A glance at the front-page headlines of any newspaper in the country is enough to send shudders of fear and trepidation along the spine of any working man or woman. It's not the crime that causes such woes, not the threat of military activity that might take the life of friend or family, not the threat of nuclear holocaust. Those are remote, distant.
The fear is generated by the economy. It wasn't always that way. The headlines found news of money supply and economic conditions dull; the voters found them tedious.
But now people are personally affected by the economy. So many are out of work. Others are forced to displace their traditional values in the face of reality. And today's realities are harsh. Whereas one man was able to support his family fifty years ago, it now takes the husband and wife-and even that provides only barely enough to get by.
With the fading traditional values, other values are bound to fade; they are inexorably tied together.
This is what Margaret Sanders learned. When her successful, career-oriented husband lost his job, she was forced from the secure bounds of her home out into the harsh realities of the business world, where jobs are kept and lost based on performance as well as on how well they adapt to the cut-throat, sex-oriented world of power.
Margaret's long-standing life shattered quickly, and she was caught in a whirlwind of corruption and greed. How she manages to survive is the story that follows. Whether she sinks to the bottom, from where those who attain the top rise, or if she salvages her life and discovers more about herself than she knew before is the point of the story. It might be worth paying attention to, since economic reality indicates such a tragedy could be waiting for any one of us, at any time.
Such are the frightening headlines of today.
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
Like any other day, this day began with the rising of the sun.
Margaret Sanders turned over and pulled the blankets up over her eyes-the way she did every morning. She and her husband, Edgar, slept with the curtain open, so the cool breeze could drift inside through the night. They both liked to sleep naked, atop the covers, feeling the night air bathe their bodies. But when morning neared, Margaret huddled beneath the covers. Then, as the sun rose and the glare of it pierced in through the window, she shielded her eyes from it with the blankets.
Routine is a hard thing to break.
Five minutes later, the alarm clock went off, as she knew it would. That, too, was part of the routine. She smiled slightly as she felt the bed jiggle, Edgar rising out of it. He thought she was asleep. She was always awake when the alarm went off, and always feigned slumber. He always believed it, and tiptoed off to the bathroom. She always fell asleep to the steady drone of the shower.
She awakened again when she felt the covers being gently pulled back from her face, and Edgar's warm lips pressing lovingly against her cheek.
"I'm going," he said. More routine.
"Have a good day, darling," she muttered back in her sleepiness.
"You too," he said, bussing her once more before leaving. Through the sleep in her eyes she saw he was wearing the blue three-piece suit she had picked out for him last Christmas. That meant he had an important meeting. Odds were, then, he would come home exhausted, the vest open, his top shirt button undone, his tie loosened, his hair tussled. She would cook a magnificent dinner, served with two or three martinis beforehand and wine during. His nerves would be soothed, and they would enjoy a tender, romantic evening together. It was all part of the routine.
Margaret loved the routine. Whenever Edgar brought up the subject of children, she nodded and smiled, telling him she wanted children, but not right now. He never asked why, for which she was grateful. Because children would play havoc with the routine. For the first time in her life, since marrying Edgar five years earlier, she felt like she belonged. Everything that happened in her life happened according to a plan, now that she was Mrs. Edgar Sanders. She cooked, she cleaned, she played bridge-God, just like all those awful images she had had of housewives before she had met Edgar.
Now, the biggest ordeal of her life was defending herself to her full-time-employed friends.
"Don't you feel like you're wasting your life?"
"Aren't you just a slave to your husband?"
"Won't he let you work?"
But she fended these off easily enough. "I'm happy," she would say to each of them, flashing them a genuine smile. And those of them who knew her well enough understood the significance of her happiness, and let it go at that, whether they agreed or not.
Perhaps, one day, she would need additional fulfillment. Then she would get a job, or go back to school-or have Edgar's children. But now, she liked drifting through her days, cleaning, cooking, doing things that made Edgar happy.
When Edgar was happy, he was a joy. He was affectionate, and provided her with a never-ending string of compliments. He paid attention to her, brought her home presents (after five years of marriage it was practically unheard of!), called her at least twice a day, and made comfortable, happy love to her up to three times a week.
She wasn't bored. For the first time in her life, she had time to do the things that were, for whatever reason, important to her. She did a lot of reading, putting away some of the classics she had always regretted not reading. She exercised, jogging an hour each afternoon to keep her figure young and full. She cooked wild, off-the-wall creations that took half-a-day. It made Edgar happy, all of it.
And she constantly marvelled over their marital bliss. Over her personal happiness. Over how content and satisfied she felt. She virtually glowed with joy.
And each morning, as she awoke, listened to the shower, fell back asleep, awoke again to Edgar's touching good-bye kiss, then lingered in bed, she prayed for it to continue. I'm so happy, she prayed. Don't let it end.
Then she would feel the rush of warmth and she would smile broadly, knowing it couldn't end. She and Edgar had so much love between them, so much caring. Nothing could happen to that.
When she had lingered in bed long enough, she yawned and stretched luxuriously, then sat up. She took a few deep breaths of the crisp morning air that filled the room, then flung the covers away.
She stood, then lay on the floor doing leg-lifts to keep her thighs from getting fat, sit-ups for her smooth, flat belly, and a variety of other exercises designed to keep her trim. Then she rose and looked at herself in the mirror.
This, too, was part of the routine. It was important for her to believe she was beautiful, and desirable. The need had grown out of her insecurity as a child, but in truth there was no need for it. She was, by any standards, a desirable and voluptuous woman.
Still, she examined herself, under careful scrutiny. She was not tall-not over five-foot, three-inches, in her bare feet-but she was well proportioned. Her breasts were swollen' pillows of soft flesh that jutted seductively from her chest, firm and supple and as white as a drifting cloud. Her nipples were a delicate shade of pink, that seemed to blend slowly and harmoniously in with the stark white color of her breasts. The nipples were suspended, it seemed, in the sea of her breasts, pointing upward even when they were flaccid from their station on the equator of her sensuous globes.
The dark line of her cleavage pointed upward to her tanned, creamy throat, around which hung the long curls of her flaming red hair. Unlike most redheads, Margaret's hair was thick and rich, and seemed to exist on some sort of internally generated energy-it glowed and shimmered and radiated. "Like lava," Edgar once told her. "Hot and exciting."
Her belly was flat and smooth, the result of her exercises. Her waist was narrow, almost narrow enough to hold two hands around it, all fingers touching-but not quite. Her hips flared out subtly, rounding out her firm buttocks but keeping her from that plump Mediterranean look most short women have. Her legs, despite her short stature, were long-looking, and sculptured with delicacy and care. Her thighs were, if anything, too thin, but only by a shade. A hint of daylight could be seen between them, through the gap just beneath her vagina.
In fact, had she not decided years ago to keep her pussy shaved, the light would have softened against the curls of her pubic patch, which on most women was pressed between thighs that met and pressed together.
Margaret liked her thighs that way; so did Edgar. As for her decision to keep her pussy shaved slick and clean, that had been the result of practical thinking. She remembered the first time she had gone to bed with Edgar, and he had remarked, happily surprised, on her shaved vulva.
But, she had told him, she hadn't done it for men's pleasure. "Redheads have different problems," she explained. While the pubic curls were, indeed, radiant red, they had also been stiff and wiry. "It's just more comfortable without it," she told him.
One of their sexual treats together, since marrying, had been the weekly hour in the bathtub, during which Edgar shaved the nub-like growths of hair from her pussy. It excited both of them tremendously, and always led to several hours of impassioned sex.
Satisfied with her appearance (and noting with some smugness that she had worked up quite a sweat during her exercises), she showered and dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. First thing on the agenda was cleaning the bedroom. She took care of that in short order, then went into the main part of the house, flipping the stereo on as she went.
She brewed some coffee and stood over the kitchen sink as she waited for it to percolate, gazing dreamily out of the window. Edgar kept their yard immaculate, and it reminded her of spring in a fairy tale. Butterflies flitted over their flowerbed, and a hummingbird hovered near the feeder she had put out last fall.
The house next door was not as well manicured, but fit in with the rest of the suburban neighborhood. Quiet, homey. The house needed a fresh coat of paint, and the lawn needed mowing, but it was not unattractive. As Margaret drank in the early morning rapture of the neighborhood, a small pickup truck parked in front of the next-door house, and a teenage boy piled out. He lifted a box filled with bagged groceries out of the truck bed, and, hefting them with his muscular arms, carried the box up the cement path to the neighbor's door.
Margaret focused her attention on the front porch. The grocery boy balanced the box of food on his lifted knee and one hand, using the other hand to knock. Once he had knocked, he held the box again with both hands.
After a minute, the door opened and Mrs. Thorpe poked her head out. She was fortyish, with long silver-blonde hair that looked sexiest when she just got out of bed, as she had obviously just done. She was tall and leggy, with small breasts that strained against the tight, silvery gowns she wore. The gowns were always open down to her navel, pulling her breasts apart so that the shape of each of her compact mounds was discernable against the clingy fabric of her gowns. Her nipples, which seemed to always be erect, poked against the gowns.
Margaret shook her head as Mrs. Thorpe invited the boy inside. Margaret had seen this scene before, but was always intrigued. Mrs. Thorpe had left the curtains to her living room open, as well as the curtains to her kitchen. She seemed to invite voyeurism, as though it excited her. Margaret wondered if Mrs. Thorpe knew she watched her.
She led the grocery boy through the living room into the kitchen. Margaret was shocked by the gown Mrs. Thorpe was wearing this particular morning.
As the sun shone through it, the curves and contours of her body were clearly visible, including the slight puff of hair between her legs, and the color distinction between her nipples and her breasts. Margaret unconsciously covered her own breasts with her arms as she watched, unable to tear herself away.
The grocery boy, who looked as though he played football for the high school team when he wasn't delivering groceries, lay the box on Mrs. Thorpe's kitchen table, then turned to face her, expecting a tip and to then be on his way.
But Mrs. Thorpe leaned seductively against the kitchen sink, her long legs thrust out from the silvery gown, one hand clutching the sink, the other tracing a sensuous line down her long, exposed cleavage.
Mrs. Thorpe chatted, her eyes moving up and down the supple, young body of the delivery boy. Margaret swallowed, feeling the lump move slowly down her throat, as she watched the predictable reaction of the delivery boy. He was getting nervous, antsy, looking this way and that, anything to keep his eyes off her body, which was where they always seemed to dart back.
Then, casually, Mrs. Thorpe let her finger drift to her belt, which hung just above her pelvis, and tugged at it. The belt fell apart, and her gown drifted open. The compact, blonde mound of pubic fur billowed out at the delivery boy, and her breasts hung loose and soft against her ribs. She put both hands back against the sink for support, her buttocks pressed against the sink edge and still cloaked by the gown. She spread her legs, her feet firmly on the floor. She licked her lips, and said something.
The boy looked around frantically, but there was no denying the lump that had formed in his pants, and now bulged hugely in his crotch. Mrs. Thorpe beckoned him forth. He refused, gallantly, but she looked at him sternly, an older woman issuing a command to a young boy. He stepped forward, then stopped. She beckoned him again; he took another step. He was now standing between her long, parted legs. She supported herself against the sink solely with her cheeky buttocks, using her hands now to undo the boys trousers. His broad chest was heaving from excitement.
Mrs. Thorpe, before she reached inside the boy's pants, slid her hand beneath the bulge of his grandly erect cock, and held it. She asked him something. With his eyes closed and his lips quivering, slightly parted, he nodded.
She jiggled his pants down to his knees, then yanked his underwear down to the same level. His shaft was huge and stiff, dancing madly in front of him, the crown spongy and saturated with blood which made it seem to glow red.
Mrs. Thorpe, whose husband left for work each morning promptly at 5:30 a.m., let her fingers glide lightly over the throbbing shaft of penis-meat, then slid them behind where she grasped the muscular cheeks of his buttocks. Her nails pressed into his ass flesh, urging him toward her.
He needed no urging, though. He approached her willingly as she pulled him, more or less guiding him toward her. As the crown of his cock neared the fluffy mound of her cuntal growth, she pulled her thighs apart further, and opened the slit of her pussy, exposing the moisture-coated pink membranes that protected-the tunnel leading deep into her vagina.
The boy thrust suddenly, and the sizzling petal-like lips of Mrs. Thorpe's cunt seemed to jump out just a little, and close around the head of the boy's cock as if they were lips of a mouth about to give head to a penis. The same way, the lips seemed to suck the cock inward, a little at a time, until the vein-lined shaft had disappeared inside Mrs. Thorpe's vagina. The boy's pitch-black, wiry curls of pubic hair mingled with the soft, cloud-like growth of Mrs. Thorpe's pussy. His fuzz-coated testicles dangled just beneath the interwoven tufts of pubic hair.
Then, suddenly, he withdrew, and the thick shaft was covered with a thick moisture. Only the crown of his penis remained hidden behind her sucking pussy lips, and then he plunged in again.
Mrs. Thorpe's head was tilted back, her eyes almost entirely closed, only a glint of her eyes showing through the slits of her lids. Her lips were parted, her expression passive. Her hands clenched the boy's ass, pulling him into her when he thrust. The boy's hands fumbled and fondled at her breasts, each a perfect handful.
After they had humped and writhed against each other, against the kitchen sink, for several minutes, a flicker of emotion washed over Mrs. Thorpe's face. Her eyes scrunched shut, and her tongue-tip licked excitedly at her lips. She tightened her grasp on the boy's buttocks, letting one finger nudge erotically against the tightly-closed hole of his anus.
As he felt her touch there, he trust into her suddenly with intensified savagery, and Mrs. Thorpe's eyes sprung open, vacant, filled with the visions of orgasm. The muscles in her arms and legs knotted as she began to quiver, slowly at first, then more and more until she was quaking. Then, without warning, she lurched, her body contorting as her pussy climaxed.
As she relaxed, the boy continued humping madly against her. Her hands had fallen lax to her side, but his ass continued to rise and fall with increasing tempo between her parted thighs. She whispered something in his ear, something erotic, Margaret was certain, to hurry him up. She imagined what it might be-something like, "God, your cock is so huge inside me. Fill me with your cum, baby, spurt it all over me." Whatever it was she said, it worked, for the boy groaned (Margaret could see the groan, but not hear it), twisted, and came. His climax was so complete that his cock slipped out of the bond of Mrs. Thorpe's cunt, and his jet-spray of hot, white cream splattered over her small breasts and her smooth belly. Mrs. Thorpe looked happily and superiorly at the boy, then, for his pleasure (Margaret guessed), she rubbed his hot, viscous cream into her flesh as though it was body lotion. Then, with her gown hanging open, she walked across the room to the table on which her purse lay, opened it, and took out a few bills. She handed them to the boy, who sagged against the sink, his limp cock glistening from a combination of their two fluids.
He fumbled himself back into his pants, hesitantly took the money, and all but ran from the house. Mrs. Thorpe disappeared into one of the rear rooms, probably to clean herself.
With the scene over, Margaret shook her head and discovered the coffee was percolating angrily, and had been for some time. She was ashamed to find the scene had, like always, excited the hell out of her. Her cunt was stimulated, her juices churning, her clitoris pulsating mildly with arousal. She poured her coffee and sipped at it, and considered going back to the bathroom, running a bath, and fingering herself to a slow, relaxed orgasm while replaying the scene with Mrs. Thorpe in her mind. She had plenty of time.
But, looking out the window, she saw something that disrupted her routine. Edgar, in his car, was pulling into their driveway. Margaret, with a worried crease in her forehead, checked the clock on the kitchen wall. It was only 9:30 in the morning. Something was wrong.
She went to greet him at the door, knowing her routine was shattered for the day, but not knowing to how great an extent her routine would be shattered for the rest of her life.
All she knew for certain was that he had his briefcase with him, and he looked haggard. Perhaps he'd come down with something. Maybe he'd just decided to take some time off, and she wouldn't have to use her mouth-dampened fingers to excite herself-she could take advantage of the presence of his stiff, lovely penis.
She pulled the door open, and he stepped inside. He dropped the briefcase lazily beside him; it fell to its side with a smack.
"Darling, what's wrong?" she said, reading the look in his eyes.
He swallowed hard, then pulled her close and held her, as though she offered protection he could get nowhere else.
"Oh, Jesus," he muttered. "What are we going to do?"
She backed away and looked deeply at him. "Edgar, what is it?"
He girded himself, stiffening, then said it: "I've been fired."
CHAPTER TWO
Margaret sat deep in the plush living room chair she had bought for her husband last Christmas. She felt like she was sunk deep into a cloud, drifting lazily across a picturesque landscape, perhaps in old England. Her fingers and toes were numb, and she was vaguely aware of her heart thudding like a drumstick against her chest.
Edgar leaned against the opposite wall of the living room, his third martini in his hand. He had pulled the tie off, shed the coat, and now looked haggard as a country doctor during a hurricane. As Margaret sat, her feet tucked in beneath her, Edgar had kept murmuring, "Oh, God. Oh, sweet Jesus, what am I going to do? Oh, God...."
Margaret studied the walls, the ceiling, what little activity was going on outside. She waited for her husband to get a grip on himself. When it seemed he never would, she finally spoke. "Why, Edgar? Why did they fire you?"
He shrugged, the motion an exaggeration. "The Menninger account. We lost it."
"I thought advertising agencies lost accounts every day. That it was part of the game."
"It is, it is, but the Menninger account was worth ten million dollars. Jesus."
"Was it your fault? That you lost the account, I mean."
"No. Somebody fucked up a presentation while we were on our vacation last month. But it's my account, so I'm held responsible. And now I'm out of work. With house payments and car payments, and ... oh, Jesus."
"You're a talented advertising man," Margaret said, rising and walking toward him to comfort him. He let her slip her arms around him and draw him close, her soft breasts pressing like two fleshy balloons into his chest. "You'll get another job, right away. We'll work on your portfolio tonight."
He pushed her away, gently, not wanting her to think he was mad at her. "You don't understand," he said. "It was a ten million dollar account. Every ad agency in the country is going to hear about it, is going to hear about how I fucked up. Nobody would hire me on a five-dollar bet."
Again, Margaret felt her digits numbing, from fear of poverty, from fear of the unknown future. "Surely, somebody...."
Edgar spun on his wife viciously. "Nobody," he bellowed, spilling his drink onto the expensive shag carpeting they had had installed only six months earlier. He didn't care. "In advertising, I'm washed up. Finished. I'd be lucky to get a job on a copy desk."
As though she was being physically repelled by his voice, Margaret returned to her chair and sunk back into it, cowering. Her lower lip quivered, her hands trembled. She was truly frightened. She had never had to do without before, even during her horrible childhood the only thing she had not suffered was a lack of physical comfort.
"What are we going to do?" she said.
"I don't know," Edgar told her, swallowed the last of his martini in one gulp and then began mixing a fresh one. "We'll have to sell the house, I guess."
"No!" Margaret startled herself at the sharpness of her reply. But, she knew, her house was the one thing with which she could not part. It was a part of her, as much as her lungs or her hair. She had become inexorably attached to the place, and wouldn't willingly sell it even to move into a better, more expensive home. This was home, and nothing could ever replace it.
Edgar grimaced at her, clearly not enjoying having to explain reality to his home-bound wife. "We don't have a choice," he said. "Even when I start collecting unemployment in six weeks or so, it won't be enough to cover the house payment. It'll barely be enough for food."
"I'll go to work," Margaret said quickly.
Edgar started to say something, then stopped suddenly, like a motion picture frame once it's been frozen. He stood at a cockeyed angle, as though interrupted in the midst of a sentence, his almost-full drink tipped dangerously to one side.
His eyes held a mixture of two unrelated emotions; an uneasy mixture at best. Margaret, naive and innocent in the thoughts that can go through one's mind, did not see the combination-only the excited affect. But to a more tuned-in observer, the emotions on his face were clear: joy and deceit. Something was cooking in Edgar's mind.
Still, he said the first thing that had come into his mind. "You, work? And do what? What do you know how to do?"
That was enough to make Margaret sit up sharply, enough to bring fire to her dark green eyes. "I can type. I can take shorthand. I had all those classes back in school."
"School was over six years ago. You remember that stuff?"
"Like riding a bike," she said smugly. "You never forget."
"So you could get a secretary's job. That would make me ineligible for unemployment compensation, and you'd be making less than the fucking government would pay me."
"I can sketch. And I'm good with numbers. I've kept this household running well enough, haven't I? Why couldn't I do filing, bookwork, secretarial work? I'll bet I could make good money. And what's all this talk about unemployment? Don't you plan on going out and looking for a job?"
"Of course I do," Edgar said, smiling insincerely. "You know, Maggie, I'll bet you're right. I'll bet you could go out there and get a helluva job. It'd be tough; you haven't worked since you waited tables in college."
"I can do it," she said. "Besides, we don't have much of a choice, do we?"
Edgar looked sadly down at the carpet, where he'd spilled his drink. He didn't see the stain setting in.
While he changed his clothes and showered the despair off his body, Margaret scanned the want ads from that morning's newspaper, a red felt-tip pen clenched tightly in her hand. When she saw a job that looked promising or appealing, she circled it. When she had finished, over fifteen jobs had bold red circles around them.
By the time Edgar came back from cleaning himself up, he looked presentable and more like his old self. Margaret tucked her job possibilities away, and helped him assemble his portfolio, which boasted his accomplishments in the advertising industry over the last five years, including the early work on the Menninger account, which had been highly praised.
It was well after midnight when, portfolio completed and looking impressive, they went to bed. Edgar lay beside her, breathing steadily but heavily, his eyes open, wet, and gazing hauntingly at the dark ceiling. His hands were folded across his bare chest. Through the darkness, Margaret glanced down at his loins, which lay limp and useless against his pelvic region.
His eyes grew more moist. Margaret thought he might be about to cry.
She wanted, more than anything at the moment, to bundle him into her arms and comfort him. She put an arm over his belly, and he unclasped his hands and lay one of them over hers, accepting her comfort.
In a few minutes, she felt the flesh of his belly twitch slightly beneath her warm hand. She hazarded another glance at his cock. It was by no means excited, but it was not as rag-limp as it had been before. There was a touch of body, of fullness to it.
As she looked, Edgar pushed her hand gently toward his penis. She let him, anxious to do something to soothe his nerves, calm his anxieties. Her smooth, soft hand touched the bristly curls of Edgar's dark patch of pubic hair, then felt the soft tube of his cock. His hand let her go, and she wrapped her fingers, long and delicate, around the width of his penis, and began squeezing ever so gently.
In the palm of her hand, she felt the pulse of his heart beating in his cock. Each dull thud of his pulse sent a shiver of hardness through the length of his penis, stiffening it, readying it, making it useful and alive.
When she had been squeezing for a few minutes, whispering warm moist air without real words into his ear (her tongue flitting lightly in his ear, brushing against the warm breath she was blowing into him), she found his cock had swollen to a throbbing erection.
She looked at him. His eyes were closed, squeezed tightly shut, his lips slightly parted and moving, as though he was whispering.
He had always done that, and she had always wondered about it. She had, in the early years of their marriage, questioned him about it, but he had shyly said he wasn't even aware of it; it must be something he does in pure physical response to the stimulation of her hands, her fine, firm breasts, her supple, slick pussy.
It was a lie. He knew what he was doing, and wouldn't if he could avoid it. He was begging. He was muttering words without sounds coming out, without the words themselves even being formed on his lips. He was begging for his wife to kiss his chest, curl her lips briefly around his nipple and suck gently before tongue-bathing his midriff, his belly, then sending her wet, soft tongue down to his cock to lick at it like a lollipop, long, luxuriant strokes with her warmth and moisture before closing her mouth over the head of his cock. Go down on me, he was begging. Take my meaty shaft in your mouth and suck it until I come, filling your mouth with my hot semen. Swallow it down while your fingers toy with my testicles; feel its salty stickiness glide down your throat and lay warm in your stomach. Suck me, Margaret, suck my cock.
But Margaret had an aversion to giving head; she always had. They had tried once, with a sexual therapist, to trace her loathing of oral sex, but they could find no roots. She simply didn't like having a cock in her mouth (although she didn't mind Edgar's hungry mouth latched to her smooth cunt, his head like some obscene growth between her twitching, spread thighs).
She watched his lips tremble as she closed her fist tightly around the base of his pulsating erection. She pulled her fist upward, feeling his thick, stiff cock glide through her fist, until she felt herself holding only the rubbery crown of his penis. It was hot, almost too hot to hold, and she pushed her fist back down his shaft, until it was nestled again in the nest of wiry pubic hair. "Dry," he moaned.
She removed her hand and licked the palm, until her saliva made a coating of moisture there. She returned it to his thickness, wrapped it around his cock and began stroking him again, the wetness in her palm acting to eliminate the dry friction that had been hurting him.
His cock glided easily through her clenched fist now, and she began jerking him faster, harder. His cock grew thicker in her hand; she could tell by how wide her fingers were spread over the thin, flimsy layer of flesh that was wrapped around his rod-like erection.
"My balls," he groaned, instructing her. "Do ... balls."
She let her other hand glide beneath his dangling, fuzz-coated testicles. They churned as though by a life of their own, twisting and curling and turning in her hand. Her fingertips danced over the withered flesh that held his balls, and he groaned without words, relishing the pleasure she was giving him.
Wide-eyed, as she still was when engaged in sex, she watched his meaty rigidness appear and vanish in her fist, felt it throb and quiver in its bone-hard state. She watched it, and thought of the grocery boy whose spear had penetrated the often-used pussy of her neighbor, Mrs. Thorpe. She enjoyed sex so much; Margaret was often upset that she wasn't able to put as much energy and enthusiasm into her sexual bouts as was Mrs. Thorpe. Perhaps, she thought, suppressing a giggle, she should take lessons from the older woman.
She thought about it, watching the purple head of Edgar's cock grow thicker, ready to explode with his jet of sloshing male cum. She pictured Mrs. Thorpe's hands wrapped around the boy's taut buttocks, urging his manliness inside of her deeper, harder. He had been in agony until he had climaxed, and then he had been in a heaven more complete than any a person might go to after death. The climax was like death, and going to heaven. Why couldn't Margaret do that for her husband?
Picturing the scene, she felt a slight chafing between the rosy lips of her naked cunt. It happened whenever she was excited; she would leak small quantities of her heady female lubricant. With no mound of downy pubic curls to catch the fluid, it dried against her vulva, and her fissure chafed and itched, like an enticement to sex. Her tiny clitoris had awakened, and was nudging her with palpitations of pleasure that swept through her body. A voice back in the far reaches of her mind told her to take his cock inside of her, squeeze it tightly with her cuntal walls, make him scream as he gushed his white cum inside of her.
I've been massaging his cock too long, she told the voice. He'd reach his climax right away.
So? the voice said. Give him the pleasure. It's your duty, as his wife. He's so anguished, so unhappy. Give him the most pleasure you can. Give him what you have to give him.
Yes, she thought, smiling imperceptibly. I will.
As she continued jerking his stone-hard member, she lifted a sculptured, long leg over his pelvis and straddled him. The spongy head of his thickness hovered no more than three inches from her dripping pussy, which was slick and lewdly open, her sizzling cleft pried apart by the simple opening of her legs'. The pink tissue that lined the shaft of her cunt, leading into the depths of her vagina, peeked out, enticing the cock that was so near.
She fell on him, her hand that had been masturbating his thickness suddenly clutching it to hold it steady. Her moist, slick cuntal lips spread farther as the cock of her husband prodded at it, then his cock slid easily into her tunnel and filled her aching cavity. The action took but a split second-one moment he was still thinking he would come from her hand-work, the next she was seated flush against his hips, his rigidness stuffed completely inside her tight little hairless hole.
She settled her flat palms on his firm, muscular chest and rose off him, feeling each inch of his impaling thickness withdraw from her. Then she fell on him again, taking all of him back inside. "Fill me," she whispered, "fill me with your sweet, sweet semen."
Edgar groaned, more deeply and throatily. The sound of it was anguished; he was desperate to come, he was aching for it, but his orgasm was mounting slowly, taking its own time. Nobody could ever accuse Edgar of being too quick. The amount of time it took him to reach a climax could give a woman a great deal of pleasure. Margaret supposed it could give her pleasure, too, if she could learn to be less inhibited, and enjoy sex a bit more.
In his anxiety, Edgar reached up and roughly kneaded Margaret's bilious breasts, pushing them up to her chin and painfully pinching her firm, erect nipples. When he felt the burning in his cock more acutely, he let her breasts jiggle back into place and cupped her cheeky buttocks in his hands, kneading her buns like so much fine, firm dough. When he knew his climax was seconds away, he slid his pinky finger between the crack of her ass, fingered the button of her asshole briefly, then thrust his finger deep into her rectum.
Margaret shuddered, and closed her fists against his chest, digging her nails lightly into his flesh. She didn't care for anal sex, either, but she could stand it a lot better than she could a male member quivering and wriggling about in her mouth. And Edgar's little concession to her was that he used his pinky finger, rather than his longer, thicker index finger.
He exploded, arching his back, turning his pinky in the tight tunnel of her anus, his cock-head opening and unleashing its spray of hot cum into her. She writhed against him, holding herself tightly to him, squeezing each second of ecstasy out of his cock. She wanted him to feel good.
"G ... G ... God," he muttered, his eyes wide open now, watching her face which was loose and relaxed and filled with erotic expression. She loved the sensation of his ejaculation spurting into her, so warm and intimate. She wished it would make her come.
Finally, he relaxed, breathing in heavy pants, and she rolled off him, lay beside her. "Did you come?" he asked. "It's all right."
He wriggled a finger in her wet crevice, hooked it over her pebble-sized clitoris, and began to vibrate. He whispered lewd words in her ear, "Think of two cocks," he said, "One in your pussy, one up your sweet, tight ass. They're both fucking you harder than you knew you could be fucked. You love it, don't you?"
"Yesss," she hissed, although she was fairly certain she wouldn't.
"They're kissing you, sucking your nipples, fingering your butt and your mouth. One comes, then the other, shooting his cum all over your rectum."
She shivered and came, a simple stiffening of her limbs and a brief quaking of her body. The orgasm had been induced by his finger, without the aid of his words. She never told him that, though. She didn't want to disappoint him.
He took his finger from her pussy and sucked it clean. He had always loved the bitter taste of her juice. When he finished, he held her until she fell asleep.
Tomorrow, he thought, everything would be better. Tomorrow Margaret would begin looking for a job and, he supposed, so would he. It would be a worthwhile experience. She, his wife, would get a taste of the real world, and maybe she'd relax a bit. He knew what it was like out there. He imagined several potential employers would make passes at her. It excited him to think she might eventually accept one, and take a cock besides his own up her sweet, slick pussy. Maybe her boss would make her come into his office and get on her knees between his spread legs and suck him off. Maybe, oh, God please maybe, she would learn to give head, and give it to him.
He missed a warm female mouth over his cock. It had been since college that he had felt it. Often, he had considered spending a few hours with a whore, just so he could relive the wonderful experience of exploding in a woman's mouth. But he was a loyal husband, and it was out of the question.
So maybe now, because he'd been fired (because of somebody else's stupid mistake while he was on a fercrissake vacation), she would learn to take his meat in her mouth and like it, swallow it all down, and love it.
He fell asleep beside her, his fresh erection throbbing as her moisture from their recent intercourse dried on his stiff, throbbing member.
CHAPTER THREE
The name of the first company Margaret had circled sounded innocuous: Hammond Stationers. The ad indicated Hammond Stationers was looking for a clerk, which was equally innocuous. The ad mentioned some light typing, filing, answering the phones. It sounded to Margaret like clerk was the same as receptionist.
She wondered how much it paid.
As she stood outside Hammond Stationers' low, squat, gray building, thoughts of job duties and pay scales evaporated and she thought only of fear and tension. The last job she had had was waiting tables at a coffee shop near her college; the father of a friend owned the place, and offered her a job. Now that she thought about it, this was literally the first time she had ever applied for work, and gone through with a formal interview.
She had called them that morning, and a smooth, silky male voice told her sure, come on down and we'll talk it over.
Margaret had put on a bright, flowery voile dress that fluttered breezily above her knees and hung loosely from her shoulders. She had slipped into a pair of nylon stockings and found a barely-noticeable run along the back of one of them, and changed into a new pair of silks. They clung more firmly to her legs, and she was pleased with the effect.
Finally, she settled a plain straw hat with a paisley band on it atop her head, adjusting it to make her look young and innocent, as she would have looked without the hat.
She was filled with confidence, and she was excited. This, she decided, was an adventure. She was not the adventurous type, else she would not have married and settled so comfortably into the housewife lifestyle. But as long as she had to go through with this, in order to keep her home, she might as well look upon it as something exciting.
Only now that she was faced with it, she was nothing more than scared. She looked at her watch, which told her it was five minutes to ten. Her appointment was for ten. She had five minutes to pace the sidewalk and try to calm her rapid heartbeat. Her rectum ached dully where Edgar had manhandled it the night before.
Or, she thought, she could just go in, be five minutes early and make a good impression. Unless they didn't like people to be early. Some people were like that, she thought; they'd rather you were punctual.
At two minutes to ten, her heart still pounding out of control, she went inside.
It wasn't, as she had expected, a stationery store. Instead, it was a wholesalers, a looming warehouse of shelves filled with reams of paper and other related supplies. A panel of thin plywood painted a gaudy green separated the reception area from the warehouse, and off to one side was a door marked PRIVATE. A tall man with receding sandy-colored hair and a sports shirt open at the collar sat in the receptionist's chair, the butt-end of a cigarette burning between his fingers. He was staring uncomprehendingly down at a stack of papers, his lips moving but no sound coming out.
Margaret cleared her throat, and the man looked up at her with startling, sparkling blue eyes.
"You're what'sername, for the job?" he said.
Margaret glanced around; she had expected to see a roomful of other applicants, but only she and this tall, blue-eyed man were there.
"Yes, Margaret Sanders," she said. "You must be Mr. Hammond."
The man laughed, a deep, resonant sound that formed somewhere deep in his belly. "Mr. Hammond retired fourteen years ago. If he isn't dead by now, he's living in a condominium in Florida. There have been three owners since he sold this dump. My name's Gale Richter."
They shook hands, and as they shook, he took her hand in both of his. She didn't notice, but he appraised her quickly, from head to toe, and the pink tip of his tongue licked at his lips, then vanished back into his mouth before she could see it.
Richter led her back to the PRIVATE-marked door, opened it, and ushered her in to what was apparently his office. It was a horrible mess, she thought, and added in her subconscious that it needed a woman's touch.
She sat in a vinyl office chair, and he seated himself behind his desk. She wondered when she'd have to fill out a job application, but none was offered. He asked her vaguely about her qualifications, background, education, family (I'm married, she said, but we've fallen on hard times and need some extra income), other tidbits of information.
As they spoke, he rose from his desk and paced, each line his feet followed bringing him closer to where she sat. Then he began pacing behind her, and she had to crane her neck backwards to see him. In ten minutes she had a stiff neck, and she stopped straining and simply listened to his feet shuffling back and forth.
Then, in the midst of one of her answers to one of his questions, he stopped, directly behind her. She sensed him close to her, but continued: "I know how to type," she was saying, "but I suppose I could use a refresher course of some kind."
Without warning, his hands reached over her shoulder and cupped her magnificent breasts. His fingers worked independently of each other, squeezing the supple flesh. She gasped, but before she could protest, he whirled the office chair around to face him.
She looked up at him, and saw clearly the wanton lust in his eyes. His face was flushed, and his breathing was irregular. And directly before her was the crotch of his pants, inches from her face, bulging from the immense erection it contained within it.
She was almost certain he was about to extract the stiff bone of cock from his pants and offer it to her, force it upon her, but he didn't. She opened her mouth, about to tell him she wasn't interested in that kind of job, but he fell to his knees before her before she could say anything. His hot mouth ground into hers. His lips parted; she kept hers tightly pressed together, but his tongue, like a wet, live lever, pried against her lips until they parted, then wriggled hungrily inside and began tasting the roof of her mouth, the teeth, her tongue.
She put her hands on his shoulders (surprised at how strong and muscular they were; not at all like Edgar's which were soft and almost girlish) and tried to push him away. She couldn't budge him. She squeezed his flesh, hoping the pain would force him off, but it seemed only to excite him, and urge him on.
Finally, he broke off his forced kiss, and she gasped for oxygen, which had been deprived her while his mouth had covered hers. "Dear God!" she said, "I can't...."
She would have finished, but he dove again, this time toward her pussy. What can he be doing? she thought, I'm wearing a dress. But he easily flipped the hem of the dress up over her panties and yanked her panties off, and began his dive toward her cunt. His hands held her firmly in the chair, despite the intense struggle she put up.
He stopped for an instant before connecting with her vagina, awed by the spectacle of a mature female pussy scraped shiny-clean of all hair. A smile crossed his face, and he went down, his tongue out of his mouth before he was more than six inches from her.
She felt, acutely, the tip of his tongue pry at the lips of her cunt the same as they had at the lips of her mouth, only her pussy lips split apart much more easily, more willingly. "Oh, God," she moaned as his tongue probed the slick slit of her cunt, roaming downward first, then up until it jutted abruptly against the taut button of her clitoris. Against her will (yes, she tried willing her clit to remain passive), her clitoris began secreting its mysterious warmth through her body, and she felt its pulse begin to beat its steady rhythm of arousal through her veins.
He did incredible things to her clitoris with his tongue, prodding at it with the hard tip and then curling the length of his tongue around it. With her pleasure pebble trapped in the curl of his serpentine mouth muscle, he began pulling his tongue back into his mouth, dragging her clitoris outside of her pussy with it. Unencumbered by a pubic vee, it was easy to do. And once her clitty was outside of the sizzling cleft, he set his teeth to work gently nibbling at it. Radiant sparks of electricity jolted along her spine and the flashes filled her head. She couldn't believe the sensations flooding her any more than she could believe that she was here, on a job interview, with her prospective boss kneeling between her legs nibbling at her splayed pussy.
"Please stop," she said, pushing at his head. He didn't stop, though. He used a hand to force her legs up over his shoulders as his fingers fluttered merrily over the moist skin that coated her vulva. He found the tunnel leading deep into her cunt, and plunged three wet fingers deep into it, and felt her writhe as the cock-width of fingers invaded her. He heard her moan, and the force of her hands against his head changed as her fingers groped at his hair and caressed his scalp.
His fingers withdrew from her pussy and slid beneath her dress up to her breasts. He felt the flimsy, lacey fabric of her brassiere, then felt the velvety flesh that spilled over the top of the undergarment. Where his fingers had been, he thrust the full length of his tongue, then withdrew it, and hastily inserted it again.
Margaret thought, fuck me with your tongue, yes, like that, oh, God, I'm going to come all over your face, I shouldn't be doing this, this is wrong, God, I can feel my buttocks quivering uncontrollably against the chair and the juices in my pussy are flowing like a river, I'm going to come hard, so hard....
She did, squeezing his head between her thighs with the pressure of a human vise. Her fingers tugged painfully at his hair and her feet lifted high into the air as she jerked and twisted in the chair. She felt his tongue so far inside her, lapping at the liquids she was gushing out. She could feel him swallowing her fluids, gulping them like a man dying of thirst. For an instant she was aware of nothing other than her cunt, which was flooded with a myriad of burning, lustful sensations. Then the orgasm was over, leaving her only with a dull, glowing feeling and a reeling head.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. She didn't know quite what she expected to see, but what she did see shocked her into full awakedness. The post-climax feelings fled her, and she lurched out of her chair.
Richter had slid out from beneath her obscenely parted legs, but she hadn't noticed; her legs were still hoisted up, still spread, her cunt still invitingly open. Leering, Richter had deliberately unzipped and unbuttoned his pants, dropped them to his knees, and pulled his cock out. It was long, the longest she had ever seen, but not very thick. Still, blue veins stood out like a map along the loose flesh, and it quivered from excitement. It was poised between her thighs, about to plunge into her slightly sore cunt.
So she jumped up. "Wh ... what do you think you're doing?"
Richter smiled, and held his cunt-hungry cock in his big hand. "I think I'm going to fuck you," he said.
"No!" she shouted. It wasn't a very lucid, erudite thing to say, she knew, but it was the only thought in her mind.
His smile dropped to a frown, with more than a hint of anger behind it. "What do you mean, no? I just spent fifteen minutes with my face to your pussy, and I gave you one helluvan orgasm. Now it's my turn."
She stuttered for a minute, then said again: "No!"
"Look, Sanders; you want this job or no?"
"I want a job, not to be a prostitute," she said.
Richter's deep blue eyes burned into her. "Look, babe, you want to work in the world, you've got to play the game."
"I won't," she said firmly, as she pulled her panties back into place and smoothed her dress down over them. "I won't spread my legs for anybody who wants me to work. I'll type, I'll file, I'll make coffee, I'll run errands, but I'm a married woman and I won't be used for irresponsible sex."
With that said, she turned proudly and wheeled out of the office.
Richter, stuffing his sagging erection back into his pants, hobbled after her. "Bitch!" he screamed. "Tease! You let me go down on you, and you liked it! You hear me, bitch? You liked it!"
She went outside, trying to blot the noise from her ears, but he followed her out the door screaming, "With a cunt like yours, you should love it! Why the fuck do you keep it shaved, bitch? You like to tease?!"
She slammed the car door closed, and his voice became muffled, but still understandable. "You're meant to ball," he was shouting. "You're meant to enjoy cock!"
She started the engine and the tires squealed against the pavement as she pulled away.
She drove hurriedly, wondering about a variety of thoughts that formed in her mind, made a deep impression, then vanished. Why had she let him lick her to orgasm? At least she had kept him from coupling with her, she had stood up for what she believed in.
The overriding, recurring thought, though, was: I still don't have a job. We're still facing financial ruin.
She was still in a state of disarray, mentally speaking, as she pulled into the driveway of the house she wanted to save. She sat in the car once she had stopped it, her hands clasping the wheel, and she stared at the house.
Last fall they had put a fresh coat of paint on it. Edgar kept the lawn mowed, the weeds pulled, the bushes and flowers in perfect bloom. The brick of the chimney was red and straight. Where would they live once the mortgage was closed on the house? What apartment could measure up to the feeling of safety and security this house offered. She thought she might cry. The feeling was compounded by the fact that her thighs felt unclean, the caked juices that had run from her vagina now flaking away. She felt empty, and more than that, she felt hopeless.
Edgar had heard her pull into the driveway, and waited for her to come through the door. When she didn't, he went to the window and looked out, saw her sitting in the driver's seat, gazing absently in his general direction. He watched her for a few minutes, then went outside. When he reached her, he leaned on the car door and looked in.
"You all right, babe?"
She nodded, distantly.
"How'd it go? You get the job?" She didn't hear it, but there was a nasty tone of anticipation in his voice.
She shook her head, slowly, from side to side.
Edgar contained his disappointment. "There will be other jobs."
Margaret, still clutching the steering wheel, looked up at him with her eyes wide and coated with a mist of tears.
"He ... he wanted to ... to...."
Edgar opened the door and helped her out. She let herself be pulled from the car, and once she was out, she flung her arms around her husband. "He tried to have sex with me," she sobbed into his shirt.
"Did you let him?"
Between the racks of crying, Edgar was able to make out that he had forced his face between his wife's legs and licked her pussy, but had been unable to force her to keep her thighs parted for his cock. It took five minutes to understand what she was trying to say.
He patted her comfortingly on the shoulder. "It's okay," he said in his best soothing voice. If she had looked into his eyes, though, she would have found no comfort. They were calculating and almost evil.
He led her into the house and settled her into her favorite chair. She sunk into it gratefully, and sighed, the sigh trembling behind the sobs.
"Margaret," he said.
She looked up at him, seeing him as a watery vision through her veil of tears.
"Listen, darling," he said, clasping his hands behind his back and pacing slowly as though he was a professor lecturing a class. "There are ... certain facts of life it's important to understand when you're in the job market."
Margaret watched him, her hands interlaced in her lap. Edgar came closer to her, and sank to his knees so he could look her directly in the eye. "You see, darling, in many instances, the only way to get a job is to go along with what the employer wants."
"I don't understand," she said, although she was afraid she did.
"It's not true that a woman can sleep her way to the top of a company. But a woman can stagnate in a company if she doesn't sleep with the boss. It doesn't mean she doesn't do good work, that she doesn't deserve to be hired or promoted. But sometimes that's still the only way to go about getting that extra push that's needed to inspire the boss to hire or promote you. Don't you see?"
She sunk deeper into her chair, desiring to be comforted by its snugness around her. She wanted to sink completely into it, and disappear. "You want me to sleep with somebody to get a job?" she said. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"If it's the only way, there's nothing wrong with it. I'm not saying you should walk into an interview and take off your clothes, but if he wants you, why not?"
"I can wait," she said, "until I find a job where they're interested in my abilities, and not my cunt."
Edgar's eyes suddenly blazed with anger. "You can wait, maybe, but we can't. If we don't make our mortgage payment, we're going to lose the house. I need you to get a job, and fast."
"I'm your wife," she said, the words strong but her voice meek. "How can you say that? How can you tell me you want me to spread my legs and let another man put his member inside me? That's not what marriage is about."
"We don't have a choice," he" said.
"Don't you care?" she marvelled. Then, suddenly, the thought occurred to her: "Or have you had other women since we've been married?"
"Never," he lied. "Only you. But if it was the only way we could keep our home, I wouldn't hesitate."
She believed he was right, because she trusted him and wouldn't believe him capable of misleading her. Still, she could not picture herself descending to the level of all those women she read about women like Mrs. Thorpe. "I ... I can't," she whimpered.
Anger welled deeper and stronger in Edgar. "Dammit, look," he shouted. He unzipped his pants and pulled his limp cock out, held it in his hand.
"This has been inside you hundreds of times, yes?"
She looked at his flaccid penis and nodded.
"Then what the hell difference does it make what other cock goes up your pussy, huh? A cock is a cock, as far as I can tell. Once you've had one, you've had one, and that's that." He put his own member away, and zipped up. "I don't want you to come home tomorrow without a job."
She stared incredulously at him. "And what about you?"
"I'm a skilled employee," he said. "It takes more time to round up a job in a professional field. That," he said, "is why I'm counting on you."
With that, he turned and retreated to the bedroom. Earlier, he had spent half an hour spying on Mrs. Thorpe through the kitchen window. She had been traipsing about her house in a sheer, thigh-length nightie, and he had desired her, but hadn't the nerve to go next door and proposition her.
And now, with the prospect of his wife being balled by another man, he found he was exceptionally horny. His mind ran through dozens of scenes, men humping between Margaret's pried legs, men eating her pussy, men in ecstasy as she sucked their cocks (except he knew she wouldn't do that), even two men, one with his erect shaft inserted deep in her pussy, and the other with his cock plunged far up her ass.
Indeed, he thought, there is nothing wrong with fucking the boss to get a job.
And they did need the money.
CHAPTER FOUR
Margaret had to admit, Brooks Furniture Distributors appeared to be a much higher-class operation than the stationers had been. The building was newer, in a better part of town. She hoped, prayed, that whoever was to interview her would be a professional, and would be interested primarily in her abilities, and not in her biological talent for opening her bare, shiny, cuntal lips.
This time, though, she did not hesitate outside, despite the fact that she was fifteen minutes early. She would, she decided, plunge right in and get it over with, one way or the other. If the boss did, in fact, want her to stimulate him to an orgasm, she would. She would, she knew, because her husband had told her to, and it is the duty of a wife to obey her husband. Such had been the vow she had taken at their wedding.
Holding her head up high, she went inside, her high heels clicking on the tile floor.
The reception area was clean, sparkling clean as though it had just been gone over by an industrial cleaning team. It might have been the reception area for a large oil company, instead of a small furniture wholesaler. Already, Margaret was impressed.
Until she noted that nobody sat at the receptionist's desk. And the phone was ringing. Margaret leaned over the desk, and saw three lights blinking, three calls trying to get through. She bit her lower lip, and picked up the phone, pushed down the first button, said, "Brooks Furniture Distributors, hold please." Then she put the caller on hold, did the same for the second call, then the third. When she had answered all three calls, she went back to the first and began taking down a message, wondering as she did where the receptionist was. True, it was a receptionist's job she was here for, but that didn't mean they would have nobody handling the phones.
Shadows moved beneath the door marked PRIVATE, the lettering similar to the PRIVATE door at her last job interview. Seeing it made her a little queasy, but she kept taking messages, easing herself into the receptionist's chair. She might like it here, she decided.
Beyond the PRIVATE door sat Emil Brooks, owner of the outlet, son of the founder. He sat in the plush leather chair, behind his antique oak desk, his custom-tailored trousers bunched up around his ankles. His hands were handcuffed together behind the chair, and his head was thrown back in ecstasy.
Brooks' sister Gina had come in to the office when Emil had called, crying desperately for somebody to watch the phones. But it hadn't taken an hour before they had fallen into their old trap. Emil and Gina had been raised in a restrictive home, each forbidden the usual social life afforded a teenager. They had discovered sex behind the locked bedroom and bathroom doors of their home. Since their parents locked them in the house when they went out, they learned to derive pleasure only from each other.
And because their minds were so used to the idea of being locked in, restrained from freedom of movement, it didn't take long before their sex began to include bondage. Somehow, it never seemed unnatural to the two of them, either to make love to one another, or to do it while locked or tied or chained.
Chained as Emil was now, unable to free himself from his chair, unable to intertwine his fingers in his sister's short-cropped black hair as her head hovered over his loins, her pink-tipped tongue flicking out like a snake's at the blood-gorged crown of Emil's thick, dark cock.
They had lost track of the time. Emil knew he had an interview at nine, and already it was a quarter past. But his sister had been slow and had languished over his cock, until now the semen was boiling angrily in the sacks of his testicles, screaming to be freed from their prison in a wild, ecstatic burst of male ejaculation.
Gina wouldn't let it happen. The longer she tortured her brother, the longer she kept him from exploding, the greater his pleasure would be when he finally was permitted to come. Using her deft fingers, she had just finished stroking his long, stiff meat, and she had watched as the pinhole in the crown of his penis had opened in preparation for his orgasm.
But Gina had circled his cock with her finger and thumb at the base of the long, thick shaft, and squeezed. She squeezed tightly, knowing that her brother loved the pain.
Emil gritted his teeth and clenched his fingers together behind his back. The flow of white-hot semen was stemmed, and his quivering cock stopped burning, and returned to the throbbing it had been engaged in before his climax had peaked. The orgasm subsided now back into his fuzz-coated, dangling orbs of balls, and he sighed as his sister bent down and began licking at the rubbery, spongy head of his cock.
She planted the flat of her tongue over the crown and licked at it as though it was the top of an ice cream cone that she had to lick away before it melted. She licked hungrily as she held his staff steady by its base, tasting the salty drop of seminal fluid that had been formed over the pinhole while it had been briefly open. After the crown of his rigidness had been thoroughly coated by her warm saliva, she closed her lips over his head and began to nibble and suck gently.
"In your mouth," he gasped. She nodded subtly as she continued to work on his cock, her hand beginning now to slide slowly up and down the length of his shaft. "Swallow it," he whispered, and she nodded again. She hadn't decided yet if she would let him come this time, but it would increase the tension and pleasure if she let him believe she would.
The pulsating blood vessels that lined his organ beat harder, and she felt his member thicken as his excitement grew. Her tongue licked hard at the ridge behind the head of his cock, and her cheeks pulled inward as she sucked harder, using suction to pull the steamy cream from within his long penis. Then, without warning, she dove on him, pulling her hand away from his cock-base and letting her moist lips slide all the way down until they felt the bristly curls of his pubic patch. The spongy head of his cock prodded urgently against the back of her throat. She sucked, working her lips over the slightly loose layer of flesh that was wrapped around his bone-like erection, then pulled her head away, stopping when her teeth caught at the ridge of his crown again.
Then she dove down on his penis once more, this time swallowing the top of the rod deep into her throat. Her hand slid beneath his balls, which writhed from the sexual attention they were receiving. She squeezed them gently, loving the feel of them as they moved like living things in her palm. She pulled her head away, stopping with half his cock still trapped between her tightly-pursed lips, and nibbled some more.
"JESUS!" Emil roared, and his buttocks clenched, lifting him a few inches off his seat. Gina squeezed his shaft by the base, though, so hard it brought tears to her brother's face, and then pulled her mouth away. Her jaws remained unhinged, her mouth open, a few inches from the trembling rod of his desperate, horny cock.
She relaxed her grip on his erection, and stroked it once, twice, over the slick surface her warm saliva had created. The hole at the head of his penis opened, and she watched the geyser of hot cum spray forth. She opened her mouth wider and the jet of semen filled her mouth with its sloshing, viscous saltiness.
Emil finally relaxed, sinking back into his chair and sighing heavily. Gina, with her mouth full of his cum, realized he was finished, and swallowed the stuff. It glided gracefully, slickly down her throat, and she closed her eyes as she tasted it going down. When she had swallowed all of it, she gently held his softening cock and bent down to it, licking it clean of the coating of cum that peaked it like snow on a tall mountaintop.
"Unlock me," Emil said.
Gina found the tiny key to the handcuffs on her brother's desk where she left them, and used them to release her brother from his bonds. He rubbed his wrists, which were white where the circulation had been cut off. He stood then, and adjusted his pants, smoothing them out.
Gina moved close to him, put her hands on his head and urged his face to her ample, supple bosom. "Now me," she whispered.
"Yes," Emil groaned, his fingers creeping around to her cheeky buttocks, prying them apart. He longed to worm his tongue deep into her anal passage while his fingers roamed her cuntal interior. He wondered how he would tie her, what pain he would inflict. She loved the same things he did, and he knew how to please her as much as she knew how to squeeze the most out of his orgasms.
His tongue fluttered between the top half of her globular breasts, licking at the salty-tasting sweat that had beaded up in her dark, deep cleavage. He hungered for her nipples, which he knew were already stiff and pointed, anxiously awaiting the pressure of his dry lips, the erotic dancing of his serpentine tongue-tip.
As he worked his tongue down toward those nipples for which he so wantonly hungered, his eyes alighted on his desk phone. Three lines were lit; one shone continuously, the other two blinked on hold. How could that be? He had turned off the sound of the ringing in his office so he and Gina could remain undisturbed, and there was nobody out in the outer office. He glanced at the digital clock on his desk, and saw the time.
"Good God," he said, and pushed his sister away.
"What is it?" she wondered. Her breath was coming in fast rasps as her excitement had been mounting. Her pussy, coated with a thin layer of golden, silky fleece, had already begun secreting its secret, heady juices, and her buttocks muscles were taut in anticipation of the finger she knew would invade the rubbery grip rectum that was secreted between her cheeks. She had even been hoping her brother would regain his virility soon after his ejaculation into her awaiting mouth, and would be able to urge his fresh erection into her asshole while she fingered her own pussy to a writhing orgasm.
Perhaps, she had even hoped, he would be able to cum again. It feels so wonderful, she thought, to have my hot bowels flooded with his gushing cream.
"It's after nine, I have an interview," Emil said. "I think she's outside now."
"How do you know?" Gina said, frustrated but buttoning her blouse anyway.
"The phone!" Emil said, pointing excitedly. "She's already working, by God!"
Gina sighed, pushing her desires back down inside her. She would be satisfied later. She walked sexily to the door, and opened it.
Outside, she saw first the shock of Margaret's long, red hair, then Margaret's hand, holding a pen and scribbling furiously on a pad of paper. "Yes, Mrs. Harris, I'll be sure he gets the message," she was saying into the phone. "Thank you."
Gina cleared her throat, but Margaret held up a finger, indicating she should wait a minute, then took another call she had put on hold. "Yes?" she said. She jotted down a quick number, and said, "Yes, he'll get back to you as soon as he can." She hung up, and looked gratefully down at the phone. All the lines were dark. She turned to face Gina.
"You didn't have to do all that work," Gina said, studying Margaret's soft, chiseled face.
"The phones were going crazy," she said, laughing a little to cover her nervousness. "Somebody had to answer them."
"We're most grateful." Gina let her eyes drift down Margaret's graceful body, lingering on the smooth, soft flesh of her knees and her lower legs. Gina had to shake her head; she had never had an interest in another woman before. Indeed, she had found it difficult enough to enjoy sex with other men. She and Emil had spent too much of their locked-away time in erotic acts together, and nobody knew her the way Emil did.
It must be that I'm horny and unsatisfied after sucking Emil's cock, she thought. I'm used to having my own orgasms immediately afterward, and because this woman is here my pleasure was denied me. Be patient, and you'll have your climax, she thought.
"You must be Margaret Sanders," Gina said.
Margaret stood and offered her hand. Gina took it, and felt it warm and dry in hers. She shuddered imperceptibly. "I'm Gina Brooks. My brother, Emil, is waiting for you. I'm just watching the phones until he's able to hire somebody."
"There were an awful lot of calls," Margaret said.
"I was ... taking dictation," Gina said, clearing her throat. "Emil had accidentally turned the phone off in his office, and we were both unaware it was ringing."
Margaret smiled innocently, and Gina wondered why she was so nervous. There was no way this woman could even guess what had gone on between she and her brother.
"This way, please," Gina said, leading Margaret into Emil's office. As Gina backed away to close the door, she found her eyes settling on the job applicant's firm, round buttocks, which were displayed plainly and seductively through the clinging fabric of her dress. The woman's legs were long and tapered, and her red hair shimmered down her back. Gina felt a familiar twinge deep within her pussy, but quieted it, rationalizing once again that it was her frustration over having to wait for Emil's cock that was making her think of sex with the first human she saw-in this case, a woman of all things!
Gina sat behind the desk, and answered the phone when it rang. Calm down, she told herself, but her clitoris throbbed with excitement anyway. Her mind could not dispel the image of the redhead.
Except for his ruffled, thinning hair, Emil Brooks looked to Margaret like a distinguished businessman behind his antique desk. He wore a pinstripe, three-piece suit, recently pressed and tailor-made. He held a gold-filled pen in his hand, and as he scratched across an official-looking form, his diamond-studded cuff-links glimmered in the overhead light.
He looked up at her, and his grey eyes flickered handsomely. His face was smooth and unlined, except for tiny creases in the corner of his mouth, which crinkled merrily when he smiled. He stood, offered his hand, and she shook it. She sat down, and the instant she was settled, her heart began to pound.
"I thank you for watching the telephone while my sister and I were working," he said in a barely perceptible Eastern European accent. "That, I'm sure you know, is the full-time position that is available. Apparently you already know much of the duties that would be required of you."
"I can answer a telephone," Margaret said, listening to the dull thud of her pulse pounding in her ears. She felt a thin film of sweat bursting out over her forehead, and she readjusted herself in her seat. Something twitched between her legs, and she pressed her thighs together. If she did as Edgar had insisted, she would soon have Emil Brooks' cock inserted between her thighs, prodding at the cavern within her tight, compact pussy.
She studied him as he spoke, outlining the other duties her job would require: filing, light typing, some customer relations. He was well-built if somewhat short-he was sturdy and his body was firm. He must work out, she thought. If she had to spread her thighs for somebody in order to get a job, Emil Brooks was a better bet than other people she could think of. Particularly the last interview, with that horrid, flabby man who had licked her clitoris into a frenzy of sensation.
"We can discuss salary, do you think?" Emil was saying.
"Yes," Margaret said, trying to swallow back the catch in her voice. The rhythm of her heartbeat had accelerated, and she was developing a bad case of nerves as she readied to offer herself to her prospective employer.
"I pay three hundred a week, which is better than most jobs that are similar to this," Emil said. "There is also a week for illness, and a week for vacation. If you stay with us, then after a year you'll get two weeks for vacation. As for raises in your salary, I consider myself a fair man. If you perform well, you will be justly rewarded."
Margaret stared at him as though he was an hallucination. Her mind reeled at the concept of what she was about to do. But Edgar was the man of the family, and he knew what he was talking about. Their situation was desperate, and she had to get a job. She was so engrossed in the fear and thrill of the course of action she had set for herself that she wasn't even hearing Emil. She was unaware that he was accepting her for the job.
It's now, she thought, or never. The interview seemed to be nearing its end, and her courage was at its peak. She pushed her chair back on its coasters so he could get a better view of her, then slowly, deliberately began unbuttoning her blouse.
"My God," Emil said, his eyes growing wide. Margaret continued her work, her eyes never leaving Emil's face, until there were no more buttons to be undone. Beneath her blouse, she wore no brassiere. That had been Edgar's idea.
She hoisted her two firm mounds of breast flesh in her hands, squeezing them so the nipples hardened and pointed enticingly toward Emil. She massaged her breasts briefly, then, leaving one hand to toy with her tits, she lifted her skirt up over her crotch. Beneath them, she wore no panties, which had also been Edgar's idea. The flesh of her vulva was creamy white, and the lips of her hairless cunt were a dazzling pink. The lips seemed to open and close slightly, as though hungry to close over something, something hard and thick and long, and a trickle of her feminine lubricants eased slowly down her soft, fleshy thigh.
Emil's hands clutched the arm of his chair, his knuckles turning white. The blood had drained from his face, leaving him pale as a ghost. "Wh ... wh...." he sputtered, trying to speak but unable to form any words. All his life his sexual activities had been confined to his sexy sister; he was unable to even cope with the thought of copulation with another woman. How could he? Only his sister knew what he liked; only Gina knew how to make him come with such delirium that he shouted and writhed in agonized pleasure. He had never been disloyal. Yes, he knew Gina had had the penises of other men thrust up her glorious cunt, but nobody had ever satisfied her like Emil had, and she kept returning to him. It didn't matter to him that she was not loyal; she had made no commitment to remain so. But he had established his own set of rules, and stuck by them.
And now, here was this redhead he had known only a matter of minutes-and on a purely business-like relationship-displaying her shaved pussy and globular, firm breasts to him as though they had been intimate all their lives!
Margaret rose, keeping the hem of her skirt up above her delicate cunt, and walked to him. Emil was sucking in breath anxiously, sputtering and gripping the chair's arm almost hard enough to break it off.
"You want me?" Margaret purred at him, thrusting her pelvis toward him so the scent from her pussy had only a few inches to waft before reaching the nostrils of Emil Brooks. "I can feel that you want me. So take me, baby. I'm all yours."
She pressed her bosom into his face, holding his head tight against her and stroking his thin hair. She felt his lips trembling against the flesh of her breasts. She found his hand and pried it loose from the arm of the chair, and guided it toward her pussy, spreading her feet a little so there was room for his hand between her silky thighs. She urged the hand upward, and moaned softly as she felt his flesh glide between the slippery petals of her cunt, into the realm of her slit, where juices began to coat his flesh.
"You can fuck me," she moaned, "I'd love so much to feel your cock up inside me." And she reached, with that, into his lap and squeezed his exhausted, sore penis.
"Good Christ!" Emil roared. He pushed his chair back, gliding away from her. "Get out, goddamit, get out!"
Margaret stumbled back, horrified. "But ... I thought...." Her voice was nothing more than a horrible, hoarse whisper trapped deep in her throat.
"You thought what?" Emil shouted. "That I wanted a prostitute instead of a receptionist? Go sell your soiled body someplace else! Get out!" He had yanked a handkerchief from his coat pocket and was wiping his sweat-soaked face with it.
Fingers quivering, trembling, Margaret buttoned her blouse; she had already let her skirt fall back over her pantiless, hairless cunt. When she was decent enough, she opened her mouth to say she was sorry, but no words came out at all. She yanked the door open and ran from the office.
She ran, her legs pumping but not feeling, a voice screeching unintelligible words in her brain, past Gina, who sat with her long, tapered legs crossed at the switchboard. Gina watched Margaret peel out of the building, then looked back at the open door through which she had burst.
"Wait!" she cried, but Margaret was already gone, the front door of the building hydraulically closing behind her. Gina got up and ran out after her.
On the street, Margaret was struggling to get the driver's door of her car open. Gina walked up beside her and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "What happened?" she said.
Margaret was hysterical. She kept shaking her head, trying to put words together, but she'd forgotten how. "I thought, Edgar ... I was, I was...."
Gina pulled Margaret close, cradling her red hair and her head against her small, firm bosom. "Shhhh," Gina said, "it's all right." She patted Margaret's hair until she had calmed down. Gina tried to suppress the thrill, unexpected thrill, that surged through her at having Margaret so close.
When Margaret's breathing had stabilized, Gina looked her in her green eyes, holding her gently by both shoulders. "Now," she said firmly. "Tell me."
"Edgar said if I was to get a job, I would have to let the boss...."
"Let him have his way with you?" Gina suggested for Margaret, who seemed unable to go on. Margaret nodded. "So you tried to seduce Emil."
"The last time, it was me who ran away. He tried to take his thing out of his pants and make me put it in me, and I ran away, shouting I wasn't that kind of a girl. But Edgar...."
"Your husband?" Gina asked.
Margaret nodded. "Edgar said I would have to, or I wouldn't get any work. So I did, but he ... he...."
She broke down again, sobbing huge tears into the dark material of Gina's blouse. The tears warmed her shoulder, and the thrill rushed through her again. "Don't blame yourself," Gina soothed. "Emil is a man of peculiar tastes and habits. His rejection of you had nothing to do with you, I assure you."
"I could have had the job," Margaret bawled.
"Look," Gina suggested. "I have your name and number from your appointment. Let me call you, and we can talk more about Emil, and how he has made you feel. I'm sure I can make you feel better about it. Yes?"
Hesitantly, Margaret nodded. Calmed enough to drive, she thanked Gina, slid into the driver's seat, gunned the engine and sped away, tears still flowing freely down her cheek.
Gina watched the car vanish around a corner, then dashed back into the building. Never had she been so aroused, so excited. Her clitoris felt like an oversized pebble lodged uncomfortably between the fissure of her cunt, throbbing to be freed of the bonds of anxiety in which it seemed trapped. The nipples of her tiny breasts strained tautly against her brassiere. Her heart hammered. Her head spun.
She slammed the door marked PRIVATE behind her. Emil looked up at her, his mind still on Margaret's advances. "Do you know what that woman did?"
Gina knew, but did not care. She had but one thought on her mind. "Fuck me, Emil."
"She wanted me to seduce her. She thought she could use sex to get her the job."
Gina threw herself at her brother, knocking the wind out of him. She tore her blouse open, popping buttons that scattered across the floor. "Your cock, Emil, put it in me." She pulled her skirt up and shoved her panties brusquely to her ankles. "Get it out, damn you, get your meat out."
"Why so anxious?" Emil said, allowing a smile to creep across his lips.
Gina dug his cock out of his pants and squeezed it impatiently, feeling it harden in her fist. She couldn't tell him she was desperate to be satisfied because of the way she had felt with the softness of another woman pressed lightly against her. "Your sperm in my mouth makes me horny," she whispered in his ear, her tongue licking inside and her mouth blowing hot, moist breath inside. "I always have my orgasm after you, but I was interrupted. I grew crazy waiting. I have to have you."
Emil held his meaty shaft steady as Gina straddled him in his chair. Something was different, though, amiss. "Your ass?" he breathed into her breasts, which were bare and mashed against his face.
"Not this time," she said, slipping the crown of his erection between the lips of her sopping pussy. She sank down on it and began to hump him, violently, passionately. There was no emotion to her actions; not a glimmer of thought went into her movements. It was perfunctory, purely physical. She ground against him, writhed and twisted with animal frenzy. She grunted and mewed, her nostrils flaring wide each time she sank down on him, his skewering thickness filling the vacancy of her vagina. Finally, she exploded, gushing an unusual amount of her fluids into his lap, matting it into his pubic mound.
She panted as her climax subsided, allowing herself to slip off his lap. His cock popped out of her pussy, which had created intense suction against his stiff member, with a lurid plop.
With his erection still wagging stiff and full before her, Emil said, "Something is wrong."
But Gina merely smoothed her clothing out over herself, turned, and left the room. When Emil went outside to talk to her half an hour later, he found the reception area unattended. Cursing, he brought his paperwork outside and continued his work while stopping to answer the phone whenever it rang, which seemed to be every two minutes.
CHAPTER FIVE
Edgar let Margaret go to the back of the house, to shower and change. He hoped the shower and fresh clothes would brighten her outlook, and make her stop crying. Whenever she cried, he found himself gritting his teeth angrily together, restraining himself from hollering at her for her childish behavior. The only reason he didn't was because it seemed to only make matters worse.
While he listened to the shower running, he picked up a private phone book and found a number, dialed it on the wall phone. It rang a couple times, then he heard it picked up on the other end.
"Don Winslow," the voice on the other end said.
"Don, this is Edgar Sanders."
"Edgar! My God, it's been a long time. How the hell are you?"
"Not so good, Don. I hate to do this, but you remember that deal with Mercham a few years back? You said you owed me?"
"I did," Don's voice agreed, "and I still do. I wouldn't be where I am if it hadn't been for your help and support."
Where Don Winslow was, was at the head of a large legal firm, Martin, Fletcher and Waskul. Martin and Fletcher had been dead for years, but Gregg Waskul had hung on as senior partner until five years ago. Then, finally, he died of a hemorrhage, leaving the top spot vacant. Winslow had been one of five lawyers the board was considering for the firm's top spot, and it was a very tight five-way race.
Then, seeing an opportunity to have friends in high places, Edgar had made his move. Don was legal counsel for Mercham Brothers Pharmaceuticals at the same time Edgar had been account executive for Mercham's advertising campaign. Mercham, at the time, was having a series of legal problems. Edgar's slick issue of advertising pieces put the problems to rest, though, swinging sympathy away from those who were pointing accusing fingers at the company and landing it with the company itself. When asked for the source of his inspiration, Edgar had pointed to Don, whom he knew only slightly. "It was Don's idea," he said. "I just did the footwork."
Don became the shoe-in for senior partner of the firm. And he swore an eternal debt to Edgar, the man who had put him there.
"Anything," Don was saying from his penthouse office in the ritzy part of downtown. "You name it, it's yours."
"I'm out of work, and it looks like it'll be some time before I can land something ... suitable," Edgar said. "In the meantime, my wife is looking for something. I was wondering if you could give her a job, filing, typing, anything."
"Your call couldn't have been timed any better," Winslow said. He sounded genuinely pleased. "My secretary just quit; something about a boyfriend who's taking her to Tahiti or some such line of bull. Anyway, she won't be back. You know how it goes. You can tell when they're gone for good."
"Margaret's a dedicated worker, she won't let you down," Edgar said. "But she's never been a full-fledged secretary. Are you sure you want to depend on her that much, in a busy legal office?"
"The work is pretty basic. She can answer a phone, can't she? Type a little, file a little? Those were the things you said she could do. Don't worry about it, Ed. All the sticky work is done by paralegals. Secretary's about the easiest job we've got going in this office."
Edgar smiled, and breathed a silent sigh of relief. "When can she start?"
"Why fuck around?" Don said whimsically. "Let's get her started tomorrow. Have her in the office by eight; that's when things get rolling around here."
"Eight o'clock it is," Edgar said. Then, hesitantly, he broached the subject of salary.
"Let's start her at three-four hundred a week," Don said. 'That's a bit high for a secretary, but she's your wife, Ed, and I want to be fair."
"That's more than fair, Don," Edgar said. After exchanging a few additional amenities, Edgar rang off.
Don Winslow leaned back in his expensive, leather-padded office chair and made a steeple out of his fingers. He didn't feel terrible about lying to an old friend; he didn't even feel bad about lying to the man who catapulted him to the senior chair at Martin, Fletcher and Waskull.
The fact was, Don Winslow did need a secretary; his had indeed just quit, not two days earlier. And Winslow had been trying to figure where he could get another girl as efficient and as good looking as his last girl had been. The good looking part, he knew, was far more critical to his livelihood than the efficiency.
Winslow had met Margaret Sanders on several social occasions, and it had been all he could do to keep himself from coaxing her into a private room and assaulting her. She had a lithe, petite body with breasts so large they seemed out of proportion to the rest of her, yet somehow her tits and her body achieved a kind of balance. Her breasts, he remembered keenly, were firm and jutted forcefully forward from her chest. He remembered that her nipples strained taut against her clothing, even when she wore a brassiere. The last time he'd seen her, she had been wearing one of those long dresses with the slit up the leg to her hip; Winslow had craned his neck to try to catch a glimpse of her buttocks, or of her pussy (he ached to see if the hair of her cunt was red; he'd never fucked a redhead before). He'd been able to see neither, and had left the party feeling frustrated. Ultimately, he had picked up a hooker and taken her home for a long night of abuse.
The whore had been a tall, slender black girl with long, long legs that were wide and firm at her thighs and tapered down to narrow pegs at her ankles. She couldn't have been older than nineteen, but she knew how to use her body, and how to take the kind of sexual punishment Winslow had to dish out. She didn't mind the bruises with which she left the next morning; Winslow paid her well for her time.
Yet it had been Margaret he had pictured beneath him, suffering the excruciating ecstasy his massive cock could provide. It had taken days to get the redhead out of his 'mind.
And here, out of the blue, she was being dropped in his lap. Just like that. He hadn't seen her in three years; hadn't even spoken with Edgar in two years. He couldn't wait to see her.
Even though it wasn't he who would be deriving the most pleasure out of Margaret Sander's supple body, he was anxious. He might, he decided, eventually be able to invade the sanctity of her tight, juicy cunt. The thought of it made him grow hard, and he squirmed as the erection prodded him, trapped in his tight-fitting suit pants.
He stood and mixed himself a drink at his bar; scotch and soda. He swallowed it quickly, like a man drinking a soft drink or a beer after working hard on a hot day. Slowly, his throbbing erection subsided, and he seated himself again at his desk, and picked up the phone, dialed.
It rang, then somebody answered. "Mr. Jones?" he said, spitting the name with cynicism, hating to use such stupid subterfuge as a fake name-particularly one so unimaginative as Jones.
"This is Mr. Jones," the voice said, almost gleefully enjoying the cloak-and-dagger routine.
"Mr. Jones, this is Mr. Smith," Winslow said, rolling his eyes. "I believe I'll have that package for you right on schedule."
"Excellent," the voice on the other end of the phone said. "I'll be looking forward to receiving it."
There was a click, then the steady drone of the dial tone. Winslow settled the phone back into the cradle. If he'd been as cautious as his clients wanted him to be, he would have made the call from a phone booth, but that would have made him feel altogether too silly. Nobody was tapping his phone, and even if somebody was listening in, there was no way they could decipher what was happening out of a conversation as short and enigmatic as that one.
He smiled, settled back in his chair and enjoyed the glow his scotch and soda sent rippling through him. He thought briefly of Margaret, and then thought of how well things were going. He made a steeple with his fingers again, then poured himself another drink. By the time he was done, it was five o'clock, and time to go home.
He thought he'd go crazy waiting for eight o'clock the next morning.
So far, it seemed to Margaret, everything was working out better than she had hoped.
After two days at work for her husband's old friend (they knew each other initially from college, Edgar had told her), she was calm and relaxed, and slipping easily into the routine at Martin, Fletcher and Waskull. The work wasn't difficult, but it kept her busy, and the time seemed to fly past her with incredible speed. She had never known a day could go by so fast. Never had a day been so quick when she'd been wrapped up in housework, which had been the existence she had thought she loved. Perhaps this situation would work out to her advantage after all, she thought.
She was so busy, in fact, that she didn't notice the long looks her boss was giving her. Whenever she came into his office he would gaze at her as she struggled with her dictation. His eyes would inevitably fall to rest on her ample bosom, and more than once she had to look up at him to spur him to continue his dictation-he had fallen silent gazing at the luscious, ripe figure of his secretary.
Never did Winslow think of Margaret as the wife of a friend; if he did, it never had much of an effect on him. He was aware that he was in a constant state of arousal, and had to mix a drink frequently these days in order to control the erection-urges of his cunt-hungry cock. By the time Margaret had put in two full days, he knew he would have to have her, or go crazy.
But not yet. First, Mr. Jones had to have her.
His rationale was simple. Margaret didn't yet know what the most important part of her job was. She would find out at the hands of Mr. Jones. Perhaps she would protest, try to flee, but Jones could handle that. All the girls who Mr. Jones entertained left with a hefty wad of bills. Mr. Jones knew how to treat a girl right.
But if Winslow tried to seduce her, she might look at it as a simple case of boss trying to dominate secretary. She could conceivably just up and leave, leaving him once again high and dry without a subject for Mr. Jones' bizarre tastes.
So he would wait. After Jones had taken her the first time, she would be much more willing, much more pliable. He would be able to have his way with her in another two days. Right here in my office, he thought.
Yes.
His eyes scanned the room, looking for suitable places to spread the milky thighs of the seductive redhead. It wouldn't, of course, be the first time he'd been laid in his office. Sometimes he thought men got laid more often in their offices by secretaries than in their bedrooms by wives.
He pictured Margaret, completely nude, on her knees between his spread legs as he sat in his chair. His pants bunched around his knees. His cock stiff and pulsating, quivering madly from sexual tension, as her open mouth moved down toward it.
Jesus, he thought. He had to stop thinking like that; his penis was growing stiff and frustrated again. He couldn't have her yet, and there was no sense aggravating himself. He mixed another drink.
He slept badly that night, awakened constantly in a tangle of sweat-dampened sheets by half dreams of Margaret. Margaret, on the other hand, slept soundly and peacefully, for the first time in weeks.
Winslow finally fell asleep near dawn, and when his alarm went off he tossed it aside. It clattered against the wall and fell silent to the floor. Fuck it, he thought; I'll sleep late for a change. Since I'm the boss, who's going to fire me?
It was near noon when he finally got to his office, and found Margaret busy behind her desk. He had to catch his breath when he saw her; she was wearing a tight-fitting one-piece dress of some kind of clinging material. Every curve and line of her sinewy body stood out against it. When she stood fully erect, it was as though he was seeing her entirely naked, Hut covered with a thin veil of some inhuman substance. The dress was cut low enough over the upper portion of her globes of breast flesh that he could look longingly down her plunging cleavage. It hung low over her legs, down below her knees, but was cut away in the front so he could see her thighs pressed together. Another six inches, he guessed, and he would have been gazing with uncontrollable desire at the crotch of her delicate panties.
Winslow went into his office and glanced at the clock on his desk. It was nearly one, and in another hour he'd send Margaret out on her appointment. He went back out with a sheaf of papers, bent over her from behind, and asked her to file them. His eyes locked again on the dark line between her mashed-together breasts that disappeared deep inside her dress.
He found himself fantasizing again, against his will. Margaret seemed to hold sway over his mind, over his imagination. He had no power of his own to think what he should be thinking-about writs and motions and courtroom appearances.
He closed himself back in his office and leaned back in his chair. Unconsciously, his fingers clenched and unclenched as he pictured her magnificent breasts in his hands. Yes, he thought. He would seat her in his expensive leather chair and slowly, oh, Christ so slowly, unbutton the top of her dress. She'd watch him, her eyes full and moist, her tongue-tip running lightly, seductively over her full, red lips. She wouldn't move; just sit still and allow him to do as he wished.
He would peel her dress back over her shoulders once it was unbuttoned. He saw her brassiere-clad breasts in his mind's eye. They were round and shaped like pears, firm and upright. Her nipples were dark circles behind the erotic lace of her frail brassiere. He reaches behind her to find the clasp of the bra, and as he does he feels her massive mounds crush against his chest. Her fingers trace arousing lines along his thigh, a breath's distance from his enlivened balls. Her breath is warm and exciting against his throat.
He finds the clasp, and easily unhooks it. The strain of her huge orbs of flesh against the brassiere causes the undergarment to snap away like a stone in a slingshot. Her breasts jiggle wildly in their new-found freedom, then settle. He looks at them, marvelling. As though powered by a force of their own, his hands rise, the fingers curling to the shape of her breasts before they even make contact. When her soft, supple flesh does connect with his hands, his fingers glide over them easily, and they fill the cup he's made with his hands. He feels her nipples stiffen in response to his arousing touch, and they begin to dig into his palm.
He looks at her; her eyes have closed to moist, narrow slits and her head is tilted back. Her lips are slightly parted, and she is moaning softly, almost inaudibly. There is something in the air that sends his senses reeling; it is the scent of the lubricants being generated inside her wildly excited pussy.
Unexpectedly, she puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes him away. "I'll give you what you want," she says to him in a throaty whisper. "I can make you feel like you've never felt before."
"I want your pussy," he gasps.
"No you don't," she says, shaking her head. "I know what you want." Her hands clasp behind his neck, and she draws his head into her bosom. "Lick me," she tells him. "Lick my tits all over, baby. Get them wet."
His tongue is alive, vibrating like crazy, sucking back into his mouth to gather saliva which he spreads over her two mammoth muscles. As his tongue passes over one of her distended nipples, he can't stand it, and his lips close over it, his tongue curls around it, and he begins to suck voraciously. "Oh, dear God," she moans in response, and his hand dips between her legs. She closes her thighs over his hand, won't let him closer to her pot of honey, but doesn't make him withdraw it, either. "Just keep licking me, darling. Don't stop ... arghh ... licking my hot tits."
Her breasts shine beneath the office's fluorescent lights; they are coated richly in his spit. Her nipples stand a full inch from their halo of pinkish flesh. The odor of her juices is now intolerable, like a gas leaking into the room. His head spins. His cock is so hard he fears it might break unless freed of the bonds of his trousers.
"Now," she whispers, deeply, full of meaning. Her voice sends shudders through him. He can feel the pounding of blood through the length of his huge, rigid penis. "Now I'm ready," she says a little louder, stroking her wet-soaked mounds. 'Take your cock out, baby; let me see it."
Hurrying, fumbling, like a boy getting laid for the first time, he unzips his pants and yanks his trembling erection from within. After it's out, his pants drop down, and he steps quickly out of them.
Margaret stares, her jaws unhinged, her eyes filled with awe. "Holy Christ," she murmurs. "I've never seen one so ... large and thick." She smiles and, like a hungry feline, licks her lips again. "Finally a cock to match my breasts," she says. She lifts one breast in each hand and pulls them apart, exposing the flat line of her breastplate, the hidden valley into which her cleavage plunges so seductively when she is dressed. "Bring it here," she says.
Winslow approaches her, nestles his impaling hardness between the huge globes of flesh she holds in her hands. Once it is securely settled, she closes her slick, wet tits over his erection and begins to rub them together.
"Oh, my God!" Don exclaims in amazement. All his life he'd been dead certain that nothing-nothing-could feel as wonderful as a woman's tight, clinging pussy encasing the throbbing thickness of his meaty shaft. But this ... this is incredible. She is adept and expert at massaging his aching staff with her wet, pliant breasts. She rubs his cock hard, up and down, then eases up on the friction and rubs him gently in circular motion. With increased speed, she uses her breasts to stroke his rod-like cock back and forth, then just squeezes and loosens, squeezes and loosens.
His loins burn, ache, throb, pulsate in the throes of desire. His arousal is at a fever pitch, the sweat has broken out in buckets over his brow. He is unable to control his instinctive motions, and is arching his pelvis back and forth, thrusting his meat into the trap between her breasts as she continues doing amazing things with the flesh she holds in her hands.
He feels his orgasm building, as though he could watch it and determine visually that the fire in his cock is hot enough to produce the explosion of sloshing, steaming cum.
"I want it," Margaret moans. He looks at her; her eyes are completely closed; she is rapt, lost in the ecstatic movements of her breasts against his shaft. Her legs undulate, her thighs press stickily together; her juices have seeped from her agitated pussy down her thighs. His nostrils are full of her.
"I'm coming," he gasps, his fingers grasping handfuls of her silky, fiery red hair.
"On my breasts," she groans. "Come all over my tits, baby, I want to feel it hot and creamy. Come on, dammit, give it to me, I don't want to wait. Give me your cum."
He complies; he couldn't resist if he tried. He feels the cargo of semen travel the long distance up the length of his penis, burning, firing erotic orgasmic sensation through his scrotum and into his bowels, which clench tightly from the wanton arousal he experiences. Lights and fireworks flash behind his eyes and his breathing sounds dangerously irregular. His testicles contract, and suddenly he is climaxing. The first powerful squirt of his sperm draws a shimmering white line across both of her pouting breasts. The semen drips slowly down her tits, creaming over the stiff nipples. He feels the second spurt of viscous male ejaculation building behind the crown of his cock, ready to burst free, and he pulls her head down viciously, snapping it in front of him.
His hips thrust forward and he shouts as the cum jets free, splattering across her face. "Oh, yes, more, baby, more," she pants; her hands are busily massaging his cream into her breasts. Her face is coated with the stuff, and he feels a third burst. She anticipates it, opens her mouth, and he watches the geyser of sticky white fluid shoot directly between her lips. She closes her mouth and he sees her adam's apple bob as she swallows the salty stuff down; it glides easily, creamy down her throat. Her face reflects the rapture she feels. Her hands, finished rubbing his semen into her tits, lift up and begin stroking it into her face. When this is finished, she bends down and licks the remaining cum from the head of his cock. The touch of her warm, fleshy tongue against his shaft excites him into one more gusher, which dribbles down her cleavage.
"What about you?" he asks her.
She smiles tenderly at him. "I just came," she informs him, holding up a finger. It is shiny-wet, and slightly wrinkled from having been submerged in moisture.
He takes her hand and licks her finger, tasting the juices of her pussy. Once he's licked her clean, she brings her open mouth to his. Her tongue pushes his mouth open, and fences with his. They each taste the erotic mingling of male and female cum. It's enough to stiffen his cock again, send the blood pounding through it, aching for another release. Entwined together, they sink to the office's plush carpeting. Her legs fall open, her red-coated vulva splitting lewdly apart, his spongy crown guided almost magnetically toward her open fissure, where he knows her glorious pussy will tug, squeeze and pull at his huge cock until it wrings a second ejaculation of his viscous sperm, which will flood her pussy with its sticky warmth....
Winslow shook his head and looked at the clock. It was already two o'clock. He'd spent an hour-a full hour-dreaming about the redhead who was typing away, unaware, a few yards from where he sat. His cock was stiff and throbbing. Another five minutes, he guessed, and he'd have come in his pants just thinking about her.
He drank several swallows of scotch straight from the bottle, and felt the heat in his penis dissipate, replaced by a warm glow throughout his body. When the bulge in his pants no longer showed, he went out to her.
Margaret was on the phone. He waited patiently, a father-like smile on his face, until she was finished.
"Who was that?" he asked when she hung up.
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with innocence. If only she knew what he'd been thinking. "A friend. Somebody I just met yesterday. Her name's Gina. I'm having lunch with her tomorrow, if that's all right."
"Fine," he said. "Right now, though, I have an errand for you. You did bring your car today?"
She did.
Winslow gave her the address, jotting it on a piece of office stationary. "Mr. Jones is expecting you. He's an extremely important client, and I'm counting on you to take care of his every need."
"Exactly what is it I'm supposed to do?" she said.
"He'll tell you. But I can't emphasize enough how critical Mr. Jones is to our office. He's one of our biggest clients, and he's very influential in certain important circles. Don't disappoint me, Margaret."
Margaret smiled a winning smile and flung her purse over her shoulder as she rose. "Don't worry," she said. "You know, I'm enjoying this job a lot, and I intend to do good work, and make you and Edgar proud of me."
Don patted her on the shoulder and watched her ripe, firm buttocks swivel as she walked from the office. When she was gone, he went back inside his private sanctuary and swallowed several more belts from the scotch bottle, nearly emptying it.
His erection subsided into a limp, flaccid penis. But his loins still ached for her. It seemed as though nothing would give him any peace until his cock had been inside her, and left its deposit deep in the interior of her sweet vagina.
CHAPTER SIX
As Margaret drove toward the address Don Winslow had given her, Edgar gazed out the kitchen window at the path leading to the front door of the Thorpe home.
His resume was updated, his portfolio assembled, and he had nothing to do but wait for the phone calls he was sure would come, inviting him to be interviewed for positions with advertising agencies, large and small. Time weighed heavy on him, because Edgar Sanders was a man of action. He was not used to dawdling, or biding his time. He was used to making the best of his time.
Still, watching the Thorpe home made the minutes fly by pleasantly. Linda Thorpe was at least fifteen years his senior, but she had taken splendid care of herself, and obviously didn't care who saw it. The clothing she wore about the house during the day was revealing, to say the least.
Edgar thought briefly about Margaret. She was making enough money working for Don Winslow to take care of the mortgage. He could take his time, if he had to, rounding up steady work for himself. That didn't sound terrible. In fact, he couldn't say he disliked lounging around the house, not having to arise early and struggle through congested traffic in order to get to a sterile office environment and work on bullshit all day long. And to what end? So he could fight the traffic all the way home? So he could pay the bills (which Maggie was taking care of now)? Why? Suddenly, it all seemed so futile, so useless.
Right now, he guessed, Margaret would be getting back from lunch. No, be honest, he told himself. You were an advertising man, you're used to lunches that run after two. She's been back from lunch for over an hour now. Probably typing, or sitting in Don's office with a steno pad on her knee.
That got him thinking about Margaret's knee, which led to her shapely legs, and finally to what lay between them. Despite how relaxed he felt, Edgar's penis began to stir, bullets of arousal shooting upward along its length, the dull thud of pumping blood stiffening it just a little each time.
The tea-kettle he'd put over the fire just a short while ago started to whistle, a goddam annoying sound, and he shut it off, poured the water into his mug. He added a teaspoonful of instant coffee, stirred it, and sat at the kitchen table, where the newspaper lay open to the sports page.
He read how his teams were doing, and even felt fury when he discovered the Pirates had lost in the ninth on a double play that ended in a rundown.
Still, after engrossing himself in baseball, he found his cock still growing slowly erect, spurred on by some force beyond his control. He sipped his coffee and closed his eyes. That was all it took for his imagination to be turned on, and he instantly saw, in living color, his wife's open mouth descending on his rigid erection. Her lips closed over the spongy, blood-gorged crown of his trembling cock; he could feel the tip of her tongue wriggling excitedly over his head as her cheeks sucked in. The pressure of the vacuum in her mouth sent orgasmic-intense sensations zinging down the length of his shaft. Then she dove on the entire cock, her lips bristling against his pubic hair. His reaction was so detached, so complete, he was almost uncertain where he was. His fingers found her waist, roamed around until he knew he was over her pussy, then wriggled beneath her dress. As his fingers navigated easily to the fissure of her cunt, then slid inside, she intensified the vigor of the head she was giving him, sucking strongly and ramming his cock in and out of her mouth with the speed of a jackhammer. In a minute, he knew, his cum would jet out of his cock and splatter against the back of her mouth, and he could watch her drink it down like a warm, salty milkshake. He opened his eyes.
Now, his penis was fully erect, stuffed painfully in his underwear, throbbing with unfulfilled intensity. He gulped his coffee, which had grown cool during his fantasy. What he needed, he told himself, was a cold shower. Icy cold, to take his mind off the oral sex his wife would never give him.
He stood, and cringed as his erection bent over within the prison of his pants. He looked mournfully down at the bulge in his crotch. He turned to head for the shower.
A noise from outside stopped him. He went to the sink and peered out the kitchen window, over at the Thorpe residence. A teenage girl with short cropped blonde hair was digging through a shabby purse, looking for something as she stood on the front porch. She wore a tee-shirt, against which her tender, ripe breasts strained erotically. The breasts were not yet fully formed, Edgar could tell even beneath the shirt, yet they were just the size he liked, yearned for. He had always thought he wanted a woman with huge, firm tits, the type Margaret had. And indeed, he fully enjoyed himself when he got lost in the massive mounds of burning flesh that prodded outward so seductively from Maggie's chest. Yet he missed the days, back in college before he'd met Margaret, when he would bed a coed with small, firm breasts that fit easily in his hand, that he could suck nearly the entire muscle into his mouth.
As he stared at the girl, he thought, Yes, there can be too much of a good thing.
The girl also wore jeans that hugged her hips, thighs and legs so tight they might as well have been painted on. The girl found in her purse what she'd been looking for, keys, pulled them out and immediately dropped them. They fell to the concrete porch with a metallic clatter.
She bent over to retrieve them, offering Edgar an unobstructed view of her cheeky buttocks, round and apple-like in the taut constraints of her jeans. He also saw that her legs were incredibly long and slender. He wondered how they looked bare.
She picked the keys up, inserted one in the lock, and went inside. Edgar was able to follow her progress through the unshaved windows of the Thorpe home. She walked swiftly through the living room, knowing exactly where to go, and into the kitchen. Linda Thorpe was there, reaching high up to a shelf for a jar of something or other. That sight sent another throb through Edgar's nerves-the see-through top she wore lifted up over her conical breasts as she reached, revealing them as supple and fleshy ... and about the size of a handful, just like the young girl.
The girl said something. Linda Thorpe replied without looking down to her, then handed her the jar once she'd been able to get her hands on it. For an instant, as Linda stepped off the stepladder, both their faces were aimed at Edgar. They couldn't see him, or didn't, but Edgar saw them easily enough.
My God, he thought. That's her daughter. I didn't even know she had a daughter. (He wondered, suddenly, if she had a husband. He had never seen one, or a daughter, or any other children. It's a result of working all day. You don't get to know your neighbors.)
The girl unscrewed the lid off the jar, and a look of mild surprise spread over her face. Linda looked into it then, and her lips moved to form what Edgar translated as, "Damn!"
The jar, Edgar guessed, was empty. His suspicion was confirmed when she tossed the jar away someplace he couldn't see, but obviously a trash can. Linda said something to her daughter, pointing her chin as she spoke in the general direction of Edgar's house. The daughter nodded, and walked through the living room again, and out the front door.
Oh, God, Edgar thought. She's coming over here to borrow something from Margaret.
He looked down at himself, at the embarrassingly large protrusion in his pants. It wasn't about to go away. Frantically, he ran upstairs, peeled himself out of his clothes and flung on his thigh-high terrycloth robe. He loosely knotted the wide belt, and the tails of it draped down over his erection. He heard the doorbell chime downstairs, and quickly checked himself in the mirror. Frontways, sideways, his stiffened cock did not show as far as he could tell.
The doorbell rang again, followed by some soft knocks of knuckles against the front door.
Edgar bounded down the stairs, running his fingers through his hair to smooth it down, then opened the door.
The girl was more stunning up close. She had a soft, pale complexion and pale grey eyes, accented only slightly by the pencil-thin blonde eyebrows above them. Her face was thin, almost gaunt, but her mouth was full, her lips thick and moist, coated gently with a thin veneer of lipstick that, if applied fully, would have been shocking bright red.
His eyes locked on her throat, which was as smooth and delicate as a cloud. He suddenly ached to press his lips against her white flesh there, and let his tongue lick at her. His shaft pulsated bitterly, protesting its condition of being trapped behind a stupid blue bathrobe. It wanted to be free, and satisfied.
His eyes roamed from her throat to her breasts, which were free-standing without benefit of a brassiere. Little mounds, he thought, and consciously had to restrain from licking his lips like a fox standing in the door of the chicken house.
"Hi," the girl said in a high-pitched, not-quite-mature voice. "I'm Sonja Thorpe, from next door. Is Maggie in?"
Edgar was a little thrown, by the unrefined sound of the girl's voice, by the shock of her underdeveloped beauty, and also by her use of Margaret's nickname. He hadn't known anybody used that but him.
"Um, no, actually, she's not," he said. "I'm her husband, Edgar. We've, uhm, temporarily switched roles, you see. She's out working, I'm taking care of the house."
Now that Sonja knew who he was, she started to pay a little attention to him. Her eyes swept over him, lingering briefly on his firm, muscle-bound legs, and the mat of manly hair that peeked out of the robe from his chest.
"Well, hi," she said, and her voice deepened an octave as her interest grew. "Actually, I just came to see if we could borrow some honey. Mom's baking."
"Honey," Edgar said, and thought irresistibly of what the young girl's cunt must look like. "I'm sure we have some. Come on in."
Sonja followed him through his living room into the kitchen. He frankly had no idea where the honey was kept, and didn't care much. He was struggling with the fire in his loins, the wanton desire that had been aroused in him for whatever reason. More than anything in his life, it seemed, he wanted to spread this ripe young girl's legs apart and thrust his meaty member into her virgin vagina.
He opened cupboard after cupboard, and finally found the one where staples were kept. He rifled around but found no honey. "Sorry," he mumbled.
"It's okay," Sonja said. "If you should come across any, bring it on over." She bounced out of the house, her budding breasts jiggling merrily and unrestrained beneath her tee-shirt, which bore the name of some rock and roll band.
Edgar stood in the kitchen alone, and listened to his front door close. Then, a moment later, he saw Sonja standing in her kitchen, shaking her head and saying something to her mother.
Frustrated, his heart pounding blood through his system-his petrified cock in particular-Edgar rifled angrily through the cupboard, finally finding a jar half-full of honey. It had been secreted back behind an ancient box of brown sugar.
He hefted the jar in his hand, and looked through the window. Mrs. Thorpe's slender ass was thrust out toward him; she was on her knees, her head stuck in a bottom cupboard, searching vainly for honey. Sonja stood behind her, her hands on her hips, her hips thrust seductively forward, child-like impatience etched on her fine, sculpted facial features.
Edgar made up his mind. Tightening the belt so his robe would not slip open, he walked out of his house, leaving the front door open, down to the sidewalk, then up the Thorpe's path.
He knocked solidly on their door, and waited.
Sonja opened it, and looked happily at him. She didn't seem to notice the jar of honey.
"How nice," she said sincerely. "A social call. Anybody ever tell you, you're cute?"
"All the time," Edgar said, then showed her the honey. "Can I come in."
"Sure," Sonja said, grinning. "Mom'll be so pleased."
He followed the teenager through the living room to the kitchen, his eyes drinking in the adult swivel of her hips, the erotic movement of her buttocks as she walked her practiced walk. How many high school hearts had she broken, he wondered. Then, thinking more lewdly, how many high school cocks had she sucked?
His own erection throbbed bitterly in answer.
The first thing Linda Thorpe saw was the honey. "Oh, God," she said, "a lifesaver. It's a real bitch to try to bake one of these without honey."
Edgar looked into the baking pan, and couldn't figure out what "this" was. But he handed her the jar and smiled pleasantly.
"You must be Maggie's husband," Linda said. "I've seen you around, but I guess people aren't too neighborly around here, are they?"
"Not really," he said.
She quickly scanned him, up and down, once. "Well, you should be more neighborly." She noticed he was looking at the conical globes of her bosom, with an animal-hungry look pervading his face. "You like how I'm dressed?" she said, glancing down at her see-through top. "I don't go out like this; just wear it around the house. I wasn't expecting anybody, although I don't think I'd have changed if I was."
Edgar swallowed hard. Her words were chatty, but the words spoken by her eyes were very clear. They exuded sex, begged for it, longed for it.
Her hand reached out quickly, unexpectedly, and grasped the lump below his terrycloth belt. He hadn't been aware of it, but when he'd tightened the belt, the bulge of his aroused cock had shown through clearly.
Linda squeezed his meaty male member, squeezed it just hard enough to send jolts of electric currents singing through his nerves and to bring a small, barely-audible gasp to his lips.
"Well," Linda said suggestively, "I can tell by what I feel that you do like what I'm wearing."
"Very much," Edgar smiled. Then, with a tremor of shock, he realized the teenage girl was still in the room. He swiveled his head, and saw her leaning against the kitchen table, her fingers erotically tracing a line over her parted lips.
Edgar started to say something, found he didn't know what to say, and mumbled something incoherent instead.
Linda looked at her daughter, too. "It's so hard, Sonja. Why don't you come over here and feel?"
Sonja tossed her head back; if she had had long hair, it would have sailed, cascaded down her back. Instead, the punk-cut mop she had just shifted around, shimmering in the sunlight that filtered in through the window. She pushed herself off the table and walked slowly, deliberately over to them.
With a sticky lump in his throat, Edgar watched and felt as Linda released her tenuous hold on his genitals, handing them over to her teenage daughter. Sonja took his cock and his balls through the thick robe, held them together in one hand as if weighing them, then reached her other hand out and used both to squeeze and gently tug at his crotch.
"Yes," she said, her eyes teasing him, telling him blatantly that he could fuck her if he wanted to, just like that. "It is hard." She squeezed again, forcing a moan out of the deep part of Edgar's throat. "It feels good."
She looked deeply at him and squeezed again. "Doesn't it feel good?"
Edgar, regaining some control over himself, said, "Yes, it feels fantastic. Wouldn't it feel better if there was no robe in the way?" He pulled at the robe, and her hands came loose to let it ball back as he shrugged it off. His erection, thick and riddled with pulsating blue veins, stood out like a flesh covered steel rod from his pelvis. It danced and jumped from excitement he could not contain, but he maintained the passive look on his face.
"Oh, yes," Sonja said. "That's much better."
Her hand fluttered out; her long, cool fingers curled slowly, flexibly around the throbbing thickness of his member. Her squeezes were like heartbeats, sending the life juices of ecstasy flowing through the length of his genitals, swirling like gaseous clouds through his fuzz-coated bloated orbs of testicles, into the depths of his bowels.
Linda was standing close by. "Are you waiting for something?" she asked her daughter.
Sonja grinned broadly, released the penis she held so tenderly, and quickly shed the few clothes she wore. As she pulled the tee-shirt off over her head, her breasts caught against the bottom and lifted upward. When the shirt finally slipped free of her semi-developed globes, they bounced merrily back into place. Her nipples stood naturally stiff, the pink halo around them accenting the newness of them. Obviously not unused, Edgar thought, because of the way she handles a cock. But not overused either. Even if she got laid every chance she had, she wasn't yet old enough to be worn out or jaded by intercourse.
Her pussy was compact, with only a frail coating of blonde, almost colorless cuntal fur growing over it. Edgar felt his heart crashing mercilessly against his ribs; he was extraordinarily turned on by his wife's slickly shaved cunt, but somehow that seemed a novelty. This, a vagina coated with a short-cropped triangular vee of downy pubic curls, was the way a woman was meant to be. It was God's will that a hair-covered cunt turn a man on. And, God knew, Edgar was wildly turned on. He turned his head to look at Linda.
"What about you?" he said.
"Don't worry about me," Linda said. "I'll jump in when I think the water's right."
"The water's just fine right...." He would have continued, but while he'd been eyeing the fabulous shape of the mother, the daughter had unseen sunk to her knees and was sliding her head between Edgar's thighs. He looked down, saw the crop of blonde hair trying to push between him, and spread his feet farther apart to make room for her head.
Now that she had room, she turned her face up to him and supported herself on her propped arms. Her legs were naturally spread apart, her feet touching each other, her pink-flesh membrane glistening from between the folds of her lubricant-churning pussy.
Edgar put his hands on her head, but she slapped them quickly away. He felt her tongue push out of her mouth and tenderly lick at the bridge between his anus and his sperm-laden balls. The pliable tip of her pink tongue licked circles over the bridge, and he felt sexual anxiety mounting within him as he tried to figure out which way she was going to go; thrusting her tongue deep up his rectal passage, or moving seductively to his testicles, and then to his hardened shaft.
She did both. He grew wild in a frenzy of delight as her tongue prodded at the puck-ringed anus tucked away between his muscular buns. The tip thrust inward, first only an inch, then two, then deeper until he felt her entire tongue burrowed firmly inside him, encased by the tight walls of his asshole.
She slowly wriggled her mouth-muscle out of his hole, and continued licking at the ridge between ass and balls, nibbling gently when she could find enough flesh to capture between her teeth. Finally, she was beneath his dangling, bloated testicles. Her tongue darted out at them, poking, prodding, licking hungrily at the light film of sweat that had collected over his swollen sacks.
Then, unexpectedly, she opened her mouth and sucked both his balls inside, closing her lips gently over the loose flesh that held his orbs to the shaft of his cock. She sucked tenderly, twirling the hard balls within his sacks about on her tongue.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," Edgar murmured. Now he had slid his fingers into her hair, and was massaging her scalp. She didn't mind (or if she did, she didn't show it). She made no effort to push him away. Edgar felt his knees quivering, as stable as jelly left outside on a warm afternoon, and tensed his legs to keep from falling over.
She slowly let his testicles slip out of her mouth, nibbling and sucking at them until they escaped. Her tongue never stopped working, though. It found the belly of his cock, the soft white flesh on the underside of his pulsating shaft, and curled beneath it, warming his rod-like erection with the flat of her thick tongue. She glided the blanket of mouth-muscle along the underside of his cock, until only the ridged crown was resting on her tongue. Then she slid back to his balls, which she teased with the hard tip of her tongue as the flat continued to massage the underside of his aroused member.
She pulled back again, gliding along the underside until once again she held only the crown, blood-gored and the texture of a sponge, in the tip-curl of her tongue. She held the curl around the thickness of the head of his cock so tightly he thought he might explode right then, but he concentrated on holding the jet of semen within his genitals, saving it until....
Until he'd used both of them, he thought. He looked quickly at Linda, who had not been idle. She had stripped out of her clothes; was in fact just then peeling the second of her stockings from her long, tapered leg. He could almost hear the electricity crackle as the silk separated from her smooth, shiny skin.
He gaped at Linda's vagina. Here, he thought almost incoherently, is a cunt the way a cunt is supposed to be. It was moving, he could see, as though guided by a living force of its own. In its hunger, the lips seemed to be (almost imperceptibly) opening and closing in search of a hard cock. The entire region was covered by a thick blanket of pubic hair, which he could tell simply by looking was soft as goose down, scented with the perfumes generated by some mysterious process deep within the recesses of her pussy. He had to put his penis inside of it, he knew. "I...."
He would have continued, but once again the daughter did something to stymie his efforts. The curled tongue glided once more down the length of his cock, but this time her mouth closed over it, and suddenly his entire shaft was encased in the warm, wet, loose trap of Sonja's mouth. He could feel the fullness of her warm lips, the darkness within her mouth, the blanket of her tongue.
She pulled back, her lips creating unbelievable suction against his spear, until her lips held on to his cock only by the ridge behind his crown. She sucked voraciously, her tongue working furiously at what was available. He felt the semen boiling within him, fighting to escape into her mouth, down her throat.
"Take it all in," he whispered. "Do that again, baby, come on, suck my whole cock into your mouth."
She complied willingly, and he felt the head of his cock connect with the back of her throat. He looked down, and saw her lips extended over the flesh that was wrapped around his skewering thickness, urging even farther until they touched the bristly curls of his own pubic mound.
"Oh, yes, now suck my dick, darling, just suck it and fuck it with your mouth. Right, yes, just like your mouth was your sweet little pussy, baby, just like it was my cock fucking your pussy!"
She obeyed, her head whipping back and forth over his burning, throbbing meat. Her lips never let up on the pressure they were creating, her tongue never stopped working, despite the speed with which she ate his penis.
Then, out of nowhere, came a second sensation. Something wet, another tongue, gliding up his anal passage. Through the fog that had been created in his eyes from the orgasmic intensity of the head he was receiving, he saw the mother, Linda Thorpe, kneeling behind him. Her hands were prying the muscular cheeks of his ass apart, and her face was between the taut buns, and he knew, yes, it was her tongue invading his sensitive asshole.
When he was sure he was going to come, they both stopped, as though they had long ago learned a signal, some means of recognizing that a man is about to climax and now is the time to stop if you want him to be able to go on.
He looked down, and saw Sonja falling forward. She rested on her knees and elbows, her hands reaching behind to spread the moon-like cheeks of her own ass apart.
"Put it up my ass, baby," she said. "Come on, Edgar, it's my favorite thing."
As if he needed permission, he glanced over to Linda, who was watching with a fire in her eyes, absently fingering her delectable pussy, clutching her clitoris between her thumb and forefinger.
"Go ahead, neighbor," Linda said. "Because if you don't put it up her asshole, you're going to put it in my pussy."
"I want to do both," Edgar said, reduced to a little boy in a candy store. "I want to fuck you both."
"Then exercise a little restraint," Linda reproached him. "Make my daughter come but don't come in her. Save that for me."
"Bitch," Sonja said, not seriously. "You know I like having my rectum filled with hot cum. Come on, dammit, I've got my cheeks spread and my hot little hole just waiting here. Are you going to fuck me or not?"
Edgar dropped to his knees behind her, and briefly prodded her starfish-shaped rectal button with his finger before grasping his cock at the base and thrusting it savagely into her tiny, taut hole.
He pounded her brutally, thrusting the entire length of his massive cock into the small space provided by her anus. He was amazed at how tight she was; even his hand, when he infrequently masturbated, could not provide that kind of tension around his cock.
Yet he knew he couldn't come. He wanted to-HAD TO-save that for this girl's mother. When he felt himself getting close, he clasped his thumb and forefinger around the base of his cock and squeezed, holding the cargo of sloshing sperm within. Looking at Linda didn't help. She was sitting in a kitchen chair, her nostrils flaring, a glazed look in her eyes. Her thighs were slightly spread, just enough for her hand to nestle between them, fingering herself wildly.
Finally, Sonja lurched back against him, so hard he almost lost his balance. He had to dig his fingers into the soft flesh of her cheeky buttocks to keep upright. "Oh, God!" she screamed as she writhed back against him, the muscles in her cheeks quivering out of control. "Fuck me fuck me fuck me damn you don't stop fucking me oh, JESUS!!!"
Then, as quickly as it had all started, she fell forward, his cock sliding easily out of her hole, which had to be so sore she'd have trouble sitting for a week.
"My turn," came Linda's voice from behind him, the instant Sonja had separated herself from him. He turned to look at her, gasping and panting from his recent efforts. She was in the same position Sonja had been in, except it was her lewdly splayed pussy she was offering instead of a taut, tight asshole.
On his knees he moved over to her, his cock still in his hand, and without hesitation he thrust it into her compact pussy, and was once again startled at the tightness he experienced. Tightness, he joked to himself, must run in the Thorpe family.
He was vicious as he humped her, but found, despite the enjoyment he got out of it, that his cock was not receiving enough stimulation. "Talk to me," he urged.
"No talk," Linda gasped. She was writhing in ecstasy, wrapped completely up in what was obviously her favorite activity. "Just your cock, that's all. Just fuck me. Just keep fucking me."
She came, lurching and screaming, and when she was finished she crawled backward to urge him deeper into her. "Again," she moaned throatily.
"It's so hard and thick, I love feeling inside my pussy. Doesn't my pussy feel good to your cock?"
"Tremendous," he said, meaning it.
"Then shoot it into my pussy," she begged. "Fill me with your hot white cum. I want to feel it. My clitty loves to be shot by hot white cum, so don't wait any more. Come on."
But he couldn't. He felt the orgasm churning inside him, but it could find no outlet.
"Fill me with your jam," she begged. "Please, I need it."
He humped her harder. Nothing.
Then Edgar Sanders saw perhaps the most erotic sight of his life. The lithe blonde teenager walked sexily to the front of her mother, stood before her, bent her knees to bring her vagina down to the level of Linda's face, and pulled her mother's mouth against her pussy.
Linda's tongue burrowed into the moist slit of her daughter's cunt; her lips worked hungrily over the vulva; Edgar heard mild sucking noises-the sound of Sonja's lubricants being thirstily sucked into Linda's mouth.
In about five minutes, Sonja threw her head back. "I'm coming," she gasped, her eyes open wide in delighted amazement. "Oh, God, Mom, suck my pussy."
She shuddered, a small earthquake trembling over her body, and Edgar watched the flood of fluid gush out of her obscenely parted cunt and wash over Linda's face.
"JESUS!!!" Edgar moaned. His pelvis thrust forward with newfound strength, and that one thrust was enough to propel his overburdened load of cum through the length of his shaft and into Linda's desperate pussy.
Linda ground her buttocks against him as the hot jet of sperm glanced off her agitated, erect clitoris, stimulating her final orgasm. When she had finished moaning, grinding, writhing, she fell forward, allowing Edgar's cum-coated cock to slide free of her.
"Make you a deal," Linda gasped. "Don't mention this to my husband and I won't mention it to your wife."
"Deal," Edgar grinned, and they shook sweaty hands to seal the pact.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was after five when Margaret returned to the offices of Martin, Fletcher and Waskull. Winslow was already gone, as were most of the other lawyers, and nearly all of the paralegal and clerical staff. Margaret stumbled through the foyer to her office, passing a middle-aged woman carrying a stack of files in her cradled arms.
"My God, honey," the woman said, wide-eyed at Margaret's appearance. "You look terrible. Are you okay?"
"Fine," Margaret said, although it came out as something like a croak. The woman shrugged and passed through the doors to the cavernous filing room. Margaret eased her battered body into the chair behind her desk, and sagged.
When she had relaxed for a few minutes, she rolled a piece of paper into her typewriter and turned it on. She typed for fifteen straight minutes, never once tearing her eyes from the paper. She typed:
Edgar:
I am putting this down on paper because I can not bear to tell you face-to-face. I don't know what you will think of me once you read this. Please believe I did not mean for this to happen.
I suppose since you encouraged me to use the appearance of my body to get a job, you might just not mind the use of my body in the course of my job duties. But I never expected anybody to expect this type of thing from me. I feel tears rising to my eyes when I think of it. Yet what's done is done; there's nothing that can change it now.
Don Winslow, your old college buddy, assigned me to go to the home of a Mr. Jones, where I was to do some work. I expected to pick up some papers, perhaps do some dictation. At any rate, Don Winslow instructed me to do whatever was required of me by Mr. Jones.
The mysterious Mr. Jones lives in the ritzy part of town, and I was impressed with the homes in that neighborhood as I drove through the wide streets. I parked in front of his address, also impressed with the wealth boasted by Mr. Winslow's clients. I took a pencil, a pen and a steno pad, dropped them in my purse, and went to the door.
It was answered by a very tall, sturdy black man, who was as bald as an egg-he probably shaved his head, because he couldn't have been over 35, and was deliciously good-looking in that Caribbean way.
He grinned at me in a way that made me a bit nervous, and escorted me up a long staircase to what I thought would be the study. Instead, it turned out to be a master bedroom, replete with desk and office chair, and massive waterbed and antique furniture that must have cost Mr. Jones a small fortune (by now, of course, I realized that Mr. Jones was an alias, and that for some reason he did not want his real name known).
Jones rose from his desk, where he was doing some important-looking paperwork, and looked me over like he was judging a horse he might consider buying. Then he nodded. I looked behind me and saw the black man still there, leaning casually against a wall with his arms folded over his chest. He was smiling an approving smile.
"Take your clothes off," Jones said.
I stared at him, amazed at his nerve in making suck a request. "No," I told him, my voice high-pitched in its startled state.
Jones looked at the black, who took a long step toward me, reached out and slapped me backhanded across my face. It stung terribly, and I felt a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of my mouth down my chin.
"Don Winslow sent you, didn't he?"
Stunned, near tears,. I nodded.
"Then take your goddamn clothes off, and make it quick," he said. "You wouldn't want Roderick to hit you again, would you?"
I didn't, particularly because it seemed if Roderick hit me again, it would be quite harder than the simple slap he'd just given me. My hands and legs trembling with fear and confusion, I began stripping.
Jones was practically drooling by the time I had shed my skirt and blouse. I kicked my shoes off, and stood fearfully in my panties, brassiere, garter belt and stockings. I reached behind me to unclasp my bra, but Jones stopped me. He looked to Roderick, who was once again leaning against the wall, smiling happily. He nodded, apparently already familiar with the routine Mr. Jones enjoyed. Roderick yanked my arms back behind me, so hard I thought he'd broken them for a minute. He lifted them up over my head, where fully extended them came up to about his throat. Roderick must have stood close to seven feet tall.
Holding my wrists together, he bound them together with a long piece of nylon cord. My heart was pounding relentlessly, as my mind perceived thousands of possible horrors that could be awaiting me.
Jones pushed a button on his desk, and a hook descended from the ceiling by some electronic means. Roderick slipped my bonds into the hook, and Jones reversed the direction, and I was hoisted upward, a foot off the floor, and was left dangling there. "Please," I whimpered. "Don't hurt me."
Jones laughed at that.
I felt steel rods grip me from behind, and suddenly knew Roderick was holding me steady. Jones approached me (he was also tall-over six feet), and caressed my side, the curves of my hip and waist. He bent over just a little, and began licking at my belly, the tip of his tongue descending moist and warm into my belly button.
Nobody had ever done that to me before, and the effect was startling. I felt a gush of warmth overcome me, and heard a moan escape my lips. I was terrified but somehow I was also turned on!
I felt a vicious tug at my back, and felt my flimsy, lacey brassiere being torn off me. My breasts flowed out of the large cups, bounced free and suspended, my nipples turning stiff in the cool air of the bedroom.
I craned my neck and saw Roderick, who was laughing now, a deep rich laugh. He held the tattered remnants of my bra in his hand, and as I watched he flung it over his shoulder.
Jones was breathing heavily, and he pulled his tongue from my navel and began wildly tearing at my panties, garter and stockings. None of my sheer undergarments came off in one piece; I was scraped and scratched all over my legs from where his long, sharp nails tore at me as my stockings were shredded from my legs.
I was grimacing against the sharp shocks of pain, but when I looked down at myself and saw I was hanging from the ceiling completely naked, rivulets of blood hanging tenuously to the places he'd scratched me, I felt myself growing even more aroused. The animalish look in Jones' eyes, the guttural frenzy of noises that came from his throat, sent my vagina into a torrent of pleasure, and I split my legs apart so that the lubricants within me could escape. I felt the warm, sticky liquid trickling down my creamy thigh, and then down my leg.
The sight of my hairless pussy was what had made Jones a lustful pile of flesh and bone. Every move he made, every expression that crossed his face spoke of horniness, desperation to plunge his cock into whatever orifice of my body presented itself to him first.
Yet that was not what he did. He crouched between my splayed legs and burrowed his face up into my skin-covered cunt. His tongue, which is at least as long as the cocks of most men, skewered into me like a drill bit, and I found myself impaled on the thick hardness of his mouth muscle. And I found words were escaping my lips which I knew I should not have been saying.
"Tongue-fuck me, Mr. Jones," I whispered. I hunched my legs up over his head to support myself, because the ropes were binding painfully at my wrists. But with his tongue twisting and licking furiously at the interior flesh and pink tissue of my pussy, the pain in my wrists was the last thing I was aware of. I felt my fluids pouring out of my split open fissure, smearing onto his face as his teeth nibbled at the pouting lips of my cunt, seeking the throbbing button of my aching, erect clitoris.
I screamed as I felt my climax course through my veins, turning my nerve-endings into conduits of electric ecstasy. When I had quivered and trembled into the relaxed stages of orgasm, he pulled away, and I bounced down to the end of the rope again. He methodically, but hastily, shed his clothes. Behind me, I could hear Roderick doing the same.
Jones walked naked to a closet while Roderick's chocolate-black hands steadied me from behind, keeping me from rotating at the end of my bonds. I could feel his incredibly huge cock, already erect, nudging the fleshy cheeks of my buttocks-he wasn't trying to penetrate me; it was just so big that as he held me steady, he couldn't avoid poking me with the long spear-like black shaft.
Jones turned to face me, and I shivered from fear. In his hand, he held a long, black leather whip. I had heard, of course, that some people liked that kind of thing during sex, but I could never understand it.
"Now," Jones said.
Suddenly, I felt the cheeks of my buttocks being pried viciously apart, and the rock-like head of Roderick's cock plunged thickly up my anus. I screamed as his impaling thickness penetrated deeply up my tiny, tight hole, and felt the tears flowing from my eyes. He hadn't coated his cock with any lubricant of any kind, and in addition to being huge and thick, it was dry as desert sands. The pain in my rectal tube was intense, my anguish severe.
But when he withdrew and plunged again, the pain subsided enough for me to feel the pleasure of having such a thick, long male genital in me. At that point, suddenly, I would have taken him anywhere-in my mouth, up my pussy, between my mountainous breasts....
Jones cracked his whip expertly, and the flailed end of it caressed my breasts with a sharp pain. I looked down, through the tears that filmed over my eyes, and saw he had drawn no blood-just raised a hint of a white welt just above my stiff, throbbing nipple.
My clitoris was on fire, burning with a raging, wanton need for satisfaction. I was aware of pain in my wrists, but ignored it. The huge black cock up my ass, and the flicking whip that kissed my body with its tongue of fire, were sending waves of orgasmic electricity through me. I needed to come desperately, but there was nothing touching my clitoris. I would have fingered myself to a writhing orgasm, but my hands were tied and suspended above my head. I twisted and contorted, the frustration intense and deep-rooted.
"Fuck me, Jones," I said, my eyes begging him as well as my voice. "It all feels so ... so ... just come over here and put your cock up my pussy, or lick my clitty, or finger me, or use anything you can find. Please! Dammit, please, I need to come so bad."
He could have helped me, because his cock stood stiff and quivering out of his padding of grey-flecked pubic hair. He was turned on by the combination of activities: the whip, his monstrous black servant madly pumping my ass with his meaty, black cock, my shaved pussy jumping and crawling, the lips -rimmed with pink and quivering from desire....
"Oh, Jesus," I moaned, "please, please help me."
Finally, he stopped whipping me. My body, naked and covered with bruises and cuts, felt like it had been attacked by ants, each place the whip had struck me aching like an insect bite. He approached me, his cock still rigid and the blue veins protruding from the flesh of his shaft, the handle of the whip gripped tightly in his hand.
"Spread her legs," he told Roderick.
With his cock still pounding brutally between my round, firm cheeks, Roderick reached between my thighs and pulled them violently apart.
"So, you want to come, eh?" Jones said. "We'll see if we can accommodate you."
Behind me, I heard Roderick laugh, his laugh interspersed with the sound of his panting, gasping, moaning from the pleasure I was giving him. I imagined how the taut funnel of my anus must be encasing his cock with a vicious grip. I was anxious to feel his massive wad of jam spurt into my bowels, warming and lubricating my anal shaft.
Unexpectedly, Jones shoved the thick handle of his whip between the split sides of my pussy and jammed it with all his strength into my vagina. I screamed, the pain of the solid handle against my delicate interior being intense and horrid. He yanked it out, then shoved it in again, and again, and again.
The pain eased off, and I felt the taped handle sliding with incredible friction against the walls of my cunt, and jamming with amazing pressure against my pulsating clitoris each time he rammed the thing up into me. I was crying from pain, but gasping from ecstasy, when Roderick exploded. I felt his cock swell a full extra inch thick before he burst, and his strong fingers gouged deeply into the flesh of my thighs. He thrust hard, his cock plunging deeper up my tender asshole than anything had ever been before, and then I felt the wash of cum that filled me and soothed me.
It was enough, added with the next violent plunge of the whip handle, to send me into a screaming orgasm, so physical and active that the rope above me broke, and I fell to the floor, Roderick's meaty cock slipping out of me with a lurid plop as I fell. My hands, though, were still bound by the ropes.
My eyes were closed, watching the array of colors that flickered and blended and merged behind my tightly shut eyelids. That was why I didn't see Mr. Jones approach me. I felt, though, his rough hands grabbing me by my ears and hauling my head upward.
I opened my eyes in time to see his stiff erection growing like a missile approaching a camera headfirst. The next thing I knew, it was in my mouth, filling it. He wanted me, I realized, to suck his cock, give him head. I gagged loudly, and my tears began to stream once again down my face. All of the little pains that had been inflicted upon me grew, developing into one huge pain which wore heavy on my battered body. My anus was achingly sore. And now my throat had closed around the spongy crown of a thick, stiff cock. Sex has always been a mystery to me, even when I enjoy it immensely (as I seem to have been doing a lot lately), but taking an erection in my mouth has always been an alien concept to me.
"Suck it, you fucking bitch," Mr. Jones said.
I was afraid of what he would do if I failed to meet his requirements, so I sucked. I couldn't believe how far I had to unhinge my jaws to accommodate his thickness within my mouth.
"Look at her," Roderick laughed in his deep baritone Jamaican style. "She loves it."
In fact, I was beginning to enjoy it. I had gotten used to the fleshy, living genital between my lips; the gagging had stopped as I grew accustomed to the object in my throat. My lips worked hungrily at the shaft, until I felt his wiry pubic growth grind against my nose and chin, then felt the rush of warm stickiness shoot down my throat.
His cock yanked out of my mouth, and I felt the spray of hot male cum splatter across my face. His cock opened one more time, and the gush of semen dotted my huge breasts, and dripped slowly, warmly onto my stomach.
Later, after I had had a chance to rest, my bonds were cut loose. I was given new clothing, much more expensive than the clothes I'd come in with, and shown the door. As I slid into my car seat, slowly because of the pains and aches I was feeling, I felt something crinkle against my breasts. I reached into the cleavage of my mounds, and felt against the silk brassiere something made of paper, crisp and new. I pulled it out, and was shocked to see a one hundred dollar bill.
Margaret looked at what she had typed, and reread it several times. She also glanced at the fresh money that she had laid out on her desk, beside her typewriter.
She gathered up the sheets of paper, written to explain what had happened to her husband, and slowly tore them, first in half, then in quarters, and finally in eights. She watched the pieces flutter into her trash can.
She folded her arms and cried into them for a long time before she realized it was dark outside, and everybody had gone home except for the janitorial crews. She heard the vacuum cleaner running just outside her door.
She made a quick stop in the ladies room to dry her eyes, then, feeling as low as she ever had in her life, she walked out to her car and drove home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She had, she realized, been right to shred the letter that had been intended for Edgar.
"What happened to you?" he said, studying her bruises and her depressed posture when she came home. He was still in his bathrobe, some design boards spread before him on the living room floor. For some reason, he appeared inordinately happy.
"Nothing," she whispered, and started for the back of the house.
"Don sent you to one of his clients, didn't he?" Edgar hissed. "He keeps them happy, they keep him happy."
She whirled, and looked at him with daggers in her eyes. "You knew?" she said.
"Of course I knew. I didn't know he intended to use you for that, though." His tone was obvious; he was lying. Perhaps Winslow had never specified that he would use Margaret for that purpose, but unquestionably Edgar had guessed it.
Womanly fury billowed within her; womanly cunning and the instinct for self-preservation leapt to her breast. "What are you going to do about it?" she said.
He eyed her suspiciously. "Do about it?"
"You knew he sent his employees out for sexual favors. But you thought I was exempt. Isn't that what you said? Well, I wasn't exempt. Your friend...." she hissed the word like some vile, evil thing " ... sent me out to the home of a perverted little man with a huge, black servant. I was chained and whipped and abused...." She lost her composure. The tears began to stream down her cheeks, and her voice was choked with sobs.
Edgar approached her, carefully wrapped his arms around her. She pushed him away. "What are you going to do about it?" she whispered.
Edgar thought, thinking he had better think fast. He stammered uncomfortably for a minute, then blurted: "I guess I'll have to go see the son-of-a-bitch." There was no conviction in his voice.
"Why bother?" she said.
"Now what? I said I'd go see him."
"Jesus Christ, Edgar," she screamed, "I was practically raped. I had no choice, I couldn't just leave. And all you can suggest is that later sometime you'll have a little chat with your old buddy."
"Did they hurt you?"
"I'm bruised and I'm cut. Of course they hurt me.
"You mean you didn't like it."
"I...." The words choked off in her throat, and she wasn't sure what she was going to say anyway. "I should not have been subjected to that," she finally managed to say.
Edgar smiled, just barely noticeable, and turned back to his story boards. "I'll talk to Don," he said. "If you don't want to go through that, you shouldn't have to. We'll have a little chat." He paused a beat. "Later."
Sore and exhausted, Margaret turned and went to the bathroom. She soaked for what seemed an eternity in a tub she kept filling with fresh hot water. Her bruised, battered flesh was pruned when she finally forced herself out, and she didn't bother to towel herself dry before falling naked on her side of the bed. She was asleep instantly.
She didn't know how much time had passed when she felt Edgar's strong hand caressing the firm roundness of her buttocks. She kept her eyes closed. He urged his body against her, poking her thighs with the spongy crown of his erect cock. Still, she feigned sleep. Finally, he rolled over and pulled the covers up over his head.
She listened for a long time, and when his breathing was steady and slow, she rolled out of bed, pulled a blanket out of the closet in the hall, and slept on the couch, deeply, until he awakened her in the morning.
"Whatcha doing out here?" he said. "The last time I saw you, you were dead to the world."
"I ... had a nightmare," she said. "About three in the morning. I couldn't get back to sleep afterward, and I didn't want my tossing and turning to keep you awake."
He smiled gently down to her, from his perch on the top of the sofa. "So you're not still mad at me?"
She touched his chin. "No."
"Good. You've got to get ready, you're supposed to be at work in an hour. And I," he said proudly, "I have a job interview today."
"Good luck," she said. She was still so tired....
But she managed to shower and set her hair, dress and drive to the offices of Martin, Fletcher and Waskull. She sat in her car, though, long past the time she was supposed to be at her desk. Her heart chilled each time she thought of seeing Don Winslow. She still had not given a moment's thought to how she would deal with him, or if she would deal with him at all.
The other thing she had given no consideration to was quitting. How could she? If she quit, she and Edgar would lose the house. And after the house, what else would follow? How soon would it be before their marriage became a victim to economic conditions?
She moved only when she realized she could not sit still, inactive, any longer. If she didn't show up at her desk within a reasonable amount of time, she wouldn't have to quit. Don Winslow would have a perfectly just cause for firing her.
She was somber as she rode the elevator upstairs. The clock over the outer receptionist told her she was forty-five minutes late. She hurried to her desk, deposited her purse in the bottom drawer, and picked up a handwritten memo that had been left in her in-basket for her to type.
She was. halfway through it when Winslow opened his door and looked at her from within his office.
"Margaret?" he said.
She looked at him coldly, her fingers poised over her typewriter keys, ready to begin typing again at any instant.
"I'm sorry I'm late," she said. Her voice was a monotone.
"That's something you don't have to worry about," Don said, smiling at her. "None of the girls who work for me have to worry about coming in late. In fact, if you need a day off, just check with me. If I don't need you, then it's no problem."
"You snake," she said, her voice still a one-tone drone. "I'm your goddam secretary, and that's all I get paid for. It's all I'm going to do."
Surprised at herself at using foul language, she turned and resumed typing. She made three errors immediately, but continued anyway, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd rattled her.
"I don't expect you to do my kind of ... specialized work for a secretary's salary. You can, quite reasonably, too, expect to find your paycheck worth somewhere in the neighborhood of four times what you'd been expecting it to be."
Her fingers stopped moving. Four times ... she calculated quickly. That would mean her paycheck would be significantly larger than Edgar's had ever been.
And yet she would have to continue subjecting herself to whatever depraved degradations Don Winslow had dreamed up for her. And, she couldn't help wondering, would it mean opening her vagina to admit entrance to Winslow's maleness whenever the mood struck him?
She could barely remember what her life had been like a month ago, when Edgar hadn't a clue of his impending joblessness, and she had been happy keeping his home, watching Mrs. Thorpe's wild escapades, and participating in her few charities and clubs.
She went back to typing. Over three more errors, she said, "I wonder what the State Bar would think of your offer?"
She was gutsy saying it, but relatively sure she was also safe. If he fired her, even if Edgar objected, she would go to the D.A. and to the State Bar. He must know that.
All Winslow did was laugh. "You think about it. Think about that money, and while you're at it, darlin', think about Edgar." She heard the door close, and she thought she heard him chuckling behind it.
She kept up a frantic pace at the typewriter, never even going out to the lobby for coffee. At exactly noon, her phone rang. She picked it up, speaking into it coolly.
"Gina Brooks to see you, Mrs. Sanders."
She had so completely forgotten about her lunch engagement that she had to search her mind just to place the name. It struck her like one of those cartoon lights going on over her head. "Tell her I'll be right out!" she said, excited at the opportunity to see somebody who was not involved in the sordid dealings with which she had been involved.
It was odd, she thought, that at this particular moment a woman she barely knew seemed to be her closest friend in the world.
Gina was waiting near the elevator entrance in the lobby. She wore black: a black skirt that was cut in a 1940s style, with buttons up one leg. Her shirt was black; so was the sleek coat she wore over it. The silk stockings that adhered like paint to her legs were black. She had her hair bunned up on her head, a black forties hat atop that. A striking, blood-red ribbon was perched on the hat, as though to inform an observer that the black was to enhance her sexuality, not because she was in mourning.
"I'm so glad you came!" Margaret blurted.
Gina's face reflected her concern at seeing the bruises and whip-welts on Margaret's face (she had been sure to cover her shoulders). "What happened to you?"
"I'll tell you at lunch. It's why I'm glad you came. I've got to talk to somebody."
In Gina's car, there grew a moment of discomfort as they realized they truly did not know one another. Gina's car, to begin with, was a Rolls Royce. Margaret hadn't expected Gina to be wealthy.
Gina rattled off the names of a couple restaurants, none of which Margaret had ever heard. All of them sounded-and were-out of her and Edgar's price range.
"I ... doubt I could afford to pay at a place like that," she said, feeling slightly humiliated and somewhat disappointed as her feeling of elation began to seep from her like air from a balloon.
"Don't worry about it," Gina said lightly. "My treat."
"Oh, no, I couldn't...."
"Please," Gina said, turning down a street, having definitely made up her mind about a place to eat.
Margaret settled back in her seat, resigned and low. But Gina looked at her and patted her gently on her knee. "Now, now," she said. "I agreed to have lunch with you because, despite what happened in the office, you seem like a bright and cheerful person, and God knows I could use somebody cheerful in my life."
Gina looked over to her and smiled. And Margaret smiled back, laughing a bit, a grateful tear rushing from her ducts. "Me, too," she said. "Thanks."
Looking ahead but still smiling, Gina said, "Don't mention it."
Margaret was suitably impressed by the fashionable restaurant into which she and her friend walked. "If I'd known, I would have dressed," she said, self-conscious about her clothes.
"You're not on the East Coast, Maggie," Gina said. "You could wear your gardening clothes, and everybody would think it was trendy."
Margaret laughed, and marvelled at how good it felt.
It was after lunch, after coffee, when they were sitting back (Gina smoking a cigarette), when Margaret asked her: "On the way over here, you were talking about needing something to cheer you up. But all through lunch I haven't been able to get over how-how cheerful you already are."
Gina took that as a cue. She snuffed her cigarette out, and immediately lit another one. "I'll tell you, because I've never told anybody before and I think I'm going to go mad." She laughed nervously. "Please, if after I tell you, you think little of me, just leave. I'll understand."
Margaret shook her head. "What could be so horrible?"
"My brother and I are lovers," she said.
Margaret was stunned. She sat back in her chair, and tried to feel her fingertips.
"Do you hate me?" Gina said. A reflective sheen covered her eyes.
"I ... I don't know."
"It started a long time ago. Our parents were very strange, cruel people. As soon as my brother began showing signs of sexual awakening, they took every measure to be certain he did nothing to fulfill it. They hated each other, you see, and they looked at him as the only thing that kept them together, forced them to stay together. I was second, you see, and they figured they'd never have had me if Emil had not been born.
"They locked him away, brought a tutor in to educate him. He saw nobody. My parents were very rich, and they could easily afford to pull off this kind of warped imprisonment.
"I took him his breakfast one day. He attacked me, and took me there in his bedroom. Our ... father walked in as he was climaxing. He beat us both. And he said since we had defiled his home, we could live with each other, and with what we had done. He kept us locked together, like animals."
"My God," Margaret whispered. Her hand had crept protectively to her throat. "For how long?"
"Years," Gina croaked. "Three years."
Margaret remained mute, horrified.
"Then Father died. Mother let us out, and killed herself. Emil and I inherited the house, the holdings, the business. I wanted to sell my half and get away, but Emil wouldn't let me. There's a ... a loophole of some kind in the will. If I leave, the entire company goes into a trust. Neither of us get anything. Daddy's last little bit of sickness," she spat. "He made us stay together after he left."
Margaret watched the tortured face of the woman in black.
"And Emil can't...." She choked. "He can't have sex with anybody but me now. He's been so ruined by his childhood."
"And you....?" .
Gina smiled. "I'm stronger than Emil is. I long to escape, to leave it and see if, God willing, I could forget some of it. I know I could have a healthy relationship, given the opportunity. Emil would fall apart. Money's become an important part of it, too. Having anything he's wanted has helped cushion the shock. If I left, the money would be gone and he'd die. I just know he'd die."
They sat in silence for a while, then Gina regained her composure. "You're still here, so you must not hate me," she said.
"Hate you? Of course not. It ... it made me realize how small my own problems are."
"Goodness!" Gina said. "Your problems were how we got started, and I never even listened."
Since Gina had been so open and candid with her, it was easy for Margaret to be equally frank with her. She slowly, elaborately poured out the incidents that had transpired since Edgar had come home with his bitter news. And, somehow, she managed to remember enough of her life before that to spell out what it had been like, and why she felt so empty and alone.
"Your problem sounds so much easier," Gina said. "Divorce your husband. I can find you a job where you will be expected to perform only the job itself. And I can help you get into school, work for a degree. I, personally, have a Master's in Business Administration. You can shame your husband with the money you'll be making in five years."
Margaret shook her head. "I can't."
"Because you love him, right? He knows what you're going through. It's obvious he doesn't care. You see that, don't you?"
"He's not been himself, not lately. He's worried about our future, and he's not behaving rationally. But he'll be all right."
"If you say so," Gina sighed. "But my offer is open. We're intimate friends now, Maggie. I expect to see you again, and if you ever decide to leave your Edgar, I intend to ... to sponsor you."
"Why?" Margaret said.
"Because ... maybe I can help you escape and lead a good life. The one I never had."
Margaret smiled. "You're very kind."
They drove slowly back to the office, parking in the underground garage because the street parking was filled. "Lunch was delicious."
"Your company was delicious," Gina said. And, without warning, she lay her hands on Margaret's shoulders and drew her close.
Margaret yielded to her urging, and felt her soft breasts mold tautly against the small pillows that blossomed from Gina's chest. She felt warm, comforted, the way she did when her mother used to hold her close, oh, so long ago.
She rested her hand on the flat of Gina's belly and sighed as Gina pressed her lips against Margaret's neck, moving her warm, lipstick-coated kisses slowly across her throat.
Gina was tender, delicate. She treated Margaret with respect, knowing that Margaret had feelings, too. Her caresses were gentle, smooth hands gliding lovingly across the length of Margaret's arms, across her knees, along her throat and against the billowing cleavage that rose and fell with her excited breath.
"Kiss me," Gina begged.
Margaret turned her face willingly up to Gina's, watched contentedly as Gina's face merged downward, her lips coating Margaret's mouth, her warm tongue infiltrating her mouth, tasting slowly, relishing each instant of their act of love.
Margaret felt her zipper being undone behind her back, and she writhed erotically out of the sleeves. Her brassiere, she felt, followed it, and with her eyes closed she felt a warm glowing around the nipple of one of her orbs of breast flesh, and the moist, flaccid tip of a tongue circling arousingly around it, shooting bolts of lovely, comforting heat into her breast.
Gina's hand slid between Margaret's thighs, and with a deep, satisfied sigh, Margaret let her legs fall delicately apart. "I feel so safe with you," Margaret said.
"I feel free with you," Gina murmured, then licked downward, tasting the bodily fluids that congealed unseen on Margaret's luscious, creamy belly skin.
Her hand crept beneath the elastic strap at the top of her panties, slid down along her thigh, pulling the panties down with it. Margaret gyrated slowly, helping the panties on their way down below her knees.
Gina pulled her skirt up over her belly, exposing her glistening pussy vulva to the warm, moist underground air.
"I shave it," Margaret gasped, her heart pumping and her head filled with nothing but relaxation and pleasure.
Gina stopped for an instant, then said, "Lovely." Her tongue glided from Margaret's belly onto her vulva, the tongue licking gently, languishedly over the closed lips of her cunt. She traced the slit down between her thighs, which Margaret spread further, willingly. Gina licked back and forth, the tip of her tongue prodding at Margaret's puck-ringed anus, then gliding back up to her sealed fissure.
Nobody had ever aroused more passion in Margaret. Her juices churned madly within her, and what felt truly like sparks shot from the region of her vagina throughout her belly.
"Oh, yes," she said, rubbing her fingers wildly through Gina's short, severe hair. It may have been short, but it was rich and thick, and seemed to radiate warmth of its own.
After licking back and forth for what seemed forever, Gina finally thrust her spear-like tongue into the closed fissure of her slick cunt. Margaret's lips made a peeling sound as her lips were pried open by Gina's plunging tongue. The tongue shoved inward, licking tenderly as it went, flexing the cuntal walls by which it passed, until Gina had no more tongue to stick in.
"Oh, my God, tongue me, Gina, ahgggghhhh, I feel so ... so...."
Gina's tongue writhed within her, twisted, withdrew, thrust, licked at heady fluids that were flowing from Margaret's now gaping fissure into Gina's gaping thirsty mouth. Her moves were perfect, for who knows better what a woman would want than another woman? And Gina had for so long been denied the pleasures she wanted, she anxiously and devotedly lavished them on the woman she saw as possibly carrying on the life she so desperately wanted, yet knew she could never have.
Margaret, moaning meaningless words amidst her gasps and grunts, writhed her moist thighs against Gina's face, and climaxed in an explosion that so overwhelmed her she was not able to scream. Her eyes opened and she was muted by the intensity of the pleasure her orgasm gave her.
And yet she had such energy left. She rose quickly, still glowing and numb from the climax, and pushed Gina down, spread her legs and pushed her tight dress up to her cunt. She wriggled the panties off, and used her finger to quickly find her way through her fabulous, puffy mound of pubic hair to her moistened, slickened slit. Then, coning her tingling breast in her hand, she slid it between the slit, poking the nipple into Gina's pussy.
"Maggie, my God!" Gina said, amazed at her friend's boldness, then gasped, unable to speak any more.
Margaret, manipulating her breast like a flaccid vibrator, had found Gina's clitoris, and her nipple wiggled against it. Gina tossed her head back, her creamy throat glistening from the sweat that coated it.
Margaret wriggled her breast madly, still feeling the aftershock of the orgasm, so intense it seemed that she had never truly experienced one before. She wiggled until Gina thrust her hips upward, her eyes screwed shut, and she moaned: "I'm coming, damn, Maggie, without Emil, I feel ... so free ... I feel ... I'm coming, I'm coming...."
And she lurched grandly, once, and collapsed back in a gasping, quivering heap.
Half an hour later, Margaret, smiling, but confused, walked Into her office. As soon as she was seated, Don opened his door and looked in. "Long lunches are okay, too," he said.
"I'm still thinking," she said. She was, truly, confused.
"Fine," Don said. He tossed an envelope on her desk. "Do your thinking in the city. Those are train ticket and hotel reservations at the Hotel Mayfair. There's a convention of the Bar going on over there, and I have to be in court. I want you to attend the sessions circled in the brochure in the envelope, and take a lot of notes. Savvy?"
She nodded at him. At least, she thought, it was a respectable duty, for which she would earn her pay.
Don went into his office, and dialed his phone.
It rang. "Edgar?" he said.
"Yes?" Edgar's voice was hesitant, tentative.
"It's all set. She'll be there."
"You sure this is the right thing?"
"How'd your job interview go?"
"Lousy."
"It's the right thing," Don said. "You said you didn't mind the idea of other men sleeping with her."
"No," he said. "I don't."
"Then be there. We'll take care of everything." Don hung up, and lit one of his Cuban cigars, feeling pretty good about things.
CHAPTER NINE
Margaret lay calmly on her bed, worn out but reasonably happy for the first time in a long time.
No, she decided, she would not give up her life for Gina, even if Gina were to accept a stipulation of no sex. As much as she tried, she could feel no regret for her sexual interlude with Gina. It had warmed her, made her feel that somebody cared, left her happy and free of the troubles that had plagued her. But she had to make it on her own.
And, it seemed, Don would let her. She had been at the Bar meeting two nights, and had seen nothing of Don. She had talked on the phone three times to Edgar, and he said he missed her. That was all. Just that he missed her. Sure, guys had tried to pick her up at the bar, but that had been okay. That was to be expected. But nobody had expected her to perform because that was her duty, or her job. All the offers had been put to her as a question-"Wanna come up to my room; we'll order a bottle of champagne and have some fun?"
She could say no without offending, without getting into trouble. Everything, it seemed was working out.
She was drifting into sleep. She didn't mean to. She wanted to go downstairs, find some of the people she'd been meeting and have some intelligent, worthwhile conversation. But she was exhausted. Like a cat, she kept drifting off and snapping herself awake, only to drift off again.
There was a knock on her door.
She awakened quickly, her heart thumping. In her stocking feet she dashed to the door, and yanked it open. A distinguished-looking gray-haired man, about fifty, wearing an expensive three-piece suit stood there, holding a Homburg in his hand.
"Yes?" she said.
"You are Margaret Sanders," he said. "Yes," she said. "I am."
"I'm Judge Harrigan," he said. "Morris Harrigan. Don Winslow sent me. Surely, he told you."
"No," she said, her heart continuing to hammer now, though not at being startled awake. "He said nothing."
The judge smiled. "That's all right," he said. "I like spontaneity." He stepped in.
"Just a minute," Margaret said, but the judge wasted no time. His hands cupped her massive breasts, kneading them roughly, brutally, like a man starved of sex for a decade or more, and used her bruised orbs to push her backward, pinning her helplessly against the wall.
His mouth covered hers, her tongue withdrawing in anticipation of his thrusting inward in search of it. And "it came, twisting in, long and thick, found hers and fenced lewdly with it at the same time his hand managed to wriggle up her dress, down her panties and into the fleshy vulva of her cunt.
"I've been needing this for weeks," he gasped as he pulled away, and he roughly threw her on the bed, and unzipped his pants, pulling his virile erection out and holding the pulsating, vein-lined shaft in his shaking hand.
"I'll scream," Margaret gasped. "I'll tell them you raped me, so help me."
The judge leered at her. "He was right," he sneered, and approached her, restraining her kicking legs and holding them apart with one hand, holding his cunt-thirsting cock with the other.
"Who?" she screamed.
When she tried to get off the bed, with him firmly entrenched between her thighs, he slapped her briefly across her face and shoved her back on the mattress. "Don said you needed a lesson." Holding her legs apart, gazing hungrily at her bare pussy. She felt the crown rub roughly against her moistened slit, then without prelude or even a hint of foreplay, he crammed his shaft deep into her, and as soon as his thick, skewering erection had filled her, until his fuzz-coated balls slapped on the bottoms of her buttocks, he pulled out, so that the head of his cock rested in the nest of her fissure, then shoved in again. Like a ramrod he assailed her cunt with his pulsating pole, smacking her pelvis with his as he humped madly against her.
"Is she learning, Don?" the judge grunted. She wondered what he was talking about, until she heard Don Winslow's voice answer, "She's learning, your honor, but I think she needs a stronger lesson."
She wrenched her body and was able to see Winslow standing in the archway that led to the bathroom. She was not able to disengage herself from the lock of the judge's cock, though.
"Hello, Margaret," Don said. "I thought it was about time you and I came to an understanding." The judge's mad humping had slowed. "Oh, by all means, your honor, continue. We intend to join you momentarily."
We? she thought, panic welling in her.
"You should accept our business arrangement, Margaret," Don said. He had a drink in his hand, which he swirled around. "After all, Edgar has."
Edgar, she thought. My God. Gina was right.
Edgar's head appeared over Don's shoulder, a stupid grin plastered to his face. He was drunk.
"After this, Margaret, you'll see the sense of our arrangement. It's easy, it's fun, it's profitable. And if you walk away from it, you lose everything. Your job, your income, your house, your husband, and even your self-respect." He unzipped his pants, and slipped out of them like a man who had practiced the move often. His erection butted against the thin fabric of his expensive underwear.
"You'll enjoy this," Don said. "Don't worry."
He disappeared behind her, and after an instant she felt herself being pushed onto her side. The judge remained between her legs, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh to hang on, his hips still whamming mercilessly into her, his cock seeming to grow thicker and harder inside her as it battered her worn, sore pussy.
Don's fingers pried into the flesh of her ass, pulling her fleshy cheeks apart. No, she thought. Oh, please, no.
It was, she guessed, inevitable. As pain swept through her, Don positioned the head of his cock against the button of her rectum. His hands crept around and found her mountains of breasts, latched onto them for support. Then he thrust his pelvis forward, plunging his thick cock up the funnel into the depths of her bowels.
"NO!" she screamed. Don's meatiness glided out, then in again. The moisture from her pussy was dripping slowly, like a newly-formed river, onto his shaft, lubricating it with each thrust he took up her tender asshole.
Something warm brushed against her face.
She opened her eyes, and focused on the image of a third erect penis, less than inches from her face She shifted her focus, changed her depth of field, and saw Edgar drifting far above her, leering drunkenly at her. "Four years," he slurred. "Four years I've been married to you, you know how often you've sucked my cock? My favorite thing, sexually, and you're such a goddamn fuckin prude you get uptight when I put my finger up your ass. Look what's up your ass now, Maggie. And look what's going in your mouth."
He wagged his straining erection at her before forcing it between her gasping lips, pushing it deep into her mouth, along her wet tongue into the back of her throat. She gagged, and flailed her arms wildly, trying to find something to hold on to. She found her husband's naked, hair-covered buttocks, and held on.
She found herself, to her surprise, sucking. As if it was the natural thing to do, she was sucking the cock thrust against her will into her mouth. And squeezing, sensuously, the muscular, taut buttocks in her hand. She was undulating as well, writhing against the cocks plunging into her in time, the four of them picking up a steady, erotic rhythm.
Her cuntal walls encased the cock within her, clinging to it as it withdrew, preparing for yet another assault. They squeezed and tugged, while she hunched her buttocks, squeezing the cheeks together and relaxing them as Don's testicles bounced off them.
Her rectum was tight, achingly tight, and Don was the first to achieve his orgasm. His back stretched farther than any doctor could have guessed it would stretch, his muscles tightened, pulling his skin tight over them. His balls turned to fire, his cock burst, his semen exploded forth, washing hotly over her bowels, where semen was not meant to go. She groaned as she felt the unnatural heat, arousing deeper traces of animal sexuality within her.
The moan vibrated against her husband's cock, and he arched his hips forward, his own semen filled her mouth, hot and salty, she swallowed it down wondering, why had she not tried it before, it tastes so good.
Edgar withdrew his limp, sapped erection from her mouth and watched her. She had rolled on her back, taking the judge between her legs and humping him up and down, keeping his erection stiff and throbbing within her, until he finally shuddered.
"Look at her now," Don said, lighting a cigarette. "She likes it. She loves it."
She threw her head back as the judge's cargo of sloshing cum shot off her bloated clitoris and rushed into the tunnel of her vagina. She screamed, and every sinew of her body vibrated madly against the rhythm of the orgasm surging through her.
The judge rolled off, gasping.
Margaret stared at the ceiling, smiling. Her entire body ached. Her cunt burned from so much use recently, following such normal husband-wife activity before. She could hardly stand pressure on her buttocks, for the soreness of her recently-invaded rectum. Her breasts throbbed.
"Now," Don said, "you belong to us."
She smiled wider, her teeth showing now. Cooling semen dried on the corner of her mouth. "Bullshit," she said.
Edgar looked at her. "What?"
"Fuck you," she said. "All of you." She seated herself, fighting off the waves of pain, and began to dress.
"Where do you think you're going?" Edgar shouted.
"Away," she answered. "Away from you. I'm willing, you see," she said, turning her attention to Don, "to give it all up. The house, the husband, the job, all of it. All but the self-respect. I've still got that. Why not? Because you put it to me every way possible without jerking off on me while I was tied up?" She grinned again. "Bullshit. I let you think you had me, but now I get to watch while you all wallow in your own depravity."
She finished dressing. Edgar tried to block her on the way out.
"Forget it, Edgar," Don said. "We can do everything but break the law."
"That's funny, coming from you," Margaret said.
Edgar pleaded. "I love you, baby. I was weak. Scared. But, I'll get a job. The hell with Don, please, come home."
Courage surging through her, she tensed herself, then sailed a clenched fist into his stomach. The wind rushed out of him. While he was doubled over, she walked out.
She'd revised her plans. She would call Gina, explain that as much as their episode in the Rolls had meant, she was not meant to be a lesbian. If she was still interested in friendship, and help, then Margaret would also help her.
She felt free. She was sure she would feel freer after a bath and a good night's sleep.
