ACCORDING TO ROGER BLAKE'S BOOK, WIFE SWAPPERS, "Wife swapping, as it is currently practiced, rarely consists of a simple agreement between two couples to trade partners for the night in separate locations with never a word about it afterward between spouses. The very motivation for most people who embark upon such ventures is a pluri-sexual one, a variety of desires including many types of deviant erotic behavior from voyeurism to sadism, masochism to exhibitionism, orgiasm to homosexuality. And because the activities of most swappers are enjoyed together either in person or vicariously, nearly all facets of homosexual and heterosexual lovemaking are indulged in." The Randoms and the Hatchers started swapping to add variety to their drying, mechanical marital sex. Then they joined the Corybants, a club with more than fifty couples on its rolls. The orgies that ensued were reminiscent of ancient Rome ... and then a maniacal modern-day Nero decided to play his fiddle in the basement ...
CHAPTER ONE
CARL AND MILLICENT RANDOM WERE preparing to retire for the night.
Certain blatant and unmistakable signals were being flaunted by Carl's sexily-endowed, dark-haired, thirty-five-year-old wife. like the filmy, orange negligee which he found draped across the bed as he entered the bedroom in Millie's wake. like the drum of the shower in the adjoining bathroom, the aphrodisiac scent of her musky perfume as she dried and dusted herself, a spoor that carried upon her anticipatory hummings, conveyed a searing, electric signal on the suddenly-charged air.
While Carl Random couldn't help but be aroused, already finding his prick nudging upward inside his pajamas as he waited for Millicent to appear, he nevertheless sensed a strange ennui, and a withering sense of duty as well.
Shit, he mused sardonically. Of course. Wednesday night. We always do it on Wednesday night. Part of Millie's super-efficient program. Daddy's rights. If a woman wants to hold her man-she was fond of saying-well then she'd damned well better see to frequent oil changes; his crankcase should be drained at least twice a week.
He wasn't knocking it. But there were times when the mechanical aspects of their marriage rites palled somewhat. Surprises he certainly could have used. A strange irritation choked him. And just what-what in hell, jerk, he challenged, is eating you?
The baffling resentment was instantly routed. For at that moment, a sultry smugness in her eyes (wearing absolutely nothing but a salacious grin), Millicent sauntered from the bath. Suddenly the room was alive with her taunting presence; her suffocating scent was strong in his nostrils, inciting undeniable lust in his psyche. So did the sight of her firm, symmetrical breasts, shiny and swollen, the tits puckered, pointed and lightly brushed with pink lipstick. A bawdy artifice Millie had taken to using of late. Her eyelids at half-mast, she deliberately insinuated a saucy grind into her sexy prance. Instantly his eyes fled from her desire-glossed breasts. They focused on the great, sloping triangle of her cunt. The fur was thick, black and moistly curly, a bold self-display that would have given a bronze statue a hard-on. Even as she sashayed toward him, he caught a glimpse of her pink-lipped cunt where it glistened among her black moss and winked licentiously at him.
"Baby," she purred seductively as she made a pronounced show of undulating her perfumed, opulent belly before his eyes. "Pajamas? Have you forgotten? What about our Wednesday night date? Take 'em off, Daddy." She drew his head down and worked his lips into the vale between her boobs. Then guided him still lower so that his lips slid on the silky texture of her fragrant belly. "Maybe you don't want me tonight, honey? You're getting tired of your old wife?"
Carl felt a hard throb in his prick, and a trail of his own oil slithered down the inside of his thigh, spotting his pajamas in unmistakable giveaway. "Never happen, Millie. You know better. I'll never say no to cunt." His fingers came up and pincered her slit. The feel of her fat, swollen lips, the sweet slide of his fingers there immediately served to excite him intolerably. Again his cock throbbed, and another silvery trail of pecker drool meandered down his leg.
"That's what Mommy-likes to hear." She glanced down, her coquettish, dark eyes glistening at the sight of the swollen surging hunk extending his paiamas. "Mmmmmm, Carl. You selfish thing! Keeping that to yourself all evening long? Why didn't you tell me you had it so bad? We could have skipped the end of that TV show."
"We had to be sure Brad was asleep."
"No more talk, lover. Mmmmmm, I can't wait. Let's get those pants off. Get him out here. Where I can see him. Where I can love him. Naughty, Carl! You've got your jammies all stained. What's Mommy going to do with you!"
Seconds later he was naked, and a single bedside lamp dimly illuminated the room. Millicent made a great show of admiring Carl and running her smooth, warm hands across his chest and over his belly. Yet, all the while she deliberately avoided his prick ... the utmost object of her heart's desire. Her silky fingers tickled and teased; her warm, moist lips followed suit, cruising hotly in the wake of her fingers. His prick throbbed non-stop; there was a continual fountain of juice down its gnarled throbbing length. "Oh, Millie," he gasped. "The way you sex a guy. I swear you should run a school"
She became fey, kittenish. "Millie's glad she pleases her lover-daddy. But you're the only pupil I'll ever want. Naughty boy! You're drooling all over yourself. Whatever is Mother going to do about you?" Without a moment's hesitation, she opened her lush, pouty lips, and allowed her pink serpent of a tongue to slither forth. Skillfully, she wound the rasping instrument around his maypole, and began lapping away the offending overflow. Her eyes fled between the delicious sweetmeat and his eyes, something gamin, mischievous, almost ing'nue in her expression.
Still her tongue wound and darted and vibrated. Now it slid upwards on him, applied the rough flat to the underside of his glans, and administered a maddening scrubbing to him there. Carl felt like hot needles were being driven 'up his member, spreading out in his guts like a molten fist.
Now she sat up, her eyes even more feisty. The disconnection of her lips from his cock took on proportions of betrayal, a traumatic desertion. As it was, his frustration was to become even greater. For now Millicent rolled onto her back in the darkness, made an elaborate ceremony of drawing up her knees, humping her buttocks, the better to flaunt her aromatic vagina in the gloom. "Momma now?" she teased, her voice thick. "She's got owies too. Has Carl got a big, fat kiss for Millie? Oh, honey! It burns! It burns something awful!"
There was no hesitation on Carl's part. Married almost fourteen years now, he'd progressed steadfastly down erotica's primrose path. There was no stigma attached to the affixing of lips to his wife's lubricous pussy; especially when she was fresh from the shower. With a slow, fluid movement he came over his trembling wife, administered a slithery, wet kiss to her belly and lanced her navel with a tickling tongue. "Lover!" Millicent sighed, lurching her belly up to meet his exciting obeisance. "God, how I needed that!"
Shortly his lips slid down the velvety incline, tumbled and pressured in the crisp gorse of her pubis. His tongue made overtures to the fat, swollen, slightly gaping lips of her cunt. The fleeting stabbings at her swollen pimple made Millicent groan and thrash delightedly, her cries creaking and lewd. "You suck," she exhorted. "You sweet suck! Oooh, now, damn you. Dive, Carl. Mange la cunt. Eat me!" Her thighs slapped ecstatically on his bulldozing head. "Oh, yes, yes! In!"
Carl Random ignored her cries for more direct attack. Considering himself a relative expert in oral-genital manipulations, he did things his own way, letting his passionate wife squeal and thrash all she liked. When he was ready, he would invade the hole proper. But for now-
Thus he put his elbows between her thighs, blocked them effectively, spreading her knees, making her gaping wound completely vulnerable. He contented himself with merely nipping, sucking and pulling the bloated outer lips of her vulva. Closing his entire mouth on her slit, he compressed and tugged the circling lips en masse, a thing which made Millicent whoop ecstatically.
Again he let the lips fall open, as he invaded their outer bastions over the fleshy stockade, toward the blockhouse itself. Stealthily his tongue reconnoi-tered the oily, slippery folds, sniffed and investigated every cranny and convolution of her exceedingly-tricky terrain; he imagined himself an astronaut first setting foot on the moon. Up, up his tongue slithered, into the narrow cowl at the top of her clit. Where it found a frightened, cringing holdout, a laggard victim who hadn't managed to make good his escape when the Indians had first struck. Placing one hand on Millicent's belly, he drew her mons veneris back, forced the cowardly hideaway forth, made the slimy button stand out in all its pulsating glory.
Millicent gasped shatteringly as he stabbed the hard nub with his tongue, wrapping his tongue around it in preface to even more mind-bending ministrations. "Carl, baby," she whined. "Oh, God! That's wonderful ... it burns like fire! You should be the one who should give lessons. If more men did that to their wives ... Suck, baby, oh suck. You gorgeous sucker!"
Great glottal gasps broke from her throat as he continued worshipping in that unique chapel; her hips bounced and jittered (in the bed; her thighs pumped and strained to slap themselves together on his torturing head. Then, as he commenced to piston his tongue in and out of her hole, he seemingly scoured that so-tender flesh off the walls of her grotto itself: "Oh, don't, baby," she pleaded. "Please don't. I can't stand it. Stop now. Don't make me come that way. With your prick, Carl? With that big, well-drilling prick of yours? Please, Carl! That's too much. That kills me. Oh, Carl, Carl..."
He became aware of her hand beneath his belly, of her struggles to adjust, to bring his body closer. Recognizing the overtures, he very quickly lent himself to Millie's touch. "Candy pour Maman?" she teased. "Bring it up, darling. Millie wants hers now. Millie wants her drumstick now. That gorgeous white meat. C'mon, doll. Both of us together. God, that's the greatest." And as he complied with her wishes: "Oh, yes, yes ... Lovely, lovely. So hard and long. So smooth and fat. You sweet screwer. You do want me, don't you? Bring it down, damn you! Before you drown me. Let me tidy you up."
Carl straddled her head, and readjusting further, allowed her to funnel his hank into her hot, suctioning mouth.
Up and down she pulled herself on its sturdy arch, her mouth pistoning relentlessly on his cock, her lips, teeth and palate stripping it with deadly proficiency. He felt the ribbing of her palate, the frantic pressurings of those muscles at the back of her throat, and he knew that if he dallied in this strange port much longer, it would be disastrous.
Although Millie had permitted him to unload there on random occasions, he knew it wasn't one of her favorite things, so he'd best pull out while there was still time.
She sucked harder, moaned protestingly as he attempted to withdraw himself from that murderous cove. But he persisted, distracted her by lacing the hell out of her swollen boil, bringing her to the edge of an orgasm. "It's that time," he gulped as she released him with a sucking plop, the last incisive slash of her teeth on his peckerhead almost being the crowning stroke.
Very quickly then, their lust at mind-blurring, incandescent pitch, they were groaning and scrambling on the bed, each righting for position and purchase. Carl wanted to be stuck into something! Millicent wanted something stuck into her! She gulped and sighed viscously as Carl rammed his fat cannon into her. the invasion of her hot pussy being exquisite beyond compare. Now the slimy cob was plumbing her guts, seemingly fighting to nestle itself somewhere just beneath her heart. Millicent sighed thickly, happily, spread her legs to breaking point, wrapped her ankles behind his flanks, almost as if intending to hammer his rod straight through her.
"God, God..." she wheezed, as he filled her. and immediately commenced his thrilling in-and-out. "The wav that thing stretches me. You could use that to drill wells! Oh, prick. Sweet prick! Screw Millie. Screw her silly!" Which Carl willingly did. Or seemingly so. For at that moment, incredible as it might seem, he was struck with strange misgivings. In the first place he wished that Millicent were just a little bit tighter. But he supposed that such a wish was unfair. After all, there was Brad. There would have been Janet, had she lived through that precarious first week. There would have been other children. But something had gone wrong at the hospital; before they were done the doctors had been obliged to fix it so that Millicent would never be able to have any other kids again.
Granted, he'd never put his petty dissatisfactions into words; he'd be a real rat to hit Millie that way. He really had no grounds for complaint: as avid a sex partner as Millicent had become after the operation, she more than made up for the niggling lack. She was more she-demon in bed than any other hundred women could be. But still, there were regrets; there was wishful thinking.
If there was a lack (Carl often questioned his foolish preoccupation with same), Millie never noticed it. Certainly it didn't inhibit her in the least, rob her of any of the volatile benefits to be derived from a stiff rod steaming in and out of her belly. Breaking up from his ruminations, he was surprised to find himself still hammering her, he became aware of her thick, rapturous gloatings: "Gorgeous, baby," she chanted. "Simply gorgeous. Oh, how can anything be so good. Ooh, that was a good one! You nearly opened up the back. In, darling! Oh, in, in..."
Carl became even more confused at his untimely lethargy. How in hell-he lashed himself. After the way I gobbled her, the way she sucked me! You'd think-hot as a goddamned firecracker! Any goddamned minute now!
But no. His thoughts stubbornly drifted again. It had been an eternity since he'd had a woman with what you could really call a tight hole. The kind of hole the guys at the office were always talking about. The fact of the matter was that he'd never had any other hole besides Millie's. And it seemed so long since she'd been that tight, since she'd literally shoehorned him into her. He wondered what it would be like. With one of those stacked, young secretaries at the office. Those hot-titted nymphos in their miniskirts and their kooky pumps and crazy net-and-lace stockings. Were the myths about young women nowadays true? Did they put out at the drop of a hat? And if they did, would they be squeaky tight? Oh, God, wouldn't that be a feeling? To push yourself into something like that? like that Bunny Torrigan, for instance?
It had been a much-intensified, recurrent fantasy of late, the pressure of the mounting years, the sameness of things, the feeling that life was passing him by, getting to him more than it should have. Carl had never-in his whole life-ever had any other woman but Millie. Which was no shit. He'd had opportunities (or, at least, they'd seemed like opportunities) in his time, but always, when he considered same seriously, Millie's phantom had loomed, the threat of jeopardy had intervened, and he'd chickened out at the last moment.
But just once more! he raged, an infuriating frustration filling him. Another woman! A new romance! Some of that old excitement that life was supposed to be full of! He didn't really care if it was one of those young, tight-holed cunts. Bunny Torrigan would be nice though, wouldn't she? The knockers on that bitch! No, any woman would do, just so long as she was pretty enough, was well built, and liked to screw. He thought of Don Hatcher, a lifelong buddy. More particularly he thought of Irene, his wife. I wouldn't even mind that. I'll bet she puts out a mean one. Cute and vivacious. Christ, that time I caught her alone in the kitchen, started kissing her, feeling her up. The way she seemed to eat it up! I'll bet if we'd have been alone-
A nagging consideration hit him. Would any of those women, Bunny or Irene-any cunt he could name-be better than Millie? Could they throw a meaner hump? Could they make me feel any more like a man than Millie does? Christ, the way she hangs on sometimes, the way she begs me to keep plugging her. A man would have to be a goddamned fool to fault bedroom stuff like that. And what is it with you anyway, buddy?
It was precisely here that the incongruous reverie was brought to a shit-screeching halt. As he broke up from his thoughts to find that Millie's body had momentarily died beneath him. "Carl?" she breathed accusingly, "What is it?" You keep losing your place."
Crushing shame filled him. And he groaned, frozen atop her, to realize that he couldn't feel the greasy folds of her pussy, to realize that he'd gone partially soft inside her. And Holy-oh-Christ! What did that mean? "Sorry," he said in muffled, shamefaced tones. "I guess I just wasn't concentrating."
Millicent laughed earthily, understandingly. "I guess not." She pumped determinedly beneath him, clenched him with those inner muscles of her cunt-throat. "I came twice, but you didn't notice." He felt himself start to stiffen anew. "I guess you thought you were done for the night, huh? You oughta know better than that." He got still harder, reached deep inside of her warm grotto. "I don't quit until you make it, darling. And I haven't felt a thing yet." She squirmed even more salaciously, her voice turned breathy. "Here we go, darling. He's growing. like Jack's beanstalk. Oooh! What a stalk! Keep growing, baby. Never stop. Up, up and away..."
Carl laughed softly, gratefully, his heart very much full of love for his wife at that moment. She was a good woman; one of the very best. And he was a rotten skunk, an ingrate of the first water, to even be thinking about another woman at a time like this. He readjusted atop her writhing, grinding body. He exulted in the quick hiss of Millie's breath, in the unmistakable signal of impending ecstasy in her stifled whines. Faster and faster his hips fucked atop her. He gloried in the way her legs wound behind his again, the way her heels drummed his flanks. He felt the knob of his soldier ripple through the serrated mush of her channel; he felt its veined muzzle rumble across the slimy pimple of her clitoris, making her hiss and squirm with new delight. Faster, more dominatingly-Carl using his prick like some sadistic, avenging weapon now-he rammed it into her. Millie's cries were wheezing, animalistic, almost barks now:
"Oooh, oooh! Shove, you sweet sticker. Shove that talented prick into me. Oh, God, it's good! It's exquisite. It's..." She gasped, lurched convulsively. "Oooh, again ... it's happening again. You man! You clever-pricked man! Oh! Oh! More, still more! I'll never get enough of that. Oh, go!"
And now, as Carl's fingers scrabbled beneath that pistoning silo, gathered their overflow juices, used them to anoint the gaping crack of Millicent's buttocks, to finger and spread the puckered star of her anus, she greedily assented to this liberty also: "Yes, baby, oh, yes. Put it in. Put your finger up my ass. I like that. It makes it good ... even better for me. Oh, baby, yes. Mmmmmm. If it makes it better for you ... I love it, love it. Both holes filled with you. Go, Carl! Oh, plug me blind!"
He groaned, shot his bolt home that much more fiercely, a deranging sadism filling him. He drove his finger deeper into her, vibrated it. He delighted in the feel of his plunging cock on the other side of that thin wall. And very quickly then, as Millie exploded beneath him still again, he knew it was that time.
His hips hammered. His finger fought and pressured. His phallus would seemingly go through her, would put dents in the walls of her cunt that would never come out. And now that incandescent, melting heat, that incredible pressure in his scrotum and belly! That crucifying pain! That scalding sense of filthiness! like he wanted to treat Millie like some filthy whore. like he wanted to do forbidden things, rotten things, things beyond the pale of normal human behavior. And now the dam burst. The cork popped out of the bottom of the world.
And lava-hot-molten-gushing-
He groaned thickly in his throat, his own cry of climax blending with that of the re-transported Millie, she-wonder of wonders that she was-announcing still another orgasm! Even as he sluiced his own hot good into her, splatted it up against the back of her womb, each new jet drawing a pinched, exultant yip from her:
"Yes, yes..." she pleaded. "All ... all of it. Every last drop."
Which triggered a pagan outburst of his own:
"Oh, God, God! Here, you lovely! You sweet lovely lay! Drink this. And this. And this..."
Afterwards, a totally sated Millicent drifted, almost immediately, into a deep sleep. Her face pressed to his shoulder, her fingers lovingly wrapped around the inert bundle of his sex, she slept the sleep of the just.
Carl Random wished that he might be so easily assuaged. For once again the damning thoughts were back. And he wondered what it was all about. He wondered what it meant. Him? Lusting after another woman? Crazy to have a last fling? A new sexual experience? How could it be? Not now. He was thirty-eight years old. A man's supposed to be over that kind of stuff by now. Especially a man owning a tigress wife like Millie.
Still the frustrated bitterness rankled. Good she might be. But she was still the same woman. The only woman. He could have called that session to the letter; he could have detailed its highly routinized acts and dialogue and emotions in advance, almost as if gifted with a magic clairvoyance. After all, all these years at the same old stand-
This is it? he agonized. Oh, God, she's good; I know I love her, and she loves me. But there has to be more than this. Is this to be the story of my life for the next twenty, thirty years? This sameness, these damned mechanics? Until we're both so old we can't do it, we can't even remember what it was like? Am I supposed to go out without having once known what another woman was like? Am I wrong, God, for even wanting another woman?
Sweet Jesus! he groaned aloud. This can't be all!
There couldn't be the slightest doubt about it, he concluded. The man's definitely, chaotically, irredeemable confused! The man's most monstrously wigged!
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS ONE OF THOSE NIGHTS.
One of those perfect nights when just the right amount of liquor, the right amount of innuendo and racy stories, the right amount of coquettishness on the part of the girls, flirty tactile overtures by the boys, can bring a sexual stew to a perfect boil. Meson activators are pulled, and the atomic pile starts to sputter and hum. Catalysts are overturned and the chemical mixture results in an explosion that leaves wreckage that can never, in one man's lifetime, be repaired.
It was one of those nights.
Afterwards, neither the Randoms or the Hatchers could pinpoint the moment when the fun faded, when double entendre and sexual horseplay became real. Neither couple could list the exact causatives, the manual liberties which accounted for things going out of control.
Trying to figure things out in the days that followed the breakdown, the closest Carl Random could come to affixing blame was remembrance of the bitchy mood in which that Saturday night party was enjoined.
In the first place he'd had a bad week at the plant. All kinds of crises had piled up of late, with he, seemingly, always managing to be the goat when reckoning time came. Things had been touch-and-go between him and Millicent also, aftermath, apparently, of his faux pas the night of their last bedroom bout. And if that hadn't been bad enough there had been the continuing mental disorientation he suffered concerning their marriage, the fact that Millicent recognized that something was wrong between them, had set out in that irritatingly straightforward way of hers to analyze and pinpoint same, talk their difficulties to death.
Of course, when Carl had clammed up-even to the extent of bowing out on their Saturday and Wednesday screwing sessions-the fat had been in the fire. Millicent had taken to making snide remarks about her not being good enough for him any more, compounding misery by conjecturing on which of his office staff sluts he was shacking with during his noon hours.
And where she generally stuck to gin and sours when they joined the Hatchers for one of their bridge-playing evenings, tonight she'd gotten onto martinis, was presently working on her fourth, a new high for Millie.
High is used advisedly.
Don Hatcher and his pretty twenty-eight-year-old wife, Irene, were not without their problems. Still smarting over excessive attentions he'd paid to a Sherry Monfort at a recent company party. she nursed a grudge as well. Thus, when Millicent opted for martinis, she joined her. Don, miffed at being accused unjustly, climbed aboard the martini wagon also and pulled Carl up alongside him. And all moods being negative, circumstances crowding, conspiring, bubbling like some witch's brew-
By eleven o'clock concentration on the bridge game was nil. The Hatcher hi-fi providing a melodic background fill, the Hatcher children long since in the snug embrace of the sand man, there was no reason in the world why the party shouldn't go on, take whatever diverse tangents the moment might dictate.
Thus it was that bridge gave way to carping, jocular shrewishness on the women's part. This nicking banter the men sought to sidestep by blue jokes, innuendo of an unmistakable sort. The essence being that just perhaps a change of scene might be just what the doctor ordered. Suggestive chatter fazed the girls not at all, and they agreed that it was a two way street.
None of which was out of the ordinary for the Hatchers and the Randoms. Carl and Don having grown up together, both of an age, they had always maintained a rather bawdy, share-and-share-alike attitude toward each other; theirs was a camaraderie which surpassed small setbacks, innuendo concerning each other's wives, their sex lives, the lot. Don Hatcher marrying late, only six years into the matrimonial rat-race, he often made sport of Carl's fourteen years, and now, harking back to a particularly ribald joke, he ran a swiping hand over his mouth, said:
"Ma . . .an! Ah don't see how nobody can stand two whole bucks wu'ff o' that!"
Millicent had jumped on this, demanded to know what the joke was, what Don implied by it.
Don obliged, and launching into Negro dialect, told the story of the two little boys who daily passed a whorehouse, saw a continual stream of men coming and going, wondered what went on inside. Whatever it was, one lad informed the other, it cost two dollars. One day one boy, amassing the munificent sum of 25 cents, rapped on the door, and asked for a "piece". Whereupon the big black mammy took his money, whisked him inside, rewarded his sassiness by grabbing him by the ears, jamming his entire head up her snatch, working him back and forth with a drubbing vengeance.
It was as the boy staggered out of the house, wiping the malodorous residue off his face that he'd said: "Ma ... an! Ah don't see how nobody can stand two whole bucks wu'fT o' that!"
After Millicent had stopped giggling, she'd jumped on Don: "And how's that supposed to apply to our marriage?"
"Should be obvious, baby," Don teased. "The way things are going between Irene and me, I just don't see how you and Carl have hung on as long as you have. Christ, I just look at another girl cross-eyed and she's got me having a thing with them. She's got a crazy idea that marriage's supposed to be some kind of jail or something."
Gradually, as the joke-swapping had gone on, everyone talking more thickly, laughing more hilariously by the minute, the acrimony had faded. The music all-pervasive, it had been Millicent who'd pulled Don up from the davenport, made dance-with-me noises. Kicking off her shoes, she'd led him to the end of the living room, where falling into his arms, she'd plastered her body lasciviously against his, making a great show of being a femme fatale.
Immediately Carl and Irene, not about to be outdone, were out of their chairs, joining them on the carpeted dance floor. And if Don and Millie clung hotly, made great show of grinding their bellies together, it was nothing compared to the burlesque of lust the newcomers put on.
At least at first it was a burlesque. For as they continued dancing so closely, as all parties concerned found their pulse quickened, found themselves entertaining the most outrageous of fantasies, the mood very swiftly changed, became dangerous indeed. After all, Millicent and Irene were beautifully, voluptuously endowed females, the disparity in their ages notwithstanding. Irene, a witty, slangy blonde, possessed of some very outstanding knockers, a flaring waist and made-for-business hips and derriere, she could use some sexual seasoning. Seasoning that Carl Random was more than ready to supply. And where Millicent was slightly faded, more diminutive in the boobs department, there was still that dark mystery in her eyes, the unspoken savoir faire she possessed in matters sexual. If Carl could improve Irene's sexual finesse, she could certainly do the same for Don.
Both were handsome enough men, even at thirty-seven and thirty-eight, and neither woman could be blamed if the present sexiness of their circumstances should cause their spines to feel rubbery, trigger a quick heat and tightening between their legs while they danced. And if Don Hatcher was taller, slightly more burly than Carl Random, Irene wasn't complaining. She found it very exciting to dance this close with Carl; she found being able to nestle her cheek to his very comforting indeed, a thing she couldn't ordinarily do with her taller husband. Smaller in stature though Carl might be, there was one department in which he wasn't slighted, and as they danced with increasing abandon, she thought the monumental dig of his swollen cock into her thigh vastly exciting. Even if things never went any further, there would still be cherished memory of this brief moment of naughtiness to sustain her on the morrow. To this purpose she sought to capitalize on the mood, reciprocated his "accidental" buntings with swirls and buntings of her own. She detoured as they danced, extinguished all but a tiny statuary lamp atop the TV set, plunged the room into even more seductive gloom, thrilling at her own wickedness.
Millicent Random watched her best friend kill the lights, and she thought gin-blitzed thoughts to the effect that if she were ever to share her husband with any woman, she'd want it to be with Irene. And wasn't Don holding her close? Wasn't he huge, strong? Man? Wasn't the throb and poke of his big, hard prick in her belly fantastically exciting? The gin made her more woozy, briefly queasy even, and momentarily she clung desperately to Don. Now she felt better; she flowered beneath Don's touch; she thought the way his fingers toyed with the nape of her neck beneath her long, black hair excitingly intimate. She actually felt a wash of female fluids gather in the crotch of her suddenly-steamy panties.
The men were no less aware of what was happening. At least individually, an unspoken compact between each and his dancing partner. Through his woozy daze Carl's eyes narrowed in disbelief as he saw Don's hand slither down Millie's back, close on one slowly-gyrating buttock, lift and roil there. He was more amazed to see the way Millie tolerated the intimacy, ground her body more hotly to his in response.
In direct retaliation he dropped his hand down along Irene's back, flirted with her ultra-pneumatic rondules briefly before picking one, taloning it with gentle fingers, using it as a handle with which to work her still more tightly against his red-hot, aching jock. He heard Irene's quick intake of breath, a slight tensing in her back. But then she relaxed, sighed happy assent, made Carl suck in a breath of his own, as she slid her face across his, only stopped when their mouths were locked, when her tongue was saucily sliding back and forth in the V of his lips. A second later he opened his mouth, admitted her spicy serpent, brought his own to duel with it. He felt a hot charge of his love oil trickle down his inner thigh, and reflexively bunted his cock even harder into her welcoming body.
Carl felt his guts jumble. He wanted to howl with desire. He wanted to fling Irene down then and there, take care of things on the spot!
But he did nothing of the sort. Instead, he froze in mid-stride, and temporizing, told himself this was just a harmless game, that nothing would come of it-he tilted Irene's pretty blonde head, kissed her the more possessively, the click of her teeth on his; the slight, hurting suck she administered to his tongue bloated his ego intolerably.
It was as they were thus engaged that Don looked up, saw them. And opening from the dance stance, indicated the progression to Millicent. She smiled dreamily, a flaring of jealousy instantly muted, and with no words at all, stood on her toes, indicated that Don kiss her as well.
For a long time, as each couple became aware of the other's actions, they stood in a paralyzed, stricken pose. Millicent's eyes were molten, pleading when they locked with Carl's. Please-they said. Just a little longer. Let me play! Let this go on a little longer.
His look was equally haunted. And his one hand beneath Irene's jutting, seam-straining breast, he worked his fingers still higher, tweaked the hard nipple inside her brassiere in plain view of his wife's gaping stare. His eyes looked like they would explode.
Don and Irene stared at each other similarly, that same desperation in their gaze, that same pleading in their slack, lust-filled mouths. Oh, God, their eyes beseeched, just this one time. It won't be wrong. They're our very best friends. If it has to be with anybody-
Even as they stood in the mute panoply Don responded to Carl's liberty with his wife by deliberately bringing up one hand, lifting Millicent's left breast. Then, his eyes rolling, frantic, he moved toward the TV, and in slow, resolute movements, turned off the TV lamp. There was only the soft, soothing flow of music from the all-night FM station; there was the unblinking eye of the stereo signal, a feeble glimmer from the selector panel.
Carl heard the squeak of the davenport as Don led Millie around the coffee table, sat her down, immediately took her into his arms, began kissing her anew. As for he and Irene, they kissed in the middle of the floor, their lower bodies gyrating helplessly, their tongues pistoning ceaselessly, twisting and twining and sucking. A moment later their legs turned to spaghetti, and they sank to the floor with an animalistic, shattery gasp. Immediately they were sprawled upon the carpet, their lips locked, their arms wound around each other. As Carl brought up his knee, crowded it between Irene's she swiftly answered by spreading her own legs, welcoming him with an unmistakable signal of surrender.
How long the couples lay in the throes of their over-powering, reason-atrophying lust, they were never to know. For very shortly it was as if, literally, the others had ceased to exist. So far as Carl was concerned, he could have had Irene then and there, with Don and Millicent right beside them, and he'd never have known it. The radio shut out all but the most violent sighs and hissings of delight, the metallic snarl of male and female zippers, as things now became very wild indeed.
It was Irene herself, totally beyond conscience by then, who made the first overt move. Carl was kissing her, socking his tongue in and out of her mouth in pseudo-copulatory gestures, when she started, clamped down on his tongue, simultaneously sent her fingers between them, began to fun his fly. Seconds later her hand was inside his trousers, fighting to snake inside his shorts, wrap around the much-longed-after cock. Seconds later she found it, strummed its slimy head with her fingers, boldly began hoisting it up and out. With her own hands, she brought up her skirts so its weeping snout wouldn't stain her clothes. Carl hissed loudly as his tacky corona adhered momentarily to her hot, silky thighs.
"Oh, God, Irene," Carl choked, fighting her hands, the whole, insane thing happening altogether too fast for him. "This is crazy. How'd we get like this? C'mon now. You shouldn't. Not just like that. Let me at least..."
Then, totally ignoring Millicent and Don's presence, discounting the possibility of them observing him in the throes of his maenadic lust, he fought her, fell upon her, his lips gliding on the upper reaches of her hosiery, immediately setting off for more northern climes. She gasped and lurched as his lips careened off her nylons, encountered her bare thighs, scooted for the high country. Then, when his lips nuzzled her damps, when his mouth closed on the sopping mouth of her cunt proper, chewed and sucked it through sodden nylon, Irene truly writhed and seethed in intermixed agony and passion.
Brief minutes later, Irene transported, beyond all retreat now, she docilely lifted her hips, allowed him to drag her panties from beneath her fanny, work them down her legs, his mouth instantly pouncing on the golden snarl of her gash, his tongue lashing her clit even as he struggled them off her legs. "Carl, oh, Carl..." she gasped. "Stop now. What are you doing? That's perverted, that's..."
His tongue snaked inside her gash now, flogged the distended pearl of her clitoris in desperate cadence.
She lurched, gasped stertorously. "That's heavenly, simply heavenly! Nobody's ever..." The exclamation went unfinished. At least so far as Carl was concerned. For as his tongue swabbed her more insanely, her silk-glossed legs closed on his head, blotted out all sounds except that amplified clatter of his licking, sucking lips and tongue inside his skull.
Thus, he didn't hear when Don and Millicent abruptly rose from the davenport, stumbled through the gloom, quit the living room for greener pastures. Had he heard his wife being spirited away for purposes of a lusty pronging by another man, he might have been shocked from his obscene trance; he might have regained his senses, called screeching halt to the travesty about to take place. Only Carl didn't hear.
"We'll be in the front bedroom, Irene," Don called softly, wistfully. "You're sure, honey ... it's okay? You won't mind..."
"I'm sure," Irene intoned eerily. You go ... just go. Leave us alone..." She flopped and slithered uncontrollably on the carpet, her cries gurling, thick. If this was wrong, if this was perverted, she decided, someone had been giving her the bummest of steers about the wages of sin all these years. She flapped her knees like a crippled windmill in a hurricane, alternately opened and closed her cunt, welcoming and shutting off the hair-curling sensation in conflicting spates of sensation.
Millicent was never to remember how she got to the bedroom. Her stockings flapping about her ankles, one shoe on, the other off, her panties and girdle discarded somewhere along the line, she allowed him to guide her through the dark house, to usher her into the fragrant, mildly coolish bedroom. Even as he turned her in the gloom, sat her on the bed's edge, she fought to expunge that last vision from her brain. Dear God! she wailed in disbelief. That couldn't have been Carl, could it? With his head between Irene's legs? Gobbling her there for all he was worth? Not my Carl?
An insane, irrational resolution formed in her brain, a determination vaguely hinging on the adage that has to do with "Sauce for the goose-"
Then as Don eased her back onto the bed, immediately wedged his hand between her thighs, cupped the whole of her sodden crotch, clenched and tugged it, driving an incisive finger inside her slit in the bargain, strumming her clitoris, the lunatic lust was back. She blamed Carl. He never should have let me drink this much. He should have got up from the floor at the last minute there. Instead of wallowing between Irene's legs like that. He should have stopped me. How can I be strong when he's like that-the way he is? I shouldn't let Don handle me like this. I shouldn't let him shove his fingers in my pussy!
But then a lunatic, contradictory rationale took charge. And why not? If Carl chooses to crawl before Irene, if he prefers her to me? Don't I want to? Two can play at this game. And, God, isn't it the truth? That you really want to with another man? A man older than my husband? Don't I want to see what it will be like? What his prick will feel like shoved into my hole"!
She gasped, went stiff as the last chaotic thought smashed down: To see how his prick feels-in my mouth).
Still she wouldn't take responsibility for her wanton bravura. It's all your, fault, Carl. You're the one who's had the hots for those teenage poppsies at the office. And now you'll be repaid. In spades.
Lapsing into even deeper frenzy, she helped Don rip the rest of her clothing away; she even lurched up, fell over him, commenced tugging at his shirt and undershirt. Now his trousers, his shoes, his socks. The fantastic tenting in his white, cotton jockey-shorts was too much for her, and quickly her hand dove for the elastic band, dragged the shorts down. She exulted in the way his beautiful whang slapped forth, spraying tiny flecks of his oil in her hovering face as it did so. Suddenly, dementedly, the overdose of gin still with her, intermixed with the rawest of lusts, she was upon him; she was swallowing as much of the glorious cock as she could; she was coasting her lips up and down its delicious length, delighting in the rank smell of him, in the salty flavor. It was a feeling she'd never experienced before, a thrilling, maddening thing, sparking long-buried tremors, unrecallable memories and yearnings in her subconscious. This smell? This taste? she pondered. What did it mean? And why, why-with a strange man? Why these so fantastically intensified urges? These forbidden urges?
She blotted out the disturbing fears, rededicated herself to sucking Don. Very shortly, it became obvious that it was, indeed a first for him. "No, Millie," he protested, "now stop that. You shouldn't take me ... in your mouth like that. It's abnormal." He yipped as she bore down with her teeth, resisted his efforts to dislodge her. "Oh, honey ... don't!"
Which protests and display of coyness Millicent found overpoweringly sweet, made her all the more eager to s-'ck him, to teach him. Her mouth flowed up and down on the delicious root all the more frenziedly now. Very shortly she was humming happily, her nails scrabbling in the bundle of his sex, pincering his testicles lightly.
"I couldn't, I couldn't," Irene was protesting at that moment, she and Carl having gained the vacated davenport, she on her back, with Carl straddling her shoulders, the heavy hank of his cock at dripping attention above her face, the mighty muzzle aimed precisely, canted toward her protesting lips. "I've never done anything like that before. I swear, Don's never wanted ... never let me. I. . . "
"There's always a first time," Carl snickered. "It's the least you can do. After the lacing I just gave you. For all you know ... Don and Millie ... the same thing ... at this very moment. She's sucking him; he's sucking her. You wanna be left out?"
"Anything else, baby. You can suck me again if you want; you can put that monstrous meat into me. Only don't make me do ... this ... awful ... "
Arrogantly, Carl drove the slippery knob of his tool up against her lips, worked it gently against them, deriving sadistic charge out of Irene's gagging outcries, the flop and squirm of her head as she sought to avoid the odorous length. "Suppose I tell you that you don't get this? In your pussy, I mean? Not until you ... do as you're told?"
She lurched, wailed piteously. "Oh, Carl, baby, please! You wouldn't. You wouldn't leave me hanging. Not when I need you so badly! Please, darling!"
He drove the thick snout more firmly against her clenched teeth, worked it back and forth on her in piano keyboard effect. Open up, sweetheart," he gritted. "You might as well get used to it. If I have to force you..."
Inch by inch he wedged her mouth open, gradually worked his prick into her mumbling, wheezing mouth. "Don't bite!" he snapped. "That's a baby. That's a good girl. In we go. That isn't so bad, is it? Once you get started..."
It wasn't bad, Irene was forced to concede. Once the initial revulsion was past, it wasn't bad at all. And just where do people get such crazy ideas? There was no strong, repugnant taste. The slight saltiness at first. Then the bland cream, tasteless as mineral oil. And beyond that, the glorious sensation of having your mouth filled to bursting with male meat. The excitement of being forced, of having a man show you who's boss. Exquisite, how exquisite! And why did I fight it? When all along-
Now Irene strained her head, fought to take in still more of him. She cursed when he banged the back of her throat, made her gag slightly. Heavenly, heavenly, she exulted. If only I could get more of him in. Oh this gorgeous feeling! Sex for sex's sake! To wallow like some unprincipled animal! To let all the filth in my soul come out. All the filth I've been afraid to admit until now. All the filth I've been afraid to let Don know about. But with this man, this near-stranger-
All of it! Every depraved, forbidden act! Let it all come out!
By way of celebration of her new emancipation, Irene gruntingly adjusted herself and matter-of-factly corkscrew her finger deeply into Carl's ass-hole.
While in the front bedroom Millicent now lay on her back, with Don over her, his great, battering ram going in and out of her deliciously, ruthlessly. She crooned in a surfeit of ecstasy and drunkenness; she adjusted her ankles about his waist more precisely, thought the flex and flow of her legs on the bridge of his back pleasurable beyond compare. Seemingly, she could control her own orgasmic destiny herself. Now pinched barks of ecstasy abraded her throat, and her legs flexed that much more swiftly as climax number four loomed on the lightning-splashed horizon of her sexual consciousness. A jagged, blinding flash arced across that midnight velvet, tore gaping holes in the ceiling of the world, set rampaging fires against that jet-black tapestry of estrus.
Almost immediately Don's Long Tom roared, and she became blissfully aware of the copious jet-tings that bathed the inner linings of her belly. She screamed through clenched teeth-a joyous, fulfilled scream.
As of that moment the conflagrations in the depths of her soul-the subliminal guilt pangsceased to exist.
If Carl and Millicent, Don and Irene were in the midst of a star-fire, if their Armageddon still loomed, there were others in the city of Porterfield who were facing equally grave crises as well. Among them were Daphne and Kenyon Gwynn, a married couple of three years duration, twenty-four and twenty-six years of age respectively. Who were separately ensconced-Daphne at one end, Kenyon at another, each in viewing distance of the other at the elite, basement bar which the Silver Eagle Motel boasted.
In the multi-colored, revolving light that worked in perpetuity above the horseshoe bar itself, Daphne Gwynn looked more ravishing (or so Kenyon proudly thought) than he could remember. Her exotic pallor, the raven-black hair the dark eye shadow, the iridescent pink lipstick which gave perplexing, ing'nue taunt to her lush lips. Then the dark, daring gown that revealed the brimming swell of her opulent, creamy breasts, the taunt almost deliberate.
At that moment, Daphne stared down the bar at her husband, terror and beseechment of the most desperate kind in her eyes. Please, darling, her eyes pleaded. Don't make me go through with this. Anything, only-
Kenyon frowned, drew his lips into a harsh, demanding line. Almost imperceptibly the ravishing female shrunk inwardly, all will and purpose suddenly stolen from her. When the handsome young salesman sat next to her, offered to buy her a drink in return for conversation, she forced a sultry grin onto her lips, nodded seductively.
Kenyon Gwynn smiled with delight, watched his lovely wife skillfully vamp the salesman. Seeing the expression on her swain's face, the sexual hunger glittering in his eyes, Gwynn was rewarded by a monumental erection inside his trousers. Tomorrow-he thought expectantly.
Perhaps three-quarters of an hour later, Daphne playing her role expertly, she and the salesman arose from the bar, drifted toward the stairs leading into the motel proper. There could be no mistake: She'd been propositioned; she was now going upstairs to bed with her new conquest. She would most-likely be laid to within an inch of her young life.
They were gone for almost two hours. And still Kenyon Gwynn sat at the bar nursing his Scotch. He imagined all the wild things that must be transpiring in that room upstairs. The things the salesman would do to his wife! Yet there was no rage, no jealousy. Only the irrepressible expectancy, the Buddha-like smile. There was the even more monumental hard-on in his trousers. Which hard-on Gwynn pleasurably caressed with butterfly fingers from time to time.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS THE NOISE THAT BRAD, thirteen-years-old, made the next morning as he breakfasted, preparing to leave for church that awoke Carl and Millicent Random from their haunted sleep. Well-trained from his earliest years, Brad was used to seeing to his own affairs; he was a son any couple would have been proud to call their own. This balmy, May morning he would walk the five blocks to St. Marks. Where, after Sunday School, he would serve as an altar boy, generally meet his parents after services, come home with them.
The dull slam of the front door awoke Carl first. His head aching with a dull throb, a sour taste in his mouth, a queasiness in his stomach, he came up on his elbows, surveyed his private world, thought it looked just the same as it had twenty-four hours previous.
Then he remembered.
It was like someone h-'d buried a fist in his put. the detonation of shock almost wringing a full-fledged howl of disbelief and rage from him. For long moments he clenched his fists, squinted his eyes shut, blocked out the cold light of day, the cold reality of his and Millicent's transgressions.
He thought it killingly ironic that it should be the saintly preparations of his son as he left for church that would serve as spark to set off the powder-train of damning guilt and remorse now threatening to destroy his sanity.
It was at that exact moment, Brad whistling blithely as he moved down the street, the sound carrying clearly through their partially-opened bedroom window, that Millie stirred beside him, sighed and yawned.
A second later she lurched viciously, almost as if someone had touched a cattle prod to the base of her spine.
Now an eerie, panicky wail broke from her, and she turned over and faced Carl.
Her face was ashen-gray, defeated; her eyes were frightened, the orbs darting wildly; her mouth was twisted into a grimace of self-loathing. "Carl! Say it isn't so. We didn't! It's a bad dream. I'll wake up any minute now."
"It's a bad dream all right," he replied grimly, unable to face his wife directly. "One we'll remember as long as we live." His voice became shattery. "It happened, Millie. Dear God, did it ever happen!"
Briefly, unable to face the gross enormity of their sins head on, they skirted the edges, questioned the ulteriors of their downfall. How many drinks had each of them had? What time had things gone haywire at the Hatcher home? What time had they finally left the house? Had they drunk some more once the trading had commenced? Could either of them remember what they'd said upon parting? Had Brad heard them when they came in? What-if anything-had they said to each other once they'd gained the privacy of their bedroom? Or had they merely fallen into a drunken stupor, into a sex-sated doze?
"Oh, God, Carl," Millicent moaned, her voice clogged with despair, "I'm sorry, so sorry. I don't know what got into me. I wouldn't have believed-that I could act like that-with another man. With Don. Lord, what must he think? I was a regular whore-on-wheels."
"You weren't alone. I was right there beside you. And so were Irene and Don. How're you gonna explain a thing like that? It just happened."
"It shouldn't have happened," Millicent said, her voice curdled with self-disgust. "If we weren't the kind of people we are. Something has to be wrong inside of us ... wrong with our marriage. Otherwise..."
"Don't blame yourself, darling," Carl soothed, laying a comforting hand on her bare shoulder. "I tell you it just happened. Too much booze, too much dirty talk. Then that sexy dancing. Christ, any human being would have reacted the same way."
"Don't touch me!" Millicent lashed. "I'm not clean. I'm tainted, corrupt ... I'm tainted forever. You're tainted too." She began to sob. "Oh, God, we'll never be the same again. What's going to happen to us . . .to our marriage?"
Carl was amazed that he was suddenly so clearheaded, that he could gauge this disaster in its truest, purest perspective. And though he thought to mollify his wife, soft-pedal their backsliding, he knew better. He knew that it was time for some straight talk, for some hard facts. God knew, everything was in the fan now anyway. What harm could a few more honest words do?
"Maybe," he said gravely, pulling Millicent into his arms despite her struggles, "we're going to save our marriage."
She jerked, fought him anew, her voice hysterical. "Save our marriage? What kind of idiotic nonsense is that? We behave like a pair of amoral animals, go to bed ... screw ... with our best friends ... That's supposed to save our marriage? You must be out of your mind!"
"I'm going to tell you something, darling," he said softly, forcing her to lie still in his grasp.
"Something I've never told you ... or anyone ... before."
Her face froze. "What is it, Carl?"
"I've wanted Irene for a long time now. Almost from the start. From the first time I met her, when I stood for Don at their wedding."
"Oh, Carl, no!"
"I've wanted Irene. I've wanted lots of girls. I can't help it. It's the manner of the beast, I guess. That's why I say that maybe this was for the best. That we both discovered this before it was too late. Before I did something I'd be sorry for the rest of my life."
"Oh, Carl," she choked, her eyes wild with anguish. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that I'm not happy with the way things have been going with our marriage. I'm saying that I was altogether too young to be married when I was. You know what I told you about never having screwed another girl? That's the God's truth, Millie. And I'm goddamned ashamed to admit it, I realize that it was a ghastly mistake."
"Ashamed? Carl, what kind of talk is that? Are you saying that you don't love me anymore?"
"I'm saying nothing of the kind. I love you more now than when I married you. You're the best of all possible women, of all possible wives. If you were to leave me, my life would be shot. I'd go to hell in a hand basket within six months. Love isn't the issue here."
"But then what is? If you admit you want to have sex with other women ... that you want to seduce them..."
"Screwing isn't love, can't you understand that? I can't explain it imagine-like, baby. You'll just have to believe me when I say that I love you, that I want to stay married to you, forever and ever."
"But you still want other women."
"Yes, I do. It's a crazy, mixed-up compulsion with me, something that's been eating me up inside the past few months."
"I've noticed. You've been different. It seemed to me at times that you didn't even know I was around. Sometimes even when you were making love to me. Were you thinking about other women then?"
"I guess. Don't you see what I'm trying to say, darling? I've never in my life had any woman but you. And God knows, they just can't come any better, any sexier than you. But still, even when I know that, I have to find out about other women, what they're like. I have to know!"
"I've never had any other man but you, Carl. You know that. I was a virgin on our wedding night. That mess! Did you need any more proof? But I don't feel this overwhelming need to go to bed with another man. I don't have this terrible curiosity about what another prick would feel like."
"Don't you? Now I think you're hedging, darling. If you didn't have that curiosity, you wouldn't be human. Every woman does. Every man does. Only it takes an exceptionally honest one to admit it. Women, I mean. Men admit it all the time. Every time they look up another gal's legs, whistle at her when she walks down the street. Being more basic, they are also more honest."
"Carl, I don't like that kind of talk. I swear, I've never been the least bit interested in Don, curious or..."
"Oh, come on, Millie. Come off it, will you? You think that's the first time you've ever flirted? What about that Christmas party a year ago? The way you took after Tom Annixter? Your id was showing, baby. Be honest with yourself for once. If you didn't have that basic drive inside of you, that thing with Don never could have happened."
"Do you have to keep harping about it? Isn't it bad enough that we did those horrible things? Must we talk it to death?"
"Were they so horrible?" He drilled in, took perverse satisfaction in seeing Millicent squirm. "Be honest with me, won't you? The truth, honey? Didn't you actually enjoy it with Don? Didn't you get kicks, experience feelings you thought were dead ... long gone?"
"I suppose you did. With Irene?"
"I'll level, Millie. I did. She's not as good as you by a long-sight, but she's very adequate, more than adequate. I liked the non-personal aspects of screwing her. like I was away from the world, on a vacation from all the problems and routines of daily life. Sex for sex's sake. If you once pulled down that mask of yours, you'd admit you liked it with Don too. You liked it very much."
"All right," she snapped resentfully, wanting to hurt him at that moment. "I'll admit it. I liked Don. I liked having him hump me. What's that supposed to prove?"
"It's supposed to prove that it's getting to be that time in our marriage. When we need something more than each other. And we need it with each other's agreement, with mutual complicity."
"I don't follow that."
"How many ways must I say it, honey? I was ripe. Ripe for a goddamned backstreet affair. With the first slut who came along. My curiosity was killing me. I felt like life was passing me by, like I was all done as a man. Sooner or later I would have found someone; I would have started cheating on you. Sooner or later you would have found out. You would have been hurt, hurt something awful.
Maybe we could have picked up the pieces, maybe not. Either way we'd both have lost something important to our marriage."
"Carl..." she gasped. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"I suppose I am, baby. What I'm saying is that if Don and Irene are willing to go on with this, I am. I'm hoping that you'll be willing too. Don't you see? It's the best of all possible arrangements. Accident it might have been, but underneath it all you've got to admit that it's been brewing for a long, long time now. Something's missing in their marriage too. Otherwise, when the chips were down, they wouldn't have caved in so easily either."
"I was drunk, Carl. Bombed out of my mind. And when you were so nasty to me, when Don started kissing me and plaving with me ... I just naturally..." Her voice died.
"You just naturally reverted to type. Don't you see what you're saying? That you have basic, animal needs, just like I do. This is phony, darling; phony as all hell. Our marriage, the whole setup of our society. Man or woman might have been intended to live with each other, to pledge their lives to each other, raise children, live in the bonds of matrimony. But some screwball fouled it up way back there somewhere. Man was never intended to have only one sexual outlet. He's an animal; he has animal needs. And if those needs aren't satisfied..."
"Are you serious, Carl? Do you think that I'd agree to an arrangement like that? Even if Don and Irene did?"
"They will. I know they will. They've got problems."
"Just like that? Swap wives? Wallow like a bunch of unprincipled pigs? Oh, Carl, wake up."
"I am awake. I've never been more awake in my life. I liked that last night; I need it, more than I can begin to say. And if not with Irene, then with some other woman. I'm saying that I don't care any more. I want my marriage, of course. But if I can't have that, if I can't find out what it's really like for myself, then I'll go my own way, no matter what you say. Whether it means our marriage or not. Listen, darling. You have to listen to me!"
"But it's wrong. It's evil and forbidden. It can only harm our marriage in the long run."
"It can only help our marriage. For once we've found out, exolored our sexual potential ... then we can make an honest, judicious choice. But if we don't try it ... We'll be like blind moles, groping in the dark. We have to know both sides of it."
"No Carl ... oh, no!"
"Where's the harm? Can you tell me that? Who's getting hurt? If for the first time in fourteen years of married life, we're actually being honest with each other, isn't that a conclusive clue to the physical benefits of playing the field? Mate-swapping, if you want to call it that?"
"But how can you tell? After just one night? One experience like that?"
"That's just it; we can't tell. That's why we have to go on. To find out just what it is that makes us tick. What can be evil about it? Or forbidden? If four consenting adults enter into an agreement? Nobody's cheating on anyone else; there's no cause for jealousy, for suspicion, for a feeling of being neglected or left out. There's no room for one-upmanship. I had Don's wife; he had mine. You had Irene's husband; she had yours. How can any one of us say he's been short-changed; that he got the dirty end of the stick?
"Which is exactly what it would be if we started slipping around on each other. You'd get hurt. Even if you agreed to let me slip around within the bounds of our marriage, you'd still hate me, be resentful; the marriage would be wrecked. But this way, both of us seeking out new partners together, both of us experimenting, achieving our God-given sexual potential, exploring it to the utmost . . .who can be hurt? If I had a girl friend she'd have a hold on me; things could get messy: she could make trouble. But with both of us going into this with our eves wide open, both of us knowing about what the other did with his partner the night before..."
"Oh, God, Carl!" Millicent blanched. "Certainly you don't expect ... even if I were to agree to go along with this ... that we'd talk about it afterwards, do you?"
"Of course I'd expect to talk about it. Not talking would be betrayed of swapping's realest purpose. It would be infidelity, don't you see? If we kept secrets from each other? No. All our cards on the table. Honest from the very start. Just like we're going to talk about what happened between me and Irene, you and Don last night."
"No, Carl. I couldn't."
He chuckled, and gauging the flush in her cheeks, the impatient rise and fall of her naked breasts, Carl knew that his wife was sexually agitated. That with just the slightest push on his part-all would come tumbling out. Thus he moved close to her, kissed her harshly, kept her to the kiss until she stopped struggling. His right hand slid down her body, caressed the stiff, dirt bush of her cunt; his index finger actually invaded the pouty slit itself. "Of course, you can, baby." He flung the sheet off her body, totally revealed her belly and thighs, the long, sloping thatch of her cunt. "You can tell me all about it. And I'll tell you. But for now I think it would be best if we got up, washed up a little. You comb your hair, do your face. I'll brush my teeth."
As direct giveaway to her truest desires, Millicent said, "But what about Brad?"
"He'll be gone until noon. He'll understand if we don't show up at church. It won't be the first time. We'll have the house to ourselves. We should be done by then, don't you think?" He pointed down at his cock. "Look at him. Sniffing the wind like a coon hound. Oh, God, honey, I want you! I mean really want you! like I haven't wanted you in too damned long!"
Moments later they were both out of bed, both racing for the connected bathroom. "Darling," Millicent gulped as they crowded into the shower together, turned on the water, fervidly began scrubbing each other, "I feel so strange, so wild. like a million hornets were buzzing inside my belly."
Carl drew her into his arms, kissed her passionately, devouringly; he gloried in the dig of his burning cock into her velvety, springy belly. Now he took the soap and wash-cloth from her, began to lovingly lave away the ravages of last night's lust from her breasts, from her belly, from her very cunt itself. And how in hell-he raged, his need monolithic-after the way Irene hauled my ashes last night? How can I have it this bad for my own wife?
He groaned agonizedly as Millicent signalled her own scorching passion, reached down, feverishly handled and tugged at his swollen billy. "Oh, God, darling," she intoned in eerie tones. "What's happening? Why do I feel this way? Hurry, Carl! I can't wait!"
They were in bed again. And their bodies restored to pristine purity anew, redolent of soap, tooth paste and last minute splashings of cologne and shaving lotion, they kissed and embraced, ground their loins together in heathen desire. Millicent reveled in the hardness of her husband's prick, in the slick slide of it on her inner thighs and belly as they wrestled and writhed. She recoiled in pleasurable, gut-jumbling shock as he worked his lips into her throat, articulated the sotto voce question.
"Oh, please, darling," she protested. "Don't ask that. Don't spoil this. Do you have to know?"
"Of course I have to know. Don't you get it? Even now? This's all part of it. Did you go down on Don?"
She snickered lasciviously, evaded the question. "You tell me. Did you go down on Irene?"
"Damned right I did. You'd have thought someone had lit a firecracker to her there, the way she sizzled and jumped. She came in ten seconds flat."
"And Irene?" Millicent forestalled, amazed at the melting fires this kind of talk, the vision of Carl with his face buried between Irene's pretty, white thighs, triggered within her cunt. "Did she return the favor?"
Carl sighed thickly, inserted a strumming finger up Millicent's hole, immediately began to torture her clit. His pecker throbbed, and he felt a drop of his love-sap squeeze out, trickle across Millicent's leg. "Damned right she did. She wasn't going to at first, but I put the pressure on. Before I was through she was sucking like it was the last one left on earth; she really dug it. She kept saying she and Don had never done that before, that they'd never gone down on each other. And you know, I kind of believed her. She was clumsy as all hell. Clumsy and cute. But then she came on strong ... I had to all but yank it out of her mouth."
"Oooh, baby," Millicent whimpered, a hot shudder knotting her spine, "just talking about it kills me. Then that educated finger of yours. I believe you. I believe Irene. That's what Don kept telling me. Some garbage aboout unnatural and perverted. A woman shouldn't do that to a man."
"So you did, honey? Blow him?"
"Hell, yes. I thought I saw you doing Irene even as Don dragged me out of the living room; I wasn't going to let you get away with anything. I was drunk as a skunk, baby, remember? I wasn't responsible. You aren't mad, are you?"
"Of course not. Damn it, if you're going to screw then screw. Go all the way. How was he?"
"You're better, Carl. But it was different. He's not circumcised like you. It was kind of interesting, peeling back that foreskin of his, working my tongue around his knob. He all but died when I did that." She groaned, thrashed even more violently. "Oh, God, Carl! What is this? I feel like I'm melting inside, like I'm going to run out in a puddle."
"That's the way you're supposed to feel, darling. One of the bonuses of playing around, I guess. Tell me more." He paused, was amazed that he felt so little jealousy at the thought of his wife having her lips wrapped around another man's dong. "Did he eat you then?"
"He was kind of prissy about it at first, but then when I told him no wash, no screw, he changed his tune. like you said about Irene, once he got started he didn't want to quit. He couldn't make me come that wav ... he's not as talented as you ... but he sure worked at it. I got on top at the end, worked up and down on his tongue while I did him. He groaned like a baby when I made him stop, insisted on the real thing now. Please, Carl! All this talk ... it's got me wild. I feel like I'll pop without you if you don't jam it up me soon. Carl! Damn you, screw me!"
He didn't have to be told twice. He scrambled up over Millicent, opened her thighs expertly, began lowering his swollen-to-bursting cob to her. Her fingers intercepted, piloted, forestalled him at the last, and she chose to massage the weeping font of her pussy with its lust be-slimed head. An attention that made Carl shrivel inside, tore actual groans of agony from him. "How can it be?" she grated. "How can I talk like this? Tell you things like this? Oh, God, I must be losing my mind!"
"Lose it then, dolly. Let it all snap. Let's make this one the lay of the century."
"You know it, darling. Go ahead, now, shove it in."
"Shove what in?" he chuckled teasingly. "Shove it into what?"
She groaned, shuddered anew, as she recognized the familiar game-overture to holy lay-they so often played with each other. "Shove your prick into me, you bastard. Your big ... fat ... juicy ... long ... prick. Shove it into mv hot ... yearning ... juicy ... hole. Into my ... hungry ... for ... cock ... cunt." By then she was literally spitting the obscenities from between clenched teeth. Her voice broke, became essence of all the primordial lust the world had ever known. "Damn you, Carl! TAKE ME! OH!"
And with that, he lunged savagely forward. Down, then up, his gnarled horn ramming up. against the vaulted cavern of her twat, figuratively grazing her navel, a brutal assault which Millicent howlingly welcomed. Then the exquisite, thrilling, satisfying juggernaut fell back, rested an infinitesimal moment, its fat, drooling head nuzzling the very mouth of her womb. A second later the great trunk was pistoning heedlessly, plundering, ravaging, threatening to pestle her secret flesh to bleeding mush.
Millicent screamed vaingloriously, caring not a whit whether anyone outside heard or not. Almost immediately she experienced her initial orgasm, a fury that seemingly lifted her off the bed, sent her slamming up against the nearest wall. Now she was down upon the bed, pinned to the mattress in that inescapable way she loved so dearly: she was a servile receptacle, vehicle, even a carrier to be ridden, to be used, to be emptied into. And still that gorgeous, raping cannon pumped in and out of her.
There was (once she'd disposed of at least three or four chain-reaction orgasms) a momentary lull in their exertions, and though she still continued to rock up in precise cadence to meet her lover's pronging, to swivel back, seemingly wring that beloved neck, there was still abstraction, there was room for conjecturings, sensation-lashing interrogation:
"Tell me about Irene. Is she as good as me? Does she bang as good? Her cunt ... what's it like? Is she tighter?"
"She's tighter, darling," he gasped, the bizarre dialogue triggering even greater rapture for Carl as well. "But it doesn't make that much difference. You'd screw circles around her any day of the week. That kid's got lots of homework to do before she comes up to you." He rammed Millicent in a rapid-fire volley, then slowed into even, prolonging cadence once this orgasm was ended. "How about Don? What kind of equipment does he carry?"
The question fueled even more heathenish lust within Millicent, and she swung her buttocks up in precise can't and rhythm, wrung that pounding meat with rippling muscles, with swiveling backstroke. Again that blast-furnace heat backed up in her belly, and she fought for fresh orgasm. "He might be bigger, darling. But just a ... little ... bit. He's ... like ... Irene ... I ... guess. He's got lots ... and ... lots to ... learn ... yet. He ... can't ... swing ... his ... meat. . . the ... way ... you do! Oh, God, no! You damned right he can't! Again Carl! Oh, here it is again. Won't I ever stop coming! Oh, baby, baby..."
Her belly slammed up against his with a squishy plop and bang; her legs clamped behind his. Her pelvis ground and stung; her cunt affixed magic lips to his rod, sucked and milked it fiendishly. "Shoot, damn you!" she hawked. "Up me, damn you! Shoot, shoot! That heavenly load. Splatter my guts. Oh, God, God ... Now! Oh, yes, yes ... Heavenly! It's hot and thick ... it's gorgeous. Wash, baby! Oh wash your cock-happy wife! More, oh, more..."
Carl groaned stentoriouslv. loosed several vicious curses, spat, "Lover, sweet lover," into Millicent's ears. Then his monstrous prick boomed-once, twice, three, six seven times and he felt like its tip must be shattered from the high velocity of his ejaculation. Had not Millicent's dead-end cunt been there to receive his discharge, he was sure he'd have lobbed the great gobs of sperm halfway across town; he was sure that he'd have been turned inside out in the process, gone careening through space after them. "Dear God!" he gasped when, at long last, the final salvo was fired, and the commotion inside his soul temporarily subsided. Even so, his prick didn't immediately fade. Even as he emerged from sensualist torpor, he became aware of Millie's cunt still sucking, still pumping at him.
Her amoral gloatings and exhortations cut the haze in his brain gradually. And as he disembarked from his just-completed voyage to the sun, he vaguely interpreted the meaning of her bravura declaration ; he was filled with an exalting sense of victory. Still Millie pumped; still she defied sensation: "If this is what trading does..." she slurred, "if this is the way it'll be every morning after..." She yipped a new climax, flung herself that much more insanely at Carl. "Don and Irene. Oh, God, yes. Every damned Don and Irene in town!"
At that moment she tumbled downward into a bottomless abyss of delight. An abyss ringed with fire. Fire that burned and seared, that intensified orgasm intolerably.
But if Carl and Millicent were experiencing paradise as aftermath of their night's debauch, the thing Daphne Gwynn-debauchee in her own rite-was suffering this same Sunday morning was as opposite as heaven to hell. And now, in the bedroom of the luxurious house she and her husband shared on West Broadmoor Avenue, she was groveling abjectly before Kenyon where he sat naked on the edge of the bed:
"Tell me, you little harlot," Kenyon seethed, his eyes glittering. "Tell me with those sweet harlot's lips of yours. His name. His business. Anything you can about his family, his background. And most important of all: his lovemaking equipment. Describe it. Tell me how it felt when you touched it, when you kissed it. Tell me how it felt when he pushed it into your evil, corrupt cunt. Tell me the things you forced him to do to you before you let him push himself into your evil belly. Tell me, harlot!"
And though the lovely, black-tressed creature had not done half of the things her husband imagined her doing (Ray Hollander had been a very lackluster lover all in all; he'd insisted on a straight-forward session, with no frills whatsoever permitted), she catered to his sick whims nevertheless; she knew it would do no good to deny having done them. Slowly, levelly, pausing between long, slavish lickings and suckings of her husband's prick, she filled him in as best she could on Hollander's background, she glowingly described what had been, if anything, substandard male pudenda. Until now, at Kenyon's psycho insistence, he, punishing her every recalcitrance by ramming his rod so deeply down her throat that she almost vomited on the spot, she got down to the nitty-gritty:
"He wanted me to suck him," she lied. "Just the way all you men want to be sucked."
Kenyon slapped her sharply beside the face, punished her with another gagging stroke. "No, slut," he rasped. "That's not so. It's not men who want to be sucked. It's women who want to suck! Don't you ever forget that. It's you who wants to suck me, isn't it?" He pulled her hair cruelly. "Say it! That's so, isn't it! You, not me. It's the woman ... the filthy crawly woman ... the inferior..."
"Yes," she gasped, the pain eviscerating, "oh, yes, Kenyon. I'm sorry I even hinted that. It was me. I wanted to suck him. I was crazy to suck him. I like that best of all. It's the most important thing in the world to me."
He calmed somewhat, became more gentle with her. Then, his voice an aberrated hiss: "That's better, my dear. Much better. Tell me about it. What did you want to suck?"
"His thing ... his penis."
He slapped her again. "You know better than that, Daphne."
"His prick," she chanted, almost as if by rote. "His cock. His fat, juicy cock. I was crazy to get it down my dirty, cocksucking throat."
"That's better, darling. Go ahead. Tell me all about it. How big was it. How did it smell? How did it taste? Did you want him to come ... to shoot. . . down your throat?"
"I did, I did. I wanted it terribly."
"Wonderful, darling. Tell me. But don't stop licking me. Yes, like that. The underside. With the flat of your tongue. Suck now. A little harder. Don't bite, do you hear! like that. Suck, oh, suck..." For a time he was content with this obeisance. Now humiliation commenced anew:
"Tell me, Daphne. What did it feel like when he shot down your filthy, degenerate throat. What did it taste like?"
"It felt heavenly," she gulped thickly, despair nearly incapacitating her. "Hot and thick and delicious. It was..."
Daphne Gwynn's endless morning in purgatory went on.
CHAPTER FOUR
FOR A WHOLE WEEK FOLLOWING THAT night of truth at Don and Irene Hatcher's home, there was no communication whatsoever between the two couples. And where one might have thought that there would be almost immediate contact, an analytical purging of the soul, so to speak, there was no jingle on either telephone. And though both Carl and Millicent were dying to talk to them, to discuss in-depth the pagan breakdown that had occurred between them, they were both reticent, fell back on flimsy protocol. After all, it was the host and hostess who were responsible if there were amends to be made, fences to be mended.
Granted, the Randoms didn't let the week go to waste. Discussing those chaotic happenings almost nonstop during their private moments, otherwise thinking of them every minute of their working day, they found themselves in bed more than out of it; they fed upon those remembrances and discussions like a dog gnawing a bone long after all the taste is gone; they longed after replenishment of that erotic spice.
As they were to discover later (Irene finally breaking down, contritely and guiltily calling Millicent) , the Hatchers had been similarly engrossed in rediscovery of themselves, and though they wanted to get in touch with equal urgency, there was distraction enough to keep that yearning temporarily at bay. But then, they, like the Randoms, tired of rehashing, desired the actual thing anew.
Almost to the last detail the Hatchers' reactions in aftermath of the wife-swap incident were similar to those of the Randoms. Dismay, shame and despair had been their first response the morning after. Exploratory conversations had followed. Self-discovery, realization that their marriage wasn't as secure as they'd imagined, came close on the heels of that. Until, finally, belly to belly, cock to cunt, they had gone into the fine print, had achieved as blistering an orgasm as any husband and wife could ever hope to achieve. Throughout the week they'd continued to manufacture glories beyond belief, to delve into animalistic surrenderings of their bodies and souls.
And in the end, the inevitable conclusion:
They must continue with the Randoms. They would die if they were deprived of that safe, stunningly-logical variety and outlet now.
All this-awkward and prudish at first, graphic and outspoken as they'd warmed to the topic Irene and Millie had discussed on the phone. (The replay of the phone conversation had been good for another series of hump-for-happy sessions until the couples could get together again.)
All this had also been discussed face-to-face perhaps an hour ago in the murky privacy of the Random living room. Where, strong drinks in hand this Wednesday night (Brad conveniently sleeping overnight at a boyfriend's house), the coven had once more convened. Until now, bravado gradually investing them, they were edging the conversation toward the exigencies involved in nailing down still another trade-off.
"I don't know about you," Irene snickered self-consciously, "but I'm getting that way again." Boldly she rose from where she sat on the davenport with Don, went to cuddle gingerly beside Carl in the upholstered chair he occupied. "You don't mind, do you?" Glancing at Millicent where she sat across, she signaled toward Don. "Be my guest."
At first the couples were clumsy and embarrassed about kissing, hugging and caressing each other in full view of each other, but gradually, as the drink, the physical closeness, the very act of disporting themselves so shamelessly enhanced the erotic mood, and reticence faded. Again, (as he had during those first descriptions of the sexual didos Millicent had performed with Don) Carl was somewhat dazed by the lack of reaction he felt as he watched Don kiss Millie, fondle her breasts, flirt with her knees, slither his hands beneath her skirt. It was as he'd reassured Millicent on Sunday morning: If each member had reciprocal grazing rights, who could complain?
He responded by taking equal liberties with Irene, plucking her nipples through the sexy gown, the specially-chosen lingerie she'd worn just for him tonight. Very quickly she was breathing hard, trembling, her muffled sighs unmistakable evidence of her insane need.
First there were other arrangements to be seen to:
"What do you think, Don?" Carl called across the room. "Once a week be enough? Say we keep our Friday and Saturday nights open, plan around that?"
"Sounds good to me. What about it, honey?"
"You sure once a week's enough," Irene said sultrily, sliding her fingers along the crevice of Carl's thighs, teasing the swimming head of his prick through his trousers. "I think I could use it more often than that."
"For Christ's sake, Irene, be reasonable. We push this too far, we're going to get caught. There are the kids to think of. How'd you like Mary and Phyllis walking in on your sometime when you and
Carl are banging away at it? How you gonna get around that?"
"Just get rid of the little monsters," Irene slurred. "like Carl and Millie did tonight."
"Yeah? How many times we gonna get away with that? Somebody's gonna get wise. And then our asses'll be in the stew. Cool ... we play it cool."
Eventually everyone agreed. Friday or Saturday nights, with each couple entertaining on alternate weeks. They would set a one-thirty deadline for leaving so there'd be no room for nosy neighbors to talk. Future assignations might even take place at out-of-town motels, such runaway expeditions taking on aspects of illicit holiday, spicing up their liaison that much more. They could take vacations together, screw their way halfway across the nation. The possibilities were endless.
"One thing we have to agree to from the outset," Don said. "No rough stuff, no far out games. Unless both partners agree to it. No secrets. Share and share alike."
"Sounds okay," Millicent agreed. "More important than that," Carl intervened, "there'll be no sneak stuff, no in-betweeners between me and Irene for instance. We ball together, with everything on the up-and-up, or we don't ball at all. That's how trouble starts. All agreed."
"Agreed," the others chorused. "Now that that's settled," Irene said eagerly, "what do you say we split? I ... feel a little funny about ... doing this ... in front of Don. Maybe later, as we get to know each other better, we can do it in the same room." She giggled. "That sounds like fun, too. But for now..."
"Yeah," Millie joined in. "I'll buy that. Gives me a funny feeling too." She kissed Don hungrily. "Let's go someplace, lover man. I'm dying to see if it's as good as I remember."
"Oh, God," Irene enthused, "was it that way with you too? Don and I would remember, talk about it, then pile onto each other like we hadn't had any in months. I think we screwed for two hours straight that one night."
"Those tricks you taught us," Don added. "Man, talk about bonus points! Why we never tried them before, I'll never know."
"I wanted to, if you'll recall," Irene chided impishly. "But you were always the big he-man. 'Only whores act like that,' remember? It was perverted, you said. So, dutiful wife that I am, I folded my tent and stole into the night. I did it your way." Her eyes glowed with feral glitter, and closing her hand on Carl's prick in full view of the others: "I'll always be grateful to you for breaking me in, baby. Come on. Where's the bedroom? I'll show you how much I've learned since I saw you last. Practice! That Don just wouldn't say die."
Millicent took reciprocal pass at Don's trousers. "Is that so? Better and better. You've got me all curious."
A moment later, Carl replenishing martinis all around, the foursome drifted toward the stairs leading to the bedrooms.
Carl took Irene toward his own room, while Millicent guided Don down the dark hallway toward the guest room, at opposite poles of the house. Momentarily Irene was hesitant about making it in his own bed, but a few passionate kisses as he spread her flat out on the fresh sheets, a few bold clenchings and fingerings beneath her skirt, and all such prissy doubts were forgotten.
Not turning on the lights, letting the glow from the street lamp on the corner suffice, Carl made a prolonged, lust-inciting ceremony of undressing Irene, stopping often to admire the lace-frosted, sexily-cut lingerie ensemble she'd worn for his benefit. She thought it especially exquisite when he knelt before her on the floor, chewed and sucked her crotch through the already-moistened panties, made great show of smackingly sucking her juices, threading his talented tongue around the edge of her panties, snaking it into her grotto as far as possible in the bargain.
Shortly he had her bursting-at-the-seams brassiere off, and affixing greedy lips to her lemon-drop tits, he sucked her until she moaned and writhed with desire. Now the panties came off, leaving her dressed in just her smoked-toned hosiery, the witchy elastic and lace of her garter belt. Again his mouth devoured her breasts, while his fingers played a spine-melting pizzicato upon her clitoris.
Irene moved to undo the garter belt, remove her stockings while Carl undressed himself beside the bed, but he forestalled her. "I like to have my gals in their stockings sometimes. Indulge a kinky old man, will you?"
For a long time Carl knelt beside the bed again, sipped at her squirming cunt, the sensation of Irene's silky feet and ankles fluttering about his head as her delight became acute incendiary indeed. He spent an eternity, seemingly, pistoning his tongue in and out of her hole, his fingers, in the meanwhile, dialing her nipples to sharp tips, plucking and pulling, sending unbearable barbs of heat into her twat itself. When he next positioned her hands, directed her to pull back on her pubis, the better to expose her clitoris, she was too far gone to protest the indignity. Then, her knees steepled, her toes curled over the edge of the mattress, she squeakingly, quakingly allowed him to flog her clit with his tongue, to drive her out of her mind with sensations of the most unhinging sort.
Thus it was that she knew no shame, no hesitation whatsoever when he finally rose, fell onto the bed, rolled immediately onto his back, his massive spar standing up like a monolith at Stonehenge, its drooling tip glistening irresistibly in the gloom. "Show me, baby," he husked. "AH those lessons Don's been giving you."
"You devil..." she husked. Without a moment's delay she fell upon him, hovered over the stalwart rod, ran trembling fingers over its knob, worked his oil lovingly down its length, the expertness of her touch curling Carl's spine, actually making him whimper. Then, as her tongue skillfully lapped the underside of his glans, tortured that most-sensitive eye, he truly stiffened and groaned.
"You have been practicing," he praised. "Poor Don. If he had to stand much of that."
"Poor Don is right. I just wouldn't leave him alone." She sighed sadly. "When I think of all the years I've wasted. When I thought that this was perverted. Oh, God, if some women just knew the dividends it pays!" She adjusted herself on the bed. "You, baby. Do something to me! Pinch my tits. Put your finger in my hole."
"You know better than that. In your what?"
"You depraved monster! Sorry. In my cunt."
He immediately complied, administered a gentle pinch to her clitoris that almost dropped Irene on his stalk then and there. She recovered immediately, and applying her lips to the corona of his cock, she formed a tight ring, commenced working her mouth an inch up, and inch down, the sensation the milking muscle created inside his bloated balls incredible. "Talent," he gloated, "real talent." Next she expanded her field of operations, sliding her mouth down on him that extra inch, crowning the downstroke with a curling, rasping swipe of her tongue.
"You sweet bitch," he choked. "You'll have him exploded in there before you're through."
"That wouldn't be so bad," she snickered. I've had that too. Would you like me to take it that way?"
"Some other time. Right now I want to plug your giggie, shoot up your sweet tunnel."
"Up my what?" she taunted.
He laughed. "Up your cunt. C'mon now, baby. I'm getting there."
She paused briefly, licked him very gently now, a butterfly tickling almost. "Has it been good for you?" she asked softly. "This past week? As good as it's been for me?"
"God, you'd better know it."
"Me too. I thought I'd die on Sunday morning when I remembered the things I'd done with you. But then, later, when we finally got up nerve enough to talk about them, it wasn't that bad. Don's always been somewhat of a prude. I realized I've always been ripe, only he was holding me back. I've been bitchy as all hell lately, dreaming the craziest sort of things. I swear, I almost pushed it in a magazine salesman's face a month or so back."
"I know the feeling. I've got a secretary like that."
"The funniest thing, though. The more Don and I talked about it, the more natural it seemed. And we both wondered why we hadn't thought of it before. Although I don't know how either of us would have made the approaches. We're just lucky I guess ... that things happened the way they did. And the more we talked, the hotter we got. He made me tell him everything I did; I made him do the same. Every last detail. And by then I was so hot I was floating in it. I made Don screw me then and there. Before we were done I'd popped six times in a row, the most I've ever made. I've never in my life experienced such a deep, complete orgasm. I mean with the exception of you, last week. It was like that almost every time we screwed." Again her lips closed on his cock, sucked away the new flow of liqueur her frank lingo had inspired. "So big," she crooned, "so hard and long. Have you got another of those for me?"
"Another what?"
"Another one of those super-duper orgasms? I've been dreaming about it all week. The way you flash that baby into me. Even with all the nagging I've been doing, Don hasn't quite got it yet. He tried, though. He tries."
It was this last bit of praise that finally did Carl m. Now, drawing the lovely blonde nymph up from her salacious station, kissing her passionately on the lips, the intermixed ambrosia of cunt and cock rich on their palates he prepared to mount her. But there were improvisations.
He lifted her silky legs almost to the perpendicular, let her nyloned calves fall over his shoulders. Whereupon, hobbling forward, he eased his slimy dick into her cavern with slow, belly-brushing lunges. Lunges which served as springboard to raise her ass off the mattress, bend her knees back until they were almost in her face. Then, Irene totally vulnerable, totally filled with every last inch of his digging drummer, he commenced his slow, domineering ride. Savoring the hot slide of her hole, the suffocating tightness he plowed her with deliberate, murderous cadence; he reveled in her moans of partial pain, partial ecstasy when he banged the bottom of her chamber.
A further adjustment of his hips saw to ultimate contact between prick and clitoris. Which connection, along with the liver-nudging depth of his penetration, swiftly drove Irene to orgasm number one. Another fifty strokes, supplemented by the insertion of a greasy finger up her ass-hole, and she spasmed a second time. A brutal, cursing to-and-fro followed this one, a deeper penetration of her anus, and she popped once more. Lowering her finally, wrapping her stockinged legs around his waist, locking her ankles there, he rode higher on her, sawed her clitoris unmercifully. Again his finger drubbed her anal port. And with it this time, the inflaming promise that: "One of these times I'll put my prick in there, teach you the joys of sodomy. It isn't as difficult as you might imagine."
Irene nearly ruptured her throat with the ecstatic screams she expelled on this orgasm.
"How do you do it?" she exulted. "How do you last so long? I keep coming and coming. And yet you..."
"Practice does make perfect," he chuckled arrogantly. "Can you stand a few more? Here goes. Number...? "
". . . five," she announced proudly.
She announced six, seven, eight, nine, before the experienced whore master allowed his seed to splash her guts.
While, at that moment, in the distant bedroom at the hallway's other end:
"Are you sure, Millie? I don't want to hurt you."
"I'm sure, darling. You're softer now. It'll be just fine. Don't be afraid. Carl and I do this quite often; I'm used to it."
"Is Carl bigger or smaller than me?"
She was very diplomatic. "He's just the same as you. Yes, like that. With your juice. Get some out of my cunt if you like."
And while Millie crouched on all fours, her buttocks high in the air, awaiting this appalling innovation (to Don), she pleasurably remembered the quickness with which Don had paid the price of admission to enter her slit. A latent oralist of the first water (otherwise why had he crippled Irene with his adamant refusals of same?), he'd quickly fallen to his knees before her once she'd let him pull off her panties. Where he'd given her the suck off of the century, instantly adaptable as she tutored him in the art's finer points. A quick, entrail-charring hump had followed that, with both of them talking each other through, employing the most deliciously-obscene language imaginable.
Until now, after sucking the proud man back to life once more-
"Go ahead," she urged, in wheezing, pinched tones. "It's all right. It's bound to hurt a little at first. But once you get inside, once you get to moving. Oh, yes, yes..."
She mewled with minor pain as his dick scoured the innermost reaches of her rectal cavity. "No, it's all right. Go ahead; I can take it. Oooh, wonderful. In, darling, in!"
She guided his one hand to her breasts, where she indicated that he must pull her nipples alternately. His other hand she drew between her legs, placed his strumming finger on the button of her clitoris. "Every time you ram me," she instructed, "give it a nick. Yes, like that."
And not too much later, in conglomerate commotion-
His finger up her cunt, his others pinching her nipples. His fat dong up her ass. His grunting, pained squeals. The hot throb of his prick inside her, the searing runniness of his discharge.
Heavenly, she thought as multiple orgasms seemingly slashed her. Simply heavenly!
And the best part of all-
The fact that they still had at least another hour in which to play, to experiment to their heart's content!
CHAPTER FIVE
THE RANDOMS AND THE HATCHERS were together again.
This night-undeniable urgencies to wallow to excess upon them-deeming it wise to desert their usual haunts, they were installed in The Sleepyland Motel, a sumptuous hostelry located twenty miles from Porterfield. Telling the desk clerk they were traveling together, they'd snagged adjoining rooms, no small feat for a Saturday night. And the children left in the care of trustworthy sitters-
They were prepared to ball, to indulge any and all sexual idiosyncrasies. They would frolic until dawn, and then frolic some more. The percale pyrotechnics they would attempt would make the dowdy sun hide its face in shame.
At this moment convened in the Random bedroom (or was it the Random-Hatcher bedroom?), they primed themselves for the long journey ahead with the ever-faithful clutch of martinis, all of them far along by 10:00 p.m. So far along that none of the spouses present thought it the least bit out of the way when Don (appropriating the cute loveseat the room afforded; drawing Millicent onto his lap) commenced to fondle her boobs and box in full view of the others. A liberty which was immediately reciprocated by Carl and Irene, he tossing her back onto the bed, flipping her skirts up to reveal her satin-bound belly and thighs, immediately dropping his head into her crotch, nibbling her cunt through her filmies.
Which was definitive testament to the erotic miles the couple had covered during the past month and a half. No one batted an eye at such liberties now. They had all stripped to the skin in each other's presence long since; it was no big deal when they played four on a bed, Don with Millicent, Carl with Irene. Indeed they found such piggish innovations conducive to orgies of the most outre sort; voyeur sports were pretty much de rigueur by then.
Several times, as workup to the final event, they'd taken turns performing for each other. Once Carl and Millicent screwed each other silly while the Hatchers watched, this in the name of education, Don and Irene desiring to observe positions and technique, "See how real pros brought each other off". Going along with the gag, Carl and Millicent had laughingly paused from time to time, had actually provided a critique, an illustrated lecture as it were:
"Now, look, Don," Carl advised. "When you mount up, make sure that you're riding high on the girl. Sure, it's nice to be mouth to mouth, cheek to cheek. But that don't scrape no clams. Fix it so your prick is sawing across Irene's clit, so you're all but skinning her alive on every in and out. See, like this."
Whereupon he readjusted himself on Millicent, gave her a slow, stinging poke that made her screech with delight.
Another night they watched Don and Irene go at each other, shouted bawdy encouragements, offered pointers as they huffed and puffed.
Then there was the time each swap-couple wanted to sit in the grandstand when the other two screwed, Don and Millicent watching Carl and Irene, and vice-versa.
They even went so far as to take turns providing demonstrations of oralistic procedures, the more experienced Millicent and Carl looking up from their exotic labors from time to time, addressing pertinent, helpful hints to them, telling them just how a woman or a man liked to be done.
By now they'd indulged in almost any variant they cared to sample, from sodomy to sixty-nine, from oral climax to ancillary experimentations, and there was very little that fazed any of them now. It goes without saying that a certain amount of boredom, or sameness had crept into their antics, and small, wistful plaints were heard in the land. And, God knew, they weren't about to jettison their new liaison. They'd die before they gave up this salvatory diversion; it was the only thing that made life worth living. But wasn't there something else? Weren't there new directions their activities could take?
It was exactly this tack which Carl discreetly veered into now. Irene's pretty blue girdle, panties and hose off by then, his finger clickingly boring in and out of the pink temple nestled in those gold-furred foothills, he said: "I've been thinking about new blood lately. You know, another couple or two? To spice up things? You know what they say about variety."
"Oh?" Irene teased gaminly, squeezing her thighs closed, whining as his finger became cruel. "Bored already? I'd hardly call what we're doing now dull." She sucked in a earing breath. "Oooh, Carl! You devil! Careful. It feels like a boil that's about to burst."
"Carl's right," Don called from across the room, looking smugly across Millicent's head where she gracefully rode it up and down on his freshly-exposed prick. "We could use some new faces around here."
Millicent pulled away with a liquid plop, sent him an irritated moue. "Ingrate," she sniffed, licking away a thin trail of saliva and prick oil that dribbled down her chin. "All my hard work. And this is the thanks I get."
"Be serious, darling," Carl said, removing his finger from Irene's cunt, casually inserting it into her mouth to suck clean. "Don't tell me you wouldn't like a few new studs. I hate to admit it, but some of the magic's gone out of this thing of ours. I don't want to quit, understand. But there are ways to make it even better."
"For instance?" Irene said, pausing in her loving, lollipop sucking. "Who've you got in mind? You've obviously given this some thought."
"Well, Pete and Helen Welch for one. Maybe Earl McIver and that hot-tailed wench of a Rachel of his. If ever there was a doll with a mouth made for sixty-nine, that bitch's it. The way she kisses at some of those parties..."
Millicent, distracted, forgot to go back down on Don. "I wouldn't mind calling Pete Welch's bluff either," she said. "He's always pushing his whang up against me when we dance. I'd like to check that one out."
"You're just a frustrated, old pecker-checker," Irene teased.
"You'd better know it," Millicent laughed off the barely-veiled dig. "Someone else I know, too."
"Man, I'd love to plow Helen Welch," Don added. "She's such a little doll. All things being equal with women as well as men, I'll bet she's got the tightest little puss in town. I'd like to be the man to crack that one. Probably need help. A shoehorn maybe."
"Not with that baby banana of yours," Irene laughed.
"You never used to complain."
"I ain't complaining now. I just don't want someone getting the big head. Getting all sorts of ideas about Helen-Welch. You used to say my hole was plenty tight. Carl thinks its a real squeaker. Don't you, Carl?"
Carl neatly sidestepped the tricky situation. "Any ideas on how we work this thing with Pete and Helen? Or maybe we should promote the McIvers first."
"No," Don said, "The Welches. Pete and Helen have been married ten years. They'd be more like prospects than Earl and Rachel." He shrugged. "Hell, it's worth a try. We invite 'em to a little get-together, get 'em high, move in on 'em. I sure's hell wouldn't be able to say no if two sexy cunts like Millie and Irene ganged up on me."
"Same for me," Irene said. "Once you and Carl get on Helen's tail. She's a little on the dim side anyway; she'll be easy as pie."
"All they have to do is look at each other," Millicent joined in, "see the other one fooling around, and they'll see red. The rest of it'll take care of itself. They'll never know what hit 'em. A hard spasm of lust ripped through her abruptly, and a pained grimace crossed her face. "Let's give it a whirl. We'll sleep on it, make our final plans the next time we get together. Our house, if I recall. But for now, there are more immediate things to be taken care of. Things like this great, big, beautiful..."
The rest of her words went unsaid. As she paganly dropped her head on Don's cock again, began to ride it up and down like a fireman (firewoman?) who can't make up his mind. Don groaned, leaned forward slightly, the better to undo her blouse, start drawing it off her shoulders.
Ten minutes later they were all naked in the room. And the lights out, soft music playing on the Muzak, they all jittered and kissed and murmured on the spacious bed, it being a foregone conclusion that they'd make this a community hump. The first one, at least. Perhaps afterward one couple would fling some clothes on, repair to the next room, finish out the night in private debauch.
"Hey!" Irene enthused, pulling her head away from where Carl partially straddled her chest, fed his oozing pipe to her sipping lips, "why don't we try that daisy chain thing? like the other night? I kind of liked that. For a warmup, I mean. It makes me feel so filthy when we all do each other at the same time."
Moments later they were arranged on the bed in a conventional square, and slightly angled at the waist, each eagerly affixed searching, torturing lips to the genitalia they found hanging in his face. The men crouched on all fours, the women on their backs, directly beneath those swollen, mouth-stretching faucets. Irene strained up, nuzzled Carl's glans with indescribably soft, mushy lips. A sizzling caress which caused him to drop his head, work his mouth in the soggy marshlands of Millicent's sex. His lancing tongue served as trigger for her, as she reached up, played with Don's balls, flirted an obscene finger in the crack of his ass as she drew that ponderous hank down, immediately licked the sweet syrup off it with practiced lappings. Upon which Don groaned, summarily dropped down upon his wife's cunt, began to eat her gluttonously.
The sighs and groans and involuntary twitching mounted. An eerie, electric hiss filled the air, formed canopy of lust-inciting sound above them. As of that moment the Paradise Express left the station, set out on a Sybaritic trip to oblivion.
Back in Porterfield, at that same moment, another, equally corrupt connection was also being made. As, once more, Kenyon Gwynn had brought out his beautiful wife, Daphne; together they prowled the night, their mission depraved beyond belief. And in an out-of-the-way night club called Twelve Oaks-
Again the mysteriously-manipulated Daphne, dressed to the nines-her gown, coiffure, hosiery and shoes skillfully chosen to incite sexual riot was separated from her husband; she was indulging his psychotic wishes, playing major role in as perverted a fantasy as any husband and wife have ever known.
Seated in a dark corner of the bar with the man who'd picked her up shortly after she'd entered, she was anxious to have the sick adventure over. Thus she smiled sultrily at the husband-on-the-town named Gray Forrester, made no negative motions as he worked his thigh against hers, even went so far as to caress her silken knees. Hearing his quick breathing, feeling his uncontrollable tremblings, Daphne knew that her time was very near.
To this purpose she excused herself, drifted toward the women's restroom, managing to send a high-sign to her husband as she passed. Very quickly he finished his drink, left the bar.
They met briefly outside, keeping to the shadows in the club's murky parking lot. "Oh, please, Kenyon," Daphne pleaded desperately, "must I? Can't we forget it this time? I don't like him; it'll be terrible. Anything you want, darling. Only not this..."
He stared at her with those demented, sadistic eyes, and she died inside, all will, all semblance of resistance instantly fading. "Don't argue, my dear. You know what it is I need. We've gone over this too many times already, for you to be stubborn at this late date." Car keys jangled; their footsteps rang on the tarmac. "Lock me in, just the way I told you."
"But, Kenyon..."
"Lock me in!" he snarled.
The trunk of the hulking Cadillac sprung up.
The lights revealed the comforter that was already arranged on its deck. Instantly, after checking the parking lot, Kenyon Gwynn stepped into the trunk, rolled into a ball there, the sickness of his embryonic pose making Daphne momentarily queasy. "Close it!" he spat.
Daphne closed the trunk lid, checked to be sure it was firmly caught. Now she dropped the keys into her purse, furtively made her way back into the club.
Kenyon Gwynn didn't wait long. His heart soared; it was all he could do to control his shuddering arms and legs. Immense sexual excitation filled him, coursed through his veins; he was pleased to find that his prick was suddenly erect, stood as hard as a crow-bar in his trousers. He heard Daphne and the man softly arguing as they stood beside the car, and his heart froze at the chance that Daphne would be too forceful, scare him off. But no. In the end Daphne prevailed. They would take her car. They would drive out into the country. No, it was a warm, summer night; she'd take her chances on an al fresco rendezvous, rather than going to a motel. Upon finishing she'd drive him back to pick up his own car.
The adorable little mink, Kenyon exulted, squirming where he lay, his hands cradling his monstrous erection. The way she handles those jerks. The idiot's probably on the verge of shooting in his pants.
Moments later the car started, and Daphne left the parking lot. Gwynn's anticipation mounted to fanatic pitch as the car picked up speed, and he realized they were leaving Porterfield, heading into the farmlands surrounding the city. He further exulted in the way that Daphne followed his explicit instructions. "Anything that guy does to you," he'd ordered, "I want to know it." Thus he stifled snickers, squirmed his legs together more hotly, manhandled his cock nonstop, as he heard Daphne's overloud sighs and giggles, unmistakable signal of Forrester's roving hands as they drove.
"Oooh. Gray! You are the naughtiest one. Watch out! You'll wreck us. A girl can stand only so much of that. Oh, baby, you make 'em ache. You do know how to play with a woman's breasts, don't you? Heavenly." There was a brief silence. Then: "Oh, don't, Grav. Can't you wait? Put my dress down. You shouldn't touch me there. Oooh, oooh! Don't pinch! I'll let you. Here, how's this?"
"Wow, you're all juicy down there," the man chuckled. "Real hot item, aren't you?"
"How else should a girl act? With a handsome stud like you? I've had certain thoughts too, you know."
"You angel," he breathed. "Oh, God I can't believe this is really happening."
Gwynn listened to their inane, yet incendiary chatter all the way. Until finally, the man indicating a deserted, bush-concealed lane where they might take care of things, Gwynn felt the car slow down. Shortly he was bouncing and rolling in the back as the powerful automobile felt its way along the rutted lane.
Now the engine went dead; there was only the sound of the crickets, the sough of the wind, an occasional pop or squeal from the cooling automobile. But above that-and foremost-there were the sounds Daphne and her man made as they climbed into the Cad's back seat, the finale about to be concluded less than a foot away from Gwynn's head. He listened to their wet, passionate kisses, to their sighs of appreciation and adoration as her alabaster body was bared to the glaring moonlight, as she allowed him to suck her nipples, to kiss her belly and thighs, to caress her from head to toe.
But then he heard the most beautiful, the long-awaited sound. The sound ofthe man's voice as Daphne went into the next, prescribed segment of her charade. "Oh, God, baby," Forrester protested. "You aren't! You don't have to do a thing like that. You shouldn't ... I don't want. . . "
"You don't want me to suck your cock?" Daphne said in a smug, lilting way, her voice carrying clearly to Gwynn. "But why not? I thought all men liked to have a woman do that to them. Don't be shy, darling. I've done it before; I won't hurt you. I like to do it. It's almost as good as the rest of it. When you put your prick into me."
"Daphne..." The man's voice became flawed, frightened. As always, Gwynn reveled. When they wonder just what the hell they've gotten into. "What is this, anyway?"
"What is this?" she teased. "Why, the lady wants to give you a blow job. That should be quite obvious. Now lay back like a good boy. Here, I'll even kneel on the floor before you. Oh, my, isn't he a big one? Juicy too. That's the kind Daphne-likes the best of all."
For the next five minutes Gwynn existed in an ecstatic sexual frenzy. If ever a man was close to paradise, this was it. He heard Forrester's continuing objections. Which objections shortly faded. As Daphne's skilled mouth flowed more freely on him, and dismay was replaced by flat-out lust. Forrester's cries became gulping, stentorious, like some barnyard animal in rut. Gwynn heard the thrash and whisper of their bodies, the squeak of the leather upholstery; he heard the click and slide of his wife's lips on the stranger's flesh. He heard Forrester's choked protests as he realized that Daphne sought more than appetizer, that she intended to go all the way, suck him to completion.
By then Gwynn's prick was out of his trousers, and stealthily adjusting his body to allow his cannon proper trajectory, he pumped slowly, precisely, paced himself so that his ejaculation would coincide with the one impending on the other side of the flimsy barrier to his right. Again he listened, let his fist whisper softly; he heard the man's gargling cries of buildup; he heard the smack and suck of Daphne' lips, her heavy, impatient pantings. And now-
My God, my God! he raged. I swear I can hear him. I can actually hear him! Spurting and gurgling down her filthy, cocksucking throat. Listen to her gobble it, will you?
And then, with an expert flip of thumb and forefinger beneath the bloated glans of his cock, Gwynn let fly. Seemingly he hit the other side of the trunk with his discharge.
"Oh, baby, baby..." the man groaned. "Why, oh why? You didn't have to ... Forgive me, I didn't mean to..."
But Daphne didn't answer. Instead she reaffixed herself to the limp pipe, drained him of every last drop of his muck, began to revive him anew. Gwynn heard her every gulp, every constriction of her filthy mouth. He commenced to pump himself to new erection also. He must be ready!
He listened while Daphne extorted a muff job from the man before she allowed him entrance into her holy font. He thought the sounds of his flicking tongue, the seething gasps that broke from Daphne throughout, especially thrilling. But not as thrilling as the sound of Forrester's prick sawing back and forth in Daphne's rotten, little hole. There was a lisp and a sigh and a plop. There was the squeak of leather, the slither and suction of two human bellies as they slithered back and forth on each other. There were the inadvertent suckings and flurries as the man's prick fell out of her hole, fought to regain its scalding sanctuary.
There were Daphne's deliberately loud yips, her mounting sighs of passion, as she shammed (or perhaps actually achieved) approaching orgasm. There were the groans which issued from the man's lips. There were the hissing whines which squeezed through Gwynn's clenched lips.
At the end the whole car was seemingly rocking back and forth on its springs.
Daphne screamed. Forrester cursed. Kenyon fought a full-fledged howl, eased it out in short, animalistic barks. Two pricks spoke. One cunt spasmed.
And, once more, the abomination was finished.
CHAPTER SIX
BY ELEVEN O'CLOCK THAT NIGHT, THE Welches-Pete and Helen--were feeling no pain. No pain at all.
Gathered at the Random residence this Saturday evening (Millicent timing the party to coincide with an overnight camping trip promoted by Brad's Boy Scout troop) the gala had seemingly been under a full head of steam from the first moment the newcomers had arrived.
There hadn't been a minute's letup since.
No sooner was either Helen or Pete's glass empty than one or the other of the sponsoring couples descended upon them like an avenging hawk and brought a brimming refill. Helen had protested at first, warded them off with notice that she never drank anything stronger than whiskey and sweet. But they'd insisted that she "just try" one of Carl's special, maple syrup Manhattans. After that she could switch to something lighter. Accommodatingly Helen had done just that.
She hadn't been off Manhattans ever since.
As per the swap-quartet's carefully prepared plans, the conversation was deliberately general at first. But later, assessing their guests' alcoholic intake they began subtle conversational inroads, and shortly the air was clogged with innuendo and salty language, the girls concentrating on Helen, innun-dating her with their liberal sexual attitudes. Try as the Welches might to switch the subject they barely succeeded before they found themselves swimming upstream all over again.
Helen Welch succumbed first. The Manhattans doing their deadly work, it was she, of all people, who suggested the first blue story: "Go ahead, Pete, baby," she slurred. "Tell 'em that one about Tony and Angela. With that Italian dialect. You do it so well."
Pete, flushed with drink himself, was more than willing to comply. The story had to do with an Italian laborer who lived in a one room flat, and was proud father of fourteen kids. His wife, tiring of the rat-race, though she should derive something more from the sex act than another baby. But it wasn't to be, for Tony wasn't gifted with sexual finesse. So he went to the doctor to ask for help.
"Ama no sooner get on, docator," he confessed, "than whiz ... it'sa all over. Angela she'a no lika dis."
The doctor thought a minute, then said, "That does sound bad, Tony. Tell me, did you ever try female dominant?"
"Ah, female'a dominant? What'sa dat, docator?"
"Well, that's when the woman gets on top."
At which Tony blushed, covered his eyes. "Ama so ashamed, docator. Ama already try dat."
"Oh?" the doctor replied. "And what happened?"
"Dat'sa bad. Alia da leetle bambeen, they march aroun' da bed, an 'dey seeng: 'Papa ees a sissy, Papa ees a sissy!' "
When the riotous laughter faded, Don told the one about Mandy and Rastus screwing on the hill. Seeing the parson approaching, they tried to hide the evidence, mainly Rastus. Which they achieved by covering him with leaves. Everything except his stubborn, brown pike. The parson coming nearer by the moment, Mandy did the only thing she could: she lifted her skirts, sat on it. The parson, coming up her, asked what she was doing in this isolated place.
"Ah's dreaming, parson," she answered. "Is that so, Mandy? What all are you dreaming about?"
"Ah's dreaming what Ah'd do if I had me ten thousand dollars."
"What would you do, Mandy, if you had ten-thousand dollars?"
"Why, Ah'd give four-thousand to mah Mammy. An' Ah'd give five-thousand to the Church."
"Tha's mighty generous, Mandy. But what would you do with the remaining thousand?"
"Wha, parson, Ah'd buy me a big, black horse."
"A horse, Mandy? Whatever for? What would you do with that big, black horse?"
Here Don got up, stood in the middle of the floor, pretended he was Mandy sitting on Rastus. He began to post up and down, a dreamy, blissful expression on his face. "What would Ah do, parson? Wha, if Ah had me that big, black horse, Ah'd ride an' ride..."
The jokes got more steamy by the minute after that, with Pete Welch, encouraged by his earlier success, supplying most of them. There was the one about the fifteen-dollar special at the whore house. Then the one about the fairy who had an artificial prick sewed onto himself. Then about the woman who took an overdose of hormones. Don followed with another Mandy and Rastus joke. They came faster and faster, the women laughing until they cried, Helen the most strongly affected of all.
It was here that Carl remembered a special record of bawdy songs he had hidden away, and asked if anyone would like to hear it. To a man, everyone agreed that he would like to hear it. To a man, everyone agreed that he would. One of the numbers which tickled the women immensely was one called, "Four-Letter Words":
The four-letter words, the four-letter words, That never say quite what you mean. We'd rather be known for our hypocrite ways than vulgar, impure and obscene.
When nature is calling, plain speaking is out, When Ladies, Lord love 'em, are milling about. You may wee-wee, make water, or green up the grass, You may powder your nose, even Johnny may pass.
Shake the dew off the lily, see a man 'bout a dog, Or when everyone's soused, try condensing the fog.
But please try to remember, if you would know bliss, That only in Shakespeare, do characters-
The four-letter words, the four-letter words, That never say quite what you mean. We'd rather be known for our hypocrite ways Than vulgar, impure and obscene.
Before the endless verses of the song were finished, everyone-the girls most of all-were loudly joining in on the chorus. As of that moment the part was truly launched. As they listened to a few more songs, Carl tested out Helen, playfully stroked her silky knees, got a flirtatious smile, answering pressure from her own hand, for his pains.
There were more drinks then, a gradual extinguishing of lights, and the lights initiated some half-hearted dancing, this as vehicle whereby they could breathe hard in Pete's ear, work their sweaty boxes up against his ponderous hank. Don danced with the badly squiffed Helen, gave her much of the same. He was more than elated when, as he slid his hand down her back, roiled her sassy buttocks, Helen cooingly tolerated the liberty, answered by bunting her cunt that much more salaciously to his rigid rope.
The stage was set. There was no turning back now.
Thus it was, very shortly, that Irene and Millicent managed to herd Pete into a gloomy corner, engage him in some very suggestive conversation. While Carl and Don, using the distraction that swiftly became very tactile, and the girls crowding Pete, their faces close, inviting pagan kisses, their knees and thighs sliding against him from both sides, their breasts branding him nonstop with a highly erotic graffiti, their cunts having a heyday with his engorged cock, they blatantly let him know that they could be had.
No man living could have resisted such voluptuary blandishments, and when Irene guided his ham-like hands to her breasts, invited him to play, when Millicent stood on her tiptoes, dragged his face down, kissed him devouringly, drove her tongue deep into his mouth, he was transported to that deadly point of no return. But this wasn't the worst of it. For even as Pete mauled Irene's surging, firm tits, even as he growlingly answered Millicent's tongue-sucking kiss, he felt both girls begin to caress his prick through his trousers, clench and tug the imprisoned cob. He moaned deep in his throat when he felt Irene's one hand snake between his legs, lift and weigh his balls gently. Even before this could be assimilated, Millicent crowded still closer, clamped her knees on each side of one bent leg, slithered her scalding-hot cunt on his upper leg. When he instinctively reached down, groped in her crotch, she moaned, sucked his tongue harder, even went so far as to partially raise her skirt so he could maul her soupy cabbage that much more easily.
Helen was faring no better. At first, when Carl and Don moved in on her-one from the front, the other from the back-she knew momentary panic. But then, as Carl kissed her, worked his delicious cock against her belly, as Don pressured her from behind, squirmed his dong into her buttocks, made her the meat in a very erotic sandwich, she was suffused with a debilitating sense of wickedness. Her cunt burned like fire, constricted inwardly on itself, even as great torrents of her pussy-oil seeped between the itchy lips, soaked the crotch of her panties through and through. Now Don's hands circled her from behind, held her in helpless, crisscrossing grip, each hand firmly possessing one of her tiny breasts, massaging and roiling it in a thrillingly gentle way. Then, as Carl's tongue invaded her mouth, would seemingly slither down her very throat, as he guided one of her own, disembodied hands down between their bodies, arranged her fingers around the gorgeous hank of his pulsing cock, she came quite undone.
Her head felt feverish, bloated, an insane drumming beginning in it, a voodoo chant of the blood, a siren call she was helpless to resist. Momentarily she fought herself out of the trance, thought to break away, to call out to Pete to come rescue her. But then, her eyes focusing, she saw Pete gluttonously kissing Millicent; she saw the way her red-pantied belly was balancing on his leg, the way he was lifting and clenching her freely offered cunt. Anger and jealousy, intermixed with the most mind-bending sense of unreality, lashed her. If Pete could behave so grossly, who was she to hold back? Especially when it felt so good, when her twat burned so deliciously. Especially when she seemingly couldn't get enough of it, when it seemed that it was this she'd been yearning for, seeking all her adult life.
She moaned with gratitude as someone suddenly turned out the lights in the room, delivered her to sanctifying, insulating darkness. She panted unashamedly as she felt Don and Carl half-drag her across the room, lower her onto the davenport, arrange her in supine pose, their hands almost immediately ranging over her, unzipping her dress in back, raising her skirt in front. She felt one set of hands caressing her nyloned legs, while another pulled down the top of her dress, unfastened her brassiere. Now her slip was being jimmied over her shoulders, trapping her arms, even as the alien hands tweaked her stone-hard nipples, as alien lips sucked the hot caps.
The hands on her legs continued to caress and meander, the tickling, worshipful attention dizzying beyond compare. She knew slight alarm as they caromed across the terrain of her naked thighs, but when she surrendered, decided this was the sweetest sensation of all. Now the hands undid her hose, began working down her panty-girdle, taking her panties with it. She mewled and thrashed as the man (who was it, Don or Carl?) tumbled the stiff, coppery tangle of her muff. She thought she'd die, that she'd never regain her breath again, as she felt the lips brush her tumbling belly, actually felt the hands force her thighs, spread them to allow the famished mouth, the hot, lancing tongue to close on the sodden lips of her pussy itself. And when the scalding dagger slashed at her clitoris, when the lips actually sought to suck it free from its mounting-
"My God," she moaned in disbelieving babble, "my dear God! What's happening, what's..." The words were cut off in mid-flow; hard, searching lips closed on hers; a long, avenging tongue probed her mouth anew. Then she knew she must truly be in a lunatic state of suspension. If she didn't know any better she'd swear that the man were lifting her bodily, and one bracing her shoulders, the other her legs and hips, they were carrying her out of the room. She attempted to struggle, to cry out, but once more that domineering mouth closed on hers, gagged her in that so-fiendishly-effective way.
Pete Welch, of course, had he chosen to do so, could have broken away from the demonic Circes who had now, at last, borne him floor-ward, were swarming over him like slippery eels, their hands and lips everywhere on him, their legs seeking to imprison him, the sensation of silk sliding on him everywhere will-robbing.
Millicent was kissing him famishedly, while Irene shamelessly mauled his prick through his clothing. Now his one hand was guided beneath Irene's skirt, jammed into the weeping stew of her gash. Then his other hand was commandeered, piloted to Millicent's equally swimming quim. He started, groaned in desperate incredulity, as he felt still another hand running his fly.
Now the wanton fingers actually dug inside his shorts, found his straining cock, dragged it forth.
No sooner was his salty soldier waving in the breeze, then he felt hot lips close on its aching head; he felt a vibrating, curling tongue wrap around it, immediately commence an aboriginal housecleaning, the-likes of which he hadn't known since his European army stint, when he'd visited a Paris whorehouse. He lurched, groaned thickly in his throat. Still, beside himself, immobilized as he was, he could summon up no coherent words whatsoever.
He wasn't sure, but wasn't one of the bitches standing over him? Wasn't she undressing blithely, letting her fragrant lingerie cascade down over his face? If whoever that is sucking me doesn't stop soon, he thought, she's going to get a mouthful, a whole week's worth!
He reached up, encountered naked legs and thighs, a naked ass. He recoiled in surprise. Good God! The crazy cunt was totally nude! That bush, that sloppy holel
"Don't be afraid, baby," Millicent's voice carried in lewd huskiness. "We won't hurt you. We'll be good to you, won't we, Irene?"
Irene pulled away from her lollipop chores. "Better than this you just don't get, baby." Her head plunged down again; her harlot lips wrung his joint that much more vindictively, made him grunt with pain and terror. A face full, he thought. Another minute and-
While Irene continued to suck, to toy with his swollen balls, flirt with his anus, Millicent busied herself with undressing him. Pete thought it the most exquisite of luxuries. To be sucked while another woman undressed him. To have gorgeous, opulent tits like this hanging in his face, positioned for his fingers to pinch and maul. If this was a dream, he hoped he'd never wake up.
Then he was totally naked. Millicent took Irene's place while she tore away her clothes. And if he'd thought Irene place while she tore away her clothes. And if he'd thought Irene was a talented cocksucker--
Abruptly, in a flesh-whispering rush, Irene was back. Straddling Pete's head, she came down too fast for him to demur; her dripping cunt dropped on his face, adjusted, posed itself for his sucking lips, his Conquistador of a tongue. A capitulation which Millicent abetted by latching onto his cob, stripping it like some avenging angel. Even had Pete been reluctant to confer the desired obeisance, he couldn't have resisted. Had he not had this tasty, musky sugar-tit he'd most certainly have howled in frustrated frenzy for lack of reciprocal act of his own.
As it was, he licked and sucked contentedly, felt a fantastic sense of power as Irene began swiveling her pussy above him, bringing her bulging pearl down to meet the upward lash of his scourging tongue.
"Damn, oh damn!" she wheezed. "I'm coming, I think I'm ... Oooh, Pete, sweet Pete. Lick it you bastard. Lick! You ever loving cunt-lapper. Oh, wow, wow ... Here..."
Helen thought that lying in the anonymous dark like this, having two men hover over her, gently slavishly undress her, was the most exalting thing that any woman could experience as long as she lived. Beyond that-
To have two mouths roaming her body, two heads butting as they sought to kiss her lips, to suck in her petite tits, to gobble her miniature box. To have four hands coursing over her, touching, exploring, stimulating her in every erogenous spot on her body. Her ears, her eyes, her mouth, her throat, her breasts, her belly and thighs, her vagina her anus even. A mouth on each tit, two hands groping her pubis, two fingers strumming inside her slit, while others painted her ass-hole with her overflow. Two bobbing, monstrous cocks drifting over her, around her, sliding across her thighs, her belly, her breasts even, leaving juicy signature in passing, exotic anointment. Two cocks to gather in at opportune moments, one for each tiny hand.
She fought feebly when Carl came over her, ran his slimy rod back and forth across her clenched lips; she vowed she wouldn't accommodate him that easily. But then when Don opened her legs to widest apex, when he took her complete cunt inside his mouth, sucked and masticated her in that mind-frenzying way, she, like her husband was wild to submit to orgy also. Her small mouth drifted open; her sharp, pointed tongue stabbed at the fat glans, curled beneath its corona. Little by little she let Carl ram it into her mouth, and taking as much of it as she could stand, she gloried in his pinched cries of delight. Cries which blended with her own whines of glory.
She actually thrashed, emitted a hawking, frustrated sob, her sense of loss a crushing thing, when both Carl and Don withdrew from her, left her alone on the bed, shivering and fearful, like some plucked bird. A coin appeared from nowhere, fell on the sheet beside her. "Heads it is, Carl," she heard Don say disgustedly.
Helen's dizzy rapture intensified unbearably. Now, at long last-she enthused. Oh, God, I hope this glorious sense of surrender, this feeling of filth-iness without end never leaves me. And yet she sensed regret as well. If there was only a way that Don wouldn't have to be left out.
She sighed thickly as Carl came between her legs, inserted his massive club into the vestibule of her vagina, worked it gently in small, circular spirals, gave her time to become accustomed to the foreign equipment. He was bigger then Pete, her husband's stature notwithstanding. She stifled a giggle. What a shock Irene and Millie had in store for them. Her mirth was quickly dispelled, replaced by panic, as Carl now began to thread his cock into her narrow channel. Small squeaks of mixed awe, pain and delight built up in her throat, and she sought a placebo to help her see this thing through. Until, seeing Don standing beside the bed watching, she reached out, wrapped her fingers tightly around his dick.
She held onto it throughout the stout, seemingly endless screwing that Carl administered. Until, at the end, as she was semmingly lifted by the nape of her neck, hung on the sharp point of the nearest star by as blistrenig an orgasm as she'd ever experienced, as she felt the beatifying splash of Carl's mighty hydrant deep in her belly, she dug her nails into the comforting staff, only quit when she awoke to Don's angry grunts of pain.
Then Carl moved away from her; Don took his place between her twitching, eager thighs. She thought this the most beautiful innovation of all. To think that one could service her, the other in reserve, recharging himself. Then she could be serviced by Carl again. Then by Don. Carl once more. It would be like one of those awful jokes they'd told before:
All night, and all night-
She whimpered rapturously as Don slid his delicious hole-splitting torpedo into her, drove it so deeply it seemingly tilted her heart. As he began to pound her, she beckoned Carl to the bedside. Latching onto his limp pecker, she pumped mechanically in hope that once she was finished-
While out in the other room, lots of a sort had also been drawn, and it was Irene who emerged victorious. She mewled thickly as Pete arranged her on her back, began feeding his more-than-adequate truncheon into her greedy crack.
"After you finish me," she briefed the newcomer as he executed those first, delicious plowings, "then you do Millie. After that we have another drinkie, draw straws again to see who gets you alone for an hour or so. Then it's switch beds again. So we all get a whack at each other." She whined animalistically, thrashed her hips up to meet Pete's pile-driving prongings. "Oh, God, God ... You were right, Millie. This is what the doctor ordered. Variety is the spice of life. Bang it, damn you! Oh, Pete, big Pete! Screw it, dig it! Rub it raw!"
Standing by helplessly, watching the pagan display, hearing the swinish encouragements abrading her sister-in-sin's throat, Millicent couldn't help but be vastly aroused. She wanted to be under that hulking, humping machine; she wanted that gorgeous post-hole digger socking in and out of her. And, God in heaven, how was she going to endure it? Thus it was, no other alternative presenting itself, that she inserted a bold finger into her cunt, lubricated it thoroughly. Thus it was that Millicent got into the act by corkscrewing her finger up Pete's pistoning ass, deriving depraved jollies thereby. She thought the way his sphincters constricted when he shot into Irene an eminently delightful sensation indeed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE GANG WAS GATHERED AT PETE AND Helen Welch's home this Saturday night in late September. A remarkably enlarged group, it might be said. For now, besides the Randoms and the Hatchers (honored founders) there were two new couples named Earl and Rachel McIver, Mark and Alison Lamb. There were other differentiations as well.
One was that the group now referred to itself as Hedonists, Incorporated. At one very alcoholic gathering several members had protested the lackluster use of "the club," and a general commotion had ensued, with the result being the new, vastly more intriguing appellation now adopted.
Another was self-evident at that moment. As, the witching-hour now at hand, all doors locked, all windows firmly secured and covered, illumination provided by lamps tamed to firefly intensity, all five couples were sprawled about the living room in total nudity.
Community foreplay, community screwing, had come to be a derigueuer of late. How the evolution had come about, no one could pinpoint exactly. At first there had been some protests. But then, as the majority chose to cavort en-masse, had touted the therapeutic benefits, the mind-searing highs gained from same, the holdouts had come around; they had discovered that it was exactly as the militants claimed:
It was more fun to ball in public, to indulge in the coy strip games leading up to general debauch in the buff. It was more fun to have a female suck you off with the others watching. It was more fun to eat the female en circus, glory in the moans and yips from the watching women as one's victim began to writhe and lurch her butt, as the orgasm-verging bitch screamed with joy. It was more fun to join up in multiple-connections inspired in the participant's remotest psyche fantastic beyond description.
Orgy-that was the name of the game.
A game that seemingly became wilder with each passing week. A game full of endless innovations, all the members scouring their brains between meetings, attempting to come up with new, more depraved gimmicks each time.
The action had been markedly transformed. And where once it had been confined to a friendly little bout of cock and cunt, now such mild pastimes weren't enough; there must be constant intensification of sensation, constant out-reachings of the sexual experience. Pleasure for pleasure's sake, the more outer the better.
As evidence, the quaint diversion that was even now, taking place:
Each man sitting on a chair, a linen napkin tucked under his balls, he was being attended by a female other than his wife, said female frosting her mate's prick with generous dousings of chocolate syrup. At the given signal each wanton was to suck and lick away every last drop of the gooey dressing. Upon completion of this chore, she was to latch on for all she was worth, administer a frenetic suckoff, the Circe who made her man come first winning a prize provided by the host (in this case a quart of Beefeater's). There were built-in catches, of course.
One, the man must be totally clean. Any lingering traces of chocolate would disqualify the suck-artiste, no matter how swiftly she finished. Secondly, the men, wanting their wives to win the award, would do their utmost to resist the attentions of his paramour; they would exercise all the control they possessed, concentrate on things other than the gross defamation being entertained at that southern-most extremity.
The scene itself was enough to make a man pop before his woman attached vacuum-cleaner lips to him, commenced to suck and draw like there was no tomorrow:
Here was the opulent-bodied, dark-haired Millicent Random, her head burrowing between Mark Lamb's thighs, her tongue flashing and curling, her face splotched with chocolate sauce.
Here was the more lithe, blonde-haired Irene Hatcher, gruntingly gulping the sticky topping away from Pete Welch, agonizedly forestalling herself, the desire to wrap her lips around his stalk a killing thing.
Here was Helen Welch, diminutive, creamy bodied, her coppery, bouffant coiffure askew as she sucked and licked at Carl Random's crotch, balanced him better by clutching his balls.
Here was Rachel McIver, auburn-haired, her fantasy-inspiring lips cruising the underside of Don Hatcher's dong, her tongue darting like a serpent, cleaning her victim from balls to top, rapidly closing in on the much-desired object of her lust. Thin, big-hipped, her breasts jiggling heavily where they hung down as she groveled on all fours, she groaned exasperatedly as Don leaned over, distracted her by fingering her anus.
Finally there was Allison Lamb, mousy, blonde and demure (at least until she'd downed two martinis-then watch out!), a bit on the plump side, her breasts crowned with the fat, frustro-conical tits the men seemingly never tired of sucking. Who was fantastically lapping Earl McIver's balls, she having made the mistake of frosting him too liberally. The look on her face was one of sheer panic. And of sheer delight as well.
Now the girls were coming down the stretch. And one by one they administered the final flashing of tongue, pounced upon the main course itself, the melange of sounds-the liquid click of lips, the throaty groans of the men, the happy, female hummings, the loud plop of disconnection when a woman became over-eager-enough to make a saint ejaculate. Then the coarse cries of the men:
"Oh, eat it, doll! Go down, Moses."
"Suck, you angel. Suck me inside out."
"Careful, baby. Your teeth. Purple hearts I don't need."
"My God, Rachel! Easy! You'll skin me alive."
"Irene! Good night!"
"You cocksucker. Go get it. You're killing me!"
Then the cries faded, turned into throaty, agonized howls. As the men conjunctively verged on climax. And all the girls evenly matched, experienced, uninhibited, they concentrated fiendishly, brought lips, tongue, teeth and palate to bear, stripped and milked with depraved abandon. The clamor now sharp male yips, stertorous female breathing, the omnipresent suck-suck sonata, the thrash of involuntarily-slapping thighs-was a lunatic thing. A man, Carl Random thought, would just have to look around, watch those five, pumping, swoony-eye heads, and he'd shoot. He groaned, fought to resist the amazonish plunging of carrot-top's wringing mouth. The way she dug her teeth under his glans at the end of each pull! Any second now!
But as it was, Helen Welch, only came in second best, with the dark horse candidate, Allison Lamb, carrying away the honors. "Damn you, damn you," they all heard Earl McIver choke. "Oh, God, not yet, not so soon!" There was no mistaking the immediacy in his tone. Then they heard Allison chortle muffledly. They saw Earl buck and sag, a whiplash of sensation flinging him back in his chair. They heard Allison's victorious hummings, one for each new spurt of jazz she coaxed from the gushing tube.
Seconds later Carl let fly. And even though he and Helen hadn't won, he didn't care; the sweet way she sucked him dry, the blissful sighs and slurpings escaping around the edges of her clinging mouth, were prize enough.
The others shortly followed his example, with Don Hatcher drawing the ultimate tribute from Rachel McIver: "You dirty bastard," she gagged. "You must have been saving that all week."
"Not me, baby," he laughed. "Ask Irene. That just goes to show what a gifted cocksucker you are."
Then everyone turned, set up a chaffing chant. As they saw that Irene Hatcher still knelt before Pete Welch, her mouth pistoning desperately, her face livid with frustration. "Slacker, slacker!" they taunted. Then hooted with glee as Pete finally went stiff, bucked and writhed in ecstasy. Gathering around the duo, they watched avidly as Irene made outrageous show of draining him to the last drop.
"Goddamn," Earl McIver complained as Helen Welch presented the gift-wrapped bottle to the once more self-conscious Allison Lamb, "anybody'd come if they got treated like she did me. She got left at the post. But she came back with a vengeance. She had her ringer up my ass all the way, goosing me to the front for all she was worth."
Which admission everyone greeted with a ribald commotion, the women immediately crying "Foul," pressing Pete and Helen for a ruling. The gin stayed with Allison.
A brief lull ensued in the festivities. Everyone resting up for the next event, the group gravitated toward the bar, replenished their drinks, gossiped among themselves. It was during this interim that the name of Tait and Esmee Donleavy entered into the conversation. The hushed, respectful way that Mark Lamb mentioned the couple was enough to command attention from all present.
"What are you saying?" Pete Welch pressed. "That there's another swap club in town? Bigger than Hedonists, Incorporated? I didn't think the old burg had it in it."
"Hey," Irene whooped. "That sounds interesting. Tell us more. Who are these Donleavy people?"
"Got me," Mark, a tallish, slightly rotund and balding man of forty replied. "I haven't heard that much about him. I can't connect him with any business in town. But he's loaded I guess. He's in his early-fifties, and has this big country spread about five miles out of Porterfield. It's an isolated mansion dug into the side of Marble Mountain, with electric fences and patrol-dogs and everything. I've seen the place plenty of times, but I never suspected anything like this. I still wouldn't have, if it hadn't been for meeting you wonderful people. I always thought he just was some kind of an eccentric. But, brother!"
"I've seen that place," Millicent said. "You mean the one out on Crawford Road?"
"That's the one."
"Real creepy. All those thick trees and all. And you say that he's got a swap club there?"
"Let me finish, will you?" Mark bridled. "I'm only telling you what I heard. Just a whiff of something. Might not be true at all." Then Mark went on to inform the fascinated group that he'd heard that the out-of-the-way mansion was often the site of some very wild parties. Jaded sexual savants, the Donleavys had set a portion of the house aside for the purpose of promotion the swap revolution. Over a period of time they'd recruited dozens of members in Porterfield and adjoining cities; some of the bashes he threw were said to be real bacchanals.
"But what's the point?" Carl Random said, feeling remotely threatened. "What's he got out there that we haven't got?"
"Security for one thing," Mark said. "A whole new slant on things for another. They say he's got rooms set up in the place. Rooms that are equipped for every sort of sexual activity known to man. For those who dig weirdo sex. Otherwise, hack it regular. The cops can't get in there, no matter how many warrants they might have. Even if they do, there are a series of inside gates and house doors that'll give anybody inside a good half hour to pretty up before they got there. The rooms are in a secret wing ... sliding panel stuff and all."
"Sounds cute," Helen giggled. "Maybe we should investigate? How about it, Carl?"
Everyone looked to Carl, the unofficial president of Hedonists, Incorporated. "It's worth an inquiry," he said. "How does it work? They are taking in new bodies?"
"I've got a number," Mark said. "Very hush-hush. You call them, they'll let you know. There's a stiff initiation fee. Photography stuff, I guess, to protect themselves. You want to give it a whirl?"
Immediately there was a general clamor that Carl and Millicent look into the matter. All more than interested in widening their circle of "friends", all dedicated to variety unlimited, they agreed that only good could come of such an alliance. Dubiously Carl made mental note of the phone number, said he'd think about it.
By then, the females antsy by virtue of their solo performance, conversation and drink would not suffice. Action became the call word. And here and there, scattered on the floor, in various chairs, Rachel McIver even going so far as to spread Don Hatcher on his back on a long coffee table, suck his prick to resurgence, feed it into her hungry cunt as she lasciviously straddled him, table and all, posted happily, tensions commenced to mount.
In one corner Pete Welch had upended Allison Lamb on an upholstered chair, and her head down, her back curved, her splayed legs bent over its back, she submitted to as gut-tangling a cunt-lapping as any woman could want. So great was her appreciation that she gratefully reached up, tugged his erect cock down, hungrily stuffed it into her own mouth.
Carl Random and Helen Welch danced to barely-heard music, his prick imbedded in her belly as they moved, his more energetic turns actually lifting the petite female off the floor upon that unique peg.
Mark Lamb contented himself modestly, and lying underneath Irene Hatcher, he made great show of sucking her abundant tits, in the end jamming both tits together so he could suck both nipples at the same time, an innovation that thrilled her so immensely that she squirmed her buttocks up, groped with yearning pussy lips, tried to suck his prick into her by merit of determination alone.
Millicent Random surrendered to Earl McIver, and the newcomer especially intrigued with anal games, she allowed him to finger and lubricate her there, all the while promising that later, when they gained private bedroom together-
Not too much later, Rachel McIver delivered to a fit of sexual frenzy, she broke away from Don Hatcher's splendid prick with a noisy slurp, became instigator of still another naughty game. Only this time it was ladies choice.
Thus it was, not three minutes later, that the women were sprawled on the floor in a circle, pillows beneath their bottoms, pussies facing in. Another contest. Only this time the men must lick their cunts until they climaxed. After which the men would ram their cannons home, pump until they exploded themselves. And though there was no prize, the challenge was reward in itself.
Shortly the depraved, animalistic cacophony of licking, sucking lips, of pagan grunts and sighs and whimpers, of slapping, pumping flesh was once more set off.
It was a sybaritic scene. A picture torn directly from Satan's coloring book.
"Your information is basically correct," Tait Donleavy said, sipping his martini, the light catching drops of gin in his beard as he brought the glass away. "Certain details are inaccurate, but there's no need to go into that right now. All other things working out, we'll rectify that when the time comes." He smiled roguishly. "After all. That would be like knowing what's inside all your presents on Christmas morning, even before opening them."
The man who faced Carl and Millicent this midweek night, the foursome met in the anonymous privacy of the Sleepyland Motel once more, was slight, pasty-faced, beginning to bald slightly. His brown hair was still dark, remarkably silky and long, and Millicent suppressed an urge to reach out, see what his sparsely trimmed beard would feel like. Even more disconcerting (her cunt tingled fiercely at the thought) how it would feel when Donleavy went down on her, grazed between her thighs? There was a strange contradiction of expressions in his face. One moment his black eyes seemed sinister; the next (especially when he smiled warmly) they seemed cherubic. A charming man, perfectly frank, unfazed as obscenities tripped off his tongue, he very soon put both the Randoms at ease.
His wife, Esmee, an exotic, severe-faced creature of perhaps 42, was equally charming. Her hair jet black, combed in severe straightness to the back of her head, it enhanced the unflinching imperiousness of her dark, penetrating eyes. Her costume equally severe, her legs thin and bewitching, she was diabolic sexiness personified. Noticing the sharp points of her breasts through the clinging velvet, Carl was immediately drawn to her, he couldn't help but think that Mrs. Donleavy devoted her every waking hour to thinking about, to preparing for consummation of sex. His prick rode tightly inside his trousers; his heart set up a terrific racket in his chest every time he thought that-in just a very short time now-he and Esmee, Millie and Tait-
Incredible! The insights, perspectives and opportunities-beyond the belief of the uninitiated-that swapping opens up to you!
Again that prissy, pink mouth opened amidst that forest of soft hair, and Tait Donleavy smiled, put him further at ease. "I should mention the initiation fee, which will amount to two-hundred dollars a couple. Which hardly begins to cover the expense involved in introducing new members into our group. But we find that it keeps out the merely curious, the fringe people who aren't, really, down deep in their hearts, dedicated to the swap movement. You mentioned the initiation. Yes, I'm afraid we must insist on that. There will be questionnaires of a psychological nature for you to fill out."
"Questionnaires?" Millicent said.
"Yes. But nothing of an implicating nature. Your sexual tastes, more or less. So that we can program you in the proper direction. We do have over one hundred couples in our group. We call ourselves The Corybants, by the way. Look it up in Greek mythology sometime. It has to do with believers in orgiastic behavior..."
"Tait, dear," Esmee smiled archly. "The questionnaire."
"Oh, yes, do forgive me," He sipped at his drink again. "This is merely so we don't match you with a flagellant or a fetishist or some such. Have you ever tried bondage? Or flagellation? Very charming sidelines, those." Momentarily he lapsed into dreamy silence. "But that's neither here nor there. You have all the time in the world to decide. Once our man ... he's a psychologist member of our group ... evaluates your form, we'll know just how to categorize you."
"Don't worry about identity, my dear," Esmee assured Millicent. "First names only. You'll merely be a number as far as the questionnaire's concerned. She slid closer to Millicent, where they both sat on the bed. "You're really quite pretty, Millie." Her hand came up, brushed Millicent's cheek gently. "I'm sure I'll love it with you."
"Esmee digs it with females," Tait announced casually. "She digs it with anything. Men, dogs, buck niggers, ponies I expect ... if any were available."
Esmee smiled fixedly into Millicent's face, unconcernedly reached down, caressed her left breast. "There's no need to be vulgar, darling. You've no cause to complain. Have I ever stinted you?"
Donleavy shrugged. "There you have it. Esmee's signal. That it's about that time." He matter-of-factly reached over, fondled Carl's turgid rod through his clothes. "As I mentioned on the phone ... there will be a trial session. In order to ... ah ... gauge your sincerity. Agreed?"
Carl's hair prickled on his scalp; he wondered just what he'd allowed Millie-and the rest of The Hedonists-to talk him into. "Yes, Mr. Doneav ... Tait. We're prepared to co-operate with you in any way you suggest."
Abruptly Donleavy was up, locking the motel room door, extinguishing the lights. As he groped his way back through the dark: "You won't mind, will you, Carl? If I suck your cock? If Esmee sucks your wife off?"
Carl stifled a sardonic chuckle as he heard a rustle of clothes on the bed, Millie's surprised gasp. "We're mostly a heterosexual group. We've never ventured into..."
"No matter, Carl. I won't expect you to participate. If you'll indulge me ... if Millicent will allow Esmee..." His fingers deftly ran Carl's zipper, fished inside. "If you'll undress, please, Carl. Just a taste. Afterwards I'll want Millicent." His voice rose pointedly. "That is, if Esmee will turn her loose for a moment."
"Screw you, darling," Esmee's muffled voice came.
Very shortly both Carl and Millicent were naked, the deftness and finesse which the Donleavys brought to the act amazing in itself. Stunned by the rapid turn of affairs, wondering if they were quite up to homosexual love as yet (in reality, the variant had never arisen at their regular swap sessions), they both sat dazedly, watching Tait and Esmee as they swiftly shucked off their own clothing.
A moment later Carl was pushed backward in his chair; he fought to control his wracking shudders as best he could. Without a moment's hesitation, Tait fell onto his knees before him, immediately clutched his prick, administered several, searing licks to its weeping glans. "Quite pretty," Tait sighed. "Not too big, not too small. Bite-size, as they say in the commercials." Then his mouth wrapped around the sturdy mast; Carl almost laughed as he saw his cock disappear into that fur-rimmed cave. But then, as he felt the fantastic things Tait did with his lips and tongue, the magic constrictions he performed with the deepest fasts of his throat, he completely forgot about humor.
If Carl was amazed, it was nothing compared to the quick, melting compliance which flooded Millicent, caused her to wonder after her truest nature. And though she'd occasionally entertained thought and curiosity concerning application of her mouth to female genitals (after all, if she could suck a man, could a woman be any worse?) she'd never really thought she'd actually commit such. Yet, as Esmee's hot mouth coursed down her belly, nuzzled her thick muff, as her fingers parted the lips of her cunt (the heel of one hand expertly pressuring her pubis, forcing it back to make her clitoris explode forth in vulnerable prominence), as her tongue instantly lanced that swollen pimple, she found herself consumed with the most overpowering desire to reciprocate upon Esmee's muskily-aromatic cunt as well.
Thus it was-as Esmee arranged Millicent more comfortably on the bed, swirled her cork-screw tongue deep into her hole, withdrew it with a totally new, thrilling motion, nearly triggered orgasm then and there-that Millicent sank into a primordial torpor, thought little of it when Esmee draped her own cunt in her face. Involuntarily her neck strained, her already-vibrating tongue was waiting to pounce the second that Esmee's slit came within striking distance. She thought the taste of her, the depraved surrender exquisitely filthy and exciting.
She was totally lending herself to the anomalistic workup, her orgasm looming, when there was abrupt and jarring interruption. "No you don't,"
Tait chuckled mockingly as he pulled Esmee off of her. "Just a taste, remember?"
"You selfish swine!" Esmee spat. "Why didn't you stay with Carl a little longer?"
"Because I could see he was embarrassed. Those things shouldn't be rushed. There'll be time for that later. I think he's much more interested in your adorable plumbing." He wound his fingers domineeringly in her hair, forced his wife away from Millicent's gaping snatch. "On your knees, my dear. With your pretty bottom in the air. You too, Millicent. I'd like it that way too." He chuckled, turned to Carl, as they watched both women docilely scramble up on the bed, assume the demanded position. "How will you have Esmee, my friend? She's extremely adaptable."
"Up my ass," Esmee said in a venal, muffled snarl. "I love that. For openers, anyway."
"Indeed she does." He pushed Carl forward. "You do indulge, don't you?"
"Yes," Carl said, not wanting to appear gauche. "On occasion."
"Then you know the procedures. And Millicent?"
"Yes," she yearningly answered for her stunned husband. "I've been buggered, too." She sank deeper into depraved trance, wondering dazedly how Esmee's kisses and suckings could so swiftly transform her into degenerate slut. "I think I'd like that too."
At least Millicent thought she'd been buggered. But Carl's sodomitic efforts were like nothing compared with the dizzying skill which Donleavy brought to the act. She moaned, hunched her body into an even tighter bell, strained her butt towards him. And was amazed, vastly titillated to feel the man's bushy face careen down the nubby trail of her spine, his tongue keeling the V of her buttocks maddeningly, pausing to drill her anus, actually raping it an inch or so, before his mouth closed on the blatantly-exposed mouth of her cunt itself. If Esmee's tongue had been rapture, his was no less so, and she found the tickling of his beard conferred bonus sensations.
How long he tongued her gash she couldn't remember, but once again she hovered on the brink of orgasm, groaned agonizedly as he drew away, left her hanging. Then his tongue was stabbing her anus again, moistening her there, forcing her to relax those stubborn muscles. A moment later she felt him slide and jam the succulently soft, slimy knob of his phallus against that stingy port. He continued to swirl and dig himself there, until she was awash with his liqueur. Now a finger, two, were inserted into her to the second knuckle. And finally, the pressure compacting her, squeezing muffled cries of pain and pleasure alike from her.
He was inside of her; he was slowly, excruciatingly lisping in and out of her ass. She wanted to sob at the ecstasy his talented bung conferred in that forbidden portal. Staring at Esmee where she knelt beside her, she got vague ghostly impression of Carl hissingly going in and out of her rear as well. A particularly wicked thrust made her cower into the bedspread the more, squeezed a pinched wail from her. "Sorry, my dear," Tait apologized. "I got carried away. You are a bit tight, you know. Carl's been rather negligent, it appears. But we'll take care of that in jig time, I promise." And to Carl. "How do you find Esmee?"
"Wonderful," the surprised man mumbled. "Simply wonderful."
"She has excellent action, hasn't she? Not every woman can use her ass as well as she can her cunt. Quite loose, don't you think? We'll have to see to Millicent, however. Whatever you do, don't let her drain you."
Millicent whimpered deep in her throat, sought to redeem herself by swirling her ass in response to Tait's slow in and out. She was amazed at her corrupt sensations. That she could actually be ashamed because she wasn't versed in the anal arts, because her ass was too tight. God, she wailed, how utterly, deliciously depraved! How gut-bustingly dirty! She worked her bottom even more crazily.
She knew an acute panic and disappointment as Tait now disengaged himself from her just-loosening, sucking aperture. She was actually laggard when he rolled her onto her back, began feeding his slender, oddly-shaped pipe into her gash. Glancing to her right he saw that Esmee had insisted that she be turned over-likewise. But with a difference. And noting the way that Esmee raised her legs to the perpendicular, draped her knees across Carl's shoulders, the better to facilitate his total penetration of her cunt, she scrambled to emulate her.
Tait chuckled, drove a rippling wrinkle-ironing fuck into her, sent a stabbing shiver of delight through her from toes to brain. But as good as he was, expertly as he shot bolt upon bolt home, she was still possessed of the desire that she might be receiving him in the lower port, that she might receive his hot load there.
The concept sent Millicent into further frenzy, made her wonder just what sick labyrinth of unnatural love she was lost in now. If this was but her first encounter with Tait and Esmee Donleavy-
What would recurrent meetings bring?
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NIGHT THAT CARL AND MILLICENT were to be irritated into The Corybants, they were picked up on a downtown street-corner at 9:30 P.M. sharp by an attractive, thirty-ish, close-mouthed couple who introduced themselves merely as Irv and Joanna. As they left Porterfield the conversation was general, guarded. When Millicent made the mistake of inquiring as to what form their initiation would take, Joanna smiled stiffly, said, "You've got nothing to be afraid of, Millie. Why don't you just wait and find out?"
Having driven by the Donleavy mansion several times since spending that endless, revelatory night at the motel with Tait and Esmee, they were not overly awed by the glowing, cliff-hanging edifice. Granted, it did look ominous, its many windows glowing dimly in the distance, resembling (Carl thought) a fully-booked hotel for recluses. The car braked at the specially-reinforced entrance (miles of twelve-foot-high Cyclone fence stretching into the distance), where Irv produced a metallic, identification card, pushed it into a time-clock sort of contraption which clicked and snarled in recognition, shortly activated the rolling gate. Moments later they drove through.
There were three more gates along the way, and each time the same procedure was repeated. Eventually, after a two mile ride, they came to the base of the modernistic, stone and concrete structure, and Irv pulled his car into a specially numbered space on the vast, asphalted parking lot. Looking around, Carl and Millicent made swift tally of cars, were disappointed that there were only 25 or so. When they inquired after same, Irv tersely said:
"Nobody ever makes all the get-togethers. This is mostly a new crowd tonight. Tait never has them mingle with his hard-core people. You have to have an aptitude for that kind of stuff."
"As for me," Joanna added, "I'd just as soon not acquire that aptitude. Sex, plain and simple, new partners, that's enough for me."
Then they were out of the car, their heels clattering on the pavement, the November chill (along with inner apprehensions) making the Randoms shudder uncontrollably. They came to the base of an elevator shaft, the only observable entrance into the Donleavy's weird residence. Again Irv put his metal card into a control box. Again there was buzzing snarl. A half minute later an elevator rumbled down. As they went up, Irv said, "This baby locks at the top. There's no way for anyone without a key-card to get up there. A ladder, I suppose. Or a helicopter. But other than that ... "
"Here's where we turn our back on the whole, stinking, hypocritical world," Joanna snapped bitterly.
"Home sweet home," Irv said. "You're gonna love this place. If ever there was a real Shangri-La
The appointments, once they were inside, were plush to the n-th degree. Soft lighting, paneled walls, modernistic art, thick, springy carpeting everywhere, Carl and Millicent were immediately made more at ease. "This way," Irv directed. "Put your coats in here. Later you'll be assigned a dressing cubicle of your own, a combination lock and all. Lots of our people undress here, proceed to the community room already naked, but Joanna and I haven't got to that point yet." He smiled, his manner more relaxed suddenly. "But if you'd like to undress..."
Carl grinned, indicated their guide's attire. "We will go in like you and Joanna. When in Rome, you know..."
It took the Randoms a few minutes to get used to the saffron light in the vast, circular room to which their guides next led them, to focus on its unique furnishings. Or lack of furnishings.
The room was, in a word, an amphitheater. Perhaps thirty feet in diameter, it consisted of wide, softly carpeted landings, five in all, descending to the center of the room, where, at its lowest depth, stood a small podium, carpet-covered as well. Which podium, Carl was sure, was used for select demonstrations of sexual prowess, orgiastic shows of a pornographic nature. Which podium, if his guess was correct, he and Millicent would very shortly occupy.
Otherwise, save for myriad, multi-colored pillows scattered everywhere on the various risers, there was no further furniture at all. An endless row of gold-plated clothes hooks were imbedded in the outer walls of the circular, also-carpeted barrier, some occupied with outer garments, some with outer and under-garments. "God," Millicent sighed, clutching Carl's arm for support, "is this spooky!"
It took a while to become accustomed to the murky, orange-yellow light, supplied by hidden fixtures in a shielded fascia in the room's ceiling-the phenomenon actually making them feel queasy, imbuing them with fantastic sense of unreality and disorientation. The forty-odd people who were assembled in that erotic forum-some fully dressed, other half-dressed, with still others stark naked-were granted minimal privacy by the lights. The giggling, listlessly-moving figures took on an eerie, one-dimensional flatness where they sprawled singly, in duos, or in clutter. Nearby, Carl spied a statuesque, ebony-haired beauty of perhaps 25, a female dressed in black brassiere, black panties of outrageous cut, from beneath which snaked a lacy garter belt that held taut black, net hosiery, emphasized her spicy slippers. The girl glanced up at him, smiled, then unconcernedly returned to her male escort, immediately commenced fellating him anew. Across from her a naked man and woman were lying side by side, in tete beche position, casually eating one another. Another couple was in the act of coitus, the girl sitting on one of the steps, the man kneeling on a lower one, tunneling his meat to her yawning cunt like a runaway freight.
"Oooh," Joanna sighed, "that gets to me fast. 'C'mon, darling, let's go find Wade and Marsha."
Made quite helpless by the way his wife dug eager fingers into his cock, Irv turned back a last time. "Just sit down anywhere, relax. Watch or introduce yourselves, or anything you want. Tait'll get to you very shortly." Then he was letting Joanna pull him toward a couple halfway across the room. The male member of which immediately raised the comely brunette's skirt, administered greeting by chewing her box right through her underthings.
Carl shuddered involuntarily, held Millicent's hand very tightly. "Looks like we came to the right place."
She trembled also. "Sure does," she said wanly.
And while there was constant commotion nearby, while couples kept going and coming, disappearing to some secret area beyond the amphitheater, it was as if the Randoms were contaminated, declared off limits, for no one else came near them, nobody stopped to say hello, to pass idle chatter, or to welcome them to the club.
But then, at precisely 10:30, there was a sudden influx of people into the room; the galleries were quickly filled. An expectant hush filled the forum, and the club members ceased their erotic diversions, sat up attentively. It was here that Esmee and Tait appeared from out of nowhere, he wearing a black posing strap, floppy black boots on his feet, Esmee dressed in only black bikini panties, high-heeled slippers of a fetishist cut, her nipples deliberately carmined with body makeup of some sort. "Are you two ready?" Tait beamed, his expression like that of an ordinary host welcoming guests to an ordinary party.
"I suppose," Carl said ruefully. "Whatever that means."
"We discussed it the other night," Esmee smiled reassuringly. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Whatever the group decides, that's what you'll have to do. Agreed?"
"I guess," Carl said, assailed by a monumental case of cold feet. Millicent's face was stricken; she trembled like a leaf.
"You can start getting undressed," Tait smiled. "I'll go down, introduce you. You know the rules. You'll have to submit to photography. The movie film will never be developed. Unless you give us a cause. You understand that we must protect ourselves."
"We understand."
"And you're quite willing? You won't embarrass us at the last minute?"
Carl blocked his shoulders. "We'll see it through, no matter what. Don't fuss on our account."
"Fine." Then Tait began threading his way to the podium. Again, as if by magic, a panel in the ceiling opened, and a small spotlight emerged, clicked to life, flooded the center of the room with an eye-smarting glare.
Tremblingly, doggedly, Carl and Millicent dragged away their clothes, wishing, at the same time, that they'd listened to Irv, left their clothes in his cubicle.
Through a ghastly mental fog Carl and Millicent heard Donleavy's voice fade in and out as he introduced the new members by name. A polite spattering of applause echoed in the room. Then finally: "Millicent. If you'll come down?"
Carl's brain felt numb, feverish. He could hardly believe this was happening to him, to Millicent, his wife. He watched her walk down the stairs stark naked; he mentally lauded the poise she forced into her stance as Tait handed her up onto the platform, asked her to turn so everyone could see her. Again there was polite applause.
Once more Carl suffered a mental lapse. He saw Donleavy talking; he saw the audience replying, but the words didn't register. Then he saw the naked photographer, his motion picture camera hand-held, as he approached the lower ring, began setting angles on Millicent. Now his skin crawled as a stocky, hairy-chested male, possessed of a particularly-thin, elongated penis, arrived at the podium. Through a stunned haze he watched the man position Millicent on her hands and knees on the plush carpeting; he watched as he lubricated her ass from the dripping grease gun of his prick, eventually slid it deep into her anus. Minor outrage filled him as he saw Millicent jerk in pain.
But as quickly her expression became one of pagan arousal, and as her torturer jagged in and out of her, Carl was invested with a hard-on to end all hard-ons.
Around and around the photographer went, taking shots of the bestially coupled pair from all angles, asking Millicent to look up from time to time so he could photograph her face. A great seething hiss broke from the onlookers as Millicent's violator bucked suddenly, froze, his anguished expression betraying the fact that he'd climaxed deep inside of her. More shameful was the writhing of Millicent's buttocks, the delighted expression on her face, as she churned herself, helped the stranger as best she could.
Then it was Carl's turn. And emulating his brave wife, he proceeded down toward the stage, his erection flopping and dripping as he went, his face tensed in resolution. This time he heard his peers pass sentence. "Blow job," the words rumbled. "Get one of the guys down there."
Thus it was dictated, and a crucifying humiliation Carl had never dreamed he'd ever tolerate was ruthlessly visited upon him. Kneeling before the effete-appearing, blonde male, thankful that his equipment wasn't any longer than it was, he fought for self-control; he fought to mask his vast repugnance, as the simpering male actually clasped his head in his hands, held it stationary while he aimed his sap-slimed, faintly-odorous cock toward his lips.
A few seconds later the vile fact was accomplished. And for the first time in his life, Carl had a prick in his mouth. A hot, pistoning, gagging prick. A prick that he longed to spit out, return insult by beating its arrogant owner to a bloody pulp. But he did no such thing. Instead he clouded his mind as best he could, let his tormentor position his mouth, adjust his jaws to best accommodation. There was cause for gratitude, all in all. This in the fact that the man was a fast starter; the indignity was of short duration.
But the greatest test was still to come: For now the fat dong bucked and throbbed; Carl felt that hot, creamy gush in his mouth. His humiliation was total. Not even the subliminal existence of the ballet-circling photographer mattered now. Weirdly, his subjugation seemed a matter of honor now, and he swallowed the thick load as gracefully as he could, tolerated the squrmy prick in his mouth as long as his epicene Torquemada chose to let it remain. The excited, pleasurable buzzings of the crowd drifted in and out of his bedazzled senses.
Finally, it was over, and the man withdrawing from Carl's mouth, he looked down at him lovingly, sent praise for a job well done, manfully seen through. Impulsively he leaned, kissed Carl on the lips, snaked his tongue swiftly into his mouth, almost as if seeking leftover taste of his own sap. Carl's stomach tumbled. And some men actually dig this? This is sex to them? Men like Tait Donleavy for instance? They can swing both ways? God, dear God! He tore his mouth away, pushed the man brusquely away. He ignored the small flurry of applause that greeted him as he stood up, glowered against the bright light.
Tait and Esmee themselves saw to the guided tour of the swap mansion for the Randoms. "Don't get upset about that cocksucking thing," Tait consoled Carl as they came out of the community room, started down various radical hallways which branched out from that central point. "It won't happen again. Unless you choose to do it, of course. There are those among us who are bi-sexual; we see no harm in doing it with women and men. It's sort of a tradition here now. Our first members were forced to go down on a man as part of their initiation. It seemed the most forbidden, abominable of acts. Over the years it's become a 'If I had to go through with it, everybody else who joins will get it too' sort of thing. You might even want to let some of the men do you. You'll find viewpoints broaden remarkably here."
He and Esmee proudly showed him the luxuriously appointed, carpeted, extremely functional bedrooms, one assigned to each other, each boudoir coming with connected bathroom and shower. "This button here automatically locks the door, turns on the 'occupied' light on the outside," Esmee. "Notice the light control panel here. You can have brilliant light." She turned the control to eye-smarting brightness. "Or the dimmest possible lgiht." The room fell into ghostly pallor. She pushed another switch. "Or colors." The room was instantly bathed with saffron, then blue, then green, then red. "You can create your own mood, really."
The Donleavys explained that normally one mate was busy in the amphitheater, while the other occupied the boudoir; these arrangements were left up to the couples themselves. But in case of mixup there were auxiliary bedrooms for the general use of whomever needed them. They showed these to the Randoms also.
Then began the weirdest, most unbelievable segment of the tour. As, pressing a special spot on an obviously solid, paneled wall, a sliding panel whooshed back, and they stood before a narrow door which led into a further labyrinth of corridors. Now the Randoms were shown the other rooms, the hush-hush rooms Mark Lamb had hinted at. Rooms which Tait and Esmee proudly, slatheringly displayed again and again espousing their own lavish sponsorship of the swap movement, giving Carl and Millicent to understand that their $200 initiation fee was token contribution of the puniest sort.
There was one room set up with comfortable chairs and divans, a large motion picture screen at one end, where pornographic movies from a vast library would be shown at any hour of the night or day. Even as they looked in, a film was running; two couples were watching a scene where in a woman was being licked by a Doberman pinscher. They watched entrancedly as the trained dog began to hump her, the close-up shots of a canine prick going in and out of a female cunt, sickeningly explicit. The audience barely watched. Aroused as they were, they participated, handling each other, one man noisily, happily gobbling his partner's snatch on a low-slung chaise. Instantly Carl's depleted cock sprung up, even as Esmee reached back, dandled him shamelessly.
As they left the depraved Little Theater, Carl noted that an artistic film reel, a curving skein of film trailing from it, was painted on its door.
The next room they approached had a silhouetted female boot, high and laced, the toes and heels exaggeratedly pointed, upon it. This was a room for those enmeshed in fetishism. Proudly the Donleavys showed them the closets of female and male fetishist garb of every color and description, all the sizes clearly marked on the endless banks of drawers and wardrobe doors. Leather and rubber, silk and satin, fur and lace, all were there. One entire closet was devoted to female shoes of all varieties, the heels and toes of every conceivable cut, the stiletto-fashion most prominent. Here were boots and posing straps for the men, lingerie in every color of the rainbow for the women. Several beds and curiously constructed couches lined the walls. One whole wall was taken up with mirrors so the deviates could better admire themselves.
The next room featured a set of manacles, a curving whip on its door. Here, Millicent and Carl, shuddering helplessly, repugnance chilling them, saw racks of whips and quirts; they saw ropes and belts and chains of every sort hanging on one wall. They saw great planks with cuffs and leg irons affixed to them where victims might be tied. There were wooden couches with similar manacles; there was a St. Andrew's cross, a conventional cross, both bearing leather straps for arms and ankles; there was even a set of stocks from Puritan times, wherein a victim's head and arms were fitted to hold him helpless for God knows what punishments and indignities. "Please," Millicent breathed shortly, "Let's get out of here. But fast."
The next room was no better. A squat, black chamber-pot on its door, the Donleavys described it as catering to those addicted to urolagnia. Which Carl and Millicent didn't understand at all. At least not until they entered and got unmistakable whiff of urine and feces, saw the multiple drains in the tiled floor, the clinical couches and tubs, the long, hanging hoses on every wall. "You'd be surprised," Tait seethed, "how many of our advanced members avail themselves of these facilities. The urge within the human animal to be humiliated, to have his partner piss or shit upon him is uncommonly strong. Some night there's a line of people waiting to use this room."
The Randoms were taken to a reading room. Where, once more, there were the ubiquitous couches and beds which bibliophiles could use during or after perusing the fantastic collection of pornographic literature, the bins of scatological photographs. Leading him by his swollen jock, Esmee showed Carl a particular favorite of hers, a volume which depicted an adult male fornicating with, being fellated by, sodomizing a large variety of female children.
Another room was stocked with dildos and autoerotic machines of every weird description. Tait demonstrated a dildo which, when affixed and ad-iusted to the male penis, allowed its wearer to screw his woman in the anus at the same time he pillaged her pussy.
Still another cubicle was filled with what appeared to be athletic equipment. Jumping horses and ladders and trapezes, electrically-powered winches, plastic-webbed flat-beds which could be raised and lowered and canted to every possible angle. "This is for those members who wish to experiment with diverse positions," Esmee announced. "It's amazing how adaptable the human body is when it wants to be jazzed in a new and exciting way."
There were other rooms, also, the Donleavys hinted. But this would do for tonight. There would be time for further exploration later. "We're sure you're anxious to meet the other members," Tait beamed. "I'm sorry that your questionnaires haven't programmed as yet. The club owns a small computer. To avoid personality and psycho-sexual conflicts we schedule all our initial matings through it. Later, as you get to know all the members better you're on your own. Surprisingly enough, many of our members become dependent upon Morgana, as we facetiously call the machine; they rely upon her exclusively. A sort of a grab bag thing which they find adds immeasurable spice to things."
"In lieu of a computer choice," Esmee said, "we've arbitrarily taken it upon ourselves to choose a couple of partners for you. We think you'll enioy them very much. They'll introduce you into the Corybants in an extremely satisfying way, launch you in style, so to speak. Come, we'll go find them right now. Tait, you take Millicent; I'll take Carl. You two can get together later, have such fun telling each other about your new adventures."
Now Carl was being led to one of the bedrooms by the tall, black-haired virago he'd observed sucking her lover's cock upon first entering the amphitheater. A very aggressive, take charge wanton named Rina, she adjusted the lights to a dull red glow, an innovation that gave her lush body an even more bewitching cast, made her hair, her eyes, the wedge of her cunt, the tips of her monstrous tits that much darker, added nerve tangling eroticism to their interlude.
Laying Carl on the bed, Rina immediately fell upon his prick, took infinite pains and delight in manipulating it with her fingers, pumping and caressing it tirelessly until it gleamed with patina of his oil. With tormenting soft fingers, she massaged his glans, puddled in his juice, spiraled around the screaming knob until he thought he would die. When his juice became tacky, she pumped forth more, adjured him to contract his muscles, force additional lubricant forth. Again she massaged him until he was sure he'd spit at any moment. Until finally he could bear it no more, and the ultimate adoration must be conferred.
"Please, Rina," he gasped. "Your mouth now. Your lips. Oh suck it! Please, please...! Suck my cock."
"That's what I wanted to hear," she gloated. "I just love to work my man up like this. I just love to have 'em beg me. Here doll. How's this?"
Even then she didn't suck or lick like other women did. Instead she used the entire flat of her tongue, made it incredibly flat and squashy, a slab of slimy liver, which, when it swabbed among his own continuing overflow, conferred a sensation that Carl could only describe as hot, liquid velvet. An arrow of ecstasy drove down his cock, into his balls, careened toward his puckered ass-hole. Where the barb emerged, hooked into that sensitive purse, seemingly fought to pull it inside out, drag it out of the very eye of his prick. And just when it seemed she'd succeed, when he was positive he'd explode in her face, Rina changed tactics. The next moment he was completely harbored in her talented mouth, his nozzle half snaked down her gullet. And if he thought he'd known sensations, if he thought he'd had his cock suctioned before-
Every other woman in the world, even Millicent, was a rank amateur compared to Rina.
When he began to whimper and thrash, she laughingly withdrew her mouth. "Uh-uh, baby. Not this time. I've got better places for that sweet stuff." Whereupon she fell back, drew him onto her Junoesque body, piloted his digger into her surprisingly tight hole with her own fingers. It seemed she wrapped her long, silky legs around his waist twice, like a boa constrictor, before she was crooningly satisfied; it seemed she did all the work herself, and he was only a tiny dung ball caught in the eye of a passion hurricane.
"Hump, baby," she husked. "Share a banana with Lady Diana. Good, good. Go, you big-donged bastard!"
Even after he exploded, an end-of-the-world eruption that should have painted Marble Mountain with jazz, she still wouldn't release him; she stole two more orgasms for herself, half in the process.
Afterwards she started the finger and tongue massage again. Only this time with a difference. The sensations as extreme as before, she tortured him until his grunts announced impending ejaculation. Whereupon she flicked him off with her thumb, received his whole discharge upon her great, beautiful breasts. Even as he dazedly bemoaned the waste, she exhibited still another aberrated taste. "Feed me, lover," she intoned. "With your fingers."
Then and there he swiped up his watery cream from her pneumatic tits, fed it to her mouth with his own fingers. Rina greedily slurped and sucked, didn't desist until there was only residue enough left to be massaged into her tits. She sucked his prick clean, then wordlessly deserted him.
A thin, petite blonde who introduced herself as Ora entered next. A cock-happy mink, she gloried in constant orgasms, and under him, over him, around him, she endlessly extolled his drained condition, his staying power. When he finally shot this time, he felt like his spine had been removed, like he was a wet, used condom!
Millicent had drawn a handsome, hairy Neanderthal named Prentice. A man possessed of the largest prick she'd ever seen in her life, a prick that awed her, frightened her, filled her with a terrifying sense of inadequacy. Supposing she should disgrace herself? Supposing she wouldn't be able to sheathe that mighty club? Supposing that he could only drive that post only halfway up her? Wouldn't that be the ultimate mortification?
If she'd found the glory anonymous fornication thrilling before, her pleasure was multiplied a thousandfold with Prentice. For without a word, he arranged her on all fours on the bed, indicated that he wanted her dog-fashion. Again Millicent was filled with that magnificently-filthy feeling of being subservient, worthless, a lowly receptacle, the merest mare for her dominating stallion. And where the position generally robbed her of orgasm, with Prentice it was different. His machine so splendid, so fat, so long, it stretched even her ample cunt painfully, drew down her clit, frictioned it murderously with each in and out.
Within two minutes she began to spasm. She seemingly came a dozen times before Prentice unloaded, his salvo seemingly flinging her forward onto the bed, seemingly blasting through, bathing her very heart with scalding sperm. She screamed violently in the soundproofed room, owned that she'd never been so deliriously screwed in her whole life.
After forcing the entire of his flaccid stud into her mouth, gruntingly indicating that she suck him clean, Prentice (still without a word) abruptly left^ the room.
Enter a strange, older man named Jerome. Who was perfectly happy to merely suck her slit, lick the crack of her buttocks, use his tongue in sanitary-worker fashion, relieve her of the sticky gift Prentice had deposited in her piggy bank. Completely demolished, faint from the reaming just administered, she was more than content to relax, to let the little pervert have his own way with her.
But then, when she started coming again, like a string of firecrackers, she wondered if she'd done the right thing after all.
The couple they'd come with, Irv and Joanna, came to collect the Randoms shortly before 3:00 a.m. As they came into the chill, deathly-still parking lot, Millicent hung heavenly on Carl's arm. Once she looked back at the softly glowing structure carved into the mountain, and a strain of celestial music seemingly welled up in her brain at that moment.
It was so. They had found Shangri-La after all!
Deathly weary, stunned by the discoveries made tonight, they didn't exchange a half dozen words with their new friends all the way back to Porter-field.
CHAPTER NINE
"PLEASE, KENYON," DAPHNE GWYNN pleaded with her husband upon hearing of his latest flight from sanity, "don't go through with it. Don't make me do this. Isn't all that other bad enough? Must we pile misery atop of misery? Call those people back, darling. Call the Donleavys ... tell them you've changed your mind. Tell them that we don't want anything at all to do with their rotten swap club. Oh, Kenyon ... whatever's going to happen to us?"
"No," he snapped, pushing his naked wife back against the pillows, "I'll do no such thing. We'll see it through. We'll meet Tait and Esmee just as arranged. Wednesday night. At that motel in Mount Hope. Don't you see ... after what happened the other night ... that this will mean our salvation. No more of that sneaking around, no more putting our necks in a noose."
"But, Kenyon, why not just stop? Why can't we put an end to all that? I've told you a thousand times that I'm content with you, sex or no sex. I'll do anything you say, I don't care how perverted it might seem. Only we can't go running around like this, in motels, in bars, in back alleys any longer. That man might have killed you. The next time, perhaps, one of them will..."
The man they both made reference to was another of Daphne's enforced pickups, a traveling salesman named Paul Fenway whom they'd encountered while once more cruising the bar at the Silver Eagle Motel. Only this time-Kenyon's psychotic compulsion growing stronger by the way-there had been a far-out variation in their plans. In that they'd booked a room of their own at the motel in advance. In which room, Kenyon-fleeing the bar just as soon as Daphne had vamped the husky, tawny-haired Fenway-had concealed himself.
It wasn't sufficient now that Kenyon merely hear his wife's account of her infidelity and sluttishness after these forays; he wasn't content any more to hide in the car's trunk, listen as some stranger screwed his lovely wife blind. Now he was possessed of a new, more dangerous desire: He must sit in on the adventures in the flesh; he must see the man covering his wife, flashing his meat in and out of her lubricous cunt with his own eyes.
Thus, as per their plan, he'd secreted himself in the bathroom of the room Daphne would insist her pickup accompany her to. From whence, once the two were enmeshed in the sweaty throes of passion, he would stealthily creep, and stationing himself in the room's darkest shadows, would gorge himself visually on forbidden, voyeur delights.
But the unexpected had happened: And as Daphne and Paul had balled blissfully. Fenway oblivious to his audience of one, a chill had wracked Kenyon, and he'd been unable to stifle three very strong, very loud sneezes.
An ugly scene had ensued. Paul had pulled out of his chippy conquest in a terrified lurch; he'd immediately been deprived of his erection. Calling them both pervert creeps, suspicioning a blackmail scheme, he'd taken a few punches at Kenyon. Only Daphne's blubbering intercession-she throwing herself between her cringing husband and the bullying salesman-had prevented full scale calamity. Fenway totally unable to believe that all this husband wanted was to see his wife plowed by another man, he'd dressed, stormed out of the room, leaving a flurry of threats in his wake.
Daphne and Kenyon had frightenedly cleared The Silver Eagle less than five minutes later.
Kenyon sported a very loud shiner as souvenir of the fiasco for almost a week following.
It should have been painfully obvious to Daphne why her humiliated, frustrated husband should eagerly embrace the promise inherent in the swap club that the Donleavys could introduce him into.
"What's what I'm saying," he answered stubbornly. "We can't take that chance. A thing like that could easily happen again. That's why this swap thing is tailor-made. Since it's obvious that I can't control myself any longer, that I have to have this outlet, sick as it may be..."
"But why, darling?" Daphne begged agonizedly for what certainly must have been the millionth time. "Why do you need this? Why do you have to deliver me to other men? Why must you watch? Why must you hear about the things they did to me afterward?"
"I don't know, Daphne. Really, I don't. Something in my past, something I can't recall. We were all right when we first got married, remember? But then something happened. All those times I couldn't get hard. Only the thought of you ... having intercourse ... with another man turned me on. Then later, I needed more than just thoughts..."
"That's sick, very sick, darling. I only went along with it because I wanted to help you. I thought you'd get over it in a while..."
His eyes glittered; he smiled snidely. "Is that right, darling?" he taunted. "You did it just for me? You didn't do any of it for yourself? You didn't enjoy sucking all those cocks? Having all those strange cocks shoved up your whorish, little twat? I think you did. Just imagine ... when we're with that group ... dozens of cocks, a world full of cocks. Two or three in your mouth at the same time. We'll arrange it. That I'd really love to watch."
Terror once more skewered Daphne. She recognized the signs. Kenyon was getting that way again. Yet she recklessly plunged forward. "No, Kenyon, that's not true. I hate it, I really do. Afterwards I loathe myself; I wish I could die; I wonder why I bother to go on. If only I didn't love you so, darling..."
"Love," he derided. "Oh, no, my pet. You love cock. Fat, juicy cock. In your cunt, in your mouth, up your ass even. You wish that there were tiny cocks. So you could have it in your ears, up your nose..."
"Please, please, baby. Stop that now. Don't get all worked up again. If only you'd let me make an appointment with Dr. Molitor for you. I've heard such wonderful things about him. He'd do you so much good. He'd help you understand what's making you behave this way. He'd..."
Suddenly Kenyon struck out at Daphne, lashed his right hand against her face full force. "He'd shit!" he spat. Daphne screamed in pain, covered her face with her hands, buried her head in the pillows. Her shoulders bucked with desperate sobs. "How many times must I tell you?" Kenyon groaned. "Not to mention that man's name to me? I'm not crazy, I tell you. Just because my sexual needs-are different from someone else's, that doesn't mean I need a parasitic head-shrinker shoving his nose up my ass!" He slapped Daphne again, on the back of her head, the blows exploding with acetylene glare inside her brain. "Stop that sniveling this instant, do you hear? I've got other plans for you. Much more interesting plans. Stop it!"
The fact of the matter was that Daphne lived in deathly fear of her husband. She was firmly convinced that he was on the verge of out-and-out insanity. At first, when he'd broached his perverted proposals to her, insisted that she accommodate perfect strangers, she'd resisted. But he'd become so violent, had slapped her around so badly that, choosing between infidelity and a broken neck, she'd gone along with the abominations. That first time had been horrible; afterwards she'd almost died, had moved in a blind trance of self-loathing.
In time she'd hardened herself to the sick surrenders, but she knew she'd never totally accept it with equanimity. There were times when she concluded that she needed a head-doctor as badly as Kenyon did. Time and time again she'd resolved to leave him. But whenever she threatened as much to him, he went into insane rages. These times she feared him the most. And when he counter-threatened that he'd find her, no matter where she hid that he'd kill her, that he'd kill three-year-old Linda as well, Daphne had invariably caved-in, had gone along with his deviate whims. There was something in the so-explicit, gory way he described the way he'd bash Linda's head against a brick wall-a maenadic lip-smacking narrative that would have made a believer out of any woman alive.
Now she stifled her tears as best she could, turned toward her husband. "Kenyon..."
"Get on your back," he snarled. "I've got an erection from all this talk. I want to get my nuts off."
Dutifully she obeyed. "Spread," he chuckled. Daphne spread.
And as his pecker steamed into her channel, as he commenced to slowly jag himself in and out of her, he said, "Well, go ahead. You know what I want."
"Please, darling? Can't we ... just this once ... without the rest of it?"
He growled, drove his pelvis brutally against hers, the impact ripping a moan from Daphne. "Do as you're told, harlot! The lingo! Tell me about that Paul creep the other night. I watched you sucking him. You couldn't get enough of that big whang of his, could you?"
"Please, baby! You know I only did that because it's what you told me to do. You wanted to watch me, you..."
"I watched you all light. If ever I saw a girl hungry for meat. Tell me about his prick. How did it feel? How did it taste? How deep did he sink it?"
Daphne expelled a ponderous, despairing sigh. And realizing that it would do no good to protest or stall, she gave in. She began to describe, in great detail, just how the man's penis felt and tasted, the sensations her wallowing behavior triggered in her sexual psyche. The words came faster, became more outrageous. She embellished and fantasied shamelessly, eager to have the ugliness finished.
They launched into the next phase. "When he was on top of you," he prompted, his tone more lunatic, phlegm-clogged by the minute, his plunging body triggering actual lust within her despite her repugnance. "When he was ramming his hammer into your filthy body. How did it feel then?"
Daphne fabricated further.
"Was it as good as mine? Did he screw you as good as I do? Tell me, you rotten, diseased prostitute!"
"No," she gasped, her passion rising, "he wasn't as good as you. No one can screw as good as you do, Kenyon. His prick wasn't as thick as yours, as long as yours. It didn't go into me as far as yours does. It didn't ream and grind the way vour gorgeous rod does."
"Yes," he whimpered, his tone piggish, orgasm in the wings. "Tell me. Tell me about my prick!"
"Oh, yes, darling, yes! I will. Your prick is so hard, so long, so grainy. It fills and rams me. It scalds me, tears the skin off the walls of my cunt. It bangs deep in my belly; it hits bottom with every stroke! Oh, sweet prick! Blessed prick! Sweet, pulsing prick! Deeper, harder! Screw me harder. Screw your harlot! Oh, shit!"
The degenerate, coerced travesty of love went on.
Tait and Esmee Donleavy listened intently that night in early December, as, the quartet gathered in a single room at The Flamingo Motel, Kenyon Gwynn tersely outlined his terms in respect to becoming a member of the swap group, evasively skirting the edges of his particular hang-up. And though the Donleavys exchanged sly, dubious glances from time to time as the weird narrative progressed, they had but to look at the white-faced, slope-shouldered Daphne, appraise her exotic beauty, and doubts were swiftly shunted aside. Even if Kenyon Gwynn wouldn't be a great addition to their corrupt coterie, the exotic Daphne would; there were any number of uses to which she could be put. Esmee, especially, had definite designs. Just to look at the child made her crotch itchy and runny.
Kenyon Gwynn explained that he would do his best to comply with the club rituals, that he would lend himself to whatever fleshly gambols he could. He explained his frequent lapses into impotency, lapses which only seeing his wife being taken by an alien male could remedy. They mustn't ask that he accommodate any other women, for, slut though she was, Daphne was the only woman he'd ever been able to make himself enter; she was the only woman he ever wanted to enter. Perhaps he could service some men, force himself to accept them. But when it came to other women-
There was this mixed-up superiority thing in his brain. It would be self-defilement to insert his very special phallus into one of their tainted cunts. Daphne, and Daphne only. She would make a very excellent addition. And if he could just sit by and watch. He would be very unobtrusive; there would be no trouble whatsoever on his part. This initiation that had been mentioned: Would it satisfy the rules if he acquitted himself with another man perhaps? Could a membership be arranged on this basis? He'd pay extra, if necessary. He was well-fixed, money was no object. If they could just see their way clear to-
Yes, Tait Donleavy finally agreed, they could accept the Gwynns on that basis. And while it was highly unusual, they were sure that something could be worked out. But first: If Daphne would undress for them.
Even as Daphne reluctantly pulled off her clothing, Esmee disrobed as well. "If you'll excuse me," Tait said, his voice an obscene hiss, "I just remembered something in the car. A way we can both ... indulge ... without your participation, Kenyon. Have you ever seen a woman attend another women? You might enjoy that. Esmee's very talented along those lines. I'll be back shortly."
Kenyon sat entranced as Esmee gathered a very reluctant and crazed-eyed Daphne into her arms, began kissing her. He was amazed at Mrs. Donleavy's skill, at the fantastic way she awoke Sapphist tendencies within Daphne, shortly had her mewling and writhing in pleasure as her face slid and dug between her legs. He was further amazed when Daphne so readily capitulated to diabolic pressures, was shortly coaxed to bury her face in Esmee's slit also, both of them avidly sucking each other then.
But if this amazement was monumental, it was nothing compared to that he felt a quarter hour later, as Tait Donleavy returned (purposely malingering) with a package in his hand. While Tait undressed, Esmee unwrapped the package, produced a tangle of rubber straps, a hard rubber pria-pus of stunning size. Which snarl she patiently undid, ended by strapping the whole contraption to her body, a sham phallus now hanging where her cunt should be.
He thought it fantastically delightful to watch the way Tait licked and sucked Daphne's slit where she crouched on all fours on the bed, the way he tongued and fingered her anus in preparation for anal entry. By then he had his own prick out, was pumping it dreamily, fighting to forestall his excitement, to withhold his discharge until the vile, troilistic act was at its most depraved height.
Kenyon gloried in Daphne's blubbering, frightened cries as Tait threaded his curiously-shaped prick up her ass. Daphne lying on her side, Esmee approached her from the front, drove the fat dildo into her slit, squeezing her tits, kissing her lips as she did so. Seeing the pagan gape to Daphne's mouth as the duo began lurching into her in staggered sequence, he entertained brief thought of joining them, inserting his cock into Daphne's mouth, implementing realization of a lifelong fantasy.
But he decided against it at the last, decided that it was far, far more pleasurable to sit in a chair like this, handle his prick in this maddening way, watch the incredibly obscene tableau on the bed.
Even as Daphne began to whine and thrash in ecstasy, even as he read the glittering, orgasm-verging light in Tait Donleavy's eyes, he went out of control. His hand flashed swiftly on his raging sentinel.
Now Daphne barked her orgasm. Tait chuckled gutturally, pumped more deliberately into her bottom, short, milking strokes. Daphne lurched more ecstatically as she felt the hot bite in her rectal cavity.
At that moment Kenyon spilled, shot halfway across the room, his sperm leaving a viscous trail on the mattress' edge.
Millicent and Carl were present the night that the youngish couple named Daphne and Kenyon were initiated into the Corybants. And while they weren't much impressed with Kenyon (he appeared somewhat of a cold fish), they did think that Daphne was a pretty thing. Granted, she was haunted-eyed, but they attributed that to first night jitters.
The newcomers received special treatment of sorts. In that Tait Donleavy himself dictated their initiation rites. Daphne cowered on hands and knees, accommodated a man named Lee in her anus. This while another man, an old hand he knew as Shaw, knelt before her, pistoned his prick in and out of her upraised mouth. As for Kenyon, his penance was purely homosexual, and he knelt behind Kenny, the swishiest of the members, plumbed his ass with a highly respectable length of prick. During which plunder another male named Gene straddled Kenny's back, ordained that Kenyon suck his prick to climax.
The segment took an inordinately long time, Carl thought. And though his playmate, a gorgeous redhead called Polly, thought it was great, he was bored by the time both men let fly. One thing could be said for the display:
The photographer certainly had a hey-day.
CHAPTER TEN
"WELL?" CARL SAID, PUTTING DOWN HIS newspaper suddenly surveying his pretty, ready-for-bed wife where she sat in the chair adjoining, catching up on some neglected sewing, of all things. "What do you think?"
"Think, darling?" she smiled puzzledly. "What do I think about what?"
"About the life? About the way things have been going the past six months. Are you sorry we ever got our feet wet? Seems to me there's been precious little time for us to talk lately."
Millicent smiled archly. "You can say that again." Glints of lechery shone in her eyes. "But then there's been precious little need to talk of late, wouldn't you say? We can talk about it when we're old and gray. When there's not much else we can do."
"Be serious, will you? I mean it. Christmas is coming up. Then there'll be that New Year's Eve brawl at the mansion. Time to take stock, I should think. Are we going to continue swinging? Or do we bow out?"
"Well," Millicent hedged. "How do you feel about it? Is this your way of telling me you want to quit?"
"I asked first, Millie. How about it? Regrets? Misgivings?"
She became very pensive. "I suppose, dear. There's always bound to be some of that. After all, when you're brought up in a society that's drummed 'Sex is sinful' into you all your life, how else are you supposed to feel? I have my quiet moments, when I wonder if we're doing the right thing, when I wonder if one of these days the whole thing isn't going to backfire on us. Either physically or spiritually. I worry about getting caught. Then I worry about our marriage being undermined. In some secret way. Quietly, gradually. Without either of us realizing it's happening."
It was Carl's turn to sigh. "Thank you, honey. I'm glad you said that. I've been bothered by the same kind of doubts. During quiet moments at the office. I get to worrying about business, remembering the deals I've augured because I was rundown after a night of balling, because my mind was on other, much more volatile things."
"Are things bad at the plant, darling?" Millicent was instantly concerned. "Oh, I'm sorry. I haven't been thinking. Only about ... Is there trouble, Carl?
"No, not really. At least nothing that wouldn't happen anyway. It might have even been worse. Say I'd been whoring around on the side ... cheating on you. That could've been even more complicated, more draining. I'm going to have to buckle down more next year, mend some fences. But it's nothing that tragic, nothing that can't be fixed."
Millicent's expression became bleak. "Do you still think about that sometimes, Carl? The fact that you actually wanted another woman? That you weren't going to tell me, that you intended to cheat on me?"
"Now and then. It's those times that I'm grateful for the life, for our new friends. If it wasn't for them..." He rose, squeezed into Millicent's chair with her, took her in his arms. "God, what a ghastly mistake that would have been! That's one thing I've learned, baby. I do love you. I'd be nowhere without you; I'd be nothing."
"And I love you, Carl." Her voice became moony. "Oh, God, this is good, isn't it? To just be together? To talk ... Really talk ... to each other. And yet..."
"What, honey?"
"In the long run ... I realize it myself now ... it wouldn't be enough. I can see now why I was so dissatisfied and empty-feeling at times. I needed this other. Along with my marriage to you. I'm honestly beginning to believe that it's impossible for one man and one woman to make it without something extra." She gestured vaguely toward the door. "Out there. No one man, no one woman can be all things to his partner. God, if only everyone realized that. Before it's too late. I actually wonder how many marriages would be saved if more people engaged in switching. I feel so sorry for those squares. I was talking to Jane Crossman the other day, and the topic of swapping came up. You know that poor boob won't believe it's actually going on? She thinks it's something these writers have made up out of whole cloth, product of an over-active imagination."
"I know. I've got some guys at work like that."
"Crazy."
"I think that's what's wrong with marriage today. Even as fantastically intimate and close as husbands and wives are, they never, in their whole lives, are totally honest with each other. They never once tell each other what they really think about sex, about their marriage."
"That is sad," Millicent said in a shattery voice. "When you put it just like that."
"For instance: the fact that I dearly love to suck you. Not for my account, not for the fact that it's going to make our eventual screw better ... though, God knows, it certainly does ... but for you, because it gives you pleasure, I actually love to do it for you. I love the act, the taste, the smell ... the ultimate intimacy of it. Now, how many husbands do you know who'd admit a thing like that to their wives? They'd be afraid to. They'd fear losing face, revealing themselves as some sort of pervert."
"That's right, Carl. Swapping has saved our marriage. Maybe there'll come the time when we outgrow it, when we can go it alone. But for now ... I'm not about ready to quit. Are you?"
"I'm glad you said that, honey. No, I'm not ready to quit yet, either. I still think it's the greatest."
"And the most wonderful dividend ... beyond the sex factor that most people believe's foremost in swapping ... is this very honest. We really say what we think; we strip away all the pretence, all the prissy veneer a lifetime of hypocrisy's smothered us with. For example..."
She paused. "Yes, Millie?" Carl prompted.
"That domination thing I've got hot on lately. You know, when I want you to bully me, make me mind? I guess that's always been there. Hidden away in the clutter of other sex desires. Only I was never able to let it out for fear that you'd think I was perverted, some kind of a nut or something. like you said, Carl: I was afraid to lose face ... the upper hand in our marriage. And God damn it, anyway, who needs it? What is this me-first thing in marriage? When in hell are husbands and wives going to wake up? Not until it's too late, probably. Then they'll spend the rest of their lives in some sterile, non-communicating way. Up-tight forever. Walking zombies. And they call that a marriage?"
She squirmed in his arms, worked her unbound breasts against him. "Wooh, baby! I'd better get a soap box. Just talking like this has got me all hot. Do you suppose we could ... sneak in an extra? In the bedroom, doll. We'll shower together, get all clean. And then..."A monumental spasm ripped her. "Do you suppose, baby ... Would you? You know ... bully me? Make me do all sorts of dirty things? Oh, I love it so much when you do!"
She squirmed more feverishly. "Christ! My crack's running like Niagara Falls. Just from thinking..." Her hand dove between Carl's legs, closed on his cock. "You too, darling? Oh come on! This'll be a screw to end all screws!"
Perhaps a half-hour later, fresh from the shower, Millicent having playfully splashed Carl's face and chest, his scrotum even, with some of her perfume, they were in their murkily-lit bedroom. The door locked, the bedside radio playing softly by way of camouflage, they kissed and embraced, worked up toward a blistering hump. Until now. abruptly, Millicent pulled away and her pupils dilated strangely, her mouth a pained grimace: "Carl, you promised."
"Do you really want me to? God, I feel like some kind of a brute ... a heel ... when I get that way."
She swirled his fingers in the syrupy drool forming on his peckerhead. "If I like it though, baby? If it all but makes me pop while I stand there? Please, Daddy-man!"
Carl felt his entrails jumble. "All right, baby. You asked for it." His tone changed strangely, became more commanding. "That's enough of that finger bit' now! With your lips, Millie. Go down on it. Clean if off."
Millicent knew her role well by now, and in charade of defiance, she pulled awav, coquettishly flaunted her charming derriere in his face. "No, I won't! What a nasty thing to ask. You can't make me!"
"Oh, can't I?" Carl lapsed further into his mean role. "We'll see about that." Whereupon he leaped up from the bed, and his prick flopping wildly, pursued his naked wife about the bedroom, finally catching her, forcing her face down over his knees.
"Don't you dare," she invited the punishment. "Don't you dare hit me."
Whereupon Carl commenced to spank her plump, inviting bottom. Playfully at first. But then, as sadism mounted in him, as he saw how lasciviously Millicent writhed, how she was so obviously enjoying his spankings, he began to slap harder. Her stifled hisses of pain very quickly became sighs of delight. "Now, you little bitch," he snarled, when her ivory bottom was an angry red tone, when her cunt writhed lubricously against his legs, "are you going to be a good girl? Are you going to mind?"
"Yes, Daddy," she said, lapsing into a simpering affectation. "I'll be good. I'll mind you."
He pushed her away. "All right then. Do as you're told. Come and suck me clean. My legs too. Look how you've got me all messed up. Your juice as well as mine."
At which Millicent shuddered delightedly, slid away, knelt on the floor before him. Still she waited.
"Well?" he snapped, the exquisite sense of power mounting.
"The words, Carl," she winced. "You know how I like it."
The words then. "Get up here, you slut," he snapped, yanking her hair. "Come and lick my prick. Get the head all nice and clean. Suck that knob like you mean it." And as she began: "That's it. Wrap that dirty, cocksucking mouth of yours around it. Suck like you meant it. And when you're through, you can lick away all the juice on my legs. Your cunt drip too."
He almost came then and there, the sensations conferred by his wife's mouth coupled as they were with the eagerness with which she complied, with the growing arrogance in his psyche. "Get up here on the bed," he snapped. "Get your ass around here. So I can play with your dirty cunt."
Immediately Millicent leaped to obey.
"Open up," he snapped. "Spread your legs. Let me at that hole of yours. Christ, is it juicy!" He inserted three fingers into her, swabbed away some of the overflow. "Here, dispose of this too, piggy." Dutifully Millicent sucked his fingers clean.
"My prick again. Get more up your dirty throat. I want to feel those tonsils bouncing on it." While she slavishly strained to take more of him in her mouth, he crassly buttered her ass-hole with her still-welling fluids, worked his finger in and out of her.
"Open my legs," he commanded. "Arrange me better on the bed. Now, lick my balls. Every time my prick starts to drop again, you lick it up."
His finger went freely in and out of her, dug deeper, ever deeper. "Yes," she hissed, "oh yes. Tell me! Tell me to do all sorts of filthy things. I love it ... love it!"
"Lick, damn you. Lick my balls.
"Take 'em into your mouth, pig. Do you hear? One at a time. Gentle, damn you. Roll 'em around."
He slapped her fanny viciously when she became too rough. "Easy, damn it! Enough now. Lick my ass-hole now.
"Lick, I said! Screw that tongue in there. Hold my balls while you do it. Good, huh?"
He slapped her again. "I said good, isn't it?"
"Yes," she slobbered. "Good, very good."
"Tastes just like candy, huh?"
"Yes, just like candy."
"More, damn it. More. Deeper."
Then he commanded her to lick away the mess on his thighs.
He commanded her to lick his legs, to run her tongue on his feet, between his toes.
"Stand up now. Hang those ugly tits of yours over me. Feed 'em to me. Both nipples at the same time." Her eyes demented, Millicent hurriedly complied.
"Spread your legs. So I can play with your pussy." And as she swiftlv did so: "How does that feel? Me pulling on you both places at once. Tell me, bitch!"
"It feels wonderful, darling. Your finger is so big and fat; it pinches me, reams me so beautifully. And your hot, curling tongue..."
"But not as good as my cock," he interrupted. "Not as long or as fat as my cock, is it?"
"No, not as good as your cock, not as good at all."
Then, inflamed himself, dissatisfied with his non-participant role: "Up here, now, you. Put that gash in my face. I want to lick it." When she dallied, not wanting him to, wanting this to be all her show, he taloned his fingers in her soupy crotch, pinched hard. "In my face, damn you!"
He forced her to straddle his head. He forced her to open her cunt with her own fingers, pressure her mons veneris so her clit popped forth. He forced her to open her cunt and endure it as he licked her to a grunting, animalistic climax.
Next he ordered her to stand, palms on the mattress, while he crowded behind her, worked his cock in the vale of her buttocks. He ordered her to spread her cheeks with her one hand, to slime up her anus with his copiously-drooling prick with her other. "When you think you're ready," he growled, truly in a bestial frenzy by then, "start easing it in with your own fingers. I'll see to the rest."
When he was finally harbored in that niggardly port, he refused her blubbering pleas that he empty his cannon in her there. Instead he used it as whetstone on which to friction his cutlass before slashing her up the front.
He commanded Millicent to roll onto her back now; he told her just how she must arrange her legs. Then he came into her, shot his torpedo home in a murderous, jarring flurry. Almost immediately, the by-then-sex-deranged female commenced to orgasm repeatedly.
She was up to eight, sobbing and gloating and exhorting obscenely, when Carl flung a wad into her that almost blew out the back end of her hole. They both growled and screamed; they both avowed that it was the best lay they'd had together in a long, long time.
like, say-last Sunday night?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS NEW YEAR'S EVE.
New Year's Day, to be exact. And one hour into the party developing into a very diabolic, drunken debauch, close and intimate friends had gathered to welcome in the new year. What better way to see it in, than in the embrace of comrades-in-arms, drowned, suffocated in the warm jollity of trusted swap-mates? What better way to celebrate than by jazzing someone else's wife black and blue, by indulging sexual quirks too long repressed during the past year? The past years? A lifetime of inhibited, colorless years?
Off with the old!
On with the new!
And while liquor was generally off-limits in the main community room (how the individual members stocked their assigned rooms at the mansion was their business), tonight, in honor of the fete night, the Donleavys had lifted the ban. Tonight the podium in the center of that unique, carpeted forum had been converted into a table, literally upon which hors d'oeuvres, snacks, sandwich makings were liberally spread. But more important were the constantly-being-replenished pitchers of martinis, Manhattans, Daquiris, the quarts upon quarts of Scotch, vodka, rum, bourbon, wines and champagne that featured largely in the accelerating orgy.
Not that these bacchants needed liquor to loosen libidos. Their past history had proven that. But since it was there. Why not get bombed out of one's mind? Why not wallow heedlessly, recklessly?
Why not attempt those most Satanic connections of all-if there were such-why not unleash those most deep-seated sexual desires, those ultimately-forbidden abominations of human nature?
Thus it was that some of these 'close', friendly attachments took exceedingly diverse forms:
Here were Don Hatcher and an ultra-skinny blonde beauty simply called Valerie, half-sprawled, half balanced on the upper-most risers of that orgiastic arena, performing one of the world's most favorite indoor sports with frenetic abandon. The Hatchers-along with the McIvers and the Welches-having been drawn into The Corybants during late November, their initiation a sort of mass affair, they had become devoted, loyal, excess-dedicated converts to communal sex. As witness, the depraved knot Don and his present inamorata were now tied in.
Valerie had her scrawny butt wedged over the edge of one riser, her head and shoulders resting on the lower one. Her legs splayed to widest angle, her feet either waving ecstatically in the air, or drumming the carpeting, she shrilly savored Don's devouring mouth in that salacious heartland of her body; she loudly proclaimed the glories his avenging tongue, his clam-bucket mouth ripped from her. Which yippings, albeit muffled by the fact that her mouth was stuffed with his best throat-rupturing stalk, carried loudly, consisted of such quaint incendiaries as:
"Oh, eat it, lover! Eat my box lunch. Up Valerie's ol' giggie! Oh, that educated tongue'a y'rs! That fat, wet tongue! Gobble me, darling. Gobble, gobble. You sweet, shitty turkey!" And through her pained gulpings, her voice hoarse: "Shove your cock in. Ream my God damn throat out. A new passage to China. Suck, you bastard! Suck the goddamned stem right offa' me!"
Although these were very pagan entreaties and exhortations indeed, they went largely unnoticed at I:30 A.M. of this January morning. For all about Don and Valerie, the scene resembling a seal rookerie at mating time, the carpeted rocks were virtually alive with dozens of writhing, sliding, jutting, weirdly-tangled bodies. But not seal bodies. Don and Valerie, the scene resembling a seal roo-
Hardly. For this was homo maniacus-male and female-at his most perverted, his most irresponsible, all involved in the tireless pursuit of erotic sensation unending. And totally involved with greedy self, there was no room in the reveler's minds for other than their own individual pursuit of sexual frenzy.
On one landing the man named Kenny obliviously sucked a latent homo named Locke to a blistering orgasm; he squealed in swinish glee as Locke let five ounces of his best boom down his parched throat. Even after the tasty faucet stopped spurting, Kenny continued to suck the shrinking member, drained it of every precious drop of after-flow.
On another plateau an exotic brunette everyone called Lorraine was plying her favorite stunt, and riding atop one man's prick, while another reamed her via anus, she strained her body to still another level, eagerly sucked off still another eager-to-wallow cock.
Here, in the lower reaches of that seething caldron, Esmee Donleavy had cornered Rachel McIver, and now lovingly sucked her voluptuous tits to two-inch points, simultaneously gave her a finger job that soon had Rachel flopping and gasping on the carpet. A moment later Esmee knelt before her, and her conquest on a higher level, she sucked her to a brain-shriveling orgasm, taught her the ultimate sensations to be derived from Lesbianistic love.
Carl Random was allowing Joanna, his initial contact with the club proper, to coat his prick with creme-dementhe, hissingly tolerating her attacks as she licked the liqueur off him, finished by plungering her head wildly on the entire length of him. Now she painted the maimed prong anew.
Almost anywhere one chose to look the varied members were indulging in flat-out copulation, either preferring the direct approach, or already having concluded the depravities of workup.
A corpulent devotee of abuse knelt on a lower riser, her bottom high in the air, while an equally pudgy male named Shaw, plumbed her rear with long, swift, punishing strokes of his grandiose digger.
To their right a frustrated female named Brenda, having failed to arouse her besotted partner by fellating him, was actually pumping his squishy tube with her fingers, adjuring im to suck her flaming hole while she worked.
Millicent Random was enjoying the rite of servility. This time with a man named Wade. Who was proud owner of an uncircumcised prick, a pair of the hairiest balls a man could own. And was, at that very moment, commanding Millicent (as per her explicit dictates) to: "Peel the foreskin back, bitch. Way back. Not with your hands, dummy! With that Frenching mouth of yours. Yeah, that's it. Now put your finger up my ass. Easy. Oh, honey, that's the greatest! Get your filthy tongue down in the folds, get it caught in that pretty cowl. Yeah, oooh, yeah! Now my balls. Lash hose babies! Bite some hairs out..."
A woman named Ora drew her legs back with her own hands, half-lifted her buttocks off the tier, blatantly exposed her ass. Which target a man called
Clay shortly zeroed in on, plugged with a brutal corkscrewing, completely ignoring Ora's cries of pain, her pleas for a more extensive lube job before ravishment.
A minor daisy chain was building, a pyramid effect, wherein a woman sucked a man, a man sucked the next woman while she sucked the next man. There was a dead end then. Which was shortly remedied when another man arrived, inserted his horn in the neglected man's mouth. Now others joined in, partially straddled the females' butts, sought to insert their dongs into unoccupied ass-holes.
And if there was no room or need for voyeur sports, there was at least one member present who gorged on that aloof, non-participatory taste. He was Kenyon Gwynn, and though he was being derangingly manhandled by the determined Amazon who'd been introduced to him by Tait (a very sly sneer on his face while doing so) as Rina, very little of it registered. Rina was very persistent however, and accepting the challenge this handsome eunuch presented, vowing that she'd eventually seduce him, she was making her grand pitch tonight. Employing her usually unfailing strategems, she was patiently, gently pumping Kenyon's cock, virtually flooding it with his love-sap. Which sap first with fingers, then with maddeningly skillful lips and tongue-she puddled on the head of his organ. Any other man would have long since been reduced to blubbering, come-happy mush. But not Kenyon.
Rina worked that much more devotedly; a holy resolve of fantastic proportions abroad within her. No man on earth would remain indifferent to her! She'd see to that.
The mere fact that Kenyon had allowed Rina to first commence her love play, that he even tolerated the tainted play and suck of lips and tongue, was indication in itself of how intoxicated (a witches brew consisting of half sexual stimulation, half alcohol) he was. Actually, it was as if he felt none of Rina's loving attentions whatsoever, so engrossed was he in this fantastic implementation of a lifelong fantasy. In that he was now watching a man named Earl, another named Pete as they lay end to end on one of the risers, their buttocks touching, their legs awkwardly twined in order that their pricks might touch, trunk to trunk, testicles to testicles. This so that the entirely blotto Daphne could wrap her obscene lips around two pricks at the same time.
Kenyon's excitement was magnified a hundredfold when the insane connection was made. And watching the grotesque way his wife's mouth was stretched as she ran her head up and down on that double-barreled animal, noting her own growing excitement, he lent himself more willingly to Rina's attentions. A hot, bloating ball of lust expanded inside his guts, threatened to explode, to backfire within him. He groaned, stretched himself more conveniently for Rina's depraved suckings, never once took his eyes off the filthy thing Daphne was executing.
Then, when the unprincipled slut actually managed to make both men climax, their ejaculation triggered almost simultaneously, Kenyon was truly beside himself. Watching Daphne pump, seeing her startled expression as it occurred, seeing the creamy, double-overflow drip from her stretched mouth, meander down the men's stalks to themselves-
He was truly beyond the pale. Anything could happen, anything could be tolerated then.
What did happen was that another man whom Kenyon knew as Prentice-a gloriously hung stud-intervened the minute that Pete and Earl's shrunken members had slipped from Daphne's sucking, smacking mouth. Without any formalities, any words whatsoever, he calmly rolled Daphne onto her back, funneled his minor Sequoia up her. drooling snatch. Watching this animalistic pillaging nearly drove Kenyon out of his tree.
Thus it was, ten minutes later, Prentice gone now, Daphne lying in happy, catatonic trance, that another male, an attractive blonde named Carl, approached, invited her to his room for a more private session. Far gone as he was, Kenyon was unable to forestall them; they were up and gone before he could disengage himself from the leech-like Rina. It was then, she issuing similar invitation, that Kenyon, done in by boooze and sexual frenzy, knew a definite urge. Vengeful it might have been, but it was an urge nonetheless.
With a silly giggle, an overpowering lust at large in his bowels, he let Rina pull him up, lead him from that madhouse amphitheater. Had Rina noticed the demented glitter in his eyes at that moment, she might have frozen, changed her mind about the much-desired conquest. But she didn't. And by then, it was already too late.
Millicent was again with the man named Jerome. Who, since that first night at the mansion, had seemingly acquired a thing for her, had pursued her devotedly each time she appeared. And though she had misgivings about letting him lead her to the room housing the fetishist paraphernalia, she could see no harm in same. Her capitulation would be anonymous: the wing housing the 'rooms' was strangely quiet and deserted tonight. The main orgy as wide open as anyone could want in the community room, there was scant need for such aberrant side-trips as these.
Jerome locked the door of the room, pressed the switch to indicate it was occupied. Then he turned on Millicent, led her toward one of the sumptuous, leather-covered divans the room contained. For the next ten minutes, his head slavishly buried between her thighs, he performed his sanitary duties, hungrily removed as much of the previously deposited seminal discharges from her font as he could. Which Millicent, floating, in an amoral, filth-hazed cloud of acquiescence, didn't mind in the least. Feeling exaltedly superior, having been fucked senseless too many times already this long night, she thought it the height of luxuriousness to have this man clean her, stimulate her so savagely, all the labors thrown on his shoulders.
She giggled lasciviously. Tongue, she amended.
Finally, having sucked her to five ragged orgasms, her cunt redelivered to pristine condition once more, Jerome was eager for still other aberrated pastimes. Millicent sighed more contentedly, stretched herself indolently on the divan, enumerated her clothing sizes lazily as he requested them. Then, when he began fitting her in the red-satin, extremely-tailored brassiere, in the matching, flare-legged step-ins, when he affixed the black, outrageously-cut garter belt over these, attached black, sheer opera hose, she sank into a more voluptuary trance; she thought the slavey attention incredibly delightful.
In his room Carl Random was indulging a very far-gone Daphne Gwynn in her fanatic desire to have her tits sucked and rubbed, she repeatedly chanting words to the effect that for once in her life she desired normalcy, she wanted to see what it would be like to be courted, to be wooed.
Helen Welch was ensconced in a private suite Esmee Donleavy maintained for just such private seductions. And now-after allowing Esmee to suck her breasts raw, the Lesbian rhapsodizing over her tiny tits, over the fact that she could get each in its entirety into her mouth-she allowed her to suck her hole to a mind-bending climax. Seemingly it was only the beginning. As Esmee affixed the weird, double-hung dildo to her hips, commenced to screw Helen in cunt and anus simultaneously, she thought it the most fantastic sensation of all; she actually wished that Pete might avail himself of such a contraption.
Millicent and Jerome weren't the only couple patronizing the infamous 'doors'. For, at that moment, in the room emblazoned with the pot de chambre coat-of-arms: A man named Armand. Who lay back in the functional, plastic and aluminum chaise, adjured a befuddled Rachel McIver to straddle his face, submit to a cunt-blistering bout of cunnilingus. After which he desperately pleaded that she punish him for his evilness by pissing in his mouth, in his face. She tried to rebel, flee the room, but Armand held her firmly, cruelly with one hand, massaged her belly expertly with the other, until there was no other recourse for her but to void her bladder. She was amazed, as she liberally doused his ecstatic, slurping face, when she felt a hot splash on her spine, realized that the pervert had ejaculated with delight at his humiliation.
The man was up, begging her to hose him off with warm water from one of the many hoses lining the walls of the room, when she managed to break free, ran in panic from the hellhole.
Now Jerome fitted the matching, red, patent-leather pumps onto Millicent's feet; he hovered over the extremely pointed toes, kissed them, actually sucked them, taking the whole tip into his mouth. Now he turned her ankle slightly, dug the stiletto hell-a full four inches long-into his cheek. How long he huddled at her feet, slathered over them, she couldn't recall, but she knew, by the time he was finished, commenced slithering his lips up her silky legs, that another moment would have caused her to vomit.
Even this slavey licking of her legs, this preoccupation with silk as he caressed her glistening, sharp-pointed tits, was bad enough. But now, as he made prolonged rite out of licking the entire bowl of her belly, actually commenced to snarling lick her crack through the step-ins, she truly became queasy. She cowered deeper into the divan. As Jerome raised her legs, dug the sharp heels of her shoes into his shoulders. Nearly bent double, she tolerated his mouth in her snatch again, feared for her life, as it seemed that he would literally tear her away there, panties, cunt and all, with his growling, wolfish, fanatic chewings.
But if Rachel McIver and the Randoms were revulsed, confused, bemused or whatever, their repugnance was nothing compared to that being suffered by Kenyon Gwynn. So, at that selfsame moment, was emerging from a sensualist trance. He actually howled with dismay and hacking sense of self-betrayal as his turbid vision cleared, and he realized that this wasn't Daphne into whose belly he'd just rapturously, howlingly shot his salvos of sperm. An insane fury blinding him, short-circuiting reason, he sprang up from the bed in a rush, put all the venom in his soul into the scathing outcry:
"Bitch!" he spat. "You rotten, diseased bitch! You're not Daphne ... you're not my wife. Who ... who are you?"
Still Rina wouldn't recognize danger. Still suffused with afterglow of sexual satiation, arrogant in her conquest, she replied, "No, lover, I'm not your wife. I'm Rina, remember? I'm the doll who just got your nuts off like nobody's got 'em off in a long, long time. I swear ... you musta' been saving up that load for a month. Oh, lover doll! You got any more like that in you?"
As of that moment Kenyon was completely out of things. His crime crushing enough, he couldn't stand the sluttish leer, the smug taunts the pig sent him. That lunatic brain-blur back again; he knew but one thing: The deceiving cunt must be punished; she must be fixed so she couldn't pull her cheap stunts again, so she couldn't corrupt any other pure, honorable men again. There was no one else to whom the task could be entrusted. He must do it himself!
And big, strong, as feisty a virago as Rina was, she was, in no way, any sort of a match for the howling lunatic. Once he had his hands in her hair, once he'd jammed her arm high between her shoulder blades, wrenched her from the bed, terror possessed her, and she knew it was useless to fight him. "Please, please," she blubbered as he dragged her from the bedroom, pushed her down the hall.
Much to Rina's sorrow, there was a grandiose commotion in the amphitheater at that moment, as a particularly vile group coupling was commenced. Nobody heard her pained outcries. Even as they entered the wing containing the 'rooms', and Kenyon paused before the one with the manacle and coiled whip signature, the noise grew louder. There was no one to hear Rina's last anguished screech of horror.
Inside the torture den, the door was locked, the warning light was flicked to life. Fighting as Rina might, Gwynn was too possessed, too strong for her. She clawed and bit and kicked, but to no avail. Three minutes later she was firmly locked into the steel cuffs, her ankles in the wide manacles. Now Gwynn touched the electric winches; the chains were pulled to excruciating tightness; Rina's arms and legs were almost pulled from their sockets. She screamed hideously as she saw the madman select a thick, supple bull-whip from the rack, but for naught. The room totally soundproofed, no one could have heard her loudest shrieks.
"Harlot," Kenyon grated one last time as he stood before her, whip poised, his eyes fleeing over her, exulting in her helplessness, in the way her breasts were strained to breaking point, the way her pubis jutted forth from her body. "You'll never destroy another man. You'll never get a chance to contaminate a clean man again." Even as he watched her he saw some of his holy sperm trickle from her, meander down her inner thigh.
The sight drove him over that last barrier; he was totally insane now. The whip rose in high, curling arc; its braided tip seemingly froze in mid-air. It was the last thing Rina ever saw. For as it landed, curled around her belly, tore it open, she screamed, passed out cold. The sight of her blood running down her belly, converging in the dark beard at its base, further inflamed Gwynn. The whip slashed again. This time her breasts were hacked half off her body. The next blow caved in her nose, made bloody mush of what had once been an exquisitely beautiful face. The whip rose again and again. Gwynn put more strength into each blow.
Before he finally stopped the room resembled an abattoir. There could be no doubt about it: Rina was dead. She had been dead from the third blow on.
Now, his body splashed with blood, his brain a crazed, silver-glazed inferno, Gwynn dropped the whip; he stumbled toward the door. This hell-house must be destroyed, his drugged mind decreed. No more men, no more marriages must be permitted to be profaned here!
Moments later, still unobserved, a momentary spate of clarity and cunning allowed him, he had found the door that connected the swap regions with the rest of the Donleavy home. Unlocked for a change, he used the miscue to good advantage, darted into the bowels of this off-limits area. Esmee and Helen, approaching still another zenith of sexual ecstasy-Helen's face buried in Esmee's cunt now-never heard the soft pad of footsteps in the hallway.
Relying on pure instinct, Gwynn worked his way down those five levels, his retreat noiseless, frantic. At last he was in the basement. Where he found paint, turpentine, a five gallon can of gasoline. Spilling gasoline all over a pile of newspapers, a closetful of stored clothing, he stepped back, touched a match to the outer edge of the spreading puddles.
Instantly a great, booming explosion bulged the room. Gwynn was too slow. Before he reached the door the concussion brought him down; his body was coated with gasoline; he went to his knees, screaming and clawing at the flesh-shredding tongues of flame that consumed him.
Through some unfathomable stroke of chance, Carl and Millicent had decided to leave the party early. Remembrance of the final depravities suffered at the madman, Jerome's, hands impelling Millicent, Carl still unnerved by the fanatic crying jag possessing Daphne after he'd humped her to lunatic frenzy, they'd collected Don and Irene Hatcher, had quit the sin mansion.
Their watches read 3:30 a.m. as they came out onto the parking lot, drunkenly struck out for their car. They had just passed through the last gate, were setting out onto the highway proper, when Irene looked back, screamed at the top of her voice.
Carl stopped the car instantly. They were all transfixed. Even as they watched in horror, another fireball exploded in the upper reaches of the mansion, blew out windows in swollen, boiling skeins. "My God..." Millicent sobbed brokenly, "my God..."
"We've got to go back, we've got to help them," Irene shrieked. "Pete and Helen! Rachel and Earl!"
Don held her in his arms. "It's too late now. There's nothing we can do."
In the distance they saw the elevator ascending and descending swiftly, disgorging crowds of naked and partially-clothed people into the frigid night. They saw a smattering of cars being started, people jamming themselves into them. As they watched the lead car reversed, worked up speed, went ramming through the wire fence gates. Another car lumbered behind it. At the main gate the lead car had to slam at the main gate three times before it finally gave way.
Then the electrical power quit; the elevator ceased its midget-scuttlings up and down the face of the modernistic building. Screams carried faintly toward them. In the distance they heard the strengthening wail of police and fire-engine sirens. "Go back, go back!" Millicent pleaded. "Oh, God, they're jumping out of the windows! They're running naked all over the place! Can't we help them?"
"There's no help," Carl groaned, his face twisted with indecision and fear. "There's nothing we can do for those poor devils." He hit the gas, sent the car screeching into the night. Even though he knew it was so, that there was nothing to be done, that their only alternative, the only realistic thing left was to save their own necks, he was still wracked with crucifying misgivings.
The western sky was bright orange now; the smoke was a roaring cloud that spiraled toward the stars. In the distance, as the fire-engines roared by, their clamor stunning them further, they saw other specks flying before the flames. Ash? Burning timbers? Or falling bodies?
The stunned quartet did not linger to find out. Carl turned onto a truck road, commenced working toward the city. They hurried before the storm; they ran like craven dogs; they fled like all the hounds of hell were lapping at their heels.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ALTOGETHER ELEVEN PEOPLE DIED IN the holocaust. At least twenty others were critically burned; some of them would be in the hospital for months. Poking among the ruins, the authorities found many charred hulks, most of them burned beyond recognition. They had speculated wildly about the fact that one cinder thus uncovered (the fire had raged out of control for four hours) still wore steel cuffs and chains on her wrists, wide manacles on what must have once been pretty, female ankles.
But the greater disaster, the greater holocaust was visited upon the community of Porterfield, on the reputation of its solid, middle-class families. Who would have dreamed? In their smug, respectable, self-righteous city? This, going on, right under our noses? Even more tragically: those innocent children who waited, throughout the next day, for their parents to come home from "the New Year's Eve party." Unwitting victims who would forever bear taint, be whispered about by the insensitive and unthinking, children and adults alike, as long as they lived.
Continuing consequence: This the publicity received by those escapees from the inferno detained at the scene. And though Tait and Esmee Donleavy (the most miraculous survivors of all) steadfastly refused to admit that it was other than a party, one couldn't help but wonder at the fact that the majority of the guests milling about in that January night were stark naked. Some of the more drunken ones, of course, blurted hint of the real activities transpiring within the Donleavy manse prior to the fire, and the rumor started, soon rampaged beyond control.
Those survivors identified in the paper were sentenced to that limbo reserved for all criminals and castoffs; they were judged guilty sans benefit of trial. The safe containing the incriminating film and membership lists pertaining to The Corybants was buried in tons of debris. Even when it was discovered and opened, its contents were charred embers, the film serving as a superior torch. All over the city of Porterfield otherwise respectable and influential citizens suddenly found themselves among the unemployed, victims of a phantom campaign, of invincible character assassination. Suddenly, all kinds of fashionable homes were for sale, and the large scale exodus began.
The discipline and security measures insisted upon by the Donleavys from the outset paid off in the end. Nobody knew last names of any club members. And if they did, they weren't about to reveal the same. Thus it was that the Randoms and the Hatchers escaped from the scandal virtually unscathed. Pete Welch had died in the fire, while Helen, in the Lesbianistic embrace of Esmee Donleavy, had managed to escape. Which was no consolation in her eyes, and embittered, distraught, she lived through her days a useless, uncaring vegetable. Not blaming those of her friends who escaped scot-free, she neither cared or contacted them. Most certainly, she didn't finger any of them either.
The movement looks out for its own.
Through the weeks and months following, Carl and Millicent lived in a disconsolate trance. Guilt-ridden, fearful, they made no attempt to contact other survivors. They were never to discover how the fire started, the consequences that led up to it. Rebuffed by Helen Welch when they tried to grant what comfort they could, they fell back on the Hatchers, all discussion of the tragedy confined to that elite circle. Discussion was exactly what it amounted to; neither couple broached a mutual swap session again.
"What's going to happen to us?" Millicent asked one quiet night late in February, as she and Carl lay at a distance from each other in their bed. They hadn't made love with each other once, since that horrible night. Seemingly that part of their marriage was forever frozen in stasis; the mere inauguration of sex overtures caused them both to falter. Millicent unresponsive, Carl rendered almost immediately impotent. "Aren't we ever going to get over this? What can we do, darling? I love you, really I do. I want to ... have ... relations with you, desperately. All day long I think about it. But when were together ... in bed ... I just can't."
"I understand, Millie," he sighed. "It's not your fault. If I was able to stay hard, I'm sure you'd soon learn to respond again. We'll move away. That'll change things."
"When, Carl?"
"Soon. I'm waiting for an opening in Atlanta. It'd look fishy as hell if I tore up stakes now. We'll just have to wait this out."
"What do you think, darling? Is it wrong? The swap thing, I mean? Did we do wrong? Was this fate's ... God's ... whatever you want to call it. . . way of punishing us?"
"No, baby," he reassured, pulling her into his arms, "it wasn't wrong. It was like we were hypnotized, like there wasn't any time for us to think, to gather any real perspective. I think, at the end there, we were half crazy."
"I guess. That's the way I was, I know. Some of the things I did ... I shudder when I remember them. Don't ever let me get that far gone again. Carl? Will we ever do that again? Trade, I mean."
"I don't know. I'd like to, I think. But on a small scale. like we had with the Hatchers and the Welches. When that palled, we'd move on, find another couple to share things with. That can't be wrong. I'll vow, as long as I live, that it saved our marriage."
"Not much left to save now, darling. We're both cripples. I wonder, Carl. If we'll ever..."
"We won't. If we don't try. Should we try? Now?"
"Do you want to, honey? Really want to."
"Yes, I do."
She shyly reached down, clutched his flaccid maleness. "Doesn't look like anything'll happen there. Would you like it. . . if I ... sucked you? It's been so long. I think ... even if it didn't do any good ... I'd like to do that for you, baby. We'd have that at least."
"I think that would be nice. But only if you let me suck you at the same time. I have to have something too."
They tried. And after a time Carl was revived; he became hard, filled Millicent's mouth, forced her back. His lips at her love nest created a hot excitement for her as well. Until, finally her senses singing, she stirred, removed her milking lips. "Please, Carl? I think that. . . this time..."
"You want to? Really want to?"
"I do, darling."
He came over her reverently, affected the hot, comforting berthing. And when he was buried in her, began to move slowly, stingingly: "Feel anything?"
"Yes, angel. Something. A very nice something."
Shortly Carl's lust became full-fledged, and he groaned, moved more swiftly, more dominatingly on Millie. He came. He sluiced a long, beautiful arc of his seed deep into her. Millicent groaned blissfully at his gift, churned her own hips, managed to achieve a small, satisfying orgasm of her own.
"Did you?" he asked as they huddled in a deep embrace afterward.
"Yes," she breathed. "A little one."
"They'll get better. Just give it time, darling."
Soon they slept. Sounder than they'd slept in weeks.
Their joy was minor. In the morning the taunting phantoms were back. But there was no faulting that love. It was a start. A step in the right direction.
