
A fourth fiendish, fanny-hurting blow followed. And then a fifth was delivered. And a sixth. The black giant was quickly establishing a most lewd rhythm, spacing his swats about five seconds apart so that two distinct sounds could be heard, the sound of his hard black hand as it crashed down against Alice's seat and the heartbreaking howl of anguish wrenched from her throat by each burning blow to her ass.
Like a child with a new toy, Kreske danced around the bed with his camera. He moved to his left and right, took a few steps back and then moved in close, bobbed and weaved like a fighter shadow-boxing in a slow motion. He put a knee up on the bed and shot a close-up of Alice's pained expression.
"Stop it!" Alice whimpered.
"No stop," Jack said, obviously enjoying the fact of the beautiful white woman's discomfort. He punctuated his words with yet another wicked' wallop to Alice's ass, one so hard that she jerked her hips a good six inches off the bed. To hold her down the half-civilized black placed his left hand on the small of Alice's back, then again raised his right to deliver another stinging swat.
"Aie! Ohhhh!"
"That's the boy," Kreske said in praise of Jack's licentious labors. "Keep on hitting her."
Jack emitted an animal-like grunt and then, as if inspired by his friend's words, proceeded to pummel Alice's ass with renewed vigor. Again he swatted her seat, his arm like a well-greased lever as it moved rapidly up and down.
"No more! It hurts!" Alice whimpered. "Please, tell him to stop!"
"Me no stop!" Jack declared.
"You tell her, boy!" Jack growled, the evil smile on his face concealed by the movie camera.
Alice couldn't remember ever having undergone such a painful experience. Never had her humiliation been as great as it was this moment. On a number of occasions during her formative years, when her childish enthusiasm for devilish deeds knocked common sense and proper behavior from her consciousness, she had suffered through a sound spanking.
She could remember tearfully lifting her little skirt and pushing down her panties, then draping herself over her angry father's knee to be punished with a dozen or so hard slaps across her naked fanny. But that chastisement and the resulting embarrassment had been nothing compared to the agonizing ordeal she was being forced to endure right now.
Dear heaven above, when would it end, she wondered miserably as another blow landed on her bottom. Kreske's fiendish flunky was really laying it to her, striking her seat with all the strength at his command. Her ass ached something awful and each mind-clouding, searing swat sent waves of additional agony traveling through her body.
Kreske suddenly lowered the camera and directed Jack to stop beating on Alice's tortured behind. The black brute obeyed immediately but stayed in position. He knew that his services were still required and that, if he performed to his white friend's satisfaction, he would be rewarded.
"Alice, pull down your panties."
"No."
"Alice, I'm telling you again to push down your pants," Kreske said, his tone of voice threatening.
"You lousy bastard," Alice whimpered, "I hate you."
"That disturbs me no end," Kreske said sarcastically. With a shake of his head he told Jack, whose right hand was held high, poised to pummel, not to deliver, the wicked blow. "Now do as I say before I let Jack fuck you in the ass."
"Bastard!"
"Alice, I'm warning you."
Realizing that nothing of value would come from delaying the inevitable, Alice sniffed back a few tears and then brought her hands down to her sides. As Jack and Kreske watched with interest, she inserted her fingers in the elasticized waistband of her undies and then began pushing the garment down.
Less than fifteen seconds later the panties were banded about Alice's legs, at a point just under her rear. As another tear trickled down her cheek, Alice brought her arms up and encircled the pillow under her head. Now she was really going to get it!
"Jack," Kreske began, "you may resume beating on the white woman's ass."
The ugly black giant didn't move.
"Spank, damn you! Spank the-"
"Me spank!" Jack said happily, grinning from ear to ear.
Shit, but you're a dumb bastard, Kreske thought.
Throwing back his head to get some of the long hair away from his eyes, Jack adjusted his position just a little and then began battering Alice's bottom again. The toughened flesh of his black hand met the tender, spongy flesh of her flushed fanny and again she let out a wail.
"Hard!" Kreske shouted, not bothering to hide the fact that he found the wanton walloping of Alice's posterior highly enjoyable. "Make her yell!"
As Kreske again focused his camera on the action, Jack continued the savage swatting of the brunette's behind. And slowly but surely, as smack followed smack, his ebony erectile began to fill with warm blood. When it was gorged, thick and throbbing, Jack considered his fleshy spear, which measured a little more than six inches, as potent as the other kind he had carried in his days as a warrior.
Beautiful, Kreske thought, keeping the camera glued on Alice's buttocks as he captured on film her painful punishment. Of course, this particular roll of film would have no bearing on his blackmail scheme. It would be added to his big. collection of deliciously obscene movies. He would run it through his projector in the privacy of his own home, when he was alone and in need of a little amusement.
But the next film, the one that would record Alice's intense delight at being dicked by Jack, should be more than enough to insure Charles Smith a swift and sudden departure from the gubernatorial contest. The fancy-talking nigger would make a little speech, Kreske thought, as he zeroed in on Alice's face. And in that speech he would probably say that, for reasons of health, he had decided to bow out of the race.
All he needed was for Betty Wilson to come up with something that she could use against that other lily-livered liberal, Tom Johnson.
Alice had ceased to cry out each time Jack's hand came crashing down against her aching fanny. She was moaning in misery now, her full-throated, gutteral sobs all connected and forming one long, unending wail of woe.
Just how many vicious blows her trembling tail had absorbed she didn't know. But it felt like a hundred. It was as if she had been put into an open oven, as if her buttocks were being branded by a red-hot iron.
"Enough!" Kreske yelled.
Jack stopped his hand in mid-flight. Puffing hard, he sat back on his haunches and placed both hands on his knees.
Thank heavens, Alice thought. Her face was wet with tears that had slid down her cheeks to dampen the pillow under her head. A tiny trickle of blood oozed from her lower Up onto her chin, the result of having bitten down too hard during a series of particularly brutal smacks. "All right, Jack, you can start playing with the nice lady. I'll be back in a few minutes. I have to fill my camera again."
The black brute didn't move. He took his right hand from his right knee and looked at it. A silly smile crept over his crafted face.
"I said fuck, Jack! You fuck!"
Jack's smile broadened. "Me fuck!"
Do it and get it over with, Alice thought. Just don't hurt me. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists at her sides. Seconds later she felt Jack's strong hands on her breasts, pushing and pulling on her bra as he attempted to remove the garment from her spongy globes.
After working Alice's bra up and off her mouth-watering mammaries, the hairy black proceeded to roughly massage those twin melons of flesh. Kneeling now next to her supine form, he kneaded her boobs and fingered the brownish nipples of each. As if wanting to reshape them, he squeezed Alice's tender tempting tits and then compacted those gelatinous globes until they were a single mass of creamy goodness on her chest.
Alice suffered in silence, making no move to either avoid the mauling of her mammaries or leave the bed. When Jack took his left hand from her left breast and brought it back to her crotch, dipped his fingers in the warm hollow of her thighs to commence a cunning massage of her snatch, she reacted with indifference.
When Kreske returned to his bedroom ten minutes later he found Jack tonguing Alice's tits and rubbing up her sex nest. He stood viewing the proceedings for a few seconds, then setting the loaded camera on the bed, reached down and grabbed hold of the panties still banded about Alice's legs.
He tugged the garment down and worked it around and off her feet. Deciding to keep the panties as a souvenir of his triumph, he stuffed them into his pants pocket, then moved around the bed until he was looking down at Alice's expressionless face. Nothing yet, he thought. But it wouldn't be long before Jack's skilled caresses produced the desired result.
Kreske tapped his African import on the shoulder and Jack lifted his face from Alice's tasty tits. Telling Alice to sit up, the wealthy bigot then reached around and undid the clasp of her bra.
He dropped the garment onto the floor and Alice, naked now, fell back down onto the bed. Jack resumed his licentious labors almost at once, his hairy black body in stunning contrast to the creamy one he was fondling and kissing.
"Say cheeeese," he said, peering into the view finder.
"Give us a little smile."
"Drop dead," Alice said, her soft voice devoid of emotion.
Kreske brought the camera away from his face and smiled. "I really should be taping this, you know. It would be fun to compare your indifference now to the heathenish lust you'll be experiencing in just a few minutes. The change in attitude will have people wondering if I doctored the tape."
"Go to hell," Alice snapped.
Kreske laughed and then again looked into the camera's view finder.
He started to circle the bed. Going slowly, he began planning his camera positions, deciding where he would station himself to record the various movements made by Jack and Alice.
For five minutes more the black giant worked on the beautiful brunette, his tongue and hands never still as he licked and stroked the creamy body. He moved up and down her supine form, kissing and squeezing and licking. He pinched Alice's nipples, then eased the pain with his soothing curling tongue. He stroked her twat, inserted a few fingers in her love hole and diddled her clit.
Not one inch of Alice's body did Jack ignore as he labored diligently to evoke response. He kissed her all over, from the top of her head to her pretty feet. He sucked her toes and her fingers, nibbled on her ears, used his hard-working tongue like a brush to paint every nook and cranny of Alice's body with warm, sticky saliva.
And it was while he munched on her twat, his massive black head lost between her creamy thighs that Alice began to feel the first stirrings of desire. It was now that her body started to betray her, that revulsion was replaced by an ever increasing appreciation of Jack's salacious ministrations.
Appalled at the unmistakable fact of her arousal, Alice tried desperately to quell her rising need, to kill the desire now snaking through her warming body. She was shocked at what was happening and disgusted with herself for being unable to stifle those sexy sensations that, like the incessant beating of a drum, were starting.
But Alice's efforts to dispel desire was doomed to fail. Each passing second found her moving ever closer to the moment when no longer able to stand the sweet, insidious pleasure, the fiery itch on her twat, she surrendered and in a breathless tone of voice begged to be banged.
Kreske watched with a smile on his face as Alice began squirming as she mewed with pleasure and reached down to entwine her fingers in Jack's long, shaggy hair. She was still fighting it, still struggling to squash that lust sparked by Jack's deft handling of her body, but she was losing ground rapidly, her guilt-ridden mind succumbing to the need of her beautiful body.
"Ohhhhh," Alice moaned. "Please, that's good!"
Yes, it wouldn't be long, Kreske thought, as once again he peered through the camera's view finder. And soon he would have on film, Alice's passion, her wildly enthusiastic response to Jack's reaming of her cunt. The film, of course, would be titled, "Beauty and the Beast."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Frank Leinz knew it had to be a dream, a simply fantastic, absolutely delightful dream from which he would awaken much too soon. For how else to explain the provocative presence of Liza Johnson, who some seconds ago had peeled out of flaming red panties to stand before him, bare-assed naked.
More often than he cared to admit he had thought about the gorgeous, cocoa-colored wife of the man whose gubernatorial campaign he was managing. He wondered what it would be like to sink his blood-hardened white prick into her beautiful brown body, to feel her soft, lipsticked-lips curl lovingly around his meaty manhood.
And now, exactly one week before Election Day, his wish was coming true. Later last night Liza had phoned to suggest they meet and discuss certain matters relating to the brief talk she was going to deliver to a women's club in behalf of her husband's candidacy. He, of course, had agreed to the meeting.
Liza had arrived at his apartment about an hour ago. Over a drink they had reviewed her speech and chatted about Tom's campaign in general. And then, somehow or other, she maneuvered him into the bedroom. Now, naked and in need, the brown-skinned beauty was smiling provocatively at him, obviously aware of the effect of her nakedness on his near-nude body.
"You're surprised?" Liza asked.
"Stunned would be a better word."
"Would you like me to leave?"
"Of course not," answered Frank, who while watching his best friend's wife undress had managed to shed all but his undershirt and white boxer shorts. "I just never thought that, well, what I mean is�" Liza chuckled. "You still find it hard to believe your eyes, right? You're wondering what I'm doing here. Me, the wife of your close friend and this state's next Governor."
Frank shrugged. "Well, it's just that I never expected to, I mean, what the hell! I'm tongue-tied."
Again Liza chuckled. "That's all right, Frank. I think we've finished talking and you don't need a tongue to screw me."
Frank looked hard at the beauty who has come to him to get humped. "Are you sure, Liza?"
"I'm sure, Frank," Liza said, smiling. "But if you're not interested in loving me�"
"Of course I'm interested," Frank said. He brought his hand to the bulge in his shorts and squeezed. "Doesn't this prove it?"
"It's as good an indication of desire as anything," the succulent brown beauty answered, her eyes dropping down to linger briefly on Frank's cock-clutching hand. Then, returning her gaze to his face, she moved to her husband's attractive campaign manager and slid her arms around his neck.