By their early thirties, most married people find themselves settled into a groove, working and living in a life style whose pattern they expect will remain unchanged for the next thirty or forty years. This pattern, of course, is not always permanently set, but few people can envision a way of life other than their present style.
There are many events which together can change a person's life style-death, divorce, a change of job and philosophy-but for some people there is one traumatic event which can have far-reaching consequences.
Lynda Gillespie, a pampered and bored housewife, must face the consequences of a night of fear and terror. A victim of the most personally offensive crime-rape-she must learn to cope with the emotions and sensuality that she never realized were within her.
RAPED WIFE is a novel about one woman's coming to terms with her newly awakened sexuality. A novel about one of society's greatest problems and one woman's way of dealing with it.
-The Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
Lynda parked and went inside. The exterior of the carry out wine and beer store was rather garish, but the proprietor had the best selection of wine in the county.
"Oh, hi, Mrs. Gillespie," said the boy at the counter. "Haven't seen you in several days."
"Hello, Paul," Lynda said, pleased that she'd finally remembered his name. He was such a friendly clerk, always greeting her by name and always so enthusiastic, too. A college boy, he seemed very mature for his twenty or so years, and Lynda was sorry that she kept forgetting his name.
"Uh, listen," she said, "do you think it would be all right with your boss if you cashed a check for me? The car's nearly out of gas and the station simply will not accept a check, and-"
"Why, sure, Mrs. Gillespie! No problem at all. How much?"
"Let's see ... I'll write it for eleven dollars. That should cover a fill-up and two packs of cigarettes. Kools," but he'd already put two packs of Lynda's brand on the counter. It was nice that he'd remembered her cigarette preference as well as her name. "All right," she said, signing the check and handing it over. While he rang up the register she balanced her checkbook.
"Oh," Paul added, "we finally got in a new stock of that German wine Mr. Gillespie is always asking about. The Liebfraumilch, I think it's called."
Lynda picked up the money. "I'll tell him," she said. "If he still wants it, he can drop by when he gets home."
"Is he away again?" Paul asked, so openly, so politely, that the question didn't seem at all impertinent. He was always open, friendly, and polite, a big, strapping boy, prime quality for the college football team, though Lynda didn't think he played. Probably too busy fending off girls, she told herself. He'd have been topnotch date bait when I was in school. Except for his longish hair he had all the attributes that used to be described as 100 percent American good looks-and might still be, for all Lynda knew. Tall, broad-shouldered, well proportioned, with gray eyes, an authoritative nose, a firm chin, and a strong mouth adorned with good, white teeth.
"Yes," Lynda said, "till tomorrow. I think he's in Cleveland tonight. Or was he staying in Detroit and flying to Cleveland tomorrow? It's hard to remember. But I'll be sure to tell him about the Liebfraumilch. Thank you for letting me know."
"No trouble at all," he said, as if he were really eager to be of service. Lynda wondered if the boy mightn't have just the tiniest, teensiest crush on her. He never seemed quite so attentive with other customers. Oh, knock it off, Gillespie! she told herself. Your ego needs to be taken down a few notches! Not all kids are the snots you and your friends were at that age. Paul is just very well-bred.
"So, thank you very much, Paul, you've saved my life. Or at least you've kept an old, out-of-condition lady from walking home. I don't think I'll deal with that station anymore."
"You can always cash a check here, Mrs. Gillespie." Again that toothy smile, so infectious Lynda couldn't help flashing one of her own in reply. She went out the door and heard him saying "Good evening" as she departed.
It was almost seven-thirty before she got home and, after playing the messages on the phone recorder, Lynda sat down to her normal Wednesday dinner-a giant salad, black coffee, and a serving of unsweetened grapefruit slices. This was diet day, though the afternoon of hospital volunteer work had left her with an appetite for steak, french fries, and a huge dish of chocolate ice cream. "Remember your body," she told herself aloud. "Calories are not a woman's friends."
Jerry hadn't called, but he rarely did when he was on the road. Chrissy McGraw had called, though. "Nothing important," she'd told the recorder. "Catch you later, Lyn." Probably she just wanted to talk. About a man she'd broken off with, about a man she'd just met, about a man she planned to meet. Chrissy's mind had been rather one-tracked since college days.
Lynda put her dishes in the washer and went up to take her bath. She needed to soak awhile, to let her weary legs soothe themselves in the hot bubbles of a tub. "Damn the diet," she said suddenly. "A few extra calories won't hurt." So she mixed herself a small pitcher of screwdrivers and carried that up the stairs with her.
"Mmmmm," she purred in agreement, testing the water with her left hand. Hot, not quite scalding. Just the kind of tub to laze in for hours. She poured in the bath beads and a generous helping of bubble bath, then stirred it up. The tub foamed and the bathroom smelled of the delicate soap scent, as Lynda herself would soon smell of it. "Perfect," she said, then poured herself a screwdriver.
She took a sip of the drink and turned, naked. As she moved she saw her reflection in the full-length mirror, and she stopped in mid-turn, analyzing herself as she always did when a mirror was handy. And, as nearly always, Lynda was pleased with what she saw.
A twenty-year-old would have been satisfied with a body like Lynda's, let alone the thirty-three-year-old woman who nodded at her mirrored image. She was taller than average,-about five-eight in her stocking feet, and had long, good legs which still tapered and curved in all the proper places.
Her ass was slim but definitely shaped; it wiggled when she walked and it hadn't spread out enough to make a girdle part of Lynda's daily wardrobe. She took a deep breath and her tits lifted slightly. Only slightly, but there was enough motion to remind her that even the firmest, tightest flesh would someday sag.
She couldn't be sure. On the one hand she'd heard that wearing a bra made your tits lose their natural uplift, while others were just as convinced that going braless broke up the muscular control in the pectoral region and guaranteed that a woman's boobs would someday be hanging to her waist in limp flabs. Lynda was already married by the time the no-bra look came along and if she'd made a mistake in her youth, choosing to be Maidenformed, it was too late to correct it now. She'd tried it braless a few times-only at home though, because Jerry wouldn't hear of her going out in public with her nipples obvious beneath a clinging jersey, let alone anything see-through!
She cupped her breasts, holding them from beneath. Oh, she chided herself, you have a long way to go before you need to worry about your boobs, Lynda Gillespie! The flesh still felt firm to her touch and the sag was highly minimal. When she was sixteen her nipples had pointed at a jaunty tilted-up angle; now they were virtually on a plane, sticking straight out. Someday, not now, they'd be aimed at her toes, but she could live with that knowledge.
34-22-35 were the numbers. Or should be. She was a few pounds over her preferred norm of 118 and positive that she could detect a certain unwanted puffiness round her hipbones. But Lynda could handle that. Eat more carefully for a few days, and those two or three pounds would melt away like spring frost.
She lifted her hair with one hand, experimenting with the deep copper swirls and tresses. Once her hair had been a yucky shade of red which depressed her every time she passed a mirror, but its tint had deepened naturally over the years and she was quite pleased with its color now. The bathroom light played up shades of red as she turned her head this way and that.
Not a bad face, either. High forehead, small nose, firm little chin. Eyebrows unplucked, accentuating the hazel glimmers beneath. Lips generously wide, with exactly the right fullness. And very good skin, clear, unfreckled, smooth.
"Who said you're washed up at thirty-three?" Lynda asked the girl in the mirror. She let her hair fall, picked up her drink, and settled into the tub, accommodating her body to the tingling heat of the water a little bit at a time.
The screwdriver was making her tingle ever so slightly inside, too. She finished it, poured a second, but set the glass to rest while she splashed for a few moments in the foamy bubbles.
She washed her face and neck, cleansing them with careful, loving passes of hands, then rinsed and retrieved her drink. A deep sip of the sweet, soothing liquid, and she closed her eyes, allowing the internal warmth to take hold and spread.
Her body shifted in the hot tub. The warmth of the water felt very nice upon her pussy, and she squirmed around to let currents roll across the gap between her slim, shapely thighs. It was the screwdriver, she told herself. She always got silly when she had a drink or two.
It was too bad Jerry was always on the road. Oh. not always, but he was gone for at least two weeks every month, and sometimes she found herself climbing the walls in his absence. Her body would ache with the need to be loved and, too, too often, she'd find herself tossing in her bed, the room dark and moonlight stealing through the window as she fingered herself to orgasm.
Which, in a way, was funny, because most of the time when Jerry was at home and he crawled upon her lithe body for some fucking, she didn't respond. Oh, she responded, sure! She got wet, and his cock slid easily up her cunt, and her long legs snaked around him as they rocked and rattled on the bed. And her hands smoothed up and down his back, reaching low sometimes to cup the cheeks of his ass and pull him deeper into her pussy while his mouth rested hot and moist upon her own.
But usually that was as far as it went.
Nine times out of ten she'd hear him choking as he neared his orgasm, and she'd tell him in a sweet, faraway voice, "Go ahead, darling ... I'm nowhere near there-" She'd feel him tense and thrust then, and if her hands were still on his ass she could count each muscular spasm of his ejaculation, and his cock would spit out its load of semen deep, within her pussy. And later, when he was soundly sleeping beside her, one of his hands cupping a breast, Lynda would discreetly reach beneath the sheet, slip a finger into her cum-slick twat, and tickle herself to the orgasm her husband could not provide. It had been that way for the last year or two.
But she wasn't really worried. According to the magazines, most couples went through phases of that sort. God, when she and Jerry first married, they fucked like rabbits, at the drop of a hat. Once they'd gone to dinner at another couple's house, she remembered, and all through the meal Jerry had been playing with her under the table. She tried to look serene and calm as his fingers moved on the inner curve of her thigh-it was the year of the miniskirt and her thighs' inner curves were damnably easy to get at-but she was dripping by dessert, and she was positive that their hosts couldn't have missed smelling her juicing cunt. And she enjoyed the feeling of being finger-fucked in what was both a private and a public situation.
Enjoyed it so much that she and her husband made their excuses as soon as possible. They hadn't gone a block before Jerry pulled the car over, scooted closer, hoisted her skirt, dropped her panties, and slammed his cock into her dripping gash so furiously it made Lynda's teeth rattle.
"God, yes, now, fuck me, fuck me, oh Jesus!!!!" she'd moaned in the darkness of the car, bouncing on her husband's lap as he put the meat to her. His zipper tab scratched her pussy-she had a little scab there for days and Jerry said he could still see traces of the scar. But she'd orgasmed, orgasmed like a rippling, gushing fountain that matched perfectly the geysers of cum he shot into her, and their bodies trembled like willows as they finally broke off the connection and rearranged their clothing.
Not thirty seconds later a police cruiser pulled over beside them and a beefy, fiftyish cop rapped on the window, wondering if anything was wrong. "Of course not, officer," Jerry had said nervously. "My wife dropped an earring and we stopped to see if we could find it."
Mmm-hmm, the cop's nod told them, and Lynda's eyes flashed downward, noticing that the front of her dress was still unbuttoned, that one yellow, flower-speckled B-cup was poking through the gap. But the policeman had smiled and returned to his car, and they went home to fuck again, and again.
Those were the days! she thought, smoothing soap across her breasts. The nipples weren't dirty but she washed them very carefully, as such delicate buds warranted. Lynda's nipples were tiny, the areolae no bigger than pennies and just as perfect circles. From them stiff tips extended, long and nearly as thick as the bases from which they arose.
Lynda's fingers stroked circles around the edges of her nipples and her teats arose as if they'd been summoned. She looked down at what she'd always naughtily thought of as "titty hard-ons" and she smiled to see their primed erection.
Her fingers closed gently upon her nipples and she rolled back and forth, tweaking the tender blossoms to an appreciably higher degree of stimulation. Beneath the high, bubble-topped pool in which she sat, her thighs came together of their own will, pressing, brushing, and she moved her ass on the bottom of the tub to let a bit more feeling spread to her cunt.
"You're doing it again, Lynda Gillespie!" her reproving voice cut in. She looked toward the door, to the full-length mirror mounted on its inside, and she saw her face. It was a pretty face and it was blushing slightly, but she didn't feel ashamed of her face or her body or her sensations, and she didn't stop. Instead she took another hearty swallow of screwdriver, draining the glass.
The alcohol no longer caused a flutter at the base of her skull, which meant that the first two drinks had already begun to make her deliciously numb. She poured herself another.
She leaned back, stretching like an empress in the oversized bathtub, and she brought her toes out of the water, resting them on the far end. They wiggled as they dripped water back into the tub, and it felt nice when they wiggled. Lynda took another sip of screwdriver and wiggled them some more.
But it took only one hand to hold the glass. The other was beneath the water's surface, stroking back and forth from one tit to the other, and Lynda purred as she felt each of her hard nipples in turn. Every time she pinched her paps a little jolt of excitement spread through her body, and she was beginning to rock slightly in the tub, making the water slosh and the bubbles jiggle before her eyes.
Why, she wondered, do I usually feel sexier when I'm in the tub than when I'm in bed with Jerry? Maybe they should take baths together again? They'd done it once, when they were younger, poorer, sharing that first apartment of their married life. It had a shower instead of a tub, and they were paying all utilities, so, to cut expenses, they always showered together. Or at least it was a good excuse, the money-saving. How many times had they begun in all seriousness to take an economical bath, soaping one another's backs, promising that there would be no monkey business-and then she'd have him by the cock, making it hard in her hands, and he'd be gripping fiercely at her tits, and almost before either of them knew it, Jerry had her leaned against the far wall, her legs spread as he worked his soapy rod into her equally soapy snatch-which didn't need the artificial lubricant of soap and water to make her wet and ready for him. How many times?.
As her fingers grew more active on her nipples, as she put down the screwdriver glass and added a second hand to her masturbation, Lynda tried to remind herself that she and Jerry weren't the same people they'd been then. God, that was ten years ago!
No, everything had to change, and you could only hope that the changes were for the better. For one thing, Jerry had a much better job now. He was making some $25,000 a year instead of the slightly over $4000 on which they'd begun their married life.
Sometimes the days of long ago seemed attractive, less complicated, sometimes Lynda awoke from a nightmare that it was 1966 all over again and she couldn't even afford to fix macaroni and cheese for Jerry's supper.
A current rippled in the water and soapsuds floated in a sudden whirling motion. Lynda's back straightened and she leaned forward, nibbling her lips. Beneath the water her fingers had crept onto her pussy and she could not restrain the impulse to cry out "Ohhhhhhh!!"
She twisted and writhed as her left middle finger slid up and down the submerged split of her cunt while her right-hand fingers conspired to squeeze and press the puffy, hair-fringed lips as the intruder passed and repassed. Her pussy yielded a fraction with each slicing thrust of the rimming finger, and she felt the labia growing more sensitive, more receptive, more eager, Lynda threw back her shoulders, tits wobbling delicately amid the foamy bubbles enfolding her body, and she straightened her middle finger, pulling it away from her cunt. But not all the way. The tip and its nail rested firmly on the pussy's opening, and it would require only the slightest flip of her wrist to drive it inside, stabbing, thrusting, slicking home. Water from the bath would seep into her pussy, as if she weren't already oozing inside from natural lubricants, and she'd have no trouble at all fingerfucking herself to a moaning come right here in the tub. Should she? Should she? Lynda wondered, as she always wondered, and she acted, as she always acted.
She gave her wrist that flip, a skewering, saucy toss of the hand, and her finger eased into the maw of her cunt. "Oh, I think sooooo!!!!" Lynda told herself aloud, and she moved it deeper, still twisting, still tossing her wrist so that the finger jiggled and darted round inside the clinging walls of her twat. She lifted herself from the water, going onto her knees, and her tits dangled free, dripping soapsuds from the nipples. Lynda closed her eyes and began to stab freely with her finger, shaking her ass and swallowing it with her pussy muscles.
Some of the water sloshed over the side of the tub and her elbow knocked over the empty screwdriver glass. She saw it fall, heard it hit, but it landed upon the soft, fuzzy bath rug and there was no shatter of breaking glass. She wouldn't have cared if there had been. All of Lynda Gillespie's attention was concentrated upon her two hands, working as a team on the yearning slice of her cunny.
She stabbed furiously with her middle finger, while its nine mates each applied a different kind of pressure to the puffy bulge of her aroused pussy. She squeezed, she kneaded her tingling flesh, and she felt darts of passion and pleasure shoot through her body with each abusive caress. Oh, why couldn't Jerry have been here tonight, with her? She was so goddamned hot-Lynda knew that with his cock driving inside her she'd have moaned and whimpered into a blinding orgasm!
But he wasn't here. It was Lynda, and Lynda alone, the way it had been best for her so damned often lately, and she couldn't deny it. She found a pleasure with her fingers that she was not finding in her husband's arms.
It wasn't Jerry's fault. She'd already decided that everything changed, and these days changed so fast no one could keep up. So who was responsible if she'd fallen in love with a man who reminded her so much, in looks and attitude, of a younger, less cynical James Garner? And who was responsible if the years had changed him too? So that sometimes as she held him rutting to her breasts she wondered who this man could be.
His hair was going, but she didn't mind; he was putting on some weight in the wrong places, but that wasn't important either. But why did he always assume that she was ready to be fucked whenever he felt like it? Why didn't he spend time warming her up, the way he used to, when they were young. Why didn't he tell her how much he missed her when he was away, how glad he was to I see her face, when he came home'?
Lynda pumped harder, striving to quell the disturbing thoughts in her mind. She couldn't allow herself to think about Jerry that way. If she hated so many things about him, why had she married him in the first place? He was her husband; she should make an effort to understand him. The job was very important to Jerry, and it paid him the salary which allowed them to live as affluently as they did, and if he thought about getting ahead more than he thought about Lynda, wasn't that only fair, just?
No no no no no no no!!!!!! Lynda warned herself, but by that time she was losing herself Jo the vibrant onrush of a finger-poked orgasm and none of the doubts and fears seemed to matter anymore. Her body was throbbing and aching with the need for release and each additional poke or squeeze brought it so much closer. She nibbled her lips, splashing in the water as she frigged her pussy, and if she only pressed this much deeper, if she combined that lunging penetration with the teensiest additional pressure on the outer lips of her twat, so that flesh rubbed and ground against her burning clit The bath water rocked like an ocean wave as she splashed down hard onto her ass, finger still buried in her snatch, her head tossing recklessly from side to side. "Oooooohhhhh-oohhhh!!" she moaned in abandon, riding her come to its pinnacle.
Gradually, imperceptibly, her fingers abandoned the gratified pussy mound, the probing finger slid from her depths, and her limbs grew still in the water. Mixed with the fragrance of the bubbles Lynda was positive she could smell her own musky after-sex aroma, and her nostrils tingled to sense it in the air. She brought her hand from beneath the water's surface, looked at the finger which had driven her to orgasm, and said, "I think I could learn to love you."
It was silly, and it made her laugh. She noticed that the screwdrivers' effect had begun to wear off and that the water was starting to grow cooler.
She dried her body, looked around for clean clothing, and remembered that she'd left her nightgown in the bedroom. Tying the towel around her wet hair in a turban, she walked down the hallway naked, her soles leaving damp marks on the carpet.
Her bedroom door was open and she walked in, her eyes noticing only the blue nightshirt lying on the bed, the fluffy house robe beside it.
She reached to pick up the nightshirt, and it was in her hands, cool, smooth, nylon-textured, when the bedroom door slammed shut. Lynda straightened slowly, beginning to turn, and she was asking herself if she'd given the door a push or even a kick as she came into the room, but she knew she hadn't.
That was when she saw him, that was when she screamed.
CHAPTER TWO
He was enormous, or so he looked to her fright-bulging eyes. Big, broad-shouldered, his hands already extended toward her. His clothes were plain and nondescript; even while looking at them Lynda couldn't have formed a mental impression strong enough to give a description later. There was a woman's stocking over his face, and the masking effect was perfect. His features were smeared by the tan nylon, as if Lynda was seeing him through a rain-blurred, slightly dirty window. It was a queer, distorted vision, and then her eyes blurred even more while blood throbbed madly in her temples.
"Who are you?" she asked hoarsely, her throat raw from the initial scream. "What do you want? Get out of here!!"
Lynda realized that he was staring at her naked body. Too late she threw an arm across her breasts, used her other hand to clamp down upon the puff of reddish hair between her thighs and the pink-lipped pussy that her fur concealed inadequately. Nipples hard with fear and dread stroked the trembling forearm which tried to shield them from the intruder.
The mask, she thought. He must be a burglar! "I don't have any money in the house," she said. "Just a few dollars. I had to cash a check to buy cigarettes and gasoline. Please go ... please-" Jerry's gun flashed across her mind. If only it were in the vanity drawer! But her husband always carried the gun when he went on the road. He'd never considered that someday his wife might need it "I don't want money," the man said in a deep, rasping voice that was obviously strained and false. He stepped closer, his hands still out.
Lynda backed away from him, her bare feet numb. She crouched slightly, in the traditional pose of a woman surprised in nudity, and she wished she could undo the towel around her hair and use it to veil her body. But to do that, she'd have to expose either her tits or her pussy to him again, and she ... she couldn't Her legs bumped the edge of the bed and she lost her balance, falling backward. For a moment her legs were high, kicking to regain lost equilibrium, and her hand involuntarily fell away from the pussy she was so anxious to conceal. She blushed scarlet as she realized that the intruder had a brief but perfect view of her pink cunt, framed with thin wisps of burnished red hair. Before she could protect herself again he was there, his legs braced and preventing hers from snapping shut, his big hands reaching eagerly for her body.
"Don't fight," he said, jerking her arm away from across her breasts. She snapped upward, bucking as he grabbed her wrist, moaning piteously as he feasted his eyes on her stiff brown nipples. Stiff, she thought, stiff as if I were turned on like crazy. Didn't her tits know the difference between arousal and blood-chilling fear?
She tried to cover her cunt but the man seized that hand as well, and Lynda found herself naked and defenseless. Strength flowed through his hands, through his legs where her thighs struggled against them. She whispered, "Please, please-"
"I never thought you'd be this good," he told her in that false, raspy voice.
She looked at him, pleading with her eyes since her voice failed her, but he seemed not to notice. Her eyes drifted down his body. She was looking for something, she couldn't guess what-some identifying mark, perhaps? All she saw was the boner in his pants. "Oh, God!" Lynda wailed then, her eyes huge with horror.
"Don't try to fight me," he warned. "I have a knife and a gun. All I want is a little pussy. What do you say, Lynda baby? Can I dip my wick in that cunt of yours? Just one time. I won't make you do it again unless you really dig it. What do you say?"
He even knew her name! How long had he been casing the house? Or had he been casing her? She tried to remember-had anyone been following her lately? Might she have seen this man on the streets, even? Oh, she didn't know! If she could have guessed in advance that this might happen, she'd have been more attentive, but no one had told her that her home would be invaded by a ... a rapist! There! She'd allowed herself to think the word. He wasn't a burglar. Burglars wanted money. This man was after something quite different.
But rapes were crimes that occurred in the jungle of cities, not in a quiet, placid suburban community like Madison. This was wrong. It wasn't happening. Somehow, things had gotten confused. This man should have been in New York, terrorizing women in Central Park, not in Lynda Gillespie's bedroom. She wanted to tell him, but she couldn't find the words. He was unzipping his pants, pulling his hard cock into the light.
"Uhhhh!!!" she protested, fighting to break free. He was only using one hand to restrain her, but it was enough. Lynda couldn't get loose. She could only watch in terror as he stroked his prick, whose ruby, bulging tip pointed irrevocably toward her shivering face.
He had a big cock, the biggest she'd ever seen, although her experience was quite limited. Indeed, this man was only the third who had ever seen Lynda's naked body, his the fourth erect penis she had ever lain eyes upon.
Jerry knew about the boy who'd taken her virginity on senior prom night, 1960. He'd gotten her tipsy on bourbon before lifting her gown and fucking her in the back seat of his father's car at Inspiration Point. It was a quick screwing, without much pain, and the boy had enough sense to remove his cock and come into his handkerchief rather than into Lynda's cunt. She still hadn't told her husband about a motel weekend with another boy during college; the other could have happened to any girl whose inexperience allowed her to be plied with booze. The motel seemed more calculated. But she had been in love with him, even if they broke up later. Before Jerry, she'd been fucked perhaps twelve times all told. She came to her wedding bed far from sophisticated.
In the ten years of her married life, Lynda had never given the slightest thought to being unfaithful to Jerry. And now a monstrous cock threatened to fuck her, willing or not.
She stared at the intruder's cock, which appeared to be of incredible size. Nine inches in length, perhaps, and as thick as a cannon where it projected from his unzipped pants. The end of his prick was fiercely red and swollen, and large veins bulged on the cock's barrel. She wondered how fast his heart was pumping blood to fill that tube so gluttonously. Could it be as rapid, as pulsating, as the beat of her own horrified heart?
"Do you like it?" he rasped, letting his fingers drop away. "Do you like the way my cock looks when it's horny for you, Lynda? This is what you do to me, baby. Every time I see you I get a boner just like this. And for a change, I'm gonna give it to you instead of wasting it in my fist. How do you like that idea, Lynda, honey pie?"
"How ... how do you know my name?" she murmured. "Do you know me? Are you somebody I know? For the love of God, who are you?"
"Who am I?" she heard him say, a chuckle in his voice. "Who am I? I'm the guy that's gonna fuck your ass off tonight. Here," and he pulled at the hand he was still grasping, "feel how hard I am. Feel how hot I am for you, Lynda. Rub my cock with your pretty little hand. Make those fingers dance on me."
Lynda whined, but she could do nothing. He leaned forward and made her hand touch his throbbing, fleshy sword. She recoiled internally, but his grip was strong and her fingers could not pull away from the pole of his dick.
"Do more," he grunted. "Feel it up and down. Show me what kind of hand-job you can give. Make a fist, Lynda. Or would you rather I took out my knife and cut my initials on your beautiful sexy face?"
"Oh!" she gasped, and when he molded her fingers around his cock she hadn't the strength nor the will to resist. He patted her hand where it held him, then took his away. Lynda held on, afraid to let go.
"Stroke me," he told her. "Up and down. Slow and sexy. You know how, don't you, Lynda? I've watched those pretty hands of yours, and I'll bet they know exactly how to handle a cock."
Desperately, hoping he might be satisfied with no more than this, Lynda began to move her fist on him.
Oh, God, the pulsating throb that rippled up and down the hard prick in her hand! She could hear him panting with a rising fervor as she worked. On her third date with Jerry, she'd done this for him, moaning with her future husband as the fever of his climax drew closer and closer until his prick fountained over her jerking hand. Perhaps, she told herself, perhaps-if she stepped up the masturbation, the intruder, too, might gush his cum. And if a climax was all he wanted, maybe he'd go away then. Oh, please, God, let it be! she prayed.
"Better, better," he sighed, still from the depths of his throat. Didn't it hurt him to speak that way? And why would he disguise his voice if he weren't someone she knew? Lynda wondered, but she couldn't allow herself to wonder. She must do this now, jerk off the rapist, and hope that he would be satisfied with it.
"I knew you had it in you, Lynda, girl," he added. "Or should I say, you're going to have it in you. Okay ... stop now, or I'm gonna blow my nuts all over you. Stop, damn it!" and he pried her hand from him.
CHAPTER THREE
Lynda eased onto the bed, panting, white with fear. Her legs ached where his kept them spread, and she was sunk so far she could no longer remember how simple shame felt. He was bent upon fucking her. There was no way around it. She was about to become a statistic in twentieth-century America's calendar of rape.
"Are you excited, Lynda? Are you all hot and ready for my cock? Is your pussy wet? Wow, it's a nice pussy! It looks like a little pink mouth down there in your fuzz, all pouting and puckered like it wants to be kissed. Mmmmm!!"
He dropped to his knees then, and Lynda watched as he eased the bottom of his stocking mask upward. She saw his chin and his lips as they really appeared, not as the nylon distorted them, but they didn't ring a bell in her memory. Perhaps she didn't know the man after all. Perhaps he was only some crank pervert who had picked her at random, found out who she was, and had come to vent his evil desires upon her. She hoped with all her heart that the latter was the case. Somehow she couldn't endure the idea of being put into this position, this horribly shameful position, by someone she knew.
"Open wide," he said, his voice still raspy, and she saw his teeth. Good teeth, white and strong-looking, a Pepsodent smile if ever there was one. He leaned into her splayed legs and she could no longer see the uncovered lower half of his face.
He stroked her thighs and hips, his mouth smacking tiny kisses onto her flat abdomen. Lynda bucked each time his lips touched her flesh, and she moaned "No, no, no," but these protests were no more effective than the others. She winced as he began to pull her pubic hairs with gentle tugs of his mouth-it felt as if he were trying to defuzz her orally-and she twisted and writhed uncontrollably, as if that would free her from him when nothing else had done so.
"Pretty pussy," he whispered, his breath fluttering across the slice of her cunt, and Lynda felt a cold chill run through her body. It was followed by an immediate hot flash and then another chill, just as if she were coming down with the flu.
His tongue dabbed across her flesh, dragging through her pussy hairs, but avoiding the gash itself, and he moved it onto the inner curve of her thigh just past the edges of her beaver. Lynda jerked when he caressed the nerve endings there, and she half sat up on the bed, her lips rounding to form an "oh!"
But then she fell back once more, as the man lifted her legs, rested them on his shoulders, and jammed his face into her cunt.
She screamed, her throat so tight the cry was painful, and with what little energy she had, Lynda began to strike blindly at his head. "Stop it! Stop it! Don't lick me there!!!"
She might as well have been striking a marble statue. He seemed invulnerable to her faltering blows as he stroked his tongue up and down the crease of her pussy, flicking here and there with little strokes that made Lynda Gillespie wince and cry aloud. "No, please, stop," she tried to tell him, but he wasn't listening.
His tongue toyed with her pussy flesh, tracing the puffy outer lips round and about, and each time he brushed her cunt Lynda was reminded of her diddling session in the tub. Her pussy was still tender from the delicate, loving abuse of her fingers, and little flashes of that same sensation shot through her as he licked and sometimes kissed her cuntal valley.
She told him to stop once more, but her voice cracked on the word and she didn't think she had the heart to speak again. Ever. Then he spread her pussy with surprisingly gentle fingers, so gentle that she heard herself whispering, "Oh, you bastard!"
And when his tongue stole into her parted gap, when it touched the prepuce of her clitoris and Touched and touched and touched again, until Lynda's love button had no choice but to raise its little blunt head from its hiding place-when he anointed her clit with a drop of spit and worked the moisture in with his swirling tongue-when the tip of his thumb eased so slightly, so demurely, into the mouth of her pussy itself The hot/cold flashes came faster and faster then. Lynda bucked and jerked, her legs tensing where they rode his shoulders, and she was astonished and horrified a-like to notice that she had begun to work those legs upon his neck. Not to strangle him. Quite the opposite. She was moving rhythmically, as she had in the tub, and the steadiness of his head between her thighs was a marvelous lever for the feelings that had begun to arise in the depths of her cunt.
"Please stop," she told him again, with all the conviction she had left. Her hands were touching the top of his head, stroking the hair that rustled and crackled beneath the covering of stocking nylon, and her fingers moved as rhythmically as her legs. He was still busy on her clit, licking it and sucking it to even more erection, and the bud rolled beneath the caresses of his tongue, swelling with a hot eagerness that Lynda found incredible. She was being raped! Didn't her body know that? The man eating her cunt had no right to be there. Why could she feel response building in her womb? Why was she sliding on the bed-sliding toward her attacker, presenting him with her cunt?
"Goddamn you," she moaned, "what are you doing to me?"
But she knew what he was doing to her. He was turning her on. Oh, she couldn't help it! She was a woman, she possessed a woman's responses. There was no way she could ignore his nibbling and tonguing of her clit and vulva. Wasn't this the ultimate in his degradation of her? That she should at least halfway enjoy it?
Only halfway? His thumb poked a little deeper. and she couldn't keep from reflecting how much thicker it was than the finger she'd used on herself in the tub. Thicker. More satisfying? Her twat grabbed at the tip of his thumb and began to pull him inside. Was that answer enough? she thought bitterly. Her fingers fluttered on the nylon mask over his head. Her stomach was heating from the inside out, and Lynda knew that she was getting moist, down there, where he was ... where he was sucking her.
He raised his face and she could just see his upper teeth. They sparkled, and there was wetness ringing his mouth. "Do you like it, Lynda?" he rasped. "Do you like it when I eat your pretty pussy? I know you do, because I can taste you now, all wet and sticky and sweet as sugar. It's dripping out of you, Lynda, dripping like a faucet. Feel how easy I can slide my thumb up you?" And he proved it, working more of his thumb into her twat, circling and rotating his digit as it pressed home.
"AAAHHHHH!!!" Lynda cried, wriggling her ass. To get away from his thumb? To pull it deeper? She didn't want to choose. Not when her mind was so damningly aware of what the real answer must be. His thumb jabbed all the way up her snatch and she felt her pussy muscles jerking and rippling around it. The rapist moved his hand, grinding it on her twat as he pressed his point.
"See, Lynda? You really like it. I knew you would. I knew that all I needed was a chance. Ooooohh, you've got a cunt like a mousetrap. Snap-snap-ssssnnnnaaaapppp! That's how it feels on me. God in heaven, I can hardly wait to see how you treat my cock, Lynda. I've got a big one, and it's ail hard and ready for you. I only hope you're woman enough to take it. C'mon, Lynda, let go of my thumb. I want to fuck you with my dick."
His thumb popped out of her pussy, but she couldn't stop writhing and twisting on the edge of the bed. Her legs eased from his shoulders and fell into place, heels resting on the floor, knees still very far apart. Her cunt must be gaping at him, she thought, but she couldn't help it. Lynda crossed her trembling arms over her breasts and she felt her nipples sticking out and up, very long, very hard, very hot. She squeezed herself in despair, a moan seeping from her lips. But what kind of moan?
"I hope you don't mind me not undressing all the way, Lynda," the man was saying as he dropped his pants, "but I'm too anxious to get my cock into your gorgeous hole." He wore nothing under his trousers-nothing except a thick clump of pubic hair and a heavy, dangling set of nuts and a rod that seemed to have grown an inch or more since the last time her eyes had seen it.
"Now slide back for me, Lynda, if you would," he said, rubbing her belly in slow, gentle circles, using his other hand to lift her legs onto the bed. Lynda sighed and eased back, lying full length. Her knees came up, well over two feet of empty air between them.
"You really have great legs," he complimented, getting onto the bed with her. His cock brushed one of her legs and Lynda sucked in a gasp. She began to nibble nervously at her lips. The man paid no attention. His voice still had that forced growl, but his mouth moved softly, contrasting with his rough vocal tone. He stroked her legs from ankles up to knees, from knees down to hipbones, touching her inside and out. His fingers were surprisingly delicate as they plied her skin, and he seemed to know where his touches would have greatest effect. Lynda whined when he brushed a particularly erogenous zone high up on the inner curve of her right leg, and she saw him smile.
"I'm going to fuck you now, Lynda. Are you as eager as I am? God, I don't think I can wait! Here, let me get-" and he worked himself into the angle between her parted legs, his cock sticking up and out, the tip dripping a little bead of juice.
"I don't want to do this," Lynda told him. "I don't want you to fuck me."
"Yes, you do," he replied, palming her pussy. "You're hot as a two-dollar pistol, and you're dripping wet. Feel how your cunny jerks underneath my hand? And here ... smell." He raised his hand and waved it in front of her nose. She couldn't believe the aromatic scent that coated his skin. It was the fragrance of her arousal. She'd smelled it before and she could not deny it.
"See?" he gloated. "Now, get ready, because-" she could see him reaching for his cock as he crouched above her, and then she felt the bulbous knobby tip of his cock brushing her pubic fur. Lynda wiggled beneath him, aware that this was her last chance, but it was too late. His body controlled hers, as it had from the moment he first laid hands upon her, and when he pressed his pecker knob against the mouth of her splayed pussy she knew that she could not get away. She was going to be fucked. To be raped, she corrected herself at once. There was a big difference.
Or was there? His cock felt exactly like any cock, slipping into her pink, swollen-lipped cunt, although he was considerably thicker than any of the other men who'd fucked her. But to atone for that size difference, he moved with a gentle restraint, feeding it to her twat a little at a time. Was this rape? she asked herself. Didn't rapists just hop on and slam it into their victims? Did rapists take time to lick their victims to an appreciable degree of arousal first?
But if it wasn't rape, then why did he have a knife and a gun? Why was he wearing a stocking mask? Why had he hid in her bedroom, behind the open door, and sprung out to terrorize her? Of course it was rape! She was being used, exploited for his deviated kicks. Lynda had no choice in the matter. He'd already threatened her. Was her morality worth her life? Would it profit anyone if he killed her for resisting? She had to endure this, if only to preserve her life. And when the police caught him, when he was put on trial for his crime, she'd make sure he spent the rest of his life behind bars, like the vicious animal he was!
But he didn't seem like a vicious animal.
Not really. He tried to kiss her on the mouth as he slipped more of his cock into Lynda's pussy, but she was too fast. Her face twisted and his lips descended upon her cheek instead of her mouth. It seemed to satisfy him. She felt his kiss, warm, moist-the kind of kiss a young man might give his beloved one. In the circumstances, the analogy was almost sickening.
And then he had his meat fully imbedded in her cunt, and Lynda's eyes went open, very wide. One of his hands was around her neck, stroking her reddish hair, the other clutched possessively around her right tit, her nipple hard and thrusting between two fingers. His belly ground against hers as he accustomed his cock to the warm wetness inside Lynda, and she couldn't repress a cry of "Nnnnnnnn". It could have meant anything. Even Lynda was unsure, and the cry had emerged from her very own heart and lungs. Did it mean that he must stop this madness at once, or did it mean that he was wasting time, that he should get down to the business he was here for?
Her tummy heaved and she felt her ass begin to swivel beneath the man's pressing loins. Lynda's cunt was working too, the muscles twitching around his buried bone, and she sighed as her knees closed automatically upon his ribcage. He held himself in place, his rod shoved into her tunnel, and it was her pussy, her treacherous pussy, which began to move back and forth, pulling his cock deep, pushing it out, pulling it home again. I'm fucking him, Lynda thought. He stuck his penis into me, but I'm fucking him. My God, what kind of person am I?
She looked at the face above her own. She could almost see his eyes through the nylon mesh, though she couldn't tell what color they were nor what emotion was in them at this moment. "Goddamn you," she told him in a lost, hopeless voice. "Goddamn you!"
"For what, Lynda?" he asked her, voice soft and restrained despite the faked tone.
"For doing this to me," she whispered, her pussy thumping once more against his body as his long, thick dong rode up on a hot, well-greased path.
"I knew you'd enjoy it, Lynda," he protested. "I always knew you'd enjoy doing it with me. Now, let's see how good it really can be. For both of us."
Her mouth was turned toward him and the man seized his chance, slamming his mouth down upon her half-parted lips. Lynda moaned as the kiss caught and held, as his tongue came probing into her mouth, but it was nothing compared to the moan she gave when his cock began to fuck back at her wrenching, uncontrollable pussy.
CHAPTER FOUR
She said "Oh oh oh oh ohhhhh!", lifting her knees even higher, grinding them against his ribs, testing the texture of the shirt he'd not bothered to take off. Her hands were pushing at his chest, but his body was hard and tense with excitement and he returned her pushes in the most provocative way. Lynda's pussy was full of his cock and both of them were moving in the primal pattern of balling. Her ass wiggled from side to side as the dick thrust and plunged, and each insertion tickled a different spot in Lynda's cunt.
She tried not to think about what she was doing, how she was reacting. After all, it wasn't Lynda's fault, was it? She'd masturbated in the tub, frigging herself wantonly, and it was inevitable that some of the momentary arousal would have remained, only waiting to be kindled anew. And he'd used his mouth on her, too. That was an act Jerry rarely performed because he didn't like to lick pussy. Neither had the boy in college. And in her few experiences with cunt-sucking, she'd never been aroused to the point this stranger had achieved.
Oh, her mind rebelled at the idea of being raped by him, but her body couldn't tell the difference between rape and a particularly hot fuck. Not now, not when he was shoving his meat to her pussy with sweeping, swishing strokes. He was in her, his cock very large but not at all uncomfortable. Lynda's pussy spread to accommodate his entry, then melted into place around him and the effect was satisfactory to her cunt.
What would Chrissy McGraw have done under these circumstances? Lynda closed her eyes as she was kissed and fucked unwillingly, and she pictured the face of her longtime friend. What had Chrissy said once? "Rape is basically a myth. I've never been raped. If I want to fuck a guy, I fuck him. If I don't want to fuck him, I know a couple of tricks involving a kneecap and his balls that'll put him out of the notion permanently."
But what about knives, guns? Lynda had been threatened with physical harm. Would a knee to the balls have prevented him from killing her? From slashing her? Chrissy was a dear friend, but she had the morals of an alley cat and the predatory nature of a saber-toothed tigress. And Lynda Gillespie had never aspired to be anything but a chaste woman, a good wife to a good husband. What had she done to deserve this kind of humiliation?
"I was sure you'd be hot," the man panted into her face, "but I didn't know you'd be so sweet and tight. Lynda, I wish I could fuck you like this three or four times every day. Your pussy feels so goooooddd snapping on my cock. Don't you dig it too? Don't you, baby? Here ... let me stuff you deeper, harder ... do you love it when I ram you like this? Do you love it?"
"No! No!!" Lynda wailed, but her cunt and her mouth were not working in harmony. Despite her protests, her twat opened eagerly, sucking him up her cunt to the hilt, and her knees, too, played the traitor, closing on the man's ribcage, nudging him to even greater effort.
Slowly she became aware that her hands were no longer pushing at his chest. One of them had slipped into his shirtfront, and she was stroking the soft silky hair of his upper body, while her other hand was moving implacably around his neck. Clutching. Stroking. Caressing. Once more his face loomed nearer, half concealed by the nylon stocking, and once more his mouth plunged upon Lynda's for kissing. But this time it was her tongue that jabbed into him, and his mouth that sucked her snaky tongue as it explored.
What is wrong with me? she asked herself. I'm acting like a whore! But I'm being raped! Why am I responding? Her cunt jerked around the continued insertions of his thick hard prong and she moaned desperately into his kissing mouth.
She hadn't been fucked for such a long time in years. Her cunt was frictioned raw by the plunges of his dick, and she could hear the squishing as he made her continually more wet and greasy. In his strong hand her tit was swollen and throbbing, the nipple pounding into his palm. She became dimly aware, too, that her legs were in motion. Instead of merely clutching him with her knees, she'd begun to lace her heels around his thighs, digging into his flesh, urging him with her body.
Oh, no! she thought, insane with shame. Gradually her heels rose and she lifted her pussy into the unceasing plummets of his cock. Now she was leg-tied around his ass, knotted to the rapist's frame by her own automatic responses. Could she possibly sink any lower? Had she not already tested the limits of degradation?
No! His cock didn't physically touch her clitoris as he fucked her, but his constant plunges alternately spread and contracted the flesh of her pussy, and her little love button couldn't help but be affected. The folds of labia around her bud rippled and moved as he invaded her cunt, and Lynda felt an unmistakable speedup in her pulse. Her heart thumped faster and faster inside her body, and there was a flutter of genuine excitement in Lynda's tummy. She knew what it was. She'd felt it in the tub, not so very long ago, when her fingers had tickled her to a climax. But it was so much stronger now. When orgasm struck, it would hit with the impact of a tidal wave. She had not been this ready to come in so long a time that the knowledge drove her nearly mad.
"Oh ... ohhhhhh ... OHHHHHHHHH!!!!" she screamed into his mouth, matching him thrust for thrust with her pussy, squeezing him with her legs, almost strangling him with that hand around his neck. Inside his shirt, she found one of his nipples, hard and stiff amid his thatch of chest hair, and she tightened her fingers upon it with the same eager madness he was using on her own nipple at the same moment. He squeezed. She squeezed. He pinched. She pinched harder. He twisted and writhed atop Lynda, and she squirmed beneath, bucking like an unbroken mare, pussy wet and hot to receive him.
Her breath caught in her throat. She knew she was about to strangle, but she couldn't help that. All her life force had concentrated itself in the tunnel of her pussy and she could think of nothing but the delirium so near-so near Her throat opened as orgasm blasted her, and she gave a moaning, piercing cry of fulfillment into his open, loosely kissing mouth. His lips were hot against hers, hot and moist from her saliva and his, and she felt his tongue skittering along the rim of her mouth as she whined out her come. Her pussy exploded around the barrel of his cock. She bucked and galloped at breakneck speed, driving her pussy into the rushing of his rod, and for what seemed an eternity but couldn't have been more than fifteen or twenty seconds' real time, Lynda Gillespie was a woman aflame.
Every pore of her body burned with excitement, while the slit between her lovely thighs was a hole filled with itching-an itching that was being scratched in the most marvelous way imaginable. She romped into her orgasm, floated high, still fucking. She tensed against him like a strip of slender, highly refined steel, and then she could do no more. The fury left her and she rocked back toward the mattress, open, willing, her responsive resources depleted as the orgasm began to ebb like a slowly outgoing tide.
"I felt you come, Lynda," he whispered, strangely affectionate despite the grating tone of his assumed voice. But his rasp no longer seemed strange to Lynda's ears. "I felt you come, and I thought you were going to rip my cock off. Do you always come so hard, so wet, so hot?" And his words were repeatedly punctuated by provocative stabs with his dick. Lynda had thought herself incapable of feeling anything, now that her climax was shuddering to a close, but she was startled to find that her responses had been heightened to a degree she had never known before. She could feel the passage of his cock; she could even feel the heated pumping of blood through the knobby veins on his shaft. It was as if he'd sandpapered the interior of her twat and was fucking now against raw, burning flesh.
"Oh, my God," she said wonderingly, her eyes opening wide, her hand clutching at his neck. She strained and tensed once more, and her cunt sent out another warning signal. Lynda was on the teetering brink of yet another orgasm.
It came with a tremendous blinding force, much more intense than its predecessor, and Lynda was powerless in its grip. She writhed and jerked and again her snatch erupted around his driving penis. She hugged him to her body with legs and heels and her eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. "Oh," she moaned in a thick, hungry voice, "don't stop-keep on f-f-fffuuuuccckkkkiinnngggg mmmeeeeee!!!!! Ah, Chriiiiiisssssstttttt!!!!"
"Get ready," he groaned, his vocal control slipping. For a moment his voice was no longer a guttural rasp. It was soft and young and natural, and for the slightest fleeting instant Lynda thought there was something very familiar about it. But she wasn't listening-perhaps it was her imagination-oh, the bloody hell with his voice! What mattered was his cock!
"Get ready, Lynda," he repeated, growling it again, "get ready because I'm going to fill your belly with my seed!!! Here ... it ... commmmeeessssss!!!"
And in her heightened .sensitivity she could actually feel his prick unloading deep within the clutching maw of her twat. Each individual explosion of his cum-and there were a great many of those-each massive jerk of his cock as semen spurted through its barrel from his balls to her womb, each thrusting plunge as he stabbed deeply, planted his juice so far inside Lynda she thought she could taste it bubbling up her throat.
She hadn't been fucked so thoroughly in years. Not since she and Jerry were newlyweds and the world was theirs for the taking. But the response of her body left a nagging thread of guilt woven amid the strands of Lynda's orgasm. It was a guilt that not even her momentary exhilaration could erase and, even as her body lashed into yet another moaning climax, as the rapist's emptied cock continued to thrust blindly inside her contracting snatch, she felt dirty and sinful.
CHAPTER FIVE
Slowly, he eased his cock from her ravaged slice. Lynda's knees and legs were down now, stretched on the bed, and she looked down her body as the penis emerged, reddened, dripping cum, its painful rigidity only slightly lessened after orgasm. A drop of wet jism fell from its tip, landing on her inner thigh and, as the viscous substance oozed across her bare flesh, she felt once more that tightness in her belly. But mixed with it was a shameful awareness, a realization of what she had allowed to be done to her body, of the way she had reacted. A question remained-had she been raped or had she committed adultery? She didn't know. God help her, she didn't know.
"That was good," he said, wiping his cock with one hand. Lynda could feel the jism beginning to leak from her cunt and she knew that it was going to collect in a sticky pile on the bed. God, there seemed to be so much of his stuff, oozing from her pussy like a river's overflow. Warm wetness tickled her beneath her slit and she reached down to touch and quell that ticklishness.
"You liked it too, didn't you, Lynda?" he asked, watching her hand as it wiped the slowly dribbling cream. She turned her face away, not wanting him to see the uncertainty of her eyes.
"But it was only a start," he added. "I've dreamed about fucking you for a long time, Lynda. And I've awakened so many mornings from dreams of you-awakened to find myself holding a cock so hard and stiff that it hurt. Mostly I dream about how sweet and hot it would be to fuck your pretty cunt, Lynda, but do you know what else I dream about? Hmmmm? I dream that my cock is standing up like a flagpole, all big, and the end of it is red as flame-but I can't see the end of it, Lynda, because it's buried in your mouth and you're sucking your heart out. And while you suck me, you're holding my balls in the palm of your hand, and I'm winding my fingers through your copper hair, touching your scalp, tickling your ear lobes, feeling the muscle spasms in your neck as you swallow my cock to the root again and again-those dreams really make me horny, Lynda. Just telling you about them makes me horny. Look how hard I am, all over again. I'm ready to do it now, Lynda. Open your lovely mouth and suck me. Suck my cock, Lynda. Suck it. Suck it. Suck it."
"No," she whispered despairingly, her head still turned away, but he took her in hand and turned her face toward him. It was true. His cock jutted out fresh, hard, the bulbous tip still sticky with jism and glowing like a bright-burning fire, and he moved closer, his penis leading the way.
Lynda whimpered as his knob brushed her cheek and scooted across her upper lip. She could smell his male fluid, the aroma clinging strongly from his recent ejaculation inside her snatch, and she thought she might be sick. On him, on herself, on the bed. But the rolling of her tummy ceased almost as soon as it had begun.
"Here," and he took his cock in hand, pressing its blunt snout to her lips, grinding it against her lips. "Open up and suck me, Lynda. You'll like it as much as you enjoyed being fucked. I promise. And I'll like it too. Open wide."
She wanted to tell him No! He'd forced her to screw him. Even if she'd climaxed during the fuck, it was still an act of compulsion. Hadn't he been satisfied? Was the man a satyr? Why must he now demand that she go further, that she do such an intimate, personal thing as sucking him off?
He leaned back, his cock rising with a jiggle before Lynda's face. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Don't you want to suck my dick?"
No! She didn't want to suck his dick! It wasn't an act she enjoyed at all. Oh, in moderation, perhaps, she could accept it. Once in a while, during their early marital experimentations, she'd licked and tongued and even sucked Jerry's penis. But only briefly, and only when he specifically requested her to do it. That boy in college-at the motel, both of them giddy on Paisano wine-he'd cajoled her into taking his cock in her mouth. And then he wouldn't let her get away. He'd grabbed her head, held her in place, and fucked himself into her mouth until his cock swelled and shuddered and spat forth a flow of sticky, vile-tasting juice. Lynda even swallowed some of it, but she couldn't keep it down. As soon as his dick left her mouth she staggered into the bathroom and vomited into the commode.
Part of that reaction, she knew, was the cheap wine. But she also knew that the sudden gush of his juices had helped, and no amount of making up ever repaired their relationship. Eighteen months of dating and fairly frequent, very satisfactory sex were soon ended amid harsh words, and she was man-less by choice until she met Jerry in her senior year.
And Jerry preferred fucking. He didn't like to eat her pussy and he didn't especially demand oral sex from her, either. Probably because neither of them wanted oral sex strongly enough to become good at it, sucking became a very infrequent part of their marital life. Lynda was just as happy that way.
And now, how could she do to a stranger, to a rapist, she reminded herself, a masked man who had threatened and abused her-how could she do to him what she would. not do for her own husband? No!!! This had gone too far.
"I won't suck you," she said flatly, firmly. "So why don't you just-"
"Take it, Lynda, take it!!!!" the man groaned, shoving his cock into her open mouth while she was trying to reason with him. "Suck it! Suck it, Lynda, baby, suck it for me!!!"
She wanted to gag on the thick crowbar he'd stuffed her with! But even in that first shove he'd jammed his dong past Lynda's gag reflex and she could only sputter and try to cough him out of her mouth. Good God! she thought. She could have easier shoved her hand into her mouth. It couldn't be as big, as forceful, as thick as this man's cock!
He put his fingers on her cheeks and punched them in: "Suck, please," he told her. "Make it good for me, Lynda. Make it better than good. Suck the cum out of my prick and fill your beautiful mouth with it. Hurry, Lynda! My cock is aching to be sucked."
The very idea of his cock spilling semen into her mouth made Lynda's stomach turn, and she wondered if he would murder her for vomiting on him. But the twinge of nausea passed, and he kept her cheeks pushed in upon his dick, and her mouth was crammed full of him. Oh, God, the shame, the disgrace!
She strained and gulped, trying to adjust her mouth to the giant organ plugging her, and he must have mistaken her struggles for consent, because he began to move his cock. First he pushed deeply, nearly strangling Lynda with his oversized rod, and then he pulled back very far, as if he meant to pull his cock out completely. But then he shoved his cock forward once again, and Lynda whimpered in resigned protest.
"Here," she heard him say. "Just like in my dream, Lynda," and he had her by the hand, guiding that hand to his large ball-sac.
Lynda had no choice. She let him do as he wished, and in a moment she was cupping his testicles in a loose grip as his cock slithered in and out of her reluctant mouth.
"Squeeze them, Lynda. Not too hard. Just enough to show me that you care. Oh, yeah! Like that! Now, suck too, while I fuck your sweet mouth. God, I'm hard and I feel like I'm burning up! When I come, Lynda ... when I come, I'm going to drown you in cream! You'll like that, won't you, baby?"
"Nnnnn," Lynda whined around his cock. The flutter of her tongue seemed, if anything, to stiffen his rod and his desire. He worked his fingers into her hair and her turban/towel fell away. I must look a mess, she thought, with my hair all wet and stringy. My hair?? Dear Jesus, he's making me suck his cock! What would Chrissy McGraw say now? she wondered. Would Chrissy still think there was no such thing as rape?
Oh, damn it to hell! her mind snapped angrily. Suck his goddamned cock, if that's what it will take to get rid of him. The man was quite obviously a lunatic of some sort, Lynda thought. His constant raving about some crazy passion for her, about strange dreams-God, who was he? Was the face behind that stocking's blur a face she knew? Or was she instead merely the random prey of a perverted freak? Somehow Lynda felt more secure with the latter choice. She couldn't think of anyone in her social circle here in Madison who might be so possessed as to abuse her this way; consequently, it must be someone who'd simply picked her by chance. There was no other alternative she could live with.
Despondently, she began to suck his cock as it fucked in and out of her mouth. He sensed the change in her response and he began to wind his fingers through her hair with more excited energy. "Yes, Lynda, suck it, suck it-I knew you'd suck it if I only gave you the chance!!"
At the same time his cock-thrusts became more energetic, so that her activity was limited to a bit of mouthing and licking, for his cock was moving faster than she could suck it. But her tongue sloshed across his throbbing bulk, and he slid his prick deep into her mouth, so deep she wanted once more to gag, and the more he fucked her mouth, the more profuse became the dripping of Lynda's spit. At least it was a wet, lubricated suck, she thought.
Curiously, for she had nothing else to do as long as this disgusting episode lasted, she started experimenting with her tongue. Sometimes she bathed his prodding cock with its wet sloshings; sometimes she used it as a playful barrier to his prick's entry, making him battle her for the right to gain admission.
He was shoving his pecker with all his might and Lynda could only delay him. She couldn't stop him, no more than she'd been able to stop any of this. When, she asked herself, will the traumas begin? When will I be afraid to enter a room by myself, to walk down the street unescorted? Didn't the rapist know the kind of hell to which he was sentencing his hapless victim? Didn't he know that his search for transitory, lewd pleasure could put a never-ending blot on the life of Lynda Gillespie?
She tried not to think about that, and sucking harder was one method to escape her fears. And so she sucked a little harder, until his prong wallowed in her free-flowing saliva and skidded about like a smooth-tired car on icy roads. Lynda barely noticed that she was using a rhythmic three-count squeeze on his balls, but she felt him sway and jerk with pleasure as she sucked, while his fingers dug tenderly on her head, poking through the hair to massage the scalp beneath.
Her mouth closed tighter, at a moment when his strokes had taken a momentary respite, and she twisted her mouth from side to side, wrenching his cock in the sweet trap of her lips. "Oh, do it for me, Lynda!!" he shouted, his voice again losing its false rasp, and he pounced upon her, ramming, shoving, burying his dick in her mouth time and again.
It happened so fast Lynda couldn't keep track of what either of them was doing. She used her hand on his balls, her mouth on his cock, and she prayed only that God would send her speedy relief. When it came, however, she wondered if she really had anything to be grateful for.
His cock ballooned in her mouth, as if someone had pumped twenty pounds of air into it, and she gasped to feel the increased size and strength. She had time for only that one quick gasp before the tip of his rod burst open and a flood of sticky, salty-sweet ooze poured down her throat. He was thrust deeply then, his cock far back on her tongue, and that first ejaculation had nowhere to go except into Lynda's gullet. She felt it slide viscously down her throat as bile from her stomach rose to meet it, and she wondered if she could hold onto her dinner long enough for him to finish.
"AAAGGGHHHHHH!!!" she gurgled, taking his second burst of cum, pulling her head away from him. The onrush of orgasm sapped his strength. His hands were like a weak child's, gripping her skull, and Lynda jerked back swiftly, unmouthing his cock even as it gushed a third jet of jism.
That load of cream hit her squarely in the face. She felt it on her nose, her upper lip, some of it drifting across her mouth and chin, but she was too busy shuddering and reflecting on the amount of semen she had already swallowed. She touched her stomach in revulsion, and he saw her. "No," he panted, "let me!"
And his hand shoved between her legs, stroking the moist, sticky mouth of her pussy, one finger hanging on and beginning to fuck its way between the swollen, puffy puckers of labia. Lynda moaned "Don't!" but he'd already done it. His finger was in her cunt, probing deeply, and her body began automatically to hump it in response.
At the same time he was rubbing her face with his sticky, dripping cock. Painting her face with the slow lava-like oozes of semen that still emerged from the eye at his tip. It was ghastly! She wanted to be sick but her body failed her, as it had been doing with such regularity this horrible night.
Lynda tried to think of other things, to banish the gruesome reality of the moment from her mind. She looked down the long pole of his penis and noticed for the first time a curious brown mole, very near the base of his dong and almost hidden in the thickness of his pubic hair. An identifying feature? God! She could see herself telling the police about the mole when they asked for a description of the rapist!
He forced his prick once more between her mumbling, protesting lips and compelled her to taste the last little flow of his seed. She wanted to vomit on him! Wouldn't that show him how much she enjoyed the perversions she had been forced to commit?
But his finger stole deeper and deeper into her pussy, with a twist and a wriggle, and Lynda's cunt jiggled to meet his thrusts. She knew with sick apprehension that she was once more on the verge of climax. And, even worse, her stomach showed no sign of regurgitating the cum she'd been made to drink from his hard male tool. If anything, his semen had a piquant taste, not at all as unpleasant as she'd been expecting. Even worse was her realization that she held his softening cock in the firm grip of her lips and teeth, that she was worrying it with her mouth, her head shaking to a slow beat as she sucked the tip of his rod. Lingering flavors of sperm coated the end of her tongue, though his cock had spurted its last. And he wasn't forcing her. His hands were no longer grasping her head to keep her at the job.
What kind of person am I? she wondered in the brief moment of clarity before her climax struck once again and her pussy started a frenetic twitch about his thrusting, poking finger. What kind of person am I?
* * *
"It was great, Lynda, better than I'd even dreamed it could be. When I knew that my cock was blasting into your sweet mouth, that you were finally drinking my cum and loving it so much you had to reach down and frig yourself so you could come right along with me-God, Lynda, it drove me wild!! Can I visit you again?"
"Can you WHAT?" she exploded, nearly dropping the bedsheet she'd finally pulled up to cover her exploited nude body from his masked eyes. The man stood by the bed, fastening his pants.
"I'd like to come see you again," he explained, his voice betraying its eager emotion despite the distortion of his assumed rasping tone.
"My God," Lynda whispered in shock, "I don't believe this! You raped me, you son of a bitch! And now you want an engraved invitation to do it again sometime? For old time's sake, maybe? You're an animal, a sick, beastly animal! Get out of here now!!!!!"
"But you enjoyed it," he said, sounding more than a little hurt. "I could feel how much you enjoyed it."
"You raped me," she said again.
"You earner he argued. "I felt you coming! Your cunt jerked and your body felt like melted butter and you moaned into my mouth! Don't tell me you didn't like it, Lynda!"
She wanted to scream, but what good had screaming done her so far? The man was obviously insane. Lynda's mind flashed on his gun and knife, but she didn't care. He'd dragged her through slime this night; could he do worse?
"Get out of here!!!" she whispered hoarsely, blood throbbing at her temples. Her eyelids ached and for a moment Lynda could barely see. "I'm going to call the police as soon as I can crawl to a telephone. When they catch you ... God! You'll spend the rest of your life in a cell, thinking about what you did to me tonight!!"
He went, meekly enough, with no further conversation, and she burst into tears as soon as the door closed behind him. She'd have to take another bath. Wash his vileness from her body. But how could she cleanse her mind of what had happened? How could she ever forget?
"Oh," she said aloud, her voice cracking on a sob, "I want to die!" So she told the empty room, weeping until her tear ducts were depleted, but she didn't die. Eventually her body asked for the consolation of a cigarette and Lynda rose to fetch it. She was astonished to find that she could still walk.
Lighting the Kool, she stood by the telephone. What should I do? she asked herself. What should I do?
CHAPTER SIX
The first thing she did was to disconnect the automatic answering device, which she'd plugged in before going up to bathe. There had been two calls. It sickened her to think that she was too busy being raped to have heard the phone ringing.
One call was from Chrissy McGraw, who told the recorded message, "You are a damned hard person to get hold of, Lynda Gillespie! How about calling me tomorrow, just to let me know you're still alive, huh? I should be home all afternoon, but remember, I'm a late, lazy sleeper. Bye-bye." It was the same old Chrissy, spirited, vivacious, with a Lauren Bacall voice. Lynda shook her head numbly. It was difficult to believe that her tragedy could coexist with Chrissy's gaiety. But Chrissy didn't know, did she? How could she even guess what had happened to Lynda Gillespie this evening?
Lynda turned on the machine for the second message. A husk and a sob caught in her throat and she turned her head as tears began to flood her reddened eyes. She had been sure she'd cried her fill, but weeping came anew and she tasted salt on her lips.
"Hello, Lyn," said her husband's voice. "It's me, from Detroit. Look, I hate to break it to you via tape recorder, but I won't be home tomorrow. Or for several tomorrows, the way it looks. I have to fly to St. Louis, first thing in the morning, and from there to Phoenix. But it's big, hon! When I get this deal finished, the home office won't have any choice. They'll have to make some room on the ladder for me. Listen, tape recorder, it takes a man more than thirty seconds to talk to his wife! Second installment, Lynda. I'll call you tomorrow evening from St. Louis, and from Phoenix as soon as I get there. You take care of yourself while I'm gone. Okay? [Kissing sound] Love you, and I'll be home just as soon as I can."
Jerry! She'd scarcely given him a thought since the whole awful thing began! But he had a part in this, too. What would he say when he found out his wife had been raped in their own home by a masked, armed stranger? Would he blame her for it? She was pretty certain now that the man had come through the kitchen door which, as usual, was unlocked. No other doors or windows showed sign of being tampered with. So was it Lynda's fault? For God's sake, what kind of country was this? Couldn't a woman be safe in her own house without guard dogs, triple locks, and a gun? Could she ever feel safe again?
Oh, why did Jerry have to have a road job? Why couldn't the company recognize his merit and give him an office and a secretary so he could come home every night? Why did he have to be such a dynamic salesman?
Dynamic? Merit? God, what had he mentioned? Something about a promotion. She replayed the tape. Yes. He was very hopeful on that point. Lynda slumped onto the couch. What would his chances for promotion be if his wife's name was on the front page of every newspaper in this end of the state?
"MADISON HOUSEWIFE RAPED, SODOMIZED BY MASKED MAN. Lynda Gillespie, 33, wife of Jerome Gillespie, 48 North Aberdeen, Madison, told police that she was attacked in her home by a masked intruder. Armed with a gun and knife, the man forced Mrs. Gillespie to engage in acts of oral and vaginal sex...."
It would be a scandal. Jerry would never get his promotion-the company would certainly feel he was too controversial; he might even lose his job-and as for Lynda, she knew that for as long as she lived in Madison everyone would knowingly snicker. They'd talk about her, they'd wonder if she hadn't really enjoyed it-if it happened at all "Of course it happened!" she said aloud. "And I hated it! God, I hated every minute of it!" Lynda got up, hurried to the liquor cabinet, and poured herself a glassful of straight gin. Though it burned her throat all the way down, she drank the liquor in one gulp, then refilled the glass. Sipping, her hand trembling fitfully as she clutched the tumbler, Lynda returned to the couch. She'd put on her robe upstairs, and there were cigarettes in the pocket. She stuck one in her mouth and lit it, drawing deep puffs in alternation with her equally deep slugs at the glass of gin.
But the booze wasn't working. She should feel numb by this time, shouldn't she? Anesthetized? What was happening was exactly the opposite. Her tits throbbed and she could feel warm, moist perspiration on the curves of her thighs.
"I hated it," Lynda said again. "I hated every goddamned minute of it. You believe me, don't you, Jerry?" Her voice broke as she said his name. "It was terrible. He hurt me. He threatened me. I had to do what he said, or he'd have killed me. That's exactly how it was." She drank more gin. Her head was swimming, but drunkenness and oblivion lay still somewhere beyond the horizon, tantalizingly out of Lynda's reach.
The robe fell open as she stretched out full-length on the sofa. She couldn't call the police. She couldn't share the intimate details of her shame with them. God, could she even tell Jerry? She puffed harder as the cigarette burned down, and she lit a fresh Kool from the stub in her mouth. Her throat and lungs ached from smoking and not even the hot liquid gin seemed to cool her pain. "It was awful," she said again. "Horrible."
And as she heard her voice, Lynda Gillespie knew that it wasn't Jerry she was trying to convince-it was herself.
"If you were here now, you son of a bitch," she groaned, "I'd tear your eyes out! I'd smash this glass and castrate you with the shreds! I'd kick you in the balls, I'd break your fat hard prick, I'd-"
She groaned, remembering him. All of him. Her cunt ached as she relived his licking, his fingering, the ultimate insertion of his thick tool. Lynda kicked at the arm of the couch, kicked until her feet hurt, and the memory refused to go away. It was as if he were upon her once again, sliding his cock on the petals of her twat, soaking his hot flesh in the moisture he'd caused to flow, stroking and tickling until ... until....
"Ah, Goddddddddd!!!!!!" she moaned, dropping her glass. The last of the gin had just sloshed down her throat. Lynda looked at her right hand, scarcely able to believe that it was making for her pussy. "No," she sobbed, but she couldn't stop her muscles from working. Her hand clasped the red-furred bulge of her cunt and she thrust herself into that clutching grip.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Beneath the robe she was naked, and her reclining position had made the robe fall completely open. Her red nipples were in plain sight, standing up hard and long like little flagpoles atop her rounded tits. Lynda's arm brushed across her boobs and the nipples seemed to crackle with electric arousal. She stubbed out her cigarette and then touched herself inquisitively, groaning as her fingers pinched darts of response from her tits.
What had happened to her? An hour ago she'd been the victim of a brutal, forcible rape. And now-now! She lay on her couch with a body drunk on passion and gin, a body that cried aloud for sensory gratification. Was it right? Was it proper? Was it normal? Oh, God, she hadn't even called the police!
And she knew, as her hand closed tighter upon the aching puff of her twat, that she would not, could not call the Madison police and report what had happened to her. What she was doing to herself now, the way she felt, the way her entire body screamed its demands-that was shame enough. She couldn't compound it further by bringing in the police. It was a cross she'd have to bear in secret for now and ever.
"I climaxed," she said aloud. "I had an orgasm when he raped me. What kind of woman am I? When he used his finger in my pussy, when he licked me and sucked my clit, when he stabbed my cunt with his monstrous cock-my God, I had orgasm after orgasm, until my cunt felt raw and bleeding. Did I enjoy it?"
If she closed her eyes she could live it all again, right now. Her first sight of him, the sound of his coaxing, obscenely distorted voice, the sight of his thick hard cock jutting out with desire for her cunt-it was like a horrible dream from which she could not awake. And still she closed her eyes, knowing what it would bring.
It was as if he were here in the room with her again. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he hadn't left at all, perhaps he'd lurked in some closet to steal upon her once more, to rape her, to ravish her, to pound her unwilling body into explosive come-bursts that left her shaking and moaning in their passage.
Clearest of all was the memory of how his cum had tasted when it flooded gushing into her mouth. Lynda's tongue fluttered, as if she might hope to find lingering traces of his semen flavor still there, in the corners and nooks of her mouth. She rubbed the insides of her cheeks, along her gums, back across her palate-no, there was no residue of sperm left, but she could taste him as clearly as if he were ejaculating at this very moment.
It hadn't tasted bad at all. She'd expected to be sick but that hadn't happened either. If anything, the ultimate mark of her degradation, moral and spiritual, was what took place near the end. His cock in her mouth, held tightly in place as her lips and tongue pressured and caressed him in ways she had not guessed she was capable of, while he frigged and stroked his finger inside the split of her pussy till another come rippled out of her body and engulfed his fucking finger with its wet intensity.
Lynda wasn't even aware that she was smacking her lips passionately, that her cheeks were drawn in tightly as she suckled an imaginary cock imbedded in her receptive mouth. "Ah ... ahhhhhh...." she whined, doing to a make-believe penis what she could scarcely be bribed to do to her own husband's. If she'd known, she'd have hated herself all the more, and perhaps it was as well that her oral activity was entirely spontaneous and unconscious.
Her legs were straight, heels braced on the sofa arms, and she kept humping her pussy into the palm that clamped upon it in such a fierce, death grip. One finger was riding in the cleft of her slice and her hand was pressing the labia upon that finger with a demonic passion that had pussy juice oozing from Lynda's depths before she ever got around to inserting a digit in her cunt tunnel itself.
I'm a whore, she told herself despairingly, a slut, a tramp, a lousy cunt! My husband goes out and works every day for the two of us, and he's gotten nothing in return for the last year and more but cold-fish Lynda Gillespie in his bed. And tonight, a man in a ridiculous mask sneaks into my bedroom and fucks me crazy! I'm no good! No goddamned good! I should kill myself rather than live such a despicable life!
But she couldn't kill herself, not just then, for she had no free hands to do it with. She was too busy squeezing her tits and pussy, goading herself to the enormous blistering release that lay so close, so goddamned close. She had a hand on her chest, squeezing each tit in turn, pinching her nipples until they ached but popped out in erections that measured an inch or more of throbbing, hot sensuality. Her fingers dug into the passion-hard lumps of breast, eliciting responsive shudders that startled Lynda with their intensity and duration. Sweat beads oozed through the pores of her skin, making the tits that much harder to hold onto but the more passionate for the difficulty. And at her pussy, Lynda's other hand was going absolutely wild!
Her thumb and first two fingers were buried now, slamming into the musky-scented swamp of her sex, while her pinky had drifted back toward the crack of her ass. The tiny-tipped finger skirted round and round the delicate pucker of Lynda's anus, while even more quivers of arousal radiated from the teasing contact. She remembered a certain space of time, when she was about eleven or twelve and, ignorant of the details of sex, she'd assumed that the ass was the organ of female reproduction. How many times had she lain in her childhood bed, pajamas down, panties down, her finger touching her asshole and wondering how she could ever shit a baby through that tiny opening? But despite her fears and doubts she'd enjoyed the sensations of fingering herself there-why else had she done it night after night for months?
And now she was enjoying it again, nearly as much as she enjoyed the driving pressure of three digits in her snatch. What if that man had demanded that she take his cock in her asshole tonight? Would she have climaxed with him then, while he was buggering her? Probably not. Jerry had persuaded her to try anal intercourse once, early in their marriage, but the prodding insertion of the very end of his dick had frozen her sphincter and sent her into tearful hysteria. She'd made him promise never to ask that of her again, because it hurt too much. But now, diddling herself furiously, flicking her shitter on the offstrokes, Lynda felt curiosity becoming a fiery knot in her bosom.
Her fingers were long and slim, the pinky slimmest of all. And it seemed to gravitate so naturally toward her asshole. And she knew from reading, from conversation with Chrissy, from a variety of sources, that anal fucking wasn't completely unknown among the human species. Oh, if it hurt, she could always jerk her finger right back out again. What could it hurt to try?
Lynda lifted her bottom slightly, still using her thumb, index and middle in the clutching maw of her twat, and she angled her hand back a trifle. Her pinky's tip came to rest precisely on her anal opening. Lynda squirmed toward that pointed pressure, withdrawing her fingers a fraction from her pussy, and she willed her asshole to give way.
The tight hole yielded grudgingly, allowing no more than the very end of her finger to violate its sanctity, and Lynda felt a heavy breath catch in her lungs. She had a swift, flashing memory of Jerry behind her on the bed, his cock's tip straining to make this same connection, and of her own sudden protesting scream-but that was years ago, and she felt a different person. Tonight she was a different person. She'd been subjected to shame and disgrace, and she'd reveled in that degradation. There was nothing too low, too humiliating. Perhaps in the abuse of her treacherous body she could find some measure of salvation "Get in there!" she snapped brutally, corkscrewing that fingertip against the spongy anal tissue which seemed inadequate to accept it. "Get in me, in my asshole!" And she pushed again, her wrist flipping wickedly. Lynda barely had time to whimper as her pinky slammed into her virginal anus.
"Nnngghhhh!" she grunted, lurching back as if she could escape that finger's presence. But her hand moved with her body and the pinky slid deeper, the anal muscles parting reluctantly to give it room. She closed her eyes and rocked on the couch, and a motion this way buried three digits in her cunt while a motion that way caused the pinky to battle a trifle deeper up her asshole. No matter which way Lynda moved, some portion of her body was being plugged by her fingers, and she kept rocking, allowing those stimuli to alternate. In a moment or two she came to the realization that she rather enjoyed this feeling.
"Mmmmmmmm," her lips fluttered, and she squeezed her nipples a wee bit more energetically. She flexed her jaws, for they ached-Lynda still was unaware that she had been sucking a pretend cock during most of the buildup to this moment, and she had no time at the present to realize that disquieting fact. She'd already found exactly the proper rhythm for her double insertion of ass and pussy, and her hips were shaking and bucking with that rhythm.
Here-thumb, index, middle, slamming into her twat, spreading the clinging vaginal walls as they reamed and twisted their way in, corkscrewed their way out; and here-pinky worked up her ass chute, making her eyes bulge, her forehead sweat, her earlobes tingle with blushed embarrassment. The faster she worked that alternating two-way, the more she perspired, the more she blushed, the more her asshole and pussy both twitched and throbbed with anticipation. Lynda heard herself squealing like a delighted baby as she abused herself mercilessly. She loved it! She hadn't been this deliriously excited in so long, so long Unless, you counted the interlude upstairs, with that masked man. Oh, God,, how could she not count that?
An orgasm of mighty proportions was building in her belly. She could feel her internal heat increasing tremendously as her hands wreaked havoc on her sexual parts, and that little finger jammed up the rectum was doing more than its fair share. A cock was out of the question, she told herself, but a finger was exactly the right size, and it could do such incredible things. Why hadn't she ever tried that before?
Because sticking a finger up her asshole was a sluttish, cheap thing to do, and until this evening she'd been a chaste, proper woman. No longer. Now Lynda Gillespie knew what demon had lain dormant in her body, awaiting only the slightest provocation to emerge. She didn't think she liked herself-not now-but what could she do? The man had raped her. If he hadn't come into her house tonight, she wouldn't be here on the couch at this moment, using her fingers in her twat and anus, come-fever swelling her from the inside out till she knew she'd burst if it were delayed another second As she humped her body onto those spear-like fingers, Lynda abdicated control of her mind. And, as she'd known it would, her brain began to replay the entire course of her rape and her shame. But in retrospect it no longer seemed quite so shameful. Again she felt the man lying upon her, his lips bared so he could kiss her mouth and suck her tongue, so he could lick and kiss the bud of her clitoris. His fingers stole into her twat once more, ravaging alongside her own, and then it was his cock in her, digging, thumping, reaming, as his belly hammered upon her belly and his balls swished in the crack of her ass.
Her knees went up and she pulled her heels all the way back to grind against her buttocks. Lynda worked her thighs open and shut upon the hand that ravished her snatch and rectum, and her mind was racing at full speed. She carried them through it, through it all-he fingered her, he sucked her, he fucked her till his jism overflowed her rippling twat-and then he forced that cock of his into her mouth and she had no choice but to suck it-suck it-suck it! Again her mouth was working in unconscious mimicry of the act of fellatio. Lynda masturbated herself harder, harder, harder, wrist aching with the fury of her self-assault, and she could taste it now, taste as clearly as if it were really happening here, again, his cum erupting into her mouth.
She could even feel his blood pumping through a cock vein as the goo exploded down her gullet, and she sucked and she drank and she moaned and she wept for her weakness, but it was all forgotten a moment later when her own orgasm blasted forth. Lynda strained against the onset of her come and then she fell limp and drained on the couch, her eyes shut tightly, her lips trembling.
When she opened her eyes again she knew that she was alone, that she'd been alone ever since the masked stranger left her in the upstairs bedroom. The climax just past, the climax that had struck and assailed and then passed on like a tornado in its course-she'd brought herself to that orgasm, aided only by her hands and her imagination.
And some gin. A lot of gin, gulped straight and burning. When she tried to stand up she understood that she was drunk, though not quite incapacitated. And still her body felt a hunger, a need. But who, what, could satisfy that hunger? My God, what has happened to me? she asked herself. What have I become?
The gin would put her to sleep before much longer. Already her head was growing fuzzy, eyelids becoming heavier. If she could just get upstairs to bed, she'd be all right. Turn out the light, close her eyes, she'd fall into a sound slumber.
But what about tomorrow? When she awoke, who would be living in her body? Could a drunken night of sleep erase what had happened to her? Could it wipe away the stranger who'd emerged from her interior in the wake of the rape?
She needed to talk to someone. But who? Jerry was going to St. Louis, and from there to Phoenix. And could she ever tell him any of this? Almost certainly not.
Of course! She could trust Chrissy. And Chrissy had been around. If anyone could help, she could. Tomorrow, Lynda thought, if the hangover doesn't kill me, I'll drive up to Chrissy's. Shell know exactly what I ought to do.
It was a comforting thought on which to go to bed, and Lynda went.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lynda slept late the next morning, not arising till almost nine-thirty. Her head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton and some of the details of the past night seemed to have faded. Or so she thought, until she found that a conscious tug of memory brought it all back, vivid as life itself. She drank four cups of black coffee for breakfast, washed down three aspirin, and her head began to feel better, if not her soul.
But if anyone could help, Lynda knew, it was Chrissy McGraw. She'd been everywhere, seen everything, done everything.
Chrissy lived in Fairport Harbor, ten or fifteen miles from Madison. When she wasn't gadding off for a week or a weekend in New York or Miami or Montreal or San Francisco or Los Angeles. Why not? She could afford to indulge herself. Sometimes Lynda envied her friend that freedom from care.
The drive wasn't far, though Lynda made her Volkswagen dawdle along, to the discontent of other drivers who passed her and beeped angrily as they sped by. But she didn't care; she wasn't in a hurry. Lynda needed time to set her thoughts in order, and she rehearsed the conversation all the way to Chrissy's.
She stopped her car in the driveway. Chrissy's lemon-yellow Jaguar was under the carport, so the women should be at home. Well, Lynda told herself, this is what you came for. Get out of the VW and knock on the door and when she lets you in, tell her all your dirty secrets and ask her what you ought to do about them.
There were friends before Chrissy, but Lynda hadn't seen any of her childhood buddies in years. Chrissy, though-that was different. The two women were the same age, their birthdays no more than a month apart. They'd met in college in the fall of 1962, when both of them were dormed on the same floor. Lynda was from Akron, Chrissy from Masillon, and they were as different as night and day, but they became friends, good friends. The attachment grew closer as time passed; by their graduation from Kent State, they were like sisters.
Oddly matched sisters, all the same. They were both attractive, intelligent and sociable, but their personalities were as different as their appearances. Chrissy was lush-built, with a teasing nymphetic manner that occasionally brought haunting memories of Marilyn Monroe, then not long dead. Plenty of girls at Kent slept around, on the q.t. of course, but Chrissy made no secret of her frank, inquisitive promiscuity. She enjoyed being fucked. In her junior year she marched to the altar alongside one of the campus' really prime young men, a handsome, athletic stud whose very presence made female hearts beat faster and panties grow damp with envy. The marriage lasted not quite two years.
Lynda didn't share Chrissy's open attitude toward sex. She regarded it as a mystical, almost sacred communion of bodies and spirits which should be reserved for the one she loved most in all the world. At Chrissy's urging she allowed herself to have that abortive affair-first she had to convince herself that she could perhaps be in love with the boy-and though it didn't work out, she never held a grudge on that account. She knew that she and Chrissy were different people with different values and ambitions. They could be good friends but they didn't have to lead one another's lives. Besides, she met Jerry for the first time a few months later and as soon as she looked into his eyes she knew that this was really it. So did he. Even before they began to fuck regularly, they'd made most of their plans for a life together.
She married Jerry in the autumn after their graduation from Kent. Chrissy, freshly-divorced, was matron of honor. For a few months they saw each other regularly. Jerry's job was in Ravenna, so he and Lynda lived there; Chrissy stayed on in Kent, working at a variety of occupations, making plans for her own future. Early in 1967 she moved to Washington, D.C., and acquired a civil service job.
She wasn't much of a secretary, by her own admission, but she was a beautiful young woman, desirable, experienced, and available. It didn't take long for her advancement. A congressman noticed Chrissy and offered her a post as his special administrative assistant. Her salary was $8000 a year and her duties consisted of attending to the congressman's sexual needs and desires. For a fiftyish grandfather he had plenty of those! Lynda was shocked when she heard about it; after all, Chrissy was making nearly twice Jerry's annual salary for providing sex to a government official. She thought it was immoral and slightly obscene. But Chrissy hadn't created the job. If she wasn't sucking off the congressman daily, someone else would be. And the money was only a drop in the bucket compared to what the government was wasting on the Vietnam war each and every day of the year.
It was a fine job for Chrissy. She got to meet a lot of men-exciting men, many of them in powerful positions of responsibility. She was fucked by a number of senators, congressmen, cabinet officers. She had a lovely apartment and the congressman managed to get her an MG of her very own from the public purse. But at the next election her benefactor lost and she was out of a job.
Easy come, easy go, Chrissy reminded herself, pulling up stakes. She drove her MG to Baltimore, got a job in the local Playboy club, and became a skimpily-clad, bunny-tailed cocktail waitress. If anything, this was more interesting than being a congressman's mistress. She met more fascinating, prominent people, most of them younger and better-looking than the government officials she was used to, and Chrissy used Baltimore as a stepping stone. During the next few years she moved from Playboy club to Playboy club, popular everywhere she went. Nude photographs of her were featured in several of the magazine's annual displays of naked club Bunnies. Lynda could still remember how shocked she was the day Jerry brought home a copy of Playboy, said "Remember Chrissy?", and flipped the book open to show her. "My God!" she'd squealed. "She's completely naked!!"
Chrissy left the Playboy empire in 1972. She married a Cleveland businessman twenty years her elder. From a romantic standpoint it was no more successful than her first marriage. Chrissy was divorced by early 1975, but with enough alimony to eliminate the need for a job.
Part of the year she lived in Fairport Harbor; at other times she could be found almost anywhere from Aspen to Puerto Rico. Sometimes Lynda didn't see or hear from Chrissy for months on end, and when they did get together for lunch or drinks or shopping or simple conversation, Lynda felt a certain reluctance in herself. Chrissy's life had been varied and exciting-it was even more so now, after her divorce at profit-and she was fond of telling wild stories which disturbed Lynda slightly. Sex, to Lynda Gillespie, had always been too intimate to discuss in a cocktail lounge over vodka gimlets, and Chrissy had a fixation on the subject. Lynda's friend was still fucking anyone who caught her fancy and, as always, she was perfectly frank and open. Jerry seemed quite uncomfortable around Chrissy the past few years and occasionally Lynda wondered how they had ever become friends in the first place. They seemed to have so little in common and, currently, less and less.
Until now. After her experiences last night, Lynda needed to talk to someone, and Chrissy was the perfect choice for a confessor-figure. If anyone could understand, could explain, it was Chrissy McGraw. Up to yesterday evening Lynda had been convinced that her life was full and complete, needing nothing to enhance it. She had her man and she had her preordained role as his faithful wife and helpmate. Today she knew that something had changed in her self-perception. Maybe Chrissy could tell her what was wrong. She rapped the door knocker.
"Come innnnnn," a voice sang from inside. Lynda opened the door and entered the house.
Chrissy was sprawled on the couch, her bare legs high, the telephone cradled between her ear and shoulder. She smiled a greeting at Lynda and gestured for her guest to pull up a chair.
"Listen, Russell, I have company. One of my dearest, best friends, and I'm so delighted to see her that I'm going to hang up in your bitable ear. So be sweet and neat and save your hardest hard for the next time we meet. Bye-bye, darling!" She hung up the phone and sat up, smiling.
Chrissy had always been beautiful and, at thirty-three, she gave no indication of losing the habit. Her dark hair was tousled and rumpled, as if she were just out of bed, but her heavy-lidded blue eyes sparkled like diamonds. No one could look at her only once; the second glance was mandatory and rewarding. She was taller than Lynda, five-nine in bare feet, and her legs were long and perfect to set off a ripe, womanly-wide bottom. At the moment she wore only a tight striped sweater whose lines clung possessively to the highest mound of her full breasts and, below the sweater, a pair of low-slung pink panties sheer enough to display the dark clump of her hair at her loins. Stray wisps of beaver hair peeked and curled through the leg openings, sweeping along her smooth golden thighs as she stretched her toes toward Lynda.
"You're hard as hell to get on the phone," Chrissy said. "And I can't talk to a goddamned recording. I never feel that it's listening to me, you know?" She pulled her legs up and encircled them with her hands, chin resting on a knee. "God, I've missed you lately. And I did want to see you before I shuffle off to a sinful week in Jamaica. Is something wrong? You're blushing incredibly. Or did my overheard conversation embarrass you?"
"I couldn't help listening," Lynda confessed.
"Oh," said Chrissy, "that was a friend seeking advice. People tend to mistake me for Ann Landers; God knows why. I'm much younger. However, he is hot for me and I do love to fuck him. Well, I'll change the subject to something less inflammatory. Like, how are things in lovely, placid Madison, and how is your volunteer work at the hospital, and how is Jerry doing as a hotshot salesman, and how do you like being a member of the Junior League, and do you have any darling recipes to pass along? Of course, if you're not embarrassed, I'll juice it up even more. I hope you appreciate my sacrifices. Being a swinging single is really a drag, but I know you're panting and drooling to hear all my shocking stories. Aren't you? Don't you kinda get off listening to me! Hmmmmm?" She grinned smugly. "Oh, you blush even more easily than you did in college, Lyn. Damn it, I'm tired of spouting off about sex, for once in my life. You pick a subject. Read any good books lately?"
Lynda wanted to groan. She too had come to Chrissy in search of advice and counsel, and she could almost see the pleased smirks with which Chrissy would greet that confession.
"Or would you prefer a drink first? And don't say it's too early. Why, in Vienna, cocktail hour is almost over. We have to catch up with those Kraut wogs. Name your poison, Lynda."
"Gin and tonic, please," sighed Lynda. "A double. No, a triple. Very light on the tonic." She lit a cigarette as Chrissy made drinks. Smoke filled her lungs and she commanded herself to go through with this, to tell the whole thing and plead for Chrissy's advice. And for once, Lynda thought with a sad smile, Chrissy McGraw would have to keep her mouth shut and listen to someone else talk.
CHAPTER NINE
"My God," said Chrissy, tossing down her third jigger of Black Velvet. "You're not just making it up, are you? It really happened to you? Oh, Jesus."
The gin had numbed Lynda's tongue and she had a bit of trouble getting words to come out. "But the horrible part, Chrissy, is that it wasn't as horrible as it should have been. Why did I respond to him? Why was I such a goddamned slut? He had a gun, a knife, he threatened me-"
"Was it a big gun?"
"A big gun?" Lynda said in surprise. "I don't know. I didn't see it. Or the knife, really. But he said he had them."
Chrissy too was drinking on a virtually empty stomach. Her mocking giggle lifted. "You didn't see them? Oh, Lynda, can't you tell the difference between rape and seduction-albeit kinky seduction?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Well, be honest, Lynda Gillespie! If you'd been afraid for your life, really afraid, I mean, would you have been loose enough to come when he fucked you? And you just, admitted that all the talk about weapons was nothing but talk! Do you know what that reminds me of? When I was thirteen and didn't know diddly-shit about anything, I used to hang around with this boy. We'd mess with each other, you know? The way kids do? And one day he whipped his cock out in front of me, all swollen and inflamed. God, I touched him with my fingertips and I could feel it throbbing and it scared the shit out of me. 'Wow', I told him, 'that's fantastic! Does it get like that very often?' 'No,' he told me, 'it's never done it before. But I've heard about this, Chrissy. From older guys. Do you know what can happen to me because of it, now?' And he told me, all about how his blood was pumping into his dick and if something didn't take away the swelling, he'd get unconscious and they might have to amputate his tool just to relieve him. Scared? I was petrified!
"Well, anyway, it took him about five minutes to convince me that there was one sure way to get rid of that damn swelling. So I lay down, my little dress pulled up and my virginal white panties down to my ankles, and he got on top of me all hot and sweaty and eager, and when he started to rub his cock on my pussy-Jesus, Lynda! I didn't have much hair and I could feel him all over my body, Sure, I'd played with myself, but I'd never been that wet and tingly before. Never.
"And then he tried to put it in me. He'd told me he was going to try that, and I'd nodded, all tight-lipped and nervous, but when I felt that knob of his starting to spread my pussylips, I whined and moaned and I couldn't lay still. In fact, I jiggled so fast and furious that before he could get it in me, his cock jerked and shook and spat out a really heavy load for a thirteen-year-old kid. All over my pussy. See what I mean?"
"Unh-uh," Lynda mumbled, sipping her second triple.
"You're getting drunk," Chrissy grinned. "I think I am, too. Anyway, what I mean is, one guy tells you his dick'll fall off it he can't stick it up you, and another tells you he's got a gun in his pocket. Both of us believed the line, but it was only a line. If you hadn't been ready-at least as ready as little Chrissy was, that first time-you'd never have been fucked because he'd never have gotten it up you. Oh, don't be so high and mighty about it, Lynda Gillespie! You dug getting it on with a stranger and now you want me to tell you that you had no other choice. But if you'd been interested in preserving your chastity, you could have knead him in the balls. Men are vulnerable as hell, if you want to get fucking off their minds. Just-wham!!!" She gestured with her knee, almost falling off the couch.
The telephone rang. "Excuse me," Chrissy said solemnly, picking up the receiver. "Hellooooo", she trilled into the phone. "Oh, thank you for noticing, darling! Yes, I'm very fucked up right now. My best friend is here and we're talking about my favorite subject and-hmmmm? Oh, I don't know. Maybe I'll be there, dearest. Everything is kinda up in the air right now, you know? Well, sure, I'd love to come, but I can't make any promises. He will? Ooohh, that sounds promising!
The last time I balled him, it was like being on an orgasmic treadmill. I couldn't stop coming, I just went round and round and round and-Oh, call me in a few hours. Okay? I should know by then. Bye-bye."
She put down the telephone. "An invitation to a party," she said, "but I can't go to a party and leave you up in the air. Not when you're as fucked up as you are, Lynda Gillespie!"
"I'm not fucked up," Lynda said defensively. "You're the one who's fucked up. Damn it, Chrissy, I came up here hoping you could help, but all you want to do is tell me filthy stories! I'm going home."
"You're the one with the filthy stories," said Chrissy. "You come in here and tell me you had a hideous experience last night. A man in a silly mask broke into your house and made you do all kinds of perverted things-God, what is perversion, anymore?-and you creamed yourself all the time he was screwing you. And then, after he left, you frigged your pussy in fond remembrance till you had a fresh splatter of girl-cum all over your sexy fingers. And now you think you're a trollop of some kind. Besides, how can you drive home? You can't even find your car keys. Oh, have another drink and listen to Aunt Chrissy. She wants to help you, if you'll just let her. But first you've got to understand yourself.
"Okay, for a starter. You feel guilty because Jerry hasn't been ringing your chimes for a long while. But last night some stud with a mask and a foot-long tool got you off so hotly you still get wet when you think about him. Well, of course you're wet! Dripping! Look at your crotch, Lynda. I can see the stains seeping through."
She moved off the couch, onto the floor, and went toward Lynda on her knees. Chrissy extended one finger and with its tip she rubbed the crotch of Lynda's slacks. "The closer I get, the sexier it smells," her mocking voice added. "Was he that good?"
"I think so," Lynda whispered. "I know that when he fucked me, it was the most thrilling moment of my life. But Chrissy-I never did anything like that before. And I thought I was being raped. Doesn't that count?"
Chrissy shrugged. "Who cares? Look at it this way, Lynda honey. Maybe you're just getting out of puberty. Stop giggling, bitch! If half what you told me is true, you just might be experiencing your real sexual awakening. I had mine at fourteen, but some women mature more slowly. Tell me truthfully-if that guy was in the room with us now, wouldn't you hop on him again? Like a fucking bitch in heat?"
Lynda couldn't answer. Slowly, very slowly, she began to nod her head, saying "No" at the same time in an almost inaudible voice. Chrissy chortled.
"See? Just like last night. Your mouth says 'No' and your body says 'Yes.' Who are you gonna believe?"
CHAPTER TEN
"Excuse me for a few minutes," Chrissy said suddenly, lurching to her feet. Lynda's eyes followed as Chrissy wobbled out of the room and she wondered what was wrong with her friend. Had Chrissy drunk too much Black Velvet? Maybe she needed some assistance.
Maybe, Lynda thought then, trying to stand up, maybe I need some assistance too. She caught the arm of the chair for balance, directed herself in the path Chrissy had followed, and staggered down the hallway.
Chrissy's bedroom door was closed, though not quite entirely, and Lynda stopped by it, listening to the sounds from within. It was a panting, a sucking, sighing gasp, that made her cock her head in curiosity. She opened the door and stumbled inside.
Chrissy McGraw lay on her bed, legs up. Her panties were dangling from one ankle and her sweater was pulled up past her heaving, pink-pointed tits. The nipples were visibly erect, even to Lynda's blurry eyes, and it was impossible not to see that Chrissy's body was in as fine condition as when she'd been featured in Playboy. It was just as impossible not to see that Chrissy had both hands between her legs, that as they moved in tandem on her pussy, she was writhing and gasping with excitement.
"What are you doing?" Lynda asked thickly, moving closer toward the bed. She sat down on the edge, peering curiously at Chrissy's hands. Thumbs were sliding up and down the outer puffs and swells of Chrissy's pussy bulge, pressing the soft cuntal mouth between them. Her friend had a glorious, thick, dark bush, the cunt a red line shining prettily through the hair.
"I get horny when I get smashed," Chrissy said calmly. "And especially when I've just spent an hour talking cock. Oh, Christ!!" With that she parted her cuntal rosebud with one hand, spreading it as she deftly inserted the middle finger of her other hand. The snatch opened greedily and the finger slid in with assurance and speed.
Lynda's eyes bugged as she watched Chrissy fingerfuck herself, and she could scarcely ignore the sweet musky scent which drifted into the bedroom's atmosphere. It was a female smell, and one of arousal. Lynda knew it from experience; she didn't have to see the droplets of moisture which coated Chrissy's stabbing finger in ever-increasing abundance.
Chrissy spread her cunt a trifle wider, uncaringly displaying the vivid red flesh of her vulva region. Red, yes, and glistening with the pussy juices her twat oozed in a gentle, persistent tide. She kept using her finger like a slim, flexible cock, pushing it into her cunt with a provocative, reaming action, pulling it out again with a twist in the opposite direction, so that she was stimulated both clock and counterclockwise.
Her nipples stiffened more noticeably as she stepped up her penetrations, and the pink flushed to a dainty shade of violet capping her full breasts. She had one hand cupping her left tit from beneath, squeezing and plying the rounded flesh, and her eyes were closed tightly, tongue gliding along her smile-curved lips as she treated her body to a session of self-love.
Lynda watched with what could only be described as interest. She felt as if the gin were in control of her mind and body. And besides, there was a kind of fascination about what Chrissy was doing to herself. Lynda had never watched another person masturbate before, and she had certainly never seen a pussy-not even her own-as close up as Chrissy's was right now. Funny. She'd had one between her legs for thirty-three years, but she'd never actually looked at it. Watching, she wondered why. Chrissy's cunt seemed very beautiful to Lynda's eyes, with its red-lipped slash only half-concealed amid the dark clusters of long, curling, silky-looking pubic hair. And inside it was deep coral, slick and smooth, with little folds and crannies ravining the flesh, all of them centered upon the wet-rimmed hole into which Chrissy's finger kept jabbing, to the accompaniment of her friend's sighs and gasps.
I wonder if mine is as pretty as hers, Lynda thought, absent-mindedly placing a palm on the crotch of her slacks. The touch was like a volt of electricity, jolting her from the gin-induced fuzziness into which she'd let herself fall. She heard a squishing as her hand clamped hold, and she moaned softly. Her twat was so achingly tender that the slightest caress made a throb begin at the base of her front teeth. Lynda closed her thighs gently upon that hand and eased onto her side. Her face came to rest no more than six inches from Chrissy's, and she watched the flutter of breath on her friend's lips as the woman purred in self-induced delight.
It didn't even seem unusual that she should be lying here on the bed, watching as Chrissy masturbated. Nor that she should be touching her cunt at the same time. I must be drunk as hell, Lynda thought. Drunk as hell. She pressed her hand a little more tightly onto the crotch of her slacks, pulling her legs up at the same time so that all of her was now on the bed, huddled into a fetal ball. Inside her slacks, Lynda's pussy throbbed and itched, the lips swollen and dripping. She wondered what Chrissy would think if she dropped her own pants and masturbated also.
"Oh!!!" Chrissy moaned, driving her finger all the way into her pussy and grinding its imbedded length round and round. "Oh, kiss me ... I think I'm coming!"
Lynda probably wouldn't have done it if she were sober-none of this would be happening at all if she and Chrissy were both sober, she was well aware-but she heard the sudden cry, heard the quaver in Chrissy's voice, and before she knew exactly what she was doing, she'd planted her mouth upon Chrissy's.
It was the first time she'd ever kissed another woman in quite this way, and she really didn't know she was doing it until the lips beneath her own heated and dampened and a tongue began to poke its way into Lynda's mouth. She opened her lips in surprise and gave the tongue entry, and it was a very curious feeling to be soul-kissed by Chrissy at that moment. For a brief space Lynda thought she didn't care for it at all, but that mood passed without warning and her mouth was jammed tightly against Chrissy's as she tried to swallow the other woman's tongue with humming gasps of growing interest.
Chrissy's nipple brushed Lynda's arm. It was hard and hot, mounted atop a breast swollen and firmed with passionate ripeness. She moved her arm again, to repeat that unexpected contact, and with a quick twist she'd brought her hand up to caress the tit itself. Chrissy was large-breasted, and even at thirty-three her tits were firm and definitely unsaggy. Lynda's hand twisted round in semi-circles as the hot, throbbing tit molded itself to her fondling. Smooth flesh spilled over the side of her fingers, and she found herself touching that nipple again and again, pinching it wickedly enough to make Chrissy's entire body jerk and twitch.
She couldn't seem to stop herself. Her mouth might as well have been glued to Chrissy's, and her hand clutched that tit as though Lynda had been born holding it and meant to die holding it, too. And as she kissed, as she squeezed Chrissy's tit, she felt her friend's body give an unmistakable shudder. Chrissy arched up from his bed, pressing Lynda vigorously for what seemed an eternity, and then her quivering ceased; she fell limply back and her tit grew very soft and delicate in Lynda's hand.
Lynda knew it was over then. Over, at least, for Chrissy. But now her pussy itched and tingled even more than it had while she was watching, and she sat up, wondering if she dared to let down her slacks and panties and do a similar job upon herself.
Chrissy solved the problem while Lynda was still wondering. She sat up too, her face glowing and dabbed with beads of gleaming sweat. Her lips were soft and wet from being kissed, and her blue eyes sparkled like diamonds. "Let me," she whispered, her fingers going at once to the buttons of Lynda's shirt. She undid them with the speed of a professional and thrust her hands inside to grasp the breasts which seemed suddenly to hunger for her touch.
"My God," said Lynda, arching her back and leaning into Chrissy's caress. The hands were tight and possessive on the cups of her bra; she could feel the nipples growing hard, poking out in the nylon which separated them from Chrissy's hot, damp palms. Her breath caught in her throat. Her face reddened and her eyes enlarged and her tongue poked from between her lips.
"Have you ever done it with a woman before?" Chrissy asked, her face very close to Lynda's-so close that Lynda seemed to be growing freshly, wonderfully drunk from the aroma of Black Velvet on Chrissy's breath. "Or is that a rhetorical question?"
"No, never," Lynda gasped. "My God, is that what this is?"
"You'll love it," Chrissy promised, licking Lynda's hot cheek. Her tongue visited the lips too, but seemed to enjoy most of all tracing their rims, each flick sending a shiver up and down Lynda's spine. "Oh, why do you bother with a bra?" Chrissy went on. "I want to feel your tits the way God made them, not the way Maidenform thinks they ought to look!" Reluctantly she let go of the firm breasts she'd latched onto. Lynda leaned forward with head and shoulders as Chrissy peeled off the shirt and made directly for the clasps of her bra. It opened, the cups fell from her breasts, and she moved her arms so Chrissy could finish the job of stripping her to the waist.
"Oh," Chrissy purred, licking her lips. "They're as gorgeous as they were in college, Lyn! Did you know that I used to have weird dreams about you then? That I was doing this-" she licked the nipples each in their turn, licked till the reddish nipples erected into the caress of her tongue-"and this, too. Especially this!" And she sucked a nipple into her mouth, pulling it forcefully. Lynda closed her eyes and wrapped her hands around Chrissy's head, holding the woman to her breast the way a mother holds a nursing baby. Tears welled in her eyes. At first she thought they were tears of shame, but the insistent sucking convinced her otherwise. Her head went back, mouth opening in a wordless cry of delight. It felt so goddamned good!!
Chrissy unmouthed the tit and moved over to the other one, her sucking more intense now, more furious. She used her teeth and tongue as well as her lips, and Lynda felt them grinding on the passion-hardened flesh of her boob. A fire was building inside her breast and she hoped it would never go out.
"Don't stop, Chrissy," she whispered, "don't ever stop!"
"I have to stop," Chrissy replied gaily, "because there's more, Lynda, so much more, and I want to share it all with you."
"But should we?" Lynda moaned. "Is it right?"
"Oh, God, yes," Chrissy shot back. "Ever since I found out I could do it with a woman, I've wanted to do it with you, Lynda! And now I have the chance. Doesn't that make it right?"
Lynda was putty in her friend's hands. At first she told herself it was only the liquor which had loosened all her inhibitions, all her moral restraints, but each time Chrissy's fingers or lips touched her, she knew more clearly that it was something else entirely. Something connected to what had happened last night. Drunk or sober, the old Lynda Gillespie would never have tolerated this. But the old Lynda had been raped out of existence last night, and her successor was apparently ready to try anything.
"Your pants," Chrissy said. "Let me take off your pants. Oh, dear God, Lynda, I can smell your pussy already! I want to bury my fucking face in it! I want to eat you till you scream for mercy! Can I do that? Will you let me eat your cunt?"
Lynda jerked when Chrissy took hold of her pussy mound and gave it a heartfelt squeeze. "Oh," she groaned, "if you don't, I may never forgive you!"
Chrissy peeled off the slacks, tossing them across the room, followed by Lynda's cunt-wet panties. As an afterthought she unbuckled Lynda's shoes and threw them clattering to the floor. Naked and panting she sat between Lynda's widespread legs, her hands on the woman's upper thighs, her eyes feasting on the red-furred treasure of Lynda's cunt.
"It's gorgeous," she sighed, "and look how wet it is!"
With one finger she traced the line of Lynda's slice, poking the inner lips where they protruded slightly. "Come out, come out wherever you are," she sang happily, leaning in close. She breathed across Lynda's sopping slice, then gently opened it for her inspection.
"Your clit," she said. "Would you rather I sucked it, licked it, kissed it, or nibbled it?"
"Everything," Lynda hummed. "Do everything. I want it all!"
Chrissy's tongue suddenly darted into the opened gash. It flirted with the clitoral bud for what seemed an eternity of erotic stimulation, then moved southward to play around the rim of Lynda's cunt mouth. The muscles inside Lynda's tunnel were already astir and on their guard, for they tried to capture Chrissy's tongue when it pushed too deeply into their realm, but Chrissy evaded the contracting muscular tissue and extracted her tongue with a giggle of triumph.
"Too fast for you, bitch," she purred. "But to show you I don't hold any grudges...."
She planted a kiss upon the throbbing tip of Lynda's love button, then popped it into her mouth for sucking. Lynda screamed and climaxed almost at once. Her twat thrashed against Chrissy's mouth and she clutched her tits with anxious, hot-palmed hands, crushing the nipples as they struggled to harden with excitement.
"There's more," Chrissy called. "Oh, God, Lynda, I can still remember the first time I ever let a woman suck me, and I want it to be that bloody good for you, too. Hang onto your hat, baby, because I'm coming back for seconds!!!"
She sat up, on her haunches, and she picked up one of Lynda's legs, allowing the ankle to rest on her shoulder. While she licked and pecked kisses onto the calf, her hands stroked the inside and outside of the thigh in delicate circular motion which made Lynda's skin tingle with renewed desire. Chrissy leaned back, bringing Lynda's toes to her mouth. Beginning with the littlest toe, she used her tongue and lips in a frenzy of stimulation, kissing, licking, eventually sucking. Lynda had never guessed that the space between her toes was such a fantastically erogenous zone, but as Chrissy kept on shrimping, she made even more wonderful discoveries. Her heart thumped in excitation and her head tossed from side to side, hair falling across her face as she let herself be loved completely.
"It's nice," she said, wishing words weren't so inadequate.
"Mmm," Chrissy gurgled, sucking a toe as if it were a cock or a clit or a fat, hot nipple. Lynda's pussy grew heated, ready for yet another bout of loving.
"Hurry," Lynda called. "I'm about to burst."
But Chrissy believed in taking her time. When she'd finished tickling and mouthing one foot, she started in on its mate, giving Lynda's other five toes the same treatment. As she licked and sucked them, her fingers danced up and down the flesh of Lynda's sole, until Lynda was almost on the point of frustrated tears. Indeed, she couldn't wait for Chrissy to do something really good. Her hand flew down to her crotch and she began to stroke and tickle the slit of her own pussy, her finger slipping inside when the need for release grew too great to resist.
Chrissy laughed. "I'll bet you always thought this was something freaky and nasty, didn't you, Lyn? So did I, until I tried it. But there are days I'd throw any man out of bed for one crack at a body like yours. Here, let me show you something else which will really blow your mind!"
And with that, she let go of Lynda's foot, twisting her own body into position. She moved until she had her legs clothes-pinned between Lynda's, their pussies within touching distance. Reaching down, she pried Lynda's hand off her pussy, locked the fingers in her own, then pressed with her cunt.
Two twats slid together, each wet and hot, and Lynda wanted to scream aloud for the joy of having Chrissy's beaver rasping upon her wet, swollen cuntal lips. She jerked and oozed into that cunt-bumping embrace, rocking back and forth so that her snatch kissed Chrissy's time and again. Each woman tightened her legs upon the other, muscles jerking happily as the pleasure became more intense, and Lynda squeezed desperately at Chrissy's hand. She felt another orgasm blossoming in her ovaries, an orgasm that threatened to blind her with its sudden, passionate eruption.
Strange. For such a long time sex had been a dreary burden. But last night, and now as well, it was once again the exciting voyage of discovery it had been at the start of her life with Jerry. No! It was better, far better! As her pussy ground against Chrissy's, as her belly swelled with the delicious explosion of her come, as her twat convulsed and its lips dripped honey, she knew that it was fantastic, that she was responding in ways she'd never dreamed herself capable of. And all because a masked man had invaded her house last night and had raped her into a frenzy. She knew that something in her life pattern was changing; she hoped that it was for the best, but even if not, it made her feel so good she didn't really care.
Chrissy moaned as another come swept through her own snatch, and she drove her twat into Lynda's, clinging, wetting the other woman with her juices, soaking up Lynda's in reply. She pulled hard on Lynda's hand, her fingers tight and banded like steel. Her pulse throbbed in her palm and she felt Lynda's hammering too.
"Ohhhhh," she called, a haunting cry that sent shivers up and down Lynda's body-until Lynda realized that she too was moaning aloud, just as Chrissy was doing, their voices blending in an orgasmic, delirious harmony.
"More," Chrissy groaned, releasing Lynda's hand. She knew what she was doing, which meant that one of the two women, at least, had some presence of mind in this moment of ecstasy. For her part, Lynda was scarcely aware of what was going on. Her breasts and belly heaved, her pussy was jerking its muscles even though nothing tactile was thrusting between the clutching lips at the present time.
Chrissy freed herself of the clutch of Lynda's body, and she hurried round on the bed. "Eat me," she commanded. "Eat me while I eat you!" And she threw herself upon Lynda, burying her head in her friend's pussy, planting her own sopping cunt upon Lynda's face with such irresistible authority that Lynda was unable even to think of resisting.
Chrissy got her fingers into the crease of Lynda's cunt and she opened it so wide that Lynda moaned in thrilled pain. As she spread the pussy she began to dip her tongue into it, where the twat mouth still contracted and the muscles inside rippled an invitation to any organ that might consider invading their preserve. Chrissy thrust in with her tongue, driving it up Lynda's pussy, and her cunt muscles began to ripple and twitch their own kind of reply. Chrissy's chin scraped endlessly on the raw bud of Lynda's clit, maintaining the stimulation that had begun at Lynda's first orgasm and showed no sign at all of ceasing. One climax after another burst from Lynda's pussy; her cunt was as sopping wet as though she'd just pissed herself and, for all she knew any longer, she might have.
At the same time, Chrissy's cunt dropped upon her own face, too heavy, too goddamned sweet-scented with its orgasmic musk, for Lynda to ignore. She arched her face up, into that pussy, and she began to lick blindly, her tongue ranging and scrambling across everything that lay in its path.
It wasn't a position that left much freedom for Lynda, but she had no complaints and she was reaming fast. Her tongue stabbed into the glove-like sheath of Chrissy's cunt, pushed deeply, and found that Chrissy's internal muscles were as active as Lynda's. Extracting her tongue once it had penetrated was a problem that proved to be delightful.
Lynda put her hands on the jelly-quivering cheeks of Chrissy's ass, and she felt her fingers sink into the firm but yielding flesh. The more she squeezed and kneaded, the more vigorously Chrissy washed Lynda's face with her dripping twat, and the more in turn Lynda squeezed and kneaded. The circle was far from a vicious one, particularly when Lynda's tongue scooped up the milky oozings that coated Chrissy's pussy lips. Lynda had never tasted a snatch before, and now, tasting one for the first time, she wondered why she hadn't.
As her friend's cunt bounced up and down upon her face, Lynda found herself doing things on sheer intuition. She let her fingers slide into the crack of Chrissy's buttocks, one fingertip poking at the tight asshole, the way she'd poked at her own on the couch last night. And several times she strained her neck muscles to make her head lift high. Tongue out, Lynda directed her oral attacks at Chrissy's anus, licking and dabbing spit upon the rectal opening she'd been feeling with her fingers. She felt convulsions of delight race through Chrissy every time she licked her there. When the strain upon her neck grew too much, Lynda eased her head down and put her fingers into the asshole while her tongue concentrated on Chrissy's pussy slit.
Only the abandon of erotic zeal could have inspired her to do all the things she did. Lynda could scarcely believe she was lying there on the bed, eating and being eaten, let alone that she'd already felt herself experiencing orgasm after orgasm at Chrissy's provocation. Her pussy was almost numb from the frenzy of stimulation Chrissy was giving it, tongue and fingers gone insane in their caresses.
Lynda could no longer pick out favorite individual aspects of Chrissy's attack. Her ass was wiggling and writhing as if it were afire and she was certain only that she was pumping a flood of cuntal juice into Chrissy's hungrily sucking mouth, and that Chrissy's tongue kept diving inside, greedy for still more. Her clit throbbed like a jungle drum and her snatch ached from coming too many times, but her brain reminded her that she could climax a great many more times, and soon.
Her finger speared its way into Chrissy's asshole, and Lynda could not withdraw it. Chrissy's anal muscles were tight as a steel band, locking themselves around Lynda's finger. It could go deeper, of course, and it could pull back to some degree, but it could not leave the responsive hole. Chrissy squealed with pleasure as she got a reaming from Lynda's finger, and she rocked in wild rhythms, her cunt growing hotter and wetter around Lynda's tongue, coating it with ever-increasing flows of twat wine.
Who'd ever have thought, Lynda reflected, eating pussy with a wild demonic fervor-who'd have ever thought it would be like this? She tastes like honey dew, and there's so much cum oozing out of her, as if her entire body had turned into a jism factory and had nothing better to do than to fill my sucking eager mouth! Her cunt! My mouth! God, does this mean that I'm not only a slut-I'm also a lesbian?
Not even the chilling reality of that prospect could make Lynda stop. She stabbed with her tongue, she licked and sucked and drank, until Chrissy's clitoris felt like a fire-heated iron against her tongue and the pussy above her erupted into convulsions of orgasm. With one hand she held the ass she was finger-fucking, held it upon her face so that all the dripping girl-cum poured into her open, gulping mouth, and she used her finger with an evil persistence that seemed so natural, so inherently good, and Chrissy shattered above her, too enraptured with her own orgasm to pay any more attention to Lynda's pussy.
But Chrissy's face remained where it was, jammed against Lynda's cunt, and the shuddering tremors of Chrissy's body automatically transmitted themselves to her head. In less than a minute Lynda too was coming, coming with a geyser of hot girl-juice. She lifted her legs, trapping Chrissy's head between them and, as she accepted Chrissy's come-spasms, she retaliated with her own.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Basically," Chrissy said, "what would seem to be your situation is this. Have you ever heard of the change of life?"
"Menopause?" Lynda asked with a shudder, remembering her mother's adjustment problems.
"No, dummy! Listen. Maybe I should have chosen a better descriptive phrase. Anyway, it's a pretty commonly known medical fact that a woman's peak of sexuality usually begins when she's around thirty. Did you know that? With men, it's different. A guy hits his prime in the late teens and starts going downhill from there, but a woman is like fine wine ... she's getting better all the time. I think that's what happened to you, Lynda Gillespie, and maybe you have a rapist in a stocking mask to thank for it."
"I don't understand," Lynda said. "You mean that-"
"Precisely. With women, the first years are only a warm-up for the best years. Men don't understand that. They think teeny-bopper stuff is the best and the hottest. Is it fair that by the time we're really ready, educated, heated up, eager to get it on, that our bodies are starting to go sour on us?" She cupped her tits. "These are still doing okay, but you should see the exercise regimen I have to keep up. Let alone the fucking diets! Nonetheless, I'm still firm everywhere I should be, and this little moneymaker is tight as a mousetrap. I practice. Stuff a finger or two up the slot and keep those pussy muscles rippling away on them. How about you, Lyn? You felt pretty damned tight, too. Do you keep in practice?"
"I guess so," Lynda acknowledged, "though I certainly never thought of it that way."
"You give yourself a lot of hand-jobs, don't you? I could tell as soon as I got my finger in you. Well, sure. Jerry's like most guys. He's, what, thirty-three, thirty-four? Losing some of the old banana power? You know, Lynda, you're rather a late bloomer. I mean, I've been turned on since I was thirteen, but I don't suppose I was really any good till a good bit later. Of course, I blossomed early, and I mean to keep in flower till the hair on my snatch turns gray and the lips wrinkle like prunes. But you-if I gauge your drunken confession correctly, you've been hellishly frustrated for some time. And hence your problem and your visit to dear old Aunt Chrissy. Right?"
"Are you always right?" Lynda asked.
"Always," Chrissy smiled. "So, now that we're both relatively sober, I can pass a judgment on your sordid tale of rape and degradation. Do you feel degraded, by the way? By what I did to you, and you did to me? Or did you like it?"
"I loved it," Lynda Gillespie confessed. "I really loved it while we were doing, but now ... God, Chrissy, I don't know!"
"I loved it too. It's something I've been wanting to do for a long time, but I always figured you were too middle-American to respond. And I'd rather have kept you as a friend, because I like you. But sometimes, when I watched your tight little ass wiggle around, I got so dry-mouthed, and my fingers itched to stroke you, and ... well, I nearly tossed friendship out the window. Many, many times! But where was I? I talk a lot, apparently. But once in a while, like now, I make sense, and you'd better open up your ears and listen.
"There's been a hungry, sexual person hidden inside your all-American housewife body, Lynda, and last night that hunger came to the surface. You let yourself be used, and you dug it. Today, the same thing. And you used me spectacularly. That sexual person isn't bad. It's the best friend you could ever hope to have. You can't get rid of her. Not now. Not when you've tasted the joys and the pleasures. So you'd better learn to live with the brand-new, very cunty Lynda Gillespie. Sermon ended."
"You make it sound so easy."
"Easy? Of course it's easy! The first thing you should do is take yourself a lover. Someone young, hot, and hard as a goddamned rock. Speaking from personal experience, I'd suggest that you go out and comb Madison till you find yourself a ripe kid. I mean a kid, Lyn! Eighteen or twenty, tops! You could dig up a man closer to your own age, but I suspect you'd need four or five to keep up with one ripe boy. You shouldn't have any trouble. You have a great body and when you're hot, there's a come-on gleam in your eyes that should have the right kind of boy coming in his pants just from the thought of laying your body down to bed. In fact, if you're interested, I could make a phone call right now. There's a boy I know, when he gets hard, baby, he keeps it up for hours! He can bury you in cum and still his pecker is sticking up, out, gleaming and glowing and ready for more, more, more!!"
Chrissy's hand had already gone to her cunt. Fingers twined among the dark curling beaver hairs and she rubbed the wet slice of her pussy vigorously, panting as the stimulation grew more intense. "Ohh, goddamn!" she sighed. "Even if you're not interested, I think I'll call him. I have to have it again, and soon."
"Is this what you're talking about? To be always in heat, like a bitch? I don't know if I could stand it. And what about Jerry? Chris, I still love him. You can't live with a man for ten years and anticipate living with him for the rest of your life and not feel something toward him! But you're saying I should go out and cheat on him. Consciously, not by accident and circumstance, the way it's happened so far. How could I look myself in the face if I did that?"
"Horseshit," said Chrissy. "Jerry's on the road all the time, right? He goes to a lot of conventions and sales meetings and conferences, right? Have you ever been to one of those? By God, I have! I used to work them regularly. And let me tell you, baby, if he isn't getting a snoutful of pussy, he's no traveling salesman. I'll bet my ass that he has a black book in his car, filled with the numbers of call girls and hookers all over the United States. Don't blush, Lynda! Not after all we've been through together. Think, girl! You confessed with your own sweet mouth that all he's been getting at home is cold, dry pussy, last year or two. Would he be satisfied with that if he weren't getting plenty on the road? Maybe he doesn't really care."
"That isn't true," Lynda said firmly. "That just isn't true. Jerry wouldn't be cheating on me."
"Oh, shit," Chrissy grimaced, "are you trying to convince yourself? Because it isn't working on me. Look ... Jerry tried to put the make on me, back before I moved to D.C. You hadn't been married four months then."
"You?"
"Me! And, oh, goddamn it, Lynda, I suppose I might as well tell you. Yes, I balled him. Two or three times. I felt like a piece of shit doing that to you, but it was just after I quit being Mrs. Rick Grzinski and my moral sense was on vacation. Afterwards, I suppose, he went home and fucked the shit out of you to make up for it, but I balled your brand-new husband while his cock was still under warranty.
"Look ... if you really mean it about being in love with him ... I mean, if all that crap still has any significance to you, then look at it this way. The better and hotter you get, the less reason he'll have to fuck on the side. Besides-" Chrissy winked slyly, "he's getting old. Men are pretty run down by his age, and you know goddamned well you're just hitting your real prime. You can give a man like Jerry all he can handle and still have so much left over you have to hold a fire sale to get rid of it. Oh, forget about morals and rights and wrongs. Think about your body, about your pussy. After thirty-three years you've finally discovered how sensuous a woman like yourself can be. Are you going to save it all, now, for one man who's away too much of the time to take advantage of it?"
"I don't know," Lynda moaned. "I don't know anything any more. Did you really do it ... with Jerry?"
"Yes, but let's drop the subject. It was in 1967 and that's a lifetime ago for both of us. God, yesterday morning is a lifetime ago for you! Besides, I want to make love to you again. I want to wrap my legs around your cute face and bury my mouth in your pussy and suck until you come all over my lips. And I know that it will happen again, now that you've tried it. So! Remember that call I got, while we were talking? Well, I was invited to a party in Euclid this evening. Would you like to go? It'd be a great chance to try yourself out."
"What kind of a party?"
"A swing party," Chrissy said blandly. "In other words, there'll be a lot of fucking and sucking and more delights than you can imagine. Men who can get it hard and keep it hard; women who drip with anticipation and have rose-scented snatches just waiting for tongues and fingers to penetrate them. A room full of naked bodies writhing and twitching in rapturous delight. Do you want to go? Damnit to hell, Lynda, don't let everything go to waste! You are as hot a lady as I've ever had my hands on, and you owe it to yourself to try everything. Hopefully, with me as your tour guide."
Lynda shook her head. "I don't think so," she said finally. "I mean, not like you're talking about. In front of a lot of people?" She shivered. "It sounds so depraved."
"Only till you try it. Besides, everyone is so busy doing it, they don't have time to watch you. Please?"
"Unh-unh. Truly, Chrissy, I don't think I could handle it. Not ... not...."
"Not yet?" Chrissy suggested. "I hope that's what you mean. But remember, with Jerry on the road and you finally awakened, the nights are going to be long and lonely. You can diddle yourself, but diddling doesn't really take the edge off horniness. You'll lie in your bed moaning, shuddering, wishing there was a hot body next to yours. I know, Lynda. I woke up long before you did, and I just got hotter all the time. But remember ... if you ever need anyone, you know my phone number. Right?"
"Right, I guess," Lynda said uncertainly. All of this was happening so fast. She wasn't sure of anything any more.
CHAPTER TWELVE
On the way back to Madison Lynda thought, I've been raped twice, in two days, and I've learned something each time. I think. But her body slouched behind the wheel, slouched in a wanton languid ease, and she knew that this was not the last time she and Chrissy would explore one another's bodies. She remembered the session on the bed, remembered even more clearly the bath they had taken together when neither of them could claim drunkenness as an excuse. Never, Lynda assured herself, never will I forget how Chrissy's twat tasted when it was covered with soap and juice was seeping through the lips onto my tongue. Nor the slick, bath-wet texture of another woman's body, nor the marvelous pebble-hard erection of hot nipples between her fingers, between her lips-oh, God, it had been even more unrestrained in the tub than on the bed! Fingers plumbing her twat beneath the waterline, her own hands busy on Chrissy's cunt, their mouths locked in a soul-stirring kiss, their nipples rubbing as breasts touched provocatively.
Dear God, what kind of woman has been lurking inside me all these years? Lynda Gillespie asked herself. I feel like a whore, a slut-but I've never been so happy in all my life. Perhaps, just perhaps, Chrissy was on the right track with her idea about a woman's achieving sexual heights at their age.
It seemed ridiculous, on the face of it. Or? Maybe men and women were different after all. Maybe men did in truth get to their peak in the late teens while women took a longer time to build up to it. And what else had Chrissy said, in the tub? "When a man starts downhill, he keeps going in that direction. If he lives long enough, he has to face the humiliation of not being able to get it up at all. But a woman, ah, God, Lynda, a woman! Once you know that you've got the stuff, you can go on forever!"
Oh, she wasn't sure of anything! All her basic assumptions had crumbled in the last twenty-four hours. God, it was nearly one full day since she'd entered her bedroom to find a masked man waiting for her. And in that time, she'd learned that her body was capable of ecstatic new heights of erotic arousal and that she could reach those heights with a man or-dear Lord-with a woman.
"And the rest of it," Lynda said aloud in the moving Volkswagen. "Could Jerry have fucked Chrissy? Really? So soon after our marriage? But why should Chrissy lie to me? It must be true. And the rest of what she said. Maybe he's grown to accept me as a cold-cunted wife. Maybe he is getting his kicks on the road and bringing me the leftovers, from some sense of duty. God, I just don't know!"
But what about Chrissy's suggestion, that Lynda embark upon a campaign of cold-blooded seduction, that she make herself into a female libertine of some sort? God, it made her shiver just to think of the implications! No matter how attractive Chrissy could make the idea seem, it wasn't right for Lynda. Her whole life would turn into a kind of Jekyll-Hyde existence. With Jerry she'd be one person-a dutiful, helpful wife-but when he was gone, she'd be someone else altogether. That person had a capacity for arousal and excitation which she found somewhat frightening, and Lynda wasn't sure she really liked that person at all.
I still have some moral sense left, she told herself thankfully. After all, I refused Chrissy's offer to go to that party. As she stared at the road, however, she could almost see the kind of activities Chrissy had promised her would be taking place this evening-the activities she'd been invited to join. Bodies, naked, glowing with erotic arousal. Erect penises dripping cum from previous ejaculations but still rigidly at attention as they slammed afresh into wet, swollen, tingling snatches. No faces in her reverie-merely bodies, with an emphasis on their sexual parts.
No! She could see faces! Her own, and Chrissy's. Faces awash in semen, tongues flipping in the air as they melted into a burning kiss in the midst of an orgy. Chrissy's hand rubbing Lynda's belly, Lynda's fingers prying apart the clinging lips of Chrissy's twat, pushing inside to caress the slick, damp flesh of her friend's cunt. Chrissy's body tensing against her own. A mouth sucking her nipples, drifting lower, tongue trailing across her stomach, onto the swell of her cunt. Lynda dropping back, her knees high, her pussy wide open and eager to be kissed and sucked the way it had been this afternoon.
And then, when she and Chrissy had exhausted one another, making herself open, willing, available, for any new partner who wished to try out the party-new puss of Lynda Gillespie. She could feel it happening to her right now. Man after man, with women alternating and participating as they chose-the sex of her companions no longer mattered. A woman's mouth on her cunt, a man's mouth. A woman's fingers spreading and reaming her delicate honeypit, a man's cock slamming into Lynda with ferocious plunges. Her lips loving a cunt or a penis. Female cum sopping her mouth. Male cum oozing down her gulping throat.
Chrissy had painted an inviting picture. Too inviting. The more Lynda fantasized about what she was missing by returning to Madison this evening, the happier she was that she was indeed missing it. Sex wasn't the only thing in life, for God's sake! Could she allow herself to be seduced into an existence which promised nothing more than sensory pleasure? What about permanent relationships? Hers and Jerry's, for one. It wasn't perfect, but it was a comfort and a reassurance. She'd lived with the man for ten years, damn it, and he'd lived with her. Even if he'd slipped occasionally in his devotion. She could understand. Forgiveness? Well, Jerry had as much to forgive in Lynda. Last night and today she'd done things she'd never believed possible, and she had enjoyed them more than seemed barely credible.
Perhaps there was something to Chrissy's theory about a sexual awakening. If so, Lynda resolved, she'd take care of it for herself. She'd definitely be hotter with Jerry when he came home from his traveling. The rest of the time? Well, she still had two hands. Ten fingers. They'd plied her hungry flesh in the past, and they could do it in the future as well. And maybe-just maybe-she might visit Chrissy and see if nature impelled them once again to roll on a bed of lesbian lovemaking. If it happened, it would happen. But to actively seek out sex partners-Lynda shivered, her hands clutching the steering wheel with a feverish intensity. She pressed down harder upon the gas pedal, and she couldn't help being aware that her cunt was moist again. It's only the memories, she told herself. The memories and the wicked fantasies. I am a decent, moral woman and I will not allow myself to become a sexual toy. For anyone, for anything.
She remembered that she was out of cigarettes again, so she pulled into the neighborhood carryout store. No cash on hand, so she'd have to write a check. Ah, she thought, my young friend Paul is working the counter tonight. I won't have any credit problems.
"Hello, Mrs. Gillespie," said the boy, all young and fresh and glowing with innocent masculine beauty. He had a big toothy smile which Lynda returned pleasantly. "What can we do for you this evening?"
"A carton of my brand," she replied, taking out her checkbook. "Oh, and you mentioned the Liebfraumilch, too. Why don't you get me two bottles of that?" It would be nice, she decided, to have the wine waiting when Jerry returned. He wouldn't know, but to Lynda it would serve as a reminder of her renewed devotion and love.
"Is Mr. Gillespie back?" Paul asked, fetching the wine.
Lynda shook her head. "No, he's been called to distant shores. But I thought I'd better get the wine now, while you still have it in stock, rather than let him be disappointed if it sells out before the first of the week."
"Good idea," Paul said seriously.
He was a very nice boy, she thought. He always made her feel personally welcome in the store. She raised her head and looked him up and down. A handsome piece of young man, too. What would Chrissy be doing, if she were standing here in Lynda's shoes? Knowing Chrissy, she'd probably have her blouse unbuttoned and be offering him an autographed tear-out from Playboy. Not to mention a Mae Westish, "Why don't you come up and see me some time?"
Lynda caught herself staring at the boy, and she felt a stirring of shame. Part of her said "He's a darling. Look at those arms, those legs, that broad chest and shoulders. And his mouth. Can't you just feel that mouth smashing down upon your own, the tongue stabbing into you? What about his cock? A big boy, built like a football player. Bet he's hung with a stick of dynamite. Bet that dynamite can really blast off when the fuse is lit." And part of her replied, "You sound exactly like Chrissy! Where are all the resolutions, the good intentions? Lynda Gillespie, you shouldn't even be thinking those thoughts. Be good, woman!"
And she smiled, and she told herself that she was indeed good, that she had everything firmly under control. It lent strength to her smile as she finished filling out the check.
"Thank you, Mrs. Gillespie," Paul said, putting her check in the register. Lynda slung her purse over her arm, picked up the sack containing a carton of Kools and two bottles of Liebfraumilch, and started out the door. She thought she heard him call her name, and she turned in the doorway. "Good evening, Mrs. Gillespie," Paul said, grinning. My father, she told herself, would have called that a shi-eating grin. Can he possibly be that happy to see me in his store? Oh, go home, the rest of her said. Take a bath, eat something solid, and settle down for a good night's sleep. Yes. That was the recipe. Cleanse her body in the tub and cleanse her mind in sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
She checked her phone but Jerry hadn't called. Maybe he'd call later. He'd said he would call today. It would be reassuring to hear his voice, to tell him that she loved him, that she waited here for his return.
Lynda had just settled down with a cigarette and a cup of steaming hot tea to watch television, when she heard the doorbell ring. "Oh," she said, opening the door.
"Hi, Mrs. Gillespie," said Paul, the boy from the carryout. "Uh, may I come in?"
"Yes, I suppose so. Oh, of course! Where are my manners?"
He entered the foyer, stood shifting his weight from foot to foot. His eyes were upon Lynda and she saw that in them a degree of devotion which unsettled her slightly. It was precisely the way he looked at her in the store, but it seemed strange here, in the hallway of her home.
"Uh, you forgot this," he said, holding out her checkbook.
"My God!" said Lynda. "I never even noticed!
Did I just leave it on the counter? Where is my memory going to, anyway?" She took it gratefully. Losing her checkbook could have been disastrous. "Did you make a special trip just to bring it to me? And how did you know where I lived?"
"Oh, I'm finished for the night," Paul said. "Besides, uh, your address was on the checks."
"Well, come into the living room," she told him. "I can't offer you any monetary reward because, I'm ashamed to say, I don't have a cent in cash in the house. But at least I can give you a cup of delicious tea. Would you-?"
He would, and did. Lynda fixed his tea as he sat nervously in her living room, and as she poured the amber brew from the pot into a cup, realization struck her like a lightning flash. Her street address wasn't printed on the checks. Just a post office box. Why, the poor infatuated boy! Somehow he'd found out where she lived and he'd hurried on this errand, praying no doubt, that it would give him one more look at the older woman he was always so happy to greet when she entered the store. Lynda smiled, thinking of how it had been once, to be young and in the throes of adolescent crushes. Be nice to him, she told herself. If someone dishonest had found your checkbook, he could have cleaned out your account in one fell swoop. Give him his tea, and talk to him, and then send him packing like a good little boy.
Little? she thought, handing Paul his cup of tea. He wasn't exactly little, by anyone's definition. Well over six feet tall, weighing maybe a hundred and eighty or two hundred pounds, all of it in the right places, he didn't seem at all like a little boy.
Nervous, yes, like a teenager on his first date, but it was an ingratiating kind of nervousness. Lynda found herself talking to the boy, trying to put him at ease. Chrissy couldn't have done a better job of responding to a young-a very young-man.
Look at that, she told herself as Paul shifted slightly on the couch and she saw how his pants clung to the lump of pecker inside them. It was a big lump, a very big lump. Lynda felt a lump forming in her throat and she tried in vain to wash it down with tea. He really was a splendid young thing. Beautiful. Was it permissable to call boys beautiful? If not, it should be. Because that's what he was. A strong face, a fine body.
I wonder how big his cock really is? she pondered silently. Can he get it up and keep it up for hours on end, like that boy Chrissy was boasting about? What if he stood up right now, unzipped his pants, hauled out his dick, and said, "Mrs. Gillespie, I want you to suck this for me. Suck it till I fill your mouth with cum, and then keep sucking so I can stay hard enough to fuck your ass into the ground"? Lynda became aware of a telltale dampness at her crotch. Oh, God!!! she thought. Oh, dear God!!!
Who was speaking now? Who was saying aloud, "Paul, would you excuse me for a moment while I go upstairs? I'll be right back. Pour yourself some more tea, if you'd like."? Whose mouth was speaking those words?
In her bedroom, the door firmly shut behind her, Lynda peered intently into her vanity mirror. "Goodnight, Dr. Jekyll," she told her reflection, a sinister chortle lilting the words. "Ms. Hyde is taking over the graveyard shift."
She scarcely knew what she was doing as she stripped off her jacket, blouse, and slacks, as she hurried out of her bra and panties. Naked, glowing, she faced herself in the mirror. Her nipples were standing up, hard and red. She rubbed them with her fingers, sighing as pleasure spread through her body. One hand slid down her tummy, onto the copper-fuzzed bulge of her pussy, and she found that drops of warm wetness had already seeped from her slice, moistening the hairs that surrounded the gash.
The nightgown dropped over her head and she pulled it into place, asking as she did, "For God's sake, what are you going to do next?" It was as if she were two different people then, one of them eagerly acting, the other watching from a distance, able to ask biting questions but incapable of stopping her actions. The gown's hem fell to the floor and Lynda adjusted it at her tits. Oh my God, she thought, I can't go downstairs in this!
It was a sheer confection of lace and nylon, one of Jerry's favorites. Her pink body shone through the transparent material and no matter how she turned, her nipples were obvious at the bodice. When she moved, her long legs gleamed as well, and, if she pulled just so, if the gown's skirt slipped in to rest closely on her crotch, the red of her beaver was also vividly apparent. It covered her like a morning mist, and she felt as nude as if she were stripped to the skin. For a moment Lynda regained control. Her legs shivered. She gripped the edge of the vanity for support. I can't go downstairs like this! What in the name of God could have persuaded me to think I could?
And as swiftly as it had come on, that mood swept away and she looked at her reflection with a seductive smile. So seductive she wanted to lean toward the mirror and kiss the glass smile on the glass face. I can do it, she thought. I must do it.
She descended the staircase so softly Paul couldn't have heard her. His eyes were on the TV set. Only when she said his name in a soft, husky voice, did he lift his face and stare in her direction.
"Hello again," she told him. "I thought I'd slip into something more comfortable."
"Yeah," he said, unable to keep from smiling. "Yeah!" There was a definite enthusiasm in his voice. Lynda liked it. Very much. It foreboded well for her first attempt at seduction.
She could have gone to her chair again, tempting him from a distance with her body. Chrissy probably would have. But Chrissy was Chrissy. Lynda had always thought of herself as a frank, straightforward lady. She went directly to the couch and seated herself about eighteen inches from Paul. His face went all red but he didn't take his eyes from her.
"Paul," she said silkily, "I wanted to tell you again how much I appreciated your returning my checkbook. And you should receive a nice reward for your courtesy, too. But I don't have any money to give you. Will a kiss do, instead?"
His eyes bulged. He started to say something, but the words died on his lips. Lynda smiled and moved closer. She put her hand on his thigh, fingers digging into the hard flesh inside his pants. Her eyes drifted toward his crotch, and she couldn't help seeing something there, something much harder, also inside his pants. God, she thought. How can he stand to be so large and so hard in such tight jeans? Isn't it killing him? As she sought his mouth with her own, she let her fingers slide toward that thickening lump at his loins.
As her lips touched his, Paul sprang into life. His cock hardened at once to the caress of Lynda's fingertips and he slid one arm around her waist, pulling her closer. Lynda moved with his tug, allowing the boy to ease her onto his body, and she closed her fingers around the bulge of his cock. It hummed and throbbed with life, even through the fabric of his pants, and she couldn't avoid a certain smugness in the knowledge that she had made him hard. Ms. Hyde seemed to be in full control as the kiss lingered and Paul put both his arms around her. Lynda eased closer, brushing her tits against his shirt. Her nipples were hard, and only that gauzy veiling of nylon covered their red erections. Paul had to know that she was aroused too.
He kissed nicely. This wasn't his first time. Still, she doubted if he'd had a lot of experience. At the store he always seemed so shy and ingratiating. Lynda kissed him back, trying out a few techniques she'd picked up from Chrissy only this afternoon. She chewed gently on his tongue, she let her own trace the edges of his mouth, she caused her tits to bounce and thrust against his chest, the nipples hardening with each caress; and all the time her hand kept squeezing and kneading the growing bulge of his cock. Until he moaned and twitched and sighed and she knew that it was fully time to bring his cock into the light. Levis could only contain a hard-on like this for a limited period of time. Any more, and the straining weight of the prick would split all the seams in his pants.
Lynda stood up. "Paul," she said, "I'm offering you the sweetest treasure I have to give. My body. Your dick says that you want it. What does your heart say?"
"Oh, God, Mrs. Gillespie!!!"
"Call me Lynda. I think we're going to be on a first-name basis. First names like Peter and Pussy. Do you like the idea?"
"I fuckin' love it!!"
She undid his belt and unzipped him, too. Her hand fell upon his jockey shorts, clutching the erection that was too thick, too hard, for his underwear to contain, and she closed her eyes as she wondered how his cock would look. Jesus, it was a big one! Fully as big as that man's-the man who'd raped her last night. Rape? Theoretically, perhaps. But maybe Chrissy had a point. Maybe the rape had awakened her true sensuality. Maybe she ought to drink a discreet toast to that rapist now, to thank him for what he'd done to her. She'd never have made it with Chrissy; she'd certainly not be here now, about to get her first look at young Paul's cock. Not without the impetus of a rape which didn't seem at all brutal or vicious in honest retrospect.
Am I, she thought, taking the irrevocable step? Will I be another Chrissy if I go through with this? I'm seducing a mere child. He can't be more than twenty.
But his cock was no child's cock. It was a man's tool. Each time she caressed it through the cotton undershorts it seemed to engorge in her fist, and Paul's face changed colors faster than she could keep track. His eyes were shut and he was stroking, the hands that played with his prick.
He wants to do it, Lynda thought. And he's big and hard. I bet he can keep it up the whole goddamned night. I bet he can fuck me till my pussy bleeds. And I bet I'll still be lying on the bed, sobbing and moaning for more. Oh, God, do I have any choice? I've gone this far. Why not do it all?
"Let me see it," she whispered intensely. "Let me see your cock, Paul. Here," and her hand was inside his shorts, on his bare, hot flesh. God, did they make pricks so big, so thick, so hard? But when she pulled him free, out, bare, she knew that at least one cock was this big, this thick, this hard. And her heart pounded so heavily she thought it might even hammer its way out of her chest, to throb and pulsate in the open.
She closed her eyes, relishing the feel of him in her clutching fist, and this time it was his naked prick that she held, not merely an out-lined shape in clothing. "Ohhhhh," Lynda moaned in delight. "Ohhhhhhh!!!!"
Paul was moaning too, in a deeper key but one that harmonized with Lynda's. His ass began to swivel and twist as she squeezed him more tightly, and she felt his heartbeat through the shaft of his beautifully rigid dick. Beautiful. Yes, that was the word. For him, for her, for what they could do together. And she knew, somehow, that they'd do it all. Her lips fell upon his, hungry as Attila's warriors, and she sucked furiously at his tongue.
Sucked. An idea crossed Lynda's mind. What would Paul think if she put her face in his lap and allowed him to thrust his cock into her mouth? Yesterday morning she'd not have permitted Jerry to do such a thing. But today? After last night's adventure, after this afternoon's? Lynda pulled her mouth from Paul's and she bent towards the red, throbbing knob of his prong.
"Wow!" he barked as her tongue made its first tentative brush on his cock-flesh. He began to jerk excitedly, as if he were fucking a partner mounted on his lap. Lynda held him more tightly, to steady the wavering length of his enormous dong, and she started to lick him from tip to base, moving in swift, erotic patterns.
At the base, stray pubic hairs escaping his shorts' opening tickled the side of her face, but it was a pleasant kind of tickling and she remained there a long time, till her cheek twitched with arousal. Her hand moved on the rest of him, sliding up and down the long pole in a very slow shuck, and she could feel him swaying with her fondling.
"It's fantastic, Lynda," he groaned, and his voice cracked like a pubescent child's. "Really, I mean it," he said, forcing his tone to go lower, to display a man's low-pitched baritone. But the effect was funny. It was like a growl, and for the briefest instant Lynda heard something very familiar in his voice. Puzzled, she stopped licking dick, but only for a moment. The pulsations in his pecker tube called her like the ancient sirens' song and her tongue was once more upon him.
"Oh, hurry," he moaned, "I think I'm gonna come!"
She was already aware. His cock was beginning to swell and shudder in her grasp, the way a man's tool always did just before it exploded in a fountain of cum. Lynda raised her head, forming an O with her mouth. Unsure of how she would respond when all the chips were down, she filled that O with the tip of his dick, opening a little wider to let more of him go inside.
He had her by the head now, trying to force all of his cock into her mouth. Who's seducing whom? Lynda asked herself resentfully. She closed her lips against his imploring dick, proving that he could insert as much as she chose but not a fraction more. Paul seemed to get the message. He still held her, but he let up on the frantic shoves of his dick.
Better, thought Lynda, opening a little more. He thrust deeply, she sucking all the while, and her tongue moved around his cock in passes that were awkward only at the very start. Last night's enforced lesson in fellatio had been of some help. She knew basically what to do and, the more she practiced, the better she got. After a few minutes' worth of sucking, it was as if she'd been born with a cock in her mouth.
"Here it ... comes!!" he yelped, grabbing her head and straining his cock against her mouth. Lynda knew that this was the real acid test. If she could survive an ejaculation in her mouth, if she could force herself to swallow his semen of her own will, then the worst was over. She tightened her lips like a vise and waited for his cum to flow.
And God, when it came! His prick jerking and spurting, the knob of his cock swelling like a busted thumb. And the jism! Gallons of it, pouring into her mouth, oozing down her throat, seeping as well through the cock-splayed ring of her lips so that she had cum on her chin as well as in her gullet. It was like-God, it was like drinking at the fountain of life itself! She sucked the liquid power, felt it sweet as wine on her taste buds, and she sucked his dick eagerly, praying that he would never cease filling her mouth with his cum.
Dimly, she grew aware that his cock was only jerking now, that the spurts of cream had ceased. Her tongue fluttered around the swollen end of his prick, trying to tease forth a fresh gushing, but she knew it was a lost cause. He needed time to recharge his testicles. But how much time? His prick was still hard as a rock, seeming to grow harder with each possessive suckle of her mouth, and she was convinced now that she had done the right thing.
Lynda released his cock, keeping her hand on it to maintain its erection, and she licked hungrily at the stray beads of cum ringing her wet mouth. The taste, she thought. How could I have resented the taste? It left a warm glow all the way from her lips to the pit of her stomach, and her nipples were fiery, her twat sopping wet. She rocked and swayed on her knees beside him, her eyes gleaming with the promise of further delights.
"Come with me now, Paul," she whispered. "Up to my bedroom. I want you to fuck me till I scream. And when I scream ... don't stop! Keep on fucking till I pass out from the joy of it! And then, honey, fuck me again, till I open my eyes and beg you to keep doing it. Will you, Paul? Will you give me that kind of fucking?"
"You bet your sweet ass I Will!!!" he shouted, grabbing her hand. "You bet your sweet ass, Lynda!" Then, picking her up in his strong arms, he carried her upstairs, straight to her bedroom. He didn't even ask directions, Lynda thought, chewing his ear as he carried her to her room.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Why don't you take off your clothes?" Lynda suggested throatily, pulling the nightgown over her head and tossing it to the floor. Paul stood by the bed, his cock dangling through his unzipped pants. She lay down, head nearest him, and she took his prick in hand. Wet from her mouth, from his blasting ejaculation, she could feel it throbbing nonetheless as fresh aroused blood starting to pump excitedly.
"Mrs....Lynda ... there's something I ought to tell you," he began, peeling off his shirt. She was already busy, helping him with his pants. They fell, and she pulled at his shorts as well. By the time he was naked, his cock was up, thickly erected, its point huge and ruby-red with desire for her.
She pulled him to her bed. He came eagerly, his hands already cupping and covering the hard-nippled cones of her tits. It was a good feeling, she decided, to have her breasts heaving against his clutching palms, to have his mouth nibbling along her jawbone and chin, until their lips came together and she wrapped an arm around his neck, holding him tight. Her leg shifted on the bed and the bone of his dick began to rub ticklishly at the erogenous zones of her shapely thighs. She sighed into his kiss, then pulled away.
"I know what you want to tell me, Paul," she said with a sophisticated smile. "But it doesn't matter. I'm not that much older than you, and it's a well-known fact that women my age are entering their peak of sexuality. Touch me. Touch my cunt. Ooohh, yes, Paul, rub it! Mmmmm, your fingers on my clit ... oh, you anticipated, you darling! Feel it? Feel how wet I am? Dripping with lust, Paul, lust for you. Put your finger inside me. Oh ... not too fast ... there! Now, let me ... there, Paul, there! Feel how my cunt sucks at you like a hungry little mouth? Well, it is a hungry little mouth, and I want you to put your cock inside, so my pussy can eat and drink its fill. Will you do that for me, Paul?"
"Oh, will I ever, Lynda! You don't know how often I used to see you in the store-the way you walked, the way you held your head while you spoke to me, the way you smile-sometimes I'd get such a hard-on for you that my balls ached! Sometimes I'd even dream about you, Lynda ... about you sucking my cock the way you did down in the living room, on the couch ... about you and me naked, just like this, and me about to fuck you, just like this. But your skin never felt as soft in my dreams, and your pussy never made those little snaps the way it really does. But listen-I have to tell you-"
"Don't tell me anything, Paul," she sighed, easing back, her knees lifting. "Put your cock in my snatch and fuck me blind. Okay?"
She didn't want to hear about his fantasies of balling her, not when he had a throbbing, red hard-on which could do a better job than his fantasies or her own either, for that matter. She clamped one hand around his dick, tugging, and with the other she started to massage the dripping, greedy lips of her slice.
"How old are you, Paul?" she asked suddenly, as he slid atop her and took over guidance of his prong.
"Uh, I'll be twenty in November," he said with a smile. "So I'm almost twenty."
Nineteen, she corrected him slightly. And she'd be thirty-four in February. Well, it made a perfect match, according to Chrissy McGraw's specifications. A woman at her prime, a boy at his prime. God, she thought, when he was born I must have been what-fourteen or so. Listening to Buddy Holly and wearing lots of petticoats under my skirts and envying all the girls in the tenth and eleventh and twelfth grades, because their parents allowed them to go out occasionally with duck-tailed guys in pegged pants and black-leather jackets. And today, Buddy Holly was dead, long dead; most fourteen-year-old girls didn't wear anything under their skirts except pubic hair; the cool guys of her high-school days survived only in the ridiculous figure of The Fonz; and she was about to commence her first real act of adultery with a boy who was virtually a child by comparison. Yesterday morning none of this seemed even vaguely in the offing; today an entirely different woman had taken up lodging in Lynda's body. She closed her eyes as the boy's thick, throbbing cock penetrated her in one plunging stroke that carried him incredibly, thrillingly deep into her pussy.
"OHHHHHH!!!" Lynda screamed, kicking her legs high into the air. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and squeezed happily as he completed the act of insertion, his hairy loins coming to rest on her own. Her ass twitched, and she swiveled beneath him; Paul got the message and started to rotate his prong in the opposite direction, so that all of Lynda's cunt got a first-rate stimulation. She felt as if her vagina had been turned into mushy jelly, but she knew it couldn't be, that her twat was sucking eagerly at his prick, the cunny lips stretching almost to their natural limits even to give him access.
"Do you like it, Lynda?" he asked. "Do you like my cock in your beautiful cunt?" Paul seemed under a strain of some kind. His voice threatened to crack on him again, as it had down stairs, and he was forcing himself to speak in an exaggeratedly deep masculine tone. Something about that forced bass struck a familiar chord on Lynda's ear, but she couldn't place it. Not now. Not when her twat was full of peter and every muscle in her body was beginning to jerk and dance with fuck-fever.
"I love it," she told him breathlessly, "but unless you start fucking me, I'm going to throw you off and do it by myself. Move, damn you! Fuck me!"
And he did. God, she thought, did he ever! He lifted his pelvis, extracting much of his sizable cock-Lynda was sure it was the largest she had ever seen-then ramming it home in a way that had her biting her lips before the second insertion was completed. She jerked and bounced beneath him, her hands gripping his body for strength and support, and her cunt began to eat him alive. How much I have to learn, she thought. I'd never guessed it could be like this.
He fucked with much the same fever and passion Jerry had shown, in the early years of their marriage, the fever and passion which had been so infrequent more recently. And not until now had Lynda realized how much she missed that driving sexual energy, how incomplete her life had been without it.
What had aroused her? Not the natural course of events, certainly. Left to herself, she'd have gone on feeling a vague discontentment, perhaps masturbating more and more often to relieve frustration, but could she have turned on this way unaided? No! Par of it was due to Chrissy, of course, but even more to that masked man who'd turned her entire life around last night. On this very bed, she thought. He'd fucked her where she'd often been fucked by Jerry, where she was even now fucking Paul. A stranger. A stranger to whom she knew, now, she owed so very much.
Her knees clutched at Paul's ribs and her hands fastened around his neck. "Deeper, harder," she whispered. "Give it to me like a hot bitch!"
He took her at her word. His cock slammed deeper, with a building speed and energy. Lynda's pussy sucked furiously at the thick tool buried in her, and she moaned in gratitude each time his pecker knob slid to the mouth of her womb and rapped as if it meant to penetrate there as well. She jerked and writhed, seeking to open herself fully, but her uterus remained inviolate. The best either of them could manage was a continued twitching of his cock's point at the small passageway which linked vagina and womb, but it was a splendid best all the same, and Lynda felt a shattering orgasm brewing inside her. She screamed, and wept hot sweet tears, and rubbed her wet face against his until their lips caught and clung. Her breasts were hard as rocks against him, and the nipples were afire with passion.
Oh, God, it was all Chrissy had promised, and so much more! And she'd never thought she could do anything like this, either. But she was. She was doing it. The woman pitching and bucking in the throes of fucking was Lynda Gillespie, and she loved it more than she'd ever loved any other feeling in her life.
His mouth moved down her neck, kissing and biting, and she felt his tongue's flickering passage up the curvature of her right breast. The nipple was stiff and aching when his tongue found it, and he plied her teat round and round for a few moments before pulling it into his mouth for sucking.
Lynda said "Oooohhhh!" in a small, squeaky voice, and she stroked his head lovingly. Like all young men, he wore his hair long and there was so much of it, too. Jerry was going bald; sometimes he wondered aloud if he shouldn't invest in a hairpiece or in the transplant process.
Jerry. Growing bald and paunchy as middle age settled upon him. No longer able, it seemed, to bring her to orgasm. But he was still her husband, she was still his wife. What would happen to them now? Should she divorce him, announce that she was going out into the world to find her own identity, her own satisfactions? It seemed so brutal. Surely he'd be hurt, and Lynda didn't want that. Why not?
Because, she thought suddenly, I still love Jerry, no matter what else I may do with my body. Oh, maybe he isn't the same brash young man I fell in love with ten years ago, and maybe the two of us don't make a dynamite act between the sheets nowadays-but I still feel good when he comes through the door, returning from the road, and when he kisses me hello, and when he sits down to eat a meal I've made for him. Most of the time I know what he's thinking before he has a chance to think it himself, and he's the same way with me. Should I throw that away because I've finally ended my spell of puberty?
No! Chrissy had the answer! It seemed that sexy bitch had all the answers. Dr. Gillespie and Ms. Hyde. That's who she'd be. Discreetly, of course, so that her husband didn't have to know the unsettling facts. But she could fuck whomever she pleased and still have a pantry full of pussy for Jerry when he was at home. Perhaps a diet of carefully chosen adulterous affairs could even put the old sparkle back into her life with her husband. Chrissy had suggested that, and so far Chrissy was batting a thousand. Something, at least, to think about. She could have her cake and eat it too. God, how she'd eat it!
"Suck it, suck it like a baby," she purred as Paul kept working on her nipple. She didn't think the pap could get harder or more aroused, but each roll of his lips, each pass of his tongue seemed to create more and more fiery excitement in her breast, filtering throughout her body. She arched toward him, pushing her tit at his mouth, and he opened wider, taking in the whole end of her breast, red nipple and all.
At the same time his cock moved like a whirlwind in her pussy, reaming her savagely but lovingly on each penetration. It was a steady, relentless progression, his fucking, and it built upon the groundwork he'd been laying ever since her first invitation to get at it. He never went into her the same way twice in succession. His strokes varied with a provocative unpredictability, and each one, to Lynda, was like the first-full of promise and capable of anything. She twisted this way and that as he demonstrated how many angles a man could use for dicking a hot woman, and she was definitely a hot woman, being dicked royally. Her heels came up, folding around his buttocks, and she spurred his body into hers with kicks and prods.
"Oh, more of the same," she whined, and he gave it to her, so fast, so hard, so dynamically, that Lynda could no longer fend off the urge to climax. This is only the first orgasm, she promised herself. There'll be many, many more before I let him put his clothes on and go home! She clung to him, shuddering, purring, her cunt rippling and contracting and expanding and rippling and contracting, again and again, as his cock kept driving in and out. The feeling seemed to last forever, but it couldn't have been more than thirty or forty seconds all told before she slumped, her body drained for the moment, Paul's cock still hard and driving inside her.
"Now it's my turn," he said. His face seemed to glow with the sexual flames burning inside his body, and he started to rabbit-fuck in and out.
Lynda strained against him, providing a tight, accommodating twat for his penis to work in, and she felt him swell in her cuntal glove, felt him shudder as cum poured from his balls, through the long thick tube, into her gulping cunt. The jabbing of his cock as it unloaded, the masterful set of frantic lunges and plunges-she closed her eyes and groaned as her pussy gave birth to another climax of her own. It wasn't as shattering as her first, but it was heaven indeed to know that she was coming along with her lover, and Lynda felt fully, truly a woman as Paul's cock went soft inside her tender, wet snatch and eased slowly from her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He lay beside her, panting with his efforts, his cock coated with cum. Lynda touched him there with one hand, the other going to her pussy and rubbing the sticky patches of semen that were oozing slowly from her slit. It felt so good to touch herself now, even though he'd fucked her almost raw. The ache she felt in her pussy was a most delicious kind of aching, one she wished she could feel twenty-four hours a day.
"That was wonderful, Paul," she said lazily. "You made me come. It takes a real man to do that for a woman, and you're all man. All man." Her hand began to play with his limp penis.
"You're not so bad either," he complimented, running his fingers through her copper hair. Lynda stretched and basked in his affection. Her body was moist with sweat and there was a funky, sexy smell in the room-a smell to which they'd both contributed.
"Have you really been fantasizing about me forever and ever?" she asked kittenishly. "A big, sexy boy like you? I'd think you could find all the girls you wanted."
He shrugged, avoiding her eyes. "Yeah, I suppose so. But ... oh, I don't know, Lynda ... there was something special about you. The first time I ever saw you, I got a hard-on like you wouldn't believe. You weren't doing anything to turn me on-nothing you could point to and say 'That's it!' It was just you, walking around the store, leaning over once to look at something on a low shelf so that your ass stuck out. And all I could think was God, what an ass! But I never thought anything like this would happen. Oh, I wished it would, and I used to dream it would, but I never thought that really-did you ever notice the way I'd look at you in the store?"
"Of course I noticed, Paul," she assured him, recalling that she'd diagnosed it as a boyish crush. Did they still talk about puppy love? "And I decided tonight, when you were so nice to me, that I'd be nice to you, too."
"Gee, Lynda ... do you do this very often? I mean, you never seemed like the kind of lady who'd-"
She smiled. "You're very observant, Paul. And the answer is no. I don't do this very often at all. Not in the past, at least, but I've been going through some changes. Things have happened to me, things I can't explain to you. But-"
"Do you mean, like getting raped last night?"
Lynda's eyes bugged out. "What? My God, how did you know about that? Oh, Christ, is it all over the neighborhood? But I didn't tell anyone-"
He had the grace to blush deep scarlet. When he spoke it was in that false, forced bass Lynda had caught him using a couple of times this evening, and now she knew exactly why it sounded so familiar. "I don't know what got into me," he growled. "But you told me you'd be here alone, so ... so I dropped a couple of tabs of speed, just to get my nerve up, and I ripped off a pair of stockings from the store for a mask, and ... well, I almost chickened out when I got in the driveway, but I tried the kitchen door and it was unlocked. Oh, wow, Lynda, something snapped inside me, and I just hopped into the house. And then, when I went upstairs and heard you in the bathroom ... it sounded like you were really getting it on with somebody, and I was scared shitless, so I hid in the bedroom. But you came in, all pink and naked, and you reminded me of the sunrise, and I knew there was nobody else in the house, so ... so I raped you. I didn't hurt you, did I? God, if I did, I'm sorry! But I'm glad I told you, all the same. I tried to tell you before we started fucking, so that if you wanted to back out, you could have. How come you're not saying anything? Oh, my God, Lynda ... are you crying?"
"Crying?" she sniffled. "Lord, I am! No, Paul, don't get scared! I don't hold any grudges. Really, I don't! I was only thinking, that if Jerry hadn't taken his pistol with him on the road, I'd have at least tried to shoot you last night. And my God, Paul, what a loss that would have been!! Oh, I can feel it! You're getting hard again, Paul. Getting hard for me! Well, come on! Last night you had to take it, but tonight it's all yours. Free. No strings. You don't even have to pretend you have a knife. And for God's sake, don't strain your voice that way. You'll have a sore throat tomorrow."
He grinned, knowing that he was forgiven. He didn't know how thoroughly he'd been absolved until Lynda twisted round on the bed and touched his stiffening cock with the fiat of her tongue. She slurped up the cum beads from his last orgasm, licked the rim of his cockhead until it swelled and grew purple, and her hand was a loving reminder of her desire as she cupped and squeezed his sac of nuts. Paul groaned as his penis went hard, slapping up against Lynda's mouth. She kissed the underside of his knob, planting her sweet, wet smacks there with a growing fervor, and then she looked up at his face. "Paul," Lynda husked, "I'm going to give you plenty to dream about until next time. And there will be a next time for you and me, darling."
She opened her mouth and sucked him inside. He plunged desperately, as if he meant to fuck her throat, but Lynda knew how to control him. She let him feel the warning scrapes of her teeth on the gristly shaft of his dong, threatening him even as her tongue made him welcome, and the paradoxical mouth action caused Paul to slow it down to her preferred speed. But as if to compensate, he grabbed her by one sweat-moist thigh, and pulled her toward himself. Lynda sensed what he was up to as she worked her mouth on his dick, and she moved willingly, moaning around the imbedded tool as her cunt came to rest upon Paul's face. He spread her from above and thrust his face up into the crack of her bottom, tongue making for the splayed rill of her slit. Lynda's clitoris was already up, throbbing, humming, sensitive, and she moaned again when his tongue found her love button and commenced to bathe it in saliva.
She opened her eyes, sucking. Yes. She saw it. The mole in his pubic hair, virtually the only identifying feature she'd noticed on last evening's unexpected visitor. Even now, when she'd thought herself fully in control once again, circumstances were combining to upset her poise.
Chrissy had advised her to go out and seduce a fresh young piece of cock. Right? And hadn't she done that? Paul seemed such an obvious choice, with his puppy-like devotion and attention to her. So when she found him in her living room, the two of them alone in the house, seducing him seemed almost preordained. But how could she seduce a young man who had already seduced her? She'd have to talk it over with Chrissy. Maybe tomorrow, if her friend didn't stay the weekend at that party she'd mentioned. Call her tomorrow anyway, she made a mental note. Chrissy will never forgive you if she doesn't hear this straight from the horse's mouth.
Or was it the horse's ass? Lynda wondered. Wasn't that a better description for a lady whose first, desperately-conceived seduction ploy was aimed at the very person whose actions had set the whole thing into operation? Or maybe it was just poetic justice.
Anyway, she reminded herself, Paul was good. Damned good. He tasted good and he dished out great fucking. Weird, how much better it seemed now, when he wasn't wearing his mask or playing kinky games. When it was just the two of them, naked bodies on a bed of pleasure, his cock in her mouth, her cunt defenseless against his lips. And later-but not too much later-she'd be on her back, with his penis romping in and out of her twat. Or maybe he'd be on his back and she'd be riding him like a cowgirl on a delightfully fractious pony. Or-he fingered her ass while his tongue glided across her cunny lips, and Lynda was seized with a sudden inspiration. Surely his cock was too big to fit into that tight hole. But if it didn't rip her apart to find out, the experimentation might be worth his while and her own. So many things to try, to do.
But he wasn't going to get away easily. He'd been responsible for bringing her to this present condition, and he'd have to pay the piper. She'd fuck him bowlegged. Paul might not even be capable of a piss hard-on for days to come. Not when she was finished with him. See what he got for turning Lynda Gillespie into a wanton slut! Oh, God, it was going to be so fantastic!!
His cock was as big as a fencepost in her mouth, but she sucked it eagerly, allowing as much of him as she could endure to slide in. Lynda wished she could open her throat and gullet and swallow him, balls and all, but she knew it was an impossible dream. Wasn't it? There would be time to try. Later, if not now. Her cunt squirmed atop his face as his tongue probed between the clinging labia, with occasional brushes to her clit.
In a moment he reversed himself. One of his fingers began to slide in and out of her wet, sucking pussy, while another kept nagging round and round the tight ring of her asshole. Lynda knew that if he only pushed hard enough, he could jab his finger up her ass too. She'd done it last night, after he left, and if-ooooooohhhh!!! He not only could-he had done it! Lynda was pronged in both bottom holes and he was working her pussylips with his lips and tongue, paying special attention to the protruding nubbin of her clitoris.
She felt the woman-cum oozing from her slit as his fingers jabbed one-two, one-two in pussy and ass, and she closed her eyes dreamily. Her mouth was still sucking his dick, but her head was drifting into a paradise where everything was pleasure and she was nothing but one enormous pussy to receive all that pleasure for her very own. God, god, godddddddd Sometimes she squeezed and jerked his cock and nuts as she suckled, and once or twice she tasted viscous bubbles of his cum being dribbled onto her tongue, as if he were so full of semen that he'd begun to overflow. The taste? Ah, the taste! How could she have spent so many years fearing the taste of semen in her mouth? Tonight she knew that if the universe were a gigantic cock, filling her mouth with gallons of sticky jism, still she could never drink enough of the male life-fluid. She had such a lot of lost time to make up for, but Lynda Gillespie welcomed the challenge.
What would Jerry say, when she eagerly sucked his cock? Would he be shocked? Would he be suspicious? Perhaps she should build up to it slowly, working by degrees. The first couple of times she could suck him almost to completion, explaining that she felt he deserved at least an effort on her part. She could allow his jism to squirt into the air. Oh, God, what a waste! Oh, play it by ear, Lynda! she told herself. Enjoy this while it's happening, and work on Jerry when he's what is happening. One corner of the mind for the husband, another corner for the lovers, and don't be unfaithful to either while you're with the other.
She sensed that he wasn't far from orgasm when he stopped eating pussy and pinched her ass tenderly. "Just to get your attention," he apologized. "Listen, are you expecting anyone?"
"Huh?" she asked, releasing his cock regretfully. Creamy globs of pre-ejaculatory jism mingled with her bubbly saliva on the shaft. More spit was dribbling from her lips. "No, no one."
"Uh-oh," he said. "I think somebody's at the door. Listen."
It was true. She could hear the bell ringing distantly. Who? Jerry? Lynda sat up in fright. Could it be Jerry? But he was going to St. Louis. What if he'd come back to her instead? Good God!
She leaped off the bed, grabbing a housecoat. "Wait here," she told Paul. "I'll leave the door slightly ajar. I don't think it's my husband, but if you hear his voice, get yourself dressed and get under the bed. I'll find a way to get you out safely."
Oh, Lord, she thought, it's like a French farce. The husband at the door, the lover under the bed. Is it really worth the trouble? What would Jerry do, anyway? He wouldn't go out to the car and fetch his gun, would he? Would he?
But he wouldn't be ringing the doorbell, either, because he certainly had a key to the house. No. It had to be someone else. Unless Jerry had perhaps lost his key.
Why can't life be simple again? she asked herself, reaching for the doorknob. Why all these complications? She made a tentative smile, one which would be appropriate for Jerry if he were indeed standing on the other side of the threshold, and she opened the door.
"Chrissy!" she squealed. "What are you doing here?"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Well, invite me in, damn it," Chrissy McGraw said pettily. "I gave up an orgy to come see if you were feeling okay."
She strode into the foyer. "You look okay. A little flushed, though. Did I get you out of bed? Your hair looks like it's been slept on."
"Huh?" Lynda said thickly. "Oh, yeah, I was in bed." She started to giggle uncontrollably, grabbing Chrissy's hand. "Come with me," she added. "I have something you must see."
"Have you been drinking again?" Chrissy wondered, holding back. "You look like you're fucking stoned."
"Oh, I am," Lynda laughed. "But not on booze. C'mon!"
When they entered the bedroom, Paul was half covered by a sheet. "I didn't hear a man," he said, "so I didn't get dressed."
"Who is this?" Chrissy said, grinning. "He certainly doesn't look like any husband of yours that I remember."
"Chrissy," said Lynda, "I'd like you to meet the person who is, basically, responsible for all this."
It took a few minutes to tell, and Chrissy's eyes traveled from Lynda's face to Paul's. The boy gave a sheepish smile which Chrissy returned with a woman's frank interest showing on her lips.
"He looks like a baby," she said finally. "Are you over the age of consent, young man?"
And as she spoke, she reached out, whipping away the sheet he'd pulled up to cover his loins. At the moment Paul's cock was far from erect, but even soft it seemed to hang halfway down his thigh.
Chrissy lifted her eyebrows. "Have some pedophilia," she said aloud. "It's my only weakness."
"What are you talking about?" asked Lynda.
Chrissy was casually dressed, in a Chinese-styled wraparound tunic and matching slacks. She unwrapped the tunic and flung it open, breasts bare and flopping with the motion of her body. The slacks dropped and she stepped out of her shoes. "I told you," she said. "I gave up an orgy to come see if you were all right. And what do I find waiting for me but a surprise orgy! I feel like the guest of honor." She hooked her thumbs in her panties and started to slide them down her full, fuckable hips, "My God," Lynda said, "surely you don't expect me to let you-"
"Why not? You're still too straight for your own good, Lynda Gillespie. One swallow does not make a summer, and one seduction does not liberate. Aunt Chrissy is here to show you the ropes. And speaking of rope, I see one rising. For me?" She grabbed Paul's erecting peter and her first squeeze brought it to full, throbbing erection. "I guess so," she added slyly. "Lynda-this child is obviously an old friend of mine. Do you still want me to leave?"
"Of course not," Lynda replied. Why not? She'd never made love in front of anyone before, nor watched anyone else making it either. With the chance here, and two friends in attendance, didn't she owe it to herself to try everything? She took off the rope she'd thrown over her nude body and joined them on the bed. Chrissy already had Paul's cock in her mouth.
"Oh, Christ!" Paul howled. "Are you a woman or a fuckin' barracuda?"
Chrissy was dishing out some vigorous head at the moment, sucking with a demonic intensity that frightened Lynda. She watched in amazement, realizing how demure her own cocksucking was compared to Chrissy's. But Paul seemed to love it, even though he yelped and squirmed and yipped. I can learn to do that, Lynda reminded herself. All I need is practice. A lot of practice. A lot of enjoyable, sexy practice.
"Now you're really in for it, Paul," she told him. "You have two women to take care of, and both of us are insatiable. We're going to ball your dick off."
"Yeah?" he grinned. "Well, I don't know of a better way to go."
Lynda grabbed his head. She kissed him hungrily, then presented him with her tits. He leeched onto the nipples and sucked until her body ached with the need to be more than just a spectator. She looked at Paul, at Chrissy, wondering how they could all get into the act. Chrissy was too busy blowing Paul to be interrupted; that was obvious. That left-what? Lynda pondered, mentally combining their bodies until "I think this will work," she said. She thrust her face between Chrissy's legs, which parted willingly, and she began to slurp and lick the rift of her friend's cunt. Chrissy liked it; she got very wet, very tasty, and her thighs rubbed suggestively on Lynda's cheeks. At the same time, she took Paul's hand and steered it onto her own pussy, pressing until his fingers slipped into the slash his mouth had made juicy before Chrissy turned up at the front door. He fingered her sensuously, thrusting deeply up her twat, tickling the labia, stroking wicked circles around her clit, and Lynda thrust toward his hand, enveloping it with her curling legs.
The circle, she thought, is complete. Lynda was sharing a bed with both the people with whom she currently had extramarital affairs and, since it was the first day of the new life she had decided to accept wholeheartedly, it seemed appropriate. Both the people who had helped to awaken her sensuality, and the three of them locked in a connecting circle of sex. Chrissy sucking Paul's cock. Lynda sucking Chrissy's cunt. Paul frigging Lynda's twat while his dick was eaten by Chrissy's voracious mouth. When Chrissy gobbled with exceptional zeal, Paul responded by stepping up his fingered invasion of Lynda's pussy, and Lynda passed along the compliment with her tongue ravaging Chrissy's slit. And Chrissy, excited, sucked Paul all the harder which made ... if it had been great with Chrissy this afternoon, and great with Paul this evening, how could she find words to describe the way she felt making it with both of them at once?
She heard a voice call her name. Lynda raised her head from Chrissy's fragrant bush and heard her friend ask, "Well, kid, how do you like your first orgy?"
"Ohhhhhhh ... deliiiiiiightful!" Lynda squealed, as Paul's fingers flipped her clitty from side to side. She pumped her cunt against him, swallowing two fingers, her clitoris swelling and throbbing into his rough but effective caresses.
"Great," Chrissy chimed in. "So if you're in ecstasy, Lyn, I won't feel guilty about taking squatter's rights on our young friend's pecker. God almighty, but doesn't he have a big one! So young to be so talented!"
She rose, pulling her pussy out of Lynda's reach, and for a moment she knelt on the bed, kissing Paul, allowing him to caress her pink-tipped breasts. "Mmmmmmm," she purred to his cheek, "isn't this nice!"
"I don't think I deserve it," Paul replied.
"No man deserves to get anything this good," Chrissy laughed, "but otherwise it would mostly go to waste. Here ... let me get your cock into line. Owww! Are you a young man or a young horse? But keep pushing. I'd rather be mauled by a big dick than get it off with my goddamned finger. Jesusssss!! You can really fill a girl up! No wonder you turned Lynda into a raging nympho in one quick lesson!" And with that she sank down upon his cock, her shoulders thrown back as she absorbed the full, stuffing presence of him. "Whewwwww!!" Chrissy panted, rocking from side to side.
Paul began to move beneath her. He had one arm around Chrissy's back, the other hand buried in Lynda's pussy, and Lynda could feel his cock growing active in Chrissy's twat. Her friend sighed wistfully, then grabbed Paul by the ears. "Okay," she said, "I'm hanging on. Do your stuff!"
Both of them moving now, Chrissy lifting high, slamming down upon the dick that shot upward to meet her downstrokes. Lynda slid closer so she would watch the action from a front-row seat, and she found it fascinating indeed. The way Chrissy's protruding inner labia seemed to disappear up her pussy when the dick shoved home, reappearing as Chrissy lifted herself for yet another taste of penis. The snaking of Paul's nuts as his cock advanced, retreated, then advanced again. The way Chrissy's crack was splayed by her posture, perineum stretched tightly, asshole showing red-rimmed and inviting. Lynda put her hand on Chrissy's bouncing bottom, feeling the muscle texture of her friend's fucking body, and she let her hand fall onto Paul's balls too, fondling them as they quivered at the base of his driving tool.
"Fuck me hard and deep," Chrissy whined, "because I'm almost ready to come!"
She strained forward, brushing his body with her hot tits, wrapping her arms around his neck and smothering Paul's face with her cleavage, and she fucked up and down several times in quick, hasty succession. Lynda heard her friend groan and she felt the shudders of delight which suddenly vibrated through Chrissy's entire body. "Ohhhhh, yesssss!!!" Chrissy purred, wiggling her ass from side to side, and she held Paul tightly as her pussy came fully to rest upon his cock base and balls.
Lynda squeezed Paul's scrotum, feeling the swollen, delicate stones rub together, and she heard him yelp. "Me now!" she cried. "Fuck me now, Paul!"
Chrissy became aware that Lynda was trying to uncock her, and she yielded graciously, lifting herself from Paul's dick. "All yours, honey," she sighed in a faraway voice, settling onto the bed to watch as Lynda hurried atop the boy's prick.
Lynda moved into the same position Chrissy had used, and Paul scarcely seemed to notice that a different female was preparing to use his penis. He folded his arms around Lynda, bit her titty, and went into action. Lynda's pussy was virtually raw from her evening of adulterous delights, and she started to climax nearly as soon as he'd gotten it into her. Each extra bounce upon his lap was a fresh treat, then, and she moaned greedily as her orgasm ebbed, only to repeat itself with greater intensity. It was as if her body couldn't stop coming. One burst of excitement followed another, faster and faster, and she held Paul tightly, feeding her come-starved pussy on his male hardness.
He whammed it to her with all the force he could summon from his position on bottom, and his strokes grew shorter and quicker as he, too, neared a climax. Lynda was scarcely aware of his need, for she was too busy relishing her own satisfaction. But it was understandable that his fuse might be burning short, for there had been an almost unbearable amount of erotic stimulation applied to his cock since the last time he'd blasted jism into Lynda. Lynda had sucked his cock, and Chrissy had eaten it like a starving piranha, and Chrissy had ridden him to a climax of her own, just as Lynda was doing now. Later, Lynda would have time to appreciate his self-control and to gauge its value for their relationship, right now, she was busy coming, coming with a selfish hungry delight.
"Oh, God," he yelled, "I can't hold back any longer!" He grabbed Lynda's ass, lifted her slightly from his dick, then socked it up into her six or seven times, grunting with each thrust. Lynda screamed, feeling his cock unload itself in her twat, and she thrust against his stabbing drives, her pussy still vibrating with the ripples of her apparently permanent orgasm.
"Give it to me," she whispered breathlessly, "give me all your cum!!"
Something touched her pussy as Paul's thrusts diminished and grew weaker, as his cock began to soften. Lynda was almost numb, but not so sense-deadened that she couldn't recognize the provocative touch of Chrissy's finger. "Oh," she said happily, lifting herself from Paul's temporarily depleted tool. She purred as Chrissy's hands adored her pussy and she allowed herself to be laid out on her back.
Chrissy was between her widespread, accommodating legs, eyes full of desire. "I wish you could see yourself, Lynda," Chrissy said huskily. "Your cunt is all red from being screwed ... red, like a cherry lollipop, and as tempting to the tongue. Oh, more tempting, darling, much, much more! And his cum is smeared all over you. It looks like someone has poured thick, sweet cream on your pussy, Lynda. I can see your clit. It looks like a wet, pink nipple, sticking out fearlessly, begging me to suck it. Mmmmmm," and she kissed the clit whose praises she'd just sung. Her lips clung to the little nub of flesh, and Lynda thought that her pleasure could not possibly increase. No! Not ... until Not until Chrissy's tongue stole into Lynda's slit and began to lap up the cum Paul had spilled there. She drank the juice, flicking it away with cat-like passes, stealing in deeply now and then to give Lynda some soul-stirring internal combustive loving, and it seemed that Lynda's resources exhausted themselves all at once. She'd climaxed so much she could do no more. Her body simply didn't have the power to cope with this, not in view of what else she'd been through tonight. Even orgasm apparently had its limits, and Lynda had found hers. She was numb and drained, but fully, utterly satisfied.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Was Aunt Chrissy right or was Aunt Chrissy right?"
Lynda stretched and nodded. Words seemed as unnecessary as the question. Of course Chrissy was right. The sexy, fulfilled grin on Lynda's face proved that unmistakably.
Paul was watching the two women, at the same time shaking and fondling his pecker in the hope of getting another hard-on. He looked like the cat that swallowed the canary-or perhaps his was the bird that two pussies had eaten alive. Whichever, that broad smile on his face would be a long time fading.
"I never made it with two chicks at the same time," he said proudly. "But I did pretty good, huh?"
"Chicks?!" said Chrissy. "He has the nerve to call us chicks!" She tickled him under the nearer arm, her hand dropping to his cock as he curled into a defensive posture. "Mmmmm," she added, "I don't think you're entirely finished doing good, either, my boy! Can you believe this, Lynda? He's almost hard enough to fuck again!"
She bent her head into his lap, tongue fluttering across the tip of his penis. Apparently she liked the taste, for after a moment's consideration, she began to swallow him in huge hungry gulps. Paul closed his eyes and stroked her dark hair, bouncing up every once in a while to offer her a little extra helping of cock. Chrissy sucked on, with loud smacking noises that made Lynda's thighs ache.
Well! Lynda thought. I guess I don't have any compunctions about fucking in groups. Not any more. I watched Chrissy, and Chrissy watched me, and for the longest, sweetest time, we were all three locked and linked in a kind of daisy chain, each of us making a special kind of love to the other's body. And it looks as if we're nearly ready to do it again.
Lynda touched herself, one slim finger tracing the rift of her pussy opening. Oh, she'd already been made to feel so good tonight-how could it possibly be better than this? Ever? But yesterday she'd never have guessed that she could be lying here now, fucked to a frazzle. It was a new Lynda Gillespie, and she didn't want to hazard any bets about the future. No, her life was a book and the pages were still turning. She couldn't guess what might or might not be written on the next one, but she was anxious to find out.
"Hello, Paul," she told the boy as his eyes met hers. He smiled. "I want you to know," she said, "that I hope to see a lot more of you. But remember ... I'm a married woman and I have a reputation to think about. I'll tell you when to come see me. You can throw away your silly mask, and you don't have to pop any speed to get your nerve up. Deal?"
"Deal!"
"Okay," Linda said then, "you take good care of Chrissy, but don't let her bully you around. I'm going downstairs, which is where I think I left my cigarettes."
Chrissy raised her head from Paul's cock. She wiped spit off her lips and said "You'd better quit smoking those things. They'll put you in an early grave, Lynda Gillespie! And think about all the good cock you'll miss out on while the worms are gnawing you to pieces."
"I'll quit tomorrow," Lynda said. "I promise." She slapped Chrissy's ass. "To work, wench! The man has a hard-on. Do something about it, right now! I'll be back in a minute, so save a little for me.
"You'd better hurry," Chrissy observed. "I'm his childhood-fantasy fuck, and I'll bet he's dying to shoot his nuts off into my hot, sucking mouth. Right, Tiger?"
"Right, Chrissy!" And he was pulling her face toward his cock once more. She went willingly, her mouth opening as she neared the target. Paul reached in to direct his tool and the result was a bull's-eye. Chrissy gulped hard and she began to suck even more vigorously than before. The last thing Lynda heard as she went out the door was Paul's panting breaths and the bed's gentle creaking as he fed his prick to gluttonous Chrissy.
She found her cigarettes, lit one, and settled onto the couch to smoke it. The upholstery felt marvelous under her naked ass, and she felt marvelous too. Ten years younger, a hundred times more alive, more desirable, sexier in body and spirit. "Oh, wow," she said aloud. "Oh fucking wow!" The telephone rang.
She got up and went to it automatically before she remembered that the automatic recording device was still attached. But it was late. Who'd be calling this time of night? Lynda pushed the monitor button and heard her own voice delivering the recorded message. "Hello, this is Mrs. Lynda Gillespie. If you'll leave your name, number and message, I'll get back to you as soon as I can."
"Where are you?" Jerry's voice replied. "Don't you know that it's time for good girls to be at home and in bed?" Lynda cut in so she could talk to him personally.
"Hi, darling," she said. "I'm sorry. Have you been trying to get me?"
"Two or three times," he told her. "Nothing wrong, is there? Good. Look, hon, I'm flying to Phoenix in the morning, but I'll be home Sunday evening. For sure. How does that sound? I hope you miss me as much as I miss you, Lyn. Do you know I had a dream about you last night? Guess what kind? I woke up this morning with crazy stains on my shorts. Thank God we're not on a party line, or everybody in the neighborhood would know, huh?"
Lynda smiled, puffing her cigarette. Everyone in the world was having wet dreams about her lately, it appeared. Maybe Chrissy wasn't the only sex bomb walking this part of the earth.
"Oh," she said, remembering, "the carryout got in some of the Liebfraumilch you'd been asking about, so I picked up two bottles. I'll start them chilling Sunday afternoon. How does that sound?"
"Who's gonna have time to drink?" Jerry snickered. "The first place I'm heading is for the bedroom, baby. Don't bother with underwear, and make sure your dress doesn't have any zippers. I'm not too mechanically-minded."
"Maybe I'll surprise you," Lynda replied. "Maybe I'll surprise the hell out of you."
"That's what I'm hoping. Listen, babe, this call is costing a fortune, even if it is going onto the expense account. I'll call you Sunday morning, when I get back to St. Louis, and I'll be home by dark. Okay? Love you, honey! Goodbye for now."
"Bye-bye," Lynda said, blowing a kiss into the phone. I really have changed, she thought. What would Jerry think if he knew that I had two friends, one of each sex, waiting for me upstairs in the bedroom? What would he think if he could see me now, naked, radiant from being fucked by another man, sucked by another woman? Could he understand that in spite of all that, I'm still anxious to see him? That I miss him? That no matter who else I may fuck, I still love him in a special, unchanging way?
"Oh, hell," Lynda said aloud. "He'll have no room to complain. I can give him all he can handle. And there'll be so much left over, I'll have to give that to somebody else." Paul, she was certain, would be the first of many some bodies. As long as she kept in trim, she should have no trouble finding young, hard men willing to give her a go. Paul was young and hard and strong and very willing, but she didn't want to make him a permanent thing. At least, not too permanent. Besides-he couldn't handle all her needs, no more than Jerry could. She was awake now; she was a mature woman with a suddenly aroused set of sexual needs and desires. The package was too heavy for any individual man to carry.
What about those parties Chrissy had mentioned? Orgies. Swinging. Wife swapping. Call it what you will, she'd never guessed that such things went on around here. But didn't she owe it to herself to try that scene? Maybe, if she really worked carefully, she could get Jerry interested too, and let him persuade her to give it a trial run. A long shot, but something to think about, all the same.
"There's only one thing I want to think about," Lynda announced to the living room. "And that's where my next come is coming from." Pleased with her play on words, she stubbed out a cigarette and marched up the stairs. Halting at ,the bedroom door, she sang, "Ready or not!!", then threw herself upon the bed and the warm bodies already tossing and rolling in the pleasures she was only too eager to join.
