Sexually frustrated and unhappy in her role as a wife and mother, Molly Lawford, a raven-tressed beauty of thirty-five, dreams of escaping suburbia to live a more meaningful and fulfilling life as a liberated woman. Her wish for a windfall is answered when, much to her surprise, her only living relative dies and leaves her over seventy-five thousand dollars.
And so Molly is off to "find herself," leaving her sweet but inept husband and two teen-age sons to fend for themselves as she journeys to Europe. On the flight to London, England, she meets Eric Marlow, a handsome American writer, and is soon fellating Mm in his seat. In London, Molly meets and soon mates with Peter Cornwall, Eric's debonair and worldly-wise English friend, and the three have a jolly old time, in bed and out.
Reveling in her independence, Molly travels to Paris, France, where she meets Pierre Claremont and Jacques Novale, a painter and sculptor respectively. The runaway housewife visits the studio the two fun-loving artists share. She is drugged and then subjected to a series of sex acts, all of which she enjoys immensely.
Molly's European adventures continue when she travels to Italy. Here, in Rome, she gets involved with Salvatore Donnelli, a rotund, fat-faced film director, who invites her to a party which, to Molly's surprise, quickly turns into a full-scale orgy.
In Copenhagen, Denmark, while touring Tivoli Gardens, Molly meets Lars Olafson, a good-looking student of twenty-one, who performs in porno films with his equally good-looking sister, Else. In no time at all, Molly is out on the Olafson's farm enjoying the sexual talents of the uninhibited pair.
CHAPTER ONE
Stunned, her heart pounding in her chest, Molly Lawford plopped down into her husband's favorite chair, a time-worn but exceedingly comfortable brown leather armchair, and stared straight ahead into space.
Was it true, she wondered, her mind suddenly a jumble of a dozen different thoughts. Could it really be true? Or was it a hoax, a cruel, practical joke played on her by someone who, for reasons unknown, wanted her to experience the altogether wretched fall from the cliffs of joy to the shoals of sorrow? But how dare anyone play with her emotions like that?
Swallowing hard, Molly looked again at the registered letter she had signed for two minutes ago. Slowly, carefully, she read the letter a second time, thinking that maybe she had missed something, or misunderstood a key phrase, the first time.
Starting with her name and address, located to the left, approximately four inches down from the top and under the engraved letterhead, "Barton, Lewis, Peterson & Kramer, Attorneys-at-Law," her eyes crawled over the single sheet of paper.
"June 11, 1974
Mrs. Martin Lawford 223 Langdale Place Springvale, New York
Dear Mrs. Lawford:
It is with the deepest regret that we inform you of the death of your uncle, the late Henry Calvin Clayton. Mr. Clayton's death, on April 30, 1974, saddened us considerably. As you may know, we had the pleasure of serving as legal counsel for your late uncle for almost twenty-five years. Our previous attempts to notify you of your uncle's passing have obviously been unsatisfactory, as we have received no response to these earlier efforts. We had hoped to have you present for the reading of your uncle's will, held, as per his wishes, as soon as possible after his death, and on June 5, 1974. Said will, which you may inspect at your convenience, specifies that you are to receive the sum of seventy-five thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars ($75,250). A check in that amount has been enclosed. May we once again express our sorrow at your uncle's passing. If we can be of any further service to you, do not hesitate to contact us. Very truly yours, Kenneth T. Kramer, Atty."
No, she had not been mistaken, thought Molly, letting the hand folding the letter fall into her lap. It was all here in black and white, as plain as the nose on her face. Good old Uncle Henry, whom she had not seen in over twenty years, had upped and died and left her over seventy-five thousand dollars. Seventy-five thousand dollars!
Molly looked again at the check which she had held tightly in her left hand while re-reading the letter, and shook her head in amazement. She had crawled out of bed this morning a suburban housewife of modest means, a woman accustomed to living on a budget, and now, suddenly, magically, she was one very rich lady. Well, maybe not rich rich. But seventy-five thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars was nothing to scoff at. It was more money than she had ever dreamed of having.
Molly let her left hand drop into her lap, where it joined her right, and sat almost perfectly still in the comfortable armchair, savoring the wondrous realization that, come tomorrow morning, she'd be able to deposit in the bank what was for her a small fortune.
Her only regret, and it was, she admitted shamefacedly, a small one, was that she had given her generous uncle so little thought in all these years. Not once in twenty years had she attempted to discover his whereabouts. Truth was, she had all but forgotten about the man who, until a month and a half ago, was her only living relative.
But time has a way of eroding memory, Molly told herself, trying to ease her guilt. And so much had happened to her in the twenty years since last she saw her uncle, college, marriage to Martin, the children, the horrible death three years ago of her mother, father, and sister in an automobile accident, the move from Illinois to New York where her husband was transferred. Could she really be blamed for having had her thoughts on the present instead of on the past?
Now, of course, her mind was awash with thoughts of Uncle Henry. She had but to close her eyes, and she could see him again, laughing with her, teasing her, telling her the wildest, most improbable tales, his blue eyes twinkling merrily and his scarecrow thin body dancing this way and that as he charmed her to pieces with his tall tales.
And then, soon after her fifteenth birthday, he disappeared. Left for parts unknown, as her father has put it. Nobody in the family worried too much, as Uncle Henry who liked to refer to himself as a "gentleman wanderer," was always coming and going, leaving unexpectedly one day and then, just as unexpectedly, showing up a month, a year, and sometimes several years later, eager to relate his adventures to all those willing to listen. Only this time, he didn't come back.
And now he was dead, thought Molly. It was a shame that the letters informing her of his death had never reached her. She would have liked to attend his funeral and pay her last respects to the man who had added so much fun to her life when she was growing up.
True, he had never bothered to look her up, so in a way, he was just as much to blame as she was for their having lost contact. In death, however, Uncle Henry had remembered her. And how!
As Molly studied the check she had received, a secret smile crept over her smooth, unblemished face. Now, at long last, she would be able to make her move. Months had she spent agonizing over a decision, weighing the pros and cons of it all, her mind in constant turmoil as she wrestled with her conscience. To leave her husband and children or not to leave them; that had been the question.
And the decision to go, to say goodbye to those she held dear, and start life anew, had been without a doubt the most terribly difficult decision she had ever had to make. And even now, although her mind was made up, and nothing could change it, she experienced twinges of self-doubt, moments when she wondered if maybe the whole idea behind Women's Lib, all this business about how important it was for a female to find fulfillment, and happiness, by establishing her identity as a person, didn't need further thought. And perhaps more to the point, could she, Molly Lawford, a thirty-five-year-old wife and mother, hack it out there in the Big Bad World?
"Well, you should be able to now," said Molly, thinking aloud as she tapped the check thoughtfully against her chin. Even in this age of inflation, seventy-five thousand dollars went a long way.
She wouldn't have to worry about finding a job-at least not for awhile. She could travel and explore at her leisure all those exciting, exotic places she had read about. She could, for the first time in her life, start to experience things. Really experience them.
And for that, thought Molly, smiling inwardly, she had Uncle Henry to thank. Unknowingly, he had come through for her in her hour of need, providing her with the wherewithall to make a fresh start in life. She'd love to know how he managed to accumulate that kind of money.
Not that it mattered much if Uncle Henry had begged, borrowed, or stolen his treasure. The important thing was that he had remembered her in his will. All she had to do now was pick a time for her exit. No, "exit" wasn't really the correct word. All she had to do, was pick a time for her escape.
"-And so I told Burns if he didn't like the idea, it was no skin off my back," Martin Lawford was saying. "I mean, what the hell. If he can think of a better way to re-structure our salesmen's territories, well, more power to him." He paused, and carefully draped his brown slacks over the back of a straight chair next to his dresser. Then, turning to face the double bed he shared with his wife, he said, "Hon, are you listening? I said-"
"Yes, I heard you, Martin," Molly broke in. She smiled. "I heard every word you said, darling."
Martin, who had stripped down to his white underwear, and beige socks, placed his hands on his hips and smiled at his wife of fifteen years. "I don't know whether to believe that or not, Mrs. Lawford. I mean, you've been acting kind of peculiar all evening."
"Peculiar?"
"Well, maybe preoccupied is a better word. In any event, you haven't really been with it."
"I haven't?"
"You hardly said a word at dinner, sweetheart," Martin reminded his spouse. "You're not coming down with anything, are you?"
"Not that I know of," smiled Molly. "Are you sure?"
"Positive. Now, please stop worrying and finish undressing, will you? I'm just fine."
A lewd smile washed over Martin's face. "Aha, so maybe that's it."
"What's what, Martin?"
"Could it be that my favorite girl is suffering from a case of the hots? Maybe she's been moping around the house all day with a pussy that just wouldn't stop itching."
"Oh, Martin, really!"
"Well, beautiful, have no fear. I'll be there in a minute to put out your fire."
So saying, Martin turned his back to the bed, and resumed his undressing. He peeled off his undershirt, and then, without delay, shucked his boxer shorts. Then he was plunking down on the straight chair, remaining seated only as long as it took him to remove his socks. When he was on his feet again, he winked at his wife, told her he'd hurry back, and then started out of the bedroom, carrying his underwear and socks.
Molly, who was propped up in bed, a pillow sandwiched between her back and the headboard, watched her husband leave. Must it always be the same, she wondered. Couldn't there be just once, just once, a break in the routine? Must he always brush his teeth and douse himself with cologne before joining her in bed? She could count on the fingers of one hand the times when, propelled by a good old-fashioned lust, Martin had jumped into bed to fuck the daylights out of her. In fact, he hadn't fucked her, really and truly fucked her, since their honeymoon.
The routine. The maddening, mind-muddling routine. That, of course, was what she was rebelling against, Molly thought. At least it was a part of it. Without her even being aware of it, her life had become as regimented as any solider's, as stale and as unexciting as a hermit's.
Like a pool left unattended for too long, she had started to stagnate. She was just existing, staggering under the weight of so many monotonous chores performed day in and day out with little appreciation. The boredom, the dreary sameness of it all was choking the life out of her and making her old before her time.
There had to be something more to life than doing dishes, cleaning house, preparing three meals a day, caring for children and making sure your husband has clean socks to wear.
Of course, it wasn't all Martin's fault, Molly reminded herself. In many ways he was a good man, and he certainly did his best to please. He was kind, considerate, generous to a fault and, thanks to his executive position at Bennington and Marlowe Sales, Inc., a good provider. Then, too, Martin was a proud and loving father.
And if her husband lacked the kind of vigorous sex appeal that made females cream in their panties, well, not every man could look like a matinee idol. In any event, Martin was certainly not unattractive. He stood a shade under six feet and weighed in at about one hundred and seventy-five, which was just five pounds more than he weighed when they married. Not bad for a man who would be thirty-nine in a couple of months.
His face, while not breathtakingly beautiful, was pleasant to behold, and that warm, friendly smile of his could not help but trigger kind thoughts in the one to whom it was directed. His eyes were brown, as was his hair, which, in keep with his somewhat straight-laced nature, he kept neatly trimmed and always nicely-too nicely-combed.
Yes, she would miss him, thought Molly. But Martin, for all his good qualities, was as exciting physically and as stimulating mentally as yesterday's warmed-over dinner.
And she would miss Gary and Jeffrey, too. The boys, sleeping now in their rooms down the hall, would surely resent her walking out on them. They would be hurt, angry, and quite understandably puzzled by her departure. Hopefully, the would one day understand why she did what she did.
But enough of this, thought Molly, chiding herself. She had been over all this before. She had made her decision, and it was irrevocable. There was no sense in going over it again-none whatsoever. She could not, would not change her mind now.
It was high time that she started thinking of herself, and her physical and intellectual needs. She had to make the break now, before it was too late. The problems her leaving would create for Martin and the boys, could not be compared to the monstrous despair she knew would engulf her, and possibly destroy her, if she remained in this vacuum of an environment. Dammit, what was keeping Martin anyway?
Martin arrived, as it were, on cure, his breath fresh and his smile lewd. Naked, he padded to the bed.
"What were you doing in there, taking a bath?" asked Molly.
Martin chuckled. "I was right, wasn't I sweetheart? You do have the hots for me tonight. Come on now, tell the truth."
Molly smiled up at her husband. Did she want to get laid tonight or not? If she had to ask herself the question, then obviously, she wasn't as hungry for a humping as Martin thought. On the other hand, it was only fair that she service her husband if he were in the mood. After all, he deserved a few good performances from here before she left his bed and board.
"Well, honey? Are you in the mood for cock or not?"
"Shh, not so loud, Martin. The boys can-"
"The boys are fast asleep," Martin broke in.
"I looked in on them when I went to the bathroom."
"Well, close the door, anyway."
Obediently, Martin turned away from the bed and padded to the bedroom door, which he closed quietly. In not time at all, he was back at the bed, smiling down at his beautiful spouse.
"Now, Mrs. Lawford, I'll give you one last chance to answer my question. Are you in the mood for cock or not?"
"And what happens if I don't answer, Mr. Lawford?" asked Molly, smiling sexily.
"Then I'll just have to take matters into my own hands."
"Oh?"
"Uh huh. I'll rip off that pretty blue gown of yours, and whatever else you're wearing underneath and rape the living daylights out of you."
Oh, Martin, if only you would, thought Molly, a spasm of excitement rippling up her spine. How beautiful it would be to be raped, stripped naked, and then taken forcefully, even brutally, the way her fantasy stud always did it to her.
But it would do no good to tease, to provoke such a deliciously violent act, because her loving husband, always a gentleman, would be shocked beyond words.
He was only talking tough, pretending to be Super-Stud, a man among men who would brook no nonsense from his woman. He wouldn't rape her if she got down on her hands and knees and begged for it.
"Did you hear me, Mrs. Lawford?" asked Martin, enjoying his tough guy role.
Molly nodded. Then, humoring her husband, "I think it would be in my best interests to answer your question. Yes, I am in the mood for cock, Martin. Your cock."
"I knew it all the time, sweetheart. Come on, get your things off and let's get busy."
Molly put her fingers to work undoing the large white buttons that ran down the front of her satiny blue dressing gown. Before very long, she was sitting up, slipping the gown off her creamy-smooth shoulders, then, lifting her hips off the bed, she worked the garment out from under her. Then she went to work on her cream-colored brassiere.
Soon, her full, firm breasts were spilling out of the confining cups, juggling as if rejoicing' in their freedom. Handing the bra to her husband, Molly turned onto her right side, and with one hand took the pillow resting up against the headboard and arranged it flat on the bed. Then she was turning onto her back and stretching out on the bed, her hips arching now, as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and started to bare her loins.
Quietly, almost reverently, Martin watched his wife remove the one remaining piece of clothing. He never failed to derive great pleasure from watching his wife undress. She was every bit as beautiful now, at age thirty-five, as she had been when they first met. Maybe even more so, because the passing years had added character to her face, and imbued it with a certain sophistication.
And fifteen years of marriage had not dulled his appreciation of her body. He could have composed a sonnet praising his wife's loveliness, the beauty of her perfectly rounded breasts, the delightful sway of her well-crafted bottom when she walked, the smooth, graceful lines of her sleek legs.
Who could fail to appreciate such a wonderful example of female pulchritude. It was no surprise that she drew stares of envy from women and whistles of approval from men wherever she went. With her lustrous black hair, which she liked to wear shoulder length and her sparkling brown eyes, and of course, her curvy body, Molly was a match for just about any beauty queen presently parading her stuff.
"Hey, wake up," said Molly, smiling as she handed her mate her underpants. "You're dreaming again, Martin."
"Just admiring the merchandise," Martin explained with a grin as he took the briefs from his now naked wife. "No harm in that, is there?"
"None that I know of. But isn't it more fun to handle the merchandise?"
"Always, sweetheart."
"So what are you waiting for, Mr. Lawford."
Tossing aside the gown, brassiere and matching briefs, Martin climbed onto the bed, and snuggled close to his desirable, black-haired wife. Within seconds he was mouthing her succulent breasts, his hungry mouth moving from one to the other. Like a huge and famished rodent, he feasted, munching on those spongy tits as if he might not get another opportunity in the near future.
"My but we're eager tonight," said Molly with a smile, placing one hand, her left, on the back of her husband's head.
"I just adore those melons of yours," explained Martin.
"Don't forget the nipples, Martin. Use your tongue on my nipples."
Although he was by no means an outstanding lover, Martin did not need instructions on how best to bathe a lady's tits. Now, as Molly exerted pressure on the back of his head, urging him on, he zeroed in on the inviting nipple perched atop her left breast. With his flicking tongue, he teased the nipple, poked it playfully, and then he was licking the crumb-like nubbin of rosy flesh, laving it lustily.
"Yes, that's the way, Martin," said Molly, desire beginning to build within her.
In due time, Martin pursed his lips and drew the saliva-coated nipple into his mouth. He proceeded to pull on that tasty tidbit, sucking it hungrily into his oral cavity, like an infant too long denied his mother's nourishing milk.
And while he tended to his wife's left tit, he kneaded her right, his hand squeezing, constantly squeezing that mouth-watering mound of flesh.
Less than a minute later, Martin turned his attention to the breast he had been massaging. Cupping the underside of the boob with his left hand, and lifting it up, he commenced a lascivious tonguing of the nipple. Then again, he was pursing his lips, this time to suck Molly's right nipple into his mouth.
His right hand was on his wife's left boob, the one he's just treated to a thrilling bath.
"Yes, that's so nice," breathed the raven-tressed beauty. "It feels so good, Martin."
"Oouuhhmm" moaned the slobbering Martin., "It feels so good."
Molly, enjoying the feel of her husband's mouth on her right breast and the feel of his squeezing hand on the other, allowed the sexy ministrations to continue for another minute. And then, she was ready for something else, something even more thrilling than a good tonguing of her boobs. She pried Martin's head up off her eye-catching chest.
"Go down on me now, Martin," the black-haired delight said, holding her husband's head between her hands so that he couldn't look away from her. "Please Martin, I need you to do that tonight."
"But Molly, you know I don't-"
"Please Martin," pleaded Molly, her voice louder than before. "It's been almost a month since you went down on me."
"It hasn't been that long," Martin tried to argue.
"It has. Dammit, I should know Martin. Now please do it for me."
Martin said nothing for a few long seconds. Then, in a soft, almost inaudible voice, "All right, if it will make you happy."
"You know it will."
Yes, and you know how much I dislike eating you, thought Martin, as Molly relinquished her hold on his head, and with obvious reluctance, he started working his way downward, toward the juncture of her creamy-smooth thighs. Was his distaste for cunnilingus so difficult to understand?
"All right, now give me a good going-over down there," saild Molly, when her husband was crouched between her spread legs, and staring down at her secreting snatch. "I want to feel your tongue deep inside me."
Martin swallowed hard, and then, fighting back nausea, bent to his obscene task. Forcing his tongue out of his mouth, he started to lick his wife's oozing slit. Then, tasting her secretions, which many other males would have found pleasant, he pulled his mouth away. He waited a moment, hoping against hope that Molly would suddenly change her mind about being eaten. When it became obvious that she had no intention of changing her mind, he forced his face back down to her brown-haired twat and resumed the task he found so repugnant.
"Come on, Martin, lick me, dammit. Get that tongue moving."
Quickening the pace, Martin worked his tongue up and down and all around his wife's aroused womanhood. The female scent of her, which even he had to admit was not unappealing, started him thinking about his first experience with cunnilingus.
It was twenty-one years ago to be exact, but he didn't think he'd ever forget Wanda, fat, ugly, nymphomaniacal Wanda, a pig masquerading as a girl. The boys in his fraternity who were supposedly his friends, had talked him into visiting Wanda, the town prostitute, for the purpose of testing his sexual ability.
And what a disaster it was, Martin remembered, continuing to tongue Molly's glistening snatch. When it came his turn to mount Wanda, the boys ordered him to perform cunnilingus on her first. Thus it was that he found himself crouched between the ugly whore's fat, fleshy legs, trying not to throw up while he licked her horribly smelly cunt.
Even now, years later, he could remember the awful stench emanating from that hairy, yawning twat, the dizzying struggle he had had to wage with himself in order to keep his mouth on that stinking swamp of a cunt.
The experience made a lasting impression on him. It had resulted in what would surely be a lifelong dislike of cunnilingus. Try as he might, and he treid hard, he could not shake the sick feeling at the pit of his stomach, every time Molly requested the act.
"You're not hitting my clit, Martin," Molly complained.
Obediently, Martin slid his tongue upward, to the apex of his wife's slimy slit, and there found, inflamed and all a-quiver, one blood-gorged clitoris, which he proceeded to punch at wildly with his tongue.
Molly moaned with pleasure and out of frustration. It was all right, she thought, certainly better than nothing at all. But how wonderful it would be to have down there a man who knew what he was doing.
That was one of the first things she was going to find when she was free and out on her own-a man who could thrill a woman to pieces not only with his cock but also with his tongue. There had to be a fellow out there willing to gobble her like crazy. Maybe even stick his tongue up her bottom.
Less than a minute later, feeling faint and unable to continue, Martin pulled his face from his wife's excited pussy. "I'm sorry, Molly. I just can't do it anymore."
"It's all right. Forget it," said the still stunning mother of two. She looked at her husband's prick. She was disappointed and not surprised to discover that it was still soft. Fortunately, she knew how to remedy the condition.
"Maybe in time I'll be able to do it properly," said Martin, still apologizing for his inability to perform cunnilingus without feeling ill.
"I said forget about it, Martin," Molly broke in. "All that concerns me right now is your cock. Lie down and let me work on it for awhile."
Martin did as directed, crawling up the bed and then turning over onto his back as Molly, in a hurry to stiffen his root, maneuvered down the bed to assume a kneeling position between her husband's legs.
Was this the cock of a lusting male, Molly asked herself, a sardonic smile coming quickly to her face, as she took hold of her husband's flaccid member and started fondling it. Not very long ago, in what was almost a laughable attempt to suggest manliness, Martin had threatened to strip and then rape her. Hell, he couldn't rape a blessed thing with this sorry excuse for a prick.
Bending over until she was in a low crouch, Molly set about putting her mate's tool in good working order. Into her mouth went that limp organ, all three inches of it, and then she was sucking hard. Her head bobbed and weaved as she worked quickly and with determination to add another three inches to the noodle of flesh.
Molly's naughtiness was not for naught. In less time than it usually took she succeeded in stiffening her husband's manhood. Slowly but surely the organ swelled in her mouth, becoming longer-and thicker until it was a columnar length of flesh measuring a respectable" six inches.
But still Molly sucked, her cunt now an aching void yearning to be stuffed. As eager as she was to get laid, however, she stubbornly refused to take Martin's tool out of her mouth. For a little while longer, she wanted to enjoy the feel of it pulsating in her oral cavity.
The slightly salty taste of her husband's cock was pleasing as well, and now she wondered, as she had on other occasions, if all pricks tasted the same. It made her sad to realize that she had sucked only two cocks in her life: her husband's and, many, many years ago, before her marriage, the one wielded by Billy Donovan, her first real boyfriend.
And where was Billy now? Screwing every female he could get his hands on no doubt. Using girls and then discarding them. That was Billy's style. At least it was his style seventeen years ago, when she knew him.
And yet, she had given serious thought to marrying him, Molly remembered. But what if she had succeeded in dragging him, kicking and screaming to the altar? Would she be any happier today? Had she married Billy, and not Martin, would the idea of leaving him to fully realize her potential as a woman ever have crossed her mind?
Who knows? And what difference did it really make? There was no sense wondering about what might have been. When all was said and done, the fact remained that in thirty-five years of living, she had opened wide for only two pricks. She certainly had a lot of catching up to do.
"Oh, Molly, that's so good," crooned Martin, breaking into his wife's thoughts. "Your mouth is wonderful."
CHAPTER TWO
Pleased by the compliment, Molly pulled the fully-erect organ out of her moist mouth and inspected it. she smiled, admiring the results of her lewd labors. Satisfactory, she thought. Satisfactory.
Now, teasingly, Molly began licking the penis she had transformed from a limp, all but useless tool, into an interesting instrument of pleasure.
"Oh, Molly, you devil," gasped Martin. With her right hand wrapped around the cock at its hairy base, to keep it almost perfectly perpendicular, Molly tongued the plum-shaped head. With maddening expertise, she licked the fleshy knob, polishing it with her swirling, stroking tongue until it gleamed.
And then, having shined the crown, she went to work on the rest of her husband's hard-on. Adjusting the angle of her head just a bit, she sent her slippery serpent of a tongue snaking down the sensitive underside of Martin's tumescent pecker, to the warm, fleshy pouch nestled between his thighs.
"Oh, Molly, you're driving me wild."
"Just relax and enjoy it, Martin. Do you want your balls sucked?"
"Yes, please."
Molly stabbed her mate's wrinkled scrotal sac with her thrusting tongue. She poked it playfully for several seconds and then, suddenly, started licking, her tongue sliding wetly all over the hairy bag of balls. The short hairs adorning Martin's scrotum, tickled her nostrils as she labored.
Before very long, the black-haired beauty was pursing her lovely lips and drawing a tasty testicle into her mouth. She sucked it carefully, gently, rolled it around on her tongue while her husband moaned his approval. After awhile, she allowed the nut to slip out of her mouth so that she could attend to its twin.
Quickly now, for her cunt was aching something fierce, Molly pushed her husband's right testicle into her mouth, and started to suck it. Without shame she munched on that hairy. ball, giving it the same going over she had given the other one, enjoying the wet, warm, furry feel of it on her tongue.
Then, bidding farewell to Martin's scrotal sac, Molly turned her attention again to his still rock-hard pecker. Her tireless tongue curled around the pole of flesh, slid up one side, over the bulbous crown, and then down the other side. Again, the tongue journeyed upward, to the well-polished, sparkling head, where tickled the tiny vertical slit in the center.
"Please, sweetheart," pleaded Martin, "put it back in your mouth."
Obediently, the raven-tressed lovely slid her lips over her husband's shiny root, her warm mouth first engulfing the knobby crown, and then, as she worked her way downward, several more inches of tasty meat.
And then she was sucking on the turgid member, her head bobbing up and down, up and down, as her tightly pursed lips slid smoothly from plump head to about two inches from his hairy base and back again.
Martin, who had propped himself on his elbows, looked down at his wife. While he intensely disliked going down on Molly, the idea itself being enough to start his stomach churning, he derived great pleasure from watching her perform on him. The wonderful feel of her fellating him aside, much of his pleasure stemmed from the thought that she was blowing him out of love, because she wanted to make him happy.
For a half minute more, Molly fellated her spouse, and then, unable to put off the pleasure of vaginal penetration a second longer, she yanked the now glistening prick from her mouth and in a husky, passion-charged voice, demanded to be fucked.
"Yes, get on your back, sweetheart," said Martin, who himself was more than ready to couple.
Even before her husband had finished his sentence, Molly was on the move, scrambling quickly up the bed, and then, as he rolled out of the way, flipping over onto her back. She drew her legs up and with wanton abandon, splayed her knees, thereby giving Martin easy access to her beckoning box.
Once he was in proper position, his body hovering over his wife's, Martin wasted no time directing his rod on target. Snaking his left arm between their bodies, his hand darting down to his well-prepared pecker, he worked the drooling head between Molly's slick, pouting pussy lips.
"Please Martin, get it in me," begged the raven-haired delight, the taste of her mate's manhood lingering on her lips. "I'm so hot for you," she said, placing her hands on Martin's smooth, hairless chest. Then she added, "Make it a good one tonight, please Martin."
The inference of course, was that there were times, perhaps many of them, when her husband's lovemaking proved less than satisfactory. But Martin, eager to achieve penetration, failed to take note of this subtle deprecating of his bedroom talents. All he could think of was getting inside Molly's hot honeypot.
This he did, efficiently and with appropriate haste, pushing his well-sucked and saliva-drenched pecker into Molly until only his wet scrotum remained outside her vagina, resting up against her warm crotch. And then, as if prodded from behind by a white hot branding iron, he started pistoning his cock rapidly in and out of his wife's syrupy womanhood.
Oh, not, not again, thought Molly. Panicking, she implored her humping husband to slow the pace. "Martin, please. You're going too-Martin, no, don't. Dammit!"
"It's so good, honey," Martin huffed, paying no attention whatsoever to his wife's protests. "Your cunt is still nice and tight."
"But you're going too fast," Molly complained, her voice a plaintive cry in the wilderness. "You'll come too soon, Martin."
But it was no good, a sheer waste of time and effort. Realizing the futility of it all, knowing that, as usual, her pleas for a slower screwing and a strong but better-paced plowing of her pussy would continue to fall on deaf ears, Molly gave up and let her husband have his way.
She had entwined her arms around his back, but now, in disgust and frustration, she dropped them onto the bed, where they rested limply at her sides. She closed her eyes and cursed the man flailing away at her vagina. For the umpteenth time, he would leave her unsatisfied.
Gasping and grunting, his chest mashing against his wife's boobs, Martin attacked the vagina he didn't like to suck. He fucked like one possessed, as if tomorrow might never come, his rapidly bobbing buttocks little more than a blur of motion as he hammered his hard-on into Molly.
Again and again he thrust into his wife's heavenly softness, his rampaging prick digging deep into that tunnel of love. The fact that Molly lay motionless under him went unnoticed. He was too busy battering her box and relishing the friction of cock against cunt to realize that only he was deriving pleasure from this coupling. And then suddenly-
One week later, at two in the afternoon on a crisp, sunshiney Thursday in June, Molly could be found on a silvery 707 bound for London, England.
As she waited with the other passengers for the plane to take off, the somewhat nervous but otherwise happy runaway went over in her mind the more memorable events of the past six days, beginning appropriately enough with last Friday morning, when she deposited the seventy-five thousand, two-hundred and fifty dollar check she'd received into her savings account.
She smiled when she remembered how nervous she had been, and how excited. After all, it wasn't every day she put that kind of money in the bank. All had gone well, however. The teller handled the transaction with surprising nonchalance, taking the check from her, disappearing for a moment, and then returning with her receipt.
And then she went home to wait, thinking how nice it would have been, had the bank been able to issue the traveler's checks right then and there, without first having to find out if Uncle Henry had in fact died and left his lawyers a tidy bundle to disburse.
Waiting for the check to clear had not been easy, Molly remembered, her head tilted back, resting on the backrest of the large, comfortable seat, and her eyes remaining closed. Much of her time had been spent pacing either the living room, or the bedroom floor, wondering if, at the eleventh hour, some cruel twist of fate would snatch this golden opportunity from her.
The weekend had been, as usual, rather dull, with the boys going about their business and Martin disappearing for long periods of time in his workshop in the basement. What was he making this time? Another piece of furniture, no doubt. Well, at least she wouldn't have to worry about finding a place for his latest creation.
Monday. What happened Monday? Nothing of any real importance, thought Molly, answering her own question Monday was memorable only because it was the day she started drafting the note she finally finished last night and left on the coffee table this noon.
Molly tried to envision the looks of utter disbelief which would surely blanket the faces of her husband and two teen-age sons when they read her little note. She had worked hard on her farewell address, starting, stopping, and starting all over again in an earnest attempt to explain matters, to put into words her feelings and at the same time, convey to them the strength of her need to begin a new life.
The more she thought about the note, the more she wondered about the reaction to it, the more unsettled Molly became. And so she turned her thoughts elsewhere. Suddenly it was this morning again, and she was back at the bank, standing first on line and then, after a few minutes at the window of a teller who was the same one who had served her last Friday.
Molly smiled inwardly when she remembered how, after receiving her traveler's checks, she had gone off by herself to a corner of the bank, and there, like some kind of sneak thief, counted the checks, adding them up not once, not twice, but three times to make sure there had been no mistake.
Then it was back home, to shower, to dress, to pick up the one piece of luggage she had packed before leaving for the bank. Two phone calls came next. One to the airport, to confirm the reservation she had made on Tuesday, and one to a neighborhood taxi service.
And then finally, the big moment, the dramatic exit.
No, not really dramatic, thought Molly. She had left the house quietly, with mixed emotions, convinced that what she was doing was essential to her well-being, but at the same time, saddened by the thought that she might never see her family again. The front door closed, locked, she had moved quickly down the cement walk and into the waiting taxi. And she did not look back, Molly remembered, when the taxi drove off.
The sensation of motion, brought Molly back to the present. Opening her eyes, she looked out the window to discover the ground moving under her. The huge jet, having been given the green light from the control tower, was turning slowly toward the runway, down which it would race, until like some giant bird, it soared up into the bright blue sky.
Not long after take-off, with the plane flying high over the Atlantic, Molly dropped off to sleep. When she awoke, about an hour later, it was to discover a man, and a very attractive one at that, in the seat next to her. She was somewhat annoyed, for she had hoped to spend the flight in quiet contemplation of her visit to England, and not have to engage in meaningless conversation with a talkative stranger. On the other hand, he was very good looking.
"So, the sleeping beauty awakes at last," said the man with a pleasing smile.
"How long was I asleep?" asked Molly, still a little fuzzy.
"Oh, almost an hour."
Molly nodded and then, turning to the window, "Where are we, anyway?"
The man chuckled. "Hopefully, still over the Atlantic."
"Oh, of course," smiled the raven-haired beauty. "How silly of me."
"No need to apologize. Beautiful women need never say they're sorry for anything."
"And you think I'm beautiful, do you?"
"Very," answered the man. Then after a brief pause, "Let me introduce myself. My name is Eric Marlowe." He held out a hand for Molly to clasp.
"Mine is Molly. Molly Lawford." A decision would have to be made, thought Molly, taking the proffered hand, about her last name. Should she keep the one she had gotten from Martin, or since she was now a free and independent woman, go back to using her maiden name, Talbot? Not that it made a world of difference.
"Molly, huh? That's a pretty name. Somewhat unusual, too. I mean, you don't hear it all that often."
Molly smiled, and almost reluctantly, pulled her hand out of Eric's. She realized that she liked this man already. The anger that had started to well up within her when she discovered him sitting next to her had disappeared quickly. Now she was glad that he had decided to keep her company.
Of course, she knew nothing about him, not a blessed thing, except that he had a beautiful smile, and was, without question, one of the best-looking males she had ever met. Although it wasn't easy to judge, since he was seated, she put his height at about six feet two inches, and his weight at about one hundred ninety. He looked to be in his early forties.
His warm, friendly eyes were brown, and his hair, which he wore long, with sideburns that stopped a half inch below his ears, was the color of cinnamon. He was ruggedly attractive, his face seeming chiseled from a block of granite. It was a strong, no-nonsense face laced with character that hinted at the experience, sexual and otherwise, of its owner.
It was also well-tanned, making Molly leap to the conclusion that her new friend worked outdoors. In the construction field, perhaps, although he was too polished, his manner too sophisticated for an ordinary day laborer. Hence, Molly's surprise, when in the course of their conversation, he mentioned that he was a writer.
"Really? You're not putting me on?"
Eric grinned. "Why do you find it so hard to believe that I earn my living with a typewriter?"
"I guess I've just never met an honest-to-goodness author before. What do you write, Mr. Marlow?"
"Make that Eric, all right? Why use last names when first names suffice?"
Molly smiled. "All right. Eric it is. And you may call me Molly."
"Good, I'm glad," said Eric, seeming genuinely pleased.
"So now, answer the question. What kind of writing do you do?"
"I write mysteries. You know, detective stories."
"Oh, that sounds like fun. Unfortunately, I don't read too many books."
"So you probably have read nothing of mine," the attractive writer interrupted with a grin. "Well, I don't feel too bad about it. There are times when I'm convinced only my dear mother bothers to read my work."
"Go on," said Molly. "I'll bet you're very good. I mean, you have to be good to be published, right?"
Eric shrugged.
"Oh, you're being modest. Come on now, tell me the title of your latest book. First thing I'm going to do when we land is buy a copy.
"Are you serious?'.
"Of course. Now what's the name of your latest book."
"'In The Dead of Night,'" answered Eric.
"Mm, sounds spooky," smiled Molly. "Do you use a pen name?"
"So that no one can trace the work back to me," grinned the writer.
"You're awful," Molly laughed. She was s really enjoying herself, she realized. It was the strangest thing, but she felt closer to this man right now, than she had to Martin in the last ten years of her marriage. She seemed to be in tune with Eric Marlowe. And fifteen minutes ago, he was a total stranger to her.
"All right, I'll come clean, Molly. I use the name Brett Matthews when I write."
"Brett Matthews, huh? All right, Mr. Brett Matthews. It won't be very long before you have a new fan."
"Just don't burn the book," grinned Eric. "Paper is scarce, you know."
Molly laughed and with a balled fist playfully poked the too modest author. More laughs followed, and more good talk, in the course of which Molly learned among other things, that her new friend was a bachelor, and planned to stay one, and that he was headed for England to do research on a book about Scotland Yard that he was planning to write.
Molly became less animated when the conversation shifted to her. Not wanting to go into the reasons why she had left her husband and children, thinking that a discussion of her motivations would somehow, if only in a subtle way, spoil things, she brushed questions about her marital status and presence on the airplane aside. She simply stated that she was married, and was headed for England by herself only because her husband had decided separate vacations would be nice for a change.
"And also a bit dangerous," Eric noted with another of his disarming smiles.
"Dangerous?" said Molly.
"In the sense that a married person traveling without his or her mate is vulnerable. One never knows when temptation will rear its lovely head."
"You're talking about sex now, aren't you?"
"What else?"
Yes, what else indeed? The little exchange with Eric had only served to make her that much more aware of just how sexually attracted to him she was. Dare she tell him the truth? Her cunt juices, which had started oozing from her warming hole some time ago, were now gushing from her vagina to flood the crotch of her panties. That temptation had indeed reared its beautiful head and were it not for the fact that they were on this damned airplane, she would unzip his fly, drag out his prick, and give him the blow job of his life.
It was less than a minute later, after a stretch of silence, and with Molly struggling to bring herself under control, that Eric leaned close to her and whispered, "Are you horny, Molly?"
"What?" she said in a startled, loud voice. "You heard me, Molly Lawford," smiled the writer.
Molly hesitated, then, remembering to speak softly, "And what if I am? What difference does it make?"
"It makes a lot of difference."
"Why? We can't do anything here on this plane."
"Who says we can't?" asked Eric, turning in his seat and reaching for Molly's right breast, which he proceeded to knead through the thin green blouse she had on.
"Eric, what are you doing?"
The writer grinned. "Don't you like it, Molly?"
"Of course I do. But you can't-Have you gone mad?"
"Would you like to suck my cock?" asked Eric, keeping his voice low.
Molly swallowed hard. She was absolutely certain that any second now a stewardess would walk by and discover Eric fondling her breast. On the other hand, she couldn't bring herself to stop him. Meanwhile, down there between her legs, a fire raged. Soon her panties would go up in smoke.
"I asked you a question, Molly, Would you like to-"
"Yes, dammit, I would," the aroused beauty broke in. "Now, are you satisfied?"
"I won't be satisfied," said Eric, "until your mouth is on my cock."
"I can't. Not now. Not here."
"But later, when they dim the lights so that we can sleep," whispered Eric, continuing his massage of Molly's right breast. "It'll be safe then."
"No."
"Trust me."
Molly didn't know what to do. She wanted to go down on this handsome rogue in the worst way. She could almost taste his tool, feel it pulsating proudly in the warm, wet confines of. her mouth. But she didn't take to the idea of getting caught in the act. What would she say, what would she do, if she was discovered with her mouth full of prick?
As it happened, Molly had plenty of time to mull over the situation. Five full hours, to be exact. It was not until then that the lights inside the plane were dimmed. Having never been on a plane at night before, she was surprised, and pleasantly so, to discover just how dark it could get. It was almost as black inside as it was outside.
Molly had spent most of the five hours sitting almost sideways in her seat, with her left hand in Eric's lap, where he had placed it with a request that she massage him through his pants. And massage him she had, alternately rubbing and squeezing his organ until it seemed ready to burst through the front of his trousers. He, in turn, had snaked a hand up under her short, silky brown skirt to play between her legs, that hand squeezing and stroking her pantied-pussy until, at one point, she was forced to cover her mouth to stifle a moan of pleasure accompanying a delightful orgasm.
"All right, Molly, you can go down on me now," Eric informed the black-haired beauty in a low but firm voice. "It's safe."
"Are you sure?" whispered Molly.
"Yes. Everyone else is asleep."
Molly wasn't about to buy that. It did, however, seem safe enough. It was dark and quiet, and she had not seen a stewardess in some time. The seats were high, so that the persons sitting behind her and in front of her, would almost have to stand up and look over them in order to see her. And luckily, there was nobody sitting across the aisle.
"Come on, Molly. What are you waiting for?"
"Take your hand out from under my skirt," Molly ordered in a whisper.
The writer did as directed and sat back in his seat. Pushing down her skirt, which had been bunched at her thighs, Molly arranged herself so that she was sitting half on and half off the seat. It was not the most comfortable of positions, but she could think of none better.
Had there been more room, and if she could have accomplished it without a lot of awkward maneuvering, she might have tried to squeeze down on the floor, and so fellate Eric on her knees.
Using both hands, Molly fumbled with her new friend's zipper. Getting it down was no easy task. She had to work the zipper over the mighty bulge that had formed at the front of Eric's blue trousers. She pushed and tugged, muttered a few mild oaths, tugged some more, and finally succeeded in opening the fly.
"All right, now pull it out and go to work," breathed the writer. "Suck it, Molly."
A spasm of lust ripped up Molly's spine. She thought she could hear her heart pounding in her chest as she reached into Eric's slacks and fumbled for his manhood. She found it without trouble, hiding behind his boxer shorts-a warm, fat snake coiled and waiting, ready to spring into action.
Eagerly, as a whimper of lust escaped her lips, Molly worked the cock free, dragging it out from behind the shorts, through Eric's unzippered fly and into the fresh air. As if in appreciation and gratitude, the prick immediately stiffened in her hand. It rested on her palm, throbbing incessantly while waiting for the moist touch of her lips.
"Go ahead, Molly," Eric ordered, his voice framed by impatience, "suck it beautiful."
"It's gorgeous," breathed Molly. "So big and hard."
"Get it in your mouth, baby."
One last look around, a final check to see if the coast was clear, and then Molly was lowering her head into Eric's lap, her soft, supple lips opening wide to engulf the plum-shaped crown of the excited cock. Oh, but it was good, she thought happily.
Teasingly, lovingly, Molly worked her way down the throbbing pole of flesh protruding from Eric's fly, taking into her mouth as much as she could without gagging. She loved the feel of it going in, sliding over her tongue toward the back of her throat.
"Yes, that's good, baby," breathed Eric, stiffening in his seat. "Eat it good, Molly."
Forgetting the awkwardness of her position, how really uncomfortable it was to be leaning way over like this with the arm rest pushing up into her stomach, the sex-loving runaway wife slid her pursed lips up the tasty pecker, to the plump head, and then slid them down again.
Again, she lifted her head, her lips pulling on the aroused organ. Again, she engulfed the meaty member, her lips sliding slowly, smoothly down the fleshy fullness to about two inches from the hair base. Before very long, she had established a nice, easy rhythm, her beautiful head bobbing sensuously, methodically, up and down, up and down, as she worked to give pleasure to her handsome new friend.
Every so often, because he too didn't want to be embarrassed, Eric would cock his ears and maybe check the aisle to be sure all was still safe. But for most of the time, his eyes remained on Molly, or to be more precise, on the wealth of silky hair in his lap that rose and fell gracefully. He couldn't see her face, hidden as it was under all those dark tresses.
Not that he had to see her face to enjoy what she was doing. It was only necessary that he feel her down there, feel her warm, moist lips traveling up and down his bloated manhood, feel the pulling action of those wonderful lips. She was sucking him beautifully.
In due time, Molly speeded up the tempo of her obscene labors. Not much, but enough to elicit from Eric a gutteral moan of delight, which he was quick to cut short so as not to attract attention.
As she sucked on the tasty stalk of flesh, savored the pulsating fullness of it in her mouth, Molly forgot about the danger involved, the chance of being discovered, and gave thought to the orgasm Eric would most certainly have if she continued sucking his tool.
How to handle it when the time came, that was the question. Did she take her mouth off the exploding erectile and let Eric shoot all over her hand? Yes, that she could do. It would eliminate the problem of having to clean up afterwards, however, if she let him come in her mouth.
The thing was, she wanted very much to taste this handsome male's semen, to feel it gushing into her mouth. She wanted the thrill of swallowing his come, or at least as much of it as possible.
She could imagine how beautiful it was going to be, all that syrupy semen flowing into her mouth, spilling down her throat and into her stomach, there to form a tiny slimy pool of come.
CHAPTER THREE
"Good girl, Molly. Suck it harder, baby, faster." Eric's breathing was more rapid now.
The whispered order did not fall on deaf ears. The still desirable thirty-five-year-old pleasure seeker again accelerated the tempo of her sucking. Now she was fellating feverishly, her head bobbing rapidly in Eric's lap like a buoy caught in a storm-tossed sea.
"Yes, suck it, gobble it all up, you beautiful bitch."
Molly moaned around the prick in her mouth. She realized immediately that it was a mistake, that another such moan would no doubt prove disastrous in that somebody, thinking her ill, would decide to investigate and discover her, not sick, but sucking.
But she couldn't help herself. She was wallowing in the wickedness of the act, relishing the sinfulness of it all. Eric's beautiful manhood was so delicious and so strong and demanding, that she regretted not be able to take all of it, every hot, throbbing inch of it, into her hungry mouth.
And she had decided to throw caution to the wind and let Eric blast his gooey load into her oral cavity. She wanted to be hosed with come, drowned in it, have her face rubbed into it until she could neither see nor breathe.
Less than a minute later, with Molly still sucking his tumescent tool with furious abandon, like a slut endeavoring to prove her worth, Eric came. A gasp, a sudden intake of breath, and then the ecstatic eruption, the thick, syrupy semen jetting from his happy prick, like a column of boiling water from a geyser.
Molly stopped sucking immediately, as soon as the first wave of come splashed against the roof of her mouth. She started swallowing. Frantically, with whorish delight, she swallowed, determined not to let a single precious drop of the gooey semen escape her mouth.
"Take it, baby," Eric rasped, struggling to keep his voice low.
The raven-tressed beauty did her level best to swallow all the gushing come. But her best, unfortunately, wasn't quite good enough. So much come was flowing from Eric's still-spurting shaft, that the overflow spilled out of her mouth to wash over his prick.
It squirted up into her nostrils, smeared her lips, flowed down her well-molded chin. But she continued swallowing, taking down her throat what she could. She knew she had been somewhat successful, for she could feel the sticky stuff, some of it anyway, slithering down her throat and into her tummy.
Eric's tool finally stopped spurting and Molly removed it from her now very messy mouth. Keeping her head in Eric's lap, she proceeded to rub the slimy and still reasonably hard member all over her face, taking the come around her mouth and chin and smearing it over other areas of her flushed countenance.
About a minute later, suddenly conscious of the fact that she had a cramp in her left leg, the one that had supported part of her weight while she was sucking Eric, Molly pushed herself up and slowly, with a sigh, swung back and around into her own seat by the window.
"Sensational, Molly," Eric said softly.
Molly rolled her head on the backrest, until she was looking at her devilishly attractive friend. "Did you like it?" she asked, smiling softly.
"I told you, it was sensational. Just great."
"I enjoyed it too," said Molly.
The writer smiled. "I gathered that much, beautiful," he said. "I think you're a born cocksucker."
"I haven't sucked that many. Yours is only the third I've put into my mouth."
"Well, it's obvious that you've practiced hard and long on the other two."
Molly dropped her eyes into Eric's lap, and seeing that he had not yet zippered up, suggested that he put his pecker away.
Eric stuffed his now all but limp tool back inside his slacks and zippered his fly. Turning again to the ravishing woman at his side, he asked if she didn't want to clean up.
"Do I look that bad?"
Eric chuckled softly. "Not bad, baby, but that's an unusual cold cream you have on your face."
"It's called Come Lotion," Molly said. "Very good for the complexion.
"Keeps the skin firm and smooth, huh?"
"And wrinkle-free," added Molly with a wink.
Chuckling again, Eric dug into one of his coat pockets and came up with a large white handkerchief. He handed it to Molly, who then set about wiping clean her come-coated face. The job took no longer than a minute, and the writer was soon stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket.
"Better?" asked Molly.
"Even more beautiful," answered Eric. He leaned over and gave the woman who had just pleasured him with an excellent blow-job, a kiss on her right cheek. Then just as suddenly, he was back in his seat and stretching his legs.
"What was that?" asked Molly. "My reward?"
"Your reward?"
"The kiss, Eric. Is that how you thank women who have gone down on you?"
"Hardly." The writer smiled
"Then how do you thank them, Mr. Marlowe, or should I say, Mr. Matthews?"
Keeping his voice low, Eric said, "I fuck the shit out of them, Mrs. Lawford."
Molly was not at all taken back by her handsome friend's blunt answer. In fact, she had been fishing for something like it, when she brought up the business of rewards. She didn't need to be reminded that she had not gotten laid yet. True, Eric had helped her get off with his hand, and a remarkably good orgasm it was, too, but her cunt still ached with the need to be soundly stuffed.
"Would I be wrong, in assuming that I have something very nice to look forward to?" asked Molly.
"If you're asking me if I intend to screw you, Mrs. Lawford, the answer is a loud yes."
"Where?" Molly wanted to know. "Certainly not here."
"No, not on the plane, beautiful. Besides, we'll be landing soon."
"Then where, Eric. Tell me."
"Hey, you really are eager for it, aren't you?"
"You'll find out just how eager, when we're alone," promised Molly.
"Which won't be very long now," said Eric. "If you have no objections, Molly, I thought we'd go to my hotel. I've made a reservation at the Hardington."
"Objections?" smiled the raven-tressed beauty, still able to taste the writer's slightly salty come. "What objections could I possibly have?"
Another grin lit Eric's tanned, rough-hewn face. "See? Didn't I tell you that married people traveling alone can very quickly get themselves in trouble?"
"But it's a nice kind of trouble," Molly quipped.
Without warning, Eric brought his right hand to Molly's knees, and then snaked it up under her short skirt. He cupped her sodden crotch, squeezing her needy twat, through panties soaked with her excitement. Molly let out a moan of pleasure, and immediately started squirming in her seat like a fish out of water.
"I only hope you can hold out till we reach the hotel," said Eric. "You're still hotter than hell."
"Better take your hand away," breathed Molly, "before I rape you right here and now."
"I could make you come again this way."
"No, I want to wait for the real thing."
The writer chuckled and pulled his playful hand out from under Molly's skirt. Molly quickly arranged the skirt so that it covered her thighs, with the hem resting a little more than an inch above her knees. Determined to get her mind off sex, she turned away from Eric and looked out the window.
She tried counting the stars, twinkling in a coal-black sky. She looked down at the eerie blackness that was, from this height, the Atlantic Ocean. Then she shut her eyes tight and tried to remember her itinerary. She had not bothered to plan her journey, however, preferring instead to play it casually, and make decisions at the last minute, so this was difficult. The only reason she had decided to visit England first, because a neighbor had returned from a vacation abroad extolling Londoners and their city.
As a last recourse, Molly tried to think about the family she had left behind, about her husband and her two sons. By now, of course, they had all three read the note. What were they doing, she wondered. Maybe nothing. Maybe they were too stunned to act.
Try as she might, Molly had no more success keeping her mind on her family or what used to be her family, than she had keeping it on the twinkling stars or the ocean below or her nonexistent itinerary. Her thoughts kept returning to Eric. To the beautiful prick he had promised to shove balls deep into her aching vagina.
Although it seemed like an eternity to Molly, it was only about an hour later that she saw the lights of London. After that, things went rather quickly. There was the fastening of the seat belts, the stewardesses checking to be sure the passengers were all properly prepared for the descent and cautioning them to stay put, and then the huge jet was turning, straightening out again, zeroing in on the runway.
The landing was so smooth that Molly didn't even realize the plane was on the ground until five seconds after the giant wheels touched down. The 707 taxied to the proper terminal, and then, a few minutes later, the passengers were spilling out of the aircraft, Molly and Eric among them.
Following the routine check at customs, Eric steered Molly out of Heathrow Airport and into one of the many cabs waiting outside. Molly sat close to the writer during the drive to the hotel, her hand playing in his lap, the sweet pleasure of anticipation enveloping her and keeping her eager, juicy vagina in a molten boil.
Arriving at the hotel, a neat, unpretentious building of ten stories located in the heart of London, Eric paid the driver, and then escorted Molly inside. He signed at the desk, got the room key, and then walked with Molly to the lift. Up to the ninth floor they went, Molly holding onto the writer's arm and thinking that it wouldn't be long now.
"Have you stayed here before, Eric?"
"Yes, quite a few times in fact."
"How many girls have you brought here?"
"Oh, I'd say about three hundred."
"Three hun-Oh, you!" Molly grinned, giving Eric a playful poke in the ribs.
While three hundred was obviously an exaggeration, Molly was willing to bet that the fellow about to fuck her had scored with a small army of randy females. Eric Marlowe was the kind of man who started a girl creaming in her undies.
On the other hand, she didn't think that he had ever brought to this hotel, a woman carrying over seventy-five thousand dollars worth of travelers checks in her shoulder bag. What would he say, she wondered, if he found out he had picked up a lady with a lot of loot to throw around?
The door of the lift opened, and Eric and Molly stepped out into a wide, carpeted hall.
"It's down this way, Molly," said the author.
"Let's hurry," said the black-haired lovely. She couldn't wait to get her clothes off. It had been so long, so very long, since she last got herself fucked good and proper. And she just knew Eric wasn't going to disappoint her.
Arriving at the room he had reserved, Eric unlocked the door and pushed it open. Molly entered first. It was a large, clean room, comfortably furnished, and with two French windows facing the street. What interested her the most, of course, was the bed. And there it stood, between the two windows, by far and away the most attractive piece of furniture in the room.
Eric closed and locked the door, dropping the key into one of his suit coat pockets, as he turned back into the room. No sooner had he set Molly's suitcase on the floor, than she was in his arms, grinding her tits into his hard chest as she planted her soft, supple lips over his firm ones.
It was a torrid kiss, fraught with meaning, with Molly ramming her tongue deep into Eric's mouth, pushing her pelvis up into his middle at the same time. She couldn't recall ever having kissed her husband with as much abandon. Then again, Martin was not at all like Eric Marlowe. By the time she broke the kiss, she was ready to sign over to Eric the seventy-five thousand dollars if he'd fuck the shit out of her.
"Wow, the lady means business, doesn't she?"
"Fuck me, Eric," begged Molly, pleading with her eyes as well.
The writers face turned hard as he looked at the cock-hungry beauty in front of him. "All right, baby, strip down and well see what we can do for you."
Molly took her shoulder bag and tossed it into the nearest chair, to the right of the door. Then she was fumbling with the buttons on her green blouse. After removing the blouse, and tossing it aside, she went to work on her brown skirt.
Eric, meanwhile, peeled off his blue suit coat, and walked with it to a straight chair near the bed. Draping the coat over the back of the chair, he loosened the knot of his tie, and worked it around and off his neck. His white shirt was next to go, and then he unbuckled the belt supporting his slacks.
Not surprisingly, Molly was the first one to finish undressing. Bare-assed naked, and with her scrumptious tits flopping about, she bounded to the inviting bed. Ever so quickly, she pulled down the satiny yellow bedcover, bunching it at the foot of the bed.
Into the bed she climbed, flipping over onto her back and then stretching out on the cool, white sheet. The mattress, she noted with pleasure, was good and hard. Her hands scooted downward, over the smooth flat plane of her stomach, and then dipped into the warm, sticky hollow between her thighs.
"Hurry, Eric, hurry!" she called across the room, looking at the almost naked man whose cock she craved with a passion.
The writer, also naked, arrived at the bed forty-five seconds later, his pecker on the rise. Molly was delighted to see that her friend was every bit as desirable without clothes as he was with them. His was an excellent body, strong and graceful and with no trace of excess fat.
"Let me suck it for you, Eric. I'll have it hard in no time, lover."
Eric shook his head and climbed onto the bed. "No, it's my turn now." He positioned himself between Molly's spread legs. "You know what I taste like-"
"No, I don't need that," Molly broke in. "You don't have to go down on me."
"Eric chuckled. "I know I don't have to. I want to."
"But I need your cock. Ohh!"
Eric, a man of action, was not one to dilly-dally, after he'd made up his mind. He made no exception in Molly's case, dropping quickly into a low crouch between her legs, jamming his hands under her well-rounded backside. He plastered his rough-hewn face against her soupy cabbage of a cunt before she could launch any meaningful argument.
And then he was licking lustily, his experienced tongue in constant motion, as it danced over Molly's sodden snatch.
"Oh, Eric, what are you doing to me?" the runaway housewife asked in a quavering voice. "Your tongue-your wonderful tongue!"
"I'm going to gobble you up, baby," said Eric.
"Yes, eat me, Eric. Chew on my cunt."
No novice was Eric, when it came to cunnilingus. Many a female he had tongued to a fare-thee-well, bringing them to orgasm in the process. Thus it was that now, with Molly, he was able to employ a technique well-tested and enthusiastically refined through the years.
The lust-charged beauty, needless to say, was more than a little delighted to learn first-hand all about the writer's expertise in the oral sex department. It didn' take her long at all to realize that here was a man who knew what it was all about.
Unlike Martin, who detested going down on her, Eric was performing not only skillfully, and with devilish cunning, but also with obvious pleasure.
He was laving her womanhood like a man accustomed to going down on girls, like one who very much enjoyed the practice. He was feasting on her down there, munching merrily on her smelly old twat, his marvelous tongue a wondrous tool of pleasure as it played over her pussy.
And now, now he was lapping up her juices, using broad, flat sweeping motions of his talented tongue to scoop up the lubricating flow from her hot, aching hole, and shoveling it into his mouth. There was so much for him to drink, too, for the syrupy stuff was just running out of her.
"Oh, Eric, I can't take any more. Please lover, you're driving me wild."
"You taste delicious," came a muffled voice from down below.
"No, more, Eric. Please fuck me. Ohhh-"
Ignoring the urgent pleas of the passion filled woman, the writer snaked his hard-working tongue between her slack, slimy pussy lips and up to her clitoris. Without delay he went to work on that all-important mini-erectile, his tongue lashing it, poking it, teasing it maddeningly.
"Oh, I'm going to come if you don't stop," moaned Molly arching up off the bed.
Eric, of course, didn't stop for a second. Cleverly, and with a master technician's touch, he tended to the beauty's passion nubbin and whacked away at the inflamed clit and then stroked it soothingly into a state of quivering submission.
Molly came, not once, but twice, one delicious, if not overpowering orgasm, following upon another gorgeous one. An animal-like moan of pleasure tore from her throat, and her hands, which she had placed on her breasts squeezed those beautiful melons of flesh something fierce.
But Eric wasn't through, at least not yet. With a desert rat's thirst, he slurped Molly's come, his tongue once again becoming a flesh shovel, scooping out the tasty flow. His strong hands squeezed Molly's buttocks together as he drank, his fingers digging into the smooth, taut flesh of her lovely derriere.
Then, finally, he was ready to penetrate the pussy he had eaten with such relish. He drew out of his crouch, and sat back on his haunches. Not surprisingly, his pecker was hard, rock-hard, and it jutted out from its hairy nest in eager anticipation.
Molly's twin orgasms, nice as they had been, had in no way dampened her desire for dick. She still wanted to feel in her mushy vagina, the slashing strength, the stretching fullness of a hard and throbbing cock.
And close at hand, so close she could almost reach out and touch, was a very fine speciment of just what she craved. Eyes glazed, she stared at the beautiful prick protruding from Eric's loins. And then, with her body in liquid tremble, she was asking for that tool, in a voice thickened by lust, and with words that were, to put it mildly, unlady-like.
"This?" Eric said with a lewd little smile, curling one hand, his right, around his meaty member. "Is this what you want, beautiful?"
"Yes, shit yes!"
"Then ask me for it."
"I am asking. Fuck me, Eric. Give me your prick."
"Tell me how much you want it," teased the writer, stroking his pulsating rod.
"I need it bad. I have to have it. Please do it to me. Now."
"All right, Molly, you've convinced me," grinned the pleasure-loving author.
So saying, he hooked his arms under Molly's legs and shuffled forward on his knees. Then he was draping her legs over his shoulders, bending her knees back, down toward her chest, as he directed his cock on target.
"Hurry, get it into me!"
Eric did just that, inserting the plum-shaped head of his sturdy root between Molly's pouting pussy lips and then without any further delay, ramming forward with his hips until all six inches of his tool were firmly planted in the mush softness of her viscid vagina.
"Arrgh!" groaned the raven-haired lovely, happy to have her cunt chock full of throbbing cock at last.
Eric started working his bloated manhood in and out of Molly's upturned twat, using hard, firm strokes to ream her heavenly hole. He kept his eyes on her face, the sight of it flushed and twisted by passion adding not a little to his enjoyment of the coupling.
"Oh, yes," Molly breathed, her head lolling on the pillow, "do it to me. Fuck it good, uggh!"
Positioned as she was, on her back with her legs draped over Eric's shoulders, and her knees almost touching her tits, Molly could feel every inch of his swollen prick as it came chugging up into her tummy. She was glad that Eric had elected to fuck her in this position.
Not only did she appreciate the really deep penetration of his tool, she also liked the idea that she was, bent over almost double like this, completely at his mercy. She was locked into the position, unable to avoid the hard, demanding thrusts of his digging dick.
She was helpless, vulnerable, her upturned pussy at the mercy of that hard, throbbing manhood. Eric could, if he were so inclined, keep her like this for hours, a prisoner of his pecker, digging and digging and digging into her until he had bored clear through her. It was a crazy thought, of course, but also a fantastically exciting one.
"You like it, baby?" asked Eric, grinning down at the beautiful woman he had pinned to the mattress. "Can you feel me fucking you?"
"Deep, so deep," Molly moaned happily.
"Too deep?"
"No, I love it. Do it harder!"
"Like this?" He lifted up and then crashed down against his partner's pelvis, his blood-fattened prick smashing deep into her pulsing cunt.
"Arrgh!"
"And this?" Eric repeated the cruel procedure, once again lifting up and then without pause ramming his hips downward to send his bloated manhood knifing into his partner's cunt.
"Ahh!" Molly groaned again, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he had bored a hole clear through her. It certainly felt as if he had.
Savoring the feel of Molly's wet, clasping cunt, Eric speeded up the tempo of his thrusts. He could not help but wonder about her husband, who, he thought, had to be some kind of nut. Only a real schnook, or a guy so naive it was pathetic, would let a woman like Molly travel alone.
Could be, of course, that her husband just didn't care what happened to her. If that were the case, then he had to be just about the biggest dumb-ass in the world. More likely, Mr. Lawford was one of those hard-working types who never have the time to take a shit, or the energy to take charge in a bedroom.
How else to explain Molly's randiness? In all honesty, he had not expected to get very far with her, when he sat himself down next to her on the airplane, but lo and behold, she had turned out to be one of the cock-hungriest broads he had ever come across, giving him a super blow job right there on the fucking plane. And now, here she was, grunting and groaning under him while he stuck her repeatedly with his joy stick.
With a little luck, he'd be able to talk Molly into hanging around for awhile. For a couple of days, say. After all, she did say that she was on vacation, and the appointment with Deputy Inspector Harold Parkington of Scotland Yard, which his good friend, Peter Cornwall had set up for him, could wait a few days. He might as well mix a little pleasure with business.
"More, lover, give me more. Fuck my hot cunt."
"Can you come soon, baby?"
"Yes, very soon," gasped Molly. "Let's make it together."
"Yes, together."
Molly's head lolled on the pillow as Eric banged his bloated bone into her slushy honeypot. Whimpers of delight interspersed with obscene language and grunts and groans, tumbled from her slack lips. She kept her hands clenched at his sides, her fingernails digging into the palms.
And then less than a minute later-
"Oh, Eric, I'm coming. Now!"
"Grab it, baby, go get it."
A mighty wave of excruciating pleasure washed over Molly. It was followed by another, and then another, the flood of ecstasy greater than anything she had experienced ever before, buffeting her body and breaking it into a dozen different shivering pieces.
All Eric needed was the sight of Molly coming, the feel of cunt quaking around his throbbing cock, and he was a goner. He came, defiantly, and with gut-jumbling intensity, the hot, scalding semen streaking through his prick and then gushing from the fat head as he delivered one last searing thrust into his partner's erupting vagina.
Trembling from head to toe, he kept his ejaculating rod in Molly until the last of his gooey seed had jetted into her womanhood. Then, his vision still clouded, he withdrew his very messy pecker and slipping Molly's legs off his shoulders, and setting them down on the bed, he sat back on his haunches.
Still breathing hard, he looked down at the raven-haired delight. A worried look came into his face, when he realized that she was lying very still not moving at all. That worried look, however, lasted but a few fleeting seconds, until he realized what had happened. Then he smiled.
He couldn't remember ever having fucked a female unconscious before.
CHAPTER FOUR
Just how long she slept, Molly couldn't be sure. And she had precious little time to consider the answer, or reflect on the altogether thrilling, cataclysmic intensity of a climax fierce enough to make her pass out, for when she awoke, approximately fifteen minutes after being decked by a knock-out punch of an orgasm, her attention was immediately focused on the two men, one of whom was Eric, standing and talking at the hotel room door. Instinctively, she pulled the bedcover around her.
Eric, she noted, was wrapped in a large white towel, around his middle. He was standing with his back to the bed, blocking her view of the other man. The two were not exactly arguing, although Eric was heated up over something.
"And so I'm supposed to drop everything," Eric was saying, "and get my tail over to Scotland Yard. Boy, that's one helluva note, Pete. You could have at least given me some advance warning."
"Sorry, old man. But I had to work quickly. Parkington is a very busy fellow. When he phoned me and said he could see you tonight, I took it upon myself to set up the interview."
"Before even checking to see if I'd arrived."
"Well, I knew what time your plane was due to land, Eric."
"But suppose the flight had been delayed or something?"
The man smiled and shrugged. "Had that happened, I simply would have phoned Inspector Parkington and told him you were unavailable. And that, old man, would have been a sorry piece of business. You might have had to wait another week, or even two, to discuss this book of yours."
"Yeah, I know. He's a busy, busy man." Eric thought for a moment, and then sighed. "All right. I guess I don't have much choice in the matter. What time is it?"
The man checked his wristwatch. "A little past ten."
Eric shook his head. "Some time to hold an interview."
"Sorry if you're upset old man. I only did what I thought you'd want me to do. When you wrote, you said you were very anxious to talk to a higher-up in the Yard. I took that to mean, the sooner the better."
"You're right, Pete. I'm sorry, I guess you caught me off balance."
It was at this point that Molly sneezed, and quite by accident, too. She had hoped to remain under the bedcover, unnoticed by Eric's friend and forgotten by Eric himself. The loud sneeze of course, dashed that hope in a hurry. Both Eric and his friend looked in her direction which caused her to blush.
"I do believe someone is catching cold over there," grinned Eric's visitor.
"Come on, Pete," smiled Eric. "I want you to meet a very good friend of mine."
"I hope she's a friend, seeing as how she's sharing your bed."
Arriving at the bed, Eric said, "Molly, this is one of my oldest and closest friends, Peter Cornwall. He's one of the best insurance investigators in London. And as you can tell from his accent, he's as English as the queen."
"It'serr-nice to meet you," said a flustered Molly.
She was very conscious of the fact that under the bedcover, she was bare-assed naked. "I was just, er, well-"
"Sleeping?" said Peter with a smile, trying to help out.
"Something like that," lied Molly.
"I met Molly on the flight over here," explained Eric.
"How fortunate for you, old man. The only people I meet on airplanes are talkative salesmen and ugly old spinsters."
Molly smiled, embarrassed though she was at being discovered in a man's bed. She realized that she liked Eric's friend. She liked his dry wit, his charming manner, and last, but not least, she liked his looks. Peter Cornwall, she noted, was about Eric's age, maybe a couple of years older. He was tall, approximately six feet one, and slender, appearing to weigh not much more than one hundred and sixty-five pounds. His eyes were grey, and his hair, which was not quite as long as Eric's, was an attractive shade of brown flecked with grey.
He had a nice face too. It was angular, with well-defined features, and in harmony with one another. A neatly-trimmed mustache the length of his upper hp lent a certain roguish charm to his countenance.
About the only thing she didn't like, Molly decided, was Peter Cornwall's taste in clothes. He was dressed conservatively, in a dark brown suit, crisp white shirt, nondescript tie, dark vest, and polished black shoes. Something about him, however, suggested that he wasn't the oh-so-proper Englishman his clothes made him out to be.
"I've got to go out for awhile, Molly," Eric started to explain.
"Yes, I overheard your conversation," Molly broke in. "You're going to talk over your next book with a Mr. So and So from Scotland Yard."
"And I'm going to have to wear the clothes I wore on the flight over," Eric informed his friend. "I made arrangements to have my bags delivered, but-"
"Not to worry, old man," smiled Peter. "The Inspector may be a whiz at tracking down criminals, but he doesn't know beans about fashion. I do suggest, however, that you don't show up at his office in that bath towel."
"What will he do," grinned Eric, "arrest me for indecent exposure?"
"In all likelihood, yes," answered Peter.
Chuckling, Eric turned and went to fetch his clothes. Peter and Molly smiled at each other, neither one knowing exactly what to say.
Molly realized that she was nowhere near as embarrassed now as she had been just a few minutes ago. This could be attributed, she thought, to Peter's sophisticated handling of an awkward situation. Yes, Molly thought, not only was Eric nice, he had nice friends.
When fully dressed, Eric returned to the bed. A thought had occurred to him, as he was dressing. He saw no harm in mentioning it to Peter and Molly, however lewd it seemed. They were, after all, mature adults.
"Well, of course, that would depend entirely on Molly," said Peter, clearing his throat when Eric mentioned his lewd idea.
Eric chuckled, "always the gentleman, aren't you, old buddy?" Then, smiling down at the black-haired beauty, who lay in the bed, under the bedcover, he said, "Well, Molly, do you see anything wrong with Peter keeping you company until I return?"
Molly hesitated. She wasn't stupid and knew full well what would happen if Eric took off, leaving her alone with his attractive English friend. She would get fucked, that's what, she told herself. Now, did she like Peter Cornwall enough to let him in her cunt, and just as important, was she up to getting screwed again after the mind-blowing session she had just enjoyed with Eric?
Molly was surprised at how quickly she was able to answer the first question. Even though she had just met Peter Cornwall, she was willing to let him lay her. She had already decided that she liked him, and he was, as Eric had said, a gentleman. A lady needing sex could do much, much worse.
Molly was amazed at the speed with which she arrived at the answer to the second question, too. The fact remained, however, that she was in the mood to get fucked again. Eric had banged her to the stars and back, his tooling of her twat so terrific, that she had passed out cold. But her pussy was beginning to ask for more prick.
"I think the lady's silence speaks for itself," said Peter, not without disappointment.
"Oh, no," said Molly. "I was just thinking. I would like you to stay with me, Peter. May I call you Peter?"
"Only if I have permission to call you Molly."
"Permission granted," said Molly, smiling at him.
"Well, so that's settled," smiled Eric, pleased that both Peter and Molly liked his idea. "I'm sure you two will get along famously. Now, if you'll excuse me-"
"Say hello to the Inspector for me, will you?" said Peter, watching his friend start for the door.
"Will do," Eric said, turning and winking at Molly. "Behave yourself, now, hear?"
"I'll try," smiled Molly.
"Good luck, old man."
"See you later," said Eric.
A moment later, the door closed behind the writer, and Peter and Molly found themselves alone. Again they found conversation difficult. Peter, a confirmed bachelor, liked girls as much as the next man, and he had made many a bird chirp with his bloated pecker. But there were times, and this was one of them, when he just didn't know how to get the ball rolling.
"So here we are," said Molly finally breaking the awkward silence.
"Yes, here we are," agreed Peter. He thought for a moment, then said, "I don't suppose Eric brought a bottle with him. A drink right about now would do very nicely."
"No, we came here straight from the airport. Sorry."
"No need to apologize, Molly. I can understand Eric's haste. Had I found a woman as beautiful as you on an airplane, I would not have wasted a minute getting her alone somewhere."
"Thank you Peter. That's very nice of you."
"And also the truth. You are a very desirable woman."
The runaway housewife was quiet for a moment as she studied the attractive Englishman. Then, with her pussy still purring under the bedcover, she said, "Would you like to see the rest of me, Peter?"
"The rest of you?" queried Peter, whose thoughts had been on the stirring of his pecker under his trousers.
"Yes. All you've seen of me is my face."
The Englishman smiled. "Would you by any chance be naked?"
"As the day I was born. Care to see me?"
"If you show me yours, I'll show you mine."
"Fair enough, Mr. Cornwall."
With that, Molly started pushing down the satiny yellow bedcover. She pushed it down slowly, teasingly, baring a little of her body at a time. The bedcover slipped over her beautifully rounded breasts, and then slid across the smooth, flat plane of her tummy, and finally, traveled over the triangular patch of dark pubic curls that was her recently fucked pussy. Molly left the bedcover draped over her thighs, several inches below her warming crotch, and smiled up at Peter.
"Beautiful," the Englishman said softly. "Just beautiful."
"Do you mean that, Peter?"
"I've never meant anything more."
"How old do you think I am?"
"I make it a point never to guess a lady's age. It's too dangerous."
"Guess mine."
"Oh, I don't think-"
"Please, Peter. Be a sport and guess my age."
"Well, in that case," said the Englishman, running his eyes slowly over the naked female in the bed. "Oh, I guess twenty-nine. Thirty, tops."
Molly smiled broadly. Now she knew she liked this man, she told herself. "Am I off the mark?"
"I'm thirty-five," she confessed. She went no further than that, although she was tempted to tell Peter that she was also the mother of two teen-agers. That, she figured, would really have floored him. But to mention her family would have raised a few questions in his mind, and all she wanted to do now was raise his pecker.
"That really is amazing," said Peter. "You're not putting me on, are you?"
"I'm thirty-five, Peter. That's the truth."
"Well, you certainly have taken very good care of yourself. You're to be congratulated."
"Now show me yours," grinned Molly. "You promised, Peter."
The Englishman smiled. "So. I did. And a promise is a promise."
"Correct."
Peter went to work denuding himself. One article of clothing and then another was unceremoniously dropped onto the hotel room floor, which somewhat surprised Molly since she had taken it for granted that Peter was a scrupulously neat person who much preffered organization to disarrangement. She was pleased to note that her suspicions were proving correct; that he wasn't your typical stiff, ultra-proper Britisher, determined to maintain decorum at all costs.
"Well, here I am," smiled Peter, when he was standing bare-assed naked at the side of the bed. "In the flesh."
"I like what I see," said Molly, who had started to play with herself, one hand gently massaging her breasts while the other stroked her once again salivating snatch.
"We're not as muscular as Eric, I'm afraid."
"Muscles aren't everything. Besides, I'm only interested in one of yours."
"This one?" asked Peter, his right hand moving to his semi-hard manhood. He held it up, as if waiting for Molly to inspect it more closely.
"Yes, that one," answered the runaway housewife, a naughty gleam in her eye.
Seconds later, with lust churning her insides, Molly kicked down the bedcovers and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Sitting now on the bed, she asked Peter to stand directly in front of her. As soon as the Englishman had stepped into position, she reached for his attractive privates. One hand slipped between his legs to cup his scrotum, and the other hand took hold of the cock itself.
"Know what happens now?" she smiled.
"Am I to guess again, Molly?"
"I'll give you one guess."
"You're going to pleasure me with fellatio."
"Right," said Molly, laughter in her eyes.
With that, Molly turned her attention to Peter's privates again. For maybe fifteen seconds more, she fondled the Englishman, one hand cupping and squeezing his hairy scrotal sac, while the other pulled on his almost hard pecker. Then she was ready to bring her mouth into play.
Leaning forward a bit, she opened wide, and plunked Peter's prick into her mouth, her lovely lips closing over the bulbous head of the organ. And then, she was sucking on the fleshy root, dragging it back into her oral cavity, the feel of it rolling on her tongue more than a little pleasant.
"Oh, Molly, that feels good," said Peter, lust beginning to thicken his voice.
The still very fuckable thirty-five-year-old groaned around the cock she had pushed into her eager mouth, and continued sucking. Her left hand remained between the Englishman's legs, fondling his balls. Her right hand went to her right breast and started squeezing.
"Mmm, suck it Molly," crooned Peter, who stood looking down at the woman blowing him. "Suck it like a good girl."
In no time at all, Molly found herself gobbling as stiff a hard-on as any female could wish for. Her beautiful head bobbed up and down, up and down, and her lustrous black hair swirled lazily about her face, as she ministered to the tasty member soon to be stuffed into her cunt.
"Lick me now, Molly. Lick my cock and lick my scrotum."
Molly was quick to obey the obscene order. Taking hold of the now fully-erect organ with her right hand, she pulled it out of her mouth and commenced a lascivious licking of the pretty, plump crown. Unashamedly, she swabbed the crown, her swirling, stroking tongue polishing it to dazzling sparkle.
That done, she went to work on the rest of Peter's warm, pulsating manhood, her tongue sliding wetly, smoothly, down the sensitive underside and then, for the return trip, curling over the top of the tasty erectile.
"You like to do that, don't you Molly? You like to lick prick."
"I love to lick prick," Molly corrected the Englishman, with a wicked little smile. She flicked her tongue at the wet, shiny head a few times, then pressed Peter's cock back so that it rested up against his stomach, while she commenced a tantalizing assult on the wholly vulnerable underside.
"Do my balls, Molly. Lick and suck them."
"In a minute. Don't you like this?"
That had to be the most foolish question of the year, thought Peter. How could any man not appreciate the way Molly was tonguing his cock? The feel of that wonderful tongue licking up and down, up and down, from his balls to the head of his tool and back again, was simply fantastic.
When she was ready, Molly steered her hard-working tongue to Peter's scrotum, and set about bathing that pendulous pouch of hairy flesh. Keeping Peter's saliva-coated cock pressed up against his stomach, she pushed her face into his crotch and annointed his balls.
"Yes, that's the way," the Englishman said thickly. "Lick them good, Molly. Suck on them."
Some ten seconds later, Molly's left hand was pushing the scrotum into her mouth, or at least trying to. She munched a while on the whole scrotal sac, sucking on it sensuously, the short hairs tickling her nostrils. Then the tasty testicles were sucked individually, the left one first, and then the right, Molly giving each equal attention.
"Oh, Molly, your mouth is fantastic." Peter was breathing heavily.
It was while sucking the Englishman's wrinkled bag of balls that Molly decided she was going to do something she had never done before, something she had wanted to do for the longest time. What she had in mind was horribly perverted, obscene to the nth degree, and this thought alone was enough to send a spasm of lust rippling up her spine.
What sense was there, she asked herself, in waiting, in putting it off. She was a free female now, unencumbered by her marital vows and free to do as she wished with whom she wished, when she wished. And she was sure that Peter, a man of good upbringing, knew the importance of good personal hygeine. He just had to be squeaky clean back there.
"All right, lie back and let me get it into you," husked the excited Englishman, somewhat surprised when Molly, without the slightest warning, pulled her face away from his genitals and looked up at him.
"No, I want to-"
"No? What are you talking about, Molly? Can't you see how much I want you?"
"You'll fuck me, Peter. In a few minutes. I want to do something first."
"Do what?"
"You'll see. Turn around."
"Turn around?"
"Yes, and bend over."
If Peter had been puzzled before, he was no longer. Looking down at the beautiful woman sitting on the side of the bed, he wondered if she was serious. She didn't look like the kind who enjoyed kinky sex acts. Then again, what did a person who liked the off-beat look like? And weren't we all intrigued by the very naught, some of us more than others?
"Are you sure you want to do that, Molly?"
"I'm sure, Peter," Molly broke in impatiently. "Now, please turn around for me, all right?"
The Englishman did as directed, and was soon standing with his back to the bed. Molly gave a second order, for him to bend over, and place his hands on his knees, and this, too, he obeyed. And then, seconds later, he felt her hands on his ass, kneading his taut buttocks. Now her thumbs were prying apart those buttocks and exposing the small hole nestled between them.
Molly stared hungrily at the asshole she would soon be licking. Never before had she been given the opportunity to inspect a man's backside. Now, at long last, she could make real what, for so long, had been one of her favorite fantasies, the wanton tonguing of a male bottom.
She thought back to the times, and there were many of them, when she had tried to interest Martin in anal sex play. And what was it he had said? "I want no part of anything so downright perverted."
"Molly, are you going to do it?" asked Peter, looking behind him, and wondering why the delay. Though he had been surprised by Molly's desire to perform analingus, he was by no means put off by the notion of having his asshole tongued by a very beautiful woman. He was eager for her to get on with it.
"You have a nice behind, Peter."
"Go on and lick it, then," smiled the attractive Englishman. "Let me feel your tongue, Molly."
As a tiny whimper of desire escaped her throat, Molly pushed her face against Peter's well-shaped posterior and sent her eager tongue on a lewd expedition. Up and down and all around she licked, taking care not to miss a single square inch of flesh. She loved the feel of her face rubbing against the taut and virtually hairless behind.
"That's the way. Lick it all over, Molly."
Lovingly, the raven-tressed beauty laved the Englishman's posterior, her tongue sliding here and there and everywhere as she bathed the bottom with her saliva. And then, finally, she was ready for dessert.
With her thumbs still holding Peter's cheeks apart, Molly zeroed in on his asshole. She licked tentatively at first, and then with more daring. There was, she noted, a faint, telltale odor emanating from the puckered port. But it was not at all unpleasant. In fact, it was strangely stimulating.
"Oh, Molly, that's wonderful," breathed Peter. "Stick it in my anus."
The obscene command fanned the flames of lust shooting up into Molly from her burning cunt. With a nymphomaniac's boldness, she plunged her tongue into Peter's asshole, driving it as deep as she could inside his rectum. Her nose was now caught in the crack of the Englishman's ass, sandwiched between his left and right buttock.
"Now work your tongue in and out," ordered Peter. "Fuck my ass with your tongue."
Molly didn't have to be asked twice. Reveling in the sheer wickedness of what she was doing, in the gut-jumbling dirtiness of it all, she started to piston her tongue in the Englishman's well-crafted bottom.
"Faster, Molly, faster," Peter called out.
The lust-happy beauty spent a good three minutes, working her tongue in and out of Peter's ass, his grunts of pleasure and sighs of approval spurring her on. Only when her tongue grew tired did she stop altogether her efforts at lewd simulation of sodomy. She dragged her tongue out of the Englishman's asshole and tried to catch her breath.
She was about to return to Peter's posterior and munch for awhile on his dripping wet anus when he suddenly straightened up and turned to face her.
"I have to fuck you now, Molly. I can't wait a second longer."
"Yes, all right," breathed Molly. "How do you want me?"
"On your back. Hurry, please."
Molly hurried. Swinging her legs up, over the side of the bed, she twisted and turned until she was resting flat on her back. She beckoned Peter with her arms, extending them toward him in wanton invitation. The taste of his anus lingered on her lips, reminding her where her tongue had just been.
Peter laid to rest the notion that all Englishmen were pompous stuffed shirts, as he climbed onto the bed, and very quickly maneuvered into position between Molly's legs. Penetration was accomplished smoothly, efficiently, in one strong, demanding thrust which sent his blood-thickened pecker tunneling deep inside Molly's slushy sex canal.
"Oh, that feels wonderful," moaned the impaled pleasure-seeker, wrapping her arms around Peter's hard back. "Give it to me good, Peter. Fuck me hard."
"Yes, I will, I will," gasped Peter.
"Yes, like that. As deep as you can."
Peter had no trouble working his bloated cock in and out of Molly's cunt. She was as wet down there as any girl he had ever screwed, and certainly as eager for his thrusts as any he had ever laid. She was reasonably tight, too, and she knew how to use her cunt muscles.
He envied Eric. The old boy had done it again, he thought. Leave it to Eric to arrive with a choice bird like this in tow. The man had extraordinary luck.
"Harder, Peter," Molly pleaded in a lust-thickened voice. "Hurt me with it. Harder."
Peter speeded up the tempo of his thrusts until he was fucking furiously. He knew it wouldn't be long before all hell broke loose and he sent his come booming into that heavenly honeypot.
Molly also knew it wouldn't be long before she received her partner's gooey ejaculate. She tightened her grip on Peter's back, hugging him harder as she hooked her legs over his wildly pumping middle. Then she was breathing into his ea the words she knew all men liked to hear, telling him in no uncertain terms what he was to continue doing.
The bed squeaked and groaned as Peter slammed his meat into Molly's mushy vagina, just as it had squeaked and groaned earlier, when Eric was fucking Molly to a state of total exhaustion. The raven-tressed beauty was dimly aware of this, and later, when all was quiet and she had time to reflect, she would savor the knowledge that she had serviced satisfactorily, two good-looking men in one night.
"Come in me, Peter, give me your hot come. Come, come, come!"
Thirty seconds later, the Englishman shot his wad, a savage growl of triumph roaring up from his throat as the hot, creamy semen bolted from his tool and into Molly's grateful cunt. Molly followed close behind, the feel of all that wonderful come spurting into her triggering her own climax.
It wasn't as explosive an orgasm as the one Eric had given her. It didn't catapult her into outer space, where, quickly and beautifully she disintegrated.
It didn't make her lose consciousness. But it was, she would think later, highly satisfactory. A truly delightful way for an Englishman to welcome her to his country.
Molly was beginning to think that England would be a very attractive place to spend some of her time. The proficiency of "its males, in terms of sexual prowess, was unbelievable. Never in her life had she experienced such purity of passion, and with such perverse delight. She sighed contentedly.
CHAPTER FIVE
Molly spent two full weeks in England, during which time she visited just about every tourist attraction in the country, and a number of lesser-known spots off the beaten track. When she went out sightseeing it was with either Eric or Peter, both of whom proved to be top-drawer guides.
Sometimes the three of them would venture forth to explore the lovely English countryside, or as a change of pace, the exciting, intriguing section of London known as Soho. Molly sensed that Peter and Eric were vying for her affections, or at least her attention, and she took full advantage of this, being careful to keep both happy in bed and out.
During her stay in England, she lived with Eric, in the hotel room he had reserved for a month. She fucked him regularly and with great passion, the two spending hours humping each other silly. But she also fucked Peter whenever the opportunity arose to do so.
The only thing she regretted was that, for some reason or another, they never got around to enjoying a three-in-bed sex session. Fucking Eric was fun, and fucking Peter was fun, but on more than one occasion, she found herself wondering what it would be like if she had them both at the same time. Interesting, to say the least.
But there was no point in dwelling on what might have been, thought Molly, reflecting on her stay in England, while enjoying a glass of red wine at a charming outdoor cafe on the Champs Elysees, on this, her very first day in France. The opportunity to fuck to attractive males at the same time would certainly come her way again.
Saying goodbye to Eric and Peter, however had certainly not been easy. They had tried very hard to talk her out of leaving, Molly remembered, and she had come close to giving in and staying around for another few days.
But it was good that she left when she did.
A longer stay could conceivably have resulted in the busting up of a long and obviously important friendship, since Eric and Peter were becoming, day by day, more jealous of each other.
Molly took another sip of her red wine, and savored its cool, refreshing taste as it slithered down her throat. She set the glass down on the red and white checkered tablecloth, and looked around, pleased that she had picked this spot to rest her weary feet after and afternoon spent sightseeing.
It was a delightful cafe, uncrowded, quiet and unobtrusive. The young men and women working as waiters and waitresses, respectively, were courteous and attentive, and there was about the place an air of romance and blossoming affairs.
The cafe was situated between a bank on the left and a florist on the right. A sparkling white awning shaded most of the round, wrought-iron tables and wrought-iron chairs. Sitting in the center of each table, in an attractive, transparent vase, was a long-stemmed rose.
Smiling inwardly, Molly picked up her glass and was about to take another sip of the delicious wine when she noticed out of the corner of her eye, a man staring at her. She set the glass down on the table without drinking, then started debating with herself whether to look the man's way or not.
Curiosity won out, and Molly, trying to act casual, glanced to her left, toward a table not far from the door of the cafe. The man who had been staring at her smiled and lifted his glass in a toast. Not knowing whether to return the smile or not, Molly stared for a few long seconds, and then turned away.
At least he was attractive, she thought. If she was going to be ogled, let it be by handsome men. Whoever was giving her the once over, had a beautiful smile and nice, even teeth. He was about thirty, she figured, although the bushy mustache he wore and the goatee adorning his chin made him look a few years older.
He was dressed casually, almost sloppily, in a loose-fitting white sweat shirt, faded blue dungarees, and brown sandals. It was the attire of an artist, Molly decided. He was probably a struggling writer, or maybe a painter, living from hand to mouth while he labored at the masterpiece that would stand the world on its ear.
It was rather nice to think of him in that light, thought the runaway housewife, who had left home seeking adventure. It was also kind of sexy. Creative people were supposed to possess great imagination in bed and out. The fellow ogling her might be a regular Romeo in search of a little stimulating companionship.
Feeling wicked, Molly looked over at the man again, a ripple of excitement coursing up her spine, when she discovered that he was still trying to flirt with her. She decided to return his smile, knowing that it would serve as a signal to him, an indication that he had her approval if he cared to join her.
The man smiled, gulped down what was left in his wine glass, then rose from the table, and started for Molly.
"Have you been told lately that you smile like an angel?" he asked, when he arrived at Molly's table, his accent confirming the fact that, as she had just naturally assumed, he was a Frenchman.
Molly smiled. Not the most original approach, to be sure, she thought. But at least he hadn't walked over and asked straight out if he could lay her. He would get around to that, of course. Some friendly conversation, a few laughs, and then, inevitably, the invitation to bed. And she might just find herself accepting.
"Would you permit me the pleasure of joining you. Mademoiselle?"
"Yes, all right." How about that, thought Molly. Thinking her younger than she really was, and unattached, he had used Mademoiselle instead of Madame. Well, he was starting off on the right foot, that's for sure.
"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Pierre-Pierre Claremont."
"Nice to make your acquaintance, Pierre. My name is Molly Lawford."
"Ahh, an American. I knew it from the moment I first laid eyes on you."
"And just how long have you been watching me, Pierre?"
"Yes, I know it is not polite to stare, but I just could not help myself. You are so very, very attractive." The Frenchman chuckled.
"I'll bet you say that to all the girls."
"Oh, not, that is not true," lied Pierre. "I am not what you Americans call a skirt-chaser."
"No?" said Molly, cocking her left eyebrow.
The Frenchman was quiet for a moment, then with a somewhat sheepish smile, "Well, I must confess to liking girls, especially beautiful ones like yourself. But there is no harm in admiring beauty, correct?"
"Correct," answered Molly, realizing that her pussy had started to purr. She was tempted to inform this brown-eyed Frenchman with the shaggy dark hair that flattery would get him everywhere, but she thought it best to find out a little more about him. Like what he did for a living, for instance.
"I am a painter," Pierre said proudly in answer to Molly's question.
"What do you do? Abstracts? Landscapes?"
Pierre smiled tolerantly, and shook his head. "I am a portrait painter. People come to my studio and-"
"Oh, you have your own studio?" Molly interrupted, thinking she might have been wrong about her would-be seducer's financial condition.
"No, unfortunately not," answered Pierre, causing the hopeful smile on Molly's face to fade. "I share a studio with a good friend of mind, Jacques Novale. He is a sculptor."
"Oh, I see. That's nice."
"No, not really. I like Jacques very much, you understand, but still-well, it would be nice to have my own place. This business of sharing is, how shall I say, a little tiring."
"I suppose it does get maddening at times."
"I think Jacques would like to work in private, too." Then, with a little shrug of his shoulders and a half-smile, he added, "But we will just have to wait until one of us becomes famous and has lots of money."
"That day may not be far off," suggested Molly. "New talents are being discovered every day, you know."
"Yes. And soon it will be my turn."
"Or Jacques'."
Pierre chucked softly. "Yes, or Jacques'."
The Frenchman started asking Molly if she were vacationing in Paris, where she was staying, if she knew anybody in France, and how long she intended to be in this country. Molly answered these questions, and others, politely, and often with a smile, twisting the truth of course, on occasion.
The minutes rolled by, and Pierre ordered two more glasses of wine. Molly came to realize that she liked the Frenchman. He was reasonably intelligent, charming, possessed a nice sense of humor, and of course, he was attractive.
So when Pierre asked her if she's like to visit his studio, for the purpose of looking at a few of his paintings, she answered with an unequivocal, "Yes, I'd like that very much, Pierre. Lead the way."
Pierre led the way, to Montmartre, a rather run-down section of Paris known for its cafes and night life, and where for decades, artists and would-be artists have lived and played. Molly offered a silent prayer when she stepped out of the taxi, for the Parisian cab driver, a madman behind the wheel, had gotten them there in what seemed like one minute flat.
The raven-tressed beauty was not at all impressed when she glanced up at the old red brick building housing her Frenchman's studio.
Climbing up the rickety stairs, she could not help but wonder if she had made a mistake in accepting his invitation. And when, on the top floor, Pierre unlocked the door, and pushed it open, thereby giving her a look inside, Molly knew for sure that she wasn't visiting the home of a successful young artist.
"Please go in," said Pierre, smiling.
Molly entered with something akin to caution. She had half expected to see a dark, dingy dirty little room no bigger than a walk-in closet and cluttered with this and that. What she found was a very large room, a loft, really, with a huge, rectangular window on one wall, and a skylight in the center of the ceiling. The studio was, for all intents and purposes, devoid of furniture. All she could see as she looked around was a battered old desk, a standing lamp, an unpainted wooden table, and there, sitting smack dab in the center of the studio, a king-sized bed.
Everything else was either a piece of sculpture or a painting. They were all over the place.
"Well, what do you think, Molly? Tell me the truth."
"It's different," answered Molly looking at the bare white walls, and wondering why some of the paintings had not been hung, to get them out of the way if nothing else. "It has a certain charm."
"Like me," grinned the Frenchman.
Pierre took Molly by the arm and started to walk her around the loft, giving her a guided tour of the place, when suddenly, from behind them, somebody called out, "Hey, Pierre, have you forgotten me? And you call yourself a friend of mine."
Molly turned around quickly, startled by the male voice. Her surprise, however, was like nothing compared to the shock of discovering a young but totally glad and bare-assed naked male grinning at her. She blinked, thinking that her eyes were playing tricks on her.
"This is Jacques, Molly," said Pierre, who didn't seem in the least surprised to see his friend stark naked. "Please excuse his lack of clothes. He always walks around like that."
"I must have freedom," explained Jacque, continuing to dry his hands with a paper towel, as he advanced toward Molly. "And clothes are so confining." He held out his hand for Molly to clasp. "Welcome to this poor man's paradise. Visitors, especially attractive ones, are always welcome here."
"Thank you," said Molly, half smiling as she shook the Frenchman's hand. He was a strange one, all right, and certainly very forward. And maybe something of a show-off. But he wasn't bad-looking at all. In fact, he was rather appealing standing there in the altogether, a broad smile on his face, and his pecker dangling between his legs. He was not as tall as Pierre, who was about six feet in height, and on the slim side, but he had a nice, if rather chunky body. It was funny seeing all that hair on his chest, and none on his head. His face was more round than oval, and unlike Pierre's, it was clean shaven.
"A drink for the lady," said Jacques, "and make it the good stuff."
"All we have is the burgundy, Jacques," said Pierre.
"That's fine," said Molly with another half smile.
"Let me show you my latest creation, Polly, while-"
"It's Molly," interrupted the runaway housewife. "Not Polly."
Jacques grinned. "Sorry, I meant Molly." He took Molly's arm and started to lead her toward one corner of the loft. "You must see what I'm working on at the moment. I think it will turn out to be my best effort."
"Pierre told me you were a sculptor."
"I am a genius," Jacques said matter-of-factly.
A moment later, the uninhibited Frenchman was unveiling his latest work and beaming like a proud father. Resting on a pedestal four feet high was a mass of stone chiseled into a thing resembling a pyramid, but for all she knew, it could just as easily have been something Jacque found on the street.
"I call it Rock Slide," smiled Jacques.
"Rock Slide," echoed Molly, suppressing a grin.
"It's ugly, but very beautiful," the Frenchman went on. And dramatic in its intensity.
Depending on how you look at it, thought Molly. To her, it was just ugly. Period.
Pierre appeared with three glasses of wine, two balanced on his left had, and the third on his right. Jacques took one of the glasses and handed it to Molly then took one for himself. Next he proposed a toast to the beautiful woman whose presence stirs the creative juices. The three clinked glasses and then sampled the burgundy, Molly failing to notice the broad wink Jacques gave his friend, Pierre.
One hour and two glasses of burgundy later, Molly was in no condition to notice anything. All thoughts save one had scurried from her mind. She could think of nothing but how badly, how desperately, she needed to be fucked. Her body was aflame with lust, her cunt screaming for prick.
Later, when thinking back on what had happened, Molly would try to explain this sudden swelling of her passion, this satanic explosion of lust. Now, however, she was in no condition to question anything. All she cared about was getting a cock in her cunt, to stop the awful itching there.
"Here, give me a hand with her sweater, Pierre," said Jacques, who, with his friend had steered Molly to the king-sized bed and sat her down. "Let's hurry and strip her."
"Lift your arms up, Molly," Pierre ordered. "That's it. Now hold them like that."
Working together, the cunning Frenchmen pulled the powder blue sweater up over Molly's bra-encased breasts and then tugged it up off her head. Pierre reached around and then undid the clasp of her cream-colored brassiere. In a moment, in was lying on the floor on top of the sweater.
"Beautiful," smiled Jacques, staring at Molly's bare bosom. "Her tits are fantastic."
"Quick, let's get the rest of her clothes off," suggested Pierre, his cock thickening in the constructing confines of his slacks. "Up you go now, beautiful. On your feet."
"Yes, make me naked," breathed Molly.
Jacques and Pierre pulled the cock-craving woman up onto her feet. Molly stood on shaky legs, one hand holding tight to Pierre's right arm, while Jacques dropped to one knee and quickly took off her comfortable white walking shoes. In no time at all, Molly was standing in her bare feet.
"Now her slacks," said Jacques, clamping his hands onto Molly's hips for leverage as he pushed up to his feet. He found the button at the front of her coal-black, form-fitting slacks and worked it loose, then, taking hold of the slacks, he tried yanking them down.
"Wait, Jacques, there's a zipper in back," Pierre informed his friend. "I'll get it."
"Hurry," whimpered Molly. "Oh, hurry." The horrible itching in her vagina was getting worse. She thought she'd go out of her mind if she didn't get a prick soon.
Pierre pulled the zipper down and then, with Jacques, worked the slacks around and off Molly's shapely hips and then down her legs. Jacques dropped to one knee again, this time to work the slacks around and off Molly's bare feet. The task accomplished, Molly was left clad only in her wet-at-the-crotch undies.
"All right, now let's get her back into bed," said Jacques.
"What about her panties."
"I'll take care of them while you're undressing. Now help me stretch her out on the bed."
"Fuck me, dammit," breathed Molly.
The Frenchmen got the unprotesting woman into bed, laying her on her back. Pierre then set about getting his clothes off. Jacques was sporting an average size but firmer than firm erection, and he crawled into bed with Molly, who immediately threw her arms around him and again demanded cock.
Pierre kept an eye on what was happening on the bed, as he undressed. He smiled a wicked smile as his friend commenced a heated massage of Molly's hungry snatch through her panties. The beautiful woman's moans of pleasure were like the sweetest music to his ears.
It worked all the time, he thought. A little Spanish Fly in a glass of wine was all it took to turn a female inside out with lust. One had to be careful, of course. Too much of the potent aphrodisiac could prove fatal.
The proper amount however, administered to an unsuspecting beauty like Mademoiselle Molly, worked wonders on the vagina.
He would not soon forget some of the other women whom he had talked into visiting his studio. The Spanish Fly had turned them into raving nymphomaniacs, and he and Jacques had spent hours putting their pricks into all three orifices. Sometimes the women passed out on them. What nights there had been!
When he was naked, Pierre joined the couple on the bed, taking a position on Molly's left while Jacques remained on her right. He placed one hand on Molly's breast, squeezing that succulent melon of flesh hard as he mashed his lips against hers and smothered a moan.
A moment later, having broken the kiss, Pierre was asking Jacques what he wanted to do first.
Jacques, still kneading Molly's twat, answered, "I think I will eat her first, and you Pierre?"
Pierre thought for a moment, then grinned lewdly. He cupped Molly's chin and turned her head toward him. "You are going to suck my cock, Molly. Does that please you?"
"Yes, let me suck it," pleaded Molly, continuing the frantic massage of Jacques' genitals she had started seconds after he went to work on her pussy.
Pierre looked at his bald-headed, thirty-three-year-old sculptor friend and chuckled.
"So what are you waiting for, Pierre?" asked Jacques, grinning. "The beautiful lady has requested your organ in her nice mouth."
"And I will not disappoint her."
So saying, Pierre maneuvered into position so that Molly could get at his tumescent manhood. In no time at all, he was straddling her creamy-smooth chest. He took hold of his rigid pecker and proceeded to tease the passion-soaked woman by rubbing it over her face-everywhere but in her mouth.
Molly begged for it, turning her head this way and that on the pillow as she tried in vain to capture the moving manhood with her mouth. "Let me have it, dammit, don't do this to me!"
"All right, all right," said Pierre, grinning down at the frustrated beauty. "Open wide and I will feed you."
Molly opened wide. His grin fading, Pierre steered his organ into her yawning oral cavity, his buttocks lifting up off Molly's boobs as he found the proper angle and dipped his dong into that inviting mouth.
A grateful Molly clasped the hung of meat between her lips and started sucking immediately, with obvious relish.
Jacques, meanwhile, had scooted down the bed, and worked himself into position between Molly's legs. Kneeling now between her spread legs, he took hold of her warm pants and ripped them down the front, the flimsy material tearing easily to give him an unobstructed view of her glistening snatch.
He smiled down at Molly's dark-haired cunt, his brown eyes feasting on the scintillating sight of that tempting taste treat. Then, dropping into a low crouch, he worked his hands between the woman's well-shaped bottom, and the sheeted mattress and plastered his face against her aroused womanhood.
Molly moaned around the delicious cock in her mouth when she felt Jacques' hungry mouth on her twat. To encourage him, she pushed her hips up off the bed, and drove her twat into his face. A few moments later, she was moaning again, or trying to, as Jacques zeroed in on her already inflamed and throbbing clitoris.
"Eh, Jacques," grinned Pierre, "what are you doing to her back there, tickling her?"
"What do you think I'm doing?"
"And how does she taste to you?"
"Delicious. She is so soft and tender."
"She is very wet, not?"
"It is coming out of her faster than I can lap it up, Pierre."
"Be careful not to drink her dry, Jacques."
"You just take care of your end."
Molly paid little attention to this exchange between the two horny Frenchmen. With wanton abandon, she sucked the tasty tool, her head lifting and falling, lifting and falling, as her tightly-pursed lips slid wetly over the fleshy flank.
"Yes, suck it good, Molly," said Pierre, smiling down at the passion drenched female milking him. "Take it down your lovely throat."
Molly groaned.
With licking tongue and munching mouth, Jacques tended to Molly's soupy cabbage of a cunt. He never wandered far, however, from her excited clitoris, returning again and again to that cute love button to thrill it with a lick, a nibble, or with a gentle sucking motion of his pursed lips.
Finally, when he could wait no longer to penetrate Molly's sopping wet pussy, Jacques stopped slobbering and pushed up into a kneeling position. He took a moment to catch his breath, and then, hooking his arms under Molly's legs, and dropping them onto his shoulders, he shuffled forward on his knees.
"Eh, Jacques, what are you doing now?" asked Pierre feeling the mattress sag behind him.
"I must fuck her now," explained the eccentric, bald-headed Frenchman. "My cock is aching."
"But what about me?"
"What about you?"
"I want to fuck her now, too."
"You will just have to wait your turn. You went before me last time."
"You mean with Grethe?"
"Yes, with Grethe."
"But Jacques-"
"Besides, Pierre, you are already fucking her. You are fucking her face."
Chuckling over his little joke, Jacques took hold of his aroused prick and stuck it into Molly's hot, pulsing hole.
Then he shuffled forward another few inches, his bloated pecker sinking into Molly's mushy softness, as he positioned himself so that his knees were right up against her buttocks. Her beautiful legs were now perpendicular, at a right angle to her torso.
They rested against his hairy chest, the toes pointing to the skylight in the ceiling.
It was like this, with his hands clamped onto Molly's legs, an inch or so above her knees, that Jacques started reaming the hole he had been feasting on with a glutton's glee. In and out he worked his swollen manhood, savoring the hot, pulsing wetness of her clasping cunt.
"How is she, Jacques?"
"Good, very good."
"Is she tight, Jacques?"
"Tight enough. It is a good fit."
Pierre thought for a moment, then, still smiling down at hot female mouth gobbling his root, he said, "I think I 'will come in her mouth. She seems to be very thirsty."
Jacques grinned. "Does she suck good, Pierre?"
"She knows what her mouth is for, Jacques."
The feel of Jacques' blood-fattened tool jerking in and out of her slushy cunt and the idea of Pierre's warm, syrupy semen gushing into her mouth made Molly want to shout for joy. As if to express her gratitude, she started sucking Pierre's bloated prick even harder, pulling it so far into her hungry mouth, that she came close to gagging.
Pierre, while he prided himself on his staying power, was no superman. And so it was, that he shot his load a minute later, the creamy come rushing through his pecker and then streaming into Molly's mouth. "Drink, Molly, drink!" he cried, a wild look in his eyes.
Molly didn't even have to swallow. The warm, satisfying semen poured into her mouth, and gushed right down her throat. There was, however, a lot of come, and this overflow spilled over her lower lip and ran down her chin when she opened her mouth to keep from choking.
And then suddenly Jacques was coming, a gutteral moan of pleasure tearing from his throat as he blasted his gooey seed into Molly's hot, dripping vagina. He screwed his eyes shut and threw back his head, the ecstasy of ejaculation ripping through his body, and clouding his senses.
Molly came, too. Hers was a strong, thumping climax, the kind which, at any other time, she would have considered eminently satisfactory. But this was not any other time.
Something was different, and while she couldn't put her finger on what it was, she was very quick to realize that she wanted to orgasm again. She had to come again. Again, and again, and again. Until that satanic itch in her vagina had been scratched to death.
Thus it was that a few minutes later, with Jacque and Pierre standing close together at the side of the bed, Molly could be found hungrily sucking their cocks, working hard to transform them from limp noodles into long thick instruments of pleasure.
"She is good, eh, Jacques?" Pierre grinned at his friend.
"The Spanish Fly is good, you mean," said Jacques.
"She will keep us busy for quite a while."
"So? Do you have anything better to do?"
"Maybe I should be painting."
Jacques chuckled. "You can do a quick sketch of her later, to add to your collection."
"But of course," said Pierre, a lewd gleam in his eye.
Molly labored like one possessed on her two pricks, sucking on one and then the other. Not for a second, did she ignore either cock. When she wasn't sucking a tool, she was pumping it with a hand, keeping it hard until she could return her mouth to it. Not surprisingly, it didn't take the lust-crazed beauty very long to make the Frenchmen hard again.
And when they were ready to please her, their cocks once again turgid, and throbbing, Molly swung her legs up over the side of the bed, and positioned herself on her back with her legs spread wide.
"Please," she gasped, "do it to me again. One of you, now, please."
"Pierre, I think it is your turn at the lady's cunt," said Jacques with a smile.
"I will do my very best, Jacques!"
"Enjoy yourself my friend."
"Please, somebody fuck me," Molly cried out. I can't stand it anymore." Using both hands, she started rubbing herself between the legs, the pained expression on her face indicating the flaming in her cunt that had to be assuaged.
"I don't want her that way," said Pierre.
"Then how?" asked Jacques.
"Like this," he said, grabbing hold of Molly's arms. "Come on, Molly, get up," he ordered, pulling her towards him. "I want you on your hands and knees."
"All right, all right," breathed the passion-soaked beauty. "I don't care how you do it, just do it." Breaking the hold Pierre had on her arms, she twisted around until she was on all fours and facing away from him. "Now fuck me, dammit!"
"Like a bitch in heat, no?" said Jacques with a grin.
"Exactly," agreed Pierre. "And now I will mount the beautiful bitch in heat."
So saying, the French stud positioned himself directly behind Molly's taut, creamy-smooth posterior, which was on a line with the side of the bed. One hand, his left, he placed on her left buttock, the other going to his tumescent pecker to direct the sturdy cudgel on target.
"In me," cried Molly. "Get it in me, dammit."
She rammed her ass back at Pierre to get him moving. Pierre lunged forward, driving his bloated manhood deep into Molly's aching, itching vagina. She let out a gutteral moan of pleasure, and started grinding her behind back at him as he commenced thrusting. It was as if she had been waiting months and not minutes for the feel of that wonderful tool filling her and stretching her.
"Give it to her, Pierre!" shouted Jacques, who now stood off to one side watching the action while he lazily stroked his well-sucked prick. "Fuck her crazy, my friend."
"She is already crazy," said Pierre. "Crazy with lust."
Molly dropped into a low, subservient crouch, her beautiful breasts flattening against the mattress as she pushed her bottom up into the air. Her arms stretched out over her head, and her fingers curled and dug into the mattress. She wore a mask of pleasure-pain and whimpered piteously as Pierre continued thrusting into her hungry cunt from behind.
Within her, there lingered a sense of panic, a disturbing awareness of trouble ahead, for a tiny voice in one corner of her lust-clouded mind kept telling her over and over again that this humping would not be enough. She would need another.
And another and another and another.
CHAPTER SIX
Molly was still thinking about her torrid, mind-blowing sex session with the Frenchmen when she arrived in Rome, Italy, ten days later. Truth was, she had only a vague recollection of what had actually transpired in the loft. She could remember bits and pieces of the wild fuck fest, but could not arrange them to form a coherent whole.
She remembered, for instance, meeting Pierre at the charming cafe on the Champs Elysees, and then, after chatting with him a bit, accepting his invitation to visit the studio in Montmartre he shared with his fellow artist, Jacques Novale. She also remembered, more or less, what the loft looked like, and how she had had to suppress a laugh when viewing Jacques' latest piece of sculpture.
But after that, it all became cloudy in her mind. All she knew for sure, was that she had been stripped, placed on the bed, and then fucked, fucked until she passed out from exhaustion. Who had done what to her, and how long she was kept on the bed remained a mystery to her.
And she didn't think she would ever know for sure just how she got back to her hotel room. The only explanation that made any sense, was that either Jacques or Pierre or both, had dressed her, dragged her downstairs, and out onto the street, and then deposited her inside a cab.
It had to have happened like that, Molly concluded. All she could remember was passing out and then waking up in her own hotel room, with a splitting headache, and a swollen mouth, and a vagina that felt shredded.
Molly's decision to visit Italy stemmed in part from her interest in ancient Roman civilization. So it was that soon after arriving in Rome, and checking into one of the smaller hotels in the heart of the city, she rented an automobile, purchased a camera, and went sightseeing.
She visited and photographed the Temple of Apollo at Pompeii, the Forum Romanum, the Temple of Neptune at Paestum, The Leaning Tower at Pisa, and a dozen or so equally interesting treasures of antiquity. All of this, of course, took a few days and quite a bit of driving, with the result that when Molly returned to Rome, she was ready to relax, and do what sightseeing she could on foot.
She chose a bright sunny day for her stroll down one of Rome's most fashionable avenues. She had no way of knowing when she left her hotel, that she would soon have an experience and a highly sexual one, to rival the one she had had with Pierre and Jacques in France.
It all started when she felt the tap on her right shoulder. She had been looking through a shop window, admiring an expensive but truly eye-catching black satin evening gown, and at the feel of the tapping hand, she turned around, expecting the tap to be followed immediately by a goose. The Italians, she had discovered, were great bottom pinchers.
"Excuse me, my dear, but I would like very much to chat with you for a minute," smiled the stranger.
"Me?" said Molly, puzzled. He looked harmless enough, she thought, giving the rotund Italian a quick once over. In fact, he looked almost comical. With that big round face, and big round belly, dressed in a suit the color of vanilla, he resembled nothing so much as a snowman out of season. Bright blue eyes twinkled from beneath dark, bushy brows, and in contrast, a mop of unruly whiter than white hair sat atop his large head.
"Yes, you," said the man, still smiling. "Let me introduce myself. My name is Salvatore Donnelli. Perhaps you have heard of me."
Molly smiled softly and shook her head. "Sorry."
"No?" said the man, a frown quickly replacing the grin he had been wearing.
"Should I know you?" asked Molly, who had dressed for her stroll in a smart blue and white checkered pants suit, which she had purchased in Paris. Slung over her left shoulder was her brown leather bag, into which she had tucked a few hundred dollars worth of traveler's checks.
"I am Salvatore Donnelli, one of the world's greatest motion picture directors," the big-bellied Italian explained with pride, the smile returning to his pinkish, moon-shaped face. "I have won three Oscars."
"I'm afraid I don't see too many foreign films, Mr. Donnelli," said Molly.
"But surely you saw 'In Sickness and In Health,' my finest work. It had to do with a man and woman whose marriage was, how you say, on the rocks."
Molly shook her head and smiled apologetically.
"Agh, you Americans like nothing but westerns," complained the film director, frowning again. "Horses and cowboys, bah!"
"I thought there was such a thing as a spaghetti Western, Mr. Donnelli."
"Do not mention that ugly term in my presence, dear lady. Spaghetti Westerns, as you call them, are made in this country by greedy men who value only the lira. I am an artist. I make only films that breathe with life, real fife."
Molly nodded her head and smiled again. He was really kind of cute, she thought, this roly-poly fellow with the ego the size of his belly. Still, she wondered what he wanted with her. He hadn't gotten around to explaining the reason he'd interrupted her window-shopping.
"But enough of that," said Donnelli. "You are no doubt wondering why I stopped you."
"I'm sure it wasn't to ask my opinion of Italian films."
"No, but you are very close. May I ask your name before I begin?"
"It's Molly. Molly Lawford."
"Molly. Yes, I like that name. It has a happy ring to it. Still, we may have to change it to something more, how shall I say, er, sensuous sounding."
"Change my name?" grinned Molly. "I have no intention of changing my name."
"We must always think of the marquee, my dear. How a name looks in lights is not an unimportant matter."
Molly shook her head. "I'm afraid you've lost me, Mr. Donnelli. I don't have the faintest idea of what you're talking about."
"Because I am getting ahead of myself. It is a bad habit of mine. Forgive me."
"Only if you'll tell me what this is all about," said Molly, more intrigued than she thought she should be.
Donnelli took Molly's left arm and started leading her toward the curb. "Come, we will walk to my car, It is much more comfortable talking there, than standing here on the street. Besides, there is the noise of the traffic."
Somewhat reluctantly, Molly let herself be steered to a shiny black limousine parked at the curb. A young, ruggedly handsome Italian, dressed in a chauffeur's uniform suddenly materialized to open the door for her.
Hoping she wasn't doing the wrong thing, she crawled into the limousine, and then slid across the seat to the far side. The rotund film director worked his bulk into the auto and plopped down next to her.
"You may take a short break, Giovanni," said Donnelli to his chauffeur, after the latter had slammed the back door shut. "Be back in thirty minutes."
Giovanni flashed a smile at Molly and then, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets, sauntered down the street.
"So, now we can talk, Molly," smiled Donnelli, turning his attention to the raven-tressed beauty beside him. "Tell me, have you ever worked in films?"
"In films? As an actress, you mean?"
"I mean exactly that."
"No, never. I have enough trouble memorizing phone numbers. I could never memorize a script."
"That is nothing," said Donnelli, dismissing the excuse with a flip of his right hand. "We film in bits and pieces. A little footage today, a little more tomorrow. The actors learn the script a part at a time. It is easy."
"Well, that may be, but I-"
"You have a presence, Molly. A certain charisma. I recognized it the minute I set eyes on you. That's why I had Giovanni stop the car."
"I'm still not sure what you're getting at, Mr. Donnelli." .
"Just this, Molly. I think we could make you a star with very little trouble. You are what we in the business refer to as a natural."
"You're really serious, aren't you?" grinned Molly. "You honestly think I could make it as an actress."
"There is no doubt in my mind."
"But I never took an acting lesson. I don't have a drop of talent."
"Acting lessons are useless, my dear. One cannot be taught how to emote. It must come from within." Donnelli pounded his chest a few times. "From here, Molly. From the heart."
Molly shook her head. "I don't believe this. It's crazy."
"Not so crazy, Molly. There is a part for you in my next picture. Not a very big part, to be sure. But it will give you the exposure you need. After that, well, we will guide you gently up the ladder of success."
"I couldn't be in your picture, Mr. Donnelli. Why I'd ruin everything. It would be a disaster."
"Nonsense. It is not for nothing that I have won three Oscars. I am a great director, Molly. I know how to work with actors. I will work with you and make you a star."
"No, it wouldn't work," insisted Molly, smiling.
"Haven't you ever wanted to be a movie star? When you were a child, maybe?"
Well, he was right there, thought Molly. There was a time, long, long ago, when she dreamed of running away to Hollywood, and becoming an overnight success. Acting in the movies, was, it seemed at the time, such a fantastically exciting life, with all the beautiful clothes you got to wear, all the attention lavished on you, and, of course, all the money you got to spend.
But every girl growing up fantasizes sometime or other about being a famous movie star. It was something you outgrew. She certainly had, and to even consider starting an acting career now, when she was thirty-five and totally lacking in experience, would be sheer folly, absolutely ludicrous.
"You are thinking over my invitation to become a star," Donnelli smiled. "And you are about to accept."
"Sorry, Mr. Donnelli, but I am not interested. I'm flattered you think I could succeed, I really am, but I have no great desire to work in the film industry."
"Is that your final answer? I cannot change your mind?"
Molly smiled and shook her head.
The director sighed, and slumped back in the seat. "You make a mistake, Molly. A big mistake. Salvatore Donnelli does not make a habit of stopping women on the street and asking them if they would like to appear in one of his films. I select only those whom I know have the potential to succeed. You disappoint me, Molly."
"I'm sorry. Maybe you'll find somebody else to make a big star."
Donnelli thought for a moment. Then, his fat face brightened as he said, "There is one way you can make me happy."
"Oh?"
"Yes. You must accept my invitation to a little party I am hosting tonight at my villa. It is to celebrate the release next week of my last film. Please say you will come, Molly. It would make me very happy."
"Well, I don't know-"
"You have no plans for this evening, do you?"
"No, but-"
"Then it is settled. I will have Giovanni pick you up at eight and drive you to my villa. Now, let me get out a pencil and some paper and you can give me your address."
Well, why not, thought Molly, smiling as she watched the rotund film director fumble in his pockets for pencil and paper. It might be fun. She had never been inside a villa before, and there was bound to be good food and drink at the party. And who knows? She might bump into a famous film star. It sounded incredible. Fantastic!
That was the word that best described the scene, thought Molly, surveying her surroundings. If this is what Donnelli termed a little party, she couldn't imagine what one of his really big bashes was like since there had to be at least fifty people at this shindig, all of whom appeared to be having a helluva good time.
The villa itself was magnificent, all fourteen rooms of it. Donnelli's guided tour, which he had given her shortly after her arrival, had all but taken her breath away. Never in her life had she seen such a display of wealth. It was all around her; upstairs, downstairs, even in the kitchen, which had been modeled after the one in his favorite French restaurants.
But this, this was really something special, thought Molly, glancing around the immense, square-shaped room in which, Donnelli explained, he liked to do his entertaining. It was a ball room, with a ceiling higher than high, and hanging from the center of that ceiling was a magnificent chandelier, glittering like a gold-encrusted crown.
The ceiling was a cream color, as were the walls, upon which had been hung paintings large and small. Statues, some of them obscene, were all over the room, and in one corner there was even a fountain shooting water. On the floor was a wall-to-wall carpet the color of Rose wine.
A dozen or so chairs, all black, had been strategically placed about the room. Running parallel to one wall was a bar, behind which a tall, distinguished-looking black dispensed drinks to the guests. Across the way, against the other wall, stood a long table bedecked with an attractive and appetizing array of warm and cold food.
Yes, sir, though Molly, Donnelli was certainly leading the good life. Maybe his idea about making her a movie star wasn't so crazy after all.
"Hey, there, why aren't you mingling with the guests?" came a voice from behind Molly.
The raven-tressed beauty, who was wearing the black satin evening gown she had been looking at this afternoon, when Donnelli came by, turned at the sound of the voice. It was Giovanni, the director's tall, lean, ruggedly-handsome chauffeur. She gave him a smile as he approached.
"And look, your glass is almost empty," said Giovanni. "I don't think you are enjoying yourself at all."
"Oh, but I am," Molly assured the chauffeur. "I was just taking a minute to recuperate, that's all."
"Recuperate? From what?"
"From meeting all the other guests. Donnelli introduced me to all of them."
Giovanni smiled broadly. "Yes, it is a lively crowd tonight. And before long, they will be even livelier."
"Oh?"
"Absolutely. Just you wait and see, Molly Lawford."
"See what, Giovanni. What are you talking about?"
The chauffeur chuckled. "You have never been to one of Salvatore Donnelli's parties. You are in for a big surprise, I think. A very big surprise."
"I really wish you wouldn't be so damned vague. Tell me what's going to surprise me, Giovanni."
"No, but I will see you later, Molly. I have put you very high on my list."
"List? What list? Giovanni, come back here."
But it was too late. The grinning chauffeur turned and started making his way to the bar, leaving Molly to ponder the surprise he had said was in store for her. She spent a few minutes wondering what it could be, then, with a little shrug, started for the buffet.
An hour and a half later, Molly was surprised.
She was chatting at the bar with one Carlo Mondino, a wealthy young industrialist, and his wife, Maria, when suddenly she heard a commotion behind her. She turned, as did everyone else, to look toward the center of the ball room, where, lo and behold, Salvatore Donnelli was doing some sort of a crazy jig--bare-assed, naked!
Everyone started laughing and clapping their hands. The soft, lush orchestral sounds that had been coming from speakers all around the room were replaced with the hard, driving beat of a Latin band. The guests, most of whom were middle-aged, started whooping it up like children at school recess.
Molly couldn't help but join in the laughter. When clothed, Donnelli was almost a comical figure. When naked, his big belly shaking like a bowl full of jelly, and his mop of white hair flying all around his round head, he was nothing less than outrageously funny.
The real surprise, however, came a minute of so later, when the middle-aged merrymakers started stripping off their expensive clothes. Eyes wide, mouth agape, Molly looked on in disbelief as all around her, people shed their clothes in what seemed a race to get naked first.
And then the guests were pairing off, choosing partners, and scurrying off in search of a comfortable place to couple. Molly didn't need another hint. She realized now that she had been invited to a sex party. An orgy!
"Aha, gotcha!" cried a voice behind Molly. It was Giovanni again, and this time he was stark naked. He pressed up close to the raven-tressed beauty, and snaking his arms around her, wrapped his meaty hands over her luscious breasts before she could even turn to face him.
"Giovanni, why didn't you tell me about this?"
"Because I was afraid you would get upset, and decide to leave the party." The chauffeur squeezed Molly's tits hard, and at the same time pushed forward .his hips, letting her feel the swelling of his manhood against her bottom. "But now you cannot leave. I have caught you and you are mine."
Molly took another look around the huge room. It was a mad, altogether obscene spectacle, as depraved as any she could have imagined.
The room had been transformed into one great arena of lust, with some of the guests already fucking up a storm. Clothes were scattered all over the place. Everybody was naked, and either screwing or preparing to.
It was a turn-on, no doubt about that. Just standing there, looking at all those naked people sucking or fucking was enough to start her cunt crying. Her heart was beating faster now, and her pulse quickened.
Well, why not? Why let the opportunity to participate in an orgy, her very first, slip by? There were, she had already noted, quite a few attractive men at the party. Giovanni was one of them.
"Quick now," said the voice behind Molly. "We must get you undressed. And now!"
He turned the elegantly attired beauty around and tried to figure out how to remove her black satin gown.
"No, let me do it," insisted Molly, pulling away. "It will be faster."
"All right, but hurry," said the impatient Italian. Taking hold of his semi-hard cock, he lifted it up and said, "See the gift I have for you. It's all yours."
Molly knew that wasn't exactly true. Giovanni wasn't going to spend the whole evening with her. He would fuck her and then wander off in search of another available pussy. But he was giving her first crack at his cock, which was nice, and she didn't want him to regret it.
Molly stripped hurriedly, adding her gown, bra, panty-hose, and shoes to the other articles of apparel already on the carpeted floor. And then, when she was bare-assed naked, her cunt all a-quiver, she dropped to her knees in front of Giovanni and without so much as a word, shoved his cock into her hungry mouth.
"Ahhh, good," groaned the happy chauffeur, looking down at Molly. "Suck it hard, beautiful lady. Yes, like that."
With obvious relish, Molly worked on Giovanni's swollen manhood, her lust growing by leaps and bounds. On her knees, hands clamped onto the chauffeur's slim hips, she sucked like one to the manner born, her head bobbing up and down as her pursed lips slid wetly over the delicious dick.
Two minutes later, his lust at fever pitch, Giovanni ordered Molly to stop sucking him so that they could fuck. Molly obeyed instantly, yanking the now fully-erect cock from her mouth and then falling onto her back. She drew up her shapely legs and splayed her knees, thereby forming what she knew would be a most comfortable cradle for her partner.
Dropping onto his knees, the hump-hungry chauffeur worked himself into proper position and without delay accomplished penetration, his well-sucked prick sliding easily into Molly's hot, mushy cunt as he dropped onto her nakedness. And then he was working his cock in and out of the clinging softness.
"Oh, yes, fuck it good," moaned the runaway housewife, throwing her arms around Giovanni's hard back. "Screw hard, lover. Drive it into me."
"I will fuck you crazy," breathed the chauffeur. "Until you cannot see straight."
"Do it, Giovanni. Hump me good. Fuck faster."
The brown-eyed, black-haired Giovanni speeded up the tempo of his thrusts, and received in return a groan of delight from his grateful partner. In and out he worked his hard-on, digging deep into the slushy, comforting confines of Molly's clasping cunt. He felt her legs wrap around his middle and plunged yet another time into her quivering body.
Filled with lust, Molly took all the handsome chauffeur had to give her and asked for more. In breathless voice, she implored him to keep on fucking, to bang his cock into her with a vengeance, obscenities tumbling from her lips as she thrilled to the feel of his thick, throbbing tool, which was pistoning rapidly into her molten vagina.
All around her people were making love, if such it could be called, and the wet, slurping sounds of sex, the feverish grunts and groans of coupled couples writhing in lust, were more provocative and thrilling than the wildly sexual rhythms emanating from the stereo speakers.
And then Giovanni was blasting his mucky seed into Molly's bubbling cauldron of a cunt, a moan of pure delight breaking from his throat as he knew the ultimate in pleasure. Molly came a moment later, her arms and legs tightening around her ejaculating partner as the thrill of orgasm seized her roughly and shook her apart.
Breathing hard, Giovanni got to his feet, and for a few long seconds stood looking down at Molly, who lay now in wanton sprawl on the carpeted floor. Her head was still swimming.
Then he turned away and started for the bar, stepping over or around the entwined couples blocking his path. A quick drink, a shot to pick him up, and he knew he'd be ready for round two.
Molly remained on the floor for a full minute after Giovanni left. Then, her breathing under control, with the chauffeur's come still dribbling from her well-reamed cunt, she pushed up to a sitting position, and started to get to her feet. Had she noticed the stocky Italian standing over her, she might not have made the effort to rise.
"No, you don't my pretty one," said the grinning man, pushing Molly back down onto the floor. "I have a wonderful present for you. I know that you will just love it."
Molly recognized her assailant immediately.
It was Roberto Folare, the aging but still attractive film star who had appeared in Donnelli's last picture. He was about fifty and getting a little thick about the middle, and, in fact, he did not look anywhere near as distinguished naked and with a hard-on, as he did when fashionably-attired. But his silvery hair and smoldering blue eyes were a turn-on anyway.
"Please, give me a minute," pleaded Molly, trying to rise again.
"I've been watching you," said Folare. "You had your minute to rest. Now it is my turn to enjoy you."
With that, the determined actor shoved Molly back down and fell on top of her. He was into her quickly, a wicked lunge of his hips driving his thick, stubby pecker up to the balls inside the pooped beauty's messy womanhood. And then he was bouncing up and down, up and down, his breath heavy on Molly's face, as he worked his cock into her cunt.
Giovanni's savage screwing of her had helped calm her down, at least temporarily, and while she knew full well, it wouldn't be long before she was ready for another stud, Molly needed a little time to get back into the swing of things. Thus, she responded to Folare's fucking of her cunt with something less than enthusiasm. She remained almost motionless under him, letting him do all the work, while she dreamed of a good, stiff drink to revive her.
Fortunately, Folare was a man who had never bothered to learn self-control or how to prolong ejaculation. He came less than a minute after piling on Molly, huffing and puffing like one who had just ran the mile in record time. And then, exhausted, he rolled off his partner and onto his back.
Molly waited a few seconds, and then, after looking around just to be sure, pushed herself up to her feet. She staggered, caught her balance, and then started for the bar. It was only some ten feet away, but getting there involved plowing through a field of hot, sweaty, squirming flesh.
Arriving at the bar, Molly looked for Bobo, the tall, smartly-attired black from Jamaica who had been serving as bartender for Donnelli.
He was nowhere to be seen. Molly sent her eyes around the room, thinking that Bobo, being black, would stand out in this sea of writhing flesh, since everybody else was white. But no Bobo.
Molly was about to serve herself a drink from one of the many bottles standing on the bar, when she heard a noise from behind the bar. Moving a few of the bottles aside, she peered over the bar. Sure enough, it was Bobo. And he wasn't alone. Under him, and moaning like a madwoman, was a pretty young Italian girl, named Sophia, who had been introduced to her by Donnelli as an up and coming actress.
She certainly wasn't acting now. Sophia, The Starlet, was wallowing in lust, thrilling to the feel of Bobo's black cock as it pumped in and out of her hungry cunt. And just how big was that cock? It would be Interesting to find out.
Later, when Bobo was free, she would ask him to serve her a helping of-
"That's it, baby. Hold it right there," came a voice from behind Molly, intruding on her thoughts. And with the voice came a pair Of hands, clamped firmly onto her hips, locking her into position over the bar. "Don't move a muscle. Mmm, what a beautiful behind you have. So nice and round it is."
"Who are you?" asked Molly, trying to turn her head around to see who had grabbed her.
"What difference does it make? I am male, you are female."
"It wouldn't hurt to tell me your name," said Molly. That was the least he could do, she thought. Here she was, pinned up, or rather over the bar, her breasts flattened against the wooden bar top, and her fanny jutting out behind her, and the man responsible for her obscene position wouldn't even reveal his name. Under the circumstances, maybe it was silly to want to know who was intending to fuck you. Still and all-
"All right, it is Pietro. Now, are you happy?"
"Was I introduced to you?"
Pietro chucked lewdly. "No, baby, you weren't. That is why I am here, to correct that oversight. Right now."
Molly yelped as Pietro's long, slender prick rushed up into her tummy. She had hardly recovered from the sudden, swift stuffing of her cunt, when Pietro started pistoning his rod, poking it deep, withdrawing, and then poking it inside her again, as he humped her from behind.
"Hey, take it easy, will you?" protested Molly, still a little peeved at Pietro for not even giving her the chance to accept or reject his advances.
Pietro laughed and kept right on fucking.
Draped as she was over the bar, Molly had a bird's eye view of what was going on behind it. And what was going on was certainly sexy and exciting. Bobo was coming in Sophia, his smooth, taut, black buttocks bobbing rapidly as he pumped his creamy gunk into her eager vagina. Not surprisingly, the sexy young actress was moaning with joy.
The sight of Bobo's blackness covering Sophia's lightly-tanned, squirming nakedness was provocative indeed, thought Molly. Again, she wondered about the size of his tool. She had read somewhere that blacks possess pricks which, on the average, are larger than those of white males. As soon as Bobo finished with Sophia, she'd be able to see if this were so.
Molly didn't have long to wait. When the last of his sticky seed had spurted into the happy starlet's dark-haired womanhood, the tall, lean black bartender pushed himself up to his feet. Seeing Molly, he grinned.
"And what do we have here?" he asked in his mellifluous tones, which pinpointed his origins.
"She doesn't want a drink right now, Bobo," said Pietro, smiling lewdly as he continued screwing Molly from behind. "Maybe later."
"But perhaps the lady is hungry," said the attractive, middle-aged black from Jamaica. He bent down so that he could look at Molly's face. "Are you hungry, pretty lady? Tell me, and I will give you something to eat."
"Cock," said Molly softly, staring at the appealing length of black meat dangling between Bobo's legs. The fact that his tool had just left another female's syrupy cunt bothered her not at all. In fact, she found the idea of sucking such a big, messy organ tremendously exciting.
"What was that?" asked Bobo. "I didn't hear you."
"Cock," breathed Molly. "I want your cock. Stick it in my mouth, Bobo."
"Do it, Bobo," grinned Pietro. "You take care of one end, and I'll take care of the other."
The handsome black chuckled.
A moment later, as he took hold of Molly's head and cradled it in his large hands, he pushed his slimy root against her mouth. Molly vacuumed his member into her oral cavity, just as fast as she could, sucking it shamelessly as Pietro continued humping her from behind.
It went on and on, the affluent merrymakers fucking, sucking, and fucking some more until the wee, wee, small hours of the morning. Molly either fucked or sucked another eight men, enjoying herself to the limit with all of them. Every time she turned around there was a naked, grinning male ready to ball her.
She even got around to satisfying her host, the lecherous but lovable Salvatore Donnelli, who, when he got his chance, carried her upstairs to one of his bedrooms, and there, as she lay spread-eagled on the bed, ate her hot, sopping wet vagina until she came like nobody's business.
It was a night the runaway housewife would never forget.
She had had cock in her mouth, her twat, in her armpits, between her boobs.
Perhaps she had decided herself not to be a film star, but she fucked with the best of them, which was more than any other "average American housewife" could say.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was two months now, since Molly left her family and took off on what she hoped would be an exciting, satisfying adventure, one that would spell the beginning of her new life as a happily independent and carefree woman, unencumbered by the demands of motherhood and the obligations of being a wife.
After Italy, she traveled to Spain, spending her time sightseeing and screwing. She met a handsome, super-sexy bullfighter by the name of Ricardo Diaz, whom she sucked and fucked a number of times during the long weekend she spent at his large cattle ranch.
There were others, of course, hot-blooded Spaniards like Guillermo Montez, a brown-eyed, dark-skinned musician, whom Molly met while bar-hopping one night. Much fun did she derive from blowing on his horn.
From Spain, Molly went to beautiful Switzerland, where she made friends with one Carl Haller, a ski instructor working for the time being at St. Moritz. Never would she forget screwing Carl in the snow, the two of them laughing as they struggled to couple with their clothes on. It wasn't very comfortable, but it was certainly exciting.
Molly arrived in Denmark in excellent spirits and with the idea of spending the rest of her life traveling. She felt like a million dollars, and what's more, she knew she looked like a million. It wasn't so much the expensive clothes she wore, as it was her radiant smile. That, and her new-found confidence, her joie de vivre, suggested to others that here was a woman who had discovered where it all was at, and who was reveling in the discovery.
Of course, it was almost impossible not to feel especially good in Copenhagen, thought Molly, resting now on a bench after her leisurely stroll through the Tivoli Gardens, one of the world's most charming amusement parks. The Danes were such a warm-hearted, friendly people, as hospitable as any she had ever encountered.
Only a horrible old cynic could fail to appreciate the kindness and generosity of the Danish people. One didn't have to be afraid of walking alone at night in Copenhagen, which certainly wasn't true of other large, heavily-populated areas.
In New York, for instance, a person took his life in his hands if he ventured out into the streets after eight o'clock.
But why was she thinking about New York, Molly asked herself. It was the very last place she wanted to be. Now, Copenhagen was her kind of town. Clean, exciting, and chock full of handsome, blue-eyed blonds. All she had to do was pick one out for herself.
Molly spent the next five minutes enjoying the passing parade, her eyes following the attractive, healthy-looking men and women who strolled past her bench. She gave special attention to the single men, for the idea of being dicked by a Dane had started her pussy purring.
Three whole days it had been since her last lay! She wanted a man, a horny, well-hung one, to welcome her to Denmark, where sex was enjoyed to the fullest without shame. If she sat here for awhile, well, sooner or later, that man would show.
And show he did. Molly perked up immediately when she spotted him, and flashed a smile his way. She kept her eyes on him as he walked to where she was sitting, and at the same time quickly noted his vital statistics: Young, tall, at least six-one, lean but strong-looking, blonde hair and blue eyes. The perfect Scandinavian stud, thought Molly.
"Would you be so kind as to allow me to share your bench?" asked the youth with a smile.
"There are others, you know," Molly said teasingly.
"But you are not sitting on them," the youth parried.
"Are you going to flirt with me, and try to seduce me, Mr.-"
"Lars. Lars Olafson is my name. And yes, I think I am going to seduce you. You are a very beautiful lady. American, yes?"
"American, yes," said Molly with one of her sexy smiles. "Now, do sit down and let's chat."
This, then was the start, Molly hoped, of something super-sexy. She and Lars chatted for more than an hour, during which time, Molly learned that her potential partner in lust was a university student working his way through school by performing in pornographic films.
This piece of news pleased Molly, since to her way of thinking, anybody working in blue movies just had to be a better-than-average lover.
"Sounds like very interesting work, Lars," the runaway housewife said with a smile. "Just how did you get started in pornography?"
"It was easy. I just answered an ad in the newspaper."
"An ad? You mean somebody actually-" Molly left the thought unfinished, forgetting for the moment that she was in the land of sexual permissiveness, where pornography was legal and enjoyed without fear of punishment.
The youth chuckled. "Yes, it is no big thing here in Denmark. We do not take sex as seriously as you Americans. Quite a few people earn extra money from pornographic films."
"How many have you acted in?" asked Molly, the crotch of her panties damp with her secretions.
"Only seven. My sister Else, has worked in ten."
"Your sister also does Porno films?" Lars smiled. "Yes, and she is very good. My sister is, how shall I say-"
"An exhibitionist?"
"Yes. She loves to show off her body. She is a very sexy girl, also."
"How old is she?"
"Nineteen. Two years younger than me."
"I'd like to meet this sister of yours."
"That can be very easily arranged. In fact, if you like, we can drive out to the farm now. My car is parked just down the road," said Lars.
"Did you say farm?"
"My sister and I have lived on the farm all our lives," explained the Danish youth. "We like the fresh air and caring for the animals."
"I guess it could be fun."
"Now it is mostly hard work," said Lars, looking a little sad. "Things have not been the same since our parents died."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Lars. When did it happen?"
"Eighteen months ago. My mother and father were-" The handsome youth left the sentence hanging, and smiled brightly. "But it is much too nice a day to be thinking such sad thoughts, Molly. Why don't you let me drive you out to the farm to meet my sister?"
"Okay, let's go," smiled Molly, draping the long strap of her bag over her left shoulder.
Lars turned out to be a fast, but not reckless driver. With the expertise of a professional, he maneuvered his plum-colored 1099 Fiat through the city traffic and out onto the country roads. During . the drive, Molly imagined herself the star of a really dirty sex flick. So excited did she become that she almost peed in her pants.
But the time they arrived at the farm, which consisted of a small white frame house, a red barn, and several chicken coops, Molly was ready to hitch up her skirt, push down her undies, and let Lars lay her on the spot. She controlled herself, however, and followed Lars as he led the way to the small house.
No sooner had he pushed open the screen door, than Lars was yelling for his sister.
"Else! It's me, Lars!"
There was no answer and so he tried again. "Else, where are you? Are you home, Else?"
Molly shrugged. "Guess she isn't here, Lars. Maybe she's at the University."
"No, Else doesn't have classes today," said the youth. "Come with me. I think I know where she is, and what she is up to."
Molly followed Lars through a small, cluttered living room, past the kitchen, and into a small hall, at the end of which, on either side, was a door. Lars poked his head into one of the rooms, and then seconds later, turned to smile at Molly.
"It is just as I thought. Here, take a look."
Lars stepped aside and Molly stuck her head into what was a bedroom. There, on the bed, was an exceptionally attractive, golden-haired female, lost in a world of her own. The girl was stark naked and playing with herself. One hand was squeezing a tit, while the other kept busy massaging her golden snatch. Her eyes were closed and she was moaning softly.
"Looks like we arrived at the wrong time. Let's go back into the living room and wait until she's finished."
"Nonsense. Else won't mind us interrupting."
"Are you sure? Won't she be embarrassed?"
"Else is never embarrassed. Come, we will bring her back to reality."
So saying, the youth walked into his sister's bedroom, and called her name. Then he was shaking her roughly and informing her that they had company.
"What?" the dazed girl stammered, opening her eyes. "Oh, Lars, it's you."
"Yes, and I have somebody here who wants to meet you."
"Leave me alone. I was building up to such a nice come."
"You can come later." Lars motioned Molly, who had remained behind at the bedroom door, to join him at bedside. When Molly was standing next to him, he said, "This is Molly Lawford. We met at Tivoli Gardens."
"Molly Law-oh, you're beautiful," smiled the super desirable Danish girl, her blue eyes radiating warmth.
"I knew she would like you, Molly."
"Hi, Else, you're beautiful yourself."
"Come to bed," purred Else, squeezing her breast and stroking her warm, pulsing pussy. "We can help each other come. Please."
Molly looked at Lars, and then again at the young female masturbating on the bed. Never before in her life, not once, had she even considered the idea of sleeping with another of her sex. It wasn't that lesbianism revolted her, nor was she afraid of discovering some truths about herself if she permitted the caress of another female. She just couldn't imagine that a woman's touch would be as pleasurable, as thrilling, as the fierce, bone-jarring thrusts of a rock-hard prick in her vagina.
But Else, soft and lovely and vulnerable Else, was causing her to re-evaluate her thinking, Molly realized. For one thing, Lars' sister was extraordinarily beautiful. She was a slim, long-limbed lovely, with firm shapely tits, and a smooth flat tummy.
But there was something more. Else had an ethereal quality, an airy, angelic presence. Lying there in bed, a soft, sensuous smile bathing her smooth, unblemished face, she seemed so innocent, so precious. And yet, at the same time, there was something sad and maybe even a little tragic about Else.
"Why don't you do as she asks?" said Lars.
"Yes, I want to," Molly said softly, keeping her eyes on Else.
Working quickly, the black-haired beauty slipped out of her clothes, removing her brown blouse first, then her white skirt, then her brassiere and her brown walking shoes, and finally, her cream-colored briefs. When she was naked, she climbed onto the bed, and snuggled close to the Danish girl.
"Have you ever been with a girl before?"
"Never," said Molly. You'll have to show me what to do."
"There is nothing to show. You are a woman, so you know what pleases a woman."
"I want to eat you, Else. You are so beautiful," said Molly, stroking the girl's angelic face.
"We will eat each other. I want to lick up your juices and smell your passion."
Molly brought her face close to Else's, so close that their lips brushed. And then, the two were kissing, their moist tongues entwining in tender embrace. It was sweet, thought Molly, so gentle and undemanding. How different this kiss was from the kind men usually gave her.
Else broke the kiss and then, pushing herself to a sitting position on the bed, proceeded to work her way downward, arranging her body so that it straddled Molly's. Carefully, as if she were drawing apart the petals of a delicate flower, she pried open Molly's soft, wet cunt lips with her thumbs.
"Oh, yes, lick me," Molly said excitedly.
"And you will eat me."
"Yes, of course," promised Molly, staring up at the golden-haired snatch hovering over her face.
Else, no novice when it came to performing with another female, inhaled the musky scent of Molly's passion. Now she lowered her head and pressed her beautiful face into Molly's steaming twat, her tongue snaking from between her lips to commence a lazy licking of Molly's sex slot.
The runaway housewife moaned her approval and struggled to keep her hips quiet on the bed. A moment later, she was looking up at Else's dripping pussy, and running her tongue over her lips in anticipation. Never before, she realized had she been this close to a cunt.
She could see everything. Else's beautiful blonde bush, her pouting sex lips, which were gooey with her sticky secretions, and up above, the lovely red taut pussy, and further down below, nestled between those creamy-smooth taut buttocks, Else's pretty little asshole. Then, too, there was the stimulating smell of the girl's need.
"Go ahead and do me," said Else, somewhat impatiently. 'I am doing you.
"Yes, all right," breathed Molly, bringing her hands up and placing them flat on Else's delectable behind.
Lifting her head off the pillow, the raven-tressed beauty pushed her face up into Else's sodden snatch and started licking away at the teen-ager's secretions, her searching tongue digging as deep as possible into her partner's love hole. This was another first for her, Molly realized happily. A brand new and exciting experience. Else's pretty young twat tasted simply delicious.
From his position at the side of the bed, Lars took in the lewd proceedings on the bed. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, a faintly sardonic smile basking his smooth complexioned face. He always enjoyed watching two attractive females have at each other.
Pleasing his sister, meant a great deal to him. Of course, it wasn't just to delight his sister that he had brought Molly home. He wanted the shapely American woman, too. Just thinking about her lips hugging his hard-on, her squishy cunt clasping his thrusting root, was causing his lust to build.
With Lars watching, Else and Molly continued to please each other orally. Truth was, they had all but forgotten their audience of one. They were too busy licking and munching each others' tasty twats.
Since Molly's experience with cunnilingus was nil, she was obliged to follow the younger female's lead, and to rely on instinct. Thus is was that when Else sent her tongue in tantalizing swirl up to Molly's inflamed and swollen clitoris, Molly reciprocated, sending her tongue to explore the Danish delight's sensitive love button.
Lars continued to watch the women enjoy their wicked sixty-nine until his pecker, which was struggling to swell in the confines of his jeans, started to hurt him. Then he undressed, tossing his things onto a nearby chair while keeping one eye on the naked pair in bed.
The time had come, he thought, to remind the females of his presence. Bare-assed naked and sporting a firm erection, he stepped close to the bed, and ordered his nineteen-year-old sister to stop chewing on Molly's cunt. When Else failed to respond, she reached down with his right hand, and grabbing a handful of her long blonde hair, pulled her up and off Molly's wet womanhood.
"Oww!" groaned the Danish beauty. "That hurts, Lars."
"What else can I do when you don't listen to me?"
"Why do I have to listen to you?"
"Because I want you to crawl around between Molly's legs."
"Why?"
"Because I asked you to, that's why."
Else gave a little shrug, and then climbed off Molly and twisted around until she was on all fours between Molly's spread legs. She waited, thinking that maybe Lars intended to fuck her from behind, while she went down again on their guest.
"Now, Molly," smiled Lars, "how would you like to suck on my organ, while Else is eating you? Does that sound nice?"
"It sounds very nice."
"Good, then we will begin."
"Can I continue, Lars?" asked Else.
Lars smiled. "Yes, you may continue, Else."
Having been given the green light, the tempting teen-ager wasted not a second getting back to work. In the blink of an eye, she was in low crouch between Molly's legs, her angelic face plastered to Molly's smoldering snatch. And then, she was driving her experienced tongue into the older female's hot, sticky hole, steering it up to Molly's swollen, pulsating clitoris.
Lars, meanwhile, climbed onto the bed, and straddled Molly's chest, his buttocks flattening her scrumptious breasts as he settled on those fleshy cushions. His blood-thickened manhood now throbbed inches from Molly's mouth, the plum-shaped head grazing her chin.
"Are you ready, Molly?"
"I want it, Lars," said Molly. "Stick it in my mouth."
Lars didn't need a second invitation. Lifting up off Molly's breasts, he took hold of his meaty member, with his right hand, and as she opened wide for him, dipped it, into her yawning mouth.
He let go of his root and placed his hand on the pillow above and a little to the right of Molly's head. Braced now on hands and knees, he looked back and down between his arms, and thrilled to the sight of the beautiful woman sucking him.
"That's it, Molly. Suck it nice. Take as much of it as you can."
Molly was doing exactly that, of course. She gobbled greedily, with whorish delight, her head lifting up off the pillow and then, a second later, dropping back down onto it, as her tightly pursed lips slid up and down the hank of flesh. Her cheeks puffed and hollowed repeatedly as she worked on the fat, juicy, and altogether delicious dong.
Still busy down below, of course, was Else. Ignoring what was going on above her, the girl with the dreamy eyes munched merrily on Molly's sodden snatch, her talented and tantalizing mouth never still as it snaked in and out of and all around the older woman's hot hole.
Molly, needless to say, was in seventh heaven. With a cock to feed on, to suck to her heart's content, and with the lovely Else down there, tonguing her twat beautifull, there was nothing else she needed to be happy. Well, maybe one thing. A stiff cock plunged to the hilt inside her vagina would be nice. She wondered how long it would be before Lars decided to fuck her.
As things turned out, it Wasn't long at all. Only a couple of minutes, in fact. Molly was surprised but not angered by the sudden removal from her mouth of the prick she had been sluttishly sucking, for she knew that Lars was now ready to plant his rod deep inside her well-licked cunt.
Having pulled his saliva-coated pecker out of Molly's mouth, Lars swung around, and pushed himself up out of the bed. As soon as he was on his feet, he ordered Else to stop tonguing Molly's cunt so that he could couple with her.
Else, remembering how her brother had yanked up her hair last time, obeyed almost instantly.
"All right, now I am going to fuck her," husked Lars, obviously excited. "Get off the bed, Else."
"What am I going to do while you're screwing her?" asked Else.
"Play with yourself," said Lars.
"No, wait, I have an idea," said Molly. "If you take me from behind, while I'm crouching, then I can eat Else at the same time."
Lars grinned lewdly. "Yes, I like to do it doggie-style. It is a good idea."
"I like it," said Else.
"So then what are we waiting for?" asked Molly, eager to feel the hard thrusting of Lars' tumescent tool in her pulsating vagina.
"Get on your hands and knees, Molly," ordered the youth.
Molly did just that, quickly and enthusiastically. And as soon as she was on all fours, facing the headboard, an eager Else took her place on the bed, arranging herself so that she was sitting, legs spread wide, facing Molly. The Danish beauty placed her hands behind her and leaned back, thereby propping herself with arms extended full length.
Now it was Lars' turn. Climbing back onto the bed, he quickly positioned himself directly behind Molly, his hands reaching out to clasp the taut half-moons of flesh that were her buttocks. A moment later, he was directing his bloated manhood on target, pushing the drooling head between Molly's flowering cunt lips.
Then he shoveled his cock into her, in one swift, sudden thrust. Molly let out a moan of pleasure, and rolled her bottom back against Lars. She could feel his wonderful tool throbbing inside her, waiting there in her hot, mushy vagina like an aroused live thing ready to strike.
"Now go down on Else, Molly," ordered Lars, flexing his root in the black-haired beauty's snug cunt.
Molly dropped into a low, servile crouch, and then, without delay, burrowed between Else's warm, creamy-smooth thighs, her face pushing right up against the Danish girl's sopping wet womanhood. She drove her tongue between Else's cunt lips and wiggled it furiously.
"Mmm, that feels good," crooned Else, throwing her head back and shutting her eyes. "Eat me, Molly, eat me all up!"
An unsmiling Lars started working his bloated pecker in and out of Molly's syrupy sex canal. He fucked easily, almost lazily, his strokes long and smooth.
He was pleased to discover that Molly, who he knew was at least ten years older than himself, had a vagina that fit around his cock like a glove. He had half-expected to plunge his rod into a cunt stretched too often by thrusting peckers.
"Fuck harder, Lars," Molly suddenly called out, pausing in her lewd labors to demand a more forceful fucking. "Do it faster, please."
"She wants it harder, Lars. Give her what she wants."
"What does she want, Else?" asked the good-looking youth as he speeded up the tempo of his thrusts into Molly's slushy womanhood.
"Cock," grinned Else.
"You know what you are going to do later?"
"Tell me, big brother."
"You are going to suck my cock."
"Yes," said the teen-age beauty. "As soon as you take it out of her, I'll suck it."
"You, Else, are a very wicked girl."
"Harder, Lars," moaned Molly, interrupting the conversation. "Drive it into me."
Else looked down at Molly who was once again slobbering over her golden-haired snatch. Then, as a wicked little smile blanketed her face, "I want to introduce her to Hans, Lars. She will like him, I'm sure."
"Can't you forget about Hans for a minute. You are always thinking about that silly pig."
"Molly will like him," insisted Else. "You see what a very sexy woman she is."
Molly was too busy licking and sucking Else's slimy cunt and enjoying the thrusts of Lars' swollen cock to pay any attention to what the two were saying. Her enthusiasm might suddenly have waned had she realized that Else, angelic, child-like Else, was planning to introduce her to, and watch her couple with, a two hundred pound pig named Hans. Then again, maybe it wouldn't have.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was something peculiar about him, thought Molly, looking at the tall, lean and ramrod-straight German who had, moments ago, left her table and was now standing at the bar. There was nothing wrong with him physically. In fact, Fritz Lauder was really rather attractive, even if he didn't smile very often. But he acted in a way which sent little chills up her spine.
Was her imagination playing tricks on her? Such just might be the case, Molly realized, her eyes leaving Lauder to wander about the musty, dimly-lit night club, and its intriguing inhabitants, a number of whom were in garish attire.
Maybe there was something peculiar with her for having decided to visit West Berlin's red-light district, and for stepping into this particular club. There were a number of others in the immediate vicinity, none of which looked at sinister and outrageously decadent as this one. Yet, she had elected to take a look in here. Why?
Simply because from the outside it looked so sinister, and decadent, Molly told herself, answering her own question. She had heard the tinny sound of a player piano from outside, and she had seen a few of the unusual people push open the heavy oaken door and enter what seemed like another World of reckless hedonism where vice was so very nice. Her curiosity had, naturally enough, been aroused.
And so she had summoned up the required nerve to walk in unescorted, and take a table in one corner of the club as all eyes, or so she thought, followed her. And what she had discovered was that the place was every bit as decadent, as joyfully sinful, on the inside, as it appeared to be from the outside.
In fact, it reeked of corruption. The twenty or so people gathered here tonight were steeped in sin, it seemed, and in love with lust.
She had noticed right off, Molly remembered, that the people here didn't smile friendly smiles. They smiled lewdly, gleefully, and that same suggestion of wickedness framed their laughter. And Fritz was no different. Maybe that was why he made her nervous.
"So, I am back again, my pretty one," said a firm, authoritative voice, intruding on Molly's thoughts.
Startled, the runaway housewife looked up and to her right. Her eyes had been searching the crowd, and she had not noticed the former army officer's return. Quickly regaining her composure, she smiled and said, "Oh, there you are. I was wondering if you had planned not to return."
"Now, why would I do a thing like that?" asked Lauder, settling himself in the wooden chair with the curved back across from Molly.
"I'm sure you could find someone more interesting to talk to."
"I find you interesting, Molly Lawford," declared the dark-eyed, square-jawed German.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Because I'm a new face, I suppose."
"Because you are an American. A beautiful American woman. Somewhat spoiled, or course, and rather inhibited, but-"
"Inhibited?"
"That's what I said.
Molly had to grin. If he only knew, she thought, that not very long ago, she was playing ultra-naught games with a pig named Hans, he certainly wouldn't have termed her inhibited.
He might have called her something else, of course, but not inhibited. No woman who goes down on a big fat pig can be considered a blushing wallflower.
"Now, then, Molly, we will each enjoy another beer, and then take our leave," Lauder informed the raven-tressed beauty. Turning in his chair, he snapped his fingers at the nearest waiter.
"Leave? I didn't know we were going anywhere," said the surprised Molly.
"But we are, my pretty one. I want to show you my home and my, how shall I put it, my collection," said the German, smiling one of his rare smiles.
"Your collection?" asked Molly. "Collection of what?"
"We will let that be a surprise. I am sure you will find my collection most interesting."
The waiter, a plump, balding, beady-eyed man in his early fifties, arrived carrying two steins of beer on a tray. He put one of the beers down in front of Molly, the other in front of Lauder, whipped the tray up under his left arm, and departed.
"So, we drink to you, Molly Lawford, to the gods who have seen fit to bring us together, this cold, dreary night."
"To the gods," said Molly, a half smile on her face as she reached for her stein.
Wiping his mouth, with the back of his right hand, Lauder put his stein back down on the table, and started to relate some of his war experiences. Molly listened politely, if not with the greatest interest, thinking she might be able to learn a little of what Lauder was really like from his stories.
Twenty minutes later, she was still trying to read him. All she knew for a fact was that Fritz Lauder repelled her and attracted her at the same time.
He was egotistical, perhaps the most conceited man she had ever met, and there was about him an arrogance that inflamed the sensibilities.
But, and this was the strange thing, she was drawn to the very qualities she found distasteful. There was something strangely exciting about Lauder's arrogance, his obvious and unalloyed disdain for those who didn't share his views. Could it be, she wondered, that she appreciated Lauder's cockiness, his supreme self-confidence, because for so many years she was forced to endure the indecisiveness of her husband?
Fritz Lauder was capable of acts altogether perverted, of that she was certain. Evil lurked within him. He was a dangerous man, one accustomed to getting his own way at all costs. Although she had yet to see it flare, she was willing to bet that he had a fierce temper and could imagine him committing crimes of great violence.
Yes, he frightened her, Molly admitted to herself. If she had any sense, she would get up, pretend she was off to the ladies room, and then make tracks for the door and the comparative safety of the streets. But she couldn't gather the strength for the effort.
Something was keeping her here, forcing her to remain in this decadent place, with its strange and sinister occupants. A small voice in one corner of her mind was telling her to watch it, to be careful if she didn't want to find herself in a whole lot of trouble.
But the idea of trouble, of courting danger, held an eerie fascination for her. Was it just her, Molly asked herself. Or was everyone attracted to the unknown and possibly perverted?
Lauder finished a story, and then, checking his wristwatch, announced that it was time to go.
"Drink up, Molly, then we will leave for my house."
Molly drained her stein and then set it back down on the table. This was it, she thought. She would have to make up her mind. Did she feign illness and go back to her hotel, or did she accompany Lauder to his home?
"Well, Molly, are you ready?"
"I'm not really in the habit of getting picked up like this," smiled Molly, stalling for time while she struggled with her decision.
Lauder reached across the table and placed his right hand on top of Molly's left.
"It is my firm wish that you accompany me to my home. Do not disappoint me."
Molly swallowed hard. Another chill went up her spine and her heart skipped a beat.
"I repeat. Are you ready, Molly?"
"I'm ready," stammered Molly, the words coming unbidden from her lips.
Lauder smiled. It was, Molly noted with a perverse mixture of fear and the thrill of anticipation, a lewd and wholly decadent smile.
Less than a minute later, the runaway housewife was out on the dark street, the damp night air enveloping her as she watched the fifty-ish Lauder, now in a somber, knee-length coat, attempt to hail a cab with his walking stick.
"Let me go!" wailed Molly, struggling with all her might to break the hold Lauder had on her.
There was panic in her voice and the greatest fear in her heart, for she knew now that she had made one very horrible mistake. "Let me go, dammit! I want to get out of here!"
"But you shall not leave, my pretty one," Lauder assured the frightened female he was pushing and pulling toward the padded block on legs that stood almost in the center of his fiendishly furnished basement. "You are my prisoner now. I can do with you as I wish."
"No!" Molly protested, vehemently. "Let me go, you beast."
Having had about all he could take of his captive's infuriating behavior, Lauder spun her around and sent the flat of his left hand cracking across her face. The fierce blow stunned Molly. She shrieked and fell to one knee. She was up again in a moment, however, as Lauder dragged her to her feet by her raven hair.
"Are you going to behave?" asked the furious German, glowering at his captive.
"Leave me alone," whimpered Molly.
Lauder made a fist of his right hand and slammed it into Molly's stomach. The air whooshed from Molly's lungs and she crumpled, this time falling to both knees. Clutching her stomach, she swayed side to side and gasped for breath. She was filled with loathing for the man who had taken her to this chamber of horrors, this playground for perverts.
Lauder dragged his victim to her feet again, and this time, as she swayed before him, started to remove her clothes. After yanking off the top off of her brown and gold pants suit, he ripped away the white blouse she had on underneath. Now he shoved her back down onto the floor and roughly tugged down the pants half of her attractive suit, pulling off her casual shoes and tossing them aside, before working the trousers around and off her feet.
He straightened up, and smiled down at his whimpering captive, who lay sprawled on the carpeted basement floor, clad only in bra and panties. Thinking what a good time he was going to have with this luscious wench, he started to undress, his fingers fumbling with the shiny brass buckle on his wide leather belt.
Good heavens, what was she going to do, wondered Molly, the tears running down her cheeks. She was in the evil clutches of a madman. How was she going to get out of this horrible place. Never in her life had she seen or even imagined, such a basement.
It was like something out of Count Donatien de Sade. Whips and chains of various sizes adorned the walls. In one corner was a rack, a kind used in Medieval times to stretch the truth out of recalcitrant prisoners. There was a chair in another comer, a large wooden chair which looked not unlike the kind used in certain penitentiaries before the death penalty was declared unconstitutional.
There were other, equally frightening instruments of torture around the room. While it was less sinister looking than the rest, she liked the padded block on legs, to which Lauder had been pushing her, no more than she did any of the other items in the room.
It had been his intention to throw her over the block, which resembled the horse a gymnast uses for jumping and vaulting, and beat her bottom with one of the many straps hanging on the walls. Maybe it was still his intention thought Molly, scared half to death.
When he was bare-assed naked, Lauder said, "All right, Molly Lawford, now you will suck my prick."
Molly slowly pushed herself up until she was sitting on the carpeted basement floor. She made no move, however, toward her tormentor's tool.
"Get on your knees and start sucking my cock!" Lauder ordered. "Do as I say, now! This very minute."
Knowing it would do her no good to protest, and not wishing to risk getting hit again, Molly dragged herself up onto her knees and shuffled to where the German stood glaring down at her.
Most reluctantly, she reached for his pecker. Under ordinary circumstances, Molly would probably have taken Lauder's tool into her mouth without thinking twice, she realized. He was, as she had already noted, not unattractive. Besides a smooth, even-featured face, he possessed a lean, hard body, and an appealing circumcised organ.
"What are you waiting for?" Lauder demanded to know. "Put it in your mouth and start sucking."
Trembling, Molly obeyed the obscene command, her lips parting as she stuffed the limp manhood into her oral cavity. And then she was sucking on the flaccid organ, her cheeks bloating and then deflating as she worked to stiffen that length of flesh. It occurred to her that if she did a good job, if she sucked Lauder hard, and then feigned pleasure as he plowed her pussy, he just might forget about torturing her.
With that in mind, the runaway housewife started fellating her captor with enthusiasm, as if suddenly, magically, inspired to perform to the best of her abilities. Greedily, she gobbled the fleshy root, her head weaving and bobbing constantly as she labored like one sexually aroused and determined to please.
A wicked smile appeared on Lauder's clean-shaven countenance. "Yes, you are like all the rest, Molly Lawford. Very proper on the outside, but a slut on the inside. Suck it harder, faster. Show me how much you like it, bitch."
Molly's feverish fellatio produced the desired results in no time at all. When he was rock-hard, his firm erection throbbing in Molly's mouth, Lauder cradled her head between his hands and, holding it still, started sawing his bloated weapon in and out of her moist oral cavity.
This degrading, humiliating fucking of her face angered the raven-haired beauty. But she put up with it, realizing that a humiliation far worse could be expected if she protested this one.
She could see, out of the corner of her eye, the padded black block with its four thick wooden legs.
When he grew tired fo fucking Molly's beautiful face, the sadistic German released her head and pulled his saliva-coated cock out of her mouth. Not giving his captive a chance to catch her breath, he grabbed a handful of her hair, and hauled her up to her feet.
"Now we punish you," he said gleefully, pulling Molly in the direction of the padded block.
"For sucking my cock, and for enjoying it so much, you will have to suffer the strap."
"No, please don't hit me."
"Stop that stupid sniveling, bitch."
Molly tried planting her feet firmly on the floor and pulling back, away from the dreaded horse. But that only served to bring her more pain, since Lauder had a firm grip on her hair and jerked her forward again with a vengeance every time she attempted to halt his progress.
Being much stronger than his beautiful victim, the angry German succeeded in dragging her to the padded block despite her resistance. Roughly, cruelly, he tossed her over the horse, the breath once again whooshing from Molly's lungs as she was dumped belly down on the block.
Quickly, before she could wriggle off, Lauder dropped to one knee and tied her arms and feet to the wooden legs. Then he straightened up, smiled lewdly, and went to fetch a strap.
Molly started to cry in fearful anticipation of the awful pain to come. She knew how positively obscene she must look, draped belly down over the horse like this, almost bent over double with her head down and her pantied posterior sticking up. But it wasn't the lewdness of her position that bothered her so much as it was the unnerving realization that now, since she had been securely tied to the block, and couldn't move, she was completely at the mercy of the fiendish German.
Lauder returned, bringing with him a pearl-handled rod with a half-dozen wide leather straps attached, and took up a position behind Molly, who, looking under the horse, could only see his hairless legs as he firmed his stance and made ready to lash her ass.
"Now, you will pay for acting in such a whorish manner. I will beat some respect into you. I will make you see the error of your ways."
"No, please," whined Molly, big, salty tears running down her face, to which blood was rushing. "Don't whip me. Please don't. I have done nothing to deserve this."
"You are a whore! A stupid slut!"
"I'm not," insisted Molly. "You're wrong, all wrong!"
"I am never wrong, Molly Lawford."
"You're insane. You're a madman!" wailed Molly.
"What? What did you call me?"
Molly realized immediately that the outburst prompted by her helplessness and frustration, was a large mistake.
She regretted it as much as she had anything in her life. Not that it mattered in the long run. She was to get whipped anyway, regardless of what she said. But calling Lauder a lunatic had, she feared, hurried the inevitable thrashing.
Molly was right. Incensed at being labeled a nut, Lauder, his face crimson with rage, hauled off and let his captive have it without further delay. The wide leather straps sliced through the air and curled around Molly's upturned and altogether vulnerable derriere.
The raven-haired beauty shrieked, the sudden pain at her ass spreading to all parts of her body in seconds flat. She struggled at her bonds, her wrists and ankles rubbing against the straps holding them to the thick legs of the block.
"There is more to come, you bitch!" roared Lauder.
Again, he drew the punishing instrument up over his right shoulder, took dead aim on his victim's taut behind, and sent the thick brown straps slashing against Molly's poor posterior. Again Molly rent the air with a scream.
"I will make you sorry you are such a pig," said Lauder, spitting out the words. "I will teach you manners."
"Oh, please," sobbed Molly, "don't hit me anymore. I can't take the-"
"Hurts, does it? Good. It should hurt, my pretty whore."
"No more, please," groaned the runaway housewife, her silky black tresses hanging straight down around her head and trailing over the basement floor. "The pain is killing me."
Lauder laughed sadistically. "So your ass hurts. That is good. I will make it hurt a little more."
"No, I beg you. Aiiee!"
With fiendish delight, Lauder lashed his helpless, sobbing victim, a cruel gleam in his eye as he wielded the whip like one possessed. Again and again, he lashed Molly's agony-soaked behind, slicing to ribbons her flimsy pants, which provided precious little protection from the horrible whip. She was tied down and helpless against the attack of the slashing straps.
The searing pain was like nothing Molly had ever experienced or cared to experience in the future. He was slashing her ass to ribbons, making strips of bleeding flesh out of what once had been a creamy-smooth, nicely rounded bottom, she thought dazedly, the sheer agony of it all clouding her mind.
She waited for, prayed for the blessed relief of unconsciousness. But, much to her dismay, she didn't pass out. Some demon inside her kept her conscious, forcing her to suffer through all thirty lashes administered with such relish by her diabolical captor.
Molly's spirits went up just a fraction when Lauder threw away the whip and untied her. Had she known what the sadistic German had in mind when he pulled her limp body off the horse, and threw her roughly to the floor, where she landed with a thump, belly down, the runaway housewife's feeble hope of escaping further abuse would have been squashed under the weight of an enormous despair.
Seconds after she hit the floor, Lauder pounced on her and with a single tearing motion of his right hand, ripped from her horribly abused ass, the remnants of her panties. Then he was roughly prying apart the cheeks of her flaming, bleeding bottom, and digging his still fully-erect prick into her niggardly nether hole.
"No-Noo-" moaned Molly, making a feeble but courageous attempt to thwart the penetration of her posterior by bring one hand back to that now unsightly part of her anatomy. There had been times during her travels when the idea of letting some handsome man sodomize her had crossed her mind. But she didn't want to be broken in this way-not by a madman whom she despised and whose only aim was to degrade and humiliate her.
"Now, the real fun begins, Molly Lawford," snarled Lauder, the bulbous head of his throbbing cock pushing hard against the resisting ring of pinkish-brown flesh that was his captive's anus.
"You will be fucked in the ass until you are screaming."
"Please, have mercy," begged Molly. "Oh, please-"
The piteous pleas of the pain-drenched beauty went for nought.
A heathenish wail of mind-muddling pain tore from her throat, as Lauder lunged against her poor behind and sent his thick prick ripping into her rectum. It was as if a white-hot poker had suddenly been thrust into her bottom.
Ignoring the heartbreaking sobs of the woman under him, the demonic German started reaming her rectum, his bloated manhood a meaty cudgel as it stirred her turds with a vengeance. Again and again he thrust into Molly's already tortured backside, deriving perverse pleasure from the feel of her clammy back passage.
Molly clawed the carpet with her nails, as tears of shame and pain streaked down her face.
The fiendish fucking of her fanny went on and on, and it occurred to the runaway housewife, as she suffered the agony and degradation of this cruel sodomizing, that it would be nice, so very nice, to be back home in Springvale, with her family.
But Lauder had no mercy. He took great delight in sawing his flaming tool in and out of the luscious young lovely's behind. Not a bad ass for an older woman, he thought.
But Molly was completely oblivious to Lauder's precise German ruminations. She could only feel her backside burning like hell from the lashing Lauder had given her, and feel the width of his massive tool as it plunged in and out of her virgin asshole. She really didn't think it was so much fun, in fact, it burned like hell, but then again she didn't have a prostrate, so how would she know?
She just lay over the, place where he had so cruelly thrown her and felt the force of that bizarre sadist's mammoth pole. She hoped he didn't rip anything. Crying and pleading for him to stop, she was unconsciously at the same time trying to get up, turn around, do something.
Apparently, Lauder found this stimulating, and he began to buck harder, drawing his plunging pecker out to the edge of her ass ring, and then back in along her little rosebud of beauty and those tight, undulating walls until he slammed up her ass to his balls. He did this a number of times and started breathing very heavily and screaming out cuss words to Molly in German.
Then the sadist Lauder began to come. Load after load gushed out of his bloated prick and he began to slap her thighs hard, and yell "Take it all, American, bitch. Take my load up your ass. I would not touch your feeble, mushy, steaming cabbage of a cunt anymore!"
Loads of hot, gooey, sticky white come poured into Molly's ass, sending her turds on a sea voyage. When he finally pulled out, streams of the stuff came out, too. It hung for a while in gobs in the area around her ass hole, and then, like spittle, strung out and dropped off on to her thighs and calves.
Molly was all sticky and messy. She was mad and her asshole felt like it had been fucked by an emory board. Her hair had been sweeping around on the basement floor and it was tangled and knotted and dirty. She was sweaty and smelly and her whole backside was covered with lashes. No, she thought, I really don't feel very good.
Apparently, Lauder had gotten all he could get off the bitch. He wiped his cock off with some facial tissues he kept around the whipping room for just that purpose, stepped into his military gear, and saluted Molly. "Well, Fraulein Molly," he said, "now you have had a good taste of my, shall we say, discipline. Whether you liked it or not, I don't know. Personally, I couldn't care less. However, I think a little more discipline would do you good, then perhaps I'll consider letting you go."
Molly just looked at him in fear.
"The first thing now," he said, "is for you to give me a champagne blow job."
"What is that?" said Molly.
"First, you pull my zipper down with your teeth, Fraulein, and then I'll tell you."
Molly got to her knees on the floor. She of course couldn't sit up, because her ass was a mass of welts, stripes and sticky come.
Lauder walked over to her and shoved his crotch towards her face. He had just finished getting a bottle of the old bubbly from the refridgerator. Molly pulled his zipper with her teeth, slowly and painfully working it down until his prick was beginning to bulge into sight.
There was a ringing of the buzzer upstairs.
"Ah," exclaimed Lauder, "I almost forgot. Molly, you will enjoy this. Some friends of mine, colleagues, shall we say, told me they would visit me tonight. How nice I have you as a surprise for them'.' He grabbed her long dark hair and at this point dragged the now submissive Molly to the wall, where he manacled her legs and arms to it.
"We all belong," he called back as he began to ascend the stairs, "to an organization known as the Tough Shit Institute." He took the steps two at a time, and as far as Molly could hear, greeted the guests and immediately led them downstairs. Here he asked them their pleasure of alcoholic beverages, and as the three guests, two men and a woman, looked Molly over with a sadistic gleam in their eyes, he continued his spiel.
"Tough Shit Institute signifies this," and he indicated himself and the other three. "It is an organization of individuals dedicated to the idea that personal pleasure, and personal pleasure alone, is the backbone of the world. Underlings are to be used merely for pleasure. May I introduce Norbert Klinger, Jake Birdman and G.H. Bogard, known fondly as The Slime Queen.
"We have begun to infiltrate the English-speaking world as well as Germany. Soon we will conquer the whole world. We do this by introducing many of our own ideas and concepts into the general reading matter of the public at large. We do this by writing pornographic materials, introducing our own fantasies (of course however, from the masochistic point of view) to the readers of obscene literature. They develop these fantasies for themselves, gradually, and" then we find it easy to control them. Once you have a person's sexual being under your thumb, why, anything is possible.
"Middle class business men, older women, young teenaged boys and girls will begin to think in terms of being used and abused. Why, all of the material our infiltrating spies write shows the degradation, by the powerful male, of some lovely little woman. Of course, The Slime Queen is an exception, who can expunge her sexual perversities onto other creatures."
At this point, Birdman walked up to the shackled Molly and stuck his hand up her cunt and proceeded to wiggle his fingers around as he continued the conversation.
"Look Molly," Jake said as he flicked her clit and Molly began to squirm around on his fingers, "just get into loving this. Just get into those hands, working with analytical pleasure on your cunt lips. Forget I'm consciously touching you to produce a desired effect. Does this turn you on? I can feel you creaming on my fingers. You must have read some of my books, because you're certainly having the proscribed reaction. Do you like to read fuck books?"
"Ye-yesss," sighed Molly "I love it. I love it. Do with me what you will. Rub your fingers all over me. I'm just a housewife on a liberation trip. But I don't want to be liberated. Feed me Spanish fly! Bring on the pigs! Grab my hair and pull me around the room! But don't take your fingers out of my pulsating pink pussy. Feel my quivering mound. Ah, ah I'm going to come." At this point she passed out from the strength of a finger-induced orgasm. It really didn't matter how she did it, as long as it was a real, strong man at her pulsating cunt. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
In her mind's eye, she could see rows after row of big stiff staffs. Thousands and thousands of ten-inch long, two inch wide cocks. Cocks with purple heads, cocks with red, brown and yellow. Hooked ones, straight ones, blunt ones, pointed ones, veiny ones, smooth ones-she loved them all.
Cocks covered with come, cocks covered with saliva-dripping, running, glistening with pre-come-Oh Lord Molly loved it. Why, she might even get into a vibrating dildoes!
Norbert Klinger was watching from the corner. Now he came over to her for some action. "How about a third orgasm?" he leered.
Molly was only too happy to oblige. She could now see her goal in life-to have every orifice rubbed raw with pleasure. "Take me!" she sighed.
And that he did. With a mighty rip his pants were around his ankles, and with a shout, he shoved his massive mauler up her rosy pink hole. "Ughh, ughh! Will this ever give me material for my stories! In and out, in and out, more, more, more!" he screamed in wild abandon. "If only my friends from Cleveland could see me now!"
