John Holmes ran his gaze once more up and down the neat columns of figures which comprised the Quarterly Financial Report of The Center For Sexual Gratification. Occasionally he looked up to monitor the couple on the water bed in the next room through his one-way mirror, checking the instrument panel to his right and then returning to the report in his hands.
The obese 25 year old Insurance Salesman was fucking his wife of one month, a cute pixie-haired 19 year old with the body of a nymphette, except for her thick cuntal thatch and plump, almost-too-meaty buns. Nan Grimsley sat facing John through the mirror, her legs flung akimbo, her platinum-fringed pussy rising and then falling on the nice, normal-sized, stubby prick of her loving husband. Martin Grimsley had his hands happily full of Nan's smooth, spongy buns. He discovered that by taking a firm grip on her adorable ass, he could pull her up and down, increasing and decreasing her tempo and pressure on the different parts of the cock her juicy, pulsating cunt was engulfing. His very own fine upstanding cock. At long last he was bathing his manhood in the sweet, thickening emanations of his lovely wife's riotous passion. He was a man for all the world to see: For Nan, whose gentleness and patience with him even after he had failed to get an erection for the first two weeks of their marriage, had made him love her all the more, he was now a lover: For John Holmes, whom he knew was watching his success with Nan, Martin felt a gratitude that went beyond friendship. Although Martin Grimsley would have shriveled up even now at the very possibility that another man was watching him humping his bride, John Holmes was a special case. Martin knew that without Holmes, he and Nan might have gone on for years without achieving the rapture than Nan's moans expressed.
As for Nan, she didn't mind if the entire world watched her stroking her long nipples, reveling in their firmness and extreme sensitivity to her touch. Every place on her body that either she or Martin touched created an instant link in the blood between it and her spasming cunt. She felt that she was all cuntmeat now, all electricity and joy. She squirmed and squished on his pounding, throbbing dong. Wave after wave of orgasms exploded within her, starting at the clitoris and spreading into the depths of her pussy.
John observed as her sweet, girl-next-door-like features contorted themselves into a mask of pure primitive passion. He had set them up into the position in which they were now racing headlong to climax. The position John had selected for the lovers to make love together for the first time in, had nothing to do with the fact that it afforded Holmes a perfect view of their writhing and straining, thrusts and parries. In fact, John thought, smiling to himself over the results of his Sex-Therapy with the young couple, the Grimsleys were putting on a pretty damned erotic sex show, making up for their lack of sophistication with their long developed lust for each other and pure enthusiasm for the fuck they were both enjoying.
When they had entered the portals of The Center For Sexual Gratification, Nan and Martin Grimsley were in the midst of their first marital spat. Holmes and his partner in the Center, Barbara Steele, one of the leading psychologists in the field of sexual counseling had greeted them in their plush receiving room, as they always did with couples, together, so that neither member of the couple seeking counseling felt singled out for treatment. This generally tended to put both parties at their ease, but not in the case of the Grimsleys. The first words out of Martin Grimsley's mouth as Barbara, a quite tall, magnificently chested and full-hipped brunette in her mid-thirties greeted him near the door were: "Which one are you? The whore or the shrink?"
The words were hardly out of his mouth, when Nan attacked him. If he didn't believe that the Center could accomplish what it claimed it could in its brochure, why, Nan wished to know, had her husband waited to voice an objection until they were already there? Did he prefer continuing to see that absurd old psychiatrist Rolfe Plantagenet, who had condescendingly allowed them to participate in Group Therapy because it was all they could afford at his rates? Did Martin like sharing an hour, three nights a week, lying on the floor and screaming in an attempt to free himself from his mother, with twenty other shriekers, most of whom were hopeless losers according to Nan. "Do you really believe that somewhere in that demented babble, you'll ever find your lost hard on?" concluded Nan, sobbing at the end of her tirade.
The way Barbara Steele managed to defuse the potentially explosive situation and lead the couple in ten minutes or less into a frank, yet loving exposure of their sexual problems together was a tribute to her vast skill as a psychologist. John felt like applauding, but naturally restrained himself and listened attentively to Nan's high pitched, almost child-like voice describing their courtship and early marriage.
"Since I'm the one who dragged Martin here, I guess it's my responsibility to be the first to tell the short, sad story of my sex-life, such as it is ... and was," said Nan in a breathless rush, as if she were anxious to exorcize demons by describing them. Without more than one deep breath's worth of pause she continued. "When I was fourteen, I ran away from Convent School in Phoenix, Arizona, where I was born and spent every day of my life until I came here to San Francisco to start college last year. Except, of course for the time I ran away to L.A."
"What made me run? Well, one night I was taking a bath in the bathroom of the apartment me and three girls of my age shared at Convent School. Naturally I had locked the door with my key, and hooked the latch. A bathtub is one of the only places that a girl of fourteen at a Convent School has a chance to come into contact with her emerging womanhood. Meaning, I was masturbating. My back was against the cool porcelain of the bathtub and one leg was folded against the wall while the second leg dangled over the side of the tub as far as it could flex. I like to bathe with the water almost at the boiling point. I find the rushing of my blood under intense heat amazingly stimulating. Some girls enjoy bubble baths. Not me. To me the nicest part of a bath is being able to watch my fingers tickling my clit. Which is exactly what I was doing, scrubbing my virginal pussy with a washcloth while rubbing my clit.
"Then I got what I thought was a brilliant idea. Remember, I had never seen an erected cock-the only one I'd ever seen on an adult male was that of an old black derelict pissing against a wall, so that's how I tried to shape the piece of soap I intended to shove up my pussy into ... You know what that stupid shrink tried to tell me about this incident? He wanted me to believe that the reason I masturbated with soap, rather than using the business end of a hairbrush, was because I thought sex was dirty ... Anyway the soap was pink and I've always been good with my hands, and when I slid it into my still unbroken cunt, it was just the right size and shape. Or at least the right size and shape to convince me that I was fucking myself with Mick Jagger's cock ... I always had a thing for Mick Jagger."
Another pause for breath as John and Barbara each made a few notes on the pad in front of them, waiting for the cute, young windbag to resume her piping. As for Martin, her sexually afflicted husband, he listened to her every word patiently and adoringly, without showing any surprise over the details of her tale. With a bitch as talkative as this one, noted John, there's no doubt he's heard every event in her life god-knew how many times. She was ready to emote anew.
"In and out the little soap prick, bubbling its life away satisfying me. It was my first orgasm, nothing to go crazy about, but sweet. Very very sweet.
"I looked up, damn proud of what I had accomplished, into the flaming red face of Sister Mary-Paul. She was a born nun, hunchbacked, pockmarked, with great hairy warts on her face and body. How long she had been watching, I had no idea of, as if it really mattered. Her mouth gaped wide open, showing bad teeth and fury. She marched straight to me, averting my eyes, and slapped me viciously across the face. Not a word. Just a hard slap. I put on one of the "forbidden" miniskirts in my valise, the kind you couldn't wear to class even though it was an all-girls' school. On went the padded bra and the tightest sweater I owned and bye bye Convent School.
"I thought I was the slickest chick on wheels, riding in a brand new Cadillac convertible driven by a nice looking dude in a cowboy hat who said he was on his way to a rodeo in Los Angeles. He even handed me a business card which read: "Tom Gregory ... Championship Bareback Rider." He treated me like a perfect gentleman all the way to L.A., buying us meals at steakhouses along the road, letting me play my favorite rock and roll station on his neat car stereo, and best of all, believing that I was 19 and headed for the Coast to help my Cousin Harold out by waitressing in his cocktail lounge. It really felt great being free and easy, age 19 and riding with a handsome, muscular cowboy of maybe 25, with the radio blaring, Mick Jagger wailing "Let's Spend The Night Together."
"It felt so fine that it made me completely forget who I was, a dumb, convent-reared fourteen year old virgin, with the beginning of a sexual imagination, but less experience with men than just about anyone except Sister Mary-Paul. He seemed like such a Roy Rogers kind of gentleman-cowboy, that I gladly accepted his offer to stop by at a shindig some of the good old boys a-workin' the rodeo were throwing, before he drove me to my Uncle Harold's. "My Cousin Harold's," I insisted, thanking the Gods that Tom wasn't asking me for the address I was headed for, because except for Hollywood and Vine, which I guess even folks in China have heard about, I didn't know the name of a single street in L.A. You see, the only thing I was afraid of, was being found out about, of being nabbed by the police as a runaway and sent home before I had had a chance to live outside that prison of a Convent School. What I planned to do once I reached L.A. never entered the picture at all. I had bolted too quickly to have done any serious planning. Which anyway, I knew too little about life to have accomplished successfully at 14, even if I had been scheming to make my getaway for months. Starting off my free life in the big city with a party seemed like a beautiful idea. Especially with such a quiet, polite, powerfully built cowpoke to protect me from anyone trying to take advantage of my innocence. The light was fading in the sky, John Lennon howled "Come Together, Right Now, Over Me" and I said "Sure!"
"Pretty soon I was saying yes to a bourbon and brunch inside a ranch-style house at the end of a winding road leading upwards into high hills from which I could see the skyline of L.A. from bright lights to the ocean. As I felt my head swimming I could see Tom or whoever he was peering over the rim of his refilled glass at my hiked up miniskirt on the barstool. No, I realized, he's looking at my legs. Wrong again, the danger bell rang in my head, he's looking between my thighs. As the blackness closed in on my brain and body, I managed to blurt out a suggestion that maybe it was time for me to go see my Cousin Harvey. He paid no attention to my slip. like the gallant country gentleman he was, he offered to immediately escort me, wherever I chose to mosey on to ... if I could make it to the door.
"I tried, believe me I gave it my all-and-a-half to reach that front door. I knew Tom for the crazy bastard he was when I saw him stepping on my back and laughing like a loon, grinding the heel of his boot into the small of my back like I was some kind of animal he had bagged. Of course I didn't feel the pain, because whatever he had put in my drink and made me fall to the carpet from the barstool from its effects, was strong enough to destroy any feeling within me. Except the feeling of disgust. With him, but far more powerfully, for myself. Foring been such an ass as to get nabbed by the monster in the first reel.
"The first time I came to, I found myself strapped to the back of a chair by the hands, with my legs spread wide tied to the bedpost. I was mother naked, devoid of sensation throughout my body, watching a man with the face of an ape, and a long, thin cock blinking in and out of focus as he shot thick gray goo into my eyes. Another time, I remember coming out of the dense fog I was in and finding myself on the floor, with a different man sucking each of my breasts, one licking what looked like blood out of my vagina, while still another raped my ass from behind screaming "Yahoo" with every thrust in a voice that sounded like Tom's. At least once, a prick must have entered my cunt, but never once when I became conscious. Every once in awhile, one of my torturers would notice me coming out of it, and would spill something from a green vial onto a handkerchief and then force it against my mouth, until it was absorbed by my lips. It tasted bitter and its effect was an instant blackout, I was whipped repeatedly, gagged to the point of choking to death by three cocks raping my mouth simultaneously, cunt-tickled with a feather until I felt orgasm, fucked with a tequila bottle, and yes, tenderly kissed, just once and told "I love you" by one anonymous admirer who bestowed blood-trails all over my body with his bites.
"The police picked me up, unconscious and with multiple contusions, at the edge of the Pacific Ocean, face up in the wet sand of Playa Del Rey. An early-morning male jogger had seen my naked body and kept on running until he reached a phone, with "which he alerted the police that a horribly mutilated child needed their help. Three days later, after intravenous feeding, and round-the-clock medical care, I was strong enough to tell the police everything I knew, starting with running away. Nobody at the L.A. Rodeo Championship had heard of a Tom Gregory, I couldn't for the life of me recall the license plates of his Cadillac and the place where I had been held prisoner could have been in one of perhaps thirty Los Angeles suburbs. I was also, you guessed it, knocked up.
"My parents turned out to be real dolls when the chips were down. They never once reprimanded me for running away, showered me with affection while I recovered from my physical and deeper wounds, tutored me so I didn't fall behind academically, and best of all, forgot their usual Catholic bullshit and arranged for an abortion by a competent doctor. I decided there and then not to sleep with another man until my wedding day. Martin respected my feelings all through the last year we've been dating. I'll always love him for it. . . " she said, looking at Martin with her eyes welling up with tears.
Martin Grimsley strode manfully to her side and stroked her shoulders protectively. "It's my fault", he insisted. "You only wanted to save it for a man who you loved and who loved you, and I'm still making you save it. Look," he said rather flatly, "I'm a virgin. The closest I've ever come to balling was when Nan stroked my prick through my pants at a movie."
"But surely," Barbara interrupted, "During the past few weeks you've been married you've attempted to make love with each other in the nude?" Holmes knew what his partner was up to. By asking a startling question, she was testing the potential patient's capacity for honesty. There was only one type of patient that she and John believed to be beyond the reach of the Center For Sexual Gratification's ability to aid them; the man or woman who refused to face up to the reality of the problem confronting them. Those unfortunate souls were therefore not accepted as patients, even though it would have been more profitable for John and Barbara to have done so. Martin's reply was rapid and forthwith. "Of course we've been naked together. We've worn underwear too. Tried every refinement in the book except one," said Martin.
"What's that?" queried Holmes, taking the bait.
"A hard on," snapped Martin. All four of the participants in the interview shared a hearty laugh together.
"You're going to do splendidly," purred Barbara rising and seizing command of the room with her self-assured walk, aristocratic demeanor, magnificent body and crisp, authoritative voice.
"How can you tell so soon?" asked Nan, perking up for the first time that session.
"You two have the greatest aphrodisiac in the world working for you. Caring deeply for each other and total honesty." Barbara replied.
"How many sessions?" demanded Martin, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. Group Therapy had cost him 25 bucks a shot without having done a thing for him, and he was now less impetuous about spending his money in the psychological marketplace.
"Four, maybe five," said Holmes, who observed Barbara signaling her agreement with his estimate with an imperceptible nod of her head...
. . .It had actually only taken two sessions after the interview to achieve what John now proudly observed, the wild, lunging, straining of Nan and Martin Grimsley, riding the tidal wave of their onrushing climaxes together. Yes, they were writhing together, Nan spinning like a top around the meatclub of Martin, screwing it in and out of her, erasing each bad memory of prior sexual abuse with every orgasm she now was experiencing coming together with the man she loved. He skyrocketed jism into her full force, pumping his hips like lightning below her spasming dew-dripping pussy, driving into her, sharing the peak of climax with Nan for the first time of a lifetime together.
Barbara entered and saw John Holmes pouring over the financial report and looking pissed off. In the background Nan and Martin lay huddled in each other's arms, the portrait of sexual satisfaction. She dipped her head parallel to John's mouth and opened wide. He touched her sweet face tenderly and shared a long, deep, tongue-dancing kiss with her.
"Why were you just scowling so fiercely love?" asked Barbara after she caught her breath.
"We're going broke, this says. And if we go broke, we won't be able to keep on helping to free people like the twosome in there from their confusion about sex. And personally, I like this better than any of the other work I've done in my life," Holmes replied.
CHAPTER TWO
Long after the Grimsleys were gone, having gladly paid the ninety dollar fee for the Center's services, John Holmes and Barbara Steele remained in their office together. The front gate was now locked from the inside and the phones were unplugged as the two partners agonized over ways to cut corners to keep the Center going. What had hurt them most thus far were a series of false, scurrilous articles in one of the major San Francisco dailies, implying that Holmes was running a brothel for dissatisfied housewives, under the guise of a psychological institution. That his therapy consisted of a dose of his mighty dong for the ladies, or the pussy of one of his numerous concubines for the men who came to the Center For Sexual Gratification.
Nothing could have been further from the truth. If Holmes had been really interested in peddling his prick for profit, he could have easily done it without need for all the hassle involved in running a clinic. It would have been far easier for John, whose dong-power and sexual technique were world famous, to go on doing what he had been doing before meeting Barbara Steele, than to have become seriously involved in a venture, the goals of which were purely humanitarian, with profit never entering into it. Certainly John could still earn more making sex films and balling women willing to pay as much as a grand and up per night for his celebrated servicings. Earning more than what he was taking home from the clinic would have been easy even if John had taken a job waiting on tables of sweeping streets. The clinic still had yet to make a penny's worth of profit, and as its co-founder and co-owner, John saw his bank account sinking to record lows as the Center for Sexual Gratification approached the end of its first year of operation.
Barbara glided to the nearly denuded wet bar in the reception room. Rum was the only alcohol they now stocked as part of their belt-tightening. Both of them enjoyed her rum-punches of various fresh fruit juices. Now, with fruit prices running rampant, each had to settle for rum on the rocks. But before clinking ice and slashing rum into their glasses, hidden behind the high bar, she stripped off every item of clothing she wore.
John had just about concluded that the only way to save the clinic from looming bankruptcy was to solicit a contribution from one of those huge foundations that issues grants to research projects it considers worthwhile. For the past few nights after the final session at the clinic, John had burned midnight oil putting together an impressive file of case histories in which their patients had made remarkable sexual progress after but a few sessions with John and Barbara. Now, as Barbara fixed drinks for them, John made a final entry in the folder of the Grimsleys.
"Martin Grimsley instantly accepted passive role in first intercourse. Mate's facing away from his stomach as she rode his member from above him, dissolved all vestiges of self-consciousness. Martin Grimsley quickly became active, showing full control of ejaculation function. Nan Grimsley became vitalized upon first insertion and progressed smoothly through simultaneous climax with her husband. Length of intercourse (20 minutes). S-Factor (monitored constantly) Over 80%: Peak 98%. "
It had taken almost the full year for Holmes to truly master the jargon of his trade and now he was able to write detailed reports about the progress of his patients almost automatically. He felt involved in the Center as he had never before been involved. He believed with his heart, soul and mind, that the therapy and research he and Barbara were conducting at the Center might be of immediate benefit to almost everybody, once their work gained general acceptance.
Barbara, while doing research on Sexology at an Ivy League University, had developed her own technique for analyzing the degree of pleasure experienced by partners in the sex act, a technique that surpassed the earlier efforts of Masters and Johnson. By monitoring the brain and bloodstream simultaneously while patients engaged in intercourse, or other sexual activity, she was able to assess at a glance of the computer printout of what had been measured during the act, just what motions, strokes, thrusts and even, words, had turned the parties to the sex act on or off. The key to it was an equation which she deemed the S-Factor.
The head of her Psychology Department, an orthodox Freudian, jealous of her success in giving therapy to students while utilizing her new techniques, succeeded in eliminating Sexology as a part of his Department, and then generously offered to allow Barbara to remain at the University. But naturally, since her specialty would no longer be taught in his department, Barbara would have to teach something else ... like five sections of Freshman Psychology and one of Educational Psychology. It was a bad year for hiring in the Psych Departments of universities throughout the country. She knew that if she resigned, she had little or no chance of finding a similar position in the near future. Nevertheless she quit without hesitation.
Rather than abandoning her researches entirely, she returned to her native San Francisco, where she found a teaching position with a local Junior College, with half of her former teaching hours at only one-third the pay she had been earning back East. But it left her free to devote herself to solving the riddle, to finding the missing piece of the puzzle. There had been something missing in the equation of sexuality, something that relegated her discovery to just a potentiality and nothing more. Her answer came the very first time she made love with John Holmes.
John was approaching his thirtieth birthday at a party on the Sausalito houseboat of Ted Gracchi, the director of John Holmes' latest full-length erotic classic film. They were celebrating the completion of the shooting four days ahead of schedule, a fact that had earned both John and the director bonuses of ten thousand dollars each. It had been a relatively smooth show. All eight of the actresses Holmes had fucked in it had been experienced sex-flic professionals, with none of the skittishness and last second guilt-feelings that usually marred the efforts of first-time actresses in the craft of balling for the camera. All eight had been chicks skilled enough to suck Holmes' giant meatclub to life between camera setups, so that John had not been forced to use that awesome act of concentration required to think himself into an erection. Holmes' ability to raise a thirteen inch dong merely by thinking himself into it was as important to his success as a sexual superstar, as was the awesome length of his cock, his total control of his orgasmic timing, and his amazing sexual endurance. Vibrations around the set of his last film had been amazingly good from start to finish. And now the spirit of camaraderie between the cast, cameramen, technicians and executive personnel with the production company making the film, spilled over to the farewell party.
Several of the actresses took the lead by stripping to the buff and roaming around the room bestowing kisses on the crotches of guests male and female at the party. John stood in a remote corner of the room watching as the cocktail party speedily transformed itself into an orgy. Soon Mandy Meyers, the heroine of the film, a lissome, lovely, hot cunted redhead, wearing only a pair of green panties with a cut out crotch came crawling across the floor on all fours, singing, "Fuck me Johnny, Fuck me again" loudly as she approached him. Holmes had watched her snorting up three lines of coke just minutes before, and knew that by now she must be out of her mind with drug-induced lust. On any other occasion, John would have merrily boffed her without a second thought. But now, he was pleased that one of the producers jumped on her back and bulldogged her flat down just as she reached John's feet. Then the producer, whose zipper was already wide open to receive the earlier crotch-kisses which had inaugurated the orgy, dove straight down, impaling his searing cock in the fertile brownness of Mandy's high, wide and handsome ass-hole. John, who had fucked her all the way up the ass in one of the hottest scenes in the film, knew the pleasure the producer must be feeling as he thrust roughly up her anal cavity.
Even while the producer was rampaging in her bowels, the actress did not abandon her goal of getting another fucking from Holmes' super dong. Her fingers reached up for John's zipper. "Wanna suck some cock, some giant cock," she moaned. Holmes stepped back out of the reach of her clutching fingers. He continued onto the deck of the houseboat, sipping his drink, watching the stars of the unusually cloudless sky and pondering his next step in life.
Approaching thirty, John Holmes had achieved many of his objectives. With the addition of the fifty grand he had earned on the film, his savings account topped the quarter million mark. His fame as a superstud had spread far and wide, and he had his choice of scripts for the next film he wished to make, with offers as high as a hundred thou' for his services. He was in peak physical condition, with no sign yet of any diminishing capacity in the sexual area. He wore the finest clothes, drove a brand new Ferrari and could snap his finger and get almost any woman he craved effortlessly. It was starting to feel hollow.
He had attempted many different ways of alleviating the hollowness. Before returning to shoot the movie he had just completed, he had spent six months roaming around Europe and Asia only to learn that travel wasn't the answer. Not for him. Foreign languages just weren't Holmes' thing and without a command of the languages the people spoke during his travels, he was reduced to the role of tourist, of sightseer. John was far too active-spirited to accept the status of passive gawker and realized that travel was no way of escaping the emptiness, which traveled along with him wherever he went. He now frequently read serious non-fiction books, expanding his knowledge of the world he lived in. But growing knowledge also brought with it a growing knowledge of his own emptiness.
He was thinking glum thoughts when he saw Barbara leaning over the railing of the deck, looking out to sea. Her extremely pale skin, framed by her dark, flowing hair and the moonlight drew his gaze to her. Feeling his dong straining against the fabric of his suit pants, Holmes smiled to himself. Barbara's beautiful face alone had given him a hard-on, he hadn't even looked down at her body. And it wasn't even her full face, just her profile, unmoving, staring out at the calm sea. The imploring mouth of Mandy, a professional cocksucker hadn't aroused him at the orgy inside. Barbara's profile had. Holmes knew there and then that she was going to be someone special in his life.
He wanted to introduce himself, but somehow it seemed wrong to interrupt her contemplation of the sea, or whatever she was thinking about as she gazed off into the distance. After what seemed to John, an interminable five minute wait, Barbara returned her glance to the houseboat she was a guest upon and saw Holmes looking deeply into her eyes. Their eyes locked in instant magnetism.
"Hi there stranger: Guess what a professional Sexologist does at orgies?" said Barbara in a crisp vibrant voice.
"What?" replied John Holmes, intrigued by her profession and amused by her rhetorical question.
"Whatever you say, handsome," Barbara answered in her best Mae West imitation. She was a thoroughbred through and through. Her chestnut hair faintly glistened in the darkness, her large, violet-colored eyes captured starlight. She wore a dress of silken burgundy, a color John had always been partial to. It looked like it had been created especially for her by the finest designer, fitting the lush contours of her sculptor's-dream figure, the full, pointy breasts, rounded buttocks, long tapered legs and flat stomach, as if she had floated into it. She looked John over with the same frankness with which he measured her and managed to bring it off without the slightest tinge of vulgarity
"Would you mind stepping into the light?" said John, a faint smile on his lips.
"What a strange request to make at an orgy," teased Barbara, as she lightly stepped towards the entrance to the interior section of the houseboat, where a lantern hung, surrounded by buzzing flies and fluttering moths.
"Not so strange at all, lady. How am I supposed to fall in love with you without getting a good view of the merchandise," Holmes replied, not really sure he was joking.
The light did no harm to her image of perfection in Holmes' eyes. She seemed ageless, as ageless as a vision created and freshly minted that day by a benevolent deity for the satisfaction of Holmes' senses. He could not imagine that she had ever gone through childhood and adolescence like mere mortal women do-the very thought of awkwardness in Barbara was absurd. This time, though his ever-primed cock had reacted first to her, the way it did with only the most beautiful and sensual women, his other senses were infinitely heightened as well, lending texture and tone to the pulsations of prick, blending mind and soul into the equation of utter desirability.
"So what's a nice boy like you doing at an orgy?" she quipped, once again finding John's funnybone as well as his more celebrated one. Obviously she didn't recognize him, which was much to John's liking. Over the years he had wearied of groupies anxious to fuck him as if having the sex-celebrity's cock inside their pussies imprinted a permanent trophy down there.
John thought about revealing his identity to Barbara for a moment. After all, she was sure to find out as soon as they returned to the party inside that he, John Holmes was the star of the skin-flic, the completion of which all were celebrating that night. His desire to be honest with her, competed with and was overruled by his wish to enter into this relationship as if reborn, without a reputation as a superstud, a past as a professional fucker and all of the tedious answers to obvious questions that always seemed to be both the start and the end of any serious relationships he had attempted of late.
"I'm looking to fall in love with the next angel that sucks my cock," replied Holmes, seeing instantly that Barbara shared his love of sexual overtness. She pursed her lips prettily.
"Out here or inside?" she purred.
"Let's put it to a vote," replied Holmes. Slowly, almost self-parodyingly, whistling striptease music, Holmes unzipped the fly of his tight, white bell-bottoms, watching as her eyes locked in on his act. Pointing to his outspringing cock, Holmes said: "That makes two votes for here." Then he raised his hand in the air as if joining his cock in casting a vote.
"Three!" said Barbara, startled by its amazing length and girth. Her science-trained eyes immediately measured it out at a full thirteen inches. She was as impressed by the way its owner exhibited it. He looks like the Lord of all his domain, regal, confident and magnificent. She sank to her knees, her haughty model's cheeks reddened with passion. Holmes dropped his pants and jockey shorts before she reached him and leaned back against an iron ladder leading upwards to a kind of observation deck above.
"My stars, what a mouthful of meat you are!" sighed Barbara as her head circled downwards to Holmes' straining dong.
Her breath was fiery, driving away the crisp night air even before her full-red lips prettily pouted on his cockhead. Then she flicked her long pink tongue at the wide-cleft through which all manner of things flow in a man, stretching out the skin of his scrotum with knowing, massaging motions. Licking all the way up his throbbing shaft to his steaming, sweaty balls, Barbara coated every fold of his ball bag with her saliva, which gave off a hiss as it met the brisk sea air. Now she sucked his balls, one and then the other, each time making a popping sound as they bounced around in her cheeks.
She had such a long, swan-like, graceful neck that Holmes wondered if she would be able to get even half of his pulverizing prick past the mouthgate to her throat. Which would be a shame thought Holmes, because when it came to shooting off at the end of a perfect blowjob, nothing could equal the feeling of doing it in the tight, cunt-like deep reaches of a woman's throat. Still, something in his blood had whispered perfection as soon as he had encountered Barbara. And she was priming his prick so perfectly now, there was no reason to doubt her ability to accomplish similar miracles. After all, when an angel swoops down from Heaven to suck your cock, she sucks it ... divinely, as the ancient Bosnian proverb goes.
Now her invaginating lips were well beyond the cockhead, gaining momentum as the drive of her lust magnified and manifested itself on her highly sensitized mouth. Orgasms passed through her exciting her nipples, which, unencumbered by brassiere rubbed brazenly against the silk of her decolletage. The flow centered on her electrified cunt, which she felt opening wide and spasming from the thrill of it all. Her soft, chestnut, fine silken hair, worn long and unadorned flew wildly around her face, wrapping itself around his meatclub in her mouth when whipped by the gusty sea breezes.
She gobbled, guzzled, gorged and grazed on his maleness, forcing it down her throat, sometimes gagging to the point of near-choking but mouth-marching relentlessly onward towards her single objective: to cram thirteen inches of thick fleshsteel down her cock-clutching gullet.
Watching her valiant efforts from on high, Holmes was ever sensitive to the condition of her throat, daring to pump his hips and slide his dick back and forth over the areas it had already visited only during those moments when her breathing showed no signs of difficulty with her mighty throat burden of cock. Inducing a woman to vomit, or to pass out from an overdose of prickmeat was the last thing Holmes wanted from a blowjob. Maybe he would have to make do with getting five inches sucked off this time, which would cut down the explosiveness of his come. But still any come at all was better than having to comfort an hysterical woman after she had passed out or puked, with the side-effect of blue balls in the bargain.
His admiration for her gameness in attempting to go for all the gusto soon was topped by his adoration for her cleverness. Remembering some Yogic breathing exercises a long-forgotten boyfriend had taught her long ago, Barbara began to fall into a mild trance and immediately her throat muscles relaxed fully, enabling her to instantly swallow Holmes' dong all the way down to the balls, and to even accommodate half of his scrotum between her lips and teeth.
His fingers brushed through her silken hair, feeling heat waves emanating from her scalp. There was no controlling Barbara's head action. He was hers to take as she desired. With every vacuum-like suck, she was pulling the jism out to the base of his balls.
The combination of things she was laying on his cock was truly unique to John Holmes, who had thought until then that he had run the full gamut of possibilities of cocksucking variations, except for the weirder varieties involving pain, fetishism and outright homosexuality.
One moment, she was scraping at the shaft with her sharp pearly-whites, and the next, she was gargling with his full 13-inches halfway to her heart up her throat. Then she sniffed it into a nostril, almost making the quivering male ejaculate up her nose. And whatever she tried felt fantastic to him. He quivered and quaked, every muscle in his body bunching up for release. His back was arched into the ladder, while his ass flailed forwards, driving at Ler tenderness with full force, knowing now that she was so truly linked with his own mounting ecstasy, her head bobbing so rhythmically with his thrusts that nothing could hurt her.
Her loud moans tore the silent night air, drawing a response from a flock of seagulls above. At last he could take no more of perfection. A spasm beginning at the base of his spine, shot through his bowels with locomotive force, crushed his balls milking every last drop of his hot jism into the already bulging cockhead, held for three counts, poised at the brink of overwhelming climax, then pumped nuclear powered jism geysers down her swan-like throat, past her esophagus to her heart and lungs all of whom purred contentedly with the benediction bestowed upon them. She swallowed it all until it began to come in mere trickles in her throat. Just then, she once more increased her suction, which she had relaxed to allow him a long, luxurious blastoff.
She continued to drain him until Holmes heard a gong vibrating in his head and his balls climbed halfway up his ass. His body was drenched with sex-sweat at the end of it. Then Barbara rose triumphantly, with just a tiny droplet of jism shining in the corner of her mouth, the only sign of her recent breathless activity. Her natural-styled hair looked windblown, not twitching-finger-tangled.
"I thought you said you were a Sexologist, not a Sex Machine" said Holmes when he had recovered enough strength to speak.
"Was I really all that especially good?" Barbara inquired looking John squarely in the eye which meant that she wasn't just another fool fishing for a forced compliment, but a woman genuinely interested in the effects of her fellatio upon her lover.
"You weren't all that especially good, mightymouth, you were all that especially wonderful," John answered in full honesty.
"Why?"
"Why?" John responded, "Because of so many things like the power and rhythm of your suction, the feel and vibrations of your throat, the way you use your teeth, the all-around heat of your mouth cavity, the way you breathe, moan, lick, the thickness and length of your tongue and its agility. Your hunger to do it, enough yet?"
"I guess I owe you an explanation" said Barbara fondly stroking the back of John's neck with her strong, yet aristocratically slim fingers.
"I'd say I owe you anything you want, temptress," John replied, relaxing and reveling in her body perfume and her firm, knowing caresses.
"My name is Barbara Steele and I guess the best self-description I can muster is that I'm a fanatic, devoted to exploring the potentialities of human sexuality. And friend, you've just given me better than textbook description of the elements of superior fellatio, right off the top of your head. How did a layman like you ever acquire such expertise?"
"By laying ... No really, if there's any man of my age whose cock had been sucked more often, and by greater sexperts than John Holmes, whom I, by some happy quirk of fate I just happen to be, somebody ought to put his name in the Guinness Book of World Records," John replied, happy at last to reveal his identity to Barbara, whose openness inspired openness in John.
"Oh" gasped Barbara in comical amazement, "You're ... err ... the John Holmes!"
The opportunity to demonstrate his unique identity in a way he was sure she would find erotic was not ignored by Holmes, who, when he had been mightily pleasured, became extremely anxious to give more than a fair measure of pleasure in return.
"My Trademark" said Holmes, concentrating for several seconds on his bionic cock. Presto! What had seconds before been a deflated, sucked out vestige of a mighty cock sprang up and tilted back, slapping in a loud thud in his groin. Then he threw her his finest shit-eating grin...
. . .Strange, thought Holmes, the way memories and present happening events have a way of working together to sweeten sensuality. He knew what he was doing now; utilizing the sweet memory of his first sexual affair with Barbara to take his mind off the burdensome Financial Report which told the full story of their clinic's therapeutic success, but financial disaster thus far. All of each of their life's savings were tied up in the venture, and though it had already helped hundreds to gain sexual confidence and competence, it had only three more months in which they had to come up with almost two hundred thousand dollars, or the bank called the whole thing off by repossessing the building they had bought and converted into a clinic. It was easy to escape into sexual reverie, when sex with Barbara was so fine and the rest of life was bringing mixed reviews, disputed decisions, and heartburn.
Then suddenly the real life Barbara stood before him, magnificently abundant in every detail, without the slightest trace of excess, a deep, mysterious cuntal cleft with labia perpetually parted, and clitoris in perpetual rut and semi-erect state, arousable at the slightest touch of John Holmes' knowing fingers. Currents of warmth radiated from her body as she undraped her full splendor, parting her thighs to his probing tongue, after they had tied her dress to the ladder so the wind would not blow it overboard.
Now she stood before him, nude save for the useless, but highly decorative fringed garter belt she liked to wear because John said its blackness and redness, contrasted flatteringly with the cameo texture of her smooth skin. Her hands were on her hips, a posture which on a man looks absurd, but on a statuesque, luxuriantly cunted mammoth mammaried minx like Barbara looks quite piquant, or so Holmes thought. "Pick a hole, any hole, and fill it before I start to take going bankrupt with your money seriously, and get hysterical. Yes even a super-shrink sometimes gets hysterical. You can have me either way for the same price. So what'll it be stranger, ecstasy or hysteria?" Then they clinked glasses and downed their rum-on-the-rocks.
Holmes knew a good offer when he heard one and he needed no coaxing to whip off every stitch of clothing on his back, the way he did when they shot sex films in the cold, in and out of his clothing maybe fifty times a day between takes of outdoor sex scenes. He remembered once on a mountain top when doing a ski sex flic, when his cock had a blue, semi-frozen hue to it, which showed up on the screen. He was naked in a flash, ready to dance together locked in the coil of total bliss with the most seductive woman he had ever known.
For a year they had been lovers, and in that year not a night passed without an enthusiastic exploration of the refinements of sexual stimulation. They were perfectly matched, she as rare a breed of sexual animal as John Holmes. John had one of the longest cocks in recorded science, and surely one of the most disciplined and frequently used organs around. Barbara's cunt and ass-hole were both of such unusual inner dimensions that they comfortably were able to engulf John's meatclub without the slightest problem. The phenomenal part about her inner construction was that its vast, accommodating quality came naturally and was not the result of excessive sexual indulgence, as is the case with whores. Although not a virgin, Barbara had never seen a cock even three inches smaller than Holmes'. Her cuntal and rectal muscles and tissues were fresh and finely toned. She had fantastic natural control of all of the delicate little muscular operations that control the amount of stimulation on the prick, the power and pulse of cuntal vibration. For example, she could open and close her ass-hole and cuntslot at will.
Holmes had never promised her fidelity, nor had she made any promises to him. But in the year since their meeting, neither had displayed the slightest interest in balling anyone outside of their exclusive inner circle of two. Except for the sexual activity with their patients. And now she was offering him free choice to take pleasure with any part of her body he chose.
"On the floor darlin', I want to ride you," said Holmes.
"You sound like that creep Nan Grimsley told about," teased Barbara.
"Only he didn't ask, he tied her to a chair," Holmes replied.
"And I suppose you found that exciting to listen to?" said Barbara with a mixture of defiance and humor.
"Got any rope?" Holmes quipped.
She sank to her knees, grabbing a pillow from the couch for her head, then balancing her weight between her elbows, head and knees with her ass flung into the air.
He seized a plump chunk of rump in each powerful hand and slowly kneaded her smooth, soft buns, watching her skin reddening to his touch. A trail of goose bumps climbed down her spine to her marbled thighs, making her inflamed cunt lips quiver in the process.
Holmes ran one finger into her anal crack. He kept moistening it in his mouth and then inserting and re-inserting it up her rectum bit by bit, awaiting the magical moment when his sphincter muscles relaxed as well as her rectal forces, when she would be as wide as anything Holmes cared to insert.
With the other hand, Holmes parted her moist cunt lips, firmly stroking those lips, while knuckling the insides and tickling her erectile, little boy sized clit.
Barbara's entire backside wriggled and rolled in appreciation of the complete sexual arousal he patiently and lovingly lavished on her delectable pink and brown regions. Soon he had four fingers ensconced in the moist depths of her bunghole, four fingers flirting with the walls of her ass, arousing them putting fire into those throbbing choice cuts of shitcave. Because both of his hands were so merrily occupied, and his mouth was busy bestowing trails of patterned lovebites, which would look weird later that night, but would disappear by morning if expertly bitten, as Barbara's neck was by John Holmes. The bites sprayed shivers to the remotest reaches of her body, igniting spasms in her pulsating pussy, that gushed against Holmes' hard-frigging hand.
When both her cunt and ass were wide enough to take on his mighty meatpole, he stepped back a half-stride, then flung his manhood at her bottom, allowing it to make the free choice between the dark, delicious meat of her smooth, slick, endless anal cavity, or the throbbing pink paradise of her suctioning, succulent, sizzling, sap-spasming snatch.
It rammed with a will of its own into her gaping ass-hole. Her meat began to grind his long, thick, mercilessly thrusting battering ram into the depths of her bowels. Usually Holmes used jellied lubricant imported from Rome, where analism is considered the ultimate in sexual refinement, to prepare the way for his cock-assault on her brown buttbox. This time he had only used his spittle, and not much of that because his money blues earlier had hastened his desire for rapid sexual release. That is also why, in the end so to speak, he had selected her ass-hole. He had a habit of coming more swiftly in her ass-hole than elsewhere. Not as satisfyingly as inside her cunt, but quicker.
As the saliva was consumed by the friction of his cock and the inner flesh of her ass, she became bone dry against his bone. Every thrust became painful to both of them, abrading their skin and causing her rectal muscles to hastily tighten around and virtually imprison his cock. He knew that with his maximal hip-pumping effort, he could manage to yank his dick out of her imprisoning ass-hole. But the mere thought of the pain it would cause him, and especially Barbara made him wince, Wincing caused him to grow smaller, still larger than the average male in the length and width, but semi-flaccid. like a pair of pursuing jaws, her ass muscles clenched once more around his cock, denying it motion inside or outside of her ass-hole. From the deep well of his vast sexual experience, the solution to their problem came instantly to Holmes.
He focused every part of his being at the crack at the tip of his prick, the place where the jism released by the balls first springs forth during male ejaculation. When he was in the perfectly relaxed-yet-concentrated state of mind needed to undertake the feat he was about to attempt, he sprayed tiny spurts of hot gooey jism in advance of his cockhead, greasing its path until he was jammed all the way up her rectum down to his balls. Now abundantly lubed, her high, wide and cock-loving ass-hole relaxed once more, beckoning him to take his best crack at her crack.
He rode her ass wide with arcing swings of his hips and stiff jabbing thrusts of his cock, making her scream her boiling passions to the empty corridors of the clinic outside them. She had reached back and was stroking his balls with her fingers, and his hand had reached under her and rubbed her clit as she frigged her deeper pussy with half a fist. But just as they approached the peak of possibility of an ass-hole banging, the searing male skyrocketing shoot off into the bowels, Holmes realized that on this, of all occasions, both of them needed the ultimate joy between lovers, achieved only when they come together while fucking cock to cunt. He pulled out of her ass without warming, lifted her legs over his shoulders then burrowed all the way up her pussy, plowman style. Soon, like Ford, Holmes had a better idea.
She adored his change of plan. Her eternally honest cunt throbbed its approval all over the length of his shaft. Holmes was seized by the sudden urge to suck each of her toes as he pumped his meat into her pussy. And as he wished, Holmes did, feeling her quiver from head to toe each time his lips scooped a tasty little toe into his mouth.
Her cunt lips promptly began to tug on the shaft and cockhead of the sexual giant, from without and within, or so it felt to Holmes. It felt like she had myriad milking machines in the folds of her snatch. Her electrified buns squirmed and danced in his hands. She rode the sexual ladder into space in perfect harmony with his rapid ascent to the peak of pulsation, to the summit of sweet sensation. They were coming together with their bodies linked in spasm endless in time, all-consuming in its searing intensity.
The contractions of Barbara's climaxing, clenching cunt squeezed the very last droplets of jism from his earth-shaking spaceshot. Shudders like the aftershocks of earthquakes followed in the wake of their mutual explosions, running through their blood over the full length of their satiated beings.
Then Barbara dipped her sex-seared, flushed face down to Holmes' blown out prick. It was still a good ten inches long and far from being crumbled. A portrait of tidiness and seductiveness, she slowly, sweetly laved his cock and balls of all of the cum that had adhered to it inside her. Then, turning her nose up cutely to John, she pointed to the still-spreading gigantic cumstain on the fine Persian rug of pink and light blue. "Hope that sweet salty sperm will launder out of the rug," she said. Then she collapsed into John's arms, locking limbs with him, utterly spent. Holmes was able to doze off too, free for once of his money concerns or all other care.
But not before his mind returned for one further recollection of his sexually enchanted meeting with Barbara, that had led him to the bliss he had just experienced.
In that strange state of mind after perfect sexual satisfaction, hovering between the states of sleep and awakedness, but not exactly like either, and not exactly a dream, Holmes remembered something that he had blacked out from his mind completely, right after it had happened.
As Barbara rested against John's chest, on a tarpaulin he had thrown down on the floor of the ship's deck before wading into her wondrous pussy for the first time, after completing that first sexual encounter of the close kind, Holmes had felt something fall on his naked shoulder. Brushing at it, he was certain that it was a cigar ash. His father had been a cigar smoker, which is how he happened to be so certain that the thing that had fallen upon his shoulder was a cigar ash. And then he heard a crazy piercing laugh from on high in the crow's nest. He had felt tenderly protective of Barbara and had helped her into her clothes and taken her inside, not wishing her to share the fact with him that someone with a maniacal laugh had witnessed their falling in love.
CHAPTER THREE
Holmes was dreaming ... A mouth not really connected to a face was suctioning his blood-gorged meatclub into sweet oblivion.
But the sexations coursing through his nerve-endings were much too strong for dreams. Still asleep, his hands drifted down to his cock and found soft curly hair, the inside of a turned-up nostril, an entire nose. And at last! A mouth gobbling up and down on his steely shaft.
He opened his eyes in the dim, hallucinatory light of 2 a.m. and saw Serena, blinked and saw Serena, moaned as she slid sharp teeth alongside his entire shaft so as to stimulate his awakening, blinked again and once more Serena.
Which all in all was rather remarkable considering the fact that Serena was that month's Playgirl of The Month, the cunt-dripping centerfold girl of the most popular girlie magazine in America. Even for a John Holmes, it certainly wasn't every night that a woman he hasn't seen in more than three years, who just happens to be the Playgirl of the Month that month, drops into his office while he's asleep and proceeds to give him a friendly blowjob. Maybe in some of his Swedish Erotica flics such an event occurs routinely, but the real life of any man is another thing than the image he must project on the job.
Even if he was too groggy to acknowledge her miraculous appearance on the couch where he had nodded out (and where, wondered Holmes, was Barbara?) his cock saluted her efforts with an awesome display of dong-growth. He seemed even bigger and wider to Serena than the last time she had sucked his cock during their last erotic masterpiece they had starred in together.
She was a redheaded vision of seductiveness. Even more of a tigress was Serena in black net stockings, garter belt, and fiery green eyes in the soft, perfectly-proportioned flesh, than on celluloid.
Her agile tongue kept dabbing at his cumhole, as her cheeks worked his dong over like a suction pump of flesh. She was pure technique, her screams too practiced to be entirely authentic, an actress so sexually accomplished that it was impossible for a man to tell whether her moans and long sighs were genuine. But god could that vixen suck cock!
He closed his eyes, indifferent to whether he was dreaming or not. If this is my first wet dream since I got past being eleven, Holmes thought, I want to keep on having them. Then he felt his balls snap and send showers of hot, salty semen down her cunt-like mouth cavern.
The shock of his all-too-authentic orgasm ended the dream and he awakened to her luscious, lascivious reality.
She smeared his cum all over her eyes, ears, hair and tits, acting as if her lithe, full hipped and melon-bunned body were being scorched by his lovejuice. Her breasts were of average size, but the way she loved to fondle them and keep them in constant nipple erection and coat them with jism she used them better than many a more-am ply endowed tit-bearer. Every crease in her compact, ever-posing body was full of sexual nuance. Holmes didn't really know what to say to her.
It had been Holmes who had broken up their three month affair three years back by walking out on Serena. After that amount of time, he was forced to lie to her about his need for solitude being the reason he was leaving. When in fact, the truth had been that her egocentric posturing, and total mental blankness plus her inability to keep any place she lived in, a home and not a Grand Central Station for Orgies, had driven John Holmes to murderous thoughts. It had come down to leaving her or killing her.
Now she was back once more in Holmes' existence. He wondered how Barbara would accept the situation. The woman he loved had made it a point of high principle with her not to place any restrictions whatsoever on John's or her own sex life. But this was the first time that either one had utilized the freedom. If it hurt Barbara, Holmes felt that no blowjob would have been worthwhile. But for that, there was no chance to change it, only to hope that he wouldn't regret it.
"You don't know what a bummer it's been, tracking you down," Serena said while lighting a European cigarette with a solid gold lighter. She stood before Holmes, still naked, except for garter belt and stockings, crouching towards him and pushing her muff towards his face.
"Later" said Holmes. "First I want to know why you bothered trying to find me?"
She smiled saucily, placed a hand on her hip, blew out a smoke ring and gazed directly down at his dong.
"Bullshit," blurted Holmes, "There are enough dongs in the world to keep even a hellcat like you satisfied without having to resort to the services of a Sex-Therapist like me."
"Didn't you enjoy the cock-draining I gave you?" pouted pert Serena.
"Sure I did. I'm not dead, merely possessed," Replied John Holmes.
"By Satan? Well Johnny, welcome to the winning team," Serena purred.
"No, bitch. By an angel named Barbara who shares this office, clinic and lifetime with me."
Serena began to laugh in torrents, hopping around and howling, clutching her stomach and hugging herself as the gales of mirth broke around her.
"You, John Holmes, in love? The stud of studs, cock of the walk, heartless fartless loverking, giving a shit about somebody else? Letting someone get closer to you than the length of your horse cock? She must be some woman!"
"She is," said Holmes.
Barbara Steele walked through the unlocked door of the office. Her expression went through three complete extremes in ten seconds or less. When she first saw Holmes and Serena each stepping into their briefs, her jaw flew open and her eyes widened. Then the thought of what she herself had been doing that night hit her, driving her into a giggling fit, which then changed into a tender look of total tolerance for John and Serena.
"Hi, I'm Barbara Steele, and I guess you two need no introduction to each other."
"Pleased to meet you," said Serena, playing along with the coolness exhibited by Barbara. "John's been telling me how much he digs you. Any woman that can hook a John Holmes can teach me a trick or two. Congratulations!"
"I doubt if there's much anyone can teach a woman as beautiful and obviously uninhibited as you," replied Barbara. At last Holmes recovered from his tonguetied astonishment at Barbara's laughing spell shortly after she had entered. But he still longed to know why of all things, she had laughed.
"Glad to see you're getting so chummy, girls," said Holmes, stepping out of his briefs and revealing how much the situation was turning him on. "Hey Barbie, how come you started to laugh when you saw us ... er...? " he asked.
"I'll tell you why. All the way home, I had this horrible guilt-trip because I had just finished being unfaithful to you John, for the first time," she said quickly, then waited for her words to sink in.
"This was my first time," said Holmes.
"And he only did it because I blew him while he was asleep," Serena chimed in. Now all waited for Barbara to tell her tale.
"And I only did it because I wanted Mr. Grant Bickerstaff s help. He's one of my former patients, whom I rescued from total impotence in one steaming session when I was back East. I pleaded with him to use his influence as Public Relations Director of the timber company that own half of this county, to get the local police and politicians off our back. I did my best to persuade him. But he wouldn't even begin to talk about the clinic until I agreed to another session of "therapy," which turned out to mean letting him fuck me in the ass with his three inch dong. Afterwards, he gave me some cheap advice..."
"What did he have to say? Will we get a chance to develop without being harassed?" asked John Holmes. He was not a jealous man, in fact jealousy was as alien to his nature as violence. But the details of Barbara's sexcapade with a public relations phony with a three-inch dong were not nearly as interesting to him, as the cynical influence-peddler's counsel as to how to improve the public image of the clinic.
"He said we'd be better off it we were running a whorehouse. Whorehouses the locals understand and can relate to. But a clinic devoted to enabling people to achieve their maximal sexual potential, this frightens the good-old-boys up here half to death. Grant said that this is only geographically part of California. The attitudes around here date back to the Arkansas hog farmers who founded the dreary little town ten miles away that they call the County Seat, after the mayor's brain's location. He guesses that the only way we can improve our image is to grease some palms at the highest levels while keeping a low profile, and even then, he wouldn't guarantee our survival." At the end of her complicated explanation Barbara collapsed into an easy chair opposite Serena and John Holmes who were back on the couch together.
"So why don't you move to a hipper location?" Serena asked, as if the possibility had never occurred to John and Barbara before. John replied for himself and his woman. "Every cent we have is tied up in this building."
All three stared glumly ahead of themselves until Serena popped up once more with an idea. "Maybe I can help. My old man is Eric Hawkins, President of Playgirl International, and if anyone has the pull to get these local yokels off your backs, it's Eric."
"But why should he give a crap about us?" Holmes asked suspiciously. When they had been lovers in the past, he had caught Serena in many lies and he was not inclined to believe anything she couldn't prove now.
"Because my sugar daddy Eric, although he's nearly 80, is a glutton for sex. I'll bet I could talk him into donating bread to keep you going."
"You don't really expect me to believe a word of that fairy tale you've been spinning," said Holmes, looking Serena right in her contact-lens-emerald eyes.
"Now John, I don't quite understand why you're being so hostile to our beautiful friend ... what is your name child? I seem to have forgotten," said Barbara, smiling fondly at Serena.
"Serena."
"I'm Barbara Steele." Barbara rose and kicked off her high heeled shoes as she flitted across the room, straight to where John and Serena were seated. "Undress me John, while I reward myself and our lovely benefactress for handling an embarrassing situation so gracefully," said Barbara.
Holmes' jizm had not yet dried on Serena's boobs when Barbara began stroking them. Serena was somewhat bewildered by the sudden turn of events. She really hadn't been prepared for Holmes' old lady taking the lead and converting Serena's attempt to steal Holmes from her into a hot trio. Having looked her rival over, Serena had to concede that Barbara's delicious statuesque body was a worthy rival of her own sexy, saucy, pert-nosed mug. Serena wasn't used to being the second most desirable woman in a group scene. Until now she had always been the orgy queen, the babe that every swinging man craved a piece of as soon as they laid eyes on her. But here was Barbara, bigger breasted, smaller waisted, finer boned, taller by a full head and utterly natural, the woman who had won the only man Serena had not been able to keep. But if Barbara's amazing beauty had an adverse effect on Serena's feelings for her, it did not show now as the two women shared a long, hot French kiss, with Barbara's fingers circling the breasts and nipples of seductive Serena as their tongues danced together. Each could feel her own body and the body of the other woman stirring beneath their intertwined darting tongues.
Holmes, as he had promised to do, busied his hands with removing Barbara's two piece-suit jacket and then swiftly unbuttoning her sheer blouse and wispy bra. But he was no mere valet.
His prick had swelled to superhuman proportions witnessing the transformation of his former and present girlfriends into voracious lesbian lovers.
When Barbara's bra slid to the ground, the sight of her firm, flawless, stupendous tits spilling towards Serena's mouth, made the redhead Playgirl sigh with lust. Her mouth automatically formed an "O" with her ripe lips and scooped a long, purplish nipple between her tongue and teeth. Barbara bending sideways, and taking advantage of her mammoth tits which permitted her to attempt sexual variations not possible for smaller chested women, gobbled Serena's smaller but wider and more pink nipple into her own "O" formed lips. Holmes removed Barbara's skirt. The mouths and tits of the two rapidly tit-nuzzling temptresses formed a natural bridge for Holmes to lay his whang across, somewhere between their mouths, nipples and flaring nostrils. He wished that someone was shooting this action with a movie camera, knowing that this was exactly the kind of sizzling sex scene that sold by the thousands of reels in adult bookstores throughout the country to private collectors, as well as to patrons of the adult movie houses where his name was legend to legions of satisfied customers.
Barbara's hand reached down to her panties, impatient with the slow pace at which John was stripping her. Of course the poor man couldn't be blamed for having been distracted from his labors by the raw heat of the sensual flames being stroked and stroked by all three participants in the sexual supersession beginning to simmer with complete spontaneity. Not one of the three had the slightest inkling of how their trio would develop, and ultimately end. Each knew that the passions being unleashed were too awesome to indulge in for a prolonged period of time.
Barbara's bright orange panties were unmistakably cum-stained in the seat. They clung so tightly to her plump, white thighs and buns, that her twitching, eager fingers fumbled with the bandeau and lost their grip several times as she tried to yank them down. No doubt, her normally extra-rational mind was fiercely distracted by the interplay of her fingers and Serena's roiling, boiling, rushing, gushing, scarlet-fringed, fat-clitted pussy. Serena was spasming violently without even having been in touch with a prick or a tongue up her cunt that night. Funny, the flame-headed sex-symbol thought to herself as she spurted all over Barbara's ever-probing, ever exciting fingers. "Funny how sucking Holmes' massive meatpole, and taking his sticky, salty wad of bubbling jizm up my throat, then being tit-sucked and finger fucked by his old lady, is getting my rocks off ten times as good as being gang-banged by all twelve vacationing plumbers at that hotel in San Francisco last night."
"Only a woman knows how to suck another woman's tit," thought Holmes, marveling at the infinite patience and slow, sensuous build-up of the foreplay between Serena and Barbara. Holmes, who took pride in his sexual talents, and was truly the master of all of the techniques for arousing a woman, nevertheless knew that not even he had the love for long, leisurely arousal that these venuses displayed in the three-quarters of an hour they rested in tongue to nippled ecstasy. No man could spend that much time on mere tit, when a cunt and a mouth were around to stuff with the hard-on that tit-sucking brought to a fever-pitch.
The primary motivation in the souls of Barbara and Serena was to devour each other. But that did not mean that John was relegated to the role of third wheel. Among females, only the most uptight, tightassed dead-pussied, feckless and fuckless frumps, and the most hardened of butch-dykes, the bulldog bitches who hated all men almost as much as they despised themselves, only the fucked up and fucked out and unfucked could resist the sexual possibilities promised by John Holmes, muscle mountain, when it stared them in the face with 13 rock-hard, boa-constrictor-wide inches of malehood.
They took turns, vacating the tit they were nuzzling and beginning to lick the Holmes prick, to nip at it, and suck its cockhead while the other increased the tempo of the nipple nuzzling. Serena felt her cunt filling up with some of John and Barbara's fingers. The lovers were holding hands inside the pussy of another woman.
Sometimes they even took leave of their titfeasts to join heads on Holmes' shaft, one licking the topside while the second licked the underside, one candylipping the cockhead while the second sucked his balls, plucking out hairs with her teeth. Which one was it? Who knew? They were a three-way sex-machine working at peak efficiency. When Serena's tongue encircled Barbara's near Holmes' cumhole, and sipped Barbara's writhing tongue into her own panting mouth, the two women and Holmes felt themselves melting.
By now Barbara had finally managed to writhe out of her panties and held them out in front of her. All action froze around the silent spectacle of the sopping wet panty crotch, an amazingly wide circle of moisture covering almost the entire front of the bright orange skimpies.
"I thought you said he fucked you in the ass. So how come your pussy is drenched with jizm?" Holmes asked, unable to believe that their little affair could have made her secrete so much pussy juice.
"Listen up hotcock," said Barbara in a comical John Wayne impression, "You are not the one to lay a jealousy trip on anyone tonight. Now if you still don't believe me, shove these up your nose, and tell me if you smell the scent of cock in this crotch."
John's hefty sniff was enough to convince him that the pantycrotch perfume was all cunt through and through.
When he turned them over, he saw a nickle-sized cumstain in the dead center of the bun covers.
Inspecting the piddling little cumstain closely, Serena furrowed her brow, and idly fingering her pussy said: "Jeez, a girl could starve to death on so little cum." Serena could not understand why, immediately after making her innocent remark and putting the panties to her mouth to suck, the way she liked to do whenever she got the chance to, Holmes and Barbara collapsed into each other's arms, shaking with laughter.
Nothing seemed more normal to Serena than sucking up the last drop of cuntsauce and jizm from Barbara's panties. And from the way her cunt spasmed and poured out cuntsauce on Barbara's hands running down to the palms, it was as if she were ingesting all the thrill of the organs that had discharged their payloads at the peak of their sexual titillation into the panty and from there into Serena's chewing mouth. And from there, directly to Serena's warping pussy.
It was more than Barbara could take. She had to wrap her lips around the wild redhead's cunt lips, to dip her tongue into her foxy hotbox.
She knelt and plunged her tongue into Serena's pulsating pussy, delighting in the honey-flavor of the douche Serena used, mixed with the heavenly sewer smells of Serena's discharges and her own saliva.
In nothing flat the two venuses had vamped each other into the extra-fine 69 classical lesbian position with Barbara, the taller and stronger of the two on top, and Serena below her lapping away at Barbara's wide open, throbbing pussy. Barbara was moaning as she suctioned Serena's squirming cunt and made her pussy fart with blowing vibrations against the labia. Their bodies both were circling and swaying around their cunts, pouring themselves into their sex-sister's mouths.
The angle gave Big John Holmes a perfect shot at Barbara's upraised, wiggling, tongue-crazed ass. He was still hot for it from their earlier ass-fuck that evening, when he had pulled it out of her ass-hole and stuffed it into her pussy instead for the big pumpoff, because he had felt that the two of them needed coming together more than anything else. But that had been a long time ago, thought Holmes. The passion Serena was generating in both Barbara and John was too powerful to simply be dismissed afterwards as a casual one-nighter. Something basic was happening to all three of them that had changed the nature of John's relationship with Barbara. A shudder ran through Holmes as something elemental within him warned him of an observation he had made during his affair with Serena. It boiled down to nothing more, nothing less than the fact that Serena, either by design or by accident, was a woman who somehow always damaged the lives of those she touched.
"Serena's sexy, but she's like bad dope: all wildness, with a terrible comedown," Holmes' friend, Ted Gracchi, the director of many of John's sex-films and a good friend of John's had said after wrapping up a shooting of Holmes and Serena together.
And she had brought him to the brink of financial disaster the time before, using every charge card ever issued, to run up amazing totals on wardrobe, and presenting Holmes with the bill, running Holmes' Ferrari up a pole, destroying the pole and totaling the sports car, also tripling Holmes' insurance rate for life.
And here she was again, lapping lovingly away at the cunt of the woman Holmes loved. And being lapped just as lovingly, and harmonizing her shrill screams with Barbara's throaty moans. And being mind-blown by the similarity of her and Barbara's reactions to cuntkisses, licks, vacuumings, clit suckings and the way the hips rolled at the exact same moments. Even their techniques were alike.
Holmes realized that hostility was mounting in him, but was too sophisticated psychologically to take the false path of allowing it to build up into an explosion which would damage his self-respect. Whether he liked it or not, he, Barbara and Serena were a trio now and for as long as Barbara craved it, because he too enjoyed the sexy presence of Serena in the sex-fantasy they were living right then. And, no matter what she did, he wanted Barbara next to him, and because there is a wise way and a stupid way to cope with sexually-provoked aggression. The fool forgets his cock and shrivels. The wise man fucks the hostility into submission in three falls or more.
So he shoved it into Barbara's bunghole. During the whisper of time it took for his dry meatpole to embed itself into the first three inches of her rectum, it was greased by the three-thimbles full of jizm left by the bastard who had squirmed his worm in her sweet, dark meat earlier that night, and then had pretty much told her, and Holmes, and their clinic to go fuck itself. "Fuck Grant Bickerstaff," Holmes muttered as he whaled away at the depths of her bowels with his mighty avenger.
Her ass began to pitch and buck, meeting Holmes halfway between thrusts, increasing the speedy friction, allowing his thrilled cockhead to come in contact with the incredible always startling smoothness of her inner rectal walls.
"And fuck the town fathers, and fuck the town daughters of this uptight little hamlet. Fuck Serena and her lies. Fuck all of them because this time I'm up to my ass in this clinic, and this time I want to make it work, so bad that nothing will stop me," Holmes said, still so far under his breath that only he could hear his determined words. Just then the first wave of his spurting jizm tore through his bowels, and shot through Barbara's intestines. And another spasm, pump, spurt!
And Barbara came, her hands locking Serena's head upon her pussy, increasing her cuntal vibrations as she fluttered in climax, all of which Holmes' dick could feel as it reamed her rectum with lovejuice.
And Holmes kept spouting like an uncapped cum well.
And Serena went crazy, locking her muscular legs around Barbara's suctioning mouth and non-stop tongue, swaddling Barbara's cheeks with thigh flesh, and screaming like a raped alley cat as she theatrically climaxed.
The local Police delegation, Sgt. Edwards, and Officer Montoya waited in the doorway with their pistols drawn and the warrant for the arrest of John Holmes and Barbara Steele in Edwards' hand. Their hands were too occupied to applaud the slam bang finish performed by the three sexperts.
Barbara was the first to recover her wits and to see the two policemen. Her hands automatically flew up to cover her breasts from the gaze of the intruders. Then she remembered that her cunt was also exposed. Then it occurred to her that the presence of the lawmen and the attitude of their drawn guns, was far more serious as a threat than the fact that they had peeped on her trio with Holmes and Serena.
All three hastened to cover their nudity with clothing as Edwards read the Secret Grand Jury Indictment to them in a dull flat voice. They were being arrested for operating a brothel, under a statute dating back to 1925. That was the easy part. They were also accused of two counts each of Statutory Rape.
"What about me?" asked Serena, in a most pugnacious tone.
"You can suck my cock any time you want honey ... hey," said Montoya to his fellow officer, "isn't she the Playgirl of the Month?"
"I think she is," replied Edwards, "Clap the cuffs on her too. I'm sure somethin' in what they were doing up here isn't legal."
"My pleasure," said Montoya. Acting in strict accordance with the law, he resisted the temptation to give Serena a feel, for the bragging privileges it would have bought him back at the stationhouse and at the Elks meetings.
"You'll be sorry for this," said the inflamed Playgirl.
Holmes hated the brutal bite of the handcuffs against his wrist. He wondering whether Edwards was applying just an extra bit of pressure to express sexual jealousy as he jammed the bracelets on Holmes' wrists.
Even more disturbing to John, was Barbara's look of deep sadness as she meekly held her hands out to Montoya for imprisonment by steel.
How much this must be hurting Barbara, Holmes thought. She considered herself a serious researcher on a subject that was probably of greater benefit to mankind than nuclear research and space-exploration. And because this subject happened to be human sexuality, she was being called a Madame or worse.
"Don't worry about a thing," said Serena as the policemen led them out of the front door of the Center For Sexual Gratification. In the light of dawn, flashbulbs popped and Cameras ground in the background. A newscaster kept up a running commentary.
John wished that he could trust Serena, as he sheltered Barbara's weeping face from the flashbulbs and cameras, on the way to the police car with the whirling light.
CHAPTER FOUR
Fifty miles north of San Francisco, beginning 20 miles inland from the Pacific Coast and stretching out for one hundred and twelve miles of farm and forest land, Cabrillo County had not in its entire history been host to an event as newsworthy as Holmes' arrest. Or so the commentator for A.B.S., the most popular network in America said as Holmes and Barbara preceded Serena, who was taking a little extra time to make up, with the permission of her guards, who took advantage of their last opportunity to peer down the front of her low-cut blouse to the nipples, into the square containing the jail and county courthouse, in the city of Cosgrove, California. A nationally syndicated gossip columnist with a show on a rival network, whom Holmes instantly recognized as Rhonda Barnett, a short, heavy breasted but slightly pudgy brunette, with the voice of a teenage cock-teaser and the integrity of a sewer, shoved a microphone in Holmes' solar plexus, and blocked his path with her body as the cameras closed in around him.
"Rumor has it that the daughter of a local minister swore before the Grand Jury that she paid you and your partner 90 dollars to break her in sexually. Would you care to make any comment?"
Still screening Barbara from the cameras by imposing his body between the lenses and his woman, Holmes, who had had prior brushes with the law and thus had learned the importance of maintaining a confident air with the press in winning acquittal, nevertheless wondered just what he should or should not say. But his honest look of dumfounded surprise as he heard for the first time the source of his legal troubles could not fail to convince onlookers of how strange the allegations sounded to his ears.
"Look," said John, "I've never treated anyone claiming to be a minister's daughter."
Barbara recovered her abundant wits and backed up Holmes' statement by relating in a calm, clear voice that she had been over the records of the clinic just last night, and their records would show that they had no minister's daughter as a patient.
"But even if the accusation were true, which it is not, why should a minister's daughter be denied access to sexual therapy if she needs it?" Holmes added.
"Because, Johnny boy, she was fifteen years of age," said Rhonda Barnett, deliberately turning her back to John Holmes and Barbara Steele as the camera took a close-up of her perpetually wide-eyed face.
"This is Rhonda Barnett, In The Know about Superstud, the famous John Holmes, who stands accused, along with his paramour, Barbara Steele, an alleged psychologist specializing in Sexual Therapy of a long list of charges ranging from child molestation through owning and operating a brothel."
The procession of policemen, prisoners and journalists found itself blocked from being able to enter the county jail, by several huge flatbed trucks that rolled in front of the jail carrying a hundred or so all-white, all farmers and loggers, demonstrating with picket signs that read, "Down with Decadence" and "Stop Sin Before it Stops You", and the like. Two men in five hundred dollar suits and healthy suntans, stood on the central flatbed truck, drawing the cameras to them.
"One is the mayor of Cosgrove, Edgar Crowley, and the tall, skinny one is trying to get the Republican nomination for the Senate Race," Barbara informed Holmes, knowing that she was the better informed politically of the two of them.
The Mayor delivered a short, sermon-like speech, extolling the virtues of the traditional values held dear by the citizens of Cosgrove; virtues which the clinic threatened to degrade by its mere presence. For to allow such a brothel to continue to exist here, would mean accepting what it stood for.
"That's called prejudicing any jury they wind up picking. It'll get us off on an appeal even if they do manage to convict us on trumped-up charges," said Holmes over the din of applause by the demonstrators accompanying the Mayor.
"Since when have you turned into a lawyer John Holmes?" snapped Barbara in reply. This was no time for amateur guesses about their legal situation.
Realizing that she was absolutely right, Holmes knitted his eyebrows concentrating for a moment, then reciting a telephone number over the noise. "That's Charles Dearing, my lawyer in San Francisco. He'll beat this easily," said Holmes, who had been through hell with the chubby, middle-aged, black man, who had pulled Holmes through with his sharp mind and spellbinding rapport with juries. Once, Dearing had defended Holmes successfully in an obscenity case in Mississippi, and won. The odds against a negro, successfully defending a pornographer (Holmes had produced the skinflic in question, as well as starring in it) in Mississippi had been a million to one. But Dearing had beaten it without a second's doubt that he would triumph, from the first address to the jury, to the reading of the verdict of Innocent on All Counts.
Serena had spent the time this far, posing for photographers and cameramen, and reveling in the role of Mystery Woman , teasingly refusing to disclose her identity, or why she was being booked along with the proprietors of the sex clinic. Meanwhile the candidate for the Senatorial nomination was working the theme of corruption in the administration to a painful death. Bored with the familiar speech, a cameraman was hypnotically ogling Serena when he suddenly recognized her as the Centerfold girl in that month's Playgirl magazine.
Not wanting to share his exclusive story with anyone, he hustled across the street to the general store, where the proprietor accepted his payment for the magazine and then offered to guide him to the pornographic bookshop he ran out of his storeroom in the rear. The cameraman politely declined, turned to the centerfold and confirmed his identification of Serena. He slapped a twenty dollar bill on the counter and said to the bewildered aproned owner, "That's for the use of your private phone, if you have one, for a three minute, long-distance phone call," said the cameraman, Milt Mitchell by name.
He had been angling for a job with the rival network and this was his big chance to prove his worth to them. He was connected with the Producer of the N.B.T. and he told him about recognizing Serena as the mystery woman of the Holmes Case.
"Consider yourself hired," said the Producer.
Meanwhile, Serena was assuring John and Barbara that they had nothing to worry about, and her friend Eric Hawkins, publisher of Playgirl magazine and multimillionaire head of Playgirl International Enterprises, a billion dollar corporation would have them out of the stir in the wink of an eye. Her self-assurance did a lot to comfort Holmes and Barbara, who each realized that only a complete madwoman would be so unconcerned about having been busted on a morals charge, without some mighty influential person backing her up. Still Holmes couldn't help but doubt her, remembering her as a bad-news character. And, as nice as she was behaving, there was still the fact that an hour after she had shown up in Holmes' life, he was in deep trouble.
He would have liked to have asked Serena why she had bothered tracking him down, and from whom she had obtained his address in San Francisco, but all that would have to wait. One of his guardians poked his finger hard into the small of Holmes' back and prodded him forward. In the booking area, Holmes and the two women were separated at the front desk, and the ladies led off to the women's section by a cold-eye, gray-haired matron who wore a pistol on her hip and chewed gum loudly.
The men's section of the jail was large enough to hold a hundred prisoners. At the time of Holmes' arrest, only eight of the cells were occupied by other than drunkards in for a weekender after a big bender. Five of the eight were murderers, two were homosexual schoolteachers, caught in an indecent act with two boys of nine in a locked classroom after hours. The eighth was a deaf-mute pickpocket. Holmes was fortunate to have been assigned a cell between the pickpocket, and a wife-murderer, who sat all night staring at his hands and mumbling something in a voice impossible to hear ten feet away. Directly across from him were the homosexual lovers, each in a separate cell, just out of reach all night, every night. One serenaded the other with the saddest, most beautiful flamenco guitar playing Holmes had ever heard.
Over the next hour, he mulled over the various details he had heard since the breakin by the police at the clinic, piecing them together into a rationale whole. And the deeper he looked into the situation, the deeper he sank into depression. For he chanced to recall what had to be the incident that had triggered his imprisonment, and no matter how he looked at it, there was nothing left to convince him, as there had been a mere hour before, that he wouldn't be staying in prison for an unnaturally long time. Cynthia Penrose, the bitch who was the cause of it all, had called herself. Holmes cursed her with every fiber of his being. But grew immense in the cock, recollecting the incident....
. ... The luscious, curvaceous blonde in the clinging jersey mini-sheath dress, revealing tawny, sun-ripened thigh flesh as she shuffled nervously from foot to foot, revealing huge pointy breasts under her scant midriff t-shirt, peered around the clinic furtively as the man in his late fifties, in the nice dark suit and tie explained their problem to Holmes.
His business card identified him as Alec Penrose, Realtor. Penrose crisply explained that he had married the younger woman after being stricken by her great beauty. He produced a certificate proving that he had married Cynthia four months ago in San Francisco, and other documents proving his and Cynthia's identities and her age as being 22 (after seeing California Drivers' Licenses and Marriage Certificates, Holmes had no reason to have doubted her age or marital status, even though she looked no older than 16 to his naked eyes).
The problem, said Penrose, was that he had an unusually long and thick penis. Immediately Holmes perked up. Problems of men with sexual gigantism were of particular interest to him. It was the kind of area Holmes could identify with. And he had perfected many techniques for aiding such men to make proper use of their god-given potential for delighting the ladies in their lives.
Cynthia had kept herself a virgin until her marriage. On their wedding night, Penrose had tried to be as gentle as he could be in taking her cherry.
But his burning lust for the blonde sexpot had caused him to forget his tender concern for her well-being and he had rammed his log right through her thick hymen brutally, blasting it away with his wide cockhead and driving all the way up the depths of her pussy with his ravaging king kong dong. Only when she had blacked out from the agony of it all, had Penrose realized the pain he had given her. He had only been inside his gorgeous young wife's honey-pot for less than five minutes when her collapse caused him to have to pull out and then off in the John between his fingers.
In the four months that had passed since their wedding night, she had been visiting a doctor, who after trying a number of muscle-relaxing drugs on her, and hearing her report that they had failed to relax her cuntal muscles enough to permit even the entrance of Penrose's cockhead, had concluded that her problem was psychological.
"What have you been doing in the meantime to improve the situation?" Holmes had decided to take command of the interview and guide it on a more productive path. Barbara, who was out getting her hair cut was due back any minute and he knew how important taking control of the first interview was in later therapy. Barbara believed that sexual therapy followed the same laws as sexual practice. If one of the parties to the sex act fails to take control, and guide the other partner into acting out their mutual desires, the resulting sex will often prove unsatisfactory to either partner. Floundering around in a sea of uncertainty is no way to set sail on the river of orgasm. One partner must take the lead. In experienced couples the role of leader often changes between partners, even in the same evening's sex-games. The same is true of the therapeutic process. Since the objective of the therapist is to engage the patient to feel totally trusting of the sexual therapy applied, firm guidance was necessary from the start. Thus, even through Penrose was giving him a thorough description of the sexual problems that had forced them to seek assistance, passively listening to him until his story was over would have been a setback for Holmes. Instead, he invited Cynthia to show her attitude towards what had gone on thus far in her marriage, by directing his frank query at her.
"Well ... " said Holmes after seeing that the young blonde was trying to signal Alec Penrose to field the question. He started to speak again, but Holmes stayed him by placing a finger to his lips and shushing him. "Well," Holmes continued, taking a few steps towards her and looking her in the eye; "You have nothing to feel ashamed of in front of me. Anything you've tried has my complete approval. And believe me, in my case, it's probably on film. Now sit down and tell me some filthy stories."
She sat down on the divan beside Alec, who patted her hand encouragingly. Holmes could see the blush on her suntanned features, but especially on her creamy white thighs, still swaddled with the remnants of baby fat, which were now a full shade of pink. She was also utterly unaware of herself, unconscious of the fact that when she had taken her seat, her miniskirt had ridden up well-above her thighs, exposing her virginal-white, cotton bikini-panties to Holmes' view. Holmes felt a hard-on taking shape beneath his belt, tribute to the attractiveness of Penrose's child-bride. Her birth certificate established her age as 22, but that didn't stop Holmes from fantasizing that she was fourteen, a luscious Lolita turning every man into a James Mason (or whoever the hell he had played in the movie).
Barbara entered, looking like a Mary Tyler Moore at her best, with much bigger boobs and rounder buttocks, in a two-piece pantsuit. Holmes was glad they had merely trimmed her lustrous chestnut hair, and not cut it short. She saw the pretty young blonde sexpot squirming in her chair, avoiding Holmes' gaze as he spoke to her.
"Tell me Cynthia. Do you agree with your doctor that your sexual problem is all in the mind?" Holmes asked.
Her voice was hoarse and low, belying her youth. "No," Cynthia said, still looking away from Holmes. He spoke again.
"But if you can't tell me what sexual experiences you've attempted with your husband, then your problem is psychological."
"It's okay baby. He's heard it all a thousand times before and so has she," added Penrose.
"I've ... err, I've put him in my mouth," she said nervously, her blush turning from pink to crimson at the revelation.
"You mean you've sucked Alec's cock," said Barbara.
"Yes, I have," replied Cynthia uncertainly. "Then say it!" demanded Barbara. "Say what?"
"Say, I sucked his cock. Don't worry about being in mixed company. Don't worry about us thinking you're a whore, because you've admitted to doing, what any smart woman learns to do to satisfy her man. Be proud of learning the skills of sex. Now let me ask you the only part that matters: did you enjoy it?"
Holmes could see Cynthia carefully following Barbara's reasoning. "Sure," said the child-bride, "sure I loved putting it on my tongue and sucking on it. Alec has such a beautiful penis."
She had said it half in defiance, half in confession, but at least she had said it.
Holmes rose and took the center of the room, dominating it with a self-assured stride as he paced slowly and the decision came to him. He could guess the rest and knew the solution.
That was Holmes' unique contribution to the therapeutic techniques developed by Barbara before she had met him. For if she were a master analyst of sexual habits, and master measurer of actual sexual ecstasy with laboratory instruments of her own design, Holmes was the guru, the natural-born expert on sexual nuance, who could feel what Barbara's instruments failed to measure, the right position for each afflicted patient, the correct fantasy stimulation. All of that, and most of all the air of sexual authority he exuded, that tempted the patient into the sexual experience with the therapist, needed to free them into positive experiences with their sexual partners afterwards.
Looking slightly smug, with his elbow on his knee, and his shoe upon a chair, and his cheek within the palm of his hand, Holmes-the-Thinker said; "Let me tell you the remainder of your sad, sad tale. Now Alec over here drove poor young Cynthia up a wall with five minutes of hard fucking. And he's been afraid ever since then to killing her off with his cock. So he suggests to his delicious young bride that he's more than willing to settle for a suck. And what do you know, she loves sucking and he loves coming in her mouth. Why not? And maybe, in the four weeks since then, he's had at her pussy once or twice, drawing blood and pain each time, with no pleasure. So maybe he stops getting it up at all, unless her loving lips are wrapped around his pole? How am I doing so far?"
He only asked for an evaluation of his deduction for effect. The astonished expressions on the faces of Alec and Cynthia Penrose were all the confirmation he required, of the complete accuracy of his theory.
He suggested that as long as nobody objected, the sexual therapy could begin immediately, and ordered the Penroses to remove their clothes. Observing their hesitancy, he winked at Barbara, and joined her in stripping to the bone. For a few moments the Penroses' heads moved like those of spectators at a tennis match, between the naked magnificence of Barbara's statue-of-venus body, and Holmes' flesh sculpture of the god Adonis.
"Listen," said Holmes bluntly to the gawkers; "If you can't get naked with each other, with eyes for each other's bodies, here, with two experts to keep you from doing any harm to one-another, then forget it. You know where the door is. Barbara and I will find something more enjoyable to do with our time."
As if to underscore his point, he turned away from the couple, bent over Barbara's breast, scooped her bulging nipple between his lips and loudly sucked away. Barbara closed her eyes, whether by design or from the desire to concentrate on the exquisite feeling of Holmes' tit-slurping, Holmes could not see and the Penroses could not tell. But it afforded them the time they needed to decide to join Holmes' sex-games, which he called therapy, and the semblance of privacy necessary for them to remove their clothes without the prying eyes of near-strangers boring into their bodies.
Once their clothing was off and their bodies exposed, the actual therapy could begin in earnest. Cynthia's eyes were strangely aged, with huge round pupils and a dimness around the edges. But sexual nervousness could bring forth all these symptoms, and neither Barbara, nor Holmes would have noticed anything extraordinary about the two naked strangers in their clinic, were it not for a trail of needle marks Barbara spotted on the inside of his thigh.
Feeling the urgent need to communicate her observation to Holmes, she nimbly suggested that Penrose and Cynthia watch closely as Holmes demonstrated with Barbara, the exact technique Penrose, who was nearly as horse-hung as Holmes, would need to practice, if he wanted instant gratification for Cynthia and himself. Hands clenched together, the lovers watched the sex-show put on by the masters of the art.
"You see, all you have to do is lay back and let her do all the work," said Holmes, doing exactly what he recommended for the Penroses with Barbara. "Now feed it into me Barbara, first rub it on the outside, slow and easy. Treat yourself right with my might. Now feed it into your pussy, as much as you want at a time and no more."
Barbara did exactly what was required, down to the nuance of tightening her cuntal muscles to make it seem as if she was starting out with a pussy hole no larger than Cynthia's. She absorbed John Holmes' thirteen-inch claim to fame, a bit at a time, guiding it through her fingers into her pussy hovering above his outstretched cock.
Holmes could tell from Barbara's look that she had something to tell him, which was why she had taken the lead in the therapy when Holmes had been doing so well as the leader, which was against the rules and was a signal that something was wrong.
"Now then Barbara tight pussy. Tell me how much you want to squeeze all of me in the back of your throbbing cunt. Tell me how much you love my cock. Whisper it in my ear then shove one of your great big boobs under my lips to keep me satisfied while you take your time gorging your pussy with hot cock," Holmes said.
He could see the profound effect the live sex-show and Holmes' raunchy instructions to Barbara was having on the young blonde doll who had been so shy at the start of the session. Now she was rubbing her pussy while her husband sucked her big bouncing tits. She dragged Penrose's head from her nipples, and pulled it to her nearly platinum pussy.
"Check out the needle marks all over Penrose's right thigh. Recent ones. The man's a junkie. What do we do?"
Holmes considered it for a few minutes as he plied Barbara's tits with kisses, enjoying the feeling of being let into her ever-juicy cunthole bit by eroticized bit. She made up for the lack of penetration by wriggling and squirming in a way she knew would appeal to Holmes, who always did his best thinking when sexually aroused.
"Now let me tell you how good your soft wet pussy feels. Better yet, let me tell you, then show you by sucking you to heaven, so you get wide enough to gobble me all the way up your pussy. Bend over baby, let me whisper in your ear," said Holmes.
Holmes' use of the sexual vocabulary gave Cynthia's pussy a charge, that Penrose could feel as his own tongue tasted for the first time, her young, passion juices. Both thought the ear-whispering routine a little square for their tastes, but cute.
Holmes replied to Barbara's request for a plan of action by nibbling her earlobe, and tonguing her eardrum, then whispering, "The best thing we can do is to go on fucking and sucking and luring them to do the same. These two are trouble, and the sooner they're gone, the better off we'll be. I'll maneuver you to the tape recorder while you're sucking me off and we'll get them to repeat their names, problems, and what we invited them to do.
Don't touch either of them."
Holmes took a deep breath, hoping he had covered the entire list of possible ways of protecting themselves against the unknown threat these strangers posed to him.
Only a month after their departure (they had made love painlessly and with Cynthia experiencing her first orgasms as Penrose climaxed within her) did Holmes dismiss the bizarre twosome from his mind...
...And now they threatened to destroy his life and Barbara's. Thank god for the tapes, he thought, deciding to keep their existence a secret until he could confide it to their attorney and his close friend Charles Dearing. The tapes would show Rhonda Barnett's rumors as the boldfaced lies they were.
CHAPTER FIVE
After his first full 24 hours in jail, Holmes no longer hated Serena with every fiber of his being, for being the lying bitch he was sure she was.
He passed the time with a friendly guard who played a mean game of gin-rummy through Holmes' bars, and who asked for and received Holmes' expert advice about a problem he was having with his girlfriend. She now thought of him as the greatest lover in the world, so naturally he was well-disposed to aiding John in any way he could. That is how Holmes, learned from Barbara, whose cell was beside Serena's, that the redheaded troublemaker had indeed placed a call to Playgirl Island, the private domain of Eric Hawkins, where the plutocratic publisher ran his own empire, setting laws for the island he owned.
Serena had phoned him an hour after being booked. Nineteen hours later, when Barbara's note had passed from the Ladies Guard to Holmes, friendly captor to Holmes' hands, Serena had not yet received a return call from Hawkins, who had been out and impossible to reach on Serena's first try.
So, at very least, it was clear to Holmes that salvation was unlikely to come from anyone remotely connected to Serena.
Holmes' own telephone call to his lawyer, Charles Dealing had been more successful than Serena's. Dealing had been in, but the seriousness of the attorney's tone of voice told Holmes that he was apparently in deeper trouble than at any other time in their acquaintance. Dealing had seen the scene outside the jailhouse on the six o'clock news, as it happened-live. He had immediately tried to make reservations to fly down to Cosgrove by private charter plane as none of the airlines scheduled flights to Cosgrove. But San Francisco Airport was socked in with fog.
Fourty-eight hours after his arrest, Holmes began to feel that even the weather was his enemy in a time of need. A violent storm that rendered driving to Cosgrove impossible, cancelled all flights out of the Bay Area and paralyzed all telephonic and teletype communication for a time period of uncertain duration. Bail had been denied John Holmes because of his international reputation. The judge had ruled that the possibility of his flight from the seriousness of the charges against him was just too strong to allow bail to be set.
It was a fortnight of no major news events of world wide or even of great national significance.
So the Holmes case made headlines to keep America informed. It made interesting headlines.
"Sex Monster Attacks Local Teenager" declared the Cosgrove Clarion, the local rag, which went on to describe the strange spell Holmes and his mistress Barbara Steele seemed to have worked upon the chaste minister's daughter, who had been drugged and dragged off to the clinic, by a San Francisco pimp, believed to have been an acquaintance of sex star and accused statutory rapist, John Holmes.
The Network News shows were no less sensationalistic. Rhonda Barnett was given a "Special" of her own in prime-time reviewing the juicy details, her private sources were able to glean about the clinic, and the superstar's alleged intercourse with a fifteen year old victim of a white slaver.
Holmes noticed that even the friendly jailer shied away from him after one news program reported that Holmes and Barbara had lured groups of high-school boys and girls to the clinic, and under the guise of a course on sexual education, had staged incredible bacchanalian orgies, under the influence of alcohol and cocaine. This especially angered John, whose sex education courses at the clinic were free and open to one and all, and were models of decorum.
On the fourth day, the weather cleared allowing Dearing to fly to Cosgrove. But the gloomy mood did not clear for John Holmes.
Some of what his attorney had learned, Holmes alone in his cell, and with plenty of time to think about his precarious situation, had already figured out for himself.
The first thing said by the dapper, flower-in-the-lapelled, peach-colored silk suited, diamond pinky-ringed, Cartier gold-watched, light brown-skinned man with the thick protrusive lips his only negroid feature, who was half a foot shorter than Holmes but easily outweighed John by a hundred pounds, with the voice of a deeper toned Richard Burton, as he stepped into Holmes' narrow, modern cell was: "Happy Birthday John!"
The grimness of his confinement had caused John to lose track of all time, except for the hours that had passed as lost days of Holmes' life, since he had been hauled off to prison. When the inquisitive guard caught Charles Dearing's piercing glare and stopped hanging around the vicinity of Holmes' cell hoping to catch a tidbit of information he might swap with a reporter for a case of bourbon, the famous attorney plopped down heavily on Holmes' cot. John sat cross-legged on the other edge of the cot, smoking a cigarette and listening with all his senses.
"Somebody heavy is dealing the cards against you John. Think hard, as hard as you can. Then tell me if you know anyone big enough to put several politicians in his pocket who has a grudge to settle with you?" Dearing lit a foul smelling cigar and settled back against the wall of the cell, giving Holmes a chance to ponder his question.
It was quite a question. Holmes liked to think of himself as a man without enemies. His philosophy of life was to avoid all but the most unavoidable conflicts. Sure if someone tried to jump him in a dark alley, Holmes would fight back. But short of the extreme cases, all disputes that could not be settled with words, were usually best settled by walking away, rather than risking violence.
And yet there had been frequent occasions, especially since his name had become a household word for virility, when John Holmes had found himself the target of a stranger's jealousy. He liked beautiful women, and they almost always responded to his actual presence, or his image of sexual superstardom by lusting for him. A man of his vast sexual energy, Holmes, until he had settled into a domesticated state with Barbara, had been a man who needed many sexual relationships at the same time, to keep himself from frustration. Over many years, his average had been over 500 different women every year.
Among the many women who had constituted John's sexual steady-diet, there had always been one with a highly insecure mate or spouse, driven to rage by his own woman's passion for John Holmes. It was one of the dangers of the superstud business. Twice, outraged boyfriends had attempted to murder John Holmes. But their violent jealousies had distorted their aims. Still, in the course of his career, Holmes was no stranger to threatening telephone calls, to "being accosted in public places by strange men, to the territory that came with his special status among men.
But for the past year his game had changed. Holmes was now utilizing the knowledge gained through long years of servicing women, to aid both men and women to achieve the ultimate in sexual experience. He had slept with the same woman for a year, until the intrusion of Serena, and not counting the patients. Who would be jealous of him now, more than a year since his last casual affair?
"Honestly, I can't think of anybody who'd be so pissed off at me, that he'd want to frame me. And if I knew someone big enough to put politicians in his pocket, believe me, I would have already phoned him and begged him to get me the hell out of here," Holmes replied.
Dearing outlined what he had been able to learn thus far about the case against his client.
Three nights before Holmes' arrest, the Mayor and all of the prominent businessmen in the county were gathered together by the District Attorney of Cabrillo and the two nearest counties, to hear the testimony of Cynthia Harrington, daughter of the local Baptist minister, who had just been returned to Cosgrove by the San Francisco police. She recited to them her harrowing tale of an innocent fifteen year old schoolgirl, drugged and then led to sexual experience with an older man of 50. Her abductor had brought her to the Center for Sexual Gratification, so that the great John Holmes could initiate her into the rites of sexual excess. Then the audience heard the testimony of a junior high school girl of twelve, who had boasted to her girlfriends that Holmes had made love to her after one of the Sex education lectures at the clinic. One of her friends had gossiped to her own mother about it, and the mother had passed the report of the incident on to her best friend, the wife of the chief of police. By the time the story reached the ears of the police chief, the girlish boast had been adorned with many smutty details, such as the allegation that Holmes had rubbed a strange ointment into her virginal private parts before raping her.
The girl, whose name, Julie Cathcart was unknown to Holmes, had told the assembled notables at the inquest in a breaking, tiny voice that she had made love with John Holmes. A medical examination of both teenage girls showed that Julie was pregnant, and Cynthia's vagina was stretched-out abnormally for an adolescent girl.
"Whoever that Julie is, I swear I never touched her or Cynthia. Hey, did Cynthia say anything about Alec Penrose?" asked Holmes.
"Only that he was the one who brought her to the clinic, then procured tricks for her in San Francisco. There's an all points bulletin out for his arrest, but so far, no go."
Then Holmes related that based on the tracks he observed on Penrose's thigh, the man was a drug-addict. And at last, Holmes told him about the tape he had made after becoming suspicious of Penrose and Cynthia. After hearing that Holmes had a tape that would establish the fact that Penrose and Cynthia had posed as man and wife and had submitted documentary proof of that to him, which also showed her to be 22 years of age: the attorney for the first time during that meeting allowed himself the luxury of a smile.
"I've spoken privately to Julie Cathcart. She blinked without stop as I talked to her and wouldn't answer any of my questions directly. I'd swear that she was using her accusation against you to cover up getting knocked up by a boyfriend," said Dearing.
"You ought to be able to break her down on the witness stand in two minutes. Besides, can't your legal research staff find out who really knocked her up?" Holmes asked, his mood brightening. Dearing reassured him on all counts.
"I have a woman on the case and she thinks she knows who the boyfriend in question and prospective father is. And yes, if I can't break that little liar down on the stand in thirty seconds, with my first question, once I know the name of her lover, I'm losing my touch. Now if your tape checks out, I think you'll be home free. The indictment for running a brothel is really a joke. The two men who swore you sold Barbara's body to them, cloaking it in the guise of giving them sex-therapy, are both ex-cons. And get this, one of them was treated at the local hospital last year for having lost half of his penis to a lawnmower he was cleaning on one of the odd-jobs he supported himself with."
Dearing rose and extended his hand to John for a parting handshake. But Holmes still had one question. What made his attorney suspect there was someone with great political power behind the frame up.
"Simple," replied Dearing. "I have friends in most political camps, including that of the candidate for the Republican Senatorial Nomination. The man was tipped off to be here for your bust by someone with a hundred grand to pay."
Charles Dearing left, promising to get a message to Holmes as soon as he had visited the apartment Holmes and Barbara had shared together, where John had put the tape in his private combination safe. First there were several other leads he wished to investigate, including a rumor his assistant had heard in the local beauty parlor from the friendly manicurist, that at one time, Cynthia Harrington had received treatment in Southern California for drug abuse. When his attorney had departed after a final brotherly handshake, John Holmes felt blessedly reassured.
The buoyancy persisted for the first hour after Dearing was gone. Every moment after that, Holmes expected to hear that the tape was in his lawyer's hands and everything would be all right. And when the moments stretched into hours without word from Dearing, Holmes began to prowl his cage, furious for the first time at his confinement. He longed to be out there helping to find evidence to free himself and Barbara. But if Dearing hadn't phoned or sent a message, he knew there had to be a good reason for it. Perhaps Charles was hot on the trail of the one who had set up the entire plot against Holmes? Thoughts such as the latter tended to still his rage.
And then, the shadows lengthened and night fell and Holmes knew beyond doubt that something was profoundly wrong, or Dearing would have phoned as a matter of courtesy, even if he had, for some reason, not yet heard the tapes. And there was absolutely nothing John could do about it, except to spend another lonely night in a cell, dreaming about Barbara.
Never before in his life had Holmes felt such a powerful mixture of loneliness and pure, blue-balled sexual horniness. This was going to be the fifth night without sexual release of any sort for John. The queers in the cells across from his, had teased Holmes, begging him to give them the treat of letting them watch him beating off his meatclub. But the thought of masturbation was too immense a bring-down for a man who had so recently scaled the summit of sexual bliss, two, three, and often four times a night with Barbara. His need for cock-relief was now a physical ache in his groin. But still he did not make love to his fist. Though he was beginning to wonder if he could hold out for the rest of the night. With the faggots peering through the bars at him, restraining himself was easy. But what would happen when he began having those dreams again about Barbara, with her legs flung akimbo, inviting him to pulverize her pussy with his prick?
He had just drifted off into uneasy slumber, when the sound of keys rattling snapped him wide awake.
"Easy buster, I've got a gun aimed right at your gut," said the harsh, grating voice of Maggie Thurston, the Chief Night Guard of the Women's Prison. She was at least 6-4 thought Holmes as she towered over him, watching him rising with a smile that mingled contempt with something else that Holmes couldn't put his finger on. Not only was she tall, but her shoulders were as wide as the average lineman for the San Francisco 49'ers, and her tits were 49'ers at least, with a cup size to match. Her mousy brown hair was cut short, and worn the way Elvis had worn it during his rise to fame, in a duck's ass comb.
"Where are you taking me?" asked Holmes, hoping that it was to freedom at the front door of the prison, but doubting it.
"You'll find out soon enough. Now get up and move it!" she barked.
Holmes was disciplined to offer resistance. Any chance from this deadly-boring cell was welcome to him. He was getting so horny that even this mannish Wagnerian guard made his cock jump up in his pants.
She led Holmes down a corridor and a staircase into an unfinished room, really just several slabs of concrete slapped together to form a floor, ceiling and walls, with but one piece of furniture in what had been built as a fallout shelter and had fallen into general disuse even before it had been completed. Only an old-fashioned four-poster bed, set dead center kept the room from looking entirely barren.
And in that bed as naked as she was in his favorite dreams about her, smiling fetchingly at John Holmes was Barbara.
Maggie Thurston's pattern of speaking reminded Holmes of John Wayne's. He half expected her to say "Now listen up" every time she opened her mouth. She didn't have to explain that she had eyes for Barbara and Barbara only, and that as far as she was concerned Holmes could shrivel up and drop dead right there on the spot. She didn't have to explain it, but she did anyway, even managing to put a touch of indignance into her tone, for the fact that Barbara had made being allowed to make it with John Holmes a condition of her assent to play fluff to Maggie's bull-dyke for the remainder of her term in prison.
Absence had made Holmes' heart grow fonder. But the real growth was in a more highly visible place on his body. He and Barbara heard the ancient springs of the mattress groan as Maggie Thurston sat down upon it, her pistol still drawn, occupying the lower corner of the bed. Holmes kissed Barbara lightly on the lips, more in greeting than in passion, but remained on his feet, uncertain about the next step to take.
"Aw c'mon stud. You ain't askin' me to believe that the Great John Wadd Holmes goes all soft these days whenever someone's watchin' him performin'? " Maggie laughed a raucous, rumbling guffaw or two, slapping her knee in appreciation of her putdown of the horse-hung Holmes. She hated men in general, men like Big John in particular. Once, a fluff Maggie had been deeply in love with, had walked out on Maggie. On the angel's way out, Maggie had asked how the pretty young thing could dare to leave her, when she had provided everything for her pleasure, everything the fluff had asked for and more. The fluff's reply had been brutally clear. She opened her wallet and extracted a photo from Swedish Erotica Magazine, of Holmes donging a beautiful Japanese girl. "Provide that" said the fluff, pointing to Holmes' prick on the picture.
Holmes could sense Maggie's hatred burning at him for existing as he existed. The virulent hatred of a butch-dyke sitting with a drawn pistol on the corner of the bed, in a concrete room below the prison, aware that the dyke will be waiting with ever-growing impatience for him to end his lovemaking with Barbara, was not to Holmes' taste as an aphrodisiac.
Barbara held out her open arms to John, gazing at him with a look bespeaking complete understanding of their mutual condition of uncertainty, a smile of infinite tenderness and eyes with a beguiling glint of an underlying amusement for the utter absurdity of the situation.
At that moment it was more her tenderness and courage than her ever-luscious, lovely, lively body that shot steel through his balls into his doubtful pecker, making it return to full hardness of the imperishable variety. When John felt the way he suddenly did, there was nothing that could stop him, nothing that could stay his relentless ramrod dick before he had expended four or five rounds of jizm. He was about to ball for hours on end without stop. He was King John, the most potent of the potentates, King Dong with the Empire State Building at the juncture of his thighs. And this was the greatest performance of his life.
He owed it to her: felt he owed her a sexual bout so thrilling that it would transport the lovely, brave and good woman beyond the reach of their captors, beyond concrete and steel bars and lesbian guards and the price she would be forced to pay for the bliss he brought her. In his cell alone, he had blamed himself for having dragged Barbara into the craziness of his life as one of the great sex legends of his time. How, with such a reputation could he have hoped to join the woman he loved in founding and operating a sex clinic, without also anticipating harassment by the local authorities wherever they wished to operate. His reputation as a swinger of swingers had assured him the suspicion of most middle class people that whatever he was up to now, was a cover-up for nefarious undertakings.
Barbara beamed as John tore his prison garb from his back and bottom and flung it to the floor. Then he spun around once, slowly and gracefully, showing his inflamed cock to Maggie Thurston and flaunting his phallus until she was forced to look away in revulsion, much as Holmes expected her to do. "Damn it," snapped the butch giantess, but only after Holmes had turned back to Barbara; "Get on with it. I mean we haven't got all night. Well, you haven't got all night with your little Barbie doll, if you catch my drift. So do whatever you were planning to do together. And don't let my bein' here get in your way. 'Cause you can bank on it, that nothin' is more downright borin' to me than watchin' people fuckin' like alley cats."
As Holmes crawled between Barbara's upraised and well-spread tender thighs, he knew that his ass was facing Maggie Thurston, and regretted that he didn't have the same control over his intestinal muscles that he had over those controlling his genitals. For he would have loved to have farted in Maggie's concentration camp guard face. His urge to give Barbara pleasure was far stronger than his urge to show his contempt for his captors. Fortunately, the situation he was in allowed him to have his pussy pie and eat it too. The one thing a bull dyke prided herself upon, Holmes knew with certainty, was her ability to satisfy a woman's lust with her ravening tongue. And Barbara was a woman who adored having her pussy sucked dry. "All right bull bitch, top this," Holmes muttered in a voice just loud enough for Barbara to hear, but inaudible to the guard.
He had all the time in the world as far as he was concerned. By the terms of her agreement with Barbara, Holmes could make love to his woman until they were through and then she would become the property of Maggie Thurston. Maggie wouldn't dare to interrupt John and Barbara for fear of breaking her deal with the magnificent young beauty. Because the case was so well-publicized, Holmes and Barbara knew that no guard would dare to make a sexual assault on Barbara. If Barbara proved unwilling to have lesbian sex with Maggie, Maggie would have to jerk off in some dark corner of the prison.
Her cunt lips were tugged open and glistening as he sprawled out and covered her sleek chestnut hued muff, plump, soft thighs, rounded, tiny belly, navel and finally her labia with lingering, tongue tickling kisses. Barbara's soft sighs of delight told him the erogenous zones she wished to have special affection lavished upon. And in those places, breasts, nape of the neck, back of the ears, and always, her quivering cunt, Holmes varied the action. He ran the gamut between wet, sloppy kisses in the navel, which Barbara adored, to sharp, piercing little nips on her ass-cheeks, which made her shriek with ecstasy. The sound of Maggie Thurston impatiently tapping her booted feet against the floor, and cracking her chewing gum in her jaws, added spice to the body feast Holmes partook of on Barbara's bounteous form. Insolently he wriggled his ass to the rhythm of the lesbian guard's tapping boots. Barbara's delightful derriere was also wriggling. But not to any artificial tempo like her lover. Barbara was obeying the pounding of primitive drums in her blood. Holmes was consuming her, circling his tongue around the outer and inner lips of her steaming, creaming pussy. Her legs were as splayed as those of a dancer executing a split, imploring Holmes' tongue, and whatever followed it to penetrate to the depths of her being. He could sense that she wanted him to probe those remote, secret passages, which when stimulated by a lover's tongue, unleash nuclear chain reactions of sensation throughout the fortunate woman's bloodstream. He gave her all she wanted and much, much more. He did it all effortlessly, perfectly, taking as much pleasure as he gave. The thrill of Barbara popping her rocks on his tongue and lips ran deep within him.
Her cuntal flow was now thick and richly-scented, erasing from the inside of Holmes' nostrils that faintly disagreeable aroma of prison soap on both of their bodies. Never before had eating a woman out brought to his soul the connection between cunnilingus and crawling back into the womb. He maintained contact between some part of his mouth and her clitoris from the moment he began muff-diving into her sweet honey-pot.
He did not release her vibrating clit from between lips, tongue and teeth until her final convulsions were past. He could see out of the corner of his eye as he came up for air. Resting his head on Barbie's soft thighs, he saw Maggie Thurston standing near the door all the way across the room, facing away from Holmes and Barbara. There was no time to lose. If the guard turned back and saw Barbara looking all sucked out, she would insist that Holmes' stud-services were no longer required. He had obviously pleasured Barbara quite nicely, which was all that Maggie had agreed to allow for the sake of making Barbara her private fluff.
There was no pillow to place under Barbara's now dormant ass, so John Holmes slipped his strong hands beneath Barbara's firm, yet meaty buttocks and raised her off the bed. Then he plunged his magic wand, his magic Wadd, his feverish flamethrower that had gone so long until then without contact with its native habitat, into Barbara's wide, wonderful, warm, wet cock-clenching cunt. He slid all the way up her, buried to the balls in her well-greased snatch. This was going to be it for John; Last Stop for Sex for God Knows How Long, said the billboard in his brain. He aimed to make it a long one, a strong one. He was going at it rammer and dong. His hips rolled slowly then pumped his dick powerfully up her cuntal cavern. She met him halfway kicking her legs upwards to arch her ass at an even sharper angle to John's body, permitting his deepest penetration. It was good. It was too good, thought John. If we go on humping and pumping like we are now, how much longer can my poor come-starved cock hold out? Just then Barbara opened her eye and gave him a tiny wink. He knew what her wink meant in a matter of seconds. Her all-knowing (when it came to Holmes' sexual nature) fingers plunged into his crotch and applied firm pressure to the base of his balls, counteracting his impulse to shoot off, then preventing it entirely.
It enabled the two thrashing, grinding bodies to make savage, screaming love without fear of ejaculation until they were at the point of collapse.
Both lovers heard the masculine voice chatting with Maggie Thurston at the door. Neither allowed it to affect their ascending passions. Holmes was feeling orgasms in places he rarely felt sensualized in, right down to the armpits. The orgasms in his blood soon spread out from head to toe. Suddenly Barbara removed her fingers from his testicles and all of the orgasms in his entirely electrified bloodstream rampaged towards his cockhead, an onrushing stream, soon a river, a river of jizm bursting past the floodgates of restraint, into a double climax so total that he collapsed immediately afterwards into her beckoning embrace.
"Got to say one thing for you Holmes. When it comes to ballin', you sure practice what you preach." Even with his eyes still shut, John recognized the voice of the friendly young guard he had successfully advised on how to score points with his girlfriend. Holmes did not budge, wishing to bathe in Barbara's warmth.
"Come on Holmes. Up and out. Your lawyer's on the line, and besides, the lady's mine," said Maggie Thurston, licking her lips. After the mightly succession of climaxes experienced by Barbara with Holmes, John almost pitied the lesbian guard, for the thankless task facing her if she hoped to arouse Barbara into sexual activity for the remainder of that night. He hustled into his prison denims, and followed the young guard to the basement telephone, which hung in a mildewy broom closet.
"How long has Mr. Dearing been waiting?" Holmes asked.
"About an hour," replied the guard; "But he said that he'd have someone waiting on the line until you got to the phone. I tried to fetch you but Maggie wouldn't hear of it." For a fleeting second before lifting the receiver, John Holmes found himself actually liking Maggie Thurston.
Dearing demanded to know why Holmes had taken so long to respond. The attorney promised to take it out of the hides of the guards, if they were to blame for the delay. Holmes told Dearing most of the truth (omitting Maggie's lesbian lechery for Barbara, because Holmes didn't welch on bargains he struck). The attorney then related to him, quite simply and plainly, that he had entered John's apartment to search for the tape that would clear Holmes in the cases involving Cynthia and Penrose about three quarters of an hour after visiting John in his cell.
"Someone was waiting for me in your pad, John. Someone with a chloroformed handkerchief ready to slap on my mouth and nose and enough rope to tie me up. It was dark and he wore a mask. The only thing I could see with any meaning to us before I nodded out, was a reel of tape under his arm," concluded the attorney.
"But only the two of us and Barbara knew the tape even existed..." Holmes stated incredulously.
"Whoever was listening to the bug they put in your cell also knew."
They were up against a force powerful enough to control the prison system and political leaders of an entire county, influential enough to mold the opinions of a large segment of the press, unscrupulous enough to pilfer tapes, to hire false witnesses, to bind and gag a defense attorney after mugging him, all to keep the frame-up going.
"But what did I ever do to the President?" Holmes joked, trying to keep the icy chill in his spine from taking root.
CHAPTER SIX
As the guard led the crestfallen prisoner back to his cell, no words were exchanged. The young jailer knew about Barbara's deal with Maggie Thurston and could only sympathize with the hellish condition Holmes' mind must be going through, imagining his beautiful old lady being possessed by the bull dyke.
The sight of Serena in street clothes, hugging Barbara, who was now back in her prison nightgown, and the two lovelies jumping up and down gleefully at the top of the stairs, while Maggie Thurston looked on with cold hatred in a group of three other guards, brought joy to Holmes' heart. The only possible explanation for it was that Barbara and Serena were being freed. When he reached the top step, the women seized Holmes and whooped and danced around with him.
"We're free, we're free!" Barbara shouted. "But How? What happened?" Holmes demanded. But the guards ordered him and Barbara to hurry back to their cells and get dressed. If he wanted an explanation, he could get it afterwards. He did as he was told. In his cell he found a freshly laundered shirt and slacks. After five days of prison garb, they felt like heaven. The idea of freedom, so soon after Dearing's dreadful news about the tape, was downright intoxicating to Holmes. He was in such a rush to vacate this place of sadness that he tore one of his shirt buttons.
Driving his car through the deserted streets of nighttime Cosgrove with two deliriously happy women in the back seat was a glorious experience for John. He hadn't even realized how much his senses of sight, smell, touch and hearing had been deprived of all meaningful stimuli during his stay in the slammer. Even after a relatively short stay behind bars, getting out of jail is akin to being reborn for many people. But he still did not know to whom he owed his gratitude. Serena knew. She had been the one who had received the call in prison, informing her that they were to be freed, even before the guards had received official notification of the dismissal of all charges against the threesome. But she steadfastedly refused to divulge the identity of her caller, teasing that Holmes' liberator would reveal himself to John in the very near future. It has to be Eric Hawkins, Holmes thought. But everyone knew that Hawkins for the past ten years had remained within his kingdom on Playgirl Island, never venturing outside his Caribbean paradise. So, rather than making a ridiculous guess, Holmes allowed his thought to remain unvoiced.
As they entered John and Barbara's apartment, a single lightbulb glowed in the otherwise darkened place. John felt himself tensing up and could feel Barbara's hand reaching out for John to hold it. He enfolded her hand in his fingers and proceeded towards the light. They traversed the entire width of the apartment before reaching the kitchen. The light had come from a 25 watt bulb above the stove. Facing them when they entered the kitchen was Eric Hawkins.
Both his hearing and eyesight seemed to have been impaired, judging by the fact that he had not manifested any awareness of Holmes and the two women having entered the apartment, until John stood not more than ten feet away from him. His skin had the quality of ancient wax. But his eyes twinkled alertly as he greeted Holmes with a firm (for a man of 80, very firm) handshake, and the girls with a friendly (for a man of 80, very friendly) hug. He had bounded to his feet vigorously as soon as he had become aware of the entrance of the trio. He stood a head taller than Holmes, with a full crop of white hair, neatly parted on the right side of his head, a straight, aristocratic nose, unbent posture; but was extremely thin, weighing at most 110 lbs.
He beckoned for all to be seated. Holmes observed that Hawkins, sitting down, was much more creaky of bone than when he had bounded to his feet just moments before. The sensory deprivation of prison seemed to have sharpened Holmes' ability to perceive. He was turning into a veritable Sherlock Holmes.
On the kitchen table lay an assortment of tropical fruits and vegetables. Some of them Holmes recognized, but the majority of them looked strange to him. Among the more "normal" looking fruit were mangoes, coconuts, papayas and guavas. All had been cut into neat, bite-sized slices. "This is all I ever eat, this and a ration of rice every day and a few vitamin pills," said the old multimillionaire, devouring a chunk of coconut. Holmes cautiously bit into a mango. There was no sense being impolite and rushing the magnate to get on with the facts about why and how the virtual stranger had rescued John and Barbara.
First he lavished streams of compliments on Barbara, saying that Holmes was a more fortunate man than he was, for all his gold, because Holmes had found a woman worthy of sharing a life-time with, while the best he could purchase at the moment, in the way of female companionship was Serena, whom he was tiring of. Serena giggled, trying to pass off Hawkins' dig as a joke. But the tight little lines above her smile line betrayed her discomfort with the situation.
At last Hawkins got to the point-or rather, the points. Then his rambling ceased and he described his involvement with the case in a booming bass rumble.
He apologized for not having responded sooner to Serena's cry for help. The reason for this was that he had been sailing his yacht, the Queen Bess, from Playgirl Island, through the Panama Canal and to San Francisco for the past three weeks. As was his habit once annually, he sailed incognito, out of reach of all of his business enterprises and personal projects, with none but his crew of native Playgirl Islanders, who knew his wish to remain out of the clutches of the curious and kept him sealed off from all world news events. This, said Hawkins was his way of staying sane.
When he finally arrived in San Francisco, he received Serena's message and phoned several "prominent public figures" including the Prosecuting Attorney of Cabrillo County and the Vice-President of the United States, urging them to seriously launch an investigation of the case against his "good" and "dear" friends. The investigation uncovered the fact that Julie Cathcart had a reputation as a pathological liar, besides being the local gang bang queen for a biker gang. The alcoholics who had charged that Holmes had procured Barbara for them, admitted that they had been too intoxicated on the night of the alleged incident, to really be sure that it had been Holmes or Barbara, or had even taken place at the clinic.
As for Cynthia Harrington, no proof existed of her having ever set foot in the clinic except for her word. "And your denial of all of her charges makes it two to one against her. So, prudently, all charges were dropped against you."
"Bless you for saving us," said Barbara; "But why did you do it? Or do you generally go around using your influence to rescue total strangers?"
"That's rather simple, my dear child. Serena informed me about your clinic on the phone. I had my research staff check your credentials, Barbara Steele. And you came out of our investigation smelling like a rose. As for John Holmes, he may not remember, but at one time he was one of my employees," replied Hawkins, sucking on a mango to punctuate the end of his sentences.
"You're kidding? When did I work for you?" asked Holmes.
"Omega films, 1968, San Francisco. You were a supporting actor, but you stole the show, in the dear old days of soft core," replied the publishing titan.
"I didn't know you were the owner!" said Holmes.
"Well, now you do. Which leaves you 70 or so medium-to-large businesses I own, that you still know nothing about. Anyway, I liked what you set out to do with your clinic and the way you've been running things. Trying to keep the price down, so as to be able to help people from all walks of life to find sexual satisfaction. You're kind of carrying on a tradition I had a part in starting when I first published Playgirl Magazine. Before Playgirl, boobs were as difficult to see in print as in real life. I changed that. And now you two aim to change the methods of treating sexual problems, moving it from the couch, to the bed so to speak." Hawkins paused, lighting a cigarette and studying the effect of his discourse on Holmes and Barbara.
"Yes, exactly," said Barbara, gazing at the old man fondly. Holmes merely nodded, no longer able to take anything at its face value since the frame-up, searching for clues, finding thus far only confusion. For none of this jibed with what had been Eric Hawkins' reputation as a ruthless, merciless, heartless bastard through and through.
"I'm prepared to throw the full resources of my entire organization behind making your clinic a success. That means money, personnel and political power. With me on your side, you can rest assured that no local politician will ever dare to try to harass you again. If your clinic should prove to be as successful as I think it will become, I will construct others for you both to direct, as well as a school for all clinical personnel. Now before you wear out your jaw with your fist, Johnny-buck, worrying what I have in the back of my mind, let me spell it out for you." He reached into the jacket pocket of his white linen suit and drew out a crumpled hand-written legal sized sheet of yellow paper. The writing was tiny and a bit shaky, but not really difficult for John and Barbara to read. As they studied it, Serena swung her hips over to Hawkin's lap. Her hot shorts climbed halfway up her buns as she walked. Once on Hawkin's lap, she began massaging the back of the titan's neck.
All that the sheet of paper contained was the following:
CREDIBILITY
"A. H&B (presumably Holmes and Barbara) must prove to me personally beyond the faintest shadow of doubt, that they are capable of identifying with all sexual variations and aiding in their implementation.
B. H&B shall lead a cruise back to Playgirl Island on the Queen Bess, treating selected patients. All sexual treatment to be filmed for the purpose of convincing doubting Thomases like me that they really are capable of achieving rapid therapeutic results. My staff will monitor results to assure their authenticity.
C. If clauses A. and B. are successfully satisfied, I will upon H&B's arrival on Playgirl Island, endow the clinic with all funds needed to keep it operative for five trial years. If the clinic proves successful, I will construct others as a monument to myself. They shall be called The Eric Hawkins Centers of Human Sexual Potentialities."
Barbara gazed at Holmes with the look of a kid who has just been told that her father has opened a new business, a toy store. The uneasiness in Holmes mounted rapidly, compounded by Barbara's contrasting total trust in Hawkins. He was used to agreeing with Barbara on most significant matters, and it was she who was generally the more cautious and skeptical of the two lovers, when it came to trusting their fellow human beings. And yet, here she was, fresh from a prison cell in which she had nearly become the private property of mean Maggie Thurston, trusting a strange stranger with a reputation for cruelty; eating out of the palm of Eric Hawkins' hand.
"A monument..." said Barbara Steele, dreamily.
"Yes, a monument to myself. We have more in common than you imagine. I too was persecuted and prosecuted for breaking new sexual terrain in the 50's by printing magazines with pictures of people naked except for the genitals. Your break-throughs might never have happened had the articles and pictures I published back then, not opened America's mind and zipper up to the possibilities of sexual expression." Hawkins in his excitement was rubbing Serena's pussy frantically over her shorts, harder, Holmes knew, than could possibly be pleasurable to the blank-faced redhead who sat deadpan on his lap.
Barbara glanced once more at the paper in her hand and nodded in full comprehension. "As I understand it," she said; "You want to underwrite our clinic, and build others like it, as a way of enhancing your lifelong reputation as a sexual pioneer?"
"Well put," replied Hawkins; "But I must add that I'm a bit of a cynic when it comes to the subject of treating sexual disorders by clinical means. There are plenty of good theories on how to treat sexual aberrations, but nobody I've met with the talent to put them into practice."
Holmes flashed an easy smile and replied: "If it has to do with homosexuality or rape, I'd have to say that Barbara and I would be forced to disqualify ourselves as therapists. Any other aberrations are right within our ballpark."
"Speak for yourself about homosexuality John," Barbara teased, batting her eyelashes at Serena, who broke her deadpan stare while she writhed on Hawkins' lap to smile back at Barbara.
"Including Sado-Masochism, fetishism and degradation by excrement?" Hawkins asked, with utter calm.
"As long as it's between consenting adults and no physical harm is done to anyone involved, I can treat anybody," said Barbara.
"What about you Holmes?" snapped Hawkins.
"Well I might have trouble identifying with a guy who gets his rocks off shitting on women, which wouldn't make treating him any easier. But a good 95% of the clients at the clinic are just normal men and women needing a few adjustments in their sexual attitudes or techniques. I can serve them just fine. Barbara is more of a pure researcher than I am, so she gets to treat the weirdos," Holmes responded.
"So neither of you would have any objection if I put Barbara's sexual maturity to the test?"
"No," said Holmes dubiously and Barbara rather excitedly.
"Excellent," said the thin, sallow-faced octogenarian, who had the deadest eyes Holmes had ever seen.
From his other jacket pocket (other than the side he had withdrawn the piece of paper outlining his conditions for aiding the clinic) Hawkins withdrew an elegant, tooled-leather case. He snapped it open, revealing its plush red-velvet lining, its Florentine gold finish, and a golden handled, diamond encrusted, straight-edged razor blade, which he held at the juncture of Serena's hairless armpit and the bottom of her right breast. With his free hand he ripped her blouse then flung it to the ground. Holmes could see Serena's face suddenly becoming animated, her nostrils quivering in a feral manner, and her teeth biting her lower lip in moaning excitement. She slid her ass a few inches from his lap, and speedily unzipped him. His cock looked like a long, dried up chili pepper attached to an old bean bag. It was almost comical to Holmes, but not to Serena who seized his veteran cock acting as if her hand were being electrocuted through mere contact with it. Neither was it comical to Barbara. Holmes could see her deepening fascination with the scene that was unfolding before her eyes. Her fingers were unconsciously fondling the nipple below her thin, cotton blouse. Holmes did not find the introduction of the element of danger in the presence of a razor blade in the stranger's hands very stimulating sexually. But watching Barbara turning on to the action was exciting enough to keep Holmes in semi-heat pending further developments.
"Now then," said the old man with the straight edged razor blade with a gold and diamond handle, whose cock, the Playgirl of the Month, his sexual slave was fondling, "we shall begin."
He paused for a moment, waiting for the wheeze that had crept into his voice to pass, then continued: "I am about to make an incision into Serena's right breast. Blood will come spurting out of it, but have no fear. Serena has been trained to enjoy this and knows that plastic surgery and an extra grand or two will make the pain she experiences even more pleasurable to her. Right Slave?"
"Yes," she replied, writhing her bottom to accentuate her assent for what would follow.
"So you see, John and Barbara, that this is a sexual act, between consenting adults, neither of whom will be harmed by what we do. Therefore, if there are no objections, I will slice upwards into Serena's tender young tit," said Hawkins, his .eyes still dead, but his lips a-quiver.
"Wait!" said Holmes: "I still don't understand what my part is in all this, or Barbara's."
"I want to see if you have a true sensitivity to human sexual potentialities. If you can empathize with my sole means of reaching orgasm at my advanced age. In other words, sweet Barbara, I want you to suck my cock, through my panties, while I lap up Serena's hot, fresh tit blood. Serena will suck John's dick, which I hear she enjoys. And then, John, you will absolve me from all guilt by urinating on my body as I come. Now's the time to back out," said Hawkins, studying Holmes.
But Barbara had already made the decision for both of them. She stripped down to the buff and unfastened Hawkins' belt, then pulled them to the floor, revealing the old man's pink panties. A hole had been cut out at the crotch. Barbara knelt and worked her head upwards so that she was ready to receive his cock from Serena's hand as soon as the redhead relinquished it. Which would be when Hawkins slashed the bottom of Serena's right breast. Holmes was half-excited half-disgusted. The excited portion included his mighty meatclub.
In the lingering seconds before Hawkins either backed down or went through with his demented game, John Holmes wondered what was making Barbara participate so willingly in this sadomasochistic ritual with overtones of transvestism. Was it her single-minded devotion to the clinic and her research there, that made her so eager to satisfy the wishes of the man offering to endow it and shelter it beneath his protective wing? That Holmes could understand, because he felt a bit of that himself. There was nothing wrong with whoring for a good cause. Holmes had done the same for many a year for a cause no more noble than his pockets.
But Barbara's face was flushed and she was hungrily licking Hawkins' balls, and fingering her own pussy with a look that bespoke pure ecstasy and nothing less. And he recalled that she had had the same look while being eaten out by and eating out Serena. If she had stayed with Maggie Thurston, would she have also reached the pinnacles of bliss? Probably, thought Holmes, meaning that as long as he lived he would never quite fully understand Barbara.
Eric Hawkins made the narrow incision in Serena's tender young breast with surgical precision. After a delay of several seconds, blood gurgled forth with little bubbles, smearing on Serena's chest as Hawkin's head dipped down to drink it.
Serena's face contorted only while the blade was actually cutting her and for a flash afterwards.
Then her features composed themselves into the blank mask they had been in before.
She reached out and seized Holmes' cock with the same hand that had relinquished Hawkins' dick to Barbara's mouth. Serena touched his cock to her nose, for some strange reason, then shoved it all the way to the roof of her throat. There was a desperate urgency in the constrictions of her mouth and throat muscles, and Holmes could swear, as her mouthing machinations drove him deeper and deeper into fantasyland, that he could hear her silent screams with each vacuuming she gave his hot cock.
Looking down, Holmes had a perfect view of Hawkins' dick fattening and lengthening as if the blood he was sipping from Serena's chest wound were flowing straight into his cockhead.
Blood covered part of Barbara's hard working, hollowing cheeks as she sucked away on Hawkins' long, thick cock, at the exact rhythm that Serena worked on Holmes' shaft. Blood was on Barbara's hair and in her eyes, on Serena's white shorts. Then Barbara smeared a little on John's cock.
The old man's endurance was limited and Holmes watched his face contorting in ecstasy, and Barbara's throat muscles gulping his few drops of jizm. Then Holmes shot off into Serena's throat.
Pissing on Eric Hawkins as he remained in Barbara's mouth was the easy part of the transaction for Holmes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Two weeks out to sea, in calm waters, proceeding under sail and motor at a leisurely pace from San Francisco to Playgirl Island. And yet, despite the smooth sailing and excellent weather, the wonderful food and merrily copulating patients and staff, the bad taste of the encounter with Eric Hawkins had not left Holmes' mouth. From that moment and until now, Barbara had made what she referred to as the Screws Cruise, her own personal project. Not that she did not solicit John's opinions on issues affecting the voyage. Just that she insisted on the right to make the final decisions regarding patients. The strain between them began with Barbara's invitation to Serena to join the cruise as an instructress, without having consulted Holmes in advance.
The rift between Holmes and Barbara widened during the ten days they spent on organizing the cruise and on each new day at sea. Barbara seemed to be spending every spare moment she had, nuzzling and nipping away at Serena, which suited Holmes to a T. Because whenever he and Barbara were together, they passed each other in silence, or with minor carps and whines, or, very rarely, tried to rekindle the flame of their sexual ardor, with disappointing results.
Twice, they actually fought. The first real toe to toe was over whether a dude Serena had picked up in a San Francisco bar on the night before their cruise was due to embark, should be allowed to be included for treatment on the cruise. Greg Thomas, a tall, good-looking, dark-haired dude of about Holmes' age, came staggering into John and Barbara's hotel suite in the middle of the night, dragging the even more stoned Serena with him. Barbara had greeted them in a short nightie, and the vision of a pleasant foursome to mark their last night on the mainland suggested itself to Holmes.
"Watch this," said Serena, giggling as she opened Greg's fly. A thick, longer-than-average dong sprang into her waiting fingers. She gave it one squeeze and out shot jizm, right at Barbara, hitting her in the tits and making her join Serena's giggling fit. Serena patted the big shooter on the shoulder: "This is Greg Thomas, former semi-pro football player, and the world's fastest premature ejaculator."
"We should take Greg along and teach him how to use that magnificent cock of his to satisfy us women," said Barbara.
"Yes, I think poor John is feeling overworked these days. Isn't it lucky that a potential pinch hitter arrived just in time to keep Barbara and me from turning into out and out lesbians," teased Serena. Then with her tongue sticking out of her mouth, she advanced on Barbara, rubbing her pussy as she walked to her. Barbara touched the tip of her tongue to Serena's in the open air between them, and hiked up Serena's dress, to expose and rub her nude plump, squirmy buns as they french kissed. Greg Thomas stood gaping moronically at the two eager beavers now grinding together under upraised dresses, the ginger bush and chestnut bush of two of the prettiest bitches he'd ever seen. Another hard on grew in his fingers. He gave it two shakes, and squirted jizm all over the faces of the two women who had fallen to the floor and were still locked into an endless tongue kiss.
Holmes had seen enough, "So now we're soliciting candidates for therapy in whorehouse bars? And treating them to free demonstrations of the professional dignity of our staff!" said Holmes as he donned shorts, socks, shirt, jeans and shoes. He was on his way out the door when Barbara came flying at him, her fingernails slashing at his face. Only his superior reflexes kept Holmes unscathed. He held Barbara's wrists in the firm grip of one hand. With his free hand, he massaged the back of Barbara's neck, hoping in that way to re-establish friendly contact between them. For an instant as she spoke, Holmes saw in his mind's eye, how Barbara would look at the age of 80 ... and it wasn't all that different in its total effect upon him than Eric Hawkins' depraved visage. Her tone was utterly hateful; "I beg your pardon, Mr. Decency. You've lost sight of the goal of the cruise. Probably because your new-Puritanical morality blinded you to the facts. So let me remind you that our purpose is to illustrate our ability to cure, in a short period of time, with our innovative therapeutic techniques, a broad spectrum of human sexual problems. Are you trying to tell me that we're unable to cope with premature ejaculation?"
"I'm trying to tell you that nobody, and I mean nobody, has the right to impose decisions on me, without bothering to consult me," Holmes replied, pushing Barbara away to arm's length.
"Hey man, fay off the lady," said the suddenly pugnacious Greg Thomas, taking a few steps to Barbara's side. Holmes knew he could have decked the more muscular, but also very rubbery legged, stoned, and over-ejaculated Greg with one quick combination, or killed him with a karate blow. He turned his back and walked out the door.
He began to feel renewed by the bracing, foggy night air as he whipped his Ferrari across the bridge above the bay, racing to his best friend's Sausalito houseboat.
Ted and Monique Gracchi were both wide awake at 2 a.m. when Holmes rang their doorbell. Their two year-old son, had awakened the two older girls and both red-eyed parents at midnight with his screams. Ted had calmed the girls down, while the eight-months pregnant Monique had soothed the nightmaring boy. Afterwards neither Ted nor Monique were able to fall back asleep and Monique was fixing Ted and herself a snack when Holmes arrived. The subject of their uneasiness was the same thing that was bothering Holmes, the impending cruise.
During the past year, while Holmes had been out of the pornography business, the legal authorities in various jurisdictions had vigorously opposed pornography, and cut the production of pornographic film to a bare minimum. Ted, father of three, with a baby due in a month, was among the leading directors of erotic films in the world. He was also a man who prided himself in keeping his family spoiled and extravagant. After a year, at less than a fifth of his average annual earnings, his savings had dwindled to the minus point. So he had leapt at the offer by Eric Hawkins to direct the film of the cruise's sexual therapy, at his usual exorbitant daily rate of pay. But then he had learned of Serena's connection with the voyage and feared the disturbances her presence always seemed to create whenever he had used her in any of his earlier films. Now his closest friend, John Holmes stood on his doorstep on a foggy night, shaking like a leaf.
Monique immediately, without being asked, poured two stiff shots of brandy into separate snifters, warmed each with her fingers, then handed them to John and Ted. She poured a glass of warm milk for herself, and joined them at the table. Holmes' first swig cleared the cobwebs and stilled the shuddering. Monique's encouraging smile reminded him of Barbara's look when he had first met her on the same houseboat.
He told the full story, beginning with the sudden arrest, the deluge of sensationistic publicity, Hawkins' rescue and offer, the night of insanity with Hawkins and the two women, Serena's affair with Barbara, and their descent into nymphomania for two.
And finally, Holmes described the Greg Thomas incident. Here Holmes finally was able to express the real cause for his anger; Barbara and I had a kind of unprospective written rule about patients. If either of us were turned off by our first contact with the prospective patient, we had the right to veto accepting that person as a patient. Barbara knew damn well what I was saying, behind my hostile remarks about her unorthodox way of recruiting patients. What was I supposed to say? That the dude standing right there with a gun in his holster, squirting come in Barbara's face turned me off completely. That I'd have been more comfortable giving sex therapy to King Kong than to Mr. Thomas? So it comes down to this good-old Ted and Monique: I think Barbara is about as freaked out as Serena, and the thought of that cruise is enough to make me seasick before we ever leave the dock.
Ted and John split two full bottles of Hennesey's brandy between 2 a.m. and dawn. Monique stayed up with them, never budging from the kitchen table, and serving as the coherent recorder of their thoughts, the one who reminded them what they had been discussing between swallows of the amber liquid.
Dawn had found them all in agreement on some basic points, which only Monique was sober enough to enunciate. She found it completely reasonable that Ted and John Holmes must exercise extreme caution on the cruise. But that too much was at stake for Holmes, who stood to lose his life's savings if the clinic failed, and for Gracchi, to whom winning the goodwill of an Eric Hawkins might mean the rescue of his flagging career, besides the money he would earn by making the sex film, which was an immediate alternative to bankruptcy, the only alternative, they had to make the trip.
Monique drove them to the pier where the Queen Bess was docked, then kissed each of them farewell. Ted and John could hear the laughter of Barbara and Serena, among the titters of both crew and passengers, as the co-director of the cruise, and the director of the film to be shot of it, staggered up the gangplank like two drunken sailors, with Ted retching over the side halfway to the deck.
There were 24 patients aboard, 12 male and 12 female, who had been selected for seagoing sexual therapy. Among them, Holmes found a few friendly faces, with whom he didn't mind the prospect of spending a few weeks at sea. Nan and Martin Grimsley were there to receive advanced instruction which would make them accomplished lovers for life. Martin, imbued with a new confidence in his masculinity since his earlier therapy, had lost half of his pot belly and won a promotion on his job. He now regarded Holmes as his guru and followed him around like a devoted puppy dog in search of scraps of his master's sexual wisdom. Following Holmes around was the only sexual therapy he could receive for the first week of the cruise. Because from the first hour out on the Pacific, Nan was stricken with violent waves of nausea which never relented for the first two weeks. But by the end of the first week, orgies led by Barbara and Serena in which all of the patients were encouraged to form daisy chains on the deck and fuck before Ted Gracchi's cameras, had attracted Martin Grimsley's patronage. He turned out to be a natural born swinger, as comfortable with another man's cock in his mouth as he was with a ripe juicy pussy.
From the first night, Holmes fought Barbara and Serena tooth and nail, and lost every round to them. The dual bones of contention were drugs and orgies.
As soon as they were beyond the reach of the U.S. coast guard, the ship's loudspeaker system broadcasted a taped message by Eric Hawkins, welcoming them to his kingdom. Since the ship and crew belonged to him, all were technically within reach of only his laws, the laws of Playgirl Island. Which, he was sure, they would all be delighted to know, included the complete legality of all drugs on board. He had supplied heaping amounts of marihuana, hashish, cocaine and Maya a special new psychedelic aphrodisiac not yet on the market, but manufactured by his pharmaceutical company and guaranteed to increase sexual pleasure. All forms of sexual expression were legal on Playgirl Island, and therefore legal on board the Queen Bess. He had also provided, from his private collection, some of the hottest erotic films ever made. "Bon Voyage," he said at the end of his discourse. Cheers rang out among the passengers. The Captain of the yacht, Eamon Farley, a gruff, red-bearded Irishman with long hairs poking out of his nostrils and a pistol strapped to his side, then announced in a bored voice the exact location of the "dope room," and added that only acts of violence were illegal on Playgirl Island.
Holmes marched into Hawkins' stateroom which was being shared by Serena and Barbara-Holmes had decided to room with Ted Gracchi-in a rage. And there he found a dope and sex orgy in full swing.
The moist sea air hung heavy with marihuana and hashish, mingled with the unmistakable aroma of many bodies in sexual heat together. Barbara was sniffing a line of cocaine, while below her, Greg Thomas was pulling down her panties and rubbing cocaine on her pouting cunt lips.
Ted Gracchi and his film crew were recording it all in 35 m.m. color film. Barbara smiled for the camera and hammed it up by licking her lips lasciviously. Meanwhile Serena walked up to a new patient, a professorial type in his forties, tapped him on the shoulder, watched him nod, then pulled up her sweater and shoved a firm-nippled tit in his mouth.
"Sorry to interrupt your pursuit of perfect bliss, Barbie, but I want to talk business," said Holmes, modulating his anger to minimize the risk of an open confrontation between himself and Greg Thomas, who was buried to the nose in Barbara's gaping, spasming pussy.
"If you want to discuss business, this is the best place to do it. Take out your wild, wonderful cock, and let some lucky lady have a lick and a suck, and we can talk ourselves blue in the face," Barbara said, punctuating her phrases with sighs as Greg's cocaine-abetted cunt-lapping aroused deep waves of orgasm within her rushing, gushing gash. Holmes opened his fly, and sure enough, Carla Blaine one of the two twin sisters aboard (schoolteachers in their thirties who had feared that they were frigid) advanced on John's dong. Her pretty, turquoise eyes shone with a mixture of drug-and-cock fixation.
Carla Blaine had never seen anything remotely as impressive as John Holmes' cock in her sexual encounters with the two or three men in her life who had been bold or desperate enough to get past her totally spinsterish image and fuck her.
Neither had her identical twin, ... Ada Blaine, an exact replica of Carla down to the bun in which they wore their light blonde hair, and the dab of rouge on their cheeks-seen anything as magnificent as John's prick, in her sex life, which had been even duller than her sister's. Ada advanced from behind Holmes and scooped his balls into her mouth, as Carla went to work on the cockhead. They had just swallowed two pills of Maya, psychedelic aphrodisiac mentioned by Hawkins in his discourse earlier that evening. Their chalky faces were suffused with a diabolical reddish glow. They were driven by demons of lust, hitherto chained in their unstroked breasts. Now they were a tandem sucking machine, working the top and bottom of his shaft, then snaking their tongues around his shaft and touching tongues, vibrating amazingly against his cockhead with four lips, blowing his mind, as he tried to voice his protests to Barbara who was even deeper than he was into a sexual funk.
How could he explain to Barbara that what was being filmed had nothing to do with the purposes of the clinic or the techniques they were espousing, when almost all of the patients were gaily fucking themselves into boundless joy. And the feast had only begun. To attempt to reverse the inevitable course the voyage had taken, one big bacchanalian freakout with camera's present to record every thrust and spurt of jism, would have been as difficult as reversing the tide.
Holmes shunned the unending orgy from then on. He fulfilled his end of the bargain on behalf of the legitimate aims of the clinic, providing sexual therapy (filmed by Gracchi himself) to those who sought it in private sessions with him. The Blaine twins were steady customers, both turning into avid cockhounds, and prick pleasers under his tutelage. He promised them that the next time a man barked up their tree, their sexual skills and awakened appetites would make them highly desirable women. Both began to wear their hair loose and to sunbathe. Soon their natural, healthy Scandinavian faces and bodies became catnip to many men on board the cruise. Propositions and proposals ensued.
He spent most of his waking hours with Captain Farley, a man who neither swore, nor smoked, nor tippled, nor was ill tempered, and whose passion in life was sailing sleek yachts like the Queen Bess. But he hadn't bargained on playing host to a floating orgy when signing on with Hawkins. At the end of the voyage, he intended to collect his check and quit Hawkins' service. In the meantime his only interest was in protecting life and limb and enforcing Hawkins' laws. He was happy to find Holmes an able and highly motivated student of navigation. All of the other crew members were natives of Playgirl Island, who had accompanied Hawkins on the original cruise and whose loyalty belonged to Hawkins exclusively. They chatted away all day in their native tongue, an Indian tongue native only to Playgirl Island and one that the Captain did not understand. Naturally he welcomed Holmes' company. The two men were swapping tall tales now. Holmes was listening to one about a Transatlantic crossing on which all of the 26 passengers committed suicide one fine night. John had just told one about an old rich pervert who had once paid a pregnant woman for the right to fuck her in the ass at the exact time she was giving birth. The story ended the way the old pervert's life had ended, with his end trapped in her buns and his heart giving out. The baby was fine. The mother amused and 2 thousand dollars wealthier for the experience. Glancing at his watch, Holmes wished the Captain smooth sailing, and headed for his appointment in Nan Grimsley's cabin.
This was the fifteenth night of the cruise, and the fifteenth consecutive night that John Holmes had paid a visit to the cute nineteen year old blonde, a friendly visit to inquire about her health and talk about whatever she wished to chat about, when she was well enough to hold a conversation. Her troubles had begun with seasickness, then amplified into dysentery and a flu, with temperatures to 103 degrees throughout the first week.
When Martin Grimsley had joined the ranks of the orgiasts, he had told Nan about it during Holmes' nightly visit. Nan had been taken aback by the sudden revelation that her Insurance Salesman of a husband was now an enthusiastic swinger. Martin had departed with these last words: "It's o.k. Nanny-Fanny. Now you can go ahead and ball Big John Holmes, like you've wanted to every since you laid eyes on his lob!"
This set Nan off into the darkest of depressions. In the eight days and nights since Martin had declared his intent to swing (he was quite madly in love with Serena, who would only allow him to ball her if there was another man joining in the fuck) Holmes was the only one Nan would allow to bring food to her room. She greeted the entrance of any other person with loud screams and tears of rage. Holmes would also take her temperature and report it to Ship's Doctor, a native of Playgirl Island with a name like Bjinguli, who would dole out pills for Holmes to bring back to Nan. The night before his present visit, her fever had broken and her appetite had returned. He was hoping she had eaten the meal he had placed in her room while she had been napping at noon. In case she was hungry again, he stopped by the kitchen and picked up the portion of Roast Beef dinner, he had reserved with the chef earlier for Nan.
She greeted his knock much faster than she had ever done during her illness. She wore a finely embroidered silken kimono in which only her shapely bare feet were visible. Her eyes of bright blue lost much of their innocence in the camouflage of mascara and false eyelashes. Her platinum blonde hair had grown fuller and longer in the two months since John had first met Nan, giving her hollow high-fashion-model's cheekbones a soft, shiny frame. The kimono was a loose-fitting, graceful garment, pretty, but not especially provocative in itself. But he remembered her adorable, meaty buns and long, sweet legs, her long, long nipples and mainly her platinum fringed pussy, from the time he had observed her making love to Martin Grimsley at the clinic. Holmes could see that she had consumed every last bite of the four course lunch he had delivered during her noontime repose. Now, she looked at the roast beef and potato salad, the bottle of red wine and the wrapped garlic bread with healthy interest.
"Wow," she said gleefully, "This will taste like a real feast when I get through being welcomed back to the world of the living."
"You look foxy tonight," said Holmes who meant every compliment he gave out, always.
"Do you like me enough to eat me?" she said, naughtily, with some authentic female hunger behind the little-girl cuteness that clenched at Holmes right in the groin.
"I like you enough to promise not to wash my mouth for a week, if that was the only way I could get to eat your pussy, angel," Holmes replied. She was as light as a feather as he lifted her off the ground and carried her to the king sized water bed that she and her swinger husband had been assigned. He lifted her kimono over her head, bringing to light, round, uncovered buns, a slender waistline, sweet tits and a face lit by inner flames. But before John could dive into her succulent muff, she slithered out of tongue range and voiced her desires; "Please bring the camera people John. I want a film as a record of how good it's gonna be between us. I want Martin back, exclusively mine. And I want him to see just what I'll be giving up, if I allow him to come crawling back to me."
"No way, Nanny goat. This first time is for us. But don't fret, pet. I'll make sure we both have plenty left over for the cameras. Enough to make that fool drool," replied Holmes.
He forcefully parted her thighs, watching Nan closely for signs of enjoyment or distaste for his bold, direct sexual attack on her tender love nest. Had her earlier experiences as the victim of the gang of child molesters made her incapable of enjoying a man's frank sexual lust. Her reaction, even before Holmes dipped his tongue into her honey-pot was a radiant, blissful smile.
Her juices were young, hot and fresh, reminiscent of perfumed swamp flowers. They bathed his ravening tongue and his aroused senses in general. She quivered and rolled her hips, forcing the tongue deeper into her spasming pussy. He scraped against the side of her erected clit with his front teeth. The upward pitching of her hips drove his tongue far up her snatch, and mashed Holmes nose in her ticklish, platinum muff. She was one of the loudest bitches Holmes had ever sucked into frenzied clusters of orgasms, and multiple deep climaxes. He was sure that her cries of climax could be heard all over the yacht. As at last she jerked her body away, brought her knees together and came to a halt, he wondered if her soaring soprano cunt cries had been intended all along for the ears of Chubby Martin, the Rover. "I'll be right back with the film crew," said Holmes dressing in a flash. His dong could barely fit into his crotch, as his erection for Nan had not vanished. He wanted her this time to receive his own love's outpourings, to take her on a cock ride down the river of coming together. He knew that he was only a tool to her, a tool needed by Nan to entice her errant husband to return to monogamous marriage with her. "So who said being a tool is no fun?" said Holmes to himself, patting his dick down to zip his zipper.
Getting Ted Gracchi and the boys to film John Holmes balling a gorgeous blonde with an urge to make her husband jealous, took less than ten minutes. Ted was following Barbara's plan, which was to attempt to make the hottest sexfilm ever shot. It was Barbara's theory that Hawkins really craved stimulation more than anything else on earth, and would back the clinic only if it sexually aroused him. They had put it to a vote. Holmes had opted for continuing to film actual therapy sessions, and not attempt to shoot the longest orgy flic in history. Barbara and the Bacchanalians had won, with only Holmes' vote cast in dissent. Which didn't mean that Holmes was any less interesting to the film makers. Hot John Holmes action was a guaranteed box-office smash. And Hawkins was sure to dig it, like everyone else.
Walking down a staircase with Ted and the boys, Holmes heard a high-pitched, piercing scream. "Nan!" said Holmes, to whom her voice was unmistakable.
They raced breakneck to her cabin and flung open the door. She was spread-eagled on the bed, motionless, eyes wide open and vacant. Something was ticking. Holmes saw it up her snatch, a plastic black sack and a tiny black box, ticking. He reached forward, but fortunately for him was slowed down by his hot, elongated throbbing dong, so that he hadn't reached the radius of full force of the explosives, which blew parts of her body, but none of her face all over the room.
Then the lights dimmed and a movie projector sent out strange images onto the wall. Holmes could see distorted images of himself, watching a mother and daughter act, undressing together, then playing with each other's pussies with a vibrator. All Holmes did in the 1962 vintage film was stand there with a shit-eating grin on his handsome face, and a giant erection in his jeans. He had made it around the time he was employed by Hawkins' company, perhaps even for Hawkins himself.
In it, Holmes knew, was contained the key to all the madness of Nan's gory death. Ted Gracchi supported Holmes by the shoulder and aided him to find the shelter of their cabin. Ted bolted the door shut, then dealt out the two pistols he always kept with his camera equipment.
An angry knock on the door. An insistent knock after the sound of hurried single footsteps. Gracchi pulled the door open as Holmes jackknifed his leg out, sending Martin Grimsley flying through the air. He landed on the small of his back, his drawn 22 scuddering harmlessly out of the way. Gracchi pounced on it as Holmes pounced on Grimsley.
"You killed her!" Grimsley roared at the man pinning his shoulders to the ground with his knees.
"No, but I think I know who did," replied Holmes, drawing an incredulous stare from Gracchi.
"Look," said Holmes. "Remember the name Tom Gregory. The man who violated Nan when she was 14. Greg Thomas matches her description perfectly. That last scream she gave was a scream of recognition. She expected strangers to be entering the room to make the film of me balling her. But the one who entered was no stranger at all. He must have killed her with some kind of injection, and blew her to scraps to keep us from seeing the needle marks. She was dead when we walked in."
"How could you tell?" asked Ted.
"What living, breathing human-being lets someone insert explosives up her snatch?" He then told Ted the entire story of Tom Gregory's torturing Nan when she was 14. Martin Grimsley apologized to Holmes. "Never mind apologies," said John, just bring the Captain here."
As Serena and Greg Thomas collected signatures on a petition to be presented to the Captain demanding the immediate arrest of Holmes on the grounds of murder; he, being the last living person known to have had contact with the victim, Holmes described the incident earlier with Nan and the scene he and Ted had witnessed.
After midnight, a rum-fortified Martin Grimsley strode up to handsome, muscular Greg Thomas who was enjoying his last cigarette of the night while hanging over the side and watching the dim waves below, and tapped him on the shoulder.
"Tom Gregoy, Championship Bareback Rider," said Grimsley in a high, forced voice. Greg Thomas whirled, prepared to knock the source of the voice reminding him of his sordid past into the deck. The Captain, as the legal Chief Justice aboard the yacht, dispensed justice, blowing half of Thomas' face away point blank.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dropping Greg Thomas' body over the side completed Phase One of Holmes' plan. Phase Two went just as smoothly.
The Captain locked Holmes in the brig for murder, before Serena's petition had finished circulating, urging the same action the Captain had already took. Captain Farley's firm handling of the affair won the plaudits of the passengers and crew. The crew was the obstacle to announcing the truth, that Thomas was a murderer, and that Barbara and Serena were probably in league with him. The crew was armed and fiercely loyal to the evil Eric Hawkins. Holmes knew viscerally that Hawkins had pulled every string so far in the ghastly puppet show. Since the crew outnumbered Holmes and his allies, 25 to 3, there was no hope of outgunning them in the closed confines of a ship. This also prevented the Captain from steering a course for a safe harbor anywhere other than Playgirl Island. Hawkins' private navy knew enough navigation not to be gulled by such a trick.
Ted Gracchi fitted John with trick handcuffs that looked real, but which Holmes could make come off merely by shaking his wrist. Their only chance lay in utilizing the element of surprise once they were on Playgirl Island, to kill Hawkins and hope his subordinates then panicked.
The Captain was able to utilize his reputation as a staunch enforcer of justice, to search the rooms of the passengers and to confiscate all weapons. Gracchi and Captain Farley hauled in a varied assortment of guns, knives and even a can of Mace. Then, while John Holmes rotted in the brig, they set about making friends. Including Ted Gracchi's crew and the Blaine twins, they amounted to 15 in number by the time the Queen Bess sailed into the Marina of Playboy Island. They were ready for a fight, but Hawkins gave them no chance to oppose him. An army of 500 armed men backed him up as he greeted the passengers and crew of his yacht, from the passenger seat of a tank. Hawkins ordered Gracchi, Captain Farley and all of the passengers and camera crew except for Holmes, Barbara Steele, Serena and Greg Thomas, to take the next flight out of the Island, which was due to depart in 15 minutes. Paychecks would be waiting for the Captain and the film crew on their airplane seats. They departed.
A trio of burly native guards shoved Holmes to the foot of Hawkins' tank and threw him into the dust. Serena and Barbara now flanked the mad publishing king, turned emperor of a nightmare.
Hawkins, from on high, flung a strange object at Holmes. Holmes shuddered, waiting it for him to blow up in his face. Realizing that John was handcuffed and therefore couldn't turn the pages of the newspaper, Hawkins giggled, and appointed one of his officers to turn the pages for John. "There," said Hawkins when the officer reached page five. Holmes, eating dust and sweltering in the relentless tropical sun read the article. Alec Penrose had confessed, in a suicide note, to having abducted Cynthia Harrington and bringing her to John Holmes' clinic. Holmes was once more under indictment by the Grand Jury and was now considered a fugitive from justice.
"So you see, Dear Johnny-buck you have no hope of ever returning home. You're a wanted man and would only rot away in prison. But have no fear. I'm a kindly man and will spare you the agony of living life as a hunted exile. You will die when it suits me. In the meantime, you may enjoy your freedom of a sort. Jilamu, fit him with neck brace and attach his handcuffs to it. Then lead him to the lagoon. Let him taste paradise, before we send him straight to hell. I'll be joining you both places soon. Yes Holmes I'm dying too," said Hawkins.
His wrists were fastened by a thin chain to a neckbrace. Then, accompanied by chanting and drumming natives, he was blindfolded and led to a body of water, which turned out to be a lagoon with turquoise waters of amazing clarity, and tropical fish of dazzling hue and variety swimming by. A few of the natives carried him overhead out to deeper waters, then cast him adrift on the still waters of the lagoon.
It was a bizarre situation for Holmes, being unable to use his free hands because he wanted to keep up the pretense of being handcuffed, and drifting out to deeper waters as his kick wasn't strong enough to master the undertow.
Then suddenly he saw Serena floating towards him, her legs spread and her ruddy pussy wide open and looking juicy. Bubbles kept rising to her side, but for the instant, Holmes paid them no mind. His cock pranged out to meet the aquatic redheaded temptress as their bodies floated towards one another.
But Serena just disappeared below the water without a trace, save for the trail of bubbles leading from where their bodies had nearly met, to the prow of the large white yacht, where Eric Hawkins stood at the helm, laughing at the wind. Beside him stood Barbara, her face once so soft of feature, now was a study in cold, heartless composure. He could see Hawkins handing Barbara two pills, and Barbara gulping them greedily. Just then the skin divers hit him, four at the same time.
He felt a needle being inserted into his arm and came to on the floor of a darkened projection room stage. Above him was a screen on which he could see images flickering that resembled the ones they had seen in Nan's cabin on the night of her death. In his over-drugged state, Hawkins' voice from downstage, sounded as if it was being amplified by a hundred speakers. Squinting he could see that Hawkins was holding a submachine gun on him. Stretched out in front of him was Barbara, completely naked and motionless. Two natives were inserting something Holmes could not make out into her mouth and vagina.
"See the screen," said Hawkins; "the plump brunette was my wife Bess, and the sweet young blonde, our daughter Tina. You were working for my firm, and my wife and daughter played a little trick on me, cuckolding me with my own paid stud. I had never caught them before so I assumed it was Bess' first and only affair. Nevertheless, I killed them for it, as I will kill you. You who turned my precious daughter into a whore before the eyes of America. Pay attention! Barbara has had tiny pellets of glass sealed in soluble capsules, stuffed all the way down her throat and up her cunt. The very cunt you once loved. As soon as she comes to, the capsules will burst, tearing her insides to shreds. Unless you kill her first ... " said Hawkins.
But Barbara regained consciousness for just long enough to hear what Hawkins had done to her. With a desperate energy, as her intestines and throat bled by the buckets, she hurled herself through the air, and threw Hawkins off balance. Holmes raced to the submachine gun, and perforated Barbara as an act of mercy, and Hawkins with pure, perfect hatred.
Under the cover of night, Holmes, still clutching his scorching submachine gun, raced down the winding, jungle strewn path leading to the dock of Playgirl Island.
Only a native night watchman on Hawkins' payroll and therefore armed with just a 45 (his private corps of native killers carried 45's, but only Hawkins had an Uzi submachine gun, now Holmes') stood between Holmes and his target, which was a power-boat with a full tank and maps, with which to escape to another island. Any island would do. Remaining on Playgirl Island after having blown the king away was a certain and painful death.
Holmes crept up to a sleek, motorized yacht, one that he had seen Hawkins in the helm of, when he had swum in the lagoon and nearly locked limbs with Serena in aquatic intercourse. He decided that if the night watchman made any move in his direction, he would be forced to kill him, rather than risk detection. But fortunately for Holmes and for the night watchman, the latter was lovingly working away on the contents of his second bottle of rum as Holmes crept aboard the yacht and heard nothing of note when Holmes, as silently as he could, hauled anchor, and started his engine.
Nor did he turn as the sleek yacht raced out to sea. Holmes' interest in piloting ships, which had led him to asking questions of the Captain of the Screws Cruise, now saved his life. He steered a semi-straight course towards Esmeralda Island, a territory of France. He wasn't sure of how he would fare with the French Police. But, he remembered that the French had refused to extradite Roman Polansky, when that famed Film-Director had sought refuge in Paris, after having been convicted of the Statutory Rape of a girl even younger than Cynthia Penrose, or Harrington, or whomever the devil she was!
On American territory, his ass was grass. Hawkins had made certain of that. Penrose's suicide note had convicted Holmes of the statutory Rape he had been accused of. And how was he to convince anyone there, that he was not the mass-murderer of the ill-fated cruise and now, Playgirl Island?
He had to concentrate fiercely to control the yacht once he reached the high seas. The obstacle was that the sea, and the lack of sleep for such a long period of time had unhinged his mind. Images of the death of his beloved Barbara, of sweet Nan Grimsley, of wicked Serena and of the ultimate manipulator of souls, who had goaded Holmes into killing him and died smiling, the insane Eric Hawkins. Death which clung to his skin like the salt of the sea, tormented John Holmes.
Then the fog crept towards him. Beginning on the far horizon, it rolled in, confounding the inexperienced skipper, who was far from the peak of his mental and physical abilities. Then, a distant foghorn was telling him that some ship was nearby. Probably one of Hawkins' fleet. He decided to make a run for it.
After a chase of ten miles, into the teeth of a howling gale, a huge wave washed over the deck, capsizing Holmes' yacht.
As soon as his body touched water, Holmes leapt overboard, buoyed by the life preservers around his waist and shoulders. He floated in the warm tropical waters, watching the looming Coast Guard Cutter approaching him in the distance. Holmes was hoping that a shark didn't get hungry in his vicinity, and then seeing the ship bearing down in him, wishing that the sharks did feast on his exhausted flesh and bones.
CHAPTER NINE
It took the big Coast Guard cutter shining its bright searchlights into the waters around the sinking yacht, about 15 minutes to locate John Holmes. Three divers hit the water almost simultaneously and swam towards him. He had neither the strength, nor the will to resist them, even though he was certain that rescue by them meant a trial and prison.
The divers laid him out on the deck of the cutter, and a beautiful brown-haired woman in the white uniform of a nurse gently swabbed at the head wound Holmes had sustained when the yacht had capsized. Through ever-clearing vision, John saw the unlikely face and form of Charles Dearing, in a white yachting outfit, complete to the cap and white sneakers frowning down on him from above Holmes' stretcher. Dearing was patting the gentle-handed, open necked brunette on the fanny and saying in that oily voice of his: "And this, Melissa my sweet is the celebrated John Holmes. I hope you find him worth the rescuing. Personally I think he's a pain in the ass, but there's no accounting for feminine taste in men."
What was that his lawyer was saying about his being "rescued" by Melissa?
Sure she had swabbed his blood away. But she hadn't even been one of the divers, so how could Dearing claim that she had saved his life?
Someone brought a thermos full of hot chicken soup and Melissa poured him a cupful and brought it to his lips. It was highly invigorating, as was the brisk sea breeze as the cutter raced rapidly through the waters, and the sweet perfume Melissa wore. The nicest part was that he was not being treated in any way like a prisoner. No law officers had arrived to slap shackles on him. No charges had been read. It was like a sweet dream of hope to Holmes. His own attorney there beside him in Caribbean waters, bringing him back to the mainland. But the looming possibility of being told that they were just being kind to him, prior to sending him away to serve a long sentence for pandering and statutory rape, prevented Holmes from asking the obvious question about his legal status.
"You're a free man John," said Dearing, scrutinizing John Holmes' face for the joy he was sure it would bring him.
Holmes sat bolt upright. "But what about Alec Penrose's suicide note confessing to having pimped off Cynthia and hiring me to break her in?" Dearing went right to the point!
"Penrose was no pimp at all. He was a real estate manager for some of Eric Hawkins' properties, among them a big project for the corporation, upon which your clinic stood, right in the middle. He also was a junkie with a 14 year old girlfriend named Cynthia Harrington, daughter of the preacher of the local church. Sweet little Cynthia was already addicted to morphine, in pill form, which her ex-boyfriend, the local doctor's son, systematically had stolen from his fathers' supplies. Hawkins knew all about the clandestine relationship between them and made Penrose increase the dosage of her pills, which he now supplied, in return for her sexual services. Soon she was a bona fide junkie, without needles-which is why you and Barbara never noticed. Once she was hooked, it was child's play to make her commit her little hoax at the clinic, then to work her mind into a guilt trip, which, with the aid of a little L.S.D. and a tip to the local police, made her point the finger at you as the cause of her downfall. Penrose kept her supplied though his underlings. She had to turn you in, or her supply would be cut off."
The answers were coming fast and furious and Holmes began to feel dizzy with complication. "How did you ever figure all that out?" he inquired.
"Brains", replied Dearing. "Melissa's. She came down to Cosgrove after you left on the cruise and the press had left. That was before Penrose's "suicide" and note, both of which were phonies. Penrose had been murdered by one of Hawkins' hit men, whose needlework while administering the fatal overdose to Penrose, in no way resembled any of the other shots the addict had given himself. The note had been written in a similar handwriting to the signature. But close analysis proved that they had been written and signed at two distinctly different times. The signature was at least a year older than the body of the note he had authored. Melissa had been a Special F.B.I, investigator on the Eric Hawkins case. Hawkins had been connected to almost a hundred unsolved murders of friends and associates over the years. She had quit the F.B.I, in a huff, when they had called off the investigation of Hawkins, suspecting political pressure as the motive for the order to cease to investigate the millionaire.
"When she learned of Serena's sudden visit to Cosgrove, after your arrest, she immediately volunteered to join my legal staff as my private investigator on your behalf. You see, Serena's presence was a sign to Melissa of Hawkins' involvement in the affair."
The rest was less complicated for Holmes to follow. Holmes' sudden release had led her to confirm her suspicions that Hawkins, or someone as powerful as he, was pulling the strings. Only someone at the pinnacle of political influence could have freed him on the grounds of lack of evidence, based on the fact that the accusation made by Cynthia, was the testimony of a legal incompetent a minor and a drug addict, when that self same evidence had proved sufficient to base a Grand Jury Indictment upon, just a week before.
Melissa had used her father, who was the head of the California Council on Religion, to obtain an interview with Cynthia Harrington, after her detoxification. By then Holmes had been re-indicted on the basis of new evidence (Penrose's phony confession) and was considered a fugitive from justice.
Melissa made it clear to Cynthia, just what Barbara and John Holmes faced-a lifetime in prison-and pleaded with her for the sake of her own conscience, to tell her everything, or spend the rest of her life regretting her silence. She assured Cynthia that because of her drugged minor state at the time, she would be held immune from prosecution, and at worst would be ordered by the Juvenile authorities to undergo psychiatric treatments, which she was already receiving.
Cynthia needed little urging. She had been capable of recalling the truth of what had taken place at the clinic, only for the last few days.
Until then, there had been only a drugged blur and then a soul-searing morphine withdrawal. Now the only thing that ached was her conscience, and she welcomed the opportunity to unburden herself with the understanding young woman at her bedside.
She told the absolute truth about the papers Penrose had given Holmes proving her to be 22 and married to Penrose, and about Holmes' gentleness as an instructor, and concern for her well-being after her treatment.
She repeated her story verbatim to the judge, who dismissed all charges against Holmes and Barbara.
By then Barbara was a corpse.
And now John Holmes breathed deeply, the bracing air of freedom. He requested and was granted a private cabin, in which to rest and sort out his thoughts. He followed Melissa to the cabin wobblingly, but under his own control.
Her buns moved invitingly under the thin white fabric of her Nurse's miniskirt. He owed his life to her efforts on his behalf. His gigantic dick sprang to life in fierce affirmation of the need to go on living, if for nothing more, than to deny horror the victory, the give victory to all that Barbara had stood for, before Hawkins had corrupted her.
Sweet Melissa stood in the doorway of the cabin with her firm, shapely legs slightly parted. Her lips were parted too, as Holmes dipped down to kiss her, to sip her sweet essences, to share passions, to live anew.
He dug his mighty entrenching tool into her fertile, earthy bush, impaling her to his steaming balls. With every one of his thrusts he was exorcizing the twin demons of Hawkins and Serena, and paying homage to the memory of Barbara, who had loved life, had loved without jealousy.
From somewhere on high, Holmes felt the spirit of Barbara hovering over him as he pleasured and took pleasure with Melissa. She would never replace Barbara, who had been unique. But she was warm, and alive and the best place Holmes could think of for beginning life anew.
