From grobert@soho.ios.com Thu Aug 07 08:53:34 1997
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: RP The Helpless Captive
From: "TheEditor" <grobert@soho.ios.com>
Date: Thu, 07 Aug 1997 05:53:34 -0700
--------
WARNING:
This story is fiction, and should be treated as such.
The following story is for the entertainment of ADULTS ONLY,
and contains descriptions of explicit sex. If you are not an
adult, or reading sex stories upset you, do not read any further.
I am not the author. I don't have the talent.
I can only be ... "TheEditor".
The Helpless Captive
Chapter 1
Neon lights oranged the sky as the town's avid move-goers queued up
in zig-zagged lines anxious for the late afternoon matinee to spill out of
Elston's sole movie, which only last year had been converted from a 1940's
dance hall.
Auburn-haired Kathy McGuire gave her husband's hefty paw an extra
squeeze and leaned her head forward to peek at the promotion poster that
advertised this week's movie, the only local entertainment around except
for George Mason's bango trio that played twice a week in the basement of
the country club. The post depicted a teenage couple seated on a Harley
Davidson; the boy's high booted heels dug into the ground to support the
massive weight of the machine while a girl with long blonde hair clasped
her hands around the boy's stomach, letting her hands drift down to the
vee of his pants. The square-jawed youth was turning to hand the girl a
poorly-rolled brown cigarette.
"Any idea what this movie is about, honey?" Kathy asked demurely in
her hushed voice, knowing her husband didn't like to discuss anything in
public.
"Cop show," he sputtered with a jerk of his head.
"Oh, I thought maybe it would be a romance or a musical," Kathy
pouted, stepping back at her husband's side and staring straight ahead.
The orange of the twinkling neon caught the bored expression on her
delicate features. As if I even had to ask, thought the young woman with
a twinge of bitterness. Cop shows, violence, death, and justice . . .
that's all he cares about. With a sudden empty ache, the question skipped
through her mind: What would her husband have been, if not an undercover
policeman? What else could a suspicious, brusque man like Art McGuire
contribute to society, except for an occasional 'bust' on a drug or
prostitution ring?
Drawing her lips into a taut line of disgust, she stared up at her
husband, studying the dominance of his strong jaw line, the rippling of
his cheek muscles as he worked his lower jaw against his upper. He's hard
at work again, realized the finely-boned wife with a smattering of guilt
for feeling neglected. Mentally, she caressed the taut muscles in his
neck, the tightness in his shoulders. The pressure of work, a job never
completed, impossible to complete until the last criminal was behind bars,
showed in the furrows of his high, straight forehead.
Did it really matter that she wasn't getting her own way? No, she
conceded, it couldn't override Art's devotion to his work. His
determination. His sense of justice. For it was those qualities that
made Art who he was---a well respected member of the police force, a man
who loved children, hated to see them throw their futures away for a few
adolescent kicks. What he failed to give his wife in the way of
affection, he sacrificed whole-heartedly to the cause of purifying
America's youth. That, she could not complain about.
"Wanna see this movie," he grated, giving his wife's hand a jerk in a
compromised show of affection. "Got a hunch it's gonna help me bust this
drug ring we've been investigating," he whispered, cupping his hand next
to his mouth and tilting his head to accommodate the ten-inch difference
in their statures. As a policeman, he'd learned the power of secrecy,
discretion.
And Kathy had learned to respect that in her tall, broad-shouldered
husband. The excitement of the unknown; never knowing if it was a whore,
a pimp, or heroine smuggler that he was putting behind bars. The task
always involved one common ingredient: change. Different clothing every
day to disguise his identity, working miles away from home. Yet it meant
a continuous circus of moving from city to town, West coast to the East
coast, finally to settle here in the corn belt of Elston for a few weeks,
months? . . . until this dope case was settled. Then on to another
assignment, Texas, California, Georgia?
The past eight years of their marriage had been a merry-go-round,
staying on one place long enough to open a bank account, always renting a
house, never buying. No thought of the future, only contemplating scars
from yesterday. And Kathy, seven years younger than her husband, was
growing weary of change.
Time to settle down, she'd finally admitted to herself. Time to
plant a tree and watch it grow. Although the subject had never been
openly discussed, she had her hopes that Art really wanted to have a
family, even though he'd grunted all too often about the decay of
America's moral standards, to make her believe he wanted to raise
children. Thinking he didn't want any would be too painful a realization
to live with.
And so she'd courageously endured it all, the loneliness of watching
the late-night movie on television, slipping into a cold empty bed and
reading ladies magazines, waiting for the telephone to ring or for Art to
come stumbling through the door, dog-tired and irritable from a day of
hunt and chase. Someday it would be different, she kept telling herself;
someday she might have a baby to coddle and love with the fullness of her
being, the way she wanted to love Art.
If only he'd put as much effort into our marriage as he does into
putting people behind bars, she thought, watching the black exit door
burst open to the sound of stampeding feet.
Kathy stood there leaning against her husband's firm chest, feeling
his strong hands weighing on her shoulders while they watched the
pubescent crowd brush past. None of them over sixteen, most of them were
dressed in sloppy levi jackets with tattered cuffs, cigarettes---still
unlit---dangling from their mouths. Faint shadows of fuzz tickling their
upper lips, they looked so incongruously innocent yet worldly at the same
time with a characteristic clumsiness particular to the young. In their
tight levis and tee shirts that showed off developing muscles and sinews,
their bodies rippled, fairly quivered with energy. They surged on past
like a herd of frightened buffalo, never looking to the right or left of
them, their loud, coarse voices guffawing in laughter, cracking on the
higher tones.
Sparring with his friend, one particularly rambunctious boy dodged a
flying fist by stepping back, sending five-foot-three Kathy McGuire
hurling into her husband's chest. The boy turned to apologize, but taking
one glance up at the tall man's face whose hands were resting on the
woman's shoulders, he thought better of it and instead quickened his pace.
Kathy heard a deep, low rumble emanate in her husband's body, like a
dog ready to spring. He hated unruliness, hated insults, and hated anyone
touching his wife, intentional or otherwise. She knew it, and although it
made her feel secure, it often scared her, too. There was hint of animal
in Art, a part she'd chosen to ignore or better still, not inspire.
Art clenched his fists, kneading his fingernails into the palms of
his hands. Oh, he couldn't wait to find out who was selling dope to these
kids, who was corrupting these poor stupid, unsuspecting souls. Couldn't
wait for that damned rock concert scheduled to take place out at the
Olson's property was over with this weekend, for then he could get down to
business and slap a few suspects behind bars, coax them to cop a plea, and
give names, dates, addresses to find the real criminals---the smugglers,
the big time dealers.
From experience he knew who they'd be. The kids who smoked the evil
weed never made the money, the poor dupes. It was the middle-aged pushers
who wanted to make a fast buck, hit town, then split, leaving a town full
of kids to get picked up on a possession charge, ruin their record, raise
their father's car insurance.
What did marijuana do for them, anyway? Just look at them, he
thought with a sneer and ripple of his upper lip, glaring. They didn't
even dress decently . . . they didn't care to look presentable. Why did
they show themselves in public in dirty jeans and tee shirts, like the
bums who dried out in jail?
Yes, the boys were bad enough, but the girls! My God! The girls!
If he had a daughter who dressed in skin-tight levis and sloppy shirts,
letting her hair grow long and messy, she wouldn't get out of the house.
He remembered, glowering, one young girl . . . couldn't have been
more than fourteen . . . who'd been picked up on a charge of possession of
marijuana. They'd hauled her into juvie at the county court house; if he
hadn't been so concerned about her case, he never would have risked
divulging his identity. But, Christ, she'd been wearing a tee shirt so
tight you could see the nipples standing out straight under it. And the
other's they'd brought in that day! One wore a blouse cut so low and so
wide that her round, budding breasts actually bounced out. Then there was
one in a see-through blouse who might as well have been naked; the blouse
concealed nothing. Not the two round spheres of her firm, full breasts,
or the rosy aureoles that were vivid against the snowy flesh or the pert,
hard little nipples.
She'd worn pants, too . . . pants so tight they looked as if they'd
been sprayed on. They pulled and strained across the round curves of her
buttocks, cupping them, molding them to her skin, rippling like flesh
itself as she moved lasciviously across the room. Art had noticed that
the pants bunched up and caught in the furrow of her buttocks, outlining
the little pucker of her anus. And every policeman in the reception area
was staring at her, practically panting with sheer, raw desire to fuck her
back there in the ass.
But the most disgusting of them all, Art remembered, was the girl
who'd been brought in in handcuffs. She was young---not more than fourteen
and slim, with a waist he could have spanned with his two hands. She'd
even had a certain beauty, with her olive skin, the raven hair that hung
to her shoulders, the eyes round as two black saucers.
No pants for this one, but a skirt as brief as a bikini. It had
hardly covered the hard little half-melons of her sensuous buttocks,
barely concealed the vee of her crotch.
The girl's full rich thighs were bare---why, oh why didn't these girls
wear bras and girdles and stockings like decent people? Her breasts were
lewdly tilted, the nipples taut under the sheer summer blouse she wore.
That one had flashed Art a knowing look as she passed by, a look that
told him as plainly as words that she would be willing to 'put out' for
him. Her walk had been an open invitation to him and every other
policeman in the court building.
No, he'd resisted. They'd tried to pull that one on him again; the
old I'll-do-anything-if-you'll-let-me-out-of-juvie trick. He didn't bite.
But it had been damned tempting. Her walk had been an open
invitation to him and every other policeman in the room. Hips undulating
sensually, she prowled the room like a bitch in heat, just begging for
some man to shove his rock hard cock deep into her quivering little belly.
And there were plenty policemen in the juvie hall who were willing to do
it, too.
A deceptive calm settled over the hall when the girl sat down, just
in front of the desk where the girls were being booked. She smoothed her
skirt over the lushness of her hips, pressed her knees together, even
crossed her ankles demurely. Beneath the calm, though, was a subdued
current of excitement that threatened to explode at any moment. But as
the day wore on, as the girls' parents were phoned and alerted, the
excitement had drained away. The room was left blanketed in a lethargy
that weighed it down like heat.
Art had been waiting for a phone call from the Chief of Police in
Allsworth, and had seated himself near the front door, leaning back in a
chair. Twirling his thumbs, he'd pulled his golf cap---his incognito
uniform for the day---over his eyes, feigning sleep. It had been a long
hard night, and a few "z's" would set him up fine. A fly buzzed around
his ear, and he opened his eyes to slap at God's curse to mankind. Then
his eyes settled on the girl seated in the front row.
The lithe young body had gone slack with boredom, and the girl
sprawled in the chair, now, legs wide apart, knees splayed open teasingly.
Art stared absent-mindedly. No thin strip of nylon, however narrow,
however flimsy, concealed the quivering flesh of her smooth, curling
thighs. There was nothing to hide the thin triangle of dark, silken curls
that grew so sparsely there in the tight little vee between her legs,
nothing to hide the delicate pink tinted edges of her moist, pouting
little pussy.
The girl shifted in the seat, knowing his eyes were on her, and now
her legs slid farther apart, her smooth skinned, swelling thighs spread
open even wider. The pink tipped hair-lined split lay open now, parted
like the petals of a flower, and revealed the tiny bud of her clitoris
that nestled within.
Art stared in fascinated shock. The tiny, blushing mound attracted
him and held his attention riveted to it. He yearned to close his eyes,
to ignore the tender tip of flesh, to close his eyes and to close his
mind. But he was transfixed, powerless, trapped by the lewd sight.
He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that somebody was calling
his name, for what and who, he had no cognizance.
She was a menace to society, Art had though; just as much of a menace
spreading her lewdity as her parents were for letting her dress that way.
For being a female, she was no more feminine then those boys who start
fights in public and push women around.
But someday they'd grow up and find out it took more than a fast line
and a dollar stolen from their grandmother's social security check to get
through life. It took guts.
Kathy grabbed her husband's hand, guiding him through the crowd,
wondering what he was thinking about that made his hands clammy and cold.
Why didn't he talk to her? He seemed a thousand miles away.
They chose two seats in the back. Art always preferred to sit in the
shades of darkness among the youngest lovers, old lonely singles, and
those who'd snuck in a hip-flask filled with Wild Turkey, not caring what
was on the screen as long as it wasn't real. Life was real enough.
There, in the darkness, Art could watch the small town's youth
slither by in their patched levis, watch for nods of heads and bills
slipped into conspicuously open palms. That meant dope, and where there
was dope there was a potential bust.
Art clutched the hard, plastic arm of the seat, his knuckles turning
white as he watched with squinted eyes a blonde-haired boy named Jim who'd
been known to sell dope in small quantities, a lid or two but never more.
A year older than most of his freshman friends, and the son of a well-
known lawyer, he'd been busted once before, but released. With
surreptitious watchfulness, Art spied the adolescent zip open the bulging
breast pocket of his levi jacket and, cupping the plastic baggie in his
hand, held it close to his body and slipped it to the dark haired boy
sitting in the seat next to him.
Art wiggled in his seat! Nothing delighted him more than to catch a
law breakers with his fingers hot and dirty! Dope. Art sneered, his
nostrils flaring into dime-sized holes. He could smell it a mile away,
had a talent for seeking it out. These poor, dumb little snots thought
they were really hot stuff selling a couple bucks worth of dope. Well,
when that damned rock concert came to town that weekend, he'd have every
policeman in the whole damned county out there ready and waiting for them
to light up one match . . . one joint, and they'd be sitting down at juvie
with that bare-assed little bitch, plucking at their recent growth of
pubic hair for lack of anything better to do.
At least now he suspected who might be one of the poor, duped middle
men in peddling that nasty weed. A low rumbling laugh jerked in his
belly. Just wait til that rock concert . . . they think they're gonna
pull a big one with those screaming rock and roll bands that shake the
tree roots for a mile around, while the poor farmers' fences get
stampeded, trampled by the kids who hadn't an ounce of respect for
personal property. They're all gonna end up lying to their parents about
their whereabouts, then camp out over night and smoke marijuana and take
that mind-rotting LSD.
It had happened back in upstate New York a couple of years ago; Art
remembered---he was there. Rock concerts were nothing new, just a front
for the dope peddlers who eyed a chance to make a buck. But these
ignorant kids ate it up, didn't mind spending a month's allowance on a
ticket to have their ear drums blasted. Art snickered again, shooting a
fast glance around the crowd as the lights in the theater died.
He could imagine it now. The whole damned town of Elston would be
overrun by kids who'd come from miles around to hear the local talent.
The poor shop owners would have to lock up their merchandise for the whole
damned weekend and stare out from behind drawn shades, watching their own
moral town turn into a God damn drug circus. There's be problems with
under-age kids trying to buy beer, probably a few gang fights over a naked
dancing girl. Before the weekend was over the local jail would be full.
But the pushers. Those were the ones he was really after. They had
money and a smooth way of talking that would make any unsuspecting kid
count out his pennies for some dope that would only rot his brain, ruin
his morals. The poor gullible kids, they didn't know any better. They'd
pay ten bucks for an ounce of alfalfa if some fancy talking guy told them
it was the real thing.
Yeah, he'd get them! He'd track them and trail them for the sake of
justice. Then let them see how smart they were. But somebody like Jim
here, he had probably just bought a couple of ounces worth and was selling
one ounce to his buddy. No big deal, just enough to cut his expenses,
like any smart businessman would do. But who was supplying Jim? That was
the crucial point, the reason why he was an undercover cop.
The credits flickered across the movie screen to the background music
of roaring rock n' roll, amidst a cheer of hooting from the front rows of
the theater where the junior high rowdies always sat.
Art felt a light tug at his sleeve and, knowing Kathy wanted to feel
young like ninety-eight percent of the audience, wanted him to slip his
arm around her shoulder like he used to when they first started dating
nine years ago. Compliantly, he crossed his legs and stretched his
sleeved arm around the back of her seat.
Damn! he thought with a twinge of guilt. I just can't seem to get
my mind off of work. But Jesus, when I see a kid selling dope in front of
my nose, what the hell can I do? I can't just ignore it to give Kathy a
little rub on the thigh. What the hell kind of cop would that make me?
Aching for Art to take her in his arms, Kathy let her head fall on
his shoulder. Surely he felt something, too, when they were around all
these young kids, hugging and kissing so openly, not caring who saw them,
just enjoying the freedom of being together. Instinctively, she knew her
husband's attention was riveted on some suspicious looking face, some off-
handed remark, or obscene gesture. Anything that was immoral was also
illegal: that was Art's philosophy, and he never ceased trying to prove it
true.
Would he always be like this, she asked herself. He didn't have to
tell her why he had chosen this particular movie. God knows, the six
o'clock news would have been more entertaining and more their style, but
with silent patience she'd sit through this second rate film and watch
enviously as the couples surrounding them found pleasure in each other's
company, hugging and kissing between chomps of popcorn.
This was Art's mania, his livelihood. It would never be any
different, she thought with resignation. At least he could learn from it,
learn that being young does not necessarily imply vulnerability. These
kids, if her guess was right, knew more about some aspects of life than
Art would learn in fifty years of tracking down crime and watching
gangster movies.
Chapter 2
Two hours and fifteen minutes of watching budding bosoms poking out
from tight tee-shirts only to be leered at by tall, lean boys with broad
hairless chests and taut thighs, racing on motorcycles, drinking beer, and
pawing at each other's bodies like it was merchandise on a sale table, and
Kathy was ready to go home. Listening to the couples in back of her,
their lips smacking and tongues sucking as they sparred and sparked in the
darkness of the movie theater, the auburn-haired wife nudged her husband
in the ribs with her elbow and whispered, "Let's go home, Art."
"But the gang bang hasn't even happened yet," he protested hissing.
". . . And the leader of the gang still has to fight her boy friend."
Kathy smiled flirtatiously. "Let's go home and have our own gang
bang, Art. Huh? What' you say?"
What could he say? All those young kids making-out and carrying on
like there was no tomorrow had affected him, too, Especially that honey-
haired actress with the high, round breasts that she strutted around so
proudly to show off to all the guys who followed her with their tongues
hanging out. Art consoled himself with the fact that she would be gang-
banged in the end . . . although they never really showed that in the
film, only implied it.
But he couldn't protest. He had a damned good looking wife who
wanted to go home and make love.
And good looking she was, too. Long, thick auburn hair that she tied
back with barrets and ribbons, hair that shone yellow and red in the
sunlight . . . flashing blue eyes that cooled the flames of her red
tresses, showed off her peaches and cream complexion. A smattering of
Irish freckles pebbled her nose and cheeks, with just enough color to
catch and hold the sun's tanning rays. The look of health and vivacity
was she, and he couldn't help but smile every time he caught a glimpse of
her in a mirror or shop window.
Feminine too. She spoke in a soft, unobstreperous manner, always
polite but not syrupy to cause suspicion. Delicate was the word, delicate
as fine Irish lace.
She stood erect and proud, yet in a gentle unassuming way that
couldn't help but make you want to run up and throw your arms around her
neck.
"Yeah, hon. We'll go," smirked Art, slipping his arm in his corduroy
jacket.
They silently slipped from the theater just at the climax of the
film. Art took one final peek over his right shoulder before giving up the
fantasy of "No Tomorrow" for real life. He loved movies and he loved
adventure.
The moon was just rising over the sloping hills surrounding the
outskirts of the town when they reached the car parked only a block from
the theater.
Kathy slid in, unlocking her own door, and slithered over to the
middle of the cold plastic seat and rubbed her hand along her husband's
firm thigh, then rested her head on his shoulder.
Ah, she felt young again, like a nineteen year old girl out on a
date, instead of a twenty-eight year old woman going home from a movie
with her husband. To be young, again, she thought with a sigh of nostalgia
for the recklessness of youth.
Well, tonight she just might be a little reckless herself! The movie
combined with the necking behind her had reminded her there was more to
life than washing dishes and reading magazines. Life was to be lived, and
tonight, by God, she was going to live!
Darlingly, she slithered her hand further up her husband's thigh til
it reached the warm vee of his pants, where her fingers explored the
growing bulge in his trousers with ever-increasing lust.
"Hey, baby," cooed Art, his knuckles white as he clutched hard at the
steering wheel. "You're gonna get it tonight, you little devil, you."
With a satisfied grin, she drank in the promising words, hoping that
tonight Art wouldn't get sidetracked by a sudden plotting inspiration or a
telephone call. Tonight would be theirs alone to share.
Art was breathing hard by the time the Dodge Dart pulled into the
driveway of their rented home in the newly constructed patch of tract
homes outside of Elston.
Out of habit that had become a ritual, Kathy got out of the car first
to open the garage door, walked to the door adjoining the garage to the
house, and stepped inside just as the phone burrrhhhhed.
"OH, God, she spat with a hiss, "now what's the matter?" After eight
years she'd learned to detect the different signals from the mere sound of
a telephone ringing. Perhaps it was a parapsychological talent she'd
developed from the necessity of paranoia. The short impatient rings . . .
now more than two or three . . . those were the hasslers. Four or five
meant a neighbor or Art's parents. Any more than that and it signaled
work.
Kathy reached the phone on its seventh ring. She didn't have to
count the rings any more, the sound was imprinted in her brain, indelibly.
"Hello?"
"Yes, he's locking the garage door now. Hold on a minute . . ."
Unavoidably, she knew it was work. Probably some tip on the drug
bust, she guessed. But who could tell? The underground policemen with
whom Art worked seemed to communicate in a secret language that she
couldn't decipher.
Hearing clomping in the hallway, Kathy turned in time to hand Art the
receiver, shooting him a warning glance, silent though loaded with
emotion. Her lips drew into a taut line as she stood in the kitchen
pouring herself a glass of wine, listening to her husband grunt out
answers to the invisible invader of their privacy.
The auburn haired woman kicked off her shoes, and taking her wine
glass with her, padded down the carpeted hallway to their bedroom. Taking
off her light summer jacket, she let it fall on the straight backed chair
in the corner of the blue room. She unzipped the simple cotton dress and
slipped out of it. The soft cotton stroked over her body, sliding over
her smooth, creamy shoulders, onto her full, round breasts, then down to
her smooth, svelty curving buttocks, her voluptuous young thighs, her
smooth slim legs. At last it settled on the floor with a faint sound that
could have been a sigh.
Kathy stepped out of the crumpled pile of blue cotton that lay
puddled on the rug. She pulled the sheer froth of her slip over her head,
and dropped it, too, on the rug. Reaching behind her, she unhooked the
bit of white lace which was her bra, then slipped the straps off her
shoulders; it joined the dress and slip on the floor.
Her flimsy nylon panties came next, followed by first one stocking
and then the other, a garter belt, a pair of low-heeled shoes. The
clothing lay scattered around the room where Kathy opened the bottom
drawer of her bureau where she kept her seldom-worn clothes, most of which
were Christmas presents from Art and a little too daring for her taste,
and pulled out last year's present---a see-through nylon nightie that
graced the wisps of her pubic hair, so short was it.
She pulled it over her head then stood silently, straining to hear if
Art was still on the phone. A muffled voice from the hallway signified he
was, and so she sat herself before the long mirror of her dressing table,
picked up a hair brush and unclasping the brown tortoise-shell barret from
the right side of her head, began her nightly ritual.
Mentally, she counted as the hairbrush stroked her thick wealth of
hair. She stared at herself as she counted, satisfied with what she saw.
But was Art?
Tonight he would be, she grinned salaciously at her mimicking image.
Against her better judgment, she smeared on an extra thick coating of
mascara to make her eyes look even bigger, deeper. That turned on Art,
she knew. After watching that movie with all the intonated but never
consummated sex, all the vibrancy of youthful energy, she wanted to fix
herself at her seductive best, hoping that the allurement of her long-
denied body would calm her jagged nerves. She'd been rather fidgety
lately, jumping at the slightest sound, and she'd chalked it all up to
lack of sex. Those were the symptoms peculiar to her chemistry; after
eight years she'd learned to recognize the signs of abstinence.
With a dab of cotton she dosed herself with the faintest and most
expensive of her perfumes. Art likes to buy me all these sexy things . .
. nighties, panties perfume . . . but I never get a chance to try them out
on him. It all seemed so foolishly wasteful somehow. A tease.
Practicing moving in front of the big mirror, watching the brief hem
of the garment flare over her hips, exposing the tight, hair-fringed slit
of her pussy with every step, Kathy grinned with self confidence.
She slithered out of the bedroom, expecting to see her husband
readying himself for bed. Although it went against the grain of her
gentle nature, she was ready to seduce him . . . shamelessly. Maybe
that's been my problem, she thought. I expect Art to take the initiative,
but he's just too preoccupied. Sometimes a girl has to take things into
her own hands . . . like that blonde girl in the movie.
A vivid vision of Art's long, thick cock sprang into Kathy's mind.
Well, what else could she do?
But instead of getting ready for bed, Kathy saw that Art was still
dressed as he'd been, the only difference being his shirt was unbuttoned
and hanging out of his pants. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a pen
and paper his attention now as he drew what looked like road maps.
Leaning over his shoulder, pressing her warm smooth flesh against his
still clothed body, she leaned over to kiss his neck. Surely that would
do it!
"Oh . . . Kathy," he acknowledged, reaching up to pat her petite hand
with his big one, his eyes never leaving the paper. Art didn't raise his
head, or turn: instead, he clutched her hand and continued drawing.
"What is it?" Kathy asked in a half-whisper, leaning low so that the
sweetness of her perfume would reach his nostrils.
"Map. Think we're closin' in on 'em. This weekend. Gonna happen
this weekend during the rock concert." He pounded his forehead with his
free hand. "Have to figure some way. Oh, Kathy, baby, forgive me, but I
gotta plot this out. You know how I am . . . I can't figure anything out
unless I can see it on paper." Still, he didn't turn his head to see his
half-naked wife, her firm, round breasts bouncing out of the deep V
neckline of her black nightie. Or the naked, damp slit of her pussy fully
exposed. Or the mascara-heavy eyelashes that fluttered in shadows over
her high cheek bones.
"I'll only be a second, hon. Meet you in the bedroom in a minute,"
he conjoled, reaching up to give her hand another pat in another show of
compromise.
Downtrodden, Kathy pouted her way back to the bedroom. Did he always
have to be so damned dedicated? she thought dejectedly. Was his work
really more important than she?
. . . These and other thoughts passed through the luscious redhead's
mind as she lay in bed hopefully awaiting her husband. An hour passed
before she could stand it no more and went looking for him. Then, too,
her wine glass was empty and her throat dry. Art was still at the kitchen
table, his thick fingers running through his thinning hair, a deep furrow
lining his forehead like the epitaph on a tombstone.
"That's just great," she muttered, halfway down the hallway, knowing
there was no use in trying to coax him, no use in trying to show off her
naked body in front of him. It didn't work with Art. Nothing held his
attention except for crime and drugs and prostitution.
She returned to the blue bedroom and turned out all but the pale
night light above the mirror. She lay nearly naked on her side,
contemplating her reflection in the large mirror of her dressing table.
Kathy studied the light yellow image of herself: The full rise of her
wide-set breasts with the deep cleavage between; the way her curvaceous
body swept into an incredibly tiny waist, with only the most gentle,
enticing curve to break the flatness of her smooth-muscled belly; the rich
swell of her hip and ass cheeks and the darker triangle of auburn hair in
the warm, moist vee of her legs; and then the long, perfect sweep of her
legs, one knee slightly higher than the other. Kathy knew that any artist
would give everything to recreate the sensual image that was painted
across the bedroom mirror.
But she was more than a picture. She was warm, flesh and blood
woman, and everybody but her husband seemed to be well aware of that
blatant fact.
The insistent aching in her loins was slowly becoming a smoldering
fire. She had to dampen the flames somehow---and there was only one way,
as much as she hated to do such an obscene thing. She blushed at the very
thought of it. Never, not since she was a sixteen year old curious
female, had she done such a disgraceful thing.
She would use her hand as she'd done that night so long ago. And she
would watch herself rubbing her own cunt in the mirror. Perhaps it was a
retaliatory act to repay Art for his neglected duty. She thought of the
blonde girl in the movie. Would that girl have done the same thing?
Another sip of her red wine, and Kathy was convinced that big bosomed girl
would have done just that.
Sighing with frustration, the nearly naked woman turned on her back
and cupped her ripely mature breasts in her hands, exploringly squeezing
and rolling the pliant flesh, teasing the rising nipples until they were
hard and throbbing, and finding the sensation surprisingly rewarding. Her
breath became more labored, as her searching fingers slowly slid up and
down the warm swells of her smooth, unblemished body. She held back from
contact with her cunt for a long time, until she could feel the warm
fluids begin to flow from her dilating pussy. Then one hand moved through
the soft bush of curling pubic hair, barely touching her moistened cuntal
slit.
''Ooooooohhhhhhhhh!!!!!!" the redhead moaned involuntarily, her rich,
full lips parting with her ever-increasing passion. Her fingers danced
lightly over her aroused pussy, feeling the droplets of cunt juice forming
along the palpitating furrow of her pussy. Her hands moved to the acutely
sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, caressing their ivory-hued
smoothness, and she lightly scraped the velvet skin with her fingernails
as her entire body began to slowly undulate on the bed. She realized that
she hadn't locked the door and that would certainly be embarrassing if Art
walked in on her while she was stretched out on the bed with her hands
between her parted legs. But then, she reconsidered, it just might serve
him right. If he were less of a cop and more of a husband, I wouldn't
have to do this.
To hell with him, thought Kathy defiantly, surprised at her own
acidulous attitude.
Knees raised, her long legs splayed wide, Kathy finally dipped her
fingers into the seething folds of her cunt. Aaahhh! She was wet and
ready . . . ready for a hell of a lot more than just her hand!
Full of yearning, the young wife spread open the soft, swollen
flanges of her cunt, arching her back and thrusting her pelvis toward the
ceiling. She traced the delicate line of her coral-hued pussy lips with
the fingers of her right hand, torturing herself with the maddening touch
of her nails. She sought and found the erect bud of her clitoris and
slowly rubbed the sensitive organ with a circular motion of her thumb
until it throbbed urgently with uncontrollable desire. And then she began
to run her fingers up and down the full length of her cuntal slit, even
into the smooth crease of her tight ass cheeks until her fingertips
brushed across the tiny puckered ring of her anus.
Faster and faster her hand moved, until the copious juices of her
unquenchable passion were flowing from deep in her churning loins, coating
her fingers with a slippery wetness. With a sudden movement, the auburn-
haired wife fucked her middle finger all the way up into the steaming
warmth of her flexing cuntal channel.
"Ooohhh!" the lust incited redhead gasped. Her finger was so small,
when what she wanted most was to be filled to the bursting point with a
blood-engorged male cock! Furiously, she began to fuck the stiffened
digit in and out of her deprived pussy, whimpering with every stroke. One
finger was just not enough. In desperation, she sent another, and still
another finger up into her well-lubricated cunt, stretching her pussy as
wide as her husband's thick cock would have, but not going anywhere near
deep enough into her ravenous pussy to satisfy the prurient fire that was
now raging out of control deep within her too-long-deprived loins.
But what else could Kathy do? Her thumb was hitting her clitoris
with every thrust, bringing her just to the brink, but no further, of a
climactic orgasm. Then she thought of a lewd addition to this shameful
act of self-stimulation, something she had never even thought of doing
before. But her desperate physical need was overshadowing any rational
objection to such a totally depraved act.
Scissoring her long legs and rolling onto her side, Kathy reached
behind herself with her left hand and wantonly split her ass cheeks apart,
exposing the tiny ring of her anus to the cool night air. Then she put
the middle finger of her right hand into her mouth, her tongue swirling
over it, coating its entire length with her saliva. Suddenly she arched
her back and thrust her smoothly rounded buttocks outward, and pressed her
moistened middle finger against her resisting anus.
"Oooohhh!" she gasped as the finger stretched the restraining
sphincter muscle and finally popped into the tight, wet depths of her
rectum. She lay still for a moment, then began to undulate her pelvis in
little circular motions. Having her finger fucked in her anus was a
totally new sensation for the love-starved woman. Relentlessly, she
forced her finger even deeper into her clenching anal hole, working it in
and out until finally the palm of her hand was slapping against her wide-
splayed buttocks. Rocking her pelvis back and forth, she began to screw
more and more savagely into her clasping rectum while her thumb urgently
stroked the tingling bud of her clitoris. "Aaahhh!" Kathy groaned in ever
mounting salacious pleasure.
In the big mirror she could see her hand as a dim blur flashing in
and out of her puckered anus and could feel her nails scraping the
sensitive inner flesh of her cuntal and rectal passages, but the slight
pain only caused her to increase the fury and violence of her manual
fucking. She could feel it building . . . she was cumming!
Abruptly a sea of fire spread like a tidal wave through her quaking
belly, making her inner cunt muscles frantically clench and spurt great
gushes of thick, whitish cum from the contracting lips of her burning hot
cunt down over her fingers and the insides of her thrashing thighs and the
widespread crack of her spasming buttocks. Kathy knew that her orgasmic
fluid would stain the sheets of the bed, but she didn't care as the rich
aroma of her satiated pussy reached her flaring nostrils. She kept both
hands plunging into her straining cunt until she could cum no more without
screaming aloud.
Then, drained and exhausted, she collapsed flat on her back, her hair
making a dark red splash on the rumpled pillows. Kathy raised her head,
took one look at her reddened cheeks, her disheveled hair, and smeared
mascara and started to cry.
OH God! It was wonderful but terrible at the same time.
Bittersweet, as Beaudelaire would have put it. What was happening to her?
How could she have done such a disgraceful thing? She reached for a
Kleenex in the headboard of her marital bed, and dabbed at her eyes,
examining the black streaks on the soiled tissue as if it were the sins of
the past fifteen minutes. Kathy sobbed harder and, pulling back the
coverlet, buried her head in the pillow and pretended she was asleep when
Art finally slipped in beside her.
He reached out to touch her and, getting no encouraging response,
rolled over on his stomach and tried to sleep. The phone call that night
had distressed him, added to his enigmaed mind. Supposedly, a paid
informer had reported that the dealers were bringing in six hundred pounds
of top grade marijuana. How they would get it to its point of
distribution, the informer didn't say . . . or know, though a rented U-
Haul truck was suspected. But the main crux of the dilemma would be
finding that one vehicle among the hundreds that would line the road
outside of the Olson farm that weekend. Another clue: the big time
dealers might use a decoy, something to take the heat off the real
operation, something to slow down the cop's pace. A pigeon . . . a fat
pigeon. Now what could that mean?
Chapter 3
Other than the bowling alley, there was only one place for the minors
of Elston to frequent---a place affectionately called "The Hole." There,
in the secret darkness of the basement below one of the local bars,
teenagers came to shoot pool, smoke cigarettes and make connections for
paying off an older teenager to buy beer for a weekend party. No adults
were allowed in, except for the owner; not that any adults would want to
choke on the smokey air or drink in the musty odors of the damp cement
walls that sponged up the summer rains. No females either, except for the
very loosest, the ones looking for a lay.
Above the two pool tables hung bare light bulbs, attached to the
ceiling where the plumbing pipes criss-crossed and gurgled. That and a
cigarette machine, plus a broken chair that had fallen victim to too many
fights, were the only adornments in the place.
"The Hole" was nearly emptied now except for two young boys, one
tall, lean and blonde; the other with curly dark hair, shorter and
stockier, he was far more animated than his watchful friend.
With the pool cue tucked under his left arm, the tall-boy named Jim
flicked the match head over the zipper of his fly, lit his cigarette, and
watched the legs scissor past the ground level window where lead bars gave
the dimly lit room a prison-like effect.
"Chuck's late," said Jim somewhat nervously, taking a deep puff off
his cigarette and then leaning down to eye the eight ball. The cigarette
dangled from his lips, sending swirls of smoke above his head. This was
one of his first really big deals and he'd made too many plans to have it
crumble now.
"What's the stakes?" Mark wanted to know, smiling at his friend's
sloppy shot, watching the eight ball slip past the striped one and roll
into the pocket.
Jim straightened, his forehead lined with a frown. "Damn it, he
hissed, "I told you never to talk about this in public. Now look what you
made me do."
"Public? What the hell's public about you and me?" He shot his
buddy a questioning look and took another sip off his tepid coca-cola that
sat precariously on the rim of the pool table.
His knuckles whitening, Jim clutched at the pool cue, grinding and
twirling it in slow circles like he was trying to screw it into the floor.
His lips drawn taut, the fuzz on his upper lip glistened yellow under the
naked light bulb. "Man, I told you before that if you're gonna go into
business with me, man, you're gonna have to be cool. Like this is no half
assed job we're tryin' to pull off. This is lots of bread, you
understand? Lots of bread and lots of dope. Got that?"
"Yeah," sputtered Mark with a crooked smile, "if this is such a big
deal and I'm your partner, then why can't you tell me what's goin' on? I
mean I got a right to know." Mark's deep brown eyes pooled into darkness
as he spoke. "How stupid do you think I am? I ain't riskin' my neck for
your trip," he spat in retaliation, recognizing Jim's arrogant bent.
"Okay, okay, okay," conceded Jim, knashing out the barely smoked
cigarette with the heel of his boot. He tried to invision how his father,
a lawyer, would handle this situation. Should he tell Mark the truth,
tell him that there was more involved in this operation than just meeting
someone at "The Hole" and going home to break up the pound? Should he
tell him that they'd planned to abduct the undercover cop's wife and hold
her hostage to keep the heat off while the U-Haul van slipped by with six
hundred pounds of fine-grade marijuana straight from the sun-kissed fields
of Mexico? Could Mark handle it, or would he act like a typical fifteen
year old kid and chicken out?
. . . Like John had done back East and blown Jim's cover, ending up
in his arrest, making his family move half way across the country to leave
the stigma of a bad record behind---just when Jim's father was running for
Senator?
Jim squinted against the darkness, pooched out his lips, his chin
wrinkling as he studied his friend. Shifting his weight from his right
foot to his left, he plunged his hands deep in his levi pockets and stared
hard and long. Drawing a deep breath, his facial muscles relaxed and a
slim, but evident, smile crossed his lips. "Okay, I'll tell you anything
you want to know. You're a big part of this," he conceded, running his
slender fingers that might have belonged to an artist of pianist, through
his baby fine blonde hair. For Jim was only sixteen himself, a curse he'd
have to live with, he realized, until he turned the magic age of eighteen
when he could do anything legally.
"Can you ride a motorcycle?" he stared Mark in the eye.
Mark answered with a shrug of his shoulders. "Yeah, sure. Why?"
Reaching down for the warmed bottle of soda, he clutched at it
tremblingly, then raised it to his lips for one long unsatisfying gulp.
For some ominous reason, he had the hunch that getting involved in
business with Jim wouldn't be such a good idea after all. Instinctively,
he had the feeling that there would be more to this buy than the usual
running through alleyways with a brown bag under one arm and, meeting in
his father's garage at two o'clock in the morning to break up the pound.
An astute judge of character, Jim reached out to rest his calming
hand on Mark's shoulder. Mark was uptight, that was obvious. But then,
didn't every bank robber, every smuggler get nervous when they faced the
law? Wasn't that what made them act intuitively, do things they never
could have done under normal situations? Yes, Mark could handle it. All
he needed was a little breaking in, that was all.
"Here's the scoop, partner. You know how much we're figurin' on
getting' out of this deal with Chuck?" Jim grinned crookedly.
Mark shook his head, a vacuuous look in his dark liquid eyes.
"Ten pounds," he enunciated meticulously. "A big one zero, kid."
Mark's eyes saucered and Jim watched his friend's Adam apple rise up
to chin and fall abruptly in a gulp of shock.
"Yeah," Jim smacked his lips, nodding his head. "You know what that
means?"
"Yeah, that means if we get busted we get sent to juvie for the rest
of our lives . . . no women, no music . . ." His voice cracked and he
tried to pull away from Jim's grip. "I don't want no part of it, Jim.
It's too big, too much."
"Hey, come on Mark," purred Jim solicitously. "You gotta think big,
man! You know what we can do with all that money?"
He leaned down, resting both hands on his partner's broad shoulders,
his face inches away from Mark's, close enough so that Mark could count
his blemishes. "We invest it back in our business. Christ, if we keep
multiplying our investments, man, we're gonna be ownin' our own smuggling
planes by the time we count eighteen candles on our birthday cakes. You
hear me, man?"
Resignedly, Mark lowered his head. Jim was right. But still there
was something fishy about it; it was too easy, too simple. Life just
wasn't like that, according to what he'd heard from his father, and he
trusted his father. He'd worked hard his whole life, did things in small
measures, never risking more than he could lose, and they'd gotten along
okay in life. Was this necessary? . . . Putting all the eggs in one
basket . . . was that really such a good idea?
But Jim was too convincing, too conniving, too much like his lawyer
father whom everybody in Elston knew was a wheeler-dealer from the East.
Talk was he'd planned on running for the Senate but moved out here to the
Midwest for some suspicion-provoking reason.
"Look, all you gotta do is drive a motorcycle . . . simple as that."
Jim raised his hands from Mark's shoulders, stepping back to gesture with
his delicate hands that had obviously never seen a day's work of mowing
lawns or emptying garbage. Mark noticed then for the first time now as he
watched his partner's gestures and mannerisms with measured concern.
"Yeah, well what do I do with that motorcycle? Where do I go?"
"Hey, you'll like this . . ." Oh, oh, thought Mark. He's sounding
too sweet again: I have a feeling I'm gonna be doing the dirty work . . ."
You know what you do? You go pick up a lady, a very pretty lady."
"Who?" Mark's mouth ovalled, and he stared hard at his blonde friend.
"Art's wife . . ."
"Art's wife? Are you crazy man? Art's that undercover cop, ain't
he? The one who's always lookin' like he's gonna punch somebody out?"
Mark thrust his hands deep in his levi pockets, and studied the cigarette
butt-dirty cement floor, eyeing the sordid "Hole" where he'd first met and
gotten involved with Jim. He remembered with regret, how innocent he'd
been until he met Jim. Suddenly he wished he were back there again,
watching television with his parents, eating popcorn, studying his Sunday
School lesson. He swallowed hard, recalling a saying his mother had
always chimed when he made a wish that couldn't come true: 'If wishes were
horses, the beggars could ride.' It had always seemed foolish and
nonsensical, but now he was beginning to understand the wisdom of those
words.
"Art's wife, huh?" he repeated staring down at the floor, scraping
the toe of his boot in circles around a crumpled butt.
"You pick her up and take her for a ride, that's all. That's all you
have to do for five pounds of dope---free." Jim snickered and shrugged his
shoulders. "From there you take her to a place that's safe and then
Robert will be there to take care of her."
Still no positive response came from Mark.
"Look, man, if you don't want to do it, I can find a lot of other
guys who'd pick up that offer in a second." Jim snapped his fingers, the
sound cutting through the smoke-filled room like the sound of thunder.
Both heads raised and the words hung in the air as the sound of heavy
boots clomping down the steps stung through both of them. Had someone
been listening? Jim had heard their paid informers floating around town,
but, of course he didn't tell Mark that.
A slow, long exhalation of relief cooled the room when Chuck, the
owner of the bar overhead, stooped through the doorway.
There was no changing his mind now, realized Mark, almost with a sigh
of relief. At least now the decision was not his; he'd been forced into
it, he told himself.
* * *
At eight-fifteen the next morning, Art was alert and sitting at his
desk at the police department in the county seat fifteen miles from
Elston, across the street from Juvenile Hall. He took a bitter sip of the
acrid black coffee, swearing to the gods above that he'd never buy coffee
out of a vending machine again, and leaned back on the legs of the chair.
With a grunt and a wince, he pushed the coffee to the side of his desk,
its sloshing liquid polluting the desk mat. An acidulous belch, and he
was back on all four legs of the chair. Grunting, he pulled open the top
drawer of his marred wooden desk and rummaged amongst the unsharpened
pencils and paper clips for his Rolaids. All he could find was a dirty,
crumpled up empty wrapper.
Damn, nothing was going right. He shook his head and crossed his
arms over his chest, in defeat. Jesus H. Christ, he thought, when is the
last time things went smoothly. Rubbing his forehead with his massaging
fingertips, he thought it might have been a couple weeks back . . . what
was wrong? He always felt jumpy, nervous, twitchy. Like he had too much
energy. But why was he tired and tense all the time?
A fleeting image of Kathy lying in bed dressed in the black nightie
she'd blushed so shyly over when he first gave it to her . . . and the
movie . . . she'd wanted to go home. What was it she'd said? 'Let's go
home and have our own gang-bang!' Sex . . . that was it. He hadn't had
enough lately. Well, damnit, it was his own fault, he realized. Probably
was the cause of the heartburn that had been eating away at him lately,
too.
It struck him like a bolt of lightning against a rotting tree trunk.
Kathy . . . he'd been neglecting her lately. Christ, she never
complained, never said anything. What a wife! Art shook his head in
self-deprecation. And what a lousy husband he'd been lately!
Self-recriminatingly, he remembered how when they'd moved into their
rented house he'd promised to till the postage-stamp sized garden. Kathy
loved roses and had always wanted a rose garden. That was it! He'd hire
somebody to go out there and plant her a garden. Hot damn, Voltaire's
Penteguel couldn't have done any better!
He grabbed at the telephone directory, flipping through the yellow
pages. "Gardeners, gardeners," he chanted to himself trying to remember
the name of the horticulturist who lived across the street from them
called his business. Tracing his fingernail down the listings, he found
it, called it, and made arrangements for a young man to come out that
afternoon to start tilling the garden.
Fifteen miles away, Kathy awoke to see the sun filtering through the
lace of the curtains to form a bright pattern on the pale blue walls of
the bedroom. She yawned, realizing she'd over slept again, sat up and
stretched. It was good to be alive, she thought. It was good to have
slept well, to awake refreshed, despite the tormenting feelings she'd
fallen asleep with; but her dreams had cleansed her, she thought
thankfully. Now, in the warmth of the sun and the cheerful light of day
they seemed ridiculous, those guilty feelings last night. In fact, she
realized with a grin, she felt much better for having satisfied herself.
She got up and slipped on a sundress that was discreet yet managed to
set off the delicious curving slope of her firm round buttocks, her firm
thighs and slim, tapering legs. The lipstick she painted on with such
care matched the pink dress, making her pink cheeks shine with vibrancy.
She ran a comb through her hair and dusted her nose with powder before she
went to the kitchen to turn on the heat under the tea kettle. Today,
instant coffee would do just fine. It was one of those rosey days when
she expected little and wanted nothing. Life was rich.
Hearing a slap against the side of the house, she went to the kitchen
door to retrieve the morning's newspaper. With unerring accuracy, the
newspaper boy, as usual, had managed to heave it too far to left and it
had landed in the hedge. One day, she thought stooping down and leaning
over the hedge to retrieve it from the prickly brambles, I'm going to
catch that little brat . . .
The phone rang as her fingertips were scraping at the folded edge of
the paper, like a cat scratching in a litter box. With a feminine grunt,
she leaned over further and, in her careless haste, caught and tore a
fingernail. "Ohhh," she spat, deciding there was nothing but local gossip
in the newspaper anyway. She pivoted and ran up the cement steps, letting
the door slam shut behind her. Kathy caught the-phone on the fifth ring.
"H-hello!" she breathed, examining the damage on her index
fingernail.
"Kathy . . . your lover boy here," Art paused, waiting for her giggle
of recognition. None came.
"Oh, hello Art." Her voice was calm and smooth as butter.
"Got a surprise coming for you today, baby. Oh, boy, you're gonna
love your little Artie when you find out what it is . . . But don't ask,"
he cautioned hastily. "It's gonna be a surprise, a downright shock to
your system, you sexy little thing you. I can only tell you one thing.
There's gonna be a young man coming to your door. Give him whatever he
wants . . ."
"Art!" giggled Kathy with renewed interest. "What is this?"
"Just do as I say, honey. Just remember, give him anything he
needs."
"Art, what are you talking about . . ."
He cut her off short. "Gotta go now, doll. Got some work to do.
Buddy just came in and we gotta do some scouting. Oh, and I might be late
tonight. That rock concert starts tomorrow, you know."
She blew a kiss over the phone, the same as she'd done for the past
eight years. Gingerly, she set the receiver back on its cradle, chewing
on her lower lip with expectancy. Now just what did he mean? She put her
finger on her lip and stared out the window, watching as a boy on a
motorcycle pulled up in front of her house.
Today was full of surprises!
The tea kettle sang a high pitched tune, drawing her out of her
reverie. Standing on her tiptoes, cursing Art for always putting
everything up on the top shelf of the cupboard where it was convenient for
him, but injurious to her arches, she grabbed at the jar of instant
coffee.
Outside, Mark pulled up on a rented Honda 350, struggled with the
kick stand, and wiped his forehead beaded with sweat as he slipped the key
in his pocket. Clumsily, he faltered a moment, unable to remember if
Chuck had instructed him to turn it off or leave it running. Oh Christ,
but did it matter? When you were abducting, kidnapping a woman did it
matter if you turned off a motorcycle? None of it made sense, but he
guessed it had something to do with raising suspicion. He took a deep
breath, straightened his shoulders and headed for the front door of the
one story clapboard building, studying the overgrown lawn and brambly
hedge, thinking it was strange that someone as particular as a cop would
let his house look so sloppy. But then, reasoned the lad, no one was
supposed to know he was a cop.
What a joke! Jim and the rest of the kids had had Art pegged the
first time they set eyes on him, with his stiff white shirt and black
wing-tipped shoes. And going to all the movies the junior high kids went
to. God, he'd even seen Art in the malt shop after school, sitting there
sipping at a soda, pretending to be reading the Wall Street Journal while
he peeked over the top of his folded paper, sometimes holding it upside
down. How could a blunderer like Art have a wife as pretty as his?
He would soon find out, he thought with a very real pain in the pit
of his stomach. Mark swallowed dryly and walked up the cement steps that
seemed to be endless, like a condemned man walking the deathly stretch
from his jail cell to the gas chamber.
Suddenly a thousand questions and insecurities crashed down on him
like a mountain waterfall, flooding his cheeks with the rising guilt of
his actions. 'Five pounds, five pounds,' chanted voicelessly inside his
head, giving him the courage to raise a quavering finger to press the
doorbell. As he watched a demure, petite-sized woman wipe her hands on
her apron and head toward the open screen door, a smile on her face like
she was expecting him, he was frozen with stage fright. He'd expected a
snarl, a door slammed in his face, an angry dog ready to spring at his
throat, but never, never this!
Before he had time to introduce himself, the door was opened to him,
and the auburn-haired housewife had stepped aside, allowing her guest
entrance and encouraging him with a swift motion of her hand.
"Hello," she said gaily. "My name is Kathy . . . and you're . . ."
"Ah, Mark . . . I mean Martin," he stammered, flushing crimson.
Christ, she was so agreeable, so pretty and so young. Maybe he had the
wrong address.
"Well, Martin, I guess we have a big day ahead of us, don't we?"
Kathy motioned for the boy to follow her into the kitchen. "I was just
having my coffee, I hope that doesn't hold you up. Is there anything I
can get you? Do you need anything?" she asked, looking at him with all
the sweetness she could muster, hoping his answer might shed some light on
the mysterious surprise Art had promised.
"No, no, nothing, thank you."
Kathy watched her young guest studying the pattern of the tile only
now and then raising her head long enough to look at her questioningly;
when she countered his deep glance with her own penetrating blue eyes, he
averted her eyes immediately. He seems awfully young; I wonder if he
works. Ah, ha! Maybe he's here to cut the grass and trim the hedges; God
knows they need it. But she decided not to press the point, she didn't
want to ruin Art's surprise.
"Well, I know you've come here for a surprise . . . that's what Art
said," smiled Kathy, sipping on her coffee, wrinkling up her nose.
"Huh?" Mark asked dumbly. What is going on here? he wondered. She
acts like she was expecting me! Jesus, what the hell am I so uptight
about? I think I could tell her to take off her clothes right here and
she'd start stripping. Boy, this is weird, too weird. Gotta get out of
here.
"Mrs. . . . ah," all he could think of to call her was Mrs. Art.
Nobody knew Art's last name.
"Kathy, please call me Kathy, Martin," she half whispered, swallowing
the last of her coffee and rising from her chair.
"Kathy . . . are you ready to go now?" he asked hesitantly, waiting
for her protesting resistance; that's the way it always happened on the
FBI. She was supposed to fight and scratch.
She shot him a pleasant grin and reached behind her back to untie her
apron strings, while Mark stared at her dumbfoundedly. "Be with you in a
second." He watched her dart off down the hallway, listening to the
light-footed pad, pad, pad of her footsteps smacking against the hallway
carpet. She returned fifteen seconds later with her handbag. "All set,
Mark . . ."
Before reaching the front door, she turned. "Can you tell me where
we're going, Martin? Or is it a surprise?" she asked gaily.
"Ah, it's a surprise," he smirked, walking slowly so that the
handcuffs in his belt pouch didn't rattle or arouse suspicion in the
inordinately agreeable woman.
"Oh!" burst Kathy, clasping her hands together and staring at the
motorcycle with a giggle. "Don't tell me we're going on that! Wouldn't
you rather take my car?" She pointed to the garage. "It's just like in
the movie last night, I mean . . . well," she suddenly felt embarrassed,
too much like a young girl, almost vulnerable. But Art's words, 'Give him
anything he wants,' halted those suspicions, shot them down like a row of
moving ducks in a shooting gallery.
"You just wait while I turn this thing around, Kathy," he gulped,
thinking for the first time that he'd have to drive through her
neighborhood. God, what if somebody should see them? He only prayed she
wouldn't start screaming or trying to jump off the bike or anything dumb
like that. 'Five pounds,' he assured himself, and turned the key in the
ignition to kick off the motor. Why the hell a motorcycle? he questioned
again. Why not a car? Why Art's wife?
"Okay, jump on," he commanded as imperiously as a fifteen year old's
cracking voice could sound.
Giggling, and feeling more like the buxom blonde teenager in last
night's movie than a twenty eight year old housewife, Kathy swung her
right leg over the high padded seat, surprised at her own agility.
"Hang on around my stomach," called Mark over his shoulder as the
bike ground its way in first gear out of the paved driveway and sped up to
second as it roared down the winding neighborhood streets. At the end of
the block, Mark stopped at the stop sign, letting a pick-up truck, with
"Harvey's Horticulture" printed in sprawling green letters on a white
background, pass by in front of him. He shivered and looked the other way
as the driver stuck his head out the window and called and waved hello to
his hostage. Biting into his lower lip, Mark felt cold chills running up
and down his aching spine.
Witness number one, coming up, he thought, his nostrils flaring with
the realization of what he was involved in. Hostage . . . kidnap . . .
juvie . . . five pounds . . . Christ, if he got caught he'd spend the rest
of his teenage years behind bars. What different would five pounds make
then?
Behind him, Kathy smiled at the sunshine. Oh, Art was quite a master
at surprise when he put his mind to it. He wasn't as dull and dedicated
as he seemed. She stared at the shirted back that rippled in the summer
wind, tempted to rest her head against the youth's firm, athletic body.
And where was this young, good looking boy with the deep brown eyes taking
her? He was going to take her for a ride . . . maybe to meet Art
somewhere and they'd go have lunch under a weeping willow tree. This boy
was probably another paid informer, an undercover cop who was learning the
ropes at an early age. Maybe he'd even spent a little time in Juvenile
Hall, long enough to realize the only way to get out was by cooperating,
and now here he was, a young policeman himself. What else could he be?
She closed her eyes, feeling the sensual warm summer winds blow her hair
in swirls around her head. Oh, but it felt good. She wanted it to last
forever.
The suspense grew, and suddenly she just had to know. "Where are we
going?" she screamed till the tendons in her neck stood out like telephone
cords.
"Just for a ride!" he called back, changing lanes to allow a delivery
truck to pass by.
Mark headed for the outskirts of town, taking the side streets and
alleyways, winding and turning, just when Kathy thought she knew where
they were headed. It wasn't until they passed the high school, which
marked the boundary line of the village limits, that Kathy became alarmed.
After that, she knew, there was nothing but farming lands and empty space.
Too much empty space.
"Where are we going, Mark?" she called out against the slapping
winds, and she pulled a strand of auburn hair that clung to her eyelashes.
Her voice had lost its sweet patience, to be replaced by a high, shrill
call of alarm.
They were leaving the town behind and the houses were far apart now.
Kathy s hands were clammy. there was a sinking feeling at the pit of her
stomach and little fingers of fear began to claw at her. Something was
wrong, something was terribly wrong. The police department where Art
housed his office was on the other side of Elston.
Controlling herself, Kathy shouted again this time at the top of her
lungs, "Mark! Will you please tell me where we're going?" She clawed at
his stomach, her tiny fists pulling at his shirt.
He didn't turn or speak.
Kathy clawed at him again. Where was he taking her? Kathy closed
her eyes for a few seconds, it seemed an eternity. Behind her closed
lids, the sunshine blinded her with red flashes. She took a deep breath
fighting back the growing fear that had begun to gnaw at her. There had
to be some reason for this; Art had said to give him what he wanted . . .
but he never said that person's name would be Mark, or that he would be
riding a motorcycle.
Clinging to his shirt with one clenched and desperate fist, Kathy
released the other hand to pound the boy's back. The motorcycle lurched
swerving to the right.
Jesus Christ, cringed Mark she's getting violent! He slowed the
bike, reaching into his pouch at the same time to draw out the tinkling
hand cuffs. In one simultaneous motion, he stopped the bike, supporting
it with his strong athletic legs, and clamped the handcuffs over her tiny
wrists.
"You beast! You little brat! What are you doing to me?" Kathy
bellowed.
He had her now. No way could she jump off the bike without killing
both of them; she was handcuffed to him and the only way she could escape
was by pulling her hands over the top of his head---an impossible feat.
She began to tremble. She was shivering with cold, despite the warm
breeze, yet her forehead was covered with beads of perspiration. The fear
that had only flickered before settled, lead like at the very center of
her being and ached there.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry, her lips parched.
Futilely she ran her tongue over them. Above the roar of the motorcycle's
motor, she could hear the beat of her heart.
They traveled on, endlessly taking dirt roads Kathy had yet to
explore. The bike reared and roared like a lion in heat, jumping over
rocks and eating up the dirt, spewing it out in a fine dust behind them.
How long that journey took, she had no idea. Time had stopped her
emotions had stopped, but her faith held strong.
Art . . . Art wouldn't let this happen to her. This was a trick,
some kind of stupid joke. All the gangster movies and cops shows on
television flickered in one dying second in her mind's eye. Those were
all brutal, ugly people with scars and missing teeth. She studied the
plaid shirted back of the fifteen year old boy who'd hand cuffed her to
his body. This was but a boy! An innocent looking young boy. My God, he
was probably still a virgin and hadn't even tasted the joys of sex yet!
What had she to worry about?
They churned and ground on to the crest of the hill that over looked
a wide valley below. A dilapidated, weathered cabin sat nestled in a
grove of oak trees, looking as if it might have been a summer home at one
time. Honey suckle, birch trees, and Dutchman's Breeches scattered the
wooded grounds, in a primeval, innocent setting.
The motorcycle ground to a halt, serving as a signal to the others
who popped out from behind trees, peeking their heads out of the broken
windows of the cabin.
A loud cheer rose in the stillness of the forest. Triumphantly, Mark
raised his hands spreading his two fingers in the sign of victory.
He was one step closer to five pounds of marijuana. He'd earned his
share, and it would high sailing from now on!
Chapter 4
Dodging her flailing arms and legs, ignoring the tiny fists that
pounded and beat with a steady staccato rhythm at their shoulders, arms,
and chest, the three young boys carried the screaming policeman's wife to
the one-room cabin. Jim took command of 'Operation Wife Bait,' as he
called it.
"All right, you guys," he commanded with a jerk of his blonde head,
"Clear off that mattress and put down a blanket. We're gonna keep our
little pigeon here as comfortable as possible." He stood with his hands
on his lithe hips, his delicate features angling severely as he spat out
the orders.
Kathy stared at him, a bewildered expression clouding her otherwise
sharp features. "What are you doing?" she asked softly, trying to appeal
to his sense of better judgment. "Her arms ached from the handcuffs and
her wrist burned in the vise-like grip of the steel bands. Confusedly,
she stared down at the handcuffs, raising her wrists to eye level. "What
do you want of me? I-I don't understand? You're all so young! You
should be out playing football or chasing girls, not kidnapping a twenty-
eight year old married woman."
Suddenly the fear she'd felt riding the motorcycle rushed back to
clutch at her, sending a shiver and chill through her whole body. She
shuddered her shoulders trembling. It was so ridiculous, funny almost.
It seemed like an eternity since she'd gotten up that morning drank her
coffee, retrieved the newspaper from its brambled burial ground---all her
routine, day-to-day activities that kept her alive, identified her as
Kathy McGuire wife of Art McGuire.
Now, somehow, that had all been swept away from her, like driftwood
carried away from the shoreline by an ebbing tide. She stared down at the
prim pink sundress she wore; it was as if she had never seen it before.
The sandals, too, the pink toe nails---they all belonged to another person
someone foreign but certainly not Kathy McGuire.
She stared again at Jim, her own blue eyes penetrating his cold,
steely ones. A cry of pure terror welled up in her throat, only to be
strangled there. He was about fifteen years old she guessed, but a glint
in his eyes told her that his experience was more than that. This boy,
this delicate featured boy, with his aristocratic hands and acqueline nose
looked like a young czar, a prince . . . a militant boy in command. With
his erect posture and thrown-back shoulders, he carried a presence about
him not to be denied, Kathy could tell by the way the other boys were
waiting, staring mesmerically at their blonde haired friend, that he was
the leader, indisputably. But he was so young! He hadn't even started
shaving yet!
"Okay, take off her handcuffs!" boomed Jim, turning to point to Mark,
who started fumbling in his pockets, pulling out the lining so the key
could rattle free. Jim grimaced, but bent to pick it up. "Be more
careful next time," he warned, handing the key to Mark then indicating
with a jerk of his head in Kathy's direction.
Her hands free, Kathy shook her wrists, trying to get the circulation
back in her favor. Like lead, her wrists felt heavy and weak; she rubbed
them with her fingertips.
"Jim, how we gonna keep her from runnin' away?" Robert wanted to
know, watching the cop's beautiful wife massaging her own flesh.
"Running away?" Kathy wrinkled up her nose, eyeing the door. Maybe
she should try to run, but in her heeled sandals she'd be no match for
this fifteen year-old sprinter. "What do you want of me?" she asked for
the hundredth time. "Please, if it's money you want, I'd be happy to pay
you. That's all I can offer you."
"That's what you think!" countered Jim, with a salacious grin,
running his tongue over his lips. "Yeah," he said with a careless ease,
"I think she's gonna serve our purposes just right. Your ol' man is gonna
be pretty busy keepin' his eye on all the bare-breasted chicks chasin'
after the dopers," he guffawed. "You think he cares enough about you to
come looking for you?"
"Of course he does!" spat Kathy with a defiant jerk of her head, to
spring her thick hair loose of her forehead. "He'll find you kids all
right. And don't go making any slurring remarks about Art. He's a darned
good husband," she pouted, her lips in a tight line as she glared back at
her young captor.
"Listen, by the time he finds you, the marijuana is gonna be hidden
away, tighter'n a drum. He'll never find it."
The room was silent, except for a mouse scratching its way free of a
rumple of newspaper, yellow and water smeared. Mark and Robert stared at
each other, waiting, wondering who would be the victor in this test of
mental stamina.
"Okay, boys, ready for step number two of 'Operation Wife Bait?'" On
Signal, Robert opened a suitcase and drew out the rope.
"What . . . are you boys going to do to me?" chanted Kathy, watching
with saucered eyes as the young freckle-faced boy approached her, all the
while testing the strength of the rope, jerking it hard. Satisfied, he
handed it to Jim, then stepped back and waited for the next command.
"Now why don't you just have a seat down here on the bed," said the
fifteen year old leader sweetly, with innocence.
"No!"
"I said get on the bed!" screamed Jim, pointing with his delicate
index finger. "You get this straight now, you bitch! I am the leader
here, and you follow my orders. Is that clear?" He might have been a
Sergeant in the Army, or a Captain in the Navy judging from the way he
ordered and commanded, with no protests.
Staring him in the eye, wondering what kind of child monster he was,
Kathy obeyed, sitting down on the bed, her eyes never leaving the steely
gray orbs that belonged to her captor.
"Okay, boys, now get the whiskey."
"No!" she screamed again, kicking her heels into the dusty rotting
floor, making a hole in the weathered wood. She leaned back on her hands
and screamed as a hand flew over her mouth, and she yelled, "Nooooo!" And
then the neck of a foul-smelling bottle was forced into her mouth,
bruising her lips; she gagged on some of the burning liquid and felt it
searing its way all the way down her throat and stomach. The bottle was
pulled from her mouth, and Kathy fought for her breath almost gagging and
vomiting as the raw whiskey hit her empty stomach and sensitive nervous
system all at once. She opened her mouth to speak again and the neck of
the bottle was brutally rammed into her mouth. Again the fiery liquid
gurgled down the back of her throat and tears came to her eyes as she
choked.
"Get the grass!" Jim commanded, and everyone laughed. For the first
time, Kathy smelled an odor in the air, an odor she had never smelled
before. So that's what it was that made these boys, these innocent little
boys act like they were grown up criminals with heats of steel! She'd
read Art's manuals on the detection and behavior of drug influence, and
words like 'paranoia,' 'fantasy,' and 'schizophrenia' had never been real,
until now. It explained their behavior.
Choking, gagging, her breasts heaving for breath, they continued to
force feed her, the whiskey spilling over her chin and neck and soaking
the flimsy material of her cotton sundress so that it clung to her flesh
and revealed her deliciously full breasts. She struggled feebly, unable
to focus her fear, forgetting to cry out as she felt every nerve in her
body tingling and a wildly soothing feeling coming over her brain. She
even managed a wry smile, figuring she would soon be able to talk the
children out of this stupid prank.
Her reasoning was further confused as Jim knelt over her with a
lighted cigarette in his hand. He forced it between Kathy's lips.
"Suck!" he ordered.
"Yeah, suck!" said one of the boys. Jim stared hard at Robert who
had caused the outburst and frowned, letting the blushing boy know there
was one and only one leader of this gang.
Kathy obediently took a drag on the cigarette, feeling the smoke to
be heavily pungent and sickly sweet. She blew the smoke out.
"Hold your breath!" someone said. Was that brutal voice really a
fifteen year old's?
She turned and tried to see who was speaking but couldn't focus her
eyes. The rough, brown papered cigarette was forced on her again. This
time it was Mark, crouching near her. "Take a drag and hold in your
breath."
She obeyed as if she were a little child, dutifully inhaling the
smoke of the strange cigarette and holding her breath until she started to
choke. Time seemed to stand still, or had it disappeared entirely? She
couldn't tell; nor could she remember how many times she'd taken a drag
off the funny looking cigarette. Actually, it was a second joint! She
had smoked the first one completely and forgotten about it, just as she
had forgotten that these young boys hovering around her, were her enemies,
her captors. There was a lot she had forgotten . . . Art, and how she
had gotten to this God forsaken beaten up old building out in the middle
of nowhere. She stared up at the ceiling, lying voluntarily supine,
watching a spider swing and play on its freshly woven web. Pointing, she
burst out laughing. The strangest, most ordinary things seemed terribly
funny.
It was humorous the way these three young boys crowded around her on
the dirty, tattered mattress, staring at her like she was something from
outer space, not part of their world, but something foreign and enticing.
There rapt attention made her feel invincible, as if she had powers no one
else possessed.
The world was transformed for Kathy. Robert held out the whiskey
bottle and she took it, happily gurgling on the acid taste. A warm glow
surged through her body as if her very flesh were melting into a pool of
butter; Kathy closed her eyes, a kaleidoscopic show of fireworks flashing
in back of her eyelids. The muscles in her legs relaxed and without her
knowledge her propped up legs fell limply, her skirt inching up to mind-
thigh with the fall.
Bathed in the afternoon sun with the mice scratching at the mattress,
teething out chunks of cotton to line their nests in the floor boards of
the old cabin, and the spiders silently weaving their webs of destruction,
Kathy slumbered.
* * *
Art flicked his wrist, checking his Acutron watch for the tenth time.
He smiled: Four-thirty. The gardener certainly would have been there by
now, probably was out in the back yard, his forehead beaded with sweat,
his shirt tied around his naked waist as he ran the tiller up an; down the
sandy rows, chomping up earth worms and lurching on rocks. And Kathy . .
. she would be sitting on the back steps, her apron demurely pulled over
her knees, watching, dreaming of her rose garden. Would she plant
American Beauties? Golden Yellow? She'd be thinking of him now, praising
the good Lord for giving her such a fine husband as he, waiting for him to
come home. Maybe she'd make pot roast, his favorite, with just enough
celery for flavoring . . . not too much . . . he hated celery it was
always stringy and stuck in his teeth. After dinner he'd have a shot of
cognac in a snifter and they'd sit in the darkened living room listening
to some soft music . . . Guy Lombardo or Andre Previn . . . she'd sit on
his knee, wearing that sexy black nightie he'd given her for Christmas
last year---the one she never wore, was too embarrassed to try on in front
of him until last night . . .
OH, God, last night. He hoped it wouldn't be too late to make up for
last night!
Buddy, his partner, jolted him out of his reverie.
"Hey, come on Art. This is no time for day dreaming. We've got a
hell of a lot of scouting to do. Latest word is that they're bringin' it
in in a U-Haul truck trailer." He tugged at Art's sleeve.
"Hold it!" Art held up his hand. "Just let me give the little woman
a call . . . let her know she oughta keep the bed warm tonight."
"I'll be out in the car," called Buddy, pulling the bill of his
baseball hat down over his eyes, letting the door of the phone booth slide
shut.
Impatiently, Art played with the change in his pocket, counting the
rings, finally hanging up on the tenth one. Oh hell, she was probably out
telling Helen, Bill's wife, about what a fine job her husband had done on
her garden. Yeah, that's where she was; he couldn't expect her to stay
home all the time.
Chapter 5
Jim sat cross-legged staring at Kathy's sleeping form. God, but she
was a pretty woman, so mature, yet soft and firm. Not at all like his own
mother who always had a hard look about her from all the make up she wore
to cover up her age lines. Just looking at Art's wife was making his
balls ache and his stubby young cock stiffen and jerk inside his pants.
Especially the way she was lying now, since Mark and Robert and he had
taken off all but her undergarments while she slumbered on. He watched
the moonlight slithering through the cracked open window, listened to the
crickets chirping outside as he studied her magnificently rounded breasts
just bursting out of the wisp of her white lace bra that set off their
snowy whiteness, the soft pink flesh of her beautifully curved thighs
displayed to him below the slip that had ridden up practically to her
waist. Best of all was the glimpse he was getting of the narrow crotch
band of soft white nylon between the limply open legs that had parted
slightly in her sleep. God, it didn't even cover completely her pink
little pussy, and Jim stared with lewd pleasure at the thin red patch of
pubic fleece there.
"Twenty-eight years old," Jim ovalled the words with incredulity.
She was breath taking, had a far better body than lots of the fourteen and
even sixteen year old girls he'd been fucking. He grinned to himself and
then at Mark and Robert who slumped against the wall, their heads fallen
to the sides as they snored. Legs stretched out straight in front of
them, they looked like two drunken soldiers with the empty whiskey bottles
separating their bodies.
The leader of the gang riveted his hungry eyes on the sleeping woman,
feeling a dull pounding ache coursing the length of his stubby young cock.
God, but he'd like to have it up in her right now, fuck it deep inside her
time after time as she moaned and thrashed and bucked under him. And
begged or more, too, just like Lydia had. By God, that would he half the
fun, to hear this red-headed cop's wife begging him, Jim, for more!
Wouldn't that chap Art's ass!
Kathy stirred and opened her eyes. She wasn't sure of where she was
at first, or who was sitting there in the middle of the room. With an
angry gesture, she pulled her slip down over her naked thighs, then shot a
withering look at Jim. "Do you have to stare at me? What would what your
mother think if she knew you were staring at woman her age? Aren't you
ashamed of yourself?" She raised up on her elbows, spitting out the words
like a snake's venom.
"Must I remind you, Mrs. McGuire, that you're out here in the middle
of the woods . . . no husband, no cops, nothing but me and my buddies.
What I say goes!" He pointed to his chest, enunciating the words with
care.
"This is ridiculous. You're . . . you're a little monster, one of
those possessed children!" she screamed.
"Listen, lady, you better get used to it because I'm about ready to
possess you."
"What a joke!" she countered, with an angry chuckle.
With that, Jim's hand shot out, as he lurched for the mattress,
falling by her side. In the same grasp, he seized her fragile nylon
panties and her slip, ripping the clothes from her, letting them fall to
the floor. His hand shot out a second time; this time to tear the frail
fabric of her bra from her, letting them fall to the floor. His hand shot
out a across the room.
"Is that a joke?" he demanded, his voice cracking.
Kathy was too frozen to move. Mesmerized, she watched him struggle
out of his own clothes. His shirt came first, joining Kathy's bra in the
middle of the floor. Quickly, deftly, he unbuckled his belt, then
unzipped his levis, easing them and his cotton undershorts down over his
lithe hips. His tubby, fuzz-nested, cock sprang free, stiff as a pole,
its swollen head oozing droplets of excited lubricating fluid. Kathy
gasped in horror. Dear Lord! He was going to rape-fuck her! A young boy
like this, barely out of diapers was going to shove his slender young cock
up into her twenty-eight year old pussy! He couldn't. It was lewd, a
moral sin, a mental sin, a degradation! What would Art say? He'd cry,
he'd tear out his hair . . . what he had left of it . . . he'd die! This
was the boy, the poor duped soul he was trying to save from himself.
Jim followed her glance downward as she lay, mesmerized by his
jutting young cock. "What's the matter? Don't you think it can do the
job?"
Kathy stiffened as Jim's hand slid down over her stomach to the
gentle mound of her pelvis, then slipped between her legs to crawl with
lust-provoking slowness along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
That's what he'd done with Lydia, and it worked.
Kathy gasped, trying to free herself from his lecherous, stroking
fingers; even so, a tiny warming spark of unwanted pleasure burst forth in
between her legs. Oh God! What if Art should find out? Huge wet tears
rose to her eyes and cascaded down her face. Even if dear, Good Art never
knew of this debauchery, or of last night's deprivation, she would never
be able to face him again, would never be able to let him make love to
her, with this guilty secret on her conscience.
She began to plead pitifully with Jim. "Don't do this to me, Jim.
Please. I'll do anything . . . ANYTHING . . . if only you'll let me go.
I'll go to Art and explain it to him . . . he'll understand, he's a
reasonable man . . . he'll let you go, let you have your marijuana. I
won't tell anyone . . ." she buried her face in her hands, sobbing. "Oh,
my God! Please, let me go!"
Jim gave her a look of withering contempt as he forced her naked body
back to the bed, then down upon it. In a moment he was on his knees, over
her defenseless form, his hungry eyes filled with lust, his mouth twisted
sadistically.
"I'll do anything . . ." Kathy whimpered . . . anything . . ." her
voice trailed off as the utter hopelessness of her situation sank in.
There was nothing she could do, she knew, and tears, fresh and abundant,
flowed down her pale cheeks now.
Jim bent his head to Kathy's and fixed his lips wetly on her tightly
closed mouth. He forced his tongue between her futilely resisting lips,
flicked it in and out, then pressed it deep into her throat. Lydia had
like that, why wouldn't Kathy, too?
Kathy struggled against him until the last ounce of her strength had
died away, then submitted weakly. She lay beneath him, sobbing softly as
his hands roamed at will over her helpless body, stroking her neck, her
throat, the soft, naked flesh of her smooth white shoulders with an
expertise she wouldn't have believed possible of a young boy. They moved
down and he cupped a ripe young breast in the palm of each hand, kneading
and squeezing experimentally. His hot hungry lips explored her face
again, his tongue sank deep into her mouth once more, teasing and
tantalizingly. Then he ran it down the narrow valley between her milk
white breasts. With a lewd, savage cry of youth, he fastened his teeth
harshly onto the small bud of a nipple while Kathy recoiled in anguished
pleasure. She began to struggle feebly again, her naked flesh squirming
up against the hard lean young body that pinned her down, vainly seeking
to push him away.
"Stop, please stop," sobbed Kathy.
"You don't want me to stop, and you know it. I'll bet that old man
of yours hasn't given you a piece of cock in two weeks."
"Oh, no, NO!" But even as she denied it, Kathy felt a lewd twirling
in her stomach, a low, involuntary groan of pleasure rising in her throat.
"You do like it, don't you?" Jim mocked. He bent his blonde head
again, and now his lips roamed moistly over the snowy whiteness of her
heaving breasts, teasing the nipples into taut little cherries. At the
same time, his two hands slid down the quivering flesh of her belly, roved
over the soft, sensitive curves of her hips, slipped under the twin half
moons of her smoothly rounded buttocks.
His touch again sent little quivers of unwanted passion tingling
through Kathy and against her will she found herself responding to his
teasing touch. She made no effort to stop his hand that sought the thin,
softly resilient curls of her pubis, the fingers that parted the silken
strands of her hair there and slipped slowly, deliciously into the narrow
sensitive slit of her cunt, searching between the warmth of her inner
thighs until he found the tiny bud of her clitoris and stroked it into
throbbing erection.
Then, as suddenly as he had begun, Jim slipped his fingers from
Kathy's helplessly quivering cunt and reared up over her again. "You
liked that, didn't you?" he asked, and his harsh tone brought Kathy's mind
back to the reality of her situation with horrible abruptness. She
thought of Art again, and of the utter contempt he would have for her, for
giving in this way to her basest passion---to a young boy nearly half her
age! With a little cry of fear, she clamped her thighs together against
the boy's probing young cock.
Roughly Jim pulled her thighs apart, then hunched over her, his head
just above her loins. As she realized what he planned to do, she let out
another horrified cry. She'd never be able to live this down, letting
this young boy fuck her against her will without even fighting. Sure,
she'd screamed, but good were words when she was lying there naked beneath
him? She wouldn't let him have his way with her, though. Somehow, she
would fight it!
She thrashed around, flailing her arms until she was exhausted, while
Jim's superior young strength held her with a mocking grin. When she lay
back at last, limp and unresisting, he fixed his eyes on the thin, tight
little pussy slit up between her trembling legs, already moist with
unwanted desire.
Jim rested the palms of his hands on her soft inner thighs, while his
thumbs sought out the fleshy edges of her cunt. Then with a slow, teasing
outward movement with them that brought a low cry of shame from Kathy, he
pressed the soft, hair-fringed lips apart, exposing the pink, glistening
little hole of her pussy completely to his gaze. He uttered a low,
appreciative grunt, then slipped himself forward and buried his hairless
face in the vee of her openly spread loins. His tongue flicked in and out
of his mouth, running over his parted lips with lascivious expectation.
Then darting forth lizard-like, it slipped deep up inside her wetly
throbbing passage.
'Ohhhhh, God, God, aaahhhhh!"
Kathy cried out at the lewd, delicious sensation that raced through
her whole body, making it tingle against it will with a mad all-consuming
desire. Convulsively, against every effort of her will, her legs jerked
wide apart now, splaying out obscenely, hanging over the edges of the
mattress as though they belonged to a limp spread doll.
Jim ran his tongue up and down the thin, furrow, probing and
exploring with every-increasing lust until he found the tiny bud of her
clitoris again, and once again, with maddening spiraling motion of his
tongue licked the quivering little mound to trembling erection. Kathy
whined with agonized pleasure, torn between the exquisite feelings that
the boy's insistent licking of her unguarded cunt aroused in her, and the
shame and humiliation at the wicked delight her traitorous body was
experiencing. At last Jim's mouth closed down over the hardened flesh
that strained against his flicking tongue, and breathing heavily with his
insane passion, he began to suck it as if it were a grape, a plum, a
berry---some piece of succulent fruit from which he must extract the last
exquisite drop of sweetness. Satiated at last, he gave the tiny tender
bud a sharp nip with his teeth while Kathy cried out with a tortured cry
of pain that mingled with intense pleasure she felt, too.
She arched backwards, struggling one more time to free herself from
the monster child who ravaged her so obscenely. Then with a mingled groan
of despair and desire, she slumped back against the bed while the young
boy began again the maddening licking of her cuntal lips. He slithered
his tongue in and out of her passion and saliva drenched pussy, flicked at
the soft folds of throbbing pink flesh there, then withdrew to push her
legs up and like downwards at the narrow crevice between the smooth twin
mounds of her nakedly upturned buttocks.
Christ but she was a hot little bitch! Ready to fuck now, just
aching for it. Well, Jim was the one to give this frustrated housewife
just what she wanted, he thought, eyeing her with a triumphant gleam in
his eye. He took his hard, stubby cock in one hand and kneeling up
between her widespread thighs guided it to the tiny vertical little mouth
between her legs, pushing forward insistently until the thick, rubbery
head slipped through the long red strands of her pubic hair towards the
tightly giving lips of her visibly pulsating pussy.
Kathy groaned and grasped and held her breath as feelings of
irrepressible desire mixed and mingled with those of agonizing guilt
within her. She fought against the delicious quiverings that wracked her
body, while the thought of the disgrace of this wild tongue-fucking of her
open-spread pussy wracked her mind. Then, as the blood-swollen tip of the
boy's cock slipped into and penetrated slightly the tightly clenched
opening of her naked cunt, she seemed to see Art standing before her. The
searing contact of Jim's fleshy cockhead with her vulnerable cuntal lips
sent her into sharp little spasms of pain and pleasure and she began to
scream. "Oh, don't," she begged. "For God's sake! Jim! JIM!"
But then, with a sudden thrust, he flicked his hips forward and
thrust his lancing cock deep into the narrow tight hole, fucking it up
into her without mercy. "Jim," she'd called him, and a feeling of
elation warmed his whole being. "Jim!" Well, now he was a person to her-
-a human being---a man! It was up to him, Jim, to show her how much of a
man he was, too, and that was just what he intended to do. In no time at
all, he would have her completely broken to his will, subjugated like the
lowest of whores.
He thrust his hips forward again, fucking on and on until Kathy felt
as if his huge fleshy shaft had exploded up inside her to fill the very
center of her being, sending forbidden waves of painful ecstasy crashing
through her. Vainly she sought to save herself from this ultimate
humiliation, struggling once more against the young man's cruel invasion
of her womb's tender hidden recess.
She lay still and exhausted beneath him at last, impaled on the iron-
stiff cock that filled every part of her insides, pressing against the
soft, ridged flesh of her cunt, inflaming it, turning it into a searing
sheath of fire. Jim lay still, too, then suddenly arched back, raising
himself above Kathy to stare contemptuously into her face. "You love it,
don't you?" he asked with a mocking leer.
Kathy's lips trembled and she stifled another sob, refusing to answer
his imperious question.
Jim flicked forward, fucking deep into her trembling belly once
again, and now Kathy let out a long wail of pain. He partially withdrew
once more, again raised himself, again demanded arrogantly, "Love it,
don't you?" His tone had become sharp, brutal, not at all like a fifteen
year old boy. Kathy, terrified, at last found her voice and gasped, "Y-
yes!"
"Yes what?" Jim's voice left no doubt that he knew he had her in his
power.
"Yes, Jim," Kathy whispered. "I . . . I . . . I. . . I love it."
"Want some more cock?" Jim grinned with lewd delight at Kathy's
submission to him.
"Oh . . . no . . . o . o . . .!" Kathy wailed.
"No?" There was a threat of retribution in Jim's cracking voice.
"Y-yes. Yes, Jim, I do!" Kathy hurriedly amended as, even through
her discomfort, she caught his tone of displeasure.
"Then beg me for it!"
"No!"
"Come on, beg me, bitch!"
Oh, how could a young boy be so cruel! Kathy sucked in her breath,
"Do it," she pleaded with Jim.
"Say, 'Fuck me." Fuck me with your cock!'"
Kathy's head lolled to one side in abject humiliation and shame as
she submitted even more completely to his degrading demands. With tears
streaming down her face, she pleaded, "Oh, Jim, fuck me. Please fuck me.
That's what I want you to do. For God's sake, fuck me with your cock!"
He slipped his hands beneath the smoothly rounded cheeks of her
buttocks as he began the slow rhythmic but frenzied thrust which would
soon build to climax. He slaved above her, fucking in and out of her
tightly clenched pussy in long, smooth strokes, sending his cock deep into
her moist sucking cunt that clasped and released it, clasped and released
it of its own accord, then withdrew to fuck deep again, withdraw again.
His fuzz covered young testicles slapped against her anus, and the feeling
of his nearly hairless groin smoothly sliding over her pubic hair drove
Kathy insane. It was so unlike Art's thick forest of pubic hair that had
always ground into her pelvis, scratching and scraping over her tender
genitals. Then, as though wishing to press the ultimate humiliation upon
her, the tip of his outstretched finger invaded the tiny puckered opening
of her anus, and Kathy groaned in unexpected pain. But moments later, the
groans turned to soft, mewling sounds of pleasure, as he slowly wormed it
deeper and the rubberily stretching little rectal mouth slowly grew used
to the unaccustomed presence there.
Jim felt his own lust tormented cock expand in an agonizing spasm,
the inside of his testicles seemed to explode and split wide open. The
hot white liquid churning there raced the full length of his rock-like
prick, and then he spewed it forth into the depths of Kathy's hotly
contracting belly. It mingled momentarily there with her own excitedly
flooding juices, then overflowed back out her tightly locked cunt lips to
trickle in thin lewd rivulets of surrender down the soft whiteness of her
thighs. With a loud sigh, Jim collapsed on her voluptuously curved young
body, already gone limp and exhausted beneath him . . . her legs spread
lewdly open in utter and total defeat . . .
A fifteen year old boy's body had won the round, indisputably.
Undoubtedly the day would come when she would bitterly regret what had
just happened between them, but Kathy couldn't think of anything now, but
their mutual bliss at having just achieved orgasm. Again she locked her
legs around his sweating body, holding him tightly between her quavering
thighs.
Kathy was wrong about the eventual day of discovery. The time of
judgment had come even as they cried out their lust for each other's body.
Chapter 6
High cirrus clouds slivered across the moon, shedding shreds of light
on the beaten, weathered cabin where Kathy McGuire lay entangled with her
young lover on the barren mattress. All was silent except for an
occasional snore from one of the drunken teenagers and the crickets who
serenaded the strange and rowdy newcomers to the peaceful country side.
For a hopeful moment, the night animals thought quiet would fall over the
forest again . . . until Lydia Johnson stampeded through the woods, the
pine boughs cracking under her sandals.
Resting her hands on the rotted window ledge, she shaded her eyes
against the moon's glare and peered inside the cracked glass. Jim was
raised his leg off Kathy's thighs, the moon light catching the blonde
highlights of his hair. Infuriated, she clawed at the glass, her
fingernails making an eery, spine-tingling squeak.
Inside the cabin, Kathy lurched. "What was that?"
"Nothing," yawned Jim. "Probably just the trees rubbing against the
window." He rolled over, contemplating whether or not he should tie up
Art McGuire's wife, wondering if she would try to fool him and run out in
the middle of the night.
The door bust open, swinging on its rusty hinges to slap into the
cracking plaster on the yellowed wall.
"A great show, Jim! Just great!"
Jerking, he raised his head to stare at a dark shadow standing in the
doorway. The voice . . . Lydia's voice! OH, Christ! She stood there
with her hands on her slender hips, her long raven hair shimmering in the
moon light. How the hell did she knew where he was? He smelled trouble.
"You bastard!" She took another step forward. "You stood me up for
a date tonight, or don't you remember? Leaving this note on my window
sill . . . how stupid . . . maybe you didn't realize this, you moron, but
the paper you wrote this note on has the plans to your little kidnapping
all spelled out. Wouldn't Art like to see that?"
"You . . . you wouldn't!"
"Oh, wouldn't l?" she spat venomously. "You don't have time to take
me out and fuck me, but you have time to fuck this woman who's old enough
to be your mother. Your ass has had it when Art finds out about this."
"Who is she?" whimpered Kathy, holding her dress up to cover her
naked breasts, hugging her knees.
"That's Lydia . . . my girl friend," Jim answered miserably.
"Was your girl friend, pal," Lydia said bitterly, her full mouth
curling in a snarl.
"Get out of here!" Jim said, his mouth white with anger. "If you
tell Art or anybody about this, I swear to God I'll break your fucking
neck!"
Although taken aback by his threatening words, the young girl stood
defiantly as she composed herself, scheming. "Take a flying fuck at the
moon, Jim. I plan on getting my revenge. You let me have a crack at the
cop's wife and my mouth is sealed. That simple."
"I'll . . . so help me!" Jim blurted out, starting to reach for the
young girl, but suddenly thought better of it. Maybe she wasn't lying . .
. what the hell.
"Okay," you win, Lydia."
"No!" Kathy screamed sharply, mustering up as much dignity as a woman
stark naked with her lover's cum still dripping her pussy can manage. She
eyed the beautiful teenage girl coldly.
"I just changed my mind," grinned Lydia sadistically. "I want both
of you together." With a smile, the black-haired teenager began stripping
her clothes off. She looked at Kathy's wet cunt and said, "Jim, you sure
dropped a load of cum in her hot little pussy---I've just got to lick that
up first, even if its secondhand. Kathy---you don't mind if I call you
Kathy, do you?---lie down and open your legs!"
Dazed and shocked as she had never been before in her life, Kathy
watched the now-naked young girl advance toward her as she half-crouched
on the bed that was still soaked with the mixture of her cum and Jim's.
For the first time she took a good look at Lydia's face and found it
impossible to believe that any youngster so evilly could be so beautiful!
For Lydia was indeed beautiful. Her smooth flesh was deeply tanned
and her hair shone blue-black. Her face was classically sculpted, with a
slight almond-tilt to her dark brown eyes. Her full mouth was a sensuous
slash, needing no lipstick to make it glisten provocatively. Her
eyelashes were too long and thick to be false. And her young, thrusting
breasts fairly begged to be caressed, even to be squeezed tightly together
while a man ran his long cock up between them.
Lydia's waist swept out to hips and thighs that were made to cradle a
man. Her cunt was covered with hair as dark as that on her head, softly
curling. Her legs were long and slenderly tapered in proportion to the
rest of her lush young body. As she lowered herself to the mattress and
reached for Kathy, Lydia's pink tongue flicked across the wide fullness of
her lower lip in lewd anticipation. Then her searching fingers touched
Kathy's tense body for the first time, causing the young housewife to
close her eyes and groan in abject humiliation.
The redheaded woman had never even considered having sex with another
female, yet she knew full well that she had to submit to this licentious
debauchery for the sake of saving her own life. Kathy's breath came in
stifled gasps. She looked to Jim for help, but he obviously had no
intention of stopping his girl friend. Then, as Lydia snuggled her lithe
young body close to her own, Kathy realized the teenaged girl was
trembling as violently as herself. She felt the younger girl's finger
caressing her breasts and moving over the flat plane of her stomach and
then fluttering down between her still wet thighs, sliding in on the thick
coating of cum that Jim had spewed out there when he had fucked her only
minutes before.
Art . . . Art was right. The morals of teenagers these days was
downright deplorable. And it all had to do with drugs! It was true.
What was immoral was illegal, too. My God, these children would stop at
nothing to debase and humiliate her only because she was married to a man
who tried to help.
"Why do you want to do something so vile?" Kathy murmured even as
Lydia forced the older woman's tense thighs apart and climbed between them
like a man, crushing their pussies tightly together. Unconsciously, and
against her will, Kathy found her own body responding to this flagrantly
immoral lovemaking, feeling the heat beginning to surge once more through
her rebellious loins. She could see the stunned face of young Jim across
the room, and could see that his bulging eyes were glued to the forbidden
scene that was unfolding before his eyes. She felt her full, aching
breasts pressed hotly against the teenager's firm bosom, her nipples
rubbing together suggestively and hardening erotically. "You're really so
beautiful, you don't need anything like this!" Kathy gasped, trying to
sound motherly, to convince the young girl that the difference in their
ages was an added perversion.
"I know what I need," the young girl murmured. "It's called sex. S-
E-X!" Her dark eyes looked mockingly down into the redhead's glazed
features. "And so do you, Kathy. Now I'm gonna show you the other side
of the coin---how great it can be with another chick! And Jim is gonna get
so hot watching that he'll fuck me twice as wild as he did you!"
Stunned by this lewd lascivious declaration of lust, Kathy could only
lie absolutely still as Lydia slowly began to run her lips over the
housewife's body. Her tongue was like cool, wet fire as it flicked and
laved every inch of Kathy's flesh. Kathy could not prevent her yearning
body from betraying her. Nerve-ends tingled with just the feather-light
brushing of Lydia's hair over her smooth flesh. Whereas Jim had been
urgently male in his licking and kissing of her body, Lydia was
torturously feminine, and Kathy suddenly realized that something she had
once heard was turning out to be true---that only a woman really knew how
to make love to another woman, and knew all the erogenous zones that can
set a healthy female on fire! And that was exactly what this dark-tressed
beauty was doing to her right now.
Kathy heard herself moan and felt her legs involuntarily parting as
the girl's face disappeared between her thighs. She tried to concentrate
on Art, on the love she felt for him, their marriage, the motorcycle ride,
but with Lydia's flicking tongue tip dancing wetly up and down the
sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, and her delicate fingers spreading
the flexing lips of her cunt, baring the soft, pink, inner mouth of her
cunt, she realized there was no distraction strong enough to shut out the
agonizing pleasure.
Lydia bent low over the older woman's splayed thighs. She had never
thought it possible that she would actually get to eat Kathy McGuire, wife
of Art McGuire, the town's favorite narc-cop.
Lydia brought her lips lightly in contact with the hair-lined warmth
of Kathy's pussy, blowing her breath softly across her naked little cunt
furrow, almost laughing at the way the redhead writhed and involuntarily
raised her hips to every caress. She could scent their mingled cum, see
the glistening droplets still oozing from the moistened entrance to
Kathy's cuntal passage. Sighing, Lydia tightly fastened her soft lips to
the young wife's dilating pussy and sucked voraciously even as her skilled
young tongue swept the length or her quivering pussy slit, butterflying
from side to side, eagerly licking up the copious sex juices that the
couple had orgasmed forth just a short while before. She was rewarded
instantly by feeling Kathy's smooth, hot thighs closing around her
burrowing face and Kathy's hands pulling her head tight into her seething
genitals. Kathy was moaning incoherently as Lydia licked away every drop
of their lewdly intertwined cum before devoting herself to driving Kathy
wild with her tongue and lips.
"Oh, My God!" Kathy moaned in helpless surrender to this new form of
unbelievable torture. Wouldn't these children stop at anything? The way
the dark haired girl was kissing and licking and sucking her pussy---it was
even better than the way Jim had done it to her!
Relentlessly, Lydia kept up her oral ravishment of the now wantonly
undulating redhead. With her wide experience, she was able to judge
perfectly Kathy's mounting passion, and sensed when she reached the point
of no return. At that instant, Lydia raised her half-contorted cum-slick
face, only to have Kathy groan and pull it down to the "vee" of her loins
again. Lydia raised her face up once more and began to mock her.
"I've had all I need---unless you want to do the same to me," she
said, a licentious grin on her semen-smeared lips. "You want to lick my
pussy, don't you Kathy?"
Already debased beyond belief, yet out of her mind with desire, Kathy
could only mumble, "Yes . . . oh yes!"
With the grace of an acrobat, the younger girl wriggled around on the
mattress and slid her leg over Kathy's staring face, rocking on her knees
and slowly lowering her pussy with its dark, softly curling hair toward
Kathy's nervously flicking tongue. The redhead was aware of Jim gaping at
them, and though she didn't want the young boy to think ill of her, she
could not help herself as the heady aroma of Lydia's young pussy filled
her nostrils. Sighing, Kathy reached up to pull the perfect hemispheres
of the girl's buttocks downward. Less than an inch from her parted lips,
Lydia's cuntal flanges were steadily dilating with anticipation, and Kathy
could see the pale inner flesh of her cunt. Abruptly, Kathy thrust her
pelvis downward, gluing her pulsing cunt to Kathy's waiting mouth. Kathy
hesitated only a second before urgently spearing the hot, wet tip of her
tongue far up into the teenager's lust-swollen pussy, trying to lick and
suck this young girl to an earth-shattering orgasm.
"Ummmm" Kathy moaned involuntarily as for the first time in her life
she tasted the piquant sweetness of another female's aroused cunt. With
her tongue she fucked-deep into the exposed pussy folds, then let the tip
slide snakelike through the girl's quivering cuntal furrow until she found
the erected button of Lydia's clitoris. She thrilled as the wanton
younger girl jerked and ground her cunt downward in frantic response to
the slightest touching of the sensation-filled bud. Just above her face,
centered in the raven-haired girl's perfect buttocks, was the tight
puckered ring of her anus. Remembering how it had felt to her when Jim
had fingered her there, Kathy began working the middle digit of her right
hand against the tiny aperture, forcing the tightly resisting rectal
muscles to give way to her prodding pressure. As she got her finger in to
the first knuckle, the redhead was rewarded by a muffled cry of
animalistic joy from the avidly tensing teenager. Lydia screwed urgently
back on the invading finger and Kathy quickly inserted a second---and then
felt Lydia doing the same to her!
Wildly, the two beautiful young women finger and tongue fucked each
other, rolling on the bed, gasping, sucking and licking, and moaning in
wanton sex, savagely devouring each other's sweating bodies. With her
greater experience, Lydia held back until she could feel the first
tremblings of orgasm begin to wrack Kathy, and then as the redhead's
spasming pussy spewed forth its sweet fluids into her sucking mouth, she
let her own released come surging down the streaming tube of her cuntal
channel to Kathy's eagerly awaiting mouth. The flood inundated the red-
haired woman's lust-twisted face and she mindlessly swallowed the fragrant
juices as they spilled into her gaping mouth and joined the male sperm
that was still churning deep within her belly.
Her beautiful face still buried in Lydia's cum-flooded cunt, Kathy
began to sob out her shame and humiliation. But quickly she rationalized
the emotions aside . . . Art need never know. She had been forced to do
what she did---and she was only human! Could she be blamed if her body
betrayed her? Certainly not! What would they have done to her if she'd
refused?
She could not look young Jim in the eye as she turned to lie on her
side. She let Lydia's hands rove at will over her trembling flesh, all
guilt vanquished by the very touch of the sex-skilled young girl. With a
satisfied grin, Lydia winked at Jim.
"Well, I feel much better now that I've had the cop's wife . . . and
hey, is that a hard-on I see? Bring it over here and let me check it
out."
Jim wanted to break her neck! The little bitch had him in her grasp,
all right. He'd have to please her or she'd go running to the cops, tell
everything. That would be the end of his short career. His dad had been
able to get him off the possession and selling charge back East, but
kidnapping . . . that was a Federal rap! Damn it! He'd planned on just
keeping Kathy McGuire around for an afternoon, letting her go home that
night. It would have been her word against theirs, but when they started
smoking dope and drinking that whiskey, everything seemed to fall apart.
Slowly he stood up and walked toward the bed, stepping over Mark's
and Robert's legs, the both of them awake now, groaning and rubbing their
aching heads. Jim's rigid cock jerked with each step, his balls already
filling again with semen because of the way the blatant display of
lesbianism had aroused him. Like a helpless slave in old New Orleans
vendue, he allowed Lydia to finger his swollen genitals, even to guide the
pulsing head of his cock to her soft lips and suck it appraisingly into
the hot vault of her mouth. He felt her dexterous tongue swirl around the
length of his cock shaft while her hand squeezed his bloated testicles.
"Not as hard as I've seen it before," the girl said. "But it will
do," she teased. "I've been waiting a hell of a long time for this fuck,
and you'd better make it a good one, Jim boy!" she threatened. "Lie on
the bed on your back while we get you nice and wet. You, Kathy, come on,
we're going down on him together, and then he's going to fuck us both
until neither of us can walk!"
God damn! thought Jim, a crooked smile growing on his face. He
stared over into the dark corner of the room, watching Robert stagger to
his feet, gag dryly, then crawl on all fours over to the bed.
"Hey! How 'bout me," grunted Robert, his long hair hanging in his
eyes that looked like roadmaps, so red were they. "That ain't fair! You
got two women and you already had Kathy once . . . me and Mark don't get
anything!"
"Get lost, creep!" spat Jim nastily. "I'm the leader of this gang, I
get the women! Now go outside and throw up before you smell up this whole
damned place!"
Robert's eyes crossed with hatred, his lips curled with anger. Who
did Jim think he was, talking to him, Robert, like that and in front of
women, too. And what had Jim offered him for risking his neck, except
five lousy bucks and a couple of joints? Shit!" He stumbled out the
door.
Jim lay down, his long cock sticking up in the air as the two women
bent over him. Kathy gagged slightly, staring down at mushroom head of
Jim's young cock. She hadn't even done that to Art . . . ever!
Faltering, she waited, hoping Jim would not miss her mouth, praying Lydia
could do the work of two. But it didn't work.
It was Lydia who protested, "Hey, come on bitch! Get down on him! I
can't do this all by myself."
Obediently, her tongue slithered out to touch Jim's trembling flesh.
"Suck his balls!" she heard Lydia mumble from where she labored over the
head of his cock.
Kathy experimentally sucked his young balls into her mouth and rolled
them on her tongue as Lydia's avid lips ovaled tightly around the
mushroom-shaped head of Jim's cock. Between them they licked the thick
staff until it was slick and gleaming with their saliva. Then Lydia
pulled Kathy back and straddled the boy, her hips over his rigid phallus,
her wet cunt lips sliding up and down the length of his stiffened cock.
"Hold it straight up and aim it right at my pussy!" she ordered
Kathy. The redhead obeyed, thankful that they'd granted her a reprieve.
She watched the bulbous head disappear into the soft lips of Lydia's pussy
as she held it upright by the thick base. The young girl, who couldn't
have been a day over fourteen, closed her eyes in blissful anticipation of
being fucked to the depths of her belly with a rampant male cock.
Suddenly she dropped her entire weight on the trembling youth.
"Eeeeyyyaagghhh" the dark-haired girl cried out as with a wet
sluicing sound as Jim's cock was buried to the hilt in her hotly straining
young pussy, and his fuzz-covered balls were wedged in the wide-splayed
crack of her ass-cheeks. "Oh, fuck! What a sweet prick!"
Furiously, the raven-haired girl began to rise and fall on Jim's
blood engorged cock, groaning in wanton, lewd ecstasy, swinging her
churning buttocks in a wide raping circle.
Groaning, the blonde haired boy screwed wildly up into the thrashing
young cunt as Lydia labored frantically over his upheaving pelvis.
Fascinated, Kathy watched intently as his long, slippery pole of male
flesh fucked in and out of the girl's tightly-clasping pussy and saw the
sheer animal lust on Lydia's passion-contorted face. She realized this
was the first time she ever seen two people fucking, and it had a wildly
arousing erotic effect on her. She found her hand straying under the
tossing buttocks of Lydia to cup and fondle Jim's hairless bouncing balls
while her mouth came down on his belly, her tongue making hot, wet little
circles on his hard-muscled flesh.
"Put your cunt on his mouth and let him eat you!" the girl rasped.
Quickly Kathy swung her leg over Jim's gaping mouth and squirmed her
still-wet pussy down onto his feverish lips. Without hesitation he spread
the tip of his tongue like a burrowing snaked far up into her clasping
cunt. Now she and Lydia worked on the boy together, rocking back and
forth, facing each other. Suddenly Lydia reached out to pull Kathy's face
close and kissed her full on the mouth, driving her swirling tongue deep
into Kathy's eagerly parted lips.
For Kathy time seemed to stand still as they ravaged each other's
straining bodies. Now all conception of right and wrong vanished from her
mind. She was aware only of the wild perverse sexual pleasure the three
were enjoying here in the old dilapidated cabin.
Strangely enough, it was the raven haired teenager who gave out
first. She had cum convulsively time after time as the boy's relentless
cock slammed into her wetly dripping cunt lips, crying out her lewd,
obscene completion, her lovely young face a frenzied mask of lust.
But Jim was riding high! He felt like he could fuck forever! Better
still, he had two women to fondle and fuck him. Life couldn't be sweeter.
Kathy was so drained from her earlier orgasms that she couldn't climb to
the peak again, but it was fantastically stimulating to have Jim's young
mouth working on her cunt so laboriously while Lydia sucked her tongue and
urgently squeezed her jouncing breasts. Finally with a final cry of
completely sensual satiation, Lydia ended the three-way coupling.
"Ohhh . . . aahhhhh! Again! I'm cumming again, you beautiful
fucker! . . . Stop before you tear my cunt in half!" With a quick
movement, Lydia dislodged herself from the boy's savagely impaling cock
and rolled away on the mattress, hands covering her ravaged pussy. She
shook like a bowl of jello for a minute as Jim pushed Kathy off his face.
"And what the hell do I do with this?" Jim demanded, taking his
slickly wet cock in his fist and pumping it at the two women. "This was
all your idea, Lydia. Everything was just cool until you came by." Shit!
What good were two women when neither of them had the energy to make it?
"Okay, fella, you asked for it. We're gonna show little Miss Copper
here what fucking is all about. Your husband ever fuck you in the ass,
Kathy? Or hasn't Art got it in him any more?" Lydia rolled over onto her
belly and then raised herself up on her hand and knees, salaciously waving
her smooth, round buttocks in the moonlight. "Put your cock in my
asshole---that's really tight!"
On the other side of the room, just below the yellowed old calendar
that hung from a two-penny nail, the month turned to March, 1962, Mark
struggled to open his liquor-crossed eyes to stare at the mattress where
Lydia was waving her ass cheeks in the air. He reached out his hands on
the floor to support himself in one last effort to get to his feet, but
everytime he turned his head his stomach started to revolt, sending a shot
of warm saliva to his mouth in warning. Tomorrow, he promised himself,
his eyes closing. Tomorrow he'd get in on the action.
Lydia wriggled until her knees were wide apart, her smooth white ass
cheeks splayed open with the tiny rose of her anus centered above the
hotly swollen lips of her wetly dripping cunt, she dropped to her elbows
leaving her slowly-churning buttocks elevated high in the lewd invitation.
Jim didn't see how he could get his long, thickly throbbing cock up into
the tight rectal opening his girl friend offered, but he sure as hell
wasn't going to turn down the offer. With a groan he knelt behind her,
hovering over her subserviently positioned young body. He took his cock
in his hand brought the passion-swollen knob to the little target and
pressed forward.
Lydia moaned aloud and tried to screw her anus back onto his prodding
shaft, but her efforts only dislodged the impatiently seeking tip, letting
the glans slide down the crack of her buttocks and plunge once more into
the well-reamed depths of her fourteen year-old cunt. Twice again the
nervous youth tried and failed until Lydia, now beginning to grown in
frustration, said to Kathy, "For God's sake, help him fuck it to my
asshole!"
Filled with dread wondering what would stop these immoral teenagers
and deciding nothing would, Kathy, afraid to disobey, took Jim's hot,
slippery cock in both hands and held it tightly to the constricting ring
of the girl's contracted anus. Jim grasped her undulating hips and held
her tight.
Then he lunged forward with all the strength of his muscular young
body.
"Eeeeeyyyyeee!!!!" the dark-haired girl yelled as she felt her
rubbery muscle expand and yield---and his cock was in!
Almost bug-eyed, Kathy saw Lydia's tender rectum expand to many times
its normal sized as the plundering glans of the blond boy's cock forced
its way up into her tightly-constricted anal hole. She heard Lydia gasp
in pain, yet saw her jerk her hips back to absorb even more of the
unnaturally invading cock head. Jim paused for a moment giving the
kneeling girl a chance to adjust to the anally-stretching intrusion, then
pushed further up into the clenching confines of her rectum and slowly
began to fuck in and out. With each outstroke, a ring of pink anal flesh
clung to his cock, and then was pushed deep up into the straining girl's
buttocks again as he fucked forward.
Back and forth he fucked his stubby young cock, each time going a
little deeper up into her wide-stretched asshole, bringing along low moans
of masochistic pleasure from Lydia.
The dark haired girl swung her hips from side to side and began to
rhythmically rotate the creamy moons of her buttocks, wishing he would
fuck his boated cock all the way into the butt of her spine. The initial
entry was part that hurt---and it hurt like hell! But she knew that once
his cock was fucked all the way up her grasping rectum with his balls
flattened against her straining soft ass cheeks and his hard cock pushing
almost into her trembling young belly, it would be good, even wilder than
being fucked in the cunt! To urge him on she began to sway her impaled
buttocks back and forth in time to his slow fucking movements up into her
hungrily seething anus.
"Harder!" she gasped. "Deeper! Get it in meeee!"
"You asked for it!" the boy retorted, and put every ounce of strength
into one great inward fuck.
Her eyes wide with disbelief, Kathy watched the entire length of
Jim's cock slam up into the teenager's widely-stretched anus, and heard
his cum-laden balls slap wetly down against the softly curling strands of
Lydia's cum-soaked pussy hairs. From the way the raven-haired girl
screamed, Kathy was sure she would faint, but instead she began to jerk
and fuck furiously back with her hotly churning ass cheeks.
I can't believe it! thought Kathy, bug-eyed. These kids . . . and
they are no more than infants . . . know more about sex than Art and I
could even imagine!
Art! . . . Kathy clapped her hands over her ears! Art! In her lewd,
new found sexual pleasure, as she responded to the girl called Lydia's
perverted assault, she had forgotten him completely. Now she dared not
think of him, think of how he would react were he ever to find out what
had just transpired. Dear God! What had possessed her? What evil demon
had taken control of her body and soul, leading her to such unexplainable
depths of degradation? What? and why?
Wide-eyed, Kathy watched as Jim's rod of flesh drilled in and out of
his girl friend's tautly stretched anus while Lydia tossed her blue-black
hair wildly from side to side, her sensuous lips twisted in a grimace of
pure animalistic ecstasy. It had taken her a hell of a long time to get
this blonde haired boy to concede to fucking her in the ass, but maybe it
was worth the waiting and the put-downs --- particularly as the way things
worked out, she had both Jim and the over-sexed cop's wife at the same
time! The girl, gasping out her lustful pleasure, swept all thoughts from
her mind except how good it felt to be obscenely fucked in the ass while
the woman she intended to make her lesbian partner watched! She'd never
thought that Kathy McGuire, wife of the blundering narc, would ever turn
on!
Then the savage fucking had its effect on her straining body and she
knew she was going to orgasm at any moment. Lydia cried out, "Jim, oh Jim
. . . I'm cumming! Cum with me---fill my hot little asshole with your cum,
you wild fucker!"
"You bet I will!" the nearly exhausted boy groaned, speeding his
strokes, feeling the seminal fire race the length of his laboring cock and
then begin to spurt into Lydia's tightly clenched anus.
Kathy had never seen anything like the way the two teenagers reached
orgasm together. Their bodies twitched and jerked against each other, and
she saw the boy's cock swell and spasm, and then the super heated gush of
his white cum exploded into Lydia's obscenely milking anus, draining her
lover of every drop of his adolescent semen. She heard the loud, wet
popping sound as Jim finally pulled his flaccid cock from the girl's
clenching ass cheeks, bringing with it a long thick string of cum that
eventually broke and left a sticky stripe across the upturned buttocks and
thighs of Lydia.
The entire lust-inciting performance had been something Kathy had
never dreamed possible even in her most obscene dream. It was wild,
something perverted farmers did to their sheep and cows, certainly not to
women of stature. She covered her head with her arms, and heaved a
suppressed sob of complete despair. Images of Art, proud and stern,
passed before her eyes, along with an arrogantly leering Lydia, and a
cruel, hateful Jim. They whirled in Kathy's tormented brain, chasing one
another until at last everything dissolved in a blur of exploding
confusion and Kathy fell into a light, troubled sleep.
Chapter 7
Art McGuire rummaged through his pockets for a dime and finding none,
plunged into it once more and dug for a handful of change. Selecting two
worn nickels, he headed for the phone booth for the second time that day.
Certainly Kathy would be home by now. He only hoped she wouldn't be too
angry when he told her he wouldn't be home until very late that evening .
. . maybe not until the sun was sliding up to the up over the grassy
rolling hills outside of Elston.
The coins tinkled into the machine, he dialed the number, staring out
of the glass cage, watching a VW van full of teenagers make an abrupt,
illegal U-turn in the middle of the intersection. Losing count of the
rings, he finally gave up and slammed the receiver back on the cradle,
waiting long enough for the nickels to tinkle down into the tray, then,
scraping his fingers to retrieve the change, he dumped it in again, this
time dialing information for Bill, the horticulturist's number. Repeating
it over and over to himself until the coins were deposited a third time,
he dialed the number. Helen, Bill's wife picked it up almost immediately.
"Helen, this is Art . . ." Is Bill there?"
"Hi, Bill, this is Art . . . yeah, just fine. Listen, what did Kathy
have to say when you showed up with your shovel." He chuckled nervously,
anxiously.
"She what?" Art's eyes widened, his lower jaw dropped to his chin.
His cheeks flushed with anger. "You wouldn't be pulling my leg, now would
you Bill? . . . This isn't a practical joke, is it? . . . A what?" Art
pounded his forehead with his fist, his upper jaw worked against his lower
one, and his face graduated from a deep red to a pale pink, and then snow
white, and finally slate gray without ever once hitting its normal
complexion. Arms swinging at his sides, he took yard-long steps back to
the Dodge and slammed the door, never turning to stare at a bewildered
Buddy who stepped on the accelerator. The squealed out of the parking
lot.
When they reached the four-way stop at the intersection, Buddy turned
to his partner. "What's eatin' ya?" He watched Art unroll a fresh pack
of Rolaids and slip not one, but two into his mouth. "Jesus, Art, you
look like you're about to faint. What the hell is it? We been pals a
long time, if there's something . . ."
Art chomped on the chalky discs, his lips stained white with
alkaline.
On a lighter note, Buddy chuckled, "How did Kathy like her garden?"
"Kathy never got her garden." Art stared straight ahead, his eyes
squinting, his mind plotting, thinking.
"What?" They sped through the intersection.
"Talked to Bill," started Art, crossing his arms over his back of a
motorcycle."
That doesn't sound like Kathy to me!" Buddy paused, then rested his
hand on Art's shoulder conjolingly. "Hey, pal. We gotta learn to expect
that kinda stuff. You know, we spend a lot of time away from home . . .
can't expect the little woman to sit home and watch TV all the time."
'Somethin's wrong, Buddy. Why, just last night she . . ." He
couldn't talk about it. Oh, God, but with a young boy! How could he live
it down? How long had she been cheating behind his back? No, that wasn't
like Kathy; he knew better . . .
"Turn around, Buddy. We're going back to the station. Something's
wrong with Kathy. I think she's been kidnapped.
"Kidnapped?" Buddy's forehead furrowed. "Why the hell would anybody
want to kidnap Kathy?"
"I don't know, but somebody just did," Art's jaws worked up and down
on the Rolaids, titillating, pulverizing. He swallowed dryly, gulped and
pointed. "Back to the station we're going back to the station."
The blue unmarked Dodge made a hazardous U-turn in the middle of
Elston where young people lined the streets, sitting on hoods of cars,
cross-legged on stoops . . . anywhere that would accommodate them. The
rock concert crowd had come to town for the weekend.
Art stared at them, cursing, muttering to himself. Kneading his
fists, he slapped them into the padded dashboard, but he wasn't certain if
he was cursing Kathy or his work. And he didn't know which hunch to
follow. The ping-pong game going on his head could not determine a winner
of his dilemma. Kathy . . . work . . . Kathy . . . work. Then it hit!
Kathy . . . Kathy was the pigeon! "Take the heat off . . . a patsy . . ."
That was it! Oh, Jesus!
Buddy wouldn't believe it, refused to. "Naw. She's probably just out
for the afternoon. Wait a couple more hours . . . till one or two maybe.
Then start worrying. And for Chrissakes, Art, put those Rolaids away!"
Art grunted and stuffed the wrapper into his shirt pocket. "Okay,
but I want to head back to the office to see if they've picked up the
trail on Jim's girl friend. What was her name again, Lydia?"
"Good thinkin', Art. I have a feeling she's going to lead us to the
scene, all right."
The morning sun filtered through the pine boughs, creating shimmers
of moving light on the mattress where Kathy slept. From a high bough a
blue jay scolded. All lay in peaceful silence . . .
Then with an ear-drum shattering rumble, the valley below transformed
into an electrified jungle of sound. Someone had plugged in the
amplifiers that would turn the primeval setting of Olson's farm into a
galvanized roar of activity. The rock concert was starting.
Kathy jumped to her feet, drawing the remnants of her nearly
buttonless cotton sundress over her near naked body, and stepped over
Lydia's recumbent form, her knees drawn up to her chest with her raven
hair spilling over her shoulders. Kathy shuddered, remembering the night
before, then pushing the dark memories aside, stumbled to the window,
dirty and broken that overlooked the green valley below. Staring saucer-
eyed, she watched mesmerically as waves of people, like pulsating,
vibrating polka dots, drifted over the wooded hills. On the march, they
might have been the Chosen People following Moses, so driftless and
wandering did they appear.
"The rock concert. O dear Lord!" muttered Kathy to herself,
squinting back the tears. Art would be down there somewhere . . .
probably already was milling around in the crowd, and here she was so
close, yet so distant. These children, these diabolic children . . . she
winced, wondering what perverted and disgusting things they'd planned for
her that day. It hadn't been so painful with only Jim to cope with and
placate, but Lydia. My God, Lydia! Her vile games, her beautiful body,
her sneers: what would that girl do next? She seemed to hold the cards,
held the power to pull the punches. Even Jim, as militant and austere as
he was, couldn't hold a fig to Lydia's immature and prurient imagination.
Kathy swallowed dryly, remembering the horrifying scene last night: Jim's
stubby young cock fucking in and out of Lydia's tight rectum! And Kathy
knew that if she did not get out of that cabin soon, that would be her
fate. She'd rather die!
Somehow she had to get out of their evil grip that feasted on her
screams and groans. Turning to mentally measure the distance from where
she stood to the door, Kathy's eyes locked with Jim's. A cold shiver
raced down her spine. How long had he been watching her? What was he
thinking? Oh Art! . . . Oh save me, Art!
Down below in the valley, invisible to Kathy's naked eye, Robert
roamed the grounds, watching the strangers filter over the hills, coming
in hordes, carrying blankets, sleeping bags, and coolers with them. He
moved slowly, his head pounding from last night's overdose of marijuana
and whiskey. The young boy gritted his teeth and shook a clenched fist,
staring at the cabin. Fuck you, Jim, he thought. You really think you're
hot shit, don't you? Well, little stupid Robert is gonna get back at you
for your insults. I promise you that!
Seething, the fourteen year old picked a spot on the hillside to the
left of the stage where ten-foot speakers were being set up on either
side. He watched the roadies, the equipment managers, plugging in the
amplifiers, splicing wires, and tacking down cords. A wry smile crossed
Robert's lips as he glared up at the silent cabin on the hill, and he
chuckled to himself as he chewed on a blade of grass. He could make
darned good use of those speakers, and he wouldn't need a tuner or any of
the other fancy equipment that rock 'n roll bands used. What he wouldn't
give for just five minutes of amplified time.
He pulled himself to his feet and neared the stage, patting the
bulging pocket of his short-sleeved shirt. Grinning, he approached a
young man with long hair and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
"Hi!" greeted the roadie, kneeling down to adjust a screw on the
complex tuner. "Great day, huh?"
"Yeah . . ." Robert faltered, wondering if he should even suggest it.
For a second he stood there feeling young and stupid, and drew in a deep
breath.
The young man turned and whispered. "Hey, man you got a joint by any
chance? Jesus, there are so fuckin' many cops around here I'm paranoid as
hell to light one up. Spent all last night on the road, coming in from
Chicago. Did a gig there . . ." His eyes popped as he watched the young
boy, who didn't look a day over fourteen, judging from the fuzz on his
upper lip, delve into his shirt pocket and draw out a baggie of deep, rich
gold pot.
"Jesus!" the roadie gasped. "I ain't seen any dope of that quality
for a while. Gold, isn't it?"
Not sure what that meant, Robert nodded. Flooded with self
confidence, he nudged the man's elbow. "Tell you what," he rasped. "I'll
make a trade with you. Five minutes of speaker time for this lid."
"Hey? Sounds fair to me. What's the catch?"
Robert spilled out his plan behind a cupped hand.
"Far out!" the tee-shirted young man, laughed. "That's really far
out! This is gonna be good, real good!" . . .
Not far away, mingling in the same crowd, Art stood with his feet
slightly apart, his hands on his hips, surveying the woods around.
Scornfully, he watched the young people spread out their sleeping bags and
blankets, setting up for an afternoon of sunshine, music, and dope. Many
of the young girls were already taking off their sweaters and blouses to
lie in the sun in their tiny halters and bikini tops.
Art winced at the blaring sun and pulled the front bill of his golf
hat down to protect his eyes. Somewhere he'd managed to loose his
sunglasses last night. It had been a tough night---and all nighter. Three
times he'd called home, expecting to hear Kathy's voice, tired and
concerned. No answer. Twice he'd stopped by, but the house was just as
she'd left it: no sign of struggle or protest. Everything was in its
place. A puzzlement.
Art kicked at an ant hill on the ground and sent it flying, then
wondered what had made him do such a thing. He shook his head, then bent
over to pick up a bent stick, stripped the bark from it and threw it. A
young girl winced, wondering who the stupid looking man was who was
throwing sticks at her, finally surmising that it must be some kind of
pervert out looking for little girls. There was always one of them in the
crowd, if not, eight or ten. But Art didn't notice her scorn. His eyes
were on the hill, on a dark looking shadow that looked like a cabin.
His eyes lit up! That must be it. They'd had reports that Lydia,
who'd been followed for the past eighteen hours, had headed off the main
path leading to the Olson's farm, supposedly on her way to a hide-out.
Squinting to sharpen his focus, his head angled out from his shoulders,
and his lips pooched out in concentration. Hot damn! He snapped his
fingers. That had to be it.
Kathy, oh dear sweet Kathy! His chin fell to his chest and slowly
shook his head back and forth. What had they done to her? Had they
forced her to take some kind of dope? Had they threatened her with
knives? Rape . . . oh my God, had they raped her? Who was in that cabin
holding her hostage? These and a thousand other unanswerable questions
flooded Art McGuire's mind as the first of the rock group bands warmed up
for a 'killer of a show.' He gritted his teeth and raced off for the
unmarked Dodge to get his bullhorn. It was time for attack.
Chapter 8
Inside of the dust stuffy cabin, Jim, Lydia, and Mark were all
growing impatient. They watched with envy the crowd filling the valley,
wishing that they, too, could be down there listening to the music,
drinking beer and smoking joints. They stared at each other and then back
at Kathy.
Mark slumped against the wall, lifeless and worn; never having had a
hangover before, he was convinced he was coming down with the flu.
Gurgles and belches rumbled in his empty stomach and he took caution not
to move too quickly, for fear last night's liquid dinner would become
today's misery. He didn't have to stay, but he had his suspicions,
especially after the way Jim had treated Robert, kicking him out like
that. And it hadn't been fair, not a bit. After all the effort he'd gone
through, he'd wait another couple of hours for his share of the dope.
"Well," sighed Lydia, with a grimace. "This is really a lot of fun,
guys. We could sit and count each other's pubic hairs," she groaned with
boredom.
"Hey, come on!" shot the blonde-haired leader. "You're the one who
came in last night and pulled all your stunts, now just sit tight. If
it's excitement you want, we still got a half lid of dope left. We could
always give some to Mrs. McGuire here and watch her go crazy to fuck. Bet
she'd like that . . ."
Kathy stiffened from her perch on the mattress. When would these
children stop?
"We can't let her go until the connection is made," reasoned Jim,
trying to placate his irascible girl friend. "Then, baby, it's fat city!"
"Yeah, well how long is that going to take?" pouted Lydia, sitting
cross-legged drawing faces on the dusty floor with her index finger.
"Won't be long . . . here!" Jim threw her the plastic baggie half
filled with dope. "Roll us a couple of numbers . . . it'll help pass the
time."
Lydia obeyed, and handed a tightly rolled cigarette to Kathy who sat
cowering in the corner. Kathy hesitated, then recalled the awful
perversions of the night before, and accepted. It had not been so bad
yesterday, she remembered; in fact the marijuana had had an alarmingly
calming affect on her. Accepting it, Kathy inhaled deeply, letting the
smoke swirl around her lungs as long as possible before blowing it out
again; a strange feeling of peace and well-being came over her. She,
oddly, was no longer frightened as she had been before, although it was
obvious that she was in greater danger than ever. She was certain,
though, through the drug she was taking, that nothing could touch her,
nothing could harm her, and she was just as certain that, if she were
threatened, she would have no desire to protect herself.
She was content simply to sit on the bed, staring at the mattress,
counting the stripes that rippled across it. Even the music that filtered
from the valley below took on a certain enjoyable rhythm, and she tapped
her finger in time to it.
She heard her name called from somewhere outside, and although it was
her husband, Art, it seemed to Kathy that it was the voice of the Angel
Gabrielle, inviting her to enter a paradise here on earth. She noticed
Lydia start at the sound of the voice; it seemed as loud to Kathy as a
cannon shot---and then cup her hand to her ear as it was repeated. Kathy
herself heard the words clearly, although they hardly registered.
"Attention! Attention!" Art was bellowing. "You are surrounded by the
police. We know that you are holding Kathy McGuire."
"What are we going to do?" spat Mark, with bloodshot eyes. A sinking
feel, very real and very painful, welled in his stomach. He clasped his
hand over his mouth, his cheeks reddening, and held his breath until the
warmness subsided.
"Look!" hissed Jim, holding up his hand. "He has no idea who's in
here holding his wife . . . it could be Chuck and his dealer friends, or a
bunch of ladies at a lunch club. He's just guessing, he doesn't know.
All we can do is fake him out. Just lay low," he gestured with his hands.
A delicate hand reached up to punch out the cardboard that held the
glass pane in its ridged cell. In a low, gruff voice, Jim raised his
head, just high enough to reach the hole. "Yes, we have Kathy McGuire in
here as our hostage. She is unharmed and quite well." Hearing her name
mentioned, Kathy grinned, smiled and nodded. "We will not let her go."
Art nodded. He felt slightly faint from the heat and the anxiety and
the fear for Kathy that gnawed at him. All the thoughts that he'd had
before came flooding back to his mind. Had she been forced to take dope
by these wretched creatures, these dope dealers?
He had to get Kathy out of there . . . now!
He never thought it would come to this, but there was no choice. He
would have to offer himself in exchange for Kathy; there was no other way.
If he died, at least he would die knowing that Kathy realized how much he
cared for her. Raising the bullhorn to his trembling lips, he boomed out
his offer.
Jim, on the other side of the wall, grinned triumphantly. It worked!
"Okay, here's what we do . . . when he comes in the door Lydia, you knock
him over the head with that old lamp, and Mark, you tie up his hands. Got
that?"
The two compatriots in crime nodded, staring at each other wondering
if it was really worth it. Wouldn't the concert be more fun then being
holed up here in this stuffy old cabin taking orders from Jim?
Jim called out his offer. "We accept your offer. Come out with your
hands up and enter by way of the back door."
Art turned pale and bit his lips. An explosion of amplified sound
shot up from the valley and Art ducked, certain it was gun fire. He
gasped, released his clutch on the tree bough and rose to his feet. He
walked mechanically, lifting one foot after the other, putting it down
again, lifting it. The short stretch of space seemed to expand for miles
and miles. The few minutes it took seemed like light years. Halfway
across he paused, taking a deep breath to regain his composure. Then he
walked on once more, slowly, steadily. Kathy would be waiting for him,
just inside the door. As he entered, she would be allowed to leave. She
would fall on her knees, kiss his feet, begging him to let her stay. But
with firm resolve he walked on.
Art heard a new command: "Come in with your back to the door."
Turning, he walked on once more. He had just about reached the doorstep
now . . . one more step, he told himself, edging backwards.
Then everything went dark.
"Jesus, I said hit him not kill him!" sputtered Jim, watching the
hulk of flesh crumble to the floor to lay in the shards of broken lamp
glass. A small trickle of blood oozed from Art's forehead, directly above
his eye. He moaned, trying to raise to his feet, then fell limp again.
"Good shot, huh?" beamed Lydia, standing over her prey triumphantly.
"Too good," scolded Jim. "Help me drag him inside so we can tie him
up."
Lydia pulled on his legs, while Jim and Mark labored over his arms
and chest. A buzz of activity hung over the moaning body, all except for
Kathy, who sat on the bed, smoking another of the rolled cigarettes.
Kathy stared at the three youngsters, thinking what wonderful, happy
children they were, working so assiduously over the body of that man who
fell backwards on the step. Wondering who it was, she craned forward,
crawling over the mattress on all fours. She squinted into the sun.
"Art!" she tittered gleefully. "What's Art doing here?" she asked the
others.
"Jesus, she is loaded," giggled Lydia, holding Art's hands secure
while Mark tied a rope around his wrists.
Kathy looked at Lydia and smiled, as she inhaled deeply on the sweet-
smelling tobacco. It made everything seem so beautiful, she thought, so
perfect. Nothing mattered except the warm, wonderful sensation of the
moment. She wanted to share in it.
Art was alert now, though a bit groggy from the blow on his head. To
soothe the laceration, he tried to raise his hands to massage the bump.
He tugged, and for the first moment, realized he was tied.
Kathy started to giggle. "What's the matter, Art?" she teased. "Oh,
don't be such a grouch," she scolded, playfully. "This is just a game, so
don't look so serious."
Art squinted against the pain, his nose wrinkling, his mouth gaping
open. What was wrong with Kathy? They'd drugged her . . . my Cod, his
wife was smoking pot! The little bastards, the fucking little snots! He
focused on the fuzzy-lipped teenagers working at the rope behind him, at
the budding breasted young girl who leered down at him, whispering
obscenities in his ears, just to taunt him. They were nothing but kids!
Kathy lay back on the mattress, waggling her hand back and forth at
Art. She looked up with a start of pleasure. Jim was a beautiful young
boy, she thought, Lydia was beautiful, life was beautiful, and she
wouldn't for a moment have changed anything. "Hi," she said, again,
grinning lopsidedly, her eyes squinting slightly to focus.
Mockingly, Mark turned. "Hi!" he grinned, waving back.
Kathy squinted dreamily at the others. Art was there, too, she saw.
But how marvelous that was. Everything was wonderful! Jim---and in her
confused, drugged state, the memory of Jim's hands on her naked body sent
her soaring---Jim was here! And Art. And Mark. And Lydia. And
everybody! She puffed the cigarette again, inhaling deeply. And when Jim
moved forward, walking towards the mattress, she grinned up at him and
offered him her joint.
The blonde-haired leader of the gang took one long look at Art, then
his wife. It was all over for him anyway . . . the five pounds, the
accomplishments and failures of his first real job. He might as well make
the best of it.
He moved forward, then sat down on the mattress, one eye on Art who
sat slumped against the wall, struggling to make sense of what was
transpiring. He remembered he'd come here to save his wife . . . but his
wife was in no danger, yet.
Jim plopped down next to Kathy, pulling her brutally to him. She
giggled, responded with an unearthly thrill. Her entire body tingled with
anticipation of the pleasure to come when Jim fucked her again as she knew
he was going to do . . . yes, that was the word---fucked her---just the way
he had before, her mouth . . . her cunt.
Without a word of protest, she let Jim ease his hands under the loose
cloth of the dress she was wearing, slipping it down, unbuttoning the
front of it so that Kathy sat there before all the world with her lovely
rounded white mounds of her breasts thrust out like twin moons, hanging
suspended in the open air. There was a burst of applause from the group
sitting on the floor, mingled with a groan of fury and agony from Art, and
then Jim's hand slid down across the tender, pointed breasts to Kathy's
slim waist, moving back and forth gently, caressing the pale skin.
Slowly, patiently, he traced the deliciously rounded orbs of her
buttocks under the panties she wore, torn down the sides from his previous
assault. He stroked her lightly, casually, and then the fingers found the
smooth white cleft between her buttocks, traced the line of it---down,
down---thrust forward between her legs, spreading them wide, found the
petal-pink slit of her cuntal lips, and caressed them, too, before
retreating at last.
Once again, Jim traced the thin, fuzz-lined furrow of Kathy's
buttocks, moved between the rounded cheeks of her ass. This time, though,
he paused at the tiny puckered opening of her anus and smilingly wormed
the tip of a finger in while Kathy grunted softly in unexpected
discomfort, then withdrew it quickly, with a dry little sucking sound.
Art, watching a few feet away, let out a shriek that sounded like a
wounded bull and then made a final, desperate attempt to break away, to
rescue Kathy. The ropes held him tight.
Now Jim ripped the remains of Kathy's underwear, tearing the thin
elastic bands away from her panties, they tumbled to the floor, mattress.
Across the room, Mark sucked in his breath at the sight of Kathy
McGuire's nude body. My God, she was gorgeous. He'd never seen a woman
with such delicacy, and such sheer beauty. She was far more beautiful
than any of the girls at school. Mark smiled in appreciation. It was
Jim's turn now, but his time would come.
He watched, spellbound as Jim placed his hands on the young naked
wife's ripe, full breasts, pressing his thumbs and forefingers against the
tiny little buds of her nipples, rolling them into a tight erection. Mark
felt his prick jerk inside his pants as he anticipated his turn.
Now Jim's hands roved down Kathy's body, caressing the firm flesh of
her gently swelling belly, moving on to explore the mass of red, softly
curling pussy fleece between her legs. Kathy lay transfixed in her
drugged haze, a rising tide of passion surging through her at the
delicious touch of the young boy's fingers and the palm of his hand.
Tingling with excitement, she opened her knees so that Jim could stroke
her thighs and run his hands down the outside of her thighs, over them,
spreading them further apart in a slow, methodical movement, running his
hands up and down the tender pink flesh of her inner thighs.
Kathy whimpered in ecstasy, and then drew her legs together in
shocked surprise as the warm air blew from the open door across the narrow
cuntal slit. Again Jim spread her thighs wide, and now his hand slipped
closer to her pinkly glistening pussy, gently parting the sensitive
fleece-lined lips while Kathy closed her eyes, head hanging backward,
gasped with pleasure. She felt the surging desire flowing through her
whole body, but converging there, a wild, throbbing sensation that was
beyond her control, a desire that turned her narrow cuntal hole into a
hot, seeping tunnel of moisture. She groaned softly and lifted her feet
up with heels far apart on the edge of the bed and presented the whole of
her naked pussy to his lewdly gaping eyes.
Now Jim's finger wormed tenderly into the wetness of it, and Kathy's
entire being tingled. He probed deeper, fingering the fleshy lips,
withdrew to find the hard, taut bud of her clitoris. He stroked that,
too, gently, until Kathy responded with a sudden spasm of delight and
sensuous grinding of her buttocks that was visible to all the onlookers.
She remembered them in some dim way, their faces merging with the
bright colors and sweet sounds which were the setting for the marvelous
sensations she felt, and the music, too. She turned her head to see Art.
She loved him so much, she knew. But he seemed angry. Now why would
he be angry? How could anyone disapprove of anything as wonderful as
this? Kathy brushed the question aside, lying back now, as Jim's finger
eased gently into her hotly steaming cunt, probing deeper and deeper into
her moistly welcoming cunt. She moaned and tossed beneath him, then with
a sudden movement threw her arms up around his neck, as she began to
rotate her hips against his searching-finger.
She caught sight of Art's face again, bright red now with fury, with
shock at her acceptance. I'll make it up to him, she promised herself.
I'll explain, and he'll understand; we always communicated well. He loves
children, so I'm sure he must love Jim, too. And I know he loves me. He
won't be angry when I tell him that.
She held Jim closer to her, but there was something wrong---something
awfully wrong. She didn't know what it was at first and then it dawned on
her that Jim's young body, that should feel soft and fresh and warm, was
scratchy. She focused her eyes on him, puzzled, and then it hit her that
he was still clothed.
It half spoiled the fun. She began to rip the buttons off his shirt,
but when her limp fingers slid around them, she reached for the zipper of
his pants. That was easier, she found. She pulled and something snapped;
she pulled on the metal tab and they rustled open; then she put her hand
inside, maneuvering under Jim's jockey shorts to find the hidden, half-
hard length of his pubescent flesh.
Kathy clasped her fingers around the young boy's blood swollen cock,
massaged it gently, moving the foreskin back and forth, back and forth,
until it grew strong and wiry. Then she drew it out, holding it in her
hand. She gazed at it, admiring its size, staring unblinking, unwinking
at the small hole that was like an eye at the very tip of his cock,
noticing with a flash of pleasure the drops of lubricating fluid that
gathered there, oozing from it slowly.
"Ooooh!" she moaned, falling back on the bed, her legs spread wide,
her heels splayed out over the sides of it. "Ohh, Jim!"
With a quick twist of his wrist, he pulled his shirt off, unbuckled
his belt, letting his pants slip down. He'd been kneeling, but now he
stood, leaning over Kathy lying limp and waiting on the bed. "What do you
want me to do?" he asked coldly.
"Ooohhh," Kathy moaned. "Ohhh . . . you know!"
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do!"
"Tell me," he ordered.
"I want you to fuck me," Kathy said, all inhibitions wiped away by
the exhilarating effect of the marijuana.
Jim shot a quick, evil glance at Art, who watched the scene in
complete and utter shock. "Say it again, Kathy," he ordered her, twisting
the emotional knife one more time. "Say it again so your husband can
hear."
Art wanted to hear her say it, Kathy thought. But of course she
would for him. She would do anything to make Art happy. They were man
and wife. "Fuck me, Jim," she said in a low, passion-thickened voice.
"Fuck me like you did before!"
She heard a scream that sounded as if it came from Art, but she
couldn't understand why he would scream when she was doing what he wanted
her to do, and then the scream died away and she forgot about it as Jim,
kneeling eagerly between her open thighs, used the thick, bulbous head of
his cock to part the soft silken strands of her pubic hair, sweeping them
away from the pale pink lips of her cunt, leaving the exciting little
vertical mouth up between her legs completely open to him. Now he forced
the lustfully throbbing head of his pubescent cock into her moistly
seeping pussy, pushing inch by inch into the softly yielding walls of her
hungrily welcoming cunt. He settled his body upon Kathy, grinding his
hips between her open thighs, filling her to bursting, then withdrew
momentarily, penetrated her again, deeper this time until the head beat
rhythmically, relentlessly against the bottom of her belly up inside.
"Ooooh, darling, you fuck me sooo good," she moaned and mouth open,
moved her head from side to side. He rotated his hips, and Kathy moved
against them, rotating hers in turn, while beads of perspiration formed on
her upper lip. Jim reached down around her hips and cupped her naked
buttocks to pull them up closer to his own surging loins, and Kathy was
filled with an insane pleasure, a bliss so intense she found it almost
unbearable. Nothing was real now, nothing existed except Jim's huge,
young cock thrusting in and out, setting her quivering, quaking body on
fire with pure passion.
"Oh oh ohooh, God!" she grunted softly as though speaking to herself
beneath him.
His strokes quickened now, as Kathy's tightly gripping cunt lips
grasped and sucked at his charging shaft hungrily, milking it crazily.
His soft, hairless, sperm-filled balls slapped flatly against the naked
cheeks of her upturned ass, and Kathy shrieked in wild abandon as she gave
herself up to the lewd, obscene fucking she was getting. She writhed
beneath Jim's tough, muscular, lean body, her legs jerking back
spasmodically to wrap themselves around his torso, ankles locking behind
his back, while he ground his fleshy, lust-hardened cock ever deeper into
her greedily devouring young belly. And then, before Art's horrified
eyes, Kathy began to lurch from side to side, her face contorted, her
mouth wide open, in the mindless grip of her great passion. She gasped,
panting hard, her breasts heaving, and her mewls of pleasure grew to a
frenzied cry.
Jim felt the warm, sticky fluid of Kathy's beginning orgasm as it
rose and spilled into her warm, tight cunt, oozed around his plunging
shaft, bathing it hotly in its slippery wetness.
"Oh, God, God, I'm cummming!" Kathy wailed, and the satiated Jim
thought, Christ, me too, and then he felt the boiling sperm in his
inflated balls bubble up and spurt forward, mingling with Kathy's own hot
juices, felt it spray the inside of her pussy, felt the incredible
tensions of the past few minutes dissolve and disappear in a wildly
exploding moment of supreme joy.
He fell back, exhausted, beside Kathy on the mattress, and lay there
next to her for a few moments, eyes closed. The rock 'n roll music had
stopped for a few moments and someone was talking, introducing another act
maybe. Then he heard Mark say, "Okay, Jim. Now it's my turn."
He rose dizzily, found his pants and shirt, pulled them on, moving
away from Kathy who lay back on the bed in an attitude of utter depravity.
He caught a glimpse of Art's face, and at first found it hard to recognize
him! The man was a tortured, maddened animal, snarling at the leash,
ready to kill.
Even if Jim didn't get the dope he'd been promised for diverting the
police, at least he'd had a fine piece of ass to chalk up to his youthful
experiences.
Chapter 9
It had not been an easy task dragging the two microphones up the
steep wooded hillside, or finding enough extension cords to stretch that
far, but the equipment manager was confident he'd made a fair trade.
Using the military tactics he'd learned in Viet Nam, he snuck along close
to the ground, crawling on his knees in the lower bushes, one microphone
dangling over each shoulder. Nearing the cabin, he circumvented the
beaten structure, wondering why in hell's name the young boy wanted to
wire the place for sound, then deciding it was not his business to wonder,
only to get those microphones stationed outside the door, now open,
luckily.
Surreptitiously and soundless as a cat, he edged the microphone
closer, closer to the door. The other he placed near the cracked window
in the front of the cabin, fastening it with a wild grape vine tied to the
rusted pipe. That done, he wiped his hands on his pants, and snuck back
to the grounds below.
Had he stayed to listen, he would have heard Mark, now lying on the
bed next to Kathy gazing hungrily at the sperm glistening lips of her open
cunt. "Put your legs over my shoulders!" the boy commanded imperiously,
following Jim's example, seeing how well it had worked. She did, and she
felt a new thrill surge through her as he bent his head over her hotly
pulsing, still-moist cunt, and placed his hands on her cum-flooded pussy
lips.
Carefully, deliberately, he opened them, exposing the coral colored
flesh to his lust filled eyes. As his hot breath blew across Kathy's
cunt, still dripping from Jim's sperm moments before she writhed in
delight, then curled her legs and wriggled her toes with the sudden,
exquisite sensation. Mark bent his head still nearer, and then his tongue
lashed out, finding the tiny, narrow slit, and began to tease back and
forth insistently inside it.
It was so good, Kathy thought again. How could this be bad, when it
was so good? The idea puzzled her and so she dismissed it from her mind
and lay back, opening her thighs wider to his face and enjoying what was
happening to her. Mark slavered over her, his tongue and mouth worming
into the warmly quivering little hole between her thighs. It followed the
narrow slit from one end to the other, savoring every delicious taste as
it advanced. Then Mark retreated and began slowly, exploringly, to lick
the entire pubic curl-fringed length once more. He'd only done this once
before, and he paused when he reached the tiny bud of her clitoris, not
certain if he should stop there or go on.
Kathy thrashed and bucked under his assault on her sensitive little
cuntal mound, letting out sharp little screams of pleasure from time to
time, that split the silent air like lightning flashes, Mark's tongue
flicked in and out between her legs, faster and faster now, making a wet
sluicing sound echo through the cabin as the young nakedly writhing
woman's heart beat like a hammer and her breath caught in her breasts.
Suddenly, the delicious sucking of her warm, moist pussy stopped, and
Kathy uttered a tortured cry of mixed dismay and disappointment. "Don't
stop! Oh, God, don't stop! Go on-lick it! Lick it deeper!"
Oh, God! What had happened? What was happening? Why had Mark risen
from above her, leaving her lying on the bed, her legs still spread wide,
her hungrily churning cunt exposed and waiting for the marvelous licking
and sucking of his rough-textured young tongue. Kathy turned, straining
to see. Through the fog of drugs that clouded her mind, she somehow
understood that everyone was looking at Art, over against the wall.
Something had happened to him, she thought. He was white and now he
slumped against the wall, collapsing like a punctured tire tube.
Jim poked his inert body with his foot; Art didn't budge. Now he
leaned over him, his head bent down, listening to his heart beat. "He's
okay," Jim said, straightening up.
Art mumbled something Kathy couldn't decipher, and then lifted his
head, threw his shoulders back and gathered all his strength, all his
energy as he confronted the young hoodlum. "You'll be sorry for this, you
little punk."
"Then watch to see what happens to your hot-cunted little wife next,"
threatened the blonde boy villanously.
"You wouldn't dare do anything to harm her . . . I'll . . . I'll put
you all behind bars, you dirty punks!"
"Oh, so that's how you feel about it, narco. Well watch this," Jim
spat. "Mark turn her over, give her the old ass fuck."
Mark scratched his head, as if he understood only slowly. Biting
into his lower lip, he took a deep breath and turned Kathy over so that
she was lying on her stomach.
At first Kathy made no effort to resist. Everything had been so
beautiful, she thought. But there was something wrong with Art; he didn't
look well. Perhaps he'd been working too hard, Art had a tendency to do
that. Not take care of himself, eat too many spicy foods. Her mind
wandered again to Art's favorite foods, how he loved Mexican food and
beer, anything with chili powder, just as she felt her legs being spread
wide, as she felt Mark's tongue search out the tight, tiny hole of her
puckered, brown-ringed anus. And then she understood what Jim had said,
when was it? So long ago. So long ago as time was measured in this cabin
where she seemed to have lived for all eternity.
"Up her ass!" That was what Jim had said.
And up her ass meant---Kathy pondered the matter, trying to visualize
it---up her ass meant sodomy! She was to be lewdly sodomized, right here
in front of everybody, in front of Art. Kathy's drug befuddled brain
whirled again, and even through the haze bits and pieces of things she had
heard came back to her. They couldn't do that to her! It wasn't legal.
Art would never permit them to do that to her! She believed in law and
order just as Art did, and she had to fight against such outrageous things
because Art expected her to. And then she felt someone kissing the lovely
rounded orbs of her buttocks, nipping at them, flicking his tongue against
them. Furiously she kicked her legs, thrashing about to rid herself of
this unwanted intrusion. But Jim came to Mark's rescue and held her
ankles and pinned them down to the mattress.
"Spread you legs," he ordered in a voice of steel.
Kathy did as she was told, opening them until she was afraid they
wouldn't spread any further. "Like that?" she gasped.
"Not like that," Jim said, giving her a swift slap on her firmly
rounded young buttocks, leaving a red, angry print of his hand on them.
Kathy winced and then screamed aloud as Jim took her by the thighs and
forced her legs farther apart. She gasped again as Mark's finger teased
momentarily, then wormed its way deep into the little puckered orifice of
her anus. In and out it ground, in and out, and Kathy felt a searing
pressure that moments later, when her rectal walls had adjusted turned to
a dull, but strangely soothing pleasure, bringing an aching longing in
her, a weird masochistic desire she knew in her heart to be wicked and
evil. But she knew she could never resist, not when she felt such
excitement and joy and sheer ecstasy in the act.
She groaned and wiggled her hips salaciously back up to trap of it as
Mark's fingers prodded and probed experimentally inside her tightly
clenched little anus, widening it, bringing a delightful, pleasurable
throb to it that made her gasp for breath.
Mark grinned; he'd never done this to a woman before, and reasoning
that if one finger would made her gasp like that, two would bring double
the pleasure. A second joined the first, and Mark began to work the two
back and forth, preparing it for the entrance of his lust swollen young
cock. He was almost ready, Kathy knew; he was breathing hard, panting
over her prone body, and his fingers thrust in and out as if he no longer
had control of them, skewering Kathy helplessly on the lewdly worming
digits.
"What do you think of that, Art?" mimicked Jim. "How does that look
to ya? Think you could ever get it up enough to fuck your wife in the
ass?"
Lydia jeered next to him.
Mark's attention turned once more to Kathy, lying on the bed. Mark
pulled her naked young buttocks up to a kneeling position, as he'd seen
Jim do last night with Lydia, and mounted her as if he were a stallion,
and now he took his thick, swollen young cock and wrapped Kathy's tiny
fingers around it. "Put it in," he ordered, guiding Kathy's hand down
toward the hairless, rubbery little circle of her rectum. Kathy, too
terrified to resist, and with an overwhelming desire to comply at the same
time, placed the tip of the still, blunt instrument against the tiny
opening of her backside. With a quick brutal thrust that this time
brought a scream of discomfort from her, Mark popped the blood-filled head
just up inside the small, tightly clenched hole, then slowly pressed
forward and forced the elastically yielding walls further and further
apart until he was sunk deep up in the tightness of her bowels.
He began to grind it experimentally back and forth, and the pressure
Kathy felt as he entered her suddenly blended with the intense humiliation
she felt and slowly but surely turned to an oddly rising sexual
stimulation. She moved experimentally back against him, arching her body,
thrusting her buttocks up and outward, rotating them in tiny teasing
circles, meeting Mark's forward ones. Oh, God, she thought again, as a
helpless ecstasy rose deep within her throat, this was horrible . . .
horrible . . . but, at the same time, wickedly beautiful to be used and
fucked in the ass like a common whore. There was agony and ecstasy, all
whirled together in one great sensual moment, and Kathy thought, in spite
of her initial revulsion, that the last few hours had been just that,
agony and ecstasy, and she had lived through the most sensuously exciting
moments of her life while poor Art had endured the worst. Someday, she
thought, she would explain to Art, and make everything up to him, and she
would let him do just this back in her rectum and he would be happy as he
had never been before, but she knew he was miserable, but there wasn't
really anything she could do about it, or was there?
The boy's sperm-bloated balls smacked hard down against the slavishly
kneeling Kathy's cunt as his thick, fuzz-nested cock sank deep up inside
her rectal passage, pushing almost to her pelvis. He was ready to cum,
holding back for just a moment. He withdrew, pulling his prick out almost
to the tip, then with a loud grunt he fucked it deep up into her belly
again, as she moaned aloud with the exquisite joy she felt.
Then Mark began to jerk in a wild spasm of intense pleasure as the
white hot sperm spurted the length of his thrusting, pulsing rod, to gush
forth in a delicious torrent into Kathy's now openly accepting little
rectum. The now half insane young woman half-moaned, half-screamed as the
boiling white liquid surged hotly up through her waiting bowels and she
thought, Oh my God, I'm cumming, too.
She felt the boy's final withdrawal as he pulled his now limp cock
from her rectum with a slight wet sucking noise that sounded as though a
cork were being pulled, and then the two collapsed, completely spent; Mark
panting for breath as he lay by her side, Kathy covered with sweat, but
weak and-happy and strangely satisfied.
Kathy would have liked to fall asleep---just to close her eyes and
sink into a sweet oblivion which would bring her back to strength and
reality---but as she dozed off, a blood curdling scream brought her back to
the hear and now. She raised her weary head and saw that it was poor Art
who had uttered the horrendous cry. And now he had slumped forward again,
all strength gone, a shadow of the former strong and proud man that Kathy
had married. Again Kathy wondered just what had happened to Art, to make
him behave this way. But she was too tired, too confused, to worry about
it. She would sleep awhile, she told herself. And when she awoke,
perhaps she would understand all that was going on around her . . .
Chapter 10
The music had stopped, and the crowd grew impatient until the
amplifiers crackled and sizzled and far away in the distance, no one knew
where, a sound became discernibly audible. Sitting near the stage, Robert
jumped to his feet, his face a show of gleeful revenge. This was it! He
slipped his tennis shoes back on, threw his shirt over his shoulder, and
headed up the hill. It had cost him a lid of dope, but it would be worth
it, just to show that smart-ass Jim that he was just a stupid, blundering
fourteen year-old kid who'd do a job for five bucks only to be insulted.
If his guess was right, and he'd be willing to bet his last nickel on
it, the sounds coming over that microphone would set the woods on fire!
Inside the cabin, Art had slumped to the ground once again, lying in
a pathetic heap like a pile of old clothes. Jim looked at him with
disgust, then went over to shake him by the shoulders.
"Where am I?" muttered Art, opening his eyes, blinking with the
effort.
"Just don't want you to miss the show. Our star for the day is . . .
Mrs. Art McGuire!" mimicked the blonde haired boy, feigning a microphone
in his hand, gesturing as if on stage before a crowd, not realizing that
thousands of people were indeed listening.
Art shook his head, wondering what had happened to him and why. How
had they prevailed on Kathy to put on this obscene exhibition---and in
front of him? It was the dope, he told himself . . . that damned
marijuana. That's what was making his dear Kathy act like this. He had
feared all along that she could be provoked to an outrageous sensuality,
always had that streak in her, but this? It was beyond any nightmare he
had ever imagined.
"Stop!" screamed Art, unable to watch any more of this humiliating
display of disgust. "Immunity . . . I'll grant you immunity . . .
anything, just don't rape my wife again!" He felt his knees buckling
under him and closed his eyes. The whole room, the whole woods, the
valley seemed to echo his own words. He chalked it up to anxiety, but
continued his pleading. "I'll let you get off, anything you want . . .
just let her go!"
Down in the valley, the crowd stopped its milling around, beer cans
immobilized in mid-air, couples lying in embrace under trees sat up
straight; everyone listened. Where was it coming from? The stage was
bare, for it was in-between acts. It was a joke, it had to be a joke.
"How the hell do we know you're telling the truth?" returned Jim.
"How do we know you won't turn the cops on us as soon as we leave?"
"My word," pleaded Art. "You have my word. There are witnesses . .
. look they're five of us here . . ."
"But we wouldn't want to leave the little woman high and dry, now
would we Art?" insisted Jim.
They drew numbers.
Jim was the first in line, unzipping his fly as he crossed the room.
He bent over Kathy and whispered, "Come on, lady, do your stuff," taking
her hand and guiding it to the jerking protuberance still hidden by the
stiff cotton of his levis. "Take it out," he ordered, and Kathy drew
forth his massive cock, feeling it stiffen in her clutch. She began to
manipulate the foreskin, easing it back over Jim's now swollen cock,
pulling it forward again. She ran her fingernail along the rigid flesh,
along the vein the stood out beneath it, her fingernails scratching gently
along its surface to send shocks of rapture through his loins, and Kathy
rocked back and forth, massaging Jim's erect cock, thrilling to Jim's
pleasure, responding to his every motion. Oh, she thought as she had
before, I'm making him so happy. I am so happy. Everybody's happy but
poor Art.
That made her want to cry; she loved Art so, and here she was, making
everyone else happy and she couldn't do anything for her own dear husband.
She continued to stroke Jim's cock with one hand while she wiped a tear
from her eye with the other.
"Ooooh, does that make you happy, Jim?" she cooed.
The valley roared with laughter.
And Mark, too, she thought, looking up to see him standing beside
her. Without waiting to be asked, she reached out and herself unzipped
Mark's fly, drawing his thick cock out just as she had drawn out Jim's.
With ecstatic little mewls of pleasure that sounded like a cat in heat,
she caressed it, too, into a hard, erect mass of flesh.
She struggled to sit up, but Mark pushed her back on the pillow, then
knelt over her, his legs straddling her shoulders. "Take it in your
mouth," he ordered, as she continued to stroke his rigidly pulsating
hardness. "Come on, Kathy, suck it!" His voice sounded harsh and gruff,
unlike the gentle, mild-mannered Mark who'd picked her up . . . when was
it they went for that nice bike ride?
Without a murmur, Kathy opened her lips to receive the tip of his
stiff, swollen cock, closing her mouth around it, clasping it, sucking it
in, her cheeks hollowing as she did so. She ran her tongue around the
throbbing head, felt the tiny opening that capped it, licked it gently at
first, then more roughly, as tiny droplets of a thick, viscous fluid
dribbled out. She ran them over her tongue, savoring their acrid taste
before she swallowed them. Now she ran her tongue along the ridge beneath
the one named Mark's wetly burning cock, and an electric shock seemed to
go through his body, jolting him convulsively. "God, this little bitch
sucks cock good," he groaned out loud. She was the best!
He arched his back, withdrawing his thick, piston-like cock, then
with a sharp, sudden motion, rammed his fourteen year old, still maturing,
cock deep inside Kathy's mouth, thrusting it back almost to her throat.
She gasped at the unexpected violence of the movement, then fought
for breath. She caught it as Mark withdrew again, beginning to fuck in
and out of her roundly ovalled lips, the countable pubic hairs surrounding
his loins grazing the tip of her nose, while his chestnut-sized balls
swung back and forth and smacked against her chin with a loud, resounding
slap. Kathy increased her mouthing on Mark's cock, grinding down hard on
the fleshy instrument that filled the hot, wet cavern of her mouth. One
hand snaked around his slender hips, slipped beneath the top of his pants,
and Kathy uttered a little cry of disappointment. Why hadn't he taken his
clothes off? She was lying there without a stitch on, her slim, luscious
young body exposed completely to him and Jim and, yes, all the rest who
watched from the other side of the room---Art and Lydia.
Without stopping her feathery fingering of Jim's cock, she devoted
her other hand to the struggle to strip Mark of his clothes. She wedged
her free hand under his pants, wiggled them down as he rolled his hips to
help. And then, they slid over it, slid it around to touch his balls, to
tease them, gently squeezing them. She slid her hand on, her fingernails
tickling the base of his pulsing cock, running along the underside of his
prick as he withdrew it on the backstroke while he continued all the while
the rhythmic fucking of her open mouth.
Mark could feel the boiling sperm building up in his scrotum, and a
sideward glance at Jim's lust contorted face told him that his balls, too,
were almost bursting, his loins aching with the excruciating excitement
Kathy's hand imparted to his slipperily fucking cock. She held it tighter
and tighter now, moving back and forth on it, manipulating it, milking it,
drawing it down and releasing it, teasing, tantalizing with an expertness
Jim would never have expected. My God! He couldn't stand it any longer,
he thought, giving out a weird, harsh cry. Kathy felt his prick expand
and contract in her hand, and then heard his helpless gasps of passion as
the hot fluid spurted thickly and wetly in a wide arc, gushing like a
boiling geyser onto her nakedly rippling stomach, then flowing down over
the smoothness of her thighs, seeping hotly down between them like a
searing stream of molten lava.
As Jim cried out, Mark's own grating shriek mingled with his voice,
and his balls exploded, too. The crowd heard it all, as he shot his load
of warm male semen into the soft, fleshy warmth of Kathy's hungry,
expectant mouth. The young woman moaned, her body contracting and heaving
rhythmically as her own moist juices seeped wetly from the walls of her
cunt again, flowing forth to flood her pink slitted cunt in her own
cascading orgasmic juices. Gulping desperately to keep from choking she
greedily sucked at and swallowed the churning liquid that seemed to flow
endlessly into her mouth, mewling with pleasure as she did so, fighting to
hold every succulent drop within her mouth, licking hungrily at the few
drops which trickled lewdly from he corners of her lips. As Mark's cock
went limp and flaccid between her teeth, as Jim's collapsed within her
hand, Kathy lay back, sperm covered, still, satiated, her eyes closed, her
nakedly glistening young body motionless.
From across the room, Art had stared at the whole scene with a
disbelief so great it came close to blotting out his disgust. His eyes
bulged from their sockets, his face was red and apoplectic. The world
whirled around him, making him feel dizzy, sick, as if he were standing at
some great height, looking down into an abyss miles below. His
fingernails clawed into the palms of his hands as he clenched his fists in
agony and revulsion. He didn't care in the least; nothing physical could
hurt him. His soul was scorched, withered by the sights he had been forced
to endure. He no longer had reason to live, he told himself. The only
thing in his life he held dear, had protected, that had never hurt him,
had now destroyed him---his wife.
Below, in the valley, the uproarious had a new cause for excitement
as they listened to a new character in the strange drama occurring
somewhere close; no one knew where or who was involved. They thought it
was a spoof, that someone was playing a record, a tape maybe, from a
pornographic movie track.
Robert burst in the door of the cabin. "Well, I see you've been
having a good time without me!" he grinned, stepping over Art's slumping
hulk. "Everybody's had their piece of fun and now it's my turn."
No one protested, no one held him back.
Watching Robert stomp towards his wife, Art seemed to be in a state
of shock, unable to move, unable to cry out, to protest; for Robert was
unbuckling his belt as he did so, whipping down the zipper of his pants,
pulling them down. He stood over the reclining Kathy, leering obscenely
at her, "My turn, lady," he announced.
And then he squatted down by Kathy's bed, leaning over her, spreading
her full, sperm-drenched thighs apart with his young hands. The pink slit
of her pussy was exposed to full view, now, quivering and unbelievably
coming to life again along its full, hair-fringed length. Robert drew his
finger slowly, carefully, along the line of it, stroking it gently,
searching out the tiny bud of her clitoris, coaxing it into a taut
erection. Kathy gasped in delight at the welcome pleasure that sent
little featherlike twitches spinning through her crotch, and on into the
blood that coursed like a re-kindled wildfire through every vein she had.
Robert felt her response and looked up into her face. "Good, isn't it?" he
asked.
"Ooooh yesss," Kathy moaned, knowing nothing now but her mad desire
for fulfillment. "I love your cock."
That brought a chorus of laughter from the crowd.
"Well, it's gonna get better," leered Robert, his eye on Jim. He
smirked over his shoulder at Mark, too, and then he plunged his forefinger
deep inside Kathy's warm, moistly palpitating cunt, worming it into the
hilt, withdrawing, entering again. Oh, God, it felt good, Kathy thought,
it felt so good she wished something so wonderful could happen to
everyone. To Art, for example. And then she looked up to see that it was
happening to Art. "Oh, look!" she chuckled. "Lydia's going to suck Art's
cock now."
While Robert's finger moved in and out of her tight little cunt,
finger fucking her, Lydia was on her knees before the unresisting Art,
unzipping his pants and inserting her hand inside them, feeling under his
shorts, and finally finding his soft, flaccid cock. She began to stroke
it gently at first, then more vigorously, nursing it to life, until
strength flowed mystically into it and it jerked upright.
Lydia drew it out then, holding Art's cock in her hand and then began
to tease it, forcing the foreskin back, then running her finger along the
tender underside of it. Kathy saw her husband's prick swell to enormous
proportions---was that her straitlaced Art? she asked herself in amazement-
-then saw him begin to respond to Lydia's ministrations, moving back and
forth as she clasped him tight, just as Jim had done when Kathy had held
his prick in her own hand. And now Lydia was bending her head, taking
Art's cock into her wide-open mouth, closing her lips around its tender
flesh, sucking on it, her cheeks working madly as Art's shaft became rock
hard, and began to fuck in and out of Lydia's widely ovaled mouth,
shooting forward almost to her throat, retreating, entering again. The
fear and anger combination he had felt such a short time before seemed to
fade away, and Art began to feel nothing but ecstatic joy that Lydia
brought to him. He shook his head, trying to sort things out for himself.
For a moment everything seemed clear; he, Art McGuire was indulging in
forbidden, perverted pleasures. And then it seemed that it was no longer
forbidden, although no one could deny the pleasure of it, and Art relaxed
and his pulsing cock moved in and out of the young girl's warm buttery
mouth and he felt the churning in his loins, the dull, throbbing ache, and
knew that this was the most important, the most exciting, the most
wonderful thing that had ever happened to him.
He looked over at his wife, and saw that she was doing just what
Lydia was doing, sucking the desire swollen cock of some boy---Art had
never seen him before. At the same time, Art saw that the boy was named
Mark was between Kathy's legs now, his thick, hard cock moving against her
pussy, parting her softly curling pubic hairs, then that Mark had taken
his full hardened length in his hand and was guiding it forward, using the
rubbery head to open wide the full fleshy lips of her cunt. Now the tip
slipped through the tight, elastic opening, sliding along the smooth,
moist cuntal hole, sinking in farther and farther, while Kathy opened her
legs as wide as she could and pulled her thighs back to take this
marvelous virile hardness deep up inside her hungrily waiting belly.
Art plunged forward into Lydia's mouth, withdrew, plunged in again,
while shivers of ecstasy rippled through his whole body, and a strange,
uninhibited wave of joy washed over him that he had never believed
possible.
He glanced at Kathy again, and saw that still a third man, Jim was
kneeling beside her; Jim had inserted his finger deep into Kathy's nakedly
twitching anus, and she was swiveling around it, her hips rotated. She
groaned as he thrust a second finger into the soft, warm depths, and then,
as she became accustomed to the intrusion, fucked his hardened cock into
her rectum as she began to moan and mewl with insane sounding pleasure.
The crowd loved it! The next band was setting up their equipment,
ready to start; a hiss emanated from the crowd. They didn't want to hear
music, they wanted to hear more of this strange story that was unfolded
about their ears.
Art quickened his thrust into Lydia's all encompassing mouth, fucking
into it hard and deep, his cock boring in to touch her throat, so that the
girl choked and fought back, yet Art plunged on and on, aware that never
in his life had he felt such thrills, such excitement. And Kathy was as
dazzled and delighted as he, moving against the three men who invaded her
in such diverse ways, screwing back against her fingers, their cocks,
their tongues. He saw her begin to sway and rock in a wild erotic
abandon, saw that the others moved with her, and realized that he, too,
was caught in the grip of the same mad passion, moving with the others,
swaying to their rhythm in some formalized, classic dance.
The ache in his loins became unbearable, the throbbing length of his
rigid staff maddening beyond belief, and then, he heard Kathy's wild
groans of passion, her repeated shout, "I'm cumming . . . Oh God, I'm
cuuummming!" heard the ecstatic moans of the three boys, heard their
panted, exhausted breathing as together they sent their hot, sticky semen
spurting into all the openings of her hungrily accepting young body. As
they did, Art could no longer hold back, no longer control himself. He,
too, uttered a raucous, passion-filled cry, then sent his boiling white
sperm spewing into Lydia's hungrily sucking fourteen year old mouth.
It seemed that everyone went limp then, lying back, while the whole
world whirred around them. Art was the first to rouse himself from the
torpor, to look at the others, to evaluate the situation. It was
difficult for him to define; he only knew that everything had changed. He
stared at the boys, his eyes roving over their slumped, inert bodies.
They were still a bunch of stupid punks, he told himself, still a lot of
dope-smoking dupes. Yet they had taught him something that they had known
for a long time. They had taught him that he need not be ashamed of his
passion, need feel no guilt---that it was a marvelous thing to experience
what he had just felt.
Art sensed that he owed these kids something. They had, he knew
already, changed the whole course of his life. They had shown him what
life was all about, what happiness was, how he? Art McGuire, 'uptight'
and 'strung out' as they would call it, could attain happiness with his
wife.
Chapter 11
Slowly, as Kathy slept she returned to full cognizance. The rock and
roll music was blaring up from the people-crowded valley below, vibrating
the beams of the rustic cabin, filling every corner with inescapable
sound. Robert, Mark, Lydia, and even Jim had left now, anxious to get
down into the crowd and mill around with their friends. And hopefully, to
find out what happened with Chuck. Had the U-Haul truck made it to its
destination?
Kathy groaned on the mattress. Her hair was disheveled and she wore
no make-up. Yet she looked more beautiful than ever, Art told himself.
She had picked up the remnants of her clothing and hung it on her body, in
an attempt at modesty.
Hesitantly, she raised her head, her eyes meeting Art's. Frightened
of Art, sure of what he would think of her, she looked but did not speak.
He had seen her debauched, degraded, subjected to the most vile outrages
by a gang of fourteen year old children. Certainly, he would want nothing
to do with her. Kathy brushed a tear from her eyes, then lowered them,
afraid to look at her husband. He was so good, so fine, so decent; so far
above passion. And even though he had succumbed to Lydia's temptations,
that had been only once---and surely a man was entitled to that. Whereas a
woman never was, and certainly not to the extent that Kathy had, indulging
in every perversion, every excess known. Kathy caught a sob in her
throat, then edged towards the edge of the mattress.
He spoke to her quietly, "Kathy."
She glanced at him, under half closed eye lids. Why was he acting
like this? Surely he must hate her. How could he help it, after what she
had done? In anguish, she buried her face in her hands and began to weep.
"Kathy?" Art's voice was gentle as the winds.
"Yes?"
He crossed the room and took her hands in his. "Everything's all
right, Kathy. Everything's different."
Kathy could no longer suppress her sobs. "Yes," she said, fresh
tears springing to her eyes. "Everything's different . . . I'm sorry,
Art. I still love you, Art. But I don't blame you if you don't want me
now."
She turned to hide her face, but Art caught her wrists.
"I don't know how to say this to you, how to explain. I feel I've
been such an ass all my life, leaving you alone at night, not giving you a
family, not making love to you when you needed me to."
"You mean you really think I'm still a desirable woman," Kathy
sobbed.
"You sure are, Kathy. I've wanted to fuck you, Kathy, good and hard
like the boys did to you, but somehow I guess I felt too old, over the
hill, as they say," admitted Art.
Kathy's eyes opened wide again. Was this her Art, the man she'd
married eight years ago? If it was, she had never known him to be so
gentle. And now she realized she hadn't much liked the man she had known.
She would get along beautifully with this Art.
"Kathy, I've been thinking about it," started Art, his finger tracing
the stripes of the mattress. "You know, I'm getting tired of this hunt
and chase kind of life we've been leading. You think I'm too old to start
a family, Kathy."
She averted her eyes once more, staring at the wall. Her tears now
were from happiness. "Oh Art, do you know how long I've been waiting to
hear that?"
He grinned. "Oh, by the way just in case you're interested---they
busted Chuck last night."
"Chuck?"
"Yeah, the guy who had bribed these kids into kidnapping you. He got
stopped for drunken driving . . . simple as that. Bust is made. Another
case settled."
The End