Simmons was in no hurry. He pulled up a barrel chair and sat down. "Warm her up for me, girls," he said. With a sort of languid eagerness, Vivian wiggled out of her jeans and approached the helpless victim on the floor. Beside her, Zelda licked her lips and ran her fingers through her thick red hair. Betty finished stripping her golden body and joined them. Few words were spoken. Outside the cabin, the noon heat had silenced the birds; inside, it was silent, too, but it was from another kind of heat--the heat of criminal lust.
PART ONE: ABDUCTION
CHAPTER ONE
Simmons spotted her the moment she entered the store. She was very young, but her big, pale tits ballooned breathtakingly above the deep, wide neckline of her minidress with that wonderful, fluid firmness seen all too seldom on even older and heavier-built girls. Her dress had no waist--it gathered just beneath her tits--but it concealed the slimness of her hips no better than it hid the voluptuousness of her bosom. It was made of thin, purple material with red and green psychedelic swirls, and it rippled with sensual flutters well above mid-thigh. Even in the still air the garment seemed alive, as though responding to some warm summer breeze which had followed her in from the street, and which seemed always just about to lift the dancing skirt on a mischievous updraft.
From his observation booth, Simmons could watch the entire main floor, but now he watched only the girl with the coal-black hair and the billowing chest. She walked straight up the center aisle, her deep-creased breasts rising and falling deliciously with every step. By the time she reached the lingerie counter almost directly below his slot, Simmons' cock was iron-hard and jumping in his pants. He braced his binoculars against the polarized glass. She wore a bra, but it was light-weight and sheer and did not prevent the bumps of her nipples from showing through the thin dress; when she leaned over the counter, he could almost see them.
"Hey, Henry, don't work so hard. I brought you a cup of coffee."
"Huh?" He hadn't even heard the door open behind him. It was Mauna, one of the salesgirls. "Oh, hi, Mauna. Jesus, don't sneak up on me like that."
"Here, you better drink this. You were talking to yourself."
"What I'm looking at would make any man talk to himself. Come here and get a load of the tits on this little girl."
"Henry, you're such a lecher." Mauna leaned over the slot. "Nice," she said after a moment, "but she's too young for you. Why don't you pick on somebody your own age?"
Simmons looked at her. "You, for instance?"
"Maybe." She sat down on his desk and crossed her heavy but shapely legs, giving him a quick shot of her panties. "If I wore a dress like that, I bet I could turn you on, too. I'm not exactly flat-chested, you know."
Simmons grinned at her big, round tits. "By God, you're right, Mauna," he said. "You and I'll have to get together sometime."
"We already have. Don't you remember? In the coat room at the Christmas party?"
"Oh, so that was you!"
"You son of a bitch."
Simmons laughed and turned back to the slot. The girl had several lacy bras tucked under her arm and was now going through the panties. Simmons noticed that she picked only the sheer bikini type.
Mauna drummed her fingers impatiently on the desk. Finally she stood up and went to the door. "Well, I know when I'm not wanted," she said.
"Have fun, Henry."
"Yeah, I'll see you later, Mauna," he replied without taking his eyes off the girl below. "Thanks for the coffee."
But instead of leaving, Mauna locked the door and unbuttoned her blouse. She hesitated, looking down at her tits, then up at Simmons, who was hunched over the little window. Then she shrugged her shoulders, slipped out of the blouse and removed her bra.
The black-haired girl was holding a tiny pair of translucent blue panties. The pressure of her forearms forced her tits together so that the crease between them deepened and lengthened, nearly reaching her collarbone, their upper swells spilling brazenly out the top of her dress. Thinking Mauna was gone, Simmons unzipped his fly, took out his cock and stroked it slowly, muttering to himself.
"Fuck me, Henry!" Mauna's hot whisper seared his ear.
"Goddamn, Mauna!" Her bare breasts jiggled against his face. "What if Mr. Harmond should..."
"He's gone home." She bent over his chair and swung her big button-tipped tits back and forth before his eyes. "Anyway, the door's locked. Oh, Henry, please! Don't you know I got the hots for you, honey! Come on, gimme a quick one!" As she rubbed her tits in his face, she took his big stiff prick between her palms and began polishing its throbbing trunk. Simmons slipped his hands under her skirt and pulled her panties down. Mauna reacted by bunching her skirt around her waist and thrusting her bushy cunt in his face. He nuzzled among the thick brown curls, then stood up.
"Okay, baby, you want to fuck, we'll fuck. Drape your ass over that desk."
She sat on the edge of the desk and spread her legs wide, running her fingers along the slippery lips of her open crack. "like this?" she breathed.
"No." He jerked her around. "This way."
"Backwards?"
"That's right. Hurry up."
"But I want to look at you, Henry. Can't we do it on the floor or..."
"Look, you want to fuck?"
"Yes, honey but...."
"Then bend over and shut up."
She obeyed. Simmons dropped his pants and stepped behind her broad white ass, guiding his cock into her hairy slit and sinking it to the balls on the first stroke. She stifled a scream when he hit bottom, but began to moan and chant as it slid in and out. "Oh, that feels so good ... so good ... Yeah, stick it in all the way ... Oh, ah, ah ... harder, harder!"
To Simmons this was nothing but a more satisfying way to masturbate while he watched the big-titted child at the lingerie rack. He was close enough to the spy turret to look through the slot without taking his hands from Mauna's chest. He imagined it was the girl's tits he played with, not Mauna's. Just as the big blonde's cunt began to lurch into its orgasm, the girl bent forward and gave Simmons the most breath-taking view yet, her pale, swelling melons almost falling out of her neckline. With a grunt of excruciating longing, he pumped his load into Mauna's convulsing belly.
The girl tossed her long ponytail over her shoulder and picked up a sheer, black baby-doll nightgown, examining the tiny fringed G-string that was pinned to it. She glanced around-nervously, it seemed-and headed for the dressing rooms.
Simmons wiped his cock on the tail of Mauna's blouse and jerked up his pants. The blonde was still sprawled over the desk, limp and panting, the naked cheeks of her broad butt slick with perspiration. When she heard Simmons unlock the door, she lifted her head.
"Hey, where y'going?"
"To work, what else? Can't fuck around all day, you know."
"Work, my ass. You're going to watch that little girl undress, aren't you?"
"That's my job, honey. Wanta come?"
"I already came," she panted, dropping her cheek to the blotter again.
Simmons laughed. "Wait for me if you like," he said. "I'll be back."
As he hurried up the corridor outside his office, he was amazed at his undiminished lust for the young beauty downstairs. My prick is still hard, he thought.
He rushed down the narrow staircase and crept along the passageway behind the dressing rooms. It was near closing time, and all the rooms were empty, except one. He got there just in time to see her stepping out of her dress. Only the full-length, two-way mirror separated them, and the sight of those bulging thinly veiled tits at such close range made him catch his breath and stiffen all over. Her black bush bristled vividly through her white, translucent panties, a sparse strip of curls bordering her sweet little slit and spreading only slightly at the crest of the hump. From head to toe, her smooth white skin was clear and unblemished. It was a wonder she didn't hear Simmons' heavy breathing behind the glass.
It wasn't until the girl removed her sunglasses that he realized just how young she really was. Her face, like the rest of her body except for her overdeveloped breasts, was narrow and delicately boned. Her nose was straight, without a dip at the bridge, and her high cheekbones and small, almost pointed chin accentuated the fullness of her pale, violet lips.
But it was her eyes-her big, dark, almond-shaped eyes-that really captured Simmons. For all their Oriental sensuality, those dark pools had such depth of purity to them, such youthful innocence, that he was severely shaken by the sight of them. If her tits gave a generous quality of voluptuous sexuality to her otherwise frail and immature body, her eyes had just the opposite effect: there was something spiritual about them, something ancient and inviolable.
The moment she faced the mirror and looked straight into Simmons' eyes, all his vague thoughts came into clear focus, and a cold smile crept over his face. It was the moment it all began.
Still facing the mirror, the girl unhooked her bra and dropped it on the bench. Even without support, her tits hung high and firm, the dark nipples standing out stiffly from the prominent, pale-umber areolae. It was no wonder they showed through her dress.
She put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath, smiling at the reflection of her bare bosom as it swelled to amazing proportions. She turned sideways and admired her profile, lifting the big tits and letting them fall. She bounced on her tiptoes to watch their resilient jounce, and shook them and stroked them. Obviously they had only recently reached their present size; she was like a child playing with two wonderful, new birthday presents.
When she stepped out of her panties, Simmons got down on his knees so that his face was level with her pussy. Briefly she examined her nude body in the mirror, then bent over the pile of bras and panties she had brought in. She selected a black net bra and hooked it around her chest. The cups were cut so low that her puffy areolae bulged above the tops. The thin net was tightly stretched over her mouth-watering tits. She raised her arms over her head, cocked her hip and smiled seductively at her image in the glass, almost immediately breaking into a childish giggle, which sent chills of excitement up Simmons' spine.
She picked up a pair of black net panties from the pile and stepped into them. Again she faced the mirror with a sexy grin, one hand on her hip, the undersides of her tits looming heavily overhead. Her high-pitched, girlish half-whisper startled him out of his trance.
"Hi, Tommy. How do you like my new bra? Sexy, huh? You think my tits are too big, Tommy? I can't help it, you know. Sure, you can touch them, if you want..."
When she stepped close to the mirror and touched her nipples to the glass, Simmons got to his feet and flattened his palms against the other side. She brought her lips close and whispered, "Oh, I love you so much, Tommy! Kiss me, kiss me!"
Only a quarter of an inch of glass separated their parted lips, their extended tongues, her tits and his chest, her humpbacked cunt and his throbbing cock.
With a sudden "Oh!" her lips jerked away from the glass, leaving a smear of saliva and lipstick, and for a moment Simmons feared he had betrayed his presence. But apparently the girl was simply overcome by her pubescent fantasies, because she fell back onto the bench facing Simmons and, plunging her hand into the net panties, began to play with herself vigorously.
She spread her legs wide and stared with open mouth at the reflection of her crotch as her middle finger worked its frantic, circular massages in her parted slit. With her other hand she jerked the lacy bra straps off her shoulders and popped her tits out of the cups. Her head fell back against the wall of the cubicle, and her beautiful legs opened to their maximum spread as her hand moved passionately from one big tit to the other, squeezing, lifting, stroking, rolling the stiff nipples between her fingers, never breaking the steadily increasing tempo of her masturbation.
It was almost more than Simmons could take. His cock was in his hand, and they were jacking off together, he and the girl. It hadn't been ten minutes since Simmons had stuck it to Mauna, but when her naked tits began to bounce and her feet lifted off the floor, her thighs jerking and twitching spastically, he shot his load against the back of the mirror as if he hadn't had a release in a week. Blob after blob of thick, white come splattered against the glass, running heavily to the floor. He thought it would never stop. Even when the girl went limp on the bench and her head fell to the side, it kept coming, splatting so loudly against the window that she would surely have heard it if she hadn't been panting so hard.
But even at the peak of this strength-sapping orgasm, Simmons never lost touch with the decision he had made when he first looked into those innocent eyes. Far from becoming fuzzy with passion, his thinking became crystal clear. As the last drops shot from his loins, the framework of his scheme completely solidified in his mind. All that remained were the details-time, place, circumstance.
At last the girl stood. Her legs were shaky, and she glanced sheepisly at the mirror, avoiding her own eyes as if she were ashamed of herself. She tucked her tits back into the bra cups, pulled up the straps and stepped unsteadily into her dress. Simmons leaned back against the rear wall of the passageway and wiped his prick with his handkerchief, smiling coldly as he watched the girl stuff her own underwear into her purse. She was making it too easy for him.
He didn't wait for her to gather up the rest of the lingerie and take it back to the counters. That wasn't necessary. He zipped his fly and went back up the stairs to his office.
"Mauna, what the hell are you doing here?
You're gonna get your ass fired."
"I don't give a shit," she said without taking her cigarette from her lips. "You told me to wait for you, remember?" She was sitting in Simmons' chair with one foot on his desk, her short skirt bunched up around her broad hips. She had put her bra and blouse back on, but her panties were still draped over the back of a chair. The first thing Simmons saw when he stepped in was her big, bushy gash gaping obscenely at him, all its inner parts on display. Ordinarily he would have readily accepted such an invitation, but now he hardly glanced at her.
"Who do you think I am, Superman? Come on, get the fuck outa here, Mauna. I'm going home."
"You're not off for an hour yet. And don't talk to me like that. Was that girl stealing?"
"No. Move your foot." He crammed his daily report sheets into a drawer and locked it.
"Sure took you a long time to find out. How'd she look up close? Freaky, I'll bet."
"Yeah, freaky as all hell, Mauna. Now will you put these on, please." He stuffed her panties into the front of her bra. "And get your sweaty ass out of my chair?"
She jumped up and threw herself on him, embracing him and frantically clawing at his fly. "Oh, Henry, come on, fuck me again, please! I don't care if you're mean to me, just fuck me, Henry! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! Anyway you like honey, any..."
He forced her away from him, holding her by the bra, and gave her a sharp slap across the face. But that seemed to make her hotter.
"Hit me again, Henry, hit me harder! Beat me, screw me!"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Mauna! What are you on, Spanish Fly or something?" He released her with a little backward shove, grabbed his coat and opened the door. "Come on, button your blouse and get outa here before I lock your ass in."
Glumly, she obeyed. When she had stepped into her panties and smoothed down her skirt, she pressed her tits against his chest. "Will you beat me sometime, Henry?" Her voice was charged with passion. Simmons looked at her with disgust.
"You're a pervert, Mauna, you know that?"
Her eyes blazed. "What about you? Babyfucker!"
Simmons hit her between the tits with the heel of his fist, and her butt hit the floor with a heavy thud. For a moment he hovered over her, his eyes cold and hard.
He took his office keys from his pocket and dropped them onto the dark hump of her cunt.
"Lock the door when you come out," he said.
CHAPTER TWO
As he left the store, Simmons saw the girl at the cashier's counter, paying for the black nightie. He went into the drugstore and bought a pack of cheroots.
He had timed it just right. When he hit the street, the girl was walking toward the lake. She seemed in no hurry, stopping from time to time to look at a window display or a theater marquee.
Simmons stayed abreast of her across the street, watching her reflection in the windows until he reached his car.
It was getting dark fast, but even when the girl passed beyond the brightly lit stores and walked briskly into the blue twilight, he had no trouble following her progress: Her pale arms and legs shone as though with a phosphorescent glow. When she turned left at the next corner, crossed the street and entered the park, Simmons knew where she was going.
As he unlocked his car, the attendant called to him from the office. "Little early tonight, ain't ya, Mr. Simmons?"
"Yeah, I couldn't take any more today, Charlie."
"Ha, ha! I know what y'mean, man!"
Simmons waved casually and said, "See you Monday, Charlie," as he drove past the office and turned into the alley. He pulled into the street, took a left at the next corner and started down the narrow street that bordered the park.
When he reached the unlighted cul-de-sac at the seawall, he stopped the car and got out. It was very quiet. Except for the dull roar of the town traffic, there was only the gentle slap-slap of waves against the wall and the distant piping of a feeding nighthawk. Simmons knew this was the last time he would be able to hesitate. If he went beyond this point, everything would have to be precise and definite. There could be no turning back. But there was not really an "if" involved, not anymore. It was just a matter of a moment's pause.
Sheila Sayyid walked briskly past the shuffle-board courts and up the lighted walk that wound through the palm trees to the public rest rooms. She paused beside the drinking fountain and looked nervously over her shoulder. There was no one in sight. Later she remembered seeing the red arc of a cigar ash sailing over the seawall, but at the time she paid no attention to it and went into the women's room.
She stood before the mirror and adjusted the pink bow at the base of her pony tail, turning sideways to reappraise her busty profile. She pressed her palms against her flat belly and inhaled deeply, smiling at the result. She placed a forefinger on each nipple and frowned at the way they protruded through the thin material of the purple dress. Then she giggled and squeezed her tits lovingly, pressing them together so that the crease of her cleavage extended to her throat.
Sheila unzipped the back of her dress and started to take it off before the mirror, but thought better of it and went into a toilet stall, latching the gate behind her. She placed her package on the floor and took the panties and bra from her purse, draping them over the water closet. She didn't want to wear the stolen garments back to the apartment-it would look suspicious if her aunt noticed the change from white to black underwear. She had just stepped out of her dress when a man's hand gripped the top of the stall door and jerked it open, tearing the metal latch from its socket.
Simmons drew his badge from his coat pocket. "Store detective, miss," he said coldly. "Carstein's. I believe you forgot to pay for those."
Sheila was speechless. She tried to cover herself with her dress as she backed up against the toilet. Her blood had turned ice cold. She trembled like a trapped animal.
"Take them off, please," Simmons said.
Sheila opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
"Would you like me to take them off for you?" he said threateningly, pocketing his badge.
At last the girl found her voice. Maybe it was the way Simmons' eyes darted up and down her body. Maybe she realized that he was a man as well as a cop. "If ... if I do, will you just ... can't you just take them back and ... and..."
"And forget about it?"
She nodded her head.
"Maybe," said Simmons, reaching out for the dress. "I'll hold that for you."
She let him take the dress, but then lost her nerve and just stood there with her arms folded over her tits. She saw him glance down at the transparent panties, and she instinctively dropped one hand to her pussy.
Simmons reached out and grabbed her by the arm, snatching her hand from her crotch. "All right then," he said, "I'll take you down to the station just as you are. Come on."
"No! Wait!" Her voice lowered to a murmur as he released her arm: "I'll take them off."
Simmons' temples pounded as she reached back and unhooked the little net bra. When she slid the straps from her narrow shoulders and let the cups fall from her magnificent breasts, he felt his cock filling and rising in his pants. He knew he was taking a chance, wasting time, but he couldn't resist this.
As she pulled the panties down, Sheila avoided the man's flashing eyes. Her embarrassment was so acute that even her tits blushed as she stood up, stark naked except for her pink sandals, and handed him the bra and panties. But she did not reach for the dress or the other set of underwear on the toilet; her fear of being arrested overrode her modesty, and she forced herself to stand and let him stare.
For a long moment Simmons drank in the delicious sight of her white, dark-nippled tits rising and falling within arm's reach, her mouth-watering slit with its little black bush bristling between her legs, her slim, smooth hips and deep-naveled belly. No glass separated them now. It was only the knowledge of what was to follow that enabled him to hold back.
He rolled up the undergarments, stuffed them into his pocket and tossed her the dress. "Let's go."
"But you said..."
"Put on your dress, miss."
Now Sheila was desperate. She gathered all her courage and tried to force a seductive tone into her voice as she cupped her hands under her tits and held them up for his approval. "Don't you like my breasts?"
"They're very nice, miss, but you shouldn't have stolen a bra to put them in. Now get dressed or they'll book you for indecent exposure as well as shoplifting." He entered the stall and snatched the white underwear off the toilet. "Never mind these, just get into your dress. I'm in a hurry, so make it snappy. I'll be waiting outside."
When the girl at last stepped from the restroom, her huge, swelling tits swinging free and loose inside the filmy bodice of her dress and the ultra-short skirt fluttering about her moon-white thighs in the evening breeze, Simmons almost abandoned the plan, almost threw her down on the grass and fucked her then and there. He managed to restrain himself, but when he spoke, his voice was choked with lust.
"Come."
CHAPTER THREE
Vivian Snider felt loose and sexy that night. Maybe it was from imagining what her husband and his big blonde were doing, wherever they were. Or maybe it was just the erotic beat of the music on the stereo and the tinkle of ice cubes. She kicked off her shoes and went into a slow, grinding dance while the three on the sofa watched. Her black satin party dress was backless and almost frontless, its deep V plunging to her waist, and her unharnessed tits swung and bounced with a languid violence as her dance became more heated, her movements lewder.
Vivian wasn't plump, exactly. If she had been just a few inches taller, she would have been just right. Her hips were a little too broad, her waist and legs a little too thick, and maybe her butt stuck out a bit too far. But if one liked his women a hair or two on the stocky side, Vivian was a fine-looking cunt. Her tits were very nice--not extremely large, but high and round and just fleshy enough to require a bra, a thing she seldom wore. She enjoyed going downtown in just a thin sweater and a short skirt, and watching the eyes of both men and women rivet to the fluid movement of her stiff-nippled bust as she walked along the sidewalk.
Now, in the same way, the eyes of Bill Harold and the two women on the sofa were getting her all hot in the crotch. She could see the long bulge of Bill's cock growing in his pants, and as she lifted her skirt slowly above the tops of her nylons, she saw him spread his knees and place Betty Simmons' hand between his legs.
Betty sat on Bill's left, his wife Zelda on his right. It was Zelda, not her husband, who began the "Take it off" chant. Vivian turned toward her as she spread her heavy legs and, with an obscene bump of her hips, raised the curtain on the hairy hump of her tricot-veiled cunt.
Zelda was something else again, sexually speaking. She could go both ways, but seemed to prefer girls. Apparently, the only reason she stayed with Bill was because he kept her supplied with plenty of pussy and condoned, even encouraged, her excesses--as she encouraged his. It was a symbiotic relationship in this respect. It went dry eventually (years after the events recorded here) only out of a gradual poverty of new thrills.
Zelda was red-haired, well-freckled from head to toe, and big. Not fat, not overly tall, just big. It was a bigness that stood apart from her actual size. In her maturity, she stood about five-seven and measured 40-26-37, but even in junior high school, when her body was just developing, we used to call her "The Rock." It was something about her manner of speaking and moving, the firm, sometimes cruel, set of her mouth, the hardness of her blue-gray eyes, a certain undertone of masculinity in her voice when she told a dirty joke. Altogether she was a tough broad, but not hard-boiled, not the traditional dyke type-there was too much woman there for that. She liked girls, yes, but without an occasional dick in her slot she felt unfulfilled. One night, when we were kids, she came to my bedroom window, woke me up and begged me to come out and fuck her. I went outside, but I didn't fuck her. She fucked me!
But now her tongue was stiff for sandy-haired Vivian, who stood before her with her snaky arms above her head, making her creamy tits jostle back and forth. Zelda slipped off the sofa and knelt before Vivian's undulating belly. When her hands began to stroke the blonde's nylon-sheathed calves and knees, moving gradually up along her heavy thighs until they disappeared under the short black skirt, Bill moaned and stuck his hand into the wide, plunging front of Betty's hostess pajamas, giving her left tit a playful squeeze. Betty snuggled against his broad chest, unzipped his fly. While he toyed with her nipple and caressed the soft swell of her bare belly, she played with his balls and stroked his cock. They settled back to watch the Lesbian sex act.
When Zelda's hands reappeared below the hem of Vivian's skirt, the blonde's transparent panties were stretched between them like a skein of gossamer. She held the leg-holes open as Vivian stepped out of them with a sexy roll of her broad little ass.
Zelda lifted the panties to her mouth and licked the damp crotch as Vivian laughed and danced away with a fast spin that whirled her full skirt up to her hips, giving everyone a fleeting glimpse of tawny curls and white cheeks. The odor and taste of Vivian's pants filled the redhead with the fire of lust. Her big, freckled tits began to rise and fall rapidly above the low front of her strapless dress. With a little guttural cry she dropped the undergarment, jerked down her zipper and yanked the dress off over her head.
She wore a strapless bra of black lace, but no panties--only a black elastic garter belt. She leaned back on her heels and ran her fingers through the dense forest of red curls which crowned the bulging hill of her cunt, spreading out onto her upper thighs and up the drum-taut curve of her freckled belly.
As Vivian came close again and lifted one nylon-clad foot, wriggling her big toe into Zelda's shaggy slit, Bill slid his hand down Betty's soft, hot belly and under the loose drawstring of her pajamas, his fingers slithering among the soft, silky hairs between her open thighs. Betty squeaked with pleasure when he touched her clit.
Zelda grinned and unhooked her bra, and her big, speckled jugs tumbled out into the light, their long brown nipples as stiff as sticks. She settled back again on her heels and shook her tits from side to side, jerking the pins from her hair and tossing her head until the long red locks tumbled over her face. Leering through the veil of hair at Vivian's obscenely jerking body, Zelda deliberately worked herself into a wild, sexual frenzy. She licked her palms and smeared the saliva over her tits until they gleamed; she spread her knees and rubbed her cunt with both hands, smearing the juice onto her thighs and belly, while her strong hips lurched and jerked to the inner music of her fantasy. When her face and body were all aglitter with spit and cunt juice, she held out her arms to Vivian and said, "Bring it to me, baby! Right here!" She closed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.
Vivian danced up to the waiting tongue, dropped her skirt over Zelda's head and straddled her upturned face. Bill could see the suggestive up-and-down motion of his wife's head inside the skirt and the ecstatic, trance-like expression on Vivian's face, but he wanted to see more than that. "Come on, take it off, Viv! Goddamn!"
Vivian giggled and backed off, leaving Zelda's lips and cheeks slick with her secretions. With trembling fingers she untied the knot at the back of her neck. The black satin straps fell from her plump, pink-tipped breasts. When she released her narrow belt and wiggled her hips, the dress slithered to the floor, leaving her naked except for her stockings and the little red garter belt that held them up.
She fluffed up her little buff-colored clump of cunt hair and re-approached the hungry redhead. But instead of mounting her face, she turned around and bent over, her full-cheeked behind opening like a fleshy flower in Zelda's face. Vivian looked between her legs at the thick, slick lips of the larger woman's red-haired cunt, and said softly, "Tongue my ass, willya, Zel?"
Zelda grabbed Vivian's soft hips in her strong, freckled hands and plunged her tongue straight into the puckering bud of the blonde's pink anus.
"EEEEeeeennnngggg!" Vivian shrieked. Her knees buckled, and they both went over backwards. Zelda's head struck the rug with considerable force, and her feet flew out from under her, but her tongue was still stuck up Vivian's asshole when they came to rest.
The two women landed at the feet of Bill and Betty. The fall had scarcely diminished their passion, and when Vivian found her face close between Zelda's statuesque thighs, she instinctively lowered her mouth to the redhead's shaggy crotch and planted a long, hungry French kiss on those juicy lips. When Betty saw that at such close range, she clamped Bill's hand tightly between her legs and shivered with sexual excitement.
Betty's pajama top was tied together in front at the bustline. She took her hands from Bill's cock, which jutted hugely out of his open zipper, to untie the knot. The flimsy lapels fell away from her small, but well-rounded breasts, and with a shake of her golden shoulders the full sleeves slid down her arms to the sofa. She lifted her ass and jerked down the bottoms, kicking them free of her ankles while Bill got out of his shirt and pants. She stretched her deliciously naked body and, turning sideways, leaned back against the arm of the couch, stretching one leg across Bill's lap and the other behind his neck. His hands and eyes had easy access to her cunt and its luxuriant growth of sun-streaked brown ringlets. As he began to stroke her slit with his forefinger, Betty looked down at the lovers on the floor.
They were both moaning and slobbering now, lapping each other's foaming cracks in a frenzy of lust, their heads both bobbing rapidly. Vivian was still on top, hunched over Zelda's spread-eagled body on her hands and knees. The big redhead was slurping so furiously the blonde's bare butt jerked upward in frantic response.
Their actions became more and more agitated.
The noise of their slurping and sucking filled the large room and spit ran free. Betty's blood began to boil with need. She thrust her cunt hard against Bill's hand. "Eat me, Billy!" she screamed, grinding against him.
He licked his lips, gripped her narrow waist with both hands and pulled her oozing nest toward his face. She slipped easily onto his lap, his cock nudging her spine, and wrapped her legs around his neck. When his tongue touched her extended clitoris, she let out a cry of pleasure and arched her upper body between his knees. With her head dangling almost to the floor, upside down, she watched Vivian's slimy mouth feeding furiously in Zelda's lathering gash as Bill held her firmly by the hips and ate her like a watermelon.
When Betty saw Vivian's body lurch up and down in the throes of her orgasm, her face wallowing helplessly in Zelda's sudsy, jerking cunt, she felt her juices rising. She arched her back and gripped Bill's ankles as his tongue triggered a chain of explosions that sent the juice pouring down over her belly and made her taut tits leap wildly up and down.
When all three women were spent and their spastic thrashing had subsided, Bill lowered Simmons' wife gently to the floor. The stereo was silent now, and the only sounds were the heavy pants and sighs of satisfaction from the girls. Bill wiped his mouth on the seat of Vivian's panties and took a swallow of his drink.
Betty grinned up at him from the floor, her plump, cherry-nippled tits still rising and falling with fatigue. She asked in a breathy voice, "Washing it down?"
He replied with a laugh. "That's strong stuff you got in there. Needs a chaser." He took another swig. "But what are you gonna do about this?" He spread his legs and waved his stiff, gleaming cock above her upturned face.
Betty giggled and tickled his nuts with her fingernail. Vivian raised up on one elbow and smiled lasciviously at the big, red-tipped prick. "I'll take care of it for you, Billy," she said. "I'm still hungry."
"I'll help you, Viv," Betty panted. "I need a snack,too."
The blonde rose to her knees, rubbing the juice from her crotch over her round belly and big, soft tits. "Let's go."
Zelda propped herself against a chair and laughed as she watched the two women crowd in between her husband's legs, their lips nipping playfully at his genitals. Then she shook her long red hair, stood up and strode to the mirror-like panels of black marble along the back wall of the living room. She admired her reflection for a moment, pointing her long, nylon-sheathed legs, pulling the snarls from her thick red bush, adjusting her black garter belt and testing the weight and firmness of her big, speckled tits with her hands. Then she turned back to the sofa and said, "Hey, Betty, where's that rubber cock Henry bought?"
Betty looked up from Bill's crotch. "What's wrong with this one, Zel?"
Zelda grinned. "It's taken, for one thing, and it looks like your husband's not coming. Anyway, the rubber one's bigger than Bill and Henry put together."
Betty laughed and told her it was in the library. "On Henry's desk. He uses it for a paperweight."
"You hold your nuts, Bill," Zelda said as she left the room. "I'll be right back."
Vivian and Betty crawled outside Bill's legs and faced each other across his hairy hips. They ran their lips and tongues up and down both sides of the thick shank. Every time their mouths came together at the top in a passionate kiss, the cockhead sandwiched between two pairs of hot, full lips and rippling tongues. He groaned from the maddening sensations and felt his semen gathering itself for the launch, but he held back, knowing his wife had something in mind.
In a moment Zelda reappeared, waving the black rubber dildo. It was an exact replica of an erect human penis, except that it was eighteen inches long and about two and a half inches in diameter. Mounted on a flat, heavy base and tilted slightly off the vertical, it was obviously designed for a specific purpose-the very purpose, as a matter-of-fact, for which Zelda Harold was about to use it.
As Vivian and Betty continued to work over Bill's cock with their mouths, the redhead knelt behind them and placed the phallus on the floor in front of her. She leaned forward, caressed the tits of both women, then raised her hands to their faces, palms up, "Gimme some juice, girls," she said.
They spit in her hands, and she smeared it up and down the rubber cock, stroking it rapidly to warm it up. But she seemed to get carried away in some fantasy, and her strokes got more and more vigorous. Her husband grinned over the heads of the other women. "Better be careful, baby," he said. "That thing might go off."
She positioned the glistening thing between her knees and raised her freckled ass off her heels. The formidable-looking shaft pointed straight up her hairy hole, its enormous head nestling among the thick red fuzz. "Get your butts closer together, kids," she said, tugging at Vivian's garter belt.
The two women moved between Bill's legs again, their hips pressed together. Zelda stroked the cracks between their naked buttocks, comparing them. Vivian's ass, as I've said, was broad and white; Betty's, though nice and full, was a bit uneven and broken from sunning herself in the summer and was tanned to a deep, burnt gold. Naked, pressed together like that, they made a striking picture.
Bill noticed a drop of drool run from the corner of his wife's parted lips as she rubbed those delicious cheeks, her fingers playing up and down the open grooves between them. When Vivian and Betty began to grunt and whimper ecstatically, their lips and tongues quivering tensely on his prick, he knew that Zelda had reached between their legs and was fingering their cunts. Through the blurring film of increasing lust, he saw his wife's eyes roll up in her head and her drooling mouth drop open. He knew she had settled down on the huge dildo, driving it deep into her vagina.
Betty and Vivian spread their knees and slobbered frantically over Bill's dick, vying for position on the red, throbbing head as Zelda's fingers vibrated between their legs, driving them wild with pleasure. Her hips rose and fell at an ever-increasing tempo over the slimy black club in her cunt, but her middle fingers kept up their expert massaging, working the women's jerking clitorises to their fullest erection.
Zelda groaned as she felt herself starting to come, but she held back until Betty and Vivian began to rise up and pump their hips, crying out and blubbering like babies, the slobber running uncontrollably from their mouths and over her husband's balls and belly. When his cock began to spurt, the first shot glancing off Betty's cheek and splattering high into the air, her pelvis began to lurch, the huge head of the rubber phallus brutally punishing the narrow passage to her uterus, racking her body with torturous convulsions of excruciating pain and unspeakable pleasure, her guttural grunts coming strong and deep from her throat.
"Gh,gh,gh,gh,gh!"
After Bill's first spurt, Vivian had clapped her mouth over the head of his prick, but the second wad had surged up so powerfully, it forced her head back on her shoulders, and when her face came back on the rebound, the next burst of thick come caught her full in the nose, filling her nostrils and splattering heavily into her eyes. But now, with a passionate yelp, Betty clamped her lips over the discharging shaft and held on. Jet after jet flooded her mouth, pounding against the back of her throat. Although she gulped it down ravenously, she could not swallow fast enough, and it filled her cheeks and spurted out through her lips, the thick blobs clinging to his belly fuzz.
The seemingly endless torrents of hot come flooded Betty's nasal passages. When Vivian, still in the delirious pangs of her orgasm, saw it come pouring copiously from her nostrils, she lifted her cheek from Bill's belly, cupped her lips over the brunette's nose and began sucking it powerfully, swallowing every drop and soft lump--spit, come, snot and all!
They all took a warm bath together in the big, round sunken tub which, to a poor man like myself, always looked more like a swimming pool. Simmons never could break the habit of living beyond his means. Vivian climbed out to take a leak, and while her piss hissed into the toilet, she said, "Where in the hell is Henry, anyway, Betty? It must be nine o'clock."
"Oh, one of the salesgirls has hot pants for him, he says. He's probably up there fucking her," Betty said, pulling a string of semen from her light-brown hair.
"Why doesn't he bring her home, for Christ's sake?" asked Zelda, "Who wants to fuck in that little office of his?"
"He hasn't told her about us," Betty replied.
"Why not?" Bill asked. "We could use some new stuff . . Hey, save a few drops, Viv."
Vivian cocked her head at him. "What?"
"Save me a little peepee," he repeated.
"Are you crazy?" she said, stopping the flow from her bladder.
Vivian wrinkled her nose and got off the pot. "Okay," she said, sitting down on the edge of the tub and spreading her legs. "Come and get it."
Bill glided over to her and brought his face up to her wet blonde bush. "Just a little, now." He put his extended tongue into her slit, and she let a little trickle of piss run into his mouth. He raised his head and swallowed it, studying the ceiling and smacking his lips. "Not bad. Too salty, though."
They all laughed, and Vivian slid back into the water.
"Anyway," said Bill when he had rinsed his mouth with tap water, "why doesn't Henry tell his new cunt about us?"
"Yeah," said Vivian, "Is he ashamed of us or something?"
Betty smiled. "No, but things get around, you know. We all have to be careful who we talk to. Anyway, she's not all that good."
Bill changed the subject. "Hey, we'll have to get Henry to take us down to the store to watch the girls in the dressing rooms again. That was a blast. How does a guy get a job like that, anyway?"
"Brains," said Betty.
"Shit. Henry was born with a lucky penny up his ass, is what it is." Bill climbed out of the tub behind Betty and embraced her from behind, running his hands up over her firm wet breasts and hunching his hips against her ass. Then he released her, took his limp prick between his fingers and turned to the toilet. "I wonder if we'll ever get to try out the shack in the Everglades," he said as he watched his urine mix with Vivian's in the water.
Zelda ran a towel back and forth between her legs, giving her big red bush a good rubdown. "I don't know, honey," she said. "That's risky business. I'm for trying most everything, but not jail."
"Oh, fuck, Zelda," said Bill casually as he flushed the toilet. "Nobody wants to hear that jail shit."
While the women finished drying themselves and re-scented their pussies, Bill left the bathroom and went into the library to look at Simmons' trophy gallery. This consisted of a large, well-lighted section of the wall on which were hung snapshots and larger prints of most of the girls and women that Simmons had screwed. It was quite a collection, dating back many years. As he scanned the obscene pictures, Bill played with his pecker. Before long he had a full-blown erection in his hand. Betty came in, her golden body glowing from head to toe from the rubdown Zelda had just given her.
"Who's that one?" Bill asked her, pointing to a young, big-titted blonde caught in the act of fucking herself with a banana, a trance-like expression of ecstatic oblivion on her upturned face.
"That's Helen Carstein, Henry's boss's daughter."
"Yeah? Your boy lives dangerously, doesn't he?"
She shrugged. "Carstein's an idiot. He thinks his daughter's the Virgin Mary or something." She reached over and thumped Bill's cock. "Jesus, how can you get so hot looking at a milk cow like that?"
"Maybe I like milk cows," he said, grabbing her shoulders and turning her toward the picture. "Tell me you wouldn't like to suck on one of those things."
"I'd be afraid of suffocating," she said.
He laughed and said, "Shut up and bend over."
She yelped in mock alarm, but let him shove her down over the desk, her ass draped over the edge. But when he grabbed her hips and started jabbing his dick at her anus, she cried out in earnest protest and jumped off the desk like a jack-in-the-box.
"Wait a minute, for God's sake!" she said, taking a jar of Vaseline from one of the drawers. "You're much too impatient, Billy." She kissed the head of his overeager prick and smeared some Vaseline over it. After lubricating her hole, she put the jar back and reassumed the position. "Now," she said in a sexy voice, spreading the golden globes of her ass, "give it to me slow and easy."
Bill had just gotten the head in and set up a gentle, rhythmic attack of shallow strokes, each going deeper then the last, when his wife and Vivian walked into the room.
Vivian grinned at Zelda and said, "Doesn't he ever get tired?"
"Only of me," she said, slapping her husband on the butt.
"Hey, be cool, girls," he grunted. "We're busy!"
No sooner had Betty's behind begun to bounce happily up and down on the desk than the telephone bell went off in her ear. It gave her such a start that she accidentally knocked the receiver off the hook, and it crashed to the floor. Trying unsuccessfully to control her laughter, Zelda scooped it up and put it to her ear.
"Hello? Oh, hi, Henry! This is Zelda. We've been waiting for you for hours ... well, not exactly waiting ... Huh? Yeah, she's here, but I don't think she can talk right now. Well, you see..."
"Gimme the goddamn phone," Bill panted, jerking the receiver out of her hand. "Henry? This is Bill. It may interest you to know that at this moment I got my cock stuck to the balls in your wife's ass-hole, so if you'd just hold the motherfucking line for a minute, we'd both appreciate it!" Tossing the phone back to Zelda, he got a fresh grip on Betty's flaring hips and fucked her with doubled vigor. Zelda suppressed her giggles as best she could, and held the mouthpiece between Betty's legs so Simmons could hear the loud slish-slush of Bill's cock plunging in and out of her greasy rectum.
When Bill hunched down to shoot his load and Betty gripped the edges of the desk with white knuckles, Zelda took the phone from Betty's crotch and held it up to Betty's ear. "Talk to your husband, Betty," she ordered.
Betty spoke in a heavy, pleasure-strained voice. "H-hey, Henry, oh, it feels good, good, g-g-g-g ghhhh. I'm gonna come now, Henry ... Ah, ah, ah, I'm coming. I'm c-c-c-cah, cah, ghuh, ghuh, ghuh..." The rest was a string of slobbering grunts as Bill's semen surged up her clenching rectum.
When Betty at last lay still on the desk, her dangling legs twitching peacefully, Vivian came over and picked up the phone. Bill slipped out and collapsed with a sigh of satisfaction into Simmons' big leather chair.
"Still there, Henry? How'd it sound? Ha, ha! Hey, why don't you climb off of whatever you're on and come join the fun? My husband's still off somewhere with his latest conquest, and Billy can't hold up much longer. Three against one isn't the ... huh? Got one what? Are you serious?" Vivian looked up at the others, her face suddenly sober. "Henry's got a chick," she said. "Tits as big as your head, he says. Cherry? Here he is." She handed the receiver to Bill.
"Whatcha got, Hen? No shit? So you really went through with it, huh? Yeah, we're with you, Hen, but we gotta play this cool, baby, real cool. Yeah. Right, it's all gassed up, even. All I gotta do is hitch it up. About an hour and a half, I guess, if we start right away. I'll stop by the store and pick up some booze. Check. At the south landing, where it's dark. Okay, we're on our way. Now, for Christ's sake be careful! Don't speed. If a cop stops you, it's all over. Yeah, man. See you in a couple of hours."
Simmons hung up the phone and stepped out of the booth. He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and glanced nervously up and down the dark highway. There were no cars in sight and no sounds except the croaking of frogs. A cool breeze blew softly across the slough, but Simmons was sweating like a ditch-digger. He turned to the car and unlocked the trunk with nervous fingers.
The girl looked deathly frightened, but she was all right. He checked the ropes and the gag to make sure they weren't too tight. Her struggles had forced her short skirt above her bare hip. Simmons lifted it further and looked down at the ridge of black fuzz between her beautiful, trembling legs. He opened his mouth to say something, but only gave one of her big tits a gentle squeeze and closed the trunk.
He got into the car, waited for a semi to roar past and pulled onto the highway. At the next junction he took a right, heading west out the long road that leads to Grass Point Landing on the edge of the Everglades.
In no time at all, the other members of the group were dressed for the swamps and had Bill's station wagon loaded with gear.
"Come on, Betty," Bill called impatiently. "We got too much stuff now. Remember, there's plenty of food in the cabin. Let's go get the airboat. The longer we make Henry wait, the riskier it gets."
CHAPTER FOUR
To get to the launching site, you take a left at Grass Point Landing and go straight south along a canal berm about six miles into the 'Glades. There, at the spillway where the canal intersects a conservation dike, there is a wide, filled area where you can park. At the north end of the landing there is a shack where an attendant rents airboats.
Luckily, it was locked up that night. There was a truck and a jeep in the lot, but nobody in sight. The lot and the shack were lighted, but the south end of the bank, where Simmons parked his car, was dark and deserted.
Simmons had a few tense moments when the headlights appeared in the distance and came wavering along the berm toward him. They had made it in record time, and everything went smoothly from there on out. Nobody showed up as they loaded the gear and the girl into the boat, and in less than fifteen minutes they were skimming over the saw grass toward their secret cabin ten miles south.
Approached from any direction, the hummock looks no different than any of the other little islands of cabbage palm and wax myrtle scattered about the horizon. The cabin--it's still there, but you could never find it without a guide--is set on stilts and completely ringed in by thick vegetation. By the time they hid the airboat and got the gear stowed, a gray light was dawning in the east. Betty made a pot of coffee on the camp stove and tried without success to get Sheila to drink some of it. The girl was like a pale, wild animal that had just been trapped and dragged from some sunless lair. Too frightened even to cry, she huddled in the corner where they had chained her. Trembling with terror, she stared at them through wide, innocent eyes.
"I gotta hand it to you, Henry," said Bill as he dipped a slice of bread into his fried egg. "You got good taste."
Simmons ate in silence.
Zelda chewed slowly, her eyes playing hungrily over the girl's lightly clad body. "Why don't we take that dress off her?" she asked.
"Down, girl," said Vivian. "The poor thing's scared shitless."
"So?" replied the redhead without shifting her gaze. "Isn't that what we wanted?"
Betty grinned over her coffee. "Not worried about jail anymore, Zel?"
"This one's worth a few years in jail. What's her name, Henry?"
Simmons didn't hear her. He was lost in thought. His wife nudged him in the ribs. "Wake up, honey."
"What?"
"What's the girl's name?"
"Sheila," he replied. "Sheila Sayyid." Bill asked if she was Jewish. "Lebanese, I think," Simmons told him.
"Oh yeah? I've always wanted a nice piece of Arab cunt. Who's gonna get her first?"
"Henry caught her," said Vivian. "He ought to get the cherry."
"Fuck that," Bill replied. "We're all in this together. I'll toss you for it, Hen, what do you say?" Simmons ignored him. Bill studied his friend's face for a moment, then added, "Snap out of it, man, it's too late for regrets, you know."
Simmons looked him coldly in the eye. "What are you a motherfucking mind-reader now?"
"Hey, break it up, boys," said Zelda. "I think we all need a nice, long nap before we do anything. I'll spread the quilts."
Simmons stood up and gave Bill a good-natured punch in the arm. "Good idea, Zel," he said. "I'm beat." He scooped up one of the quilts and tossed it to the girl in the corner without looking at her. She clutched it to her chin.
Bill said, "Hey, what's the..." Simmons' steely glance shut him up.
Over the edge of her quilt, Sheila watched them curl up on the floor, their hands playing casually and indiscriminately over the most intimate parts of each other's bodies until, one at a time, they dropped off to sleep. It's a strange thing, but from the very beginning--even before he threw her the quilt, before those early hours of daylight during which she watched him intently in his twitching stupor--it was Simmons, the very one who had kidnapped her, to whom she looked intuitively for help. For the three, leering, dirty-mouthed females and the big man with the cruel, hungry eyes, she had nothing but fear and loathing--unspeakable disgust. Cruelty she saw also in Simmons' eyes, but she saw something else there, too--something beneath the cruelty. It was a childish thing, of course, a naive, unreasoning hope, but it was probably this naivete alone that enabled her to survive what was to follow.
Bill woke up with a hard-on. He removed his hand gently from the crotch of Betty's jeans and sat up, grinning sleepily at Sheila and rubbing his cock in anticipation. He stood quietly, so as not to awaken the others, and walked over to the cowering child. When he bent and tugged at her quilt, she clutched it tightly to her bosom. He snatched it out of her grasp and flung it across the room, his massive form looming over her.
Bill had thin, black hair and a hard, square face. He still had a heavy, broad-shouldered look to him, as in the old days, but his muscles had softened a lot, and he was beginning to get a little flabby in the gut. He never got enough sun, and his skin showed it. The pasty white flesh gave the thick black hair that covered his chest and belly a kind of obscene appearance. He wore only a pair of faded jeans which drooped low under his shaggy navel.
His hands went to his crotch, stretching the denim tightly over the long bulge that extended down his left thigh, framing it between his forefingers so the girl could see its shape through the cloth.
"Know what that is?" he whispered, grinning down at her. "I'll show you."
He unzipped his fly and hauled out his big cock. The terrified girl shrank into the corner and covered her eyes with her shackled hands. Bill stepped across her lap and put one foot on the short chain that ran from her handcuffs to a ring-bolt on the wall, forcing her hands into her lap. Straddling her, he lifted her chin roughly and waved his cock back and forth before her eyes.
"Look at it, sweetheart," he growled. "Get a good look at it, so when you feel it go in you'll know what it is. I'm gonna ram this thing so far up your cunt the come's gonna shoot out your mouth!"
He was still chuckling and smearing the leakage from the head of his prick over the girl's forehead and cheeks when Vivian sat up and rubbed her eyes. She had let Zelda unbutton her sport shirt before they went to sleep, and she didn't bother to close it as she got up and joined Bill in the corner with the beautiful little captive.
"Better watch out, Billy," she said, tossing her blonde hair. "She might bite it off."
"She knows better," he said. "Don't you, baby?" Still holding her chin, he lowered his prick and slid its leaking mouth along her dry, trembling lips until they glistened with the clear fluid. "See?" he said. "She-likes it. Come on, open up." He tried to pry her lips open with the pulsing head, but she clamped them together with all her strength. "Come on, suck it, little girl, before I cram it down your throat!"
"Wait a minute, Billy," said the blonde, slipping out of her shirt and dropping to her knees beside the girl. "She doesn't know how. I'll show you, honey ... You watch close, now. Come on, Billy."
Bill released Sheila's chin and grabbed her by the hair, turning his back to the wall so that his cock stood out in profile just above her staring eyes. Vivian leaned forward, her left tit flattening against the girl's arm, and kissed Bill's penis.
"Now, the first thing to remember about sucking a dick, is to keep your teeth out of the way. Make your lips like this." She shaped her mouth into an O. "See? Then you just let it slip in and out, and keep your tongue going, like this..." She tilted the prick up at an oblique angle and stuck her tongue out, running its tip up and down the underside of the thick shank in rapid side-to-side vibrations. "like that, see? Simple. Watch close now."
When Vivian slipped her full lips Over that bulging head and down along the blue-veined trunk, Sheila's stomach turned cold with nausea. She tried desperately to close her eyes, but she couldn't; she was fascinated, almost hypnotized by that slow, rhythmic movement, the stretch and slide of Vivian's pursed lips as they glided back and forth, that slimy club of flesh oozing in and out.
Vivian's lips made a slurping noise as they came off the dripping head. "Now when the come starts shooting,"--Sheila noticed a trickle of drool running out of the corner of the woman's mouth as she spoke--"you have to swallow it as fast as you can, see? Or else it'll splatter all over the place, like..." She put her tongue between her lips and did a loud imitation of a fart, spraying the girl's face with saliva and prick seepage.
Sheila gagged and tried to wrench her head from Bill's grasp, and the two adults laughed so loudly that the other three were awakened.
"Hey, you guys wouldn't start without us or anything, would you?" Zelda said accusingly as she stood up.
"Wouldn't think of it, dear," said Bill, still laughing, "wouldn't think of it." He released the girl's hair and stepped over her, his stiff cock still sticking out of his fly, jumping up and down like a jack handle. "We were just teaching the chick the finer points of the blowjob, eh, Viv?"
"Yeah, that's all," giggled the plump blonde, wiping her chin.
While the others talked and unpacked the liquor, Simmons walked over to the girl. She looked up into his eyes; her face was a silent scream, a desperate plea for help. But that dim object of hope she had seen in his eyes now faded behind the steely mask of lust that leered down at her.
Simmons still wore the same clothes he had worn to Work Friday morning, and now he turned his back on the girl and jerked off his tie. "I don't think I can wait till tonight, girls and boys," he said. "That cunt's too much! How 'bout a nice gang-bang to start the day off right?"
"That's my boy!" said Bill, clapping him on the back. "Glad to see you've stopped worrying. It's not as if we'd just jumped into this, you know. We been planning it a long time, and so far everything's gone smooth as clockwork. The hard part's over. Nobody'd find her here in a million years."
Simmons grinned at him as he unbuttoned his shirt. "Who are you trying to convince, me or yourself?"
Bill laughed and downed a shot of Old Granddad. "Come on, man, let's have some pussy!"
Zelda ran to the clearing in front of the cabin and pulled off her T-shirt, shaking her big, freckled boobs in the sunlight. "Shall we bring her out here?" she asked.
Simmons stood in the open doorway and dropped his trousers, his dick springing out the front of his drawers. "Maybe tomorrow," he said. "It's too hot now." Betty came up behind him and unsnapped his shorts. He kicked them into the clearing. Zelda caught them, held them in her teeth by the crotch and went into an obscene dance, arms akimbo. Simmons laughed loudly and shook his head. "You're a nasty cunt, you know that, Zelda?"
The redhead spit out the drawers and said, "Yeah, I know. I got it from the nasty people I hang around with."
Betty stroked her husband's cock from behind as they watched Zelda's dance. She looked like some buxom, flame-haired wood nymph caught up in a bacchanalian frenzy. "Let's see that red-haired cunt," Simmons called to her. Zelda smiled and unzipped her jeans, her fiery bush immediately springing into view.
Vivian turned to Bill, who was massaging her bare tits, and said, "Hey, bring the kid and let her watch. Might heat up her crotch a little.
"Good idea," he said. "Gimme the keys, Hen." But when he slipped the chain free of her handcuffs, the girl bolted. He tripped her and caught her up in a bear hug, but she screamed and kicked and fought like a wildcat. "Ha, ha! Hey look at the little bitch fight, willya! Come on, let's get it while it's hot!"
They all gathered around and soon had the girl pinned down. Zelda, naked now, sat on her face, and her screams died to a few muffled gurgles.
Betty said, "Let's stake her out, Indian-style."
"Good idea," Bill said. "There's some spikes in that barrel over there."
They drove four spikes in the floor, forming a large rectangle. Simmons removed the handcuffs, and they tied the girl's wrists and ankles to the spikes.
"That's fine," Bill panted, standing over Sheila's spread-eagled body. "Now let's see what y'got inside that dress, baby doll." He straddled her hips, bent over and grabbed both sides of the plunging neckline.
"Let her rip!" Zelda urged.
Slowly, in little jerks, savoring each inch of exposed skin, Bill tore open the thin purple dress from neck to hem.
For a few minutes they all just stood there, staring at Sheila's beautiful, naked body, those big, impossibly firm tits heaving with fear and exhaustion, that mouth-watering strip of crow-black fuzz bristling along the delicate lips between her creamy thighs.
"Wait'll George sees that," Bill said at last. "He'll go off his nut, man."
Vivian stepped out of her jeans and said, "How old is she, Henry?"
"Sixteen," he replied.
"Just right," said Bill. "How about that toss, Hen?"
Henry bent over and plucked a hair from Sheila's pussy. "Let's draw straws," he said. "Long hair wins."
Bill grinned and knelt between the girl's legs, scrutinizing her bush at close range and running his fingers through the shiny curls. Finally he chose a hair near the upper corner of her slit, yanked it out and stood up.
The women huddled around as the two men uncurled the black hairs and compared their lengths. Simmons won by a good half-inch.
"Okay, Hen, she's all yours, you son of a bitch. Just be careful you don't shake that lucky penny out of your ass-hole."
Simmons was in no hurry. He pulled up a barrel chair and sat down. "Warm her up for me, girls," he said.
With a sort of languid eagerness, Vivian wiggled out of her jeans and approached the helpless victim on the floor. Beside her, Zelda licked her lips and ran her fingers through her thick red cunt hair. Betty finished stripping her golden body and joined them.
Few words were spoken. Outside the cabin, the noon heat had silenced the birds, inside, it was silent, too, but it was from another kind of heat--the heat of criminal lust.
CHAPTER FIVE
Zelda straddled the pale, trembling form like some huge, lewd colossus, with her great dark-nosed breasts jutting forth and the hairy jaws between her legs opening and closing, glistening with secretions. Bending her knees slowly, she squatted over Sheila's head, lowering her crack until its damp curls brushed the girl's face. With a powerful roll of her hips, she planted a juicy cunt kiss on her victim's pale cheek and stood up, grinning.
Sheila cringed with loathing, but could not tear her eyes from that smacking crotch-mouth, the slimy imprint of which still burned her cheek. But just as Sheila had seen--or imagined she had seen--something besides cruelty in Simmons' eyes, Simmons now detected something beneath the fear and disgust in Sheila's. Through all that followed, he clung to that vision perhaps as desperately as the girl clung to hers.
Zelda straddled Sheila's narrow waist and sank to her knees. She cupped one white melon between her hands and bent over it, licking and sucking the olive-skinned nipple and gently kneading the abundant flesh with her fingers. All the while she rolled her pelvis up and down, leaving a wide swath of cunt juice along the center of the child's flat belly and a pool of it in her navel. Before Zelda lifted her face from Sheila's bosom, the girl's tits were slick with saliva. The redhead was so hot she was overflowing at both ends like a vat of boiling oil.
Zelda's tongue traced a slow, winding path down the victim's writhing body until it entered the black curls below her glistening belly. When the woman's tongue rippled down along the tight lips and wiggled into the top of the slit, Sheila trembled in spite of herself from the electrifying sensation between her legs.
Zelda removed her lips from the pussy and spread its lower lips with her fingers, peering in. Then she looked up at Simmons with a grin. "She's cherry, all right."
Simmons nodded. "Don't break it."
As Zelda continued to lap Sheila's pussy, Vivian left Simmons' side and mounted the girl's rib cage. Vivian sat down facing the other woman, clamping Sheila's head between her short, heavy thighs, and together they played with her fantastic tits, working themselves into grunts and moans of Lesbian passion. Un-like Zelda, Viv and Betty were basically cock-lovers, but when the occasion presented itself, their Lesbian appetites were easily stimulated.
Pressing the girl's heavy tits between her thighs until they swelled up to her collarbones, the deep, hot crease between them reaching to her throat, Betty began stroking her own cunt, hand over hand like a dog digging a hole. When her hands were well-coated, she rubbed them slowly over Sheila's face until her cheeks and eyes and lips were slick with the warm secretions from Betty's box. Meanwhile, Vivian's seepages were dampening Sheila's black hair, and running her hands through her blonde bush, she gave the girl's tits a vigorous oiling, in the process shoving a nipple into Betty's crack.
"Ooo, that felt good," Betty said in a low voice, husky with passion. "Do it again!"
Betty shifted her ass to the side, and taking Sheila's left tit in both hands, Vivian guided the nipple up and down her friend's cunt until she groaned from the pleasure.
"Hey, look," said Vivian, "her nipple's getting stiff!"
"I know. I feel it."
Raising her lips momentarily from her feast, Zelda said, "She's got a..." She broke off and spit on the kid's belly, pulling a hair from her throat. "She's got a hard-on, too. Wanta see it?"
But the other two women were caught up in the heat of this bizarre form of masturbation they had just discovered, and the only reply was a few hoarse grunts. By hunching forward Betty was able to position her snatch in such a way that Vivian could reach her clit with the girl's nipple, which continued to stiffen and lengthen as it flashed up and down over Betty's erected clitoris.
As the sexual electricity surged through Betty's golden body, she lifted her pleasure-distorted mouth to Vivian's and began mightily sucking the blonde's tongue. She slid one hand down Vivian's rounded pink belly and into her blonde nest, Betty's middle finger going straight to the twitching clitoris. Vivian kept up her rapid manipulation of Sheila's breast between Betty's thighs, but as the movements of the finger in her own crack became more and more agitated, her hips shuddered with ecstasy and she rose up on her knees until her lurching crotch was right over the poor girl's slime-smeared face.
The action of their mutual masturbation soon had the two women's cunts lathering furiously, and while Betty's overflow drooled thickly over the big, vibrating tit between her legs, making it so slippery that Vivian could hardly hold onto it, Vivian's juice dripped through Betty's flying fingers and into the helpless girl's nose and mouth.
Sheila coughed and gagged and choked, trying to spit the stuff out but swallowing a great deal of it in spite of everything. Vivian gripped her tit so tightly and shook it so brutally that Sheila expected it to be torn from her body at any minute, but even through this agony the tingling waves of fire radiated through her body with ever-increasing force from that red hot tongue in her slit, and she fought to keep her hips from jerking as she felt herself starting to come.
But Betty felt Sheila's convulsions rising against the cheeks of her ass, and the realization that the girl was actually having a climax excited her so that the fluttering nipple in her crack immediately set off a spine-whipping string of glandular explosions in her belly.
With Betty's body thrashing out of control, Vivian had to finish herself off with her own finger, but her release was no less powerful for it. The spasms doubled her up until her face wallowed in the trough of sweat and cunt cream between Sheila's big, smothering tits, and as her belly lurched into its final contractions of delightful agony, her fast-moving hand was sandwiched tightly between her foaming cunt and Sheila's face.
Whether from near suffocation or from fear or from something else, Sheila seems to have passed out at this point, and the next thing she remembered was Simmons' naked form looming over her, his dark, hairy balls dangling below a stiff, scar-bellied cock which, at the time, looked bigger than a baseball bat.
It came down from the close, hot sky like a phallic divebomber and crash-dived into her throat before she could turn her head.
("If it had been that other motherfucker," she told me years later, "I would have bitten it off, so help me Christ! But I couldn't hurt Henry, no matter what he did to me, and I guess he knew it." I asked her if she still felt that way. "If he walked in right now," I said, "and started beating the shit out of you, what would you do." "I would let him," she said.)
Her gorge rose, and bitter bile welled in her throat, but somehow she managed to subdue her nausea and--according to Simmons--actually pursed her lips around the shank of his cock as it slid in and out. If he had kept on till he got his gun, perhaps she would even have tried to gulp it down as per Vivian's instructions. But, after a score of strokes, Simmons withdrew and sat back on her thorax. He thumbed her delicate, olive-skinned nipples and smiled as they became erect. Pressing his prick along the center of her chest, he pushed her tits together around it, pumping his hips slowly so that the red, bulbous head appeared and disappeared rhythmically at the top of her deep, wet cleavage.
But this was dragging it out too much to suit Bill. "Come on, Hen," he said. "Get with it, willya?"
Simmons lifted his cock from between the girl's tits and rose to his knees. "Throw me a couple of quilts," he ordered without looking up. Betty knew what he had in mind, and she put two of the thick quilts together and rolled them up, making a bundle about a foot thick. Simmons lifted the girl's slim hips, and his wife shoved the roll under her ass. Simmons knelt between Sheila's legs and stroked the fuzzy hump of her elevated pussy. Then he braced his knees against the quilts, took his cock in his hand and rose into position. The lamb was ready for the slaughter.
Sheila did not take her eyes from Simmons' face as she felt the cruel bludgeon forcing its way into her body. Simmons went slow at first, working the head of his prick gently up through the outer lips until he felt the frail barrier across the mouth of the inner orifice. Then he gripped the trim cheeks of the girl's butt and, with a sudden thrust of his hips, drove his cock savagely through her hymen.
Sheila's scream of agony cut through the thick, hot air like a knife. With that scream something ended, something began. Sheila Sayyid was never the same.
The hole was extremely tight, and it was some time before Simmons got it in all the way. With every jab the girl's stretched body strained against the ropes that held her, her face contorted with pain, tears streaming from her eyes. But she did not cry out--only an occasional whimper disturbed the panting silence of the cabin. Soon Simmons' cock was flashing smoothly in and out between those tender lips, its shank sheathed in the thin blood of the ruptured hymen. He felt her hips spread against his grip when he shoved in and contract when he pulled out. He saw her breasts swell and grow taut and heard her sharp intake of air whenever he bumped her cervix. He studied every detail of his victim's writhing body, trying to detach himself, force himself to be objective. The idea was to make it last, to savor this real-life fantasy as long as possible; but it didn't work.
His orgasm took him by surprise. His hot, thick semen surged up without warning into the girl's straining body, filling her cavity and spilling out over the quilts, streaked with blood. Her mouth flew open in a soundless gasp as she felt those torrential blasts jetting into her, pounding mercilessly into the innermost recesses of her body.
Bill's penis was perhaps a little longer than Simmons' and certainly thicker, though both men were well hung. But afterward Sheila would hardly remember the second man's assault on her. She passed the rest of the day--maybe the rest of her life--in a kind of waking trance. Simmons' attack had brought about in her soul and body some inexplicable change that dulled the edge of all subsequent pain and anguish. Punish her though he might, Bill could not activate that expression of terrible astonishment that had aroused him so as he watched it rush repeatedly over her face and body when Simmons was between her legs. It angered and humiliated him, and he became more and more brutal in his treatment of her, but it did him no good; the girl only lurched limply in her bonds, her eyes staring sightlessly at the rusty tin roof. Even her tears had ceased to flow. To make matters worse, Simmons got up and left the cabin about halfway though the act.
In spite of all this Bill had a good orgasm, but without his wife's help, no doubt it would have taken him longer. Zelda had not yet got her cookies, so while Bill worked between Sheila's legs, the redhead squatted in front of him and tried to jack herself off on the girl's nose. She was not successful, but the sight aroused her husband sufficiently to bring him to his climax.
At first, when Zelda brought out the huge rubber cock, Bill felt a twinge of compassion for the child and started to protest, but his feeling of unfulfillment--for he had gotten little satisfaction from his release--brought out his cruelty, and he said nothing.
Zelda straddled Sheila's torso and sat down on her, ass to face, the girl's tits pressing against the big solid cheeks of Zelda's speckled butt. Clutching the black phallus in both hands, the redhead leaned forward and aimed it up Sheila's tortured hole. As the head passed through the inner lips and lodged itself in the vaginal tube, Sheila felt the very bones of her pelvis bend and start from their sockets.
She passed into a state of semi-consciousness, aware only of a dull, thrusting ache in her belly and the rhythmic crush and lift of the heavy, spotted buttocks on her chest.
The stark brutality of this act--the creak of the girl's bones as the thing went in, the scum of bloody come on the black shank as it came out--had Zelda's cunt boiling over. When she could take it no longer, she jerked the cock out and, squatting again over the face of the half-conscious girl, fucked herself with it until the juice squirted from her cunt like a geyser.
After that, Bill cut the ropes from the victim's wrists and ankles, and she drooped limply over the roll of quilts as though her skeleton had been disjointed, dollops of thick, bloody come still running freely from the dilated lips between her legs. He grabbed her long hair, dragged her to the door and kicked her out. She landed on her back in the mud at the foot of the steps, barely conscious, staring blankly up at the slimy, drooping cock that arched out over her.
"Get under the house where you belong, bitch," he growled at her. "We'll call you when we're ready for you again."
He spread his legs, aimed his prick and proceeded to piss on her. His powerful yellow stream flooded her face and torso before she managed to roll over and struggle to her hands and knees, the urine spattering heavily on her back and buttocks. Bill and the three women behind him laughed hilariously as Sheila at last crawled out of range and staggered to her feet. A hell of a way to be revived, but that's what it amounted to. She hesitated for a moment, wiping her face with her hands and staring at the laughing faces in the doorway; then she turned and staggered off into the bushes as fast as her trembling legs would carry her.
"Let her go," she heard the man laughing behind her. "She'll be back!"
Simmons was leaning against the trunk of a large cabbage palm at the west edge of the hummock, gazing out across the vast, rolling ocean of grass, when Sheila burst naked from the underbrush and fell headlong into the shallow water. She had come out at a little circular clearing in the sawgrass not far from where Simmons stood. When she had bathed her body thoroughly in the murky water, she stood up and waded straight across the pond, clawing her way through the lily pads and cattails until the water reached her breasts. There she panicked and started thrashing back the way she had come, but when she looked up and saw Simmons standing at the bank, blocking her way, she stopped.
"It's shallower when you get into the saw grass," he said calmly. "If you keep going that way about forty miles, you should hit Immokalee ... that is if you don't bleed to death from saw grass cuts, or starve to death, or get snake bit, which isn't likely. But you can try it if you like."
After a moment she dropped her gaze and waded back to shore. When she looked up at Simmons, her eyes were wet with tears.
"Please," she said, "help me! Take me home. You're not like those others. You ... you're different. I wouldn't tell anyone, I promise. I..."
Simmons took her by the shoulders and held her at arm's length. "So you think I'm different, do you? Well, forget it. It doesn't matter, it won't save you." He looked deeply into her eyes. "You don't even exist, don't you understand that? To them ... to us ... you're nothing but a fantasy, a toy, a little item I picked up at the five and dime to have a little fun with. Nobody gets rescued in a dream, and nobody pities a toy."
"But ... but you know I'm real."
"You really don't understand, do you? It doesn't matter what I know, it doesn't matter what anybody knows. Because all this is written down in a big book somewhere, and all we have to do--all we can do--is follow the script. You see?"
After a long moment, Simmons turned away from her liquid eyes and dropped his hands from her shoulders. He started off around the north edge of the hummock toward the path that led to the cabin.
"Come," he said without looking back.
* * *
PART TWO: ESCAPE
CHAPTER SIX
On the following evening, as the sun turned blood-red and lowered itself ominously behind the summer cloudbanks, Sheila found herself alone in the heart of the Everglades, the roar of the airboat rapidly fading into the north. That night there was nothing but despair in her heart; she bolted the door of the cabin, closed all the window shutters and huddled for hours in the corner where they had first chained her up.
But she must have slept a little, and in the morning she felt better. At least they were gone, and she was still alive. She tried not to think about the coming weekend when they said they would be back; maybe something would happen before then.
There was plenty of food and water in the cabin, so she ate a good meal--her first bite in two days--and tried to think up a plan. They had left her only one blanket and no clothes, except for the little baby-doll nightie she had bought at Carstein's. They were quite right in thinking that she could not strike out through the saw grass in that. Escape on foot was impossible in any case; the only thing to hope for was rescue from the outside. She thought of setting a fire to attract attention but discovered that they had left her no matches, so she cut the longest willow limb she could find and tied some white rags on top of it. Wearing the nightie and carrying the pole over her shoulders, she spent most of that day and the next walking around the hammock, straining her eyes for some sign of movement on the empty horizon.
On the third day she barely escaped stepping on a cottonmouth and sat in the cabin for hours, shaking with fright. In the afternoon she forced herself to continue the patrols, but it was slow going. Every rustle of brush made her jump. That night she realized with a sinking feeling that rescue was the most unlikely thing in the world. They had purposely built this cabin far outside the regular hunting and fishing areas; she hadn't even seen an airplane the whole time. Then she remembered what Simmons had said: "Nobody gets rescued in a dream." And she wept.
Nevertheless, early the next morning--Thursday--she was out on the edge of the grass with her pole, going through the motions. But when she heard the distant roar of an engine, she dropped the pole and froze with fear. Only then did she realize that she had never for one moment expected to be rescued. "They've come back two days early," she thought.
She crouched in a clump of myrtle and hid her face in her hands, trembling like a cornered rabbit. The airboat came flying over the grass at top speed and was nearly past the hammock before Sheila realized that it was not them. She leapt to her feet and began waving the pole frantically and shouting at the top of her lungs. The two men could not have heard her over the noise of the engine, but in the still landscape of the 'Glades one notices the slightest movement even at great distances. When the machine came abreast of the hammock, it suddenly swung into a tight turn and came skidding over the grass, straight toward her. Its big prop whirled and coughed and stopped, and the flat-bottomed hull settled into the open water of the pond Sheila had tried to wade the day of her rape. It came to a gentle stop against the dense ferns along the bank.
Imagine how the sight of Sheila must have affected these simple souls, these backwoods hunters--poachers, as they turned out to be. There she stood, in the middle of nowhere, wearing nothing but a pair of see-through bikini panties and a low-cut nightie which just barely reached the flare of her graceful hips, her beautifully formed tits, so huge in comparison with the rest of her figure, swinging loosely back and forth as she waved the flag. It must have given them quite a jolt.
They were the scroungiest, most scurrilous-looking characters imaginable, but to Sheila they looked like angels from heaven. She kept repeating to herself, over and over, aloud, half-weeping, half-laughing, "You were wrong, you were wrong, you were wrong. . . "-Meaning Simmons, of course. But she shouldn't have passed judgment so hastily.
The men looked at each other with wide, bloodshot eyes and stepped from the boat. The pilot was small and lean with a sharp, weasel-like face, and the other was big and solid and hairy with ape-like eye ridges and a square jaw; he was bald, but the skinny one had a matted rug of curly, reddish-blonde hair growing on the top of his flat head. They both had three-day beards, and they reeked of homemade booze. At first they would not look straight at the girl or approach any closer than ten feet; they sidled around her like coyotes warily circling some new, possibly dangerous prey.
Finally recovering somewhat from her near-swoon of relief, Sheila said, "Oh, thank you for coming! Thank you so much! I thought no one would ever come!" She rattled on like that for a few minutes while their murky eyes darted hungrily over her thinly veiled body. In the excitement she had completely forgotten about her appearance. Before, when she was thinking about what to do in case someone did show up to rescue her, she had intended to wrap up in the blanket; but since she had never really expected it to happen, she had always left the blanket in the cabin, and now that the moment had actually come she was so overwhelmed that, as I say, she forgot all about it. But the poachers didn't. The skinny one, who seemed to be the spokesman, interrupted her.
"Wheah's you mama and daddy?"
"Oh, my parents are in New York, but my aunt lives here in Florida--in West Sago Beach. If you could please take me some place where there's a telephone, I can call her and she'll come and get me, and..."
"What I mean, ma'am, who brung yuh out heah, and wheah might they be right now?"
"Oh, well ... Well, I'd rather not say, if you don't mind. I ... I mean, it's really not important. They're gone, and I'm here alone. So if you could just drop me off at the nearest..." (This puzzles me more than anything else about Sheila, this totally unreasonable reluctance to put the finger on that bastard Simmons!)
At this point the burly one jabbed his partner in the ribs and said in a dull voice, "She might got a man or sump'n in that there hammock, Whitey."
"Take a look, willyuh, Marvin?" said Whitey, still squinting at Sheila along his beak. While Marvin was gone they tried to talk, but the lack of communication between them was almost total--not only because they came from different worlds, but also because their present motives were at opposite poles. For the moment, however, Sheila was still too relieved about getting out of the frying pan to start worrying about the fire.
In a few minutes Marvin's shout came through the trees. "Hey, Whitey! They's a cabin in heah!"
While the two men looked over the cabin, mumbling things to each other, Sheila finally remembered the blanket and draped it over her shoulders, holding it together in front. She watched them curiously as they opened all the cupboards and boxes. After a while they turned their attention back to the girl. They were much less cautious now, their leering eyes lingering on her curves and swells instead of racing over them as before. She heard Whitey say, "We kin come back for the stuff later," and then to Sheila, "Wheah's the still, honey?"
"Still?" she replied. "Oh, no, there's no still. This is just a place these people visit on weekends--you know, for picnics and things. Can we go soon? My aunt's going to be worried to death."
They grinned at each other. "And they jis lef you out heah, huh?" Whitey said sarcastically. "Jis up and lef." She said yes, that was what had happened and she was sorry she couldn't explain. "And they didn't leave yuh no clothes or nuthin'. " She shook her head. She was getting uneasy.
Finally Whitely said, "Okay, le's go," and the big monkey said, "Yeah, le's git it!" They all returned to the airboat and got aboard. As they roared away, Sheila--like Lot's wife--had to look back just Once. No part of the cabin showed through the vegetation, and the only thing in sight to remind her of what had happend was the willow pole with the white rags at the top leaning against a clump of wax myrtles, marking the spot where Simmons has held her by the shoulders and told her about the big book.
Sheila noticed from the very first that they were not heading in the direction of the landing at the spillway, but this didn't particularly worry her. For all she knew there was a closer way out; she had no idea where she was, because she had been brought all the way from West Sago to Grass Point in the trunk of Simmons' car. But Whitey was steering dead south, further and further from firm ground, ever deeper into the swamps.
Soon there appeared in the distance a long, low ridge of some kind running roughly from east to west. Sheila thought at first that it was a highway or a railroad, but soon saw that it was only a low dirt dike, covered with grass and eroded through here and there-one of the state's abortive flood control projects of old. Here Whitey and Marvin had stashed their alligator hides and erected a canvas lean-to against the heat of the sun.
Sheila watched them unload the freshly killed carcasses of a doe and a fawn from the boat and drag them up onto the dike. The men appeared to have reached their destination and to have forgotten about her, but Sheila figured this was only a brief stop before taking her on to "civilization". I should mention, however, that Sheila was not all as naive at this time as I have perhaps been implying: She had seen the hunger in the men's eyes, and she knew what it meant; it had even crossed her mind that she might have to let them fuck her before it was all over, but after what she had been through, she considered this a small price to pay. But that they had no intention of ultimately delivering her to safety never occurred to her.
"Why did you kill the fawn?" she asked.
Whitey dropped the smaller carcass beside the larger one and turned briefly to the girl. His bloodshot eyes seemed to pierce right through the blanket, and his thin lips peeled back from his yellow teeth in a wolfish grin. "Them's the best kind, them young'uns. Nice and tender. Mm mm!" The razor-sharp cackle with which he followed these words left little doubt as to their meaning.
Sheila walked away when they started the butchering. She stood in the lean-to with her back to them and looked out over the vast flood. From atop the dike it looked absolutely endless. She let the blanket fall open in front, and the freshening breeze rushed pleasantly over her body. The nightmare was over. Soon she would be home, she thought.
Suddenly she felt hot breath on the back of her neck, and as she spun around, the blanket was jerked from her grasp. It was Whitey, his hands still bloody from the butchering.
"How 'bout a little hootch, honey?" he said.
"What? Oh..."
He had her in a bearhug, squeezing the breath out of her, his long snaky tongue wriggling into her throat. She nearly fainted from suffocation before she was able to tear her mouth from his.
"Come 'ere and hold the bitch fo' me, Marvin!"
"Sho' thing, Whitey!"
And the ape lumbered up behind her and grabbed her arms in his meaty hands. Whitey stepped back and grinned broadly, his reptilian eyes drinking in the thinly masked nudity of her struggling body.
"Tha's fine," he said. "Now jis' hold her like that..."
Whitey pulled open the lacy neckline and peered inside, his breath getting heavier and heavier as he watched her fantastic tits swelling and heaving. He reached in with his other hand and lifted one out the top of the nightie. Holding it in both hands, he bent over and licked the nipple until it began to swell and stiffen.
"Huh, huh! I b'lieve she like it, Whitey," Marvin chuckled, breathing over her shoulder. "She ain't fightin' no mo'. "
" 'Course she like it," said Whitey, looking up from the tit. "She a whore, ain't she? Now git yo' fuckin' head back outa theah! You'll git yer turn."
Whitey lifted out the other breast and licked its nipple until it stood up like the first one. Then he ripped the nightie open down the front and tossed it away, dropping to his knees at her feet. He slid his hands up into the leg-holes of the black bikini panties, running his thumbs into her cunt hair. He seemed fascinated at the sight of his moving fingers inside the garment--like a savage looking at a mirror for the first time. Finally he pulled down the panties and jerked them from her ankles. He grabbed a handful of black curls and grinned when she winced from the pain. Then he worked his thumb down into her slit and began to massage her clitoris, roughly at first, then more gently.
Sheila felt her body responding. First she tried to control herself, but soon gave in to the fiery waves that rushed up from her crotch. Her belly became taut, and her thighs gradually opened. Somewhere in the back of her mind she realized what a change had taken place in her during her ordeal in the cabin.
Whitey looked up, still thumbing her clit. "Yuh like that, don't yuh?" he hissed.
Sheila looked down at him through half-closed lids, her head lolling to the side, and nodded.
Whitely stood up, running his palms up over her belly and breasts, lifting them high and pressing them together and letting them fall free with a resilient, tantalizing shudder. His hands continued upward until they cradled her face, the bony fingers hurting her cheeks.
"Git outa heah, Marvin," he murmured.
"Huh?"
"Git! I'll call yuh when I'm done."
"Oh, sho', Whitey," said the dummy, releasing the girl and giving her a slap on the ass as he backed out the lean-to. "Jis' don't take too long, old buddy, 'cause I..."
"Git!"
When Marvin at last lumbered off, Whitey pointed to the dirty blanket that was spread out under the shelter. "Lay down theah," he ordered. Sheila lowered herself to the ground and stretched out on the blanket, legs together, arms at her sides. Whitey stood at her feet and undressed. His bony body was yellow and smelly, and his cock was long and greenish, gnarled like an ancient pine limb, but when he descended over her, without hesitation Sheila spread her legs to receive him. She even held her tits up for him to suck, rubbed them back and forth over his wire-brush jowls as he burrowed between them and nibbled a nipple with his yellow fangs. When he was ready, she lifted her knees, reached down between her thighs and guided his cheesy cock into her cunt. Her hole was still tender from Zelda's brutal assault on it with the rubber phallus, but she closed her eyes and thought of Simmons--and the more it hurt the better it felt.
Whitey couldn't stay on very long. The sight of those impossible tits jiggling before his eyes, the hot bulk of them nudging his eyes, pressing against his cheeks, swelling in his mouth--this, together with the blood-boiling snugness of her crack, brought him rapidly to the peak of his arousal. Grunting like a boar, he pumped a great quantity of come into her belly and rolled off, dropping into a puffing stupor of exhaustion.
In a few minutes, without a word, the rat-faced man got to his feet and shuffled out of the shelter. Sheila heard him call to his partner in a labored voice, "Don't take all day in theah, Marvin, we got tuh git crackin'. "
"Yuh. How were it, Whitey?"
"Fine, boy, mighty fine! Now you be careful with it, you heah?"
"Oh, I will, Whitey! Huh, huh, huh!" He was still chuckling and mumbling to himself as he came into the lean-to. He stripped his shirt off his hairy barrel chest and unbuckled his belt, hunching over her like a drooling grizzly bear. He didn't take off his blood-stained khaki pants but only let them drop down around his boots. "Yessuh, I be real careful with it," he muttered as he settled to his knees beside the girl, "real careful."
Sheila was frightened of the big ape, but she knew it could only make it worse if she struggled, so she spread for him as she had for the smaller man. I'll just close my eyes and think of something else, she told herself, and soon it will be over and. . .
She should have closed her eyes before he waved that five-pound root of meat in her face. She sat up and opened her mouth to beg for mercy, but before she could form a word the big dirty thing thudded into the side of her face and knocked her back to the blanket, and the next thing she knew he had flipped her over on her belly and was trying to jam the monster into her asshole.
No doubt the heat of the day and the clumsy violence of the brute's efforts were all that saved her anus and rectum from certain ruin; the torrents of perspiration that poured off their bodies eventually offered just sufficient lubrication for him to penetrate the hole without ripping the flesh. Sheila did not pass out immediately: She remembered being lifted off the ground by the hips, skewered brutally, her arms and legs flapping helplessly as he slid her body rapidly back and forth over that gigantic piston-but that was all: There was a flash of pain, and she was out.
The roar of the airboat brought her back to life. She sat up in alarm. The lean-to was gone, and the leering eye of the afternoon sun blazed down cruelly on her naked body. All the hides, meat and gear were gone from the dike, and the men were in the boat. For the first time she realized they were going to leave her there. She tried to stand up, but the pain was too great. She pleaded with them at the top of her lungs, but the engine was too loud. Whitey climbed up into the pilot's seat and looked back at her, that wolfish grin curling his lips. He shouted something, pointing east along the dike, but she couldn't make it out. She could hardly see him through her tears. He revved the engine, swung the rudder, and a stinging cloud of sand and dry muck blasted her face and body. By the time the dust settled and she could see again, there was no sign of the boat-nothing but a distant drone, fading rapidly.
Not only had the bastards not left Sheila any food or means of shelter, they had also taken her blanket. The only thing they left--and I'm sure it was an oversight--was the pair of black panties that came with the nightie.
The first thing she did, after the pain in her rectum subsided enough for her to stand up, was to wash the dirt from her body and step into the panties. She looked along the dike in the direction Whitey had pointed. Should she walk that way, or the other way? Whatever she did, she knew she'd better get at it; soon it would be dark, and she shuddered to think of having to spend the night alone and naked on that dike, surrounded by snakes and alligators.
But that's exactly what happened. Not only that night, but the next two as well. It was slow and dangerous going on the dike, what with the many washouts and willow thickets, not to mention the ground rattlers and cottonmouths with which the thing was infested from end to end, but she also had several things in her favor. She was damn lucky the poachers had happened to make camp on the dike and not on some hammock from which there would be no escape. Second, it was summer and the nights were reasonably mild, so that though she suffered quite a bit at first from exposure to the sun and the chill of the night, these were not things likely to do her in. As for food, there were plenty of coco plums, and after she finally got up enough nerve to try one, she never had much concern over starvation.
But even so, it's certain she couldn't have survived out there for very long. How she managed to escape being snake bitten is more than I can figure--she hadn't even any shoes! If she had gone west instead of east, she never would have made it.
On the morning of the third day--Saturday, about the time the "Group" was returning to the cabin to find not only the girl missing but all their supplies as well--Sheila saw a long low line on the southeast horizon and by afternoon saw that it was another dike, much higher than the one she was on and apparently intersecting it. This was the northwest boundary structure of Conservation Area No. 15--still a hell of a long way from the hustle and bustle, but at least it looked like something, and her little bruised feet fairly flew along the treacherous ground in a made a desperate attempt to get there before dark.
But she didn't make it. She succeeded only in draining her last reserves of energy, and when she at last dragged herself to the summit of the high dike, it was just light enough to see there was nothing beyond but a canal and more swamp. She collapsed into a deep dreamless sleep, utterly exhausted.
The light seemed to come from a great distance--just a speck at first, a bright pinpoint in the starless void, then getting brighter, closer, until it made a blinding ache behind the eyes. Then there was a voice, words, but they meant nothing. It seemed important to her, in her delirium, to determine whether she was asleep or awake before making an attempt to open her eyes. Then she felt a hand on her breast and knew that the dream was still in progress. It was almost with a sense of relief that she realized this.
She raised her hands and traced the fingers caressing her bare nipples and felt the familiar hairiness of a masculine arm. She was glad. Men were so much gentler than women--most men, anyway. She felt the shoulders, the neck, the face. It was a smooth face. Like Simmons'. Then the light went away, and now there was a hand on each breast. She tried to lift her buttocks in order to remove her panties but found she hadn't the strength for it. She heard a voice saying, "Please don't rip them, they're all I've got," and realized the voice was her own. The panties seemed to float from her hips as if by magic, and she felt the familiar shift of weight, the hot breath on her neck, and she spread her legs to admit the dream--that familiar phallic dream of pain and pleasure.
We may assume that this fisherman by chance swung his light along the top of the dike as he chugged up the canal and happened to spot Sheila flaked out in the grass, tits jutting skyward. No doubt he went up to offer assistance and nothing more; but who knows what went through his mind as he stood over that big-bosomed little beauty wearing nothing but a pair of transparent bedroom panties, apparently alive and well, having a little nap in the middle of the Everglades? Perhaps he meant only to venture one little touch before she woke up, one light caress of those dark-nippled moons, something to remember while he fucked his wife in the humdrum months to come. But when the girl had responded, warmed up to his touch, stroked his face, offered to remove her panties, it was as though her only purpose in being there was to get fucked. And so, putting explanations aside for the time being, he took advantage of the situation, whipped out his dong and drove home. At least this is the way I envision the thing happening.
Sheila opened her eyes as he was pumping his load into her, but his flashlight was off now and there was no moon, so she saw only his dark bulk laboring over her, and even afterward she never got a good look at his face. Probably he wanted it that way. She remembered very little of what followed, so exhausted and delirious was she from her three days on the dike. There were of course more questions, and once again--even in her fuzzy state of mind--she refrained from mentioning her abduction and rape. She asked him if he would please take her to her aunt's house in West Sago Beach, and he said that was eighty miles away, but he would take her to a place where she could catch a ride. There was something about his wife and kids back at the dock and so, naturally, he couldn't take her there.
So then they were in a little boat, speeding through the dark water of the canal, the cool spray flying in her face. The fisherman had (begrudgingly, it appears) given her a white T-shirt to wear. It smelled fishy, Sheila remembered, but she didn't care. Soon the boat slowed down and turned to the left into a narrower canal, almost a ditch, overhung with casuarina boughs. There was no dike here; the ditch was flanked on both sides by cultivated fields, and she could smell peppers and over-ripe tomatoes. Then, in the distance she saw the flash of headlights crossing the canal up ahead. A bridge. A road with cars on it. She had never realized how wonderful such everyday things could be. Surely the dream was nearly over.
She remembered standing on the bank of the ditch listening to the sound of the fisherman's outboard motor fading away up the canal. He had said something about the road before he left, given her some sort of directions, but she must have forgotten them immediately. She remembered walking along between the rows of pepper plants toward the road, but aside from vague recollections of sitting on a bench, a car door opening, a cool wind in her face, the feel of a soft mattress beneath her back, aside from these, the rest of that day and the next were almost a total blank.
INTERMEZZO
At first it seems as though I am bogged in muck, then it becomes quicklime, and I can feel it eating away at my balls. Already the scrotum is a tattered sack, useless, fluttering in slow-motion about the gristly robins eggs dangling shelless from their corroded cords. They are rising and falling, one at a time, these testicles, with a terrible, lethargic, running-down motion imperceptible yet unmistakable, like the weights on a cuckoo clock. But the pendulum swings on. That is, my cock is still intact, untouched by the corrosion. Moreover, it is as stiff as a baseball bat and almost as large. It parts the scum before me like the ram of an icebreaker. I push on. Once in a while it occurs to me that maybe I should turn around, retrace my steps, but this is apparently impossible. It is difficult even to consider it. If I could do it, though, there is little doubt that it would put an end to my troubles. It would reverse the process of disintegration. My nuts would draw up to their proper place, my scrotum would restore itself, my thighs and buttocks would scab over and heal at a rate proportionate to my withdrawal. But of course I would lose my magnificent erection. Is that why I can only go forward? Or is it simply the nature of the medium, the quicklime, to conduct its flotsam in but one direction? Some irreversible polarizing property which impels only from positive to negative? But this close scrutiny gives me a nauseous feeling, and I direct my thoughts to other things. If I analyze the situation too thoroughly, I'm afraid I'll lose the melody. By "melody " I suppose I mean my hard-on; without that I am lost. And besides, if I puke, I'll have to wade through it. I push on.
I hear the song coming through the fetid decay of the mossy swamp. It is shrill but sweet as honey, child-like, almost ethereal--no, not ethereal: carnal is what I meant to say. Here, somehow, the two seem closely related, as though the spiritual and the carnal were locked in fornication at the slimy vortex of this slough. But if such a vortex exists, it is a backward vortex, and instead of sucking in, it radiates throughout the whole place the hybrid mud of copulation, the last sterile residue of the age of procreation. Am I that "rough beast, its hour come round at last?" What a thought! Or am I Odysseus? If the latter, it is a bad joke, because there's no mast to tie myself to. Except for my cock. I could strap myself to my cock, if I had the strength for it, which I don't. And what if I did it and then lost my erection in spite of everything? Disaster! Remember that old ditty?
Gonna tie my pecker to my leg, to my leg,
Gonna tie my pecker to my leg!
I push on.
The song seems to be coming from just around the next bend. I round the headland but can see nothing through the fog. Then suddenly there she is, looming up in the distance, standing on a promontory at the brink of the lime bog, her blood-black hair flowing motionless about her pale shoulders. Behind her is a wormy staircase leading to the mossy boughs of dead cypresses and the lichen-covered canopies of giant toadstools. She is dressed in cellophane, and from the tiny nuclear reactors that hang from her earlobes comes a pulsating green glow and a steady drone. The drone accompanies her song like a cosmic tamboura, always on a descending scale. Issuing vertically from the blue-black nipples at the tips of her large, luminous globes are two snaky streams of thin smoke--cold-looking smoke, like carbon dioxide gas. Can this be the source of the mist? Tits filled with dry ice? And a cunt full of termites? No, the girl looks intact. She is like a ripe plum in a bed of fungus. She has the eyes of Ishtar and the nose of Cleopatra, the breasts of Aunt Jemima and the hips of a boy. Where have I seen her before? I push on.
I lock onto the black delta of her cunt in its cellophane halo and give it all I've got. Green scum clings to the head of my prick, slowing me down. I clear it away and dig in, though my toes are eaten to the bone. Even when the bottom gives way and the lime closes over my head, I keep going. All sense of direction is gone, but the built-in sonar in my cock keeps me on course. It zeroes in on her song:
Come, Johnny, don't stop there,
Come, Johnny, don't stop,
Come, Johnny, don't,
Come, Johnny,
O, Johnny,
Come
I push on.
When I reach the foot of the stairs, she is gone. The house is in shreds; what holds it up is beyond my comprehension. At the next landing I see her beckon me. Above her head, through a ragged hole in the ceiling, I can see the sun, a cold, red cloud, an incandescent amoeba without a nucleus, dangling like a spider against a black sky--a sky blacker than the bush between her legs in the midst of which her nuclear-powered twat flashes blue and crimson like a bubble light on a Christmas tree. I climb the creaky stairs, and the walls scale off and crumble all around me, yet the boards under my feet hold. My feet. Suddenly I realize that there is flesh on my bones again, meat on my hams. My kidneys are no longer exposed. I give my asshole a tentative pucker. It works. My balls are gone, and that's for good and all, I'm thinking. But what of it? The wound has healed over as smooth as a fishbowl, no loose shreds, no scabs, just smooth skin, hairless and tingly to the touch. I'll get used to it. My cock is bigger than ever, and that more than compensates. Except for the loss of my cods, I seem to have come through almost intact. The only thing missing is the flesh on the tips of my fingers. No more typing for old John. Thank God for that!
I push on.
She is always one landing ahead of me. We're going higher and higher. I'm getting giddy. I don't dare look down. The staircase is but a skeleton, creaking and groaning in the solar wind, in the last feeble gasps of the dying sun. The stars have all melted and dripped down over the glass dome of the sky, etching its brittle surface with the acrid bile from their cankerous lesions. She is invisible around the next bend of the double helix. For stabilization I fix my eyes on the crisscrossed etchings on the glass. It looks like an exploded star map, a pile of pick-up sticks seen from below. The constellations have all been slaughtered and cast down in a heap. The sky no longer makes sense. The Bull has finally gored Orion, and the Fishes have devoured each other. Precession has gone full circle, and Polaris has exploded upon collision with its ghost. The entropic cock has shot its wad and even the debris is disintegrating. Still, I have a bone-on a bear couldn't bite, and I push on.
Come, Johnny, don't stop there...
There she is, at the very top. Her legs are spread wide, her gleaming gash bubbling away in the stratospheric gas. She takes a tit in each hand and squirts a double stream across the skeletal space into which we have entered. I am showered with molten milk, my flesh blisters at the contact, but an ice-cold chill shoots through the marrow of my bones. I stagger. The staircase shudders and sways. Ten miles down the ground begins to cave in; smoking holes surround the tower like burnt-out eye sockets, staring upward. I touch the center of my forehead with the bone-end of the middle finger of my right hand, and instantly my sweat is turned to ice.
Come, Johnny, don't stop ...
I push on.
I follow the cellophane sparkle of her boyish butt, twinkling on ahead. At last I reach the top and step out onto a broad, barren plain. There is no air, but the ether is thick enough to breathe. It enters the body like atomized methane and seeps out through the pores. I move as fast as I can, but everything here runs in slow-motion. It's as if lam in the lime again. My skin remains intact, but I am plagued by an annoying rattle at the bone-sockets, as though my joints are trying to unhinge themselves like the constellations. It's like the time in California, when I took a full grain of morphine in the leg and lay on my back all night suffering from nausea and a dismantled skeleton. Now, as then, I see the Earth Mother. But how different she is!
I have lost sight of the girl in the crowd. I hear her singing in the distance, but I don't see her. The deeper I push into the crowd the thicker it becomes. like me, these people move with a lethargic persistence, yet they seem to be going nowhere. If their paths could be marked, they would resemble the pick-up-stick etchings on the glass dome overhead, the tracks of the fallen cosmos. They are each traveling in a different direction, yet their paths never seem to cross. I bore right into the thick of it. They block me at every turn-not intentionally, for they are obviously indifferent to my situation. Once again I am losing my sense of direction. The sonar in my cock is failing me. I push on anyway. These people, I can't help noticing, have no faces, yet I recognize every one of them, every mother's son and man jack. But I admit I would be unable to reel off names. A thought crosses my mind. I put my hand to my face. Sure enough, it's as smooth as a flatfish. Fuck that. I push on.
It is consoling to observe that all the men are as codless as myself. True, they all have erections, but few are as imposing as mine, or so it seems to me. The women are all long-legged and big-titted, and each one wears her atrophied ovaries around her neck like a stole. I stretch out my arms and grab a tit in each hand, just to amuse myself. On a whim, I sink my shit hook to the elbow up a particularly appealing cunt and come out with a heating element in my palm. It's not even sticky. I put it to my ear. It has a drone like the girl's earring reactors. I give it a shake, and it crumbles in my hand. The bitch from whom it came--a hyper-voluptuous super-blonde--lies lifeless on the ground in a smear of lipstick, hopelessly entangled in her bicycle like a deKooning "Woman". I push on.
Random though they are, the tracks of these idiots are somehow divergent, which would seem to imply that perhaps at some remote time they originated at a common center. In a moment this conundrum is solved. For some time I have noticed a huge shape, a mountain, looming up over the heads of the mob, and now, breaking through a clot of bodies, I see it clearly. It is the Earth Mother. She is as big as the moon, and her legs are strapped open. When I dreamt of her in California, she was black and fecund. On her head was a wreath of aspidistra and from between her huge black thighs issued a constant stream of living things--furry creatures, scaly creatures, rats, bats, fishes, babies and blackberries--an endless torrent of life. Now she is as pale as the fog. Her hair is the color of the dead sun, and her tits are all pitted with craters. In my other dream she lay in a huckleberry patch in the shade of a pea-green willow beside a black creek full of fat fish. Now she is on a delivery table of porcelain and chromium, her legs strapped back and her cunt pried open with aluminum rods. From where I stand her womb resembles the cargo bay of a flying boxcar, and I expect at any minute to see a jeep or a tank or a semi come rolling down the ramp. A Cadillac at the very least. But at first I see nothing but a feeble trickle of nuts and bolts. Closer scrutiny reveals a sporadic egression of mechanical soldiers, wind-up toys stalking stiffly through the hairy gates.
What a pitiful and appalling sight, these random "births", in comparison with that superabundant extravasation of old! And what a grotesque lot are these sterile and gutted automatons compared with those furry friends among whom I spent my childhood. But I am not deceived. I'm one of them, and I know it. I too stalked through those dry gates. I too am running down. To make sure I probe my rectum with a finger. Yes, there's the heating element, humming away. It was only through some basic flaw of the metabolism that I ended up in the quicklime--an adamantine carpet tack, perhaps, lodged in the cerebellum, or an iron filing up the ass. Maybe it was nothing more than an absent-minded rupture in the scheme of things, a random and insignificant hernia of the chronology. The words "scheme" and "chronology " suddenly made me laugh, and I push on.
The birthing table is fitted with large brass balls, one on each side, and whenever the Earth Mother feels the urge, she clutches these balls, grits her teeth and grunts like a constipated sow. As a rule nothing comes out but a stale fart, but occasionally she succeeds in squeezing out another poor beggar or two. I notice that for each new arrival four or five others drop in their tracks. A bottle-blonde swiggles down the ramp, dressed in only high heels and black mesh hose. She has a plastic flower between her teeth and another stuck up her cunt. She has a tendency to leave the ground because her tits are filled with helium, but she pushes on. My element skips an oscillation. Is my number up? Ha! I should be so fortunate.
Whenever the Earth Mother clamps down on the brass balls, a stream of black, wormy objects oozes from between her knuckles. I pick one up and look at it. It is a rubber phallus, a good three feet long. I tap the head of my cock with it. Presto! My sonar cuts in again. Must have been a short. But now my knees are weakening. Maybe it was the blonde after all. If I could just lie down for a minute.
Come, Johnny, don't ...
I sling the rubber prick around my neck and push on.
For hours I pursue the girl through a maze of corridors and elevator shafts, sterilized alleys and dirty clothes' chutes. She leaves a trail of cellophane for me to follow, otherwise it would be impossible. At last I surprise her in the ladies' room. She is down to one scrap of cellophane, which she has wadded up and crammed into her navel. With a lascivious grin she puts one foot on the toilet and removes her toenails, one at a time. Next come the earrings. When they hit the water, a cloud of steam fills the room. I see her through the haze, leaning against the tile, legs spread, caressing her huge tits with one hand and fingering herself with the other. For the first time I recognize her. I hesitate.
Come, Johnny...
One swing of the club brings her down. When I drive my cock into her crow-black gash, an electric shock shudders me to the bone. The toilet belches and erupts black muck. It flows smoking over the crumbling tiles, engulfing us, but I push on. Through her paper-thin skin I can see the head of my neon cock going up and down in her belly. I bury my face between her tits, and hot oil gushes from her nipples. My thighs are being cut to ribbons by the saw grass, my rump is a bleeding pulp, but I feel nothing, nothing but the fuck. To make it tighter, I plug up her asshole with the rubber phallus--
O Johnny...
--it works like a charm. A few minutes or a few millennia later, she runs her fuck-finger up my shit hole, and, with a metallic squeak, the glass dome begins to shatter at the summit and coagulate at the circumference like fish eyes. All over the world the hermaphrodites are dying off like flies, and I am fucking away like there's no tomorrow. It's wonderful. When she opens her mouth, I can see the head of my dick appearing and disappearing in her throat. Jagged glass is falling all about us; the grunts of the Earth Mother in her death throes are dealing the tortured crust its last tremors. The last shreds of the sun are drifting away, and the four horsemen are copulating with their dead steeds. One of them is directly blow me. I shout down at him gleefully at the top of my lungs, "FUCK YOU AND THE HORSE YOU RODE IN ON!" He ignores me.
The world is a smoking hole, but I push on. The skeletal structure sways sickeningly, its bones and struts howling in the magnetic wind, but I push on. It's a race against time. A quick mental calculation tells me that I have but a few milliseconds to get my gun. Plenty of time. It occurs to me again that my balls are gone, afloat somewhere in the lime bog, but I put it out of my mind and push on.
Come ...
I push on.
The movement of the bed woke me up. My wife was at it again with that skinny bastard, whatever the fuck his name is. Can't keep track of them. My first feeling was one of anger--probably due to the damned dream. Nothing more irritating than "coitus interruptus," no matter what the circumstances. Besides, it was bad enough to have to stay at the machine till midnight working on a book I had never wanted to write in the first place--the book about Sheila--without having to dream about it to boot. (Why I feel obligated to keep a five-year-old promise to a cocksucker like Simmons--which isn't his real name, of course--is more than I can fathom; now that I've started it, though, I've got to finish the fucking thing to get the loot, and time's running out. With eight more chapters to go.) And to be awakened by a free-loader who has nothing to do but screw your old lady all night--it was frustrating.
I was on the verge of throwing the bastard out, but then I thought better of it. Tomorrow I'll put the touch on him, I said to myself, and if he doesn't fork over, then I'll kick his ass out. With that thought I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use. I rolled over and watched. There was no moon, but the telephone light was sufficient.
He was on his knees, astraddle May's tits with his bony ass in her face stuffing a pillow under her butt. An unpleasant smell struck my nostrils, and I noticed that the son of a bitch had his socks on. Jesus Christ. He seemed dissatisfied with the elevation of her cunt, and I half expected him to snatch the other pillow from under my head to jack her up another notch, but apparently he decided to make do. As he hunched forward and parted the shag from her slit, May took her left tit and poked his asshole with her nipple. He squirmed and panted and took a noisy slurp. In silhouette, he put me in mind of a vulture hunched over a juicy carcass. With his long-fingered hooks he gave her pelvis an upward tilt, and his face disappeared between her shadowy thighs. Obviously he was tonguing her butt-hole. After several diligent attempts to insert her stiff nipples into his crapper, she finally reciprocated by raising her head and treating him to a thorough tongue-scuttling. I hoped the motherfucker had wiped his ass better than he washed his feet. If she gets jock itch of the gums, it'll serve her right. Where in the hell does she pick up these cruds, anyway? "Old friends," she calls them. A paying client is one thing, but these old friends stick in my gizzard.
With a quick whip of his spine and a jerk of his ass, he nuzzled into her cunt, and she caught his cock in her mouth on the first swing. Reminded me of a trained seal catching a fish. May unhinged her throat like a snake, stretched her lips like a Ubangi, and sucked him in damn near to the balls. I could see her thighs shivering in the gloom as he lapped her clit, and the faint eye of the telephone light blinked on and off behind her bobbing boobs like a distress signal from a ship at sea. A vast, calm, death-black sea.
I waited until he had pumped his load down her gullet, and then I got up. When I left the room, May was still in her spasms, her lurching thighs wrapped tightly around the kid's shaggy head. Even out in the hall I could hear the hollow slurping and the gurgling gasps. My departure apparently went unnoticed.
I opened the children's door and peeked in. They were both asleep. My knees were shaky, my feet heavy as lead. I was dog-tired. What was I doing in there? I walked over to my daughter's bed and stood there for some time, watching her sleeping. Her face looked calm and relaxed, as mild as the sea. Her black hair flowed over the pillow in a thousand cross-currents. In the red glow of the little clown-headed night light, her long lashes cast still shadows across her petal-soft cheeks. Once they quivered, and it was like a warm wind passing over the water. Eight years old. I wondered what she was dreaming. As I watched her, she seemed to lengthen and expand. I was hallucinating. I shook my head and left the room at a shuffle. I hadn't the strength of a ghost. If anybody had told me five years ago that you could get that tired sitting at a fucking typewriter, I'd have told them they were crazy.
Yet my very fatigue seemed to draw me out of the house. I stumbled back into my own bedroom to get my clothes. By then the two lovebirds were at it again. May was on her hands and knees, and the kid was fucking her dog-style. In the ass maybe, I couldn't tell. Their backs were to me.
For an hour--maybe not that long--I drove through the dead streets and eventually ended up on the beach, cruising up Ocean Boulevard toward the pier. I parked near the end of the sidewalk and sat there like a zombie, staring out over the dark Atlantic. If the ocean were a toilet, I mused, I would pull the chain on it. Wouldn't it be a kick in the ass if the Central Atlantic Ridge turned out to be nothing more than a gigantic turd, of the multiple-stone variety? The idiotic grin was still on my face when I caught her eye. The blonde in the V-necked T-shirt.
She was barefoot and wore a pair of black and green bikini briefs, but the bra that went with them had obviously been discarded somewhere along the line, because as she walked through the yellow aura of the street lamp, I could see how freely her tits swung and jiggled inside the white T-shirt and how her nipples protruded through the thin cloth. And at the bottom of the deep V, I saw bare, satin-like skin. Between the bottom of the shirt and the top of the bikini the golden skin of her belly swayed and undulated. The belly-band caught her just barely above the hump, and two thin strings were all that broke the clean, flaring flow of her bare hip. Her thick blonde hair was parted in the middle and fell in luxurious sweeps down the sides of her face, almost covering her eyes and flowing about her shoulders. She had a young face and a young body. I put her age at about seventeen or eighteen. Full lips. Sexy smile. She winked at me.
I watched her plump little ass twist on down the sidewalk past the other cars, the cheeks rising and falling, the top of her crack winking over the upper edge of her bikini.... She didn't look back.
I got out and went to the seawall. There was a beach party going on up toward the pier. That must have been where the girl came from. I could see the young, shiny bodies dancing in the firelight. If I had gone closer, no doubt I would have found a black and green bra around some kid's neck. When I looked south again, the sidewalk was empty. I peered down the long, straight stretch of dark beach but saw nothing, no movement. Between the black sand and the black water there was only the faintly luminous, dotted line of the murmuring upwash, and the black horizon and the black sky had been hermetically sealed and cauterized, and no scar marred the nightflesh. It gave me a vague feeling of claustrophobia. I turned and strolled south. There was no hurry. It was all a matter of diversion--a temporary respite. From what, though? Sleep? I went on.
I was about to descend the wooden steps to the beach when a girl stuck her head out of the window of a car parked in the shadow of the seagrapes at the end of the sidewalk. She was a blonde, too, but not the same one.
"Hi, John," she said. "Whatcha doin' out here in the middle of the night?"
I grinned and walked over to the car. "I might ask you the same thing, Peggy." She was in the back seat. I saw another female head beside her. "Tits with you?"
She giggled. "You mean Nadine?" she asked. Nadine is her big sister. Her friends call her "Tits".
"Who else?"
More giggles. They were both high, or feeling good at least. "No, this is Gloria." She ducked back into the car. "Hey, Gloria, y' know who this is? ... John Smythe. "
Gloria, not bothering to lower her voice, said, "Who the fuck is John Smythe?"
"He's a writer, stupid. He writes books."
"Oh," said the other, squinting at me over Peggy's shoulder. Nice-looking chicks, both of them. Gloria had big red and green eyes and short orange hair. It was dark inside the car, but as far as I could see, she wore nothing above the waist but a white bra. Peggy wore a sleeveless blouse with a lacy collar, but it was unbuttoned down the front. Her blonde hair was a disheveled mess.
"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" I asked, pulling a tangle out of Peggy's mop.
"Hell no! Come on, get in." When Peggy opened the door and swung her legs out to let me in, I saw that the open blouse was all she had on. She was barefooted, and the shadowy nest of her pussy stood out darkly against the pale skin of her full thighs. As I stepped past her, my foot fell on something soft. It moved, and a muffled grunt rose from the floor.
"What the hell?" I said.
"Oh, just step over him, John," said Peggy. "It's some kid from that beach party. He had too much."
Finding firm footing with some difficulty, I climbed in and sat down between the girls. "Too much what?" I asked.
"Pussy," giggled Gloria.
"That's what I thought," I laughed, peering down at the limp form of the naked boy sprawled on the floor at my feet. Peggy leaned forward, too, and squinted at the kid's bare behind.
"Y'think we fucked him to death, John?" she asked.
I started to say something clever, but Gloria grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me over to her side of the seat. She had on a dark miniskirt, but it was bunched up around her hips, and I could see that there were no panties underneath. She put her hand on my cock--which had been like a brick since the moment I woke up--and said, "Hey, John Smythe, y'wanta write a book about me? I could tell ya some wild things, man..."
I've heard that so many times I could puke. Once they find out you 're a writer, you can look for a nice long night of boredom. Every cunt in the world has a best seller lodged in her craw, just waiting to be gagged up. Sure, they'll spread their legs for you, if you'll just hear them out first. It becomes nauseating.
However, I slid my hand up over one of her tits and said, "I'll bet you could. " She was a big girl, this Gloria, big all over, especially her boobs. She leaned back against the seat to give me easy access to her chest and continued to rub my prick as I slipped a bra strap off her shoulder. I bared a nipple and twiddled the knob. It was a nice nipple. It was like a plump, plucked chick with a bullet for a beak. She leaned forward slightly so I could unhook her backhand. She shook her shoulders, and the bra fell into her lap. Her tits were like pale, gelatinous cantaloupes stuffed with feathers. I rubbed them up and milked them down, and all the while she was talking, telling me the fucking story, but I didn't hear a word. All I heard was the music of her spheres. When she unzipped my fly and pulled out my cock, I slipped a hand under her skirt and cupped my palm over the bushy bulge between her parted thighs. It responded with an upward jerk. Her cunt was warm to the touch, and the lower part of the slit was still gooey from her last fuck. The blur of words and phrases ceased when I tickled her clit, and her heavy thighs spread like the petals of a night-blooming flytrap. But just when I had her wet and making funny noises in her throat, Peggy cut in.
"Hey, break it up, you two," she said, tugging at my shirt. "He's mine first, Gloria ... if you don't mind."
"Why?"
"Because he's my friend. And I saw him first. Come on, Johnny ... mmmmmmm..."
Whither blew the wind, I leaned with it. I am easily swayed.
Peggy had removed her blouse and was now completely naked. As her tongue slipped down my throat, I grabbed a tit in each hand, and in less than a half-dozen squeezes, she had my drawers down around my balls. She spoke right into my mouth...
"Fuck me, Johnny!"
I draped my pants over the bare ass at my feet, and Peggy slid smoothly onto my lap. The dim light of the street lamps along the seawall made a hairy halo around her head as she arched her back and lifted her tits to my face. I sucked one and then the other, my cock sliding up and down through her belly fuzz. She raised her butt slightly, put a hand between her legs, and inserted me into her hole. Peggy's cunt is as tight as a vise, and it moves inside like a greased weasel. She leaned back against the front seat, stroking her own breasts, her head lolling back, and I got a good, firm grip on the cheeks of her ass and pumped her for all I was worth. She came in no time at all, and I faked a discharge. But she wasn't going to let me get away that easily.
My erection was still good, and after a short, panting pause, she began to slide up and down on it again at a rapidly increasing tempo, folding her arms over her head and battering my face with her swinging tits. I matched her rhythm and was soon hitting bottom at every beat. The seat springs were squeaking, and the whole car rocked like a boat.
Meanwhile, Gloria was getting impatient. I saw that she had removed her skirt and was trying to jack herself off with a finger of one of the limp hands of the unconscious boy. His arm was whipping up and down like a rubber hose. I took my left mitt from Peggy's butt and got a handful of the redhead's right tit, pulling her closer. She dropped the kid's limp arm and pushed my hand into her crotch. It was sudsing like a washing machine, and I stuck all four fingers into her to the knuckles, rolling her clit with the heel of my palm. She shivered like an eel and began to turn cartwheels.
Before I knew what was happening, she was stretched out along the back of the seat with one leg around Peggy's neck and the other draped across my shoulders, so that the blonde and I now found ourselves cheek to cheek between those heavy thighs, staring straight down the bore of Gloria's bubbling crack, its orange bush faintly aglow like a clump of phosphorescent seaweed in a sea of gray milk. It rose and fell on the waves of sexual excitement that rolled down her pale belly. She propped up on her elbows in the confined space between the backrest and the rear window and peered at us between her jutting milk sacs.
"Eat me!" she moaned.
"Go ahead, Johnny," gasped Peggy without missing a stroke. "Eat her cunt!"
I lifted her left knee from Peggy's shoulder and, holding it high to get the maximum spread, I sunk my jowls in her gash and sucked her clit from its crevice. In a minute her thighs were streaming with juice. It seeped out faster than I could lap it up, and her pelvis was jumping like a jackhammer. When I drew back for a breath, Peggy dived in and picked it up where I left off, her tight little cunt rippling up and down my prick at the same speed as her tongue slurped her friend's slit--all in quadruple fortissimo!
Peggy and I tried to get our tongues into Gloria at the same time, but it didn't work too well. I intended to penetrate her fuck-hole while Peggy worked on her clit, but all I succeeded in doing was getting a wrenched neck and a nose full of bubbles. Finally Gloria went off like a Roman candle, sputtering at both ends, her tits flopping around like a couple of beached blowfish, and Peggy went into her second orgasm at the same time, her face submerged in the redhead's cunt, jerking and sloshing helplessly in the throes of her release. Again I faked my gun.
While the girls rested, I got out and took a piss over the seawall. It was near dawn, but there wasn't a hint of light in the east. Up the beach the party was still in progress. I listened to my steam pattering into the sand below and looked at my cock. It was still as rigid as an iron pipe. My scrotum hung close and tight. It reminded me of a hairy walnut. Except for my bones, which seemed somehow all atingle like tuning forks, I felt numb. As though my muscles had been unhooked, my nerves gone dead. I was startled by a splattering of water behind me. I looked over my shoulder and saw Gloria in a half-crouch beside the front fender of the car, stark naked, hands on her hips, pissing on the pavement and watching it flow away down the gutter.
When she finished, she straightened up and strolled over to me. It wasn't until then that I realized how ridiculous I must have looked, standing there on a public sidewalk, wearing nothing but a shirt and a pair of canvas shoes. But the only aspect of my appearance that seemed to interest Gloria was my amazing erection, which was sticking with me through thick and thin.
"My God, John Smythe," she said, rolling it between her palms, "doesn't it ever go down?"
"Rarely," says I. "They tell me it wilts a little sometimes when I'm asleep, but I couldn't swear to it."
I sat down on the wall and leaned back on my hands, eating up the flattery from this young, full-bodied cunt who could have any cock in town if she wanted it. Only gradually did the chilling sensation of the cold concrete on my bare ass seep through the cortical numbness that I could not shake off. Only my pecker had feeling. And even there something was missing.
As the naked redhead bent over to suck me off, I noticed two bikini-clad girls walking down the sidewalk toward us. We weren't in the light, but when they got a little closer, they wouldn't have any trouble seeing us. "Somebody coming," I said.
Gloria pulled her lips off my prick and looked at the approaching girls. "That's just some kids from the party. They don't give a shit." And with that she fell on me like a sword swallower.
"Well, then," I said, lifting her by the ears, "let's give 'em a real show." It wasn't that I objected to the chicks watching me get blown, it was only that I didn't see how I would be able to fake an orgasm with my cock in her mouth. It was a blowjob that might have gone on all night. So I stood up and sat Gloria down on the wall.
"Oo, it's cold!" she squeals. That was when the girls spotted us.
"Don't worry, " I said, placing her legs over my shoulders, "I'll warm you up." With the teen-agers not more than twenty paces off, I inserted the head of my tally whacker into her woolly hole and drove home. Her twat was almost as tight as Peggy's. She lay back on the broad cap of the wall and let her head dangle over the side, moaning with pleasure. Reaching around her quaking thighs, I grabbed her big, soft jugs around their bases and held them erect, the nipples pointing skyward, and pounded her butt with my belly until she squeaked like a squeeze doll and went stiff as a stick. I could feel her fornix hitting back at every jab.
Now the girls were right on top of us, taking it all in, but when I looked at them over Gloria's knee, they turned their heads and pretended to ignore us. One of them had a beer can stuck in her bra. As I pumped away, I heard them behind us, talking to Peggy.
"Hey, Peggy, you in there?"
"Huh?"
"You seen Joe, Peggy?"
"Yeah, he's right over there on the floor. "
"On the floor?"
"What's the matter with him? My God, Peggy, are you naked too? "
"Course I'm naked, stupid. What do you do, fuck with your clothes on?"
Giggles and a slurp from the beer can.
"No kiddin', what happened to Joe?"
"The son of a bitch passed out."
In a lower voice (but I heard it perfectly; I could hear everything--the music from the party, gurgle of the waves on the beach, the chirp of the crickets, the scurry of water roaches on the face of the seawall, the slish-slosh of my joint in Gloria's cunt--everything, with the utmost clarity--: "Who's that?"
"That's Gloria."
"I know that, dummy. Who's the guy."
"A guy I know. Want me to introduce ya?" In a whisper: "Don't you dare."
"Y'all are crazy, Peggy. What are y 'gonna do if a cop comes by?"
"Fuck the cops. " The car door opened.
"Peggy!"
"Put something on, Peg, for Christ's sake."
"Why? Come on."
"Hey, let go! Peggy, you bitch, you tore it!"
More giggles and curses. As they came up behind me, Gloria lifted her head and immediately began to come like a Gatling gun. The very ground seemed to shake under my feet. I thought it would never stop.
I slipped out and gently lifted Gloria's trembling legs from my shoulders. Leaving her sprawled over the wall, cunt-up, I took a deep breath and turned to face the newcomers with an "Ah!" of exhilaration, as though I had just stepped out of the pool. I was conscious (but not acutely so) of my slimy pole swinging from side to side like a telescope scanning the horizon in an arc impressively perpendicular to my belly. Even if I had been inclined to do so, it would have been useless to try to conceal the thing, so I just grinned casually and leaned back against the wall, vaguely thankful for the darkness and the dappled shadows of the sea grape. I was too numb even to be embarrassed. I felt like a somnambulist. If a cop had walked up and asked me for an explanation--prior to dragging me off--I would probably have said, "Why, I'm asleep, officer. Can't you see?" I did not feel in the least responsible for my actions. I was simply following the paths of least resistance.
But if I used this lethargic momentum as an excuse, the two girls used their state of semi-intoxication in the same way. They began to stagger around as though they were stoned silly as soon as I faced them. In trying to drag them over to the wall while Gloria was getting her cookies, Peggy had ripped the bra off one of them, and the girl was now weaving back and forth trying to hold the little garment together in front-without much success-but stumbling ever closer to where I stood. Peg still had the other chick by the bellyband and with a heave sent her squealing into my arms, which opened automatically for the catch. I pinned her slim hips between my knees and slid my tongue down her gullet. In a moment her fingers were running through my hair and the points of her hard little titties were boring through my shirt. When I came up for air, the other one was on my left, and Peggy--in all her voluptuous nudity--was on my right. The younger girl was still holding on to her bra in the middle, but only one cup was in place. The other drooped limply beneath her right tit. It was a cute tit--not very big, but nicely shaped with an areola that covered half its surface and probably added several inches to her measurement. The straps of the halter hung down at her sides. I didn't snatch it from her; I'm too much of a gentleman for that. I gave it a little tug, and she let go without a fight. She made noises of fake outrage as I wiped my cock with it, but it was obvious that they all got a big charge out of my audacity. To me it was only a matter of cleanliness. I was ready to move on and didn't want to leave with a sticky dong.
Why just then, with two fresh cunts waiting to be tapped? I don't know. It seemed as though I was on some sort of a trip, an excursion, that there was a specific time table to be followed--a time for this and a time for that, just so much and no more. Today it seems spooky, but then, in my strange state of numb suspension, it seemed perfectly normal. Haphazard though everything seemed, it was all going according to some strategic agenda, the items of which were solidly implicit in my every move. And I was dead on schedule with a precision that gave me a touch of vertigo as I stepped heavily into my pants.
I suppose I insulted the hell out of the girls. I seem to recall some indignant phrases from them as I went down the stairs to the beach. Also some where-the-hells from Peg and Gloria. But I can't remember any more of the actual words spoken. Not even the improvisational explanation I offered.
And another thing: I don't have the faintest mental picture of those girls' faces. Even the redhead I'm sure I wouldn't recognize if I saw her again. All this is odd as the devil, because I am usually very perceptive. Moreover, as I write, not more than eighteen hours have passed since these things took place. At a certain point on the "agenda" some of my mental faculties must have cut out on me. Others, however, remained strikingly acute. I remember, for instance, with the starkest clarity the "words" formed by the tumbling shells rattling in the backslide of the gentle surf as I trudged southward along the upwash line where the walking was easier. There is a kind of language in such sounds, but the mind must be numb and empty to understand it. Such understanding cannot be willed; it comes upon you like a fever. Nor can it be conveyed, transmuted; it isn't a language of communication. At any rate, I locked onto it and homed in on my target.
Ahead it was as dark as the inside of a well. I steered strictly by sound, correcting my course occasionally by means of those elusive spots that march across the peripheral vision like--like carnivorous ciliates on the hunt. Occasionally I got my feet wet, but that was all right. I hardly noticed it. The night crabs scurried before me, parting their invisible ranks as I pushed on. From beyond the surf came the sudden hiss and rush of a school of menhaden fleeing some scaly predator, and I turned to the right and started up the slope of the beach.
Here the seawall was badly eroded and crumbling. I stood at the foot of the old stone stairs and looked up. The steps were all cracked and tilted at crazy angles, and the wrought-iron rails were corroded and twisted like pretzels. Over these ruins only a dim, gray glow from West Sago rose feebly and was soon swallowed up in the black hood of the sky, but it was enough to give her a shape. Halfway up the crumbling stairs I stopped again. From there I could make out the white T-shirt and the little bows at her hips where the bikini tied. In a moment I could see the blonde shimmer which outlined her head. I gripped the iron rails with both hands and mustered all my remaining energy. But I had no more strength than a statue. Have you seen those chains that people have welded into loops and S-shapes for rural mailbox supports? That's what I felt like, one of those welded chains. I saw the T-shirt come off over her head and float to the ground. I thought she would untie the bows, but instead she pushed the garment down over the sweet flare of her hips, cocking her ass this way and that, and stepped out of it, one foot at a time, with exquisite grace. Maybe I imagined it, but it seemed to me that I could see the undersides of her big, dark-eyed breasts glowing ever so faintly against the darkness of her torso, such as a photograph of her might have looked in negative. Tonight the tips of my fingers are all raw from gripping the rusty scales of the railing. It is pleasantly painful to type. When the cuts heal, perhaps the memory, too, will fade. I should not be writing it down.
I tried to speak softly, but was actually startled by the loudness of my voice.
"How about it?"
She raised her hands to her head and lifted off the blonde wig. Her long, black hair fell like a crow's wing over her left breast. The wig fell dead to the ground. She extended both hands to me and said ...
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sheila yawned, stretched and opened her eyes. Soft yellow light was filtering into the room through half-closed blinds. Outside there was the dull drone of traffic and . pleasant music of song-birds. When she lifted the soft, clean sheet and looked down at herself, she was surprised to find that she was dressed in a pretty blue nightie, ruffled at the top and bottom and fastened at her shoulders with little bows of blue silk. Underneath it was a tiny pair of blue panties, all crisp and ruffly. Her toenails and fingernails had been painted with pale, iridescent violet, and her hair had been braided into two long, black strands fastened at the ends with blue silk bows. She sat up and blinked her eyes.
"Gosh."
He stuck his head out of the bathroom door. "Well, good morning, sleepyhead! How do you feel?"
Sheila looked at him curiously, drawing the sheet up to her neck. His face looked kind, and he was obviously delighted to see her awake and well. "I feel fine," she said, "I think. Where am I? And who...?"
"And who am I, eh?" His laugh was warm and good-natured. "Just a minute and I'll tell you all about it." He ducked back into the bathroom and reappeared a few minutes later wearing a purple bathrobe. There was something strange about the robe, but Sheila could not put her finger on it. He was of medium height and build--a bit on the fleshy side perhaps--and had a well-shaped head of wavy, dark hair, graying and receding at the temples. He went to the kitchenette and came back with a glass of orange juice.
"Here, this will give you strength." He sat down beside her on the bed, and she sipped the cold juice. "First of all, we're at a motel near Miami; we've been here for two days. And I'm the Good Samaritan who found you lying beside the road. Do you remember?" Sheila shook her head. He told her his name was Larry Hamlin and that he was a salesman. He had bathed her and cared for her all this time. He said he had managed to get some hot soup into her a couple of times, but she had no recollection of it.
"You mean you ... you washed me and ... and did all this?" She lifted one of her braids.
"Yep," he said. "Don't you, uh, remember any of it?"
"No."
He lowered his eyes and blushed with embarrassment. He began to stammer out some sort of apology, but Sheila suddenly felt sorry for him--and deeply grateful.
"Please," she cut in, "don't apologize! I'm the one who should apologize ... for causing you all this trouble. I can't thank you enough, I thought I'd never..." She broke into uncontrollable sobs. It was the first time she had wept since the two poachers had abandoned her on the dike five days ago. The man put his arm around her in a fatherly embrace, and she cried on his shoulder like a baby. It did her good; afterward she felt much better.
"I ... I'm sorry, Mr. ...."
"Hamlin," he said, patting her on the shoulder, "but I'd much rather you called me Larry. I still don't know your name. A doctor should know his patient's name, don't you think?"
She smiled and dried her eyes on the sheet. "It's Sheila," she said. "Sheila Sayyid."
"Do you live in Miami?" he asked.
"No, I'm from New York, but I was staying with my aunt in West Sago Beach. She goes to college there." She saw from his face that he expected now to hear her story, and she hung her head, wondering what to say.
"You don't have to tell me what happened, if you don't want to. I was on my way back upstate when I found you. I'll be going right through West Sago. I can drop you off ... that is, if that's where you want to go."
"Oh, yes! That would be wonderful, Larry."
In her enthusiasm she dropped the sheet, and Hamlin's eyes flickered down over her jutting tits, their nipples pushing vividly against the sheer, blue nylon below the ruffles. She started to cover herself again, but thought better of it. Maybe it occurred to her then how she could repay him. His eyes returned to her face.
"It's settled, then," he said. "We'll start as soon as you feel up to traveling. Drink your orange juice now, and I'll bring you some breakfast. How about some bacon and eggs?" He went into the bathroom and changed into street clothes.
While he was gone, Sheila got out of bed and looked at herself in the mirror over the dresser. With her skin darkened by the sun and her black hair in braids, she looked like an Indian squaw, except for the shortie nightgown. She felt a tingle of excitement when she saw how transparent the thing really was and remembered how Larry's eyes had twinkled as they flashed over it. Every detail of her large nipples was in full display, and the upper parts of her big breasts swelled boldly from above the ruffles. Her black bush made a dark blur through the frilly crotch of the panties. She wondered if he had bought the nightgown especially for her. And the nail polish, why had he done that? It was strange.
When she went into the bathroom to pee, she saw the robe Larry had worn hanging over a towel bar, and suddenly she realized what was wrong with it: It was a woman's robe.
Another thing happened at this time to make her suspect that things were not quite right. She went to the door of the apartment to take a look outside and found it was locked from the outside.
But whatever ill these things portended, Sheila was not worried about it. If it was sex the man wanted, she would give him sex; it was the least she could do. Whatever he had in mind, it could not possibly be as bad as what she had already been through. My own thought is that at this point Sheila could bear no more horror, that whatever happened from here on out, her mind would color it rosy. Out of an inner despair--a deep fear that what Simmons had said to her about the "Book" was right--I believe that she now unconsciously set about a "complete transvaluation of all values," to use Nietzsche's phrase. In other words, she was about ready to go for anything.
When Larry returned with breakfast, Sheila was back in bed. He served it to her on a tray and sat beside her while she ate. She hadn't realized how hungry she was--she wolfed it down and could have eaten as much again.
"If you're in a hurry," she said as he took the plate away, "we can leave now. I feel much better."
"I'm glad to hear it, but you'd better get some more rest, Sheila. I'm afraid the heat outside might be too much for you. My air conditioner's on the blink, sad to say. You'll feel better this evening, and it'll be much cooler on the road."
That sounded all right--heat was a thing she had had enough of for a while--but the past week had left her with enough cynicism to suspect another motive behind his words: And that will give us time to make love, too, she thought with an inward smile.
But things weren't to happen quite in the uncomplicated way she had expected. As varied as her sexual experiences had been of late, they had not prepared her for a duck like old Larry Hamlin. But one thing I have to give him, he was a gentleman through it all.
"Why don't you take a little nap now? I'll be quiet as a mouse."
"You're sweet," she said, giving him a little wink that seemed to shake him somewhat. That nervous flutter of his eyelids, that averted gaze, gave Sheila a strange new feeling--a feeling of power over a man. He was like a big, nervous boy, shy and inexperienced. You would have to give it to a man like that, she thought; he would never have the nerve to take it. And she was in the mood for giving.
When Larry went into the bathroom, Sheila hurriedly slipped out of the nightie and the ruffly panties and stuffed them under the pillow. Then she curled up on her side, pulled the sheet up to her neck and waited.
When she heard the bathroom door open, she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. Soon she felt his presence beside the bed and expected at any minute for him to crawl in beside her. Her back was to him--she thought that would make it easier. But nothing happened. She began to get jittery. Finally, she rolled over on her back, as if in sleep, and lifted her arms over her head so that he could see that she had taken off the nightgown. She moved her feet a bit to pull the sheet lower on her naked tits and spread her legs invitingly. Still nothing happened. She was beginning to think he needed a printed invitation.
After five minutes or so, she shifted her body again--this time turning toward him and making sure that the sheet slipped down below her nipples. The weight of her breasts forced the cleavage-wrinkle between them to reach upward to her throat. Nothing happened, but she could hear movement in the room and knew he must still be there. Maybe he didn't believe in sex--but then there had been that look in his eye--that familiar and unmistakable hunger.
At last she opened her eyes just a slit and peered out through her long lashes.
What she saw made her sit bolt upright, clutching the sheet to her chin. A woman she had never seen before was sitting at the dresser, and Larry was nowhere to be seen!
When Sheila sat up, the woman threw down the brush she had been using on her blonde, upswept hair and snatched up a snub-nosed revolver that lay on the dresser, pointing it straight at the girl's shocked face.
"Who are you? Where's Mr. Hamlin?"
"Shut up and lie down!" the woman ordered in a hissing voice, but Sheila was petrified. The woman glared at her and held the gun out at arm's length. "I said lie down, slut!" Sheila obeyed, cringing from the weapon. "On your, back, like you were before. That's better. Be a good girl and you won't get hurt." There was something vaguely familiar about her voice. "You should have gone to sleep like Mr. Hamlin told you--but maybe it'll be better this way." A leering grin spread over her face. "One peep out of you, though, and I'll blow your pretty head off, understand?"
Sheila nodded, staring up incredulously at the blonde monster. The woman looked well beyond middle age, and her face and body were hard as iron. Her large, conical tits were held firmly bound in a black satin bra, and her rather straight legs were sheathed in black mesh hose. Around her hips she wore a broad garter belt and a pair of black panties. Jack all this up on a pair of spike heels, stick a gun in its hand, and you have a very formidable-looking creature before you.
She stepped forward and loomed over the bed, pointing the pistol from her hip. "Got undressed for Larry, didn't you?" she asked, grinning. "Didn't you?" Sheila nodded fearfully, and the woman's voice softened. "That was sweet, but not necessary. He knew you were a slut all the time, honey. Now, let's see those jugs again."
She stepped to the foot of the bed and slowly dragged the sheet from Sheila's body, taking obvious pleasure in the gradual unveiling of those billowy breasts, that narrow waist, those gently flaring hips and smooth, flat belly, darkened by the sun but no less mouth-watering than before, and that freshly scrubbed patch of black curls that adorned her delicate slit. Not until the sheet slid from the girl's feet did the woman speak again, this time in a voice husky with desire. "Get your arms out of the way, put 'em over your head. That's right. Now, spread your legs."
She waved the gun for emphasis, and Sheila obeyed, her pussy hair bristling under the fiery intensity of the woman's gaze.
"Now," said the blonde, "you can watch, but one word, one sound, one little giggle"--she leveled the stubby muzzle--"and you'll have a hole between your eyes bigger than the one between your legs."
The light was beginning to dawn on Sheila, but her mind was terribly muddled. It wasn't until the woman reached into her panties and hauled out her cock that the full truth hit her.
After she spit in her hand and began to jack off, it didn't take long. She aimed for Sheila's crotch, but the first spurt shot the full length of the bed and splatted against the wall, and the next one splashed onto the girl's cheek; most of the remaining jets, however, hit their target, flooding her love nest with thick, hot gobs of crawling come...
CHAPTER EIGHT
Larry abruptly turned his back on Sheila, and she heard the gun fall to the floor. His shoulders were heaving from exertion, and a deep flush colored his body.
"Close your eyes now!" His voice was desperate with embarrassment. "Cover yorself up!"
Sheila still lay spread out on her back--she had not dared to move a muscle with that gun staring her in the eye. Now she sat up cautiously and drew the sheet over her sticky body.
"Cover your eyes!"
Sheila lay back on the bed and pulled the sheet over her face. There was a clicking shuffle of high heels and the slam of a door, and when she peeked out again, the room was empty. She got out of bed and picked up the little gun, holding it with the tips of her fingers as one might pick up a dead bug. The cylinder was empty. She placed the gun on the dresser and went to the bathroom door.
"Can I come in, Larry?" she called softly.
"If you want to," he answered after a pause.
The black lingerie and the blonde wig were draped over the towel bar, and the high heels lay on the floor beside the toilet. Larry stood over the lavatory, splashing cold water in his face. He had a pair of slacks on. Sheila moved cautiously behind him and stripped some paper off the roll beside the toilet. She wiped the semen from her face and breasts and got as much of it out of her bush as she could.
"Why don't you take a bath?" Larry said without looking at her.
"All right," she answered, coming up behind him.
"And then you can go, if you like. I'll give you clothes and bus fare."
She raised those big dark eyes and fastened them on his in the mirror. "You don't want me with you anymore?" she asked.
He turned around and looked at her, his eyes red around the edges. "Of course I want you with me, Sheila! But I thought you'd..." He lowered his eyes. "I mean, after what Mother did..."
Sheila started to say, "Mother?" but checked herself. I have not had much to say in these pages about Sheila's mentality, but I think you will have gathered by now that she was perhaps the possessor of no great intellectual prowess; however that may be, I can't overemphasize her capacity for feeling--her female instincts, I mean. In that split second after hearing the word "Mother", for instance, she had intuitively sniffed out the very sum and substance of the situation, just as she had sensed Simmons' "inner man." She could not have put these feelings into words, of course, and it would never have occurred to her to try: but words never increase real understanding--they only get in its way.
"She didn't hurt me," Sheila said softly. "A lot worse things have happened to me than that."
Larry lifted his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. A tear appeared in the corner of his eye, and Sheila pulled his head down to her shoulder, running her fingers through his wavy hair. He's just a big child, she thought.
When Larry had gotten control of his sobs, Sheila held his tear-streaked face between her hands and said, "I'll take my bath now, and you go lie down and rest. And then after a while I'll come to bed with you, and we'll make love, and ..."
Suddenly the man stood up straight and stepped back. He wiped his face with a towel and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, it was in the voice of Larry Hamlin, the salesman, the man who had greeted her from her long sleep a few hours ago.
"Sheila," he said, "I really intend to take you to West Sago, like I promised, and I think we'll get along fine. But please don't make demands on me that I can't ... what I mean is ..."
"That's okay, Larry," she said. "However you want it to be is okay with me. After all, you saved my life."
The expression of relief on his face almost brought her to tears. "I've got to go out and take care of some business," he said, his voice filled with child-like enthusiasm. "You take your bath and get some more rest, and I'll be back about noon with the biggest T-bone steak you've ever seen!"
"Mm! Wonderful!"
He went out, and Sheila filled the tub with hot water. As she was lowering her butt into that delightful steaming balm, Larry stuck his head in the door and said, "I'll change the sheets before I go!"
Sheila giggled and slid into ecstatic oblivion. The steak wasn't the biggest Sheila had ever seen, but it was big enough and so tender she could cut it with her fork. She ate it down to the bone, fat and all, every French fry and hush-puppy, every shred of coleslaw. At last she felt her full strength returning. The terrible days and nights in the wilderness now seemed vague and distant, dream-like. As she downed the last swallow of milk and wiped her mouth on the napkin, she thought, Well! I'm really awake at last! The dream is over! But let us judge that, Sheila.
The afternoon was spent sleeping and talking, and was marked by a conspicuous absence of sexual overtones, but as evening approached, Hamlin's boyish enthusiasm began to grow into an intense excitement, as though in anticipation of things soon to occur. At six o'clock he went out again and returned with two gigantic anchovy pizzas and four bottles of ice-cold German beer. (In spite of the touching scene of mutual trust in the bathroom that morning, Hamlin nevertheless locked the door behind him when he went out.) And after supper he began unfolding his plan, one step at a time.
"Hey, Sheila," he said, as if he had just forgotten an idea, "why don't we take in a movie tonight? I took all the orders I need for the rest of the week--scored real big this morning--and I don't really have to be in Jacksonville till Friday. I know you're probably anxious to get home, but..."
"I'd love to go, Larry," she said with a smile. "I was wondering when you were going to ask me for a date." They laughed. Hamlin was fairly bouncing up and down with glee. "But I haven't got anything to wear!" (Since her bath she had worn Larry's purple bathrobe.)
"Ha! Are you kidding? Didn't I tell you what I sell?"
"No."
"I'm with Jordan House. Women's wear! Got enough stuff in the car to last you a year. I'll go out and get the trunk."
As she got up, Sheila said, "Larry, um,"-she lifted one of her braids-"you wouldn't mind if I fixed my hair differently, would you?"
"Oh, that," he laughed. "That was Mother's idea; you fix it any way you like ... but I'll pick out your dress, okay?"
"Okay." It was the first mention of "Mother" all afternoon, and it gave Sheila a funny feeling, but she shrugged it off and went into the bathroom to fix her hair. She unplaited the braids but left the central parting, brushing her long, dense black mane down over her shoulders. She took her time, working her hair into a high luster; she wanted to look her best for him--but it wasn't for him, as it turned out, but for "her". Because when Sheila stepped out of the bathroom, there sat Mother at the dresser, wearing a rather conservative green minidress over those same black mesh stockings and spike heels. He was in the process of fixing an ornate gold hoop to his left earlobe.
Sheila was disappointed, but she took it as calmly as she could. "Hi, Mother," she said.
"Oh, hi, Sheila! Call me Ruby, honey. I'll be taking you to the movie tonight. Larry can't make it. He left that dress for you." He nodded in the direction of the bed as he fastened the right earring in place.
Sheila walked over to the bed, trying to conceal her feeling of dejection, and looked down at the dress.
"Put it on," said Hamlin as he blotted his orange lips. "Let's see how it fits."
At first Sheila thought there was some mistake--that he must have gotten out a negligee instead of a dress. There was nothing to the thing: It was short and straight-lined, with little puff sleeves and what appeared to be an impossibly wide, low neckline interlaced, like the sleeves, with a thin black ribbon. That much was all right. Sheila had worn things almost that sexy before all this happened. The trouble was that the dress itself was made of only one thickness of bedroom gauze! She held it up before her and found she could see Hamlin perfectly through the skirt. But finally she shrugged, remembering that she was in a town where no one knew her. She untied the sash of the robe and said, "It's pretty. I'll need black pants and a bra. Do you have any shoes that would fit me?"
"He left those gold sandals for you," she said without turning from the mirror, "but no underwear."
"No underwear? But I can't wear that with no underwear! Don't you have ... I mean, didn't Larry leave any for me? I had a pair of black panties around here someplace." She began to search the room for them.
"You mean those dirty rags you had on when he found you? Don't be silly, honey, those things were all holes and they smelled like fish ... just like that slimy T-shirt you had on. We threw that stuff in the garbage two days ago." He turned around and stood up, adjusting his bra band. "Besides, honey, you don't want to spoil that dress by wearing anything under it. That's one of Jordan House's new see-through items, made to be worn raw. Here, let me help you out of that robe."
Sheila backed off. "Oh, but I couldn't go out on the street like that, I just couldn't! I'll wear it in here ... just for you, if you like, but. . . "
"But's ass!" snarled the he-she. "You'll wear it, all right, and you'll wear it where I tell you to wear it, if you know what's good for you." He snatched the empty revolver out of his purse and aimed it at her as before. "Now off with that robe, slut!"
Suddenly the pathos of the thing came back to Sheila, and once again her natural feminine compassion for the poor man welled up in her breast. All right then, she would play the game and do what she could to please him. She let the robe slip from her shoulders and fall to the floor. The gun quivered in his hand as Hamlin's eyes raced up and down her naked body.
"You can put the gun away, Ruby. I'll be good."
"You promise?"
"Cross my heart." She traced an X on her left tit.
"All right then," said Hamlin, putting the revolver back into his purse, "but don't forget, I got it right here"--he patted the purse--"cocked and ready."
Sheila nodded and picked up the dress. Conscious of Hamlin's eyes following her every move, she strutted over to the dresser and slipped the dress on over her head, flipping her hair out of the neckline in back. When she got a load of herself in that sex-red body-veil, she thought, Good God! But she grinned at Hamlin in the mirror and said, "How does it look?"
Sheila wondered what he meant by that. "Aren't you afraid I'll be arrested?" she asked.
"In this town? Are you shittin' me? Anything goes here, hon...'specially where we're going."
With this last phrase ringing ominously in her ears, Sheila gave her appearance a careful going-over: The wide neckline hung precariously just off her shoulders--one wrong move and the whole thing would be around her ankles, though her tits no doubt would have slowed it down a little. From there it hung straight down in close, fluted folds that clung like glue to her hips and breasts, crackling with static electricity. The upper hemispheres of her super tits bulged out the top, and her nipples shone dark and vivid behind the red gauze. Her belly button was like an ambrosial pool of crimson vapor, and, at least in that light, every hair of the jet-black island of love at the base of her belly bristled forth in stark clarity. The length of the skirt was irrelevant, but she noted nevertheless, and with no less apprehension, that its un-hemmed foot hung only a few inches below her crotch. What if it rode up slightly on her ass as she walked? What if a gentle updraft got under it? A strange thrill, half of excitement, half of fear, tingled along her spine as she asked the question:
"Where are we going?"
Hamlin smirked and tore his eyes from the crack of her butt. He lifted a spike-heeled foot to the bed, jerked up his skirt, adjusted the lacy garter at the top of his black mesh stocking, and said, "You'll see. Put on your sandals and let's get started."
As I said, he was letting his fantasy come to life gradually, one step at a time, and savoring each newly revealed segment of it with the same pulse-quickening glee that you and I feel as we slowly undress some lovely thing we have lured into our bed--one button, one strap, one hook, one nipple at a time.
Hamlin parked on a side street several blocks from the Epidermea, a skin den on the beach featuring X-rated flicks interspersed with on-stage amateur strip shows by local talent. The area was not what the blue-noses call "the better part of town," but still it was safe enough for a couple of whores to pass through on foot without undue concern of being raped on the sidewalk--even if one of them were half-naked. Hamlin, in other words, seems to have planned things pretty well--although I can't back up his statement about the law thereabouts tolerating indecent exposure; he's just damn lucky they didn't run into a cop between the car and the theater.
What they did run into, as you can well imagine, was a veritable horde of bug-eyed males, who converged on their wake like a pack of dogs after a bitch in heat. But girl-watchers for the most part are non-aggressive by nature. Besides, Sheila's companion no doubt presented a rather formidable obstacle to any would-be ravisher. So Hamlin was able to display his prize in public as he wished and still reach his destination unmolested. A few whistles and a small traffic accident was about all it amounted to. Some of the watchers followed them into the theater, but that was just the way "Ruby" had planned it.
CHAPTER NINE
A buxom, sandy-haired girl, her too-big tits stuffed into a too-small bra, was doing a bacchanalian fuck dance at a poolside party. She had just wiggled out of her evening gown to the delight of her fully clothed audience. She moved from one couple to another, shaking her enormous jugs until they nearly popped out of their lacy harness and thrusting her cunt into the faces of certain select ones, both men and women. Whenever she spread her legs you could see the darkish curls spilling out the edges of her black lace crotch. She even plucked out one of these hairs and dropped it into somebody's Tom Collins.
After a while, tits still flopping and leaping wildly, she backed up to a sinister-looking character leaning against a palm tree, and he unhooked her bra. Her big white moon-melons tumbled out into the light, and a cheer of approval rose from the crowd.
But the cheering stopped, and a hush of excitement fell over the patio as the sinister-looking man, without removing his cigarette from his sinister-looking lips, slipped his lizard-like hands casually under the girl's armpits and caught her bobbing boobs in mid-bounce. Still pedaling her pelvis, and with an "mmhmhm," she back-cocked her head and leaned back against Mr. Sinister, who coolly spit out his butt and bent his swarthy face to hers. While his long-fingered hands kneaded, squeezed, stroked, slapped, twisted, mauled and milked the girl's massive tits, his tongue uncoiled and met hers in a panting, salivamatic close-up in which their lips never touched.
All this was getting Sheila slippery between the legs. This, and the batteries of white-flashing eyes which flanked her on both sides, their attention oscillating erratically from her to the screen and back again. She and Ruby were in the back row of the theater, and the men who had followed them in, and also some others who had noticed their entrance, had gradually migrated to the rear seats where they could keep an eye on those jutting, ill-clad tits, those beautiful, bare legs and, if they were on their toes, maybe get a shot at that apparently unprotected snatch.
Sheila sat uneasily in the midst of this lecherous crowd, her legs crossed and her little transparent skirt in her lap. The men in the row in front of her kept glancing around for a look up her dress, and the man on her right kept edging closer until his knee touched hers. On her left was Ruby, who succeeded in getting her even hotter by occasionally letting his hand creep off the arm of the seat and to her naked thigh, or reaching over to slyly pull her puff sleeve even lower on her arm until the black ribbon of the neckline hung just a cunt hair above her left nipple.
Meanwhile, the hands of Mr. Sinister had descended to the sandy-haired girl's hips and were now entering the elastic band of her black lace panties. His fingers were clearly visible inside as they twined among the snarls of her thick, brown bush. As he probed her, she slowly rolled down the top of the panties until her belly and crotch were uncovered, and stepped out of them. Now Sinister went to work with renewed vigor, and there was a close-up of nothing but hands and cunt and vibrating belly. Sheila felt her own woolly hole crawling with desire, and, when on the screen the man's finger actually entered the buxom girl's slit in a full-screen blow-up, she could hardly sit still.
So when the man on her right let his hand creep lightly onto the outer thigh of her crossed leg, she did not stop him. But she didn't acknowledge his presence either--partly because she had no idea how Ruby would react to another man's advances: Was that what he wanted, or did he wish them only to look? The man to her right apparently had similar misgivings about the tough-looking woman in the green dress: Was she the girl's dyke? Or just her friend? She might even be her mother! But whatever his fears, his arousal had in the end overpowered them, hence the hand on the leg. When the girl made no protest, he edged closer--so close that she knew he was looking down the front of her dress (the black ribbon was now suspended tautly between her nipples, affording an unimpeded view down between her naked tits all the way to the fold of her waist) and began, ever so slowly, working his hand down the underside of the upraised thigh, closer and closer to her ass. Sheila had an almost insuppressible urge to open her legs and let the hot hand slip between them, to give her shoulders a slight shrug and make the dress fall from her tits, to lift her face to Ruby's and suck his tongue like they were doing on the screen, to close her eyes and think of Simmons and let herself be ravished!
Just as the man's fingertips were oozing up into the close, hot sandwich of her inner thighs, just as the vise relaxed enough for him to touch hair, the movie throbbed to its orgasmic conclusion and the fucking house lights came on. Zip, the trespasser withdraws his mitt and tries to look comfortable in his contorted position. Sheila continued to ostensibly ignore the man, but she did not hoist her sleeves back up their "proper" place on her shoulders, nor alleviate the precarious grip of her neckline in its nipple-to-nipple suspension, nor try to make the tiny skirt cover at least some portion of her thighs: She did none of these things, so that now, with the lights on, she drew more stares than ever.
Even when the lights had dimmed again and the girls came out to begin their awkward peel, there still were more eyes on Sheila than on them. Sheila saw that they noticed this fact, too, and the insulted indignation that showed plainly in their faces gave her that same feeling of female power over men that she had experienced that morning when Larry had blushed at her wink. Even Ruby, behind her hard-boiled front, was weak-kneed and helpless before the devastating sensual impact of Sheila's body. Sheila's sexuality, having been so enlarged and deformed during the past ten days, was fast reaching its boiling point. Her little crack was all heated up and had been primed for a cock that very morning before she knew about Hamlin's hang-up.
The girls on stage were only so-so, but just the idea of sitting there practically nude among all those sex-hungry men watching girls undress made her skin tingle with vaginal heat waves, and each time she moved her legs she found her thighs more slippery. As the third girl--a teen-ager with pointy, fat-nippled tits which had a lot of filling out yet ahead of them and an ass that had perhaps already filled out a bit too much (depending on your taste)--finished her act by removing her G-string with a rather embarrassed flourish and lifting one knee to show the woolly hole between her legs, the man beside Sheila once again renewed his creeping attack and this time gained her bubbling groove without delay.
Sheila instinctively turned toward the man with parting lips and fluttering eyelids--how could she continue to ignore him when he had two fingers inside her?--but immediately checked herself and leaned over to Ruby, still holding the hot hand tightly between her thighs. The smirking look on Ruby's face told Sheila he knew what was going on, that he had probably been following the other man's clandestine advances from the beginning. Sheila opened her mouth to speak but couldn't find the right words--she really didn't wish to say anything to hurt Hamlin. Ruby smiled and answered the unspoken question.
"Go ahead, honey," he whispered. "Have fun."
Sheila kissed him passionately on the lips and heard some comments from the surrounding males. "Thanks, Ruby," she murmured. "I didn't know what..."
"What I had in mind? Let that guy work you up a little more, and then I'll tell you what I've got in mind."
Sheila giggled as though she were, drunk and turned back to the man with the hand. It developed that he had two of them, for a second one now slipped around the back of her neck and down into her dress. That action, together with the bunching of her shoulders as she snuggled into his embrace, was to free the neckline from its precarious grip on her nipples, distended as they were. When she felt the gossamer folds fall from her tits, she quickly removed her arms from the little sleeves and wrapped them boldly around the stranger's neck, covering his open lips with hers and sucking his tongue into her mouth.
While they swapped spit, the man let both hands run rampant over Sheila's heaving, passion-swollen tits until, notwithstanding the air-conditioned atmosphere, they were slick with sweat. On a sudden impulse, she pulled her tongue from her lover's mouth and asked him his name.
"Mike," he gasped. "What's yours?"
"Sheila!"
And with a groan and a moan they fell to it again. Mike's right hand moved from Sheila's breast to her crotch, and she let her left hand fall to his fly. As she spread her legs to let his finger re-enter her slit, she clawed open the zipper, and the thick, slick shank of his dick sprang eagerly into her palm.
While this was going on, Sheila heard Ruby whispering something to the kid who sat in front of them, and the next thing Sheila knew there was another pair of hands on her. A different-sized hand now clutched each tit, and it seemed to her that several dozen fingers were trying to get into her cunt at the same time. But she loved it. The kid in front proceeded to drag her dress the rest of the way off, leaving her stark naked, wearing nothing but the gold sandals, and men began to gather from all corners of the theater to watch the proceedings and maybe get in a feel or two.
While Mike and the kid and a few others with long arms continued to explore the swells and holes of Sheila's writhing body, Ruby himself stroked her hips, the cheeks of her ass and the palpitating valley between them, gently tickling the puckering dimple of her asshole with his pinky. Things went along like this for a while, but when Sheila threw a leg over Mike's and began to crawl on his lap to impale herself on his gleaming spike, she felt Ruby's firm grip on her shoulder, holding her back. Sheila looked back desperately to see what was the matter, her lips puffed up and drooling with passion.
Ruby shook her head. "Not like that," she said. "Larry forbids it. Suck him off!"
"But...."
Ruby snarled and put her lips to Sheila's ear. "Goddamn it," she hissed, "you wanted to know what I had in mind, didn't you? Well, this is it! I want you to give every man on this row a blowjob, you understand?"
"But, Ruby, I need...."
"You need, shit! Now shut up and do what I say, or I'll give you what you need right up your cunt ... a lead slug! I got the gun right here in my purse, and don't forget it!"
Sheila almost laughed out loud and mounted Mike's cock anyway--almost, but not quite: She was still caught up somehow in Hamlin's spell. Maybe it was just that she had a deep empathy for perverts. Anyway, she made a sincere effort to play out the game, and if she failed in the end, it was only because human flesh can only take so much.
She nodded her head, kissed Ruby lightly on the cheek and slid to her knees on the floor between Mike's legs. She took his jerking cock in her hands and began to lick its underside, lifting her eyes and looking over the bulging, dripping head first at Mike, then at Ruby, who had shifted over to Sheila's seat and was leering down at the action, probably incredulous that the child was actually playing along with him. Sheila gave Ruby a wink, and without taking her eyes from his slipped her lips over the head of Mike's prick and began instinctively to carry out the instructions she had received in the Everglades from Vivian Snider on the technique of fellatio.
As her head bobbed over his crotch, her long black hair spilling wildly over his hips and thighs, the other men continued to squeeze her tits and play with her ass. Every time a finger would come in contact with her clitoris, Sheila would pump her pelvis desperately and try to clamp the finger between her pussylips, hoping to hold it there until she could come, but she couldn't get anyone to continue the rhythm long enough to do the job; she would just get going good, and then the hand would be yanked out and another take its place, and she would have to start all over again. It was frustrating.
In the middle of this frustration, Mike let go with an ejaculatory explosion that filled her cheeks to the brim before she had time to swallow. Her mouth flew open spontaneously, and the come sprayed out all over the front of Mike's pants, but then she caught her breath and capped the spurting head once more with her pursed lips, gulping down the rest of his load in good form. A toothless whore could hardly have handled it better.
Now the kid who had been feeling her up from the row ahead wanted his. Yanking out his cock, he poked it between two backrests and urgently guided Sheila's head into position. She obligingly twisted around on the floor and gobbled him up in grand style, this time losing only a dollop or two during the first few blasts. After that she concentrated on the back row only, as per Ruby's instructions, crawling from one man to the other, sucking it down like a champ. But after polishing off eleven of them, her attitude toward Ruby began to change: She began to feel put upon.
By now she was covered with come and spit, and her cunt was like a pressure cooker ready to blow. All along the row the ever-present hands rubbing her hump, their fingers darting in and out of the slit, titillating but never satisfying--it was too much for her. Frustrated sex-need combined with anger, and she now turned both on Ruby.
She peeled a sticky string from her eye, wiped her mouth on the nearest trouser leg and stood up. She was almost at the end of the row; Ruby was still near their original seats, watching from afar, occasionally slapping away a hand that crept up his black mesh leg or tried to pinch one of his foam rubber tits. like a stalking leopard, a steely, unblinking glint in her dark eyes, Sheila moved in on the him-her.
Fearing something had gone awry, Hamlin patted his purse and looked threateningly at the approaching girl, as if to say, Remember who's got the gat, slut! But when Sheila got within reach of him, she snatched the pocketbook from his hand and tossed it carelessly aside.
"You want to shoot me, Ruby? I want you to shoot me, but not with that gun. That gun's empty. Shoot me with a loaded gun, Ruby..." Hamlin backed away from her along the row until he was at the aisle. Here Sheila grabbed him, and in his surprise and confusion he tripped and fell backwards with the girl on top of him, straddling his tits. "I gotta have it, Ruby, honey, and you're gonna give it to me! Hold her feet!"
The boys, of course, had no idea what the hell was going on, but whatever it was, they knew whose side they were on. They grabbed the "woman's" kicking legs and flailing arms and pinned her to the rug. Hamlin was speechless with fear.
Sheila now scooted back over his bucking hips and jerked his skirt up to his bra, almost in the same motion ripping his black bikini panties from his hips with a double-handed yank.
The astonished comments were varied and colorful, but they amounted to, "Hey, that ain't no broad!"
Perhaps Hamlin had gotten too aroused for his body to reflect his dismay that suddenly, or maybe the fact that he was finally being treated like a woman--literally being raped--stimulated him even more; whatever the cause, he had a bone-on as stiff as a battleship! Sheila panted, "Spread her legs!" and they did. She raised up on her knees, inserted the twitching head in her hairy hot hole, and with a downward plunge of her hips that brought a volley of "wows" from the audience, she drove the full length of that thick shaft up her cunt with the force and fury of a Japanese general committing hara-kiri!
And before he could even get his wind back she started in on him, frantically, urgently, furiously, relentlessly, her tits flying wildly, her bare ass rising and falling in the flickering light with a rapidity that made the crowd hold its breath. She kept it up with hardly a missed stroke, even though at her end it was orgasm practically all the way: Almost as soon as that long-awaited torpedo started pounding her cervix, she had begun to come, and from there on it was like an endless string of cherry bombs going off in her cunt. And when just as these explosions had begun to slacken she felt Ruby's come surging into her cunt, she stopped suddenly in mid-stroke, suspended, as though listening to it shooting into her tubes and folds, hunched forward with a grunt and lurched into an orgasmic chain more devastating than the last.
* * *
PART THREE: REUNION
CHAPTER TEN
Four nights later and four blocks away, in the back room of a certain night club I'd better not name, a well-built brunette stepped out of a little door that you didn't know was there until it opened--sawed, as it was, out of the wallpaper. She mounted the narrow runway that led up to the circular piano bar. This bar was situated roughly in the center of the small room; around the circumference there were customers on barstools, and in the center was a piano player at his piano, and except for the runway and the fact that its surface was extra wide to give the girls room to dance without kicking the drinks into the laps of the audience, it was like any other piano bar. All along the walls of the room were little round tables, each with a couple or two sitting around it. The tables were raised up on a sort of terrace or stage, so that when you sat at them you could see pussy without being blocked by the heads of the people at the bar. It was a nice, comfortable arrangement, a cozy atmosphere, private and intimate.
To a slow, dirty blues the brunette began to peel. First the earrings, then the gloves, then the necklace. Her outer garment was a skin-tight, gold-sequined gown that made her look like a mermaid. Her tits bulged nicely out the top. The gown was in two pieces, and she took the skirt off first. Under it she wore skimpy panties of the same sparkly material. She unzipped the top and tossed it away. There was a round of applause for her tits, which were very nice. The girl was young, and her jugs showed it: fat and high and stiff-nippled. In ten years they would be down around her waist, but now they were firm and resilient and needed no support at all. She wore a flimsy little net bra.
She bent forward over the piano player, presenting her half-naked butt to the drinkers behind her, and shook her tits in his face. Keeping the beat going with his left hand, he reached up and pinched one of her nipples to the delight of the audience. Then, squeezing her tits together between her upper arms, she touched her ankles and began to stroke her legs, moving higher and higher until she was caressing the edges of her undulating vulva. Looking over her shoulder at the crowd, she then released the hooks at her hips, and the gold panties fell to the bar. Now she wore nothing but high heels, the net bra and a transparent G-string. There was some embroidery over the crotch, but you could still see her cunt hair. She backed up to a couple at the bar and squatted down so that her broad ass hung right over their drinks.
"Wanta get that snap for me, baby?" she said to the man, pointing to her hip. With eager fingers he released the catch, and the left side of the G-string fell from her ass, cutting across the open crack in a diagonal fold. Then she looked down at the man's date and said, "How 'bout gettin' the other one for me, honey?" The woman giggled and reached up and did the job.
She flipped the G-string to the piano player and moved around the bar to another couple. She faced them and spread her legs, looking down at her cunt and running her long-nailed fingers through the thick, brown curls of her bush. The couple looked up into her crack, which hung right over their faces. She looked at the man, sliding her finger ceremoniously down along the slit and said, "Want some?" The man only glanced at his wife and laughed a bit uneasily. Then she turned to the woman, bending her knees and framing her pussy between her hands. "How 'bout you, ma'am? Ever tried it?"
She turned her back on the embarrassed woman and pranced on around the bar, stopping this time at two young men whose faces showed their admiration for her beauty. She lay down on the bar and turned her back to the boys. "Unhook my bra, willya, sweet?" He did, and she rolled onto her side, letting the bra fall from her tits. The other kid was already rubbing her bare hip with a hot hand. Her bushy cunt was right in his face. She looked from him to the first kid. "You can touch," she said.
As their hands began to work frantically over her naked body, she rolled over on her back and lay flat on the bar, legs spread wide, and others drew closer, reaching around and between the two boys to grab a tit or pull a nipple or slip a finger into her twat. In his excitement one of the kids jumped up and started sucking passionately on one of her big pink nipples, and the crowd roared with delight. Then the piano player said, "Okay, let's pass her around now, girls and boys, pass her around. Share and share alike, that's the club's motto. Pass her around now, keep her movin'. That's the way."
The naked girl was passed from man to man and woman to woman several times around the bar until she was all sticky between the legs and her tits were shiny with spit--it was obvious that she liked it. Then a certain skin-headed gentleman's ardor got the better of him and, ignoring the protests of his wife, he spun the brunette around on her ass so that her legs dangled off the front of the bar, her cunt spread before him, ready to be eaten. He stretched out his hands, got a good grip on her big firm tits and began to suck her crack like a pig at the trough. With a yelp of pleasure the girl threw her legs around his neck, jerking her pelvis to the furious rhythm of his lapping. The piano player skillfully picked up the tempo.
George Snider and his big, sexy, peroxide blonde, Lorraine Coleman, sat at a table high in the corner of the room. The girl being eaten lay on the far side of the bar, so that they had a good view of the proceedings. By the time the entertainer had thrown her legs over the old man's shoulders, Lorraine was about to have a spontaneous orgasm--she was about thirty, and you know what a hair trigger some ladies develop about that age. Lorraine was that kind of a lady. Up until the last three weeks she had lived the quiet, uneventful life of an average American housewife--oh, she'd had a few affairs, like your wife and mine and most others, but nothing very wild until now. George had swept her off her feet, and she was still floating--having the time of her life, literally letting it all hang out, and loving every minute of it.
But hot as she was from watching the floor show and from her lover's caresses, Lorraine's arousal was more than matched by George's. Even after three weeks--a long time for Snider to stay with any woman besides his little Vivian--he still could not keep his hands off the luscious blonde. Their chairs were as close together as possible, George's slightly behind Lorraine's so that she was leaning back against his chest, and as they watched the girl do her thing on the bar, his hands kept sliding up under her armpits and stroking the outer fullness of her magnificent tits.
By the time the cunt-lapping started, he had a hard-on a bear couldn't bite, and so when Lorraine moaned in his ear that she didn't think she could wait, he said, "Why wait?"
Lorraine was wearing a long-sleeved, yellow body shirt and a black miniskirt. Her long, shapely legs were sheathed in red net hose, but she wore no panties or bra. To watch those delicious melons moving freely inside that yellow silk blouse, the bare flesh showing between the straining buttons, was really too much. It was too much for George, anyway, and now--as the brunette unwrapped her legs from baldy's neck and dragged her ass backward, her lathered-up cunt leaving a trail of slime on the bar as she went--Snider pulled the tail of the yellow blouse out of Lorraine's skirt and slipped his hands up inside, squeezing and caressing the bare, hot flesh of those swollen moons.
She arched her back pushing her tits hard against Snider's palms, and let her head fall on his shoulder in complete abandon, oblivious to the eyes and ears of the couples at the tables on either side of theirs. "George!" she panted. "You still love me, don't you?" He said of course he did. "Then eat me! Eat my pussy! Now!" Then she seemed to realize what she had said and put a hand over her mouth, giggling through her fingers. "Oh, I'm sorry, George, I'm just so hot I..."
George covered her lips with his and without a word slid to his knees at her feet, pulling her knees apart.
"Oh, George!" she moaned as she spread for him and jerked her skirt up to her waist, revealing her shaggy, dark-brown bush not only to George but to whoever else cared to look. There were quite a few after that who began to divide their attention between the brunette on the bar and the blonde in the corner, like those armchair adventurers who can never decide which channel to watch.
But the brunette was now ready for the finale to her act. Namely, to fuck one of the customers.
She asked for volunteers, and there was a brief scramble as the kid who had unhooked her bra and the man who had eaten her box tried to beat each other to the bar, but the kid, being the more agile of the two, had won easily, while the old man had nearly emasculated himself on his martini glass when his foot slipped on the barstool. The boy had his pants off and was on his knees between the brunette's legs, jabbing clumsily at her slobbery hole with his impatient pecker, so that many of the swivel-necked customers missed George's initial tongue-dive into Lorraine's bushy crotch.
While Snider smacked and sputtered in her cunt, the blonde continued to watch the fuck show through half-closed lids, until the combined sensations of sight and touch had drawn the sexual bowstrings of her body to the breaking point. With fumbling fingers she unbuttoned her blouse and flung it open to the eyes of the crowd. Snider had just reached up and begun to roll her naked, brown-skinned nipples between his fingers when her cunt began to shudder like a jackhammer and a thousand crossbows released their bolts into her belly.
Snider had to hold her ass with all his strength to keep her from vibrating right off her chair, but he licked her foaming clit to the last spasm. Then he stood up and lifted her limp, panting body onto the table, face up.
"Now you're gonna get fucked, Mrs. Coleman!" he growled.
"Oh, give it to me, George! Give it to me hard!"
It was a fuck the memory of which he would cherish for years to come--one of those fast, brain-rattling fucks that tend to dissolve time and place into a whirling void, into a world peopled by great, red-tipped tits with rolling eyeballs that weep tears of steaming milk and free-living vaginas with golden beards, singing and laughing in eternal orgasm all up and down the hills and valleys of naked flesh and the seminal cataracts that never stop flowing.
They were so exhausted that they had to lean on each other all the way back to the motel to keep from falling down. It was a good weakness, though, a pleasant exhaustion, and they laughed and giggled like children as they staggered along the sidewalk.
By the time they approached the motel, the fresh night air had revived them somewhat, and Lorraine, at least, was ready for some more sex. George was revived, but not that revived, so he concocted a little plan that, if it worked, would give Lorraine a little of what she wanted and would give him time to regroup his sexual forces for the next round.
There was a boy about thirteen years old-staying with his parents in the room adjacent to George and Lorraine's. For the last two days every time Lorraine had stepped out the door the kid had zeroed in on her with a leering stare that left little doubt as to what was pumping through his adolescent mind. His crude directness amused them no end, and once Lorraine had mentioned to George in jest that she'd like to get the little bugger in bed just to see if he had the equipment to go with his ambitions. That's what gave George the idea.
"Hey, Lorry," he said, stopping her on the sidewalk at the corner of the motel. "Why don't you fuck that kid tonight?"
"It'd be fun, all right, but what about his parents? Anyway, they might be gone by now."
"No, it's perfect. That's why I thought of it. His mother and father took off in their car before we went out this evening, and they left the kid there. The car's still gone, and unless I miss my guess, young Master Bugeye is still wide awake and waiting with his peter in his hand to get another look at your luscious ass. A perfect setup, eh?"
She giggled. "I never got a cherry before. But, George, I wouldn't dare go into their room! What if they came back?"
"No, no, you don't go to him. You make him come to you. Get him into our room, see, then I'll slip up and lock the door--just in case he chickens out. And then he's all yours. Simple."
"How am I gonna get him into our room?"
George smiled and unbuttoned the collar of Lorraine's silk blouse. "Oh, you'll think of something."
She grinned mischievously and opened the next button, spreading the lapels into a deep V that completely exposed the deep, natural crease between her voluminous tits. She stood behind George to partially conceal herself from the traffic on the highway, jerked up her skirt and pulled the tail of her blouse down tightly over her jugs, so that the stiff knobs of her nipples, and their puffy areolae, too, stuck out in vivid relief through the yellow silk. (Before Lorraine got her skirt smoothed down again, an observant motorist caught sight of her bare butt shining in the light of the street lamps, let out a whistling howl and nearly ran off the road.)
"How's that?" she said, striking a pose.
"Oowee," said George, giving her the old up-and-down. "That's just fine. As a matter-of-fact, why don't we forget the kid and..." He put his hands against her tits and nibbled at her freshly painted lips.
She gave him a husky laugh and stepped back.
"Oh no! It was your idea, and we're gonna do it."
"What do you mean, we're gonna do it."
"All right then, I'm gonna do it. Come on now, George, you got me all hot for that little pecker."
"If you prefer him to me, I'll go back to the club and see what I can pick up." He was teasing her.
"No, no!" she said. "I want you to watch! Can't you hide in the closet or something?"
"Not if I'm gonna lock him in. But there's a high hedge along the back. I don't think anybody would see me there."
"Yeah, that's it! The bed's right by the window, too. I'll leave the blinds open."
George had to laugh at her enthusiasm. "All right, you go on up and see what you can do. You got your key?" She did. "I'll wait over there behind those shrubs by the pool till you get him inside ... if you get him inside."
"Oh, I'll get him inside, all right," she said with an obscene jerk of her hips to stress the double meaning. George slipped around the far side of the court, keeping to the shadows so that the kid wouldn't see him, and Lorraine strutted up the covered walkway which ran past the south row of rooms. Their room was the last one on the south side, and the kid's was the first on the east wing--the motel was built in the shape of a bracket with the open end to the west and a pool in the middle--so if he really were watching (which he was) the kid would have a choice view of Lorraine's swinging body as she came up the walk. She walked just briskly enough to make her tits jostle up and down with each step. About halfway to the corner she stopped and lifted her skirt, pretending to adjust the top of her red mesh hose, giving not only a dazzling display of her long, curvy legs, but also a spectacular view of her free-swinging boobs, which practically fell out of her open blouse when she bent over.
As she neared her door, she saw him. As usual he was making no attempt to "peek" at her, but rather was leaning boldly in his dark doorway, just behind the screen door, a cigarette in his lips and a grinning leer in his eye. He wore only a pair of jeans.
From this description you might think it would take no more than a wink or a smile or less from a cunt like Lorraine to seduce such a one as the kid, but this was not the case. His type is common not only among adolescent boys but among men as well. Their apparent boldness is only a cover to mask their timidity; that's obvious after the first encounter, but there's more to it than that: They want the broad to see the lust in their eye, to know exactly what's on their mind; they are not content simply to get a look at her tits on the sly, they want her to know that they are looking at her tits, want her to feel their eyes undressing her, the purpose being to shock and embarrass the object of their desire. But call their bluff, and they fall apart. This male type is roughly analogous to the "prick-teaser" in the female--like Sheila Sayyid before Simmons called her bluff.
At first Lorraine pretended not to see the boy, letting him get a good eyeful of her lightly clad bod. But he must have been afraid she was going to go inside without knowing he had been standing there all the time, watching her fix her garters and ogling the exposed swells of her chest, and so, as she was unlocking the door, he let out a low whistle through his teeth.
Lorraine looked up as though in surprise. Then she smiled and said, "Hi, there."
Obviously shaken, the kid said, "Hi," in a quivering voice.
"All alone tonight?" she asked.
"Yeah, I g-guess," stuttered the kid, staring off across the court as though he had not been watching her at all.
"I'm alone, too," Lorraine said seductively, leaning against the door and putting a hand on her cocked hip. "Wanta come over and have a beer with me?"
"N-no, I can't. I gotta..." And he started to duck back into the dark apartment.
"Oh, I guess you don't drink, huh?"
"Sure I do," said the kid, not wanting to be put down.
"Well, come on, then!" She swung open the door and held out her hand to him, fixing him with her sexy eyes.
"Okay, but..." His voice broke as he stepped nervously out into the yellow light of the pool lamps. " ... but I can't stay long."
As soon as they were inside, Snider emerged from his hiding place and quietly locked the door. In another minute or two he was creeping along the narrow strip of lawn between the south windows of the motel and the thick hedge that paralleled them. He stopped at the lighted window near the east end and peered through the open blinds.
"That's what I hate about motel rooms, there's never any place to sit," Lorraine said as she bent over to get two cans of beer out of the ice chest, her jugs tumbling into breath-taking view inside the gaping blouse. "Well have to sit on the bed, I guess. You want a glass?"
"Huh? Oh, no, the can's okay." He sat down uneasily on the bed. Lorraine handed him the cans, standing in front of him with her tits jutting out practically in his face.
"Open 'em, willya, honey? I always break a fingernail on those damn things."
He opened the cans with fumbling fingers and handed one of them to Lorraine. He looked even younger than before, younger and smaller, sitting there on the bed like a lamb waiting to be slaughtered. He took a sip of beer, then another.
"Good?" asked the woman.
The kid shrugged, trying to be cool. "It's all right. I like grass better, though."
"Oh, so you're a head, huh?" She sat down beside him. "Sorry, but I'm all out of dope."
"That's okay," he replied, taking another big swallow. Already it was loosening him up. Lorraine glanced over her shoulder, winked at George through the open window and started closing in on her prize.
"My name's Lorraine, what's yours."
"Wayne Higgins."
She ran her fingers through his hair. "You're cute, Wayne..." Wayne sucked on his can and belched nervously. He kept glancing at the door. If she moved too quickly, Lorraine knew he would spook out. She set her beer on the nightstand, lifted her right ankle to her left knee and pulled off her red, high-heeled slipper. This action forced her short black skirt so far up her thighs that Wayne could see the tiny black bows where her garters fastened to the tops of her hose, and the white skin above them. She removed the other slipper in the same way, being careful to keep her head down so that he could get an eyeful without being seen.
Lorraine leaned back on her hands and lifted one leg at a rather steep, upward angle, twisting it this way and that, pointing her well-formed foot and wiggling her toes.
"like 'em?" she asked, raising the other leg.
"W-what?"
"My nylons, silly."
"Oh ... Yeah, they're pretty. Red..."
She giggled in spite of herself; George was rolling on the grass, clutching his stomach. The kid gulped his beer and puffed on his butt.
"Come on up here, Wayne," said the blonde, scooting up onto the bed and leaning back against the wall. "Let's get comfortable."
He swung his legs onto the bed and settled back stiffly beside her, his knees pressed tightly together, clutching his beer can with both hands. Lorraine set her can aside and rolled toward him, drawing her knees up into his lap and snuggling close. She reached up and took the cigarette from his lips, leaning over him to drop it in the ash tray on the nightstand, thus flattening her right tit against his arm. She lay her cheek on his skinny shoulder and looked up into his eyes.
"Wayne?"
"Huh?" He looked down with fearful eyes, his fluttering gaze jerking from her face to her breasts, which were all shoved up together in a most delicious way and exposed damn near to the nipples.
"I'm cold."
"Oh," he replied.
"Will you keep me warm?"
"Huh?"
"Why don't you put your arm around me?" Her voice was hot breath in his ear.
He stiffly encircled her hunched shoulders with his bony arm.
"Mm, that's better. Finish your beer."
In about five hard gulps he finished it off. After that he was much more pliable than before. She was getting to him; his shyness was wearing thin. He began to rub the silk of her sleeve, his hand working slowly, cautiously, around her arm toward her tit. She slid one hand up his smooth bare belly and stroked his chest, his neck, his face and back down again, and he was soon panting like a locomotive. While his left hand ventured closer to her tit, she took his right in hers, squeezed it and placed it under her skirt, pressing it warmly to her bare hip. During all this they had slid gradually lower on the bed until they were practically lying flat; Lorraine's skirt had worked up far enough to leave no doubt whatsoever as to whether or not she had any pants on, and her big soft boobs were pressing hard against his bare ribs. So far so good; but then Lorraine moved too fast.
In one passionate movement she rolled over and covered his trembling lips with hers, pressing his head into the pillow. She went for his crotch with an urgent hand. As soon as she touched his cock, he shoved her away and sprang out of bed like a jack-in-the-box!
"I ... I!" Stuttering like an idiot, he backed away from her, edging toward the door. "I gotta go, I ... uh ... thanks for the beer. My ... my folks'll be back and..."
It was right there that he discovered the door was locked.
"Hey, lemme out," he said.
"Come on, Wayne, I won't bite you." Lorraine swung her legs over the side of the bed and leaned back on her hands as before, except now one more button was undone and the blouse gaped open almost to her waist, the pressure of her thrown-back shoulders drawing it open at the bustline, so that the inner surfaces of both jutting tits were revealed in their entirety. Not only that, but her skirt was still up around her hips, and she spread her thighs just enough to let the light filter in among the dark-brown curls of her bare bush. It was a sight which, in spite of the kid's alarm and embarrassment, seemed after a minute or two to hypnotize him.
Without turning his eyes from her, he half-heartedly rattled the doorknob and said, "But my mom and dad'll be back in a minute."
"Aw, come on, honey, they're not back now. Probably won't be here for hours." She spread her legs a little more. "Come on ... Please ... I didn't mean to scare you."
"The door..." His dizzy-looking eyes were riveted to her hairy crack. "It's locked."
She nodded. "I know. And I won't let you out until you make love to me." he said nothing.
"Don't you want to make love to me, Wayne?" He let go of the doorknob. She extended one hand toward him. "Come."
He came, shuffling toward her as if in a trance. She stood up and met him with a gentle embrace. She was not a great deal taller than he, now that she had her shoes off, but he seemed so frail that she was afraid of crushing him.
"You lie down now," she murmured in his ear, "and watch me undress. I've been wanting to undress for you since the first time I saw you."
"You have?"
"Mm-hm. Lie down, honey."
The beer was getting to him, and he fell clumsily on the bed. She leaned over him, dangling her tits in his face, and propped his head up on a pillow.
"There," she said, straightening up. "Would you like another beer?"
His voice was gone; he just shook his head. Lorraine switched off the overhead light, leaving only the blue-shaded bedside lamp to illuminate her swelling curves with its soft glow. As he lay there limply, staring openly now, she lifted one foot, then the other to the bed, unhooking her garters and very slowly removing the red net hose from her long, full legs. Even from the window George could see the bulge of the kid's prick through his tight jeans.
Facing him now, her head tilted back, she undid the last few buttons of the yellow silk blouse, held it open for a moment, giving him his first unobstructed view of those prize-winning melons, and let it fall from her arms. She cupped her tits in her hands and held the big, drum-taut things up for his approval. "like 'em?" she asked.
This time his blush was accompanied by a dazzled grin. "Yeah!" he said, his voice breaking at mid-word. With a breathy giggle she took her hands away, displaying the magnificent, jiggling resilience of her unsupported bosom.
Then, standing very close to him, she unbuttoned the waistband of her black skirt and, using only the tips of her violet-tipped thumb and forefinger, drew down the zipper tab, baring the smooth white skin of her flaring hip. Wayne dropped his eyes from her tits to watch the unveiling of her lower body as she peeled the skirt slowly from the silky white curve of her belly. When the first dark hairs showed over the top, she paused for a moment-then, with a wiggle of her hips, she shoved the garment to the floor. She put her hands over her cunt, but the hairs stuck out through her fingers.
"Are you disappointed?" she asked.
"Huh?"
"That I'm not a real blonde? I used to bleach this too,"--she uncovered her mound and fluffed up the brown fuzz with her fingers--"but it's too much trouble."
"Jeez, I think it's..."
"You like it?"
"Yeah!"
"Wanta touch it?" He nodded his head, but didn't move.
"Okay," she said, crawling onto the bed and mounting his skinny chest. "Go ahead ... scratch it like a pussy cat." Her knees were in his armpits. His fingers trembled up along her thighs and stroked the upper fur of her bush cautiously, as though it might snap off his finger at any minute. She opened her legs wider and lifted her ass from his chest, bringing her cunt within a few inches of his face. This seemed to unnerve the lad somewhat. "Wanta kiss it?"
"N-no thanks," squeaked the kid, the back of his head pressing deep into the pillow.
She giggled and settled down on him again, bending forward to let her breasts hang close over his face. "You're cute, Wayne," she cooed. "I like you."
"I like you, too," he said in a very small, thoroughly overwhelmed voice. He was hers now, he was in her power.
She took a tit in her hand and guided the stiff, brown nipple to his lips. "Wanta suck my titty, Wayne?" He gave it a quick peck. "Suck it!" He opened his mouth--maybe to protest--and she shoved it in. He sucked it like a baby. "Mmmmmm! That's good, Wayne! Mmmmmmm!"
She offered him the other one, and he went at it with the same enthusiasm. Lorraine pumped her cunt rhythmically on his belly until his hairless navel was slick and juicy from her leakage. Then she sat up, her nipple making a wet pop as she pulled it from his lips. "Let's get your clothes off!"
She pivoted around and bent over his crotch, the broad white cheeks of her ass spreading before his face, the wet brown beard below them all but tickling his chin, and jerked open his fly. This time he didn't bolt. On the contrary, he cooperated by hoisting his butt to allow her to peel the jeans from his hips. As she leaned over to tug them from his ankles, the head of his little dick made wet tracks over her swinging tits.
Now they were both naked--the big, voluptuous blonde and the skinny little kid. The bushy well-fucked cunt and the stiff virgin pecker were about to get acquainted, and George, from his station at the window over the bed, was afraid he was going to come in his pants before it happened. But as it turned out, the load that was generating in his testes was not to be wasted after all.
George noticed the headlights of a passing car, but he paid no attention to it. Then in a few moments, just as Lorraine was slipping her full lips over the twitching head of Wayne's prick and working her crack closer and closer to his face, the light suddenly came on in the next apartment--the room where the kid and his parents were staying.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The window of the Higgins' bathroom was right next to the window over the bed in George's room, and George couldn't decide which window to watch; so he tried to watch both.
The brown-haired woman who stumbled drunkenly into the bathroom could not have afforded a greater contrast to the peroxide blonde on the other side of the partition, who was at that moment sucking her son's dong. Mrs. Higgins was small, slim and much younger than Snider had realized. Her breasts were small, and her hips were rather narrow, but when she jerked up her dress and sat down on the toilet, he saw that her legs were very nice-just enough meat on them. Even as her piss poured loudly into the pot, George perceived something very sexy about her, some magnetic quality in her big, calf-like eyes, her rose-bud lips, her disheveled hair.
Through the open bathroom door George saw that her husband was still draped over the armchair he had fallen into as soon as he staggered through the door. He was apparently in a drunken stupor. His wife called to him in a sexy, musical voice, blurred from too much booze.
"Sam? Wanna help me undress, Sam?"
Sam didn't stir. The woman wiped her crotxh and stood up, hoisting her panties and dropping her skirt. She peered out the door and saw that the old man was out of it.
"Wake up, you son of a bitch!" she called, then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth with a little embarrassed titter. Evidently she had just remembered that they were not at home and that her son lay in bed just around the corner, so she thought.
When she wobblingly tiptoed out of the bathroom, George jumped over to the other window, thinking, Uh oh, here's where the shit hits the fan! But Mrs. Higgins only took a quick peek around the movable partition at the boy's bed, apparently without even noticing that he wasn't in it, and returned to the bathroom. Seems strange, but they hadn't turned any lights on in the main room, so the bed behind the screen was pretty much in the dark. Besides, the broad was drunk and hadn't the faintest notion that her kid would not be there. When he realized that she hadn't noticed anything unusual, George relaxed a little.
Meanwhile, in the other room, Lorraine had lifted her face from Wayne's cock for fear he would come prematurely, and was kissing his smooth, cunt-smeared face with growing passion. Suddenly she rolled off the boy with a moan of hunger and lay on her back beside him, legs spread wide and pelvis twitching.
"Fuck me, Wayne! Fuck me now ... Wait!" She arched her back, thrusting her bushy hump high in the air. "Put the pillows under my ass. Hurry! Both of 'em ... That's it!" She let her butt down on the pillows, her body flowing in both directions from the shaggy knoll of her mound. "Now do it to me, baby! Stick it in me! Come on, I'll show you how!" He crawled between her heavy legs, and she guided his hips into position. "Just a little lower ... that's it! Oh! Mm! Stick it in now! All the way! Ahhhh!"
Once he got started, the kid went at it with the fury of a steam hammer. He moved so fast his ass was nothing but a blur, and the frantic friction generated such a fire in Lorraine's box that her legs came right up off the bed and hung there in quivering suspension until it was over...
But now George had his eye on Mama. The more he looked at her, the more she appealed to him. Maybe it was only that she was out of reach behind the window screen, or maybe it was the fact that her little boy was only about four feet from her on the other side of the wall, stuck fast between the voluptuous legs of George's girlfriend. Whatever it was, by the time she unzipped the back of her dress and pulled it off, Snider was beside himself with hunger for her. "How can I get her out of there?" he kept asking himself.
She closed the bathroom door and admired herself in the full-length mirror. Her back was to the window, but Snider could see her reflection. She raised her arms above her head and went into a little hip-twisting shimmy, chanting something under her breath and rolling her ass in a most delightful way. George couldn't make out her words, but clearly she was remembering something that had occurred during the evening--replaying some incident the way she would have preferred it to happen, perhaps.
Her little lacy bra contained no padding, and even before she removed it George was astonished at the beautiful, natural contours of her breasts. They were a far cry from Lorraine's hyper-inflated udders, but in no sense could this chick be called flat-chested: Her tits were proud, perfect hemispheres of firm flesh, tipped with small dark nipples that pushed hard against the thin lace of her abbreviated cups. They were, to use the common phrase, "as hard as rocks," these titties, and they were fast setting George's tongue into the same condition--not to mention his cock.
The seat of her lace bikini panties concealed the crack of her cute little ass no better than her bra concealed her nipples. When she twisted around to view her backside in the glass, George saw that it was the same with her bush: Every hair was visible, and the thin material of the crotch was pulled up into her slit. As he stared at those hairy little cheeks, he noticed some moisture along the crack, spreading outward through the net. Clearly something had occurred that night to arouse her sexuality and she had not yet been satisfied.
("As soon as I saw that," George had told me, "I realized that I might be able to get some of that stuff without too much difficulty after all. Anyway, I was damn well going to make a stab at it, so to speak.")
Still talking to the mirror in drunken murmurs, her face going through various expressions from mock embarrassment to seductiveness, she reached behind her and unhooked her bra, peeling it slowly from her tits, one at a time, like a stripper. Maybe they had taken in a strip show, like he and Lorraine--maybe the very same one! Wouldn't it have been a blast if she and her husband had been there in that same back room all the time, watching me eat Lorraine's cunt under the table and the whole bit? This thought got him hotter than ever.
She stroked her firm, well-separated tits and rubbed the nipples until their little brown areolae were all puffed up and the knobs stood out in rigid relief. She snaked out of her panties and kicked off her shoes. She wore no stockings.
Drinking in her naked body, George could hardly believe she was the mother of the boy in the next room: The skin of her buttocks and her belly was clear and unblemished by stretch marks; she hadn't an inch of slack skin from head to toe. She must have been in her mid-thirties, but she had the body of a teen-ager, and its effect was heightened tremendously by the sexy maturity of her pretty face.
She ran her palms down over her belly and wiggled her fingers into her cunt hair, parting the curls from her damp pink slit. Then she turned her profile to the mirror, placing her hands on her hips and thrusting her pelvis forward. She seemed to be studying, or admiring, the way her cunt protruded from her flat belly. After a moment she broke into a giggle and turned from the mirror. She picked up the pink nightie off the back of the toilet and slipped it on over her head, and opened the door.
George watched her move across the dark room, the cheeks of her trim little ass rising and falling inside the pink veil of the sheer nightie, illuminated dimly by the light from the bathroom. For a moment she stood before the chair where her husband still lay unconscious. Then she lifted one of his limp hands and pressed it palm-up over the hump of her naked cunt, spreading her legs and jerking her hips against the hand. She spoke in a low voice, but George could hear most of what she said--the gist of it was clear, at any rate.
"Sam ... Wake up, Sam. Come to bed, honey. I want you to make love to me. Mm, mm, mm ... Don't you like that?" But Sam was like a dead man. She slithered to her knees between his sprawled legs, unzipped his fly and fished out his cock. It was as limp as a sardine. She stroked it, kissed it, tongued it, sucked it and milked it, but as far as George could see, the ungrateful thing never even raised its head. After a few minutes of futile effort, the woman stood up in disgust. "Stay there then, you son of a bitch!" she screamed. "See if I care!"
She wheeled around abruptly and stalked angrily back to the bathroom to switch off the light. For an instant, as she stood there in the doorway with her hand on the light switch, George thought he had been spotted; she seemed to look straight into his eyes. Then the window went dark, and he ducked aside. He would never know whether she had seen him or not, but during what followed it gave him a charge to think that she had, that she knew all the time he was there.
Lorraine was now skillfully working the kid for another fuck--tickling his nuts, sucking his dickie and such. But after the lights went out in the corner apartment, George's interest in this was nil. He knew what he wanted now, and he was willing to take some risks in order to get it.
He forced himself to wait in the shadows, out of sight, for what seemed a reasonable time. Let her doze off, that was his thought. Then he slipped around to the front of the motel and strolled casually up the covered walkway. When he reached his car, he removed his shoes and his shirt and quietly placed them in the back seat. In the shadows beside the Higgins' door he paused to muster his courage. It was late. But what if the kid should decide to go back to bed before ... But in the end he thought, Ah, fuck it! and put his hand on the doorknob. It turned.
The door didn't creak, but he knew that if the woman were looking, she would have seen him silhouetted against the lights in the parking lot when he slipped in. He waited. Nothing happened. Soon the dark bulk to his left resolved itself into the unconscious husband in the chair, and against the far wall of the room he saw the motionless shape of the woman on the bed.
Slowly, one careful step at a time, he padded over to the bed, his heart beating like a sledge hammer. Luckily, her back was to him. She was curled up, foetus-like, facing the wall. The graceful flare of her hips welled the thin sheet that covered her. She was breathing easily, evenly, and so was the old man. It occurred to George as he stepped out of his pants that if the bastard started to snore, the jig would be up, but it was too late to turn back now: George had an itch in his balls that could be relieved in only one way. Holding his breath, he eased onto the bed and slid under the sheet.
Still no response.
He felt the warmth of her body on his belly. She smelled of perfume and liquor. He reached out under the sheet and placed his hand gently on her hip. It was bare; the nightie was up around her waist. At first she didn't move, but when he began to stroke her, she snuggled her ass up against him as sweet as you please.
He let his hand ooze down over her hip onto her belly, working it gently up under the nightie until he had one of those wonderful little pomegranates in his hot grasp. It was as firm as he had anticipated. The nipple was as stiff as hard rubber, and as he rolled it slowly between his thumb and forefinger, it grew even harder and longer. With a little purr of pleasure she covered his hand with hers and squeezed it lovingly. She was awake.
Nibbling at the nape of her neck, he slipped his other hand beneath her and got a grip on her other tit, and as he squeezed them both rhythmically, he worked his hips downward until the head of his cock was jabbing at the crack of her ass--down low, in the vicinity of her hole.
"Oh, Sam," she whispered passionately, spreading her legs to let him in. George slid lower to get into position, and she reached between her thighs for his cock. "Oh, Sam! Mmm!" No doubt it was the biggest erection "Sam" had ever had. By now George was to the boiling point; he alternated rapidly between holding his breath in fear of discovery and panting with lust like a rutting dog. But when she guided him into the hot, hairy gates of her cunt, he threw caution to the wind and socked it to her with wild abandon.
Even in that position he was hitting bottom at every stroke, and it was driving her wild. Almost at once she went into spastic convulsions of pleasure, and when George's come went spurting into her, she came again, even stronger than the first time. It must have been the best fuck she'd had in years.
But what really seemed to surprise her was when, after his first orgasm, George kept at it, scarcely missing a stroke, his cock losing not a whit of its rigidity. Little whisper-cries of wonder and amazement kept bubbling from her throat as he rolled over on top of her and rose to his knees, hoisting her ass to the proper height and increasing his tempo to a pounding vibration. Again he brought her to a shuddering climax, but before shooting his second load, he pulled it out of her boiling cunt and stuck it into her asshole.
This shocked her at first, but it went in easily, and she had no time to protest. In a moment George's cock was driving at full speed into her rectum, and she loved it. By the time George's next burst surged into her body, she was in the throes of a chain orgasm that lifted her off the bed.
When he was drained, George slipped out and left her in a senseless stupor of ecstasy. With the heat of passion off him George was scared shitless, and he made a couple of stumbling, clumsy moves that could have been his undoing, but somehow he managed to get out undiscovered. But the thing he would remember most about this incident--the thing he puzzles over to this day--is what the woman had said as she collapsed in happy exhaustion when it was over. Her voice was a breathless sigh, almost a gasp, but George is certain he heard her correctly.
"Oh, Wayne! Oh, thank you, Wayne!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
"I really want to apologize, Sheila, for all Mother's put you through these last few days. I really don't know what to say."
They were on US-1, moving along at a good clip, and only a few miles outside of West Sago Beach; it wouldn't be long now. Sheila wondered what her aunt would say when she saw her. She came out of her reverie to smile at Larry and give him a peck on the cheek. Through all that had happened she had retained much of her original sympathy for the man. Now that she was almost home, it all seemed like a monstrous fantasy that hadn't really happened. "Ruby" herself seemed like some horrible dream-sphinx, a phantom, an illusion, nothing more. As soon as she walked through her aunt's door, she knew the dream would be over, she would be awake at last. At that moment she would at last be free of Simmons.
"You don't have to say anything, Larry," she said. "Just take me home."
Understandably, perhaps, Hamlin didn't want to take the girl to her aunt's doorstep, even though she had promised not to implicate him in any way. He let her out on the corner, a block from the duplex where her aunt was staying. Even at that distance Hamlin was as nervous as a cat, and the good-byes were short and to the point. The only trouble with this arrangement was that Sheila still had on one of Hamlin's see-through dresses-hardly the thing for strolling the residential sections of West Sago. But it was dark, and with only a block to go, she wasn't worried. It was almost over, that was the important thing.
This was about nine o'clock Friday night, two weeks to the day since Sheila was kidnapped in the park. Now let me go back several hours.
How strange it is that things so often happen with no apparent cause or effect. Events, stories, even people spring up and flower from no seed and die off without a trace. They mingle, they intersect, they pass through, with no more meaning or purpose or influence than solitary waves crossing the sea at obscure, inexplicable angles to the normal flow. So it was with Lorraine's affair with George; born of a chance encounter on the street, it lasted for three glorious weeks and ended as abruptly as it began.
"George?"
Snider rolled over. She was lying on her back beside him, arms folded behind her head, staring at the ceiling. "Hm?"
"I want to go back to Charlie now," she said.
"Now?"
She nodded, still not looking at him. "You're not mad at me, are you?"
He folded the sheet back from her tits and kissed each tenderly. "Now why should I be mad? We've had fun, haven't we? That's all that matters. These things can't last forever, and anyway, maybe it's better we break it off at the peak like this instead of letting it go stale on us." She smiled and kissed his cheek. "Besides," he added, "I'm kinda anxious to get back and see who's been fucking my old lady."
So that evening they left Miami, and within a few hours George was pulling into Palm Park on the outskirts of West Sago where Lorraine lived. Unlike Hamlin, George was ready and willing to deliver his "prize" straight to her door, but Lorraine would have none of it. At her corner she made him pull over to the curb and stop.
"I'd better get out here, honey," she said. "I don't want any trouble between you and Charlie."
George said, "Fuck Charlie," but she insisted, so he got her suitcase out of the back, and off she went. He leaned against the fender and lit a cigarette, watching her voluptuous ass swinging off down the sidewalk. It had been a wild three weeks. For a few minutes he attempted to fit the affair into his life, put it in its proper place. But it was impossible; it had begun and ended too abruptly; it had gone too fast, left its meaning behind--if it had ever had a meaning in the first place. Lorraine had fulfilled no inner need, added no missing spice to his life. "I never even got to know her, John," he once told me. And as she disappeared up the dark street, it seemed to him that she had already ceased to exist.
(Well, George, let me just mention this in passing: I'm telling this drivel just as you bastards told it to me, am I not? Or didn't you recognize it with the other side thrown in? And when I finish it, then you, too, will have ceased to exist. When the last word is down, I disassociate myself with you in toto. George, Bill, and especially Henry--in a few minutes you will be nothing more than three empty places in my guts. Because I will have puked you up and pulled the chain on you.)
Snider didn't stop when he first spotted the girl; in fact he drove on for three more blocks before turning back.
He made a loop and came up on her from a side street--she was huddled on a bus bench in the dappled shadow of a sea grape hedge on the corner of Glenn Street and Rosedale. He stopped at the curb and got out.
"What's the matter, honey? Anything I can do?"
She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and opened her mouth to answer, but all that came out were more sobs. George looked her over. At first he thought she was wearing a nightgown of some sort, but then he realized that it was a dress--but what a dress! Even in that spotty light he could see she wore nothing under it. Even so, it was obvious that she was only a kid--probably just had a fight with her boyfriend or something. He was just about to go back to his car when she put her hands in her lap and sat up straight in an attempt to compose herself. One look at those tits was all it took. George sat down beside her and slipped a fatherly arm around her trembling shoulders.
"There now," he soothed, "it can't be that bad. Tell me all about it. Here,"--he gave her his hankie--"dry your eyes."
"I'm sorry," the girl said at last. "I haven't cried in the longest time, and now that I've started, I can't seem to stop. You see, I've been away ... I just got back ... and I live down this street. I mean, I did live there ... with my aunt. But she's not there now. There's another name on the door. She moved, I guess, and now I haven't got any place to..." Again she broke into sobs.
George patted her on the back. "Hey, hey! That's nothing serious. All you have to do is find out where she's moved to."
"But this is all I have to wear. I ... I can't go any place. I was afraid even to go up to one of these houses and ask..."
"Oh, well, they probably wouldn't know, anyway. Listen, I'll help you. A few well-placed phone calls should track your aunt down, and then I'll deliver you to her safe and sound. You won't even have to get out of the car until we get there. How's that sound?"
She looked at him with a strange half-smile on her tear-streaked face. He stood up and held out both hands to her. His voice was warm and comforting.
"Come."
George found a telephone booth in a well-lighted parking area outside a small grocery store on the main drag. As he dialed, he kept an eye on the girl. She was sitting quietly in the car, a faraway look in her strange, Oriental eyes.
"Henry? George here. Ha, ha! Yeah, man, I been havin' a ball. Just got back from Miami. How's the gang? I haven't even called Vivian yet. She is? Why the little bitch. Ha, ha, ha! Yeah, I know what you mean. But listen, Hen, here's what I called about. Are you still game for a little fun out at the shack, like we talked about before? ... What! Are you shitting me? Wow! Got away? That's bad, man. What if she ... Oh, yeah? Cleaned the place out, huh? But look, Hen, it's been two weeks, right? If she hasn't turned up by now, chances are she'll never turn up. She's probably at the bottom of some muck pond ... Yeah, what the fuck. Stop worrying. Now, here's the question ... do you want to do it again or not? I got the chick, baby, and if I described her to you, you wouldn't believe it. Tits like you never dreamed of! And the dress she's wearing ... Well, you're just gonna have to see it for yourself. Bill's gonna go out of his rabbit-ass mind, I guarantee it ... Yeah ... You're game then? ... All right. The situation is perfect. The kid's lost. Just got back from a trip of some kind, and her people have evidently moved while she was gone. Where, she doesn't know. Anyway, I got her in the car right now. No problems ... Yeah, but can Bill get the airboat ready that quick? I'll start right now and meet you at the dike around midnight ... Right. Now for Christ's sake, don't keep me waiting out there with this live cunt on my hands! Give the gals a kiss for me, and I'll see you soon ... Right! And this one won't get away!"
Maybe I should end with the words, "and so forth and so on." That's about what it amounted to. There is something about the meaningless, the absurd, that annoys and sickens us--we cannot dwell on it for too long. Pattern, purpose, direction--that's what we want, eh? But in the remainder of Sheila's life, that is, from that time up to the present, we will find none of these. When she talks about herself nowadays--rare occasion--she can talk only of those two weeks, nothing else. They were, I would say, the culmination of her life. Writing of the existence of primitive and "post-Culture" peoples in The Decline of the West, Oswald Spengler describes perfectly--for me at least--Sheila's "ahistorical" life preceding and following her abduction; this phase, he says, "is just the zoological up and down, a planless happening without goal or cadenced march in time, wherein occurrences are many, but, in the last analysis, devoid of significance."
Maybe it's for this reason that whenever I think of Sheila Sayyid I am put in mind of a squeaky mattress--a rhythmically squeaking mattress beneath "the zoological up and down" of a slow fuck. I screwed Sheila before I knew who she was, but with the first words out of her mouth it hit me like a sledge hammer: She was the other side of a story I had been trying to forget for the last four years.
This happened at Molly Goldsmith's whorehouse in Rodriguez, which I used to visit from time to time while Molly was alive. Sheila was a new girl, and she caught my eye immediately. Her tits were still magnificent--high, jutting, firm and big, just as the "Group" had described them to me. And even then she looked younger than her years, except for one thing: Over each ear her thick, black hair had a faint but unmistakable touch of gray. She was only twenty. I picked her without hesitation, and with a pleasant smile she walked over to the foot of the stairs and held out her hand. "Come," she said.
No sooner had I shot my wad into her and dropped my face between her jugs than she laid it on me. I could tell by the tone of her voice--a certain droning, sing-song quality which indicated that the words themselves were gradually losing meaning--that it was no doubt a thing she asked each and every bastard that crawled between her legs.
"Do you know a man called Henry Simmons?"
I waited until the chill had passed through my spine before answering.
"No," I said, "I never heard of the son of a bitch."