Sally Hole sighed as she passed the feather duster across the gilt frame of the lithograph hanging above the mantle in the living-room. A real Picasso, she told herself, and a marvelous work of art. She still remembered how thrilled she'd been when Mike presented it to her on their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Even now, the mere fact of owning a signed work of art, and a masterpiece at that, thrilled her again.
Still, she sighed. There was so much work involved in keeping up a house like this, filled as it was with the luxuries which were almost necessities to Sally and her friends in Woodland Hills. White wall-to-wall carpeting was wonderful, but it had to be vacuumed everyday. Prints and paintings had to be dusted, furniture polished. And someone had to cook dinner, and wash the dishes later-or a least stack them in the dishwasher-and then put them away. And that someone was herself.
Not that she resented doing that, or anything else she did for Mike. Who else, she asked herself, had such a wonderful husband, one who'd given his wife so much?
She put down the duster and curled up on one of the twin modern sofas flanking the fireplace. Leaning back, she stared out the window at the blue water sparkling in the white-tiled swimming pool, at the sun-bathed patio alongside it, sheltered by broad-leafed trees. She had a wonderful husband, she thought, and a wonderful home, too.
And two wonderful children. They were grown, now, with Vern-Mike, Jr.-off at college, writing home, at least to ask for money, regularly. But neither she nor Mike begrudged him that. Mike, Sally thought, indulged the children almost as much as he indulged her.
Her mind wandered to Jean, married now, and with a home of her own out in Michigan. It was Jean, not Vern, who was the apple of her father's eye. Sally remembered the little tot trailing along behind Mike, Teddy bear clutched in her arms, remembering the way Mike swooped her up, perched her on his shoulders, trotted around the yard while Jean squealed "Play horsie! Play horsie!"
She remembered a few less pleasant moments, too, like the time the three had been having dinner in a posh restaurant. Suddenly Jean stood up on her chair, pointing at Mike's plate, screaming, stamping her foot, demanding something. But what? No one could make out what the child was saying, and Sally had turned the color of the boiled lobster on her plate, as she ordered Jean to be quiet. She'd had an almost uncontrollable urge to smack the child-and to hell with Dr. Spock, she had thought-but Mike had kept his cool, had calmed the infant and cajoled her into a semblance of coherence. "What is it you want, darling?" he asked.
And Jean, with a tiny smile of triumph, pointed at the parsley garnishing his thick, juicy steak to squeak, "Fwowers!" Sally was mortified, but Mike roared with laughter, as he always did at Jean's lisped words, and had picked her up and dandled her on his knee, giving her the "fwowers" she asked for.
He always gave her what she asked for, Sally thought, pushing aside her cleaning tools and going into the kitchen for a cooling gin and tonic. She brought the frosty glass back to the living room and curled up on the coral colored couch to drink it, while her thoughts wandered to their daughter Jean, once more. Not the spoiled child, this time, but the grown woman, the wife, the mother-to-be. She thought of Tony, Jean's husband, too. What was he like? Oh, he was a wonderful boy, that was certain. Bright and industrious and filled with ambition. He'd won top honors at school, found himself the kind of job most men dream of as soon as he'd graduated. But was he, Sally wondered, well ... considerate?
Some men weren't, Sally knew. Not Mike of course. Mike was the most considerate of men. But some men weren't and Sally thought of her mother so may years earlier, talking to her about marriage. "Some men are considerate," she had explained. "But other men ... other men are just ... " her voice trailed off, as she searched for the word she wanted. She never found it, but then, she didn't need to. Sally knew exactly what she meant, from all she'd heard through the thin walls that separated her room from that of her parents.
Even now, Sally remembered her father coming home, half-drunk at best, more often blindly staggering, to burst into the bedroom where her mother lay in their huge double bed, always going through the same routine. She could almost hear her mother's imploring whimpers, "Oh, no, Elon. Not tonight. Please no! Not tonight!"
"What the Hell you being so high and mighty about?" her father had always sneered, his voice cold and harsh. "Been giving out my pussy to everyone else, huh? And now you're plumb tuckered out!" There was a moment's silence then her father's lewd, wheezing laugh. " Fuckered out! That's more like it. Plumb fuckered out!" The silence following seemed to have been filled with both Sally's terror and that of her mother, and then the quaking child had heard the sound of tearing cloth as her father would rip her mother's nightgown from her fear-stricken body, heard her muffled groan of shock and horror, then the heavy breathing of the man as he threw himself upon the woman. In her mind's eye she could picture him grasping the snowy mound of her breasts in his rough, calloused hands, twisting and squeezing them, pinching the sensitive bud of her nipple until Fran, Sally's mother, would scream out aloud in pain.
"Please, Elon. Please!" But her father, always dismissing her pleas with a harsh, obscene laugh, would cruelly spread her thighs, forcing his huge, blood-filled penis between them, and then finding the fleshy, tender lips of her opening vagina, drub into her like a well-oiled piston thrusting back and forth into a bit of mute machinery.
Her mother had not been mute, though-not completely-and as her father would continue his vile debasement of her, his cock ramming deep into her quivering cuntal flesh, tearing at the soft, moist walls of her private passage, plundering them beyond endurance, she would let out a piercing, blood-chilling groan. Sally, always cowering in her narrow bed next door, would pull the covers over her head with trembling hands, and finally giving in to the scalding tears that welled in her eyes, would sob herself to sleep in utter despair.
Now, sitting in her luxurious living room, the memory of those times sent a cold shudder crawling up Sally's spine. She shook her head, thanking God that Jean had been spared such abject humiliation, just as she had been. She felt an overwhelming rush of tenderness for Mike, and then it dawned on her that the hour was late, and that Mike would be home any minute. With a sigh, Sally roused herself to finish her dusting to swoop across the room with her vacuum cleaner. Then she went into the kitchen and got things out for dinner: the steak and asparagus from the freezer, the potatoes from the bin, the salad greens from the crisper in the refrigerator. She hurriedly made a dressing-"a miser with the vinegar," she reminded herself, "a spendthrift with the oil"-before she set the table on the patio. Then she hurried inside to mix Martinis; she was just stirring them when the door opened and Mike came in.
He kissed Sally gently on the forehead, cupping her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to him. "Had a good day?" he asked.
She wrinkled her pert, perfect little nose. "Busy," she said.
Mike gave her a worried look. "I know, Sally," he said, "And I don't like it."
Sally let out a lilting, musical laugh. "Darling," she said. "It will only be for another day or so. Kirst's coming on Thursday." She shook her finger at him, playfully. "Remember?"
"Sure do," Mike said. "And I'm damned glad of it. You know, honey, I hate to see you working like this."
Mike began to peel off his jacket, wiping his face as he did so. "Sure was hot in town," he said.
"Hot here, too," Sally told him. "That's why I thought we'd eat outside."
"Great, Sally. Anything I can do to help?" Mike offered.
"You could take the drinks out," Sally suggested.
"Sure!" Mike took the tray and carried it to the terrace, while Sally followed with the plate of hors d'oevres she had prepared earlier. "Certainly hope this au pair thing works out, Sally," he said, pouring the drinks into the chilled glasses.
Sally laughed again. "Why shouldn't it, Mike?" she asked, steeling herself on a chaise lounge.
Mike shrugged. "I don't know. I just heard that a lot of people had trouble, getting girls to come and work for them the way we did. Answering an ad in the paper and that sort of thing."
"But Kirst had marvelous references," Sally pointed out.
"Well "And we checked them all," Sally added.
"I know, I know," Mike said. "But Pete Legger-you know Pete, Sally, he's the one I've told you is always asking about you-he told me about a friend of his who brought one of these au pair girls over and before you knew it, she was stealing everything in sight."
"Oh, Mike!" Sally exclaimed. "No!"
"Yes! And she was dirty, too.
"But I'm sure Kirst's not like that," Sally protested. "Her letters to us seemed so intelligent. And she seemed so charming, too."
Mike nodded in agreement. "That's true," he said, lighting a cigarette. "Still, you never know."
Sally sighed. Of course Kirst would be all right. She was a bright, well brought-up young woman who was moving into the Hole home to help out. Not a cleaning woman, the kind who was strong as an ox, and almost as stupid, who had crossed Sally's path occasionally, and whom Sally now avoided like the plague. Not at all.
And Kirst wasn't to be a maid, either, running and fetching and waiting on Sally, and doing the household chores, too. No! Kirst was an au pair who would be treated like one of the family and who, in turn, would help Sally with light housework, just as Jean had done when she lived at home. And, of course, she would provide companionship for the Holes, too, although she would certainly be encouraged to mingle with people her own age. But Sally could be a friend to Kirst, just as she'd been to her own daughter, shopping with her occasionally, taking in a matinee from time to time, lolling beside the pool with her on a hot afternoon. She took a deep breath, suddenly realizing how muchhow very much-she missed her own children. She was glad that Mike had insisted on asking Kirst to come to Oregon to live with them.
It was he who came across the ad in the classified columns of The Standard Post one evening and called out, "Hey, Sally, see this? It says 'Young Danish girl seeks position as au pair in pleasant atmosphere. Willing and capable. Prefers Oregon.' Think we should give it a try?"
"Why not?" Sally answered. But later, after Mike sent the letter off to Denmark, Sally had been dubious about the matter. "If it doesn't work out," she said, "There's nothing we can do. The girl is coming for a year, and we've got to keep her for the full time. It's a contract, after all."
Mike had stroked his chin thoughtfully. "It's going to be all right, Sally," he assured her. He gave her the same broad, disarming smile he gave to clients who hesitated, pens poised above the dotted line of an insurance policy which would guarantee them that "$400 a month-every month-for life" or would "provide your children with an education, no matter what happens to you" It was that smile, along with his spirit of camaraderie, which had made Mike Hole's insurance business such a success, had brought him a small fortune, and provided the luxuries which Sally so enjoyed.
Then, just like the hundreds of clients who cheerfully signed the insurance policies in front of them and handed over their hard-earned cash for the privilege, Sally was convinced by Mike's words. "You're right," she said, flashing him a radiant smile, adding "as usual." She squeezed his arm. "It will be okay."
Now, though, sitting beside the cool, inviting pool, she knew that Mike was worried, wasn't the responsibility for bringing Kirst to their home really his? "Come on," she said cheerfully. "How about another drink?"
"Sure!" Mike said. He carefully filled Sally's glass, and then his own. "You know, honey," he said gallantly, "you mix the meanest Martini in this whole valley!"
"Thank you, sir!" Sally answered, with a coquettish curtsey. She lifted her glass to Mike's. "To Kirst!" she toasted.
"To Kirst!"
They finished their drinks in silence, and sat for a moment staring into the pool, watching the miniature waves lazily lapping against the tiled sides. Then Sally stretched and pulled herself to her feet. "How about dinner?"
"Great. I'm starved."
"Shall we broil the steaks out here on the patio?"
"Sure."
"Okay. You stoke the charcoal, will you, Mike?" Sally asked. She went into the kitchen and loaded a large tray with the steaks, the salad, a bowl of fruit she'd filled for dessert. She set it down on the table near the grill, waiting for the fire to burn down to red embers, for Mike to toss the meat on the sizzling rack. She lit a cigarette, and as she turned to flick away an ash, she caught sight of herself, reflected in the pool.
She was as lovely now, she saw, as she'd been when she was married, nearly twenty years. She still had the figure that made men turn and stare-and often whistle-then, with the tiny waist that Mike could span with his two hands, the long, slim legs, the full, rounded breasts, the marvelously curved buttocks that swayed enchantingly as she walked. Her hair was as gold and glistening as it had been then, her eyes as blue. And her skin had kept its youthful bloom, glowing like the proverbial peaches and cream. There was no doubt about it; Sally was a strikingly beautiful woman.
And Mike, she thought, casting a sidewise glance at him, Mike was certainly a handsome man. He was tall and well-built, and thank Heavens, Sally thought, he'd kept his hair. It was beginning to turn gray, but that only made him more distinguished looking, and in Sally's eyes more attractive. His head was fine, even noble, and Sally found herself admiring, for perhaps the thousandth time, the strong, firm line of his chin, which was softened by the twinkle in his dark eyes. Yes, Mike was a handsome man.
And yet, as so often happened, Sally felt she had nothing to say to him. Tonight, again, the two finished their meal in silence, cleared away the dishes in equal silence. And when it grew dark around the pool, they went inside and her husband switched on the television set.
Without a word, they watched the mindless exploits of a couple of clowns, prancing about the small screen, hitting one another with rubber bladders that sent showers of water streaming into one another's faces. Mike laughed, along with the studio audience, but Sally's mind was miles away. There was something wrong with her life, she thought, but she couldn't put her finger on what it was. She had a beautiful home, wonderful children, a kind and loving husband-everything a woman could ask for. But there was something missing, and she didn't know what it was.
Still pondering the matter, she stifled a yawn and stood up. "I think I'll go to bed, darling," she said. She bent down to kiss his forehead. "Coming along?"
"I think I'll wait till the program's over," Mike said. He kept his eyes on the television screen as Sally crossed the room, avoiding the sight of the two rounded orbs of her generous, undulating buttocks, her marvelous trim thighs, her full, firm, magnificent breasts. But even the thought of them made his penis jerk, begin to swell and stiffen. Oh, God! he thought. He wanted her so much! He'd always wanted her, and no one else. And he knew that Sally had never wanted another man. But then, did she want any man, including himself, he wondered.
Oh, they made love often enough. He had her in the sack practically whenever he wanted; they screwed, God knows, they-Mike's mounting lust, the ache in his loins, the dull, relentless throbbing of his now blood-swollen prick made him crude and vulgar-they fucked, God damn it, they fucked.
Mike shook his head. No, that wasn't quite right, he thought. He fucked Sally. And Sally put on a good show for him, squirming and bucking and thrashing beneath him, letting out little mewls and murmurs of pleasure as she lay back, legs splayed open obscenely, to expose the full, flat plane of her thrusting crotch, acting for all the world as if she enjoyed it.
But God damn it, she was acting. Always acting.
Mike sighed, and poured himself a Scotch, stiff and straight. Then he switched off the television set and sat in the dark, sipping the drink.
It had always been like this, he thought. Not that he blamed Sally for it. He knew the hell her life had been before, with that drunken father, that doormat of a mother. He knew his wife was-what was that word psychiatrists used? "projecting?"-that Sally was projecting, every time he took her. Instead of the two of them, Mr. and Mrs. Mike Hole, making love and getting a whale of a kick out of their sex life, it seemed to Sally to be her old man brutally raping her old lady. Christ, there were times when Mike was so fed up with it, he'd wanted to do just that himself, ran his cock right up her belly, boring and pounding and slamming into her tight, resistant little passage until he almost split her open, while, half out of her mind with the excruciatingly painful pleasure, she screamed and scratched and ... Oh, Christ! How could he even think such rotten things! Sally was a wonderful woman and he loved her.
But God! If she'd only do something like letting him watch her undress! That was all he asked! To see Sally as she let that little linen outfit she wore fall to the floor, tumble around her feet, watch as she bent to pick it up, turning the full, rounded spheres of her buttocks towards him so that he saw the thin white strip of her nylon tighten between her thighs, then slip provocatively into the furrows between the cheeks of her lovely ass. Watch as she eased the wisp of cloth down over her voluptuous thighs, her slim, long legs, turning now to give him a glimpse of the luxurious curls of golden pussy hair at the base of her belly: watch as she removed the lacy brassiere she wore, releasing those magnificent breasts, so full, with their ruby-like nipples hardening in excitement, watch-Oh, Christ!
Mike glanced at his watch. Sally would be undressed and lying in bed now, waiting for him, in a discreet little nightgown that hid the marvelous contours of her luscious form. With a loud, sullen oath, Mike hurled his glass into the fireplace, listening with pleasure as it smashed. Then he went up to the bedroom.
Sally closed her eyes as Mike entered the room. Now, she knew, he would be pulling off his tie, dropping it on the floor, struggling out of his pants, his shirts, his shorts. Then, as he finished undressing and reached the bed, stretching out his hand to her thin nightgown, lifting her gently to slip it from her shoulders, she shuddered involuntarily. Why did she always think of her father at a time like this? Mike was different, gentle-Mike loved her. Yet, trying her best, she still could not help herself, and she shuddered again as her husband bent to caress her nude body, then to fasten his hot, hungry mouth on her own.
He eased himself to the bed beside her, stretching the full length of his body alongside hers. His mouth was on her own again, and then his tongue shot out, and Sally opened her lips to receive it as it sank deep within, leaving her gasping for breath.
She flinched a little as his hands moved down to her heavy, swollen breasts and began to knead them, then roamed over her soft white belly, her hips, to explore and caress the smooth white sensitive skin between her thighs. Oh, God, she thought, she loved Mike, she really did. Yet even his most tender ministrations somehow always sent little waves of terror-and yes, of revulsion, too-coursing through her. This is Mike, she told herself. MIKE! My husband, not my father. Yet in her twisted, traumatized mind, the two became inextricably mixed.
He cupped the round, firm globes of her naked buttocks now, and Sally began to rock gently beneath him, grinding her nether cheeks deep into the mattress as she did so. That pleased men, she knew, from one of those sex manuals he had brought home once, leaving it lying unobtrusively around thee house. And yet it gave her none of that ecstasy that same book promised her. Nor did she feel the thrills, the excitement other women felt as he trailed his hands over the soft curve of her body, down along the line of shimmering golden fuzz that ended in the softly growing strands of silky pubic hair over her vaginal mound. I mustn't let him know I don't like it, she thought in a moment of panic, and so she began to mewl and purr, as if with pleasure, when his hands moved up again over the gentle swell of her belly to her ripe trembling breasts. He took the snowy mounds in his two hands, cupping them, as her mother's scream of "Elon! Oh, for God's sake, Elon! Don't!" welled up in her throat, to be choked back, swallowed, as it always was. Oh, God! Why was she like this? Why? WHY?
Now she lay still beneath him, as he rubbed the stiff, bud-like tips of her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, feeling a slight quiver of pain as he coaxed them into hard, pulsing little stones that pressed against his palms.
Oh, no, she thought, as his mouth closed over one upright, button-like nipple, as his tongue laved it voluptuously, as he began to suck on it with a delicacy that any other woman, as Sally knew, would find tantalizing and passion-inspiring. But the fear that he might cruelly, viciously bite into her sensitive flesh-as her father had bitten into her mother's-made her go almost rigid with fear. With a supreme effort of will, she forced herself to relax, to hide her feelings from her husband, to act as if she found the same soaring joy in his sexual overtures as he derived from them. He must never know the truth, she told herself, never!
And so, as Mike's hand crawled down her belly again, as it slid to the blondely silken strands at the base of it, Sally began to moan, with little cries that might have been of passion coming from her throat. She increased the moans as he reached at last the warm, moist slit of her cuntal lips, then lay back, awaiting the moment when his finger would work its way into the wet, smoothly throbbing passage, vowing to herself not to whimper with the pain she was sure it would bring.
Even so, she jerked back involuntarily at the feel of her husband's rigid cock pressed hard against her open thighs, at the sudden, sharp pang as one of his fingers worked its way slowly up into her narrow cuntal channel. She was supposed to writhe and squirm her vagina around his probing middle finger, she remembered from that sex book-it had been in
CHAPTER VII, and Sally could almost see the words on that page before her half-closed eyes-and if that was what she was supposed to do, she would do it, while Mike increased the rhythm of his finger-fucking up into her open cunt, withdrawing his digit at last to search out and caress the small pink nub of her little clitoris, doing his best to stroke it into hardness with quick, swirling motions.
There were other things she was supposed to do, she remembered. She should take his penis in her hand, curling her fingers around it until he groaned with pleasure. Or tickle her nails over its smooth, rubbery head, along the underside of the stiff shaft, tease her fingertip up into the tiny parted hole. Or cradle and caress his silk-smooth, sperm-laden balls in the softness of her palms.
But oh, dear God! How could she, she asked herself as his fingers plunged deep into her moist pink pussy again, impaling her, moving slowly, rhythmically, while Sally moaned to hide her true feelings, to persuade her husband that she was sharing this ultimate joy with him.
There was a soft wet sucking sound, as he withdrew his fingers from her tight little cunt, and then, with his thumb and forefinger spreading the lips wide between her thighs, he drew it open and eased his jutting, rock-hard penis to the smooth pink edges of it. He parted the silken curling pubic hair, then slowly, with the huge, pulsating tip of his shaft, pressed aside the petal-like lips of her cunt, worming it slowly and gently into the warm moist channel.
As his surging cock burrowed in up to the final depths of her widely stretching pussy, Sally shifted so that her buttocks were upturned, the full plane of her nakedly impaled loins exposed to his driving cock. She began to moan wildly, as he fucked in and out with long, quick strokes, his penis sinking in to the hilt, his semen-swollen balls slapping rhythmically against the nudely grinding cheeks of her ass. He gasped "Oh God! Oh, my God!" and Sally knew that already the white hot juice was churning inside the smooth swollen sacs, that his pumping balls would spurt it forth soon, and so she began to gasp wildly into his ear, "Aaaaaagh! AAAAAAAGH! I'm cumming, darling ... I'M CUMMING!" as the hot, sticky sperm was forced in convulsive spasms up the full length of his rigidly pulsing cock to shoot wildly from the jerking tip into the forbidden recesses of her soft, quivering belly.
When at last Mike withdrew his limp, deflated penis from her cum-flooded vagina and rolled, exhausted, to Sally's side, she took his hand and held it to her lips. "That was sooooo good!" she whispered huskily.
But Mike knew that the image of her father had been in her mind and that she had only felt disgust for his efforts to fuck her and make her feel it. That idea made him feel disgusted, too.
CHAPTER TWO
Thursday dawned bright and clear. There were bits of cotton puff clouds drifting across the blue sky, and a cool wind gently fanned the palm trees and the acacias. Sally was up early, dressed and through with breakfast long before John dragged himself from bed and under the icy spray of the glass-enclosed shower. By the time he was ready to leave, she was bustling about the living room, dusting and polishing, emptying ashtrays, plumping pillows.
"What's the fuss about? Mike asked with a smile.
"Kirst's coming! Sally answered, straightening a blind.
"I know that. But it seems to me, since Kirst's coming, you could relax, and let her do all this stuff when she gets here."
Sally sighed, to let Mike know she could never understand male logic. "I've got to have everything clean before she gets here," she explained. "Otherwise what will she think?"
"She'll probably think she's damned lucky to be in a place like this ... " he waved at the sunlit room, the patio and the pool beyond, " ... no matter how the house looks."
"Sally's eyes widened. "Does it really look too awful, Mike?" she asked.
"Cool it, honey. It looks great. And try to take it easy today. I don't like to see you all tired out. You know that."
"I know, Mike." Sally patted his hand affectionately, then darted away to straighten a picture. "But I do want everything right for Kirst when she gets here." She paused to light a cigarette. "What do you think she'll be like, Mike?" she asked anxiously.
"She's probably got two heads and eats babies for breakfast."
"Oh, Mike!" Sally pounded him with tiny, ineffective fists. "Be serious."
"I'm not only serious," Mike said, glancing at his watch. "In a minute, I'll be late." He started towards the door, with Sally at his heels.
"Mike, you will be back at three, so we can drive to the airport together?"
Mike raised his right hand. "I will be home at three. I will drive carefully. I won't forget your birthday. Scout's honor!"
"Oh, Mike! Please don't act like that! Not today."
"I'm sorry, honey," Mike said, flashing his wife grin at her.
Sally smiled back, to show that all was forgiven. "See you at three," she said.
After Mike left, she went upstairs to arrange Kirst's room. When she'd finished cleaning, she stepped back, squinting, surveying the place. Didn't it seem a little cold? Almost at once, she thought of flowers. She hurried out to the garden, to pick a huge bouquet. Sally was in the kitchen, arranging them, when the telephone rang. She stuck a final delphinium into the vase, then picked up the instrument. Damn it, she thought, I don't have time to talk to anyone.
"Hello," she said, and a strange voice came over the wire. Yes, she was Mrs. Mike Hole, Sally said, cradling the telephone between her shoulder and her chin while she continued to arrange the flowers. Yes, that was right. Mrs. Mike Hole. She wondered who it was and what they wanted and then she realized it was the operator speaking to her, telling her it was a personal call.
"One moment, please!"
"Yes?" Sally said.
"Mrs. Hole, are you Mona Bitt's sister?"
"Of course," Sally said. Who would ask such a foolish question?
There was a sigh from the other end of the wire, and then the voice said, "Thank God. I've been able to reach you."
A sudden wave of panic pounded through Sally. She felt her knees buckle, her hands shake. There was a loud crash as the heavy crystal vase fell from her lifeless fingers ... and then she asked, "What ... what is it?"
"There's been an accident," the voice at the other end said. "It's pretty serious. She's been shaken up rather badly."
It was the hospital calling, Sally understood, the one near Portland, nearly three hundred miles away. And Sally was needed at once. Would she-could she-come?
Sally nodded. "Yes," she managed to whisper at last, through the lump in her throat. Dazed, baffled by the news, she nevertheless managed to find a pencil and a pad of paper, to jot down the information necessary. When she put the telephone down at last, she was shaking like a leaf.
She looked around at the debris on the floor-the shards of glass, the broken petals and pools of water-then instinctively got a cloth and cleaned it up. She was still shaking when she dialed Mike's number, and a cry of frustration escaped her when his secretary informed her "Mr. Hole is out."
"Have him call me back, Sue," she urged. "As soon as he comes in. It's terribly important."
"Is anything wrong, Mrs. Hole?" Sue asked solicitously.
Sally was too despondent to explain. "Just tell Mr. Hole it's urgent," she repeated.
She was packing her bag when Mike at last called, throwing in a couple of nightgowns, a robe, the first few dresses that came to hand. At the sound of Mike's voice, she burst into tears. "It's Mona," she sobbed. There's been an accident. I have to go."
"Honey, do you want me to come home?"
"Yes. No. Yes!" Sally, confused, shook her head. "There isn't time," she said.
"Don't you want me to drive up with you?"
"Oh, yes. Please, yes." Sally put the phone down, and wiped away her tears with a bit of Kleenex. Suddenly she remembered Kirst.' Today was the day Kirst was arriving! If Mike drove to the hospital in Portland with her, who would meet the girl? Hastily, Sally dialed Mike's number again, hoping to catch him before he left.
"He's just gone out the door, Mrs. Hole," Sue told her.
"Oh, Sue! See if you can catch him!"
She heard the telephone clatter to the desk, the sound of Sue's high heels clicking as she ran across the room, another sound-was it the opening of the door?-Sue's voice echoing down the corridor. She heard footsteps again, both Sue's frivolous ones and then Mike's heavy footsteps, coming closer. Then Mike asked, "What is it, Sally?"
"Kirst!"
It was a moment before Mike understood. "Kirst?"
"Yes, Kirst." Sally wailed. "She's coming this afternoon. Remember?"
"Damn it, yes!" Mike swore softly.
"You'll have to pick her up, Mike."
"That means you'll have to drive all the way alone, honey."
Sally wiped her eyes again. "I'll just have to, then," she said. "After all, someone has to pick her up."
"Maybe I could get someone else to go ... " Mike began.
But Sally cut him off. "You go, Mike. I'll be perfectly all right. And at least, if you get Kirst, I won't have that on my mind too."
"Okay, Sally. But call me tonight, will you?"
"I will," Sally promised, cradling the phone again. She sat down and lit a cigarette, trying to compose herself. Her eyes swept around the room, as she ticked off in her mind the things she would need, the things she had packed. She'd remembered everything she thought, snapping her suitcase shut and taking it downstairs. At the front door she stopped. Darn! Toothpaste and tooth brush. Hairbrush. Makeup. She hurried upstairs, dumped half the contents of the medicine cabinet into her bag. Downstairs, she checked for keys, money, cigarettes. Then she climbed into the car and started the motor. Carefully she backed out of the driveway. Everything would be all right, she told herself. Everything.
At precisely twenty minutes after three, Mike Hole closed his desk drawer, said goodbye to his secretary, Sue Roll, and went down to the Triumph convertible that stood at the curb. He climbed behind the wheel, paused long enough to put the top down and to turn on the radio. Then he headed the light blue sports car towards the airport.
In spite of his concern for Sally and for Mona, he felt light-hearted. The weather-still perfect, still balmy-had something to do with it. But so, he knew, did Kirst.
Goddamn! It would be nice to have a kid in the house again! He and Sally had been a lot more lonely than either cared to admit, with both Vern and Jean gone. And even if Kirst was grown-up enough to leave her own home-yes, and tp travel half way around the world to take a job-she was still just a kid.
And a cute one, too, Mike thought, remembering the photo she'd sent. He patted his breast pocket where he carried it now. He might need it, in order to recognize her. Not that there would be many girls like Kirst getting off the plane. Not that there were many girls like Kirst anywhere.
She looked like a young-a very young-Norse goddess, at least in the snap that Mike carried. Perfect features, marvelous high cheekbones, full lips slightly parted over white, even teeth, and her crowning glory, shoulder-length, ash-blonde hair. There was something exciting-something almost spine-tingling-about Kirst's expression, too, about the way she stared out from under half-closed eyelids. In an older woman, it would have been an unmistakable invitation; but Kirst was just a child, young enough to be his daughter, and in her it might have been simply impishness, or maybe insolence. Mike wasn't sure what it was, but he sure as Hell liked it.
He pulled the car into the parking lot at the airport, and glanced at his watch. Just on time, he noted with satisfaction. He got out and strolled to the huge waiting room, and scanned the bulletin board marking incoming flights. There it was! Flight number four-six-one-already in, with passengers disembarking at gate number seven. He loped towards it, looking over the crowd.
A couple of tired businessmen headed it, carrying briefcases under their arms. Behind them was a group of chattering, middle-aged women, in flower-splashed cotton dresses, laden with Mexican hats and baskets, souvenirs of their vacations. There were a couple of quarreling children next, ducking and spinning around their harassed mother. And then ... Mike let out a long, low whistle. My God, he thought. Kirst isn't just cute!
She's gorgeous.
She was tinier than Mike expected, and younger, too. She'd written that she "would be eighteen," Mike remembered. But she hadn't said exactly when she'd be eighteen, he thought wryly. And she Hardly looked older than a child.
But Christ! she was magnificently proportioned. Her thighs were rich and full, her pert little tilted breasts that strained as if to escape the confining fabric of her low-cut peasant blouse were lush and ripe. She turned, and Mike noted with a sigh of intense sexual feeling, provocative, sensual little half melons of her rounded buttocks. In spite of himself, he watched with open mouth as Kirst moved down the exit ramp, while the shortest of mini skirts twitched enchantingly over her charmingly undulating little bottom.
Half way to the waiting room, Kirst stopped and looked around. Hex lips were half-opened, her eyes wide. Then a slight frown wrinkled her smooth clear brow. Mike, startled, realized she was looking for Sally.
He began to wave wildly. "Over here," he called. "Over here."
Kirst still wore a puzzled expression as she walked towards Mike and looked up at him. He grabbed her tiny hand in his own and pumped it heartily up and down. "Hi," he said. "You must be Kirst West."
A sudden bright smile of comprehension lit Kirst's face. "You must be Mr. Hole," she said. Her eyes darted around the room quickly. "But where is Mrs. Hole?"
"It's Mike," Hole said jovially. "And it's Sally-not Mr. and Mrs. Hole. And Sally couldn't come.
I'll tell you about it later. But let's get your bags, meanwhile." He noticed the small flight bag Kirst carried. "Here, let me take that."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Hole," Kirst said, lowering her eyes demurely. "I mean Mike."
They said little to one another until, luggage collected, they reached the car. As Kirst slid in beside the older man, he explained Sally's absence, and a look of compassion crossed the girl's face. "Oh, dear," she said softly. "I do hope Sally's sister will be all right." Impulsively, she reached over and gave Mike's hand a friendly squeeze.
Mike smiled. Nice kid, he thought, trying to draw his hand away. But Kirst clung to it, and her slim, tapering fingers began a slow, sensuous stroking of his palm that sent little chills of excitement dancing up and down Mike's spine. My God! Did the kid know what she was doing? He gave her a quick, sidelong glance, pulling his hand from hers and placing it firmly on the steering wheel. Kirst let her own hand fall to Mike's thigh.
Mike sucked in his breath, staring at her in the rear-view mirror. What the hell was this kid? Some sort of sex maniac? He glanced over at the blonde covered young head beside him. Christ, no! She couldn't be. She was too sweet, too young. It was all in his own mind!
And in his pants, too, he thought, feeling his prick jerk and swell. God! What was he? Some sort of pervert? This was only a child sitting beside him-Jesus, it might have been Jean, five years ago-and here he was getting a hard-on, his balls aching, his rod going stiff as a poker. You're a dirty old man, Mike Hole, he told himself. He glanced down at his pants, seeing the huge bulge there. God, he hoped Kirst didn't notice.
If she did, she gave no sign of it. Instead she sat, turning her head from one side to the other to stare at the motels and drive-ins and coffee shops that -lined the highway. She chattered brightly, too: "Oh, I'm going to love Oregon. I know I am."
"I'm sure you are, Kirst."
"And I'm going to love you, too," Kirst blurted.
"I hope you'll like me ... us," Mike corrected. "I hope you'll like us both."
"Oh, I will," Kirst purred. She turned and smiled again, inching over on the seat so that her slim, bare, golden thigh now touched Mike's trousered leg, pressed sensuously against it. Quivering, Mike shifted his body, to escape the young Danish girl's maddening nearness. She seemed surprised, then hurt. For a long time she was silent and when she spoke at last, it was in a still, shy voice. "You know," she said, "all the way over, on the plane, I was thinking about you. And you know, I was afraid you wouldn't want me to stay!"
"Not want you to stay!" Mike boomed, with false heartiness. "Now that's a silly thing to say."
"Then you do want me?"
"Sure I want you," Mike said without thinking.
"Oh, Mike," Kirst chirped. "I'm glad," she sighed, and lowered her eyes, fluttering her lashes. "Because," and her husky voice was sultry, "because I want you!"
Mike felt a burning on the back of his neck, behind his ears. He stared straight ahead, swallowing hard, while his cock again jerked convulsively. Kirst didn't know what she was saying! She couldn't! She'd heard some line like that in a movie or something, read it in a book. That was all. And why the hell had he said, "I?" Why hadn't he said "we?"
"We want you." No, he'd had to blurt out something stupid, and poor Kirst had tried to cover up for him. Jesus, he could have kicked himself. What the hell did she think of him! That ne was lewd and evil, that's what Why, the poor kid was probably scared of him by now, afraid even to go out to the house with him, with Sally away and everything.
Mike cleared his throat and tried to smile at Kirst. Maybe he could explain things somehow, make her understand, make it all right. "I hope you don't mind Sally's being away tonight," he began. "And maybe for a couple of nights," he added.
Kirst shook her head. "No," she said. "Why should I?"
Mike shrugged. "Oh, I just thought you might, you know," he said, wondering if Kirst was telling the truth or was just being polite. Maybe he should have her stay next door, with Val and Jeff Harrison; they'd have room, and that way the girl wouldn't feel uneasy with him, after all the bloopers he'd made.
He turned to look at her, and saw the puzzled expression on her face. "Why should I?" she repeated.
Mike's bluff laugh had a hollow ring to it. "Well," he said heartily, "I just thought you might not want to be alone in the house with a strange man. You know ... " His voice trailed off with embarrassment. " ... you know how it is ... "
"Oh," I don't mind," Kirst said at once. She smoothed her skirt demurely over the tops of her voluptuous, golden-hued legs, then ran her hand slowly, lewdly, teasingly along Mike's thigh. "We could have fun, all alone," she said, breathing heavily. "We could-how do you say it?-we could play house together!"
CHAPTER THREE
Mike slid the car into the garage and cut the motor. "End Of the line!" he said with forced brightness. "All out here," he eased himself from the driver's seat, went around to the other side and opened the door for Kirst. She hopped out, seemed to stumble, and, as Mike caught her, threw her arms around his neck. "Oooooooh!" she squealed. "I fell." She maneuvered herself a little closer to Mike, clinging to his neck, pulling her lithe young body close to his strong, athletic one, the tiny, tender buttons of her nipples grinding into his chest like hard, bright beads, her pulsing little pussy pressing hard against his cock.
"Hey! Steady there!" Mike gasped, then peeled her off and set her down. He took his handkerchief out and wiped his forehead. "Whew! he breathed, "Sure is hot!"
"Think so?" Kirst shot back at him, and then darted off down the driveway and towards the garden path. Mike groaned, watching the brief skirt flipping above the rippling gold of her full thighs, swinging over the taut, tight little half moons of her young, liquidly moving buttocks, watching, too, the pert lewd little breasts tilted lasciviously under the thin sheer fabric of her blouse.
Jesus Christ! How was he going to handle her?
Handle! The ill-chosen word sent an obscene image careening through his mind in which his unimpeded fingers explored her slim young body, caressed the firm little breasts, traced the swell of her gold flecked belly, roamed downward to part the silky patch of sparse, curling pubic hair that nestled between the milky, sensuous thighs. He shook his head as if to clear it and wiped his forehead again. Get your mind out of the gutter, Mike Hole, he ordered sternly. She's practically a babe in arms. But looking at the flaxen blonde, dancing across the flag stones of the path, leaning over to pluck a flower while the mini-mini she wore rode half-way up her tight little ass, exposing the brief nylon panties she wore, he sucked in his breath. The sheer strip of fabric tightened snugly between her firm, lush thighs, and slipped excitingly into the thinly dividing crevice between her buttocks. He let out his breath with a slow whistle. Christ! He wished to hell he wasn't alone with her ... he wished to hell Sally was home.
Sally! The thought of his wife sent his stomach plummeting. What a bastard he was, getting hot in the pants over this little cock teaser when Sally was off taking care of her injured, possibly dying, sister. He sighed again, then stooped over and picked up Kirst's bags. "This way," he called as formally as he could.
Kirst looked up, smiling. "This way!"
He carried the suitcases into the house, waited for Kirst to appear, then shooed her upstairs.
"Your room's down the hall," he said, nodding towards it. He followed her in and set her luggage down. "There's a bathroom over there ... you might want to freshen up or something." He looked around; everything seemed to be in order, thanks to Sally. "I guess everything's okay," he said. "I'm going downstairs to have a drink. If you want anything, call me."
"You mean 'just whistle'?" Kirst grinned impishly.
Mike wheeled around. So she'd seen that movie, too. Well, he certainly wasn't going to do that ... if that was what she wanted. "I'm going downstairs," he said, going out closing the door behind him.
He went into the kitchen and mixed a martini for himself. He put the shaker and a glass on a tray, then got a Coke out of the refrigerator and another glass for Kirst. She'd be down soon, he knew. He carried the tray into the living room and sat down heavily on one of the sofas.
He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. God, if only he could think things through, sort everything out. He didn't want to think of this girl who was going to be sharing their home that way at all. Yet he couldn't erase the thought of that gorgeous figure, the round little breasts, smooth and white and inviting, the twin globes of her delicious little ass cheeks, the ... oh, Christ!
He looked up and she was standing there. "Want a Coke?" he asked.
The girl shook her head. "I'd rather have what you have," she said.
"I'm having a martini, and you're having a Coke," Mike said firmly.
Kirst pouted, "I want a martini too."
"Tough!" Mike opened the Coke bottle and poured the foaming liquid into a glass. "Here."
Kirst made a face, but took it anyway. She sat down on the couch near Mike, then slid cautiously towards him until her slim, sensuous thigh rubbed against his leg. She rested her head on his shoulder. "Something's wrong," she said.
"Nothing's wrong."
"Maybe ... " and the lower lip trembled, the eyes filled with tears " ... maybe you don't like me."
"Look, Kirst, I like you. I think you're great. It's just that ... that ... " Mike swallowed hard as the girl turned her body toward him and brushed her firm, luscious breasts against his arm next to her. His mouth suddenly felt dry and he licked his lips over and over. Why the hell did she do this to him! Just the sight of that voluptuous young body, practically bursting out of the skimpy outfit she wore, was enough to make his balls ache and his thick cock stiffen and jerk inside his pants. Jesus! He'd give anything to get her in the sack with him, give her what she was so blatantly begging for, send his throbbing, rigid penis plunging deep inside her time after time while she moaned and thrashed her hot little body under him. Jesus! He'd like to screw the kid silly ... ! Suddenly he asked, "How old are you, Kirst?"
Kirst lowered her eyes, her long, black lashes fluttering against her alabaster skin. "Fifteen and a half," she whispered.
"Fifteen! You wrote that you were 'going to be eighteen'."
"I had to," Kirst said. "Or you wouldn't have sent for me."
Roughly, Mike pushed her away and got up. "I'm going to get myself another drink," he said, his voice shaking with self-recrimination. He went into the kitchen, fumbling in the semi-darkness for ice, gin and vermouth. Fifteen! That was jail bait, wasn't it? He stirred his drink, feeling sick and disgusted. Setting the shaker down, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. What if this were Jean? What would he do?
He poured a drink and swallowed it in one gulp. Then he poured another. He knew damned well what he'd do-just what he ought to do to the cock teasing kid. March her upstairs to her room, seat himself on the bed there and yank her across his knees, pulling her skirt up over the soft, rounded cheeks of her buttocks while he gave her the spanking of her life. What did he care if she kicked and screamed? He'd wallop that little bottom until it turned beet red, raining one smarting blow after another on the tender flesh while she howled and sobbed and begged for mercy. And he wouldn't stop, either, until angry red welts appeared under those flimsy white panties she wore. By God! That's what he would have done to Jean. And God help him, he'd do it yet to Kirst!
With a wicked gleam of malice, he shifted his drink to his other hand, picked up a bowl of potato chips and another Coke, and carried everything into the living room. He handed the Coke to Kirst, and when she'd sipped daintily at it for a few minutes, he asked, "Are you hungry?"
Kirst shook her head. "Well," Mike said. "I am. I'm going to fix a sandwich-one for you, too, if you want it."
"Let me make it," Kirst said, springing to her feet. "That's what I'm here for, isn't it?" She shot him a sultry, heavy-lidded look that let him know she was available for a lot else, too, then got up and meandered across the room, her tight little ass twitching and swaying its own invitation back to him.
Mike waited nervously for her to come back. What the hell was the matter with him, sniffing around this little bitch like a dog in heat? He was old enough to be her grandfather-or almost. Oh, sure, he was a man, and there had been plenty of times before when he'd had the hots for some little chick, someone even a lot younger than he was. But here he was now, panting after this baby, almost lusting for a chance to slip some meat into that little pink pussy of hers. God! That would really be robbing the cradle.
He sighed as Kirst came back, carrying two plates with sandwiches on them. He gulped his quickly, washing it down with the glass of beer she brought to him. Then, abruptly, he got up. "I'm going to turn in," he announced. And, as an afterthought, "You can leave the dishes if you want. I'll show you how to work the dishwasher in the morning." Ignoring the disappointed look on her face, he went up to his room, shut the door and locked it.
After a cold shower, which didn't help him very much, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. A little while later, he heard her climb the stairs and go to her room. He lay still, thinking of her ripe, voluptuous young body, her long, slender, well-shaped legs, her full, lush white rounded breasts.
His mind began to wander, and he remembered an x-rated movie he'd seen not long before with Sally. It had been one of those foreign movies, and there'd been a girl in it even younger than Kirst. But she'd had the same pert little face, the small, straight nose, the long-lashed eyes, the gorgeous ash-blonde hair. The movie had been about the girl's "Growing Up"-that was what the film was called. But it wasn't the ordinary case of growing up, getting older and bigger and wiser, too. This daring film emphasized sex in the little girl's life, from the days when she first began to notice it, through the time she had her first love affair and on, until she was shown-yes, actually shown-in a perverted episode where two men were fucking her at the same time.
An early scene from the film flashed through Mike's mind, the one where the little girl-and damned if it couldn't have been Kirst, herself-was out playing on the beach, tossing a ball up in the air and catching it, tossing it up again. But then she missed the ball, and it sailed off towards a beach house, half hidden in a clump of pines on a bluff. The little girl ran after it, even went up the steps of the house and onto the wide porch at the front of it. Something in the window there caught her eye, and, forgetting about the ball, she went over to peer inside. And there, Mike recalled, were two women, making love!
The older one, wearing some sort of beach robe, had slipped her hand under the top of the other, a younger girl's bikini, eased it down over the whiteness of her shoulders, exposing her firm, lush pointed breasts to full view. She began to stroke the magnificent rounded globes with a soft, tantalizing movement, pausing to take the rosy buds of her nipples between strong slim fingers, rolling and teasing and taunting them into hard little knobs. Then, as the little girl who looked so much like Kirst watched the lewd, lesbian scene through the window, the older woman stripped the bottom of the girl's bikini from her, and in almost the same gesture, dropped her own robe to the floor.
The camera lingered on the soft firm flesh, the luxurious curves of the voluptuous nude bodies of the two women for a long, close-up shot. That of the older one was as magnificent, as breathtaking as that of the younger, her high-set rounded breasts firm and full, her voluptuous, white-fleshed thighs sensuously curved, her belly gently swelling and sloping down to the soft triangle of silken strands that covered her pubic mound. The younger of the lovers was a smaller model of the same lovely figure, her ripening young breasts firm, yet not so full, her smooth, deliciously rounded thighs not quite so heavy.
Mike had caught his breath, embarrassed that Sally was sitting there watching the whole sordid show with him. And then he'd stared in shocked amazement as the older woman drew the younger one to her, holding the lithe young body tight against her own throbbing nakedness, pressing her nude figure against that of the girl so that her pointed breasts crushed against her own, their nipples meeting, while the pale, downy pubic fleece of one brushed the long, silky strands of the other's pubic hair. Again the couple was caught in a long close-up, and then the camera followed the hand of the older woman as it crawled tantalizingly down her friend's smooth flesh to the firmly rounded globes of her buttocks, gently easing the cheeks apart, pausing while, with a fingertip, she teased into the tightly puckered little opening of her anus.
Now the hands of the older woman roamed again over the trembling white body of the young girl, to her sensuous silky soft thighs that quivered at her touch. Seizing them firmly but gently, she spread them apart, then slid to her knees, and thrusting her head forward into the open spread of her loins, began to rain kisses on the fleecy patch between the girl's thighs. Carefully, and as gently as before, the older woman spread the slim tapered legs of the younger one even wider. Then she placed her two thumbs on the soft hair-covered lips of the tight little vagina, parting them exposing the long narrow slit within to the view of the small child, still peering, transfixed, through the window.
My God, Mike thought, that's outrageous, showing a child such obscenities. It was bad enough for adults to know about things like that ... but a child! He shuddered, even now, at the recollection.
Suddenly, the woman's head snaked forward again, her tongue darted out, and the audience-and the little girl-could see it lick the small pink bud of the young woman's clitoris, flicking back and forth around the tender little mound, teasing it into a taut erection. The camera cut then to the little girl, still standing with her nose pressed against the window, watching the lewd, perverted sight, and then Mike heard Sally gasp as the child's small hand slid down to the hem of her short little dress, slipped under it, and two of her tiny fingers nipped under the elastic of her laceedged panties, apparently found the hairless little slit of her own tiny pussy, then settled on her miniscule clitoris, rubbing it back and forth, back and forth, matching the rhythm of the two women reaching a climax together. Just as a violent shudder racked the small girl, the image on the screen dissolved.
There were scenes, after, of the little girl, supposedly a few years later, slipping off with a young boy who was shown as her schoolmate, to a tree-shaded park, where the two of them stripped and the half-grown girl examined the boy's penis, even holding it in her hand and massaging it into a stiff little erection. There was a long episode with the girl, now an adolescent, with her first lover. But the part of the picture that stuck in Mike's memory was that in which the girl-he still couldn't get over how much she looked like Kirst had two men at one and the same time, sucking the huge, inflated penis of the first until he shot his milk-white sperm deep into her throat, while, at the same time, she lay beneath a second man who wormed and burrowed and ploughed into the warm, moist hidden recesses of her eagerly welcoming vaginal passage.
The whole film came back to Mike, now, and he seemed to see the girl who looked like Kirst stretched languidly on top of a fur-covered king-size bed. She was dressed in a skimpy little bra barely big enough to cover her tiny, jutting nipples-and a little patch of cloth that turned out to be her panties. With the utmost lack of concern, she casually stripped the doll-sized garments from her, tossing them carelessly on the floor, then lay back, while the high-powered camera played lovingly over the snowy mounds of her breasts, paused a moment to show the dark, blood-red nipples, the brownish-gold aureolas that crowned them. The camera moved downwards then, catching the delicious sweep of the slim yet swelling belly, focusing at last on the luxurious triangle of shimmering gold that hid the fleshy pink folds of the tight, moist pussy. Now the girl, with a sudden, seductive movement, spread her legs slightly, and the camera angled back to show the edges of the tender pink folds before it passed quickly, lightly over the small, perfect pearl of the tiny clitoris within.
As the girl lay there, the door opened, and a handsome blond youth, no older than she, entered the room. As casually as if he were combing his hair, he began to undress, dropping his turtleneck sweater at the foot of the bed on which the girl lay, stripping to his shorts, then easing them down over his lithe, slim hips, while his virile young cock, already rigid and blood-swollen, sprang proudly forth. In no time, the youth was kneeling above the girl's outstretched body, his head bent over the open vee of her crotch. Like a surgeon laying bare the nerves and sinews on which he is to operate, the boy spread open the girl's fleshy, jagged cuntal lips, exposed the moist coral walls of her vagina, probed deep until he came upon the tiny throbbing pearl of her clitoris, then displayed that, like a precious jewel, to the all-seeing eye of the photographer's lens.
And now the camera angle switched still another time, and caught the boy's wildly flicking pointed tongue as it lashed out towards the erect little knob of the girl's clitoris, licked at it lasciviously, then deserted it to sink deep into her throbbing pussy, while from the sound track came a series of moans and whimpers, and finally a long, loud, sustained groan.
Mike groaned, too, with a sudden surge of lust at the lewd sight before him, the obscene depravity he witnessed. He felt Sally's fingernails digging frantically into his arms at that moment and the gesture brought him back to himself with a start. He glanced at his wife, and even in the dim light saw the embarrassed flush spread across her face. It was a lousy thing he'd done, bringing Sally to a place like this, and he knew he ought to get up then, take his wife by the arm and lead her out, apologizing to her profusely. Instead, though, he sat as if glued to his seat, staring at the vile exploits on the screen in front of him.
Even as the boy nibbled lewdly at the tiny tender button of the girl's erectly pulsating clitoris, mouthing it obscenely, the door to the room opened again, and a second youth-looking for all the world like the first-entered. The couple on the bed glanced briefly in his direction, nodding almost imperceptibly to acknowledge his presence, then continued their vile, depraved actions. The second boy seemed completely unconcerned by what they were doing, but instead of leaving, he, too, stripped to his smooth, sun-bronzed skin, revealing, as the first boy had, his hard, young cock, already as stiff and unyielding as a fixed lance.
The camera zoomed in to show the thick, fleshy shaft now, the bulbous, purplish swollen head, with the tiny drops of lubricating fluid beginning already to ooze from the tiny parted hole at the tip. In a minute Mike saw the slim, tapered fingers of the girl dart forth, to curl sensuously around the youth's lust-rigid rod, then begin, slowly and rhythmically, to stroke it. Back and forth, back and forth her hand moved, drawing the heavy foreskin up and down over his now whitely glistening hardness. Suddenly her tiny, cat-like tongue shot out, flicking off the drops of thin white moisture that still clung to the head, and then, a moment .later, she turned her face, and her soft, wet lips opened wide to warmly encircle the hugely stiffened cock.
The director of the film dwelt for a long time on this dual ravishment of the young woman, showing shot after shot of one youth licking maddeningly at the petal-like flesh of her cuntal lips, following the thin, long folds of the narrow crevice, then thrusting deep into the hot moist depths of her now wetly drenched little pussy, while the jerking, iron-hard cock of the second boy ploughed in and out of her widely ovaled mouth. As Mike watched the girl suck on and on, her cheeks tightening around the thick fleshy penis, her tongue swirling hotly around it, his own cock began to throb and ache and jerk, his bloated balls to churn with their load of white hot sperm until he thought he would go out of his mind. He thought of Sally, sitting next to him, and how he'd like to do to her what he saw on the screen, and suddenly a chill damp wind seemed to blow over him. Christ, he knew she'd never give him anything like that. She never had. And now he was dying for it, feeling the furious aching desire mount steadily in his loins, course the length of his nearly erect penis.
Sometime he'd like to fuck Sally the way the two boys in the film were fucking the blonde girl, and Christ but he'd like to have Sally respond the way the girl on the screen was responding.
Now the first boy raised his head, throwing it back like that of a young lion, and his lean, strong body shot forward as he straddled the girl. With one hand he guided his moist, slippery prick to the widespread lips of the little blonde's hot, desire-drenched pussy, slowly parting her silky pubic hair with its pulsing, throbbing tip. Then, with a cry of wild abandon, he arched backwards, suddenly flicking his hips to thrust his fleshy cock deep into her tightly quivering little cunt.
The girl gave a choked, muffled scream as she took his young male hardness deep inside her belly. Then the boy began to fuck mercilessly into the tight little passage, in and out, in and out, ramming in the full length of the moist, hot cavern while she bucked and thrashed beneath him, and while the second youth fucked her in her widely ovaled mouth, his young cock spearing far back into her throat, pulling forward while she clung hungrily to it, sucking at it like a famished child at its mother's breast. The two men quickened their strokes, both grinding in and out, faster and faster and deeper until the smooth, sperm-filled balls of one slapped sharply against the girl's upturned, rounded young buttocks while those of the other smacked rhythmically against her chin. Then, as the two of them, almost together, gave a last brutal thrust, the girl let out another muffled wail, orgiastic climax that sent their hot, thick sperm spewing into the girl's drenched, throbbing pussy, coursing wetly down her throat. Satiated at last, her long slim legs splayed out obscenely over the edges of the narrow bed, as she lay drained of all strength after the exhausting, passionate exhibition she had just given. The youths lay back, too, relaxed and spent beside the girl's slim body, as the cameras pulled back again and the picture faded from the screen.
Mike had cleared his throat, trying to find something to say to Sally. But he could think of nothing and was afraid that if he did, his voice would betray the powerful excitement pulsing through him like an electric current. Instead, he took Sally's arm and propelled her towards the door, pausing only briefly outside before leading her to the car parked near by.
Once home, he'd poured himself a stiff drink, while Sally went upstairs and prepared for bed. He was nearly drunk by the time he followed her; that night he had come closer to losing all control than he had ever had with Sally. He stripped her clothes away brutally, crushed her soft, warm breasts in strong, bruising fingers, and at last plunged his aching, swollen cock far into her quivering belly with no thought whatsoever for her desires, no solicitude.
Then, at the last minute, he'd known he couldn't treat his wife this way, and had pulled out, stamping out of the room, slamming the door after him. He'd spent the night in the guest room, hearing Sally's agonized sobs through the closed door. The next day he apologized: "I guess I was pretty rough last night, Sally. Pretty damned crude. I don't know what got into me. I'm sorry." And she gave him that look which announced, plain as day, that that was only to be expected-wasn't he a man?-and weren't all men animals?
He'd known then it was no use with Sally. They would struggle on all their lives, the way they always had. He sighed, and resigned himself to it.
Now, lying in bed alone, with the young Scandinavian girl in the room down the hall, the memory of that night unrolled before him. He saw the movie again from beginning to end, this time with Kirst-and not just someone who looked like her-in the leading role. And the nearness of the young girl sent leaping flames searing through his loins again. God, he thought, it would be good with her. He knew she'd give it to him, too. He wondered if he would be bastard enough to take it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mike slept badly, when he slept at all that night. In the morning he was in a foul mood, almost as if he had a hangover. Christ, he thought, it isn't fair-all those little men with mallets sitting inside my head and pounding on it, for the teeny weeny bit I had to drink!
He shook his head, trying to clear it, wondering drowsily what it was that worried him so. He remembered Kirst, then, and groaned. Something was going to give, and soon, he thought. Unless he could do something about it-and he couldn't think of what to do, short of throwing her out, or getting out himself. And he couldn't very well just send the girl away. How the hell would he explain that to Sally?
Sally?
Damn, wasn't he supposed to have called her, the night before? Or was she to have called him? He couldn't remember; he was certain, though, that they had planned to talk to one another by phone. And he was just as certain that they hadn't.
Or maybe he'd forgotten everything that had happened the night before-maybe he'd wanted to. Maybe he'd screwed that little bitch Kirst, the way she'd begged him to, and couldn't even remember it. He could be suffering from amnesia, couldn't he?
Yes, he told himself. He could be. But it wasn't very likely. So he'd better try to get in touch with Sally now and then get to his office-and on the double.
He dressed and showered and went downstairs to make coffee before Kirst got up. He found that she'd set the table for his breakfast and even prepared it for him, the night before. There was a tall glass of orange juice in the refrigerator. The coffee was measured out into the percolator, which was set on the kitchen counter, just waiting to be plugged in. There was even a scrawled note that said, "Good Morning!"
Mike crumpled it up and threw it across the room. Then, while the coffee perked, he put a call through to Mona Bitt's house, hoping Sally was still there, and that she hadn't left yet for the hospital.
The ringing on the other end seemed interminable; Mike was almost ready to hang up when a breathless Sally answered. She'd been on her way out, she said, just closing the front door, when she'd heard the telephone, and had rushed back in to answer. Mona? Pretty bad, Sally admitted, but not so bad as they'd thought. A fractured hip, a sprained shoulder, and various cuts and bruises. But the x-rays had shown no internal injuries, thank God.
"Will you be back soon?" Mike asked, seizing at a straw. She had to go. then. Mona was expecting her; besides, she wanted a chance to talk to the doctor. "I'll call you tonight, darling," she finished.
He went back to his breakfast, and was just finishing when Kirst came downstairs. She was wearing hot pants today, brief little shorts that barely covered the jiggling little cheeks of her enticingly rounded bottom, that stretched tight across them, clinging to Kirst like the skin of a peach clinging to the fruit inside. God, Mike thought, she probably has to strip them off with a potato peeler. She sat down, and the pants caught in the little cleft of, her pussy, obscenely outlining the thin narrow slit there. Above the pants, she wore a bright, tailored blouse, open almost to her navel, flapping wide to expose her lewdly tilted little breasts.
Mike took a gulp of coffee and choked on it. In a fit of coughing he wiped his mouth and rose from the table. "See you later, Kirst," he said, waving in a vain attempt to be cheerful. "Have a good day."
His own day was miserable. A sale he'd been counting on for weeks fell through; his most important client failed to show. To make matters worse, Sue, his secretary, was in a lousy mood, too. It had something to do with a fight she'd had with her boyfriend; Mike, though, never found out what the fight was about. Still, Sue was in a lousy mood, and slammed the typewriter carriage home hard at the end of each line, until Mike thought he would go mad. And, of course, he kept thinking of Kirst, all dressed up in that tight little pants outfit of hers, and every time he did, he felt his prick lurch and his balls begin to ache. He worried about Sally too, and wished he could reach her, somehow, without alarming her. But he didn't know how to do that, so he sat at his desk, squirming and stewing; finally, when Sue began to shoot puzzled looks at him, he got up, slammed the desk drawers shut with a loud bang, and headed for the golf course.
His game was way off, and when he got tired of whacking at the ball and missing, he packed up his clubs and headed for the bar. He nursed a couple of martinis, trying to decide what to do. He'd have to go home sometime, he knew, and he knew that when he got there, Kirst would be waiting for him, ready and willing to "play house" as she put it. Still, he realized at last, he could ward off temptation, at least for a while, by taking Kirst out to dinner. He'd be less inclined to rape her if there were others watching.
From the bar he called the house. "Hi, Kirst!" he greeted her, "Why don't you slip into your best bib and tucker, and I'll take you out for dinner?"
Kirst's answer was a delighted squeal, and a promise to be ready "when you get here, Mike."
She wasn't though. When Mike parked the convertible in the front of the house, Kirst was still lying by the pool in a bikini so small it reminded him of nothing more than a band-aid with a couple of beauty patches in strategic places. "Hey," he said, "I thought I told you to get some clothes on."
Kirst stood up, letting the straps of her bikini halter slide off her shoulder seductively. "I'm wearing clothes," she said with a pout.
"Yeah? Well, I've seen topless waitresses better dressed than you!" Mike announced. "Now go and get dressed!" He gave her a swift swat on her rounded bottom, and Kirst squealed again, then hurried off upstairs.
She came down a few minutes later, in another mini-mini, and another wide open blouse. "Better?" she asked.
"Not much," Mike said. He went over to her and began to button her blouse. Kirst moved closer to him, grinding her hot little cunt up against him, and Mike felt a stirring inside his shorts again, and admitted to himself that Kirst had excited him once more. Here we go again, he thought to himself. Then, for the hundredth time that day he reminded himself that this was a child ... "A child, Mike, for God's sake. Someone still in kindergarten, practically." And then, again, for the hundredth time, he asked himself, "What the hell are you, man? Some kind of pervert?"
The thought disgusted him, and with a brutal shove he pushed Kirst away from him! "Come on," he said. "Dinner time." Without another word, he turned and led her to the car.
On the drive to his and Sally's favorite Chinese restaurant-The Pearl Lake-and why the hell did he have to choose that place?-he ignored Kirst, ignored her scintillating smile, her incessant chatter, even her sly little body brushes. Once there, he brusquely ordered her out of the car and into the restaurant; suddenly the thought flashed across his mind that everyone in the place-Ed Tom, who ran it, and every waiter and busboy and dishwasher, even, would be talking about his turning up with this young blonde.
Well, it was too late to turn back. Mike guided Kirst into the restaurant ahead of him, stopping to introduce her pointedly to Ed as "our au pair girl from Denmark," to explain Sally's absence, and to assure Ed that the three of them would be in, together, the following week.
Mike ate his dinner in silence, aware that everyone was looking at him, although Kirst chattered on and on. He was aware, too, that he was drinking too much. A couple of martinis to begin with, a bottle of wine, which he grudgingly shared with Kirst, and a brandy to finish things off. He felt a little unsteady when he called for the check, a little elated when, outside, the fresh air blew across his sun-burned face. He'd get Kirst home, have another drink here himself, then turn in. And maybe Sally would be back the next morning. He might even put in a call to her, he thought. Yes, he definitely would.
Sally was still on his mind when he and Kirst reached the house. He unlocked the door, followed Kirst into the hall, then went into the living room, hoping the girl would go upstairs. He'd just poured himself another brandy when he heard her, purring like a kitten beside him, her sweet warm breath on his neck sending little shivers of excitement crawling through him. "Me, too?" she asked.
Mike shook his head. "No!"
"Yes!"
"No!" Kirst crossed the room, found another snifter, and brazenly poured a drink for herself. She held the glass cupped in her two hands, peering over the rim of it, wide-eyed as a small child with a glass of milk. "What are you thinking, Mike?" she asked. He set his own glass down on the coffee table and leaned forward, staring still again at the long slim legs, the ripely firm thighs, the hard little nipples standing up and peering through her loosely-woven blouse.
"Yes?" Kirst raised her eyebrows, still peering at the older man over the glass. "Tell me," she teased.
Mike shook his head.
"Please." The voice was husky, seductive.
Mike picked up his drink and drained it. He set the glass on the coffee table again, then moistened a finger and ran it around the rim. The glass whined, sending shivers up his spine. Still Kirst looked at him over the rim of her own glass, a mocked, amused gleam lighting her face. "Please?" The voice was as sultry as before.
Suddenly Mike was on his feet. In two steps he crossed the room and snatched the glass from Kirst's slim, small hand, throwing it against the fireplace. Brutally, he clutched her young shoulder with his strong hand, his nails clawing into her soft white flesh. As easily as if she were a cotton mop, he pulled her to her feet, holding her at arm's length.
"What are you thinking, Mike?" she whispered, smiling mockingly.
"You know damn well what I'm thinking, you teasing little bitch," Mike snarled through heavily clenched teeth.
Kirst laughed again, lowering her sparkling green eyes to stare at the obvious bulge in the front of his pants. Mike could feel his face turn scarlet, and for a moment, he hated the snide little bitch, still laughing at him, still leading him on. Christ, he thought, I've got to have her. And then Kirst pressed her full lips to his, her tongue flicking out in a long wet kiss. Her hand inched down his trousers, found his rigid cock beneath them, stroked it sensuously, lewdly. With a quick gesture, she unzipped his fly, inserting her hand into the opening to take the thick, fleshy member in her hand, trailing a long fingernail across the sensitive underside of it until Mike gasped.
"Shall we?" she whispered.
"Oh, my God! What is it you want?"
"You," Kirst said. "Do you want me?"
"God, yes!" For the last time the vileness of what he was about to do, the sheer and utter depravity of it, flashed across Mike's mind. He gritted his teeth. God, if anyone had done something like this to his young daughter, Jean, he would have killed him. Well, maybe someone would kill him, but Jesus, it would be worth it.
He began to unbutton the filmy blouse, tearing at the fabric in his lust and passion. His hand slipped beneath it, cupping the snowy mound of her round white breast, squeezing it, massaging it, teasing and coaxing the small buttons of the nipples until they stiffened into alert, alive buds. He bent his head and his tongue lashed out, to lave the erectly quivering mound, and then he fastened his teeth on it, as Kirst let out a stifled scream of mingled pain and pleasure.
With a quick gesture, he flung his head back, pushing Kirst away from him as he did so. "Not here," he said, his voice harsh and hoarse with uncontrolled lust.
"Where?" Kirst cooed, wriggling her hips provocatively, darting her moist red tongue out at Mike in a lewd, insolent gesture.
"Upstairs!" Mike hissed. Kirst turned and scampered across the room, the rounded moons of her buttocks swaying under the tight, short skirt. Mike, following close behind, caught her at the top of the steps, pulled her back towards him, grinding his aching, raging penis into the crevice between her firm young young ass cheeks. "Oh, God!" he moaned. "I can't wait. Come on!"
"Where?" Kirst asked again, almost breathlessly this time as a wild excitement flowed through her body.
Mike grasped her by the wrist and pulled her to the bedroom he and Sally shared. "Here," he gasped. "Here!"
He closed the door behind them, and by the shard of moonlight that pierced the darkness, bathing the room in an eerie, yellow-tinted light, he led her to the king-sized bed against the wall on the other side. Kirst licked her soft lips, parting them in anticipation as Mike lunged at her blouse again, stripped it from her tingling young body, and flung it to the floor. His hands cupped her breasts, kneading their soft, resilient flesh brutally until Kirst whimpered with pain.
"What's the matter?" Mike sneered. "You've been asking for this ever since you turned up here, you little bitch. And now, by God, I'm going to give it to you!"
"Give me what?" Kirst demanded, barely breathing the words.
"I'm going to screw you silly," Mike hissed. He ran his hands down over the soft, sensuous flesh of her quivering belly, touching her ripe, full thighs. His two hands slipped under the elastic band at the waist of her flimsy white little panties, and with a quick jerk, peeled them down, caressing the soft, smooth cheeks of her buttocks as he did.
Kirst stepped out of the soft little pile of her nylon panties at her feet, and moved back, so that the pale moonlight washed across her voluptuous young body. Mike sucked in his breath. Christ, even at fifteen, she was really already something! Sally had been beautiful, too, when he had first known her this way-and God damn it, she still was-but Kirst, as he'd thought when he first saw her, was a young goddess, a Venus de Milo with arms. Her soft, smooth skin was like alabaster, made whiter by contrast with the tangle of silken hair that crowned her exquisite little pussy mound. Her limbs were finely chiseled, as if by some master craftsman, one who had outdone himself as he sculpted them, then gone on to even greater perfection in shaping her lovely shoulders, her thighs, her hips. With all the perfection of marble, she was still flesh and blood, and now her firm, rounded little breasts rose in thrilled anticipation. This little prick-tease wants to get fucked! She really does. As much as I want to fuck her, Mike groaned hotly to himself.
He pushed the girl slightly, and she fell backwards onto the bed, her legs shooting out in an obscene spread open position as she did so, exposing the moist, tight slit of her pulsing pink young pussy to his fascinated eyes. While he hesitated, standing beside her, the girl seductively raised her hands to him-their very touch made his blood race, his cock stand up, as hard, as rigid, as an iron bar-and pulled him down beside her.
She mussed his hair with cool, sensuous fingers, murmuring something low in her throat as Mike quickly, clumsily shed his clothes. Oh, God, this is going to be a hot little fuck, he thought.
Kirst, her sensuous curved body stretched out on the bed, thought exactly the same thing. Oh, this is going to be good. She gasped in stunned admiration as Mike pulled his shorts down, as she saw the enormity of the long, thick cock that extended from his loins. It was so big! SO BIG! Bigger than any she'd ever seen. Why, her hand would barely go around it, she thought, and now she was going to take it all inside her, take the whole huge rigid rod in her tight little cuntal passage, suck it in deeper and deeper until it brushed against her cervix, speared into her trembling belly and sent her into searing spasms of ecstasy. Oh, it was going to be so good-doing this for the first time with a real man, and not with one of the boys like those she'd always done it with before. She let out a low moan and then began to murmur, "So good ... so good ... so good ... " in a sing-song voice, bending her head to whisper in Mike's ear, then catching his lobe between her even little white teeth, nibbling on it in much the same way as a small child nibbles on a cookie. She stopped just long enough to ask, "Like it?" before she took a swift, sharp bite.
"Like it! God, I love it," Mike moaned. He'd never seen anything like Kirst, never dreamed a fifteen year old kid like this could be so hot.
"You'll like this a lot more then," Kirst murmured, guiding his head down the length of her taut, tingling body to the softly curling little pelt topping her pubic mound. Squirming slightly, she opened her thighs wider, and eased Mike's head between them, until the pink, hair-lined slit of her almost baby-like little cunt was only a few inches from his lips. Mike tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry with his lust and passion, and he found it hard to breathe. ,He groaned, and placed his two hands on the moistly throbbing edges of her cunt, parting them like the soft coral petals of some exotic jungle flower. Mewling with pleasure at this new intimacy, this new assault upon her maddened, quivering flesh, the young blonde drew Mike's face forward further, then began to rotate her hips slowly and sensually around on the mattress, as his tongue flicked out, snake-like, and whipped its way into her hot, pulsating little vagina.
Little gasps of ecstasy escaped from deep in her throat, and she pushed her cunt forward, pressing it against Mike's face, while her little ass cheeks bounced in a jerking spasm against the bed. Her gasps turned into a low, guttural moan as his tongue slipped from the velvety sheath of her vagina walls to trace the long, thin line of the wet pulsing slit, licking teasingly the full length of it, and settling at last on the tight little bud of her clitoris. Back and forth his tongue went, in a mad flicking that coaxed the tender little button into a ruby hardness, moved again the length of her full fleshy lips, then on to the narrow furrow between her smooth young buttocks.
"Oooooooo! Oooooooooo, Mike!" Kirst purred, responding to the shivering excitement shooting through her teased, tantalized body. She tangled her hands tightly in his hair, pulling him closer to her, raising her crotch to him so that his face was buried deeper between her thighs. She began to groan out something now, words that seemed somehow familiar, yet which Mike could not fully understand because of her passion. Then, his mind went back to the movie he had seen with his wife and the girl in it who had looked so much like Kirst. He vaguely remembered that she had said the same thing, and it dawned on him that Kirst, like the girl in the movie, was begging him to fuck her.
He lifted his head from the clasping little opening of her vagina, pulling his tongue back from the moist, velvety channel. "Say it," he ordered brusquely. "Say it to me, Kirst."
"Oh, God! What do you want me to say?" she mumbled, her teeth clenched tightly together.
"You know, you little bitch."
"No, I don't. Really, I don't!" she panted heavier now.
"The hell you don't!" he snarled. "Say it. Say it good and loud, and say it in English."
Kirst pulled his head back up her body, crushing it against the snowy globes of her breasts. He was lying on top of her now, her legs open, and she drew a deep breath, hesitated a moment, and then, with a sudden, wild freedom she began to repeat, "Oh, Mike ... Fuck me ... Fuck me ... FUCK ME!"
Her slim white hand slid the length of his torso and closed around his rigid, aching cock. Her fingernails scratched lightly on the sensitive underside, and then she began to massage the fleshy shaft gently until he too groaned with tortured delight. She stopped long enough to cup his tender, silky balls in her cool, soft hands, then stroked again his thick, heavy cock. At last she guided it to the expectant, throbbing little mouth between her widespread legs, parting her soft golden pubic hair with the bloated head of the fleshy instrument, easing it between her hotly quivering cuntal lips.
She gasped as the long, rigid penis slid between the moist, narrow walls of her vaginal passage, then sank in deeper and deeper, probing up into the very depths of her warm, soft belly. Then suddenly, she seized Mike's hand, guided his fingers beneath her to the narrow valley between the cheeks of her smoothly rounded bottom, and towards the tiny little hole hidden there. My God! Was she asking ... ?
Kirst answered the unspoken question, whimpering, "Yes ... oh, yes, Mike. Please! Slip your finger up in it!"
An electric shock of excitement thrilled through Mike's body at the vile request, couched in such innocence. He reached under her, searching for the tiny, gently flexing hole, and found it at last, moistened already from the trickle of dampness seeping from her hot, wet cunt. He probed at it, then with a sudden swift movement wormed his finger in deep as the tight, elastic-like ring of flesh seemed to pop wide, opening to suck his finger in to the first knuckle.
Kirst let out a little scream, a whinny of pain that faded off into a sigh of contentment as Mike's finger slid in all the way to the palm of his hand, while his huge iron-stiff prick fucked in and out, in and out of her drenched and throbbing little pussy. She began to writhe lustfully beneath this double ravishment of her loins, mewling ecstatically as Mike's swollen cock invaded her moist, clasping cunt, as his finger fucked into the depths of her tightly clenching rectal passage. With wanton delight she chanted, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," and Mike quickened his strokes, driving deeper and deeper into her quivering little belly, shooting crashing waves of searing, indescribable joy through her whole, nerve-tingling, desire-drenched body.
Again, Mike quickened his strokes, slaving above her, arching back, drawing his thick cock almost out of her hungrily sucking vagina, spearing in again until his heavy, sperm-bloated balls slapped heavily down against the widespread moons of her ass cheeks. As he thrust again, grinding hard and deep, he felt a sudden spurt of wet sticky fluid that flooded out from the tightly clinging walls of her hotly throbbing little passage, and then her obscene chant of "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," turned into a long, low wail. "Oooooooh! I'm cumming ... I'm cumming ... Oh, my God! I'M CUMMING!"
Mike felt the hot, white sperm in his bloated balls begin to boil and churn unbearably, building to a maddening explosive pressure, then shoot the full length of his aching, bulging prick, to squirt deep into the flooded, hot recesses of the young, fifteen year old blonde's desperately contracting little vagina. His testicles jerked wildly between his legs, emptying out the last of his sperm to mingle there with her own hot juices flowing warmly, gently down her pulsing inner thighs, as the girl's legs dropped lifelessly to the sides, to lie limp and open on the bed. Mike eased his now deflated penis from the narrow cum-drenched channel of her cunt, and rolled over beside her, all passion spent. Good God! He'd never known anything like this. Well, he thought, he'd fucked the hot-cunted little bitch, and he'd fucked her good. He'd given her just what she'd been asking for....
And she'd given him just what he wanted, too.
Maybe more, he thought with a sudden frightening shock, maybe more than he'd bargained for.
CHAPTER FIVE
The sun was shining brightly when Mike awoke, filtering through the edges of the lacy curtains to cast a subtle, bright pattern on the pale ivory walls. It gave him a feeling of well-being, of content, which enhanced his own mood. But a cloud seemed to pass across the sun, and the curtains cast a long shadow, now, and he felt the stirrings of some vague premonition of disaster within him.
He reached his hand out, grasping at the empty air. Then it occurred to him that he was alone. Where was Sally? He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs from it. Of course! She'd gone to care for her sister. What the hell was he thinking about Sally for, anyway?
And Kirst?
He remembered the way she'd looked the night before, lying nakedly beneath him, her legs wide spread to expose the entire plane of her upturned crotch to him, as she'd taken his own huge, blood-engorged prick into her tight, clasping little cunt, remembered the mind-blowing excitement as he'd plunged into the warm, moist cavern, the indescribable ecstasy as he'd spewed his churning, boiling sperm into her hungrily milking young belly. Christ, he thought, she'd been fantastic. The thought of the young girl made his prick jerk, coming alive, stiffening into the semblance of an erection again. He wished to God she were still here, lying on the sperm-drenched sheets with him.
He pushed himself up on his elbow and looked around. From the minor on Sally's dressing table, a man stared at him, a man with slack, paunchy jowls and reddened, bloodshot eyes. Christ, he thought! Looks like old Dorian Gray himself-and then, with a chuckle, he corrected himself: looks like the Picture of Dorian Gray! Well, picture or person, Mike Hole was looking pretty decadent this morning, pretty debauched. And where in the hell was Kirst, he asked himself again.
This time, a stab of remorse went through him, a sense of revulsion at what he'd. done. Morally, he thought, it was indefensible-screwing a kid like that the way he had, even if she had been begging for it. And legally? Mike shuddered. Kirst is fifteen, he reminded himself. Okay, fifteen and 99 per cent of another year. Whatever she is, she's under sixteen. She's not a consenting adult. And legally, Mike Hole, he said, leveling an accusatory, if imaginary, finger at himself, you're guilty of statutory rape.
He uttered a low moan, shocked by the realization. What if the little bitch took it into her head to tell someone about last night? What then, Mike Hole? He shook his head. There wasn't a single soul out here for her to tell-there wasn't a single soul out here that she knew, except for him. Okay. So far, so good. But she'll meet people, sometime, somewhere. Suppose she tells, them?
Mike shook his head again. No, he thought, she wouldn't. She wasn't the type. At least she wasn't the type to tell just for the sake of telling. If she could get something out of it, though ... oh, my God! What if she blackmailed him? In a flash, he saw his life in ruins-his business gone, his marriage destroyed, his family disgraced. His thoughts centered on Sally first, winged momentarily off to their son, Vern, away at college, then were occupied with their daughter, Jean. With a sudden fury, he pounded a clenched fist on the bed. If some lecherous old bastard like himself had fucked Jean the way he'd fucked that Danish girl, he would have killed him.
With a surge of bitterness, he thought of Jean's husband, knew that he resented him, "wonderful kid that he is," he muttered to himself sardonically, grew furious at the idea of the little bastard's making love to his daughter, knew he was being ridiculous-wasn't he a broadminded human being, who accepted sex as one of the great pleasures of man and enjoyed it in just that way? And wasn't she a grown woman, now-a married woman, too-and not a child like Kirst?
"Oh, the hell with it," he suddenly said aloud. He was too confused with the events of the past night to try to work his way through the maze of fuddled thought that cluttered his mind. Leave that to the shrinks, he told himself wryly, to the wigpickers. Or else you'll be needing one, too. He shook his head again. He had more important things to think about, now. First of all, where was Kirst? What was she doing?
He rolled off the bed, clutched for his tangled clothing strewn about the room, and hurriedly pulled on shorts and trousers. Bare-chested, he padded into the bathroom. After he'd brushed his teeth-God, they seemed to be wearing little angora sweaters-and shaved carefully, he patted his face to a healthy glow with a cold, stinging lotion. He combed his hair then, found a clean white shirt in the closet, put it on, chose a favorite tie and knotted it, then slipped into a sports jacket. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he left the room. Well, he at least looked respectable. And now he'd better find Kirst.
She might have gone back to her room, he reflected. Or she might have run away-God, she wouldn't, she couldn't go to the police-or, for all he knew, her dead body might be floating in the swimming pool. He'd seen something like that, he remembered, in a movie on the Late Late Show. He took a deep breath. There was no sense in procrastinating any longer; he had to find out what had happened to Kirst.
He found her in the kitchen, dressed in a bright little sunsuit that clung like wet silk to her curves, or at least to those it covered. She was sitting at the table, a plate of hot, buttered toast in front of her, busily spreading it with strawberry jam. "Hi," she said, looking up as Mike came in. She broke off a large piece of toast, slathered more butter and jam on it, then popped it in her mouth. "I'm hungry," she said, speaking with her mouth full. "Are you?"
Mike shook his head. He'd never felt less like eating in his life. "No," he said, "I'm not hungry."
Kirst smiled, popped another piece of toast into her mouth, then hopped up from the table. "I've made orange juice," she said. "And the coffee's hot."
"Thanks, Kirst. I just don't feel like eating anything."
Kirst's eyes widened. "Why not?"
"I just don't feel like it."
She looked hurt, now, and suddenly wistful. "Is it because of me?" she asked, pouting slightly.
"No." Mike cleared his throat, trying to think of what to say to her. He had to say something, for God's sake, after last night. He stared at the wall, as if the appropriate words might be written there. When he didn't see them, he cudgeled his brain, searching for them there. Finally, lamely, he announced, "I want to talk to you, Kirst."
"Oh? What about?"
"God damn it," he said, suddenly shouting. "I don't know."
"But if you don't know, then why did you say ... " Mike took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Look, Kirst," he said at last, "I, well, about last night ... I'm sorry."
Kirst stared at him wide-eyed again. "You didn't like it, Mike?" she asked, shaking her head in bewilderment.
"That's not the point," Mike snapped. What the hell was the matter with this kid-all wide-eyed innocence, now, acting as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth-and last night, acting like some cheap little tart, some slut, some whore.
A tear glistened in the young girl's eye, and Mike was immediately sorry. "Look" he said quietly. "It was wonderful. You know that. But we just can't go on like that. We've just got to forget all about last night." He thought of warning her not tomention it to anyone, then decided that that would be tempting the Fates, and said nothing about it. He gave her a grin. "Okay?"
"Yes, I guess so. Okay." Kirst said. Then, with a deep sigh she added, "I don't understand."
That was certainly true, Mike thought. She didn't understand at all. So he would have to take the responsibility from now on, make sure he didn't drink too much around the kid, and lose control again. In fact, he'd better stay away from her as much as possible, work late at the office maybe. And not hang around alone with her. Well, he'd take her out to dinner again tonight. It hadn't helped much the night before, he thought ruefully. Still, it would be better than being alone in the house with her for a long time. God, the little bitch, in that cute little kiddie outfit she was wearing, was already sending shivers of raw, animal lust shooting straight for his aching loins. He'd better get out and get out fast.
"Look, kid," he said, gulping the orange juice, "I've got to get to the office." He glanced at his watch. "Matter of fact," he added. "I'm late now."
Kirst watched as he, now standing, finished his coffee, then started for the door. "Bye," he called.
In an instant she was beside him. "But Mike," she said, lips quivering like those of a heart-broken child, "what shall I do today?"
"Just what you did yesterday," Mike answered. "Get yourself a sunbath, out there by the pool."
Kirst, still disappointed, turned away. Then, "Will you telephone me, so I don't get too lonesome?"
Telephone her! That was all he needed! He shook his head. "No. I'll be too busy." Another thought flashed through his mind. What if Sally called, what if this kid somehow-oh, not intentionally, of course, but somehow, let slip something about what had happened? Or maybe one of the neighbors would call and Kirst, lonely, wanting to talk, just to talk to someone, for God's sake, might spill the whole sordid, sickening story. What would he do then?
The girl looked puzzled, but Mike had no intention of giving further explanations. "Just don't answer the phone kid. Understand?" Her expression, which Mike caught in a backward glance over his shoulder as he slammed the door behind him, told him clearly that she didn't.
At his office, he found his desk piled high with work he'd been neglecting for days. That was good; it would keep his mind off all his troubles. He plunged into it with a vengeance, reading fine print, totaling figures, concentrating on everything at hand. By the time he slammed the desk drawer, at five o'clock, and drove home, he was almost calm.
But his excitement returned, as he steered the small car in and out of traffic. He couldn't get the memory of that little bitch-my God, he told himself, she must be a nympho or something-out of his mind. Closing his eyes against the glare of the sun as he waited for a stoplight, he seemed to see her superb white body, offered up to him, as it had been the night before, practically on a silver platter. His balls began to ache again, his prick to throb, while white hot flames seemed to lick at his loins. When he reached the house, he cut the motor and sat in the car for a few seconds, trying to regain his composure. He wouldn't give in, he told himself. Not this time. Other men had been faced with this situation, other men had resisted the blandishments of some cheap little whore, and he could, too. It wasn't going to be easy-no, it wasn't. But lots of things weren't easy, and he managed to make out somehow. Hell, that wasn't the word he'd meant! He took a deep breath. He wasn't going to give in to this, he told himself. By God, he wasn't!.
He called the young Danish girl in from the swimming pool, being careful not to look at her as she passed him, half nude again, her voluptuously rounded little buttocks bouncing and jiggling invitingly. He went into the kitchen and mixed himself a drink-He would have just one he told himself. No use playing with fire-but Kirst took an extraordinarily long time in changing her clothes, and so he had a second. God, one more little drink-just one more-wasn't going to turn him into a rapist, was it?
When Kirst at last appeared, he tried to look the other way, averting his eyes as he shooed her out to the car. The drive to the restaurant, he thought with relief, wasn't nearly so bad as it might have been. She was obviously famished, and kept her mind on dinner and her hands where they belonged.
This time, Mike drove to The Green Parrot, where the food-Italian-was more than passable, and where he was certain no one would know him. He'd forgotten, though, that the lights there were so dim it was hard to read the menu, and when the waiter insisted on seating the two of the side by side on the banquette, he was afraid to make a fool of himself by protesting.
As they worked their way through a platter of antipasto, the veal scallopine with spaghetti, the biscuit tortoni, he felt Kirst close to him, brushing his thighs with her own slim ones. He moved as far from her as possible, pleased that he could show so much restraint. But he needed a drink to keep from going out of his mind, and managed to convince himself that a bottle of Lacrima Christ, so smooth, so sweet, would have a beneficial effect. He wouldn't drink much, he promised himself; he'd share it with Kirst. giving her at least half.
But Kirst merely toyed with her glass, and when the bottle was empty, Mike realized that he had drunk it all by himself and that it was making his head spin. He'd counted on driving Kirst around the brightly lit streets of the town for awhile-he would have been safe with her, then-but now he didn't feel like it.
He paid the bill and got into the car, ungallantly letting Kirst open her door and slip inside. He kept his eyes on the road, not daring to look at her, as he headed back to the house. But her presence was maddening, and Mike had the awful knowledge that he could not resist her any more tonight than he had the night before.
When they reached home, he again slid out and let Kirst fend for herself, slamming the door angrily, trotting behind him up the garden path. He pulled his key out, and with shaking hands inserted it in the lock. The fire in his loins was raging now, beyond any control, and as the girl followed him into the front hall, he slammed the door behind them, then pulled her brutally towards him. She lifted her face to his, and his lips crushed against her soft, moist mouth, then his tongue, with cruel pressure forced it open, forced its way in, almost to her throat. After a long, wet kiss that lit white hot flames in his seething, surging balls, his aching penis, he pushed her away, then caught her hand and pulled her after him up the stairs in the darkness.
He fumbled for the light switch at the top of the stairs, but couldn't find it, swore softly, then led the girl to he and Sally's bedroom again. He fumbled again for the light switch, then forgot it, deciding that mere moonlight would be more erotic, and moved, Kirst in hand, across the room to the bed. He was already stripping off her filmy little summer dress, unhooking her bra easing the thin nylon wisp of her panties down over her round, firm thighs. When she stood before him, all her clothes in a little heap on the floor, he stared at her, as he'd been longing to do all day. Then, as he'd also been longing to do all day, he eased her backwards onto the bed.
For what seemed to her the hundredth time, Sally Hole picked up the telephone and dialed her home number. And for what seemed the hundredth time, there was no answer, only the incessant, almost eerie ringing.
But there had to be someone there. There just had to be. Even if Mike was at work. Kirst should have been there. Anyway, Mike should have been home by now. And if he wasn't home, where was he? And why?
Because she wasn't there, Sally told herself. Because she'd dashed off to take care of her sister, Mona, just when Mike needed her most with the new girl coming and all. She brushed a tear from her eye, and choked back a sob. Well, what else could she have done! Mona had been critically injured. Mike couldn't have expected her to stay home at a time like that.
Still, her husband had needed her, too. And she had failed him. And now, she didn't even know where he was. Sally broke into muffled sobs, dabbing at her eyes with a noxxet handkerchief, knotting it, stuffing it against her mouth. The nurse, coming in with a shot of pain-killing morphine for Mona, found Sally curled up in a chair sobbing hysterically, the picture of despair.
"Oh, dear Mrs. Hole!" she said soothingly. "Whatever is the matter?"
Sally shook her head. "Everything," she said. "Just everything."
"Oh, dear, now. Things can't be all that bad, now, can they?"
"Yes, they can," Sally insisted.
"Well, suppose you tell me about it," the nurse said, setting down the small tray she carried, the wad of cotton, the towel. "Maybe it will make you feel better."
"It won't," Sally said, bursting forth into fresh tears. Nevertheless, she blurted out her story; her husband wasn't home and didn't seem to have been home, she said. At least, she couldn't reach him, "And what could have happened to him, Miss ... Miss ... " she hesitated, then found the nurse's name on her lapel. "Miss Hunt?"
"Why, he's probably gone to a movie, dear." he doesn't like them!"
"There, there, dear," Miss Hunt clucked. "Everything's all right with your husband. I just know it is." Sally shook her head, refusing to believe it, as Miss Hunt rattled on. "You just see everything in a bad light now because you're so tired, poor thing. You've been under a strain, Mrs. Hole. That's all. And when you get some rest, everything will look different to you."
"No, it won't," Sally sniffled. "I know something's wrong. Something has to be. Mike doesn't answer the telephone, and he has to be home-he just has to be-because he wouldn't have gone anywhere, at a time like this, and if he's home and he doesn't answer the telephone, that means that something terrible has happened to him." Sally let out a little wail of fear at what it might be. "Oh, there's been an accident," she sobbed. "Mike's been hurt. MIKE'S DEAD!"
"Now, now," Miss Hunt admonished. "You're just upset by all that's happened. And do you know what I'm going to do?" When Sally looked at her in silence she said, "Well, I'm going to get you some little pills that are going to make you relax, and once you relax, you'll be able to get some sleep-you haven't had much sleep, dear, you know, sitting up all night with your sister, the way you have-and I really think it's been wonderful of you to do it, too-but you haven't had much sleep, you know."
Sally sighed. "I know," she said. "But I don't want any of your little pills." Her voice began to rise in shrill hysteria.
"That's all right, dear," Miss Hunt said, clapping her on the shoulder. "You just sit right here, and I'll go and get them." She picked up her tray and went out, shaking her finger at Sally.
Sally heard her footsteps receding down the hall; when they had died away she slipped from her chair, found her coat and purse, said a gentle "good-bye" to the sleeping form of her sister, and hurried to the elevator. Once downstairs, she ran through the marble-floored hallways, the tap of her high heels seeming to chase her, adding to her panic. She was breathless when she reached the parking lot, trembling as she slid behind the wheel of her car. Her forehead was damp and wet, and she felt a little faint. She rested it for a few seconds on the steering wheel-it felt cool and comforting-before she started the car. Then, summoning all the strength at her command, she headed towards the road that led to home.
It would take hours for her to reach it, and when she did, it would be late at night. She pressed her foot on the accelerator. Dear God, what would she find when she got there?
The road stretched ahead, a thin, twisting ribbon of darkness, lit briefly by the twin headlights of the car. Trees and patches of brush loomed on either side. Occasionally, Sally passed an isolated farmhouse, a roadside stand, a rural schoolhouse. Sometimes she sped through tiny villages, stopping at the continuing. She went through towns, too, where a few late gadabouts scurried home through neon-lighted streets.
She stopped once for coffee, begrudging the few minutes it took to drink it. Then she was back in the car, careening along, watching the road. The fallen logs, the piles of leaves, the small, smoldering rubbish heaps-all seemed to turn into the body of Mike, a body twisted and scarred and broken. Had he had an accident? Had he, like Mona, crashed his car into a retaining wall, been thrown around inside the hurtling mass of metal to be crushed like an eggshell? Had there been, perhaps, an accident at the swimming pool, with Mike, trying a highdive hitting his head on the tiled edge? Perhaps he'd been the victim of an attack of some sort-been mugged on the street, been beaten, even killed by some intruder in their home. Something-something had happened to Mike.
She glanced out the window and saw the sign that marked the approach to Woodland Hills. Nearing home, her fears lightened, her terror drifted away. Everything would be all right, she thought, blinking as if she had just seen daylite after days in a dark tunnel. She took a deep breath and felt the piston-like pounding of her heart begin to subside. Everything would be all right. She would turn the corner and drive down the street and there would be her home-hers and Mike's-with lights blazing cheerfully, the certain proof that all was well.
She reached the crossroads and slowed the car. A smile of relief spread across her face. Everything was going to be all right, she thought, as she headed the car onto Maiden Lane. She drove half the block, straining her eyes as she watched for Number 52.
She pulled up in front of it, and everything was dark!
CHAPTER SIX
Sally sat for a few moments, paralyzed with fear, as she stared at the hulk of the house, dark and dismal as midnight itself. Nothing stirred within; outside, only the occasional swaying of the treetops gave any semblance of life.
Oh, dear God! What had happened? Mike was dead, had been for hours, was lying there in a pool of his own blood. A little wail of terror slashed through the night, cutting the silence like a knife through the water. Sally heard it, and it sent new waves of panic slamming through her trembling body. Sally heard it-but only as it died out did she recognize it as her own cry, her own voice.
She tried to move, as she knew she must eventually. She would have to face this horror somehow, have to go into the house sometime. But how could she bear to? Oh, no! She buried her face in her hands and an intense shudder wracked her body. When it had passed, she felt an emptiness within her. It was like a limb which had been amputated-which wasn't there-yet which went on throbbing forever. It seemed strange that nothing could hurt so much more than something, but the aching void at the center of her had become unbearable.
She shook her head, which seemed to whirl about her shoulders, turning the darkened house before her into some weird spinning object, some giant's plaything, like an enormous turning yo-yo. And when darkness-an even greater darkness-folded her within it, Sally, almost as lifeless as she imagined Mike to be, let her head slip back against the seat, resting it there, motionless, for a long time.
Occasionally, a frightening image pierced the dark blank of her brain-that of Mike, again, dead in an easy chair, the victim of a heart attack; Mike, lying on the kitchen floor, a butcher knife stuck between his shoulders. Once she even thought of Kirst-wasn't she supposed to have come on Thursday? What had happened to her? Oh, dear God! She must be dead, too. Worst of all, though, was the haunting fear that the house was empty, both Kirst and Mike gone-God alone knew where.
She tried desperately to collect herself, to pull herself together, to make some decision, to do something. The idea came to her of going to a neighbor's to call for help. But she knew her shaking fingers could never perform even those inconsequential movements necessary to start the car again, and as for walking, her legs, weak now as cooked spaghetti, would barely carry her as far as the house, let alone to one nearby. No, there was nothing to do but gather what was left of her strength, and by a sheer effort of will to enter the bleak, deserted-seeming house.
She stretched out her hand to the door handle, and was amazed that she had the strength to turn it. That done, she realized she could propel herself from beneath the steering wheel, and step to the ground. There, though, she tottered again, leaning against the chassis of the car for support, propping herself against the hood for a while. Again her strength came back, again she resolved to find Mike, or at least to find out what had happened to him.
She breathed deeply in the cool night air, glanced up gratefully to see that the moon was still high, was still a ball of shining yellow. If the lights were out-and surely any would-be attacker, any murderer would have cut the wires at once-yes, and the telephone wires, too-she would at least have both the light and the comfort of the moon above. She shivered a little, wrapped her coat closer to her, then started up the narrow flag-stone path that led to the house. She stumbled along, blindly, and once she lost her balance, swayed, nearly fell and caught the branch of a rose-bush just in time to save herself, and the thorns pierced the palm of her hand and made her jerk back. A few steps farther on, she caught the heel of her alligator pump in a crack, twisting her ankle slightly. She righted herself, then stopped to wipe her forehead on the sleeve of her coat. And then Sally went on.
She reached the steps and climbed them, stood, frozen with fear, in the cold moonlight before she had the courage to insert the key in the lock, froze again before she could turn it. But at last the door swung open, and Sally stepped inside.
She leaned against the door jamb, weak with apprehension, listening for some telltale sound to confirm her fears. But there was nothing, and with a sigh of relief, so loud it startled her, she went inside and carefully, quietly, pulled the door closed behind her.
Sally fumbled for the light switch, but her nervous, twisting fingers merely passed across it, and then she remembered that if there had been intruders, the lights would surely have been cut, anyway, and so she moved away, groping towards the staircase. She found the first step, and feeling her way, moved cautiously up the flight. Half way to the top, she twisted her ankle again, and standing there, she dropped off first one highheeled shoe and then the other. And now, in her stocking feet, she padded to the upper landing.
Sally paused a minute there, peering into the darkness stretching up and down the hall. That way was the guest room, Jean's old room, as well as Vern's pad. Surely Mike wouldn't be there. Sally turned, and moved slowly, quietly down the hall in the other direction.
There was a dim light-from the moon, Sally was certain-creeping out from under the door to the bedroom she and Mike shared, and she was irresistibly drawn to it. At the door she paused, hand or the knob, then drew back, listening to her wildly pounding heart. Dared she enter? What would she find within?
She thought she heard a sound, listened, decided it was her heart again. But it came once more, a low moan at first, then louder, a groan, a quiet shriek. She heard the sound of bedclothes rustling, of bodies-could it be?-thrashing about. Oh, dear God! What was going on? Almost as soon as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer. Mike was in there, desperately ill. He'd been poisoned-that was it. Or else he'd been wounded. In any case, he was dying.
Sally herself felt slightly sick, and her head began to reel; nevertheless, she steeled herself for the horrible sight she knew would face her, steadied her shaking hand, turned the knob and pushed the door open a crack.
She peered into the room, trying to make out Mike's body by moonlight. When her eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness, she gasped. Dear God! He was lying there on the bed, his naked body twisted in some grotesque position'. She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming, still staring in shocked horror at the bed. It seemed to her that Mike moved-then he wasn't dead, after all-and then the room brightened as the moon came from behind a cloud and its bright beams picked out the body of a young, voluptuous girl there on the bed with Mike, played like spilling fountains over her lewdly tilted breasts, lit the hard rosy little buttons of her nipples, splashed its pale white light over the sensuous curves of her firm white buttocks.
Oh, my God! What were they doing! Oh, I know, Sally thought. I know damned well. Little fingers of ice began to walk up her spine, sending freezing shudders through her. Yes, she knew what they were doing, too, that it would have been better if they'd been dead.
And who was the girl? In a flash, Sally knew that, too. It was Kirst! That's who it was! Oh, she hadn't had to meet the little bitch to figure that one out. No, indeed. It was as plain as the nose on her face that this wanton, lewd creature who mewled with pleasure as she lay beneath Mike was the little au pair they had brought all the way from Denmark. All the way from Denmark to walk into Sally's own home, brazen as anything, to climb, within hours, into her own husband's bed, and to ... to ... A sob rose in her throat at the very idea of what the two were doing. To fuck, she managed to tell herself at last, cringing at the word. That was what they were doing. They were fucking. And Sally stood frozen to the spot, watching, as Mike stroked the firmly swelling mounds of Kirst's naked breasts, running his fingers delicately over the snowy white skin, as he trailed his hand lightly over the swell of her moonlit belly to tangle it in the soft little patch of softly curling pubic hair at the base, as he lifted her satin-smooth buttocks,-the twin cheeks quivering, to cup them and crush them in his two huge hands. Oh, God! If only she could stop them, put an end to this horrible, adulterous scene unfolding before her very eyes! But how? HOW?
Kirst writhed and twisted on the bed, suddenly flinging her head back, whispering something-something obscene, Sally thought bitterly-into Mike's ear. He twisted, too, moving down until he was kneeling on all fours between her widespread young legs. Now what? Sally moaned. Oh God, now what? Warmly cascading tears flooded her eyes and coursed down her pale cheeks. Angrily she brushed them away. Now what! As if she had to ask! Oh, God, it was unbearable, watching Mike do this to a girl who was nothing more than a husband-stealing little whore. A whore! The idea filled the older woman with fury, and she longed to leap to the bed and scratch the little bitch's eyes out, to claw her to bits, to tear her limb from limb.
She turned away, glanced back to stare in amazement at her husband's swollen penis-it was so huge, she thought; she hadn't remembered it was so huge-jerking obscenely now as it jutted out from his loins like a spear at full tilt, to see the young naked girl in a convulsive movement suddenly spread her slim legs even wider to expose the warmly trembling lips of her open vagina and the little patch of sparse silky pubic hair nestled around it more lewdly to her eagerly peering husband's eyes. She covered her face with her hands, choking back the sobs, then peeped through her own spread fingers at Mike's lust-contorted face gazing spellbound at the narrow, hair-lined slit of the girl's pinkly inviting little pussy. She saw him reach forward and place his hands on the insides of her warm, milk-white thighs, spreading them even farther apart, saw his fingers, his thumbs move to the coral lips of her cunt-saw even that it was moist with passion-saw him draw the petal-like flesh wide apart and then, slowly, coolly, deliberately, tease the little bud within it, the small pearl of her rose-pink clitoris, tantalise it into a stiff pulsating little erection.
Sally turned away as Mike continued to stroke, to fondle the girl's miniature phallus. A wave of disgust swept through her, making her knees buckle, her heart pound relentlessly. She leaned against the door again, her head lolling to one side. She felt a moment of panic as the thought flashed through her tormented brain that Mike or the nakedly spread young girl might see her standing there watching this lewd, obscene spectacle. Feeling panic, she tried to close the door as if, somehow, by wiping the scene from her sight, she could put an end to the depraved act taking place within the room. But her hands hung limp at her side, refusing to do her bidding; her feet were rooted to the spot on which she stood, and she knew she could no longer move away.
She pushed the door open a crack further, and peered in again. Now Mike's fingers were teasing again into the curls of soft golden hair of the girl's openly spread pubic mound, now they moved once more to the warm, moist slit of her eagerly trembling little vagina. He probed it gently with the tip of one finger, then began to work it into the tightly clenching little orifice, twisting and turning it hotly within the narrow passage. Kirst first writhed and squirmed hesitantly under his working hand, and then, responded with moans of wild, abandoned passion to the moving finger now fucking deep into her tight little cuntal passage.
The moaning ceased as Mike withdrew his finger from her warmly clasping young pussy to search out and caress the tiny bud of her clitoris again, then burrowed once more, deep inside the young, erotically twisting girl's warm, pink pussy, beginning to move slowly, rhythmically, while she squirmed lewdly about in an insane contrapuntal rhythm of her own. A warm, excitedly rising fluid seeped wetly now from her pulsing depths under Mike's feverish finger fucking, drenching her throbbing little cuntal opening and flowing down her warm, sensuous thighs.
Then Mike's voice shattered the oppressive silence, ringing clear and cold as crystal. "I'm going to fuck you, kid," he said, and the words fell on his wife's ears like a cutting knife, slashing and wounding her to the center of her being. "I'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked before."
Kirst let out a little peal of malevolent laughter. "Not even like I was-how you say it?-fucked last night?"
"Not even like you were fucked last night," Mike said, his voice low and husky, and almost brutal. "Not even like that!"
He arched back, groaning, taking his blood-engorged penis in his hands, guiding it to the gaping opening of the young girl's hotly palpitating vagina, .maneuvering to ease it between her hungrily clasping cuntal lips.
With a sudden movement, Kirst pushed him downward, then quickly reached out to grasp his head between her two cool, slim hands. "Not like last night," she whispered, her voice sultry. "Not like that! Like this!"
Sally uttered a small, silent cry of shame and shock as the girl tangled her fingers in her husband's hair, slipping, swivelling beneath him, pulling his head down, down between her obscenely spread thighs, toward her passion-drenched young pussy lips that waited expectantly for him below. With an anguished cry, like that of an angry bull, Sally thought, her husband thrust his face forward, and his warm, moist tongue shot out like a striking serpent, making electrical contact with the stark, upright bud of the girl's clitoris.
She thrashed and bucked under the delightful torment of his hotly flicking tongue, thrusting the full flat plane of her widespread loins up to meet his wetly licking assault upon her tender flesh. The sight seemed to send a blast of Arctic wind rippling up the spine of the watching Sally, raising goose-flesh on her neck and arms. Oh, God! Had Mike no decency-no decency whatsoever?
Other men, she knew, indulged in such forbidden, perverted pleasures. But Mike! Her own husband, Mike! She remembered her own thoughts of what now seemed centuries before and yet of what she knew had been only a few days. "Mike was the most considerate of men." And now he was doing-this-to the little slut, the little whore, the little bitch-who had appeared on their doorstep. With soul-searing anguish, Sally watched the man she loved as he plundered the newly-ripened body of this young, shameless intruder into their home.
The pink, glistening little hole of the blonde's soft, curl-fringed pussy was now completely exposed to Sally's gaze, and she heard, in spite of all her efforts not to, Mike's low, appreciative grunt as his tongue darted forth, lizard-like, to slip deep up inside the wetly throbbing little mouth. Another shock went through her wildly trembling body as the little au pair responded with a lewd, delicious pleasure to the maddening sensation imparted by the older man's licking, spiraling tongue. With a compulsive jerk, her legs splayed out obscenely, to hang out over the edges of the bed in limp, abject surrender to the ravishment of her loins.
Now Mike ran his tongue up and down the moist, narrow furrow, probed, explored, entered, withdrew, while the girl quivered sensuously beneath him, grinding her buttocks deep down into the mattress on which she lay. Once again, he began the maddening licking of her cuntal lips, slithering his tongue lizard-like in and out of her passion-drenched fifteen year old pussy.
My God! Sally thought. The girl-the girl isshe's insatiable! She's letting him do everything-everything-to her. And she's asking for more, too, she thought, choking back still another sob as Mike licked at the soft folds of throbbing flesh between Kirst's outspread legs, withdrew to push her knees up against her heaving breasts, so that he could lick at the narrow crevice between the firm white mounds of her nakedly upturned little buttocks.
"What next?" Sally moaned in despair, certain that no man-and certainly not Mike-could ever be capable of committing further indecencies. And yet she knew the worst was yet to come, and she gritted her teeth, bracing against it-whatever it was.
"There was a low groan of passion from her heavily breathing husband, and an answering one, long drawn out, ear-splitting, from Kirst, and then her voice, panting breathlessly, "I want to do it to you too, Mike. Please! I want to lick you too!"
He reared back again, and Sally saw his lust-distorted face full in the light of the yellow moon. "What is it, Kirst?" he asked. "What is it you want?" and Sally thought, Dear God! That's the way he talked to Jean-to baby Jean! He listened attentively, as if her voice would come from some immeasurable distance, for her answer.
It was a little whimper of sheer sensuality, though, when it came at last, and Sally struggled to take in the full enormity of the girl's wickedness as she made out the whispered words. "I want to suck you, Mike. I want to take your big lovely cock in my mouth, and I want to nibble it and eat it and suck it." She drew in her breath, then let it out, long and audibly. "Would you like that, Mike?" she asked him in a low, seductive voice. "Would you?"
Sally herself held her breath, waiting for Mike's reply. He couldn't-he wouldn't-let her do such an outrageous thing. And then his words came to her, stinging like a slap across the face. "Oh, God!" he groaned as he rolled over on his back. "You think I wouldn't! Come on, baby. Come on! I want to slip it in to you, to ram it against the back of your throat, to tickle your tonsils. Oh, my God! Would I do it, Kirst! WOULD I!"
Sally was dimly aware then that Kirst was turning on the bed, rolling over, twisting, sliding down somehow to straddle Mike's naked body, to poise herself upside down above him, head flung back, ash-blond hair streaming like that of some wild, wood-bred creature, the heavily swollen mounds of her breasts bobbing above the head of his hugely throbbing penis. She was aware, too, that Kirst took the desire-hardened length between her hands, ran them slowly, seductively along the length of it while Mike moaned again, that she crooned out words Sally couldn't understand. Then she saw the elfin face drop forward, the little pink tongue slip between the white even teeth, lick the hungrily ovaled lips lasciviously, then quickly circle the flushed tip of the excitedly waiting cock. Her head bobbed downward now as she fully enclosed the granite-hard member in the warm, wet confines of her mouth, licking up the tiny pearling drops of fluid that hotly oozed from it. Then again, her moist little tongue shot out, tantalizing and teasing warmly at the blood-engorged head; and when the older man moaned beneath the tormenting sensations, she once more parted her warm, moist lips, to suck his turgid, seething cock back deep up inside.
Mike began to fuck in and out between her widely ovaled lips, thrusting up deep, withdrawing, thrusting in again, while the young girl continued to croon out in a muffled sing-song voice that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her. He stiffened perceptibly as he looked down between them and caught sight of her sweet, innocent child's face, contorted wildly now with the lust of a wanton, lascivious creature. She moved her tightly locked lips up and down along the wet shaft of his heavily hardened cock, and then her hands slid beneath him, to gently cup his churning, sperm-filled balls to massage them tenderly, sending little feather-like spasms of ecstasy through him that excited him even further.
Sally, watching at the door, was afraid she might faint. She wondered, vaguely, if this was the man she had known for so many years, the man whose life she had shared. There seemed to be an unbridgeable gulf between the two of them now, a gulf growing ever wider. And as Kirst began to suck harder on his huge burgeoning cock, as little grunts of delight escaped his trembling lips, she saw him flex his body, raise his loins tighter to her face, then sink back against the small hands she slipped beneath him while she cupped his ass cheeks in her tightly clutching little palms She had a moment of consternation as her husband's enormously erect prick almost disappeared all the way up into the small widely ovaled mouth-my God! the child would choke! Sally thought, and then, maliciously, hoped she would-but at once dismissed the idea, knowing full well that Kirst had obviously long been accustomed to such depraved acts. And now, as the girl continued to suck frantically and Mike wound his hands in her hair, she knew that his balls probably ached now beyond endurance, that the pressure that had built up in the sperm-filled sacs could no longer be contained, and that he was going to cum-to shoot his hot, heavily churning semen into the girl's desperately working throat.
Sally rocked back on her heels, timing herself to the lewd rhythm of Kirst's obscene sucking, Mike's equally obscene thrusting, and then, with an anguish that struck her soul numb, she heard his wild cry: "Aaaaagh! I'm cumming ... Oh, my God! I'm cumming ... " saw his inflated balls smack hard up against the girl's tiny, pointed chin, saw him heave and buck in his final climax as the hot white sperm shot through his shaft to spew forth in long, hotly jetting streams between the girl's widely ovaled lips.
Kirst swirled the white hot liquid in her mouth, then swallowed rapidly, still sucking, as if she must extract each final drop from his rapidly deflating penis.
It was only then that Sally let out the scream of a wounded animal and then, as if to lick her wounds, turned and fled.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sally had no idea how she found her way through the darkened house and into the cool air of the outdoors. She only knew that it was a relief after the horror of what she had experienced-the shock of seeing her own husband performing vile, lewd-and yes, perverted-acts with the young Danish au pair girl. A gentle wind blew across her face, and she wandered out across the lawn to the swimming pool. She sat on the edge of it for awhile, trying to force her mind to go blank. But it was no use; the sight of her own husband thrashing and bucking in his climax, as he spurted his seminal juices deep into that young girl's throat seemed graven indelibly on her tortured brain; the sound of his animal-like groaning assaulted her ears continually.
She felt, indeed, like a wounded animal, and a sharp stab of pain seemed to split her being, as a bolt of thunder splits the mighty oak in two. There were times, sitting there on the cold, impersonal tiles, when she wondered whether her life was still worth living, when she decided it wasn't, and when she-vowed to throw herself into the murky waters of the pool in front of her. Yet the last vestige of her inner strength restrained her. She had been hurt and humiliated, God knows, she had already born more than any one woman should have to bear in a lifetime. Yet the final humiliation of death at her own hand, the ignominy of suicide would have been the final disgrace. No, she would live.
But how? Where? Sally looked at the huge dark hulk of it, looming behind her, shuddering at the thought of her husband and the young blonde, their bodies still entwined in some lewd clasp of copulation, on the bed in the upstairs room. She would have to go somewhere. The faint blush of pink stretched across the eastern sky told her she would have to go soon. She rose to her feet, and began to circle the pool, cudgeling her brain, trying desperately to sort things out.
She grew a trifle cold, and hugged her thin cotton dress around her, and when she still shivered, she took refuge from the nipping wind in the shelter of the patio. She paced back and forth there, listening to her dull, plodding footsteps that seemed, incredibly, to come from far away. With a start, she realized she was in her stocking feet, and then she remembered that she had kicked her shoes off when she entered the house in such haste, remembered, with a bitter, mocking laugh, that she had thought Mike dead. "And Kirst, too," she told herself, with a wry grin.
She thought of creeping into the silent structure, climbing the stairs to gather up her highheeled pumps. She might even rummage around there for some of her own clothes. But her clothes were in that chamber of horrors, that evil enclave where life as she had known it had been destroyed. No, she decided, she would never return to the scene of her husband's lewd, blatant infidelity.
If not, then what could she do?"
She sat down heavily on a wicker chair, forcing herself to face some sort of reality. Well, first things first, she decided. And the first thing to do was to get away from here. So far, so good, she told herself, with a little tinge of pride at her inscrutable logic. Second thing? To decide how. She felt in her pocket and found the key to the car, as well as to the house, although she had no recollection of dropping them there. Fine! She would drive off into the night. As to where she would go, well, there would be time to decide that once she'd started. With a glance over her shoulder, she saw the moon still high-she had made her final decision. She would go now.
She picked her way across the lawn, caught her stocking on a rosebush, heard the sound of tearing nylon, felt the eerie tickle of a stocking popping, heard herself say "Damn" and then began to laugh hysterically at her concern over a run in her stocking when she had so much else to worry about. She was still laughing uncontrollably when she reached the car and opened the door.
Once inside, and in front of the steering wheel, she sternly admonished herself to stop such silliness. "Now is no time for nonsense," she said aloud, and then, nonsensically, began to repeat the words, turning them into a little tuneless song. The words floated on the air, and then Sally, with a sudden change of feeling, became serious again. She was in the car, now, she told herself. She must go somewhere. Where that would he was still impossible to decide. Nevertheless, with a determined sense of purpose, she started the car, drove forward a few yards, turned into a driveway, backed out and headed away from the house-"forever" she told herself.
At the corner, Sally stopped, wondering which way to go, shrugged indifferently and then spun the wheel to the right. When she found herself in the center of town, she speeded up the little car; no sense in being seen around here, at this time of night-or was it morning? Yet who would see her? The streets were deserted, the shops and offices dark and shuttered. Still, there was always the off-chance that someone would recognize her car, wonder about her. It was best to drive through as quickly as possible, ducking her head, too.
Beyond the town, and on the highway, a terrible feeling of drowsiness began to overcome her. It occurred to her that she'd gone without sleep for hours, days perhaps. And the terrible events of those days-Mona's accident, the shocking scene of Mike and their new au pair girl locked in a lewd, naked embrace that still seared her mind-weighed her down with unbearable fatigue. In spite of herself, she began to nod; she managed to keep her eyes open only by the greatest effort. She would have to get some sleep; that was all there was to it.
She thought of pulling up to the side of the road, but decided against it. What if she were discovered there? The thought came to her, then, of a motel, on the outskirts of the next town; she headed the car in that direction.
As Sally approached the Midway Motel, she saw that their sign was still lit, and that under it was the twinkling red neon which read "Vacancy." She breathed a sigh of relief. What if the place had been full?
But as she turned the car into the parking lot, her eyes swept over the others there, vaguely noting the license plates. All seemed to be from this county, or the neighboring one, and Sally realized, with a little shudder of revulsion, that few, if any, travelers slept behind the closed shutters, beyond the double-locked doors. Guests at the Midway Motel, she understood, were the straying businessmen of the local communities, out for a night on the town, catering to their carnal instincts, relishing the obscene word-fucking. The place was filled with a lot of dirty old men, screwing their secretaries. Just the way Mike had been screwing the au pair. Well, she certainly wasn't going to stay here!
With a screech of tires, a revving of the motor that she hoped would throw the fear of God into all the wicked creatures thrashing about beneath the heaving bucking bodies of equally evil creatures, Sally backed the car out and turned it down the highway again. She drove through the next town, which was small, and where she was afraid she was known, and on to the largest one in the valley, where she was less likely to be recognized. She stopped the car in front of the Larson Hotel first, with its dignified, imposing facade that might have been stodgy but proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the place was respectable. She sat in the car for a full five minutes, peering at the gray stones, the arched windows, the heavy oaken door. She'd come here several times with some of the friends she played bridge with every week. They'd only gone into the dining-room, but still, they'd had to walk through the ornate gilt lobby to get there. And might not some bellboy, some elevator operator lounging outside his empty car recognize her, even come over to say, with a bewildered expression, "Good evening, Mrs. Hole." No, Sally thought, she couldn't risk this place.
Then where, she asked herself, could she go? She thought of another hotel in town, less plush, but just as respectable, and decided against that, too. And then it occurred to her that there was still a third place, down near the railroad tracks, a grimy, almost ramshackle structure, with a couple of soiled leather chairs, seats split, springs sagging, for the few down-at-the-heels traveling salesmen, the vendors of cheap knicknacks who sometimes stayed there. Sally shuddered a little at the thought of spending the rest of the night there herself-what if there were fleas? or bedbugs? and yet she knew that she had to go somewhere, had to rest for a few hours. Her nerves were cracking, her body aching with fatigue. She had no other choice.
She drove through the narrow, rubbish-choked streets of the town's poorer quarters, found the hotel without difficulty, and parked her car in the lot behind the building. She noted with satisfaction that there were few others there. Anyway, she assured herself, no one she knew would be coming here; no one would recognize her car.
She stepped from the car and closed the door softly, furtively, feeling guilty, and a little afraid. She must look a sight, she told herself, clothes crumpled, probably grassstained, too. And she had no luggage! What if she were refused a room, what if the desk clerk became suspicious, seeing her like this, and called the police? What would she do then?
She was on the verge of tears again-she couldn't go on, she just couldn't-oh, dear God! why hadn't she thrown herself in the swimming pool as she'd wanted to?-and then she remembered that in some hotels you could just pay in advance, if you had no luggage. That way, no one questioned you, and when she glanced again at the squalid place she'd chosen, she was sure it would be all right. If only ... She checked her wallet. Yes, it would be all right. She had plenty of money to pay for a room, and money to buy a couple of drinks, too, or even a bottle of whisky to take to her room. Certainly they would have a bottle of whisky here, and she most certainly could use it.
She turned back to lock the car, and caught sight of her small overnight case wedged under the seat. How on earth had it gotten there? She couldn't remember putting it in the car, but, on the other hand, she couldn't remember that she'd even taken it out, when she'd gone to Mona's. Well, it didn't matter. It was there and it would certainly make things easier for her.
She opened the door, picked up the case, slammed the door and locked it. That she went into the hotel.
It was shabbier than it seemed from the outside, with walls caked with dirt, the floors seemingly unswept, the curtains tattered. But there was no other place for Sally to go-and anyway, she thought, I don't look so hot myself. She threw her shoulders back and smoothed her dress, and padded across the floor in her stocking feet-why hadn't she opened the overnight case? Maybe she had another pair of shoes in there. In any case, she told herself, beginning to giggle, it was too late to do anything about that. Better brazen the whole thing out.
At the desk, she put down her suitcase and cleared her throat to attract the attention of the young man slumped behind it. He gave a start and looked up, blinking at her behind his horn-rimmed glasses like a daytime owl, then shoved a registration form at her. Sally thought for a moment before signing it, then wrote in large clear handwriting, "Mrs. A. Fox, Bakersfield, Ca.," hoping there was an Bakersfield, Ca., hoping that the man wouldn't ask to see any credit cards, any driver's license. She felt a little giddy when he said, "I hope you'll like your room, Mrs. Fox," confident enough to say, "I wonder if I might get a drink around here. Oh, I know your bar is closed ... " she looked around, and saw, as she suspected, that there wasn't any, "but perhaps I could get a bottle."
"Sure can, Mrs. Fox," the clerk said. Just then he glanced down and noticed that she was shoeless.
Sally giggled. "My feet hurt so, you know. New shoes. You know what it's like. Blisters on my heels," she wheeled around, pointing towards her ankles. "Please excuse me." She opened her handbag, took out her wallet, withdrew a twenty dollar bill. "Blisters sometimes get infected, you know," she said. She felt the nervous tension rising within her again, knew that she would soon break down once more in hysterical giggles, knew that she had to-had to-get away-get upstairs, calm herself with quantities of Scotch if, hopefully, that was what the hotel would provide. The desk clerk disappeared; when he came back he had a bottle of Scotch-thank God, Sally breathed-in his hands. He handed it to her, as she gave him the money. He started to look for change, but Sally wiggled her head magnanimously at him, said, just as magnanimously, "Keep the change," and picked up the bottle in one hand, the overnight case in the other, and headed for the elevator. "I can find my way," she called back. "Don't worry about me."
"Oh, that's okay, Mrs. Fox," the clerk called after her. "You just get a good rest. And thanks," he said, waving the bill in his hands. "Thanks very much."
Sally found the room without too much trouble, opened the door and went in. It was pretty awful, she told herself. But it could have been worse. She put her case down and went into the bathroom. That was pretty bad, too. Still, there were fresh towels, a cake of soap, and when she turned the water faucet, plenty of hot water.
She found her toothbrush and brushed her teeth, passed a washcloth over her face, and then, without the energy to search through her small bag for her nightgown stripped to the skin and crawled between the sheets.
The bottle of Scotch stood on the night table beside the bed; Sally reached for it, twisted the top off, and poured a couple of fingers-Hell, she thought, that's a whole hand-into the tumbler she'd brought from the bathroom. She drank it quickly-it felt so good, so warm, so loving going down, poured herself another, then began to sip at it more slowly.
She leaned back against the pillow, not bothering to turn off the bedside light. The whisky made her perspire-it must be at least a hundred in here, she thought-and so she pulled the top sheet back and lay on the bed, reviewing everything that had happened in the past few hours.
She saw the whole sordid scene again-was it the hundredth time she had watched it in her mind?-that lewd, lascivious fucking of the young Danish girl, with Mike sprawled on top of her, sucking her insanely-or even worse, Mike's rigid cock plunging deep into Kirst's widely ovaled mouth as she sucked him. She gulped down the rest of the drink and poured herself another. Her head began to swim, which didn't seem strange, since it had been making a habit of doing that, but this time, Sally felt a queer sensation in her body, too, a warm, blissful tingle that spread, featherlike, throughout her, descended on little cat feet to her vagina below. As she saw again, in her mind's eye, and with unabated horror, the whole obscene picture she had witnessed such a short time before, as she saw her own husband, her own dear, devoted Mike ease his blood-gorged penis into the hungry, widely ovaled mouth of the young au pair girl, a twitch of excitement rippled through her own body. She felt drops of sticky fluid oozing from her own softly pulsating pussy, filtering through the gold silk of her pubic hair to trickle down between her thighs. A warm throbbing ache sent small waves of pleasure darting through her blood. They made the tiny bud of her clitoris tingle, and Sally, without realizing it, touched it, tentatively at first, and then began to stroke it deliberately.
At the desk, the night clerk scratched his head. "Well," he said to himself, "I've seen some real kooks in my time-some real weirdos-but boy, this one sure takes the cake." He scratched his head again, muttering "Blisters on my heels! No shoes, for God's sake, and she says she's got blisters on her heels." He pulled at his ear, wondering where she'd come from, what she was doing here. "Not bad looking," was the next thought that crossed his mind, and then it occurred to him that she had been well-dressed-except, of course, that her clothes were as mussed as if she'd been sleeping in them. "Probably has," he told himself. But where?
The thought began to gnaw at him, like an aching tooth, an exposed nerve. God damn, it wasn't any of his business, was it? He looked at the register that Sally had signed. "Mrs. A. Fox," he read. Now what the hell kind of name was that? And how the hell did she think it up? Something pretty strange was going on here. Maybe he ought to go up and investigate a little, find out what was going on. Wasn't that what he was here for? Not just to hold down the desk, take care of formalities, but to make sure that nothing happened in the hotel, either. Jesus, he'd better go up right away! No mistake about that!
On tip-toe he climbed the stairs, crept down the hall to Sally's-"Mrs. Fox's"-room. Dropping to his knees before the locked door, he put his eye to the keyhole.
Sally went on, almost mindlessly at first, stroking the small, tingling bud of her tiny pink clitoris. Suddenly, in a moment of anguish and guilt, it came over her what-just what-she was doing. Hot, scalding tears sprang to her eyes, and she moaned, "Oh, dear God! What's the matter with me? I'm just as wicked as they are!" She muffled her sobs in the pillow, blubbering "I'm evil and vile and filthy. Oh, dear God, I'm even worse than they are." Yet she was no more able to stop herself than she had been able to walk away from the bedroom where all this ... this ... awfulness ... had taken place. "I'm evil and vile," she told herself again, but the dull, tantalizing ache of her pussy maddened her, and she went on and on, stroking and teasing her tiny, sensuously pulsating clitoris into a steel-like hardness. Electrifying bolts of pleasure seemed to shoot through her at her own magic touch, and she felt herself quivering like a violin string tuned too high.
Watching through the keyhole, the desk clerk dropped his slack jaw wide in amazement. Jesus! He'd been right. Something sure was going on here. His squinting eye took in the magnificence of the woman's nudely reclining body, spread out across the bed like a patient on an operating table. Those tits of hers were sure something, he told himself, milk-white mounds, big and firm and bouncing now against her chest. And that lusciously curved ass of hers, too! Boy, it would be great to get his hands into the soft, pink flesh, knead them and squeeze them and cup them in his own huge hands. He'd like to run his fingers up and down her hot little cunt too, maybe even play with her asshole, maybe ... ! His limp penis seemed to come to life at the obscene thought, to jerk into a hard, twitching rod inside his pants. Jeez, he thought, running his tongue over his thick, slobbering lips, she's getting me all excited.
On the bed, Sally moaned quietly as her fingers moved of their own accord against the tiny throbbing tip of her clitoris. Her blood raced now, pulsed with a pleasure new to her. And, her mind added, irresistible, and her other hand roamed across the nakedly sensitive flesh of her thighs, up, up, up, tracing the gentle, curving landscape of her belly, to reach the full, firm roundness of her breasts, to come to rest at last on one taut, blood-red nipple. Totally lost, enfolded in a cloak of pure sensual delight, she let her legs so slack, and they parted slightly so that the man at the keyhole saw, with lewd pleasure, the thin golden triangle of pubic fleece between them, the milk-white, sensuous skin of her inner thighs. Christ, he thought, drawing in his breath with a low, lewd whistling sound, this bitch was something. Better than he'd ever seen before, at least in a flea-bag like this!
Something startled him-was someone coming?-and he jumped up, glancing anxiously over his shoulder. But there was no one there, and he sank to his knees once more, once more fastened an eye to the small aperture in the door.
Sally started too at the sharp, sudden sound. Oh, my God! Was someone there? Was someone watching her fingering herself-wicked, vile, vicious Sally Hole? The words flashed through her tortured brain yet she knew, somehow, that she didn't care. Let them watch! She was lost, thoroughly lost, as evil as any or all the others, and since that was so, nothing more mattered than extracting every ounce of pleasure from her tense, aching body.
Her legs splayed farther apart, so that now the pink, fleshy lips of her openly throbbing cunt were clearly visible to the desk clerk, the narrow, hair-lined slit laid out before him like some sensuous, sexually blossoming flower. Then Sally parted the pink, wetly glistening edges there, and an exploratory finger wormed slowly into her moist, throbbing cuntal passage, as her pleasure mounted to an almost unbearable ecstasy. She slipped another finger into the hotly burning cavern, then a third, and the moist, tender flesh up between her legs closed greedily around them, sucking and swallowing them eagerly up inside, while at the keyhole the desk clerk at his vigil, froze with vicarious pleasure at the depraved exhibition presented to him through his tiny window.
A shudder of ecstasy racked Sally's lust-incited body, and then she felt a sudden gush of warm, moist liquid flooding from deep inside the narrow sheath of her vagina, seeping forth over her lewdly impaling fingers. She groaned heavily and grinding her buttocks around crazily on the mattress, moved her open cunt lips back and forth on them, back and forth, in and out, deeper and deeper. With a sudden, depraved impulse, she tore her hand from the button-hard nipple of her breast, plunged a finger into her mouth to lick and lubricate it briefly, then trailed it down her sides. She reached around under her full ripe buttocks to the narrow valley between the two whitely trembling cheeks and found at last the tiny puckered hole of her anus. With a little grunt of lewd abandon, she inserted her finger into her tightly resisting rectum, withdrew it at the pain, tried again, this time burrowing in slowly until the small rubbery ring surrounding it seemed to pop open, sucking her finger hungrily up into its spongy depths.
Almost mad now with the excitement of her vile abuse of her own body, Sally rocked back and forth between her deeply imbedded fingers as she stimulated the sensitive flesh of her vagina and anus with the twinly driving probes of her hands.
"Oh, God!" she thought, as her lust-drenched body quivered beneath the double assault. "I can't stand it any longer. I CAN'T! I'M GOING TO EXPLODE!" Her wail of shock and wonder split the air: "Aaaaaaagh I'm making myself cum! Oh, my God! I'M MAKING MYSELF CUM!"
She strained her dually absorbing passages hard down against her rhythmically fucking fingers and then everything seemed to snap and her back arched in a quick lewdly grinding convulsion and the exquisite joy of fulfillment crackled through her, sending sparks showering like fireworks wildly racing through her blood. They hovered there for a long instant, burning with a pleasure so intense it was almost pain, and then slowly, lingeringly, the flame subsided. Sally lay back, drained of all strength as her passion ebbed, and a deep contentment settled over her. Later, as she came back to reality, a shudder of horror shook her slender body, and sharp, heat-rending sobs convulsed her. "Oh, God!" she moaned. "What have I done? What ... WHAT?" She shook her head and rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand, brushing away a scalding tear. And why, she asked herself. And WHY?
She could find no answer, and at last, weary to the point of complete exhaustion, she turned over and fell asleep while outside the peeping night clerk struggled to his feet, a lewd grin on his rat-like face, and hurried rapidly down the hall to relieve himself with his already hotly itching palm....
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sally awoke and looked around at the monotonous print of the peeling paper on the walls, the ghastly, torn lampshade in some hideous, dull color, the blistered paint of the woodwork. Where was she? And how did she get here? She propped herself up on one elbow, peering at the entire depressing interior. She noticed the half-empty bottle of Scotch on the cigarette-scarred and burned bedside table-where did that come from?-and then decided a drink might help her straighten everything out.
She swung her feet around, off the bed, and on to the floor, and stood there, teetering for a minute. The glass beside the bottle of Scotch looked filthy; but there should be another, a clean one, in the bathroom she thought. She pattered across the frayed and tattered carpet to it, pushed the door open, and caught sight of herself in the mirror. She let out a little gasp of horror.
Her lovely blonde hair hung in limp, stringy strands around her shoulders, hunched forward a little now in shame. A pallor had settled over her usually glowing, cream-colored skin; beneath her eyes were bags that she thought-laughing a little at her own joke-she could pack.
That reminded her she'd brought her overnight case with her-at least she thought she had-and she trotted back into the bedroom to fetch it. Rummaging through it, she found creams and lotions and make-up, and it comforted her. Bad as things were-and Sally knew they were very, very bad-she could at least make herself presentable. That would raise her morale and help her to face the things that must be done. More important, it would help her to face what she had already done to herself with her own wickedly moving fingers.
The thought of her lewd, abandoned exploits of the night before, her shameless fingering of her own gratefully accepting vagina, sent little shudders of disgust through her. She felt dirty, that was it. The insides of her thighs were sticky from the fluids of excitement that had been released when she reached her climax, but in addition her entire body seemed to her soiled, caked with filth. Looking at her drawn, pallid face in the mirror, she wondered again what had possessed her, what had driven her to debase herself in such a way. Her self-contempt seemed to etch deep, indelible lines in her face, and she shuddered again, feeling trapped in this squalid room which was part of some nightmare from which she would never awaken, never escape.
She wanted to wash herself, to scrub away the guilt that clung to her, although she knew she never could. Still, a bath would at least cleanse her symbolically, and so she drew the water into the chipped enamel tub, and even found some perfumed bubble bath that she whipped up into a soothing, white foam.
She stepped into the bath and lay back, soaking herself in the luxurious warmth. Her spirits began to revive and she found herself able to think more clearly. Just as she had planned each step so logically the night before-or so it had seemed-getting into the car, driving away, finding a place to stay-she now plotted a way back.
There was nothing she could do about what happened-oh, she knew that. She knew, too, that she would never forget it. Still, she could brush it aside, sweep it under the rug, pretend most of the time it had never happened. It would only be in the middle of the night, when she awoke with a sick sense of shame that the horror would encircle her trembling body again.
But this was daylight, Sally told herself with forced cheerfulness. And now was the time to get dressed-fortunately, she even had a clean bra and a fresh pair of panties in her little overnight case-paint her mouth a brisk, defiant red and go out and face the world.
She stepped from her bath, drying herself with the threadbare towel provided by the Brooks Hotel, and pulled on stockings, panties, and her bra. She looked around for her shoes, and couldn't find them. That seemed ridiculous. Surely she had worn shoes! She pushed the bed away from the wall and looked under it, searched through her suitcase-it seemed absurd for her to have put them there, but still-and when she couldn't find the shoes, her stomach seemed to curl in panic. What had she done with them? Where were they?
She sat down on the edge of the rumpled bed and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, going through the events of the night before, step-by-step. No, she thought. Not all the events. That was far too painful. But she would begin with the drive through the night.
The towns and villages flashed past again, as she had seen them through the darkness. She remembered now parking the car, coming into the hotel. Shoeless? Why yes, of course. Well, since she'd come in that way, she'd go out that way, too. And what name had she given at the desk, given to that repulsive little man there, with yellow teeth and shifty eyes that seemed to undress her? She wracked her brain, and then it came back to her. She'd called herself Mrs. A. Fox. She giggled a little, wondering what the "A" was for. Then she stood up. Time, she thought, for Mrs. Fox to quit the premises.
But was it? Where would she go? She'd have to buy shoes, of course, that was the first step. And she'd have to have something to eat. Good God! When had she last had a meal? And then?
And then she would see a lawyer, she decided. There was no going back to her own house, there was no going back to her husband, not after what she had seen the night before. The marriage was over, finished, kaput. She wept a little at the thought, for herself, her children, even for Mike. Then she picked up the telephone and gave the desk clerk-it seemed to be a new one this time, the day clerk, no doubt-Art Pitts' number, back in Woodland Hills.
The clerk seemed to have trouble getting the call through, but Sally had made it clear to him she wanted to speak to Art, and no one else. "Yes," she insisted. "It's a personal call. Yes, to Mr. Art Pitts. No, I don't know his business address ... " Oh, God! She couldn't even remember the name of the law firm he worked with. "No, I don't even know the name of his firm," she repeated to the clerk. "But you'll certainly find him listed in the Yellow Pages. Under what?" Sally sounded a little incredulous at the question. Well, she thought, she couldn't expect everyone to know Art Pitts. "Why, he'll be listed under the heading of 'Attorneys'," she finally explained.
She wondered vaguely if she was doing the right thing, calling Art and not some other lawyer she'd never even met. Wouldn't it make for complications, what with Art's being such a good friend to both her and Mike? She shook her head. No, it would be all right. And it would make things so much easier for her, not only because Art was just about the best lawyer in the county, but because he was so damned nice. Sally would be able to talk to him, spill out the whole sordid story to him, since he was a friend, and a sympathetic one at that, whereas she was sure she could never bring herself to reveal what had happened to a perfect stranger. Art would be okay, she decided, and patting herself on the back a little, she added to herself that for once she, Sally Hole, had done the right thing.
She heard the telephone ring in Art's office, then heard the receptionist answer with "Larson, Windell, Pitts and Murphy," remembered then the name of Art's firm, and heard the clerk from downstairs asking for Mr. Arthur Pitts.
"Who is calling, please?"
There was a pause as the clerk checked the hotel register. "Uh," he cleared his throat. "It's Mrs.
Fox."
"Who?"
"Mrs. A. Fox!"
There was a pause, and then the receptionist said, "I'm sorry. Mr. Pitts is in conference right now."
She was about to hang up when Sally broke in. "It's Sally Hole," she said, "That's right, Hole. Mrs. Mike Hole. Please, please, let me speak to Mr. Pitts. It's, well, it's a matter of life and death."
The receptionist hesitated, obviously trying to make up her mind as to whether or not this was some sort of joke, then with a sigh said, "One moment, please," while Sally held her breath. But an instant later she said, "Mr. Pitts is on the other line. Can you hold?"
"Yes," Sally said with a sigh of relief. And after what seemed forever, she heard Art Pitts' voice and she began to cry a little bit and she said, "Art, oh Art! This is Sally. Sally Hole. I'm in terrible trouble, Art ... " she sobbed audibly, now, " ... terrible trouble, and I've got to see you, I've got to see you right away."
"My God, Sally!" Art sounded shocked, but he sounded sympathetic, too, Sally thought gratefully. "Are you in jail or something?"
Sally shook her head. "No. No, it's nothing like that. I've just got to see you, Art."
"Are you home?"
"No," Sally said. "I'm over in Kernville. In a hotel. The Brooks hotel."
"My God! What the hell are you doing in a dump like that?" And when Sally began to cry again, Art's voice took on a note of concern. "Sally, it's not a drug charge or anything like that, is it? You haven't been picked up for possession...?"
"No. NO! Of course not, Art. There's nothing like that."
"What is it, then?"
"Oh, Art, I can't tell you on the phone. I've got to see you. Please ... " her voice trailed off in a little whimper. "Okay, Sally," Art's voice was friendly again, warm, understanding. "Can you be at my office at three this afternoon? I'll ask Miss Leland to cancel all other appointments."
"I'll be there," Sally promised. And she added, in a small, weak voice, "Thank you, Art."
Mike Hole stretched and yawned and opened his eyes, still rubbing the sleep from them. From downstairs he heard Kirst's cheerful little voice, singing a simple, childlike tune. Great kid, he thought. Jesus! Where had she learned to screw like that! Boy, she seemed to have had plenty of practice. But somehow, when they'd fucked the night before, she'd made him feel it was the first time for her, made him feel she'd never sucked cock before, that no man had ever licked that tight little pink pussy of hers. Well, Mike thought, other men might have done it before he got around to her, but he'd be damned if he'd let any other man do it from now on. God, no! He'd keep the kid so busy she wouldn't have time for anyone else. Besides, by the time he got through screwing her silly, she wouldn't even want another man. He looked at his watch. God damn, if it weren't so late, he'd slip her some right now, pull those little nylon panties of hers right off her, slide the big, bulbous head of his prick right between the hot little curl-fringed pussy lips of her cunt, worm and burrow and snake into that tight little passage until his cock hit the back of it, and then he would fuck in and out while her warm, wet belly juices gushed around his pistoning cock ... oh, Jesus!
He turned over, shook himself and passed his hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. God damn! It was great to think about it. And even if there wasn't time for it now, there'd be plenty of time tonight. He rolled from the bed and moved lightly across the shaggy carpet to the bathroom.
As he soaped himself under the warm spray of the shower, he began to whistle, almost unconsciously, the tune Kirst had been singing downstairs. God! What a gorgeous little ass she had! He could almost see it now, those white, sensuous little half melons that wiggled provocatively. Well, tonight he'd see that luscious bottom, that was for sure. And he'd arrange things better, too. None of this going out for dinner, like the last two nights, wasting all that time when the two of them could have been doing a hell of a lot better things, right here at home. No, tonight he'd get back early, have a couple of drinks-yes, and let Kirst have a couple, too-then broil steaks out on the patio, maybe. And it wouldn't be long before he'd have the little au pair on the coral-colored couch downstairs in the living room, have her stripped of whatever sexy little outfit she was wearing ... ! God, what was she wearing! Well, he would soon find out.
He dried himself, rubbing the fluffy pink towel briskly across his strong, muscular shoulders, his chest, his trim, flat stomach-not for nothing did he exercise every day-his flanks, his sinewy thighs. Now he spread his legs, and stopped over slightly, began to massage his pubic area, patting the dangling little circles of his testicles, his huge, limp cock. Jesus, he thought, that little kid had taken the whole thing into her mouth last night, right up to the hilt. He patted his cock again, until the beginnings of an erection began to show. Hey, not now, he warned himself, thinking of Kirst. Wait until tonight.
He hurried back into the bedroom, glanced at his watch again-it was later that he'd thought-and pulled on his clothes. He was still knotting his tie as he went out down the hall.
Kirst's singing was louder, now, and the smell of frying bacon, of fresh coffee, wafted up the staircase, made his mouth water. Boy, so this was playing house or whatever she'd called it. Well, whatever she'd called it, it was great. His heart was singing as he started down the staircase.
Halfway down, he picked up a small alligator shoe, strewn casually on one step, a second pump on the next one. Kirst must have dropped it there last night, he thought. He'd have to speak to her about such carelessness. He might have tripped over the damn things! He shoved them under his arm and went into the kitchen.
"Hi, kid!" he said cheerfully.
"Hi, Mike!" Kirst grinned at him impishly. "Is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine," Mike said. "Except that you left your shoes on the stairs last night, and I nearly fell and broke my neck on them, coming down this morning." He grabbed the girl, pulling her close, and she ground her hot little cunt up against his crotch. He whirled her around and gave her a playful pat-a mock spank-on her jiggling little buttocks. Kirst squealed and clutched her ass-cheeks protectively. "Better not do it again," Mike warned, "or you'll get one that's for real."
"I won't do it again," Kirst promised. "Anyway," she said with a pout, "I didn't do it last time."
"Didn't do what last time?"
"Didn't leave my shoes on the stairs." She looked at Mike. Her eyes were serious; the game was over. "Those aren't my shoes," she said. "You ought to know that. I wouldn't wear alligator shoes. That's being cruel to animals. And besides," she said with a sigh of longing, "alligator shoes are so expensive."
"Then whose ... " Mike began. He stopped short, a sick feeling creeping over him, settling somewhere around his stomach, as the memory of an argument he'd had a short time ago with Sally came back to him, smashing into his consciousness with the full force of a hurricane.
"Sally," he had said, looking up from the bills he'd been paying, "what the hell is this thing from Newton's?"
"I guess it's a bill, Sally had said.
"Oh, for God's sake!" He had begun to lose his temper. "I know it's a bill! But eighty-seven dollars?"
"Maybe," Sally said, looking innocent.
"Sally! Eighty-seven dollars for one pair of shoes!"
"I guess so," Sally said contritely. "Of course, that included the tax."
Mike had moaned, half in anguish, half in disbelief. "You couldn't have. No one could have. 'Even with the tax'," he mimicked. "It just isn't possible."
"Oh, yes," Sally had said, disputing him. "They were eighty-seven dollars. I remember now."
"My God! What were they made of, for Christ's sake?"
"Alligator," Sally had said. "They're my new alligator shoes!"
So Sally had alligator shoes. And now Mike was standing here in the kitchen, facing the little kid he'd fucked silly the night before, holding his wife's alligator shoes in his hands. The alligator shoes he'd found on the stairs. Which meant that Sally had been in the house last night, Sally had been up those stairs-well, at least she'd been half-way up-and Sally had undoubtedly seen him with his face pressed up between the young Danish girl's open thighs, his tongue lapping hotly at her little pink pussy. Jesus!
He sat down heavily, knowing, even without Kirst's frightened look, that his face had gone dead white. She poured a cup of coffee for him, urged him to drink it ... "You'll feel better," she said ... but he pushed it from him, afraid to take it in his trembling hands. "Is ... is something wrong?" she asked at last.
Mike shook his head. Everything was wrong, he thought, but it sure wouldn't help to tell Kirst about it.
She still stared at him. "Are you sick, Mike?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm sick." He pulled himself to his feet, moved heavily across the kitchen, towards the door. "I guess I'd better be going," he said. He started to say "See you later," but thought better of it.
"When will you be back, Mike?"
"I don't know," he said. And when Kirst looked as if she might cry, he added, "I really don't know. But it will probably be late. So you just go ahead and fix yourself some dinner when you get hungry. Don't wait for me."
"Will you be very late?"
"I might be. You go to bed, too. Don't wait up.
"Will you come back sometime, Mike?" Kirst's eyes were wide now, serious, a little frightened.
"Yes," he said. "I'll come back sometime."
At his office, Mike put through a call to his attorneys, Larson, Windell, Pitts and Murphy. He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, as he heard the phone ringing at the other end, felt the freezing fear-and disgust, too-creep through his very marrow, turning it to slush and snow. He asked for Art Pitts, when the phone was answered at last, and when wondered, in panic, what he would say to him. Well, he had to say something, he knew that, and he had to see him, too. Because he, Mike Hole, was in the middle of as nasty a little mess as you would care to see. And because Art Pitts was the only person who might-just might-be able to get him out of it.
"Hello, Art," he said at last, when the receptionist had finally said, "Mr. Pitts, sir."
"Hello, Art, this is ... " Art cut him off with a chuckle. "I know. A. Fox."
God! What a hell of a time for Art to kid around. "Can it, Art," Mike snarled. "That's not funny."
"Sorry," Art apologized.
"Look, Art," Mike hurried on, hardly hearing. "I've got to see you. Soon. It's serious. Damned serious."
"I know it is," Art said, sardonically.
"Well, then, can I see you this afternoon?"
"God, no, Mike. Not this afternoon. I just couldn't see you this afternoon. I've got a very, very important engagement."
Mike's voice rose impatiently. "Well, this evening, then. I've got to see you, Art. I've just got to."
That's for sure, Art thought. He struggled to keep his own voice level, struggled to sound thoughtful. "I know, Mike," he soothed him. "And I'm sorry. But this afternoon is out."
"Well, this evening, then. I could come to your office, you know. Or I could meet you at your apartment, if you'd like."
I wouldn't like that at all, Art thought. Aloud he said, "Afraid that's out, too, Mike. I've got plans for tonight, too."
"Well, when then?" Mike shouted angrily.
"Cool it, Mike. Cool it. Things can't be as bad as all that."
"No?"
"No. And I'll see you tomorrow morning. Here, in my office. Okay?" He heard Mike's mumbled assent, and put the telephone down. He really did have big plans for the evening, he thought to himself. He sure as hell did.
CHAPTER NINE
It was almost quarter past three when Sally opened the heavy paneled door to the offices of Larson Wendell, Pitts and Murphy, crept solicitously to the reception desk to announce her name, then sat down, to huddle in one of the enormous leather chairs that graced the waiting room. She hoped Art wouldn't mind too much that she was late. She hadn't meant to be, but she'd had nothing to do, and she'd passed a run-down movie house where an old Gary Cooper film was showing, and she'd always loved Gary Cooper-the way he ambled nonchalantly down the street that way-and so she'd gone in, and the time had passed so quickly that she hadn't even noticed, and then, when the lights went on in the miserable little theater, she'd glanced at her watch and hurried up the aisle, panic-stricken to think she would be late for her appointment. Well, she was glad she'd gone to the movie, she thought defiantly. Even if it meant she'd be late, it had a least taken her mind off her troubles. The thought of those troubles, now, filled her eyes with tears, and she dabbed at them with a crumpled handkerchief as Miss Leland said, smilingly, "Mr. Pitts will see you now," and ushered her into the book-lined office.
Art was standing there, a look of deep sympathy on his face, and as soon as Miss Leland closed the door behind her, he stretched his hands out to Sally, put his arm around her shoulder in a friendly, even fatherly, gesture. "Oh, Sally, my dear," he said gently. "I hate to see you like this. So overwrought. So disturbed. I really hate to see you like this."
The hell I don't, he thought, as he settled her in a deep chair. Could anything fit in better with his plans?
He stared at her. Christ, but she was built! Even the little school-girl outfit she was wearing couldn't hide the shape of her voluptuously formed breasts, the magnificently undulating curves of her sensuous buttocks, the fullness of her hips. Sitting opposite him, relaxed and at ease for the moment, she unconsciously let her legs part slightly, giving Art a glimpse of the milk-white skin of her inner thighs, which showed just above the tops of her dark stockings, their snowy purity heightened by contrast both with the hosiery and the black garters holding it up. Sally shifted in the chair, and now he saw the thin strip of her black nylon panties caught, somehow, in the narrow cleft of her little pussy, saw the fringe of silky pubic fleece straggling out from the sides. Jesus! It sent boiling lava swirling through his loins, turned his balls into tender, throbbing appendages. Sally was a hot little number-yes, she was-and he'd always known it. And he knew, too, that Mike Hole wasn't the man to do justice to such a voluptuous woman.
He'd been aching to remedy that situation ever since he'd met her, and the only thing that had held him back was lack of opportunity.
Well, here was opportunity knocking at his door-or at least sitting in his office. Sally Hole, sobbing out her troubles to him, begging for help. Art Pitts knew just what she needed-and legal advice was only the half of it. Well, he'd give her a little of both.
He leaned forward, speaking softly, soothingly, as if she were a small child. I mustn't frighten her, he told himself. I'll have to win her confidence. He cleared his throat, donning an expression of profound interest, of deep concern, and said, "Now, my dear, perhaps you can tell me what has happened."
He sat back, hands folded piously together, fingertips touching, and Sally burst into fresh sobs. "There, there my dear. Just tell me." He nodded, to show that his heart was wrung by her predicament, then said softly, "I know how painful this is Sally, even how embarrassing for you. But I must know, after all, if I'm to help you. Now mustn't I?"
Sally nodded and wiped her tears away once more. Then in a low voice that was almost a whisper, she launched into an account of what had happened the night before.
Art leaned forward from time to time, to press her on some point she had brought up, to question her about some incident. "Do you mean to tell me that Mike was actually, well, actually ... " he paused, then, avoiding her eyes as if ashamed of what he must say, went on, " ... fucking-please forgive me for "being so blunt, Sally, but we must be frank, be honest with one another if I am to help you ... isn't that so?" And when Sally nodded, he repeated, "Mike was fucking this, this little au pair-what did you say her name was? Kirst?-was fucking her?"
Sally nodded, her face scarlet, her eyes downcast. "That's right," she whispered at last. "That was what he was doing."
Art Pitts got up slowly, walked towards Sally, took her two shoulders in both hands, stroked them gently, then released her. He went around her to the desk, picked up a pad of yellow-lined legal paper and a pencil, went back to his chair, sat down and began to take notes. "Sally," he apologized, "I'm sorry about all this. I know it isn't easy for you but ... " he waved his hand to show how helpless he was, " ... but I must, you know."
"I understand," Sally whispered, almost inaudibly.
"Now you say ... oh, my dear; I hate to press you on this ... but you say Mike was actually sucking this girl up between her thighs, sucking her vagina, sucking her clitoris?"
Sally nodded, too ashamed to speak. But Art noticed with satisfaction that she was becoming slightly itchy, too, as he forced her to describe, in lewd, obscene language, the perverted acts she had witnessed. Well, that was fine, he thought. Just fine. And as his tongue darted out to lick his lips lasciviously, he told himself that this, too, would fit in perfectly with his plans. "And then she ... this girl, Kirst ... she sucked Mike?" he continued.
Sally nodded, eyes closed, too embarrassed to look at the man. "Yes," she whispered. She leaned back in her chair. She felt little sparks, like fire-crackers, exploding in her blood, making her twitch and tingle. Her own pussy seemed to grow warm and moist, to quiver with an odd, unwanted anticipation. Oh, dear God! What was the matter with her? She opened her eyes, and looked up listening to Art.
"Can you tell me about it? Tell me exactly what you saw?"
Sally shook her head. No, I can't she thought. I just can't go on. Surely Art could understand without her having to go into such sordid detail.
Art-it seemed to Sally he must be psychic-suddenly reassured her. "No, you can't. It's too painful for you, Sally. And I have no right to ask it of you." His eyes met hers, and she felt immeasurable gratitude well up within her. Art was a fine, decent, wonderful man! Oh, she had been right to come to him! She'd known it all along.
He placed his hands on her shoulders again, and spoke to her in a calm, soothing tone. "Sally, I'm sure I can help you. But you must trust me. Can you? Will you? After what you've been through, you poor child, I know it must be hard to trust any man. But will you trust me?"
Tears of relief flooded Sally's eyes. "I trust you, Art," she breathed, "I do."
"Very well, then," Art said, brisk and business like now. "We'll have to be practical about some things. First, where are you staying?" And when Sally shook her head he said, "I'll ask Miss Leland to get you a room at the Hadley Arms. It's quiet and comfortable and no one will bother you. You'd better get some rest, my dear, and I'll get to work on your case." He got up, helped Sally up, and ushered her to the door. "And I'll be in touch with you soon," he said. "Very soon."
Sally checked into the hotel, went to her room, and drew a warm bath. After she dressed herself, she called room service and ordered dinner sent up. She was just finishing the lemon tart she'd ordered for dessert, and was sipping a second cup of coffee when the telephone rang. Startled, she picked it up, and was relieved to hear Art Pitts' voice. "Sally, I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Not at all, Art." In fact, she thought, it was comforting to hear from him so soon.
"Are you busy?"
"No. Just having coffee."
"Great. Can you come over here? We could have brandy together, and talk over what's happened since I saw you."
Sally felt a surge of affection for this man. He was so good, she thought. So good. "Of course, Art," she said.
"Fine. I'll be waiting for you at my apartment." Sally put the telephone down, called the desk to order a taxi, and closed the door behind her.
Art was waiting for her when Sally knocked on the door, and he led her into the spacious living room. The lights were low, and there were logs burning in the fireplace and music-some sentimental ballad that Sally vaguely remembered-on the hi-fi. There was a silver tray with bottles and crystal glasses, too, on the marble table in front of the couch, and Art poured them each a stiff drink.
Sally sank back on the couch, relaxed, happier than she'd been in days. She felt comfortable with Art, that was it. And when she finished her drink, and he poured her another, she sipped at that one, too.
She began to feel a little giddy-it must have been the fire, along with the brandy, she thought-and things seemed to melt into one another; the room, the fire, the warmth and comfort, and the relief she felt at having Art Pitts there. Good old Art Pitts; she could trust Art, and Art was going to help her, too. It was funny, Sally reflected; everything had seemed so God awful that morning, and now her world was rosy again. And when Art poured another drink for her, she didn't protest at all, although she knew she was getting a little bit drunk. But it would be all right. Wasn't Art Pitts there to take care of her as her lawyer?
He poured her still another drink, and then he said, diffidently, "Sally dear, I'm going to ask you to do something for me. It's going to be painful, I'm afraid, but it's something that's really quite, quite necessary." He held out his hands to her, helped her to her feet. "You will do it, won't you?" he pleaded.
"Oh, yes," Sally said. Her speech seemed a little slurred, her words a little slushy. She staggered, too, just a little, and Art caught her and helped her across the room and into his study, where he led her to the desk. He took down a couple of large, leather-bound volumes that Sally thought at first were law books, and placed them in front of her.
"It was so difficult for you to talk about-well, about the things you saw last night," he said to Sally, as if apologizing for asking her to, "that I thought it might be easier if I just showed you some pictures of various acts and you can tell me if you saw them doing any of them. We must be very precise when we present our case."
Sally's brain seemed to swim a little. What kind of pictures, for Heaven's sake? And why? They must be legal exhibits, she decided-pictures from the divorce cases Art had handled before. Well maybe it would be easier than her having to describe everything in complete detail.
He put his arm around her, as if to give her courage, and flipped the book open to a photograph of a young girl with her legs spread wide, exposing the full plane of her open young vagina to the gleefully smiling face of a man just inches above it. Sally's breath choked in her throat, and her heart began to race, as Art's arm tightened around her shoulder. "Was this what you saw last night?", he asked.
Sally nodded. "Yes," she whispered. It was lewd, disgusting, and it made her stomach churn, her very bones seemed to melt. But also, in spite of its lewdness, it sent little pin pricks of excitement rippling slowly up between her legs, an excitement she had never known before.
Art felt the quiver that passed through her body, knew that it signaled the beginning tide of passion, one that would soon be beyond control. She's getting hot, he thought, and told himself, smugly, that it had been a whole lot easier than he had expected. His best friend, Mike Hole's wife, was almost ready to fuck, and God knows, he'd been ready since the moment she walked in.
He dug his fingers strongly into her shoulders now and Sally gasped at the sudden pressure as he forced her around to face him. His hands slid down over the gently curving mounds of her thighs, pulled inward against the sensuous half moons of her undulating buttocks, until he felt the throbbing warmth of her cunt pressing tightly against his pelvis.
Through the thin fabric of her skirt, Sally felt the growing hardness of Art Pitts' burgeoning, stiffening cock. She squirmed backward, knowing instinctively that she must somehow escape. Yet she was powerless to move, and when she opened her mouth to protest, she found she could form no words, and merely began to moan quietly.
Art pressed closer, stroking her thighs more insistently now, while his bulging cock, enclosed within his trousers, nevertheless pressed, twitching and jerking, against her legs. With a swift, sharp movement, he bent his face to Sally, fastened his mouth on hers, forced his tongue between her lips, on, deep inside, almost to her throat, and held her, gasping for breath now, in a long, wet kiss.
Little flickers of fire seemed to sputter up Sally's spine, spreading out through all her limbs in a new, wonderful thrill. Oh, it was wicked, this thing she was doing. But it was good, too. And how could she be blamed, after what Mike had done to that nakedly squirming little blonde girl last night? Relaxing, she began to respond to the maddening touch of Art's incessant caresses, began to tingle with delight as he continued to stroke her thighs as they stood pressed tightly together.
Almost unconsciously, she spread her legs a little, and in a moment, Art's hand moved expertly up under her skirt, to trace the smooth, softly trembling skin of her inner thighs, to caress, ever so gently, the narrow split of her vaginal passage, between her legs, running his finger over the thin nylon band of her panties that still shielded it. Nothing seemed real to her any more, nothing seemed important standing there, except the spine-tingling excitement of another man's burning hands and fingers exploring her body that was now as taut, as tight, as a violin string tuned too high.
And then, like just such a string, something snapped, and Sally came back to herself with a start. My God! What was she doing? What was she thinking of? She closed her eyes, shaking her head, and the terrible sight of Mike kneeling above the young fifteen-year old Danish girl's nakedly squirming body, his lust-swollen penis sunk deep into her hotly sucking mouth, came back to her. Well, whatever she was doing, it was nothing compared to the evil she had witnessed the night before. Decency is done and over with, her befuddled mind proclaimed; morality is no more. And if that's so-well, why not? She relaxed again, feeling all soft and warm and wonderful inside, and then she felt Art's fingers fumbling with the buttons on her dress, the zipper at the back. Well, why not? she asked herself again, and twisted around to make it that much easier for him.
She had a vague notion that Art was leading her across the room to the couch, that he was telling her she seemed a little upset, a little unsteady, and that it would be better if she were to lie down, and she told herself that that was true, and anyway, there was nothing to worry about, was there? Not with good ol' Art Pitts. She could trust Art Pitts. Hadn't she and her husband known him all these years? And then she was dimly aware that he had eased the frilly little dress she'd been wearing down over her hips, and tossed it somewhere behind the couch in his terrible urgency to clap his huge hands over the firmly rounded mounds of her heaving breasts, to knead them roughly, to take the two red buds of her nipples between thumbs and forefingers and roll and tease and taunt them into stiff little erections. With a wild motion, he flung his head forward, and with a strange, weird groan, he clamped his mouth over one pointed, hard little knob and began to suck on it, while white hot flames seemed to lick at Sally's loins, turning her body into a molten mass of pleasure. She moaned, lying limp against the couch, eyes closed and body afire while Art's tongue traced along the narrow furrow between her lovely breasts, moved slowly, deliciously, along the smooth white skin, the little line of fuzz on her belly.' His hands slipped down, making her tingle, slipped under the elastic waistband of her black nylon panties, struggling to pull them off. He mustn't, she told herself! Oh, no! He mustn't. But she seemed unable to speak her thoughts and listened with amazement to her own voice urging "Hurry! Hurry!"
Art pulled the wisp of cloth down over the whitely rounded curves of her hips, over her slim legs, eased it along until it fell into a little heap at her feet, and all the time Sally was urging "Hurry, hurry!" Then, as the hot air of the over-heated library wafted across her exposed vagina, a ripple of delight ran through her. This, this was going to be so wonderful, she thought. She arched her naked loins upwards as Art began to caress her pubic area, to twine his fingers in the soft, silken strands of golden hair that covered her pubic mound. "God, but you're a luscious woman!" he muttered, admiringly, raising his head to rake her entire body with a lewd stare. His eyes roved over her again, and then Sally felt still different thrills pound through her as he parted the sensitive lips of her cunt and slowly, teasingly, slipped his middle finger up into its smooth liquid wetness.
As he wormed his finger further around up inside her moist, throbbing vagina, Sally quivered again, half in fear and half in anticipation. An image of herself as a vile, wanton woman, abandoning herself to animal lust, made her cringe and try to draw away from Art. The thought of her evilness seared her mind! Why, why was she submitting to this obscene touching of her by another man? Wasn't she Sally Hole, respectable housewife, devoted wife of Mike Hole, loving mother of Vern and Jean?
Yes, she acknowledged with a shudder, she was. But she was also, she knew, a woman, and a woman fully aroused for perhaps the first time in her life, and when she opened her mouth to protest, the words she'd planned to say were stifled, and she could only moan "Art, Art," over and over, in ecstatic whispers, while she ground her hips hungrily up against his probing fingers.
Then, with a soft, wet sucking sound, Art withdrew his finger from her cunt, and, as Sally lay helpless beneath him, he placed his hands on her firm white thighs, spread them apart until the fleshy lips of her pink little pussy pouted nakedly up at him. He knelt now between her ankles, his eyes endlessly exploring the sight of her throbbing, moist cunt, his fingers exploring the golden, softly curling pubic hair that fringed the wetly glistening edges of it. The memory of the picture he had shown to Sally such a short time before suddenly flashed through his mind. God, he'd like, to do that to her-bury his face up between her thighs, burrow against the soft golden cunt hair, flick his tongue over the little pink bud of her clitoris, then sink it deep within the throbbing little cuntal channel. He glanced at Sally and their eyes met, and in a flash, Sally understood what he intended to do to her!
Oh, he couldn't! Not that! She'd been willing to let him do all those other awful things to her. But this! "No," she whimpered, recoiling in fear and revulsion. "My God, Art!"
"Why not?" he asked, and she caught a glimpse of sheer open lust in his eyes.
"Because it's wicked," Sally said, the words expelled breathlessly upon the air. "It's wicked, and evil, and ... " tears of shame and humiliation flooded her eyes, and then, as he slipped from the couch, moved away from her, tears of relief replaced them. Oh, dear Art! He was a good man. He wasn't going to do this awful thing to her. She'd been right to trust him.
A thin, faint sound caught her ear, and Sally opened her eyes wide, turning to stare at Art. Good God! He was unbuckling his belt, unzipping his fly, hurriedly pushing his pants down around his ankles, stepping out of them. Sally moaned in helpless frustration as Art straightened up, and she saw his thick, fleshy cock, stiff as a rod beneath his shorts. He eased them down over his hips, and she gazed in fascinated horror at his heavily jutting penis. My God! It was huge! Was he really going to try-oh, God, no-he would stretch her terribly! No, she would never let him-she couldn't! There was still time for her to get away. She tried to pull herself up, to get to her feet, but her body was frozen with fear, paralyzed, and she sank back, trembling, completely at his mercy.
Art knelt above the nakedly stripped woman's palpitating body, again thrust his head forward as he ordered "Spread your legs wide, Sally, I want to look at that sweet little pussy of yours." Whimpering, Sally managed to do as she was told, then stifled a low groan of rising shame as her husband's friend's face dropped forward and his tongue flicked out to probe hotly at the wet pink lips of her quivering vagina. She ground her hips hard into the leather-covered couch, trying desperately to escape his long, sinuously worming tongue. But the maddening torture, the vile ravishment of her now aching loins continued, and Sally could only gasp, "My God! ... oh, my God! ... oh, dear God, stop ... stop!" But Art's relentlessly snaking tongue continued to lick lewdly at the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, to lap at the tiny bud of her clitoris, to dart deep up inside her throbbing, moist cuntal passage. Oh, God! It couldn't be happening. It couldn't be! And then little showers of sparks began to explode at the very center of Sally's being, sending waves of unwanted pleasure through her whole body. The knowledge that she was enjoying-was actually enjoying-this horrible debasement of her flesh made Sally moan in shame; the knowledge that she would not stop it, even if she'd had the power to, increased her steadily mounting humiliation.
Art slipped his hands under her nakedly quivering buttocks, cupping them, squeezing them hotly in his palms, while his tongue lashed out, flicking at the fleshy pink lips of her cunt which lay open to him like a flowering rose-bud ready for the picking. He grinned triumphantly and ground his hot tongue deeper and deeper into her now clasping vagina. Sally squirmed and thrashed beneath him, and now little mewls of pleasure escaped, unbidden, from her lips. She was as vile, as depraved as all the other men in the world, she told herself, and yet her body was wracked with a delight she had never even dreamed of.
Her pussy was drenched now with the vaginal fluids that seeped from it, flowered down onto her open thighs, moistened her pubic fleece. Oh, dear God! It was so horrible! And yet Sally wanted the delicious sucking of her vagina to go on forever.
Suddenly, though, Art pulled his head away from her hotly pulsating pussy to glare at her with now victorious eyes. Sally let out an involuntary groan, and then, beyond all control, began to beg, "Don't stop, Art. Oh, for God's sake. Don't stop!"
Art leered above her sadistically. "What do you want me to do, Sally?" he asked.
"That!"
"What's that? Tell me!" And when Sally remained silent, the words cleaving to her tongue, he shook her roughly. "Tell me what you want me to do to you," he ordered.
"I want you to do what you were doing," she whimpered helplessly.
"Well, I'm not going to. Not now. I'm going to do something different. Tell me what it is, Sally!" His voice was hard and frightening. "Tell me!" he ordered again.
"I want you to ... to ... " Oh, God! She couldn't say it, couldn't utter the foul word. Yet the sight of Art's mean, evil eyes boring into her terrified her. "I want you to fuck me," she whimpered at last.
She watched as Art's hand reached for his massive penis, extending from his loins like a brandished sword, saw him lewdly draw the foreskin back and forth, massaging the fleshy instrument while a few drops of lubricating fluid oozed from the hole at the tip. "Fuck you how?" he snarled.
Sally shook her head, mesmerized by the sight of Art's cock, unable to speak. "Fuck you how?" he repeated angrily. "Tell me how! And beg, too!"
A tremor shook Sally's helpless body. "I want you to ... to ... "
"To fuck me, Art. To fuck me with your ... your cock ... I want you to. Oh, please, Art! Please fuck me ... fuck me!"
"It will be a pleasure," Art said, his lips curling in a conquering sneer. "A real pleasure!" he repeated. He grasped his throbbing shaft firmly in his hand and guided it to Sally's excitement drenched pussy, using the thick, bulbous head to part the soft fleshy lips. A little shiver of ecstasy shot through her at the electrifying contact, and then she gasped in pain as the swollen tip pressed into the tight little opening, stretching it unbearably.
"Don't! No, don't! You're hurting me!" she screamed in anguish, then fell silent as Art continued to thrust his throbbing penis into the narrow sheath of her cunt, inching it slowly, relentlessly in until it sank deep into her belly, filling her excruciatingly stretched vagina almost to the bursting point. "Oh, God!" she grunted again, as he flexed his cock inside her vagina. And then, as she grew accustomed to the alien presence there, her groans tapered off into little sighs of pleasure.
Art began to rotate his hips, grinding deep up into her open cunt mouth, until he felt the lust-swollen head press tight back against her cervix. Then, he began a slow, rhythmic rocking above her, fucking into her now warmly absorbing pussy walls in a long, easy rhythm, while Sally moved her hips in a similar rhythm, grinding her buttocks deep into the coffee-colored leather of the couch, twisting and writhing erotically about as she struggled to meet his ever lengthening thrusts. She'd never known anything like this, never known that this was what fucking was like, that this intense, overwhelming pleasure was what was hers by right. Yes, by right! She was not the whore she'd considered herself such a short time before when she had submitted to Art's first tonguing of her vagina. Not a wanton, abandoned creature. Not vile, not depraved. No, she told herself again, she was no whore-she was just suddenly becoming a real woman at last!
Art's rampaging rod fucked in and out of her widespread cuntal lips with ever-increasing force as he lengthened his stroke, then drove the lust-hardened shaft all the way up between her thighs to the hilt. His aching, sperm-filled balls smacked nakedly against the upturned cheeks of her buttocks, and her legs jerked out to quiver and jerk obscenely on either side of his pounding hips. Now he slipped his hand beneath her buttocks, slid it around to the long, narrow crevice between the cheeks of her ass, ran it up and down, searching, until he found the tiny puckered hole of her anus.
He stroked it gently, caressing it, sending little shocks of exquisite pleasure surging like tropical storms through her passion drenched body. Then, with a sudden quick movement, he thrust a finger into the soft, rubbery opening of the spongy orifice, while Sally cried out in pain. But as her tight rectal passage became used to the invading digit, the pain melted and Sally again felt a wonderful pleasure sweep through her body. She screwed her rectum back on his hotly probing middle finger, and under this new and exquisite sensation of being impaled by the heavy cock that fucked in and out of her vagina and the finger sunk to the second knuckle in her tight little anus, she began to lurch from side to side. Her face was contorted with her wild, passionate abandon, and suddenly she began to chant, "Oh ... ooohhhh ... ooohhhh."
Art quickened his strokes once more, and then felt the warm sticky fluid Of her beginning climax gush forth from the walls of her vagina, enveloping his pistoning cock. "Oh ... oooh! Oh, God!!' she screamed now. "Aaaaaaaagh! My God! I'm cumming! I'm cummmmmmmmmmmg! Aaaaaaaagh!"
As Sally's frenzied cry split the air. Art felt the boiling sperm in his swollen, aching balls churn and bubble, and then spurt the length of his rigid penis to shoot far up into her soft, quivering belly. His juices mingled with his friend's wife's own hot ones in a deep, passionate pool of sheer bliss, sheer joy that she had never known existed.
She lay back against the couch now, her limply fallen legs splayed obscenely out to the sides, as Art slowly eased his deflating penis from her still rhythmically quivering cunt. He rolled over beside her, and stared at her heaving breasts, her voluptuous, spent body with a smile of satisfaction. Well, he thought smugly, he'd given her the fuck she'd needed so badly, and now for the other? It was about time for that, now. He slipped from the bed and began to pull on his clothes, reaching over to hand Sally hers with a laconic," Here!"
At the sound of his voice, a sudden wave of consciousness suffused Sally with shame. My God! What had she done! Embarrassed to meet her husband's friend's eyes after what she had let him to to her naked body, she snatched her clothes from his outstretched hand, while she struggled into them. As she smoothed her skirt, she turned to meet his hard, cold eyes, "Sally, my dear," he said in his usual suave, charming voice, while his mouth twitched with a scornful smile, "you came to see me about something important, I think. Can you remember what it was?"
CHAPTER TEN
Art Pitts walked past his secretary with a jaunty step, disappeared into his private office and closed the door. He glanced casually at the mail on the desk, decided it could wait, sat down, and lit a cigarette as he gloated over his triumph of the night before. God but Mike's wife was a luscious creature, and even better in the sack than he had anticipated. It hadn't been hard to get her there, either. A little sympathy and a lot of liquor, and there she was, legs spread wide and naked cunt open to welcome him. Of course, he'd laid his plans well, he admitted to himself admiringly. Planned his lays well, too, he punned, and burst out in a gale of raucous laughter at his own joke. He was a clever guy-he was doing okay. And then he brushed aside thoughts of the previous night to concentrate on the one to come.
Same time, same place, same station, he mused. And the same characters, too. Sally, he was willing to concede, might be a bit more difficult to persuade than she'd been the night before-he couldn't really pull off the sympathetic lawyer bit with her after what had happened. Still, he would find a way. As for the others, it would be a breeze. Listen to Mike Hole the way he'd listened to Sally-play again the role of Kind Ol' Lawyer Pitts helpful and wise-and Mike would snap at the bait. He could count on him to bring that young Danish chick along, too, and he was looking forward to meeting her. He definitely was. Art licked his lips lasciviously, thinking of the fun the four would have at the little surprise party he was planning.
He glanced at the ticking clock on the marble mantle; nine o'clock-and all was well. Just then the buzzer on his desk rang and Miss Leland announced, "Mr. Hole to see you, sir."
So Mike was right on time. Well, Art had expected that. "Show him in," he told Miss Leland. He glanced at the clock again: nine-o-one. and all was even better.
He stood behind his desk as Mike, his face drawn and haggard, his eyes listless, shuffled across the room, took Mike's hand and shook it lethargically. The smirk was gone from Pitts' face, now, replaced by a gentle, understanding smile, a gaze that assured Hole of his deep sympathy. "What is it, Mike?" he asked unctuously. "My God, man, you look like someone's giving you a hard time."
Mike sat down heavily in the chair opposite Art. shaking his head. "They sure are, Art," he said at last. And then, in a voice filled with despair, he added, "I guess it's my own damn fault."
You're damn right it is, Pitts thought. But he merely nodded his head sagely and folded his hands in front of him. "Suppose you tell me about it."
Mike reached for the mahogany cigarette box on the desk-"Mind if I smoke?"-fumbled for matches, lit up at last and inhaled deeply. "It's about me and Sally and Kirst-she's our new au pair girl, he said, blowing a smoke ring into the air.
Art lifted his eyebrows, pretending bewilderment. "Au pair? I didn't know you had one."
"She's new," Mike said miserably. "Her name is Kirst. She's from Denmark."
"Well," Art said brightly, "that must be quite a help for Sally."
Mike shook his head. "Sally hasn't seen her yet." No, he thought, that wasn't true. But he wasn't ready to go into those details yet. "You see, Art," he said, a plea for understanding in his voice, "Sally's sister Mona-Mona Bitt-was in an automobile accident last Thursday, and Sally went up to take care of her. And that was the day-Thursday-when Kirst, she's the au pair, came to stay."
Art nodded his head gravely as if he were just beginning to get the picture. "So you were alone with, uh, Kirst, then?"
Mike swallowed, then said in a very low voice, "That's right."
Pitts thought for a moment, and then shook his finger waggishly at Mike. "And there was a little hanky panky, without Sally there. Is that it?"
"Well, yes," Mike admitted. "There was some ... some hanky panky."
Art gave Mike a reassuring smile. "Well, Mike," he said, "That isn't so bad. I'll bet there would have been with any man-any normal man-" he was careful to add, "under the circumstances." He lit a cigarette himself. "I'm sure everything will be okay, as long as Sally doesn't find out, of course."
Mike shifted his weight in the chair, then cleared his throat. "Sally did find out," he said miserably.
"Good Lord, man! You didn't tell her, did you?"
Mike shook his head. "No."
"Well, then, why do you think she knows?"
"Because she saw us!"
"She saw you"
"I think so, Art. At least the other night, when Kirst and I were ... " his voice trailed off in embarrassment.
"Screwing?" Art asked. An almost imperceptible smile played about his lips for a moment and then, carefully, he masked it. God, he was enjoying this! Seeing Mike Hole squirming in embarrassment, confessing his transgressions like a school kid hauled in before the principal.
"Screwing," Mike admitted. He stared at the floor in confusion.
"So," Art said, his voice cold and accusing now, "Sally saw you. She walked in on the two of you, found Kirst with her pants down and you with your pecker up. It that it?"
"Yes," Mike nodded, swallowing hard. "No. I don't know. Oh, for Christ's sake, Art, I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything anymore.
Art rose, as if to say the interview was over, as if Mike was welcome to leave. "How do you expect me to help, you, Mike, if you're not going to level with me."
"I am leveling with you," Mike said desperately. "Oh, God, Art. I'm doing the best I can."
"Well, then, just tell it to me the way it happened."
Mike took a deep breath, while his eyes swept the room, lingered to stare out the window, then at last, filled with anguish, met Art's. He began his story again, in a low, choked voice. "Well, Kirst arid I were up in the bedroom ... Sally's and mine ... "he paused.
"Fucking," Art prompted.
"Okay. Fucking. And I don't know what happened, except that that's what they were doing ... " he caught Art's scowl, " ... well, fucking. And then," he said, "this morning, when I went down to breakfast, I found Sally's shoes on the stairs. So naturally I guessed she'd been in the house. And, naturally, I guess she saw us ... "
"Fucking?"
"Yes," Mike said impatiently. "Fucking. So I got kind of scared about the whole thing and I put a call through to Mona's house-Mona Bitt's-and there wasn't any answer. Then I called the hospital to see if maybe-just maybe-Sally was there."
"And she wasn't," Art said sorrowfully.
"And she wasn't. The nurse said she'd left last night to drive back here. Said she'd been worried because I didn't answer the telephone when she called."
"Where is Sally now?" Art asked, his voice full of solicitude.
"God only knows!"
"That's bad," Art said. "But it could be worse." He gave Mike a disarming smile before-sadistically-he moved in for the kill. "What," he asked, "if Kirst had been under age?"
Mike sat in the chair opposite Art for a very long time. He heard the interminable ticking of the clock, saw the sun dance across Art's desk, even heard the telephone ring once. He knew that his jaw was hanging slack, his mouth open, that he struggled for words but that none came. After an eternity had passed, he managed to croak, "She is."
It seemed that another eternity passed as Mike sat watching the expressions change-like the lights at a psychedelic show-on Art's face. Later, he was aware that Art-good old Art Pitts, he thought, he's a real friend-was pouring him a drink from the bottle he took from the liquor cabinet that was disguised as a set of law books, was loosening his tie, was patting his shoulder helpfully. Then he saw that Art was shaking his head gravely. "That's bad, Mike," he said. "That's very bad, you know."
"Yes," Mike said wretchedly. "I know."
They watched each other again. Art began to glance openly at his watch, to busy himself with papers on his desk. He excused himself, and went through his mail, opening letters, reading them, making notes on some. God damn, Mike thought. He's trying to get rid of me.
Well, he wasn't going. Not until Art promised to help him out of this mess. How the hell could he go to his own office, sit there all day with a sword like this dangling over his head. How?
Art pulled a pair of horn-rimmed glasses from his breast pocket, clapped them on, got out a law book and began to leaf through it. Once his eyes, peering over the rims of his glasses, met Mike's with a look that said, as plain as day, "Why the hell are you still here? Can't you see I'm busy?" Then he buried himself again in his book.
Mike cleared his throat, and Art looked up. "Yes?" he asked.
"What the hell am I supposed to do, Art?" Art shook his head. "I don't know, Mike. Just hope for the best, I guess. Hope no one learns about the way you fucked this kid; they'll throw the book at you, you know, for screwing a minor." He paused, and deep furrows wrinkled his brow. "You're in real trouble, Mike.
"Christ!" Mike half rose from his chair and pounded his clenched fist on the leather-covered desk. "I know that. That's why I came to see you, for Christ's sake."
Art ignored the outburst of anger and went on, speaking calmly. "And as for Sally-well, I guess there, too, you'd better just hope. Maybe she'll come back-maybe shell forgive and forget-maybe not." He sighed, and plucked his glasses from the bridge of his nose. "I just don't know, Mike. I just don't know."
He put his glasses on again, shuffled the papers on his desk, found a letter to be signed and wrote his name across it, watching Mike out of the corner of his eye the whole time. He had lit another cigarette, taken a couple of puffs snubbed it out, lit another. Scared silly, Art thought gleefully. Well, that was just the way he wanted him.
Mike lit another cigarette, snubbed it out angrily, sighed, then wearily pushed his chair back. "I suppose you want me to go?"
"Well," Art said, his voice contrite, his manner apologetic, "I am rather busy this morning." He put down the sheaf of papers he was holding, got up and walked across the room with Mike. At the door, Mike whirled around to demand again.
"What the hell am I supposed to do?"
"Don't do anything right now, Mike," Art said in an avuncular tone.
"But ... " Mike began.
Art interrupted him. "Let me think about it. Okay?" He clapped Mike on the shoulder.
"Okay."
"Good. And look, Mike, why don't you come over to my place tonight. You and Kirst? We can talk some more."
"God, yes," Mike said, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "We'll both be there."
As the door closed, Art's mouth twitched in a sadistic grin. It had been good before, he told himself; then it had been better. But this was best of .all. In fact, it was damn near perfect. He'd played his cards well, and he got what he wanted.
He walked back to his desk singing "Everything's going my way."
The first time Miss Leland buzzed Art to say "Mrs. Hole is on the line," he told her to say he was out. She would call back, he thought. If she'll call once, she'll call back. And he had been sure she would call, too. They always did. Partly because they were scared, but partly, too, because they wanted more of the same, although, God knows, they'd never admit it. Idly, Art wondered what pretext Sally had thought up for the telephone call.
The second time Miss Leland announced "Mrs.
Hole," Art said, "Tell her I'm in a conference. Tell her to call, me later."
But in a moment Miss Leland buzzed again. "Mrs. Hole wants you to call her, when you're free," she said. "She left her number."
"Okay," Art said. He'd call, all right, but not right away. Let her sweat it out a while. Make her easier to handle, later.
He let more than an hour pass before he dialed the Hadley Arms and asked for Sally's room. He noted, with satisfaction, that she answered the telephone on the first ring. That meant she'd been sitting there waiting for him, which was just what he'd expected.
She began to stammer when she heard his voice-he'd expected that, too-and when Art said, "Sally? Sally! Are you there?" she burst into tears.
"Sally! What's the matter with you?"
"Oh, God!" She sobbed. "I can't talk to you. I just can't."
"Sally, I want to see you."
"NO!"
"When?"
"NEVER!"
"Okay," Art said. "I'll pick you up at seven tonight. We'll have dinner together." And before Sally could protest, he hung up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Art made a point of arriving at the Hadley Arms at a quarter past seven; Sally, he saw with a smile, was waiting for him in the lobby, and from the half-smoked cigarette stubs collected in the ashtray by her side, he knew she'd been there quite some time. He led her through the lobby, saying little, and helped her into the car, then headed towards a small restaurant on the outskirts of town.
He ordered double martinis for both of them, although Sally protested that she wasn't drinking. And, although he ordered another round when he'd finished his own, he saw that Sally's first one was unfinished, her second one untouched.
He ordered wine with dinner, too, but Sally barely tasted the glass he poured for her. And after she'd picked at her steak, her baked potato, her green salad, and left most of it on her plate, he ordered brandy.
Sally sipped hers slowly-Art was way ahead of her on his drink-but she finished it and even drank a second. Still, she was sober as a judge-Art laughed a little at the expression, remembering some of the jurists he'd known-when they left.
He hadn't been able to get her drunk this time, he thought. He'd flunked that test; still, he deserved an "A" for effort.
Sally sat beside him in the car, twisting her handkerchief into knots, wadding it into a little ball, straightening it. God, he thought, her nerves must be as frayed as an old lamp cord. Still, there was more motivating her than fear alone, and what that was, Art knew, was raw, animal lust. The woman was as hot, already, as a two-dollar pistol. What would she be like later?
He'd been right about Mike Hole, Art decided; he wasn't man enough to take care of his wife. You'd think Mike would thank Art for doing the job for him; even if he didn't, Art was getting his own reward. And he was going to get a lot more of her hot little pussy, and soon, too.
"Feeling all right, Sally?" he asked once. But Sally was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to answer. Dear God! Why had she called Art?
She shook her head. It had seemed logical, this morning. She'd been sitting on the edge of the bed, suddenly terrified that he might tell someone about what she had let him do to her last night, and that the story would get back to Mike. She couldn't let that happen-she just couldn't. She would have to see Art again-although the idea of doing so froze her very marrow-make him swear on whatever honor he had, never, never tomention that she had gone to his apartment and let him do it to her. She had had to do that. And now here she was, sitting in his car, too frightened to speak. Here she was alone with him, and she saw, with a shudder of panic, that he was heading towards his apartment again.
"Oh, no!" she moaned, covering her face with her hands.
Art slid the car against the curb, braked, cut the motor. "Something bothering you, Sally?" he asked sarcastically.
Suddenly the words came tumbling forth, a gush, a torrent, spilling out Sally's anguish. "Art," she pleaded with him, "please, please promise me you'll never tell anyone what happened last night."
"Now why should I do that?" he drawled.
"Oh, Art!" Sally's eyes filled with tears of gratitude. "You won't tell! Oh, I knew you wouldn't!"
"Hold on, now!" Art said, taking her shoulder brutally, turning her to face him. "I didn't say I wouldn't."
"But you won't?" Sally begged.
Art shrugged. "Depends on you," he said.
The tone of his voice chilled Sally's veins. "What-what do you mean?"
"Just that," Art said casually. "It depends on you-and what you're willing to do to keep me from telling."
The words whirled around in Sally's brain, like bits of a picture puzzle spread out on a card table, and she tried desperately to put them together so that they would make sense, have meaning. When at last, at long last, she did, she felt a little sick. She peered through the windshield and saw the moon and the stars above her, and knew that the world-the world beyond her-hadn't changed at all, and at the same time she knew her own world could never be the same. "What do you want me to do?" she heard someone ask and then, with a little spine-chilling laugh, realized that she herself had spoken.
"Let's go inside," Art said harshly.
Sally shook her head, and when she spoke her voice was shrill and sharp. "No. No, Art! I couldn't."
"I might have to tell Mike, then."
"You wouldn't. You wouldn't!"
"I would."
Sally put her trembling hand to her damp forehead. "Mike will ... will ... "
"What?"
"He'll hate you. He'll hate and loathe and despise you."
"He might," Art said. "But I don't really care. Now, on the other hand, if he hates and loathes and despises you, you're going to feel real bad about it, aren't you, Sally?"
She huddled against the back of the seat. When Art barked, "Go inside," she climbed from the car, afraid to disobey, and followed him in to the library.
"Sit down!"
Gratefully, Sally collapsed on the leather sofa, recognizing it with a little twinge of horror. "Have a drink?" Art asked. "Do you good." Sally shook her head. She'd been drunk the night before, and that had led to her shocking, her disgraceful behavior. No, thank you, she wasn't getting drunk tonight.
"Smoke, then?" He fumbled in a pocket, then held out a crumpled cigarette to her. She let Art light it for her, and then inhaled deeply.
It tasted sweet-sweeter than any cigarette she'd ever had-and it seemed to soothe her, in a way no cigarette ever had. She wasn't so much afraid of Art, now; she even thought she was almost glad to be here. And when, little thrills of excitement began to course through her at Art's nearness, she leaned back drowsily. She noticed that the cigarette seemed to relax Art, too, and she thought it would be nice to smoke another. "May I have another one?" she asked. "They're nice."
"A reefer?"
"I don't know what they are, but they're good," Sally said.
"Sure!" Art found another. "Ever had a reefer before, Sally?"
Sally shook her head. The word seemed familiar to her-she racked her brain to remember it-and then it seemed it had something to do with drugs, with marijuana, wasn't that it? But she thought that couldn't be, because that was illegal, and so Art wouldn't have given her one. "No," she said at last, "I've never had a reefer before."
"You won't forget it," Art said. He opened the door of the library, and guiding her firmly by the elbow, led her into the bedroom.
She looked hazily, through her drug-dimmed eyes, around the room. She hadn't been in here before, but she thought she was going to like it. Little flashes of pleasure were traveling up and down her spine, like railroad trains on a siding, and she gasped a little . wondering why nothing like this had ever happened to her before. Except for last night, of course. It had happened a little bit like this last night. "Didn't it, Art?" she asked.
He looked puzzled and that puzzled Sally but she forgot about that because he suddenly grasped her by the shoulder, his fingers biting deep into her soft white flesh, and he fumbled with the buttons on her blouse, and then he opened it and his fingers trailed over the firm white mounds of her breasts, twisting and tweaking her ruby-red nipples, tracing the narrow, milk-white valley between the twin globes.
The flashes of pleasure increased, like trains traveling faster and faster, coming nearer, and then there was a kind of crashing ecstasy, as if two trains had collided head-on, when Art bent forward and his tongue flicked out at last to one nipple, whipping it into a taut little erection. Sally moaned, and moaned again as she felt her husband's friend's hands travel down her sides, felt him slip his fingers under the waistband of her thin nylon panties, felt the sharp tug as he ripped them off. His fingers played over her smooth white hips, sending delicious thrills tiptoeing up and down her spine, and then they converged on the flat plane of her belly, slid the length of it to the soft golden pussy hairs that grew in tiny curling ringlets over her pubic-mound. Sally felt little sparks of pleasure exploding now between her legs, and it somehow seeped into her consciousness that this was something wicked, and her drug-distorted mind tried desperately to understand why-why-it was wicked, when it made her feel warmer and happier and more excited than she had ever felt.
And then it penetrated Sally's reeling mind that Art had stripped her clothing off, and she realized that she stood before him with no clothes on at all. And that, she knew, really was wicked. Why she never even let Mike, her own husband, her own dear husband, see her that way, and she let out a little cry in which shame and horror mingled, and tried to hide the little triangle of her sex behind her two crossed hands.
Art yanked at them viciously, and Sally cried out, this time in pain. "I want to see you," Art hissed, as his eyes roamed lecherously over the voluptuous curves of her firm, heavy thighs, down over her slim legs, then up again to the firmly rounded globes of her milk white breasts. His hands roved the length of her body now, then slipped between her legs to crawl with lust-provoking slowness along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Sally gasped, struggling to free herself from the maddening touch of his stroking fingers, to cover her quivering little cunt from his evil, leering gaze. With a cruel, quick movement, Art caught her slim wrists in his two powerful hands, twisting them brutally, until Sally winced.
"I told you I want to see your pussy naked," Art snarled again. "So what the hell did you do that for?"
The corners of his mouth curled up in a vicious grin, and even through the fog of drugs that blurred her brain, he appeared to Sally as a complete stranger. This cruel, evil man now grasping and kneading her tender flesh so obscenely could hardly be the man she had trusted implicitly only the day before, the man she had poured oat her troubles to, who had listened so sympathetically, who had offered her his help, along with his friendship. Oh, God! What had come over him? And what had come over her, that she had permitted him to lick up between her legs so vilely the day before?
Sally choked back the sob that rose in her throat and began to plead pitifully with Art. "Oh, God! Please stop! For God's sake, Art: I want you to Stop."
"Like hell you do," Art snapped. "You love this. You're getting it good for the first time in your life and you love it!"
"Oh, no!" Sally moaned, but the little twirls of excitement that flooded her stomach belied her words, and her loins began to ache with the passion she could not suppress.
"You love it, baby. And I got news for you. That's only the beginning!"
Sally , recoiled, trembling, at his coarse, lewd words, yet her heart began to beat violently, the blood to race through her veins, as Art's hands continued to rove over the voluptuous curves of her thighs and hips, as he slipped them around behind to cup the firm white rounds of her ass cheeks, to trail his forefinger down the narrow protecting valley between them.
"Ever sucked cock, Sally?" he asked suddenly.
The question penetrated the cloud of drugs enveloping Sally's brain, and sent a stab of revulsion, of shock, through her quaking body. He wasn't planning to make her-oh, God, no! Not that! And yet, mingled with it was a tingling excitement that Sally fought against with all her feeble strength.
"Hey, Sally!" Art repeated, his voice strident with his own inherent sadism. "Sally! I asked you a question. Ever suck cock?"
"NOOOOOOO!" she stammered. "Nooooooooo!"
"It's good, Sally. You ought to try it sometime. Like now. What say you try it now?"
"NO!" Sally spat the word out this time, her eyes closed tight to shut out her shame, her humiliation.
Art appeared not to notice. "It's good, Sally," he said. "You'll like it. It's even better than reefers," he added. "Gives you more of a thrill."
Sally shook her head, and tried again to protest. And yet her blurred mind told her that Art was right; it would give her more of a thrill than the marijuana had, and she knew her now sexually aroused body could never resist this final degradation. She watched with a mixed feeling of excitement and dread as Art pulled off his tie and shirt, unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly, as he slithered out of his pants and cotton shorts.
The sight of his huge prick springing forth like a python escaping from a cage sent another spasm of excitement raging through Sally, and when, with a flick of his wrist and the wink of an eye, Art commanded her to take it, she dropped to her knees in front of him, and one slim, suntanned hand darted out to encircle the rigid, fleshy hardness of it.
"Suck it!"
"No," Sally protested mechanically-it was wicked, something deep down inside her said-but the marijuana she had smoked now controlled her almost completely, and so she leaned forward and her tongue darted out-like a just released, caged , bird, too-to swipe and swirl at the hugely throbbing tip of his nakedly skinned back cockhead. With a little moan of delight, she licked at the sticky white fluid oozing from the tiny, winking eye at the tip, swallowed it hungrily, came back for more. She paused, lifted her head, gasping for breath and then saw the angry expression on Art's face as he snarled, "Suck!" In a swift thrust, he shoved his throbbing member deep into her widely gaping mouth, while Sally gagged and fought wildly but briefly to expel it. As she grew used to the presence there of this alien object, new little pools of pleasure began to whirl around her, and she began to mouth Art's penis hungrily, like a new-born infant at its mother's breast, her cheeks swelling and deflating like a pair of bellows. No, she thought now, she'd never sucked cock before, and as the short, wiry hairs that surrounded his huge organ grazed her lips, as his sperm-filled balls slapped heavily down against her chin, tiny little explosions of rising desire and passion were set off in her blood.
Art jerked his hips forward and began to fuck in and out of her widely ovaled mouth, sawing back and forth as stifled gasps of pleasure escaped from Sally's suddenly tightly clasping lips. Madly, insanely, Sally sucked on and on, running her tongue brazenly over the sensitive, swollen flesh of his cock. It was so good, she thought, and she'd never done it before, and now the lingering fumes she had inhaled as she smoked the marijuana a short while before blotted out the last vestige of restraint she might have had. Could she ever get enough of this heavenly plunging cock, that sank deep in her throat, that withdrew to sink in once again as her whole body trembled in a heretofore unknown ecstasy? No, Sally thought, and she was suddenly unbearably impatient for Art to shoot forth his thick, milk-like sperm, to fill her mouth with the pungent liquid, pouring it down her throat in great gushing rivers while she gulped to swallow every precious drop.
And then at last-at long last, it seemed to Sally-the moment she so longed for came, and Art jerked his pelvis harder into her face in a wild spasm, his body tensing, arching, and then he drove deep into her mouth again, and his bloated balls spurted forth their thin, viscous sperm, and she sucked at it as hungrily as before, until her cum-hungering belly was satiated and full, and as Art withdrew his now deflated penis, she sank to the floor, while an ecstatic joy she had never known flowed through her sensually exhilarated body.
Mike Hole parked the car just behind his friend, Art Pitts' and got out, as the enticing young blonde beside him popped from her side of the car. "Is this it?" she asked expectantly.
"This is it. Come on." Mike yanked her along the sidewalk, pulled her into the building behind him, and into the elevator, then down the hall to the door of Art's apartment.
He rang the bell and waited. There was no answer, and he rang again, and then he knocked. When still no one came, he tried the doorknob. It turned and the door swung open. "Well," he said, "we might as well make ourselves at home until he gets here."
They sat down in the living room, facing one another, saying little. After a few minutes had passed, Mike went over to the liquor cabinet. "Something to drink?" he asked. When Kirst nodded, he poured a brandy for her, another for himself. They drank, again in silence, and Mike poured himself a second.
He was getting impatient. What the hell had happened to Art? And wasn't this a hell of a thing to do, anyway? Invite them over, knowing how damned important it was for Mike to talk to him, and then not to show?
He picked up a magazine, leafed through it, put it down. He lit a cigarette and smoked it. He tried to talk to Kirst, but could think of nothing to say. Anyway, he didn't want to talk to the kid-she had plenty of talents, but conversation wasn't one of them. His mind focused on the others, and in spite of his worry and anguish, his prick started in again, lurching and jerking the way it did the first time he had seen the girl at the airport. Christ, he wasn't going to be able just to sit around here, staring at the sex kitten all evening. Not when she sat opposite him with her legs blatantly spread apart that way, so that he could even see the thin little cleft of her pussy out-lined against the tight strip of flimsy sheer nylon panties between her legs. He swallowed hard and turned away, picked up another magazine, put it down, poured another drink for each of them.
God, his balls were aching again, his loins like cauldrons of boiling, bubbling oil. He'd like to fuck the kid right here in Art's living room. Wouldn't that be something?
He looked around, and caught sight of the open door to the guest room down the hall, the double bed inside. He glanced at his watch, saw that it was still early. Art might not be back for an hour, he told himself. Even if he were, there'd be plenty of time for a quickie-and he could do without the preliminaries.
He got up and snatched Kirst's hand, pulling her to her feet, leading her down the hall. He closed the door behind them, and shoved Kirst onto the bed. She fell onto it, her legs hanging open over the side. The thin nylon crotchband of her panties had somehow slipped to one side up between her thighs, and the sight of her sparsely bearded little pussy, exposed to Mike's view, sent maddening bolts of excitement swirling through him. Quickly, feverishly, he slipped his hands under the rounded mounds of her firm little buttocks, lifted her to slip her mini-skirt, along with her equally mini-panties, off her trembling body. In a quick, almost brutal gesture, he tore open her blouse, pulled off her bra, and then, as the sensuously curved fifteen year old lay unresisting on the huge bed, his hands roamed over the soft, naked flesh of her young body, stroking her neck, her throat, her smooth white shoulders. He cupped a firmly rounded young breast in his hand, then pressed his face forward to explore her lips, with hot hungry lips, forcing his tongue into the warm, moist cavern of her pouting little ovaled mouth, to sink it deep inside.
He pulled his head back, twisting it and smiling to ask, "Like that, kid?" and was answered by Kirst's passionate low moans, her soft mewls of pleasure. His tongue sank deep into her mouth again, teasing and tantalizing, and then he ran it down the narrow valley between her milk-white breasts.
Kirst squirmed under the delicious sensation of his hotly licking tongue, then, with a convulsive, involuntary movement, spread her legs farther apart. Mike sank back on his heels, and fixed his eyes on the thin, tight little cuntal slit already moist with desire, up between the girl's soft, smooth thighs.
He trailed his hands over the gentle, rounded swell of her belly now, along the fuzzy little line of golden hair that led to the thin patch of fleece at the base of it. His thumbs found the soft pink edges of her cunt, pressed the softly hair-fringed lips apart, to display the pink little hole of her vaginal mouth that glistened within it to his hungrily peering eyes. The sight of her openly exposed little pussy, as always, sent forth maddening bolts of exquisite, aching pleasure that throbbed through his balls. Then, with a low groan of passion, he moved his head forward to bury it in the widespread "V" of Kirst's open loins. His tongue darted out to find her tiny pink clitoris, to lave it into a taut, hard little erection, flicked out again to snake deep into her wetly throbbing pussy. Kirst whined with pleasure under the older man's maddening licking of her cuntal lips, under the invasion of her pulsating pussy by his voraciously slithering tongue. And then, only moments later, as pure delight drenched her voluptuous young body, she began to groan and squirm her hips about, and then to cry, "Ooooooh! Ooooooh, God! I'm going to cuuuuuum! I'm going to cuuuuuum!"
Jesus Christ, she's hot tonight! she's cumming already! he thought gleefully as she writhed beneath his still hotly flicking tongue, and then he tasted the warm, fresh young vaginal fluid that gushed forth in her climax, to moisten the silken hairs of her pubis and spread down wetly over the smooth whiteness of her inner thighs.
Satiated, she lay back against the white counterpane of the bed, while Mike stared down at her prostrate body. It was his turn now, and Christ, he couldn't wait. With terrible urgency, he hoisted her legs onto the bed, spun her around so that she stretched the length of it, with the same urgency stripped off his clothes.
"Oh, God!" he groaned, and then knelt, hunched over her while Kirst trailed her nails across his chest and sides, and then, with a little groan of her own, encircled his huge, rigid prick with her small cool hand, and guided it down to the gaping little hole between her legs. He rubbed his huge prick, glistening with her vaginal juices, into her throbbing cunt lips, withdrew, then stabbed deep into the hot, wetly pulsating little hole.
Kirst screamed as Mike's enormous cock plunged deep inside her, and then, as his balls began to slap against the twin cheeks of her upturned ass, she ground her pelvis beneath him, straining, arching her loins to meet his thrusts.
He felt as if his enormous plunging prick would burst wide open, split down the middle, as if his aching, sperm-filled balls would explode. He stroked harder, grinding his pelvis into her soft, yielding flesh, battering her quivering little pussy. Oh, my God, he thought, I just got it in her and I'm cumming. ,. I'm cumming, too! And then the torrents of creamy hot sperm surged from his aching balls and along the length of his prick to spurt wildly into the depths of the young girl's hungrily receptive belly. As at last he withdrew his deflating penis, his body went limp with exhaustion and he rolled from Kirst to lie quiescent beside her.
After a few minutes, the sound of weird wails from the room next door aroused Mike from his torpor. He listened, puzzled. Something strange was going on. Something very strange indeed. He slipped from the bed, gathered up his tangled shirt and held it in front of him, just managing to cover his genitals, and padded out of the room, with Kirst on his heels. My God, he thought, I'll bet Art's in there, and that he's got someone in the sack with him. Good ol' Art, having a good fuck, too! A lewd smile spread across Mike's face. Why not just drop in on his friend, catch him in the act, and see what he had to say this time! He beckoned to Kirst to hurry, wondering vaguely who it was that was getting screwed silly by his friend.
The two paused outside the door, listening to the rapturous cries from within. Then Mike turned the doorknob and pushed the door open a crack. Jesus! He was right. There was Art, hunched over a woman, exploring her nakedly twisting body, running his hands over the huge, well shaped mounds of her breasts, down over her voluptuously formed thighs. God, she was built beautifully, whoever she was; he wouldn't mind getting a piece of that himself.
Watching, Mike licked his lips lasciviously as Art's tongue darted out to pry into the moist mouth of the woman, as his hand moved down across her belly to the lushly curling triangle of her pubic hair, as his fingers parted the golden strands to lay bare the long thin slit of her vagina. God, he's giving it to her good, he thought, as one finger wormed its way into the tiny, split-like hole there, plunged deep into the narrow passage, twisting and turning. The woman responded to Art's lewd finger-fucking with screams of wild, abandoned passion, and once again he wondered who she was.
Whoever she might be, she sure was a hot little bitch, Mike thought, as he watched her reach eagerly out to grasp Art's thick, virile cock, rubbing the foreskin back and forth, teasing him, then running one finger over the smooth rubbery head, tickling the parted little hole, running another finger along the underside of the stiff shaft. Mike held his breath, then let it out with a low, lewd whistle. Christ, she was getting him excited, too!
Mike's balls began to ache again, as the woman drew Art's huge, blood-engorged penis towards the moist hole of her hot pink pussy, used the fleshy instrument to part her tender, hair-fringed cuntal lips, then eased it gently into the narrow sheath of her vagina. As the burgeoning instrument sank deep into her belly, she struggled to clasp his arching back between her legs, and fully exposed her now upturned buttocks, the narrow crevice between the twinly quivering cheeks, even the tiny, brown-ringed hole of her anus.
Art's cock sank in to the hilt now, moved in and out like a piston, while the woman, oblivious to everything but the crazed desire of her lust-filled body, writhed and fucked back beneath him in wild, uncontrolled ecstasy. She grasped his nude body tighter and her fingernails raked across his naked buttocks, leaving red welts mingled with white scratches, while the rhythm of the couple's lewd lovemaking crescendoed to a climax. Then the woman's long wail of pleasure split the air. "Aaaaaaaagh! I'm cumming ... I'm cuuuuuummmming!"
Art thrust his aching, plunging cock deeper, ramming it in to the soft recesses of her cervix, while she jerked and thrashed hotly around beneath him. The woman screamed again, calling "Art! OH, ART!" and then his piercing scream of pleasure as he too reached climax assailed Mike's ears. "Oh, my God! I'm cumming, too. I'M CUUUUUUMMMMING TO!"
The woman jerked convulsively as Art sent his load of hot, sticky sperm shooting deep up into her belly, to mingle there with her own wetly exploding juices. She lay back then, her legs splayed out obscenely, as Art, with a final shuddering spasm, collapsed beside her on the bed.
There was a long moment of utter silence, a moment fraught with tension, a silence that could almost have been cut with a knife, as Mike stared at the woman on the bed. Then, with a scream like that of a wounded bull, he recognized his wife. Sally! Oh, my God! SALLY! He shook his head, trying to blot out the knowledge, to erase from his mind the lewd, unbelievable scene he had just witnessed of his own wife getting fucked half to death by their best friend.
Furiously, he groped for the light switch, slammed his fist into it, flooding the room with the harsh yellow beams. Sally opened her eyes, blinked, then let out a scream of pure terror. "Oh, my God! Mike!"
"I'd like to know what the hell you're doing here getting the shit fucked out of you by that bastard!" Mike bellowed, then strode across the room to yank hiss nakedly cringing wife to her feet. His hand slashed out, slapping her across the face and Sally winced and screamed in pain. "You damned little whore!" He slapped her again.
Art watched through half-closed eyes. Then as Mike slapped Sally a third time, he asked laconically, "What's going oh here?"
Mike whirled, turning on Art. "You Goddamned son of a bitch," he snarled. "You bastard."
Art pulled himself slowly to his feet. "Watch it, Mike," he said. "No sense in using abusive language, is there?" He yawned. "Anyway, as for what Sally was doing here., she was obviously getting fucked."
Mike doubled his fist, ready to smash it into Art's sneering, smirking face. "And what were you doing here, Mike?" Art asked. "Weren't you fucking, too?"
Mike's fist shot out, catching Art on the nose. He reeled backwards, clapping his hand to his face. "Careful," he warned. "I don't want to have to defend you on an assault charge, too."
"How about murder?" Mike asked, hitting Art again.
"Might be difficult," Art muttered, "but I could probably do it." His eyes narrowed, and then, without warning, he swung on Mike, sending him sprawling on the floor. "Down, boy, down!" he ordered as his friend, caught by surprise, slumped helplessly against the wall.
Sally sank back onto the bed, her face a mask of violent fury. "Yes," she screamed. "I'm a whore. That's what I am. But you're the one who made me it, Mike Hole! YOU ARE!" She began to sob hysterically. "Oh, I stayed home and ran the house and took care of the children for you. And you were off, all the time, weren't you? Just the way you were with that little slut over there!" she pointed at Kirst. "Fucking her! That's what you were doing." A scalding tear slid down her cheek, and she brushed it away. "Well, I'm a whore, now. And I'm going to act like one. Like the lowest kind of a whore, too."
She stood up and sidled over to Art. "Want to go upstairs?" she purred seductively, remembering a play she'd once seen about a brothel.
"Sure," Art said. "How much?"
"For you I'll do it for nothing," Sally smiled wickedly.
"What will you do?"
"Anything." Sally repeated the word. "Anything."
"I want to fuck you in the ass?" he smiled questioningly.
Sally froze, and her blood seemed to curdle in horror. My God! She hadn't heard Art correctly. He couldn't have asked to sodomize her. "I ... I ... " she stammered.
"I want to fuck you in the ass," Art said. "Ever done that before?" He grinned lewdly, repulsively at her.
"Oh, no! No, Art!"
Art ignored her and turned to Mike. "Ever seen your wife fucked in the ass?" he asked. "No? Well, watch this, then." And in a voice of the utmost cruelty he ordered, "Get on the bed, Sally. And kneel down with your butt up in the air!"
The sheer revulsion, the terror she felt made Sally's stomach churn, her legs wobble. The man was a maniac! He was going to do this vile, filthy, perverted thing to her. And the look on his face warned her not to resist. Oh, God!
She hesitated, looking around, searching for some way out. And then she felt the sting of Art's swift, cruel slap against her nakedly quivering buttocks. "Get!" he said.
"NO!"
Another swift slap. "Get! And now!" and Sally threw herself face down on the bed to escape his blows, her fearfully trembling backside naked and vulnerable now to his will.
"Spread your legs!" One more vicious blow persuaded Sally to do as she was ordered. "Wider!" Art commanded, and then took her by the ankles and forced her legs farther and farther apart, until Sally was sure she would split in two. She screamed in agony, then screamed again as Art spread her ass cheeks wide with his thumbs and slowly, relentlessly wormed a finger into the tiny, puckered little mouth of her anus. She whimpered at the sharp, shooting pain as her husband's best friend gleefully probed his finger in and out between her open buttock cheeks, and then, her whimpers turned to sudden, strangely masochistic moans of pleasure as the pain subsided, and she was possessed by a marvelous growing excitement that made her tingle with ecstasy.
Art thrust a second finger into Sally's now wide-stretched rectal passage, spitting on them and working the two wetly back and forth up inside the tightly resisting rectal walls as he prepared them for the entrance of his swollen, throbbing prick. "Like it?" he demanded lewdly, skewering her on his impaling digits. Sally was too terrified to answer. "Like it?" Art thundered, striking still another harsh blow against her smoothly rounded ass cheeks.
Sally let out a sharp scream, then sobbed, "Yes."
"That's great," Art said. "Just great!" And then with a triumphant grin, he mounted her as if she were a dog bitch in heat, guiding his thick, swollen shaft down towards the tight little brown-ringed opening of her anus. With a quick, brutal thrust, Art forced the blunt instrument into the tiny, futilely clenched orifice, while Sally screamed in agony as the pain seared her flesh like leaping flames.
"Ooooooh God! she moaned pitifully. He was tearing her to bits back there! Her pain blended with her terrible feelings of guilt and shame and submission, and then those feelings ebbed away as a strange sexual stimulation began to possess her. She slowly, experimentally ground her naked ass back against him, meeting the forward thrust of his loins, then began to moan incessantly beneath him and move her buttocks back in tiny teasing circles. Oh, God, she thought, she had never in her wildest dreams believed herself capable of such a perverted act as this, and yet ... and yet ... there was sheer ecstatic bliss whirling with the pain, joy mingling with the agony. She wished she could understand it, but the pleasure-pain of the moment precluded letting her thoughts dwell on the matter, and she gave herself over completely to the marvelous sensation of being lewdly sodomized right in the same room with her own husband watching in disbelieving shock a few feet away.
Art's rock hard prick speared deep into Sally's tight little rectal passage, pushing almost to her pelvis, and his heavy testicles slapped down below against her tender, sensitive cunt. Sally. almost out of her mind now with her tormented passion, began to moan as Art withdrew his penis almost to the tip, then rammed it deep back into the wide-stretched rectal passage again.
Then, she suddenly felt him jerk and thmsh behind her as the pendulous sacs of his testicles slapping against her sent their load of churning, hot sperm shooting the length of his throbbing, thrusting shaft, to gush forth inside her.
Oh, God! he's cumming up in my bowels, she thought wickedly, and then, oh, God! I'm cumming again, too. She jerked her nakedly writhing ass cheeks backwards against his jerking pelvis, rocking in a rhythm with his convulsive spasm, while weird wild groans escaped her wide open mouth. A contentment, a joy, a pleasure of the highest degree seemed to well up inside her, spreading out, fulfilling her. Dimly, she felt Art's sperm flow from her plundered rectal passage, soothe the crevice of her widespread buttocks as it trickled down to brush the tender, gaping lips of her moist, warm vagina. She felt Art's final withdrawal, too, hazily, as if in a dream, as he pulled his flaccid, deflated penis from the tiny, rubbery passage it had invaded so precipitately. And then she rolled over on her back, drained of energy, limp.
Then, she heard her husband Mike's voice, cruel and savage, his words sharp and stinging as the lash of a whip. "If you're going to act like a whore," he spat at her, "your own husband might as well fuck you like one too!"
She looked up to see his lust and hate contorted face staring straight into hers, realized that Mike was kneeling above her, brutally parting her thighs.
"Spread your legs!" he ordered. Sally whimpered, but tried to obey, and then recoiled in fear as Mike began to stroke his huge cock into a stiff, surging rod. Now he threw himself upon her trembling body, his hips wedging between her legs, his pelvis grinding into her squirming, defenseless crotch. Then he grasped his thick, hard penis in one large hand, guided it to his sperm flooded wife's still moist, warm pussy, speared brutally against the fleshy lips there-Sally whimpered again in pain and fear-then parted them with a violent movement that made her scream. Without a thought for her, he continued his ravishment of her fearfully quivering cunt, plunging deep inside, his prick smashing in as though it were a battering ram.
"Oh, God!" Sally screamed; and began to plead, "Don't. Oh, my God, Mike. Don't fuck me so hard, darling!"
But her pleading only enraged Mike more, and he fucked harder and farther with her, his pistoning cock slashing deep into her belly like a wielded sword, until Sally yelped with pain. "Oh, God! You're hurting me! YOU'RE SPLITTING ME WIDE OPEN!"
Mike arched backwards, partially withdrew his blood-engorged penis, sent it surging in again with another swift stroke, then flexed it deep inside her palpitating vagina. "You're a whore," he said. "Remember?"
"No," Sally whined. "Oh, God, no!"
"Yes! So act like a whore. Put on a show for me! Pretend you enjoy it!" He stared down into her frightened face. "Pretend you enjoy it," he repeated, "just the way you've always pretended."
His cruel, sadistic words were like a knife plunged into Sally's heart, sending a pain through her soul that made the pain in her flesh seem nothing. "Just the way you've always pretended!" Oh, God, he was right-he was right! She'd done just that-and all the time she'd thought herself a good, an exemplary wife. Instead, she had really been nothing but a whore because they always pretended too! But she hadn't been with Art! She had felt real joy with her husband's best friend, real ecstasy, when Art had fucked her. She had fought him, she had felt pain, but she had felt pleasure, too. And yet, with her own husband ... ! Oh, God, what was the matter with her?
She lay back with her thighs open wide, tears streaming from her eyes, as Mike began again to thrust his hips forward wildly, fucking in and out of her openly defenseless cunt like some cold, impersonal machine, his enormous prick sliding up and down her tight, unyielding vaginal passage as though he had just paid two dollars for it. Oh, God! Why couldn't she enjoy sex with her own husband, when she had been raped-yes, raped-by Art Pitts, and had thrilled to it ecstatically? She choked back her sobs. What on earth was the matter with her? She didn't know, she just didn't know.
Well, if she was a whore-and she was, she told herself, she wasshe would no longer resist Mike, and she lay back, impassively, trying desperately to shut out thought as he continued to plunder her moisture' flooded vagina. He ground in and out, and the pain she had felt before seemed to ebb away, and then, for a time she felt nothing at all. But then she felt the first faint stirrings of excitement, like those she had felt when Art had fucked her the night before, and yes, tonight, too. They were fragile as butterfly wings, beating in her blood, but they became stronger, sending little spasms of hot, churning delight sputtering through her body. Unconsciously, even involuntarily, she began to rotate her hips, grinding her buttocks deep into the mattress, thrusting her loins forward to meet her husband's thrusts. And now they began to move in rhythm and a wild burst of pleasure exploded deep inside her.
Her pulsating, moist vagina clasped Mike's plunging penis, sucked it deep into her belly, released it as he withdrew, sucked it again until it crashed heavily up against her cervix, sending overwhelming sparks of joy flowing through her veins. They rocked back and forth in their act of copulation, and Sally seemed to know nothing but the sheer, physical bliss of the moment.
As if from a great distance sounds came to her, sounds, it seemed, of sucking, and then it flashed through her mind that that was just what it was, that Art had his face between the Danish girl's legs and was sucking her pussy. She hoped that they, too, were finding the sort of happiness she had found.
The sound of sucking stopped abruptly, and Sally was aroused by the sense of touch-someone was taking her hand and opening it. She turned to see Art beside her, realized he was curling her fingers around his own iron-stiff prick, and instinctively she took it, began to run her fingers along the sensitive underside of his swollen shaft. Kirst seemed to be there, too, and through what was now a tangle of arms and legs and bodies, all intertwined, she saw that Art had burrowed deep into Kirst's sweet, soft little pussy with his long, thick finger, twisting it inside the narrow little passage to bring forth mewls of pleasure from the hotly aroused young sex kitten, and that he was now plunging deeper and deeper into the dark, moist cavern as he lewdly, carnally finger-fucked her to a wildly rising state of passion.
Sally felt the passion mounting again in her own lust-driven body too, felt Mike's prick flex and subside while her cunt walls tightly clung to it, cradled it in the sheath of her vagina, felt the beginning of her own orgasm, felt the gush of fluids that seeped from her vagina, to flow down, bathing her husband's heavily plunging cock in their warmth and wetness. She heard Mike's groan, knew that the tension, the ache in his sperm-filled balls had now become unbearable, that he was responding to her own wild, passionate fucking in his own male way, that he, too, was ready to cum, to fill her open, waiting belly with his white hot sperm.
At almost the same moment, Art's prick began to jerk in her hand and flooding out over her wrist, as he, too, reached climax, and then she heard the little moans of Kirst's mounting excitement, her murmurs of intense pleasure, and then everything seemed to merge in some fantastic whirling vortex which lifted her irresistibly to heights of sensual passion heretofore unknown. It was like angelic voices singing, like the whirling of stars and the blending and changing of the most vibrant, beautiful colors in the world, it was a tingling of her flesh, a series of thrills coursing through her body that set her on fire, made her whole insides bum and sear as though the whole of her body was engulfed in the hotly consuming flames of endless passion.
She felt her husband's cum-bloated balls smacking hard down against the upturned cheeks of her ass as his rock-hard penis penetrated deep into her belly, smashed once more against her cervix, and as the white hot, churning sperm spurted out, the full length of it, to spill forth in luxurious profusion, she felt his furious bucking against her own thrashing body, and then the marvelous moment when their viscously erupting orgiastic fluids merged, uniting them as they had never been united before. And then the two collapsed, completely spent, as Art and Kirst too fell back, weak and happy and above all, satisfied. Sally fell asleep then, dozing off in a state of pure and utter contentment, with her own husband, Mike, lying beside her. Their friend, Art, who had first shown her such joy, was sleeping peacefully nearby with the voluptuous young girl, Kirst, cradled possessively in his arms....
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Sally woke up, she was alone. She stirred, opening her eyes, wondering where she was. She felt a marvelous peace suffusing her battered body, knew that something wonderful-and something terrible, too-had happened to her.
She heard voices from the living-room beyond, recognized one as Mike's one as Art's. And then it all came back to her-where she was, Art's ruthless assault on her trembling flesh, his near rape, the obscenities he had subjected her to, the perversions they had committed together. And then with a searing clarity, she remembered Mike's face when he had discovered the two of them at their lewd lovemaking, his cruel words forever emblazoned on her mind. "Whore!",he had called her. "WHORE!"
She remembered what had followed that foul, shocking word he had applied to her. "Put on a show for me! Pretend you enjoy it!" Her mind went back, to the countless times she had done just that. Oh, God, it all came back to her now! Her nights of fear, her memories of her father and her mother together-"Oh, God, Elon! Don t"
"Been giving it to everyone else, huh? And now you're plumb fuckered out!"-much of her life seemed to pass before her eyes in one blinding flash, the way it does before the eyes of a drowning person. It all came back, all those nights in which she had pretended to respond to her own husband.
She had been a whore!
But now, an immense feeling of relief welled up in her. She had been a whore, but she wasn't now. She had responded wholeheartedly to Mike, just as she had to Art. SHE WASN'T A WHORE! SHE WAS A WOMAN!
The guilt that had weighed so heavily on Sally for so long lifted like a burned off fog; her heart was light, her shame gone, and she lifted her head proudly. She had found herself at last, and she felt, in a sense, new-born. She was a real woman, a warm, loving sensual creature, just as Nature had intended.
She wanted to find Mike, to tell him, to beg him to forgive her for what she had done to him. Oh, not only the obscene performance with his best friend, Art,-oh, dear God! Could he ever forgive that? Could any man?-but all she had done to him, through all those years of her marriage. He had known, he had seen through her, and what he had done, with Kirst, had been a normal, frustrated man's reaction. It had been her fault, really, not his.
She shook her head, perplexed. A few hours before, she had considered her marriage over. She had vowed to herself never to see Mike again, never to speak to him, to blot him out of her life and her thoughts. Now, all her anger had vanished just as her guilt had. She knew she loved Mike, that she wanted to be a wife to him. A real wife, now. Not ... not that terrible thing he had called her. She took a deep breath and went out towards the library, looking for him.
She felt a moment's panic as she closed the door behind her. Surely Mike hated Art-"Loathed and despised him"-as she had said earlier. And the two were together now in the room beyond her. What were they doing? Just as she had imagined Mike dead, a few night's earlier, in her mind's eye she now saw Art's crumpled body stretched out on the library floor, blood flowing from the wounds Mike had inflicted. She covered her eyes with her hands, trying to hide from the horrible scene. At the library she paused, then, resolutely, opened the door.
The lights were glowing, and the hi-fi played soft music. Kirst, she noticed, was cuddled in the corner of the couch, playing cat's cradle with a bit of string she'd found. Mike and Art were sitting in easy chairs, each with a snifter of brandy in his hand, their heads together in earnest conversation. Friendly conversation, too, Sally thought with a sigh of relief.
They looked up as Sally entered, and Art got to his feet. "How about a drink?" he asked.
Sally nodded, too surprised to speak. Art handed her the brandy, then suggested "Sit down, Sally." He pointed to his own chair. "I guess you might want to talk to Mike."
"Yes," she said in a low voice.
"Kirst and I will leave you alone." He beckoned to her, and she followed him obediently into the next room.
"Mike, I ... I ... " Sally began, but Mike interrupted her.
"I was a bastard, Sally," he said wretchedly. "Calling you what I did." He sighed. "I was pretty upset, I guess."
"I don't blame you," Sally said. "Mike ... " again he interrupted.
"Jesus, honey, but you were a good fuck last night. Funny, isn't it? We've been married all these years, and I'm just finding out what a terrific woman you are." He grinned at her-the warm, friendly grin that had sold more insurance policies to more people than Sally cared to count-and added. "If it weren't so late, and if there weren't others around, I'd take you into the bedroom right now and screw you silly."
Sally felt a warm glow spread through her. "It's late," she agreed, but as for the other-well, a foursome can be fun, too. She tossed her head toward the living room. "What's happened to Kirst and Art?"
"Nothing, yet."
Sally looked alarmed. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, I forgot to tell you. Art wants to marry her."
"But she's just a kid!" Sally said.
Mike grinned at her sheepishly. "That's why Art wants to marry her," he said. Sally looked puzzled, and he went on to explain that they could both get into a lot of trouble. "There's that law, you know, about the age of consent. And Kirst's under that age. She's only fifteen-well, fifteen and a half. So Art and I thought it might be a good idea for him to marry her. No chances of trouble, that way."
"Getting married isn't going to make her any older," Sally pointed out. "She'll still be only fifteen and a half."
"Doesn't matter," Mike said. "Not as long as she's got that little piece of paper in her pocket that makes it all legal." He pondered on the peculiarities of the law. "Seems nutty, doesn't it? But that's the way it is."
He heard Art and Kirst talking in the next room. "We figured they'd better get the knot tied as soon as possible, too," he added. "Not here in Oregon; that's too difficult. They'll be taking off for Nevada pretty soon. And I guess we'd better be taking off for home."
He helped Sally into the light coat she'd been wearing, and they went out to the car. He started the motor, turned the vehicle around in the driveway, and headed back towards their house. As he drove he glanced over at his wife. God, he thought, she's a voluptuous woman. He could hardly wait to get her in the sack again. And the lascivious little grin that played around Sally's mouth told him she could hardly wait, herself ... maybe ... just maybe ... there really was a little bit of whore in her ... God, he hoped so with all his heart....
