She was married-but that didn't matter after she met Atkins. Call it karma, fate or just plain old sexual magnetism, the fact was that Lorna lost herself, body and soul, to the virile stranger.
She followed him across the country, unable to resist his bizarre lovemaking. From raw lust to sexual humiliation, he took everything she had to give . . . right down to the last drop!
CHAPTER ONE
Lorna emerged from the shower, cool except for the hot mound of her pussy that throbbed between the firm rounded flesh of her inner thighs. She gasped and squeezed her thighs together tightly and felt the answering pinch like a caress on her turgid hair-fringed cunt lips. The tightening of her leg muscles plunged the whole of her lower body into fierce sex heat; as the warm flesh clenched around her slit her clitoris throbbed unbearably and sent little darts of fire through her stomach and into the small of her back. Her rectum grew stretchy and tingly, making her think of how wonderful it would feel to have a good stiff finger plunging in and out of her snug, puckered rim. For that matter, she'd love nothing better than a real man-sized prick back there, slathered up with gooey lubrication and ramming steadily in and out of her back door.
Her slanted green eyes darkened under her red-gold brows. Fat chance of that ever happening! Dan's fingers had never been between her ass cheeks in the whole three years of their marriage. He thought things like that were abnormal-when he managed to talk about such matters at all, which was only in court as lawyer for the Decent Film League. He would never discuss such practices as ass-fucking with his beloved wife! Lorna was one of the women that Dan and the DFL sought to protect. Well, she was aching for some of the raw sex they were trying to stamp out. As far as she was concerned, the only thing wrong with the movies was that they were only movies!
She tossed the towel aside and looked at her glorious nudity in the full-length mirror. Her hands slid under her big blossoming tits and jiggled the undersides until her nipples tingled and stood out like hard little tongues. Her thumbs flicked lightly over them and she shivered against the titillating thrill that spiraled out like a many-pointed star, burning through her big round boobs and diving in hot-cold chills into her armpits and ribs. She imagined an eager wet mouth clamped over one of those wide pink circles, sucking hard and then drawing away until only a hot laving tongue touched her.
The thought of such abandoned love-making caused a harsh, whimpering sound of frustration and anger to escape her wide sensuous mouth. It was a sucking mouth, made to open wide and take something good and hard in it. On the street, men stared at her body, their eyes sliding helplessly over her jiggling boobs and V-shaped crease at the top of her thighs, but their glance always returned to her mouth. Lorna could tell from the intense bright gaze what they were thinking. Her generous red lips had a suggestive pout to them, even in repose, that reminded men of what it felt like to slide their pricks into such a charming place as a voluptuous woman's ready, eager mouth.
Lorna wondered what it felt like to have a mouth full of creaming, plunging cock. She tried to imagine what those merciless thrusts would feel like when they pounded against the back of her throat instead of her sensitive, stubby womb neck. She wondered if she would gag on it, but she knew somehow that she wouldn't. Some instinctive knowledge of her own sensuality made her confident that she would be the best cock-sucker any man ever had the good luck to come across. She did not know how she knew; only that there existed some women who seemed somehow to be pre-ordained experts in bed, and she was one of them.
Frustration and harsh disappointment, like a sadistic demon, tormented her and mocked the curvaceous image in the mirror.
What good is it all doing you, married to Daniel Perkins, the one-man vice squad?
Lorna's jaws clenched tightly until her high, pronounced cheekbones stood out like the sides of a triangle. She would not waste time now thinking about him, or anything except the precious and rare opportunity she had to be alone. Her in-laws were out of the house for the afternoon and would not be back until late tonight. Dan was closeted with the DFL steering committee, poring over pornographic photo magazines to decide where they would strike next. She had the house to herself with no fear of the constant interruptions her mother-in-law so loved to make under the guise of seeing "if I can do anything for you." Damn the old bitch! Lorna needed something done for her all right, but Ma Perkins was the last candidate for the job. If she couldn't have a man she'd have the next best thing, the only thing available for a hot cunt at a time like this!
Lorna gave a little cry of excitement and lay down on the fluffy bathroom rug in front of the mirror. Her ass wriggled ecstatically on the tickly material and her long slender legs opened wide. She felt her cunt lips separate and spread back as she forced her thighs further and further apart, until the muscles at the juncture of her hips pulled painfully. She could drag it out this afternoon . . . no need to hurry with a quickie job of fingering as she had had to do so many times before, with Dan just a few feet away in their bedroom. This time she was going to fuck herself raw! Right in front of the mirror, just like a movie. . . .
It made it more exciting to see as well as feel. She had discovered that charm one day shortly after Dan had taken on the DFL as clients and launched into his bid as the heroic young lawyer who would skin the skin flicks. It was Lorna's last-ditch attempt to convince herself that she could be desirable to Dan. The thought of him viewing fuck films and beaver shots excited her because she imagined him getting hot while he watched. One night, with the bathroom door locked, she jerked herself off in front of the mirror and pretended that she was the movie which he watched that day. She knew what he had seen-he had told her that much. "A woman abusing herself," was the way he had disgustedly put it. Lorna had experienced a mingled emotion of shame and a dark, earthy thrill. By "becoming" the girl in the movie, she thought she could reach Dan, make him notice her and acknowledge the fierce, shameless need of sex that she had, a need he had never satisfied. She could never approach him directly, but if she could pretend she was in a movie, a nice dirty, sexy movie . . . what better way to forge a bond with a man whose job it was to watch them? Even if the bond were only in her mind it might take away that hideous feeling that her husband did not even see her.
But it had not worked. His coldness won over her as it always had.
Her session in front of the mirror had done something else, though, something she had not anticipated. Her own excitement was increased when she could see the things she had only felt before-the thick whitish puddle of cunt juice settling over her vaginal entrance and smearing through her lips as she drew her fingers up and down her hot snatch valley; she saw the straining stiffness of her own clit, the change in color of her meaty mucous inner flesh from coral pink to deep sexy grayish-red as her flanges engorged with blood. Instead of forging a bond with Dan, the sight of her climaxing cunt had brought revenge. She teas a movie, a dirty movie! His own wife, in his own home, was starring in a beaver shot!
Lorna propped herself up against the clothes hamper and gazed lovingly at herself. No one else appreciated the sight of her naked body, so why shouldn't she be her own audience? A defiant fine sprang into her soft cheek.
Her hair was a vivid titian red, a glorious riot of orangey gold, matched by the generous puff of pussy strands between her legs. A real redhead, not out of a bottlel She stared at her reflection and ran her fingers through the kinky strands of her cunt. Her asshole peeped from between her rounded buttocks and sprouted the same bright red hairs. She clenched her anal muscles and watched the tiny wrinkled rim pucker, then relax. What would it feel like to have something in there? she wondered. Her ass throbbed hungrily until she almost sobbed with thwarted desire. She looked wildly around the bathroom for something, anything, that would feel like a raging, blood-hardened prick. Her glance fell on a plastic bottle, torpedo-shaped with a rounded cap whose edges spread out in a flared hood-supposedly to contain leakage and dripping, said the label.
Lorna smiled. Supposedly! Why hadn't she thought of it before? She jumped up and with shaking fingers took the bottle down from the shelf. It was cold cream soap and its name was Sylvan. It was selling like wildfire; drugstores all had a display of it, and each of the Sylvan products came in the same prick-shaped bottle with that big cock head of a cap! The bottle was soft enough not to hurt but firm enough to get into those hard-to-reach little areas that are every woman's problem.. . .
As she unscrewed the top and squeezed out some of the thick cream a last, buried twinge of guilt left her. forever. There must be millions of women all over the country who bought this stuff solely for the bottle-and the manufacturer must have known just how well his cocky container would catch on. Lorna felt better; she wasn't the only unsatisfied wife . . . she wasn't the only one who looked forward to these solitary sessions. Hatred for Dan and all the other husbands like him ran through her veins like acid.
Now for some real fun. . . .
The soap was just like her own cunt jism. Her heart beat faster as she slicked up the entire tubular length of the bottle. It was at least eight inches long and as big around as her wrist. Big business knew that women liked big cocksl
She, lay down again on the rug and stared at herself in the mirror as she trailed the big slathered tube over her widespread box. She pulled her hairy outer lips apart and sank the knobby cockhead against her quivering clitoris and circled it teasingly. Her back arched with the instant response from the stiff little organ as it met the undulating motion of the massive tip. Then she lowered the tube into the folds of her inner lips, pushing against them, separating them as she screwed her way down still further. The fist-like top sank against her vaginal hole like a round, hot stone. Lorna gasped and pushed it into her box with a fierce thrust. A sweet pain clutched at her groin and sent waves of tortured delight into her entrails as the hammer stretched her tight cunt muscles. Oooooh, God it was big! Bigger than
Dan . . . was it bigger than any man or was some stud hung like this? Her mouth watered as she imagined a real man with a dong like this on him! God, she couldn't get it past her entrance! In the mirror her cunt hole gaped like a mouth. She screwed and twisted the instrument from side to side, urging it in higher. She gasped as she felt her flesh suddenly open and begin to suck hungrily at the gigantic prick substitute. Ummmmmmm, she had it going now. The greasy shaft slid slowly into her churning snatch until only an inch remained protruding from the wet tangled red hairs of her throbbing pussy.
"Oh, it feels wonderful to have something in thereeeee!" she cried, not caring if her delighted shrieks sounded through the whole empty house.
She tightened her cunt muscles until the tube was trapped snugly within her snapping box. With her knees bent and spread wide she began to push back and forth on the rug, all the while staring at herself in the mirror. The heavy fuck surface of the rug crept into her spread buttocks and tickled her hot bung as she humped and slid back and forth, her big breasts dancing free. Lorna squealed and pinched the aching nipples until she thought she would go crazy with lust. Now her cunt was big and generous, drawing the tube into its hot lusty depths. She had taken it all, all eight inches! Feverishly, Lorna's hands dove to her red-haired pussy and stimulated her thrusting clit. The impudent little organ was clearly visible as it stuck out from its hood of pink flesh and demanded action. She caressed it with her fingertip, making slow, circling dabs on its head until her back arched and her stuffed cunt throbbed with unbearable delight. She pushed the stiffened bud back onto itself and let it spring free, then captured it between thumb and forefinger. With her other hand she stimulated her darkened nipples, rolling the hard, flaky little tips in her fingers until the surrounding circles of reddened flesh drew up in rigid, lust-fashioned wrinkles. Her whole body was in a state of turgid erection, ready to break like a wave on the shore. Her red hair whipped out around her face and her mouth twisted into a grimace of oncoming passion. Now! Now she was ready for the best part. . . .
She whipped the steaming tube out of her vagina until she could get a good grip on it. She clutched frantically at the last two inches of its hot, smeary length and began to slide it down her box until only the flared tip remained inside. She plunged it back up without mercy, grunting with pain and joy as it rammed her cervix. She began to piston her arm as she fucked in and out of her cunt with quick, digging thrusts. She locked one knee over a stool and planted the other foot on the side of the tub, so that her creaming pussy was only inches from her in the mirror. Her tender flanges were already red with soreness but she paid no attention to the burning rawness in her cunt as she worked the imitation prick in and out of her needy thatch.
As her vagina began to suckle and milk at the hammering tube a low animalistic groan grew in Lorna's throat and grated from her clenched teeth. A harsh pounding began in her bruised cervix and spread like brush fire through her cunt.
This was it! Her body twisted in a vicious, undulating wriggle as she gushed a spray of jism onto the slippery, plunging instrument of pleasure.
"AAAAHHHHHHHHH fuck me you big-cocked brute! Sink your prick in deeeeeeep! I'm coming on you, do you feel me? I'm spraying you with nice hot cunt jism! Stick it in meeeeeee! Don't stop fucking me, don't ever stop fucking me! Bury that hard pecker in my pussy every night! I'll have plenty for you-NNNNNNGGG-GGHHHHHH!"
Her legs fell weakly to the floor and she lay gasping, the slicked tube protruding from her trembling snatch. Her panting breath sounded harsh in the suddenly quiet room; she turned her face and let her cheek touch the cool tiles beside her. Her legs felt like rubber in the wake of the intense satisfaction that poured through her entire body. It had been the best climax she had ever given herself, much better than the immature fingering that she had grown used to. This had been a real fuck, and she was sore and burning, her cunt bruised, just as though it had been a man digging his hard rod inside her.
Lorna stretched and smiled as the tube slithered slowly out of her. She reached down and caught it between her two fingers and held it in place for a moment, wriggling it back and forth against her vaginal opening.
"I'll keep you in me, you big-cocked bull!" she whispered fiercely.
The words, the hissing sound of her voice and the sight of her fingers around the slathered tube caused an intense sensation of familiarity in her.
Somewhere in the totally relaxed depths of her mind a tendril of memory seemed to slip through and prod her for the briefest flash of a second, and then was gone.
She sat up, startled. It was as if she had lived this moment before. . . .
But of course she had! All too many times, she thought hatefully, her eyes narrowing to jade slits in the mirror. The bathroom rug was her marriage bed, the only one she could regularly count on.
Lorna let the tube fall out of her cunt, then squeezed her fingers around it, growing excited once more at the feel of heat, heat from her body. It was almost like holding a real prick in her fingers. The cream inside the plastic bottle had softened a little, so that for a moment she could imagine she held a man's shrinking organ.
Once again the familiar sensation came to her. Reasonless fright covered her for a moment, mingled with a secret delight.
Suddenly she rolled onto her stomach and lifted herself on her hands and knees. She reached back and divided her creamy billowing ass cheeks and slid the greasy tube up and down through her hair-fringed crack. She shivered with oncoming ecstasy each time the knobby tip touched her puckered virginal rim. She felt it getting hot and big, just the way her pussy did when it was needing. How many times had she wanted a good stiff cock up her ass and never gotten it? At first, she used to wriggle her ass enticingly in a suggestive hint, riding up on Dan's ready prick until it slipped down in the hot valley between her buns. He had recoiled in horror.
"You don't want me to do that, do you?" he had demanded in disbelieving tones. She pretended she did not but she did! All he could do was watch movies! He got his kicks that way, all of them did, all of those whey-faced members of DFL! Well, she'd give them a movie they'd never forget!
Her shoulders lowered until they touched the big white rug. Her ass was ready now, her rectum tingled with longing as she pressed the fat knob of the tube against it. God, how big it felt back there, and how suddenly tiny and vulnerable her rim had become! She gripped the shaft firmly and dug the tip against her hot corn hole. As she ground it determinedly into her ass she felt a wave of heavy hot pain spread over her tender crack. NNNNNGGGGHHHH! It would never fit! She was sure she couldn't take it as much as she wanted it. She centered the instrument over her rectal entrance and held it in place while she wove her hips back on it, grinding her flexing buttocks onto the fierce rod. Pain like a kick in the stomach shot through her as the monstrous tip pushed aside the sore pink skin and went in with a little popping sound. Lorna panted and squeezed her cheeks lovingly around the tube, making her rectum suck the big dong in. Slowly it slid up the hot, dry channel, marauding her tender unused ass flesh. It was so big that it seemed to push her entrails into a painful, knotty lump but still she forced it in until she could stand it no longer. She tinned her head and gazed at herself in the mirror with glazed, passion-maddened eyes. Her ass muscles grabbed hungrily at the protruding stick and flexed; she could see the slickened tube quiver as it stuck out of her pain-wracked bung. Each time her rectum milked at the big fucking instrument her creamy ass cheeks rippled and moved. She let her body slide slowly down on the rug until its tufts were tickling her nipples. She cried out and swayed her big round orbs back and forth until it almost felt like plucking fingers at her quivering, newly aroused boobs.
Obscene pictures flew through her brain with such clarity that she almost saw them in the mirror. There was a man kneeling in front of her face, his thighs spread wide. She imagined herself swallowing his enormous red cock, stuffing it down her throat and working her palate against it while she jiggled his pendulous balls in her hand. Under her humping cunt was another man, his face smeared with the copious juices that flowed out of her well-tongued pussy. She could feel his hot lips pinching her clit and his tongue inching its way into her streaming vagina while he made vulgar cunt-lapping sounds. But most of all, she felt the harsh impaling jabs of that gorgeous eight-inch rod up her ass, throbbing and plunging into her bowels. With each long pull backward it dragged the tender pink internal flesh out of her asshole, then shoved it back up into the dark channel that needed fucking so badly. A threesome, and she was the star! Her hand reached back and grabbed the tube. She fucked herself with merciless pistoning bangs until her arms ached and went numb and her virgin ass began to bleed. She rolled over on the rug, sobbing, panting, whimpering to the imaginary men to give it to her some more.
But they were gone; the movie was over.
She got slowly to her feet, her red hair tousled and tangled around her unearthly white shoulders. As she stared, suddenly depressed, at her reflection in the mirror, she felt a familiar sensation of plunging despair. It was the feeling she always got after jerking herself off. A voice seemed to taunt her with one inescapable word of truth: Waste! Waste! Waste!
She got back into the shower and stood under the spray until her tormented body felt cool again. Each time she closed her eyes against the sharp needles of water she saw Dan's face. Nothing seemed to drive it away; if she tried to think of another man, some man she might have happened to see on the street and found attractive, his face and body were quickly replaced by those of her husband.
She could not escape him, not even in her private fantasies, at least not for very long. He always came back in spite of her efforts, in spite of everything. She was married to him, married to his whole damn family, but most of all she was married to the respectability they represented.
Respectability! It had been the chief weapon she had used to get him, and now it was the thing that tied her to him even though she wanted to run far, far away.
She got dressed and went out to the car, still determined to make use of her precious freedom even though there was nothing to do except ride aimlessly around the countryside. She pulled out of the driveway and passed down the street between the rows of neat white frame houses, enormous New England saltboxes with square towers and Victorian gingerbread. Pinchott Street . . . the most respectable place in town.
She suddenly longed to go out on the highway and drag race-she had state legislature tags on the car thanks to Dan's obsession with politics as a career. She wouldn't get a ticket, the troopers would notice the tags and. . .
Her heart beat rapidly with excitement, yet the same conflicting emotion of fear and depression that she had felt in the bathroom returned once more and drove the forbidden temptation away.
She pulled onto Main Street and saw what had been the subject of an "exciting" discussion at dinner the night before.
The new parking meters. . . .
They were the talk of the town. No one could quite believe that the sleepy little village had actually grown so much as to need those twelve little boxes. To some, the idea of parking meters was exciting, like the "moving stairs" at the new Penney's in Caribou . . . the escalator, Lorna thought with disgust. To other townspeople, the new parking meters were shocking, evidence of a cosmopolitanism they didn't want.
If that much shocked them, what would they think if something really notorious happened? Suppose they knew what she had done in the bathroom, for instance? Or even better, suppose she should run away to Boston or New York and get a job in a skin flick? Her pulses throbbed as she imagined Dan and his everlasting committees viewing the film for prosecution and finding-her!
She drove slowly out of town. Soon she was surrounded by the dark, cool pines of a Maine forest road, alone in the late afternoon of a summer day. It would not be long before the green inviting woods became a desolate white wasteland, Lorna thought disconsolately. It often snowed in late October here. The corners of her mouth twitched as she thought of the sole pleasure that awaited the lumberjacks who worked the woods in the long, sub-zero winter months. Thanks to civic-minded lawyers like Dan and upright judges like her father-in-law, there weren't many "trailer camps" left but a few still managed to slip by the watchful pillars of respectability. The whores set up shop in trailers and serviced the lumberjacks. Back in the old days, they had used lean-to's or tents, and it was so cold that the men couldn't even take off their boots, let alone anything else. The old Maine expression for fucking, "putting the boots to her", had come from such drafty brothels.
Lorna felt excitement churn within her. What would it be like to be one of those women? A whore, servicing one, two dozen men a night! Her pussy began to tingle and she moved in a wriggling motion on the seat until the seam of her slacks cut snugly into her aroused slit and pressed hard into her suddenly lubricious cunt. Ummmm, that felt good, she sighed raggedly. She thought of the burly lumberjacks, giant-like men starved for women, nearly crazy for the hot, wet feel of a wiggling slot after those endless isolated days deep in the forests, surrounded by no one but other men as horny as they were. . . . God, she'd bet they could go four or five rounds in a row. She laughed aloud as she thought of Dan and his father arresting a trailer load of whores and finding . . . her!
She stopped the car at a small clearing and pulled off the road into the bushes. She had to get out and walk in the woods; something that she did not understand had willed that she get out of the car and venture into the unknown darkness of those dense, towering pine trees. She pulled on the brake and stopped the motor, eerily conscious of the everyday mechanical sounds. The click of the key in the ignition, the squeak of the leather seat, seemed like sounds from another time in the primitive green silence that surrounded her.
She sat for a moment, not daring to move. Up above, a cicada screamed for heat and a whippoorwill sang briefly, then was silent. A sense of timelessness swept her. She got out of the car and closed the door softly and walked into the copse. She knew that she was placing herself in danger; hunters abounded here and she could be shot; there might be snakes; further back, deep in the woods, there were bears and bob cats, but she could not stop herself. She wanted to go back into time, back into something wild and harsh . . . what was it? She walked on, climbing over logs and a narrow, winding stream.
Suddenly she stopped, ugly fear crawling through her stomach. A man in blue pants and shirt was standing a few yards away, his shoulders hunched in an unmistakable fashion. She saw the high yellow arc rise from his crotch and splatter on a bush before him. Then he turned around and she saw that he was young, and that his exposed cock was a long pink cylinder with a head on it like a fist . . . and it was in a half-hard-on.
He rubbed his hand over it for a moment, then tucked it away in his pants. When he started to button his fly instead of zip it, Lorna's heart leaped to her throat and she forgot everything except raw terror. His blue denim uniform made sense now; he must be a prisoner from the correction farm ten miles away. She knew about the buttons on their pants, it was a great joke. When so many men were herded together without women they quickly learned to use each other for relief. Zippered flies made for fast concealment, but if a man had to button up there was a greater chance that the guard could catch him.
She knew she should turn and run but something locked her legs under her. Her heart beat in slow, heavy thuds and three words pounded through her brain in time to her heartbeats: Men without women . . . men without women. . . . That was why she was here, wasn't it? To pretend for a few moments that she was one of the trailer women. Something had drawn her here, something that was as dark and menacing as the tall pines and the man who stood with his muscular legs wide apart, his hand rubbing his bulging crotch as though he were in pain. A man without women . . . a man in the woods without women. . . . She went forward helplessly as though an invisible lead drew her to him.
A branch snapped underfoot and he looked up with a start and saw her. His blue shirt was open in a long V to his waist, exposing a mat of thick wiry brown hair. Even from where she stood Lorna could see that his eyes were some clear pale color, penetrating agate eyes that terrified her, yet beckoned her to him.
He devoured her with hungry eyes, blinking as though he thought she was a mirage in the forest. He began to grin and walked a few steps toward her. She saw that his eyes were gray, a clear silver color without any hazel or gold flecks. She thought of steel bars on cells, gray prison walls, all the hard threatening things that gray represented. His eyes were the jails to which Dan loved to send people-people who weren't respectable.
They were only two or three yards apart now. Helplessly, Lorna's eyes dropped down his body and stared at his bulging crotch. His grin broadened and his hand cupped his hard prick inside the snug prison denims. God, what a big basket of maleness it was! Her mouth went dry at the sight of the clearly defined rod straining against his fly. Her own clitoris hardened and tickled with agony and something slick and warm came out of her vagina and smeared her crotch. She took another step, her cunt turgid and throbbing between her thighs.
Then she saw the stenciled decal on his shirt: State Correction Farm, Department of Prisons.
"Why don't you come a little closer?" he said. "I won't murder you." Then, more softly, with a silky note creeping into his voice: "That's not what I'm in for."
Her mind told her to turn and run but her body urged her closer with each beat of her heart, as though it were a drum cadence to which she was bound to keep step. His voice sounded educated. . . . As the reassuring thought passed through her mind she felt a ripple of hysterical mirth rise up inside her throat. It was as if she had become, in that second, two women. Dan Perkins' wife cared about respectability. Dan Perkins' wife was trying to make a gentleman out of a jailbird to excuse the obscene thoughts that this man stirred in her. But there was another Lorna, a very different woman, who hated respectability and gentlemen. This Lorna wanted a stud behind bars, not a gentleman before the bar!
He let his eyes rest on her heaving breasts for a moment, then glanced up at her face.
"You've got roving eyes, honey, did you know that? You must lead quite a life if you go around staring holes in guys' pants like that."
She stood mesmerized and he laughed.
"There's something about my wardrobe that's disturbing. Maybe it offends the feminine eye for line and color. I've had more women turn pale when they see me."
He shrugged. "I'm a white-collar criminal, sweetheart. I refer you to the Maine Republican of January 5, 1968, page three. The headline reads: Atkins Guilty of Illicit Commerce, Judge Nathaniel Perkins presiding, if you please." He gave her a sweeping bow like a dancing master.
At the name Nathaniel Perkins, Lorna's face came back to life. It was her father-in-law., . . . Memories tumbled through her brain. When she was going with Dan there had been a case, about a New Yorker named Atkins who had "trafficked in women." The snow-covered trailers hidden in the woods, a riot in a lumber camp, courtroom hilarity when one of the Puerto Rican whores had to be treated for frostbite . . . all those jokes about Jack Frost . . . and Dan's father had thrown the book at all of them!
"I know you. . . . " Her voice was feeble and trailed off into nothingness.
He narrowed his steely eyes and studied her carefully with such a penetrating look that she had to turn away.
"Well, in that case.. . . " he murmured.
He took her hand and guided it to his crotch. Her breath caught in her throat when she felt his engorged prick throbbing under his pants. He stood proudly, his hips jutting out in a writhing thrust while she gave him a good feel. Lorna's blood rushed through her body; her head lolled drunkenly and her eyes closed.
"You're so big," she sighed. "God, it's huge.. .
He unbuttoned his fly and thrust her hot, sweaty hand into his pants and parted the opening of his shorts. She felt it, like a hot spike as it lay up against his belly. Her fingers squeezed hard and he made a whistling sound through his clenched teeth. His cool, jocular manner vanished now and he began fucking into her hand and moaning with all the bottled-up need for a woman that she knew he had. A man in the woods . . . a man without women. That's what she was here for, what she was meant for!
"Baby, a couple more of those educated hand-shakes of yours and you're going to have a fistful of egg drop soup instead of what you really need," he muttered. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down into a bed of pine needles.
He stood above her, looking down with a fierce, wild gaze, his rigid dick sticking out of his jeans. Lorna stared at it, her hand at her throat still tingling with the feel of the smooth flesh with its knotty veins.
"It's beautiful," she breathed. "Can I suck on it?" Her voice grew desperate from the memory of the many times Dan had forbidden her to put her mouth on him. She spoke as if she expected to be refused, but he fell down on the ground beside her and slung a long muscular leg over her body. He knelt over her face; his massive pink hammer of manliness bobbed enticingly inches from her mouth. She saw tufts of dark jock hair and white cloth peeping from his open fly. At last she was going to suck on a cock! That big beautiful whang was all hers to lick and nibble! She knew she was going to love it; her mouth watered for it as he wriggled his hips and trailed the monstrous pink hood along her mouth. Lorna tasted the smokey essence of prick and jism on the tip as she opened her lips and ran her tongue over his lubricating piss slit. Then her mouth opened wide and she captured his pecker in a long, burning clamp of her eager jaws and drove it deep into her mouth over her lapping tongue. The flared knob banged mercilessly against her palate but she tightened her throat and did not gag. Her cheeks hollowed and she turned her mouth into a hot, tunneled glove of salivating softness.
He groaned and thrust hard into her throat, sliding his swollen cock over her tongue and then plunging it deeply once again. His hands tore at his belt and he pulled his pants down over his hips. Lorna had a glimpse of dark, puffy jock hair and a stomach knotted with muscle, then her eyes closed once more as her tongue concentrated on his flaring ridge. She funneled her lips around it and sucked until her face ached, making wet, ravenous cock-eating sounds that thrilled her.
"God, you're hungry for the cock, aren't you?" he gasped. "Where did you learn to suck like that? That's the best french job I ever had! That mouth is made for the big stick, sweetheart, you must have been on your knees all your life to learn to take it like this."
Beyond the roaring in her ears, Lorna heard his words and thrilled to their dark, forbidden meaning. But she hadn't done this, ever! How did she know how to do it? Where did this sure, obscene efficiency come from? Men in the woods without women . . . without women, without women, without women. . . . In a flash of terrifying clarity she was certain that she had always been here, doing this. The moment stood still, captured by an unseen camera of the mind for the briefest heartbeat of time, and then it was gone.
Suddenly she released his cock with a hearty smacking mouth sound and gazed up feverishly at him. His hips continued to pump even though her hot, lewd mouth was no longer twining and slurping over his quivering prick. She looked at it and saw its dark, vein-knotted stick shining with her saliva.
He spoke in a hoarse, shaking voice.
"Jesus, baby, don't stop that beautiful sucking. Every man ought to have a blowjob like this just once."
"Did you ever?" she asked.
"Oooooh, baby, it's like nothing I ever had! Like being in six cunts at once, or caught in a velvet meat grinder. Finish it off, come on! I want to see your face when I give you a drink."
Something made her turn teasing and coy, even though her mouth hungered for the taste of his massive pecker.
"I don't like to waste good things," she whispered, circling her hips suggestively.
"There's plenty more where this came from. You're a natural, a natural French girl . . . suck it off, swallow my come!"
His eyes bright, he leaned forward and touched the tip of his cock against her mouth. Obediently, her tongue spun around the rigid foreskin, then dipped under to the sling of rubbery folds on the underside. She licked the network of bursting sex nerves, working her lower lip back and forth like a scoop. Then she went down on it with clenching, dragging intensity that made him rock back and forth in and out of her throat as he grunted and mumbled coarse sensual compliments.
"You're cock-crazy, you know that? A real French whore, born and bred to the stick. Suck that dog, sweetheart, I want to give you a wad you'll never forget!"
She took it like a child with a luscious, dripping popsicle, her eyes glittering as she watched it slide back and forth against her chin. She worked her ravenous jaws until her mouth was a hot, wild maw of voluptuousness, giving him such vicious pulls that he yelped in delight and bucked into her throat as though it were a pussy under his hips. Lorna took it expertly, letting him bang her palate. Her mouth grew cavernous as she sucked like some man-eating fish with frank, gustatory explosions of wet delight that made it even better.
She grasped his flexing wad tighter in her fist until the engorged artery coursed and pounded, its trapped blood aching and beating in delectable throbs. Her tongue dug into his piss slit and fluttered ravenously. Her lips clamped over the rigid knob and pushed and sucked the foreskin back on itself, until the most sensitive part of his prick was fully exposed to her wanton lingual talents.
"You're going to drain me dry, aren't you?" he grunted, slamming and jerking his hips over her face. "I'm going to squirt jism into that sexy whore's mouth and it'll run down your chin, I've got so much to give you. Then I'll give you some more in your pussy . . . you got a nice red-haired thatch down there, don't you? You going to give me some hair pie? I'm starving for a good slice of it! I haven't tasted cunt for four years. . . . Do you know what that's like? To go for four years thinking about a creamy little slot?"
His words spurred her on. She milked his dong and tasted the salty beginnings of his come, making wet lewd sounds as her lips popped around his driving shaft. He grabbed her hand and cupped it around his bouncing, hairy nuts as he hurled his succulent whang deep into her throat and swabbed it over her tongue in frenzied haste, pulling it in and out of her funneling lips just as if it were sunk in a pussy. Lorna drooled over the big, vein-knotted stick with the sexiest, most beautiful cock-sucking sounds that any man could imagine.
His saliva-smeared rod flexed suddenly, seeming to grow even more monstrous and stiff than it had been before. Then he let out a long howl of pleasure and tightened his ass cheeks as his hot spurt flooded her mouth in a wracking climax. Her throat moved as the hot white stuff filled it. He jerked back, moaning loudly, writhed sinuously over her face until his balls trailed over her neck. Thick, boiling come bubbled and shot from his enormous rod. Lorna held a mouth full of jism expertly in her jaws while her tongue finished its exquisite work over the slitted tip of his prick.
She released him and threw her head back, her eyes closed and her face taut yet peaceful, and swallowed heavily.
"Ummmmmm, yes . . . oh, yes, it's just the way I knew it would be," she murmured.
How had she known? She savored the brassy taste of semen in her mouth. It was so familiar somehow, yet she did not know why.
"Get those clothes off!" he ordered.
Lorna stood up and peeled her blouse and bra, then kicked off her slacks and panties in one rumpled heap at her feet. He looked at her, down the starkly white redhead's skin dappled with freckles, all the way down to the bright snatch between her legs.
"I knew it," he grinned. "Orange."
He took off his pants and threw his work shirt on top of them. Lorna gasped as she saw the hair-matted muscular chest and long sturdy legs. He fingered his cock, grinning at her as she stared at the renewed hard-on that was fast stretching his pendulous skin into a long turgid stick of mouthwatering, satisfying cock.
He gave it a hard pinch and it sprang suddenly erect, its flared helmet tip stiffening and growing dark with desire.
"I want to put it in you right," he panted. "Get down and open those gorgeous long-stemmed beauties of yours."
Lorna wriggled her hips on the soft bed of pine needles and lewdly spread her thighs. He gazed down at her open slit, its orangey hair darkened by the thick creamy stuff that was smearing her crotch.
"That's the hottest snatch I've ever seen," he said. "You're really aching for the plug, aren't you?"
He knelt between her legs and aimed his circling groin into the already moving V of her thighs. Lorna gasped and came up under him in a wet, hairy collision of eager genitals. His knobby pecker slid into her ballooned gash and dug into her box. He poked firmly and harshly into the slushy vagina and sank his rod against her throbbing entrance. She twined against him as he pushed it slowly and tantalizingly into her, wriggling and rubbing as she murmured against his mouth. The twin globes of her tits thrust up and flattened against his hairy chest. She squealed and rubbed them into the tickling mat that made her nipples grow hard and excited.
"Ooooooh, that's beautiful fucking!" she gasped, as she felt the massive hot penis screw deeper into her churning cunt hole. She raised her legs and squeezed her trembling thighs around his ribs.
He flexed his ass and speared quickly and roughly forward, plowing up her drenched pussy with all his might, driving the hammering cock through her molten vagina until he banged her womb.
"EEEEEEEEEEEE! Oh, my God! It feels like a doorknob! Slam it, bang it, fuck meeeeeee! Ohhhhhh, yessssssss!" she gasped. "Give it to me, give me that big, wonderful rod!"
Her ass wriggled and squirmed under him as he sent his massive length of prick into her box, then drew it out slowly, feeling her come-drenched walls throb. He thrust and pulled again, sliding in and out of her with slip-slap sounds that rose around them in the quiet woods.
Lorna could not believe there was such expert fucking to be had in this world. She lifted her legs around his shoulders and held her ass up to his heaving prong, shivering each time the ridge of his foreskin dragged out of her swollen pussy. Her vagina was generously stretched with her excitement but still snug and springy, wet and velvety and hot as coals. He snuggled gratefully and determinedly into it, cramming it with every millimeter of his prick until his coarse jock hair was ground against her bright orange muff. His heavy, hot balls caressed her widespread ass cheeks and she wriggled against them, tickling her bung on their fuzzy hairs.
Her long-deprived pussy went to work on his sliding tool, snapping in an expert rhythm around the thick, moving stick until she felt his spine arch. He went at her like a wild man, his heavy nuts slapping obscenely against her bare ass with each long stroke he gave her.
Her pulsating vagina gushed generously, until his cock pulled thick bands of nectar out of her with each downward stroke.
"Baby, are you wet! That's a beautiful little puddle you got down there."
Lorna moaned and tossed her head. She could feel the bulbous expansion of her hairy cunt lips as they milked him, trembling and fluttering around the girth of his cock as she lifted herself against his thrusting crotch.
"Your mouth was like pussy, now your pussy's like a mouth! Oooooh, what you do to a cock! Suck on it, sweetheart."
Lorna dragged him down on her, into her, begging with her suckling vagina for more and more. Her belly thrust up and met his, sticking flesh to flesh and then coming apart with a loud kiss-like sound. Her back arched higher and higher with fierce sensual movements; she grunted with delight each time his prick pounded against her cervix. He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her hips in his hands, then slammed into her molten snatch with teeth-rattling strength.
"NNNNNNGGGGGHHHHH! Oh, hit the end, yes, yes, yes! You big-cocked, rutting stud, fuck it off! Make me sore!"
She rocked him in the cradle of her quivering thighs, her knees crawling up his body until she held him fast at the armpits. With each thundering poke of his rod she howled and gasped as she felt a fiery climax start to pound through her groin.
"You coming?" he gasped. "Let me feel that big bang. Make it throb for me."
Her nails dug into his back, gouging out little half moons of flesh. The walls of her vagina stretched and grew stiff and hard, their secretive folds pulled smooth. Then it happened; a quick, gushing spray of something viscid and hot from far up in her box. Then the walls convulsed into a suckling, ravenous attack on his flexing prick.
"Now! Now! Ahhhhhh, you're making me do it, I'm coming on that beautiful hard prick of yours!"
She rode up and down on his prick as it began to shoot its burning semen into her climaxing box. She squealed and scratched, bit and struck out with her fists; her knees dug into his ribs and her feet slid down his back until she was digging her curling toes into his buttocks.
"Get it again," he panted. "Beautiful cummy pussy . . . come some more so I can feel you suck!"
She quivered under him and worked her clit against the thick base of his pecker. Her inner thighs trembled, then stiffened again as she wiggled her sore ass until her clitoris exploded with a spray of hot tendrils. Her vagina tightened against his dick in a long, trembling caress as another climax soared through her body.
"More?" he gasped, still fucking her.
"I . . . can't! Ohhhhh, that was so good, I'm so happy!"
His teeth clenched and the tendons on his neck stood out as he emptied the last of his juice into her streaming snatch. Then he closed his eyes and emitted a long, satisfied sigh.
Lorna felt the weak throbs of his prick as it slid softly out of her vagina. He rose on his knees, his hair falling in his eyes. He brushed it back and stared down at her with his bright, steel-rivet gaze.
"You're a natural. . . . Christ, you were born for it."
She smiled and stretched, thinking that he was complimenting her on her sexiness, but then something in his face told her that he meant much more than that.
He picked up her limp wrist and looked at her watch.
"Damn," he said, "I don't want to get in dutch in my last week in the jug."
Some measure of sanity flowed back in her and she remembered that he was a prisoner, a convict in a blue uniform with a number stenciled over the pocket.
"Your last week?" she said. Her brow wrinkled. "What are you doing . . . here? Alone in the woods. You aren't running away, are you?"
"Running away?" He snorted. "That would be pretty stupid of me at this point, wouldn't it? I just said this was my last week. I'm getting out-six months early for good behavior, believe it or not. I'm a trusty," he grinned. "If you can't trust a trusty, who can you trust?"
She sat up and watched him dress, then reached for her own clothes. So that was why he was out by himself. . . . She knew trusties often ran errands. They picked men like him, the white-collar criminals, the con men, the bank clerks who had yielded to temptation, the ones who had never hurt anyone in their criminal careers.
He saw the question on her face.
"I check the traps in the woods," he explained. "We have rabbit stew. Superb French dish. We've even got a French cook, a Canuck who murdered his wife."
He looked down at her, smiling quizzically. Their eyes met for a long moment; his hard and silvery, hers long jade slits.
"A natural," he said again, nodding his head like an academician.
She dropped her eyes and looked away, suddenly afraid.
"What do you mean, a natural?" she asked, trying to be light and coy, but her voice was tense. Somehow, she knew what he was going to say.
"I can see it in you," he said slowly, "I don't even have to bang you to know. You've got that look, something about you . . . a natural."
"A natural what?" she said sharply.
"There are lots of words for it, but they all mean the same thing. Harlot, concubine, houri, courtesan, daughter of joy, cocotte." His eyes bored into hers as if he were trying to lance her with their steel. She found she could not look away from those strange pale depths. She waited, knowing already what he meant but waiting to hear him say the final, hideous word.
"People think such women look trampy or hard or cheap, but that's not true, that's over-simplified," he went on. "Some of the cheapest looking girls I've ever seen were cold, calculating virgins. I grew up near the Bronx Concourse. Every Saturday night you'd think it was the tenderloin . . . all the girls with their beehive hairdos and gooked-up eyes. The trampiest-looking girls in the world, but they were all dreaming of white tulle. They had orange blossoms growing out of their twats. No . . . it's not a trampy look I'm talking about."
Lorna backed up against a tree, her body stiff, her breasts heaving under her blouse.
"What are you saying about me?" she asked softly. There was no anger in her voice.
He smiled, reading her thoughts.
"You know it, too, don't you? It's something you've known about yourself for a long time, isn't it?" He glanced at her wedding ring. "It's buried deep down in your mind and you don't let it come up, but it's always there."
His eyes raked her body without mercy.
"You're a whore, sweetheart, a born whore. You've got the call. You'd be the best there is."
He turned and walked away.
"Wait!" Her voice rang through the quiet woods.
He stopped and glanced back at her, grinning. "Day after tomorrow, same time," he said, then disappeared into the dark, towering trees.
CHAPTER TWO
Steve Atkins felt he had had a very good day in the woods, three rabbits and one pussy. He grinned and swung the dead animals by their hind legs, thinking that he had swung the redhead by her hind legs, too. All soft furry little creatures were basically alike; a combination of fear and timidity, like the rabbit, and the dangerous, hissing frenzy of the bob cat. The trick that all smart men knew was to play one set of characteristics against the other. The result was an ability to handle women, get them to do anything you wanted them to do.
Steve had a philosophy worked out. Most men got into trouble because they allowed the rabbit characteristics to become intermingled with the bob cat characteristics, and every trapper knew that rabbits and bob cats were two entirely different prey. You caught one with one set of traps and bait, and the other with another set. If their characteristics should be combined, you wouldn't know what in the hell to do, right? Right!
It was the same with women; don't let them become too complex or they'll win. Keep 'em simple and one-dimensional and the male wins every time. Most men, Steve had observed, were defeated in the end by their pipe dreams. They started out with a good lay, but they couldn't let well enough alone and allow her to remain a good lay and nothing else. They began to sleep the whole night with her, instead of getting up and going home where they belonged. Result? The good lay invariably got up and cooked breakfast, and like every woman, she was anxious to show that she could do something else besides screw. So she cooked up a storm and made eggs Benedict, grilled baby tomatoes, poached kippers and God knows what-all, when all the man thought he wanted was a cup of coffee and a Danish. But he got to like that delicious breakfast, and started spending more nights with the lay. Naturally, she bought some extra-nice towels for his shower, and started keeping extra clothes for him. And you could bet your balls she ironed his shirts better than she had ever ironed a stitch of her own clothes, to prove that she could do something else besides fuck.
Result? The man gradually got lazy and let other characteristics develop in his good lay. Her good fucking wasn't enough anymore; now he loved her for her cooking and her ironing and her housekeeping. He started depending on her for things that any hash house or laundry could do for him. Result? He starts thinking that she's the answer to every prayer, every problem; after all, she can do anything, can't she? The rabbit and the bob cat intermingled. Then the poor dumb slob finds himself either married to her or living with her, and one night when all he wants is a little pussy, she pushes him away and screams "You think that's all I'm good for!"
Result? Poor dumb slob thinks to himself: Gosh, women are complicated.
Poor dumb slob never realizes that it was he who made her complicated in the first place.
Steve's mouth curled in superior contempt. It worked the other way, too. A man picked out a nice girl to marry, married her, and then found out she left something to be desired in the fucking department. A bomber, a real dud in the sack. So what does he do? Buys her black nighties, gets her to take a little snort before bedtime, maybe takes her to the skin flicks to get her hot. Result? Not surprisingly, she does get hot. Starts to fuck like a mink, really loves it. Poor dumb slob thinks: I've made a complete woman out of her, I brought out things in her she didn't know she had!
Result? He comes home to a pad that looks as if the Public Health ought to put a sign on, containing twenty pounds of dirty laundry, a cold stove and a hot wife. As she drags him into the bedroom, poor dumb slob says "Honey, can't we have dinner first? I'm starved." Whereupon Salome of the Seven Veils hits the ceiling and screams, "You think I'm just a housewife!"
Result? Poor dumb slob thinks "Gosh, women are complicated."
Steve shook his head and gave the dead rabbits another twirl. He had learned the basic fundamentals of handling women by studying his father, a poor dumb slob if he had ever seen one. The old man had messed things up so thoroughly that he got neither good cooking nor good sex from his wife. Steve's mother had done nothing, absolutely nothing, except sit on the stoop with other Bronx housewives and exchange tidbits on how much they hated their husbands. What woman wouldn't hate a man who confused her? One minute the poor dumb slob wants a meal and a clean shirt, the next minute he wants a lay. No wonder women talked about not having any identity!
After what he had seen at home, Steve at first had tried the old trick that so many men swore by: Treat the whores like ladies and the ladies like whores. But that didn't work, either; it only contributed a different kind of confusion to the battle of the sexes. From what Steve had seen of women, ladies damn well expected to be treated like ladies and whores thought you were a queer or a cop if you treated them like anything except the whores that they were.
For a professional cunt russler, con man and convict, Steve had some pretty conventional and even old-fashioned ideas in a way. He divided women strictly into two groups: nice girls and bad girls. Never the twain must meet; if it did, the poor dumb slob was a goner. Steve had no use for nice girls because of the business he was in, but he was damn glad they existed-because of the business he was in. If all women liked the stick and gave their men a piece on demand, how could anybody make money selling cunt and skin flicks? Yes, nice girls were the staff of life, there was no doubt about it. He wanted them to stay as sweet as you are, baby.
He also stood four-square behind the institution of marriage, legal marriage, with babies to wrap it up good and tight. There was nothing like lawful monotony to make men long for variety and surprises. Steve was all for people having children, lots of children. The more children that were crammed into a house, the less moans, groans and screams a woman could let loose with while fucking. After awhile, a man longed for a wild bobcat of a lay, and Steve would duly provide him with it-for a price.
So, poor dumb slobs, be fruitful and multiply.
He went through the prison yard and swung the rabbits in greeting to the guard, who grinned and waved him in. He delivered the game to the kitchen and hung around while the cook expertly decapitated them and began to gut them. When he cut the third one open, the old French-Canadian made a sound of surprise and crossed himself. Inside the stomach were six little round balls of gelatinous fur with tiny pinpoint eyes and the bumpy beginnings of ears.
"Ah, pauvre p'tite! She was enceinte, hein?"
The cook looked horror-stricken and on the verge of tears, although he had used the same kind of cleaver on his wife thirty years before. And why? Steve wondered, his mouth twitching, for he knew the answer. The cook's wife had had a habit of saying the Rosary while they were fucking, and cookie wanted her to relax and enjoy it. Of course, she had to be a good cook, wife, housekeeper and mother too, as well as a good lay. All cookie wanted was a lady in the parlor, a cook in the kitchen, and a whore in the bedroom. Mrs. Cookie couldn't divide herself into three parts, so her husband had divided her into sixteen parts.
The easily emotional Gallic face gazed up at Steve.
"It does not seem right that we eat a mother," the old man sighed.
"Nope, never muff-dive on a mother," Steve laughed. "It just complicates things."
The cook brandished the cleaver in sudden shocked anger, then laid it down to cross himself again.
"Salaud! Do not talk feelthy about the word mother! A mother is sacred!"
"If you'd taken your own advice thirty years ago you wouldn't be here today," Steve said dryly, getting lazily down from the table. He liked the feel of his balls inside his pants, pressed against the hard surface of stainless steel made warm from the kitchen heat. It had been a long time since his balls had felt so heavy and loose.
He cut across the recreation yard, where another guard waved at him, and checked himself into his cell block after chatting with the warden on duty at the desk. It amused him to see how much the prison officials liked and admired him. He was well aware of the secret envy they felt, and was sure they had no idea just how unsecretive it was. They all wished they could be in his shoes, even though they were free to go home each night and he wasn't. Free! To go home! His lip curled with scorn. Go home to what? They wanted what they knew he had had-women, plenty of them, and most of all, control over women. The official line, particularly from the prison chaplain, was "go straight" but all of the guards knew that Steve Atkins would go right back to his former ways, and they wished they could tag along with him. Former ways, former lays and all.
He was let into his cell by the floor keeper who handed him a dollar, the result of a game of dominoes that they had played the previous night. Steve tucked it between the page of one of his books, All About Witchcraft and Demonology. He looked at the title a moment and smiled strangely before he replaced it on the shelf that the carpentry shop had so kindly provided him with. That made him laugh. A custom-decorated cell! Maybe such niceties only occurred in low-crime states like Maine but Steve figured there was another reason why he had gotten the shelf.
Because of good behavior he had been allowed to join one of the new occult book clubs that had sprung up lately. The fact that he had gotten so interested in reading had delighted the social workers, visiting psychologists and the chaplain so much that the shelf magically appeared one day, as though it had been built by the shoemaker's gremlins. The chaplain-who either did not notice that his books were all on witchcraft or was too dumb to realize the obvious conflict of interest-made a little speech about "you've found that good that lies in the worst of sinners."
Bullshit, Steve thought darkly. There was another example of how people complicated things. It wasn't only men who complicated women, but people who complicated people! There was no intermingling of good and bad, Steve thought. It was either one or the other, and he was bad through and through. The chaplain had taken as evidence of respectability the fact that he wanted to read books. Nice people read books, bad people did not, so saith the chaplain.
Steve lay down on his bunk and smoked a cigarette while he thought of the redhead in the woods. He knew who she was, of course. Lorna Perkins, wife of that do-gooder and daughter-in-law of the judge who had sent him up. Steve remembered reading of the marriage in the papers just before he was arrested. He had chosen not to let on to her that he knew her identity, however. He was out to make a profitable bad woman out of her, which was what the Lord intended her to be, so it would have been foolish to say, "Aren't you Lorna Perkins, the judge's daughter-in-law?" That would have reminded her of her respectability.
Don't confuse the girl, she's confused enough already, Steve mused. His job would be to un-confuse her. It was apparent to him that she had been struggling for years against the demands of proper marriage versus the demands of her very improper body. She had that look about her that he could spot so well, the whore-within look. He could not explain to anyone how he knew, nor describe anything about her eyes, but it was there.
From his reading he had become convinced that he was psychic. He had found that there are certain people in this world who just know things, just know. . . .
Excitement churned in him. Power had always been important to Steve, but until now he had counted only the standard earthly powers as important-money, control, women, intelligence-thinking that if a man had those things he had everything he needed. But there was another power, something feral and primitive, yet a power that bespoke the furthest reaches of the human brain. That power was ESP, and he had that, too.
He had not known it until he began reading. Before, he had thought of it as savvy, something he undoubtedly had been born with. Savvy meant an ability to smell out trouble or a bad apple; to know just when the cops would raid; to spot the bimbo who would go ape over one of her customers; to case a neighborhood in a flash and realize that too many old people around meant too many people who had nothing to do but sit and look out the window.
All of this was par for the course of a con man-so he had thought. It was just business, just common sense, just savvy. But it was more than that, it was a sixth sense-literally.
Steve blew a smoke ring and watched it narrow into an oval before it disappeared. It looked like a cunt.
Lorna Doone, a sweet cookie. He would make it a gourmet delicacy before he was through. That babe wanted out, and he would get her out. Besides, it would be a good revenge on Judge Nathaniel Perkins.
CHAPTER THREE
His words echoed in Lorna's mind. You're a whore, a born whore. She got slowly out of the car and went into the house. No one was home yet, she saw with relief, and immediately entered the dark, cool den where Dan and his father kept their books.
She reached for the psychiatric dictionary and turned the pages to the P's, fearing that the place would fall open automatically after her many perusals of the particular entry.
She found it. Pompadour Complex: 'After the Marquise de Pompadour, mistress of Louis XV of France. A woman with a compulsive desire to be a prostitute. Often caused by a need to please the father.'
Lorna sat down heavily as her knees suddenly weakened under her. Each time she read this entry she received the same shock, as though it were the first time she had seen it. When was the first time? A few months ago, she had listened to Dan plead a case against a dirty-movie producer. He had referred to the man as a 'rank scatologist' and Lorna had looked up the word. She discovered that it meant, more or less, that the defendant had a dirty mind and she was disappointed. She had wished for something evil and mysterious; her very wish was so intense that it frightened her, because she thought the defendant was so sexy. She had imagined herself naked under him, her legs wrapped around him, thinking how horrified Dan would be if he had known. When the word turned out to have such a simple meaning, she felt betrayed, as betrayed as she always felt when Dan didn't satisfy her in bed. ' Evil, an escape from petty morality and boring sexual convention, a descent into a maelstrom of lust and wantonness with a man who could match her . . . that was what she had wanted. She had not found it in the entry under scatology but as she fluttered the pages of the big book she had found it under another entry, one that she just happened to come across. Pompadour Complex.
Since then she had crept like a thief into the den to read and reread the entry, unable to keep away from it.
It was like reading her own diary.
A need to please the father. . . .
How could this big dry book know how much she had loved-and pitied-her father? Loved him because he had been gentle and sweet, an art teacher and painter who saw beauty everywhere, unlike Dan and the judge who saw nothing but ugliness. She had pitied him because of the way her mother treated him. How frigid her mother was! She hated sex and wouldn't sleep with Daddy. And how that man needed sex! Needed it terribly, the way all creative personalities do. He was romantic and easily stirred, and he lived in a frustrated hell because he was too decent and too shy to get what he needed from another woman, and too fastidious to go to a whore.
His work began to suffer. His painting grew flat and dead because of all the bottled-up life in his body. He could no longer paint the nude models at school because he could not look at them objectively; he saw them as naked women, not as things of beauty that his talent and creative imagination could reproduce on canvas.
One night, broken and full of despair, he had come into his daughter's room. He often did that; they used to sit and talk, feeling deliciously guilty, like two children away from the cold and demanding mother who treated her husband like a child as well.
This night was special, because Lorna's mother was away visiting. Daddy had sat on her bed as usual, but this time she smelled liquor on his breath and it astonished her because she knew he never drank. Fear gripped her; she thought of the town drunks, ruined men whose entire personalities underwent violent changes. They beat their wives and children, deserted them. Lorna would love for Daddy to beat Mother up but she never wanted him to change toward her. She knew why he was drinking; she was fifteen and old enough to understand that he drank because he didn't have a woman, because his work was suffering from that same lack of a woman in his bed. Lorna had heard his nightly pleadings and her mother's hateful refusals. "Is that all you think about? I'm a wife and mother, not a chippy! I keep a lovely home for you and you dirty it up with paint. You're not going to dirty me up too!"
Suddenly, remembering her mother's words and looking at her father's tortured face, she felt a burst of hot joy. Her Daddy could dirty her up as much as he pleased! She loved him, wanted to be good to him and good for him, be so necessary to him that he would never leave her or hurt her. She wanted to be his inspiration and make him a great artist. She could be everything her Daddy would ever need in a woman!
She looked at his face in the moonlight. How handsome he was. All girls think their Daddies are handsome and Lorna was no different, but now she saw something else that she had never noticed before. His mouth was full and soft and the hairs that grew up out of his pajama collar were thick and curly. How nice and hairy he was, and how good that hair would feel against her own bare breasts if they were to lie down together on her bed.
Lorna made a gesture of pushing back her long hair, and as she did so she deliberately let her hand sweep the strap of her nightgown over her shoulder. She leaned forward, one full, perfectly shaped breast nearly exposed. The nipple burned and tingled as the lace brushed against it like a fleshy caress. Suddenly she realized with a frenzied burst of delight that the faceless man who fucked her so beautifully in her fantasies was her Daddy. She had never dared let her imagination put in the features, and now she knew why. It was forbidden, but she loved forbidden things!
She saw her father's eyes slide unwillingly to her big fully matured breast. He seemed to stiffen; his neck straightened and his head rose like an animal scenting danger. She wondered if his cock had stiffened, too. Her pussy was wet for it, swollen into two soft welcoming doors as she thought about her big handsome Daddy climbing between her legs and finding her hole with a nice stiff prick. She shivered.
"You're growing into a beautiful girl, Lorna. How I'd love to paint you just as you are now. You look like a lovely Roman girl in half toga. They wore them . . . like that, you know? With . . . one breast exposed. It must have been a beautiful thing to see. Too bad we're so foolish today about our bodies." He sighed and made himself turn away. "If everyone thought like artists we'd be better off."
Lorna heard the bitterness in his voice and knew he was thinking about her mother. She fought down the panic she experienced as he turned away from her. Daddy must never reject her, she couldn't bear it if he did.
"Would you like to paint me, Daddy? I'd pose for you, you know I would. See, look?"
Slowly he turned his head and watched her lower the other strap. Both breasts bobbed free as the gown fell with a soft crushing sound to her waist. Lorna waited, watching her father eagerly and feeling the prickling of her excited nipples as they grew hard and wrinkled with passion. She wondered if he could see how dark they had become; it was light in the room with the moon's glow and he had an artist's eye. She was sure he noticed.
He spoke nervously, his voice strained and sounding as if he had a desperate need to swallow.
"Lorna . . . I-you're like something out of Titian with that red hair of yours. My God, I talk about you as my little girl but you're not a little girl anymore, are you? You're a woman, a grown woman with the most beautiful breasts I've ever seen."
"Touch them, Daddy. You make things beautiful with your touch. Make them even more beautiful by touching them."
"Lorna!"
"Yes, yes, do it! I love you, Daddy. I love you more than she does, more than she ever could! She's killing beauty for you but I'll make it come alive again."
His hands shook as they cupped her full orbs and jiggled them gently, as if he could not believe he was actually caressing such a perfect pair of female beauties. Lorna pressed herself forward into his palms as though she wanted to drive the nipples through them like nails and link him permanently to her. His head shook back and forth as if he were shouting No! but his lips only murmured her name.
"Oh, Daddy, that feels lovely. I am a grown woman, aren't I? I feel, I respond, I have sex in me. Daddy, I've been as needing as you, I've wanted this for so long, but I never let the boys touch me. I keep comparing them to you and then I hate them because they're so different from you! Oh, Daddy, love me, really love me!"
He mumbled something that sounded like 'God forgive me' and then he pressed her back onto the bed and put his mouth over her thrusting tits. At the first touch of his gently licking tongue, Lorna grabbed his head and held it to her breast. Her body twisted and squirmed in slow, suggestive motions that dragged the gown further and further down her body until her belly was bared. Her father sucked eagerly on first one tit, then the other, with an expertise that she had always known he would bring to the bed. She felt his teeth in a delicious nibble around her soft flesh and sighed deeply as his flicking tongue covered her generous naked globes.
She rubbed her fingers in the thick tufts of hair at his throat and unbuttoned the first button on his pajama top.
"Let's take everything off, Daddy. I want to feel your wonderful hairiness against me."
She jerked the gown off and tossed it impatiently onto the floor and sat proudly naked before him, letting his eyes drink in her youthful loveliness. She lay down and stretched her arms over her head and raised one knee, just like the poses she had seen in his sketches. Her pussy was a neat patch on the base of her belly, but underneath, between her legs, it was a creamy, tangled mass of turgid flesh and hair. It was agony to keep her legs together so she opened her thighs a little. She knew he could see the dark, hairy recesses of her cunt lips and buttocks and she let him look, willing to do anything that would make him happy and free.
He seemed paralyzed, his hands at his pajama buttons, unable to move as he stared down at his daughter's beautiful nudity. Yes, he was peeking into her crotch, and his mouth was open in astounded delight. Lorna felt powerful and generous, like an ancient goddess rewarding a worshipper.
She spread her thighs wide and humped her hips at him in a twining, sexy motion.
"Models don't open their legs but I love to open up for you, Daddy. See in there? Is that a good cunt? It's a virgin, all yours. I hope you hurt me a little when you put it in. It's so hot for you, Daddy! I can feel it, all swollen and throbbing . . . it feels so big. Is it big? It feels huge."
"It's perfect, a little red oval of sweetness, angel."
He took off his pajama top and Lorna gasped when she saw the acres of thick hair on his chest.
"Can I pull down the shades and turn on the light to see you better, darling?" he whispered.
"Oh, yes, yes, I want that," she sighed, and spun her hips faster.
He moved swiftly, like an impatient lover now instead of a guilty father. She saw and sensed the difference and her whole body gave a tremendous throb of desire. There was a frightening moment of utter blackness as the shades shut out the moonlight. Then he reached for the lamp and switched it on.
They were bathed in a warm yellow glow. Lorna made a sound of surprise as the light flooded them and revealed, for a split second of mental horror, the meaning of their intentions. Then the horror faded and sex heat took control of her once more.
Her eyes lowered to the big jut of hard flesh in his crotch. His pajama bottoms barely covered it. Through the gaping fly she could see a cloud of dark curly hair and a long thick shaft of pink skin.
Her voice sank to a singsong murmur as she held out her arms. This was a sensual man, one who would be as wildly free in sex as he was in his art. She knew that there was buried deep in him a voluptuous wild devil, and she would reach him!
"You raise a beautiful hard, Daddy, it makes my mouth water! I didn't realize you were so big. Is that all for me? Why don't you let me see it? Don't torment me with it like that, show it to me. Take off your pants and let's be naked together."
The cloth dropped down his legs and his fiercely erected organ sprang free. She stared at its enormous flared head and the veins that dotted the shaft and experienced a captivating fear. That thing was going all the way up her pussy and it was going to hurt like hell! Exquisite pain, throbbing, sliding, thrusting pain, her first fuck from her Daddy's huge, perfect cock.
It bobbed enticingly up and down as he kicked away his pants and walked to the bed. Lorna bent her knees and spread her legs as wide as she could, ready to take him, but he smiled and shook his head.
"I'm a better lover than that. I want to play with you some more first, really get you excited.
Has anyone ever tongued you down there in that pretty slice?"
She shook her head.
"No one's ever done anything to me. I want you to do it all."
He lay between her legs and curved his arms around her thighs. He gazed down into the oozing folds of her twat, his face only inches away from the succulent hair pie of his virgin daughter, so close that she could feel his harsh breath on her burning mucous flesh.
His thumbs hooked over the edges of her red-fringed outer lips and pulled them apart. He sighed raggedly.
"The loveliest sight in the world, the envelope of love. You're beautifully put together, angel. Nice springy firm lips, a good supply of love nectar, and a big clitoris. Will you let me feel your maidenhead? A man can't really feel them with his prick, it's too big and he's too excited. I'll just use my little finger."
As he fingered and pulled her most intimate regions Lorna was hard put not to climax then and there. She gasped as she felt his fingertip press against her vaginal entrance.
"There it is! A perfect virgin's veil. It's thick, angel, I can tell you haven't fooled around with the boys. You saved it for me, you really did?"
His voice was awed and worshipful.
"I dreamed about you fucking me, Daddy. We did everything together, all the positions, everything. And I put your cock in my mouth, too. It was so real I could almost believe it was happening."
He trailed his finger up through the slushy folds of her cuntal valley. Lorna arched and squealed. His face was ecstatic with gratitude.
"It's so long since I've made a woman feel good! Do you like that? Does it make your spine tingle and your rectum throb?"
"Yes, oh yes, everything happens to me when you do that."
"A finger moving in the folds of a pussy, very gently, lightly, not too hard, will excite a woman to a fever pitch. I know how to play with these little things, you know?" he breathed. "I have a light touch. Sometimes I've thought about you and wondered if you suffered, being grown up now, and felt the need for sexual satisfaction. I wondered if you ever did this to yourself? Did you?"
His fingertip circled over her thrusting clitoris and played lightly over the surrounding hood, pushing it back and exposing the sensitive little bud until Lorna pressed her heels into the mattress and raised her hips, until her body was a wriggling, eager shelf before his face.
"Yes, I did that, lots of times," she panted. "I pretended my finger was your cock sliding through my pussy."
He chuckled softly. "My little girl. I'm afraid my cock is a lot bigger than your finger."
She laughed. "Don't be afraid, I'm not. I want something big in there. I'm tired of my fingers!"
"Let me lick this lovely slot a little, then I'll make a real woman out of you."
"Yes, oh Daddy, you're wonderful! I want your tongue, your cock, everything!"
She lay back, and hooked her legs over his shoulders at his command. As her knees came up around his neck, he reached around her thighs and plucked her nipples with thumb and forefinger. Her Daddy knew how to eat cunt! She had read in a sex manual that this was the way a man was supposed to do it, so that the woman could receive the double pleasure of having her pussy and her tits taken care of at the same time.
At the first touch of her father's tongue in the hot slathered folds of her twat, Lorna gave a shuddering sigh that turned into a throaty groan of delight. He was really going at it as if she were a banquet! She twined her legs around his neck and kicked her feet in the air, unable to stand the sliding tongue in her box. He licked her thoroughly, from her slit all the way down to her tightly sealed vagina. He dug his tongue in her a little, so that she could feel the insistence of it against the hymen that he had discovered. Daddy was panting and groaning against her cunt; she could feel the scrape of his whiskers, the lovely fullness of his mouth, the hardness of his teeth as they moved up and down between her legs. He began to suck gently on her erect clitoris, pulling the little girl-prick into his lips and making it pulsate with sensations that dove into the small of her back.
"Oh, Daddy, it feels so wet and sexy! I never knew a tongue on my pussy would feel so good! I'm so hot for you, Daddy, I want a good fucking now, please do it now! I can't wait for that beautiful prick of yours any longer."
"You want me, you really want my fucking! Thank God for you, angel. Now! Now we'll fuck! I'm going to hurt you, I'm afraid, but the pain will soon turn to pleasure."
She was deliciously aware of the bigness of his entire body as he climbed up over her and settled himself on his knees between her eager welcoming thighs. He put both pillows under her wriggling buttocks to make this first penetration easier for her, then knelt between her open thighs with his rocky hammer of a cock poised up against her slot.
As the knobby head slid up against her parted lips his teeth bared in a grimace of pleasure.
"Just touching that hot female flesh is almost enough to make me shoot all over you, baby girl. Does that feel like enough man for you? The head is so big that it just about covers your little oval."
"It feels like a fist, Daddy, a big wonderful fist! Screw it against my vagina. I want it in me!"
"Here it is. . . . "
Lorna grunted at the first jolting pain that traveled up her legs and belly. Daddy was being gentle and patient, his hips wove in a circle into her crotch, jabbing, undulating, pressing, poking softly into her tight virgin cunt with his long rod of maleness. He held her thighs under his elbows like a wheelbarrow, pulling her toward him as he thrust into her. She came easily, moving her hips in a forward motion out to the thick hot stick that he bestowed on her anxious untried cunt. That thing on the end of his cock was unbelievable! It was bigger than any mushroom she had ever seen, and while it was hard with a tough flared ridge to it, the tip felt baby soft against her dewy vagina.
He jabbed it into her good and hard all of a sudden, and she felt his balls slap against her upturned ass. That felt good; the hairs and the rough wrinkled flesh gave her a tickly caress on her rectum that sent an electrical thrill up her spine.
Suddenly his arms tightened around her thighs and she felt certain she had split open, right up the middle of her body. The enormous head of his prick pushed aside the tight, puckery mouth of her vaginal entrance and jammed inside, tearing her virgin shield and ripping through it. Lorna squealed with pain and delight and bounced her ass up and down on the pillows as the long hard pike traveled slowly but surely up her channel. It filled her with an endless length of determined iron flesh, just like a pipe. She could not believe that human flesh could be so hard.
Little loose folds of her vaginal lips and strands of pussy hair went in with her Daddy's cock, so that she felt pinched down there as he began to fuck her in slow easy strokes. He drove the monster cock all the way up until she felt the thud of collision against her womb, then dragged it tantalizingly out of her until only the swollen head remained in her vagina. He kept up the rhythm, leaning into her legs, then arching back, until she caught his tempo with her own body and rocked effortlessly to him. He cradled her thighs so that she could grip his arms with the bend of her knees and move in sexy circling thrusts. In a few moments she forgot the graceful rocking movements and began to pant and gasp and throw her naked crotch into his groin with hard, desperate slams. She wiggled up and down on his stick, sliding her cunt over it, so that now she fucked him back in earnest.
"Now I've set fire to you!" he gasped. "Now we're really fucking. Angel girl, you know how to move that ass like the woman you are! How different you are from your mother! Ooooh, I'm coming! I'm emptying my balls into your lovely little pussy!"
"You're making it throb, Daddy! Ohhhh, it's better than what I gave myself! Sooooo much better-MMMMMMMMMMMMMMM! Ah! Ah! Ahhhhhh!"
He stroked desperately into her as he saw and felt the evidence of her orgasm. Her walls suckled his spraying cock and seemed to milk it of its jism as though she had it in her mouth and were sucking on it.
"I know that's not make-believe!" he cried. "You've got a beautiful vicious little snatch! Ohhh, my daughter, my woman! My love. . . . "
When it was over he lay on top of her, gently rubbing his hairy chest over her naked breasts until she laughed and rubbed back against him. Her legs circled his back and pulled his weight down on her. She wanted to be crushed by him, smothered by him, she wanted him to stay on top of her forever.
She would not let him move out of her legs, but instead reached down and found his wet cock and caressed it in her fingers until it was hard again. Then she put it in her cunt, guiding it up her now-learned channel until they were in the frantic throes of another good fuck.
When it was over, he kissed her sore pussy and washed the blood from her legs and his prick. Something about the ceremony absolved them both from guilt, and Daddy made jokes about Lady Macbeth and out damn spot. They were like a pair of conspirators in the night, swept along by forces that they could not control. Daddy took the sheet off the bed and stuffed it in the washing machine. The next morning, first thing, he washed and bleached it twice through to get the mark of their guilt out of it before her mother, a spit and polish housekeeper, could return and see it.
For three days, they were like honeymooners. Daddy painted her in the nude, leaving off the head because her mother or someone else might recognize her. "I'll put one of the models' heads on it," he told her, "and paint the pussy hair brown because no one has such a pretty titian pussy as my little girl."
"But Daddy, what are we going to do when Mother comes home?" she wailed. "I can't stop loving you just because she's here!"
"Well have to be careful," he said warily. "We can't betray ourselves in any way, not even with a look. She goes to so many of her damn women's clubs," he said bitterly. "That will give us time alone."
After the mother's return, father and daughter lay in separate rooms, awake and longing for One another. When they passed in the upstairs hall, while the mother was in the kitchen downstairs being the perfect cook and housekeeper, they embraced clandestinely. Daddy tweaked her tits and made her nipples burn with desire, and stuck his hand up her dress and played for a few ecstatic moments with her pussy. Sometimes he gave her a climax that way, both of them standing up; Lorna with her legs bent and spread, her back arched, clinging to him while she spun her hips wildly and clutched his tickling fingers in her steaming crotch. She pulled on his erect cock, pinched the tip until he had a violent spasm of quick relief into her hand.
But they could do no more. The mother was a civic-minded woman, always toing and froing, coming and going a dozen times a day. They could seldom be sure of her movements.
The tension in the house built up to unbearable levels. The mother, always a puritanical prig, now took on all the aspects of an avenging angel to the incestuous lovers. Lorna felt she knew, that she always watched them. Daddy grew nervous and irritable and began to drink. When the mother did go out to a meeting, he was afraid that she would return unexpectedly, or that one of her cake-baking cronies would drop by to swap recipes. People never bothered to knock in a neighborly small town, and a locked door would have been more guilty evidence than anything they could have done.
One day Daddy picked up the palette knife and looked at it strangely, in a way that made
Lorna at first terrified, then thrust her into a delicious state of anticipation.
Td like to kill the bitch," he growled. "Slice open her cold, miserable heart with this thing. Then I could have you to myself. People wouldn't think anything of a father and daughter living together, would they? We could always be together, you'd never leave me, and everybody would approve."
Lorna thought about his words. Everybody would approve, all the old biddies who would drop dead if they knew what was really going on between her and her father. They would say what a fine example of the younger generation she was, staying with her widowed father and looking after him, cooking for him, devoting herself to him. She could hear them now: "Such a good girl. You don't find many like that nowadays. A fine, upstanding girl, a devoted little lady."
It would be a way to gain exalted approval while she was committing the worst sin known to mankind. Something about this triumph of evil over goodness drew Lorna like a moth to the flame. To be good . . . and yet bad, bad, bad.
"Why don't you murder her?" she whispered to her father, one night in the kitchen while her mother knitted before the TV. "Not with the knife, they'd know you did it, know it was murder. But there are other ways! Kill her with her own wifely virtues!" she said viciously.
He looked up with a puzzled frown. His hands shook and he had to grip the coffee cup in both of them.
"How?"
"She takes such pride in her gardening. Lousy in bed but great in the garden. Those prize larkspurs are poisonous, you know. Grind up the leaves in the nutmeg mill. It will look like the citron she sprinkles on cakes and cookies I Those little green and red things, you know?"
He wavered. "But . . . but there'd be an autopsy, wouldn't there?"
"Acute indigestion. Do you think the doctor who delivered me would hesitate to sign a death certificate after all the years he's known you?"
He shook his head slowly. "She's too healthy. Her kind buries the rest of us."
A line from her English homework slipped through Lorna's mind. He is too full of the milk of human kindness. How could her marvelous Daddy be weak? A man who could get such a beautiful hard-on and put it in her to thrill her half to death-how could such a man be weak?
Her father did commit a murder, but the victim was not his wife. They found him in his studio, with a jagged cut in his throat. The torn and serrated edges of the wound matched those on the palette knife. It was difficult to tell just by looking what was blood and what was red paint. On the easel stood a nude portrait without a head. The naked body was swathed in red veils. In the background were red portieres and a red lamp, the plush accoutrements of a whore house. On the inner thighs of the nude woman in the painting were spots of red. At first it was assumed that they were paint, that they had been deliberately placed there by the artist with his brush, for what reason no one but Lorna knew. But the police laboratory later discovered that the spots were blood from the artist's throat that had spattered onto the legs of the model as he cut his throat before the easel.
The painting was signed and he had given it a name: Daughter of Joy.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lorna jumped as she heard the front door open. Voices filled the old house, the judge's twangy New England rasp, his wife's machine gun delivery, and Dan's college-boy effusions that would always sound like cheers no matter how old he got.
A mantle of hopelessness and depression descended on Lorna. Quickly, she put the dictionary back in its place on the shelf and went out to greet her "family." Often she felt as though she had been adopted rather than married; the three of them, parents and precious only son, always traveled in a pack, and she had been adopted into it like some sort of foundling. They felt sorry for her because her father had committed suicide; when she married Dan, her mother-in-law promised her "the joys of real family life to make up for what you missed." Missed! Wouldn't they die if they knew just what family joys she hadn't missed!
As she looked at her husband with his parents Lorna wondered which of them were guilty of incest. There was something revolting and unnatural about the way the trio clung to one another. At least, she thought, Daddy and I went ahead and did it.
Dan kissed her quickly and perfunctorily, his face guilty. He looked at his mother as if in apology, seeming relieved that she had already turned to go into the kitchen.
"What did you do with yourself this afternoon, child?" the judge said.
Lorna felt her face grow hot as she answered him as calmly as she could.
"I took a ride," she said, then, unable to stop herself and terrified at her own compulsion, she added: "I was going to pick some wild flowers in the woods for the table, but I saw a convict from the prison and I was afraid."
Dan sat up with a start, his broad face stiff with shock and fear.
"Good God, Lorna, you could have been raped! You know better than to go into the woods around here. They're full of trusties from the camp. Promise me you won't do it again."
She looked at his sandy hair, pug nose and bright blue eyes, thinking that he fit the bill for the all-American boy, yet how cruel his face was. It was the face of a dedicated, paranoid rookie cop determined to follow his father's footsteps on the force.
"Yes," said the judge, "those trusties are still jailbirds, and damned untrustworthy if you ask me. I never did approve of that system and I'll have it changed if it's the last thing I do on the bench. Dan's right. You've got no business out there. If a man has been sent to jail, his place is behind bars, not being 'trusted' to do anything."
Lorna could not drop the subject; something thrust her into speech and made her court danger.
"But they don't let rapists or murderers be trusties, only the white collar criminals, isn't that so?" she asked with wide-eyed innocence. Her tone and expression suggested that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. As she heard her own voice a thrill coursed through her at the duality of her naive playacting here, contrasted with her wanton behavior in the woods with Steve Atkins.
"Lorna, child, you're a married woman," the judge said reproachfully. "You know perfectly well that a man kept behind bars, even for a white collar offense, is a man without women. That's enough to make him a rapist even if he were only an embezzler before."
Dan flushed at the words married woman, as though embarrassed that his father should even obliquely refer to the fact that he and Lorna had sex together.
He burst into sudden angry speech.
"And the trusties aren't 'white collar' criminals if you ask me. There's no such thing as a white collar criminal. Dad, they've got Steve Atkins working as a trapper, did you know that?"
The judge frowned. "The prostitution trafficker?
No, I didn't know, but I'll certainly speak to the Attorney General about it," he grumbled.
Dan grinned balefully. "Too late, Dad. Don't you remember? He was sentenced four years ago. He's getting out in a few days."
The old judge looked up with a start. "For God's sake, so he is. How time flies. I thought I gave him longer than that!"
"You did," Dan said wryly, "but they second-guessed you in Augusta. Said you 'over-reacted'. " His sneer made Lorna want to attack him with her nails. How she would love to rake that ruddy, recruiting-poster face to shreds!
She loved sitting here with the two of them, talking about Atkins as if he were simply a faceless animal that her father-in-law had locked in a cage, when she knew that that same animal had unlocked the cage in which these two sanctimonious men had placed her.
Dan took a tired pull on his drink. It always surprised her that he and his father should consent to a cocktail hour, much less allow her to have a daiquiri.
"You know perfectly well," he sighed, "that Atkins will go right back hammer and tongs to his old. activities."
"Not in Maine, he won't," said the judge with an ominous threat in his voice. "He's got too much sense for that."
And where will he go then? Lorna wondered. Fear smote her; in a few more days, Atkins would be free . . . free to go far away from her. She couldn't bear it, not now after today. It would have been better not to. have laid him at all than to know what his kind of sex was like, and then never see him again. Frenzied lust and desperation grew in her as she looked at her husband, the judge, the dark old-fashioned house. Men without women.. . . Once more the phrase reminded her of something. The vague sensation of familiarity came over her once again. Men in the woods without women. The judge had used that expression just-a moment ago. The phrase seemed to be haunting her, following her. Why? All those jokes she had heard about the whores in the trailers in the woods, the many times townspeople had bemoaned the existence of the prison nearby and the trusties that ran free. . . . She must have heard people speak of the "womenless men" and the trusties in the woods, the famous whores hundreds of times. It was as if the expression had been stalking her all this time, pursuing her in the certainty that one day, the expression would apply all too aptly to herself.
It seemed a kind of fate, but why? She shivered suddenly, and a silence fell. Loma listened to the clink of ice in their glasses, the muffled sounds of dinner being prepared in the kitchen. Yet no one spoke.
The judge noticed it and chuckled.
"A ghost is passing over, it seems," he said.
Again Lorna shivered despite the warm summer sun outside and the sound of the cicadas that heralded more heat. A lightheaded feeling gripped her and she thought: I'm not really here, I don't belong here. It was just an accident that put me here, a wrong turn along a road that has no name.'
Without conscious intellectual process of thought, she sensed, she knew that she belonged with Steve Atkins, not here with these grim, lifeless men whom she hated. The familiar words from the reference book filtered through her mind like a song that refused to leave.
Pompadour Complex: A compulsive desire to be a prostitute, often caused by a desire to please the father.
Rebellion boiled in her as she sat quietly, looking down into her drink while the men talked. Wouldn't it serve them right if-
If what? If. . . . The short, sharp, hissing word was all that stood between her and some hideous fate as yet unknown and without a name. If. . . . It sounded like the short end of a piece of frayed rope that held her precariously to the respectable life she hated. If. . . . It sounded like the relentless brisk snip of a pair of scissors cutting into the last shards of that lifesaving rope. She could imagine the sound of the blades-if, if, if.
She jumped as her husband's voice cut into her thoughts.
"How would you like to be a Congressman's wife, Lorna? They want me to run."
Her mouth opened slowly as she stared at him, then looked at her smug, puffed-with-pride father-in-law.
"Yes, it's true all right," Dan grinned. "That's why we were so late getting home today. We've been to see the Republican State chairman."
"Isn't it wonderful?" said the elder Mrs. Perkins, coming into the room. "They said after all Dan has done to clean up these dirty movies that he'd be a sure bet to win. The Decent Film League is behind him one hundred percent, and they're some of the most influential people in Maine."
Lorna saw her life spread out before her, a life even more restricted than the one she led now. A politician's wife I Garden clubs, ladies aid societies, prayer meetings on television-
"I always said my boy could pull himself up by his bootstraps," Mrs. Perkins said fondly.
Anger spread through Lorna. Pull himself up by his bootstraps, indeed! With a judge for a father! Dan was a spoiled, pampered repressed brat if she had ever seen one! The hypocrisy in the room was almost physically stifling. She took a deep breath, which they all mistook for excited delight and surprise. Goddamn them all, she thought darkly.
The last straw came later that night, when Dan and his father were closeted in the den making political plans. Mrs. Perkins took Lorna aside and sat her down at the kitchen table. It was going to be an intimate kaffeeklatch.
"Lorna dear, now that Dan is going to run for Congress, there's something very important that you can do for him. You know, voters expect a young couple like you two to have children. There are some people who just won't vote for a childless man. It makes him look irresponsible, like a pleasure-seeker who's too selfish to accept family responsibilities. Don't you think it would be nice if you got pregnant as soon as possible, so that you'll show by campaign time?"
Her mother-in-law's eyes were a dizzying combination of fake solicitude and rancid hate. The old bitch must have had to slip a few slugs of gin to bring herself to suggest that her precious only son be screwed. Only raw ambition could have made her even mention anything to do with sex.
"Maybe you ought to speak to Dan about that," Lorna said slowly.
The woman's face flamed. "Oh, well, you know. . . . I mean after all, we're both women here." Her confusion was evident, but she mastered it and went on, the pupils of her eyes growing into cold pinpoints.
"What I meant, Lorna dear, is that I hope you aren't doing anything to prevent pregnancy. Naturally, I spoke to you first, and not Dan, because it's you who take pills or do whatever you girls do nowadays. Are you doing anything to keep from having a child?"
"No," Lorna answered truthfully. "I'm not. But I suppose there's something wrong with me, isn't there? There couldn't be anything wrong with Dan, could there?"
"Well, of course it's God's will, but-"
"Mother Perkins," Lorna said in a shaking voice, "there's something else about me that I think is more serious than merely not having children."
She paused, her heart pounding. Some perverse imp was making her say this, making her skirt so close to the truth. Scenes of the afternoon's tryst in the woods flew through her mind. The self-accusatory words bubbled up in her throat. I'm a whore, Mother Perkins, I have a Pompadour complex! I'm no good and I love it! There's something bad in me and I'm proud of it! I fucked a convict today in the woods and I'm going to run away with him if he'll take me!
The shock of the decision stunned her, so that she said nothing at all, merely looked at her mother-in-law with blank staring eyes.
The older woman looked down and sighed.
"I know what you're thinking, Lorna. I know all about it."
Fear lashed Loma. How could she know? Had she somehow seen them? Had someone else seen them and told her?
"Your father. . . . I know, dear. We talked about that in the meeting today."
Lorna looked up with a start. For one crazy moment she thought her mother-in-law meant something else. Guilt had her firmly in its grasp, so that she was certain they all knew that she had slept with her father.
"But we figured out a plan," the woman went on. "There are ways to change certain records, you know," she said slyly. "There's no way to change your father's death certificate because too many people know what happened. But we can change other things, and let the word get around naturally. Then, if we're challenged, we can produce the record."
The woman folded her hands and gave Loma a broad wink.
"What record?"
"Why, your adoption papers, of course. If people think you weren't your father's child they won't think about things like . . . inherited weaknesses."
Lorna sat back, stunned. Her hand trembled and the coffee cup clattered noisily in the saucer, nearly toppling. Both women jumped and Mrs. Perkins made a ragged gesture to prevent spillage.
Lorna righted the cup and put both hands around it.
"You mean, you're going to fake adoption papers for me, and file them in the right places?"
"Yes. It'll work out fine. After all, you were born far away in Connecticut. It's not as if people around here knew you all your life. To Down Easters, Connecticut is 'from away'. We have enough contacts all over New England to get this taken care of."
Lorna's mind went back to the nights in bed with her father. If he adopted her, what they had done would not be wrong, would not be incest.
They were trying to take her Daddy lover away from her!
They were trying to take her badness away from her and make her respectable. Would she never escape their grim respectability? The joy she had taken in her many secret readings of the psychiatric dictionary now seemed to dim under her mother-in-law's suggestion. I want to be bad, I am bad, she thought. I won't let them stop me. They can't take that away from me! It's all I have to fight them with.
She forced an understanding smile to her lips.
"All right, Mother Perkins. You go ahead and fix the papers and I'll back you up. You know I'd do anything to help Dan win the election."
As her mother-in-law cooed her grateful approval, Lorna felt the presence of the demon in her brain. She would do anything to help Dan lose the election!
CHAPTER FIVE
Lorna drove to the woods and parked the car very carefully under a copse of shrubbery and overhanging trees. As she got out and walked into the dense growth of wilderness she felt her satiny thighs brush together like a caress. She wore no pants and her cunt was swollen and wet in anticipation. She would not allow herself to think that he might not keep their rendezvous; the thought of seeing him again had sustained her through the eternity of dullness since their last meeting. She would lose her mind if she even contemplated being stood up.
As she climbed over the remains of a stone wall she heard a low whistle and turned to see him a few yards away. His arm rose in an arc of greeting. She hurried to him.
"Missed me?" he laughed. His hands went under her skirt and he rubbed her bare buttocks. Lorna strained against him, pressing the points of her tits against him as she shivered in response to his roving hand in her crack. He dug his fingers against her bung and screwed them against her hole. She moaned and clenched her ass cheeks around his hand.
She reached for his cock and touched the rocky bulge through his pants. It was up, crammed hot and throbbing between his legs, caught up in the vise of his tight denim clothing. She cupped his balls and rubbed his imprisoned whang until he began to thrust his hips against her palm.
"You've got the most beautiful piece of meat in the world," she sighed.
"Take it out and play with it," he panted.
Lorna fumbled with the strange buttons, almost ripping them off in her impatience to get to his big creamy stick. At last she had them loosened and reached into his pants. She pulled his hot cock out of the opening and stared down at the long dark power of it.
Steve stood proudly, hands on hips, legs apart, jutting his groin obscenely. Lorna tightened her fist over his prick and rubbed it up and down on him. She took the flared head in her fingers and pushed back his foreskin, until the throbbing knob was fully exposed. Her head lolled drunkenly on her shoulders as she pistoned her arm and gave him a rough hand job, milking his pulsating rod until she drew a drop of lubrication from its tip.
With a cry, she sank to her knees. Her mouth moved against the cock that she held to her face as she murmured huskily:
"I want to taste it again."
"Suck on it, but not too much. I've got other plans," he panted.
She captured his pecker in a long, burning clamp and drew noisily and hungrily on it. She rocked back and forth on the ground before him, putting her whole body into it as she drove his fat dark shaft deep into her throat. Her lower lip worked like a scoop over his foreskin, pushing it back and forth over the twisted bands of skin on the underside of his knobby tip. His balls ached with boiling jism as her hands dragged on his pants and shorts until she had them to his ankles.
Her hot lewd mouth bore down hard, slurping over his wet prick. She cupped his nuts with her hand and explored the hairy crevice of his crack. He caught her finger between his buttocks and flexed his muscles around it, gasping as she found his rectum and began to prod and tickle it.
Her mouth became a burning, ravenous maw as she pulled on his shaft until her cheeks hollowed and expanded in obscene abandon. Steve grunted with delight and fucked into her mouth.
"Christ, you can suck cock better than any woman I ever knew! Go to it, baby, fill your mouth up with jism! There's plenty more where this came from."
She grasped his flexing rod tighter in her fist and funneled her sensuous lips over the flared head. His semen-crammed stick pounded with trapped blood, aching and beating in a delectable pain throughout his loins. Her tongue fluttered over the giant rocky head, digging into his piss slit and twining in hungry circles over his stiff ridge. He grunted and slammed his loins into her face as he felt his prick surge and start to shoot.
"Drain it, swallow that good come I made for you!"
She milked his cock for all she was worth, hurting it, bruising it, but sucking in a way that he was powerless to resist or stop, no matter how much he wanted to get into her cunt with it. He felt the roughened roof of her mouth as his wet, dribbing rod slid back and forth in her eagerly salivating mouth. A stream of his white jism ran out of the corner of her lips and rolled down her chin. Lorna flicked her tongue out to catch it as if it were the best thing she had ever tasted and she didn't want to waste a drop of it. Steve watched, fascinated, as she licked her lips and sucked some more, pulled his softening cock into her greedy mouth until she had it in her throat.
At last it was over. She pressed her face into his opened fly, his cock buried in her mouth. Her tongue continued to laze over it, licking tiredly. Then she released it and licked his warm, achy balls.
Lorna clung to his strong legs and kissed his naked belly, rubbed her face against the big puff of curly jock hair. All sense of self left her; even her own passion, powerful as it was, was subordinate to his. She had to worship him in this way, on her knees, doing the only thing she could do on her knees. She was his, she belonged to him, just as she had belonged to Daddy, because it was dangerous and forbidden. She was linked to Steve Atkins, forged to him by something primitive and inevitable. She had felt this same sort of mystical union with Daddy, to whom she was linked by blood. But with Steve it was something else . . . she didn't know what, something as strong as blood, even stronger.
His steely gray eyes looked down at her strangely. There was something hypnotic in his gaze whose spell she did not dare break by either word or movement. He must give the signal, not her. She was merely his instrument, and the steel in his eyes might as well be a steel chain.
He pulled her up. "Come on," he said roughly. "I never leave a woman like you unsatisfied for long. It's too dangerous." He laughed, a harsh, metallic sound without mirth, and pulled her onto a bed of pine needles.
He flipped back her skirt and looked into the swollen crevice of her orange-haired pussy. Lorna spread her legs and lifted her knees. Her pussy was a swollen, separated sticky mass, tingling and throbbing with lust. Steve lay with his fat cock pressed against her bare thigh as his fingers trailed over her gaping cunt lips. He drubbed into her slit and tickled her stiff, erected clitoris until she twisted against him, groaning.
His big palm covered her entire vulval area; he pressed hard on the wet oval and caressed her glistening inner thighs. Lorna reared up and rubbed her crotch against the hard length of his wrist.
His hand and wrist were wet from her. He opened her twat and stuck his finger into its streaming folds. Lorna's hips rolled and jerked with delight, already performing the rhythmic thrusts of a woman with a cunt full of something big and hard. His thumb dug violently into her vagina and quivered against the stretchy folds. She wriggled her ass down against the pressure he made and suckled his thumb inside her channel. She made her internal muscles work like a hungry mouth and clamp down on him. He slammed into her with a ferocity that drew a moaning howl of pleasure from her.
"Yesssssss, finger-fuck me, hit it hard! "Way up there, go all the way in! AHHHHHHHHMMMMMM."
Ooooh, how thick it was, almost as thick as a cock! Her ass humped and wriggled in the pine needles and soft earth as he pistoned his wrist into her opened crotch. He made her yell louder when he stuck his longest finger into her puckered anal rim and screwed it in deep, going all the way up her bung until she threw her legs in the air to receive more of the harsh, dry pleasure that she had never known before.
"I can feel your cunt through your ass," he gasped. "See?"
He pinched thumb and finger together inside of her and she gasped in disbelief at the dual joy that it evoked. She felt his knuckles grind against her tender ass cheeks as he poked and wriggled his finger into her bowels.
Lorna held his arm against her crotch and thrust her sore, desire-engorged slit against it, sliding up and down over his wrist, her head back and her mouth twisted in a grimace of delight. A spine-tingling sensation began in her groin and she felt herself coming. Her hips jerked faster; his wrist was like a giant prick, stone-hard and hairy as it lay along the entire length of her slot.
Suddenly, his thumb and finger slithered out of her. She gave a cry of surprise and disappointment, but he was on top of her, his prick hard again and ready to fuck her.
"Fuck!" he ground out roughly. "I want to get in there right, baby. Playing with those juicy little holes of yours was all I needed to get hard again. Now here's something bigger for you to squeeze!"
Lorna's hips lifted in little circular jabs, aiming for his big juicy dick that he drubbed into her oozing steamy slice. When the fierce knob of his cockhead touched the soaked tangle of pussy hair he shook and gritted his teeth.
"Ohhh, that's the best feeling in the world, to slide your pecker into a slicked-up box! I could rub it on you all night. Sometime I will, just to see how much we can both stand."
He centered his whang against the burning, quivering depression of her vaginal entrance and screwed his hips down in a circular undulation that drove the gigantic tip into her slot. Lorna gasped and wiggled as he fucked her deeper, driving his hammering stick into her cervix.
She stretched back in ecstasy as he pushed it in through the soft, lubricating walls of her vagina, stretching her open with a firm, leisurely thrust. Her slice lay open under his curly triangle of pelvic hair and she ground against him while he held the gigantic stick against her womb entrance. Her clitoris throbbed as he pressed against her outer lips and squirmed his hips into her crotch. Then he lifted himself on his elbows and rocked back, pulling his massive cock out of her tingling cunt. He went in her again with a thudding stroke and flexed his buttocks so that she could feel the rigid stick move inside her pussy like something alive. He gathered her ass in his hands and held her up as he pronged her with lusty pokes and pulls that left a trail of heat through her whole belly. She shivered and cried out each time his cock slid down to her entrance and tugged on her sensitive ballooned lips until she opened into a taut, generous tunnel.
"Ohhhhh, you beautiful fucker! What you're doing to my pussy! I love your big fat cock . . . love it, love it, love it!"
"Whose woman are you? Eh? Whose beautiful cunt are you?" he demanded.
"Yours . . . I love you, adore you. Don't ever stop fucking me, ever!"
She heaved her groin up into his and slid her feet down his back, digging her toes into his bare ass and pressing down on him so that she could ride his plunging prick. Her twat surged and gushed against it and she felt her walls swell up and grow stiff.
"Jesus, you get big in there, don't you? You're getting it, you're spraying-Ooooooh, you're coming!"
She grasped him with her legs and mashed her body against his jerking hips. Her fingers knitted through his heavy growth of back hair as she clutched his ass and raked her nails into his hard muscular cheeks. She felt the sling of muscles move as his cock jerked in her cunt.
They were locked together, a tense straining spider of flailing arms and legs. Lorna's pussy slid up and down his pumping rod as she came in a burst of frenzied, clawing passion. His balls emptied into her, filling her with boiling sperm. Their wet genitals slapped and suckled together in vulgar abandon; his seminal fluids washed her box and rolled down into her burning rectum.
Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked into his face. He was smiling, an alert, watchful smile that both frightened and fascinated her. He pulled his cock out of her and flung his leg over her body as he rolled to his side. Lorna touched her pussy lightly and jerked tiredly as her sore and still sensitive clitoris responded to her fingers.
"Venus ashamed," he grinned, looking at her pose.
She drew in her breath In a sharp gasp as the familiar expression evoked memories of models, the smell of paint and turpentine.
"Where did you hear that?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Where does anybody hear anything? I don't know. All I know is, that's a famous art pose, when a woman puts her hand over her twat like that." He gave her a probing stare. "But you're not ashamed, are you?"
"No," she laughed. "Just sore."
She had never seen such gray eyes as his. There were no gold or brown flecks in them, just a clear, almost colorless gray, like an overcast sky; except for their steady, unchanging gaze she would have likened them to twin pools of mercury. She did not dare look away until somehow, by some word or signal, he gave her permission. His stare was like an embrace, yet there was no warmth, no passion in it.
"Yes . . . you're mine," he whispered. "You really are my woman, aren't you? It wasn't just something you said while you were hot, was it?"
Mutely, she shook her head, then she burst out, her voice on the edge of hysteria.
"You're going to be free in a few days-"
"Honey, I've always been free."
"No, no, I mean . . . the jail. You told me this was your last week."
His mouth twisted with amusement. He watched her like a cat stationed at a mouse hole.
"True," he nodded. "So? Aren't you happy for me?"
"Yes. . . . I mean, I-where are you going?" She sat up and spoke in a soft whisper of desperation, as though they might be overheard.
"Listen, my father-in-law hasn't forgotten you. He's the judge that sentenced you. He said last night that hell run you out of the state if-"
"If I let the sun set on my head in this town?" Steve interrupted with a wry grin. "I know that. I don't intend to give him the chance. I'm heading south."
Something in her face crumbled for a moment, then she clutched his arm.
"Take me with you! I've got a car, money, anything you need! I hate this place, I hate my husband and that damn family of his. They're driving me crazy. I've got to get away! Promise me you'll take me with you."
She was too distraught to see the flicker, of surprise that he quickly quashed from his features.
As he returned to the compound Steve had to admit that he had at last met a woman with the power to surprise him. He had thought he would have to talk her into it; at the very least he expected to be the one to mention it first. But he had underestimated his powers, something he had never done before. She was hooked on him as if he were a drug.
He laughed to himself as he imagined the furor that their flight would cause in the town, in the whole state for that matter. The beauty of it was that neither of them was doing anything wrong. He was free, or would be in two more days; as for Lorna, there was no law that said a woman could not leave her husband. The only crime she was committing was desertion, one that no one could arrest her for.
He shook his head slowly. It was hard to believe that he would not have to steal a car. That was legally in her name, too. The whole Bonnie and Clyde arrangement was the height of irony because it was totally above board.
Just to keep his hand in, Steve decided to do something that might come in handy later on. It never hurt to have too many extra license plates, in case of trouble. He had often stolen plates from cars and switched them around with his own to stall the cops, but he had been much younger when he did that. To steal the tags from a law-abiding car was petty larceny; to steal them for purposes of resisting arrest compounded the crime. There was no need to do such silly things when you were the foreman of the metal shop.
Like many States, the prisoners in Maine were employed to stamp and paint the tags for the Department of Motor Vehicles, as well as road signs and ID medals for dogs. As foreman of the operation, Steve had the keys to the supply room, where lay stacks of metal sheets, paint, and the dies for letters and numbers.
The last thing he needed was another set of Maine tags, but he could do with a couple of out-of-state items. He thought a moment, discarding automatically such convenient but hard-to-produce tags like New Mexico and Wyoming. The former had a sunburst on it and the latter a cowboy on a bucking bronco. Finally, he decided upon the undecorated license plates of Vermont, Maryland and Virginia. It would simply be a matter of different color paints, and he remembered what each of those tags looked like. Pennsylvania would be nice to have but the damn thing was shaped like the state.
He had the run of the metal shop; no one would notice or care if he stayed a little late. They would think he was finishing up some work or correcting someone's poor job. He finished the plates he wanted and wrapped them in a paper bag. If anyone questioned him about it, which was unlikely, he planned to say that he had made himself some bookends as a souvenir of the trade that the prison had taught him. No one noticed the parcel he carried to his cell.
Later, he lay on his bunk and smoked. The final irony of his departure from prison would be the cheap suit they were giving him for his return to the world. He would take it, of course, but Lorna was making a trip to the dry cleaners to pick up her father-in-law's fall suits-three of them. One thing he had in common with Judge Perkins was size. They would fit perfectly. He lay laughing quietly to himself.
CHAPTER SK
They were naked on the queen size bed of a motel on the north shore of Massachusetts. Lorna sat over Steve's lap, her legs spread wide around him as she teased his thrusting cock with her wet pussy. She laughed softly and squirmed the big knobby head into her molten slice and trailed it up and down her crotch, then released it and pressed it up against his belly with her groin. She held it against him for a moment while she wriggled obscenely.
"Ummmmm, it comes all the way up to your waist when I hold it like this," she sighed. "It's like a big ripe cucumber."
Steve lay back against the plumped up pillows and strained against her.
"Did you ever fuck yourself with a cucumber when you got horny?"
"Noooooo, I used a tube of cream."
"Will you fuck yourself with a cucumber and let me take a picture of it?"
"Yes," she sighed. "Anything . . . anything you want me to do. I want to be bad for you and good for you-oh, anything!
She continued to squirm and move her luscious bare ass around on his thighs, sitting heavily on his groin so that his prick went under her crack. She felt it swell and flex into a long hot stone from her wanton, abandoned movements.
"Sit on it!" he groaned. "I think I'll make you do the work until I get used to a real bed again. Fuck it, baby, sink down on it."
He pulled her directly over his crotch and moved his hips until his rearing cock dipped into her cunt hole. She held it there at the entrance, swiveling her hips enticingly, then let it bob again her inner thighs before she dipped forward and thrust it back against her bare behind. When it rammed against her crack and entered the hairy valley of her ass she knew a lewd thrill. A burning throb coursed and licked up her rectum; her corn hole tingled in response and stretched, making her deliciously aware of the dark, muscle-lined tunnel of her bowels.
Steve panted and humped under her. She bore down on his trapped cock, forcing the thick shaft into her nether orbs. She felt as if she were sitting on an iron pipe; the pressure of it made her rectal rim clench like a pursing mouth. A fiery glow centered around her anus.
"You want it up the dirt road, don't you?" he gasped. "Stick it in your cunt a little to slick it up first!"
He heaved his big body up against her. His prick separated her fuzzy, engorged pussy lips and slid heavily through its slippery folds. Lorna sank down on his rod, pushing it quickly and expertly into her hungry box.
"Ohhhh, it's like a fist," she cried, as she wriggled it in her cunt.
Steve yelped with pleasure and rammed her with a powerful thrust that sent eight inches of rock-hard pecker up her vagina. His hips jerked and slammed into her tender, hair-fringed lips. Lorna squeezed his snugly embedded maleness, tightening her sphincter muscles around it as he banged her cervix. On the downward stroke, she released it and let him drag it nearly out, shivering in ecstasy as its rubbery ring of foreskin teased her nerve-laced entrance.
In spite of the hot thrills that pounded in her box with each slapping thrust of his cock, she could think of nothing but her naked ass. Her bung was stretched into a burning, receptive tunnel of lust and anticipation, flexing and squeezing as though it already had something in it.
They fucked in panting silence. Her pussy manufactured copious juices that smeared their thighs. She pressed forward into his face, letting him rub and nuzzle her nipples, but each wild sensation that he gave her only made her more aware of the primitive, forbidden act that she really wanted. Her virginal rectal rim fluttered with excitement and a maddeningly itchy signal of yearning that would not cease.
"Now," Steve whispered. "It ought to be good and wet now."
He hoisted her up, dragging his slippery, come-slathered prick out of her box. He grabbed her hips and turned her around. Lorna gave a cry of delight and waved her eager buttocks in his face. His tongue slithered between her cheeks and licked wetly at her rectum as she squealed and tossed. He lowered her to her hands and knees and got up behind her. His heavy hand on her neck forced her shoulders down flat on the mattress.
He squeezed her plump orbs and dipped his finger into her rim. She felt it go in and stretch her open as he judged her capacity. She lunged back at him and drove his finger in knuckle-deep.
"Nnnnnnggghhhl I loooove it! Oh, I need something back there!"
"Plenty of room . . . good ass," he gasped. "I'm going to have a fucking good time in that pretty little rim."
His finger emerged with a pop. He knelt behind her. She felt his blood-thickened prick graze the back of her thighs. Ohhhh, she wanted that great big hammer up her ass, she wanted it to stretch her rectum and fill it with burning jism. She gave an impatient wiggle, weaving her naked behind at him as her entrance ring palpitated in wild lewd encouragement.
Something dark and wanton stirred in her as she realized she wanted pain and degradation as much as pleasure. She tossed her head and moaned hoarsely as the tip of his whang entered her fuzzy, moist crevice and prodded her tight hole with such pressure that her back arched and her rump lifted with a jerk, pulling instinctively away from his long thundering cock.
"Easy, sweetheart, you're going to love it once it's in, I tell you. Well screw it in nice and gentle."
He pulled her struggling hips back to his thrusting maleness and forced his flared cock head into her nether slit. Loma grunted with agony as the dry, heavy pain shot up her bowel and into her stomach.
"AAAAGGGGGG-ohhh, it feels like a spike! I can't take it, Steve!"
"Yes . . . you . . . can-ooooooo, my God what a tight little ass you've got! Feels like a rubber band around my prick. You're a perfect ass fuck, baby, a natural!"
He went wild then, digging, hammering, shoving and heaving his way into her tender, bruised ring of pleasure. The monstrous cock crept higher. Lorna bucked forward, trying to escape it but his hands were like a vise around her struggling hips. Searing torture cut through her stomach like a knife blade as he continued to thrust the battering cock into the burning puckered opening of her behind. She gagged, her head spun and threatened unconsciousness darkened her vision until there was nothing except a rapidly gathering cluster of black spots before her eyes.
"Oooooh, no more! Pleeeeez, no more! You're too big!"
"You've . . . almost got . . . all of it! This is the best hole I've ever been in!"
She felt as if she were going to split in two, right up the middle, if he tried to force any more of the massive length of cock into her cheeks. She clawed helplessly at the mattress but the cock plowed higher into her pinched virgin's ass, tearing at the churning walls of her rectum until it felt like a solid branch of fire in her entrails.
Steve's breath was like burning steam on her back as he humped her like an animal. He shot his hips forward in a merciless thrust that would have jarred even a welcoming cunt, but in a tight, unused and tender bung it was agony.
"There! You're stuffed, baby! It's all in!"
All of it, all of that monstrous, inhuman handle of fucking was shoved into her searing, throbbing asshole! She had done it, she was still alive, and her ass was pronged, crammed full of hard cock!
Gradually the pain lessened as her fear vanished. Pleasure radiated through her stretched nether region and his cock turned into a hot branch of lust. God, it was sunk in her, all the way up her ass, buried in her clasping musculature.
"Ummmmmmm, give me some of those nice long pulls," she crooned. "Fuck my ass, darling, fuck it with your magnificent rod!"
He crashed his groin into her soft buttocks, then dragged back from her, leaving a trail of fire where his pecker had been. He slid the huge stiff rod in and out of her now moist, rolling ass. She felt the wiry bush of his jock hair scrape her buttocks and rub them raw with each twisting, rocking grind of his hips into her naked flesh. His balls swung forward, under her crotch to her upturned creamy cunt. She opened her legs wide to catch their heavy, bobbing swing against her clitoris. Slip-slap-slap . . . it was a hairy, pendulous caress that hit her right where she needed it most, squarely on her gash!
It made her come, and she pumped her full ass back into his strokes until his voice turned into a long, low growl of animal delight. His hot spurt of jism emptied into her burning channel, feeling hotter than it ever did in her cunt. The sliding cock moved in and out of her bung, shooting another wad into her. She felt it spatter out onto her thighs. Steve fell on top of her and ground his hips weakly into her wet behind.
"Ummmmm, you're like a briar patch," she moaned. "I'll be chafed red."
He laughed and lifted his hairy crotch from her rump.
"You already are. Jesus, that calls for a drink," he sighed. He got up and poured them two bourbons. He stood for a moment looking gratefully at the bottle, thinking how wonderful it was to be able to go into a liquor store and make a purchase like anyone else. Four years was a long time between drinks.
He brought the glasses back to the bed and handed hers to her. Lorna drank, thinking how much better whiskey was than the sickly, sweetish daiquiris that Dan thought no lady could live without.
The thought of him and his parents dimmed her happiness in their escape and lusty lovemaking. It had been three days now since she had run away, and no one had bothered them, but still she could not relax. She did not know why, because Steve had calmly pointed out that they could do nothing to either of them. She was of age, had her own money, her own car; he was an ex-con, yes, but one with a spotless record in prison who had taken his farewell gift of twenty dollars and a new Suit and left the state which did not want him.
And besides, no one actually knew that they had left together. Who would believe that Dan Perkins' wife and Judge Perkins' daughter-in-law would run away with an ex-con?
She must have been frowning worriedly, because Steve laughed softly and chucked her under the chin.
"Are you on that again?" he said softly.
She looked up guiltily.
"I'm still a little worried, darling, because-"
"Sorry you did it? Sorry you left your prominent family to take up with a jailbird?" he murmured. His lips barely moved and his gray eyes were like murderous knife blades boring into her.
Fear smote her, and with it relentless panic.
"Oh, no, darling! Not that, you know that isn't it! I hate them, it's you I love-oh, darling, don't look at me like that! You know I love you, don't you?"
He shrugged.
"The lady doth protest too much. Surprised that I know that line from Hamlet? With the kind of men you're used to, you probably think that cons don't ever crack a book, don't you? Thought you were balling an ignoramus, maybe?"
Lorna leaped out of bed and threw herself at his knees. She wrapped her arms around his legs and rubbed her warm bare breasts against them, r pushing against him like a cat begging for attention after committing an offense against indoor living. He remained unmoved and unmoving, staring blankly at her as she started to cry and plead harder.
"Why do you say such things? Steve, darling, I never wanted anything in my life the way I want you, need you! I can't live without you. Don't turn away from me, darling, I can't bear it! I'm just worried, and you know so much more than I do about such-"
"So much more about living beyond the Pale, you mean? So much more about walking on the wild side instead of the respectable side? That's a nice, polite way to insult me, I must say."
She looked desperately into his face.
"No! Nol I meant you're so much cleverer than I am or they are. You can second-guess anybody, you can-why, you can even read people's minds! I just automatically turn to you for reassurance when I'm worried-"
At the words you can even read people's minds the cold remote mask left his face. Lorna saw something akin to smug pleasure, but mixed with it was a flicker of joy, triumph and what she could only call gratitude. She peered curiously at him, trying to interpret and analyze the rapid parade of emotions she had seen, but they were gone.
Hopelessness filled her. She would never understand him. Perhaps that was why he had so much power over her, for he did. She was his slave, subject to his every whim, his every mood, and she lived in mortal fear that she would say or do something to make him angry with her, and that he would no longer want her.
The words a desire to please the father came back to her now. She looked strangely at him, as if seeking another face behind the stern dark handsomeness. But no, she was being silly! Yet he did look like Daddy; not feature-wise but his coloring, and his sexy hairiness.
Two men could not have been more disparate in personality. Daddy had been kind and gentle, easygoing and sensitive. Steve was ruthless, relentless and even when he was laughing or making love, he was cruel. It was a cruelty tinged with grim humor and irony, as if he were merely testing her, and the rest of the world, to see if he could bend others to his will. And he was stern; in a way he was as much of a New Englander as Dan or the judge. So very different from Daddy. . . .
Maybe that was it, she thought. Fathers were supposed to be stem, and her own had been anything but. It had been so easy to please Daddy, but it was very difficult to please Steve. Here was the grim, demanding father, then.
"Come here, baby," he said softly, and pulled her onto his lap.
Once more his quicksilver change of mood wracked and confused her. He kept her constantly keyed up, never certain was his reactions would be. The tension never relaxed and it destroyed her confidence and self-assurance. Even their brief three days together had soon shown her what life with him was going to be like. He kept her on the defensive, so that she never knew what to expect. The only way she could be sure of pleasing him was in sex. As a result, she had quickly arrived at a willingness to do anything he wished, because that was the only way she could win his approval.
"Now," he said briskly, in a condescending, patient tone. "Why are you so worried?"
"They'll do something," she sighed. "I know them. They can so easily make something happen, some little thing like a traffic ticket-"
"You mean frame me?" he laughed.
She nodded, glad he had said it first. He was more sensitive than she had believed possible when it came to his jail record, and the difference between her social standing and his.
"Use your head, sweetheart," he said carelessly. 'In the first place, they're going to bend over backwards to keep me out of trouble so as to soft-peddle your disappearance. I know respectable people," he sneered. "Right this minute, they're telling everybody that you went on a trip to visit relatives somewhere. They've got to stall for time, especially since Dan is running for Congress."
He grinned.
"That's the best thing that could have happened to us. They won't risk his chances of being elected. They don't want to sacrifice that to get revenge on me. They undoubtedly know by now that we're together, I'm sure they've put investigators on the trail, but it's all on the QT. As long as you're with me, I'm safe, and therefore you're safe. Suppose they framed me, and then it came out that the respectable Mrs. Perkins, Jr. is with me when I'm arrested?"
His black brows rose in sardonic arcs. "I see," she said.
"Now get dressed. I want to get to Boston."
As they rode rapidly down the turnpike she picked up one of his books that he had carefully packed and brought with him from prison. It was called Karma: The Wheel of Fate. The strange word attracted her attention and she turned to the introduction.
She read:
"Karma, from the Arabic word qismah or Kismet, means simply Fate. There is no such thing as a first meeting; the same people continue meeting one another in life after life, and this attachment between them is called Karma. There is no way to escape a Karmic attachment, it is inexorable. Though we cannot remember our previous fives, one of the major proofs of reincarnation is the sensation of intense familiarity which we call by its French name, deja vu, or "already seen." We have all experienced deja vu; who among us has not been certain that a particular moment has already been lived before, that some incident has happened to us before?'
Lorna put down the book, remembering suddenly that day alone in the bathroom, when she had lain before the mirror and played with her pussy and fucked herself with the tube of cream with the cock-like cap. Her words came back to her, the words she had spoken to the imaginary lover: I'll keep you in me, you big-cocked stud! She remembered how she had held the tube in her cunt with two fingers. That, and the words, had seemed intensely familiar to her. . . .
There was something else, too. The words men without women, men in the woods without women. She had experienced the sensation of deja vu then, too.
She frowned. Was there really something to Karma and reincarnation, to deja vu? Oh, but surely not! Everybody had those funny feelings; it was just one of those things. She did not believe in reincarnation. Death was final, a long blackness without beginning or end. There was nothing after death, and nothing before it. There was only one life to a customer, and she had wasted enough of hers already, she thought grimly. Hatred for Dan and the smothered existence in the gloomy house smote her and she determined to make up for it. She shivered as she thought of a Karmic attachment between herself and Dan. Once was enough! God, imagine putting up with him once a century! She'd rather be dead.
The humor of her contradictory thoughts struck her. That was the point of reincarnation, apparently; in not being dead, ever, but going on.. . .
She turned and looked at Steve's dark profile. If there were anything to reincarnation, she much preferred a Karmic attachment to him.
"Do you believe in this reincarnation?" she asked.
He smiled, a secretive, almost frightening smile. "Definitely."
It made it valid all of a sudden. If Steve said it was so, why it must be so. Something dark and fearful crept through her. She felt as if her personality, her individuality, had left her. She was a puppet, subject to him, obedient to whatever string of her life he chose to pull. Yet under the fear was a gleeful willingness to obey him; he was her revenge on Dan, on the judge, their personal nemesis and therefore her weapon against them, just as she was Steve's weapon against them.
Even as she mentally chided herself, Lorna wondered if she and Steve had met before in other lives. Suddenly, without warning, a line of long-forgotten poetry came to her.
You were a king of Babylon
And I was a Christian slave.
You saw, you took, you cast me by, You bent and broke my pride. . . . Suddenly, Steve grabbed her hand. He pressed it hard, squeezing it with such force that her rings cut into her flesh.
"We're going to make some money in Boston," he said, looking at her. "We're going to put on a sex show, for women. Hungry suburban housewives-like you used to be."
CHAPTER SEVEN
They were in the attic apartment of a friend of Steve's, in a nondescript old house in East Boston. Lorna crouched behind the door and peered out at the eight well-dressed, nervous-looking women that sat in a semi-circle of chairs as though they were attending a club lecture. They were all attractive and in their mid-thirties.
Lorna wore nothing but black silk stockings and spike heels. The stockings had elastic in the tops so that she needed no garter belt to keep them up. She looked down at her white redhead's skin next to the dark silk. Her plump thighs were snowy next to the stockings and her abundant triangle of orange pussy hair fluffed out between her legs in delectable tufts and swirls.
She suppressed a moan of excitement. Already, her box was swollen and creamy, hot as fire between her satiny naked thighs. Her nipples thrust out proudly, stiff with passion and tingling so much that she could hardly stand it. She touched them proudly, flicking her fingertip over the erect points. An answering chill scurried down her ribs.
She turned to see Steve's friend, a burly, gangsterish type in a mod eight-button suit, counting gleefully through a wad of bills. Each woman had paid fifty dollars for the show. The man took fifteen per cent for the use of his apartment; the rest was theirs.
He glanced over at her, his eyes dropping wetly down her body. She saw him lick over his under-lip. She did not mind being naked in front of him, and she even enjoyed his lust because she knew that he got his lacks only from looking. His thick, short prick was thrusting out of his pants so firmly that she wondered that it did not rip the material. He would watch her and Steve through the door and jerk it off with his hand. That was another little commission he earned from the sex shows he sponsored.
Steve came out of the bathroom in a robe. He grinned at her and reached under her legs to tickle her pussy.
"Jesus, you're wet already! Well, I believe in people enjoying their work. Here we go."
He walked out into the room full of women. Lorna saw their eyes go to his naked calves. They sat forward eagerly, their bodies tense and expectant. He turned his back to them and put his hands at the belt of the robe.
"I think I'll strip and get comfortable," he said conversationally. "You girls don't mind, do you?
You've all seen a naked man before. If you haven't, you've got an education coming."
Lorna saw them look sheepish and uncomfortable at the mocking note in his voice. She knew the technique of sex shows; Steve had briefed her. The performers jeered at the audience; not too much, but just enough to play on the guilt they felt for watching two hired strangers fuck like hell. You were also supposed to taunt them for their sex hunger-and they must be unsatisfied or they wouldn't be here, they'd be getting laid themselves. These women had husbands who were too pooped to pop after commuting to and from the city; they were bored and horny and isolated in suburbia with a house full of kids, left alone during the day in a man-less community. Every one of them hated herself for being here, and the trick was to give them the punishment they felt they deserved, while you were giving them the kicks they had paid for. As Steve explained, it was a matter of the carrot and the stick. Never let them forget that they were respectable married women. Their guilt and need for punishment would bring them back for more. If you were nice to them, that was approval and approval would scare them away.
With his back to the audience, he stripped off the robe and tossed it aside. The women stared at his muscular hairy buttocks. He let them get a good view of his trim male ass while he moved the muscles in his buns. From her vantage point, Lorna could see his dark thick penis swell and lengthen under the anal stimulation. Her mouth watered for it and she squeezed her thighs together. Her pussy was deliciously pinched in the vise of soft flesh. Her belly ached with longing.
Still with his back toward them, he let his bare feet slide apart until he stood with his legs spread wide. His big pendulous nuts swung temptingly between his legs so that the women got a view of them hanging there in the middle of his muscular thighs. One of them gasped, and another put her hand to her throat.
He kept up a running patter of obscene, suggestive remarks while he taunted and tempted them, rubbing his hand along the shaft of his now-erect cock in a way that told them what he had that they had not yet seen.
"Whew! This thing's been up all day. He's really raring to go. He'd like to get in every one of you good-looking babes. Christ, my balls feel like they're about to explode. I've got a big wad saved up for you, ladies. I'll let you play with it if you want. Any takers?"
Nervous laughter flew around the circle of women but no one spoke. Steve laughed knowingly.
"What? Don't you like to play with cocks? I thought sure you did. You must have at least given some guy a hand-job once."
Suddenly, he jackknifed forward and stuck his buttocks in their faces. His balls swung under his thighs. He wove his hips enticingly and spread his cheeks so that they could see everything he had. Lorna's heart beat fast. She almost wished she were part of the audience.
The women were beet red now, but they stared into his hair-filled crack.
"A woman who really knows how to give a man a good fuck is easy to spot, you know? A finger slithering up his asshole is the most exciting thing a man can get from his woman. Ever fool around in your guy's ass? Try it sometime, hell love you for it. Do it when you suck his dong off and you'll get a mouthful of come."
Suddenly, he whirled around and faced them. His massive whang was pointing squarely at them, springing up at a right angle from his cloud of bushy jock hair, long, dark and vicious. Their eyes sparkled and Lorna could see the evidence of the rapid increase in their breathing.
"Is that big enough for you girls? It's a killer prick, so I'm told. Let's see how big it is."
He walked around the mattress on the floor, his cock bobbing up and down in front of him, and went to a table. He produced a tape measure from a drawer and dangled it in front of them.
"Which one of you lovelies wants to take my measurements? Come on, don't be bashful."
They looked at each other, then gazed hypnotically at his fat stiff pecker. He ran his fist up and down the monstrous shaft as he grinned at them.
A tall brunette giggled and stood up. She took the tape from him. He put his hands on his hips and jutted his turgid maleness at her. She put the tab end of the tape against the base of his cock, her fingers half-buried in the thick curly hair. With shaking hands, she drew the yellow length along his hot, vein-webbed rod until she reached the swollen mushroom head.
"Ten inches," she cried excitedly. "My God! I thought it was about that but I didn't think it was possible!"
"That ain't all," Steve grinned. "Now take the girth."
She circled the tape around his gorgeous dick just under the flared hood of his hardened foreskin.
"What's the verdict, honey?"
"Four inches," she gasped.
"I got it both ways, don't I? That's just about as big around as your wrist, I'll bet. Let's see."
He snatched the tape from her fingers and before she could move he had her wrist pressed against his chest, the tape around it like a binding. Her fingers knitted instinctively through his thick chest hair. His enormous cock jutted against her thigh and he moved his hips so that it caressed her through her skirt.
"Yep, four inches for you, too. Actually, you're a little bigger than that, but after all you don't fuck with your wrist, do you? Unless you like girls."
The challenge worked, as Steve had known it would. The threat of Lesbianism made the other women laugh at her, and the brunette in rum gave them an insolent stare full of denial. She turned to Steve, her eyes snapping.
"I wouldn't be here if I did, would I?"
He tightened the tape measure around her wrist and forced her hand down to his prick. His voice became wheedling and pleading as he now favored her over the other women, deliberately playing them off one against the other.
"Play with it just a little bit," he begged. "Just rub it a little, come on. Be good to me, baby. I go for you in a big way-a very big way."
Breathing hard, the brunette gave the other women a triumphant glance and stroked his rocky shaft with her long elegant fingers. She tickled the underside of the head and gave it a squeeze, then cupped his heavy balls in her palm.
Steve closed his eyes and began jacking-off motions into her hand. He sighed sharply through his clenched teeth.
"Come on, sweetheart, let's fuck. You know you want to. I won't charge you extra," he added insultingly. The others laughed.
For a moment Lorna thought she was going to do it. She looked as hungry and hot as it was possible for a woman to look; her cheeks were flaming and the hand clutched desperately at the sliding penis in it.
"That's how I'd move it in your cunt, long slow and steady strokes. I'd wait for you, I'm good at that. I'll bet you've got a beautiful little pussy. How about pulling up your dress and showing it to me?"
But inhibition was too strong. The brunette swallowed heavily and shook her head in violent refusal and broke away from him to return to her seat, her wrist still trailing the tape measure.
Steve sighed heavily.
"No? Well, if you change your mind just whistle and I'll throw you a little meat. I'd certainly love to get in your pants, baby."
He looked pointedly and longingly at her, ignoring the rest of them. She dropped her gaze; Lorna saw her clutch the edge of the chair. Steve always said there was one woman in the audience who might play before the show was over. Lorna made a bet with herself that the brunette would be it. She felt no jealousy; after all, as Steve said, this was merely business, all in a day's work. She knew she belonged to him; when he fucked her he asked her "Whose woman are you?" and she had responded automatically so many times that the evidence was branded on her brain. Yours, yours, yours . . . body and soul, yours. It was like a religious chant, something so set and spontaneous that she no longer heard the words as English, with a meaning. It was now an instinctive sound.
He put his hands on his hips and waggled his pecker at them, thrusting in mock-fucking motions. He drew up his big sturdy dong and flattened it against his stomach.
"Waist-high, eh?" he laughed. "Anybody want a taste?" He released it and it sprang free and quivered as it settled into a long, stony point, like a gun in their faces.
"Just to be polite, like a handshake," he pleaded. "Everybody give it a little lick, come on, be sociable."
They strained forward, their eyes locked on his cock. Some of them licked their lips. It was making Lorna unbearably hot to watch and she wondered when he would call her out. She dipped her finger into her wet cunt and swirled it around. Her ass throbbed all the way up her rectum and she squeezed her rim tightly, but that only made the sensation better. Oh, Steve darling, hurry!
He walked to the end of the circle and stood with his knees touching those of a panting blonde whose big boobs were heaving. He made a quick circling motion with his hips and she sighed raggedly, her eyes rolling. Her mouth opened and Lorna saw her long pink tongue flick out like a snake's. She slurped thoroughly, and hungrily over the end of his prick, then funneled her lips around the huge flared helmet.
"Beautiful! Oh, baby, you got a mouth! Come on, everybody take a pull on it. This stick is like candy, girls, a big sweet sticky piece of candy!"
He made the rounds, pausing before each excited woman. Lorna watched his rod disappear into their open mouths. Some of them merely licked the end of it quickly with their tongue, then drew back. Others were more thorough and took it in their mouths. When he got to the brunette, her head darted out, her neck thrust forward in a serpentine motion, and she slid her lips slowly and tantalizingly down his shaft until her nose was buried in his generous bush of jock hair. Then she drew her head back and slowly pulled the giant cock out of her lips. She held firmly to it, making a lewd gustatory sound as she smacked them over his head and licked off a drop of moisture from his piss slit.
Steve grabbed his wet cock and held it with both hands, his eyes squinched shut as if he were in terrible pain.
"Jesus! You know what frenching a cock is all about, don't you? You make the rest of them look like amateurs! Want to finish the job? You just made the jism boil in my balls!"
Again she shook her head and sat back with a jolt, as though she were stunned at the knowledge of what she had done. Steve looked wistfully at her, thinking what a good employee she would be. This was a woman who would enjoy her work. Too bad. . . .
"Well, if nobody will take care of me I guess I'll have to get my girl. Look at this beautiful cunt, girls. Bet you never saw one like it before."
Lorna came out, walking toward him on the spike heels in such a way that her tits bounced like balls with each hard step she took. The women gasped and ran their eyes over her naked body, comparing it, she knew, to their own. Each of them stared at her redhead's pussy.
She stood in front of Steve and opened her thighs. He leaned up against her and reached around to her crotch. He took two strands of her orange love hair, one on each hp, and pulled her open by them. She sighed and wriggled in ecstasy as she felt her hot snatch gape open. He pulled her wide, until she was fully exposed. The air felt cool on her fiery membranes and her clit throbbed and thrust out like a hot nail. It was red and tender-looking, a full half-inch long. Steve's stony prick was sticking between her buttocks and she pinched it between them and moaned and bit her hp in a passion that was entirely sincere.
"Look at that hair pie, girls. You got one like that? Even if you aren't inclined toward lez fun you've got to admit that this pussy is delectable. It's a tasty slice, too. If any of you want proof, why. . . . I always said that a little lezzie stuff is good for what ails you. Some say it makes a woman more feminine. A noted French writer, Pierre Louys, claimed that in his novel Aphrodite."
He began to recite in French, which he had taught himself in prison, Lorna knew, with the aid of Canuck convicts.
"Deux femmes qui font l'amour, c'est parfait; une femme et un homme sont demi parfait, et deux hommes c'est une fohe! So you see, he loved dykes but thought that faggots were silly. That's pretty much the way the world feels, too, so go ahead, don't be bashful."
Lorna wriggled suggestively and jutted her hips toward the brunette, whose stare was hungrier than the others. She would not be surprised . . . not a bit. The woman swayed forward in the chair, almost toppling over but she did not stand up.
"No?" Steve intoned, his voice touched with chastisement. "Well, if you prefer a touch of normality to your lez practices we can do it this way."
He thrust his erect cock under her legs and slid it out through the front, rubbing it under her open gash until it bobbed about three inches before her thighs. It looked as if it grew out of her cunt. Lorna sighed heavily and sank down on it as he held her by her waist. Her knees bent and she moved in rapid belly dancer thrusts.
"Get your cock and cunt at the same time, ladies. Who wants to suck and lap together?"
The brunette sprang up and walked drunkenly to them. As the other women gasped in shocked envy, she sank to her knees and clasped the tip of Steve's prick in her mouth. Her eyes closed and she rocked her body to and fro, going down on the stubby section of cock while her nose buried itself in Lorna's curly orange pussy. She felt the woman's lips brush over her tingling clitoris. The hard-working lips made no effort to avoid the pink slice of gash as she sucked vigorously and noisily on the offered rod. Lorna circled her hips in encouragement.
"Ummmmm, I don't know which of you is making me come but somebody is!"
At her groaning words the brunette sprang back as if she had been stung. Her eyes panicked and she quickly wiped her mouth and went back to her chair. Lorna met her frightened gaze and smiled hotly. The woman looked down, unable to meet her eyes.
Steve gave a mocking laugh and pushed Lorna to the mattress.
"See what you did to my girl? She's begging for some tongue in her slot. I'll finish what you started, sister."
The brunette seemed to shrink back under the lash of his sarcasm and mockery.
"I'm a good cunt-lapper," he told them. "Watch her, she loves it. Of course all you gals do. Watch me do my stuff and if you want a little tongue between your banks just ask for it. Always happy to oblige a hot pussy."
She lay down on the mattress, her ass billowed over the edge, her feet in the spike heels on the floor. She faced the women, and all of them looked down in fascination into her glistening crotch. She was so hot that her inner lips gaped open as well, laid back neatly and thoroughly like two coral membranes in a medical book close-up photo.
Steve knelt in front of her, rolling his stiff foreskin ridge back and forth over the knotty head of his prick.
"She's got a cummy slot, doesn't she?" he said to the women. "Anybody else that wet?" He looked them over with a mixture of scorn and longing.
He sank down and grabbed Lorna's silk-covered thighs in the crook of his elbows and sank his open mouth on her gushy slicked-up cunt. She squealed at the first contact and spoke feverishly so the audience could hear her.
"Ooooooh, I'm so hot for the tongue today! You ever get like that? In the mood for a little oral business? Ummmmmm, he can do things with his tongue that most men can't even do with their pricks. He's putting it inside me, really gets it up there in my cunt-NNNNGGGHHHHI I loooove to feel it slither in me, so hot, ummmmm this is wonderful, girls! I can take it for hours and love every minute of it. Suck my clit, darling, I'm ready to come!"
Steve's hands wove freely over her naked belly and clenching ass. He kneaded her thighs in hefty handfuls and dug his finger in her hair-encircled asshole. She lifted her hips so the women could see his thick finger crawling into her bung. They stiffened and squirmed on their chairs as if they wished their own asses were receiving such determined attention.
"Ahhhhhh, poke around in there, move it in and out! Yessssssss, oooooh fuck my ass, darling, while you lick me!"
That was a little hard to do in the usual cunt-lapping position, so Steve turned around with his feet toward Lorna's head. This way, the women could see his plunging finger up her corn hole and his darting tongue as it slithered through her widespread twat lips.
He sucked ravenously, even painfully on her steaming gash. His breath was burning hot. He licked her like a cat, shooting his tongue out and furrowing her slit from clitoris to vaginal opening in long panting strokes. A violent tremor shook her from head to foot as she came amid squalling howls of appreciation. Her hips jerked lewdly up into his face until she smeared him with her glistening come juices, then she snapped back and pulled her succulent cunt away from his eager mouth. The room filled with wet suckling sounds and the harsh raspy panting of the watching women. The brunette could not sit still; her ass circled and wriggled on the seat of the chair and her eyes were glazed as she watched the twisting nude couple on the floor.
"Jesus, she tastes good!" he gasped. "Nice salty little pussy. . . . I'm going to be thirsty when this is over."
He captured her again with a resounding smack of lips and tongue. Lorna wove her torso in a dance as she rose slowly to her knees. He lay in front of her, his face pressed against the wet orange hairs of her sex triangle. She jabbed her juicy pink meat until his face shone with her nectar. He crawled up under her spread thighs and rolled to his back, his gigantic cock sticking straight up in the air. The women were drooling visibly over it, particularly the brunette.
He was smothered in naked creamy cunt and loved it, begging her with muffled sounds and moans to give him still more. Lorna wove her split into his mouth and nose, shivering in ecstasy as his coarse beard stubble tickled her coming organ.
"Ooooh, when you take my clit in your mouth I go crazy!" she cried. "Suck it, you beautiful stud, suck it!"
She lifted herself in violent belly twists, then lowered her nether parts over his face again. She came, a fierce pounding climax from high in her vagina, so violent that she felt it in her rectum and belly. Steve gave a hoarse grunt and sucked her juices from her quivering cunt hole and wiggled his tongue in the wet palpitating cavern.
"Ummmmm, he's tongue-fucking me, girls! Ooooh, I love that flicking kiss way up in my box. Lick me inside, lick all my love juice out and I'll make some more for you!"
He could not get enough of her lubricious naked crotch. His hands roved everywhere on her, reaching up to pluck her pointy nipples. The small of her back felt boneless and fluid as one fluttery climax followed another. Her knees were so weak that she could hardly squat over him without tumbling over. She rubbed herself over his stubbly chin and shrieked in ecstasy. He went insane, suckling her hairy lips and pulling them out in long bands of soft, wrinkly flesh.
"Nnnnnggghhh! He's really eating me, eating me alive!"
Steve pulled away and rolled her weak, unresisting body to its belly. "Get that beautiful rump up, sweetheart, I want to taste your asshole. Like a little rimming?" He turned to the bug-eyed women. "Did you ever spread it out for your husbands and let the old man lick in your crack? You'd be surprised how much we guys want to get our tongues in those tight little virgin holes of yours. Try it sometime and see if it doesn't bring him back to life. Watch!"
Lorna crawled on all fours and spread her thighs so that her generous twin globes separated to display her appetizing pink crack with its lining of white-gold hairs. She showed it to the women and made her puckered rim palpitate for them. Someone moaned, a light, involuntary sound followed by hysterical gasps and giggles from the rest. They all stared into Lorna's wrinkled neat little anus. Steve pulled her plump white buns apart to give them a better view.
"I want to crawl in there," he murmured. "That's a lovely mouthful, isn't it?"
As his head crawled up under her buttocks, her body stiffened, her spine dipped in a swaying arc and she shook violently. His tongue circled rapidly over her cheeks, then lunged hungrily into her crack. He flicked it wildly between her nether orbs before he stuck it with determined insistence against the sensitive little tan ring. It was the most delicious, delicately tortuous thing imaginable. She wove her ass sinuously against his furious laving mouth.
"Ohhhhh, that tickles! It's gooood, ummmmm so good to have a tongue in your ass! I love to be rimmed! Faster, darling, faster! Fuck me up there with your tongue."
She speared herself on his searching tongue as he wriggled it into her rectum, tormenting her with the hot puffs of his breath. Lorna grunted and clenched her buttocks around his buried face. His tongue sought her bowels wetly, dipping and spearing into her seething channel as she screamed and moaned.
She loved the vulgar, lewdly stimulating sounds of his lingual attack on her ass. Rimming was the promise of madness; an unbearably lovely stimulation with a climax in the offing, an eternity of sex without satisfaction.
"Ahhhhhhh, I can't stand it!" she groaned, rolling over on her side.
He went with her, shoving and stabbing his tongue into her billowing naked rump as she lay helplessly twitching on her side, wriggling and squirming and trying to escape his searching mouth and tongue. She was not acting, and the women seemed to know it. She caught their eyes and smiled a drugged and drunken smile as she howled like a bitch in rut.
He pushed her onto her stomach and fell on top of her, cramming his face down into the lush rolling expanse of her generous female ass. She lay on a little lump in the mattress. She began to hump it, moving vigorously in a vixenish primal lust, squirming crazily over the hard place under her needy cunt.
Steve pulled her up and held her face between his hands. He guided it to his cock; she saw drops of come on the tip. It felt like a slick stone as he pushed it against her mouth. She took the knotty pink tip eagerly and sucked ravenously on it. It slid further into her throat until it was rammed against her palate.
"She loves that big stick in her mouth, girls. Look at her go down on it, she really swallows it all. Best cocksucker in the world, aren't you, baby?"
He fucked her mouth with slow, steady strokes. She made a spout of her lips and nibbled the rubbery flared head as he jabbed and circled his hips in vulgar motions. One of the women was clutching her face and gasping and the brunette squeezed her thighs rhythmically, leg-jacking her cunt between them.
"Ooooh, I've got to fuck, girls. This dog is going to shoot off if I don't get him in something soft and hairy."
He picked Lorna up and deposited her on her back on top of the table. He spread her cunt lips for the women to see the unbelievable size of her frenzied slice. Her come juices were so thick that her entire vaginal orifice had turned milky from them, and even her luscious slice of ass crack was shiny with the lubrication and saliva that had rolled down into it.
Lorna lifted her legs around him and hooked her hands under her widespread knees. Steve stepped into the inviting V-shaped space and pointed his rigid cock at her slot. The women grunted with abandon now, forgetting everything except their own lust to see that gorgeous pike spear that hot little orange slash.
His swollen knob touched her slathered hairs. She jerked and eased her soft springy buttocks over the edge of the table.
"There's nothing better in this world than to look down and see your dong nudging a cunt that's spread out and drooling for a big stick," he sighed. "This gash is so hot and I'm not even in it yet. I want to swab up and down in it, savor each slippery inch of it. Ohhhh, baby, let's fuck!"
"Give it to me I Put your whang in and bang me hard! Fuck! Fuck meeeeee!"
Her clit was enormous, aching, begging as it stuck out from the tufts of reddish hairs, sore and dark from his steady licks and nibbles. His prick was sore, too, too sore to last much longer. He leaned against her and found her quivering cunt hole.
He dug it in and let it sink slowly up the molten clenching wetness of her walls. She moaned and howled and started to help, pushing, jerking and writhing forward, her legs wrapping around his back and pulling him down into the steaming cavern of her twat.
"I'm in, oh Christ I'm fucking you, baby! You're burning hot in there. This is the best way to fuck a woman, putting her on a table like this," he panted. "I can see everything, the whole bit."
He pumped a long stroke up her vagina and banged the stubby neck of her womb. On the downstroke his back and rectum tingled with fiery sparks as her snapping pussy caressed his foreskin and dragged it over his cock head. He slammed it in harder now, pushing his hairy pelvis into her crotch. He could see everything! All of his in-and-out movements, and the things it did to her to have a cock pushing and pulling in her pussy. The folds of skin inside her vestibule came out a little with each withdrawal, until her vagina looked like a pursing mouth. The circular vise of her hefty sling of cunt muscles open and closed around the sturdy girth of his shaft; tugging and releasing, suckling and quivering in obedience to his piston-like fucking movements..
He gave it to her slowly at first so that he could see it all, and she loved the long drawn-out slow motion of his pecker gliding in her box. A drop of lubrication came from somewhere up near her womb; it was like a flaming spray on him. Her pussy actually trembled, the lips fluttered like thick, torpid wings around the long pink hammer of his cock.
He fucked her harder and faster, pounding her high in the twat, ripping his prick out of her and throwing it back with a brutal slam. He planted his feet firmly on the floor and laid it in to her, giving it to her like hell with no need to balance himself on his hands or elbows or lift himself off her body to let her play, too. He would screw on tables for the rest of his life!
"My Godddddddd! Ah! Ah! Ahhhbhhhhhhl Oh, Steve, this is wonderful!"
She climaxed in a convulsive writhing throe, her legs locked around his waist, her tits bouncing back and forth over her chest. She was flushed red from her face down to her stomach and her nipples stood out like pencil tips.
The women all breathed like bellows as they stared in awe and envy at Lorna's relaxed and well-fucked body. She lay back on the table and laid her hand over her sore pussy and smiled. A low moan of contentment came out of her throat.
Steve drew his dripping cock out of her gash and looked pointedly at the brunette. She was on the edge of her chair, her whole body trembled.
"Want to play yet, sweetheart? Even in my present condition I go for you." He turned to Lorna. "We both do, don't we?"
A lewd thrill went through Lorna as her eyes met those of the darkly beautiful young housewife. Her curiosity stirred sharply, unblemished by guilt or horror because, as Steve said, this was work. It did not matter what they did before others, or even with others, if it were in the course of business. Their love remained unchanged.
The easy rationalization disturbed her not in the least. Steve said that Lesbian shows really brought in the money. So what if it's not normal? What is normal anyway? her mind told her. And besides, the brunette was a slinky witch.
"Go on, Jeanne," urged one of the women. "I want to see what it's like. If you enjoy it, I might take it up myself."
The brunette turned to Steve.
"But I want you, too."
He held up his limp prick.
"Be realistic, honey. Let me get my breath while I watch a little fun for a change. If anybody can recharge my battery it's you."
With a little cry of excitement, the brunette took off her clothes. When she unrolled her panty hose Steve whistled when he saw the big thick bush of black cunt hair. k
"Looks like table pussy to me," he said, winking at the other women.
It was soft and furry, curly and jet black, as big as a strip of bikini at her crotch. Lorna felt her mouth water. The brunette's tits were perky and small, but as firm as new fruit. She walked to the woman and put her arms around her, acting from instinct alone, yet that was enough. They were the same height and their hairy cunt mounds fit together perfectly. Lorna gasped as she felt the newness of the raised, rounded pubic bone press into her groin. As their pussies touched, both of them arched their spines and jutted their hips out. The obscene pose revealed an alpha and omega glory of cunt as the bright orange strands of one meshed with the raven strands of the other.
One of the women, visibly excited, called out:
"That doesn't work, girls. I tried to rub pussies with my roommate in boarding school, I know. You have to do a scissors!"
Instantly, it became clear to both. Lorna kicked off her heels and fell down on the mattress with Jeanne. They lay at opposite ends and spread their legs wide around one another's bodies. It was like two pairs of scissors, blades open; their cunts were the apexes. Lorna fitted one silk-covered leg along Jeanne's naked back and the other lay over the brunette's stomach. Their gashes came together like two mouths in a kiss.
The big black pussy began to squirm immediately. Lorna bucked back into the V of Jeanne's opened thighs, grinding her newly excited snatch into the wet turgidity. Soon their bodies were twisting like burning snakes, their tits bobbing with the frenzy of their movements as they rubbed and nudged their pussies together.
"Right there!" Jeanne cried. "Ooooooh, you found the perfect place! I'm commmmming! UHHHHHHHHHH!"
She humped her naked black diaper of hair, scraping and mashing it against Lorna's ruddy mound. Lewd wet sounds of apposition filled the room and excited everyone in it.
Lorna leaped up and thrust her fingers into the still-moving crotch of the groaning woman. The tangled black hairs were soaked with jism and the flanges still throbbed. She tickled the lush coral valley until Jeanne screamed in an agony of delight and renewed excitement.
"Ummmm, go inside meeeeeee," she crooned. "Fingerfuck my pussy for me."
Lorna knitted her first two fingers together and drubbed them against the pussy hole. The brunette's legs lifted and she slid into the long churning vagina. How hot and wrinkly a cunt was inside! It felt just like the inside of a mouth. She swirled her fingers against the walls, opened them and stretched the suckling skin, then pumped hard until her arm began to ache. Jeanne screeched in an erotic frenzy as the jabbing fingers penetrated to the very depths of her box. Lorna pushed heavily against the hairy outer lips as she fucked up in the channel. Her fingers were slathered with a thick burning mucous as Jeanne sprayed out female come in copious amounts.
Lorna lowered her face to the writhing hips and stuck her tongue into the mass of black curls. She found the hard nub of Jeanne's tiny clitoris and sucked hard, drawing slippery flesh and long kinky hairs into her mouth. Ohhhhh, it was thrilling to go down on another woman! Why hadn't she discovered this before? The taste was strong and feminine, briny and sexy and mouth-watering. No wonder men loved to lap up a cunt!
She was actually disappointed when Steve stepped onto the mattress with a huge, gorgeous hard-on in his fist and pulled her up.
"How do you want it, sweetheart? Missionary or otherwise?" he laughed.
Jeanne rolled over on her belly and humped her ass at him. From under her thighs her black, gaping cunt split open in lewd greeting to him. Lorna stared into her ass crack in disbelief. She was as hairy as Steve in there! From the thick sworls of nether hair her pulsating brown rectum peeped out.
"I like it puppy dog style," she panted. "But rim me a little first."
"With pleasure!" he cried.
Lorna watched his tongue shoot out and lick through the fluffy growth. He dabbed her rectal ring and sucked at it until he had her screeching like a banshee. She ground her bare ass against his face until her buttocks were red from scratches. He got his tongue in her while his hands dove under to her cunt and tugged on her turgid lips.
"All aboard!" he shouted, and jumped behind her with his ten inches at her cunt hole. She wiggled back at the first touch of his massive head in her box. Lorna watched, enchanted, as the dark red stick sank slowly into the black-swathed pussy, right up to the hilt. He stroked the inside of her twat with long vigorous fucking pulls. His balls slapped forward against her gash. The rocky hammer slid back and forth, appearing and disappearing with perfect rhythm between the backs of her plump thighs.
Lorna wanted something herself now, just watching them get it together. She knelt in front of Jeanne and spread open the lips of her newly lubricated gash. The bright pink of her intimate parts was inches from the brunette's mouth.
"Eat it," she commanded. "Have fun at both ends."
The brunette was so hot that she almost chewed Lorna's clit off! Her tongue flicked and thrust like a hot little cock. A steady growl sounded in her throat, changing to a harsh grunt each time Steve slammed a fuck into her upturned femaleness. Lorna circled her pussy against the wild mouth and reached for the firm pointy boobs. Ohhhhh, how warm and soft they were, except for the jutting tips of her nipples. Lorna rolled them in her fingers while her back arched under the rough sucking between her legs.
Suddenly, the brunette bit down on her soft tender slice as she climaxed from Steve's fucking. Lorna screamed in pain and tried to pull away but that only increased the agony. Jeanne's long white teeth were sunk in her hairy lips and she couldn't get loose! She rubbed close to the woman's face, smothering her until she let go.
Oooooh, her sore little cunt! She dared not say anything because they had obviously pleased a customer, but she knew her tender flanges would be bruised for days. She looked up and saw Steve shooting his wad into the beautiful ass, his teeth locked in a grimace. The brunette took it with a blissful smile on her face as she felt the hot splash of his semen go into her.
"Christ, you're a beautiful lay, baby!" he cried. He looked at the other women. "Who's next? Didn't hurt her, did I? Come on, somebody else take me on."
The blonde with the big tits who had been the first to sample his cock with her tongue leaped up, clawing at her clothes. When the mammoth boobs sprang free everyone stared dumbly at her for a moment, unable to take their eyes off of such mammary excess. Steve sucked on one and Lorna took the other, while in between her legs, keeping her warm until Steve was ready to slip her some meat, was Jeanne, up to her wrist in creamy blonde cunt.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dan Perkins was thinner and very tense. His broad all-American recruiting poster face had grown pale and bony, so that now he looked lupine and suspicious, more like Uncle Sam of the pointing finger than the chunky blond Marine whom the Corps had built into a Man.
Some of his enemies-and he had many more now-said that his new pinched look made him the spit and image of one of the old New England fire and brimstone preachers, such as Jonathan Edwards or Cotton Mather, who had also tried to stamp out sex two centuries before.
He sank wearily down in his father's chambers and ran a trembling hand through his sandy hair.
"Are you sure?" he intoned, looking helplessly at his father.
"Yes, perfectly sure. Lorna and Atkins are thick as thieves. They're making pornographic movies in New York, and he's running one of these body painting studios. Lorna is the 'canvas'. "
The older man snorted with disgust. He rose and went to a liquor cabinet.
"I don't like to drink in here, but I've got to have one. I presume you do, too, son."
Dan took the drink and lifted it for a long pull. The judge watched him closely, frowning.
"Maybe that was a mistake. You've been drinking more than you should these days."
"Do you blame me?" Dan said bitterly.
"Yes, I do. She's not worth it, Dan. She was a cheap little nobody, and we all made a mistake about her. I should have known that a girl whose father commits suicide is bound to be unstable. Coming from a pack of flighty artists. . . . "
Dan did not bother to challenge his father, but he wondered who the 'pack' of artists were. Only Lorna's old man had been a painter.
Aloud, he said: "All right, let me have it all. I'm ready for the worst of it. I know you've been hiding things from me, you and Mother both."
The judge sighed.
"We thought it best to, Dan. It was bad enough when you were thrown out of the congressional race. I didn't have the heart to add to your misery and disappointment by telling you that your wife had become a joy girl, too."
Dan winced. Even though he knew the truth, it was hard to hear it put in such terms. He had long ago picked up most of his father's old-fashioned Yankee expressions such as "shameless, hussy, wanton" but he never realized just how effective they were until now, when they were used to describe the woman he had married.
Lorna had been gone three months now. For about one-third of that time, people had generally bought the excuse that she was away visiting relatives. During the first month of her absence, his father had private detectives hard at work, and it had not taken them long to put two and two together. She and Atkins had left town on the same day; she by car, he by bus. They had met in Bangor, where she picked him up and drove to Gloucester, Massachusetts and spent the night in a motel there.
When Atkins entered the picture, Dan and his parents gave up all hope of his getting into Congress, or even running. Still, they had hoped against hope that they would be able to get Lorna back in time, via threats, bribes, anything. But Atkins had been too slippery for them; the pair vanished for several weeks, along with the car. During that time, his Democratic opponents had smelled some kind of mysterious scandal and had done a little snooping on their own. A few anonymous phone calls and letters proved that his political career was ruined. The opposition didn't know just what Lorna was up to, but they knew enough to threaten him gleefully to back out. Then the Republican Committee, which had also received similar threats, asked him point blank: "Is there anything in your personal life, etc. etc." and he had to throw in the towel. Out of respect for him and his father the Committee had not asked for details, nor had he any idea just what they knew. But they knew Lorna had deserted him and that was enough.
Now, apparently, there was even more.
"Okay, Dad, tell me."
The judge cleared his throat and looked down at his desk.
"Lorna participated in a sex show-live-in Boston, sponsored by Atkins, who was also her partner, and some cheap gangster with a record as long as your arm. The shows took place in an out-of-the-way apartment near the airport, in the Mafia-dominated East Boston section. Because of the sub rosa arrangements between the authorities and the Cosa Nostra it went on some time before anybody knew about it. Don't ask for the details, I don't know them, but you know how big cities are," the judge said contemptuously.
"Some suburban housewife participated also, and the whole thing surfaced because her husband was having her trailed, too. There was a brief scandal and flare-up, and Lorna and Atkins escaped before their names got involved in it. They're now in New York making movies and doing this body-painting business, whatever that is. I presume you know?"
"Yes," Dan sighed. "Customers paint designs on naked women. There's supposedly no sexual contact involved."
"Hrrrump! Supposedly, eh?"
"Oh, Dad," Dan groaned. "Don't make it worse."
"It can't get any worse," said the judge firmly. "Now, my advice to you is to divorce this despicable creature for desertion and get yourself another wife as soon as it's decently possible. You're only twenty-eight, you know. You have years ahead of you to make a name for yourself in politics. Sad as it is to say, divorce doesn't make a damn bit of difference to voters anymore, but they still won't send a bachelor to Washington. This will blow over in time, people have short memories. Lorna will follow Atkins into obscurity. He's small-time whether he knows it or not. I never heard of a hot-blooded pimp. A man has to care nothing for women and sex before he makes a success out of either. Atkins enjoys his work far too much, apparently."
Dan said nothing, but slumped lower in the chair.
"Well?" snapped his father. "Don't look so whey-faced! You can't tell me you still care for the girl after what she's done."
There was no reply. The judge reddened and spoke more sharply.
"Well? Do you?"
Dan seemed to come out of a trance.
". . . . No. Of course not. I'd love to get my hands on her again, but only to wring her neck."
"Well, then, it's settled. You know the old saying: "Where does a wise man hide a leaf? In the forest.' We will let it be known that you're divorcing her because she ran off with another man. Tell as much of the truth as you can whenever you can. Then nobody can call you a liar," he sighed. "Then we'll build you up as the broken-hearted husband, and cast you in a sympathetic role."
Dan looked at the judge with blank eyes.
"What about the Decent Film League? Am I supposed to stop being their counsel? Suppose somebody finds out that Lorna is starring in such films? How would that look for me?"
The judge pursed his lips.
"I don't see as how you have much choice. If you quit them now it will look as if you suddenly approved of dirty movies. But I think you'd better switch to bigger guns. Go after the real movies, the ones with big stars in them, instead of these fly-by-night home projector things. That will get you more publicity anyhow."
"They're not "home projector things, Dad. They're in full color with dialog and they have special movie houses for them." . The judge made an impatient gesture.
"Sounds like you are defending them, or at least advertising them. You know what I mean, don't split hairs. Attack the real movies."
Dan mumbled a tired agreement and got up to leave. He returned to his office in a daze. The judge was wrong this time, terribly wrong. He did love Lorna, had always loved her, but . . . I don't know how to show it!
The memory of her lush nakedness, her soft, yielding body, her eagerness to make love, all came back to him now and smote him with a yearning sadness. So many times, he had wanted her, wanted to make a real party of it, but always there had been his parents down the hall. He and Lorna had shared his old room, the one he had had as a child. When he was a teenager and just starting to jerk off regularly, he was always afraid of discovery. If he went out to the bathroom to beat his meat, his parents would certainly have heard him and wondered at the regular trips. His mother would have diagnosed it as bladder trouble and he would have ended up at the doctors. If he stayed in bed and played with his cock mere was the problem of the sheets or the disposal of kleenex or handkerchiefs.
Either was a risk; either way the specter of discovery loomed over him.
Gradually a web of terror and stealth had spun itself around Dan. When he married Lorna there had been no question of their having their own home. There just wasn't any question of it! He wasn't quite sure why, but he knew that he was expected to stay at home. His mother had deeded the house to him when he married, saying, "Well share your home, Dan" but a piece of paper meant nothing. It was still their home, not his, and as long as it was, he was still a little boy afraid to practice pulls with his pecker.
Wedding present be damned! That was just like his mother, her old way of giving him something, yet not giving him something. She had always done that, for as far back as he could remember. She had given him a bow and arrow once, and then made him promise not to shoot anything. She wanted him to lass her when he was a little boy, but carefully admonished him not to kiss her on the mouth, only on the cheek.
The gift of the huge rambling house extracted promises from him, too. A promise not to grow up, a promise not to leave her, and a promise not to fuck his wife too loudly or too often.
He put his hands over his face. Since viewing all those sexy movies Dan had learned that quiet, careful sex is no sex at all. It occurred to him very gradually that what Lorna wanted was what all women must want: lusty, vigorous, enthusiastic lovemaking of the sort he saw in the films. But by the time he had gotten it through his head she had left them.
So many times, he had wanted to cut loose and really give it to her, try some of the different positions he had seen in the movies, even do it standing up. But how could they, with his parents right down the hall?
At first, when he started working for DFL, he had been truly shocked and disgusted at the movies he saw, and he had prosecuted them with a vigor that was entirely sincere. But after awhile his vigor, no less enthusiastic, was redirected toward his wife.
By that time, it was too late. He had fallen into the pattern of his smothering home life, and so had Lorna. He did not have the nerve to approach her much at all in the last few months of their marriage. He was afraid she would make fun of him if he did anything really wild or sexy in bed; he was indeed a stock figure of fun by that time-the New England puritan lawyer fighting for decency. People were labeled and filed with such ruthless efficiency nowadays that it was hard to break out of a pigeonhole once you found yourself in it.
He got up and paced the floor. He would take her back if he could convince her of his real feelings, but now she wanted Atkins, not him: He remembered Atkins well; a swarthy, romantic, sexy-looking guy that women go for. He was no match for that kind of appeal, he thought with despair.
Besides, if he took her back it would mean a break with, his parents, a permanent break. Part of his mind cried out that it wouldn't matter, it would be good riddance, but even as he thought these things he was aware of his weakness, a weakness that had been instilled in him too long ago to be changed now. Sudden seh-loathing attacked him.
Lorna! Where was she? He had to have her! Now that he had lost her, he wanted her desperately. As long as she had been in the house with him, his helpless feeling of eternal boyishness had been held at bay. He had been a man in a way, he had had a wife there with him in his old room even if he hadn't screwed her very often. Now that he slept there alone, without the feel of her warm curves and the peculiar scent of womanliness beside him, he was thrust back into helpless, frightened childhood.
He had to have his Loma!
A brief madness spread through him and he thought of driving now, to New York, going to every body-painting studio in town until he found her. It was like a drunken vow that sounds incredibly stupid in the sober light of morning and it quickly vanished. He knew he would never have the initiative and the guts to do such a thing; he was no Rhett Butler to kick down a door and throw a woman over his shoulder.
What then?
The idea that grew in him was even more mad than his fantasy of forced rescue. There was small hope of reaching Lorna this way, except symbolically, but even that was enough for him at this point. Perhaps it was all he could manage anyhow, as weak as he was.
He walked hurriedly out of his office, not bothering to answer the surprised flutter of questions that his secretary asked. He got into his car, ignoring the waves of townspeople who so admired him, and sped off out of the business district. He drove steadily until he reached Portland. It was dark when he arrived, and he drove to the garish movie house to which he had gone so many times as a member of the DFL delegation. Now he would go as a customer, as a man, at least as much of a man as he could manage to be at this point. He did not know what the odds of seeing one of Lorna's films were, but he doubted they were very favorable. It did not matter; there might be a girl with red hair in it, and even if there were not, whatever woman it was up on the screen would do because they were all adult and full of sex. He could be with them in the darkness, the way he used to be with Lorna in his room. He had to have a woman with him in the darkness so that he would feel a little like a man instead of a stunted boy.
Fortunately, no one recognized him. It was cold enough in Maine now to wear a hat and bundled scarf, and he did not stand out in the crowd of similarly disguised businessmen. When he found his seat in the orchestra he cautiously removed his wraps and looked straight ahead until the feature started.
A gasp of delight rose from the assembled viewers when the film began with a scene of a naked woman lying on her back on a bed, alone. She was blonde, with a rich brown pussy and a faint hairline that grew up to her tasty little navel. She moaned and tossed her head and ran her hands over her nudity in obvious frustrated longing.
Her nightgown was on the floor. She twisted her hips sinuously and breathed in excited gasps. She looked lovingly down at her bare tits and tweaked their stiff nipples, then cupped her palms around the generous globes and sighed.
"I love to fuck," she said softly, her eyes looking straight into the camera. "I get so hot sometimes I could die, and there's nothing to do but play with my pussy. Right now I'd give anything for a nice hard juicy cock but I'm all alone, so.. . . "
She lay back and spread her legs so wide that the muscles in her thighs stood out like ropes, and hooked her heels over the sides of the mattress. The camera came zooming down into her crotch and the entire screen was filled with a giant cunt. Dan felt his cock swell and inch along his thigh as he stared hungrily into the runny pink folds. He didn't know whether it was lubrication or egg white, but it was real enough to drive his pecker straight up through his pants. Little droplets of moisture clung to the kinky brown hairs that grew abundantly over her sex-engorged outer lips. The spongy flanges were stiffly separated into two turgid, horny-looking edges and inside them her firm, juicy inner lips seemed to flutter with need. The entrance to her vagina gaped open and was filled with jismy goo. Underneath, her buttocks came together in a plump succulence, with stiff wiry hairs sprouting out from the soft cheeks.
Her clitoris was sticking out like an impudent tongue, all red and irritated-looking. She kept her hips still for a long moment, then she wriggled her crotch, her taut, plump buttocks beginning to dig into the bed in a rolling circular motion. A glob of. lubricious fluid seeped slowly out of her stretched-out cunt hole and dribbled down into her crack.
"Ummmmm, you know I've never creamed like this in my life! I can feel it running out of my twat. I'm really juiced up tonight. I could take the biggest dick in the world and still have room for more!"
She bent her arms into stiff wings and drubbed and pinched her thrusting nipples, arching her back until her quivering round boobs spilled every which way. Her nipples poked out like fingertips in their aroused state, dark with sex, almost maroon. The big pasties of flesh around the points had gathered into rigid wrinkles, pushing the red tips up and out in a way that made Dan want to leap open-mouthed at the screen.
"I love to have my titties played with," she crooned. "That's something all us girls love. Mine are big enough that I can even lick them. See?"
She lifted one heavy, enormous milker and lowered her head to it. Her tongue was long and darting, and its tip touched the swollen nipple. She grunted in ecstasy and rolled her eyes as she tongued herself, then lay back with a tortured groan.
Her thumb and forefingers plucked rapidly as she pulled her nipples up into long spouts, then released them. Her mountainous orbs quivered and shook, their solid, slightly perspiring weight looked delicious and womanly.
"Lick them, tickle them with your tongue, rub your big hard rod on them, fuck it into my cleavage. Ahhhhh, suck those titties, lover! Take them in your mouth, pull on them, bite them harrrrrd!"
She screamed in ecstasy and Dan's stomach tightened in longing and desire. He saw his own tongue moving rapidly, heavily, wetly across that soft bosom; he could taste those wonderful boobs with their flaky tips and their salty essence of perspiration and woman-scent.
A shimmering sigh floated out of her lips as she humped her crotch in time to her wantonly pinching fingers. She flexed and squeezed her vaginal muscles so that the audience could see the lubricious stuff pump out of her hole. Her flanges moved, her whole gash seemed to come alive and suck each viewer forward. It was like a hot little mouth drooling and clenching every prick in the house.
"See how good I am at fucking? I've got a real red snapper, don't I? I could milk your dong dry for you. I caress a man's tool for him, I don't just let him stick it in me. I fuck back, honey, and I wish you were here so I could prove it."
Gasping, she rubbed her hands down her naked torso until her fingers tangled in her stiff bushy cunt hair. She pulled at the long strands and then dipped her fingers into her throbbing slit. The molten female parts pulsated as she stroked and tickled them, digging her fingertip into the slick-ened folds. Her thighs rippled with muscles as she squirmed and pumped in wanton ecstasy.
"God, my cunt feels a mile long! I could take anything I'm so hot-a broom handle, a pipe, anything! But the best thing is a big red whang, nice and stiff and full of hot stuff."
Her fingers sluiced between her thighs, plundering in her streaming cunt valley. She tugged on her coral membranes in a way that made the fold of flesh over her clit rub against the protruding little nib. Her back arched under what must have been an electrifying thrill, so powerful that her pinched little anus suckled and clenched. Her soft white buns closed over it a second, then sprang open as she worked her buttocks in a lusty roll.
"Oooooh, I want your big fat cock everywhere! Up my asshole, in my mouth, but most of all in my hot little twat. Ummmmm, she's steaming! It's awful empty in there!"
She spread her pussy open with one hand and tickled her clit with the other, her fingers moving in a frenzied glissade. Her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth tightened into a grimacing, tortured smile of oncoming ecstasy.
"AAAAAHHHHHHHHl It's happening, and it's happening BIG!"
In the split-second before she shook with climax she twisted her little finger around into her puckered piss hole. It was a pinpoint opening, raised in a little crater, but she deftly opened it with her fingertip. She grunted sharply in pain and pleasure, then her body reared up from the bed like a wheel, going up, up, up to a wild arc of wanton completion.
"UUUUHHHHHHHHHH! Sex, sex, sex! Cock, cock, cock, how I looooove it! Fuck me forever, give it to meeeeee!"
Her body tossed violently, and her finger dug deeper into her piss slit. Suddenly she pulled it out with a pop and a jet of yellow water squirted out of it. She wiggled in ecstasy, her mouth stretched into a smile of pure joy as the stream kept coming and finally tapered into a weak dribble.
Dan suddenly stood up and plowed roughly past the knees of the men beside him. He hurried up the aisle, his cock like an iron pipe in his pants. He had to have a woman tonight! Somewhere, in some dark room in a motel full of strangers who did not care whether he fucked the whole Goddamn night. Someplace where the couple three doors down were doing the same loud, wonderful, sexy things.
CHAPTER NINE
The studio was in the East Village, in the basement of a tawdry apartment house that had been sold for demolition. Two or three recalcitrant tenants had refused to move after the landlord had issued eviction papers, and the housing authority was backing them up. The landlord, forced to keep essential services going for the stubborn remaining residents, had seen a chance to make some quick money when one of Steve's New York cronies approached him for a "studio." For a painter, was the explanation. Nobody actually said, but the landlord knew what kind of painting was going on. It was legal enough, but if there were any trouble of any land the landlord would claim that they were squatters who had camped in the building without his knowledge. Thus the rent was paid in cash and there were no receipts. It was all very temporary, but Steve said no body-painting studio ever intended to be permanent. It was a quick-money turnover, just like the landlord's. It took a bastard to know a bastard, and Steve and the landlord had found each other. Lorna, raised with the prudent New Englander's dictum to demand a receipt for anything you paid for, was shocked at the lack of that all-important piece of paper.
Steve sneered at her fears.
"He cheats big, not little. Use your head, sweetheart. Except when you're working, that is. Then you use other things. Christ, Lorna, if he's reserving the right to toss us out do you think he's going to sign receipts?"
She cringed under his scorn, as she often did nowadays. Instead of shedding the former respectable life that she had hated, she was constantly reminded of it. In small matters such as the argument over rent receipts it was highly apparent that she was "straight". Steve knew the ropes, he knew what respectable people did not know, and Lorna's ignorance was evidence that she still belonged to that category that Steve hated: "nice people."
His hatred seemed to extend to her. She felt that she had somehow failed him simply because of the station in life from which she sprang. It was something she could not help, but still she felt guilty.
He kept her in a perpetual state of nervousness and confusion. Just when she was beginning to feel like a stupid tag-along respectable housewife, he would turn the tables on her and make her feel like a dumb broad fished out of the gutter.
Take the matter of education. Steve was very proud of the number of books he read, exceedingly proud, it seemed to her. He resented the fact that she had gone to college and took every opportunity to lord his learning over hers. He corrected her grammar on minor points that she had never bothered to think about before-nor had anyone else she ever knew bothered with such precise anachronisms of speech. Once she had started to say: "If I am-" He interrupted her.
"If I be, you mean. That's a subjunctive verb, used after an expression of doubt such as if. As in Patrick Henry's 'if this be treason, make the most of it.'"
The look on his face and the sardonic inflection he gave the word treason were subtle warnings to her that she had better do just as he told her, always. He did not say it in so many words, but it was obvious to both of them.
Lorna had heard about prisoners who, for want of anything else to do, had educated themselves while serving time. The papers regularly reported some instance or other, and Nathan Leopold and the Birdman of Alcatraz were solid American legends. There was no doubt in her mind that Steve was highly intelligent, and he had used the criminal's quick mentality in good as well as bad ways. She found his self-taught collection of knowledge commendable and was ready to admire him for it, but he would not let her. The one time she had innocently complimented him on it he had turned on her in an icy rage, lashing her with sarcastic words until he had her in frenzied, terrified tears.
She was too afraid of losing him to analyze the matter properly. She had spent her life-her respectable life-with people who were secure enough to make casual and minor grammatical errors without giving it a thought. She had also known people who spoke with perfect grammar all of the time as a matter of habit, and without giving it a thought. Among the less fortunate and badly educated types were those whose grammar was atrocious and who were proud of it; such lack of elegance proclaimed manliness. But also in this group were people like Steve, obsessed with "self-improvement" and as sensitive as an exposed nerve about their humble origins. Most of these fumbled ludicrously and pitifully for the right word, usually the wrong one, and would rather produce an incoherent sentence than split an infinitive for the sake of clarity. The advertisements on match book covers are directed at people like this.
But Steve, for all his self-improvement and insecurities, was not like this. His vocabulary was immense and well-chosen, and his grammar and clarity were one. Because of this, Lorna often felt like the Bronx guttersnipe and looked upon him as the respectable, fortunate one.
He had used the principle of divide, confuse and conquer on her personality, keeping her in such an agitated state of mind that she was powerless to fight him. She never knew which end was up. The only area in which he allowed her total confidence and marks was the area of sex. This bound her to him and made her do anything he wished, anything, just to please him and keep the cutting, sardonic rejection out of his voice and his handsome dark face. Steve knew that he had her by the short and curly, but he could not have explained to anybody how he got her there. He worked by instinct and intuition and played everything by ear. He would have made a much better lawyer than either Dan or the judge, but the one time she had told him so he had not spoken to her for two days. She could not bear his silent hostility; it was much better to be suspended in psychological space. Anything was better than being rejected by Steve.
She left the ratty building one morning. It was a warm day for December, with a thin sun. She had to get some air, it seemed that they never went out in the daytime anymore. Steve was a night person and they seldom got to sleep before three in the morning. She crossed the street and sat down in the small park area in front of the church of St. Mark's-in-the-Bouerie. The sign made her think once again of Steve's tender intellectual pride. He had explained to her, in response to her question, that the word, pronounced "bowery" was Dutch for farm, and that Peter Stuyvesant's original farm had covered the land that was now covered by broken bottles and vomit.
She looked into the burial ground behind the building. It was littered with beer cans and there were still a couple of bums stretched out on the graves, covered with newspapers and tattered remains of Good Will overcoats.
Lorna shuddered at the sight. How could they sleep there, so close to those ancient bones that would never arise again? She tried to think logically, and she supposed that the surface occupants of the graves felt themselves lucky. The earth was softer than concrete, and even in its present state it was cleaner than the Tombs, the jail to which they all had undoubtedly been at one time or another.
Still, a sensation of dread remained with her. Those bums, so wretched and undernourished, were close to death themselves. How could they, if they had any sense of self-preservation left, imitate the actual dead by stretching out on those scraggly mounds?
Self-preservation.. . .
Quick and automatic denial drove out all other emotions in Lorna. It was self-preservation to escape from Maine, from Dan, from his family! She had done the right thing; she had saved . herself from living death as the wife of a puritanical killjoy and two-faced politician.
A ass lay fiat on his back, directly in front of one of the slab-like tombstones. His hands were folded over his chest and the various coats and old sweaters in which he had wrapped himself looked like a rotting shroud. He stirred suddenly and sat up with a jolt.
She watched him rise slowly. His shadow cast a long, dark smudge over the tombstone. Lorna clutched her throat, unable to take her eyes from him. He seemed to have risen from the dead.
She jumped from the bench and hurried back to the building.
That night, her first customer was a prosperous-looking elegant executive type who seemed ashamed to be where he was. He was about forty-five, dressed in a soft cashmere overcoat and carrying a slim attach� case. Lorna came out in a robe and arranged the tray of paints for him. They were harmless vegetable colors about the consistency of Kool-Aid and just as washable.
In a halting voice, the man told her his name was Tom.
She was bent over the palette when he spoke. As she heard the name, an electrifying sensation covered her. The texture of the brushes on the tray, the nap of the wool in her robe, the way it gaped open in front when she leaned over, everything about that split second rushed her with intense familiarity.
She looked up at him and repeated his name. Her voice was shaky and interrogative and for a moment the man seemed terrified and about to bolt, as though he were afraid they knew each other and she had recognized him. She quickly smoothed it over and smiled at him, forcing her fears away. It was ridiculous, she told herself. She had been reading too many of Steve's books and listening to his newly adopted theories. What other name, with the possible exception of John, could be more familiar than Tom? She had known plenty of people named Tom. It meant nothing at all, nothing!
She took off her robe and stood naked in the bright light. His eyes sank like weights down her body.
"Let's paint a pretty picture, Tom," she said. "Do you want a front or back view?" He swallowed.
"Front, of course."
He picked up one of the soft brushes and dipped it, as they all did, in the red paint. He stroked the cold, wet bristles over her nipples and she shivered and smiled at him through half-closed eyes. He knelt beside her reclining body, panting hard and flicking the brush at her with a shaking hand. Lorna stretched her arms over her head and pushed her boobs out to him in encouragement. His face grew almost as red as the paint.
His eyes descended to her triangular bush of cunt hair.
"Orange," he murmured. "Beautiful. I'll match it."
He picked up another brush and stirred it in the orange paint, then added a little brown until it was the exact cinnamon shade of her thatch. As the brush licked over her pelvis she jerked with pleasure. He had struck a responsive nerve at the juncture of hip and thigh, where long trailing strands of curly hair escaped her neat bush and grew in a scattered red-gold line.
"Hairy but fair," he mumbled. "Just the way I like them to be. God, you've got a beautiful cunt, you know that? May I see more of it? Open your legs a little," he pleaded.
Lorna smiled and spread her thighs. He shuffled on his knees down to the bottom of the pad on which she reclined and gazed hotly into her fully exposed gash. She was hot and creaming and a line of moisture was apparent on the inside of her legs.
"You're excited," he said with wonder in his voice. "My God, did I get you going?"
He held his crotch as though he were in pain. His cock was up and ready. He took another larger brush and dipped it in the water.
"This will feel good, softer than anything, even my tongue, though I want to put that in there, too. I want to put everything I've got in that beautiful little slice. Will you let me?"
"Oh, I don't think so," she whispered. "I couldn't do that."
Her breath whistled through her clenched teeth as the sodden brush parted her pussy lips and crawled deliciously up her gash. He stroked her aching clitoris with it until her hips began a vulgar twisting thrust. She squirmed and sighed, wriggling her bare ass toward him, then drew back away from the stimulating bristles.
"You love that, don't you?" he said eagerly. "May I put it up inside a little?"
"Ummmmm, just a little," she whispered.
He gasped when he stuck the instrument into her quivering gash. She clamped down on it with her muscles and sucked it inside her vagina. He made an exclamation of surprise as she pulled on it vigorously, nearly fucking herself with it. He stared at the moving brush in her cunt and groaned with desire.
"What a lovely snapping pussy you have! I wish I had my cock in there. God, if you pulled on it like that I'd go crazy! Let me give you a little something for what ails you, hmm? Let me slip you some meat, please! I'll give you twenty-five dollars extra-"
"Oh, no, I'm not supposed to do things like that with customers. Just paint me, Tom."
"Please! Please let me! I can't stand it! My dog's about to explode. Please, please, I'll give you fifty-"
"Seventy-five."
"All right, seventy-five."
He began to unzip his pants but she reached out and grabbed his stiff, trapped cock and squeezed it hard. He howled in pain and pleasure and began to grunt and thrust against her palm as she fondled his semen-crammed tool.
"Empty your pockets before you take off your pants, Tom honey."
He was ready to do anything she asked as long as he got his meat in her. He fumbled for his wallet and took out the bills, then kicked off his shoes and dragged his pants down his legs. Lorna's cunt continued to draw on the paint brush stuck up it. She sighed and rolled her hips as she flexed her sex muscles rapidly.
"Ummmmm, I need something bigger than this in there now. You've got a gorgeous cock, Tom. Really fat and hard, just what I need to cool me off. Crawl in, honey, I'll give us both a good ride."
He jumped on top of her with a thud that nearly sent them both sprawling. His hairy legs captured her thighs as he sat atop them. He balanced himself t over the wide opening of her naked crotch, his thighs rough and fuzzy against the satiny inner sides of her own. His balls nestled heavily against her pussy for a moment.
"I like to fuck a woman while I sit on her legs," he panted. "That way I can look down and see my dong going in and out of you."
His stiff prick drove her crazy with lust as he rubbed and thrust it against her belly, digging its tip into her navel. Lorna moaned and jiggled her hips in desperate impatience under him. Her vagina was stretched out to its limits, extended in an aching, needy tunnel right up the middle of her belly.
"I love a big rod in there. Shove it in, hurry!"
He really had her hot, she was not pretending. She threw her legs around his naked ass and squeezed him into the hot opening of her thighs, but he pulled her legs down and squatted on top of them. His hot hairy sack was against her buttocks as he stabbed her burning vagina with his thick ready rod. Her walls clasped hungrily around it as he thrust it in to the hilt. He closed his eyes and smiled in ecstasy as his cock tip struck the neck of her womb.
"That's the sweetest, hottest place in the world!" he cried. He dragged his rod out of her until only the thick head remained clutched inside her harshly working cunt muscles. He stroked in again, then rocked back. Soon they were rolling together in a groaning, heaving delight of lust. A crawling, prickling delight enflamed her vagina and engulfed her whole body. She felt her climax grow out of the sliding movements of his fat sticky pecker inside her snatch. Tiny licks of flame seemed to rush over her pussy and into her entrails and rectum. Her clit rose up like a hot nail and tingled with oncoming ecstasy.
"I'm making you come, aren't I?" he gasped. "I feel that little hole throbbing around my whang. You're spraying me, I can feel it! Get it, get it, get it!"
Lorna gasped and grunted as the waves of orgasm crested inside her. She struggled against his weight and thrust her hips into his groin, rubbing her pussy against his sliding, throbbing cock. He dug it in deep once more and shot out a hot load of jism that he must have been saving up for months to judge from the amount that filled her.
He shook violently until his teeth rattled. After his first big jet of semen he still was not finished with her. He rocked it in slowly, giving her short, jabbing strokes as he squirted some more of his hot maleness into her quivering box.
"God, you got the biggest wad I've ever shot," he sighed. "That was heaven on earth."
As he reluctantly got dressed to go, she almost told him to forget about the money and fuck her again. She knew she did not dare; Steve would be around in a moment to see what was going on. Tom made another appointment for the following week. He was the nicest, most normal customer she had entertained so far. She remembered the fat red-faced man who had "painted" her yesterday. He had wanted back views, nothing else, and he did an in-depth study, too. He made her he on her belly with her legs spread while he stuck six of the tiny brushes up her asshole. Then she had to prance around the room while he beat his meat. When he got it up good and hard, he tore the brushes out and fucked her sore bottom until she felt faint. To make things worse he used a french tickler with hard little cockscombs on the tip, like a rooster's head. The sharp points pricked and stabbed her tender bung until she bled, but still he wasn't through with her. He gave her another fifty dollars and washed her up in his own perverted fashion, first licking out her rim and crack, and then making her spread her cheeks with her hands while he aimed a stream of piss at the torn flesh. She could still feel the acidy burning.
Tom was different, he was normal. All he wanted was a nice velvety slot for a hot dick. He was nice, he was . . . respectable. The sight of him with the paint brush in his hand reminded her of Daddy. Both men had the same slender, sensitive features and quiet voice. When he left she thought of the first time Daddy had fucked her; his rigid, demanding cock as it drubbed against her virgin flesh, the sharp hot pain she had experienced as it tore through her hymen and thrust deeply into her welcoming pussy.
The memory was so real that it frightened her. She had thought of her father many times, but never had her memories been so realistic, so terrifyingly present. Why was she linking of Daddy like this now? It was as if he had come back to haunt her.
The incident of the vagrant getting up from the grave came to her. It was connected somehow, the vivid recollection of her father and the morbid sight of that human wreckage on the grave mound.
Nothing could be more disparate than a memory of Daddy and the sight of that sodden tramp, but there was something else, a third portent that somehow tied everything together. The deja vu she had felt when she bent over the paint tray as Tom told her his name.
What was it!
It had something to do with the dead. Daddy-was dead, the tramp was symbolically dead as he lay on the ground in front of the tombstone. Yet he had gotten up, risen from the dead as it were, and in a way so had Daddy come back to her tonight in the guise of a man named Tom.
Something dead was stalking her. What was it?
CHAPTER TEN
Dan hurried through the dark streets of Portland. He bent forward against the biting wind that sliced through him like a razor and caught up with the dark curvaceous girl who stood under a dim cafe sign. She had given him the eye a block back, as he came out of the theater. Whores knew where the action was likely to be, and Dan had already testified before the City Council about the shameless Portuguese women who had staked out the skin flick area as their happy hunting grounds. Now he was running like a dog after just such a woman, a dog sniffing after a bitch in a dirty alley. He didn't care, he wanted her. He had seen the coppery flatness of her dyed red hair under the marquee lights and he had to have her.
She turned and smiled at him with startlingly long white teeth. Her eyes were as black as cherries and her skin a golden tawny shade.
"You looking for a little friend?" she said archly. "You been following me."
For a moment he almost took her literally. Though he had often been briefed by the police on the habits and behavior of whores, and had cross-examined more than one, he had never actually met a whore in his life. For a moment he forgot what he well knew: that they psyched potential customers out to see if they were plainclothes men.
"No, I was looking for you," he said. His heart was pounding so hard he could barely get the words out. "Could I . . . buy you a drink?"
She shrugged.
"What kinda whiskey you like? Straight or blended?"
He knew what she meant by that. Confidence began to return to him.
"Both ways. How much does whiskey cost around here?"
She laughed. "A lot. Twenty-five dollars, plus seven for the cover charge."
He took out his wallet and handed her the money, and added a five dollar tip.
"Come on," she said, taking his arm. "I know a nice place we can drink."
She took him on a roundabout walk through the bus station area to a narrow street that looked more like a winding alley. The sea air and fog whirled about them. He smelled the cheap powerful scent of her perfume. It was like animal musk.
They went into a narrow frame building that had a hotel sign over the door. There was no name, just the word hotel. There was no lobby, just a vestibule containing a glassed-in cubicle where a man sat reading a gun magazine. He looked up without interest and nodded to the girl without bothering to glance at Dan.
The ratty stairs and corridor upstairs smelled dry and musty. The girl opened one of the doors with a key from her purse and flicked on a light whose location she found without looking or fumbling.
She locked the door behind them and stuck her hand between the flaps of Dan's overcoat, and grabbed his swollen groin. She pinched his erect cock and laughed.
"Man, you got a bone on tonight. It's gonna take more than one round to get you cooled off."
"I'll pay you, don't worry," he panted. "Get your clothes off and let's go."
She tossed her coat in a chair and kicked out of the brief mini. She stood in long purple pantyhose, her legs plump and shapely. When she took off the garish saffron blouse her big brown boobs swayed braless. Their nipples were dark brown and swollen-looking, the biggest ones he'd ever seen in or out of the movies. She saw his eyes on them and smiled knowingly. Her hands came up and cupped the big orbs of tawny flesh and lifted their heaviness.
"You a tit man? I got plenty to make you happy." Her eyes narrowed appraisingly. "I might even give you a tit fuck."
He threw his clothes aside and walked to her. His stick was up and she grabbed it and pushed the foreskin back with an adroit roll of her fingers.
Dan's hips jerked and his engorged, horny cock throbbed with trapped blood.
She released him with another harsh, mocking laugh.
"I better stop or I'll get it in my hand, huh?"
"Take off those hose," he panted. She made him feel like a randy teenager who couldn't wait to blow a wad. He'd show her. This was a woman he didn't have to respect or treat "right"; this was a hot-sheet hotel with no parents down the hall. He'd show her.
She unrolled the band of the hose and pushed the material over her rounded belly. A big puff of black hair sprouted out at him as she worked the hose down over her legs. She had a line of black hair all the way up to her navel, and the inside of her thighs were also lined with the sexy furry growth. He'd never seen a woman with such a well-haired crotch; there was something primitive and exciting about it.
Naked now, she sank down on the bed and lay on her back. She held out her arms and he went into them. His cock bobbed against her legs and she parted her thighs to capture it expertly between them. She fitted herself to his body until she was rolling his horny tool in the hairy puddle of her cunt. It was caught in her slice and she snuggled her crotch against it, sighing deeply.
"Look what I found," she whispered. "You're a real hung stud, honey. That's real man meat. I think this is gonna be a good ball, huh? You gonna be good to me like I'm gonna be good to you?"
"Yes . . . yes, I'll give you anything you want."
He felt his rectum throb and almost came between her' legs. The rolling clutch of her abundantly haired pussy was unbearable. He clenched his ass muscles and pulled his rod away from her wet, hungry legs. She was trying to make him shoot so she would be able to charge him more. He had plenty of money with him but he wasn't going to let her fool around.
She laughed, this time not so mockingly, and his confidence quickened. She took one big soft tit in her hands and stuck it up against his face.
"Suck titty, honey, it's good for what ails you."
His mouth opened and covered the enormous brown circle. He tasted the flakiness of her tip and the biting flavor of her strong perfume. She had a row of pimples around her nipple, just like miniature pearls. He ran his tongue around them as his mouth drew in the soft spongy skin. He felt her pasties wrinkle up and push the nipple out into a hard little pouting point. He didn't know whether he had really gotten her hot or whether all women's tits automatically responded to sucking and licking like that. He didn't care. She was a good whore, and a good actress, and it was just the same as if he really had her horny for him. She twisted and moved harshly under his mouth, moaning and sighing and pressing his neck.
"Ooooooh, baby, you suck 'em good. Tickle 'em nice like that. I love to have my jugs diddled."
He went to work on the other one with his fingers. His prick was stretched out and aching; he couldn't fool around any longer as much as her mountainous milkers thrilled him. He knelt over her and thrust a knee between her legs. Her mouth widened into a knowing grin as she spread her thighs out around him and threw her hips up under his rigid hammer. "
Her knees crawled up his ribs and clutched him under the arm pits. When he looked down he could not believe the size of that big diaper of cunt hair she had. How strange it looked with her dyed red hair. Oh, Lorna . . . my beautiful red-haired pussy girl!
"You want a piece of my pie, honey? You really are hot to get in there, huh. Okay, let's fuck, honey."
She reached under her raised legs and grabbed his thrusting dick in her fingers. The entrance of her box was fiery with woman-heat as she stuck his prick head in it. Dan snuggled into her fast-moving crotch and pressed his cock all the way in until he felt the tough thumb-like piece of flesh that was the entrance to her baby carriage. He gave her a few quick pulls, slapping his balls up against her hairy ass crack. He thrust hard, then again, and again, making the rickety bed creak and her big tits bounce across her chest. She planted her feet firmly on the mattress around his hips and lifted her ass high. Then she fucked back with a vicious intensity, all the while tightening her sex muscles around his driving rod.
"Come, honey, get a good bang. Let that juicy rod do its stuff. Shoot me full of that white stuff, honey. Empty your balls in my cunt, sweetheart, come on. Come, baby, come now, now, now!"
"Oooohhh, your whore bitch, yes! Take it, all of it!"
His cock flexed and grew larger for a second, then the spasm hit him. He shuddered aguishly on top of her and loosed his spurt into her churning, muscular vagina.
"EEEEEEEEEEEE! It's hot, honey, God your jism is hot as fire!"
His cock was still pulsating and dribbling semen when she pulled out from under him. He hated her in that instant; he wanted to leave it in and let it come out of her naturally, the way he used to do with Lorna. She loved that, when they were first married. She held his prick inside her as it softened, and her wet walls snuggled around him like a caress. But no whore would do that for him. His twenty-five bucks was up.
Without warning, a wave of crushing defeat welled up in him and threatened to engulf him in its black depths. He gave a harsh cry and broke into tearing sobs.
The whore drew back as though someone had tossed a writhing snake on the bed. She sprang against the wall, her hot black eyes narrowed into cold slits of crafty fear. She was almost cornered, but not quite. Women like her were never cornered. She did not know what kind of a nut she had got this time, but she was used to nuts. Both kinds. Instinctively, she slid into her shoes, though she made no move to put on any of her other clothing. Shoes are a whore's best friend, they're what she walks the streets in; the spikey four-inch heels would certainly never take her very far at a good run, but they were what so many of her customers went ape over. They loved those cruel, daggerish high heels and she knew it. Just why they did she did not know or care; she was not exactly analytical, but she knew what she knew. The bastards loved to jam their cocks in her shoes and jerk off inside them; they loved her to keep her shoes on when they fucked her; some of them even wanted her to shove the long thin spikes up their asses. She had done it all. If she had her shoes she was safe. She was walking on daggers. Daggers were weapons, and very womanly weapons at that.
Dan looked up at her, his face streaked with tears. He wasn't drunk and he wasn't on dope, so he had to be either nuts or ashamed. She'd been with plenty of men who were ashamed afterwards, and she'd had the black eyes and cut lips to prove it.
There were two kinds of ashamed Johns; the ones that beat up the whore and the ones that wanted the whore to beat them up. This John looked like one of the latter. So did his clothes. That overcoat must have cost a couple of C notes. The ones that had a lot to lose, they were the ones that wanted to be punished for going to a whore. The bums were different; they had nothing, so they had nothing to lose, which made them mad because they had already forked over twenty-five bucks they couldn't afford. Then they beat on her.
But this one wouldn't care about the money he had paid her. He would care about what the rest of his money meant to him: nice home, pure women folks, kids, job-all the things he didn't deserve to have after going to a whore. She didn't know why anybody should be so screwed up, but they were.
She came away from the wall, her eyes narrowed craftily, and picked up his pants. She whipped the belt out of them and snapped it in the air. The gesture made her black eyes snap like coals.
He looked at her in wild despair for a moment, then his voice sounded on a raspy, hysterical note.
"Yes! Hit me! Go on, do it! Beat me!"
She brought the whip down on his bare ass. It landed with a sickening sizzle and hiss. His white skin rose in a long pink stripe across his blond-fuzzed buttocks. He groaned and humped his hips for more. She flung the belt down on him again, and again . . . harder, faster, faster, faster. He writhed on the bed, sobbing and crying. After the first few lashes his legs spread wide and he began to fuck his hips into the mattress.
When the whore saw his thick hammer of cock rise from his sandy bush of jock hair she grabbed her purse and whipped out a long thick dildo. It was bigger than any man could be and still be human. It measured about fifteen inches and it had the girth of an axe handle.
She held it up so he could see. It was punishment time, and the ass is the place where bad little boys are punished. There wasn't a whore of her acquaintance who did not own one of these juicy fake pricks.
She strapped it on herself and put her hands on her hips. With her generous adornment of crotch hair she looked like a man in that one area. The rest of her was feline, whorish and vicious. She planted her high heels wide apart and waggled the big stick at him.
"You like to be fucked? I do a good job on asses. I'll give you the best prong back there you ever dreamed of." She patted the stiff dildo with a loud slap. "This jock is like a broom handle, only thicker. You ain't lived till you had something up your asshole, honey. All the guys love that when I do it to them. How about it?
"Yes---oh, God, yes, I want it," Dan moaned.
She smiled her sly smile.
"Twenty-five more, honey. You got the money, I got the time."
Without argument, Dan stumbled up and took his wallet out of his coat pocket. He put the money down on the bureau and flopped across the bed once more. He lay motionless, his eyes closed, his fists knotted in the rumpled covers.
The whore stepped between his widespread thighs and reached under him for his cock. She dragged it between his legs so that he was lying on it. Its knobby tip showed under his balls. She played with the underside for a moment, then rubbed her dildo on it. Dan groaned and worked his hips.
"Okay, honey, I'll give it to you, but first I gotta slick it up."
She took a tube of KY out of her purse and slathered the stuff over her prick. Some of the sticky stuff remained on her hands and with this she lubricated the crack in Dan's ass. She pulled his buns apart and rubbed her fingers through the hairy slice. She drubbed her finger against his pulsating bunghole and felt around inside it.
"You got a nice ass, honey. I go for a man's ass myself. You'd be surprised how nice it is. I love to fuck a good-looking guy like you. You got a trim r one on you all right, not like some of these fat slobs. I'm gonna get me a good piece of your ass now."
She climbed over his naked hips and sat down on the backs of his thighs. With her hands holding his firm cheeks apart, she guided the monster prick into his crack and squirmed the knotty rubber head against his rectum. He stiffened and she cried out to him to relax.
"It ain't gonna hurt, big boy. You guys got a lot more room back here than we do. You can take all I got, don't worry. Just let your ass go and enjoy it."
Expertly, she forced the greasy rubber pike into his springy bung. He made a gagging sound but then, after the initial shock of having a fucking tool in him for the first time, he let his body droop receptively over the bed while she fucked a few more magnificent inches into him. He grunted and moaned as it began to feel good. The whore laughed and jiggled her hips, screwing deeper into his healthy, well-muscled manly bottom.
"You're taking it, honey, I told you, you'd like the stick in your shit road. Ummmmm, I wish I had a clit this big. I'd fuck you with it for free, honey. I'd get such a bang out of that myself I wouldn't have the heart to charge."
He began to thrust his ass up onto the driving pole. His cheeks suckled and nestled lovingly around the new thrill and he began to squirm and twist on the bed as the whore had done a few moments before, when his body was atop hers. She threw him a long fuck and pulled back, dragging his hair-lined anus into a tender pink spout. She braced her spike heels on the floor and moved her hips in a rapid pumping motion in and out of his ass. He howled with joy and urged her on. She reached between his legs and grasped the underside of his prick and massaged it as she pumped hard fucks into his bung.
"Oh, Jesus I I'm going to shoot-"
"Ohhhhh, honey, you're coming like a house on fire! Your ass is sucking to beat the band!"
When she pulled out of him he did not move. He lay panting, his eyes closed, while she took out a tissue and wiped the melted jelly and blood from his rectum. She laughed; this was the part they all loved. Mommy wiping their ass after she punished it. He was no different; there was a stupid half-wit smile on his face, too.
"All right, honey, I ain't putting you to bed for less than a hundred bucks. That's for the whole night, and I do anything you want all that time. How about it?"
But he was spent. He shook his head and got slowly off the bed. As he dressed himself the whore went to the sink in the corner of the room, humped herself, spraddled, across it, and began washing her hairy cunt. She was businesslike and thorough; she opened her sex lips and rubbed the suds into every part of her, all the way back to her bottom. As he listened to the wet slapping sounds Dan wondered if this were the reason the sink was placed so low on the wall. It was bidet-level.
"I could eat you," he murmured, staring at her. "That's ten dollars, honey."
"Next time. What's your name?"
Over the splashing water she said, "Morella."
"Where can I get in touch with you?"
She turned the water off and grabbed a grayish tea towel from the rack. He watched her pass it between her legs like a shoeshine rag, back and forth, back and forth, with neat flipping motions. He had only watched Loma bathe during the two weeks of their honeymoon, but she had always patted her pussy dry. He wondered if that were the difference between nice women and whores.
"Go to the diner across the street and ask them to call me," she said.
She was through with him now. He hesitated, wondering if they were supposed to leave together, or even if he should offer her a lift. It was bitterly cold out and she had nothing but a thin brocaded satin coat. Suddenly he loved her. He waited for her, confused and full of lust once again, but she waved him off.
He went down the stairs and hurried to the bus station where he waited until he saw her come out of the hotel doorway. She did not see him where he stood. He watched her wrap the eyecatching but inadequate coat around her body and bend into the cutting wind from the water. He wondered if she wore such a coat to look pretty for customers, or whether she had no other. Surely not, not with the money he had given her. Multiply that by all her other customers.
Why, then, didn't she have a warm coat? It worried him in a ridiculous but heart-rending way that he could not understand. Then he remembered the pimps. They all had one, and every pimp was a plumed peacock of a sonofabitch, demanding ever more money from the woman who sold herself for his comfort.
Lorna had a pimp, too. His stomach knotted as he thought of Steve Atkins. Suppose he were taking all of Lorna's money away? Suppose she too went about the streets in nothing but an evening wrap on a cold winter night? He stumbled into the bus station and sank down in a chair in the coffee shop. He did not know the difference between fact and fiction now, despite his long association with the vice squad and its various activities. For so long, he had listened to his father talk about fallen women, ladies of the evening, ruined doves . . . the melodramatic soubriquets caused hideous pictures to spring into his mind, pictures that were now underlined by the sight of Morella in the thin coat. He imagined Lorna sick, even hungry.
He put his head in his hands. Atkins was cruel, he knew it. The man was a vicious opportunist and egomaniac; that much had been obvious at his trial. What was he doing to Lorna?
His mind swam with confusion, until the two women, Lorna and the whore Morella, seemed one and the same. There really wasn't much difference between them . . . now. Lorna was gone, but he couldn't let Morella get away from him.
Not if he had to move her right into his parents' house! His hands trembled as he lifted the coffee cup. It would serve them right, both of them, for what they had done to him. They drove Lorna away; it would serve them right.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Steve drove up Sixteenth Street. He peered carefully at the signs, for he had never actually been in Washington, D. C. before and the street he sought was a tiny one, out of the way and tucked snugly into an area that was like a medieval rural pocket in the heart of the nation's capital. He liked the feel of the .38 in the shoulder holster as it nestled in weighty security against his chest. Another almost equally heavy lump filled his breast pocket. He reached inside and touched his wallet. It was crammed with big bills and two cashier checks for five thousand dollars each. The New York run had been successful. The movies Lorna had made with him and a couple of other well-hung studs had paid off handsomely, and the painting studio turned over a good little income while it lasted, too.
It was now time for bigger fish. At last Steve was going to realize his dream. Just as another man might long for a high society medical practice or a chance to plead his first Supreme Court case, Steve wanted a stable of girls for a Washington gash house. It was an ideal city for such a business; Washington was full of men who were away from home, at least part of the time, and men away from home did things that they wouldn't do near the hearth rug.
A Washington call girl had to be classy, and Lorna fit the bill. He frowned, angry at himself for using the telltale word, even to himself. People who had class never referred to it as such; they called it "breeding". He would have to remember that.
"There it is," she said, pointing to a winding street.
He made a left and drove up the incline. It was an elegant rich-looking little street lined with what had once undoubtedly been townhouses. The street was horseshoe in shape, curving into another just like it
They got out of the car and walked into an old building whose thick old-fashioned walls made it ideal for the land of party that would take place there. Steve's contact had sublet the place for them.
He explained to her on the drive from New York, "It's a street lived in by rich old ladies with gold-headed canes. They've been there since the Flood. There's also an international student reception house there, which means all lands of people in all lands of get-ups come and go all the time. The kind of customers you're going to have will fit in perfectly in that neighborhood. They'll look very respectable, diplomatic-foreign-service with velvet collars types. They might even help the little old ladies across the street on their way in to see you."
She looked down at her hands and stared at the wedding ring-Dan's ring-which she was now wearing once again, at Steve's command. They were supposed to be man and wife, should anyone ask. Suddenly, she wondered what Dan was doing, what had happened to him since she had left. She was astounded that she should think about him now. Her only thoughts of her husband in the last five months had been negative and hateful. Now, though she did not want to go back to Maine, or even see Dan ever again, she still thought about him. She neither loved him nor hated him; she just wondered how he was.
She pushed the thoughts out of her mind. The ring felt heavy on her finger. It was a very thick band, plain gold and old-fashioned, but noticeable because of its size, the kind of grandmother's wedding ring that had been in style when she married him. It would have to be worn when she masqueraded as the wife of a Washington foundation executive, and removed when she carried out her real duties as a Washington call girl.
Divide and conquer.. . .
She looked at Steve's profile as they walked up the stairs. He wore just such a velvet collar as he had just mentioned, and looked the part of a diplomat himself. He bore no resemblance to the man in prison blue-gray that she had first seen. Now he was just as much of a sartorial outsider in another way. He had bought himself a lot of clothes since they had made money, but he refused to go mod. He needed only a morning coat and striped pants to complete his conservative style. Lorna could not understand it, he even wore a homburg and no one but very old men seemed to wear any hat at all nowadays. She had not seen a standard hat-a hat hat-on a man for years, except her father-in-law. For warmth as well as style, from Maine to Manhattan, all the men wore those curly black or gray Russian things. The working-class men wore caps of various sorts, something like Sherlock Holmes. Only very elderly men wore hats. Even detectives had discarded them-as she now knew very well.
And now the man in the woods without a woman wore a homburg and a black overcoat with a velvet collar. He did look like a member of the diplomatic corps, she decided. He could have been an Argentine or Chilean first secretary of something or other. He was as dressy as a . . . as a pimp, she thought reluctantly, except that a pimp was always flashy, prone to the latest fashions. She knew why Steve wanted nothing to do with the latest fashions. The pants had visible buttons on them, and he swore that he would never button another fly as long as he lived. He even had a pair of shoes that zipped up the front. As dressy as a pimp.
"Remember, if anybody asks you where your husband works, say RaeTrak."
She nodded. He had picked the name from a combination of HeadStart and ReTread, two minority help organizations. It did not exist, but it sounded so much like the ones that did that no one in Washington, he said, would doubt it. His Limousine Liberal wardrobe would certainly ward off any suspicions; he looked just like a Lindsay Democrat who worked for a well-funded government agency.
When they were safely upstairs and in the apartment, his words of warning jarred with his image.
"I don't want you wandering around this neighborhood," he ordered. "It's full of razorblade shines. And keep out of that park across the street. That's Meridian Hill and anybody who sets foot in it is either a hophead, a pusher or a narc. Order any groceries from this store here," he said, riffling through a notebook. "Charlie gave me the number. Ditto for the drugstore. If you want some air walk only on this block, and in the daytime. When the sun sets in this town the eight balls rise."
She wondered tiredly whether his concern was for her or for his property. She looked around at the apartment. What would they do during the day? Were both of them going to stay here and look at the framed prints of "The Blue Boy" and "Pinkie?"
The apartment looked as if it belonged to an elementary school principal with a little money of her own. The dining room contained that most standard of stereotypes: a mahogany set of table and six chairs. The latter had wine and white striped seats and carved lyres in the middle of the backrests.
The entire apartment looked as prim and careful and afraid to be different as any Cape Cod in suburbia she had ever seen. Here, in this overstuffed respectable hideaway, she was supposed to be a call girl.
The apartment heightened the sense of duality she had felt since she had run away with Steve. Now she was literally two people; an executive's wife in the daytime, and a politician's lay at night. Suddenly she felt exhausted, as she often did these days. She had gotten into the habit of sleeping in the daytime like Steve, but unlike him she was not a night person. Well . . . whores were famous for lounging around all day, why should she be different? If she could escape into sleep, so much the better.
She found that she was practically under house arrest. Steve went out every morning and did not return until early evening, as befitted a hardworking young foundation executive. It was a blind, of course, but he did not kill time in the parks or libraries. He was busy making "contacts" and planning his real life's work. He returned as tired as any legitimate breadwinner.
As for Lorna, she had the choice of taking a cab downtown and wandering around in the stores or the art galleries, or she could walk up and down her own street. The neighborhood was indeed not safe; several matronly women in the building warned her of that. She dared not let them get too talkative for fear they would try to make friends. It would have been easy to cultivate their friendships, for they were housebound, too. To hear them talk, it seemed that every woman in Washington was. She would have liked to talk to them, exchange coffee visits with them, but Steve had forbidden it. She was hungry for company and it hurt her to have to cut the women but she did it. As she saw their puzzled faces in the halls she felt more lonely and alienated than ever.
She walked around the horseshoe-shaped street on the cold February mornings. One day she ventured down to the corner where a red sandstone wall enclosed a hilltop property grown over with weeds. The blood-colored blocks were menacing in the cold gray morning. There was something deadly about the place, overgrown with weeds as it was. Bits of grass and weeds sprouted out from the blocks like ancient whiskers. She reached up and touched them and shivered.
Just then, one of her matronly neighbors crept by with a shopping bag.
"That's Henderson Castle," she said. "Used to be a big red house on the hill up there but they tore it down. They say they're going to put up a retirement home."
The woman hurried away with a warning to Lorna not to cross Florida Avenue.
Lorna reluctantly turned back, but she kept looking at the castle "seat" as she walked up the hill. There was something ghostly about the empty lot on that high bluff, and the thick red wall that loomed up so suddenly from the sidewalk. Who had lived there, why was it called a castle? In the restricted area of her walks she had been allowed only one block, and in that block she had stumbled upon the past.
She returned to the apartment just in time. The phone was ringing when she opened the door. It was Steve.
"I'm bringing two guests home for dinner," he told her in their code. "Have something special for them."
* * *
Steve arrived at his usual time. The men were due in an hour. They were a Massachusetts Congressman and his special assistant. Both had grown up together, gone to the Korean War together, and had seldom been parted since.
"Asshole buddies," said Steve sardonically. "They really want to fuck each other but they haven't got the nerve, so they get their rocks off by having the same woman at the same time. They're both paying a hundred bucks, so I don't care what their motivations are."
She bathed and put on a dark green hostess robe. Excitement stirred in her as she prepared for the men. The boredom of her days in Washington was going to end now; anything was better than the tedium of sameness and inactivity she had gone through this last week.
The men arrived. Both were in their early forties; one, the congressman, was a giant of a man, six-feet-six and beefy. He had a red face and when he looked at her she could imagine an American Legion Glengarry on top of his balding head. In spite of the cold February night he was sweating. Something about his typical lecherousness and repulsiveness stirred her; by screwing him and enjoying it she could escape her house arrest amid the lyre-backed chairs. She had come to the point wherein she could not function as a single personality anymore; she had to be two women because the split in her mind had gone on too long. Now she would be a whore again.
The assistant to the congressman was prematurely white-haired and dapper with handsome, classical features. If they ever got together the way they wished they could, he would be the woman.
They were both slightly drunk. The congressman put his big hands on the tops of her hips and grinned at her.
"I'm Tom and he's Ed . . . and you're a pretty little girl. What do you have underneath here?" He pulled the robe open and breathed stentorously when he saw her gleaming patch of pussy hair. He rubbed it roughly, his fingers digging between her legs.
"Ahhhh, nice soft gash. You've got a delicious little snatch, don't you? Take off that robe and let's get going!"
She threw it aside and posed before them. Their eyes roved like ball bearings over her as they quickly got out of their clothes.
"Three's company but two's a crowd, huh?" Tom chuckled. "We can keep you happy at both ends this way, can't we Ed boy?"
The assistant grinned but said nothing. He turned her over on her belly and laid her across the bed, then stood in front of her pulling on his long thin cock.
"When we were in the army together they called me Stones-for these," he said. He pulled his cock up against his belly and lifted his huge pendulous nuts. Lorna stared at the wrinkled, hair-fringed dark flesh. They were the biggest ones she had ever seen, even if his tool were on the skinny side. She knew what he wanted and opened her mouth. She sucked gently on the loose skin of his sack and drew the hard walnuts of his testes into her mouth. His legs parted, he sighed heavily and drew the heavy bag of maleness over her face.
Behind her, Tom licked ravenously under her spread thighs as he pushed her knees up for action. She rose obediently and felt his hot breath blowing like a bellows on her open crack. He rimmed her with a wet, squirming tongue and sucked loudly on her asshole while his fingers played in her gash. He fucked one of them into her vagina and circled it in deep. She felt his fingertip tickle her cervix. His big belly mashed against her naked buns and she felt his whang bob in between her spread crotch.
"Sweetheart, I'm going to bang this pretty box for you," he panted. "This team's got everything to make you happy. Ed boy has a dick that can reach your tonsils, but I've got the thick one!"
It was true. As he stuck it into her upturned cunt it felt like a fist nudging into her. She bore back on it and it screwed into her slowly, with a difficulty that both surprised and delighted her. He was stretching her almost as wide as a baby's head would and it felt wonderful!
"Ummmmm, you got a tight little nest, gorgeous. Just the kind I like. Ohhhh, that's a hot pussy!"
He forced his pistoning rod into her pussy until his jock hair brushed the back of her ass. She wriggled against his groin and pulled his dick snugly into her vaginal depths and milked it. Her thighs flexed and rippled and her creamy buns tightened as she worked on the buried prick. His hands reached under to grab her swaying boobs. As he pinched the tips and flicked his thumbs over her nipples she moaned hoarsely.
"Put your pecker in her mouth, Ed boy!" the congressman yelled. "I'll meet you in the middle!"
The slender man took her face between his hands and nestled his foot-long dick into her mouth. She opened wide for it and clasped it eagerly. Her mouth worked up and down its rigid shaft until it glistened with her saliva. It was a killer! She couldn't take it all or she'd choke to death, but he must have been used to having half of it left unfrenched. He fucked long, delectable cock strokes into her tongue, rubbing his flared tip into her soft cheeks.
It was a challenge to her that she could not take it all because she knew she was such a good french whore. Suddenly she wanted to devour it. Greedily, she pulled as much as she could into her mouth, making gustatory sounds, until it was nestled against her throat. Three inches remained outside her pinching lips but Ed looked anything but disappointed. His legs spread out until his big balls swung free.
"Go down on it, honey," he rasped. "That's the best cocksucking I've ever had!"
Triumph spiraled through her. She worked the long whang back and forth in her hungry mouth, licking his knotty head on the underside where his foreskin came together in a twisted, rubbery ring of flesh. His thighs went stiff and he threw his hips at her face. She licked the baby-smooth head and flicked the tip of her tongue over his piss slit where she tasted a briny moisture as a drop of jism dribbled out in response to her hard work.
Then she inched her pursing, squeezing lips up his shaft until it rubbed her palate again. Her teeth closed gently around it as she sucked and squeezed and swabbed it into her gums. Her head snapped back and she drew it forward, molding her lips around his foreskin as her tongue fluttered in furious abandon around the mushroomed hood.
She grunted in rapture at the feel of the hardness filling her mouth as the thick hammer of the other cock slammed without mercy into her cunt. Her cheeks expanded and hollowed . . . suck-slide-release-suck-slide-release. She panted as she jerked her head back and forth like a cat with a captured mouse, teasing, flicking, nibbling. Never had she enjoyed a prick in her mouth more than now, when she also had one banging up against her womb! They were right; three was company!
She tightened her lips over the moving rod until a grinding pain spread through her neck and jaws. Every muscle in his body went rigid; he shouted obscenities and grabbed her face as his jism spurted out of him in a hot stream. She swallowed it and sucked for more, her aching mouth weak and smeared with come. She squeezed his dong and pulled on it with long drags until she had every drop of what he had to give her.
He staggered back, his breath labored. Behind her, the big man threw himself over her and licked ravenously at the back of her neck, her ears, drooling spittle into them as he threw his massive rod against her upturned rump. He came with a loud yowl and she felt his cock quiver inside her flexing, climactic vagina.
When he let her go and climbed off her, they both got into bed, placing her in the middle.
"Well have a little break, then make a sandwich, eh, Ed boy? Well both fuck her at the same time."
As the big ruddy man loomed over her, they looked squarely into one another's faces for the first time. He had sobered up a little now and he peered sharply at her. When their eyes met and she saw his beady glance flicker over her hair, it all came back to her. He had looked at her like that once before, caught by her red-gold coloring. It had been at a party in Portsmouth, a gathering of New England politicos.
They recognized each other at exactly the same moment.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dan became obsessed with the whore Morella, with her dyed red hair and her big swatch of black pussy hair. The jarring colors fore and aft made her seem like two women, emphasizing the identification he forged between her and the vanished Lorna. As long as he was with Morella, Lorna had not gone away, she was still with him, and he was not a little boy alone in his room with his parents down the hall, waiting to hear him screw his wife.
She would not come to the house no matter how much money he offered her. He plagued her with his pleadings and she screeched at him and stamped her feet, even slapped him and raked her sharp nails over his skin, but he only adored her more when she hurt him.
He was fascinated with everything about her, even her name. At first he supposed it was merely a Portuguese name, but then he remembered a story entitled "Morella" by Edgar Allan Poe that he had had to read in an English class in college. He reread it with heart-pounding, delicious fear. It too served his need to think of the Portuguese whore as two women.
In the story, Morella is darkly beautiful like the whore, but she is also elegant and cultivated and well-educated like Lorna. Poe's Morella had delved deeply into philosophy and evolved a theory that no one ever dies. Over and over again Dan read the story, underlining the words of Poe:
"The notion of that identity which at death is or is not lost forever was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense interest."
The words brought Lorna closer to him, made it easier for him to pretend that the whore and she were one and the same woman.
Everything about the story supported his desperate need to resurrect his absent wife. Morella marries and has a daughter but dies of childbirth. As she lies on her deathbed she accuses her husband of loving her for her mind alone, and not her body. She wills the child to him, saying:
"Her whom in life thou didst abhor, in death thou shalt adore."
Her prophecy comes true. The daughter grows up to look exactly like her mother. The father, seeing this, can't bear to give her a name, because the only name he wishes to call her is that of her dead mother. For years he calls her only 'my daughter' until at last, when she is grown, he takes her to the church to have her christened. As soon as he gives the minister the name 'Morella', a voice from the burial vault cries out, 'I am here!'
His daughter dies at the sound of the dead mother's voice. The father rushes to the vault and looks in, but it's empty. The story ends with the words:
"I found no traces of the first in the vault where I laid the second beloved Morella."
In Dan's mind there came to exist two Morellas, and two Lornas, both in the same woman. He bought the whore a lovely cashmere coat with a fur lining and collar. It was this extravagant gift that finally persuaded her to come home with him.
He picked a day when he knew his parents would be out, yet he hoped, in the secret part of his mind that was now fevered with guilt and hatred, that they would come back and find him there with a Portuguese whore.
He pulled her over to his desk, the old desk at which he had done his homework as a boy, and fucked her standing up. She knew just what to do. She put her foot up on the desk and drew him into her. His blood-engorged cock trailed through her slit and nestled into her throbbing vaginal entrance. She bent her body backwards and drove the hard shaft of his maleness into the kinky bush of her cunt, then rubbed her heaving tits against his chest as she twisted her hips against his groin. Her pussy was tight in the upright position and he shoved his dick into the wet, pinching briar patch with loud howls of pleasure. It didn't matter how much noise he made now!
He sucked on her tits with noisy abandon, lifting them in his hands and burrowing in their soft tawniness as he jabbed his aching cock into her oozing slice.
"Oooooh, honey, you're really fucking now! You're a hot boy today! Eeeeeeeeeee, suck it, baby!"
"Louder!" he shouted. "Let me hear it!"
"Ahhhhh, it's so hard in meeeee!" she shrieked. "I love to get my pussy around your meat, big boy!"
She clutched her streaming gash around the tip of his stiff swollen penis and let out a long, shuddering scream. He poked it in hard and whipped it in and out of her box. She snatched wildly at it and he plowed like a bull up into her raised leg, stabbing her cunt in horrendous thrusts that nearly sent her tumbling backwards onto the desk.
"You can move your ass like nothing I ever dreamed of, my whore-bitch!" he gasped. "I never want to take my meat out of you!"
A dark thrill leaped in him as he heard his own and her shrieks and groans. She wiggled her crotch wildly, grinding her wet bush against his driving loins in wet, swacking heaves. His prick collided mercilessly with her cervix, pummeling it into a flexing response. Her face twisted and her nails raked his back, his chest, his shoulders.
He picked her up by her well-muscled bottom and held her in front of him like a tray, his cock still snuggled hotly in her box. She wrapped her legs around his waist and hugged his ass with them. Her head lolled back and her long, garishly dyed hair whipped back and forth like a sail as she bounced and jiggled herself in the sling of his arms. Her ass was in a frenzy of movement, it clenched powerfully as the big thick prick lunged in and out of her hair-strewn snatch. They stood before a full-length mirror on the back of the closet door and Dan could see everything in their reflection. Morella's densely fringed cunt lips were stretched like a ravenous mouth around his erect pink stick. Her pussy glistened with lubricious female fluids, the loose folds of her banks were engorged with excitement.
He fingered her crack and found her throbbing anal ring. She squealed as he played around in her bung.
"Stick it up there, honey! That makes the fuck even better! Oooooh, play in my asshole!"
Dan, looking in the mirror, thrust his longest digit into her hair-sprouting crack and watched it disappear into her hungry rectum until he was buried knuckle-deep in the seething, ropey channel. His fat balls swatted against ass and finger each time he drove his cock up into her vagina. Her corn hole nibbled and suckled on his finger and he could feel his own tool through the thin membrane that separates a woman's cunt from her bung.
"Goddddddd, you're fucking my insides out of me! You're a bull today, honey, a hot charging bull!"
He walked with her, still joined crotch-to-crotch, and dumped her on the bed. He fell down on top of her and fucked into her as she wrapped her long brown legs around his ribs and slid her knees over his shoulders. Her box opened wide to its usual generous proportions and he ground his prick deep. The inner sides of her thighs burned his flesh as she embraced him in them. He scooped up her buttocks and held her rolling ass high. His hot, hairy sack ached with boiling semen and throbbed each time it slapped against her buns. His fingers kneaded and pinched her and she screeched. His own moans and grunts mingled with her shrill sounds until the room sounded like a rutting barnyard. It made up for all the silent, moribund fucking he had done in this room with Lorna! How he wished he could make a dirty movie with his wife! He'd strap a miniature camera to his prick if they had such a thing, then everyone could see those cushiony wet cunt walls up close.
He slipped his wet dong out of her pussy and jammed it against her bushy crack.
"I want to finish in your ass, baby! Turn it up high for me."
"Ummmmm, you like my dirt road, huh honey? I got a nice big one you can fuck without hurting, honey."
Her asshole pulsated against the tip of his cock. He shoved in and felt the firm musculature clamp over him. She rolled him expertly up her bung, sucking him in. He pushed and grunted his way into her bowel and mauled it with fierce fucking strokes and pulls as she screamed in pretended agony. Her feet kicked wildly around his neck; she was almost rolled double, her ass hanging off the edge of the mattress as he slammed his cock into it.
He spurted heavily and copiously into her nether channel, then again, until finally it was all in her; dripping out and smearing her fuzzy crack. He sank weakly on her and left his throbbing whang in her until it fell out, withered and shrunken from her greedy ass.
He got down on his knees and stared adoringly into her smeary, sex-swollen crotch. His head darted forward into the black-haired tangle of femaleness. His tongue entered her gaping vagina and licked hungrily at the salty fluids that poured from it. He sighed and buried his face in pussy, a warm, wet, sluggish after-sex pussy that did not move and jerk in ecstasy and thus escape him. He loved to eat her cunt after he fucked her. She kept still for him and let him taste and lick to his heart's content. His tongue snaked through her inner lips and circled over her clit. Her wiry black hair grew up around his face like a big dark beard but still he wanted to get closer to her spongy gash. He rubbed his nose and mouth against the dark, pink-gray skin and drank the briny stuff that came out of her. At first she would not let him muff-dive; that was special, she said, only her boy friend could do it to her for free. All others had to pay, because if she did it for free she would enjoy it, and thus be untrue to Jorge. Now, she let Dan lick her cunt, but only after she had fucked, when she wouldn't feel the temptation of his lips and tongue on her.
Suddenly she sat up. Her thighs closed over his face and head, their muscles hard with tension.
With her legs around his ears, blotting out all sound, he had not heard what she had.
She pushed him away and sprang up, then made a dash for her clothes.
"Somebody's coming!" she hissed. "They're home!"
She ran to the closet, her arms full of frilly underwear, sleazy satin and long black hose. Dan stood helplessly for a moment as he heard his parents' voices, then quickly straightened the bedspread that they had fortunately not bothered to turn down. He grabbed a dressing gown and put it on just as his mother's step sounded on the stairs.
"Dan? I saw your car. What are you doing home at this hour?"
She came into the room and looked around. He gathered the robe tighter around his body and sat down on the bed.
"I worked till three last night. I'm bushed. I knocked off and came home for a nap."
She rallied with offers of soup, cold pills, tea, but he waved her away.
"Please, Mother, don't fuss over me. All I want to do is sleep. I'm not sick."
She studied him intently, her head cocked to one side.
"You look flushed. Are you sure you don't have a fever?"
She came to the bed and put her hand on his brow. He held his breath as she put her cheek next to his. It was her favorite way of judging whether or not he was feverish; she always said that the hand told nothing because it was too insensitive. Only cheek-to-cheek tests were a reliable thermometer.
He wondered if she had a motive for such medicinal closeness. She needed an excuse for anything she did; was this any different? Was this her way of embracing her own son under the guise of maternal solicitousness? Her cheek felt soft against his. She was really a very pretty woman for fifty-four, and she had a good shape still. His cock leaped up and he covered the lump in his lap with his arms.
"Well, if you want me, just call," she said worriedly.
She shut the door softly behind her. There was no lock on it, but that only made it better. He would take a chance this way; she could come in at any time to see how he was getting along. . . .
'Well, let her see!
He went to the closet and pulled Morella out of it. She was terrified as only a whore can be in the presence of respectability and decent women. Her face and the expression in her eyes were stiff and stunned. She looked as though she had swallowed a marble.
"She's gone, come out and get in bed with me," he laughed.
Her black eyes widened with incredulity. She began to hiss in Portuguese, her head shaking wildly.
"I said come on. She won't be back, don't worry."
He piled into bed and pulled her down beside him. She was shivering so badly with fright that he drew the covers over them both. Underneath, his hands roved over her naked flesh. This was the way it should have been with himself and Lorna; naked in bed together in the middle of the afternoon if they felt like it. Even at night, he was always afraid to strip down for fear that something . . . something might happen. He did not know what; a fire, an emergency of some kind that would mean running out of the room where his parents could see' him and his wife, see by their bare legs under robes that they had been naked together. He always screwed Lorna under her nightgown because of it, under her nightgown and through his pajama fly.
And they did it quietly.
And they did it at night.
He wanted a different kind of fucking, wild, brawling, abandoned. But he also wanted something to remind him of Lorna. If he kept the covers up to their necks like this, all he would see was the long red hair spread out like a fan on the pillow. Morella was too frightened to yell now. She would be like Lorna used to be; whispery, soft, restrained.
He murmured to her.
"My stick's up again, I've gotta get rid of this hard, baby. They won't hear us, don't worry. But I can't wait, darling, I have to get this meat in the oven fast."
She rolled her eyes wildly but she reached down obediently and touched his throbbing cock. Her fingers slid up and down his shaft and pinched his tip. She rubbed it against her wiry triangle of hair and dipped it into her slippery cunt lips.
"He wants in, sweetheart. He's big as a pole and hot to go. Roll over and spread for me."
She got On her back and Dan ran his hands over her boobs as he climbed between her legs. He lay in her open crotch with his prick stuck down into her gash, both hands busy with the succulent dark nipples. He plucked them and took them in his teeth for little nibbles that made her whimper. He sucked harder and louder on the juicy teats but she pushed his head away and said "Shhhh! They'll hear you."
His heart leaped. She was one smart whore! That's exactly what he wanted her to say, exactly what he needed to remind him of Lorna.
He kept his hands cupped on her tawny brown-tipped knockers while he lifted his hips and positioned his jutting cock over her spread-out pussy. It was waiting for him down there under the covers, a humid little slice ready to be pronged. Danger and fear had done its work and added a new thrill to their fucking; Morella was hot again.
Eat, drink and fuck, for tomorrow we die.
He lowered his prick into her cunt entrance and screwed it into her quivering hole. He sank into her womanliness with a low groan of delight. The burning thighs captured his flexing hips and held him in their satiny vise. He sank into the clutching wetness of her slot and pressed his cock head against her cervix. Her back arched up under him and she wriggled her pussy against his jock hair. She rubbed her clit against the hilt of his prick and began to pant against his ear. He pulled his rod in and out of her creaming pussy, conscious of his humping ass under the covers.
A typical Maine married fuck . . . Lorna was back with him again. The first Morella was gone but the second was here, her legs spread for him, her clit seeking the hardness of his groin.
"You like that joy stick?" he whispered.
"Shhhh."
She wanted it to be over, she was trying to make him come as fast as he could. Her pussy fluttered with her determined efforts, turning into a steamy vise. Dan dug his cock into the snapping wetness and squeezed his anal rim tight to make his rod move inside her.
"Ahhh, you juicy stud," she sighed softly. The words fluttered against his ear, barely audible.
His blood throbbed in his buried cock. She was hot as hell in there, and moving like something alive. He threw her some long, rapid pulls; her belly rose to meet his and push his rod back into her pussy. Dan lay flat on her and let her squirm under him, poking her with short fucking strokes. She writhed, her torso flexing in powerful rolls as she screwed her pussy up and down on his stony cock.
His dick released his boiling sperm and he shot it into her convulsive box. She gasped and came up under him, hanging onto his tool and getting every drop. Her box surged and sprayed back at him as she plunged forward, digging her gash against his loins. She trembled and tossed her head, and he dribbled the last of his juice into her slot as he stared at the tangled mass of her fake red hair.
He knitted his fingers in it and pulled it over his face, kissing the long strands. They were straw-like in texture from the many doses of coloring she had put on it, and it smelled of her cheap, heavy perfume and something metallic that he supposed was the dye. It had the same smell as a beauty parlor. It was a smell that always made him gag but he ignored his distaste now in favor of his imagination. Lorna's always smelled like burning leaves in the fall, and it was softer than silk. But he didn't care; there was a red-haired woman in his bed once more, and his prick was lying withered and drained in her shrinking pussy. There was a wet spot on the sheet between her legs, and that too reminded him of his wife.
He climbed out of her legs and lay over her, staring down at her face.
"Will you marry me, Morella?"
Her peppercorn-black eyes widened as though she had seen a vision of a saint. She gasped and sat up.
"You crazy?" she whispered. "You gotta be, honey! Besides, you're already married. Your wife split. I know about it, don't try to kid me."
He frowned. "I wasn't trying to put anything over on you," Dan said. "I didn't know you knew about that. But I'm getting a divorce for desertion. Then will you marry me?"
She made a sound of disgust.
"You're one of them Johns that thinks if you marry a whore you'll get a grateful woman who'll do anything for you, huh? You some kind of reformer or something? I don't want to be reformed."
Somewhere during their whispered conversation Dan heard the phone ring downstairs. Now he heard his mother's shrill cry.
"Oh, no! It can't be true! Oh, what are we going to do now!"
The judge's voice reached them.
"Don't get excited-"
"I'd rather be dead than stand this shame!" Mrs. Perkins screeched. "They can't keep this out of the papers!"
Morella crossed herself and leaped out of bed. She dived into her clothes and grabbed up her new fur coat.
"I ain't staying around here, you damn fool," she hissed. "Let me go out the widow's walk."
She was determined to leave, and suddenly Dan came to his senses and knew raw fear again. He peered out the window at the veranda that enclosed three sides of the second floor of the house. Thank God for New England architecture, he thought weakly.
"Listen, they're both right below us," he said. "Walk around till you get to the other side and then go down the steps," he instructed.
Morella leaped nimbly to the sill and threw a black-stockinged leg over it. She tiptoed around the side of the house like a cat burglar. The yard was so full of trees no one could see her.
He dressed himself and went downstairs. As he passed the living room he saw her on the road, hurrying over the frozen ground. In the expensive coat she looked as if she belonged on this street, like a young woman with nothing to do but while away the afternoon drinking coffee with another of her breed.
The shadow of the widow's walk fell on the snow in the front yard. He thought about the original purpose of the wooden verandas: wives of New England whaling men used to station themselves on them with telescopes in order to watch the ships come in-if they did come in. Often they did not, hence the name widow's walk.' For a moment he longed to go up there and watch Morella's red head until she was out of view. Lorna, oh Lorna!
He composed his face before he went into the room where his parents were. He found his mother in tears and his father as red as a turkey gobbler. They looked up guiltily as he entered.
"What is it? I heard the commotion."
His father sighed raggedly.
"Lorna was involved in a scandal in Washington. She's a call girl there. She was entertaining some congressmen. One of them was a New Englander-and a Democrat-and he recognized her. He passed it along to Democratic headquarters in Bangor, apparently, and one of their men made a call to the Republican committeeman. Her activities are public property now, Dan. Your law practice is going to be hurt, and there's not much I can do about it. There's going to be a whispering campaign all over the state."
His mother sobbed.
"I thought when this all blew over you'd be appointed Attorney-General but they won't touch you now!"
Dan's face did not change, nor did he seem upset in any way.
"Is she still in Washington?" he demanded.
"What do you care?" the judge growled. "Sounds like you miss her!"
"I do," he said softly. He walked out of the house, grabbing his overcoat from the hall stand with a vicious gesture.
* * *
He looked for Morella but she was nowhere to be found. He took the Portland road and drove swiftly to the city. He covered the streets around the bus station and the hotel to which she had taken him, but he did not see her. When he asked the Portuguese cook in the diner the man shrugged.
"Somebody else just in looking for her. I call but she not where she usually is."
He walked woodenly out of the door. Without both of his wives now, he thought, dazed and suddenly exhausted. Both whores gone and left him. She not where she usually is. Neither was Lorna.
He couldn't let his whores get away from him. He went to the skin flick house and bought a ticket. He had left the house without a hat but he did not care now if anyone recognized him or not.
The lights dimmed and the curtains parted. Dan sat forward with a jolt. A gagging sound emerged from his throat as he stared at the screen.
It was Lorna, naked in front of a cage. Through the octagonal openings in the wire was thrust a proud, fully erect cock. Her eyes bugged in delight as she looked down at it.
The boy in the cage was about sixteen, a young stud who was hung like a horse before he was even fully grown. The title of the movie was Juicy Young Stuff.
And it was.. . .
The men in the audience stirred uncomfortably. If Atkins had produced this one he could do anything. The kid was twelve inches long, and the wire of the fence that contained him was not the regulation stuff. For that cock they had to use custom-made, with big openings. His meat was slathered with something lubricious that they had to use to make sure he didn't get stuck. Christ, what a tool.. . .
The boy was thin and wiry, with pale white skin and carrot-top hair. He was supposed to be Lorna's son whom she had punished by locking him in his big wire playpen. Now she was really punishing him.. . .
"Mama" put out her hand and slapped the rigid pecker hard and shook her finger at its proud possessor, all the while trying to shield her naked crotch with her other palm. Her big juicy boobs quivered with the harsh movement of her arm and son's eyes riveted on them.
"Mom, you've got the prettiest titties in the world. I used to suck on them, didn't I? Why can't I still?" He wriggled his thin hips and his giant cock slid back and forth through the wire. "My meat got hard the minute I saw you with all your clothes off. Gosh, Mom, I can't stand it! I need something bad."
Lorna licked her tongue furtively over her lips, unable to take her eyes from her son's magnificent rod.
"Hey, Mom, you look needy yourself," the boy said in wheedling tones. "Has Dad got a prick as big as mine?"
She looked furtively around the room as though the walls had ears, then shook her head slowly. She measured out about five inches with her fingers and then made a circle about the size of a quarter.
She came closer to the cage, so that her furry red muff was about an inch away from her son's tortured erection.
"You take after your granddad," she said in a fluttery voice. "My Dad. I . . . I know how big he was because. . . . "
The boy grinned knowingly.
"So it runs in the family, huh? I thought so. That's why I've been thinking about you while I beat my meat, Mom. I think about what it would be like to get between your pretty legs and feel them wrapped around my ass. God, Mom, help me! I've got to have a woman! Be my first woman, Mom. Show me how to fuck. I don't want any of the girls I know the way I want you."
Lorna took another step-all that was necessary to bring her bright bush of gash hair into contact with the swollen knob of cock. She stood with her legs tight together, a guilty look on her face, her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture.
The boy's face twisted in a grimace of pleasure and he pressed his stomach against the wire, plastering himself on the cage to get closer to the tickly triangle on the end of his rod.
"Promise not to tell Daddy," she pleaded.
"Never . . . oh, never, Mom. Come closer, please!"
With an eager laugh, Lorna spread her legs and clasped the massive young prick against her pussy. She slid back and forth over the sturdy staff like a little girl on a banister. Her gushy sex lips spread open and nestled lovingly around her son's stiff penis.
The boy shivered feverishly and shook the wires of his cage with his clenched fists, as though he were going to tear down the barrier that kept him from the full enjoyment of his mother's naked body.
The camera swooped down and under her parted thighs for a full-screen view of the dark red lips of her cunt, open and sliding over the magnificent hunk of maleness. A gush of lubrication seeped out of her vagina and spread thickly over her red-gold strands of love hair. The camera caught the shiny surface of the moving pecker as it smeared in it.
Lorna sighed deeply.
"Oh, darling, I had no idea you'd grown so big. You're a man now, with a man's needs, aren't you?"
"Mom," he panted, "please let me do things to you. Show me all about fucking, teach me to make you happy, Mom."
She cupped her big tits in her hands and pressed her chest against the cage so that two round, wide nipples fit into the octagonal holes in the wire. She thrust them hard until the wire pinched her tips into succulent pink circles. The boy stared at the erected nipples in delight, then mashed his face against the screen. The camera centered on his flicking tongue as it darted out and licked sinuously at his mother's aroused points. His hand played with the other one and he pulled it roughly through the opening, dragging the soft flesh into a long spout.
Lorna thrust her entire body against the wire and groaned in ecstasy as his young mouth sucked noisily on her boobs. His head darted from one to the other; his teeth nibbled her, his lips funneled hungrily over the big knockers.
"Mom, oh Mom," he gasped. "I never tasted titty before. I never did this to any of the girls. I'm so glad I waited for you. Your boobs are bigger and sweeter than any of them."
"And my angel has the biggest, hardest cock in the world," she sighed. "I'm going to have to have it in my pussy, honey, even though it's wrong to fuck with you."
The boys fingers reached through the wire and sought her orangey cunt. Lorna hung onto the screen and jutted her widespread crotch at him, letting him feel her up as best he could through the confining prison that separated them.
"Mom, it's so gooey and wet in that slicel Do all women get that way? I made you hot, didn't I?"
"I cream for you the way I never did for your Daddy," she moaned. "I'm all slicked up and ready to go for a ride on that joystick of yours, darling."
"Show me, Mom, show me what to do," he begged.
Lorna stepped back and smiled at him. She held her legs wide apart and pulled back her pussy lips, peeling the hairy, loose skin back to show him the meaty interior of her coral vulva. The entire screen was filled with her oleaginous mucous membranes. Her inner lips were stiff and pouting and her clit was like a little prick as it sat up and thrust out of her slushy girlish boat. Someone in the audience moaned and Dan heard the splash of jism as it hit the floor. The whole Goddamn theater was ready to come; it was the best movie any of them had ever seen. Dan swallowed against the dry ache in his throat and spread his legs to free his rigid cock from the confining twist of underwear and trousers. His hand went to his lap and he clutched his semen-crammed prick and squeezed hard. He didn't care what happened, he didn't care if he walked out of this place with soaked pants. Nothing mattered anymore except Lorna and Morella. To hell with politics, to hell with his parents, to hell with everything except his redheaded whores!
He stared at the screen and gazed into the puddle of white stuff in his wife's wide-open vagina. She was lying on her back in front of her son, and the camera was right between her legs. They could actually see up her hole! She held it open with her fingers as she instructed her son in his first fuck.
"This is where you put your cock, darling," she said, and slipped her fingertip into the churning aperture. The finger rode higher until it was all the way in. She shook her wrist and a wet fucky sound was amplified throughout the house.
The finger slithered out again, covered with her love juice.
She sat up, her face flushed, and knelt in front of the cage.
"Darling, I can't let you out because you've been a bad boy, but we can still fuck. I'll show you how."
She lay down on her back and put her legs up against the wire. The boy knelt down and thrust his cock through one of the openings near the bottom. It was going to be a perfect aim. The pillows under her body lifted her directly in front of him. Her wet hairy slice was plastered on the end of his cock. She reached for the enormous shaft and guided it until it lay against the fuck hole.
"Now, darling, go in my cunt the way you came out of it! It's going to feel a hell of a lot better this time!"
The thick knotty head screwed into her lips and slowly disappeared into her crotch. The boy pushed heavily against the screen, his thin white body moving like a snake as he crawled steadily into his mother's vagina. Their crotch hair was exactly the same color, making the incestuous thrill deliciously real to the bug-eyed, horny men who watched the screen. Both of them had that pale, translucent redhead's skin; the boy was hairless except for his little patch of jock hair. For a moment Dan could imagine that the boy was Lorna's child-his child, too, their son. He was the Daddy they were betraying, and he deserved it! He hadn't taken good care of that delectable little gash, so now his rival would.
"I deserve it," he muttered to himself. "I deserve everything bad that can happen to me."
The cock was planted hilt-deep in Lorna's wriggling crotch now. The boy gaped open-mouthed at her, his features twisted in real lust.
There was a noticeable splice in the film, and the scene came on again, identical but obviously a second round. The boy was young, no matter how big his meat was, and he had probably shot his wad as soon as he got it in her.
"Oh, Mom, it's so hot in there! It's on fire!"
"Move your lovely cock in and out, darling, pull-push, back and forth. That's what makes us both have climaxes. That gorgeous foreskin of yours is as big as a toadstool and when it pulls against my pussy I go crazy."
She flexed her upturned buttocks in a milking motion and suckled at the stiff branch as it moved in her vagina. The impaling young prick poked in and out of her hairy box, growing shinier and more slathered with jism each time it dipped into her. The boy rattled the cage like an ape; as he fucked he spread his legs in a split and held himself on the wires. His hairless young balls slid over the floor of his cage as he threw his overgrown whang into his mother's pussy. His thinness seemed more pronounced than ever now as his pelvis bones jutted out of his pale skin. It was the sexiest fuck Dan had ever seen or imagined; the confining wire made it better somehow, gave it an element of punishment, which bespoke civilization, and at the same time suggested the wild-ness of dangerous animals which must be caged to prevent their passions from unleashing themselves upon a forbidden object.
Lorna was the forbidden object; the mother, the human woman fucking the great red beast. Beauty and the beast, the hairy ape, all the erotic excesses of the most vivid and sordid imagination!
Each man in the audience felt it; the ultimate in lust, the ultimate in taboo, the ultimate in punishment. Dan felt it most of all.
She grunted in ecstasy as the boy's stiff young branch knocked her ass. She screamed for more, cried out in pretended pain, shouted obscenities to her son.
"Mom, you're moving so fast! God, it feels like nothing I ever imagined. If cunt is like this I want to stay in it for the rest of my life. Ahhhhhhhmmmmmmm, what a pretty behind you've got, I can see it perfectly. Swing it hard, Mom darling, wiggle it good! I dreamed about your beautiful bottom so many times. I always watched you when you walked, you know that? Ohhhhh, Mom, I'm gonna shoot!"
"Fill me with your beautiful semen, darling! My pussy is throbbing soooooo good! Do you feel her! Isn't she better for your gorgeous stick than your right fist?"
"Oh, Christ Christ, yesssss! UUUUUGGGGG-GGHHHHHH! My beautiful Mom!"
Another splice, and they were at it again. This time the boy's tongue was in her ass. She backed up to the wire until the octagonal cutouts made a pattern on her white skin. He worked his tongue between her plump cheeks and licked the bright anal hairs, then she reached back and pulled open her creamy orbs. The whole delectable ass slice came into view, a long crescent of pink tender-looking flesh lined with red-gold kinky hairs. Her puckered rim was wet with her son's saliva and it dribbled down into her fiery swollen cunt. The boy stabbed his tongue against her rectal slit and pressed his face against the wire.
"That's it, darling, lick me out! Ahhhhh, it feels so wet and sexy . . . I love to be rimmed. It tickles and makes me hot all over."
He had three fingers in her vagina; now he took them out and drubbed the longest one against her bung. Lorna squealed and urged him on. His finger poked through the wire and entered her tight little hole.
"Oooooh, darling, you want to see what everything is like, don't you? Are you going to be ah ass man?"
"It's so much tighter in there, Mom. And dry. Did you ever have a cock up there?"
"No," she panted. "Daddy won't do it to me no matter how much I beg him. But you will, won't you, angel? I want your great big fat dong in my rear end!"
The boy worked his finger into her bung, digging lewdly and eagerly into her bowels. Lorna wriggled her bare ass up against the cage and clawed the rug as she rode back and forth, dragging the finger in and out of her corn hole. Her belly muscles moved like snakes as she writhed and pulled against the fierce drubbing in her crack.
"Yessssss! Fuck it good and hard, darling! Your finger is like a hot poker up there!"
He lunged behind her, crashing into the fence that separated them, violently impaling her on his finger. He shook his wrist hard and made her rectum tingle with lust. She bore down on him with a powerful squeeze that made him yelp with delight. He pressed down on the ventral side of her bung until the brown aperture dragged open enough for the camera to catch. He stretched her cruelly but she knew only delight now.
"Turn around, Mom. I want to lick your cunt now. I never tasted hair pie before and I want a slice of yours!"
Loma did a flying arc against the fence, spinning her legs like the wings of a pinwheel until she lay on her back facing him. His finger still dug into her bung, unaffected by her swift and graceful movement. Her come-drenched slit pressed against the wire; she spread open her hair-fringed flanges and laid them back to expose the open folds of her crotch.
The boy threw himself down on his belly and lifted his face to her exposed femaleness. His tongue shot out in a moist pink dart and deftly licked her glistening genitals. He laid it on with gusto, his face as pink as her pussy flesh, slurping noisily and sliding his tongue up and down the dewy gash until he had her twisting and screeching and arching her back in a desperate effort to get more of her naked hairy parts into the fence.
"Oh, Mom, I never knew it would taste this good!" he gasped.
His exploring tongue touched every part of her fuzzy oval, stroking the lips and dipping lasciviously into her cunt hole. He pressed firmly into her piss slot and drubbed the puckered pinpoint.
"Eat meeeeee, oh my beautiful boy, eat me gooooood!" she groaned hoarsely. She swayed from side to side and jabbed her pelvis into his mouth. He licked harder, his appetite for cunt ravenous now, wetting her already drenched thatch with his saliva. Her excited parts pumped out whitish jism and he caught it with his tongue and swallowed ecstatically.
"Put your tongue inside my box!" she gasped out.
She hoisted her flexing bottom in the air and threw her legs up, spreading them wide. He gave a moan of pleasure and poked his tongue through the fence and jabbed her pussy entrance. He fluttered his tongue inside the vestibule of her vagina and dug his fingers into her ass cheeks. It looked like a tiny, soft cock wriggling in and out of the stretched hole. Her cunt creamed all over his mouth and he licked it off and went back for more.
"Tongue-fuck me, darling, lick it dry!"
She slammed her naked nether regions against the fence, digging, pressing, squirming in madness against her son's sluicing tongue while she trembled in the final onslaught of her pleasure.
"I'm COMMMMMMING! You're driving me crazeeeee!"
"Mom, Mom, I love you!"
In the last scene, Lorna opened the cage with a key and caught the exhausted boy to her quivering breasts. She held him in her lap and he sucked on her tit with his eyes fixed in adoration on her face.
The theater was filled with panting breaths. Dan clutched his wet pants and felt his cock throbbing inside them. His balls ached and his heart pounded. He got up and ran to the side door, forcing his way through the exiting crowds, and ran down the dark alley. He ran all the way to the hotel where he had gone that first night with Morella, and lurched into the narrow doorway.
The disinterested desk clerk looked him up and down.
"Yah? Whaddya want?"
Dan took out ten dollars and tossed it on the counter.
"I'm going to meet Morella here. She promised to come up."
The man shrugged, took the money and handed him a key. Dan took the stairs two at a time and burst into the room. He locked the door behind him and sprawled on the bed in his overcoat, clutching at the pillows and sobbing. He would never go home again. The boy in the movie was himself. Somehow, Lorna must have known all along what lay between his mother and him. That's why she made that movie, to get even with him. She knew that he would eventually see it.
If only his mother had been honest about her lust for him I He remembered all the little pats and squeezes, all the fondling and tender loving maternal care . . . all the "fever testing" cheek-to-cheek . . . the way she felt his crotch when he showed symptoms of mumps that time when he was ten. He remembered lying across her lap with his pants around his ankles while her hand struck his bare ass. His cock used to rise like a cork against her leg while she spanked him, and she knew it! She felt it all right! And she loved it! How many times she had found a reason, any reason, to spank him, and his father could not and would not interfere-no siree! It was all in the name of discipline, not sex. It was all sex! All of it!
She drove Lorna away, Loma and Morella both!
He rolled over on his back and lay looking at the patterns in the swirled paint on the ceiling. The shapes all took on the image of Morella, her hair flying in the wind, rushing along the widow's walk.
Widow's walk.. . .
He looked up at the broken ceiling fixture. There had been a chandelier there once. Now nothing remained except some exposed beams. The room was on the top floor; above it lay the attic. As he stared into the disused hole he realized that the beams were pieces of the attic flooring.
He got up and stood on a chair and poked at the hole with a coat hanger. The plaster crumbled and fell on him in a cloud of dust. He coughed and choked. His hands shaking now, he pulled more of the flaky plaster away until he found an old but firm plank. He got down from the chair and took off his tie. As he fastened a loop in it he realized it would not be long enough. His gaze leaped wildly around the room. The towels could be torn into strips! He went to the washstand and plucked one from the railing.
Then he had a better idea.
He looked down at his heavy snowshoes. The ankle-high boots were fastened with sturdy yellow leather ties looped double. Each tie was two feet long. He ripped them out of the eyelets and knotted them together. He pulled on the noose . . . it was strong, much stronger than cloth. He climbed back on the chair and knotted the end of the leather around the plank, then he put the noose over his head. I'm going to die.. . .
The notion that that identity which at death is or is not lost forever was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense interest.
I found no trace of the first, in the vault where I hid the second, Morella.
Suddenly a great welling-up of certainty came over him, and with it vanished fear and sadness. He knew then, with a knowledge so strong that it became faith that there was no death. He knew he would go on, not to any heaven or hell but in life. He did not know how he knew, but he was sure of it, surer than he had ever been of anything.
He tightened the noose around his neck. His last act in this life would be one of obedience to his parents. He was pulling himself up by his bootstraps, just as they always talked about.
He jumped off the chair and kicked it out of the way. His last conscious thought was that his tongue had suddenly become huge, much too big for his mouth.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Something had happened to Steve Atkins when the Washington arrangement fell through. He had tasted defeat, bitter and ludicrous, much worse than the contretemps in Maine that led to his four years in prison there.
He had been run out of town on a rail. Not arrested or even threatened with arrest, but just run out.
Nigger, don't let the sun set on your head.. . .
He took refuge in shifting the blame on Lorna. The New England congressman had recognized her from some damn powwow she had attended with that prig-ass husband of hers. It had scared the living shit out of the politician; he immediately assumed that the sex party Steve had arranged was some kind of trap. His asshole buddy thought so, too, and both of them had panicked. The two of them had pulled in their meat and hauled ass out of the apartment so fast Steve didn't know what had hit him.
His reaction was to hit Lorna, which he had done. Several times. His rage in the face of failure and defeat was uncontrollable, and she bore the brunt of it. He accused her of doing or saying something-or not doing and not saying something-to offend the pair of customers, but she swore she hadn't. The only way out for her was to tell him the truth, and she finally did.
The dumb broad! If she had told him in the first place he wouldn't have hit her, and kept hitting her, and the neighbors would not have called the cops. As thick as the walls in the old building were, they had been penetrated by her screams and the reverberation of her body as it crashed into the wall.
It was a good thing Washington cops had more on their minds than "wife-beating." When they found that they had been called to such an elegant address they contented themselves with a stern lecture and a warning. Besides, the squad car radio was blasting away the whole time they were parked out front, giving off alarms of murder and mayhem, so they couldn't stay long or bother to haul Steve in. If they had, he would have had to fake ID and that was a dangerous game for somebody who had been in stir.
The next day, a goon squad came to see him, compliments of the congressman. They looked like the chorus line from a musical version of "The Godfather" and it was obvious that they were representatives of the Massachusetts Family.
He knew he was trapped and finished, and
Lorna knew it too. He would never be able to control her again. For her part, she seemed to be in a fog, hanging onto him out of sheer habit. His anger at her had vanished, along with his desire or even his interest. He looked upon her as something he took with him on his travels, like a suitcase. He did not want her around but he could not get rid of her. Something made him keep her with him even though he detested the sight of her because she reminded him of defeat. He would not admit to himself what her hold on him was even though he knew perfectly well what fascination she held for him.
He decided, after the Washington fiasco, to go to New Orleans. As they drove south in the early days of March the weather became increasingly warm and balmy, until, when they reached the Crescent City, the temperature was in the low eighties and matched by the humidity.
Something cloying and clinging about the weather, the way the sweat stayed on his brow, the way his clothes clung wetly to his body, made Steve intensely aware of the psychological adhesion between himself and Lorna. He realized that he could no more get rid of her than he could dispose of his sweat or any other intrinsic part of himself. New Orleans was sticky, and as he peeled off his jacket in the car he understood with a grim reluctance that the woman beside him could never be so easily removed from his life.
They rented an apartment in the Vieux Carre and he retreated into his books. All day and into the night he studied and read, underlined, made notes, stared out the window at the busy, garish streets and thought. The sounds from the Go-Go joints and their drunken, raucous customers did not penetrate his reflections; the loud patter of sidewalk barkers giving their come-on spiels to lure passers-by into the girlie shows went unheard.
In one of the books on reincarnation, Steve found a poem by Kipling and memorized it:
Strangers drawn from the ends of the earth, Jewelled and plumed were we;
I was the Lord of the Inca race
And she was the Queen of the Sea.
He often looked at Lorna in a quiet, studious way that contained no element of sex or economic appraisal. He did not try to make any contacts, or use her to make money in any way. They had plenty of cash for a good while, and for once he did not think about money. He wanted to study; he wanted quiet and contemplation to think about something, yet he could not bring himself to admit just what it was that he sought in his books.
Lorna knew. As the days passed, one exactly like the other, she could not help but see what he was doing. He was easy to live with now; quiet and amenable and without feistiness or that super-sensitivity that had been her despair in their first days. Remote, aloof, yes; but more pleasant-natured than she ever believed it was possible for him to be. When she asked, tentatively and expecting a rebuke, what he was reading, he showed her the book.
She read it one evening herself, along with the notes he had made. He was out for a walk but he had left all his papers in full view, making no effort to hide anything from her.
"Lorna and I have a Karmic attachment," he had written. "Somewhere in a past life we met each other and clashed, yet we also loved in a strange sort of way. We died before we could work out whatever Fate lay between us and now we have met again in this life in order to carry on the Karmic effort and bring it to some sort of resolution. Perhaps we will not be able to resolve it in this life and will thus meet still another time in some future incarnation."
The words frightened her, yet they contained a bizarre sort of enchantment and she reacted to them with the glee that a child feels when he watches magic tricks. Was it possible that there was no such thing as a first meeting? Had everyone met before? Her, Dan, his parents, her father. . . . and herself and Steve. There was a complex web spun around all of them in this life; had there been other webs linking them to one another in past lives?
She did not discuss the subject with him because she sensed that he wanted to work out some sort of philosophy on his own. For the first time in their relationship she felt something akin to a normal, affectionate emotion for him. When she looked at his neat penmanship, his well-chosen words, his careful and studious underlining of the passages in his books, she felt a rush of compassion. Inwardly she ached for the waste of his mind and his life, a waste to which she had contributed.
The apartment was furnished with twin beds but Steve did not approach her. After a few weeks in the sultry, sex-obsessed city of New Orleans she began to claw the rug. Through the open windows on the hot nights she could hear the sinuous beat of the strippers' music from the nightclubs. Throughout the French Quarter were posters and marquees of nearly naked women in suggestive poses. Now, with Steve, she was settling down into a dull, sexless sort of marriage just as she had done with Dan. Her body rebelled again, as it had once before. She was used to being two people now, two women, one wanton and the other bored and imprisoned in four walls. These two selves were too used to fighting one another to call a truce now.
She lay awake with a wet, aching cunt and thought about Nicky, the red-haired teenager who had made the mother-son movie with her. She wanted him as she had never wanted any man, even Steve. It had been she who suggested the theme of that film, including the use of the cage. They had hit the jackpot with it; they were living on the money from it now and it would last a long, long time.
She had found Nicky one day in New York, working in a hamburger joint. He developed an instantaneous crush on her and she continued going back to the joint to see him. His obsession for her as an older woman, and his red hair, made her think of herself at his age, when she had first slept with Daddy. When they made the movie, all she had to do was turn the roles around and make Nicky the sexy teenager and herself the forbidden parent.
She longed for his tireless young body now. When they made the movie, she had to hide her lust for Nicky in front of Steve, but now she sensed that he would not care what she did or whom she did it with. She remembered how he had called Nicky "Baby Dumpling." When the movie, which had been her idea, proved such a hit, Steve had been annoyed. What would he do now if Nicky were here? Nothing, she was sure. He would keep on reading and making notes.
She grew angry at the deprivation her body was forced to endure. If Steve didn't want her, why couldn't she have someone else? Besides, their money wouldn't last forever. If the movie were so good, why not make another one?
One day she wrote to Nicky and waited eagerly for a reply. She did not have to wait long, and when the reply came it was not a letter but Nicky himself. He was the first person to knock on the door since they rented the apartment. When they heard the sound they both jumped. Lorna, her heart beating in sickening heavy throbs, wondered if the Mass congressman had sent someone to track them down. Steve merely stared at the door, like a professor interrupted in the middle of perusing a rare manuscript.
"See who it is," he said with a shrug. She realized that he was not afraid, and it was then that she first knew for certain that he had given up his interest in life in favor of his obsessed study of death and its meaning.
When she opened the door, Nicky grinned at her. His tousled red hair was shoulder length and his pale skin was lobster-red from the hitchhiking he had done to get to her.
"Hi, got your letter, doll," he said, walking in.
She stared at his unbelievably trim hips in the skin-tight blue jeans. His monstrous cock was outlined clearly under the material and his balls formed a mouthwatering lump between his slender thighs. If she hadn't known better she would have taken him for young rough trade who stuffed foam rubber in his crotch to attract faggots.
But she knew much, much better.
Steve turned around and blinked, but there was no anger in his face. There was nothing at all on his bland, swarthy features except mild surprise that they should have any caller at all, much less someone they knew.
Nicky tossed a knapsack on the floor and sank down on the sofa. He greeted Steve with a nod and a knowing grin.
"Are we back in the movie business?"
Steve looked at Lorna, then shrugged.
"Why not? Might as well be, now that you're here. Did you bring your tool kit?" he said sardonically.
Nicky patted his crotch.
"I got growing pains the other night," he announced.
"The green giant," Steve muttered.
"Not green anymore, man. My Mom taught me all I need to know."
He gave Lorna a wink and a leering grin but underneath his jocular coarseness she saw the eyes of a young boy fascinated with an adult woman and filled with ardor for her body. He swallowed, and his bobbing Adam's apple in his thin young throat made him look younger than he was.
Steve took no offense, nor even any particular notice. Lorna gazed curiously at him, relieved at his attitude yet confused by it. She had lived with his tempers so long, yet now he seemed to have divested himself of all emotions. She thought: He's dead.. . . he's been thinking so much about the meaning of death that he's not really conscious of being alive anymore.
Nicky's next words made her thoughts all the more powerful. He took a bulging, tattered wallet from his pants pocket and drew forth a clipping.
"Your old man's dead, doll. Did you see this?"
Lorna turned slowly, thinking that of course her father was dead. Then she realized what the boy meant.
"What? You mean . . . Dan?"
She took the clipping and read:
"Daniel Perkins, counsel for the Maine Decent Films League and successful lawyer-son of Judge Nathaniel Perkins of the Superior Court here, was found dead in a hotel room in Portland. The body was hanging from a ceiling rafter by a noose fashioned from the deceased man's shoestrings. The Coroner's jury returned a verdict of suicide. No note was found, but family and friends opined that Perkins had been despondent because of his wife's desertion in September."
"Oh, my God.. . . " Dan!
Steve watched her, not hawkishly as he would have done a few weeks ago, but blandly, studiously, as if he were observing her for some kind of experiment. There was no jealously in his face now, though he had often shown himself jealous of Dan in the past. Suddenly he spoke.
"In his next life, he'll die at the moment when life is most dear." Lorna and Nicky turned to him in surprise. "What, man?" Nicky said.
"According to the tenets of reincarnation, if you commit suicide in one life, you have to pay for your sin in the next by being cut down at a time when you want most desperately to live."
They sat before him like students in a lecture hall. Nicky looked from one to the other.
"Say, you like the occult stuff?" he said. "I got a cool idea for our movie. A Black Mass, you know?"
For the first time since they had been in New Orleans, an expression of alert interest crossed Steve's face.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They were in a basement on Esplanade, an ideal spot for the satanic rites that were taking place there. Lorna lay on a makeshift altar fashioned from a picnic table and covered with a heavy black velvet cloth. The nap prickled her bare tits and belly and aroused her with its rough-soft texture.
The room was lit by thick bayberry candles. Two boys of thirteen, both of them swarthy Creoles, waited before the altar with goblets in their hands. They wore see-through lacy chasubles fashioned after the priestly garment except that they exposed the proudly pointing young pricks that jutted underneath the filmy material. Lorna looked at their sweating, eager faces. They raked her with their eyes, waiting for the moment when they would be allowed to touch her.
Steve, wearing a black hood and a bright red french tickler on his erected penis, bowed before the crucifix and intoned the words of praise.
"HAIL SEXUS, LIMB OF SATAN!"
The naked group of men and women writhed on their knees before the pale, thin form on the X-shaped cross. Lorna's breath quickened as she saw the men shuffle forward behind the blossoming upturned buttocks of the women. Their cocks probed the backs of the women's thighs and sank into their cunts as they bowed low, prostrating themselves on the floor. The fucking began, a grunting, sweating offering to the Non-God Sexus, king of all sensual pleasures. Lorna saw one man jabbing his stiffened rod into the backside of a screeching woman who began to pinch her own nipples until another woman, busy getting fucked from the rear, slapped her hands away and did the fondling for her. The humping quartet formed a chain of thrashing flesh linked together by the plucking fingers of the second woman as she cupped the spilling, swaying tits in her hands.
Looming above all of them was Nicky on the cross. Lorna turned and gazed hungrily at him. His version of the crucifixion was the historically accurate one. The cross as Christians knew it was a modest proposal indeed. The Romans had actually used an X-shaped cross, and they had nailed their victims onto it naked. The real Christ had had no loin cloth, no more than Nicky had one now. A victim of Roman crucifixion had his legs spread out wide, as Nicky's were, and the pull that the hanging body exerted on certain nerves and muscles resulted in a natural hard-on. Nicky's had come from the caresses and licks that had been bestowed on him by the worshipping throng, but his position served to keep his meat up, a tempting, juicy thrust of maleness that Lorna ached to receive in her hot throbbing pussy.
Steve gave the signal with a silvery bell and the eager altar boys came forward and lifted Lorna off the table. Their hands groped under her legs and brushed against her steaming cunt as they carried her to the floor between them.
"And it came to pass that two virgin youths spilled their seed into the Virgin Whore and became men," Steve sang out, in a chanting singsong voice.
The adolescent boys ripped off their lacy garments and took their places at Lorna's head and feet. One of them kneeled behind her and reached for her big soft boobs. His hands roved hungrily over them as he knelt over her face. His stiff little cock sought her mouth and she licked up and caught it with a moan of delight. He lay half over her, sucking on her tits and driving his firm spike into her salivating mouth.
The other boy pushed her thighs apart and settled his narrow wiry body between them. His tiny but sturdy virgin cock was probing through her slickened gash, seeking her cunt hole. A spiraling glow covered Lorna's crotch as he poked and stuck around in her slot. She lifted her legs and made his rod slide down into her vagina. She sucked it into her channel and heard him yelp with delight as he felt himself engulfed by hot, slippery female cunt flesh.
Ohhhh, he was a little man! Little now, but wait until that dog grew up! He was fucking into her with rough slams, digging hopelessly toward her womb but unable to reach it. . . . yet. She'd love to make a date with him for about five years from now!
She had two virgins in her and she went wild with lust. The one over her face fell forward onto her billowy breasts and squirmed his naked hips against her mouth. It was easy to french his little cock for him, and she had the tip of it all the way behind the end of her tongue with no trouble. She fluttered her palate around his foreskin and then dragged the rocky little pike forward until only the tip remained between her funneled lips. She sucked crazily on it until he let loose with a jet of boy-come and collapsed on his side. She spit it out into the cup and clenched her cunt muscles around her other tiny visitor.
He squirmed his hips up against her open crotch and mashed his hairless groin into her soft, gushing pussy. She wriggled under his attack and lifted her hips, thrusting him up with them. Her box was on fire from his determined and vigorous pumping and she shivered with oncoming climax. He bit his lip and flooded her with his young semen as his hands clasped her big quivering tits.
She pushed him off her and stood up. The copious adolescent jism flowed out of her cunt and into the goblet she held between her legs to catch it. She passed the goblet to Steve, who held it up in a salute to the crucified Nicky, then ripped the devil's horn tickler from his huge manly rod. He went down to the audience and, with the goblet under his cocktip, he thrust his ready sex. into each mouth, man and woman.
Lorna knelt in front of the crucifix and watched them suck him off. He gave each of them a long thrust, deep into their throats, then pulled it out of their lips. If a woman made him jerk off, he would fuck Lorna in her cunt with the devil's tickler; if a man did the job she would get the stiff, stabbing prickles up her ass.
He stopped in front of a blond beach boy type and jutted his hips. The boy took the monstrous instrument with expertise and blew it hungrily, his cheeks expanding and hollowing with his hearty male sucking. Steve's ass muscles flexed and his spine curved back as he shot his wad into the throat of the ecstatic Adonis.
The altar boys, eyeing Lorna with fascinated adoration now, lowered the cross to the floor. She looked down at Nicky's bound, naked body and straddled it as it lay on the thick beams. His jutting cock pointed straight up into the V of her legs. The communicants watched her as she put her hands on her hips and squatted suddenly in a mockery of a genuflection.
Her naked pussy landed right on the tip of the succulent male instrument of the Lord Sexus, possessor of the biggest penis in the sect. She braced herself on her haunches and let the cock-tip rest against the slathered lips of her gash. As the communicants groaned and fondled one another in their excitement, she eased her spread crotch back and forth over the magnificent piece of maleness, sliding it in the valley of her meaty womanly slice. She shivered and tossed her head, her wild red hair flying around her face. Her pussy swelled in longing and the lips sat open and stiff. She pushed forward and let the flared foreskin press against her clitoris. Hot tendrils of feeling darted into her thighs and spine as her man in the boat tingled with response. Her cunt tunnel felt a mile long as it stretched with readiness to receive the firm thrust of benediction that the Limb of Satan would give her.
She could bear it no longer. Her knees bent lower and she nudged the hot hammer of male sex deeper into her slushy folds. It slid against her vagina and her muscles quivered hungrily around it.
Nicky whispered to her over the groans and orgasmic screeches of the onlookers.
"For the love of Nick, Mom, you're gonna get jism running down your legs if you don't screw me in your pretty pie. This dog's been up and at 'em for almost an hour. Give me some of that nice fucking . . . Push it in, Mom, go on, bang your box on my rod."
Lorna shivered and let her legs slide out in a split as her torso descended over the jutting handle that awaited her. She gasped as the helmet-shaped head of his rigid foreskin pierced her vagina. Ooooh, he was so Goddamn big, and every woman tightened up when she got on top! She hunkered down firmly and let the magnificent cock impale her and slide into her twat hole. It stretched her walls and banged mercilessly into her cervix. She felt her open thighs touch Nicky's bound legs and her ass nestle up against his lumpy warm balls. She had it all in her now, and her cunt felt stuffed and cramped with all twelve inches of his astounding endowment.
His pale narrow hips jerked against the ropes that bound him as he tried to nudge his groin up into the hot hairy mound that ground down on him. Lorna circled her ass in a grinding, fucky motion and suckled his buried tool with her muscular cunt.
Nicky strained against the ropes.
"I wish I could get my hands on those bouncy boobs of yours, Mom," he rasped. "Jesus Christ! Ooops! I mean Me."
She leaned over him and got on all fours, until her generous boobs trailed over his bare belly, and fucked him within an inch of both their lives. Her teeth rattled as she pounded the foot-long hammer in and out of her lubricious channel. Nicky groaned and tried to wriggle under her but the effort was futile.
"Slipping my meat in your box is heaven, but doing it when I can't bang your playpen is hell on earth!" he gritted. "Ooooh, baby Mom, move that beautiful hole over my stick!"
Lorna humped rapidly up and down on the immobile pecker as Steve, his rod up once more and covered with the vicious-looking tickler of devil's horns, knelt behind her and pulled open her bouncing ass orbs. She gasped as she felt the needlelike rubbery horns stab into her defenseless rim and penetrate her bung. She screamed and tried to get away from it but he held her billowy hips and ground his naked groin up against her. The torture instrument climbed higher in her hot, dry asshole and crept into her bowels. She sank down on Nicky and writhed in agony as the tickler scraped and dug into her nether hole. He had it all the way up now, buried to the hilt between her soft buns. His jock hair felt like wire on her spread ass and the hard muscles of his thighs clasped hers in a vise.
The two huge cocks seemed to push her insides up into her gullet. She gasped against the fierce hammering fucks that Steve threw into her rectum. Nicky's fucking tool flexed inside her cunt as it made contact with the horned monster in her ass. She rose up on her palms and made herself take it, screwing her impaled ass back against the impossible thing that was in it. NNNNNGGG-GGGGGHHHHH! It was tearing her to pieces! With that heavy rubber around his cock, Steve could stay erect for an hour! She'd be dead by then.
Nicky shot his wad with a loud groan and Steve pulled her away from his spread-eagled form. Her tender pink bung began to bleed as he dragged it out of her asshole with each fierce stroke, then pushed it back up inside her. She tried to scream but one by one, each communicant came up and knelt before her with an erect cock for her to suck. She took them in her mouth and dragged on the rigid foreskins until they shot into her jaws, then spit the boiling semen into the holy goblet. The women came next, and she licked their steaming pussies until they shrieked and twisted with orgasmic relief. Grunts and groans filled the basement now; everyone passed the communion goblet from hand to hand, drinking the semen of the Knights of Satan. The women smeared their faces with it and fought over the dregs in the cup to pour on their cunts.
The newly deflowered altar boys were passed from one erotically crazed adult to another. The women held the wiry adolescent bodies between their thighs while the tireless pricks rose with renewed vigor and pierced each wriggling pussy. Lorna watched the squirming boy-buttocks as they humped and writhed over the naked hairy crotches of the insatiable females.
While they fucked their under-grown peckers into the women, the boys sucked off the big juicy sticks of the males. Jism ran down their chins as they gagged and choked on the turgid rods that were forced into their throats. As each person was brought to climax, he or she went over to Nicky and made obeisance on their knees between his spread legs. Lorna saw women squat over him and suck on his dong until it was hard enough to screw into their cunts. Then they sat astride him and pumped their naked asses full of his rocky pecker. He sucked pussy from the women who knelt over his face. Lorna saw their crazed eyes rolling in their heads as his expert tongue flicked and tickled, sluiced and darted in and out of one hair pie after another.
At last Steve finished his torment of her asshole with a violent, grunting climax into the rubber casing he wore. She fell forward in a faint and did not come to until Nicky rolled her over and poured wine into her lips.
The floor was strewn with exhausted bodies, some sleeping, some unconscious. A sweetish smell wafted in the air. She saw a naked man hunched over a bowl, dragging on a silver pipe.
"Wake up, Mom. Dad-poor-Dad is shooting up and he really digs it. Looks like he's not going to do you any good anymore, does it? I better stay around and keep that hot little gash of yours cooled off, huh?"
She looked at the naked man again and realized that it was Steve.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Nicky moved into the apartment with them. Steve said nothing and did not seem to know the boy was there. He sat over his books, reading steadily, taking notes, and then, when he could read no more, he got out the silver pipe and the sticky ball wrapped in foil.
Lorna wondered why he did not shoot up on heroin, which was easy to get in New Orleans and did not require the elaborate equipment of opium, nor leave the telltale sickly sweet odor. She sensed that he liked the ceremony of opium-smoking better than the actual high he obtained from the poppy. The heavily carved silver pipes, the way he squatted, Chinese-style, over the paraphernalia, fed some colorful and imaginative need in him that the coldly scientific hypodermic syringe could not match. It was his way of escaping into the past whose secret he longed to unlock. This way, he could pretend that he was in ancient China.
One day he sprang up from his desk and started putting his books into their packing boxes. Lorna and Nicky stared at him.
"What's the matter, Steve?" she cried.
"Let's go . . . to San Francisco . . . out west somewhere. I'm sick of this place. Come on, hurry! The cops'll be here in a minute, hurry!"
She turned, stunned and helpless, and looked at Nicky but the boy gave her a high sign and winked quickly.
"We'd better split somewhere fast. I heard there was a crackdown coming in this neighborhood, and this is the first place they'll be because you can smell that hash of his as soon as you turn the frigging corner."
She put her head in her hands.
"Running . . . always running. Will it never end?" Her voice scaled up to a note that bordered on hysteria. Nicky looked quickly at her, his eyes narrowed. With his thin face and red hair he looked like a fox.
"Let's us split, just the two of us," he whispered. "He's bombed out of his mind! Who needs him?"
She looked at Steve's furious activity as he packed. She had not seen him move so fast since he began to smoke opium. He had grown thin and drawn, his appetite down to something less than subsistence level. As she listened to Nicky's pleas to leave him she slowly shook her head.
"Are you nuts? Hell get us both busted if we tie up with him. What do you want him for? He's not cooling your ass for you anymore, I am!" he hissed.
She continued to shake her head.
"No . . . I can't leave him, not yet."
She knew, in some instinctual part of her being, that all was not finished between her and Steve yet. When it was, she would know it. Nicky argued but she was adamant. The thing that had drawn them together was not yet resolved, the wheel of Fate had a few more turns to go.
Once he had packed his books and papers, Steve became passive and silent once more. He neither seemed to know or care that Nicky was coming with them; he sat in the back of the car, his handsome dark face taut and secretive, as they put the suitcases in beside him and got in the front seat together.
He was like a child or a dog-and a very obedient one-on the entire trip. They took turns driving. When they stopped for food he took nothing but coffee. When they bought gas or checked into a motel, it was Nicky who took the man's part and stood outside talking to the attendant, or signed the registration cards. They took a double room and put Steve into a single. He made no objection; all he wanted was his suitcase full of books and notes, which he took everywhere, afraid to leave it in the car. The few times Lorna got him into a restaurant he dragged it in, oblivious of the stares. After the first few times, she left him in the car entirely. She brought food to him but he only nibbled at it, then pushed it aside.
When they got to San Francisco they stayed at a housekeeping motel. This time there was no question of getting an apartment. Lorna knew that they would not be permanent anywhere, ever again. A hazy dream world state settled over her, as opaque and mysterious as the bluish smoke from Steve's silver pipes.
The suspension of reality and her subsequent entrance into the limbo of imagination began when the motel owners presumed that Nicky was her son. His habit of calling her Mom undoubtedly started it, and now that she looked older and strained it was natural for people to assume that she was his mother when they saw their identical coloring.
Life became a movie, and movies were unreal. Therefore, life was unreal. After that, she ceased to worry about anything. When she received Nicky's bulging cock each night she reversed their roles and once again became an adolescent girl, while the real adolescent became, in her mind, her handsome father. Steve, lost in his own realm of ether, became hazy and ghostlike to her. She turned him into Dan. He was like a dead man, the way he sat for hours doing nothing, hardly moving, staring with glazed eyes into space. It was not hard to think of him as Dan's ghost.
If Dan were there in the apartment with them in the guise of Steve, then Dan was not really dead, and Lorna was free from guilt. She started to call him Dan but he took no notice of it, just as he took no notice of anything at all.
Throughout it all, the thick fog of San Francisco did its part to blur the edges of reality and help her to see everything through a misty netherworld screen. The soupy nights belonged to a realm of the imagination in which she came increasingly to dwell.
Nicky went out to Golden Gate park one night and made a contact and bought some pot. He and Lorna turned on while Steve smoked his silver pipes. That too added to her dream world and she worried about nothing, absolutely nothing. Sometimes when she was high she remembered the night in the painting studio with the man named Tom, and how she had experienced that intense flash of familiarity as she leaned over the palette and heard him tell her his name.
Tom . . . Tom . . . why are you so familiar, Tom?
Sometimes she relived the day she had gone walking in the woods and met Steve in his blue-gray convict pants. Her mind exploded into visions of giant buttons; they swelled up and rushed at her like flying saucers, and the holes in them turned into mouths that shouted: "Men in the woods without women! I'll keep you in me, you big-cocked stud! I'll hold you in my cunt with two fingers just as I did that tube of cream!"
They stayed a month in San Francisco. Their departure came on a night when Nicky rushed into the room and told her that the motel owners knew that they were using drugs and had thrown them out.
"Hurry, they said they'd call the cops if we didn't leave in fifteen minutes!"
Fortunately Lorna was down at the time. They hustled Steve up and threw the half-packed luggage in the car. Nicky hunched over the wheel, stiffening every time he saw a cop on a corner.
"Where are we going?" she asked him.
"Seattle. I can't think of any place else to go from here, can you?"
She couldn't, nor could she be bothered to try. Nicky was in charge now, she realized, and with her realization came an odd, satisfied pleasure. Of course Daddy should be in charge; every good girl did what her Daddy told her to do. If he wanted to move to Seattle, why, all well and good. And if he wanted to fuck her-still better!
She giggled suddenly. Nicky looked at her curiously but said nothing. She felt completely secure in his sixteen-year-old hands, knowing that his sixteen-year-old prick was always at her disposal. She had to have her Daddy's prick. If she had had it all along, none of this would have happened to her. If Daddy hadn't died she would have lived on with him after killing her mother. Poor Daddy didn't have the nerve to commit murder, but she did. She would have done it for him, and then they would have lived together as man and wife-daughter, happily ever after. Naturally, she would not have married Dan, which meant that she would not have gotten sick of him and decided to run off with Steve. So if she had her Daddy back, all the bad things would go away, never to return.
By the time they got to Seattle, Nicky was Daddy to both. He controlled the money, all the cash, which rested on his slender hip. It was Nicky who decided where they should live; it was Nicky who decided that the mother-son bit was as good a disguise as anything, especially since people were ready to buy it without even being told. Neither he nor Lorna really thought about why they needed a disguise at all; technically they had not done anything illegal, and certainly they hadn't done anything in Seattle, at least not yet, since they had only just arrived in town. But the stamp of flight and nameless fear was on them, and disguise seemed a natural thing. Though neither of them knew it consciously, the mother-son game was a strong comfort and aphrodisiac to both of them.
Lorna did not really notice Seattle except to see that it was a city of wooden houses built on hills. The magnificence of Mt. Ranier, like a strawberry ice cream sundae in the horizon, the blue waters of Puget Sound, the impressive harbor, the craggy Olympic mountains, all passed without notice. She was not going to live here, after all, really live here. She would never live anywhere, ever again. Soon they would go somewhere else. Where? Perhaps Canada . . . it wasn't very far away.
Nicky rented an apartment down near the waterfront. When they had settled Steve into it, they went out together. He was the pimp now, the trafficker in women that Steve had once been. He wanted to know what they were going to do about making some real money. He wanted to do some more movies. They walked past the skin flicks in the downtown area and he looked at the marquees with a hungry, lupine expression on his face.
"I'll bet the girls in those have pimples on their ass," he said contemptuously. "You've got it all over them. How about me rounding up some guys and really making a flick to end 'em all?"
"Sure," she said tonelessly.
They went into a waterfront bar and had a drink. Nicky started to outline his plans but they were interrupted by an old drunk who insisted upon talking to them. Nothing would make him go away.
"Haven't seen you folks in here before," he slobbered. "New to Seattle?"
Nicky stiffened with automatic guilt, but Lorna quickly answered yes. He glared at her but she was getting drunk and paid no attention.
The old-timer was delighted and launched into a Chamber of Commerce spiel. He talked about the old days, telling them every building that had been torn down in his memory, and even before.
"My Dad remembered the fire of '89," he chortled, and Nicky put his head in his hands and muttered "Oh, Jesus."
"Yessir, he remembered it well, and my granddad could tell even better stories. He remembered his granddad tell about the Sawdust Women, he-he. They was Seattle's first whores, you know? Beg pardon, ma'am," he said to Lorna, but she urged him to go on. He needed little encouragement. He seldom had a listener with such rapt eyes as he saw on this luscious redhead.
"Yep, the Sawdust Women were the Indian gals in the first days of settlement here. They called 'em that because the first whorehouses were built down on the tide flats, where Yesler's sawmill dumped its dust and filled in the wet land until there was a solid foundation to build on. And guess what they built? Yep, whorehouses. They stocked 'em with Indian women 'cause that's all they had here then. There was one gal called Two
Fingers Lou because she had such a big box that she had to hold her customers in with her two fingers. She come to a bad end, though. A lumberjack named Tall Tommy shot her dead one night 'cause he said she was so dang flappy down there that he couldn't feel a dern thing."
Lorna sprang up from the stool with a loud cry. The old timer sputtered drunken apologies but she did not stay to hear them. She ran out the door and flagged a cab and got in. She gave the man her address and he drove off just as Nicky reached for the door. He missed it and Lorna turned to see him wave frantically at another taxi.
Her mind spun wildly. The wheel of Fate had taken its last turn for her and Steve now. She saw herself on the bathroom floor in Dan's house, holding the cream in her slot. I'll keep you in me, you big-cocked bastard! Men in the woods without women . . . Steve had been a man in the woods without women that afternoon she met him, but it wasn't the first time. He was Tall Tommy the lumberjack, who had killed her down on the tide flats in a brawling pioneer whorehouse.
Two-Fingers Lou will get even with you!
She chanted the doggerel in her mind until it drove out all else.
"What's that, ma'am?" said the driver, turning.
She had not realized she had spoken out loud.
"Nothing."
Now she knew what their running had been all about. The gypsies had arrived home at last. The inexorable pull of Fate had drawn them West like a magnet. They thought it was planned, but it wasn't. Each thing that had happened to them happened for a reason and a purpose, and that was to get them closer and closer to this city of big wooden houses on hills, a city that had started out as a collection of whorehouses and a sawmill on the waterfront.
The driver pulled up before the apartment house and she tossed him the fare and got out. She looked around but there was no sign of Nicky in another cab. She had time! It wouldn't take long, and she knew where the gun was.
She ran up the stairs and opened the door. Steve turned around and surveyed her dully. He said something in a slurred voice but she rushed past him into the bedroom. She returned with the .38 he used to wear in the shoulder holster.
She pointed it straight at his face.
"Now we're even!" she. screamed.
His head exploded as she pulled the trigger. Blood and gluey pinkish-gray pieces of brain spattered on the papers on the desk. Screams broke out in the hallway and someone screamed "Call the police!"
She stood there with the gun in her hand until her white-faced adolescent Daddy opened the door. The police crowded in behind him.
