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From: grobert@soho.ios.com (TheEditor)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: BehdBarn (1/7)  "Behind The Barn"
Date: Wed, 03 Apr 1996 08:56:51 -0700
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Behind The Barn



Chapter 1

     "Just what did you mean by that?" Mike Peters turned slowly around 
and faced his wife.  He had already opened the door, intending to stalk 
out, but now he slammed it shut again, and Sandra recoiled from the look 
of cold anger he was levelling at her.  But she continued to stare back at 
him, fury flashing in her green eyes. Tossing her sleek, raven-crowned 
head, she fought the beginnings of fear which were trying to root deep 
inside her.
     "Just what I said!" she retorted bitterly. "You've got some plan in 
mind for that little vixen ... I saw the way you were looking at her!"
     "For Christ's sake, Sandy, try and be reasonable!" Mike snapped, 
resisting the temptation to go over and shake his wife until her teeth 
chattered.  He felt extremely uncomfortable and just a little bit guilty.  
A guy can't help looking, he told himself, when a broad as well-built as 
Eve Slater comes into view, and as the girl was going to be working for 
him, he had to be friendly to her, hadn't he?
     "Are you sure she's from the Agricultural College, and not just some 
little number you've ..."
     "I'm sick and tired of listening to your accusations," Mike 
interrupted, "and I haven't got all day to stand here and argue with you.  
Miss Slater," he went on quietly, "is a student from the College, and 
perfectly qualified for the project.  She is majoring in Dairying, and 
will be with us for three months.  Anything else?"
     "You can't tell me she knows anything about farming," Sandra 
persisted, feeling her anger and jealousy combine and stick in her craw, 
choking the hot bitter words out of her.  As she continued to rail at her 
husband, a suffocating feeling of futility and frustration swept over her. 
I didn't mean to nag him like this, she told herself hopelessly.  I can't 
help it ... but she's so young and attractive, and the way he was looking 
at her ...
     "I have to go now," Mike said tonelessly, "it's almost milking time."
     "That's right," Sandra hurled, "go back to your damn cows ... and 
your girlfriend!"  Great gulping sobs convulsed her, and tears ran down 
her face as she stared at the departing figure of her husband.  God, why 
does she have to cry like that?  Mike shrugged as he slammed the door 
behind him.  As always, he was moved by the sight and sound of her tears, 
and felt the guilt inside him strengthening with insidious speed.  He 
would have liked to take her in his arms, caress and soothe her, stroke 
away her fears, in spite of her nagging and accusations, but somehow, he 
couldn't.  He knew he was afraid that she'd reject his offering of peace, 
and felt that he couldn't stand the humiliation. If she wants to be like 
that, why should I be the one to give in? he reasoned angrily, as he 
hurried over to the barn.

*     *     *

     Sandra crumpled like a rag doll onto the leather couch.  Her sobs 
resounded in the small room, and the fading daylight cloaked everything in 
the office with ominous ambiguity.  She felt small and alone and 
unprotected and totally incapable of drawing the strings of her life 
together.  The woman who had screamed at and harangued her husband over a 
trivial incident was not the real Sandra Peters.  The real Sandra was a 
loving, warm woman who stood by and encouraged her husband in all 
ventures.  But who was that whining domineering shrew?  I can't help it! 
she told herself again, burying her tear-stained face in her hands.
     The vitriolic, stinging memory of her discovery of her husband's 
infidelity of over a year ago came rushing back with painful clarity - the 
humiliation, the feeling of complete insecurity, the anguish of it all was 
as fresh as if it had just happened.  Even though they had made up, and 
she had sworn to forgive and forget, and Mike had tried, and was in fact a 
model husband since then, she couldn't purge herself of the bitter memory.  
She knew that she had taken every opportunity to get back at him, remind 
him of his indiscretion, to throw it up in his face on occasions when it 
was most wounding to him.  She knew that the misery, the unhappiness of 
their co-existence, because it couldn't be called a marriage in the usual 
sense of the word, was mostly her doing, and yet, nothing would erase the 
jarring, searing memory of that dreadful time last year.  She hadn't 
waited to verify her discovery, find out how long his involvement had been 
going on, or how serious it was.  She had confronted him immediately, 
threatened divorce, court action, instant ignominy, and had relented only 
after weeks of ceaseless apologies, declarations of future fidelity and 
sworn avowals of love by her distraught husband.  In a way, she had to 
admit to herself, she had enjoyed his obvious distress at her threat to 
leave, and had basked in his repeated statements that "he couldn't live 
without her."  But the satisfaction she gained from the knowledge that he 
couldn't do without her was short-lived, and her ego had suffered too 
bruising a blow for her to maintain for long her role of sweet, forgiving 
but slightly-martyred wife.  So her veiled recrimination had begun, and 
had gradually become more open and venomous, culminating in her 
accusations of today.
     But she couldn't fool herself into thinking which she knew in her 
heart were unjustified, that her misery and discontent sprang completely 
from her husband's behavior.  Even in her present misery, she was forced 
to admit that her unhappiness was accentuated by underlying discontent 
with her whole life.  She had never dreamed when she had got engaged to 
the up and coming junior executive in the largest New England textile 
firm, that they would end up in the heart of New Hampshire farmland.  She 
and Mike had such a good time in Boston, their first apartment, actually a 
tiny terraced house, their fast little sports car, their young, happy-go-
lucky friends.  She had enjoyed so much being a working girl and wife, and 
her job as assistant buyer of Sportswear for a large department store was 
flexible enough so that she could take that bit of extra effort which made 
her dinner parties such a success. All her clothes were of the very latest 
fashion, and even though she got a discount on them, Mike's salary and 
hers combined had been generous enough to allow her to afford the extras, 
like that pale pink silk full length dress and matching coat which she had 
got for the opening of the Opera season.  Everything was going their way, 
and Sandra actually enjoyed the weekends they spent in the White 
Mountains, away from everybody, in that fishing cabin Mike rented.
     At that time, she thought rural life was romantic - sitting before a 
roaring fire in the big stone fireplace, lighting the kerosene lamps at 
night, cooking the fish Mike had caught.  After their hectic weekday round 
of activities, it was great being alone together, and when they got back 
to Boston, all their friends used to exclaim enviously over their rustic 
experiences.
     It was just after their second wedding anniversary when the blow 
fell.  Mike's company was moving South, and Mike decided to resign. Sandra 
was glad about that, shuddering at the thought of moving to a small town 
in South Carolina, and had naturally assumed that Mike would take up 
another position with a similar company.  But her husband had other ideas.  
His uncle had willed his rundown old farm in New Hampshire to Mike, and he 
had always had a stronge urge to try his hand at farming.  He had looked 
upon his company's removal from Boston as an act of Fate, and had felt 
that he had enough saved to enable them to give farming a try.  Dividends 
would keep them going for a while and the capital would be sunk into the 
renovation and working of the farm.
     Even now, six years later, Sandra still shuddered at the memory of 
that appalling first year on the farm.  The cold draughty house, the 
constant presence of the builders, with their clouds of cement dust, 
ceaseless hammering and banging, cooking and washing and existing in the 
most primitive conditions - Sandra thought that she would never survive.  
All her clothes got torn and muddy and she had ceased to care about her 
appearance that first year.  But the greatest change had been in Mike.  He 
was obsessed with the farm - every spare minute was spent on it; it 
occupied his mind completely; nothing seemed to matter to him but the 
farm. Sandra had nurtured the secret hope that the whole project would 
collapse and they could go back to the relative civilization of Boston.  
But nothing seemed to deter Mike - not even the loss of their small herd 
at the end of the first year through foot and mouth disease.  He had 
become strangely stoical, and shrugged off his loss, and grimly went about 
restocking his farm with more of the huge, ponderous black and white 
animals of which Sandra was deathly afraid.  Mike used to tease her at 
first, saying that the languid Friesians wouldn't touch a fly, but he had 
gradually become more and more impatient with her when she refused to 
share his enthusiasm over them.  As time went on, she lost her fear of 
them, and even developed sympathy for them, and she was unable to bear the 
mournful lowing that rent the air when the tiny furry calves were taken 
from their mothers so soon after birth.
     Resentment had built up in her over the years as Mike became more and 
more immersed in farm life, and his often stated feeling that he was glad 
he had made the step from the City irked her considerably.  Gradually, 
their friends from Boston stopped coming to see them, rapidly losing their 
idealized notions of rural life when they saw the day to day reality, and 
now Sandra had lost touch with them completely.  Her life was empty, 
pointless, she felt, and her husband's involvement with the agricultural 
instructor last year was the last straw for his demoralized wife.  Life 
was no longer worth living, she thought - nothing would ever change; 
things would go on just as they were, with herself and Mike completely 
estranged.
     She felt like crying again, but no tears would come.  In fact, she 
felt devoid of all emotion, and the emptiness inside her at least eased 
the pain.  Her mind was a blank as she got up from the couch, and wearily 
stretched herself.  She felt old and tired - and beaten.  I'm not old - 
why should I give up living? she asked herself, catching a glimpse of 
herself in the full length mirror that hung behind the door of the office, 
which was once a small bedroom.  She knew her figure was still good, and 
she ran her eye critically over her reflection, noting the firm, braless 
upsweep of her full breasts through the raspberry colored angora dress she 
was wearing, the womanly curve of her graceful slender hips, the long 
expanse of her creamy legs.  I'm not over the hill yet, she told herself, 
running a hand through her silky black hair which fell to just below her 
jawline where it swung into a guiche on either side of her oval face.  
Luxuriant dark lashes framed her vivid green eyes which even in her 
weariness sparkled back at her.  What's the use? she mumbled to herself, 
turning away from her reflection.  Who's going to see me here, vegetating 
in the wilderness? She conquered the fresh wave of bitterness rising 
inside her and with a sigh, sat down on Mike's swivel chair, in front of 
his untidy, littered desk.  It was already the first week of the month, 
and she hadn't done the accounts for the previous one.  Idly, she swept 
together the crumpled, disorganized sheaf of papers which was a jumbled 
mass of invoices, receipts and cancelled checks.  Glad of something to 
take her mind off her troubles, she plunged into the task of sorting 
everything out and was soon immersed in her work.  When she had made 
everything into three separate piles, she pulled open a drawer in the 
desk, and began to rummage about, looking for the ledger to make entries 
for the month.  Why the hell doesn't he keep his desk tidier! she muttered 
to herself as she eased a long, hardbound book out of the drawer.  As she 
removed it, her eye fell on a bulging manilla envelope which had been 
wedged between another book and the one she had withdrawn.
     "Now what's this doing here?" she muttered to herself, irked at the 
disorder in the files she had arranged only recently.  Frowning slightly 
to herself, she fumbled with the envelope and discovered that it was full 
of photographs.
     Puzzled, she eased one out of the envelope.
     "Oh my God!" she gasped aloud, unable to contain herself.  The blood 
rushed to her face, crimsoning it a deep red.  Tumultuous feelings of 
horror, disgust, anger manifested themselves in a single sensation of 
overwhelming nausea.  A numbed haze blinded her for an instant, and then 
she began to stare with bulging, disbelieving eyes at the colored print 
she was holding in her hand.  Every detail was startlingly portrayed and 
the two figures in the photograph seemed amazingly alive.  For a moment, 
Sandra couldn't believe that she was seeing right, but there was no doubt 
about it - it was actually a photograph of a nude man and woman, sprawled 
out together, the woman's blonde head dipped between the man's widespread 
thighs, his grossly inflated penis clamped tightly between her ovalled red 
lips.  The man's head was turned away, but there was no mistaking the 
expression on the rapt woman's face.  She was enjoying taking that man's 
hardness in her mouth - her lustful desire was etched clearly on her eager 
face.
     Sandra felt her heart thudding painfully in her ribcage.  She had 
heard, of course, that people did that sort of thing, but had always 
somehow felt that such an act did not belong in a normal marriage.  The 
lascivious scene seemed to come to pulsating life under her hypnotized 
stare, and the huge blood-filled penis seemed to throb with lewd tensity 
as it lay cradled between the full, ripe lips that were clasping it so 
tenaciously.  The woman's half-closed eyes seemed glazed with passion, and 
Sandra felt a shudder of unknown sensation ripple through her.  She 
couldn't seem to draw her eyes away from the obscene photograph.  Her 
fingers seemed to be soldered to the glossy print, and somehow she felt 
that if she looked away from the perverted sight, she would tear herself 
away from a tenuous reality which her moribund emotions so badly needed, 
and go berserk with disgust and horror.  How could he keep such filthy, 
lewd pictures? her mind began to question.  Does he look at them often?  
Where did he get them?
     Her curiosity broke the spell the obscene photograph had on her 
conscientiousness, and hurriedly, she drew out another of the colored 
prints.  Her eyes flew immediately to the scene, and a sudden, strangled 
moan of horror broke from her lips.
     "Oh no!  It can't be!" she groaned as she stared fixedly at the 
second photograph.  This time, the shot was taken from a distance, but 
near enough to display in detail the pink moist delineations of a 
widespread vagina, the glistening lips gently swollen around a dark star-
shaped opening.  A man's face was juxtaposed over the splayed mouth, the 
tip of his long tongue poised at the entrance to the delicate roseate 
furrow.  And there was no mistaking that face, so wreathed in anticipatory 
lust.  It was Mike!  For a moment, Sandra couldn't believe that it was 
actually her husband who was portrayed in that disgusting snapshot, the 
wavy fair hair, his deep blue eyes, his fleshy sensuous lips.  Numbed 
shock rushed in a roaring torrent to her head, threatening to explode, and 
she had to hold onto the arm of the swivel chair to steady herself.  Mike!  
How could he do this to another woman?  How could he let himself be 
photographed like that?  She wanted to scream, to beat her fists against 
the wall, to turn back the clock and forget that she had ever seen the 
lewd pictures.  Through the dim of her hurt and disgust, another thought 
nagged at her brain. This lascivious blonde in the photograpb, who had 
splayed her legs so unreservedly for her husband, was not the same woman 
that Mike was having an affair with last year.  So there had been others!  
New thundering anger swelled inside the distraught wife at the thought 
that she had been deceived, and furiously, she snatched the remaining 
photographs up and scanned them.  Each one, seemingly more lewd than the 
previous one, leaped up at her horrified eyes as if to taunt her with the 
spectacle of her husband engaged in all different positions, with 
different women, and sometimes with more than one!
     "That bastard!  That dirty bastard!" Sandra gasped, and in a fury of 
temper, began to splash out at the contents of the desk, scattering 
papers, letter trays, pens; everything went flying in all directions and 
fell to create untold chaos on the floor.  Her anger unleashed beyond 
control, she yanked at the file drawers, pulling them completely away from 
their moorings, and dumped the files she had so carefully put in order, in 
a dishevelled heap on the floor.
     As suddenly as it came, her demonic flash of temper deserted her, and 
she sank back in hopeless bewilderment on the swivel chair.  All around 
her, the records of the past eight years lay in disarray on the floor, and 
a dreadful sense of futility convulsed her.
     "Oh God," she sobbed, "what did I do to deserve this?"  She buried 
her face in her hands and her shoulders shook with the racking sobs which 
enveloped her.  How many more were there? she asked herself piteously, 
torturing herself with images of various women that both she and Mike had 
known.  Had he had an affair with all their friends? she wondered 
bitterly.  In her jealous humiliated anger, new images began to inject 
themselves into her consciousness - glimpses she had caught of various 
naked bodies with full voluptuous breasts and creamy sinewy thighs, 
stretched out in opulent sensuality, seemingly oblivious to the unknown 
photographers who were busy snapping away as her husband caressed and 
stroked and kissed those velvety bodies.  Her mind seemed unable to banish 
the lewd images, and fresh ones began to superimpose themselves in her 
fervid imagination.  Mike kissing and slavering an open, exposed vagina, 
lewdly displayed and eagerly offered to him ... Mike sinking his wildly 
excited penis into a greedy, grasping vaginal orifice, strong supple 
thighs egging him on ... Mike lying back as luscious red lips encircled 
his bloated penis ... The obscene snatches from the vile cache of 
photographs she had unwittingly uncovered played relentlessly in her mind, 
mocking her with their leering evidence of her husband's infidelities.
     She felt broken in mind and spirit.  The actuality which those 
photographs seemed to point to was too shocking for her to bear.  Under 
the thin veneer of city sophistication she had acquired, Sandra was still 
basically a conventional American wife, strict enough in her own way to 
the code of morality to which her family and all before her had 
subscribed.  She had looked upon marriage as sacred, even in this day and 
age of quickie divorce and pre-marital and extra-marital sex, and had 
automatically assumed that any philandering on the part of her husband 
would stop after marriage.  And she was sure it had!  That was the hard 
part.  She had been so snug and secure, even in the dark days of their 
early times on the farm, feeling cocooned in the sanctity of the wedded 
state, and that accounted for the tremendous shock she experienced when 
she had discovered her husband's affair last year.  And now!  She had 
uncovered devastating evidence that pointed to a whole series of 
adulterous infidelities! Involuntarily, she reached for the pile of 
photographs which had fallen to the ground amid the shambles of the 
office.
     Almost disinterestedly, she scanned them over again.  Yes, there was 
no doubt about it! There were three or four different girls involved in 
the debacle, and the pictures showed Mike involved with each and every 
one.
     She studied a particularly lurid one, showing him and a tall lithe 
brunette stretched out, touching at only two places.  His mouth was firmly 
planted in the nest of her dark pubic curls, and her mouth was tightly 
clasped around the red thick length of his penis.  The girl's eyes were 
half-closed and her thick luxuriant hair fell in tendrils around her face, 
giving her an almost angelic look as she exalted in the feel and taste of 
Sandra's husband's penis in her mouth. Sandra continued to stare at the 
lewd shot. What did it feel like, having a man's male hardness locked 
tightly in your mouth? she wondered, amazed at the look of almost reverent 
ecstasy on the girl's face.  Mike had tried once or twice, she remembered, 
pushing her head down under the blanket, and she had, of course, refused 
to do anything like that.  She had always thought it perverted, somehow, 
and yet, this girl seemed to be thoroughly aroused by it.  And that blonde 
in the first picture, she mused in horrified fascination, flicking back to 
it, seems in ecstasy, too.  Her attention was caught by one she hadn't 
scrutinized before.  It showed a well-built redhead, her breasts full and 
vibrant, spreadeagled beneath Mike, whose engorged prick was sunk halfway 
into the soft, hair-fringed tunnel of her vagina.  The girl's legs were 
wrapped around her husband's lower back and her spine was arched up off 
the bed as she strove to open her depths wider and deeper to him.  Sandra 
stared in lewd fascination at the minutely detailed photographs of sexual 
intercourse.  Even her animosity to her husband seemed to retreat as she 
studied abstractly the obviously impassioned couple.  The redhead's head 
was thrown back, and her mouth was open.  Her hands were dug into his 
shoulders, and her whole body seemed afire.  Mike's hands were clutching 
at her firm, upswept breasts, and Sandra could see the reddened tips of 
her fully turgid nipples slipping out through his flngers.  There was a 
look of pure animal desire on her husband's face, a look she hadn't seen 
in a long, long time!  Despite herself, Sandra felt a little tug of 
jealousy.  She remembered how she used to arouse that complete passionate 
frenzy in her husband, how he used to be almost aflame with desire for 
her, and her alone, she was sure, and now, this redheaded hussy was the 
one who was making him act like that ...
     Sudden tears surprised her as they swam in her eyes.  It isn't fair 
... she murmured to herself.  It was so long since she had seen Mike 
crazed with desire, so long since he had even made love to her ... She 
felt a sudden emptiness inside her, a feeling which she recognized as 
vague desire.  It began to gnaw at her, worming its way insidiously into 
her depths, gaining a foothold in her numb body.  He never tries to kiss 
me there anymore ... the thought leapt into her head.  It was years since 
he had tried to persuade her to allow him to put his head down between her 
thighs and kiss her pussy, but she had so vehemently and absolutely 
refused him when he had made the attempt.  It can't be so bad, she 
muttered to herself, her eyes glued to another shot, this time of Mike 
with his face buried in the copper fleece of the redhead's openly 
throbbing cunt.  Sandra could see the moist flanges of the girl's vagina 
rimming Mike's wetly glistening nose and mouth, and her thighs were 
clamped and straining eagerly around his steaming face.  The girl's eyes 
were closed and it was obvious that she was in the throes of complete 
abandon.  Then, in spite of the shock and revulsion of seeing her husband 
locked in lewd, naked embrace with another woman, Sandra felt a tingle 
beginning between her own legs, a ripple that seemed to grow as her eyes 
continued to focus on the spectacle of her husband's grovelling between 
another woman's widespread thighs.  How did it feel, to have a man's 
tongue licking and sucking and blowing his hot, passionate breath into 
that secret place, have his mouth warm and caressing around your clitoris, 
feel his kiss on your nakedly exposed pubic mound?
     Her feverish mind threw the questions at herself, and suddenly, she 
felt hot all over, covered with a cloying clamminess that made her feel 
like tearing her dress from her body.  She was dimly aware that she was 
unconsciously clenching her heated thighs together and imperceptibly 
grinding her buttocks into the leather of the swivel chair.  The tingling 
in her loins grew and the gnawing inside her burst into a devouring flame 
and she wondered vaguely what was happening.  Her eyes flickered aimlessly 
to another picture, and a startled gasp eluded her as she stared in 
disbelief at what she saw.  Sandra thought that the photographs she had 
already examined had prepared her to a point where she was beyond 
surprise, but she was wrong.  She gaped in astonishment at the candid 
snapshot, unable and unwilling to believe that it was her husband who was 
actually inserting his huge, lust-hardened penis in the blonde's tiny 
puckered anus!  But there was no doubt about it - the photograph showed in 
unerring detail the enormous girth of Mike's blood-inflated prick 
encircled by the brown crinkled little rectal mouth, stretched cruelly 
around the massive circumference.  This lasciviously depicted anal entry 
was too much for Sandra.  Revulsion swept through her - disgust at the 
knowledge that the man she had married could and did indulge in such an 
animalistic, carnal act, a thing she, a grown woman, had only heard about 
in whispers.  It was too shameful to even think about; it was disgusting!  
And yet, Sandra noticed in amazement, the blonde didn't seem to mind it.  
In fact, she seemed to like it, judging by the lewd look of delight on her 
passion-contorted face.  Oh God, what was going on?  Her world seemed to 
have gone topsy-turvy, and all the opinions she had held on such matters 
seemed to have been refuted by the pictorial evidence she held in her 
hand. These girls weren't being abused, subjected to a man's whim or 
desire - they were actually enjoying it!  They seemed to love all the 
obscene things Mike was doing to them ... they were revelling in what to 
her would be the lowest kind of debasement.
     Bewilderment crowded in on Sandra, and she felt completely out of 
control of the situation. Her hands rose slowly to her breasts, and she 
gasped as she felt the electrifying effect her own touch had on the now 
sensuously throbbing mounds.  But she couldn't take her hands away - 
somehow she felt that she had only herself to turn to to help her get over 
this terrible discovery.  She felt strangely illucid, as if her perusal of 
the lewd pornographic pictures had touched off a streak of insanity in 
her, and she could no longer control her stampeding libido. Her mind was 
fermenting with images of the various positions she had seen in the 
photographs, and lurid thrills were beginning to shoot up and down her 
body.  Involuntarily, she pressed her palms down her sides, along her 
hips, and then dipped them between her nylon-encased thighs.  Immediately, 
she felt as if her vaginal mound was straining to reach the comfort of her 
own hands, and she felt a rush of inner moisture proclaim the intensity of 
the weird sensations.  She could feel that the crotch-band of her panties 
was slightly moistened and her fingers inched forward, like individual 
bloodhounds on the scent of a relentless target.
     Moments of rationality broke intermittently through the clouds of her 
frenzy, and taunted her with unanswerable questions.  What had turned her 
into a roiling mass of feverish desire?  Was it because Mike hadn't made 
love to her for so long?  Or were the dirty pictures having an illicit 
prurient effect on her?
     Her fingers kneaded at the burning lips of her moistened pussy 
through the flimsy panties and Sandra winced from the delicious contact. 
Why should I be denied pleasure? her mind argued dimly.  All those girls 
were enjoying themselves; Mike was pleasing them ... it's not fair that I 
should be left out ...
     As though they had received assent, her fingers burrowed hurriedly 
under the legband of her panties and teased over to the tingling flesh of 
her swollen pussy lips, and Sandra felt the fleshy folds pulsate under her 
sensitive fingertips.  She sighed from the exquisite sensation, feeling 
relief flow through her.  This is wrong ... YOU SHOULDN'T DO THIS!  Veiled 
threats echoed through her mind, hidden warnings from schoolgirl-filled 
corridors ... dark messages about evil masturbation ...
     But Sandra was too intoxicated with the rush of pleasure to pay any 
heed to her own sombre warnings, and her fingers continued to plunge into 
the warm deep recesses of her desire-drenched pussy.  Nothing mattered to 
her now - the whys and wherefores were unimportant - all that she was 
concerned with was quenching the raging fires that had sprung up 
unattended in her loins, and which required heavenly fuel to feed its 
lascivious hunger before it allowed itself to be put out.
     Suddenly irritated by the impediment of her panties, her hands began 
to tear impatiently at them, and she raised her hips from the swivel 
chair, and eased them down over her thighs, leaving them dangling at her 
knees.  But she didn't care about that - her hands were rolling up her 
soft angora dress and bunching it about her hips, and she revelled in the 
freedom of exposing her passion-enflamed loins to the cool evening air 
which was rushing in from the half-opened office window.  Her fingers dug 
impatiently again at her burning furrow, and convulsively probed at the 
trembling hole of her clasping cunt.
     "Aaaaaahhhhhhhh ..." she couldn't suppress a sigh as her hand cupped 
onto the now moistly pulsating orifice and she felt the heated walls close 
in like a vise on her sunken middle finger.
     The passion inside her was goaded on to greater fever by the lurid 
thoughts which had taken possession of her head and would not yield.  
Obscene thoughts framed by the disgusting photographs she had seen, images 
of desire and lust instigated by many actions and acted out in many forms.  
She was almost convinced that a large heated penis was ramming into her 
eager, open pussy, that she was one of those girls whose head was thrown 
back in complete abandon, whose mouth was open and from which a stream of 
sighs was rushing, whose hips were churning under the delicious onslaught 
of a heavy, passion-bloated cock which was plunging deeper and deeper and 
harder into her ...
     Waves of heat were washing over her now as she ground her buttocks 
down into the leather of the seat and revolved her saturated fingers 
around inside the velvety interior of her febrile vaginal sheath.  A 
feeling of dizziness was taking control of her, coupled with a wonderful 
sensation of relief, and now she knew she was cumming, because she felt so 
good all over, and her hips were jerking uncontrollably, and a mist of 
hot, feminine orgasmic fluid washed down over her churning fingers, and 
she felt the office revolve around her and her head was torpedoed by a 
kaleidoscope of collaged nude figures, male and female, all fucking and 
sucking and licking in total frenzy, and she was at the center of it all, 
and she was loving it, every minute of it ...
     Sandra slunk back against the chair, drained of all energy, curiously 
devoid of all feeling but a satiated stupor which controlled her and made 
it impossible for her to do anything, not even pull her dress down over 
her naked thighs. Her legs were splayed, her panties hanging uselessly at 
her knees, and in the dim of the mortification which was beginning to 
manifest itself inside her, she reassured herself icily ... "he'll pay for 
this ... I'll make him pay for this ..."

*     *     *

     Sam Maguire eased himself down from the ledge under the office 
window, and with a furtive glance around, slunk off into the foliage that