There were three lovely girls, each of them sexy and desirable in her own unique way, who happened to be inseparable links in a human-chain that was prevalent at Bondage Girls' Costume Jewelry, Inc., the firm they were all directly connected with:
Besides this inadvertent factor, there was also the voluntary one of them all enjoying having their precious, luscious bottoms smacked -- and not just by mere hand-spankings, either; no, they were all far beyond that stage:
The first girl, who was the model with the firm, was to have her bare ass used for a pair of snare-drums by an ingenious Negro Jazz drummer, who resorted to both his sticks and brushes during the course of a real wild, far-out and hectic jam-session, the likes of which had never been innovated before.
There was a second girl, who was the private secretary to the owner of the firm, who had cravings for strapping's on her bare rump, in conjunction with a wild gang-up on her, plugging all the holes of her luscious body simultaneously -- at once!
Then there was the enticing creature who was married to the boss, who was probably the most wild and depraved of all: She had a predilection for assuming the role of a thoroughbred horse and having a big, hairy Caveman mount her on a saddle which he would dutifully place on her bent-down, squatted form:
Then he would mount her, armed with a riding-crop and run a make-believe race, driving this frenzied little filly on by soundly and continuously whipping both her flanks, until she collapsed underneath him. Then he would finish her off by ramming and jamming his enormous thick prick up her ass-hole and giving her a hot enema until he would make her shit green:
Yes, he would really fuck the living shit out of her - and then some!
Of course, this general bondage prevalent between the three lovely girls was neither paradoxical nor coincidental, really, since they happened to be associated with a firm who specialized in manufacturing and selling strictly that kind of costume-jewelry which catered to female-Masochists and were proud of the fact - even willing to go around and brazenly exhibit their enticing persons decked out with slave-bracelets for arms and legs, meshed and link belts tautly draped across their waists - and the like.
And, in accordance with this general bondage existent between the lovely trio was the further intensification and deepening of their basic type in detail, since they all went in for fucking, sucking and taking it up the ass-hole:
To put it succinctly, they were all game for anything and everything, although they still did have their individual preferences and personal idiosyncrasies to make their hot pussies really pulsate, throb and cream! ...
* * *
Madison Avenue is irrefutably the most conservative and straight-laced street in all of New York - far more so than either Fifth Avenue or Wall Street - which have unjustly gained this reputation:
No, it is on Madison Avenue that a chance on-looker can witness the droves of nattily dressed business-executives with mostly crew cuts, immersed amongst their own cliques in strictly business-talks, along with the throngs of the snooty, withered, prune-faced women, distinctly from the upper-crust, who have all their attention focused on window-shopping at the exclusive shops along the avenue.
Now, there were many pretty young dolls who worked on Madison Avenue, mostly as office-workers and some as models. But as pretty, trim, fetching and bouncy in their hot-pants and mini-skirts that some of them were, they hardly drew even a casual glance from the cold-blooded men who sauntered along the streets in cliques during lunch-hour and after work was out, on their way home.
Nevertheless, even at that, occasionally there came along a real looker - such a virtual knockout -- that even the likes of these cold-blooded squares were forced to sit up and take notice, their hands automatically and quickly going inside their pants-pockets, to press down growing hard-ons of no small dimensions:
Such a girl was Brenda Courtney, girl number one of the illustrious quartet, and the model in the group:
At 24, Brenda was in her lush, mature prime, being one of those very tall, deceptively lean and lanky types, since she was also quite broad boned. So with swelled melons for tits and a high-slung and upthrust, firm and curvy ass on top of long gracefully tapered gams, she was built like a brick shit-house.
She had sharp aquiline features with an acquisition-beak for a vulture-like nose. But it was her eyes which rendered beauty to her most sensuous but hardly beautiful countenance, their being of a deep violet hue - big, bright and almond-shaped, dark and brooding - distinctly reminiscent of Elizabeth Taylor in one of her more fiery moods, although, strictly speaking, in both face and body, Brenda bore a much more striking resemblance to Bobby Gentry, the Queen of the Southern-brand of Rock.
However, it wasn't only Brenda's natural attributes which made her so outstanding and stick out like a sore thumb on Madison Avenue, but the outfit she was decked out in which so ideally complimented her:
It consisted of a lavender-shade mini-dress, which perfectly matched her eyes and subtly accentuated them; the hem-line was so audaciously high, that it stopped just short of her delectable snatch which lurked pulsating underneath the dress. Then she had black-meshed panty hose and shiny black patent-leather boots, to complete the ensemble and set her off.
Brenda was a professional model for Bondage Girls' Costume Jewelry, Inc., and indeed, sure looked like one. She was in perfect keeping with the new modern-day type that they prefer in the fashion-field today, which was more of the natural outdoor-girl-look, but one who was inclined to be a bit rambunctious and far better endowed with a pair of tits and an ass than the skinny, scrawny, flat-chested Twiggy and Audrey Hepburn basic type, which had been its direct predecessor:
For awhile, this type was completely in vogue, until the gals throughout the country, almost en masse, put then-pretty feet down and stubbornly clung to wearing mini-skirts -- especially those who were young with nice legs -- even though they were fed propaganda that this style was strictly pass� and outmoded.
At the moment, Brenda Courtney was casually leaning along the concrete-archway of the doorway of a building on 49th Street, obviously waiting for a heavy date. She was meticulously perfumed and powered, and presented a real fetching sight, with her long raven-black hair cascading down her shoulders, her gorgeous orbs for eyes gleaming radiantly like two powerful ultra-violet rays of fiery passion.
Brenda was tired from her modeling-chores during the day, so she had propped up her weight by placing a hand up on the concrete-archway, thereby making the entirety of her long, lean and lanky but curvaceous frame tilt sideways; this made her high, slung, firm ass just out emphatically in one direction and accent the graceful length and sleek curvaceousness of her streamlined gams in the other one.
For her own part, Brenda was seemingly composed -- entirely casual and aloof to all of the males who passed her by. However, a great many of those who came from both directions were forced to stop, as if thunder-struck by a lightning-bolt in their very tracks.
Two young and fledging advertising-executives coming in the direction of the spectacle of her jutting, most inviting behind stopped dutifully in their tracks, their hands simultaneously going deep down in the side-pockets of their pants -- as if by some mutually agreed upon telepathic-signal -- to engage in conversation about her. Their usually assumed most artificial, high-falutin' diction which they affected during working-hours in the office was dropped; in place of which, was low-down phonetic jive-talk:
"Hey, Man, look at that, will ya?" said one.
"I'm already lookin'," replied the other.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," acknowledged the first one pantingly. "Boy, would I like to throw her a stiff prick. I'd fuck the likes of that to death."
"Who wouldn't?" the second rhetorically retorted. "Boy, for my own part, I would rather fuck her in the ass. Man, what a shit-box she's got; why it's criminal just to use somethin' as luscious as that just to shit out of."
"Yeah, true. And she's really eatin' stuff."
"Maybe so. But it's Summertime, now, and most pussies stink like all hell -- like rotten fish in some Lower East Side fish-market."
"So what? I'm game; I'll even eat Summer-fish, then. I don't care; I'm not ashamed. If that there doll asked me and picked up her dress, why I would get right down on my knees -- right here in the middle of Madison Avenue -- and French out her cunt; I'd lick it all out and eat it dry."
"I believe you, pal," the other titteringly replied. "But, she ain't askin' you. She's already got a date; you kin see by the way she's standin' around. She's waitin' for somebody."
"Yeah," agreed the other, "she sure is. Wonder who's the lucky stiff who's goin' to get his itchy cock wet in that luscious piece o' ass tonight?"
"Well, let's wait here for a few minutes and find out," his companion suggested. "It shouldn't be too long."
"Okay," agreed the other one. "But one thing is for sure with me tonight after seein' the likes of such a sexy vision."
"What's that, chum?"
"I'm goin' to whack my dummy and beat my meat tonight, even if it means that I have to take it out on the mattress. Catch on?"
"Yeah, I sure do. By the way, you live in a furnished-rooming-house, don't you?"
"Uh-huh. Why do you ask?"
"Well then," you'd better be careful that the landlady doesn't discover the stains on the bedding in the morning, move the mattress out and have it sue you for divorce Ha-ha!"
"Ha-ha!" the other echoed his companion, tittering along with the joke at his own expense. "But I still wonder who the lucky stiff is she's datin'."
"Well, we should find out soon enough."
Then, saying that, both companions broke into a rapt period of silence, meditating, with both of their hands placed even further and deeper inside the side-pockets of their pants, rubbing and pressing their respective members which were rigid and ever growing with life and want ...
Unlike most girls who appeared well-sexed but looks being deceiving, Brenda Courtney was a very uninhibited, passionate girl and a real swinger. She was truly game for anything and everything.
It had nothing to do with her family-background, either, as her home-environment had been quite normal and even drearily average. Her father was an ordinary manual-worker. There were two other children besides herself, a younger brother and sister respectively. And while none of them had ever lived in the lap of luxury, they had never been wanting for the basic necessities, either.
Her parents weren't too strict and quite broad-minded. She hardly remembered being hit, except on such a rare occasion when she had gotten her father really flustered. And even then, it was just a quick sharp slap or two across the face. Nevertheless, besides being well-sexed as she was, Brenda also was a Masochist. She wasn't afraid of the he-man, Caveman type, who might get really wild with her and whack her bare bottom mercilessly:
As a matter-of-fact, having her rump whacked peculiarly sent her. It made Brenda come off of her Narcissistic high-horse of being a successful model and brought her abruptly down to Earth. It also made her feel warm and glowing and her twat peculiarly throb.
Truth to tell, if she wasn't the way she was, she would have never had the nerve to accept a date with a Negro, and one who was a Jazz musician at that.
She had met Don Maxwell casually in a small greasy-spoon down in Greenwich Village. Somehow, they got into a conversation about the good coffee served there. He told her he was a musician. He was quite good-looking and seemed the happy-go-lucky sort. So when he casually asked her for her name and telephone-number prior to taking her leave with a girl-friend she was with, debating with herself, on sudden impulse, she gave it to him - and all the correct information at that.
Then, to surprise herself even further, when he called her for a date, while she had made up her mind for days before, a priori, that she would emphatically turn him down, she tersely accepted. So there she was, standing there waiting for him.
What had made Brenda change her mind, aside from being the wild swinger that she was, notwithstanding?
In all probability, it was to find out, once and for all, if the rumors they said about Negro fellows were really true or not:
Did they really have such big, long and hard licorice-sticks for cocks - much bigger, on the average, than most white fellows had?
And could they perpetually fuck up a storm all night long without stop?
Truthfully, Brenda didn't know, never having had any actual experience with one of their race before. But tonight, she had a date with one, and might find out for sure. Having come this far already, she would go the whole route, if she had anything to say about it herself! ...
At that very moment, a sleek-looking beige-colored hard-top limousine glided up to the curb and came to a smooth halt. A handsome, smiling mulatto face leaned out on the passenger-side and grinned invitingly at her, thereby terminating all of Brenda's fleeting, musing thoughts, as he greeted her:
"Hi, Brenda chick."
"Oh, hello, Don," she replied coolly and levelly.
"You been waitin' here long, doll?"
"No-ooo, not really - not too long, Don."
"Well, I'm sorry, Brenda chick. Couldn't help it. Got tied up for awhile in that awful cross town traffic comin' over here and there's no-place to turn off in this here city anymore. So - "
"Oh, that's all right. You don't have to apologize. I understand completely, Don."
"Good. So hop in, doll, and latch on, so we kin make the scene together; okay?"
"Uh-huh," she acquiesced.
Then she slowly and surely squatted down, showing her streamlined gams all the way up to the crack of the snatch to those onlookers who happened to catch this brief celestial-glimpse of female-pulchritude for that fleeting fraction of a moment.
Then she slid over across the seat, Don Maxwell slammed the door shut with a dull thud, and they drove off together.
The two companions who had been waiting out of curiosity to ascertain what kind of fellow she was dating had been two of the lucky ones to catch that brief heavenly-vision. However, they weren't talking about that, by this time having come to take Brenda's diversity of female-assets for granted. Rather, they were talking about the fellow she was dating:
"Look at that, will ya? She's goin' out with a spade."
"Yeah, we might have known," sighed the other fellow philosophically.
"Why is it that all the really good-lookin' white chicks seem to only want to go out with the spades?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's true that they got such great big licorice-sticks for cocks and can throw a white girl such a mean fuck."
"Yeah, maybe so. But, you know what?"
"What?"
"We should get even on 'em by going out with their ebony-chicks. See how they like it."
"Oh yeah? Well, you just try it and they'll call you 'a no-good mother-fucker' and cut your throat from ear to ear with a sharp razor. Their kind don't mind for their men to go out with white chicks; that's all right. But you just try and reverse the procedure and they don't dig it nohow!"
And even as these friends drooled so, the colored fellow who was luscious Brenda Courtney's date, already had it made and was destined to have a night of hectic fucking with her such as they could only dream about and perhaps beat their meat into the mattress over:
Life was very unfair to a lot of people at time - very unfair, INDEED! ...
Chapter 2
Doris Marlin, who was girl number two of the assortment of female SPANKING ADDICTS associated with Bondage Girls' Custume-Jewelry, Inc., at the time that lovely Brenda Courtney was being driven away on her hot and heavy date with her handsome mulatto boy-friend, was in the process of having an intense, passionate love-affair with herself and jerking herself off, which would come about with the ultimate help of a cheap vibrator she had recently bought for just such an expressed purpose!
Doris was the private secretary to the boss of the firm, John Kimberly. And while not unusually bright in the brains-department, although she prided herself on reading deep books occasionally and having a slight bent toward being intellectual, more than compensated for it in the sex-department, having a terrific appeal which really sent her boss into a frenzy ever so often - who fucked and sucked up a real storm with her at such times, for a welcome change-of-pace - even though he had a lovely, sophisticated wife of his own at home.
Doris, at 25, was in her prime. She was a natural honey-blonde, of medium height, with sharp but sensuous features, highlighted by bright, radiant emerald-green eyes, and thin but wide, pouting and glistening-wet lips for a most provocative mouth.
And while she was too short and not nearly perfect enough to be a model, which she often thought she should be, Doris had a terrific pair of tits, and a lilting, bouncy ass for her relatively frail framework. Her legs were long and tapered, but slightly bowed -- naturally made to order to wrap around some lucky man, like a pair of Python-snakes -- to crush and fuck him to death with!
Doris was distinctly reminiscent of. Julie Christie, the captivating movie-actress, in both face and body, as a basic type, which called to mind what some movie-critic or other said about the effervescent Julie, in essence:
"Some girls were made-to-order for billboard-posters and to be put on girlie-calendars. But this one is made for the bed, and indeed, that's all a man can think about when he sets his eyes on her!"
So, by the very same token, was Doris Marlin, who had a similar devastating effect upon the opposite sex. Once she was stripped down raw, to her birthday-suit, the lucky dog who witnessed it would be treated to a vision of full, hard and ripe cantaloupes of her swelled, upthrust tits, that were ideally adorned by two ripe strawberry-cones:
There was also a natural bantam-golden, resplendent sheen to her entire body, particularly her sexy legs, which glowed and glistened. The sheen was also reminiscent of Julie Christie, particularly as she appeared in her Academy Award winning role of DARLING:
Later on in the Summer, after many prolonged and meticulous sun-treatments, derived at public beaches with the adroit, painstaking applications of a special oil, the resplendent tincture would change somewhat, to more of a deep hued chestnut, which would vanish a few months after the season ended, when the natural bantam-golden sheen would return once again in direct conjunction with the acquired sun-tan wearing completely off:
But any way that a man happened to look at her -- bantam-golden or chestnut -- one thing was irrefutable:
She was a golden nymph -- a glorious golden nymph -- that seemed to be born on this Earth for the sole purpose of having sex all the time, doing that and nothing else. And, if she somehow was thwarted of doing it with others, she would do it all by herself -- all alone and lonely -- with either the help of a banana, a candle, or, of late, a vibrator, which, she found, sent her the most of all, with its light and teasing electric-charges going coursing through her whole being, wherever the vibrator happened to touch and make contact at her own direction:
There was simply no question about it; sensuous Doris was one hot piece of ass constantly!
At present, her slightly bowed but most enticing taffy-golden gams made a most intriguing v against the Wedgewood-blue pastel-wall which her bed was deliberately shoved up against, tight.
Doris enjoyed gazing at her gams while talking on the telephone, because, to put it bluntly, she knew that they were damn nice legs -- or at least real sexy ones that drove most men wild and made them froth at the mouth -- if their leering stares on the street were any indication.
Right now, in rolled-up lime-green shortie-shorts, which perfectly matched her radiant emerald-green eyes and accentuated them, to her, they subjectively looked as pretty as any picture in a girlie-magazine or kindred calendar.
The shorts were open and her tits were bare and heaving as she lay on the bed -- the latter, looking like two most delectable scoops of butter-pecan ice-cream, with ripe red, most juicy strawberries for rich, tart topping:
Yum-ymmy, what red-blooded man wouldn't want to nibble and chew on those? she mused rhetorically, with a keen pang of Narcissistic-delight, feeling her entire twat spasmodically twitch then pulsate with this catharsis of libido to her ego.
She was dully winding the cord of the phone between her fingers, while a dull metallic ringing sounded periodically on the other end of the connection:
It was a rather warm day in early Summer, it being toward the end of June, so you could get away with wearing shortie-shorts and not get to feel cold. However, she .would never get to feel cold if she had anything to say about it - not as long as she had her tried and. Trusted vibrator around at her beckon-call -- most convenient and handy:
It could really put her in a state of enthralled rapture and make her come - cream like crazy - if she had to get herself off somehow, she was so tense.
Doris was in a rather good mood, despite her present state of loneliness:
It was a glad day - a mad day -- a day in June to go crazy on. It was the kind of a day to run wild and nude through jungle-foliage and maybe have a Caveman or two chasing after you. One of them would catch up with you and bang you with his mighty club into submission, then drag you off to his secret cave, fling you down on the ground, utterly prostrate, passive and open to do his bidding, then fuck the living shit out of you -- fuck you nearly to death:
Nearly, but not quite.
You would survive, so that you could reflect on and enjoy the heavenly state of bliss you were put in, having been drained dry of all your cream, so really not caring about or even feeling the cluster of livid black-and-blue marks that had been worked up all over your precious body.
There was only-one trouble with such a day-dream:
The woods outside were made entirely out of concrete, rather than grass and trees, comprising the notorious "concrete-jungle." And, then too, right now, she was having considerable difficulty in locating any available Caveman she knew via the telephone.
Good lord, she thought, every cat must be working:
What an utter drag and awful bring-down.
What was every he-man coming to? The Establishment was getting the better of all of them, keeping their asses in a sling and their noses to the grindstone, to work for it, to pay off and make monthly payments on their new crappy, tinny cars and the like.
But, even so, it was early in the day, so she didn't have to give up all hope. She still might be able to rustle up a Caveman or two, if she kept trying:
Only again, this particular one she was calling obviously wasn't at home, in his proverbial cave.
Yes, obviously not, she reflected again, hanging up the phone and returning once again to her legs, now intent on giving her full attention in jerking herself off and making herself come and cream fully.
This was better -- much better. At least it gave Doris something concrete and substantial to do.
She reached out to her golden-bantam, curvy legs and stroked them liltingly with the sensitive balls, for tips, of her long, graceful fingers, sending most delightful and invigorating chills seeping up and down her spine in currents.
Soon, a slow, warm sensuous-feeling came in its stead and took its place.
Her sensitive finger-tips now travelled upward, to her upthrust cantaloupes for breasts which were already panting lightly with excitement and keen expectancy, a priori.
Doris' hands then went to the undersides of the tits, cupping them lovingly, making her almost swoon and the juices of pre-secretion begin to stir and work. She delicately pinched the delectable nipples, making her cry softly and tremulously, but inwardly:
Oh, oh, oh-hhh! she gasped to herself; that felt even better yet!
She was about to place her hands between her honeybun fur a cunt and make the pre-secretion juices really flow before resorting to the vibrator for the end-game and total consummation when, abruptly, she stopped, feeling guilty and ashamed at what she had to do. She felt she had to give the phone one last try, at any rate, before finishing the messy job of playing "Stink-fingers ..."
This time, she was lucky and properly rewarded when a familiar male-voice purred smoothly to her in answer on the other end of the line:
"Hello. Yes. Who is this, please?"
"It's me, Ray - Doris - Doris Marlin."
"Oh," he reflected, a bit glumly. "So, just what can I do for you, hmmm, my dear?"
"I'm in terrible heat, darling. I'm in the mood for it and I have no one to turn to who really sends me, except you -you lucky dog! So what say you come over to my pad and throw me a real mellow fuck, huh?"
"I would be only too glad to - overjoyed, in fact - but -"
"Yes? What's wrong?"
"I'm a bit bushed, you see. I had a terrific humping-session just last night. Three times I went, as a matter-of-fact. So I won't be worth a good shit to any girl tonight. Give me a day or two to recover, then call me, and we'll see."
Doris, feeling really desperate and cornered like a trapped little animal now, tried to cajole with bun coaxingly:
"Couldn't you come over tonight and throw me just one bang?" she whined. "That will be enough to satisfy me, honestly."
"Yes, so you say, my dear, but if I know you from the past - and I'm sure that I do - once you get those long, strong legs wrapped around me, you won't let go until you break my back for me and I drop at least three loads into you. That's what happened last time, and still, you weren't satisfied; you wanted more."
"But I'll be a good girl this time, I promise, Ray darling."
"Yes, so you say, I reiterate, and I have no doubt that you mean it, too. But once you're the bitch in heat, let's face it, you become like someone on dope -- a full-fledged addict - who can exert no control whatsoever. A well-sexed chick like you can take on a whole regiment and still yell for more. So where does an ordinary, tired mortal like me come in, hmmm, my dear?" he ended on a slightly scornful, most rhetorical-note.
"Very well," Doris sighed resignedly. "So what do you suggest I do? I'm all alone and lonely, and have absolutely no one to turn to. So -"
"In that case, why not try fucking yourself for a change, my dear," he exclaimed lightly but snidely.
Since he really hit the bull's-eye and struck home, it made Doris quite enraged and emotional, in a typical female-manner:
"Oh, you no-good cock-sucker - you dirty, filthy, rotten low-life scum-bag - to even suggest such a terrible, shameful thing to me. I never want to speak to you again as long as I live. Never, never NEVER!" she trailed off, her voice rising tremulously and most vociferously.
"As you please; suit yourself, my dear," he retorted in a glib tone that was filled with utter amusement at her expense. "Cheers, Doris!" And saying that, he hung up:
What nerve -- what colossal nerve! Doris almost choked and gasped in her state of impotent frustration.
He had hurt her ego to the very quick and deflated it enormously. In addition to which, she had lost the previous mood she had built up to jerk herself off with. So, on both counts, she now sought to reactivate her ego and charge it up again with her turbulent libido.
Doris, by leaning her head down over the side of the bed she was lying across, could see herself as an inverted image in the full-length onyx-framed mirror on the door of the wall opposite her bed:
"I love you," she stated simply aloud, addressing the upside-down reflection of herself in the mirror, feeling delightful chills of Narcissism seep across her spine.
"I love you," she repeated aloud again, to entrench the first charge and solidify it.
"You sure are one beautiful package, Doris Marlin," she stated, unabashed. "Why, people ought to be beating down a path to your door just to get a look at your glorious lusciousness. You shouldn't have to go chasing after men, but they should come running after you. Not only men should come running, but women, dogs and cats and all other kinds of animals, ought to be lined up in a procession outside your bedroom-door, to have their turn at you at plugging up all your holes and making you cream, you sweet, delicious thing, you!"
There was one fly in the otherwise smooth ointment, which manifested itself as doubt:
Very well. That being the case, why did she had to go chasing after men, instead of men chasing after her?
It didn't take Doris too long to come up with an answer:
Because she was too hot in the biscuit, was why, she rationalized.
Men were afraid of girls who were too well-sexed and who, frankly and openly enjoyed sex, without any inhibitions. They much preferred the shy and bashful maiden-type, it seemed.
Certainly, it couldn't be her looks, which she knew was outstanding and appealing.
As she speculated thus, Doris had also been idly stroking her body in various places with her adroit finger-tips, stirring up and kindling the flame of passion inside her turbulent being again.
Gazing in the mirror as she did so, she could see, for instance, that her ripe red strawberries for nipples were dilating, then expanding -- swelling up like rosebuds in the Springtime:
Naughty, naughty, she lightly chided herself, but fun -- oh, so much FUN!
Only, not as much fun as when you had someone else to play with you -- not half as much fun, in fact -- but fun, nevertheless! She had to make the best of what source she had at the moment.
"Oh, you lovely, sweet, glorious thing, you," she repeated reverently aloud to the mirror on the wall, giving herself still another charge of Narcissism.
So she was Narcissistic; what about it? she reflected to her silent accuser:
"I don't love anyone else but myself, which is precisely why I need someone else to love myself with. Now how about that, Dr. Freud? What do you make of it, hah?"
Dr. Freud didn't answer her. So she resumed making her physical-advances ...
She gazed raptly at her upside-down honeybun for a twat in the mirror. By placing her fingers on the thin, firm, ruby-red outer-labia lips, which were exactly like her facial-lips, she could part them and see all the way up inside, to the rough lobster-like walls of her snatch. She could even discern the tender membranes slightly twitch and pulsate when she took her fingers away, thereby charging up her Narcissism to the very hilt.
Doris gave the snatch a few quick gliding, sliding rubbing-jerks, which were sufficient to really make the pre-secretion juices stir and churn.
Abruptly, she withdrew the hand and stopped her looking, because she realized, in a few seconds more, she wouldn't be able to contain herself and would come like crazy -- all over the place -- and she didn't want to do that as yet, nohow:
She wanted to use that most delightful and invigorating vibrator first, to really charge her up and send her:
Just so long as she was reconciled and resigned to having to come off by herself, she wanted to make doubly sure that it was a good come and really enjoy it.
Doris now reached up to the drawer of the nearby night-table, opened it and extracted her precious vibrator:
It was a battery-operated one, made out of plastic for the case, which was shaped exactly to the contours of a male-penis. They came in various colors, but Doris chose a baby-blue one, with white trimming, to match the basic decor-motif of the bedroom.
She pressed the white button on the side of the object, sending it humming and whirring, sounding like an angry bee.
She placed it in all the various strategic erogenetic-zones of her luscious body, besides taking it and running it up her arms and down her legs:
It felt so good, deriving those gently prodding electric-shocks. It was a bit of an, oh, wow. Doris couldn't think of any other sensation quite comparable to the exhilarating and scintillating feeling it gave her. But she recalled seeing an old horror-movie on a late-night TV show, which starred Lon Chaney, Jr. In it, somehow, he was immune to electricity himself, but gave off electric-charges whenever he touched another person, thereby electrocuting him:
And that was precisely the image which Doris conjured up now, to accompany her erotic-massage with the vibrator -- of some big, strong and sinister-looking Caveman, on the Lon Chaney, Jr. type - who would also permeate electric-shocks all over and through her entity wherever his big, strong, calloused fingers happened to touch her:
Oh, oh, oh-hhh! Doris shuddered inwardly and convulsed, feeling her cunt twitch and throb and ache with longing and want:
Oh, oh, oh-hhh!
After pressing the vibrator against her tits, across her flat-lined tummy, her hands, legs and other parts, Doris, feeling that she was really ready, temporarily turned the button off, then rammed it and jammed it up into the parted jaws of her already well-lubricated cunt, already worked up from the tell-tale juices of pre-secretion.
Why, even just the feel and shape of the thing inside her cunt that once, got her so crazy and wild, that she thought she would flip and go completely loco in the koko; so much like a man's prick it was.
Now all tense and rigid with tumescence, Doris was ready for the end-game and climax:
She snapped on the vibrator, sending it buzzing and whirring again. Then she leaned up on her haunches, to permit easy access to her curvy, dimpled ass. She took the whole vibrator and worked the well-greased thing up and into her tight reddish-brown ass-hole like a corkscrew -- until it was so far up and in there, it really hurt. It was comparable to a suppository in a way, which Doris's mother had taught her to use to alleviate her when she was constipated, to get quick relief:
Only, this suppository didn't melt as the other kind did; she, herself, melted instead:
Doris brought this about by placing the fingers of one hand up the parted jaws of her twat and the other pressed down over the vibrator in the back. She exerted pressure, pushing her ass-hole upward so that it met and joined the cunt.
Then, with the vibrator ramming up her ass-hole, in direct accompaniment to the deft finger-job she was perpetrating on her hot, itchy twat, created the illusion that she was being rammed and reamed right through both holes at once, with those exhilarating, vibrant electric-shocks:
The initial delight that she felt was so intense and great, that Doris was made to shriek out loud:
Her entire body twisted, turned and writhed on the bed, squirming and wiggling all over it, with her hard, hot tits panting and little snakes rippling in her tummy and thighs.
After a few such jolts, her bottom started to bounce hard up and down on the mattress -- bouncing, bouncing, bouncing!
Doris felt herself become all tensed up on a rising wave of passion. She knew that she was about to come, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Indeed, there was nothing that she wanted to do to stop it.
Then screaming and squirming in total abandonment, twisting and turning like crazy all over the bed with her bottom bouncing up and down for all she was worth, Doris started to come:
She did so in virtual gobs that were the size of cup cakes. And as each spurt of maiden-juice squirted out, instead of trying to elude the sticky, gooey cum, she would reach out with her free right hand and try to catch it, then bring it up to her lips to taste its tangy, pungent, cheesy-fishy flavor. This positive affirmation of her Narcissism by virtue of Frenching herself, continuously reactivated the charge and made her come more than ever:
It was a vicious circle and a chain-reaction. The more she came and Frenched herself, the more she wanted to come.
On and on and on, it went.
On and on and on:
Dreaming and creaming, dreaming and creaming, dreaming and creaming.
Doris was getting off a mighty load, and she knew it; she realized it only too well. And, in so doing, she was making a complete mess out of herself and the bedding:
There was a definite calculated-risk in continuing to do this, which was: that her roommate, Sylvia Pierce, was due to walk in at any moment. And even if she stopped her creaming and auto-cannibalism, still, she could never get the awful mess cleaned up in time.
Very well, she reflected -- even as she still kept creaming in gobs from her two-way self-fuck -- what consequences could result?
Sylvia would give her a verbal-chastisement, for one thing; that was for sure. Then too, being the prudish, finicky sort that she was, Sylvia might become so enraged, that she would go fetch a strap and apply some hot, heavy leather to her bare, saucy ass, as she had threatened to do countless times before with Doris.
So what if she did? Her own father, who was devoutly religious and a strict, old Patriarch, had done so constantly when Doris had been a young girl back home in Iowa. He whaled her and all the rest of the brood, which consisted of eight children in all, upon the slightest provocation. He would resort either to a razor-strap or the paddle which was aptly called a "Yankee-Spanker."
And when ostensibly, Doris, who actually liked to be whaled, might seem to be contradicting her basic Narcissistic-drive and the need to be loved, there was no contradiction at all, in the light of the Electra-complex, thereby merging and associating being whipped and Masochism with the wish-fulfillment for her father to soundly fuck her:
Truth to tell, Doris felt certain that the tough old farmer who was her father really would have enjoyed fucking her every bit as much as she would have enjoyed being fucked by him, and even having a baby by him. Only, he didn't dare; he didn't have the nerve. He had too much inhibition. But the proof that he went for her, was, that he took her to the proverbial woodshed and gave her sound tanning's far more often and for longer sustained sessions than he did any of her other sisters:
And it wasn't because she was more bad and evil than the other girls, either, as he so vociferously claimed, but purely to have the excuse to have luscious Doris across his lap, her bottom bare, squirming and wiggling, getting red and hot and full of those livid welts he inevitably worked up:
That was how he must have gotten his kicks -- how he got his nuts off -- consciously or unconsciously, Doris reflected, with keen insight and amusement.
So if Sylvia Pierce also took to the notion of whaling her bare ass with some strap, it wouldn't faze Doris one iota. She had been thoroughly conditioned and used to such severe periodic lickings.
Then too, for the longest time now, Doris had been trying to coax Sylvia into having a torrid Lesbian-relationship with her, but so far had failed, because the other girl was simply so prudish and full of inhibitions as she was.
But, seeing her like she presently was, might be just the little spark she needed to kindle off just such an enmeshment.
This being the case, Doris made herself completely oblivious to any possible danger, reconciled herself to Sylvia catching her red-handed in the, to her, awful, degrading act of auto-eroticism:
Who knows? Doris mused.
This might be an exciting, adventurous night, after all. It completely depended on Sylvia and just how she reacted to the shocking spectacle which would greet her eyes.
And, even as Doris continued to two-way fuck herself, although she was petering off by this time and to meditate, the front door opened; then someone walked into the bedroom:
Sure enough, it was Sylvia Pierce, and, judging by the look of sheer incredulity on her face, Doris felt certain that she was surely going to flip in one way or the other:
It was all contingent on precisely which way she FLIPPED! ...
Chapter 3
A pseudo breeze was being stirred due to the movement of the car, giving Brenda Courtney a slight sense of relief, when she remarked:
"It's real cool, isn't it, Don?"
"What is? The weather? It's real hot if you ask me:"
So he took her literally instead of figuratively as she intended the remark, to be, she mused, feeling definitely disappointed and letdown:
"No-ooo," she tittered with false merriment. "Us meeting the way we did, in a casual conversation about the coffee served in a small eatery. At the time, honestly, I wasn't thinking of having any relationship with you, Don. It just ... happened. So that's why I called it 'real cool' a moment ago."
"Uh, I see," Don endeavored to correct himself by bestowing a winning grin in her direction. Then he quickly added: "Yes, that is real cool, baby - real cool, indeed. Quite groovy."
But even though he tried to gracefully bail her out and take her off the hook, Brenda still felt like a real square. She accordingly avowed not to try and make any such flippant hip-remarks again. She realized, they didn't really impress him; rather, depressed him, if anything, and made him think badly of her:
No, she would be careful not to make such a sloppy error again. Rather, throw the ball to him and let him do all of the talking. Simply follow his lead, she decided, then she would surely be safe whatever she said.
However, Don Maxwell's handsome mulatto face was utterly immobile and expressionless all the time he had been driving, except when she engaged him in the brief exchange and he was forced to half-look at her. But, Brenda noticed that while his face was as rigid as the proverbial sphinx mostly, nevertheless his right eye had been surreptitiously gazing at her and looking her vivaciously, sultry, lusciousness up and down:
His rapt gaze particularly lingered at the ultra-high hemline, exposing the strong, tapered thighs, that were so sleekly encased in the black-meshed panty-hose, especially at the dark line for a gash of a crack between the thighs, that seemed so mysterious yet so inviting:
While he couldn't actually get a squint at her delectable twat as such, he didn't have to stretch his imagination very far to visualize the heavenly wonder that lurked in there.
By the same token, Brenda had been immersed simultaneously in studying him:
She found, much to her delight, that he was even handsomer during the daytime than he was at night. He had well-chiseled, sharply etched features, curly wavy hair neatly parted on the side, was tall and well-built, on the Harry Belafonte general type.
Maxwell was a really natty dresser, in good taste, decked out in a light beige single-breasted suit which fitted him like a glove, and a wine-colored sports-shirt open at the throat. The color of the suit perfectly matched the creamy shade of the sharp-looking car:
It was just a little thing - a small nuance - but it told her he was clean, fastidious and meticulous about his person. So in typical womanly-fashion, who were usually moved by such symbolism, her mind automatically gave her the go-ahead signal to really make the scene with him and swing; it would be both safe and exciting!
Almost as if reading her mind and endeavoring to clinch his psychological-hold on her precious pussy, Maxwell casually and coolly remarked:
"My, you sure look fine this evening, doll -- real sharp."
"Thank you," she smiled demurely, flushing slightly, actually a bit surprised at his polite gallantry:
Truth to tell, Brenda didn't know too much about musicians, but she had expected something slightly different:
He was well-spoken, smooth and debonair -- a real cool cat -- even though Brenda was only vaguely familiar with the term.
"Well," she chirped happily, "where are you taking me, Mr. Maxwell?"
A trace of an amused smile crossed his handsome features; the eyes, while narrow and even somewhat squinty, burned like two bright, piercing embers of coal:
"That all depends, Miss Courtney. Just where would you like to go, huh?"
Brenda sighed softly, relaxing a bit more:
"Truthfully, I don't really care," she replied.
"Oh?"
"No, I mean, I spend all day modeling. So I'm too tired to trouble my mind about making any decisions for the evening. I leave that department strictly to the fellows who take me out."
"Uh-huh," he acknowledged. "I see-eee," he further mused, obviously sizing up the entire situation to himself. "But, then again, you really ought to give me a clue, you know. I always try to please, doll. And there are some places I might think are real in, but be afraid to take you in a dress like that."
"Oh, really?" she smiled. "Why? What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing. And that's the trouble. Like everything is right with it, especially what's in it. The dress is real fine, but the body is just too sensational."
How nice, Brenda mused:
How sweet to receive such an honest compliment!
Most other men she had known would mention the dress while suggesting the rest of her strategic assets, with a snide leer -- particularly her legs, tits and ass -- and sometimes even her "hot box." But this one just came right out and said he admired her body in general, which was tact and directness at the same time:
Yes, Mr. Don Maxwell might turn out to be a real interesting date after all -- real interesting date, indeed!
"I know where I'd like to go," she blurted out suddenly, seemingly on impulse, although she had carefully calculated the remark:
Saying this, she squeezed his arm lightly but intimately.
Brenda was feeling very daring and frivolous, and, no doubt, unconsciously a bit above and even condescending toward this man, the essential reason being: she knew instantly she could enjoy the very best of his World, whereas he might never have the ultimate of hers -- despite his good looks, natty dressing and smooth veneer of polish.
"Name it, chick," he retorted amiably to her.
"Oh, to some of those places."
"Which places are you referring to?"
"Oh, precisely the ones you said you might be reluctant to take me to."
They had stopped for a red light, and in the interim, he looked at her levelly. The merest hint of a benign smile teased the corners of his full mouth.
"You really want to go there, huh, chick?"
"Yes," she said declaratively. "I want to go somewhere I've never been before. You know; something that's new and ... adventurous."
"But, honey," he purred, showing the sharp edges of his even white teeth, "I've no idea where you've been before to make the scene."
"And I'm not going to tell you where I've been before, either," she countered, just as smoothly. "You'll simply have to be inventive, Mr. Maxwell. But, then again, jazz-musicians are always inventive, aren't they?"
Thus, she had neatly passed the buck to him and placed the responsibility for the entire outing on his strong, muscular shoulders.
He seemed to dig her brand of jive, because he gave her a quick little knowing grin, then gave the car more gas and set it rolling, a bit faster than before ...
Brenda soon found that jazz musicians, even ones who seem to have a lot of bread, are quite inventive and/or in the know:
Don took her to a small Chinese restaurant located on Bayard Street in Chinatown. The place didn't look like very much, besides being small, not having linen service, the customers were being served on formica-topped tables which the waiters hastily wiped off with rags when those assembled at a given table had finished, prior to seating a new group, and also picking up their tips.
She left it to Don to order. Ordinarily, she went in for the standard commercial fare that Americans did when eating in a Chinese restaurant: Chow Mein, egg-roll and spare-ribs. However, he told her, that while they had such things on the menu, they didn't feature them, and they were really quite terrible there:
"Very well, you're the boss; I leave it all up to you, Sir," she sighed resignedly.
"You like lobster, doll?"
"Uh-huh."
"How about roast pork; you dig that?"
"Uh-huh. Sure do."
"And Wonton soup?"
"Right again."
"Okay, I know just how to order, then."
They started off with the Wonton soup, and she found it was superb - the very best she ever had.
Next came the Lobster Cantonese, only it had a very spicy and rich black bean and garlic-sauce, the likes of which she had never tasted before in her entire life.
Everything was served there in a la carte and they finished off the meal with Special Lo-Mein with roast pork. This was one dish which wasn't even on the American menu, but intended mainly for the Chinese people who were customers. However, if one was in the know and requested it, he could have it.
The entire meal was dispersed with periodic sips through straws of their bottles of Coke, which could also be obtained there. Tea was served in glasses instead of cups.
Since she was so overwhelmed with the food, Don provided her with a short history of the place:
Originally, it had been intended to be a Chinese-styled cafeteria designed to cater strictly to the Chinese people. But Americans had trickled in, and, after a time, by virtue of word-of-mouth, they built up a clientele which was almost exclusively American.
It stayed open twenty-four hours a day, and was almost always busy, even at the wee hours of the morning, when musicians and people from show business, wanting a so-called midnight-snack, would trickle in. Business was always brisk, and more often than not, one would have to stand and wait on line for a table before being seated.
But it was well worth waiting for, the food being so exceptionally good and relatively reasonable. As a matter-of-fact, on the strength of the success of this place and a few others like it, a lot of the plusher, fancier places in Chinatown had closed down, and competitors, slated on the basic home-style-cooking of this one, had sprung up. But, Don said that while some of the others might have been a few cents cheaper on a given dish on the menu, this one on Bayard Street where he had taken her, was still the best.
"It's perfect," Brenda gushed. "Absolutely superb. Out of this world, in fact," she gushed on enthusiastically. "And who would have ever thought it in a place like this?"
"Well, 'things ain't always what they seem to be,' doll," he retorted.
"You know, I could go for a few drinks now, after that."
"Uh-huh," he acquiesced, rising to his feet, then going over to her, to assist her in getting out of her chair.
When he paid the total bill, which didn't come to very much, comparatively, Brenda spied a large roll of bills appear in his hand. He tipped liberally, too.
She made a mental-note to remember the place for future reference:
It was nice being on the town with someone who really knew his way around.
Why, you couldn't get a better meal in the most expensive uptown Chinese restaurant, which featured a floor-show and live entertainment. For that matter, you I couldn't get a better meal even if you went to China, itself!
She tried to remember the name, reading it off the store-front. But it was too hopelessly long and complicated.
Brenda finally decided on the ingenious method of remembering it by its address. Indeed, she would never be able to forget it that way:
The address was 69 Bayard Street.
And perhaps she would be reminded of "69" once more before this evening was over -- in some way or other.
Yes, perhaps she would be reminded of it! ...
He took her to a small club over on East Houston Street, which was directly on the remote but immediate outlying area of Greenwich Village:
It wasn't at all impressive-looking as such places go, either, Brenda found.
There was a long bar that covered almost the whole half-side of the room, all the way to the very back. There were some tables with red and white checked-patterned table-cloths on the other side, and the smallest of dance-floors in the back, directly adjoining the rest-rooms and kitchen.
There was no live entertainment as such, all of the music emanating from a juke-box which was constantly being fed by the paying-customers.
Then too, unlike all such similar places that Brenda had been taken to in the Village-proper, there didn't seem to be any manifestation of homosexual-couples from either of the sexes, but strictly heterosexual, although there did seem to be a diverse conglomeration of assorted Beatniks, Bohemians and Village-weirdo's. When she inquired of him, Don told her that they were mostly far-out aspirant artists - writers, painters, poets and the like.
Nevertheless, there was a nice, cozy relaxed atmosphere that was prevalent to the place. The main groove of the music from the juke-box were the likes of Dave Brubeck, Stan Getz, a sprinkling of Enroll Garner for an occasional change-of-pace, and, for the same purpose at the other extreme, a frantic, fast-tempoed Miles Davis or Dizzy Gillespie. For all intents and purposes, the likes of The Beatles, a Vicki Carr or a Frank Sinatra, say, didn't even exist for the patrons- of this little off-the-beaten-path club.
Even though there were a sprinkling of tables provided for those couples who wanted them, there was no table-service there, except on weekends when they used one or two mini-skirted teen-age college-girls who wanted to work part-time on weekends to pick up some spending-money from the tips they received. So Don Maxwell, all set to go over to the bar, first leaned over the table and asked of Brenda:
"Well, watcha drinkin' tonight, honey?"
"What're you having, Don?"
"Gin, straight, for me."
"Well, I'll take a Tom Collins or a Cuba Libra, if you don't mind."
But he did mind, it seemed, guffawing heartily.
"Why? What's wrong?" Brenda inquired of him, flushing suffusely. "What did I say that was so funny, Don?"
"The kind of drink you say you want. That fancy stuff is strictly for the uptown sucker trade, not for here."
"Why? Can't the bartender make a Tom Collins or a Cuba Libra? Surely he has the proper ingredients. All he needs is either rum or gin, some fruit and sugar."
"Sure he kin make it. Only thing, it's real square and will bring us both down. People will all look at us as if we're the two biggest squares in town. And I don't want that to get around nohow, honey - not in my line of work."
"Yes, that would be a major disaster, wouldn't it?" Brenda murmured rhetorically.
"But, if you insist, Brenda, since I aim to please you, I'll get you whatever you want."
"No-ooo, that won't be necessary, Don. Get me whatever you're drinking yourself."
"That's real sharp, chick. Be back in a jiff with the lush. Just sit there real tight and keep your boots laced, sugar plum." He seemed quite jubilant and pleased.
But Brenda, for her own part, felt quite let-down and disappointed with him:
If he was a real Bohemian-individualist, he wouldn't make such a big deal over what she ordered, would have said nothing, went and got it and brought it over to her -even proudly - not giving a good shit what any of these dirty-looking, weird creatures thought.
However, with a touch of wisdom that bordered on irony, Brenda realized that even here -- in a dumpy place like this -- there was a certain code of ethics, customers and mores that were adhered to.
True, to be sure, such a code might seem utterly ludicrous to the square-outsider, even herself. Then again, so would the sort of music they dug for a steady diet, to the average commercially-oriented square.
Don sauntered over to where the bartender was standing, by the middle of the bar, with his customary, by now, cat-like grace and exclaimed amiable:
"Hi, man. How goes it around here, huh?"
The bartender was a big, stocky, swarthy-faced Italian with a poker-face. And while he didn't actually smile, his eyes reflected familiarity by the way he replied:
"Oh, fine, Daddy-O. How goes it with you?"
"Makin' the scene. Holdin' my own, baby."
"Oh yeah?" the bartender exclaimed rhetorically. "Hell, you are. At least, not for very long." His eyes gazed knowingly at Brenda and the precise point where her lush, swelled melons for tits were protruding, where she was sitting at the table, directly facing him and in line with his vision.
Don dug the remark at once, but didn't want to stay hung-up on it, feeling somewhat embarrassed. So he smoothed the situation over by grimacing tersely:
"Ha-ha. Yeah, that's right, isn't it, baby?"
"What're you havin'? The usual?"
"Yeah. Moonshine, man."
"For both o' you?"
"Uh-huh. That's right; you dig me fine."
"Comin' right up, Daddy-O."
The bartender filled two tumblers from a bottle which looked like it contained water -- which was precisely what gin looked like -- then handed both of them slowly and dutifully to Don, who took them, one in each hand.
Seeing this, Brenda had a moment of sheer panic:
Truth to tell, she couldn't recall exactly when she had taken her last pep-pill.
Around three-thirty, she imagined.
It had just been one of those lazy Summer-days, when the usual one pill in the morning and another in the afternoon hadn't been enough to get her through the whole day. Even though she worked in an air-conditioned office, still, the humidity suffered while on the outside had made her feel slow, listless and lethargic:
Then too, wearing all of that heavy metal slave-girl junk weighed her down while she posed, during the heat of the blistering peak of Summer, such as now, felt as if it weighed tons.
So she had taken still a third pill to get her spritely through the day of posing.
The pill was amphetamine, and it was supposed to work for around four hours, which meant she was still feeling its effect. In such a case, it was damn near disastrous to take alcohol into one's system, and he was bringing her pure booze:
Yes, in the condition she was in now, just one such big shot that was in that large tumbler, might get her higher than a March-kite.
But really, it was a little late to think of that now. Brenda would have to at least sip the drink and hope for the best.
In the short interim that it took for him to come back to her, Brenda's previous feeling of being peeved with him dissolved, as she saw him nod to various people sitting around the tables and sitting in the back, near the Johns:
He had been right; he had been speaking the truth: If he would have gotten her one of those fancy drinks, they would all put her down as square, and him, too. And while ostensibly, it might seem much ado about nothing, since he was a jazz-musician, it was his bread-and-butter that was involved. So she had to be reasonable and logical.
As he rejoined her at the table and sat down, they both picked up their respective glass, and he clinked them together with a gallant smile:
"Make a toast, chick," he told her.
"Here's to jazz," she exclaimed.
"Here's to all kinds of music, honey, just so long as it's good," he retorted, more gallantly than ever.
After that, a sort of quiet mood seemed to come over him, and they both sat there, sipping at their Moonshine and listening to the refrains of the mostly "cool music" emanating from the never-to-be-denied juke-box:
To Brenda, this too was something new in the way of a date for her:
Somehow, his perennial periods of moody silence made her feel both conspicuous and awkward. She had been carefully preparing little conversational tidbits -- comments calculated to sound hip and like a real smart young swinger. But now, it seemed to her, that anything she would say would put her pretty foot in it, and would sound real phony before the words were even out of her mouth.
These were very strange people, these friends, or at least knowing acquaintances, of his. They all seemed to talk so little, yet still seemed to say so very much with a mere phrase of jive-talk, accompanied by the appropriate facial-expression to go along with it:
Like with that bartender, for instance:
Brenda had caught the whole bit, along with its surreptitious inference to her, and its significance to Don to have himself a real ball tonight.
To be sure, she could play the perfect bitch and get up on her high-horse and disappoint him. But why do that, when she wanted it so much herself -- at least as much as he did? Why deny herself and her needs just out of sheer malice and spite?
No, it didn't make any sense to her, nohow! ...
After an interim had passed for them to sip at their drinks and listen to the mellow sounds of Cool Jazz, Don finally asked Brenda if she cared to dance.
For her own part, she felt a wee bit tipsy when she arose, and on about only a quarter of the glass of pure gin that he fondly but aptly called "Moonshine." She felt very tight and sort of vague and unreal -- as if she had lost her own true identity that she was accustomed to having.
Don slipped out of his beige jacket, carefully and neatly hung it up on the chair where he had been sitting. Then he took her out in the back, where the so-called dance-floor was, and two other couples were presently engaged in dancing:
This usually was the case. They didn't go for dancing too much around there. They preferred to sit around, mostly drinking, making intellectual-talk and listening to the refrains of Cool Jazz which perennially blared stridently from the juke-box.
As he swept her up in his lithe, muscular arms and began to lead her, Brenda felt as if she were floating:
Hell, she mused, I'm high already!
Then, what of it? she reflected a moment later, as if in answer to the accusation of her conscience.
Why not be real high?
She needed it to get a real kookie evening like this Out of her system. She wanted to make the scene and swing with a Negro, once and for all and see how it was.
So, this was it - Shangri-La - she ardently hoped!
Don held her very closely and tightly. She deliberately eased up and let herself go, relaxing against his lithe panther-like frame and let him do all the leading:
Just as she had anticipated, and as he seemed to be with just about everything else, he was real good at it, exhibiting his customary cat-like grace:
His muscles, felt through just the wine-colored sports-shirt now, felt hard and strong, and his hand, low and firm down at the small of her back, was an insistent, even provocative pressure, pushing her hips in toward him and at the same time, making them slither and undulate liltingly to the tempo of the music.
It was rather nice, she felt
Dreamy and creamy, as a matter-of-fact.
They continued to sway together like that, her high proud melons for breasts snug up against his broad manly chest, and she could feel quivers of excitement coursing through her whole being:
All at once, she felt a sickening warmth all over -- as if she were taking a Turkish-bath with all her clothes on. Her tits grew hard and erect, the nipples inert and pushing forward; she wasn't wearing any bra, but the tits still hurt and ached, anyway, so agitated and panting with excitement were they. This was followed by a queasy sensation of butterflies dancing and flying about all over inside her tummy, which soon gave way to a pulsating, spasmodic throbbing in her twat.
Truth to tell, taken in totality, Don Maxwell wasn't at all what she had anticipated, having gone out with strictly squares and snooty members of The Establishment for so long:
No, he was so strong, manly and silent, and simultaneously, a bit awesome and menacing, too, especially with those black, bright embers for eyes of his, which were so enigmatic, really.
So, in spite of herself, even, Brenda felt herself get more aroused than ever, and the unmistakable juices of pre-secretion start to trickle, ooze and flow throughout the walls of her snatch.
Her obtrusive reaction to him caused a similar reaction in him, which soon became a virtual chain-reaction:
He was starting to get a terrific hard-on!
As his prick grew and became more rigid with swinging tumescence, Brenda was incredulous to find that it never seemed to end in its prowess to grow. It wasn't too thick a cock, but it sure made up for it in length, soon being the size and shape of a small mop-handle that a woman wielded to clean out the inside of toilet-bowls with.
Actually, Don Maxwell was annoyed that this white chick was making him get such a hard-on right there out on the floor, for all to see:
He felt, that it was a real drag and bringing him down. The cool, sharp thing to do, was to contain himself for later, when he got her between the sheets for a tussle.
But he couldn't. She was just too good a piece of ass to resist for long; she would make a real low-down mother-fucker out of any cool cat. She was so nicely and solidly stacked, especially with that lavender-colored audacious mini-dress and the black patent-leather boots.
Don, being in show business for so long, had seen chicks come and go - all kinds of acts, especially vocalists. A lot of them had been real lookers. But none could hold a candle to this one, especially when it came to downright sex-appeal and getting a cat all stirred up:
He wanted to fuck her more than he ever wanted to fuck a chick before in his entire life - fuck her like crazy, fuck her like mad, fuck her to death, even - and make her really cream all over the place.
But it was a very delicate, even precarious situation for him:
On one hand, he wanted to pop his nuts and get off.
On the other hand, he wanted to save all of his passion-juice for later, when it really counted.
But afraid that all the cats around there would see him leave the dance-floor with a most obtrusive hard-on, which would surely be a drag and a real bring-down - indeed, one he could never live down - he decided he couldn't risk it.
No, he had to pop off then and there, and try to do. so as subtly and gracefully as possible.
Almost as if reading his mind with her keen feminine-intuition, Brenda naturally cupped the outer-labia-lips of her delectable, pulsating twat by tensing and twitching the muscles, thereby providing him with a natural cup-cake to fill his passion-juice with.
Her entire twat began to grind away like a blender, the two proverbial blades going up and down - in opposite directions at once - drawing him in to the hot morass of her blazing cauldron of a snatch.
Don desperately drew her to him, closer than ever, so that the other onlookers couldn't see what he was doing - dry-humping her right out there on the very dance-floor!
Brenda was a true bitch in heat, panting in little wheezing gasps like some wild animal during the height of the ma ting-season, feeling her orgasm coming on:
But he popped off first, coming in little short but persistent jolts that felt like electric-shocks going coursing through her pussy.
She sooned echoed them with little spasmodic, pulsating twitches of her own.
Then he kept coasting along, trying to control his creaming, but letting a sufficient amount out so that he wouldn't be inflicted with a painful case of blue-balls.
But Brenda let herself go with total abandonment. She knew it was safe to let go, because she was capable of creaming all night long if she had to and was properly inspired.
So she creamed like crazy, creamed like mad, the proverbial blades from the built-in blender inside her snatch still whirling and turning away - as if they were busy churning pot-cheese - which, in a way, at least as far as she was concerned, they were, literally!
Finally, when they both petered off completely, Brenda edged closer to him and whispered in his ear:
"What are you thinking, Don?"
"Really want to know, honey?"
"Sure."
"I'm thinking with my hands and my dick. They both keep wanting to take that there dress off of you and give you the cool, mellow jazzing you really deserve, sugar plum."
Oh, just like that, huh, she reflected:
Simple and direct. Just ask him a question, and he gives you the appropriate answer.
So one good answer deserved another:
"You expressed my own sentiments completely," she retorted coolly and levelly. "It is a shame to waste all of this good cum out here on a dance-floor. I would like to go to bed with you, Don, where we can both take our clothes off and I can get to see and feel all of that big, long, wonderfully sweet licorice-stick that is yours, darling."
Having said this, her head sunk down intimately on his shoulder, in an unmistakable gesture of her adoration for him and all that he had to give her.
"Cool, baby, cool," he exclaimed, most elated and jubilantly. "You're saying things to Papa that he likes to hear. So let's cut out of here and really make the scene, honey - swing like mad."
"Suits me, Don darling," she acquiesced sweetly.
They then hurriedly finished their drinks and left.
"Where are we going now?" Brenda asked him, when they were once again out into the street and the hot, hazy, humid night Summer-air.
"To my pad, of course, just like you said you wanted to. Why? Are you scared or somethin'?"
"No, not in the least, Don."
Then once again, they were back in the sharp cream-colored limousine and driving through the night -- toward their intended and her imminent destination -- to get to see and feel what a big black licorice-stick really looked and felt like and to have the living shit fucked out of her:
And, if what had transpired back on the dance-floor was really any preview, Brenda knew that she wouldn't be disappointed:
No, she would be utterly delighted and fulfilled -- such as she had never been before in one evening in her entire life.
She would, she would; she surely, surely WOULD! ...
Chapter 4
"What kind of fuckin' shit do you call this, huh?" snapped tall, slim and sultry Sylvia Pierce.
At that moment, Doris would have liked to have a camera so that she could have taken a picture of the head of female-personnel and her ostensible boss at the office, who was also her permanent room-mate: "Sylvia's pixyish but rather hard face was filled with utter loathing and disgust, the almond-shaped olives for eyes all but bulging out of the sockets of her cameo-shaped face.
This was her reaction on a conscious-level, Doris mused; she was thoroughly nauseated at the mess she had made by creaming -- all of the bedding -- besides splaying her bantam-golden thighs with it, too. But unconsciously, Doris felt certain that, if she could be made aware and conscious of it, Sylvia would have liked to dip her head in comparable to a hungry dog and lick and lap up every precious drop of her rich dreamy cream:
Playing it coy and naive, Doris feigned the utmost innocence as she retorted merrily:
"Why, whatever are you referring to, Sylvia darling?"
"You know perfectly well what I'm referring to, Doris Marlin," Sylvia countered, most peevishly. "That awful mess you've made on the bed, where we have to sleep. Haven't you got any pride or shame left at all?"
"Why, of course I do, Sylvia darling."
"So, how come you're sitting there, an ostensibly full-grown and mature woman of 25, jerking yourself off and playing with yourself like some adolescent school-girl who first starts to learn what a pussy is for?"
"You're 28 and you still don't know what it's for, either, Sylvia darling," Doris purred like a contented little kitten.
"Whatever is that supposed to mean, huh?"
"You're still a virgin, aren't you, darling?"
"I refuse to discuss that; it's highly personal," Sylvia did her utmost to keep her voice civil and level, although she was fast getting heated and her ire up. "But regardless, this still doesn't construe that I don't know what it's for -- if I choose to use it or not."
"True," Doris was forced to concede.
"Do you know what I feel like doing to you, dearie?"
"I can just about imagine!" Doris retorted, most cynically.
"Go get my strap and lash the livin' Hell outa you, is what; I'm so angry and mad."
"So what? You've threatened me with that many times before. But still, you didn't do it; you didn't have the nerve."
"Well, I have it now, though."
"So go ahead and get the strap and do it. I dare you!" Doris mocked.
"I would. Only thing, you'd probably enjoy it too much."
"To be sure, I most certainly would, Sylvia darling."
"But I can tell you one thing, young lady ..."
"Oh? What's that, Sylvia?"
"If you don't clean up that awful mess you made for later on, before we go to sleep, like it or not, I'll go fetch my strap and you'll catch the blazes; believe me what I say, dearie!"
"Oh, I believe you, all right," Doris sighed lazily, not in the least bit moved by the awesome nature of the threat:
She had her luscious, saucy ass cut up with a strap before, by experts. So regardless of how severe Sylvia might lash her, she was sure that she could take it, and probably enjoy the experience, just as Sylvia Pierce, herself, already surmised:
Funny thing about Sylvia and the sort of person she was -- essentially an observer of others, instead of an active participator such as herself -- she had time to reflect and came up with some keen psychological-insights occasionally.
Then too, there was another marked characteristic about her: While she was a very cultured, deeply intellectual and even a real sophisticated chick at the office, around her, she liked to curse and resort to vulgar gutter-language -- indeed, as if it were the sole outlet for her turbulent but deeply repressed emotions!
It was almost as though she was glad, that she -- Doris -- was naughty, wicked and even seemingly incorrigible, so as to provide herself with just the proper opportunity she needed to really let herself go on a wild verbal-tirade; '�'sublimation," the head-shrinkers of the Psychoanalytic-school termed it:
While she was mostly scatter-brain on other intellectual-matters, Doris was well up on things pertaining to abnormal-psychology. Indeed, she seemed to eat books on that subject up like a real fiend.
Then Sylvia was speaking again, intervening on her meditations, as she exclaimed sarcastically with a trace of bitter irony:
"Well, at least you're up, awake and about, which is some consolation, at any rate, dearie. So did you have fun jerking yourself off, hmmm?"
"Uh-huh, I sure did. You should try it yourself sometime."
"No thanks," Sylvia snapped. "I don't go in for such childish games myself."
"Well, I do."
"That, I know," she replied, most pointedly.
"In fact, I was about to do it again before you came in and made your untimely entrance."
"Tough - things are tough all over, dearie."
"Think I'm just kidding, huh?" said Doris rhetorically. "Well then, just see how hard my strawberry-cones, for nipples are, then try to deny me."
"My God," Sylvia grimaced, all but wincing, "what utterly ludicrous infantile games you insist on playing."
"Well, one has to do something with oneself when she can't scare up a date for an evening full of fun and games."
"You usually don't have any trouble in that department, dearie. Men seem to be sniffing after your saucy tail all the time like a pack of wild dogs."
"But I am having trouble today; seriously, Sylvia darling. And, I really need a man tonight, too; I need so badly and desperately to be properly fucked."
"I bet! Well, that figures; it's the mating-season, you know, and you're always a little infernal, insidious bitch in heat, anyway."
"Don't be so crude and vulgar, Sylvia darling," Doris decided to admonish her.
Saying that, Doris bounced up off the bed, and purely on sudden impulse, unfastened her raised shorts and pushed herself out of them before the cherished mirror. She darted both hands between her legs, to her well moistened and thoroughly lubricated cunt and cried out gayly:
"Wheee, I'm a nymph."
"That, you are, dearie," Sylvia acquiesced sourly. "That, you most certainly are!"
By the same token, Sylvia gazed at her sourly, too -with the utmost malice and scorn manifest on her face -- but she looked, regardless:
Truth to tell, ever since Sylvia had been responsible for Doris being hired as a secretary at Bondage Girls', then had subsequently come to invite her to being her room-mate, Sylvia had become quite used to these exhibitionist-displays of Doris - although she had never gone quite as far as now - which made her have perennial pangs of regret that she had ever condescended to invite such a little uncouth peasant to be the room-mate of someone like her in the first place - a mature woman who commanded such an important position and had such dignity about her person:
Doris Marlin brought out the very worst impulses in her perpetually - but the very, very WORST! Sylvia reflected, quite bitterly.
Finally, Sylvia said aloud:
"Yeah, you're a sight, all right, dearie. Say, by the way ..."
"Yes, Sylvia?" Doris prodded her on.
"What's that awful black-and-blue bruise doing on your leg?"
Doris definitely appeared alarmed at this:
"Bruise?" she inquired of the other girl. "Where?"
"On your leg - in the back of it -- on the thigh."
Doris half-turned around in front of the mirror, leaning back to examine the rear-thighs of her sexy gams:
Sure enough, there was a big, round, dark bruise prevalent which she hadn't noticed before:
"My gosh," she said, more thinking-out-loud than directly addressing Sylvia, "I wonder how that got there?"
"Well, I don't, dearie, 'cause I know ..."
"Very well, how, then?"
"Terry, the terrible must have been here with you while I was out last night, resorting to rough-stuff, which is his forte, and Caveman-tactics."
In answer, Doris stuck out the tip of her perturbing tongue like a spiteful little school-girl who was deliberately acting difficult to its older superior:
"Wouldn't you like to know, Miss Nosybody, huh?"
"Don't get fresh with me, dearie, 'cause I'll go get the strap at once and apply plenty of hot leather to your saucy behind."
"Off on that kick again, huh?" Doris mused. "Go ahead and get it; who gives a shit?"
"No, I won't, 'cause you're simply not worth it. This is too hot a day to exert the tremendous effort required to give you the sound, thorough licking you've so long been itching for and so properly deserve."
"Too, too true, Sylvia darling," Doris cooed, in total agreement with her. "And besides, I think the bruise looks real cute. I rather like it, as it becomes me."
"Yes indeed, bruises sure do become the likes of you, dearie. You should be locked up in some dark, dank dungeon and scourged periodically several times a day."
"Sounds real interesting and exciting, I think."
"Oh, you," Sylvia gasped, all but choking, "you're utterly impossible."
"Not really - not if I get my way and people please me."
"In order to achieve that objective, we must all be transformed into wild animals and lurking, raging jungle-beasts."
"That's not a bad idea, either."
"Well, fuck you, dearie. 'Cause you're not making any wildcat out of me - if that's your intention:
Which it certain, in all truth was, Doris noted raptly.
But Sylvia had already spun around and turned on her heels, leaving the room and Doris in a storm, the latter still in her provocative naked stance in front of the mirror ...
* * *
Doris watched her go, a speculative glint shining from her wild cat's eyes:
Poor Sylvia, she reflected. Poor dear!
How evil and wicked of her, flaunting her enticing bantam-golden entity in front of her roomie every chance she got, and now having the colossal gall to jerk herself off in front of her - or at least in the process of culmination -with the tell-tale creamy maiden-juice splayed all over her thighs and bedding.
Why did she do it? What Devil inside her compelled her to do so?
Actually, it wasn't that. It was purely Sylvia, herself, who brought the orneriness out of her. That was the real nut in the proverbial shell - sweet and salty, conjointly.
This gave Doris a big edge over Sylvia, who was her actual superior at the office, and could get her fired at will - at least, before John Kimberly, the big boss, got a big yen for her saucy ass and realized he could fuck the shit out of her from time to time whenever the mood so seized him.
But regardless, Sylvia was still Doris' irrefutable superior at the office, made more money than she did, and was thereby afforded a natural dignity. So, with these antics of hers, Doris sort of compensated for her feeling of inferiority and cut Sylvia Pierce down to her own size and menial station of life.
Truth to tell, Doris had a big advantage over Sylvia in the emotional department, which made her feel superior, and Doris enjoyed feeling superior - even if she was a devout Masochist!
Sure, she was superior to Sylvia. At the age of 25, she knew the whole score - had fucked, sucked, taken it up the ass and hot her saucy tail cut by countless handsome, virile men -- which could even permit her to add a few notes of her own that most girls weren't even cognizant of.
While Sylvia, on the other hand, was probably still a virgin. Many a time, Doris chided and jeered her about it:
"What are you doing, darling, pickling it?" Or: "Are you saving your precious cherry until you die, to feed it to the maggots and worms?"
Sylvia would get on her high-horse, acting cool, aloof and haughty and strive her utmost to ignore such needling remarks. But, she was hurt; they took their toll and had their effect, making Doris feeling guilty almost at once, and wishing, more than anything, that Sylvia would make good her often reiterated threat, get her strap, and lash her bare, saucy bottom until she couldn't sit down and was utterly hysterical.
But assuming that Sylvia Pierce still was a virgin, at 28, this would sure make her a rare specimen, indeed, among girls who were on their own and had been in the big city of New York for any appreciable length of time - so rare, in fact, that she should have been placed in one of those sealed glass cases for ancient relics found in some museum.
Oh, to be sure, there was a basic reason behind Sylvia's alleged virginity. Doris knew all about Sylvia - in fact, about all the Sylvia's - and particularly this Sylvia:
The real charge of it was, that Sylvia didn't know anything about herself, really; that's what made it such a big kick for Doris to perennially taunt her.
She didn't know, for example, that she was a latent aggressive-Lesbian! If she did, she surely would have had a real shit-hemorrhage!
Oh, to be sure, Sylvia might have had faint glimmerings of suspicion about her inner-motives from time to time. However, Sylvia was one of those ultra-rigid, deeply repressed creatures who was so inhibited, that she fought all of those kinds of suspicion to a complete standstill.
For example, when it came to men, Sylvia wouldn't stand still long enough to let a man touch her. But, Sylvia would stand still when it came to taking some sassy back-talk from either Doris or some other menial girl-worker at the office. Paradoxically, this type usually sublimated her latent desires toward her own sex by being a real bitch on wheels and a virtual tyrant around the office to all of those workers who were beneath her station. But apparently, this wasn't enough to appease Sylvia; it wasn't sufficient.
For Doris, who was her permanent room-mate, it had been real fun going out on a couple of double-dates and watching poor, futile, helpless Sylvia Pierce in action - or inaction, depending on how you looked at it:
Sylvia had more defenses for a pass made from a male at her than any professional football-tackle ever did. In fact, the only time a fellow got to touch her at all without any opposition was when he helped her on with her coat.
It was truly amazing, Doris found:
Sylvia could gaze at a real nice-looking, big-cocked male-stud as if he were a bushel-basket full of worms.
On the other hand, Doris often caught Sylvia surreptitiously gazing at her -- as if her unconscious was speaking for her and compelling her to gaze -- and not as if Doris was a basket of worms, either:
Far from it!
Poor perpetually tomboyish Sylvia, not wanting to admit it to herself the way she really was 'way-down-deep' -- as if there were something wrong with it in the first place:
Oh, Hell, if a girl didn't dig going to bed with men and let them wildly fuck her, she should try her luck with her own fair sex. It was as simple as that, in Doris' view:
Women were just about the only thing left for a girl like Sylvia -- unless she wanted to try her luck with animals and see how it was with them. However, Doris doubted it; she felt absolutely certain that a conscience-ridden creature such as Sylvia would rather die first.
So what precisely did Sylvia Pierce do then for an outlet for having fun and games?
She was forever the silent sufferer, of course -- the modern-day version of Joan of Arc:
Sylvia was the kind of chick who preferred a book to a look, a movie on TV to a groovy scene on a real couch with some hot guy's hand up her dank, juicy snatch, a walk in the park to a bed in the dark, really swinging and making the bed-springs whine and creak stridently.
No, Sylvia Pierce never got her feet off the ground -- or, for that matter, on it - and not because she was a bad-looking chick either, who had a complex over her looks.
No, basically Sylvia had the rough-makings of a very interesting-looking gal, if she would only make adroit use of certain female-basics. Then again, she was afraid to; doing that might attract men, who would then not be so easily denied, but might even grow urgent and persistent in their Caveman-advances.
In totality and essence, Doris thought that the whole situation was pretty ludicrous, because, in her view, there was nothing wrong with putting on a padded bra, (a pair of "Gay-Pretenders," as it was called) if Mother Nature hadn't supplied that particular endowment generously enough, to make a chick's pair of tits stand up, so that men would sit up and take notice.
Or, if a gal didn't have a big enough can, to add padding there, too. If it was too big, on the other hand, a good girdle or garter-belt would always take it in and make it jut out and appear curvy.
Specifically, in Sylvia's case, she had a boyish figure, which, in some circles would have been considered highly fashionable, svelte and even real chick. As a matter-of-fact, this type of figure -- especially with Sylvia's long, curvy, adolescently-girlish legs -- was actually in the vogue today and even in preference, both as a modal and with the opposite sex of the new generation, although, the more rambunctious type, such as a Brenda Courtney, for example, seemed to be making a real comeback of late in the modeling-circles.
Or, if Sylvia chose to play it another way, in still other circles, she would have even considered to be quite sexy. If she dressed differently - more up-to-date and knew how to adroitly use makeup -- she could actually have looked quite stunning. Her total figure wasn't at all that bad, either; she had a nice, tightly rounded, even somewhat bouncy ass, and those long, slim but sufficiently curvy, school-girlish legs, to round the behind out.
More specifically, Sylvia Pierce was a sort of hard and calloused version of Mary Tyler Moore, having an analogous cameo-shaped face, rather capricious features, with wide but thin lips and buck-teeth which were, somehow, as with the celebrated TV-actress, surprisingly flattering in the total facial-context, long, naturally wavy raven-black hair, and radiant gleaming olives for eyes, the latter feature giving her just a touch of the Oriental-Eurasian look.
Again, as with Mary Tyler Moore, Sylvia's lips seemed to be perennially puckered up into a pout -- as if she was always ready, willing and able to either lap a cunt or give some lucky guy a real keen blow-job.
As had been pointed out before, while Sylvia's tits and ass were rather small compared to other girls, particularly Doris, herself, who was so much more rambunctiously endowed and bouncy, nevertheless all of her strategic-endowments were ample enough in accordance with her pretty-boy kind of figure. Her legs were, by far, her outstanding asset to entice men, but she had a nice, neat, lilting ass, too, and Persian melons with fuzzy red raspberries for tits.
She wasn't the sort of chick that men particularly wanted to get wild with and play the Caveman-role. Rather, she was the type that brought out the reverence to place her high up on a pedestal, get down on one's bended knees, and lap her cunt all day long. And the more standoffish and peevish she would react, the more the men who went for this type would get excited, to continue his licking, lapping and Frenching, grimly determined to melt her cool exterior away and make her love it -- even beg for more!
Personality-wise, Sylvia Pierce wasn't so bad, really. She was the sort of gal who got along well with men, at least on a purely Platonic-basis, and could even count on many of them as her friend. She could take a joke and hold down her drinks and even curse with the best of any man. It was only when they started going for her tits and precious pussy that she started to react contrary and it became manifest.
Furthermore, she had a sort of eclectic of half-childish, half self-righteous and indignant personality, which came through as a blend of being appealing and effervescent, simultaneously.
Then, at 28, when most gals were considered an old-maid, being thin and dark, Sylvia was one of those fortunate types who didn't look her age; she could have just as well been in her late teens or early twenties, and nobody would be any the wiser.
Mary Tyler Moore, whom Sylvia most closely approximated, could be taken as the epitome as the perfect example of such a type: She must be either in her late thirties or even early forties by now, Doris mused, yet she still managed to effect that certain child-like, innocent, school-girlish quality about her, which was so vitally appealing and refreshing.
But getting back to Sylvia herself, everything considered, she hadn't turned out quite so badly, Doris had to concede, considering her early home environment:
Sylvia hailed from Boston. Her folks were a strict, rigid, Puritanical family who were devout and fatalistic Calvinists:
Her father whaled her bare bottom with either a hard hairbrush or a razor-strop upon the slightest provocation -- indeed, just as Doris' own father had whaled her.
But worse yet, having wanted a boy, with two other girls preceding Sylvia, her father treated her like one, so that poor Sylvia, along with her own natural masculine -tendencies provided by her genes, psychologically wanted to step into his shoes and be just like him -- a big and successful business-executive -- which could surely account for her turning out to be one, even if it was in such a shoddy, shady operation as Bondage Slave Girls', Inc.
As for Doris, all that was on her mind at the moment, was to coax Sylvia into giving her a bath, so she could indulge in a little hanky-panky, which she hoped, ultimately would lead to a full Lesbian enmeshment -- "stinky-fingers," the application of the dildo by Sylvia, and the Frenching of her precious twat -- the whole insidious, nefarious, bit!..
"I need a bath and need it badly," Doris grumbled when Sylvia Pierce got up sufficient nerve to re-enter the room:
Sylvia made an audible grimace, finding, to her utter distaste, that Doris was just as naked and gooey with her scum as ever. She thought that she still might have sufficient decorum and pride left to tidy up a bit. But apparently not; that simply wasn't meant to be Doris Marlin's style.
Aloud, in a voice that expressed her keen annoyance with the other girl, Sylvia retorted grimly:
"So go ahead and take it, then. Who's stopping you?"
"I would, only I'm too lazy, Sylvia darling," Doris fairly cooed and purred like a cajoling little kitten -- indeed, the sex-kitten that she really was.
"Very well, then. You just lay there in that vomit of a mess you've made and suffer. See if I care or give a good shit!"
"But the mess bothers you far more than it does me, Sylvia darling, being the Bohemian-Beatnik at heart that I am. So, could you give it to me, huh?" she tried coaxing now in a whining but still kittenish-purring voice.
"I could, dearie, but I won't!" Sylvia snapped back at her in reply.
"Why not? Why are you so mean, anyway?" Doris pouted naughtily and maliciously.
"For several quite pertinent reasons, dearie ..."
"Oh? Such as?" Doris dangled the bait and led her on.
"Well, for one thing, it's too hot and humid a day to exert myself for the likes of a wicked, naughty child such as you who still jerks herself off at the age of 25."
"What else?"
"I know your tricks by now, dearie. I let you coax me into giving you a bath and you'll surely indulge in your usual hanky-panky; that's for sure!"
"But I won't, Sylvia darling," Doris whined tremulously, valiantly trying to win her point at all cost. "I promise."
"A lot of good your promises are worth, dearie," Sylvia mocked. "You promised countless times before, too, and you made your hanky-panky each and every time."
"But I won't this time; I promise," Doris reiterated, whining more tremulously and even pathetically than ever.
Then abruptly, as if some strange Black Magic had been worked over her - perhaps her unconscious mind with its turbulent id, Doris calculated - Sylvia changed her mind, rationalizing aloud:
"Well, perhaps I'd better give you a bath at that. Otherwise, you'll continue to lay there all day, stinking like some rotten fish in a dilapidated old market, or some faulty out-house."
"Precisely!" Doris exclaimed, joyously and triumphantly. "I sure will, Sylvia darling, otherwise."
"Very well," Sylvia sighed, tiredly and resignedly, "I'D go in the bathroom and get the tub ready for you."
"Wow, okay! I'll be ready whenever you send for me, Sylvia darling."
"That I know," she terminated the discussion to a pointed, bitter note, once again walking from the room, but this time, on her intended mission and the "task" which Doris had imposed upon her ...
* * *
While Sylvia was gone, in the ensuing interim, Doris speculated on what she was going to do afterward -- exactly what was at least tentatively on her agenda for a prospective evening of pleasure.
She would go down to the Village and see if Terry Whitman or anyone she vaguely knew were hanging around any of the expresso-joints and/or the park.
Terry, in particular, might have some pot, besides giving her a good, sound mellow fuck.
Of course, she ran the risk that he might get rough with her -- whip her saucy ass -- violate and bruise her precious body. He might even turn her over for a gang-bang, to be in the good graces of the other Bohemians he knew and sold pot to; that would be a good selling-point.
Very well, Doris speculated, granting the ultimate worst to come to pass -- although she knew she was running far ahead of herself and actuality - so what? In her heart of hearts, she knew that she'd love it - each and every minute of it -- be thrilled to the quick and cream all over the place like mad!
So why worry, then?
The answer obviously was, she shouldn't.
Of course, she silently cautioned herself not to tell Sylvia anything about her plan while she was with her in the bathroom. Otherwise, she might get on her high-horse and refrain from giving her the prospective scintillating bath, and Doris didn't want that to happen for anything.
Then too, Doris wanted to keep herself flexible, so that she could change her plans in mid-stream, if she could ever soften Sylvia up sufficiently - get her to realize her inner self - swoon and be carried away in a frantic Lesbian involvement with Doris. In that case, she would be most willing to spend the entire evening at home.
However, that was purely fantasy and wish-fulfillment at this stage of the game. Sylvia still needed a thorough conditioning and softening-up process, brought to pass by Doris' various strategical-tactical maneuvers before she would reach such a libidinal-brink:
Just then, with perfect timing - as if by some mutually prearranged form of mental-telepathy - Sylvia was calling for her ...
Chapter 5
It was a relatively long drive, Brenda Courtney found, taking well over a half an hour for them to get there - in the very heart of Harlem. But finally, handsome Don Maxwell brought his luxurious cream-colored limousine to a smooth, gliding halt on a side-street directly adjacent to historic Amsterdam Avenue:
This street -- or even alley as one might call it -- was ultra-dark, seemed hush-quiet and totally deserted. But still and all, it was quite conventional, and could hardly be called a swinging Bohemian kind of atmosphere.
The building at the end of it had a bar downstairs with a blinking red and green neon-sign which must have been quite ancient, and only a few people could be discerned through the misty, dusty window pane at the bar. The building, itself, was quite decrepit, but Brenda had seen worse in her time.
Don led her in the front entrance, a double-door beside the store window, and Brenda found herself inside a narrow dimly lit hallway with a rickety, creaky stairs winding upwards. Don had used a key on the front door, but now he pressed a buzzer on the hall wall -- the highest one in a row - and then they began to climb:
Three whole flights!
The stairs creaked stridently beneath their feet, and heavy musty smells seemed to emerge from the soiled, greasy-grimed and often even cracked, open walls which bared the very plaster underneath - like so much congealed chalk.
By the time they reached the highest level, Brenda was feeling somewhat dizzy and out-of-focus. Don rapped lightly on the door. After a few minutes, a voice within said:
"Yes. Who is it?"
Don identified himself.
The door opened:
Brenda got only a vague, even hazy impression of the person who let them in. Everything was velvety dark inside. They were in a medium-sized room, and she could see into other rooms - all equally dark, except for strange and eerie orange and red light -- coming from small-wattage colored bulbs in occasional old-fashioned wall-fixtures:
Nothing was at all clear; everything seemed blurred, misty and abstract - indeed, just like the person was who had opened the door:
He exchanged a few mumbled words with Don, and then vanished into the front rooms. The distinct and inimitable aroma of burning incense wafted back from these rooms to the sensitive nostrils of her nose, along with the undertone of a faintly tinged odor which was somewhat different from the incense, but which she thought she recognized:
Marijuana?
Brenda couldn't even be sure of that!
The room they were in was empty, but she had the intuitive impression that there were other people milling about -- like transparent ghosts in a wild mad dream.
"We'll go in here, sugar," Don exclaimed amiably, breaking in on her rapt, dreamy mood, indicating a closed door off to her left.
He opened it for her, and they went in ...
* * *
As it turned out, the room was a bedroom, after a fashion. That is, it had a bed, which was, in reality, a low, square backless sofa and/or couch, and a chipped white enamel bureau with a cracked mirror. However, there was nothing else existent that would identify it as anyone's bedroom particularly:
It was just a bedroom!
Even this room was dim, Brenda found, in direct keeping with the same curious orange-red light that she had glimpsed in the other rooms, coming from a little lamp on a tiny wrought-iron black stand at one end of the bed. The one window there was bare but opaque -- as though the panes had been painted over, and was open just a crack at the bottom -- the little wisp of air it gave forth cracking her across the face like a whip by comparison with the muggy, musty, foul air that was prevalent throughout the entire place.
Don took off his coat and hung it up on a peg on the back of the door. His pants, which he neatly and meticulously folded crease-to-crease, soon followed in its wake, slightly below it, on another peg, leaving him in the sharpest pair of bright multi-colored shorts that Brenda, except on male-homosexuals in the Village, had ever seen on a man, which also accentuated his long, sleek coffee-colored, strong and muscular, even if they were lithe and graceful, legs:
She had to hand it to him, Brenda mused:
He was a real quick, smooth worker. He had deliberately taken off his pants - with malice afore-thought - lest she chicken out and change her mind:
Indeed, as if reading that very mind of hers, he uttered, quite amiably:
"Relax, sugar plum. Nobody's goin' to jump out of the woodwork and get at you, now."
Brenda tittered nervously at this:
Truth to tell, the whole place did give her the creeps, and she had to admit to herself that she had been speculating about the possibility of something like that happening -- such as a big rat scurrying out of there -- ramming up her leg, into her precious twat, and taking a great, big hunk of a bite out of it!
With such an awesome image in mind, being so vivid and real in her present surroundings, Brenda shuddered and convulsed involuntarily:
Of course, the whole idea was silly, really, she now endeavored to rationalize:
After all, he had locked the door after them, obviously knew the place - its whole setup - and precisely what he was doing.
Don extracted a sharp-looking platinum cigarette-case from out of the inside-pocket of his hung-up suit-jacket.
In the interim, Brenda had sat down on the edge of the bed, to wait passively and nervously.
He came over to her and sat down beside her:
"Smoke?" he queried, flipping the case deftly open with the adroit use of his thumb and index fingers.
Silently, Brenda reached for a cigarette, took one, and immediately discovered that they were not akin to ordinary cigarettes at all -- not the ones in the side of the case he held, proffered toward her:
They were long and thin, and tightly rolled little tubes of some kind of tobacco which smelled sickeningly-fragrant and aromatic when she sniffed hers.
"It's pot, honey," he explained softly and quietly - like a patient pedant who was bent on tutoring his favorite pupil. "You've been turned-on before, haven't you, chick?"
Brenda felt mentally-confused. Truthfully, she didn't know quite how to answer that one:
She had seen marijuana cigarettes before and even smoked part of one at a party she had attended, but that had been some time ago now, and she hadn't noticed any undue or unusual effect from it on that occasion, as she vaguely recollected the incident. So, technically, she had smoked it, although she still didn't exactly know what he meant by that term "being turned-on:"
"Yes," she said tersely but declaratively, thereby settling the little debate transpiring in her already clouded mind.
"That's cool, honey - real cool, like," he said, quite happily. "And I dig sharp, hip chicks."
"Oh, really?" Brenda retorted, feeling rather elated. "I'm glad," she said, most sincerely and warmly - as if he had just bestowed upon her the extravagant compliment that she was the most beautiful doll in the whole wide World.
"But doncha worry none, you hear? This tea will really make you flip, sugar plum. It will turn you on with gas!"
Saying that, with a condescending flourish, he proceeded to light the cigarette for her with the flame from his also platinum matching-lighter dancing wickedly with its orange, yellow and blue pointed tongue.
For her own part, Brenda dragged away shakily and nervously, coughing on the dry, harsh-tasting smoke, and quickly handed it back to him:
Now he seemed a bit sore and peeved with her:
"Hold it down, honey," he exclaimed indignantly. "This stuffs too good to waste. You dig me, chick?"
He then proceeded to render a practical demonstration for her:
He took a long, deep, sucking drag, doing so as if he were sucking on a straw, then locking it down with a swallow and holding it until she thought he would burst a blood-vessel, his face getting so red and the cheeks blown up.
He then handed the cigarette back to her, still miraculously holding his breath, the long red ash hot:
Brenda did her best to emulate him, with much more success this time:
It hit her like a lightning-bolt, or comparable to running flush and solidly into a brick wall; it hit her like a fist in her flat-lined tummy -- a solid ball of excruciating feeling in her solar-plexus -- a huge hand wrapping its strong, powerful tentacles around her soft, soggy brain:
"Oh, oh, oh-hhh," she moaned aloud. "Oh God!"
Don tittered knowingly at this:
"This stuff ain't cut with nothin', sugar plum. It's pure tea -- the very best. You must have been smokin' some old cut-down stuff before, huh?"
This contentation was true, Brenda reflected: She had never felt anything like this before, or any sensation the least bit comparable to it. Her very limbs turned to lead one after another, another most cautious drag, and the growing feeling of the inability to control her assorted motor-responses utterly terrified her:
Even speech became more thick, difficult and erratic:
"I-I c-can't ... g-get ... up-ppp," she groaned, her words seeming to drag themselves out of her entity, her voice itself alien and disembodied from her.
His laughter was harsh, yet smooth and silken, as he cracked benignly:
"What you want to get up for, sugar plum? That's my department, and, believe me, honey chile, I'm as up as I'll ever be; my cock is fairly jumpin' outa my pants by now. And besides, the scene we're goin' to make is goin' to happen right here - on this very couch!"
Now, Brenda was really confused:
She didn't know if she wanted it to happen or not. She had a yen for that great big black licorice-stick -- that mighty hot rod of his -- but, at the same time, it sort of repulsed her and made her fearful.
Then too, this terrible loss of control over .her personal-being really terrified her. All at once, she was cast into a strange world -- a virtual alien planet -- where every little sound became magnified, strident and cacophonic; where her thoughts seemed jerky, moody and meaningless right after she reflected them; where the slightest movement on her part was a supreme effort.
No, Brenda didn't like this state of affairs -- didn't like it, nohow!
As if reading her mind again, he exclaimed, gently, soothingly and even hypnotically: "Relax, sugar plum ... Don't fight it, and it won't fight you."
Saying that, he put his arm around her and brought his lips close to one of her delicately formed ears:
"Just take it easy - nice and slow, like - and you can do anything you want to. What's the sense of moving all fast and frantic, anyway, especially in this infernal Summer-heat? So just be cool and relax; take it real slow, Eke."
His coaxing-tactics apparently worked, because Brenda did begin to relax a little. His hand was now deftly moving over her back and circling under her rib-cage. She let herself lean against him a bit, his voice and touch having succeeded in semi-hypnotizing her.
"You feel cool now, honey?" he inquired of her softly.
"Yes," she nodded her head affirmatively.
"Crazy, honey," he exclaimed, quite jubilantly, "real crazy, like. Just don't go and get really nuts, chick, and nothin' will happen that you don't want to happen. Catch on; you dig me, huh?"
She thought about that as he eased her back on the couch, already in the process of undressing her. Wherever he touched and rubbed her, his hands felt both sensuous and animated:
"Nothin' will happen that you don't want to happen!" His recent words went around and around in her weary, benumbed brain, somehow making incredible sense. The words were profound, deep and ultra-logical - the utmost sense ...
* * *
All at once, a most strange metamorphosis seemed to come over Brenda:
No longer did she feel his magical-touch as such at all. Rather, it was as if she were disembodied altogether -- an abstract entity -- floating in outer space or hanging in mid-air, in suspended-animation, in a Yogi-like trance, and all of her clothes seemed to leave her passionate body as if they were doing so voluntarily, with a will completely of their own, so expert was he in peeling her down.
It was only when she was stark naked that she reflected her state of nudity with a little series of spasmodic chills and the abrupt realization hit her at once:
It was crazy -- real crazy.
"Nothing will happen that you don't want to happen!" she reiterated his words.
But, it seemed, she wanted it to happen, because her entire body was now in heat, having given way and melted to the preceding one of convulsive chills:
Her tits panted and heaved, her tummy felt queasy and shaky, and her entire structure twisted and turned invertedly, with keen anticipation at what was to come:
Yes, yes - oh, yes - she wanted that great big black licorice-stick of his inside of her. She wanted it in far, wanted it in deep, wanted it in forever and ever more. She did, she did - she surely, surely DID!
Not taking any chances and quick to follow up the advantage he had so painstakingly won, Don swarmed all over her at once but easily and gracefully, with his animated hands, his strong, surging body, but mostly with a long and thick, hot and quivering, most activated tongue:
He was in the direct process of swabbing her with it -- giving her a thorough tongue-bath from head-to-toe -- and Brenda convulsed and swooned with rapture accordingly.
As with everything concerned with the periphery of emotions, he seemed to naturally lick and lap out a girl real well:
Before going down to her more private parts, he focused on her rising and falling melons for tits, her velvety-smooth flat-lined tummy and her long, strong, gracefully curvaceous legs, licking and lapping away with long, bold, darting strokes - without the least bit of inhibition whatsoever.
Brenda, doing her very best from becoming too heated and frantic and thereby really flipping, was meditating - as if she were the cold, objective philosopher - reflecting for all of her contemporaries and posterity to faithfully record what was presently happening to her:
It was as though some great big black panther had cornered its favorite species of prey and was toying with it - licking and lapping at it to derive keen fore pleasure -before eating it all up and devouring it utterly.
However, he didn't want to eat her up, as such; he only wanted to do so figuratively and not literally. He merely wanted to stick that great big black licorice-stick of his into her hot, itchy, juicy twat and give her a good, sound, really mellow fuck - which suited Brenda ideally:
Funny thing about Don Maxwell, she was to come to learn in the ultimate sense, when she really got to know him:
He was a guy who was truly hip. He would and could indulge in any and every perversion: Without batting so much as an eye-lash, he could French a girl, whip her ass mercilessly or fuck her in it. However, underneath it all and paradoxically, he didn't go for any of these nuances, as such; he didn't really dig them. Rather, they were purely a means to an end, instead of any end in and by themselves, such as they surely were with a lot of other guys she had known. So, in the final analysis, Brenda had to categorize him as a straight-laced cat, even if he was hip!
Then abruptly, all of her thought-processes were totally obliterated for her as he reached her private parts with that most activated, lethal, quivering hot asp of a tongue of his:
He swabbed her in the front - directly on and in the twat. He swabbed her in the back - flush in her tight, little reddish-brown ass-hole. But, whenever he swabbed her, he worked his thick, heavy tongue like a virtual cork-screw, making her almost go loco in the koko, she swooned so:
Brenda screeched tremulously, twisting, turning and writhing in excruciating pangs of agonized ecstasy, the state of tumescence was so intense and strong.
He kept after her tenaciously and relentlessly, turning her to and fro - this way and that; and whichever way he turned her, that human cork-screw was at work - twisting and turning, off and on -- to the innermost crevices and infinite depth of her throbbing being:
So it was, that after awhile, Brenda felt as if she were a piece of raw poultry that was placed on a barbecue-spit, being plucked, basted and roasted - all at the same time -as his animated hands and surging body were also at work in a dire effort to bring her to a definite brink. He wanted her to ask him for it from herself; he actually wanted her to beg for it - and she finally did:
"Oh, please, Don darling," she cajoled with him tremulously, "take me already. I'm so hot, I think I'm going to burst open inside. Fuck me - please fuck me. Fuck me hard; don't be gentle or afraid to hurt me with that great big, wonderful, manly prick of yours. Fuck me to death, if you want, only fuck me, fuck me - oh, fuck me-eee - and fuck me real quick."
"Yeah, baby, yeah!" he acknowledged, intoning softly. "Will do. Only, not so fast; don't be so frantic. Keep it cool -and slow, like."
"But, I don't want it that way anymore," she protested vociferously. "I want it hard and quick; I want it now."
"All right, chick, all right," he feigned annoyance. "Your wish is my command, dig? But at least give me a chance to get my shorts off; all right?"
"Uh-huh. But, hurry!"
"Will do."
Don stood up erect and quickly stepped out of his fancy shorts. He didn't bother taking off either his white undershirt or socks:
That sure was funny, Brenda mused, as the white undershirt contrasted so sharply with the black tincture of his skin above and below.
All at once, the marked contrast afforded was forgotten, as Brenda got a squint of that mighty cock of his for the first time:
My God, what a tool the thing was, she reflected with sheer incredulity:
As she had anticipated, it wasn't at all thick. However, it more than made up for it in the dimension of length, being a virtual short mop-handle and/or full-length policeman's club. It seemed as hard as a rock, with the small balls also being hard, with little wires for bristly hairs attractively surrounding them, making them appear like two miniature coconuts on top of an also miniature tree:
"My God," she finally exclaimed, "don't tell me you expect to stick a big stove-pipe like that into poor little me?"
"I sure do, honey," he retorted sweetly.
"But, how?"
"You'll find out, soon enough, now, sugar plum." Then saying that, he came over to her, got astride and proceeded to mount her ...
* * *
Brenda was already propped up in dire expectancy, to take his weight and try and accommodate his enormous torpedo-like looking cock in the depth of her juicy twat. She would have parted the folds of the lips with her hands, only she was too numb to do so; she felt paralyzed with utter inertia. Nevertheless, the entire cunt was naturally cupped, anyway -- indeed, just as it had been back on the dance-floor, with all of her clothes still on.
Then he was taking his cock by the middle of the shaft with both hands, slowly but surely gliding and sliding and working it in to her depth. He didn't find it hard getting in, either, since her snatch was already thoroughly dank and wet with the juices of pre-secretion, which he himself had been largely responsible for working up by the intense excitement he had perpetrated just previously as direct fore-play.
When he was more than halfway in, which he felt was sufficient to keep from falling out, his long, strong, lithe frame began to rise and fall, slowly, easily and gracefully. As he gathered ever more and more momentum and leverage with his thrusts, his cock kept falling in deeper and further with each and every stroke -- until it was all the way in -- as far and deep as it could only go:
At first, Brenda swooned with joy and delirium when she felt the hard hot-rod make such direct contact with her hot, itchy, juicy pussy. But as he drove all the way in with his savage thrusts, she began to feel pulverized -- not only as if it were falling to the very depth of her womb, but indeed, as if somehow, it was being lodged all the way up and into and through the very palate of her parched throat - thereby preventing her from involuntarily crying out, the sharp, stabbing pain of his harshly rubbing dick being so incomprehensibly severe!
He kept pumping away, until he worked up a definite rhythm and cadence. Once he achieved the tempo he wanted and felt most comfortable with, he sustained it.
All at once, the funniest thing began to happen to Brenda. She no longer felt the stabbing pain from the proverbial lance at all, as such. It was as if she had been given a huge dose of Novocain, so that she could hear and feel it thud, even, but it didn't actually hurt her:
The tom-tom was pounding in her head, rhythmically and hauntingly; he -- Don Maxwell, her erstwhile drummer-boy, was playing it -- beating it out. All sorts of tunes went through her head, which were direct recollections of the records she had previously heard emanating from the juke-box:
But regardless, whether it was slow or fast, Cool Jazz or Hot, with or without a vocalist, the same tempo throbbed through her whole being steadily and continuously, making it throb then convulse: The various records haunted her, and so did his cock - that persistent improvised tom-tom of his.
Suddenly, he was on the brink of tumescence, and the tempo increased. He was beating her with his cock now -whipping her and driving away. Beating, beating, beating her with it - as though it were some Sadistic policeman giving her a sound going-over.
Instinctively, Brenda tried to grip his sides with her strong thighs to slow him down a bit. But he was not to be denied, working right inside them like an expert boxer -whipping, driving away and thrusting savagely into her thoroughly dank, soggy cunt.
Funny too, her entire entity from his tongue-bath was as slippery as a wet seal and kept trying to wiggle and squirm away underneath him, so that she felt all wet both inside and out:
Brenda then got the imagery of being a mermaid in a mighty ocean during a ferocious storm, tossing and turning helplessly this way and that, as the high, rough waves did as they pleased with her, and she could only hope to hold on to wither the storm - to ride with it, so to speak - until it eventually calmed down.
Each time he rammed her with his cock now, he creamed in a little spurt, and so did she, echoing him.
And he kept right on pumping away and creaming, and so did she, echoing him with her curvaceous entity that was naturally writhing, twisting and even squirming up and into his.
He kept right on coming and coming and coming, seemingly never to stop - and again, so did she, even when her entire snatch was all irritated, chafed and sore.
He was a virtual geyser - a perpetual Fountain of Youth. Once he started coming, he seemed to never get done popping off; those miniature coconuts of his apparently contained an inexhaustible supply of freshly curdled milk.
Finally, the inevitable happened: He trailed and petered off, and so did she, although the precious maiden-juice from her delectable honeybun of a cunt still ebbed, trickled and flowed even in this -- the aftermath! ...
* * *
When it was all over, he grinned knowingly as he asked of her:
"Well, sugar plum, how was it, huh? Was it good?"
"Oh yes," she quickly and brightly replied.
"How good?" he prodded her on still more.
"Oh, very, very good - the best - the best I've ever had; honest, Don," she answered, most joyfully and sincerely.
"I'm glad, chick; I'm pleased that I really satisfied you."
"How about another round later on, to try and repeat the performance, huh?"
"Uh-uh. Nix on that jive."
"But, why?"
" 'Cause I already got my nuts off twice tonight with you, doll -- once here, in bed, and once back on that there dance-floor. So I know me: Two is the absolute limit for this boy; he ain't worth a good shit after that, nohow!"
"Oh, too bad," she sighed, trying to hide her keen sense of disappointment ...
* * *
Later on in life, when she had more experience to make a direct comparison between Negroes and Puerto-Ricans, she realized that Don Maxwell was typical of his race:
A Negro could throw much the better fuck or two; it was far more satisfying to a girl. Whereas, the Puerto-Rican could keep jabbing and stabbing away at it all day and all night long, without hardly any time out to eat, sleep or work.
Why, a Puerto-Rican even was at the girl when he was trying to catch his breath, between intervals of fucking.
Brenda remembered one time when she had seen a Puerto-Rican couple with their brood of children in Central Park. While the children were playing with each other, so were the parents -- right there on the very grass. A big, fat brown tit was out and the husband and/or lover was trying to eat it up as he shoved his cock into the big, black hairy bush of her snatch.
One of the kids - he couldn't have been anymore than seven or eight - had inadvertently come upon them when chasing after a ball. He stopped in his tracks to observe his parents. Then a slow grin began to spread across his lips -- as young as he was - as though it was the most natural thing in the World for a boy of his age to see.
And the parents saw him, too, but kept right on making love and fucking -- seemingly not giving a good shit -- or too carried away with their passion to try and desist.
In any event, Brenda Courtney would never forget the little incident for as long as she lived; it was so very typical:
So, in conclusion, she found, that while a Negro could give a girl a much better fuck once or twice around, a Puerto-Rican was much better for wear-and-tear and sustained effort over a single evening of humping-bliss.
But Don Maxwell was so good, it didn't really matter to her.
Then again, she could console herself, as there was always tomorrow to look forward to.
Yes, tomorrow would come, and so would he and she.
However, little did Brenda realize, that along with tomorrow, the best was still yet to come from him, namely: that he would ultimately use her saucy, curvy behind for a human tom-tom at a bizarre jam-session, then stick that incredibly long licorice-stick of his up her ass, to really ream her and make her have the biggest, hottest shit of her whole life!
Yes, little did Brenda Courtney realize precisely what was to come for her from him.
Little did she REALIZE! ...
Chapter 6
The bathroom - was ultra-modern, with a sunken streamlined tub and sink - a bright lime and white checkered motif - with shining chrome faucets and appointments:
Indeed, in Doris Marlin's view, it was, by far, the most exquisite room in the entire apartment which she shared together with sultry Sylvia Pierce, and, of course, the most useful!
In the interval which had transpired, Sylvia had made all the necessary prerequisites:
She had filled up the streamlined tub three-quarters of the way to the top with a mixture of hot and cold water, that came out tepid - hike-warm - and just right for the imminent bath of Doris:
Besides which, Sylvia had sprinkled in a generous, even abundant amount of some expensive French bath-salts, with dreamy and yet invigorating-smelling lilac-overtones. She wanted to make extra sure that sensuous Doris not only became clean on her luscious person, but smelled clean, too.
As for her own person, Sylvia had removed her blouse and skirt, leaving her sheer, enticing pink under things on, but had hastily thrown over a light baby-pink terry-cloth bath-robe, which she had drawn together by carelessly sashing it.
As Doris stepped onto the oval-shaped, Indian-hand-made, multi-colored-pattern bath-mat placed in front of the tub, Sylvia held Doris' hand for her, so that she could maintain her proper balance - wouldn't slip and/or fall - upon entry:
"Get in, dearie," Sylvia whispered huskily, faintly but coaxingly.
"Yes, Sylvia darling," Doris acquiesced, just as softly.
Once she was in the tub, Doris found the temperature of the water to be just right and quickly became acclimated to it.
Slowly, Doris slumped down on her haunches, then just as slowly and carefully, sprawled out full-length, with Sylvia firmly gripping her hand all the time.
Sylvia had all of the paraphernalia she needed for her imposed chore, consisting of: a long-handled nylon scrubbing-brush, a fringed wash-cloth, and a cake of also expensive imported French soap:
"Very well, dearie," Sylvia sighed impersonally, "Give me your arms first."
"Yes, Sylvia darling," Doris agreed, simultaneously extending full-length out of the water one of her rounded, dimpled arms.
Sylvia went about lathering up the arms with long, neat, brisk but not too hard strokes, until they were thoroughly lathered up with an encased cluster of creamy foam from the soap.
Next, came the curvy, slightly bowed but most sexy gams. And while Sylvia did the front of them in an analogous manner to the arms, Doris sensed that she lingered a bit longer -- more caressingly and fondly -- bringing a faint involuntary trickle of a smile to her lips.
For the more delicate areas of her being -- such as her tits and tummy - Sylvia resorted to the wash-cloth to lather her up. And if she was a bit flustered at doing the front of the legs just a moment before, she was far more in a dither now, particularly as she cupped each breast in her left hand while she lathered it delicately and caressingly with the right one:
Doris knew that they appeared to poor, tormented Sylvia like two large white scoops of vanilla ice-cream, topped off with two ripe strawberries, unconsciously making her mouth water the way a hungry, thirsty kid's would, say, on a hot Summer-day at such an inviting sight.
Finally, Sylvia perpetrated several quick strokes with the wash-cloth around the tops of the shoulders and the dove-like throat, announcing as she finished:
"Very well, dearie, you're all lathered up in the front. Now turn over, on your tummy, so that I can do the rest of you - in the back," she directed, rather peremptorily, Doris felt:
"Yes, Sylvia darling," Doris obeyed, meekly and softly.
Once again, Sylvia quickly did the rest of the neck and across the top of the spine. Then she retrieved the long-handled scrubbing-brush, first lathered up the calves and the backs of the thighs of the delectably sexy gams, gliding down to the elfin-like ankles:
Doris felt sure that she heard her choke and gasp briefly for a split second as she did this.
Next, came, to Doris, the most soothing, and apart from any sexual connotations, the most enjoyable part of the lathering-up process of all -- rubbing her itchy, clammy back:
Sylvia did so most expertly, with long, soothing, caressing strokes that made virtual goose-pimples seep out and dance in delightful clusters all over Doris' given touched area of flesh.
Its effect was comparable to taking dope on ever sensuous Doris, and the more Sylvia did her back, the more it seemed to itch and the more she asked for it to be done.
While Sylvia was quite bushed from the hectic activity and heat of the day she had already endured, realizing just how much Doris liked and needed to have her back stroked, she valiantly tried to please her, rubbing away faster and harder, in direct accompaniment to Doris' squealing yelps and billowing coos of delight.
But finally reaching the end of her endurance and patience, when Doris asked for still more back-rubbing, Sylvia turned her down declaratively with:
"Enough is enough. That's all you're going to get, you naughty little creature."
"Oh, you're so mean," Doris pouted crossly. "You're so cru-elll to your dear little girl, Big Mama-O."
"Never mind that soft-soap shit, dearie," Sylvia barked, simultaneously rubbing both cheeks of the lilting behind briskly with the bristles of the scrubbing-brush, to get this, to her, most lethally-effective strategic-area lathered-up as quickly as humanly possible: "There," Sylvia announced. "Now you're all lathered-up, dearie on the back. So turn back over and soak for awhile."
"I won't," Doris announced, pouting more peevishly and crossly than ever. "I won't until you do my back and behind for a few more strokes or so."
"I said, turn around, dearie," exclaimed Sylvia, quite sternly.
"I won't, I won't, I WON'T!"
"Oh you won't, heh?" hissed Sylvia, with caustic, rhetorical scorn. "Well, we'll soon see about that, dearie. So I'm asking you for the last time: are you going to turn around or not?"
"I won't -- not until you do my back and the cheeks of my ass some more for me," replied Doris, still pouting, stubbornly stuck to her guns.
"Very well, dearie," Sylvia said mournfully but grimly. "Remember, you asked for it."
Then, saying that, Sylvia turned the scrubbing-brush upside-down and delivered four quick, sharp cracks to Doris' up thrust behind -- two spanks on each cheek.
Since Sylvia had never spanked her before, Doris, although she enjoyed such treatment, not at all expecting it, was caught completely by surprise:
She yelped with each and every spank, finally involuntarily rolling over just as Sylvia had wanted her to do in the first place, but, in doing so, splashing like a wet seal, getting gushes of water all over the still squatted-down figure of Sylvia:
She paid this no heed, apparently it bothering Sylvia Pierce about as much as water would annoy the average duck, because she was pleased that she got her way after all with the little Deviless who was Doris Marlin:
"Very well, dearie," she stated, "now that you're properly back and around -- in the correct position - soak, and soak real good. Do I make myself clear, huh?"
"Yes, Big Mama-O," Doris retorted, rather facetiously, which Sylvia instantly perceived its inference and sarcastic connotations:
"And anymore of your lip, Miss Impudence, and I swear, I'll turn you back over and beat your saucy bum so ferociously, that you'll be all black-and-blue, and surely won't be able to sit down for the better part of a whole week. Understand?"
Doris now decided it was the discreet time to change the subject, and, at the same time, give Sylvia at least a gentle hint of what she had in mind for later on that evening, so she couldn't call her "a rotten little sneak and double-crossing little cat" later:
"You know," Doris exclaimed coolly and casually, "I was with Terry last night."
"Terry, the terrible?" retorted Sylvia, most indignantly and scornfully.
"Uh-huh."
"So, what about him, dearie?"
"Really, I can't understand why you don't like him; he's such a groovy guy."
"That's all a matter of taste, and mine happens to differ with yours. To each his own," she ended on a trite philosophical-note."
"Well, at least you're being big about it now," commented Doris. "In any case, he's just back from Mexico, and he's got such a lovely sun-tan. You ought to see the tan he's got, Sylvia."
"No thanks. I can very well live without witnessing such a spectacle, dearie," she said, with the utmost sarcasm.
Doris tittered mirthfully, then added: "Really, you ought to see him, Sylvia. He looks just like a Mexican-peon now. And he sure was fun."
"I can just about imagine, judging by that livid black-and-blue mark on your thigh."
"Well, you shouldn't talk, really," Doris admonished, "seeing you just put some fresh ones on my saucy bum."
"Well, you deserved that."
"And how do you know that I also didn't deserve it with Terry?" Doris countered, feeling real sharp with her mind working over-time today.
"Because that mark wasn't made during the course of any chastisement, as such, or there would be a lot more of them, dearie. Rather, it was made when he resorted to Caveman-tactics."
Sylvia was even sharper, Doris had to silently concede to herself, feeling she was definitely coming out second-best with the latest phase of their bickering. So she decided to drop the issue and proceed onward with what she had left to say:
"Well, he promised to take me to a hip place he knows about the very next time we see each other."
"What kind of place is that? I can just imagine if Terry, the terrible wants to take you there!"
"Oh, it's a real groovy, cozy pad down in the Village, like, maybe it's a real big secret or something. But perhaps I can cut you in on it if you like?"
"No thanks, dearie. I'm very much afraid that my life will just have to be complete without it."
"You don't know what you're missing, Sylvia darling."
"Arrr, that's the trouble," she hastened to correct Doris. "I know only too well! ... As for you, young lady, are you soaking yourself real good and opening up the pores."
"Uh-hun, I sure am."
"That's good."
All the time that Sylvia had been busy lathering her up, she had squatted down on her haunches, so that the folds of the sashed terry-cloth robe had naturally slid upward and away, thereby exposing her svelte, firm thighs and raven-colored crow's-nest for a twat:
And while she was no longer lathering Doris, having sat herself down on a bath-stool, where she lit a cigarette and crossed her legs while Doris soaked, and Doris could no longer see her crow's-nest for a cunt, still, she could see the top left thigh and the shadow of wiry hairs of the v-shaped treasure-chest.
But before, while Sylvia had been feverishly and energetically busy lathering Doris up, she had the craziest notion at one conjecture:
She felt like leaping up out of the tub, making a lunging grab for Sylvia, throw her head down and take a wild bite at her pussy. Not that she had an actual yen to do so, as such -- but purely out of wicked maliciousness -- to ascertain just how Sylvia would react:
Either she would jump up, yelping and racing from the room -- as if a mad dog had been let loose at her, foaming and frothing at the mouth - and/or as if a brazen, persistent mouse had run up her leg, to lodge deep in her cunt.
In any event, Doris, fearing the worst repercussions from such a maneuver, had regretfully desisted from perpetrating it. But now, that strange ornery, wicked, naughty sort of mood had come over her again, and she knew she had to do something about it or bust.
Then she had it -- precisely what she was doing to do ...
* * *
"You know something, Sylvia ..."
"Huh? What's that, dearie?"
"You've been telling me to soak, but it's really all in vain."
"Why is that?"
"Because there is a spot you missed -- one where you haven't at all lathered me up as yet."
"And just which spot is that, dearie?"
Frankly, Sylvia Pierce didn't think she had the nerve to come right out and say it; she gave her credit for at least having that much decorum and tact, Doris surmised:
However, Sylvia still didn't know Doris and those ornery moods of hers. When they came over her, she simply wasn't responsible for what she said or did:
"Right here," she said demurely, but pointing unmistakably as she had raised her body up out of the water. "My pussy."
"Some nerve!" Sylvia snapped. "To dare ask for such a thing," she all but shrieked. "Well, do it yourself."
"I'd rather you do it, Sylvia darling."
"Why? You're a big girl now, and not some little teen-age stinker, or are you?"
"Oh, I could do it all right, but you could do it so much better and more ... thorough."
"Well, do it yourself. I'm sure it will suffice."
"Maybe it will, and, then again, maybe it won't."
"Meaning?"
"Well, the very reason you wanted me to take this bath and agreed to assist me was because you thought my pussy smelled foul. So unless it is cleaned out properly, I guess this entire bath will be all in vain," Doris shook her head dismally as she ended on this negative-note.
"All right. Very well," Sylvia exclaimed sharply and resignedly. "But any of your hanky-panky, young lady, and I swear that - "
"Oh no, Sylvia darling," Doris uttered sweetly and demurely. "I promise I'll be good."
"Oh, very well," Sylvia said, seeming to make up her mind abruptly as she retrieved the wash-rag, placing it over her hand and thereby forming an improvised glove. She rubbed it a few times gingerly on the cake of soap.
With Doris sitting hunched up so that she could have proper access to the golden twat with the bright red halo, that most natural blonds have, surrounding it, Sylvia first lightly rubbed the wiry v-fringe of the succulent honeybun.
Then, all at once, the fingers of the hand seemed drawn into a vortex of whirlwind-currents -- through the pouting, pink outer-labia-lips, directly down and into the innermost recesses of the jaws of the snatch -- as if by some strange form of magic.
Instantly and involuntarily, the jaws started to twitch and snap with uncontrollable spasms.
It took a split-second for Sylvia to realize what was transpiring, but that bit of hesitation was too long, because, when she tried to extricate her hand with its long, soothing fingers out of the jaws, Doris raised herself up still further out of the tub to give her all the leverage she needed, to work her thighs and add the strong muscles contained in them around the hand.
Frantically, Sylvia tried to jerk and pull to free the hand, beads of perspiration running down her forehead from the exertion and the clammy, sickening heat which permeated the bathroom on such a hot Summer day:
But to absolutely no avail. If anything, the hand seemed to be further and deeper lodged in there, with the snatch snapping and twitching away like real crazy now -- as if it had a life all of its own:
"Let go," she panted. "Let go; do you hear?"
Doris heard only too well, but she didn't let go. Instead, she started to actually ride the hand with her whole body, rising and falling up and down.
Sylvia kept trying to cajole with her to release the hand, and Doris stubbornly kept riding the hand.
Utterly desperate now and beside herself, Sylvia seized the scrubbing-brush with her free hand and gripped it tightly by the end of the handle:
Doris, having fully risen up in the tub, to stand on her feet, was leaning over to one side, thereby making her whole ass upthrust and a natural, most inviting target for what the harassed and frantic Sylvia felt she had to do:
Not being a Sadist by nature and thereby not laying on the spanks in cadence, rhythmically, with a brief pause in between each smack to take keen cognizance at the way the curvy spheres enticingly bounced, instead, screeching like a berserk shrew, Sylvia whaled away for all she was worth -going from one lush, curvy cheek over to the other one -- then right back over again:
She whaled away with a torrid, ferocious gusto -- as fast and hard as she only could-:
But alas, poor Sylvia had no luck, insofar as she defeated her own purpose!
Since Doris already had the distinct juices of pre-secretion worked up and aroused inside of her, upon the first contact of those long, soothing fingers inside her snatch, when she felt the blistering warmth on her behind in addition, she instantly began to cream, coming in virtual cup-cakes such as she had never come before in her entire life.
Sylvia couldn't understand it. She thought that by walloping her, she would make her stop and let go of the hand. Instead, as the meat-end of the nylon scrubbing-brush steadily and continuously emitted those shrill plopping, swatting sounds against bare wet flesh, Doris was gripping the hand even more tenaciously and riding it more fervently, getting it ever more wet with her jet-streams of dreamy, creamy maiden-juice that was driving poor Sylvia out of her mind.
So it was, that paradoxically, it was Sylvia who was doing all of the yelping and screaming even as Doris's whole lilting bottom got ever redder and hotter, until it began to take on the contours of a newly painted fire-engine!
Really frantic, Sylvia doled out terrific upper cuts, so that the meat-end of the brush would land on the tender arced-creases and the backs of the thighs:
To be sure, such devastating smashes to this tender area of the female-anatomy made Doris wince and even yelp. However, they didn't really bother her, but actually added to her total state of rapture and libidinal-bliss:
So it was, that she bounced up and down even harder and faster, creaming more than ever on the nervous, erratic hand that was lodged deep inside of her being and forced to give her an inadvertent hand-job that was a jerk-off, superb!
Sobbing more hysterically than ever, seeing that it was no use whacking her there, Sylvia returned to the already thoroughly reddened behind, her hand rising and falling, cracking away, the brush still making those strange swatting, plopping sounds, indicative of being harshly applied to soft, bare and wet female-flesh.
Doris, reaching the very pinnacle of her orgasm, really twisted and turned, her whole body writhing and convulsing with the tautened throes of amuck tumescence:
Her melons for tits panted and heaved; little butterflies twisted, turned and jumped around in her flat-lined tummy. Millions of little snakes danced in her gripping, clutching convulsing thighs as she creamed like crazy -- creamed like mad - creamed, creamed, CREAMED!
It wasn't until the orgasm inside of Doris came out, then the flow of maiden-juice subsided and diminished to a mere trickle of the terrific ebb and flow of the ecstatic tidal-wave of before, that Sylvia finally came up with the one strategy which succeeded in stopping sensuous, exuberant Doris in her tracks, and thereby bringing her to a complete halt:
"All right, dearie," she hissed, "either you let go of my hand this instant, or, I swear, I'll never give you a bath again -- not for as long as I live."
It took a few more spasms, as an after-effect, before Doris could finally part her tapered thighs and permit the thoroughly dank, gooey hand to extricate itself, dripping cream in gobs! ...
* * *
Sylvia looked down at the hand in sheer disgust, her face twisting up into an ugly grimace of scorn, as she commented:
"Boy, look what you did to my hand -- how dirty you got it. I could use a good bath now myself."
"So come right in, Sylvia darling," Doris chirped, most cheerfully, "and I'll be glad to give it to you."
"I know that you would. But, not on your life, dearie; not on your life!" She ended on a most emphatic-note, fleeing from the room in utter terror, feeling completely routed and confused:
Doris' mirthful, tremulous laughter of sheer mockery followed and trailed her in poor Sylvia's wake, and continued to haunt her throughout all the confines of the various rooms of the apartment.
With Sylvia now gone, Doris quickly got out of the tub, and dried herself off with a large Turkish-towel, until her entire curvaceous entity was a glowing and radiant peaches-an'-cream hue.
Then she proceeded to powder her body in the various strategical crevices and finally sprayed it with some toilet-water, which had a most invigorating fragrance and a usually hypnotic-effect upon men -- bringing about the insatiable urge to eat a girl up and devour her - but utterly.
As she went through these various little procedures to finish her bath off, Doris, feeling quite jubilant and even most triumphant, reflected:
To her, this was the beginning of the end in her total campaign to break Sylvia Pierce down and make her have a wild and frenzied Lesbian-relationship with her.
But little did she realize, that where Sylvia's and her own turbulent erotic-adventures were concerned, instead of this being the beginning of the end as she postulated, it was merely the end of the beginning - and, for both of them:
Then again, not having a special crystal-ball to see into the future with, how could Doris Marlin realize this?
How could she, POSSIBLY? ...
PART TWO
Chapter 7
Merle Kimberly placed a white-gloved hand in the broad open palm of her chauffer's as he helped her from the back seat of the sumptuous limousine:
"Thank you, Michael," she murmured and smiled sweetly, her radiant bronze-flecked eyes gleaming with a turbulent inner excitement, enjoying the keen fore-pleasure, that soon, she would get her shot of heroin, which would make her free, loose and easy. Besides losing all of her inhibitions, she would also come down off her proverbial high-horse, permitting her chauffer to mount it instead:
This would be achieved with her stark naked, down on all fours. He would dutifully fasten a saddle around her waist, mount astride her, armed with a riding-crop, then simulate riding her as if she were some champion thoroughbred show-horse.
He would ride her all around the room, lashing her flanks fast and ferociously, cutting them all up and riddling them full of livid welts, until she would finally collapse in a sobbing, sprawled-out heap from the force of his powerful weight and the accumulative toll from the cruel lash.
Then would come the best part of all. He would fuck her in the cheeks of her curvy, wilted ass with that big, fat, thick prick of his, which would be harder than a rock, really making her swoon and go simply ga-ga, until she shit all over the place!
Oh, what joy - what sheer Heaven, Merle reflected raptly.
Indeed, this was all she lived for. She was one of those women who seemed to be fortunate enough to be endowed with everything that Mother Nature and Life had to offer. And yet, to her somewhat twisted, warped view, such debased, perverted thrills provided the very epitome of excitement and adventurous living.
During the course of the last turbulent ten years or so of this high-society damsel's illustrious life, she had many a handsome muscle-man under her wing and tutelage to send her. But none sent her or thrilled her more than this present one, Mike Forrester, did:
He had the strong, sharply chiseled features of a Greek God. His body was awesomely powerful-looking, with broad shoulders that seemed to perennially ripple with muscles whenever he so much as moved the arms.
For the facade of appearing as strictly her chauffeur, he was decked out in a dark blue suit and short-billed cap.
He smiled back, a trace of mirth and sarcasm manifest at the way his lips curled slightly downward into a subtle sneer. It was a very unchauffeurly grin. Rather, it was his approximation of a secret lover's grin - not only that, but one who knew that he pleased his mistress - so much so, that he could take her for granted.
Taking cognizance of all these diverse factors in what one smirk of his, which was so typical of female-thinking, who usually had a tendency to think in terms of symbols, caused lovely Merle Kimberly to reflect, somewhat philosophically:
Oh, well, let him have his little laugh at her expense.
After all, it was worth it, to take some shit from a man who could give her the needle so expertly, then play horsie-horsie with her when she got worked up to the proper mood.
Then too, she knew very well, that in the final analysis, he was beneath her station in life - indeed, completely dependent on her and subservient to her diverse needs. So when she tired of him, as she ultimately must and would, and got rid of him - out of her life altogether - she would be the one who had the last laugh.
Of course, she might be running the calculated-risk of being blackmailed by him then, just as she had run a similar risk with others of his ilk in the past. But that was hardly likely. He wasn't too much in the brains department, and it simply wasn't Mike Forrester's style. He would rather show her up by getting latched on to a new mistress, who was equally rich and lovely, and had kindred debased needs to get her kicks:
He would think that he would he burning Merle up and making her jealous, which would be ludicrous, really, since Merle would have already replaced him with someone fresh and manly, of her own choosing, a priori, to take his place.
But, why think that far ahead?
Merle Kimberly was a Pragmatist by nature - one who lived strictly for the expedient moment - and this so-called proverbial moment that was at hand, certainly promised to be thrilling and interesting.
If it was anything like the experiences she already had enjoyed with him in the recent past, he would really send her out of this World completely - making her both cream and shit in gobs all over the place! ...
* * *
"Ready, Madam?" he queried of her as he extended his arm, going through the required procedure of appearing polite and menial when in public with her anywhere; indeed, this was the one factor she had absolutely insisted upon.
"Yes, Michael," she replied coolly, in her most dignified, regal tone, "I am."
"Good. So here's my arm, Madam."
"I see. And I'm taking it."
Then they crossed the street together. They went to the entrance way of the building, which was on Riverside Drive, in the mid-eighties, and was actually a camouflaged, high-class house for call-girls and people who wanted to shack up for the night, but looking like the typical residential building which were prevalent in this still rather high-class section of the city.
The uniformed doorman nodded to them curtly:
"Good day, Madam ... Sir."
Forrester nodded back for both of them as he simultaneously punched the button for the elevator. It was a self-service one nowadays, the landlord having got rid of an operator to cut down on expenses, indicative that the building was definitely on the downgrade -- a high-class hotel for call-girl operations and one-night-stands -- tomorrow a cheap, decrepit whore-house.
Then as Forrester guided her into the elevator-car with his strong, manly arm and pressed the button of number four, which was the floor where they were going and he closed the sliding-gate, Merle reflected, her heart and pulse beating with excitement:
It wouldn't be long now before she was made high and low at the same time - before she was sent out of this World by him, utterly.
No, not long at all.
They were already on their way to her cherished Shangri-La! ...
* * *
Merle Kimberly was girl Number Three and the fourth of the illustrious quartet who comprised the entourage of SPANKING ADDICTS, all of whom were directly associated with Bondage Slave Girls' Costume Jewelry, Inc. And with the exception of Doris Marlin and Sylvia Pierce who were roommates, none of the other two were on a friendly basis with this pair. So, what it all boiled down to was, that they were all SPANKING ADDICTS - each on their own - each in her own unique way.
Of course, strictly speaking, at the outset, Sylvia Pierce was no spanking addict at all. Rather, if anything, if there was any spanking to be done - such as when she was irritated with sensuous Doris Marlin that time when she gave her a bath - she preferred to be dishing the spanks out!
But ultimately, when sultry Sylvia is to be scourged and violated by a Caveman, with Doris' willing assistance, alas, she is also destined to succumb and become one of the "addicts," too!
However, getting back to Merle Kimberly, specifically, now:
She was the one female of the whole quartet who comprised all things to all men. Besides having the kind of sex-appeal that would give almost all men a fantastic hard-on, she also was one of those truly rare creatures for a female, who was actually an interesting and amiable companion for men, even purely in the Platonic-sense:
Indeed, Merle was quite an intelligent creature, with a shrewd business-acumen. She had an I.Q. that could compete with almost any top business-executive, psychiatrist, or nuclear-physicist. Since men were deathly afraid of such a type of woman, Merle had the cunning to camouflage it with a little precociously child-like voice, and to do things deliberately which would definitely be considered as kookie, thereby obliterating, or at least concealing, her acute intelligence from becoming immediately manifest:
In this sense, as well as in physical-resemblance, Merle closely approximated Jill St. John, the luscious actress, who, it is said, likes to smoke expensive men's pipes and play with electric-trains on the floor, in her private life.
And while Merle Kimberly had no predilection to either smoke pipes or play with electric-trains, she had other idiosyncrasies which certainly paralleled them.
At 32, she was definitely the oldest of the "spanking-quartet." However, she hadn't lost any of her girlish-charm or sex-appeal:
Merle was a natural redhead, with her coiffure usually worn in an attractive, for her, boyish bob. She had regal and aristocratic looking features, but with a slight up tilt to her nose which made it somewhat capricious, radiant bronze-speckled big eyes, a small, thin but most expressive mouth on top of a baby-like chin which even had a cleft in it, so that when she spoke, she seemed even more childish than she was affecting to be.
As for her body, she was a real stunner and built in perfect proportion. Being quite tall for a girl - over five-eight in shocking feet -- made her naturally inclined to be slim and sinewy in her basic structure:
But she had delectable honey-dew melons for her succulent tits, with mouth-watering wild candied-cherries for then inert tips, a deceptively full and firmly packed, resiliently swinging behind, on top of long, strong, slightly heavy at the thighs, legs, which rendered a solidity to their being streamlined instead of being fat and flabby, thereby making most men's pricks stand up at attention all the more so!
Last but not least, Merle had a natural taffy-golden tincture to her entire skin, which is usually associated with the adolescent-period and later becomes assimilated, and took off still more years in her general appearance:
Indeed, at 32, Merle Kimberly was a female who looked to be in her young twenties, and was the basic type who would appear young until sixty, and would even be able to charm a young man to fuck and suck her at fifty!
So was it any wonder, then, that she had already been able to charm five husbands - all of them wealthy and affluent - with the exception of one actor she had a crush on, with the marriage lasting but three months?
Yes, Merle was one of those truly lucky creatures whom Mother Nature had looked fondly on, all right. Actually, she hailed from a nondescript middle-class family, with her father being a routine clerk, and lived a trite, banal existence, until she got hitched to a millionaire at 17:
He had come upon Merle inadvertently, having come to see her father's superior, at the office where he worked about some business deal or other. Upon passing through her father's office, he spied Merle, who, in turn, had been visiting said father. And once he layed his eyes on her, that was that; he wasn't to be denied, until he got her to the alter:
He was the first of Merle's string of illustrious catches, leaving the handsome but relatively poor actor aside. As a group, they had all been the same with her. Besides endowing Merle with generous expense-accounts and every luxury that money could only buy, all of them were kind, gentle and considerate:
In short, they kissed up her saucy ass either figuratively, and one of them even literally!
All of them placed her high up on a pedestal and worshipped at her very feet, in utter reverence before their self-appointed Goddess. Two of them had a predilection for eating her hair-pudding; in fact, that was how they got most steamed with her and got their rocks off.
Looking back in retrospect now at this conjecture in her life, Merle's proverbial sojourn through it had always been a stormy, turbulent, even colorful and seemingly erratic one, but had invariably followed a definite compulsive pattern:
She would stay married to a given tycoon for several years or so, being more or less faithful, except for an occasional quickie on the side:
Then would come the restless interim, when she simply had to get away and have a definite change; she was simply fed up, bored and jaded with all the affection and luxury that was bestowed upon her by her given spouse. So she would take herself a lover, by hiring him as either her private chauffeur and/or bodyguard:
She would insist that he be the rough, tough Caveman type who would be violent and Sadistic with her. To put herself in a receptive mood to such wooing, she would take the "horse." But actually, she could have indulged very well in her Masochism without it, since the libido-economy is so ambivalent and has a natural tendency to extremes - as the illustrious Freud and his clinical-investigations have so clearly pointed out - given a sufficient period of time.
After awhile, with her openly living with her chosen lover, regardless of how devoted he might be, the husband would finally be aroused and react. There would be a quiet divorce to avoid scandal, with Merle getting a generous monetary-settlement each and every time, which she would agree to.
Having been through three such marriages now, with the fourth still intact and pending, Merle had accumulated huge lumps of money at a given time. And with her keen business-sense, had invested the bulk of it in choice blue-chip stocks:
Thus, over the years, at just 32, Merle was a quite wealthy and influential woman in her own right, having accomplished her status purely by being a fancy, high-class legal-whore - a goal which many of her fair sex certainly aspire to -- but very few of them actually achieve:
And to further accentuate her achievement, it should be pointed out that Merle had never worked a day in her entire life, except for a few weeks here and there as either a clerk or a manicurist, just to see how the rest of the females lived.
Now, Merle felt she was on the brink of the end of a marriage again. She could feel that tell-tale tenseness and nervousness permeate her effervescent being. And of all the male-lovers she had ever taken, this Mike Forrester sent her the most. She just had to shack up with him on a permanent basis and leave her husband; she just had to!
However, what Merle Kimberly failed to realize with Forrester was, that, underneath it all, he was a latent passive-homosexual, who really hated all beautiful women and even competed with them for the favor of virile, manly males:
It all went back to his childhood, particularly during his primary-school years. In those days, he had golden curls, looked and acted like a girl. When the other boys made fun of him, called him "a sissy" and even beat him up, he decided to eventually do something about it:
It was when he reached puberty, at 12 to be exact, that he took up weight-lifting and muscle-building. He went at it with vengeance. So it was that by the time he reached 17, he was a most handsome specimen of a male who really appealed to the teen-age girls in his set. He went with the girls, got into their pants, and forgot completely about his latent effemininity:
But, as the great Freud so often postulated: "A person can forget about the unconscious-mind and its array of instincts, but said unconscious-mind and instincts do not ever forget about him; they make themselves known, sooner or later, in some form or other:
This was the very essence of Freud's monumental postulation on the subject of Sexology, in general, and the polymorphous-perverse phase, in particular.
Getting back to Mike Forrester, he won many a trophy and cup for the magnificent specimen of a male-physique which he had so painstakingly achieved, and got into many a luscious damsel's drawers:
Prior to coming to work directly for Merle Kimberly, he had been an instructor in a gym for men, a bouncer, a bodyguard, and, of late, an instructor in a weight-reducing salon for over-weight females:
In fact, that was precisely where he met Merle, who wanted to slim down her slightly heavy thighs a bit, making them more firm and trim. And she quickly whisked him away for her private employ and personal uses, to call her own, by paying him double the amount he made at the salon - which came to the relatively staggering figure, even in this ludicrously inflationary days - of $400 a week!
But, to Merle Kimberly, it was surely worth it; she was really getting her money's worth from him, as he sent her such as no male had ever sent her before.
Why, when she just thought about him, her pussy started to throb and get all wet with the juices of per-secretion. If she exerted the slightest touch on her twat at such a time, she would instantly cream.
So Merle was bent on taking off with Mike Forrester, to shack up with on a permanent basis, leave her husband, which would inevitably end in the customary divorce, with the also customary settlement occurring for her:
Of course, at 32, the odds were narrowing for her in Life that she would ever make such a good catch again. But, what of it? She loved the challenge, too; it rendered additional excitement in her life. And even if she failed, so what? She was really well enough fixed to take care of her diverse needs - including luxuries, too - for the remainder of her days.
Then again, why be so morbid and pessimistic? She was still quite attractive, personable and intelligent. She had even mellowed down through the years, making her all the .more desirable to wealthy, affluent men:
Merle, was known as "The Golden Nymph" in high-society circles, which was a subtle name for a high-class legal-whore who went from one husband to another, purely for mercenary reasons. And this sort of slander hadn't stopped her before; she had gotten two choice, juicy catches since the advent of such adverse publicity. So why should it stop her again?
And besides, it was a calculated-risk well worth taking, for the handsome, virile specimen of a hunk of man that Mike Forrester was.
But what she failed to realize was, that Mike still unconsciously hated her and all lovely women. That he had valiantly tried to over compensate his effeminate-tendencies and become metamorphosized into a true superman:
Nevertheless, as Freud pointed out, the unconscious wouldn't let him rest - not until it had its way. And if ever there was a female who brought this dichotomy to the fore, it was the person of lovely, luscious Merle Kimberly, that virtual "Golden Nymph! ...
* * *
As Mike closed the front door of the pad with a grim slam of finality, Merle breathed a sigh of relief and exclaimed aloud to him:
"Wheeew, what a relief. I need a fix real bad."
"And you'll have it, too, doll," he avowed.
"But, more than that, even, I need a good working over afterward of horsie-horsie."
"And you'll have that, too," he avowed again, even more grimly. "Why, I'll whip and ride your saucy tail so long and hard, that I'll make you really shit all over the floor."
"Now, now, darling," she cautioned him coolly, "don't become too frantic and violent, because, after all, you don't really want to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs for you, do you, now?"
"No-ooo," he tittered, "I certainly don't want to do that, doll. I merely want to cook and roast it a bit. So how does that sound, huh?"
"Fine, Mike darling - really FINE!" ...
Chapter 8
Brenda Courtney was in the process of giving her new-found mulatto boy-friend, Don Maxwell, a fervent blow-job, right in the bedroom of her ultra-modern duplex-apartment on fashionable Central Park West!
Brenda had gotten together with Don for several more dates after that memorable evening in her life. Don took her to much the same places, with the same wild, frantic results for culmination:
He fucked the living shit out of her at least once - and most often twice, on a given evening -- making her raven-colored crow's nest for a twat all chafed, irritated and sore. However, Brenda didn't care. She was completely oblivious to any hurt inflicted on her being. It was all very well worth it:
She never thought a man could fuck a girl like this. Why, he was a virtual demon - wild, roaring, raging dynamo full of cum and passion-juice.
Brenda was absolutely hypnotized by that incredible tool of his - that great big black licorice-stick - which could swab a girl's cunt to the very depth of her womb so thoroughly.
At first, the thought of blowing him disgusted and revolted her, especially with him being a Negro and all, with those hang-over prejudices that she had as a natural residue of her rather banal upbringing.
Then she became curious how such a tool would feel and taste in her mouth.
Finally, after awhile, she developed such a craving for it, that her mouth would feel parched and dry, clammy sweat would drip and ooze dankly between her svelte, tapered loins and underneath her armpits, her breasts would pant and heave, her heart would thump and her pulse would race:
She just had to have it; she just had to. Brenda wouldn't rest until she did. It was so long, hard and inviting in its torpedo-like contours with its sharp, pointed head, ideally adorned with the two little hard, hairy balls which seemed like miniature coconuts full of tart, pungent milk.
Looking wildly for some logical means of rationalization, necessity being the mother of invention as it is, Brenda finally found it:
After all, it was only fair to blow him and suck his cock. Didn't he give her a thorough tongue-bath and swab both her juicy twat and tight little ass-hole out every time, as a prerequisite to fucking her, each time they indulged?
So it was that Brenda finally made up her mind to perpetrate her self-imposed task. When she did so, she didn't beat around the bush, but told him precisely what she had in mind and was going to do for him:
At first, he was utterly incredulous, shaking his head negatively from side to side:
Why, the very idea of having such a lovely and classy white chick as her getting down on her knees and Frenching one of his race was utterly incomprehensible to him. It just didn't seem to make sense, nohow.
However, when she persisted, he finally grew accustomed to the idea and acquiesced ...
* * *
As was his custom, he peeled down to just an undershirt and socks, taking his fancy shorts off. Instantly, with his ego charged to the quick, a priori, he developed a semi-hard-on.
Without any further ado, Brenda got down on her bended knees and assumed the proper position. She was wearing nothing but a diaphanous plum-colored robe which ideally matched her lustrous violet eyes. The audacious slit in the robe slid back, baring her strong, tapered, most delectable thighs, making his cock surge forward still another inch. And when her lips puckered and pursed up, several more inches were added, until he was almost fully erect, without her having so much as touched him yet:
But Brenda wasn't taking any chances. Having come this far, she didn't want to be let down; she wanted to derive a full bellyful of the tart, pungent coconut-milk.
First, she took to stroking his prick, sliding her fingers lightly and gracefully up and down the shaft. Then, from time to time, she would lightly but most titiliatingly tickle the bottom of his balls. Periodically, she would give a quick lick and lap to the bottom of the shaft of the short broom-stick-handle for a cock, as well as licking quickly at the balls and encompassing them with her curled-up lips and flickering tongue.
At such a conjecture, he would cry out words of fond encouragement to her:
"That's it, honey; you're gettin' to me now. You're really reachin' me, sugar-plum. Just keep on doin' what you're doin' and I'll shoot such a mighty load when I come down your pretty throat, that you'll think it's a flood I've created and drown in it!"
"Oh, please do-ooo," Brenda would retort, shuddering and convulsing with just the thought of such a celestial pinnacle of sensation coming to pass.
Brenda did much the same thing she did before -perpetrate the exact same nuances - only she intensified the pressure considerably, particularly at pulling and jerking on the shaft with both her hands.
Her efforts were amply rewarded. She could feel the tell-tale sign of rigidity, indicative of tumescence, go swinging through his whole being. She was on the verge of shoving his cock in her mouth, to consummate the blow-job, when the phone on her night-table rang for about the fifth time in the last couple of hours.
As before, she chose to ignore it. But when the shrill ringing persisted, it was Don Maxwell who exclaimed:
"Awww, shit. You'd better answer it, sugar-plum, or we won't get any peace tonight, nohow."
"Shit is right!" Brenda retorted. "But I guess I'd better answer it, at that," she shuddered and sighed resignedly:
She performed a feat comparable to that of an acrobat: She picked up the receiver with one hand, while she continued to stroke and fondle the shaft of Maxwell's cock affectionately -- as if she were petting a cherished little kitten -- wanting to make absolutely sure that Don wouldn't go down on her and get soft in the subsequent interim, so that she wouldn't have to start her advances anew, all over again! ...
* * *
"Hello," Brenda sighed, dully and wearily into the mouthpiece.
"Hi, honey," a cheerful, amiable, completely extroverted voice chirped happily with jubilation on the other end. "Hey, now, what's going on? I've been calling you for hours now without getting an answer."
"Oh," she thought quickly, "I got out late from work -been modeling overtime -- and I had to pick up some things to eat at the late-night grocery in the neighborhood."
She didn't know if she sounded convincing or not, but her reason was an ultra-logical one that simply couldn't be denied, so he merely acknowledged it with:
"Oh, that. Yes, I understand."
The man on the other end was Harold Bradford, one of those clean-cut, crew cut, freshly scrubbed, bright and extroverted business-executives -- in public-relations, to be exact - who felt that Life was his oyster, especially since he was just on the better side of 30.
Brenda had gone out with him a lot recently, as he took her to fancy, exclusive places, bought her nice, expensive presents, flattered her continuously and kissed up her saucy, well-perfumed ass. So her line of resistance was, accordingly, low. She sort of floated and drifted along with the relationship, more biding her time, until someone better came along, than anything else.
But he was head-over-heels in love with her, and had set his sights on leading her to the altar, much as he would have generated enthusiasm and vigor for a new select business-account. He had the ego to take it for granted that he would ultimately triumph and get his way. In fact, he couldn't conceive of it being otherwise, with all that he had to offer a girl -- even such an attractive and alluring one as Brenda irrefutably was.
So he had been slowly but surely dropping ever broader and broader hints to her about the possibility of matrimony. At such times, Brenda would grow stubbornly and eloquently silent -- not saying yes, not saying no -- but in true cat-like fashion, stringing him along and leading him on.
Truth to tell, probably the very last person she wanted to talk to in the whole World was Harold Bradford, especially since she was so enmeshed in giving Don Maxwell a blow-job and so hungry for his big black cock that she was - simply hankering with a yen to shove it all the way down her throat, as far as it would only go - until she simply reeked and choked On it!
But, at the moment, she didn't honestly know how to put him off without offending him, and she didn't want to do that, really. He was such a nice guy - the kind of nice guy, in fact, a girl could use the term "nice guy" about -without having to be at all sarcastic.
Then, to top it all off, she had broken a date with him just last night, to go out with Don Maxwell and have him stroke her pussy with his big black cock. But, there he was - good, old, trusted, reliable Harold - calling her up again, as if nothing had ever happened, and if it had, somehow, in the final analysis, he was to blame:
So, how could a girl in her right mind ever hate a fellow such as him? How could she?
The answer was, she couldn't - at least, not very well!
"Hey," the voice intervened on her meditations, "you still there, baby?"
"Yes, I'm still here, Harold," she said wearily, feeling utterly jaded - like some washed-out rag. "I have an ear-splitting headache."
"That's real tough, kiddo," he said, most empathetically. "But you can get over it by talking to me for awhile. Then a guy gets kind of lonely when his best girl jilts him for an evening."
"I'm truly sorry about that, Harold. Something came ... up, and there was no way for me to get in touch with you."
"What was that, Brenda dear?"
Questions - always questions from him, she reflected:
"Errr, a ... relative of mine suddenly got sick and taken to a hospital -- a distant aunt. It was a real emergency. My mother called me at the office at the last minute, and I simply had to go. You understand, don't you, Harold darling?"
"Yes, sweet, precious baby, I sure do," he seemed to heave a sigh of relief at receiving such a plausible explanation, undoubtedly having feared the very worst -- of her going out with some other guy, instead:
If he only knew, Brenda reflected, he would have surely blown his cork and had a real shit-hemorrhage!
"Can I see you tonight perhaps instead, Brenda?"
"Why ... yes - if my awful headache gets better."
"Well, take some pills - aspirin, Anacin or something."
"Yes, I will, as soon as I get off the phone. And I'll call you back in a short while, to tell you how I feel."
"Uh-uh. Nix on that. I'm coming over, anyway, regardless if you feel better or not!"
"Oh?"
"Yes. If you still have a headache, I'll rub your head for you and soothe you."
"How nice."
"I mean it."
"Mean what?"
"Just what I said."
"Oh."
"Now look here, young lady ..."
"Ye-es?"
"If you're not putting me off, then you'll agree for me to come over in a couple of hours right now. Otherwise ..." his voice trailed off abruptly.
But Brenda prodded him on with:
"Ye-es, Harold? As you were just about to say?"
"We're through - all washed up!"
Brenda laughed nervously. She knew that it was a joke and he was being facetious with her. But still, it had an undertone of seriousness to it, too. And it wouldn't do her any real good to throw all of her eggs in one basket -- especially a black one. So she hedged off with:
"Look, Harold, let me try and fix up my headache. Then, if I feel better real quick -- as I probably will -- I'll call you right back and we can meet somewhere and really go out. So how does that sound, huh?"
"Fine to me, baby. When exactly will you call back?"
"Oh, in a half hour or so -- give or take five or ten minutes:
She should surely be done blowing Don Maxwell by then and making him cream in torrents.
"Fair enough," Harold Bradford finally acquiesced. "I'll hang up now and wait for your call. Cheers, honey."
"Cheers, Harold," she echoed him dully, then dropped the receiver back into the hook of the phone ...
* * *
"Who was that chick?" Don asked of her when she hung up. "Your steady boy-friend?"
"Uh-huh," she muttered back at him in reply.
"And I'll bet I kin tell the type, too," he mused. "Tell me if I'm right, sugar-plum."
"Go ahead. I'm listening."
"He's white, tall, clean-cut and crew cut, and has a big executive-job. And, he thinks his shit doesn't stink, and, he wants to many you. So am I right, or ain't I, huh, doll?"
"Yes -- to the very letter!" Brenda was fairly incredulous and even set to admiration at his thumb-nail sketch of Harold Bradford. "But, how could you tell? Just from my conversation?"
"Uh-huh, I got the drift from that. And besides, I've been through this particular bit a number of times before with white chicks," he sighed, seeming resignedly.
"What's the matter?" she asked of him mirthfully. "Are you jealous?"
"No-ooo," he laughed throatily, "not in the least. In fact, to be perfectly honest with you, sugar-plum, I'm glad it's this way with you."
"You are?" Brenda was more incredulous than ever. "But, why?" She really wanted to know.
"Because there are a lot of fancy white chicks around who think it's fashionable to marry colored guys. They think that makes them darin' and martyrs or somethin'. And, I don't dig that scene myself, nohow!"
"You don't?" Brenda was utterly flabbergasted now. "But, why?"
" 'Cause, at the moment, I'm in the prime o' my life, enjoyin' a real cool and swingin' scene, and don't need that marriage-bit, nohow -- neither with a white chick or any other kind, either. You dig?"
"Yes, I think I do."
"You know, some thin', sugar plum ..."
"What's that, Don?"
"A white chick think she's makin' a great big sacrifice when she marries a colored guy."
"Well, isn't she?"
"Yes, in most cases, she is. Only, it cuts two ways ..."
"Meaning precisely what?"
"A colored guy -- at least one like me -- also has it rough; he'd be scorned in his own World with his own people, and so could the white chick he took for a wife!"
The very idea was so ludicrous to her, that Brenda couldn't contain herself from uttering a squeamish stream of mirthful laughter.
Then he proceeded to explain:
"That's right, sugar plum; laugh, if you will, but that's how it is."
"But, why?"
" 'Cause I happen to be one o' the lucky, talented cats who makes a good livin'. And since most colored cats don't even have jobs if they want 'em, I'm considered a virtual millionaire by my people, by comparison. So if I upped and married a white chick, my people would resent it and feel that I was taken away from marryin' one of my own kind by her, even if it wasn't necessarily true. Catch on, sugar-plum, huh?"
"Yes, I'm ... beginning to," Brenda exclaimed, with a growing awareness and unmistakable admiration for him:
He was turning out to be far more shrewd and cunning than she had figured - besides being a very good sex-partner.
Aloud, to him, she inquired:
"So what do you suggest I do?"
"You mean, about your life, in terms of your own personal interests?"
"Uh-huh."
"Stick with that guy. 'Cause he kin give you everything you're lookin' for -- luxuries, security, babies and respect in Society. Whereas, with a guy like me in marriage, you kin only get the shit-end o' the stick. Catch on?"
"Ye-es:"
She realized he was being most sincere with her now and really leveling:
"How should I play him?"
"Certainly not the way you just did before, on the phone. You sounded too cold, aloof and independent. By the same token, you shouldn't kiss up his ass, either."
"So what should I do, then?"
"Play it real cool and coy. Let him do all the chasin'. Put up a mild sham that you are resistin' him and runnin' away. But always make sure that he catches you, until he leads you to the altar. You dig?"
"Yes. And I think I've got him all set-up already, as he hinted at marriage a couple of times."
"Good. But don't muff it by over-playin' your hand. And don't say yes too quickly, either, or he's apt to change his mind."
"Why is that, Don?"
" 'Cause a cornball like him likes to think he caught a real bargain -- a pretty, sexy chick that all the guys have been chasin' after with their tongues hangin' out. So you just play it cool, honey, and you can't miss."
"All right, Don. I think I'll take your advice. But, what about after I'm married to him? I'll never be able to stand such a dull, boring, routine life, after having led the glamorous one as a model and being a real swinger. So --"
"You can bring it off, honey -- have the best of both Worlds -- just like many other high-falutin' white chicks do."
"But, how?"
"You happen to be a very well-sexed doll. So you can rock right around the clock, and still have plenty left over for that square husband of yours."
"Yes, I guess I could."
"Just play it real cagy and cool, like. Dig?"
"Uh-huh. So what should I do about my present little problem?"
"What's that, sugar-plum?"
"Call him back in a half hour or not?"
"No-ooo, let him call you instead."
"But you just said, I shouldn't act so hard to get," she protested.
"True. But it's not good for you to do any o' the chasin' after him, either. When he calls back -- which he should do fifteen minutes after the time you promised to call him and don't - tell him, you still had a headache, but it was feelin' better; you were just goin' to call him to tell him the good news; you waited those extra fifteen minutes just to make sure; and now you kin go out with him for an evenin' o' fun on the town. Dig?"
"Yes, I sure do. But, boy, are you shrewd, Don."
"Well, I try to be a real sharp, cool cat, honey," he replied matter-of-factly, taking the compliment quite for granted. "In the business I'm in, you have to be! ... Now, time's a wastin', sugar-plum. Let's get in our kicks on Route Sixty-Six, shall we? Before that square cornball calls you back again and breaks up the mood! ..."
* * *
It wasn't too hard for Brenda to reactivate him to the rigid point of tumescence he had been in previously, prior to the telephone-call, since, all along, she had been lightly and liltingly stroking his cock:
In addition to which, there were other factors now prevalent, Narcissistic in nature, which soon charged Don up to the very quick:
For one thing, there was the irresistible sight of Brenda -- a virtual vivacious and effervescent image of lovely, sultry Bobby Gentry -- right down there on her very knees, humbled and reverent before him.
Besides which, now that he knew she was really desirable for marriage by a privileged member of the white elite, made her stock soar considerably in his eyes, at the thought: that a menial Negro such as him was getting such a desirable white girl to French him and suck his prick.
Last but not least, were the deft maneuvers of Brenda herself, who was intensifying all of the pressures on him, which she had previously perpetrated, considerably:
She stroked the shaft of his long torpedo-like cock with bold, hard, lilting jerks, using both her hands.
Intermittently, she tickled his hard coconuts for balls, along with licking and lapping at the head and shaft of the cock, quickly and most tauntingly.
So it didn't take too long before his entire entity stiffened and tensed then convulsed, seeming to twist and squirm in the throes of dire agony; indeed, he moaned aloud, gasping in the joyful pain.
Brenda, still clutching the shaft of the dick with both her hands, began to slowly and surely twist and turn it like a corkscrew, taking ever more and more of it into her wide-open, curled-up, puckered lips that were so eagerly waiting for the taste of it:
The object itself felt intensely warm and hard and had the undertone of a bitter taste to it, even before he began to come, which he did mere seconds later, the cock squirting and spurting in her mouth. Brenda rolled her tongue around to scoop up each individual drop and to register it on her taste-buds:
She found that, at first, the cum was incredibly sticky and tasted even more harsh and bitter than did the outside skin of the throbbing cock. However, she forced herself to stay with it, and soon found, that while the bitter-taste still lingered and permeated itself, it was growing to be more tart and pungent, even if it was somewhat of an acidy tang.
From the moment that she became somewhat acclimated to the strange taste and get a hint that she was enjoying it, she eagerly rammed more of the prick into her wide-open mouth with both her hands, until she had all of it in there that it could only take, without her reeking, gagging and choking on it altogether.
All of Don's entity was writhing, twisting and squirming around now, and he continued to moan, as wave after wave of cum came gushing out of him:
First it came in just little jerky, spasmodic spurts. Then it was in virtual gushes that became torrential in nature.
Violently carried away by the heat of his passion, seeing that the tremendous load he was in the process of dropping was dripping from the corners of her curled-up lips, fearful that she would withdraw to swallow before he was done with his shooting, he clamped a hand down hard on the back of her head, automatically forcing her to take more and more cock into her mouth - until it was virtually all the way down the palette of her very throat - and she was choking on it!
Nevertheless, he kept right on, tenaciously shooting load after load into her, not even giving her a chance to swallow down the previous load, before another new load would come:
Now his cum was really overlapping, running down in sticky, gooey rivulets, to her heaving, panting melons for tits, down onto her flat-lined tummy, and even splaying her strong tapered thighs, soiling the elegant, wine-colored, diaphanous lounging-robe altogether in the process.
But far from resenting the action, Brenda welcomed it, taking keen relish as her mouth and throat was made to virtually drown in the tart, pungent and irresistibly tangy coconut-milk:
It was a strange sensation such as Brenda had never experienced before.
In addition to which, there was the keen pleasure derived in doing the forbidden -- sucking this handsome mulatto's prick which she kept her straight-laced steady boy-friend waiting for her on pins and needles.
So it was, that Brenda's own entity began to thresh, squirm and undulate, even as she audibly gagged, reeking and choking.
With her now slithering, bumping and grinding away with her luscious ass down on the floor as she was -- humbled before Don Maxwell's rapt vision -- prompted still a new inspiration of series of gushing cum to emanate from the �lan vital resources of his being.
Brenda was now coming, too, her entire crow's nest for a twat in a palpitating frenzy - creaming, creaming, creaming - creaming at the delicious, delirious thrill of it all and the wonderful, monumental event in her life she was engaged in.
Nor could she control the terrific orgasm that she was experiencing, either. So she placed both her hands between the trembling outer-labia-lips, in a valiant effort to weather the mighty storm that was taking place in the innermost part of her whole throbbing, libidinally effervescent being.
Her cunt felt all hot, dank, gooey and palpitating, so that the jaws of the snatch almost bit the tips of her gliding, sliding fingers:
Oh, oh, oh-hhh, she shuddered silently inward, convulsing then creaming more than ever.
Don was still feverishly coming, banging and slamming into her from his thighs wildly and frantically with each and every thrust all along. However, it was taking too much out of him, shooting such a great big load of passion-juice at one time. But he found he couldn't resist; he couldn't stop coming, even though he was taxing his inner resources to the very hilt:
Finally, with tell-tale pangs of pain shooting and stabbing through his thoroughly licked and lapped prick, with an audible moan or regret, he trailed and petered off, shooting the very last precious drops of his proverbial coconut-milk into her trembling, eagerly awaiting lips, which she quickly sucked in, licked and lapped around in her mouth by rolling her tongue, then swallowed them all down, making little butterflies dance in her tummy as the juice trickled down from her taste-buds.
It was just then that the telephone rang again ...
* * *
Sure enough, just as she expected and anticipated, it was her steady boy-friend, Harold Bradford, calling her back:
"Why didn't you call me?" he demanded, a bit irritably. "It's over forty-five minutes already."
Brenda then collected her wits about her and gave Harold the very plausible explanation which Don Maxwell had coached her into giving:
It had the desired effect, and Harold softened up considerably:
"So can I see you tonight, Brenda baby? Do you feel up to it now?"
She wanted to tell him:
"Go fuck yourself, you creepy, jerky scum-bag, you." And, "you should see me now - just having finished sucking off a Negro's big, black, juicy cock - with his cum splattered all over my milky, white, rambunctious body -while you have to jerk your yo-yo over me and beat the meat at night, you poor, poor boy, you!"
This was what Brenda wanted to say, and even was tempted to, but what she actually said, as the reality-principle set in, was:
"Why, of course, Harold darling. That's my big surprise for you. Now, aren't you glad I waited to call you back?"
"Oh yes, honey. Quite!" And he was audibly jubilant. "So when can I come over?"
"Oh, give me about an hour to make myself pretty for you, Harold darling. All right?"
"Fine. Till then, cheers, sweets."
"Cheers," she echoed him.
And, once again, what she neglected to say and wanted to, was: "I need that much time to clean up all the mess we've made and to take a bath not to smell like an old, dirty, filthy sewer!"
Brenda Courtney felt quite happy with herself - most smug and complacent:
Why, she was even enjoying, in all of its wicked connotations, this double life she was now leading. She found it so exciting and adventurous:
And, in time to come, she would find it even more so:
This would come about when Don Maxwell used her bare, saucy behind at a jam-session for a human tom-tom!
Then having finished getting in his hot licks with drum-sticks and wire-brushes, he would bring the session to a close by ramming his big, long and hard black licorice-stick up her then wilted rump and really getting in some hot licks with that, too.
Yes, such sensations would come about in vivacious Brenda Courtney's life - all in TIME TO COME! ...
Chapter 9
By marked contrast, Mike Forrester's big, blond, handsome bulk looked virtually like a monster to Merle Kimberly's rapt vision, in comparison to the miniature room which they had just entered:
To her rapt view, he was ominous in a way, despite her being handsome, and Merle realized that he could take her comparatively diminutive, fragile entity and crush it to little bits of pieces if he so desired. But instead of making Merle scared and shit green, quite the contrary, she felt a scintillating series of convulsive chills go seeping through her being - starting in the seat of her bowels, and moving from there, upward to her head, and downward, to her pussy - which began to throb and pulsate with acute excitement:
Merle liked danger. She actually welcomed and thrived on it. To do the forbidden and be overwhelmed, but utterly, by some big, strong Caveman suited her just fine - to a T - after the many years of dreary, tedious boredom she had endured with her ever-loving affluent husbands.
Yes, a man such as Mike Forrester - so big, strong and virile-looking, took her very breath away - made her go ga-ga but utterly.
Now that they were inside the narrow confines of the room, Forrester took her breath away literally. After first sharply bolting the door, to make sure it caught and stayed locked, he turned around and scooped her up in his powerful arms which rippled with muscles, crushing her to him:
His lips swooped down on hers, and he kissed her so hard, he made her teeth rattle. And even as he did this, his hands - virtual pair of steel pliers, were roaming and groping all over -- pinching cruelly:
He pinched the nipples of her tits, making her cry out, which was mostly muffled by his pressing, activated lips. He pinched the cheeks of her lilting behind one by one, actually twisting the whole given cheek around and over as he grasped it, so that there would be sure to be black-and-blue marks on her precious, saucy rump on the morrow.
Funny thing, he mused, that dress of hers, which was some kind of fancy, exclusive Paris version of a mini-shift dress and simply did wonders for her curvaceous, if slender, figure, seemed to be made of material that was so delicate and fine, that it would surely rip and tear to the touch:
But while it felt so sheer when he so harshly pinched her that he thought he was actually touching her bare, velvety-smooth skin, it didn't tear at all, but clung to her as if it were some powerful magnet, thereby making his own somewhat short and stumpy but thick and heavy elephantine-like cock soar and grow semi-rigid.
He had been kissing her so long and hard while he pinched her, that his own lips started to hurt and feel sore. So finally, he withdrew his lips from hers. And as they came apart, she let out a little trill wheezing gasp, indicative that he permitted her to catch her breath and breathe freely again.
However, before she could gather her wits about her, Forrester gave her two sharp, crisp slaps on her lilting bottom, making the cheeks bounce, ending up in the same motion and rhythm by jabbing his big fat thumb squarely up her rump - so hard and deep, that he made Merle involuntarily screech and jump - her head all but hitting the very ceiling:
"Stop that," she exclaimed haughtily when she came down. "Stop it at once, Mike."
"Why? What's the matter? Doncha like, nun?" he asked of her, all but sneering and daring her to say that she didn't.
"No, I most certainly don't. I'm a lady, and prefer to be treated like one."
"You're full o' shit, baby doll, and you know it," he mocked.
"Don't you say that to me. Don't you dare!" Her radiant bronze-burnished eyes glared daggers at him.
"Well, it's true."
"Hell it is."
"Well, at any rate, it is once you have the horse. Then you'll want me to be wild and rough and play horsie-horsie with you."
"True," Merle conceded. "But you have to realize, that at such ... times, I'm a different person altogether."
"Okay, doll. I won't split hairs with you. Have it your own way," he sighed, lightly and happily:
Truth to tell, Mike went through these prerequisites with a rather shrewd, cold calculation even if he did enjoy making them. He remembered that old adage said by some ancient sage, and actually lived his own life with the opposite sex by it, which went: "Treat a whore like a lady, and a lady like a whore."
In other words, a broad always craved the opposite of what she was as a type and accustomed to getting. So if a guy also had that certain animal-magnetism which he generated to the opposite sex, along with a personal charisma, he had it made - or most of their frail, weak members -- at any rate.
Then too, Mike liked his job with her. It was far better than having to put on the charm for many broads in the weight-reducing salon where he had previously worked. There he had to pretend that all paying members were real living dolls and luscious, especially if they were well fixed. And, if they were - even if they were living dogs, he had to kiss up their ass and fuck them in their pus-buns after hours - making him, in effect, nothing better than a cheap male-stud for love-starved old bags.
Whereas, with Merle Kimberly - leaving the double salary she paid him aside -- it was more personal and desirable. Merle, being so lovely and fetching as she was, proved quite easy for a guy to take to bed with and hump. Then as a final inducement, she liked to take punishment and be violated - as a novel change-of-pace in her jaded life - once she was under the influence of "the big H," (better known as "the horse") which were both nicknames for heroin.
Nothing suited Big Mike better than to thrust his mighty cock into her juicy, itchy cunt and rip it apart; only, perhaps, playing horsie-horsie - placing a saddle on her, then riding her around the room to the pretty tune of the cutting riding-crop - which he would so gleefully administer and inflict on her soft, smooth, velvety-textured ass; then, for a grand-climax, to ram that same elephantine-cock up her ass, until she yelled for mercy and shit all over the place!
Yes, there were wonderful delights in store for him tonight - and all in the line of duty, at that:
What joy. What Heaven!
Of course, what Mike didn't realize was, that his unconscious-mind, with its strong feminine-component, relished such turbulent tableaus more than did his conscious one:
On a purely conscious basis, going amuck and resorting to Caveman-tactics affirmed his own masculinity and prowess; it made him a real hardy, mean prick!
But unconsciously, he, who really resented and hated all women underneath -- especially one so lovely, affluent and glamorous as a Merle Kimberly was, liked nothing better than to inflict pain on her, to express his contempt and loathing - that some big hairy ape of a man didn't prefer and take his lilting ass to hers.
Oh well, such were the dreams that The Kingdom of Heaven was made out of!
In any event, Mike was feeling real chipper tonight, and fully determined to give his female-employer her full money's worth:
Before he got done with her, he would rip up her precious cunt, tear bits and pieces out of her saucy hide, and drill her a brand-new ass-hole!
He would, he would, he most certainly WOULD, he avowed.
He would send her plumb-clear out of this World completely - all the way into outer space! ...
While most of the other rooms in the semi-hotel were ample and even relatively lavish enough, since this type catered to strictly transit-trade who usually rented it for one-night stands, it was rather tiny - just a trifle larger than a big, roomy closet, really - and a little smaller than a small bedroom:
Since such guests were inclined to be careless and really hectic on wear-and-tear of the furniture, there was very little of it, and what there was, definitely shoddy, shabby and even somewhat broken-down:
There was a couch, which was little more than a rough pad to he down on, a bare wooden floor, and a battered, scarred-up old dresser. Finally, there was a small window with the pane missing, looking out into inky-black nothingness.
Atop the small two-drawer dresser was the stub of a candle, with wax-drippings, from periodic burnings, spilling down and congealed over the green glass-holder.
There was also an old wooden kitchen-chair; Forrester sat down on it.
As for Merle, the weak yellow light from the sixty-watt bulb overhead in the center of the ceiling did tricks and created optical-illusions with her fiery-red coiffure, adding intriguing translucent golden-highlights.
Her face was the picture of intense, even grim concentration now -- as if the excitement, due to fervent anticipation of all the thrills that were imminent for her and soon to come - had to be temporarily suppressed and held in abeyance for the chore she had to do.
Actually, her task was not incredibly hard -- a mere matter of routine procedure - the same exact ritual as always.
Merle opened the drawer and removed the kit: It consisted of a small black leather case, which she lay on the top of the dresser and opened. Inside was a gleaming glass and metal hospital-type hypodermic-syringe, all assembled, a priori, and an extra needle in case the original one broke.
Merle felt her heart thump and her pulse race erratically with intense excitement now, but in direct contradiction, her hands were perfectly steady as she removed the precious instrument from the case and laid it on the dresser-top.
She then removed the stuff from the drawer. There was three small packets in a serial-strip. She tore off one and put it back:
Merle knew her habit, watched it, and decided two would be sufficient. She wanted the kick well enough, but she wasn't ready to become a total slave to it. Then too, more than anything else, it was a means to an end, rather than an end in itself - to help her lose all her rigidity and inhibitions, so that she would become passive, pliable and Masochistic - and a mighty, strong Caveman such as Big Mike Forrester could go totally wild with her and send her.
Then too, a lot of the fun was purely in the act of shooting, anyway. Actually, truth to tell, there was a total fascination in doing it, once you started:
Merle had heard of some people who would shoot just water for a kick, and just because the kick was to that extend in the shooting for them.
Usually, Merle preferred to do it herself. But, this time, she had decided, she would let Forrester do her up. He had told her he had been a nurses-aid once, so she felt assured that he would know how and be expert at it. In addition, to which, while he was the total lustful Caveman when it came to making sexual-advances, he could be as gentle as a lamb when he had to be, accustomed to working most of his adult-life around women in some capacity or other.
Then too, it might get Mike even more charged up, by her letting him shoot her, she speculated:
Yes, he very well might enjoy and even derive keen relish in ramming the gleaming sharp, pointed needle into her exquisite, curvaceous body. It ought to be a real kick for him, and a perfect prerequisite for him to shove his elephantine-cock into her for a marvelous culmination.
One thing was for sure, at any rate, getting the needle jabbed into her by him would surely be one for Merle -- a new bit of tangy relish and spice to the basic dish that was him and all he had to give her!
Merle prepared!
There was a battered tin spoon in the drawer also; she extracted it, along with a book of matches and a piece of absorbent-cotton. Each movement she made was calculated and methodical.
Merle was hardly aware of Forrester sitting there gazing at her avidly - as if he wanted to devour her up, alive and whole.
Merle's beautiful bronze-flecked eyes gleamed brightly, reflecting the orange, yellow, blue flame of the match she struck - much as the moon reflects the sun - applying it to the wick of the candle.
She ripped open a corner of one bag. Propping the spoon level by placing the handle against the base of the holder, Merle carefully emptied the contents of the first packet into it, which rustled in hushed whispers like slowly flowing grains of sand:
Not a minute grain, even of the precious white powder was wasted.
Merle repeated the identical ritual with the second bag.
Now, even more carefully, she picked up the spoon and held it above the steady candle-flame, just above the apex. The white powder soon began to congeal and finally to melt into a clear liquid which filled the spoon exactly:
Holding it steady, Merle removed it from the flame and picked up the fluff of cotton with her other hand, rolling it deftly into a ball with her long, sensitive fingers.
Her concentration was so intense now, that little beads of perspiration began to form on her high, white lovely forehead.
Gently, Merle lowered the cotton-ball into the spoon. The liquid rapidly absorbed into the cotton. There was no waste whatsoever this way -- no spill -- and the cotton could be squeezed dry afterward of the last precious drop.
When a sufficient amount of the liquid had been absorbed, she picked up the so-called "gun," depressed the plunger back, she watched, virtually hypnotized, the barrel of the instrument fill. Her bronze orbs were wide and vacant under the candle-flame, but her hands remained tenaciously steady until the gun was fully loaded.
She set it down then, squeezing the cotton around the tip and getting the last drop, before she turned to Mike ...
* * *
Merle's voice was tense with all her excitement and eager anticipation:
"Put the money in the drawer, Mike darling," she directed him softly. "You see, I want you to do me up this time."
Forrester nodded knowingly, and obediently got up to carry out her orders:
Of course, he had been watching her keenly all the time, and his own corresponding excitement had risen with each long drawn-out minute of the ritualistic-process:
A chick was a chick, he reflected, but Merle Kimberly was something extra-special and super-duper -- a luscious, juicy piece of ass, supreme!
To be sure, she was a rich junky, but she was also a hell of a lot of woman, and that was the aspect which most interested him -- both consciously and unconsciously: Someone like her - a virtual affluent Jill St. John - was worthy of competition with his own precious ass, his unconscious dictated.
Yes indeed, if he could get to hurt, whip and violate utterly something like that, it would really be a monumental triumph -- one that he could rejoice over for years to come.
Of course, he had gotten to work her over before, and even to play that wicked game of horsie-horsie. But somehow, he had held himself back, in check; he hadn't given her the full harsh Caveman treatment.
Well, tonight he would, he avowed:
First, after he fixed her up, he would ram and jam her cunt with his elephantine-cock.
Then, later on, he would cut her saucy, curvy ass to ribbons and shreds with the riding-crop, before drilling her a brand-new ass-hole.
Mike took keen enjoyment at reviewing the keen delights that lay imminently in store for him -- indeed, as much as Merle did -- if not even a bit more so!
So, while he got the required sum of money from his wallet, (she hated carrying a purse) and duely placed it folded up neatly in half in the drawer, Merle commenced undressing:
Her movements were faster now and more spasmodic, indicative of her eager excitement and sense of fervent anticipation:
She undid the catch in the back of her expensive Parisian-model shift-dress, unzipped it, loosening the whole dress. She wiggled and squirmed around most enticingly as she brought it up over her head, then off altogether.
Merle stepped out of her flat-heeled wedgies for moccasin-styled sports-shoes, then tossed the removed dress carelessly over the very chair he had been sitting on.
An enticing pink slip soon followed in its wake, leaving her in just a fringed lace also pink bra and panty-hose:
She popped the bra and threw it aside, her delectable honey dew melons for tits with their choice candied-cherry tips automatically rising and become erect as she did so. Then she was pulling on the elastic-band of the panty-hose by her waist:
Forrester turned just in time to see her bending down and over as she wiggled to help in her effort to tug the whole tumescence-producing panty-hose garment down. His rapt vision caught the elegant line of curves made up of her spine, the bouncy resiliency and firmness of her dimpled-cheeked ass, along with the tapered back of her glorious legs and their streamlined calves.
Actually, Merle didn't always undress for this, at least at the conjecture of getting the needle. And he was glad she had decided to do so this time, especially since she wanted him to put it in her and fix her up - very, very glad!
Forrester held the hypodermic-needle, poised and ready, in his hand, waiting breathlessly for her to finish undressing, his fat, thick cock bigger, harder and fuller -- more erect than ever:
However, he knew that he had to do everything just the way she wanted it -- to the very last letter -- if he wanted to thrive with her and emerge triumphant in the crucial end-game. So he dutifully began undressing himself:
He took off his jacket, then loosened and slid off his tie. The shirt and pants came next. He desisted in taking off his underwear as yet, because Merle had a particular anti-fetish about seeing a fellow in the raw, hairy and all, with his cock and balls hanging around and dangling about -- at least,, until she was properly fixed up. But removing the rest of his things would be easy enough to achieve when the proper time came; it was the top garments of attire which took up the most time.
Finally, she stood there before him, stark naked in all of her captivating, palpitating lusciousness, so that it was hard for him to keep from shooting a load, right then and there, in his shorts. Forrester discerned that she noticed his most obtrusive hard-on, but deliberately averted her eyes from the tell-tale spot, pretending not to see it - at least, for now.
"Well, how do you want it this time, baby?" he asked of her hoarsely.
Merle smiled vacantly and placed a hand on the back of her right leg:
"Here," she said, simultaneously getting up on the bed, face-down and ass-up.
"In the muscle?"
"Yes."
"Sure that will be enough to give you a charge, baby?"
"Yes, for now, it will. Really, I don't want to go completely out, Mike darling - not when I can see you're so ready, willing and able to make mad, wild, passionate love to me":
Undoubtedly, she was referring to his fantastic hard-on, which still protruded in the front of his shorts, the mighty prick just about ready to slide and jump out of it altogether!
So his ears tingled and burned with her words, feeling himself involuntarily flushing and avowing to give her another dozen cuts with the riding-crop, as her penalty for embarrassing him with her facetious but telling remark, when he got around to it.
Forrester sat down on the bed alongside of her sprawled-out figure, its entourage of sweeping lines and billowing curves - its utter magnificent female-perfection, stirring him more than ever, so that his prick finally did jump out in full, at least - pressing against the nearest cheek of her succulent, curvy, dimpled ass:
"My, my "she noted musingly, her voice filled with utter merriment, "how big you are today, Mike darling."
"Yeah, doll," he tried to laugh it off, tittering nervously, "I'm a big guy in every ... way."
"Oh, very true! But, try and contain yourself for the time-being and be nice to me - real easy, soft and gentle. You can get as rough as you want later -- as you already know. Fair enough and agreeable, huh?"
"Yeah, sure, baby."
Actually, he didn't have to be told; he knew this a priori himself:
Gazing at the sleek streamlined curve of her leg, he ran his rough hand up it to find the precise spot where to plunge the needle, which was poised in readiness in his right hand. He could feel electric-currents go coursing through her leg, along with rippling sensations that seemed to be created by a million little asps dancing inside of it, and the flesh felt smooth, sleek, utterly pliable and resilient to the touch:
This was the easy way to get a charge, he knew, by popping off instead of shooting. To be sure, the kick wouldn't be as big and come as fast, by taking it in a muscle, but that didn't really matter to her. It was mostly the ritual, itself, that really counted:
An uncontrolled junkie's habit might begin to progress geometrically, but she was basically a sensualist of a creature, therefore, she could get much more out of much less.
Finally, Forrester located the spot he was looking for on her thigh.
Merle's nostrils became pinched together and her eyes bulged bright and wide as she twisted and contorted herself around to watch.
Forrester gave her the full dramatic-effect she was looking for, tormenting her psychically and deliciously by hesitating. He held the gleaming needle poised.
In that split few seconds in which he hesitated, Forrester had the craziest thought:
He recalled the big scene from William Faulkner's most popular novel, SANCTUARY, in which a character called Popeye, if he remembered correctly -- was impotent and had a pretty young virgin in his clutches. So what did he do? He took a rough, raw corncob and thrust it up her tender, young cunt, making her bleed so badly, she almost hemorrhaged to death - like a stuck pig in some slaughter-house.
But why did Forrester recall such a tableau, and right now?
Then he knew:
He had the distinct temptation to thrust the long, sharp, pointed needle all the way up her ass -- to the very hilt -- in her intestines:
Boy, she would surely yelp and shit then; that was for sure.
This was Forrester's unconscious speaking, which was fast becoming impatient at being deprived of manifestly expressing his passive-female-component. However, the reality-principle quickly set in, and he desisted from carrying out such an act. Instead, he plunged the needle adroitly into the leg-muscle, just as she expected him to do.
"Ouuu!" Merle gasped, shuddering and convulsing, then jerking and twitching her whole entity spasmodically. "Ouuuuu!" she gasped again, even more emphatically.
It was a good hit - right on target!
So her body relaxed, seeming to melt on a blanket of diaphanous gray fog. Her eyes closed tight shut and her breathing came in low slow breaths after first holding it in. Then a small whimper connoting pleasure trickled from her pretty rose-petals for lips:
"Arrr!"
Now Forrester's desire to violate and ravish her was stronger than ever; his cock was dripping little drops of scum on the front of his drawers, indicative of pre-secretion. Indeed, at the least little touch, he would pop off himself, but in an entirely different way from which she was popping!
Getting a good inner-grip on himself and his swinging emotions, he once again contained himself in check:
This was her personal-moment of bliss, he knew, not to be disturbed by anything or anyone. She was in a vacuum completely of her own - an abstract entity existing in a blank but torrentially blissful void which was simultaneously and paradoxically tranquil and serene - a dichotomy which was ostensibly incomprehensible to a person who was not familiar personally with the inner-feelings of a junkie who just had a fix.
As for Forrester, he was so eager for her now, that it ached and hurt; he felt the tell-tale pangs of blue-balls hit him in the pit of his groin and abdomen, all but doubling him up:
Even so, he knew better than to grab before the right time came. The grabbers -- they seldom get asked a second time by a chick - at least, until she was ready. It was all a question of proper timing -- indeed, just as everything was in this cockeyed old World:
He remembered reading the famous legend about Ali Pasha, who had waited thirty years patiently before taking his revenge on his enemies; that was how long it took before he felt the right time had come for them to get their just desserts.
Of course, as with all such legends, no doubt, this was a great exaggeration. Nevertheless, the point was made on him:
Bide your time and wait, and the World is your oyster, Mike Forrester!
Therefore, if you wanted to love a woman so that she wanted you again, you took your time -- played it slow, cool and casual-like until she was worked up to that certain fever-pitch, before letting yourself really go and be the complete beast and savage, depraved and on the proverbial war-path -- completely amuck and running rough-shod.
Yes, that was how a female's chemistry worked, and a man should never forget it - even a wild Masochistic nymph such as her -- Merle Kimberly.
So Mike, still playing it cool, took off the rest of his things. He tugged the undershirt up and over his head, baring his blond hairy chest. He stepped out of his drawers, exposing his dangling and hanging cock and balls -- also replete with blond hairs in a v-fringe surrounding them - to her bulging, gaping eyes. Finally, he sat down, neatly untied his shoes, took them off, then pulled off his socks, meticulously placing a sock inside of each shoe, and leaving the pair of shoes in front of the chair, together -- as if in a form of mockery.
Ordinarily, Merle's inner-emotions of hunger, longing and want would have been torn asunder. But under the extenuating circumstances, with the drug definitely taking effect - but not the quick, violent effect it had when you main-lined -- it was as if she could feel her blood humming and buzzing through her arteries and veins:
It was a palpable sound - the sound of "The Big H."
She was riding the horse now, all right. She felt good - real good -- free, relaxed and accentuatedly stimulated all at the very same time:
Her mind was somewhere else -- in another World altogether. But her senses were animated and heightened, and she watched his slow, deliberate, taunting movements of undressing, admiring the marvelous physical specimen of a man that was being undraped and revealed to her vacant, drug-filled eyes.
Then, as if in a wonderful dream, she watched him come, now stark naked in all of his manly splendor, back to the bed.
Merle closed her eyes tight-shut, letting her heightened sense of touch do everything for her emotions as he commenced making his preliminary advances, before closing and lunging at her for the kill - like a wild, hungry Hon devouring its small helpless prey utterly! ...
Chapter 10
Terry Whitman laughed shrilly and almost hysterically, as, after patting sensuous Doris Marlin affectionately around the tummy, he suddenly brought up his other hand, and resorting to a forked-thumb, rammed her flush up the center of the cheeks of her lilting ass, giving her a real hard goose!
Doris was really caught by surprise at such a maneuver, and stoned on pot like she was - having been made so by the same Terry whom Sylvia Pierce had aptly nicknamed "the terrible" - she yelped, jumping so high that her head almost hit the ceiling:
"Yeowww. Don't do that to me, Terry," she lightly and demurely admonished him, "cause I'm really out of my mind tonight - ready to flip."
"Me, too, baby, but all over you," he replied suggestively.
"All right, but at least let a girl take her clothes off first. Then you can do whatever suits you. Fair enough?"
"Crazy, chick - real crazy, like," he retorted, most jubilantly. "So I tell you what: I got to go downstairs now and see a man. When I get back, I don't want to see clothes anywhere - just you in your birthday-suit. You dig?"
"Uh-huh," Doris acquiesced sweetly. "I'll go burn them, or throw them out of the window, or something. Satisfied?"
"Crazy, chick, crazy. You dig me, all right; you dig me real fine!"
Then as Terry grinned happily and got up to take his temporary leave of her, closing the door after him, Doris began giggling to herself as she sat down on the edge of the bed, undressing:
Funny thing, she mused, a lot of people took them for brother and sister, As Terry was blond like her:
He was 22, but looked even younger at times -- her younger kid brother and/or kid sister; it depended on what he wore and how long and mar celled his coiffure was.
Terry was tall and slim, with watery blue eyes, a weak, soft chin, and a quivering, pouting mouth, indicating the feminine-tendencies from his genes. Taken in totality, he was a sort of poor girl's Dustin Hoffman type.
Terry and work didn't agree at all; he was forever the con-man, scheming and promoting, mostly at pushing dope. Of course, he rationalized his laziness and lack of worth by considering him as being "a real cool cat." Paradoxically, he had real guts when it came to beating the work-rap; he was truly audacious and vicious and wouldn't stop at anything -- even murder if he had to commit it.
While most of the time, Doris found him to be good company -- friendly and cheerful, as a brother should be with a fond sister, even if it was by proxy - when it came to his love-making, he was truly flighty, erratic and totally unpredictable:
He could be soft and gentle and exert the utmost finesse, eating out a girl's hair-pudding with the very best of them.
But, on the other hand, he could be vicious, depraved and violent, especially when things weren't going too well with him, or the Sadistic-mood seized him:
At such times, he could take off his big, thick and heavy leather strap, double it up, and give a girl so much hot leather on her bare, soft, pliable behind, that she wouldn't be able to sit down properly for more than a week!
And if that still wasn't enough, when she would be thoroughly wilted and virtually hysterical, he would culminate his attack by savagely fucking her up her thoroughly cut-up, wilted, suffering ass, until she all but passed out from it!
Of course, such Sadistic manifestations emanated from his unconscious-mind, where his latent passive-homosexual-component lurked, it being jealous of Doris and all delectable, bouncy young damsels, wishing more than anything else that he was endowed with such a magnetic-ass and tits and cunt for himself, so that some big hairy Caveman would violate and ravish him but utterly -- indeed, just as he periodically did to Doris.
Instead of resenting him for his occasional violent outbursts, truth to tell, they turned Doris on and really sent her. She, frankly, never knew what to expect from him next; he was forever exciting, flighty and totally unpredictable. Besides, she was devoutly Masochistic, anyway, so she wasn't the least afraid of that; rather, she relished and thrived on it.
There was a story that Terry liked to tell regarding himself and his somewhat effeminate appearance. Whether it was true or not, or he just told it to people purely as a defense-mechanism, to make light of his appearance, Doris had no way to ascertain. But, in any case, she found the story quite amusing and chose to recall it from time to time ...
* * *
Once, just for kicks, he decked himself out in female-clothes and played the part of a girl. He did this in conjunction with his steady girl-friend at the time. He had her arrange a double-date, the kick being, if he could fool a fellow into thinking that he was really a girl.
His girl-friend's date was a quiet, collegiate white fellow, but Terry's was a big, strapping buck-Negro.
They went out drinking, eating and dancing. Later, when the car was parked on a lonely, deserted road and both fellows went on maneuvers with their respective "girl-friends," in due time, they were in semi-dishevelment. The quiet collegiate fellow was busy humping Terry's steady girl-friend, which didn't really bother or faze him in the least.
It was when the big buck-Negro undid Terry's clothes and ascertained the true state of affairs that he yelped out, in shock and dismay, to the other fellow, who was his friend at college:
"Hey, man, you know somethin'?"
At the moment, he didn't know very much, so busy pumping and thrusting into a tight, warm drawing twat as he was. But when his friend persisted, he finally acknowledged him with:
"Yeah, Daddy-O. What's that?"
"My chick ain't no chick a' tall; she's got a big cock and huge pair of balls."
"No shit?"
"That's right, man. How's yours?"
"She's all right; she's a real girl."
"Well, I'm glad for you, man, at any rate. And I wanted man piece o' ass so bad tonight, too," he moaned mournfully.
"Want to take a go at mine when I get done?"
"No, man. I don't want to cut in on your action."
"So what are you going to do, then? Beat your meat?"
"No, man. I was determined to get mahself a piece o' ass tonight, and I'll get man ass!"
Then saying that, according to Terry's report, the big buck-Negro turned him upside down on the leather-seat of the car, face-down, and proceeded to fuck him in the ass. He had such a big, long cock and pumped away so frantically, Terry thought that he was going to drill him a brand-new ass-hole. However, he didn't mind too much, as the Negro also soothingly jerked him off as he "Greek-smeared" him!
The punch-line was, according to Terry's report, in conclusion, that when it was all over, the big buck-Negro howled gleefully and triumphantly to his quiet collegiate friend:
"See, it's just like ah told yoj, man; I got mah piece o' ass tonight, all right; ah got mah piece o' ass! ..."
* * *
Of course, Terry only deigned to tell this story when he was real high on pot. And whether it was true or not was difficult for Doris to ascertain:
Regardless, in all probability, it was a sublimation and wish-fulfillment of his deepest-rooted sexual-fantasy, she concluded, with surprising Psychoanalytic-insight.
However, one factor she couldn't discern - indeed, it was impossible for her to do so, not knowing the party concerned - was, that Terry Whitman and Big Mike Forrester were identical psychological-types:
There was a definite sameness in their both being blond and having feminine-urges emanating from their genes. But here, the sameness ended and a basic difference came to the fore:
Terry Whitman was more openly and outwardly feminine, never having really tried to over-compensate. Whereas, Forrester did, with his weight-lifting indulgences and strenuous activities around the guy, until he built up the convincing facade that he was truly manly -- a real he-man -- indeed, Superman, himself.
As a possible result of such a marked differentiation, Terry was better able to handle and cope with his feminine-drive. Whereas, with Forrester, it was much more deeply submerged and even repressed, so that he could impulsively break out in a rage and become definitely and dangerously Paranoid to a pretty woman, hurting her cruelly and terribly!
But getting back to sensuous Doris Marlin now, her meditations about Terry more less dissolved, as she went about the procedure of undressing:
Her movements were inclined to be fumbling and not too well coordinated, being so high on pot as she was. However, she tittered to herself as she peeled things off, and soon, she had everything off and rolled into a neat, tidy bundle, which she then dutifully scooped up and stuffed into the bottom drawer of the highboy.
Doris stood there now in all of her bantam-golden lusciousness and sensuousness -- a virtual Julie Christie, perfectly delighted instead of feeling ashamed, by her own nudity - by the very fact that she was brazen, abandoned and totally uninhibited.
Wildly exciting ideas and strange, weird images started to flit through her brain:
Such as being on a banana-plantation where the various peons who worked it were busy shoving hard, pointed bananas into each and every hole -- every pore and crevice of her being!
Or, she was in a candle-factory, where an analogous tableau took place -- where candles were shoved into her, only they were lit up and soon melted -- sending her on fire and feeling the drip and flow of the candles going into her inner-most being; feeling paradoxically comparable to the drip and flow of a manly cum, but of a hot, searing cum, though - one that wasn't even existent!
Having such keen images of delight, quite inadvertently but most naturally, Doris' demure fingers went into the front of her pussy, giving a few soothing jerks on the outer-lips, which were soon echoed by audible twitches in her twat and murmurs in her tummy:
Realizing what she was doing, Doris quickly removed the hand, lest she jerk herself off and waste a load of precious maiden-juice:
Not that she couldn't easily shoot again if she had to. But it was so messy. She wanted to keep herself clean and intact for Terry and all the exciting things that he would surely do to her before this night was over.
However, by jerking her twat a bit, made Doris' mind automatically shift to her room-mate, Sylvia Pierce, because that was precisely what she had been doing to her every night -- playing stinky-fingers:
Yes, Doris had coaxed her into doing that during her nightly bath.
They had grown real close during the past three, four days or so, until Doris finally and inevitably ran into Terry. She had expected to on the night of that memorable bath, when Sylvia had become so angry and irritated with her, that she and resoundingly spanked her bare, wet bottom with the meat-end of the scrubbing-brush, only to result in a most thorough and sensational hand-job for Doris.
Sylvia had vowed never to give her a bath again after that. But she did so, anyway. That was because the two girls had become so close during those past few evenings:
They had gone down to the Village together, doing some shopping and dropping in on expresso-joints, where they really became acquainted and intimate, talking over their inner-most girlish-secrets.
In the sexual-periphery, therefore, not only did Sylvia consent to give her a bath, but even supplied her with a voluntary, if reluctant, hand-job, usually making Doris come right then and there in the water.
But while this pleased Doris in a way, it wasn't completely satisfactory. To her, it was real kid stuff, and she could have done that all by herself any time. Still, she was pleased in an overall strategical-sense - that she was rapidly bringing Sylvia to the brink of a frenetic Lesbian-relationship - which Sylvia, herself, really unconsciously craved and longed for anyway.
Everything was proceeding perfectly until the inevitable happened:
They ran into Terry!
Doris quickly weighed the alternatives with their possible resulting consequences:
If she lost out with Sylvia at this conjecture, she would lose the hand-jobs and the nocturnal-baths.
Whereas, with Terry, she would lose a good manly cock and all the exciting, unexpected at times, things that he did for her - including getting her the pot - which she also craved and was becoming addicted to ,ever more and more.
So acting on impulse - figuring she could always make it up with Sylvia later when she got back to their pad anyway - she took off with Terry, leaving Sylvia flat right there in the very street.
Sylvia was hurt. She acted as if Doris had given her a vicious, unexpected slap in the face. Sylvia didn't say anything much, except what was expected of her, but her eyes gleamed daggers of hurt, hate and resentment as she rapidly walked away, her back to Doris:
Recalling this sad, pathetic image of Sylvia Pierce now, made Doris feel acute pangs of guilt, along with the need to be properly punished, so that she could atone for the terrible sin she had committed on poor, loving Sylvia:
Of course, Doris was devoutly Masochistic anyway, and would even thrive on rough, tough treatment. But the feeling of guilt solidified the Masochistic-craving and doubly entrenched it, so that she had a burning, insatiable itch to be thoroughly flagellated and violated:
And little did she realize that such was coming to pass on this very night -- indeed, it was to commence within the very next few minutes - all that she craved for, and then some.
Yes, little did Doris Marlin realize! ...
* * *
Terry was taking impossibly long to get back. So Doris went to the door to see if it was unlocked:
It was!
Goody!
Breathlessly, her heart and pulse agitating with excitement, she opened the door a crack. She then could hear somewhat subdued voices in the hallway, coming down the stairs -- male voices!
Doris took a deep breath, exhaling convulsively, her brain fevered by the pot which undoubtedly provoked her audacity and gall.
She then stepped out into the hallway. The light from the open doorway cast itself over her nude bantam-golden entity, as she stood there, streamlined gams straddled apart, melons for tits swollen visibly panting -- the Julie Christie of Darling fame!
The voices turned a corner at the landing, and then Terry's cousin, Marty and the tall, slim Negro with the goatee and black horn-rimmed eyeglasses -- his name was Charlie Wilson - appeared directly in front of her:
Doris had been introduced to them by Terry when they had first entered the little furnished-rooming-house on MacDougall Street. Marty greatly resembled Terry, except that somehow, even though he was also inclined to be blond and thin, he had an aura of being more manly hovering about his person.
"Man, what's this?" Charlie Wilson exclaimed, drawing back with surprise and shock. "Am I dreaming? It must be a mirage, man."
Marty cackled evilly before retorting:
"Don't know about that. It may be real, at that, Daddy-O. Let's give it a feel and pinch and find out for sure."
They advanced slowly and cautiously to where she stood. Doris closed her eyes, a smile creasing her pert, sharp, sensuous features, and she didn't move a muscle.
A pair of rough male-hands reached out and cupped her melons for tits, squeezing them. Simultaneously, another gave her two crisp slaps on her lilting ass -- one smack on each cheek; Doris could feel them dutifully quiver and bounce as they started to tingle from the abrupt, harsh contact made by the hard, bony hand. Then a sharp forked-thumb followed in the wake of the playful spanks, giving her a good goose, just as Terry had done to her just a short while before. Indeed, it seemed to be a sort of sport around here!
"It's Terry's girl, Doris," Marty exclaimed knowingly to the tall, slim Negro. "Where's Terry anyhow?" he asked of Doris.
"Don't know," Doris answered, a bit thickly, that high feeling enveloping her once again. "He went away -- far, far away -- and left me all alone, the no-good scum-bag, cock-sucking, mother-fucker."
"Now, now," Marty endeavored to lightly admonish her, "that's not a nice way for a lady to talk."
"I'm not a lady but a real swinger. And I don't give a good shit, anyhow."
"Let's take her inside before someone comes along," the Negro suggested.
Apparently, Marty agreed, because Doris found herself pushed through the door.
She opened her eyes and the room was there again -- the one she had entered with Terry upon their first coming there this evening:
The room was there again, and yet, somehow, it seemed a bit different -- somewhat menacing and even ominous looking now.
"She's stoned, Charlie," said Marty matter-of-factly. "What a terrible habit for a pretty chick to have."
"Yeah, man," Charlie acquiesced softly. "But, isn't she somethin', though? Why if I was Terry, I'd tie a chain to her leg and tie her to the bed all the time."
"A chastity-belt over her pretty, juicy twat would be even better," speculated Marty.
"Yeah, man, it sure would. But, Christ, she sure is somethin', though -- a real sight for sore eyes."
Marty looked at the Negro. The Negro looked at him. Some unspoken but clearly understood signal of mental-telepathy passed between them, calling for a definite line of action to develop:
Marty cleared his throat, smirked sinisterly, rubbed his hands together in an utterly ludicrous way, before endeavoring to reply to the unspoken words which had passed between them:
"You're right, man -- so very, very right. And, shit," he now endeavored to rationalize, "it's all in the family, anyhow; Terry is my cousin."
"Even so, he might get sore if we mess around with her," the Negro called Charlie Wilson suggested.
"Not Terry -- not him. He's a real big sport about such things. A chick never bugs him or hangs him up that much, believe me, Daddy-O."
"Well, I still don't know, man," Charlie Wilson still sounded somewhat skeptical.
So Marty now turned directly to Doris:
"What do you think, doll? You game for some action or not? After all, we don't want to force you if you're not willing. So ..."
Doris smiled her most willing smile before answering tersely:
"Why not?"
"But, look, man," Charlie Wilson interjected, "there's still two o' us and only one o' her. So what do you wanna do? Take turns?"
"No, not necessarily. There are other ... ways. For instance, she looks like a chick who digs crowds. So, do you, doll?"
"I dig crowds the most," Doris stoically retorted.
"Crazy," Marty squealed jubilantly. "Real crazy, like. So I tell you what we're going to do, honey ..."
"What?" asked Doris.
"Have ourselves a party -- a regular square, social function, sort of -- where they serve three-decker sandwiches. You dig me, Daddy-O?"
"I read you, man. I've got mah boots laced tight."
"Well, take them off, then," directed Marty.
"A party with three-decker sandwiches," Doris murmured, thinking-out-loud, "sure sounds like fun, all right:"
She also read Marty properly and the implied connotations correctly.
But already, even now, they were getting undressed -stripping for action. It didn't take them too long.
Doris stood near the bed and watched, entranced, a growing feeling akin to melted butter beginning to churn in her queasy tummy.
No, it didn't take too long for them to get undressed. And then, they were the exact same way that she was stark naked:
Doris observed that the Negro had an enormous cock with a v-fringe of black wiry hairs, all in an even array surrounding it -- a carbon-copy of the goatee.
Doris tittered as Marty walked up to her. Charlie Wilson hesitated for a moment, then walked up to her also -- but from the opposite direction.
Doris was prompted to recall Rudyard Kipling's immortal words:
"East is East, and West is West, and never the twains shall meet."
Well, Kipling was wrong, Doris was forced to conclude, because the twains were going to meet this time:
Yes, they surely, surely WOULD! ...
Chapter 11
Hands - large, strong hams for hands were touching Merle, adroitly massaging her sleek back from the shoulders down - kneading the svelte, marble-like flesh. The adroit fingers seemed to penetrate the very flesh, itself:
Mike Forrester could turn her into a melted mass of jelly by doing this for fore-play, she reflected, him, having been a professional masseur at one time in his illustrious career.
Her persisted tenaciously, massaging her entire sleek spine, the tapered thighs of her legs, and the streamlined, curvaceous calves.
"Oh, oh, oh-hhh!" Merle convulsed and moaned, softly but tremulously.
Oh, but wow, that was good, she affirmed inwardly, with a distinct feeling of elation:
It was fine, wonderful and really great!
Now she was happy she had decided not to use a vein and take her shot in there, because she could feel these nuances he was so busy perpetrating all over and into her very being:
It was running through each and every cell and pore of her entity, the fine, clear liquid he had injected for her. And now, she could feel him, roaming all over and everywhere:
And soon -- it wouldn't be long now, she would feel another effervescent elixir of a liquid merge and intermingle with the first -- his manly cum, injecting itself into her being with jet-streams of cream:
Oh, oh, oh-hhh. What joy. What Heaven. How wonderful that thought was. Why, her twat was all itchy and twitching already!
Forrester turned her over on the bed as if she were some small rag-doll.
Merle felt an urge to giggle -- to laugh -- to say idiotic and nonsensical things. But instead, she stayed quiet and he began playing with her tits, kneading the whole melons, one at a time, expertly and caressingly. Then he worked the nipples between his fingers until the candied-cherries were two ultra-hard thumb-tacks.
For a brief interim, he ran his hands in a rapid but light circular-motion over her soft, flat-lined, also velvety-textured tummy, making a million little bees seem to swarm from out of their hive inside of her and to dance and sting all over:
"Eeee!" she shrieked tremulously.
Forrester quickly followed up his advantage and was ready to close in for the kill now:
He took one hand and stiffened it -- as if he was going to give her a Karate-chop. He did so, lightly but cuttingly, flush in the naturally parted and wet outer-labia-lips of her turbulent, pulsating twat.
That did it!
With just a few such timely strokes, Merle felt herself come apart at the seams and break wide-open:
Truth to tell, her delectable cunt had already been all wet with the juices of pre-secretion, worked up from the ritual of him having put the needle into her thigh -- which was so symbolic and satisfying, but merely hinting at the bigger, fuller and harder needle -- in the form of his elephantine-cock, that was soon to be inside of her, humping and plowing away!
"Ahhh ... eeee ... ohhh!" she shrieked, trilly and tremulously.
This was just the signal he needed to set him off to go berserk:
Now he could let himself go, at last!
Foaming and frothing at the mouth, then grinding his teeth together with a mighty, roaring snarl, he pounced down on her with his tremendous bulk and swarmed all over her at once - with his feverish lips, his strong calloused hands, and his powerful, muscular body.
Merle didn't do much to assist him. In her doped-up state, she was too listless and lethargic, either to arch her back or cup her pussy. Nevertheless, she felt everything and the excitement in her blood was automatic:
To her, it was as if she was in the process of under-going a long, complicated operation without the help of anything but a local-anesthetic, so that she was completely conscious, even if somewhat dulled with the pain of the scalpel that was being constantly inflicted, throughout.
But, she didn't have to help him; it wasn't at all necessary. He knew what he had to do and did it!
First, he propped her up by placing a fluffy pillow under her saucy ass. Then he wrenched the outer-flaps of her twat apart with his strong pliers for hands. He shoved his entire short but thick tree-stump of a cock flush into the jaws of her snatch:
Then he began to move, slowly and easily, sliding his hands between the pillow and the cheeks of her ass, seizing them tightly. And as he pumped away, he worked them ever faster and harder - like a pair of cow's teats that he was in the process of milking.
"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me to death," Merle wailed. "Fuck me, my big Caveman brute - my mighty Tarzan. Crush me and devastate me utterly with all of your bigness and goodness."
"Yeah, baby, yeah," he retorted knowingly. "Will do."
"Fuck me, fuck me, oh, please, fuck me. Ram your cock so far and hard into my cunt, that I'll think it's shoved up into my very throat. And don't be afraid to hurt me, my Tarzan darling. Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me-eee!" her voice broke off on a high-pitched wail.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he reiterated. "Your wish is my command, sweet fairy princess."
Then he really went wild - hog-wild!
By this time, he had worked himself up to a mighty crescendo and his cock was rising and falling into her quivering, drawing snatch in a frenzy. Each thrust was so hard and savage, that Merle was afraid that he would break the very bed down:
But he didn't, pumping away in strokes that were reminiscent of a policeman's club in her mind -- beating her across the thighs, her soft, flat-lined tummy - across and over and into the very twat, itself:
Beating her, beating her, beating her - pounding her, pounding her, pounding her -- slamming her, slamming her, slamming her.
And all the time, not sparing her, he thrust his full weight flush upon her with each and every downward stroke.
To Merle, the pain was positively excruciating, but so delicious that it was incomprehensibly rapturous. Various images, all violent in nature, passed through her feverish mind now:
A mighty steam-roller was passing over her, again and again, pounding her to death.
Or it was a tremendous bulk of an elephant who was stamping and trampling her with his great, monstrous feet.
As for Forrester, he was having similar images on the opposite end of the pole - the Sadistic to her Masochistic ones:
He was Popeye in Faulkner's novel; she was a young virgin. He had a corn-cob in both of his hands that was aflame, and each time he forced and wedged it into her young, tender, virginal-cunt, she would emit a blood-curdling scream:
All of the corn-cob wouldn't go in at first. Suddenly, in Forrester's mind, there was a sharp, cracking, snapping sound -- comparable to a rubber-band that had abruptly broken; the corn-cob went all the way in, and the blood began to spurt from the broken arteries of her hymen for a cherry:
Then to give realistic credibility to such a vivid image, at that very moment, Merle's snatch began to twitch, snap and pulsate crazily - creaming in spurts.
Feeling the ebb and flow of the maiden-juice that had not been inverted inside of her, acted on Forrester like some electro-magnet which drew his own manly cum surging to the fore:
But, unlike her, he didn't come in spurts; rather in virtual buckets, pumping and banging away harder and more furiously than ever - all but annihilating her altogether now; pounding her behind so savagely into the hard mattress that she would surely be all black-and-blue tomorrow - not to mention the way he had twisted and turned her curvy mounds of flesh all the way around and over between his strong, gripping, calloused fingers -virtually inverting the succulent cheeks as he pounded them.
To solidify his torrential drive and lend it even further induced impetus, Forrester focused in his mind the fondest, to him, image of all: that of a gorgeous Jill St. John figure, virginal and just sixteen, bleeding and hemorrhaging in a gushing flood that was a virtual tidal-wave from her tender young cunt.
So he kept right on pounding away - sustaining his terrific drive - ramming and jamming and slamming with his lethal human-club into her, by now, thoroughly soggy, squashy, slippery as an eel but still drawing and draining snatch.
Indeed, it seemed as if he was fully bent on carrying out her openly expressed wish to him, literally - to fuck her to death!
As for overwhelmed Merle, she was going through a successive series of strange reflected sensations:
What he was doing to her - all of the violence and hurt he was so savagely perpetrating - was an agony and an ecstasy, a sound and a fury, a rush and a stillness, a journey to another World altogether where time ceased to be and erotica was the only reality:
There, on this strange, alien planet of hers, people didn't eat, shit or sleep; certainly they didn't work. Rather, they reserved all of their �lan vital for fucking, sucking, indulging in all of the polymorphous-perverse, and, in a word, having themselves a perpetual and never-ending ball! Suddenly, Merle began to feel herself expand: She swelled and swelled and swelled - grew and grew and grew -- like a balloon and/or a pregnant woman who was in the later stages of her carrying and having a real hard time of it - possibly on the verge of dropping a whole litter.
Then she, Merle Kimberly - the human-balloon - was floating off and up to the ratified atmosphere of the stratosphere; ever growing, expanding and swelling -- until the terrific pressure strained the seam of the balloon to the very bursting-point:
Bang!
And then it burst, to little bits of shreds and pieces, falling in every direction, completely torn up asunder and shattered.
Merle screamed once tremulously, her guts and entire insides twisting, turning and knotting up - like a strand of rope. Her teeth dug in and grinded into his squat, thick bull-like neck:
But he paid her no heed, completely oblivious of it, still pumping away and beating her savagely and mercilessly with his deadly human-club, without neither pause nor letup; while she kept right on hemorrhaging and spurting the symbolic blood, in the form of her precious maiden-juice that was more akin to thick, rich cream.
Then Merle felt herself fall back into a peaceful black pit of semi-consciousness. She hardly knew it when he finally moved away from her and dismounted altogether:
The drug was having its full effect now, and shrouded in the warm, kindling after-glow of total and complete rapturous fulfillment, she drifted off into the serene, tranquil state of total Nirvana! ...
* * *
It was quite some time later before they had recovered their terrifically sapped energy sufficiently to speak. It was at this conjecture that Forrester, temporarily reverted to his usually subservient and menial status in her employ, manifested they by addressing her quite formally and respectfully:
"Well, are you sufficiently pleased with my efforts in your behalf, Ma'am?"
"Yes, Michael," she retorted coolly, in keeping with the context he had laid down and thereby assuming her own regal-role. "Quite! As a matter-of-fact, I'm going to give you a truly generous bonus for your ... endeavors."
"Oh, really?" he feigned at being pleased.
"Yes. And that bonus can still be doubled, providing ..."
"Yes?"
"You play horsie-horsie with me - oh, after we rest awhile - to be sure. Will you do that little thing for me, Michael?"
"Gladly, Ma'am."
"Think you'll be ... up for ... it, hmmm?"
"I'm always up for horsie-horsie," he glibly and smoothly replied - which, indeed, he was. "Want me to go fetch the riding-crop and saddle now, Ma'am?"
"By all means, please do, although there really is no hurry. And besides, it's only fair ..."
"What is, Ma'am?"
"Well, you just helped me to ride my horse. So now I'm going to return the favor by letting you ride yours - meaning me," she exclaimed, rather facetiously.
However, he wasn't going to let her get off the hook quite so easily and place the shoe on the other foot - meaning his instead of hers:
"Well, it's entirely up to you, Ma'am. If you don't wish to play the game, then we won't. It's your choice, one way or the other. Your wish is my command, Princess." He did his level best to keep the sneering mockery and undertone of biting scorn out of his voice.
Whether she detected it or not, was not important, since she didn't really care. All that mattered to Merle Kimberly was living for the moment and the Pragmatic-now - ego and self-respect be damned:
"No-ooo," she whispered huskily, "I would like to play, too. So go fetch the riding-crop and saddle."
"As you wish, Ma'am," he replied, already going to fetch the necessary paraphernalia he required:
But inwardly, to himself, Mike Forrester was an agitated mass of excitement:
Aside from the keen enjoyment that playing the game would give him, there was also the ulterior motive of working her over so severely and thoroughly on that precious, saucy rump of hers, having already filled it with livid black-and-blue marks from so savagely plowing her, that she wouldn't be able to return home for weeks, to face her quite passionate husband again, so that he would be sure to surmise exactly what had happened to her; no possible excuse would suffice.
So, that being the case, in so doing, Forrester would force the issue and bring it to a vital-point:
She would then have to take off with him and have an affair for at least a week of two. And he had the utmost confidence in his prowess, that provided with so much time to thrill, delight and satisfy her, he would break her down completely and make her leave her husband on a permanent basis, to marry him.
So, instead of killing her with kindness as was usually the case in such matters, he would do so with his unbridled lust and viciousness:
What joy. What Heaven!
Yes, he would cut up her saucy ass to ribbons and streaks with the riding-crop, then finish her off by drilling her a brand new ass-hole:
To him -- in his particular case - it was surely a means to an end.
Then again, with his unconscious female-component being so strong as it was, it was also an end in itself.
But, in any case, she was going to get it -- all that she only bargained for - and THEN SOME! ...
Chapter 12
Charlie Wilson, the tall, lanky Negro with the goatee, was most considerate, Doris learned, somewhat to her surprise, as he temporarily drew away from her to go over to the dresser and fetch a jar of cold-cream, to grease up his long, stiff cock with, so he wouldn't hurt her when he drilled her in her tight little reddish-brown ass-hole.
However, Terry Whitman's cousin, Marty, wasn't quite so considerate -- nor did he have to be -- since he was going in from the front.
Since Doris already had all of the necessary juices of pre-secretion worked up inside of her, from the pot she had taken and in fervent anticipation of all the thrills that were to come and lay in store for her with this three-way-sandwich-job, by her pulling the flaps of flesh, that were the outer-labia-lips, apart, Marty could thrust his dick right into her, and did so:
He felt himself sliding along what felt like a well-greased, hot third-rail. And once he was fully in, the jaws of the snatch instinctively started to tighten and draw, feeling more akin to a bed of slimy, slithering quicksand:
"Oh, joy. Oh, Heaven," Marty exclaimed quite rapturously. "Her cunt is hotter than a firecracker, man," he informed Charlie Wilson dutifully. "And getting your nookie inside of it is as good as dipping in a barrel of honey."
Charlie Wilson didn't answer any of these terse and pointed comments, but kept right on lathering up his prick with generous dabs of cold-cream:
As he did so, Doris was fascinated by him: at the bigness and longness and fullness of the cock - at the little hard balls surrounded by short, fuzzy black hairs, that appeared like miniature coconuts - at the neat, trim, wiry-haired goatee directly above and adorning his enormous dick.
Seeing the spectacle of such a human-tool made Doris greatly agitated, especially when she realized that it would soon be lunging all the way in her tight little but most itchy ass-hole:
So it was, that she involuntarily, without even realizing that Marty was inside of her and fucking her as such, started to slither, bump and grind her firm, compact, curvy ass, in accordance with her whole entity. Her swelled, hard, hot melons for tits brushed up against Marty's chest most tantalizingly, and her smooth, soft, flat-lined tummy grinded gently into his:
"Oh, Daddy," he yelped with delight to Charlie. "Oh, Daddy-O. What joy - what Heaven this chick's cunt is:"
Of course, Marty had mistakenly assumed that Doris went for him and was steamed, thereby inflating his Narcissistic-ego no end, resulting in him pumping away ever harder, faster and more frantically into her, by now, soggy, juicy cunt.
By this conjecture, Charlie Wilson was thoroughly greased-up and ready for her. So he came up behind Doris, seizing both cheeks of her undulating ass, temporarily bringing them to a grinding halt, to permit him to gain entrance.
Charlie aimed and fired between the parted, curvy cheeks:
Bull's-eye - right down the middle - flush into the designated hole!
Upon feeling the contact, Doris all but creamed:
He wasn't hurting her, since he was so well greased. But even so, it felt as if he had taken a big piece of lead pipe and rammed it all the way up into her very intestines:
"Oh, oh, oh-hhh!" Doris squealed in ecstasy.
Then Charlie began go pump, slowly and easily at first, but gradually working up a definite momentum and cadence.
Doris was running away ahead of Charlie, now slithering, bumping and grinding her succulent bantam-golden ass for all she was worth, along with her whole curvaceous torso.
But whereas Charlie hadn't reached such a frantic tempo as yet, Marty had some moments ago. And with her writhing and wiggling away like she was, along with her snatch drawing like mad, he couldn't hold himself back any longer:
With a mighty, surging gush, Marty popped his nuts and came - in spurt after spurt after spurt of his dripping, oozing cum.
This made Doris feel elated, so she really put on the pressure, writhing and wiggling, squirming and sighing for all she was worth, quite deliberately now.
Just as Marty started to pop off and come, Charlie caught up to the rapid, frantic tempo that the pair was setting, and was now taking long, deep, quick thrusts hard into her tight little ass-hole:
So with Marty pumping away like crazy and Charlie right along with him, to Doris, this was the most:
The wonderful illusion was created, that some big, thick, hard log had been set through both her sides, making her take a ride on some proverbial sea-saw and/or on the biggest, hardest, stiff est cock in the whole universe - in both her twat and ass-hole at the very same time.
Then, at last, Charlie could not resist coming:
In all his live-long days, he had never felt anything like it. Why, this white chick had a magnetic ass-hole, and she was so adroit at using and twitching the muscles - tensing and expanding them - that if he would have been blind-folded, he would have sworn on his life that he was inside of a hot, drawing cunt.
So Charlie started to come, too, only he did so as if he was using a short riding-crop that was whipping her with his short, jet-streams of cum invertedly - deep into the furthest recesses of her being.
By this time, Marty had finished popping his full load and wanted out, as his prick started to feel needle-like pangs, indicative of it being strained:
But Doris refused to release him, the strong jaws of her snatch grinding away comparable to the fast whirling blades of some electric-blender. In addition to which, the snatch drew and drained like a slithering bed of quicksand:
"Let me out, chick," Marty yelped cajolingly. "Please, I beg of you, doll."
"Not on your life, sonny boy," Doris hissed back at him tightly. "You wanted in, and now you've got it. If you want out, it's up to you to get out. Understand?"
"But my cock hurts; it feels like it's coming off."
"Tough, sonny boy. Things are tough all over!"
"But you've got all that I've got to give for now, chick - all of my cum."
"You underestimate your ... errr ... resources, sonny boy. I'm quite sure that there's still plenty of more good cream where that first load came from. And I'm going to drain you dry - completely dry - dry, dry, DRY!"
"No, no, no-ooo," Marty yelped in terror. "Oh, God, no-ooo!"
But Doris paid him absolutely no heed, putting on the intense, torrid pressure with her magnetic-snatch more tenaciously and frantically than ever.
She kept right on riding the human-log - the biggest, hardest, stiffest cock in all of captivity - gliding and sliding along on the proverbial sea-saw:
She felt as if she was being pelted with little rounds of bullets that melted inside of her instantly on contact into cum, steadily filling her up and swelling her being, until she thought that she was going to burst:
Then, emitting a long, trill, tremulous cry, Doris did burst and explode, everything seeming to go out of her that had been thrust in - like a fast deflated balloon. And she creamed, in gob after gob after gob.
Marty had long ago wilted against her, utterly done in, and Charlie was fast petering out to the merest of whimpers with that lead pipe of his. But Doris, now free to express herself, kept corning and coming and coming -- in gob after gob after gob.
She thought that she never would stop. She felt herself in a coating of a congealed blanket of scum, which was the overflow from Marty, splaying her thighs, and from Charlie likewise splaying the curvy cheeks of her ass and the backs of her thighs.
So it was, that even though the two fellows had stopped, their scum was still slowly trickling, running and flowing over her private parts, spurring her on to new heights of delirium-- coming in bigger gobs than ever:
Coming, coming, coming, seemingly never to stop.
All at once, she did stop, as another fellow entered the room and stood there glaring menacingly at all of them:
It was Terry Whitman, her erstwhile boy-friend, and judging by the terrible, fierce look on his face, Doris was really in for it now - in for it, but good! ...
* * *
"What kind of fuckin' scene is this that I'm seein'?" Terry bellowed out, angrily and rhetorically.
The two fellows slumped against Doris on each side of her being drew away as if he was threatening to castrate their precious pricks off with a rusty razor-blade:
However, it wasn't that. They didn't fear Terry physically, as either one of them could best him in a fight, if it came down to that, and kick the living shit out of him quite easily. Rather it was, that Terry was a steady source of supply of pot for them both, and they didn't want to lose out with him nohow.
"Terry, I can explain," exclaimed Doris shrilly.
"Shut up, bitch!" Terry snapped back at her. "Well, what about this fuckin' shit, Marty? And you bein' my cousin and all, too," he added, quite scornfully and indignantly.
"She wandered in here, man, stark, bare-ass naked, askin' for some cock. So we obliged her, Terry."
From the look on his face, it seemed that Terry didn't believe him. So Charlie Wilson interjected at this conjecture:
"That's right, man; Marty is tellin' you the truth, I swear. She said she wanted to have a ball - a three-decker sandwich - so we fed her, man. Dig?"
"Well, what about it?" Terry now turned to Doris finally. "You heard what they said. Are they tellin' the truth or not?"
"Well, you were gone so long, Terry, that I didn't think you were coming back at all anymore."
"So you had to go out and fuck up a storm, heh?" Terry countered.
"Well, they could have refused -- turned me down -- if it bothered them so much and they were really loyal and true-blue to you."
"So you do admit it, huh - what they say? You nefarious, insidious little bitch - you rotten, dirty tart, you. Well, I'll teach you; I'll learn you," he grumbled. "They had their ball with you; now it's my turn:"
Then, even as he uttered these mocking, accusing words, he was unfastening the buckle of his strap and sliding it out of the loops of his pants, it looking like a long, glistening black snake as it uncurled to its full length. Deftly, with a jerk of his wrist, he doubled it up twice over.
"No, please Terry honey," Doris murmured forlornly. "I'm all pooped and done in. So please don't give me a hard time tonight."
"It's goin' to be as hard as a rock, baby," he sneered.
"Don't whip my bum for me with the strap. Please don't."
"I won't only just whip it, I'm goin' to cut little pieces out o' it. I'll teach you," he vowed. "You'll learn, and how you'll learn!"
"No, no, no-ooo," Doris whimpered forlornly, cowering up into a corner:
Truth to tell, Doris wanted Terry to whip her saucy rump; it sent her, especially in the intense ecstatic state she was in, which was further intensified by the pot she had smoked. She had merely put up a mock-protest to solidify his own urge to scourge her, and to spur him on to still more savagery and ferocity.
Doris wasn't disappointed. Terry, also stark naked just as they all were, went after her in pursuit like a sleek jungle-cat, his cock and balls dangling, bouncing and hanging low.
Soon, Doris heard the telltale sounds of the strap being wielded steadily and fiercely, with a grim tenacity:
Swish, crack - thud, it sounded - as it bit and dug in to her bare, soft, pliable mounds of flesh.
He lashed her again and again, having trapped her in the corner of the room, as fast and hard as he only could:
Welts soon and steadily accumulated over both spheres of flesh that comprised her delectable behind, as well as over and on the tender arced-creases and the slabs that were the backs of the thighs.
His tenacious onslaught forced Doris down to her knees with a dull plop, landing in a perfect position, doubled-up and bent over, her curvy ass tautened and upthrust - a perfect target for the red-hot leather he was tossing around.
Terry returned to the behind, putting the full force and weight of his shoulder behind each and every crack now -- really cutting up the tender flesh and angrily criss-crossing the initial amount of livid red welts.
By this time, Doris was all but hysterical, suffering the cruel pangs of Hell. Only, she wasn't feeling these pangs as being painful as such; rather, they were most delicious and delirious sensations -- the very spice that she needed to top the whole wonderful swinging evening off:
Furthermore, she didn't even feel the strap as a lash that was bent on chastising her. Rather, it was as if Charlie Wilson was fucking her in the ass again with his heavy lead-pipe for a prick, only the prick had been sharpened at the head and made red-hot, driving and embedding itself all the way in to her very intestines with each and every thrust - driving her, driving her, driving her - plumb-clear out of this World completely!
Sucking in his breath to get his second-wind up, Terry then gave Doris one last sustained volley, which turned out to be the longest, strongest and most frenzied of all. And by the time he got done administering it, there wasn't a single iota of Doris' entire backside which had retained any of its previous bantam-golden hue!
By now, Doris was utterly hysterical, having risen up to her feet and trying to race around the room, ostensibly to escape the terrible, cruel biting ferocity of the devastating lash:
But to absolutely no avail!
The lash followed her relentlessly, and landed unerringly again and again and again, drilling and riddling her thoroughly blistered, burning and wilted backside.
Finally, he tossed the strap away and desisted in whipping her. Instead, he grabbed her by the tits from the back to make her stand still and stay put, and tried to also fuck her in the ass, just as Charlie Wilson had previously done so well.
However, unfortunately, Terry Whitman was endowed with a very small prick, which was only semi-hard anyway. So all that his light, mild friction succeeded in doing, was to create a terrible burning-itch in both Doris' ass-hole and pussy.
In anticipation of a far bigger and more satisfying dick Doris' entire curvaceous entity had been tossing, squirming and wiggling about. As a matter-of-fact, her antics were so intense, that she seemed to be in the dire throes of the St. Vitus Dance!
Automatically, in direct accordance with the gyrations of her sensuous torso, her hard, firm melons for tits bobbed up and down - like two fried eggs being fast turned in a skillet, sunny side-up; little asps danced in her queasy tummy; her saucy rump slithered, bumped and grinded away like the can of a titanic burlesque-bombshell; her legs were twisting and turning, and her entire twat was twitching and pulsating.
Finally, Doris couldn't stand it any longer. Even though Terry had seemed to work himself up to a fever-pitch at fucking her in the ass, she couldn't derive any sense of satisfaction. If anything, the acute itch in both her ass-hole and pussy increased to the point of being unbearable. So she cried out aloud:
"Fuck me, somebody. Please, fuck me, somebody, in my itchy, burning, juicy cunt, and fuck me real good."
Seeing her gyrations and hearing her form these words made Charlie Wilson's lead-pipe for a cock stand up at attention anew. But still somewhat apprehensive of Terry, he said to Marty:
"Man, she's askin' for it, and she's sure hard to resist. Wanna have a go at it, man?"
"Nan. I've already had her in the biscuit, and I'm through, anyway. But you only gave her a 'Back-bay Shuffle,' so why don't you give her a good, stiff beef-injection now?"
"But Terry is here now, man."
"So what? He won't mind. He's givin' her a Greek-smear, anyway; he's not usin' her twat. And it's a shame to waste it."
"Yeah, man, it sure as Hell is."
Abruptly but still rather reluctantly making up his mind, Charlie Wilson slowly sauntered over to Doris' gyrating form, grabbed the folds in front of her juicy twat in both his hands, peeling them apart as if he were peeling down a banana. Then he quickly inserted his long, hard cock:
Leaning against her panting melons for tits with his own hairy, barrel-like chest for additional inspiration and to properly keep his balance as well, unlike before -- the first time he had popped off - having his resources greatly drained now, he didn't bother to build up any momentum or cadence. Instead, he plowed away with short, hard, even vicious strokes.
To Doris, it now felt paradoxically just like the leather-lash did before when Terry, who was still reaming her in the ass, was so ferociously whipping her. It felt like the longest, hardest, most pointed spike in the whole World, that was banging and pounding her in sides -stabbing her to death!
From the very first stroke of Charlie's magical tool for a prick, Doris resumed dropping gobs of cup-cakes of her precious, creamy maiden-juice again. And with each successive hard, clubbing thrust, she dropped another large cup-cake of cream:
In direct accordance with her being made to come again, her delectable ass slithered, bumped and grinded away even more emphatically against and around the surrounding, pumping dick of Terry, so that he was inspired to incomprehensible heights of plowing away also:
And while he had nowhere near the lethal tool that the Negro had to really penetrate, club and send her, still, even at that, it felt like a natural, even if small, short, extension of Charlie Wilson's human-spike. So that, after awhile, Doris felt as if she were riding on some solid steel torpedo, that was drilling her out - starting way up front, by the twat, and going right through and in to her very ass-hole -down into the sphincter-muscle and the very intestines, themselves:
This was the most, Doris reflected in happy jubilation, the very most she had ever experienced in her whole life.
And, this time, it was she who wilted, slumping forward up against Charlie - utterly spent and done in - thoroughly drained dry of the last precious drop of her cream for maiden-juice:
It was a night for Doris to remember -- a memorable night - and one that she would never forget:
NOT EVER! ...
Chapter 13
Observing that Mike Forrester had dutifully fetched the required riding-crop and saddle to play horsie-horsie with, Merle Kimberly plopped down on her bended knees, in keen anticipation of the thrilling debased pleasures that were soon to come for her.
Nevertheless, even at that, involuntary chills of dire awe coursed through her vivacious being, making whole rashes and crushers of goose-pimples seep out all over her svelte, creamy flesh.
Merle took particular cognizance at the way the straps from the saddle and the lash of the riding-crop itself dangled down and moved about lazily -- as if they were actual snakes that were lazy and dormant, but alive -which, indeed, they soon would be in Big Mike's strong, unruly, most capable hands!
Forrester placed the brunt of the saddle directly over the small of her back, then went about fastening the straps securely:
After carefully testing the saddle with his hands to make doubly certain that it was secure and wouldn't slide off, Forrester mounted astride her, but made sure that he also didn't press down hard with his full 200 pounds of weight - all solid flesh, bone and muscle - lest she instantly crumple up under him.
Gripping the riding-crop firmly by its handle in his right hand, he whisked it several times smartly through the air, stirring up a definite breeze and provoking the clusters of goose-pimples seeping all over Merle's curvaceous entity to become further accentuated.
All at once, the riding-crop was snapped definitively, emitting the strange series of strident sounds which Merle knew so well:
Swish, crack - thud, it sounded, ending up by biting and digging in to her bare, firm but resilient flesh.
"Giddy-yap, horsie," Mike bellowed, somewhat cheerfully, but still quite peremptorily, "Giddy-yap, horsie, giddy-yap!"
And several more sharp, smart cuts followed in the wake of the initial one, only he made sure that each successive cut fell in a somewhat different area of flesh from the one before.
While Merle heard and felt the lash descend, still, riding her own "horse" -- in the form of heroin, as she was -- she didn't feel the pain register as being excruciating; rather, it was most delicious to her:
"Yes, Master - mighty Big Daddy-O," she cooed in dutiful reply, trying to hobble around on her doubled-up knees as best she could.
The lash persisted and followed her tenaciously, cutting away continuously on the right portion of her backside. In the position that he was in, having to reach back and not wanting to strain his back and/or shoulder muscles, most of the cuts naturally descended on the outer portion of the globed-sphere of her high, curvy ass and the very outside of the thigh.
After her right side was generously riddled with livid red streaks, indicative of raised welts, Forrester transferred the riding-crop over to his left hand and proceeded to go to work on that side of her now:
"Giddy-yap, horsie, horsie; giddy-yap."
"I'm trying; I'm doing my very best, Master," Merle moaned, as she continued to try to hobble along on her by now somewhat sore, rubbed knees.
Under the gripping influence of the drug she had taken, Merle still didn't feel any real pangs of pain as such. Rather, it was comparable to having a tooth drilled by a dentist after the gun was swollen and frozen with a strong shot of Novocain, and/or a local anesthetic had been given her for a major operation:
So it was, that while she could see and feel everything that was going on - all of the proverbial drilling and/or cutting to her flesh - she still didn't feel any real pain.
Forrester kept cracking away, steadily and smartly, until her left side was every bit as riddled with the livid red welts as was the right one previously, for its direct predecessor.
Somehow, with her slow, painful hobbling on her knees, Merle had managed to maneuver to a far-corner of the room.
Forrester, anxious to really cut away at her saucy ass and hit the soft, curvy, bouncy cheeks flush and full, dismounted from the saddle and got directly behind her.
To him, for the duration that he had been directly astride her and ridden her around the room, it was greatly reminiscent of the big scene in La Dolce Vita, when Marcello Mastrieanni and the role he was playing in this great film-classic about life of high society in Rome, at a party, he rode a girl around the room, bare-back and hand-spanked her, intermittently throwing feathers from some ripped-open pillow at the entourage of seated onlookers:
But unlike the "Magnificent Marcello" and the role he was playing, Forrester felt neither bored nor jaded. On the contrary, he found it most exciting and stimulating - even effervescent - to him. And he was just first starting to enjoy his relegated status bestowed upon him by lovely, luscious Merle.
So with a newly charged impetus, in addition of his forehand being much more formidable then his backhand was, Forrester lashed away at the upthrust cheeks of Merle's saucy ass, doing so in a spanking-style, but snapping his wrist smartly with each and every crack:
Merle's succulent bottom naturally and inadvertently bounced and undulated under the curling and uncurling animated thin, wiry black shake that was the lash from the riding-crop, and the meaty cheeks of her entire bottom were soon all riddled up also with those thin streaks of jagged, livid red welts.
At first, she didn't mind it there, but even sighed, billowed and cooed with sheer contentment, feeling the juices of pre-secretion stir and rise in her pulsating, throbbing twat. But after a time, the accumulation of welts that had been so steadily and grimly inflicted upon her began to take their toll, so that it felt that the lash was cutting in to the very bone - like a dentist hitting the nerve of a tooth abruptly with his sharp, pointed bore of a drill.
Then, just as a shrill, tremulous shriek began rising from her throat, Forrester, instinctively realizing that he was getting home to her, gave her two smart but deadly cuts directly across the soft, tender arced-creases of flesh -which was, indeed, the most sensitive area of her backside of all and acted as connecting-links between the ass and backs of the thighs - rendering poor Merle such acute pangs of benumbing pain, that her head almost hit the ceiling:
She screamed and screamed and screamed, simultaneously rolling around and over - flat on her back - to try and gain some respite from the terrible, cruel lash that he was wielding.
But he refused to give her any peace or rest, tenaciously keeping after her:
He now took to lashing her flush across the two sleek slabs that were the front of the thighs, each cut again feeling as if he was hitting into the very bone!
After duely shrieking, Merle exclaimed, tearfully and forlornly, trying to cajole with him:
"No, Mike darling; not there - I beg of you. It will show when I get home."
But he merely snickered at this:
Good. He wanted it to show. That was precisely the calculated reason he had chosen to give it to her there -along with the pure enjoyment it afforded him and his pent-up Sadistic-libido.
So instead of desisting, he gave her still several more vicious cuts across the front slabs.
Panic definitely set in then with Merle, and she rolled around and over -- from whence she had originally come -- giving him her saucy ass and backside to cut away at once again.
Now, Forrester felt that he was the complete master of her and the entire situation. Using the lash steadily to spur her on, he made her go through her paces and truly live the role of a human-horse - a choice, luscious filly - the virtual Jill St. John approximation as a type that she was:
At his command, he made her stand up, lie down, turn first to one side and then the other; he made her stand on her head practically. And, all the time, he kept cutting away at her, by now, thoroughly scourged and wilted rump, criss-crossing the original jagged, livid red welts that were accumulated there.
Finally getting tired of playing this game, he drew his second-wind to properly finish her off:
He started at the arced-creases, keeping her glued to the ground by placing his foot over the small of her back, in the form of an improvised vise.
Merle screamed for all she was worth when he cut at the already tender and tingling arced-creases, then continued to scream as he doled out a terrific volley to the sleek slabs that were the backs of the thighs.
Still, he worked down - relentlessly down - to the, up till now, untouched curvy, streamlined golden calves:
Swish, crack -- thud!
It was a ferocious blow, and caught Merle flush across the muscle of both calves at once.
To her, it was the most painful blow of all - feeling it go through both feet-bones at once. She screamed accordingly, then once again tried to cajole with him, yelping almost hysterically:
"Please, not there either, Mike darling. It will surely show, and I won't be able to go home tonight, or even for weeks."
"Tough," he couldn't help but resist jeering and sneering his answer. "Things are tough all over, baby doll."
Then he really went to work on her to properly finish her off:
Despite all of her yelps and pleas, he gave her an additional half a dozen cuts across the calves, riddling them up chock-full with livid red welts in their entirety.
Then he returned to her thoroughly wilted and tingling backside, laying the cruel and cutting lash on as fast and hard as he only could -- still resorting to a spanking-style there - but really making the cheeks undulate and bounce most emphatically.
Finally, when it appeared that the flesh would break open at the very seams, pop and spurt blood, never to stop once it started flowing, Mike took heed and desisted, leaving Merle a stretched-out wreck of dire anguish, humiliation and hurt, flat on her face! ...
* * *
Forester got behind her, reached down with his hands and slid them along the floor, edging up under her lush melons for tits. Grasping her firmly and cruelly by both of them, he slowly but surely stood her on her feet, making her stand fully erect, sobbing and carrying-on more hysterically than ever.
However, he didn't keep her standing for very long. Placing his hand, flattened-out, at the back of her head, he forced her to bend all the way down and over, so that her naturally high-slung pussy came up and through her thighs - just below the small, tight reddish-brown ass-hole -which seemed as if it was an eye winking at him:
To Forrester, her twat was, indeed, something to behold -- a glad sight for sore eyes:
Merle had two pink, pouting lips which manifested themselves as one bright, wet, gleaming gash, ideally adorned by a dark, stark sanguinary patch of auburn fur for a short v-fringed cape.
Set against her ripe, red and raw backside, made him really foam and froth at the mouth with intense hunger, longing and want:
In totality, Merle appeared like some strange species of jungle-cat as he viewed her from the back now - either a tiger or zebra that was strangely but most pleasingly red-striped.
Man, oh, Man, but she was sure something, though, he mused to himself, silently but most pleasurably -- a virtual Jul St. John who was thoroughly whipped, humiliated and utterly routed as she was -- made to be most humble and passive to any and all of his subsequent wishes of insatiable lust:
Man, oh, Man, oh, MAN!
Ordinarily, he greased himself up with either cold-cream or vaseline whenever he fucked her in the ass. However, this time, he didn't find it at all necessary, as he was going to fuck her doggy-fashion instead -- through the ass-hole, to be sure -- but from and into the delectable twat:
Man, oh, Man, oh, Man. Oh, Daddy. Oh, Daddy-Ohhh!
Taking careful, deliberate aim between the parted outer-labia-lips which he kept pried apart with his two hands, he rammed, jammed and thrust his torrential cock all the way up and in there. He took delight as he felt it ride high up, on the pelvic-bone, getting really enmeshed and solidified, so that he would really be able to ride her good, without any impediment.
As for poor Merle, he gave her such a cruel, savage penetration, that she felt as if her entire twat was being smashed and driven through her tight, little ass-hole, so that the two seemed naturally merged together as one tautened and integral unit.
Then he was pumping away, with short, hard, vicious thrusts.
After a half a dozen such jolting jabs, Merle slumped back down to her knees. Then as he continued to pump away, harder and faster than ever, she involuntarily slithered, bumped and grinded her thoroughly scourged, wilted bottom, as his hard, bony thighs added still more punishment and hurt by hanging into it cruelly with each and every thrusting stroke!
"Giddy-yap, horsie," he howled gleefully. "Giddy-yap."
"Boy, am I going to ride you, doll. I'm going to fuck all the living shit out of you - ream and drill you a brand-new ass-hole and cunt!"
Then making that grim, awesome pronouncement, he drove away, pumping harder, faster and more furiously than ever before.
To Merle, it felt as if she was being lifted all the way up - her whole agonized, suffering, violated entity -- with each and every thrust, just by his intense elephantine-prick alone and her head made to hit the very ceiling with a resounding thump.
"Giddy-yap, horsie," he continued to chant gleefully. "Giddy-yap! ..."
* * *
In Merle's feverish, turbulent mind, she had the image that she was, indeed, a horse -- one who was being ridden to death by its cruel, heartless, utterly relentless master:
The tableau was taking place in some barren desert. Her throat was parched from thirst, and her flanks and body sore from being so constantly flailed and spurred on with the cruel riding-crop.
But even though the terrible lash kept rising and falling deep inside of her, still, Merle strained at the proverbial iron-bit in her lips -- that was her pussy instead of her mouth -- to keep from being ridden.
Still, the lash drove her on. She could feel her lips ripping and tearing and blood pump from them as she fought the iron-bit on her twat.
But to absolutely no avail!
The ruptured artery in her mouth kept pumping and spurting blood. Then somehow, strangely and even miraculously, the lash that was so relentlessly and tenaciously driving her on seemed to pump and spurt blood, too - never to stop once it got started:
Never, never, NEVER! ...
* * *
Quite some time later, when they both were sufficiently rested, thoroughly freshened up and fully dressed again, Forrester couldn't resist turning to Merle, prior to their taking leave, and asking of her in a formal but knowing tone:
"Well, Ma'am, are you pleased with the ... errr ... services I've just rendered you, hmmm?"
"Oh yes, Michael," she quickly and brightly replied, in a proud, regal tone matching his own. "Quite."
"That is good, I'm glad, as I always aim to please you, Ma'am."
"That you did; that you most certainly did - except for one thing ..."
"Oh?"
"Yes. You were a real naughty boy who didn't listen or heed his mistress."
"How is that, doll?" he snapped, forgetting himself and his actual status in the excitement of his burning curiosity.
"By lashing me across my legs -- both front and back in places where it will really show. Now, I won't be able to return home, nohow, for at least a week."
"So what? Are you sure that you really want to go home, Merle?" he countered.
"No, to be perfectly honest, I don't - not ever."
"So why go, then? -Why even think about going, hmmm?"
"Yes, indeed, why?" Merle mused rhetorically, more thinking-out-loud than directly addressing her chosen lover.
"Why not go away with me some place and really shack up together?" he exclaimed, deliberately forming thoughts in her mind and putting words in her mouth.
"Yes, indeed, why not?" she mused.
"Besides," he offered with a generous flourish, "you can always call your husband and tell him that you flew down to Miami or Las Vegas or somewhere on sudden impulse -- because you had the mood -- that you were bored and wanted to get away."
"Clever boy," she commented. "There's only one hitch in it ..."
"Oh? What's that, doll?"
"I won't wish to come back after shacking up with you on a steady basis -- not ever."
"So why come back, then?"
"I'll come, all right," stipulated Merle quite pointedly, smiling demurely and contritely, "but in an entirely different way from the one you calculate, Mike darling."
Thus it was that another one of the illustrious Merle Kimberly's marriages to highly affluent and influential men came to an abrupt and decisive end:
Yes, since Mike Forrester, himself, wanted her to come along with him, come, she did - she most certainly, certainly DID! ...
PART THREE
Chapter 14
Both Sylvia Pierce and Doris Martin were in then-respective pajama-sets, in the bedroom of the small, modern efficiency-apartment which they shared together, and, strictly speaking, said bedroom also served as the living-room and dining-room, too.
Doris just had her perennial nightly bath, which Sylvia, of course, had given her, as was the, by now, set custom. But, of late - at least in the last few days or so - it was also a direct prerequisite of the frantic Lesbian-love which they also shared together.
Since, if Doris wasn't up to a session of "sisterly-love," she wouldn't have consented to permit Sylvia to give her the bath. Therefore, the subsequent question that Sylvia asked of her was utter superfluous. Nevertheless, choosing to be the condescending one, Sylvia exerted enough decorum to ask it of her, anyway:
"Care for a session between the sheets, Doris pet?" Sylvia amiably asked of her.
"Huh?" Doris retorted rhetorically, deigning to play dumb for her own part:
Truth to tell, Doris wanted a session of ecstatic-bliss every bit as much as Sylvia did. She felt decidedly fresh, effervescent and exuberant in both flesh and spirits, from the dreamy bath - being encased in the creamy cluster of bubbly-foam, having all her parts gracefully done by Sylvia, along with the brief manipulations of stinky-fingers when Sylvia had to wash out her pussy, and finally the drying-off, powdering-down process and squirting of toilet-water to her more intimate parts by Sylvia - had all served to do simply wonders for Doris' spirits:
Yes, she was really in the mood for a torrid, hectic session with Sylvia, especially since the whole experience was still so new and novel in their doing it together.
Even so, Doris still didn't want to show the other girl that she was so anxious. Rather, she preferred to tease and taunt her a bit before giving in. So she deliberately played it coy and dumb.
"You know, Doris pet," Sylvia persisted, a bit irritated and peeved. "A session of stinky-fingers, liver-lips and either the dildo or the vibrator for a grand climax. So how about it, love? How does that sound, huh?"
"Oh, it sounds all right, Sylvia," Doris replied, but lacking enthusiasm.
"You don't sound too happy about it, dearie. Really, you could generate more spark than that."
"Possibly I could, yes," Doris conceded, levelly and coolly.
"So do you want to or not? Make up my mind for me, Doris pet." Sylvia was growing more and more impatient of this cat-and-mouse game that the younger girl was playing with her.
"Oh, all right," Doris acquiesced, sighing -- as if she was still doing Sylvia a favor. "Let's."
"Good," Sylvia acknowledged, a bit more happily. Then feeling a bit bolstered in the confidence of her own prowess as a butch-dyke lover, with the finesse and techniques to really send her sensuous blonde room-mate who so closely resembled the Julie Christie of Darling fame, she added, dramatically and most emphatically. "And after I get done with you, dearie -- in but a few more such sessions of bliss -- you will never want to even look at any other man again."
"Perhaps not," Doris replied.
"After what Terry, the terrible and his evil cohorts did to you but a few short days ago, I would think that you wouldn't even want to look at any of their ilk anyway. Why, you're entire bottom is still full of welts, and the rest of your body is loaded with black-and-blue marks. So --"
"It's not so bad, Sylvia dearest. Really, it seemed much worse when I first had the going-over. But now, the bruises hardly ache anymore; they're almost completely healed."
"Maybe so. But how can you put up with it, Doris pet? How can you possibly? Gang-bangs, three-decker sandwich-jobs and having your bare, saucy bum whipped with a strap in the bargain. The beasts, the brutes, the infernal fiends. Pigs, they are -- complete pigs - vile, insidious swine!" More and more as she ranted and raved, Sylvia's voice became carried away on emotion, until it culminated on a tremulous wave of utter vindictiveness and mocking scorn.
However, Doris merely shrugged her pretty shoulders and quietly waxed philosophical about the whole incident:
"Men are men. They are the way they are, and there's simply no helping it. A great many of them have the Caveman, from ancient antiquity, lurking in their genes, and, every once in awhile, it breaks out of them. But they don't mean any harm -- not really. That's merely their way of expressing themselves and having fun."
"Fun, shit!" Sylvia sneered, most indignantly. "But, in any case, perhaps you just put your finger on the real issue."
"Oh?"
"Yes. When you, in effect, said, that it was the Caveman lurking in their genes. Most men hurt a woman either one way or the other - mentally or physically. All of their ilk are nefarious pigs and slobs, not worthy of any real consideration."
"So what do you suggest I do in their place, then?"
"Turn to your own fair sex, because only a woman, such as me, can be truly empathetic and attuned to the needs of another woman. Only she knows what makes her feel good and can really send her soaring to heights of bliss."
"Really, Sylvia dearest, this entire discussion is utterly futile and meaningless to me."
"Why is that?"
"Because it doesn't really matter, one way or the other."
"What doesn't? My making love to you? Is that it?"
"No. Of course not. But, which is superior -- a manly cock -- or a butch-dyke Lessie. To me, they're both ... different and ... good, but in their own unique way."
"I see-eee," Sylvia mused. "So what does matter to you then, dearie?"
"Living for the moment - enjoying myself to the hilt in sex right here and now -- meaning, specifically: are you going to make love to me, or do you intend to keep on bull-shitting for the whole night long, huh?"
"Of course, I'll make love to you, dearie. I didn't know you were that impatient and hopped up for it."
"I'm not, really. I'm just sick and tired of all the bickering, haranguing and bull-shit that's been going around. Why can't you simply accept a situation for what it is, enjoy it, and let it go at that?"
"Because I love you, Doris pet - love you more than anything else in this whole wide, cockeyed World." Sylvia said all this softly, but a bit hoarsely and most sincerely.
"Tough. That's your problem, not mine."
"How can you be so cold and unconcerned, pet?"
"Because I don't throw all of my eggs in one basket such as you do, Sylvia dearest," Doris countered, tittering merrily. "So are you going to make love to me now, or do I have to either jerk myself off with the vibrator, or go out and find myself a big man-cock?"
"I'll make love you you, angel."
"Good."
"And, I promise, this time, I'll give you such a good, thorough working-over, that you'll never want to see a man again; you'll simply have no use for him anymore."
"Good. Delude yourself, if it'll make you feel any better. In any case, the challenge you just laid down is accepted: I dare you to make love to me better than a man could; I double-dare you!"
Without any further ado, Sylvia reached for her, sending her sprawling across the bed, with Sylvia pouncing down right after her:
She avowed, that this would be a night for Doris to remember - one she simply couldn't forget -- if she had anything to say about it:
And Sylvia Pierce had lots to say. Only, all her talking would be done with her hop lips, her feverish, eager hands, her urging, surging body, and that terrific artifice-cock that was a vibrator:
If Doris could emerge from such an experience and still want to have a man - with all of his inherent harshness, cruelty and violence - well then, good luck to her.
Yes, good luck to her.
Then Sylvia stopped thinking and concentrated solely on acting -- perpetrating rapturous nuances on your, sensuous Doris ...
* * *
It was truly amazing to Doris Marlin at the remarkable and total transformation which had come over her older and, up till then, much more inhibited room-mate, Sylvia Pierce:
It all stemmed from that very night when Doris had run into Terry Whitman while casually sauntering through the Village with Sylvia, abruptly leaving her flat to go away with him.
As had been pointed out before, Doris had great feelings of guilt and personal recrimination about the incident. In fact, she even felt the definite need to be severely punished and violated at the time - which was destined to come to pass, anyway.
But actually, as it turned out, she did Sylvia a great big favor!
This became manifest to Doris on the very next day:
Sylvia started to dress differently - more chick and seductive -- such as Doris, herself, had always suggested she should. She began to act differently, and talk differently, too - more cool, sophisticated, and even though still somewhat groping and fumbling - more sure of herself and her own inherent powers to charm, allure and seduce.
But the most important change of all was toward Doris, herself. Sylvia went after her, hammer-and-tong, the way Doris had always hoped that she would - indeed, forever schemed to bring about:
Oh, to be sure, when Doris really thought about it, the change wasn't so startling at that. After all, Doris had given her more than gentle hints, with her insistence on those nocturnal-baths, and making her play stinky-fingers, in the guise of bathing her delectable blonde honeybun for a pussy, and thereby inadvertently giving her a hand-job.
No, such hints were far from subtle, but most direct and accentuated. So it was hardly likely that Sylvia, especially endowed with the passionate nature that she had and had repressed and suppressed for so long now, would fail to get the message forever:
In all probability, Doris speculated, by her leaving her so abruptly -- all alone and lonely, especially after they had been so very close in the last few days -- had brought the entire situation to a definite crisis. This little event seemed to act as the very trauma which Sylvia needed, to shock her, set her off, make her become grimly determined to lose all of her inhibitions and let herself go -- the whole hog -- become a really wild swinger.
And since she was probably still a virgin at the shocking age of 28, and ostensibly had no real use for men and what they had to give her, the only logical conclusion she could possibly come to was, to turn her luck to her own fair sex, especially since she had such a sensuous and fetching room-mate, so ready, willing and able to succumb to her advances.
So it was, that Sylvia suddenly declared to Doris:
"That I love you and want to have you, pet. Will you let me?"
"Why, of course. Certainly," Doris quickly and brightly replied, exhibiting just enough surprise, which certainly was sincere enough, to sound convincing.
As it turned out, Sylvia Pierce was a natural aggressive-Lesbian and butch-dyke, and a truly great lover, just as Doris had always surmised of her:
Oh, to be sure, at first, Sylvia was a bit green and hesitant -- fumbling and bungling. However, it didn't take her too long to get into the proper swing of the thing:
Indeed, it reminded Doris of a lovely, sultry Eurasian girl she had once known and had for a friend. She had those intriguing and beautiful big, slanted green almonds for eyes:
Well, one day, they had gone to a Chinese restaurant to eat supper together and talk womanly-gossip. All at once, this girl-friend -- her name was Irma -- had the yen to eat her food with chop-sticks instead of with the customary fork and knife, since some other people in the restaurant were seeming to eat so skillfully with said sticks.
So they called their waiter over, and Irma asked him to show her how to eat with chop-sticks. He smiled, bowed, and proceeded to show her:
He only showed her once, and it took but a few seconds. Then Irma was furnished with a pair of chop-sticks of her own, and, almost at once, she proceeded to eat with them as if she had been doing so all her life.
This little innocent incident made a marked impression on Doris, and she never quite forgot it:
To her, it was quite apparent, that the strong Asiatic-strain which was harbored and fused in Irma's genes, had been brought to the fore and come out, with a naturalness which could only emanate from such a source: Perfectly indicative of this, was that Doris, herself, had tried to eat with chop-sticks on several occasions, only to suffer the embarrassment of fumbling, bungling and dropping them altogether, or having the frustrating feeling of the strands of food constantly slipping off just as it was being raised to her mouth.
Applying this little bit of learned wisdom directly to Sylvia Pierce, likewise, the same thing held true:
She had been repressed and inhibited for so long. But, once she let herself go, making Lesbian-love was as natural to her as eating, sleeping and even breathing would be to most people. And certainly, making love with and to her own fair sex, came as natural to her as it would be for most people to indulge with the opposite sex. After all, one couldn't take blood out of stone!
Truth to tell, Doris was sorry in a way at the sudden awakening of Sylvia and her personal revolution. This was because she enjoyed in a way the previous hold she had over the old girl, by flaunting herself about - teasing and taunting her -- watching her squirm uneasily and the nervous, clammy sweat flow.
To be sure, Doris could still taunt her a bit. This was accomplished by acting somewhat cool and standoffish when she wanted to make advances, and implying that strong Cavemen still sent her more.
Regardless, the psychological-relationship that had previously prevailed between them wasn't what it was. Such was gone forever, never to return, and any small victory that Doris now enjoyed was trivial and hollow, indeed.
But that as it may, in the final analysis, the compensations were well worth it -- only only in the direct sexual-periphery -- but in the platonically-intimate one as well.
This became clearly manifest to Doris on the day after Sylvia first had her to call her own in Lesbian-embrace. She made a confession, which, in turn, led to a very odd experience to occur for both girls - an odd experience, indeed -- a real weird bit! ...
* * *
"I have something to tell you, Doris pet. I wasn't going to, but now that we're on such closer ... terms, I ... will."
"Oh? What's that, Sylvia dearest?" replied Doris, rather coolly and even flippantly.
"You were right in your assumption about me."
"But, regarding what? Don't be so vague and mysterious, Sylvia dearest, but come right out with it."
"Very well," Sylvia shuddered a convulsive sigh, "I will.. I'm still a virgin; I still have my cherry intact."
"Arrr, I figured so," exclaimed Doris triumphantly. "Which makes you something of an antique, my dear, in this Day and Age."
"True," Sylvia conceded bluntly, "and, to be perfectly honest, I often have deep misgivings about it. I would really hate to go to my grave and still be a virgin."
"So why don't you go out and get some male-stud, who will give you a really good, mellow fuck, Sylvia dearest?"
"Perhaps I would, if I didn't loathe them and all of their ilk so. And besides, you know how I freeze up and act so silly in their presence. You should, if anyone does, having gone out on double-dates with me so many times."
"So what do you propose to do, then?"
"There's still another way to rupture my hymen - break my cherry -- only I need your help."
"Me?" Doris uttered incredulously.
"Yes."
"In what way? How?"
"You and that vibrator of yours. That thing is about the same dimensions as a male-penis, isn't it?"
"Yes, exactly the same -- a cock that's a bit larger than medium-size -- only it's harder and firmer and stays that way."
"Which makes it ideal. So, here's what I want you to do ... I want you to make love to me and take me the way a male first took you."
"That was a real wild scene, I'll have you know. He was a boy like Terry, cock-eyed drunk, and he didn't spare me, nohow. It was utter rape. He hurt me in every manner and way conceivable. So is that the sort of bit you want me to perpetrate on you, Sylvia dearest?"
"Precisely. It will suit me fine, since, besides accomplishing the purpose I have in ... errr ... mind, it will also further entrench and solidify the intense hatred I already have for all men."
"I see-eee," Doris mused. "Well, that makes sense. But one thing I better warn you about in advance ..."
"Yes, pet?"
"This fellow also whipped my bare ass for me with a doubled-up strap. So, do you want to have that done, too?"
"No, not really, as I know what it's like from the many sessions in the proverbial woodshed with my Puritanical-tyrant and utter fiend of a father. However, if you think it is really necessary, then --"
"It is, to really capture the ... flavor of the whole bit I experienced. And besides, it will also help to cover-up and camouflage the terrible pain in your twat when your cherry gets busted. So actually, it's really a blessing in disguise: By thinking about the blistering, burning and tingling of your hot rump, will make you forget the pains and aches in your cunt, which will be really so much worse, you know. So what do you say, Sylvia dearest? Should I get the strap - as well as the vibrator -- or not?"
"Yes," Sylvia sighed resignedly, "go fetch them both! ..."
* * *
Doris obediently went and got the required objects. In the brief interim, Sylvia had removed her lounging-robe and got up on the bed, stark naked.
Doris was also wearing a lounging-robe, and removed it, leaving her also stark naked:
She was pulsating with excitement, having fervent anticipation of the tableau that was soon to ensue:
Not that Doris was a Sadist, as such; she was definitely the devout Masochist. However, she felt she could activate and relive through Sylvia Pierce's person all of the thrills and chills -- all of the diverse sensations of aches and pains -- that she had endured on that memorable night of defloration in her life.
Doris propped herself up on the bed, also, and commenced making maneuvers:
Actually, she didn't follow the script that had been written on that night of her defloration to the letter. Rather, she began by lightly and gently massaging Sylvia between the naturally pouting outer-labia-lips of her black bushy cunt. Then, from there, after a time, she went to the rather large, somewhat stubby pinkish-pearl for a clit, taking it between her fingers and twitching it with gentle strokes -- actually, lightly jerking it off:
No, Doris reflected, the boy who had taken her cherry away hadn't done this. She, frankly, didn't think he even knew about such subtle areas and their required manipulations. And if he did, he neither had the patience nor consideration to administer them.
Doris tenaciously kept right on, after a time, taking turns at stroking the outer-lips and twitching the clit. She kept right on doing these maneuvers until she obtained definitely audible results from Sylvia:
All at once, Sylvia's entity began to feel warm and glowing to the touch. Her breathing was coming fast. Her tits started to rise and grow rigid and hard. And the twat was getting slippery and all wet.
Abruptly, without giving her so much as a warning, Doris spun her around and over on her face, into the mattress. She rammed her left knee hard into the small of Sylvia's spine, so that she would stay put and be still. Then she fetched the strap, doubling it up and over:
It was from a suit-outfit which Sylvia wore. And while it was nowhere near as thick nor as tough as any man's, it was much wider.
Doris began wielding it, doing so with a definite rhythm and cadence -- in real spanking-style -- indeed, just the way she liked to catch it herself when she was being paddy-whacked by some irate Caveman.
As it turned out, the strap's bark was far worse than its bite; it made a hell of a lot of noise when it landed. Sylvia's given mound of flesh would bounce emphatically and quiver - like a thing alive - some set mold of jello. And, from the very outset of the relatively mild ordeal, Sylvia carried on and emitted blood-curdling shrieks and howls -- as if she was being murdered.
But Doris paid her absolutely no heed, continuing to whack away - going from one curvy mound to the other, then right back over again -- down to the arced-creases and slabs for backs of the thighs from there.
Although after a half a dozen cuts or so, Sylvia tearfully tried to cajole with her for mercy, Doris wouldn't hear of it:
Her saucy bum was forever being cut, she figured, so why should Sylvia's precious hide be spared? And besides, it sent her, recalling and reactivating all of the lickings she had caught in her life -- particularly the last one from Terry -- along with all the other violent and hectic nuances of that three-decker sandwich job. So, as she kept on lashing away, her twat began to pulsate and twitch, then started to come -- creaming right in her snatch, without stop.
Crack, crack, crack!
Doris kept right on lashing away in the very same manner, if not a bit harder and faster, even. And she didn't deign to stop until Sylvia's entire ass was the livid color of a pair of over-ripe -- tomatoes -- this, even though the strap was much lighter than the standard man-type version! ...
* * *
Doris tossed aside the strap, then went after Sylvia. She turned her back around and over. She found that Sylvia was still carrying-on to beat the band, sobbing quite uncontrollably. So Doris resumed fondling and caressing the outer-lips of the crow's-nest for a pussy, and the stubby clit:
She kept right on doing this, until Sylvia's shrill cries were reduced to the merest of whimpers and the tell-tale juices of pre-secretion started to flow from inside the snatch again.
Once she was absolutely certain that Sylvia was worked up again to the proper pitch, she really went after her hammer-and-tong - without neither any subsequent pause nor letup:
Taking over completely the role of the vicious boy who had deflorated her, Doris pounced down on Sylvia. She bit her lips with her teeth, forcing her mouth open. Then she kissed and soul-kissed her so hard, that she made their teeth clatter and rattle together.
Improvising a pair of pliers with her strong right hand, Doris pinched, squeezed and tugged the tits, the flat-lined belly, and, most of all, the cheeks of the red-hot, wilted ass, making poor Sylvia thresh, squirm and wiggle about -screaming and carrying-on more emphatically than ever.
Finally, after each and every tender, intimate area of Sylvia's supple, curvy body was all black-and-blue, Doris was ready to use the vibrator, at last:
First, she forced Sylvia to arch herself and part her long legs wide apart. Then, slowly and carefully, she placed the head of the vibrator between the extended, parted, naturally pouting outer-lips:
It slid in a way.
But it seemed blocked and impeded with just a bit of the shaft.
Doris stubbornly persisted, now twisting and turning the whole vibrator like a corkscrew -- twisting and turning, twisting and turning, twisting and turning:
She kept right on doing this until she felt something give. There was a slight whispering rustle of a ripping, tearing sound, then all of the length of the vibrator lunged forward and sank to the very depths of the cunt.
Sylvia screamed and writhed for all she was worth:
"Please, stop, Doris darling, I beg of you. It hurts terribly and I'm bleeding something awful."
But Doris didn't stop:
Sylvia had wanted to know what a real savage and ferocious defloration-fuck felt like, and now she was going to get it! Doris avowed.
Instead of withdrawing the vibrator, Doris snapped the little button, sending the entire object in whirring motion.
Upon feeling the light, gentle field of electric-currents which the vibrator generated made sheer pandemonium break loose inside of Sylvia. She screamed more tremulously than ever, wiggling all over the bed:
"Stop it. Take it out. Turn it off. I'm being electrocuted," she yelped.
But Doris didn't take it out. Instead, she started working the whirring vibrator up and down and in and out inside the snatch -- with even bolder, longer and deeper strokes.
Some time ago, a few drops of blood from Sylvia's ruptured hymen for a cherry had spilled on the bedding to Doris' visible view. And soon, Sylvia's precious, vital cream for maiden-juice merged with it and intermingled, as she undulated as if she were having the dire spasms and throes of a full-blown epileptic-fit.
And she kept right on having those spasms and undulating for some time to come -- until she dropped her full load of cream -- was utterly drained dry of all the juice she had so deeply suppressed for so very long inside of her:
But now, it was out -- all out -- at least for the time-being! ...
* * *
After it was all over and a sufficient time had elapsed for Sylvia's excitement and hysteria to calm down and be able to speak, Doris turned and asked of her:
"Well, now your precious cherry has been busted and taken away, and you also know how it feels like to have it harshly taken by a wild, rough man. So how did you enjoy the experience, Sylvia dearest? Was it ... satisfactory, huh?"
"For your part of the bargain, it was. But aside from that, it was utterly revolting and thoroughly despicable. So that's what happened to you the first time, you poor, deluded child?"
"Yes. Precisely. Except that the boy was neither that knowing nor considerate to stroke my pussy and clit for me to get me going."
"Well, if that's what I've been missing out on for all of these years, it's really no loss; I'm far better off without it! But how can you go for such ill-treatment? How can you find enjoyable what I find so revolting and disgusting, Doris angel?"
"It's all a matter of ... taste. I'm constituted ... differently from you, I guess."
"To be sure. But even so, how can you prefer such calloused viciousness to a rich, tender love like ours?"
"Like I just said, Sylvia dearest, I now reiterate: 'It's all a matter of taste!' ..."
But it was from that experience she had endured, along with previously catching her jack herself off, that Sylvia learned what a strong weapon the vibrator was, for a really total and different sort of Lesbian-experience, which she could employ to perpetrate on Doris.
So it was, that while to Doris, that weird tableau which Sylvia had asked for was a weird bit, To Sylvia, on the other hand, it was -- besides entrenching and solidifying her hatred for men -- attending the necessary school of hard knocks:
And, in Sylvia's view, she had passed her class and learned her lessons with real flying colors:
Now to bring forth what she learned and use her lore directly on her beloved, cherished Doris.
For, when she got done with her, she would make her cream such as she had never creamed before, never to stop.
Sylvia would, she would -- she surely, surely WOULD! ..
Chapter 15
It was a typical after-hours bistro in Harlem, where, jam-sessions would be held once the bar was legally closed. Many important Jazz-musicians who were working in New York at the given time would drop in, sit in with the others, and have their kicks. The permitted audience was usually composed of either friends of the musicians and dub-owners -- wives, girl-friends, business-associates -- and the like.
Tonight was just like always at this particular little night-club, with one solitary and most obtrusive exception -- the pretty, young, teen-age white chicks who called themselves Modern-Day Saint Joans of Arc:
This group had been voluntarily formed to set an example for the rest of the white race, where the Negro-people were concerned. After the press was dutifully informed, at intermittent intervals, a half a dozen of these girls at a time would appear at the club, to take active participation in the ensuing jam-session:
However, none of them acted in the role of either a musician or singer, but as a passive human-drum!
The supposed motivation for this -- aside from any overt Masochistic-inclinations on the part of the girls - was to pay direct retribution for the sins of the white people in the past and present for the terrible wrongs they perpetrated on the Negro-race:
So they were willing to humble themselves - endure all of the humiliation and hurt, to set a glaring example for others - with the expressed hope that they would treat the Negro-race more kindly and equally in the future.
All of the girls who belonged to the Joan of Arc group seemed to be cut from the same mold: They were all in their late teens, were slim and trim in shape, had long naturally-flowing, casual hair, and were decked out in an identical outfit, consisting of a blouse, hot-pants and knee-high boots. Of course, there were noticeable differences, such as to the color of hair, height, weight and facial features of the entourage of girls. But for all intents and purposes, they were very much the same:
When it was the turn of a given girl to go through her voluntary ordeal, she would passively come up on the band-stand, standing in juxtaposition alongside the assorted paraphernalia for a drum-set of Don Maxwell. Several designated females in the audience would render their assistance at getting the girls ready:
They would quickly undo the hot pants; the girl wouldn't be wearing any drawers underneath. Said dropped hot pants would be draped carefully down around the thighs. The girl would place her hands behind her back, and they would be handcuffed with steel-bracelets; likewise, would her ankles:
Then she would be given a gently tapping-touch on her shoulders by one of the female-assistants, connoting that she should drop down to the ground - which she would instantly do, plopping down on her bended knees -- her curvy behind naturally tautened and up thrust.
Each girl would have to stay up there for one whole number, usually done in two choruses, lasting in the vicinity of anywhere from three to four full minutes:
Since Don Maxwell was the drummer, it was he who doled out all the licks to his human-drum, customarily play the first chorus with his wire brushes, and the second more up-tempoed chorus by resorting to the sticks:
All this would be done to the refrains of the rest of the combo up there, who would play their instruments in the usual manner - although a great many true Jazz-buffs contended that some of the musicians participating in such special sessions got off their very best choruses and hot licks from the inspiration provided by the human-drum.
Thus, trying to symbolically also burn themselves at the proverbial stake just as Joan of Arc herself had done literally instead of figuratively, the girls did their very best to endure their respective scourging as best they could and to be most Stoical about it. Nevertheless, more often than not, the girls would break down - most of them crying softly, others more vociferously - and a few of them even taking to carrying-on hysterically.
No empathy or sympathy would be shown for any of them, as all of their subsequent cries would be drowned out by the strident refrains of the other musicians. But one thing was for sure for all of them, without a single exception: They would all emerge with thoroughly reddened, blistered, wilted behinds! ...
* * *
The customary procedure was varied somewhat on the memorable night that lovely, sultry Brenda Courtney appeared at and for the festivities:
For one thing, the press wasn't invited; the session was strictly private. And only those girls from the Joan of Arc group who had a yen to feel a big, long and stiff black cock up their ass-holes, in the form of a "Greek-smear," appeared there:
To carry out this objective, a doll was allotted to each member of the group on the bandstand. So when she was finished being used for a human-drum, instead of being released as she would be ordinarily, she would be placed -- exactly the way she was, still in bondage - in front of the designated Jazz-musician for her, who was going to ream her.
Since Brenda Courtney was Don Maxwell's personal and known steady chick, she was to be relegated to him, which was the way she wanted it. Brenda was also decked out in a special costume for the occasion, and was to be "the belle of the ball."
In all fairness to Don Maxwell, it should be related that he distinctly warned her in advance not to appear, but to stay out of it altogether:
After telling her the nature of these jam-sessions, as well as the specific kind this one was to be, he declared emphatically:
"So, if you want my advice, sugar-plum, you'll stay away. I kin always say you felt sick or somethin' -- make some kinda plausible excuse."
"But, why, Don darling?" she countered - in a tone which connoted that she felt she was being cheated. "You want to be left alone with some other chick there, to get in your licks and kicks with, hmmm?"
"Of course not, doll. If that was so, I wouldn't have to tell you about the session altogether."
"Yes, that's true," Brenda conceded. "So what other reason is there, then? What could there possibly be?"
" 'Cause if you come, you won't be able to escape: You'll also have to have your bare rump used for a human-drum, and then have me fuck you in it."
"So what? I would enjoy all of that immensely."
"You would?" he was fairly incredulous. ;
"Why, sure. I've been spanked before, many a time, and fucked in the ass, too."
"All right, I could always do these things for you in private - when we're alone. But this is different; you don't understand ..."
"Very well, clarify the matter for me, then, Don."
"Will do - or at least try to - at any rate ... Bein' my chick, I'll have to give it to you far worse than any o' the other dolls; otherwise they'll all accuse me o' discriminate and playin' favorite."
"I see-eee," Brenda mused.
"And not only that," he hastened to add, "but, to be perfectly honest, you're a real good lookin' chick, Brenda," he said levelly.
"Thank you, Don, for the very fine compliment you just paid me."
"No, it isn't that; I'm not tryin' to flatter you, sugar-plum. I'm being quite serious."
"Go on," she coaxed smoothly. "I'm listening."
"So, as I was sayin', you're a very good-lookin' chick; you'd stick out like a sore thumb anywhere. And it doesn't really matter that all the females in the audience were colored; why it wouldn't matter if they were the color of green or even sky-blue-pink, their attitude toward you would still be the same,"
"And that is, namely?"
"Jealousy - sheer jealousy. They'll be hollarin' for blood - your blood, sugar-plum. You dig me?"
"Uh-huh. I ... think so."
"So if you come, you'll have to expect to catch it far worse than any o' the other little chicks there. Sure, they're all cute, fetchin' and even sexy, but you're somethin' else again, doll. They're all cut from the same mold, more or less, but you're outstandin' - real super-duper. So, now that I'm done explainin' to you the reasons I think you should stay away, are you goin' to come or not?"
"I'll come, all right, when you drill me in the ass with that big, black licorice-stick of yours. As for the party, I wouldn't miss it for the World!"
"Is that your final answer, Brenda?" he queried of her, quietly, levelly and coolly.
"Of course."
"You won't change your mind?"
"Never."
"Well, don't say later you weren't properly warned," he hissed, his voice rising on an ominous note of impending doom.
"Don't worry, Don darling. I won't," Brenda retorted, with a conclusive flourish ...
* * *
At the session itself, there was nothing really surprising or unexpected at what subsequently ensued when the first five dolls were used as human-drums:
While they all seemed alike ostensibly -- with long, flowing hair, trim, slim bodies and wearing blue jeans which clung to their firm, rounded rumps - there were certain little differences, as well, which could be discerned -- as they were undergoing their individual ordeal:
The first one was a blonde, on the Dusty Springfield type. And from the very outset, she wailed and screeched like an alley-cat in heat -- the way Dusty Springfield sang.
Then there was a somewhat shorter, darker, sultry girl, on the Suzanne Pleshette type, who carried on hysterically -- indeed, the way the Pleshette girl acted her roles.
There was a tall, sinewy auburn-haired creature, on the Diana Rigg type, who didn't cry or yell out at all. From time to time, she gritted and ground her teeth together, to assimilate the pain that was be inflicted upon her -- as though to say: "All right, do your best. You can't hurt me, nohow. I dare you to hurt me." And Don Maxwell did his very best, working up a really blistering attack on her supple, curvy rump with his fast-moving sticks.
Then there was still another blonde, finally -- a tall honey-blonde, on the Angie Dickenson type -- who actually seemed to sigh, coo and swoon throughout the whole ordeal. And when it was over, she actually seemed to be regretful that there still wasn't more whacks and licks forthcoming for her already thoroughly reddened behind.
With all five dolls duely placed directly alongside the stands of the respective musicians who were to have their way with them and finish them off later by fucking them resoundingly in their red-hot, blistering, fire-engine-colored asses, before this grand-climax was to come about, there was still Brenda Courtney, the undisputed "belle of the ball" to properly deal with! ...
* * *
Several manly-looking colored women came for her and went about making the necessary preparations. Brenda was decked out in a shiny leotard-like pair of hot pants and matching blouse, which had a silver sheen to it, and looked like an additional layer of gleaming snake-skin fitted over her own, svelte, sleek, ultra-smoothy sultry flesh:
Brenda felt her arms being wrenched behind her back by one of the attendants, while the other one went about lowering the hot pants. They both carried out their respective chores rather harshly and roughly:
"Hey, you, take it easy," Brenda squealed to the one who was wrenching her arms so viciously, she all but pulled them out of their very sockets.
Brenda was rewarded by a sharp, stinging slap across a cheek of her face:
"Shut up, you," the woman hissed menacingly. "Don't you go and give me no orders, you hear, you little white slut!"
So even though they continued to handle her roughly, Brenda felt it was wise to keep quiet, since her pleas couldn't do her any good, nohow.
Finally, Brenda was ready, set and in position, like the other five little dolls who had previously been her predecessors -- with her hands placed in handcuffs behind her back, her ankles likewise bound, and her hot pants lowered and draped down around her thighs -- brought over in juxtaposition to Don Maxwell's drum-set, with her tits drooping down and spilling out, her curvy, sultry bottom tautened and up thrust:
In such a position and wearing the simulated snake-skin hot pants, served to accentuate and emphasize the long, graceful streamlined gams she was endowed with, especially with her bottom being utterly bare, tautened and upthrust as it was:
And, with her raven-black hair spilling and cascading in natural waves down over her face, she looked like a virtual Bobby Gentry, placed in bondage and total submission.
For her own part, while Brenda felt certain definite pangs of excitement, they weren't from fear as such, but rather from keen anticipation at ah that was about to come - particularly the surging charge it would give to her Narcissistic-ego -- being a model by vocation and a natural exhibitionist at heart:
As for the ordeal itself, while Don had warned her that it would be terrible and ferocious, still, she felt absolutely confident that she could take all that he was forced to dish out:
After all, the other five little chicks had taken it. So she could take it, too - all that they took, and even a bit more, having been previously hardened and even conditioned to taking good, sound tanning's - most of them just for kicks, at that.
However, Brenda was never psychologically-geared -- not even in her wildest dreams or weirdest nightmares - to conjure up the registered hurt from what he dished out:
First, he used the wire-brushes. And, to Brenda, it felt as if a thousand hot little knives were being constantly thrust into her bare, soft, pliable young flesh, a million times over.
The whacking with the wire-brushes seemed to last for all-eternity to her. Then the sticks took over:
Now if felt as if her poor rump was being pelted and riddled with round after round of rapid-fire machine-gun bullets, and this phase seemed to last all-eternity, and beyond.
Truth to tell, up till then, Brenda was so overwhelmed with excruciating anguish and hurt, that she was utterly petrified and paralyzed with sheer inertia, unable to cry out, even:
She had been spanked, even whipped, yes, but never anything like this. Rather, this was comparable to being hacked to pieces, alive, then riddled full of hot bullets.
It was only at the very end of the number, when he turned the drumsticks over and used the handle for improvised clubs, to properly finish her off with, beating her already thoroughly scourged, hot, wilted ass and burning, tingling thighs viciously again and again and again, that the cries finally erupted in her throat and came out of her -- like some long suppressed bed-spring suddenly being released.
To Brenda, this terrible, merciless clubbing felt, not only as if he were beating her to the very bone, but into and through the very bones, themselves:
On and on and on, never to stop!
She squirmed, writhed and undulated, routed with utter inner-pandemonium and terror.
All at once, what seemed as if it was surely a million years to Brenda, the savage, ferocious tanning of her precious hide ceased, but directly in its stead, was a new benumbed feeling of pulverizing ache and excruciating hurt:
It was that big and long, hard and full black licorice-stick of Don's; he had thrust it flush in her blazing-hot, wilted ass!
While ordinarily, he was most careful and considerate, this time, he didn't bother to use either vaseline or cold-cream. So, when he plowed into her, it felt as if he was piercing her insides with some mighty sharp, pointed spear, making her cry out tremulously anew.
He plowed into her, taking short but hard, deep thrusts, drilling and reaming her mercilessly, correspondingly banging and slamming her most tender, sensitive, wilted ass with his hard, bony thighs, rendering still additional benumbing spanking-pains.
Since Don and her were the central figures in the tableau of this odd jam-session, by his starting to take her, acted on the others as a pre-arranged-signal, and they aped him directly, reaming the firm, hot little asses of their respective dolls, who were also soon set to screaming and hurting with the pangs of Hell - sounding to Brenda all like stuck pigs in some slaughter-house.
With all of the musicians taken up with ass-reaming as they were, none of them were left to play. So some guy from the audience, who must have been a drummer himself, sat himself down and banged the foot-pedal of the bass-drum, rendering deep, resounding, booming thumps - like a bass-drum being banged at a parade - and seeming to go right through Brenda's whole terror-wrapped, pain-ridden entity and make it convulsively shake and quake:
To her, it provided a strange but unified accompaniment to the constant shrill cries being emitted by the stuck dolls -- including her own! ...
Brenda had the weirdest sort of imagery going through her mind at that moment, even as Don continued to savagely and ferociously drill away at her ass:
She was in some dark continent of a jungle. The native savage-tribes were all on the warpath. Signals were set up to all the neighboring villages of the various tribes, by beating them out on tom-toms -- going from one to the other.
Soon, they were all properly alerted, and began to yell shrilly as they merged together at a point in the jungle, encircling a group of wild and beautiful, helpless and untamed young girls.
Instead of trying to capture them, bring them back to their respective tribal-villages, make them captive-slaves and thoroughly domesticate them - so that they could fuck' them regularly and make them cook for them as well -- the brutal savages demolished the girls by thrusting their long, hard, sharp pointed-spears into them -- again and again and again:
The savages pierced them in the front, in the back, on the sides - over and into the legs - the flat-lined tummy and rounded, curvy ass.
And they kept right on doing this tenaciously, with, all the time, the terrified, benumbed girls screaming shrilly and tremulously - until they all fell, one by one - flat on their faces to the ground, sprawled-out, utterly motionless and still!
It was only then that a rapt aura of silence and stillness prevailed in the dark, dank jungle. All of the drums stopped beating. The high-pitched screaming had desisted also. And a kind of blanket of peace seemed to come over the entire dark continent at last - at long, long suffering last:
What a waste, the Whole thoughtless carnage was, Brenda reflected forlornly:
What a terrible, awful WASTE! ...
* * *
A definite contagion set in, as the various members of the gathered audience set to emulate the active participants on the band-stand. It was comparable to a Holy Roller meeting in Harlem and/or Revival meeting down South, with the same amuck, emotional pitch being prevalent, except that it had direct sexual-connotations instead of any religious ones, as such:
They tore off their clothes as if they were on fire or burning up - which, indeed, they were inwardly. Then stark naked, members from the opposite sexes writhed and threshed together on the hard wooden floor.
And while the Negro-people are not particularly known to go in for the perversions, some of them had taken to lashing their chicks on their bare, coffee-colored, curvy asses with doubled-up straps, while still others were fucking them in their, high-slung coffee-colored behinds looking like so many rising and falling, most animated pairs of camel's humps:
There was still another minority who were sucking and being sucked.
The entire tableau had become sheer bedlam, and was a most fitting and apropos grand-climax to the wild swinging scene! ...
* * *
As soon as Brenda had recovered sufficiently to be able to move her legs on her still intensely burning, tingling and blistering backside, she raced from there as quickly as her legs could only carry her!
For her own part, she never wanted to see Don Maxwell again as long as she lived. She blamed her entire terrible ordeal on him:
True, to be sure, he had warned her what she was in for in advance if she came there. But even so, he could have taken it a bit easier on her. He didn't have to be that cruel and severe.
But he was worried about his people and the impression he would make on them if he didn't give her the full brunt of their collective-wrath in his behalf. In other words, it wasn't her, at all, that he was concerned about, but his own ego and saving face.
Well, if that was the case, fuck him -- fuck him where he breathed -- in his own rotten, filthy, filthy ass-hole! Brenda reflected, quite vociferously.
So, he didn't want to be dragged or brought down, did he?
Well, fuck him -- fuck him all over again:
Fuck him, fuck him, FUCK HIM!
With just such a thought in mind, Brenda also knew what she had to do. As soon as she spied a telephone-booth, she got into it and closed the door. She used one hand to hold the phone, while, with the other, she continued to rub her most tender, smarting backside, to try and alleviate even a trifle of the dire pangs of anguish that she felt there. Brenda went about dialing the designated number of her choosing.
Within a matter of seconds, a cheerful, quite extroverted male-voice answered her quizzically:
"Hello. Who's this?"
"It's me - Brenda."
"Oh, hi, doll," he chirped, being somewhat surprised, as she usually didn't take the initiative to call him. "What's on your mind? What's up?"
"I thought it all over, and I'm ready to give you my final answer now about marriage to you?"
"Oh? And just what is it? Don't keep a fellow in such awful suspense, Brenda doll."
"The answer is yes - definitely yes!"
"It is?"
"Uh-huh."
"But, when?"
"The sooner, the better, Harold darling."
"Wonderful, great. But you're not kidding me now, are you, Brenda hon?" He still had a trace of skepticism manifest in his voice.
"No-ooo, I'm not kidding you, Harold."
"All right, but tell me one thing ..."
"What's that, Harold?"
"What made you change your mind so decisively? Or, to put it another way, what made you make it up so conclusively, heh?"
"Errr ... let's just ... say something ... happened recently which ... made me see ... the light! ..."
* * *
Thus, a rather strange Unity of Opposites, (to use the scientific vernacular) was formed between lovely Merle Kimberly and vivacious, sultry Brenda Courtney:
In the case of Merle, having been married to affluent, adoring husbands most of her life, who placed her high on a pedestal, sucked out her cunt, in utter reverence, and provided her with every luxury, the likes of a wild and rampant Caveman such as Big Mike Forrester was somewhat of a novelty. And she actually welcomed his violence, Sadism and viciousness, kindling and activating her so, that she was willing to throw away her latest marriage, to go off and shack up steadily with him.
Whereas, with Brenda, on the other hand, having come from the wrong side of the tracks and having to claw her way to the top with her modeling-career - by spreading her chops for the right men, and taking many paddy-whackings and reamings to her precious bum, as well -- even though she was a devout Masochist, certainly, Sadism and violence were no novelty in her life:
Whereas, marriage to a young, up-and-coming Madison Avenue executive, such as a Harold Bradford, certainly was. He could provide her with all the things she had been missing up till now: love, devotion and respect -- money, position, a home in the suburbs -- and all the things that money would only buy:
Yes, the likes of this would certainly be a most refreshing and effervescent novelty to her!
So it was, that at the particular junction in life that the one girl was leaving, the other one was first coming to, forming that stipulated Unity of Opposites:
Ostensibly, purely on the surface, it was a case of: "The grass is always greener in somebody else's yard." And: "One girl's meat is another girl's poison:"
But 'way-down-deep, underneath the shallow, superficial surface, both girls were basically the same exact type -- two SPANKING ADDICTS - only, one was coming, while the other was going; still, they were SPANKING ADDICTS, nevertheless! ...
Chapter 16
Sylvia Pierce did it!
She used the trusted vibrator in sensuous Doris Martin's twat and ass-hole, in order to get her to generously cream and shit, so she could French her out clean - lick, lap and suck her dry -- eat up each and every morsel of the rich, dreamy maiden-juice and tart, tangy beads of turds that would flow from her rapturous being!
But first, there were certain necessary preliminaries that Sylvia had to perform:
These nuances were vastly differentiated from those that Doris had previously just finished performing on her. Sylvia, for her own part, wasn't rough, crude or Sadistic at all, but entirely soft, gentle and most tantalizing:
She started out by gently fondling and caressing Doris' luscious bantam-golden form, taking keen delight at gliding and sliding her hands along the svelte, sleek but quite resilient flesh.
Sylvia cupped and caressed the full, hard cantaloupes for tits, letting her fingers gently and delicately feel the ripe, fuzzy strawberry-cones.
She rubbed the soft and smooth, flat-lined tummy with a slow and graceful circular-motion, ending up by sticking the merest tip of her pinky into the intriguing little belly-button.
She quickly felt up the legs, doing so somewhat harder, to permit her to enjoy the delightful feeling of the streamlined-curvature and elegant gracefulness to the lovely gams.
Up till this conjecture, her total effect on Doris, while not really devastating, being so devoutly Masochistic as she was with the perennial, insatiable yen to have her bottom whaled, still was provocative enough in its way, wrapping sensuous Doris in a blanket of pleasing, soothing titillation, yet invigorating, anxious and eager for the next nuance:
This was performed with Sylvia's long quivering hot-asp for a tongue, which went over each and every area of Doris' whole body, giving her a complete tongue-bath - indeed, wrapping her up in a whole congealed blanket of sticky saliva.
Since Sylvia so greatly resembled Mary Tyler Moore, the lovely actress, it gave Doris a terrific charge and inner-feeling of satisfaction. Having seen Mary and the role she played on the Mary Tyler Moore Show, acting so prudish, standoffish and self-righteous all the time -- as though her shit didn't stink, and she was completely above any kind of fucking -- made Doris automatically wonder what she would look like with a prick in her mouth or sucking out a pussy:
And now, she was privileged to, not only see such a spectacle, but feel it being done - in the flesh -- and to her very own person. So it gave her Narcissistic-ego a great big charge:
It was comparable to the sort of kick that those graffiti-addicts must get at scribbling dirty words on the walls of public toilets and depicting crude sketches of people in the nude, sitting across from each other in the car of a subway-train, looking seemingly completely aloof and totally oblivious of each other, with huge dangling cocks and balls, and big, hairy, black bushes with incredible gashes for cunts!
Then too, Mary Tyler Moore had a big, wide mouth, and Doris always felt it was intended by nature to have a cock stuffed into it, or licking, lapping and sucking away - drawing like mad -- as she would go down in the proverbial muff:
And this, Sylvia Pierce was doing with a keen adroitness, which could only come about naturally and instinctively -- a talent she was inherently endowed with.
That tongue of hers did simply wonders, dancing in and out so tantalizingly, as it kept jabbing away at still ever new areas of Doris' svelte but resilient flesh.
So it was, with all of these factors prevalent to intensify the emotional-load of being properly Frenched, that the painstaking and persistent person of Sylvia Pierce finally got to Doris and really reached her. This was clearly indicative as Doris started to buck up and down on the mattress of the bed, banging her bottom again and again, as her swelled, lush melons for tits also rose and fell pantingly:
It was then and only then that Sylvia reached for the vibrator:
She temporarily laid it down on the bed. Then, as a last precautionary prerequisite, to make doubly sure, Sylvia parted Doris' legs, which were already lightly splayed with the tell-tale juices of pre-secretion, and gently shoved her hand up in there, massaging the interior of the cunt and fingering and twitching the pinkish-white pearl of a passion-button for a clit.
The maneuvers acted upon Doris comparably to a delayed-action time-bomb, really setting her off and getting her going:
To Doris, it was as though three rather small but long and urgent cocks were thrust in her snatch, all fucking away at different parts of the twat at once, so naturally adroit and skilled Sylvia's long, sensitive fingers were.
Soon -- within a matter of mere seconds -- Doris' whole sensuous being tensed and tautened up:
"Oh, oh, oh-hhh," she moaned aloud, simultaneously shuddering and convulsing emphatically. "Sylvia ... dearest ... angel. I love you, love you, love you-uuu!"
Such endearing words spurred Sylvia on to still new heights of abandonment, with the fingers, making the whole twat all wet, sticky and gooey.
Doris was inflicting on herself a virtual spanking now, by virtue of banging her curvy bottom up and down violently on the ultra-hard mattress, utterly oblivious of any hurt, or rather enjoying it, as her swelled, lush melons for tits panted and heaved correspondingly.
Afraid lest Doris pop off and come with a full-fledged orgasm prematurely, Sylvia abruptly withdrew the magical fingers and reached for the vibrator ...
* * *
She deftly clicked the switch, instantly setting it into whining, buzzing motion, totally differentiated from the timing Doris had used to set it off. Then again, Sylvia had an entirely different objective for the end-game:
To her, even fucking itself was purely a means to an end, rather than any end in itself -- such as it would be to any man - even the simulated one that Doris had conjured up:
Nevertheless, at the outset of resorting to the vibrator, Sylvia placed it inside the open, spread, cupped outer-labia-lips of Doris' juicy honeybun for a delectable, succulent twat. She stroked away boldly and firmly, with definite penetrating, rhythmic fucking-strokes.
All that had gone before - each and every nuance which Sylvia had so carefully, painstakingly and methodically perpetrated - were all slanted for this, the culmination at the end-game:
The cocoon of goose-pimples aroused by Sylvia's caressing; the preliminary tongue-bath; and finally, the massaging and fingering of the cunt.
So it was, what when Doris felt the gentle shocks of the vibrator go coursing through her whole throbbing being -- in the form of the lightest and most pleasant of electrocutions - to her, it was a perfectly logical and natural culmination of all that had gone before, and all that was soon to come.
Doris' whole being was racked with rapture, twisting, turning and convulsing. Her entity tensed, strained and twisted up, moaning aloud audibly, a most pained expression on her lovely pert face.
It was precisely at this conjecture that Sylvia realized that Doris was on the verge of an orgasm. So she quickly withdrew the vibrator, and placed her hot quivering tongue in the twat instead:
To Doris, the tongue was a natural extension of the feeling comparable to the three activated cocks previously brought about by the adroit manipulation of Sylvia's three fingers, only it was warmer, wetter and more insistent; it was big and full and urgent - lunging all the way down into the vagina-tube of the womb - then swabbing the very depths of the womb of the palpitating snatch itself.
The tongue was licking and lapping -- drawing and draining -- as Doris came in gob after gob after gob of rich dreamy cream.
Once she had her fill for the time-being of the cunt, Sylvia rammed the buzzing vibrator flush into the tight little reddish-brown ass-hole, having Doris' entity arched with a pillow propping up the cheeks of her ass, a priori, so that it wouldn't be necessary to turn her around and over, thereby wasting precious moments.
Doris felt an acute burning, itchy feeling in the sphincter-muscle and intestines of her ass-hole, as the synthetic prick kept on stroking away.
All at once, Doris began to shit, dropping load after load after load of hot, loose, watery turds.
As soon as she did so, Sylvia withdrew the vibrator just in time for it to escape the first torrent. Then she placed her curled lips by and under the ass-hole - still licking, lapping and eating it out - chewing up the soft, hot turds hungrily, one by one, as if she were utterly famished.
That was only the start of it. This sort of ritual went on for quite some time:
First, in the cunt, then in the ass-hole came the stroking of the vibrator; then when Doris came, Sylvia would lick and lap and eat:
To her, it wasn't just scum and shit that she was so hungrily and uninhibitedly eating, but some rich and ultra-smooth concoction of chocolate-pudding with a whipped-cream topping.
And it seemed that Sylvia could never get her fill, eating one such dessert after the other, not stopping until Doris, finally feeling all twisted, tensed and knotted up - her entire insides becoming a bundle of screwed-up wires -- stopped coming with both the scum and the shit simultaneously, not being able to emit so much as another drop.
It was only then that Sylvia reluctantly moved away from, her -- only then -- with her wide but curled-up lips and chin drooling and oozing with the tell-tale remnant traces of the tremendous load of scum and shit she had just finished eating:
Yes, it was only THEN! ...
* * *
Later, when it was all over, Sylvia turned to her precious, cherished love-object and queried of her, most assured and knowingly:
"So, Doris pet, are you convinced now that a love such as ours is far superior to the inferior kind that could ever exist between a male and a female, hmmm?"
"No, Sylvia dearest. Not quite."
"What's this? What's this you say?" Sylvia couldn't quite believe her ears, and was utterly thunder-struck and flabbergasted.
"That's right," said Doris, coolly and levelly.
"But, I don't understand. While we were enraptured together, you clearly said you love me. So -"
"And I did and do," Doris instantly and brightly countered. "What you did for me was grand and glorious and all the rest of that jazz; there's simply no denying it. But even so, it still doesn't constitute the total experience of amour and erotica."
"What does constitute it, then, dearie?"
"A big, strong he-man, who is wild and aggressive, and who is also endowed with a big cock and large pair of balls. A vibrator and a tongue can never be the perfect substitute for natural equipment like that - not ever! Do I make myself clear, Sylvia dearest, hmmm?"
"Quite! But still, I can't understand you and the way you feel. Man, as a sex, having nothing but utter contempt and loathing for us, you know. Why, one of those chauvinistic, male-supremist pigs even went so far as to name all the seasonal hurricanes after us - the rotten, dirty scum-bag swine!"
"That all may be very true, Sylvia. Even so, when I'm in the mood for real violence and lust, I need a bull-stud of a Caveman to satisfy it. Nothing else - no substitute, regardless of how considerate and empathetic -- will or could ever suffice."
"But, what about me, Doris angel?" Sylvia whined. "I've got my whole life wrapped up in you - you and you, alone - to love and cherish all for myself, forever and ever more."
"That's tough, Sylvia - real tough," Doris sighed. "Then again, in your case, it isn't, at that."
"How is that? I don't ... understand?"
"Well, before you lost your inhibitions and had me, your life was completely devoid of activity and utterly empty. Whereas, at least now, you have me to enjoy some of the time."
"But I want you always," Sylvia whined, pining away more mournfully and pathetically than ever."
"Well, you'll just have to make do with what you have. After all, you know the old saying: 'A half a loaf of bread is better than none!' "
"But, it isn't fair. You have two loaves; you can enjoy the best of both Worlds."
"So who's stopping you from having the other loaf, too?" Doris mocked her rhetorically. "I'm quite sure, that there are plenty of men around who would be ready, willing and able to supply you with a really sound and glorious, truly mellow fuck, dearest, especially since you are dressing so chic of late and looking so appetizing, that you're simply ravishing. So, again I ask: who's stopping you, or what's stopping you, hmmm?"
"My nature," Sylvia moaned, "is what."
"Well, dearest, I must admit, that for once in your life, you're at least facing up to the truth. And that's real progress - if anything is! ..."
* * *
So it was, that all three girls who were associated with Slave Girls' Costume Jewelry, Inc. and were also SPANKING ADDICTS, found total and utter fulfillment in their passionate young lives.
As for the fourth one -- Sylvia Pierce, who was also associated with this corporation, but, strictly speaking, wasn't an "addict" of bum-lickings at all, although she did suffer a strapping once, voluntarily and inadvertently, as a necessary, integral part of what sensuous Doris Martin had endured at the hands of the fiend who had raped her and taken her precious cherry away -- she at least found half-fulfillment in her own passion-racked life:
Perhaps if she would have been a full-fledged "addict," she might have also attained a corresponding full-fledged sexual-fulfillment.
Perhaps?
There would never be any way of telling for sure.
In any case, all four girls had certainly COME A LONG WAY!!!!
