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Subject: {ASSM} Story: LLP-348 The Motorcyclist's Wife by Carl Van Marcus courtesy of AdultBookCovers.Net 32796008
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LLP-348 The Motorcyclist's Wife by Carl Van Marcus

Prologue

The air hung heavy over the flat Kansas prairie, dense and
feverishly heated as a sick person's breath. As the afternoon
progressed, ominous black clouds encroached on the Western
skyline, and violent gusts of wind - like the wracking coughs of
an invalid - stirred but failed to cool the crowd below.

"Smith! SMITH! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? YOUR ACT'S SUPPOSED TO
BEGIN NOW!" a darkly handsome man in his late twenties emerged
from the shack that served as an equipment shed on this makeshift
motorcycle stunt circus track, shouting to make himself heard
over the roar of the large crowd. Spotting his star stunt rider
standing beside the concession stand with a buxom peroxide blonde
clinging to his muscular arm, the irritated show manager strode
in that direction.

"What the fuck's holding you up?" the dark-haired man snapped.
"We've got a show going here, remember? It's past time for your
act, and the crowd's waiting for you."

"Don't make him do it, Larry!" the girl pleaded, throwing her
arms around the well-built stunt rider. "The wind's too bad!  The
radio said there's gusts up to 30 miles per hour!"

Larry Johnson, the manager, stared down at the girl, his face
reflecting the contempt and dislike he felt for her. Though she
was still in high school, her face and hair were already
coarsened by overuse of cosmetics and dyes, and her large
breasts, bulging conspicuously under her tight CYCLE CIRCUS
T-shirt, would be sagging by the time she reached the age of
twenty. Still, she was a good lay - he ought to know, for he'd
tried her out before passing her on to his star stunt rider. And,
more important, she was the daughter of the man who owned the
most popular radio station who'd given their two-week Kansas tour
so much free publicity. Anyway, she was probably just what Verne
Smith needed, what with that beautiful but frigid wife of his
back home. There was so much tension involved in this sort of
dare-devil stunt riding that it wasn't a good idea for the guys
to be sexually frustrated as well.

"What's the matter, Verne?" Larry asked, staring hard at his top
bike rider. "You turn chicken over a little wind?"

Verne Smith laughed, looking embarrassed as he glanced at the
teenager hugging him. He'd never quite learned to handle these
precocious cycle groupies, nor quite managed to overcome his
innate guilt about cheating on his wife.

"I ain't scared of no wind," he said to Larry, "you know me
better than that. But I was just trying to calm down Sherry
here."

"Just go on and get that act moving. I'll handle Sherry."

Verne moved out onto the track and mounted his powerful black
cycle to the accompaniment of the crowd's loud yells. Though he
was only twenty- five, he was already famous among cycle
enthusiasts around the country for his fearless skill.

"Don't do it, Verne! Don't do it!" he heard Sherry's shrill
adolescent voice calling and turned to smile and wave
reassuringly before gunning his bike and tearing across the field
to the first hurdle.

Suddenly, so quickly that the watching crowd hardly saw what
happened, a particularly violent gust of wind caught the
speeding, climbing cycle at an angle that sent it hurtling back
down the hill. Verne Smith's black leather clad body flew through
the air to land not far from the spectators with a sickening
thud, then lay as still as a crushed insect. Beyond him, the
accelerating bike's powerful engine immediately burst into
crimson flames that shot high into the darkening sky.

Larry Johnson rushed toward his friend's twisted body, the
terrified screams of the crowd and the wail of the fire siren
echoing in his ears.

"Verne! Verne!" he shouted, kneeling beside the sprawled out
body. But the stunt rider was unconscious, and in the next minute
his inert body was being lifted into a shrieking ambulance which
raced toward the nearest hospital.

Chapter 1

Dusk had just fallen, and in the last crimson-gold rays of the
setting sun, the row of identical pastel ranch houses which
jutted up from the flat Indiana prairie seemed to be bursting
into flames. In spite of the rosy glow, the air grew chill,
almost forbidding, as the thin September sun sank beyond the
horizon. High above the level plain a clamorous flock of
blackbirds hovered for an instant in the darkening sky, then
suddenly turned and vanished toward the south.

"Winter's coming at last ..." the slender blonde girl murmured to
herself, shivering and drawing her lightweight red cardigan
tightly around her scantily clad body as a chill breeze rustled
through the meadow. With a dispirited sigh, she turned away from
the bubbling creek and started trudging back toward the
subdivision houses silhouetted against the evening skyline.

Indian Summer had stretched on for so long that Sandi Smith had
almost dared to hope that the cold and snow would never really
arrive. This would be the first time the Florida born and raised
young wife had ever spent in the north, and although she'd not
let her husband know how she felt, she'd been dreading the winter
ever since he'd told her they were settling permanently in the
Midwest.

I know Verne says that northern Indiana's the only place in the
country where his darned old Cycle Circus can really get off the
ground, she thought rebelliously, but what does he expect me to
do all winter long while he's away on his stupid tours? I just
wish he'd let me come with him like I used to or get a normal job
where he wouldn't have to leave me by myself all the time ...

Kicking angrily at a pebble as she stepped from the overgrown
field onto the concrete sidewalk of the brand new subdivision
which bore the optimistic name of Lakeview Estates, the
long-legged blonde tried to prevent herself from falling into a
state of morbid depression. More and more often in these past few
months, she'd been plagued by uncontrollable moods of frustration
and uncertainty. Sometimes, she wondered what had happened to the
starry-eyed optimist who'd been foolish enough to believe that
marriage to a handsome motorcycle stunt rider meant living
happily ever after, just like in the fairy tales and romance
novels. It grew more and more difficult to recall the joyous
sense of freedom she'd felt less than a year ago when, after the
marriage ceremony in her father's Florida parish, she and Verne
had set off on his big motorcycle for his home in Indiana.

As the shapely honey-blonde rounded the corner to Lemon Lane
where the Smiths' two-bedroom house was located, her dismal
thoughts were momentarily diverted by a group of junior high
school boys racing by on their bicycles. The moment the
youngsters spotted the attractive nineteen year old in her skimpy
white shorts and tight red sweater, they squealed to a halt and
circled around to stare after Sandi's tautly rounded buttocks
wriggling in unintentional invitation and at her long,
classically-sculpted legs. One of the youths, braver than the
others, let out a loud wolf whistle which brought a bright red
flush of embarrassment to the young housewife's face.

Quickening her pace - an action which had the unfortunate result
of making her rounded hips undulate even more provocatively than
before - Sandi hurried down Lemon Lane and into her own front
yard. Instead of making a careful inspection of the wealth of
flowers and bushes which transformed the Smith's quarter acre
into a little oasis of color among the barren plots of crabgrass
which were the general rule in Lakeview Estates, the red-faced
blonde hastened into her white frame house.

Although the air was really quite cool now that night had fallen,
the svelte young wife did not close the open living room windows.
The blush which had begun on her cheeks seemed to have spread
throughout her entire body, making her feel unaccountably warm.

They're just a bunch of silly kids, she told herself firmly, but
deep inside, the innately honest girl could not deny that she'd
been flattered by the young boys' obvious admiration. It seemed
so long, so very, very long, since her husband had complimented
her on her appearance.

"He was so different before we were married," she thought, her
thoughts drifting to the whirlwind courtship which had been the
talk of Collinsville, Florida. "Now he just seems to take me for
granted ... when I see him, that is ..."

Her low, plaintive voice echoed eerily in the empty house, and
Sandi clamped her lips shut and vowed once again to curtail the
bad habit she'd been developing lately of talking to herself.
What on earth would people think if they knew that she wandered
around babbling to herself like a senile old maid?

"They'd think I'm stark, raving mad!" she murmured, realizing as
the words left her lips that she'd broken her vow within seconds
of having made it. "Well, maybe I am then!" she shrugged. "And if
I am, it's all Verne's fault for leaving me alone like this while
he's off with his stupid motorcycles!"

Without bothering to switch on the electricity, the unhappy young
woman made her way down the short hallway to the master bedroom.
By now it was pitch-black outside, but the street light out on
the parkway cast its rays into the small room and illuminated the
king-sized bed, brand new dressing table and bureaus with an
almost surreal radiance that suited Sandi's morbid mood just
perfectly. As she crossed over toward the closet to dig out the
wool slacks and sweaters her husband had bought her, her eyes
caught the color photograph of Verne that stood in a prominent
position on her dressing table. Whenever he was gone for long
stretches, the lonely wife always removed the wedding picture
from the album and brought it in here so that she could look at
it before she went to sleep, a habit that had started one
dreadful day when she'd realized she could no longer conjure up
an image of his face.

Now, as she'd done so many times before, Sandi stood staring at
the handsome, sun-bronzed man in the photo. His deep blue eyes
seemed to stare directly back at her, and she felt an urge to
push the lock of wavy chestnut hair off his forehead. Though the
young bridegroom was unsmiling, she could tell from the faint
suggestion of a dimple in his strong jaw that he was not unhappy,
merely embarrassed at having to pose in his wedding clothes when
he really only felt comfortable in jeans and a motorcycle helmet.
Even the rented tuxedo, however, could not conceal his healthy,
masculine physique, and as Sandi gazed at her husband's muscular
figure she felt a familiar rush of pride.

Then, as she remembered that Verne was miles away in Kansas with
the Cycle Circus, the smile that was starting to form on her lips
faded to a worried frown. What was the good of having a handsome
husband when you never saw him? And when he was surrounded by
plenty of cute girls all day long, his good looks really became a
liability rather than an asset. In the early months of their
marriage, Sandi had often accompanied her husband on his tours,
and she'd had plenty of opportunity to observe the other girls
who hung out around the cycle tracks. Most of them, the worried
young wife felt certain, wouldn't hesitate to chase after the
show's handsome star whether or not he happened to be married.
And Verne ... would Verne be able to resist their attentions ...
would he even try to ...?

"I won't keep thinking those things about him!" she told herself
firmly. "I won't be a jealous wife."

But try as she might, the suspicions remained in the back of her
mind, even as she attempted to push away the fearful imaginary
vision of her chestnut-haired husband standing beside some
peroxide blonde in a low- cut blouse, his strong arm draped
around her bare shoulders and his warm lips mashed against her
lipstick-smeared mouth. Even though the picture was pure fantasy,
Sandi's slender body began to shake in anger and she had to bite
her knuckles to keep from bursting into tears.

After a moment, when she'd gotten a hold on her emotions, the
golden- haired girl tore herself away from Verne's picture and
moved in the direction of the closet. There, still in the shop's
cardboard boxes, were all the new winter clothes her husband had
bought for her - fluffy sweaters, woolen slacks, a few dresses in
bright-hued cashmere-like fabrics, a shiny pair of leather boots,
and even a nightgown and a pair of furry red angora slippers with
a matching robe. For a moment Sandi felt sincerely guilt-stricken
for the unproven doubts she'd been feeling.

"Verne's so good to me. I don't know what's wrong with me, why
I'm so unhappy," she pondered aloud as she lifted each of the
brand new garments from their wrappings. "I never had nice stuff
like this before I met him - I ought to be grateful."

Deciding that trying on her new winter wardrobe would distract
her from her gloomy fantasies, the young blonde pulled off her
cardigan sweater and snug-fitting cotton halter top. Then, as her
fingers sought the zipper of her skintight white shorts, her mind
slipped back to the day when her tall, dark-haired husband had
come home with the trunk loaded down with packages for her.

"Here you go, baby," he'd boomed in his usual hearty tone. "A few
goodies to keep you snug and warm while I'm not around to warm
your bed up this winter!"

She'd come to the back door, she remembered now, dressed only in
the sheerest of sundresses, a strapless affair actually intended
to be worn over a bikini, but which she'd thrown on that morning
because of the truly suffocating heat. Since it was only eleven
in the morning and she'd not expected Verne to come back until
evening, she'd not even bothered to don her brassiere and panties
before tackling the chore of unpacking the last of their things
which had just arrived from Florida.

Her husband's habitual enthusiasm irritated her that morning - he
had no more sensitivity to the sticky Midwest heat than he
apparently had to the icy winters - and his vulgar words only
added fuel to the fire. While she'd certainly been agonizing
about the dreaded lonely winter months which she was supposed to
spend alone in Lakeview Estates while her new husband toured the
southern circuit, the crude way he spoke brought a crimson color
to her already heat-flush cheeks.

"What are you going on about, anyway?" she demanded, too
flustered to remember at first that she was as good as naked in
the sheer beach dress.

"Hey, baby, I like that get-up!" Verne whistled, his glinting
blue eyes boring into her body in a way that made his nineteen
year old wife feel sordid and dirty. "How come you never wore
this pretty little see- through number before?"

"Verne, I wish you wouldn't talk to me like that!" Sandi said
stiffly, folding her arms to hide her proud, high-set young
breasts and wishing that she had four arms instead of two so that
she could cover up her shamefully revealed vaginal hair as well.
"What are you doing back here now, anyway? I thought you were
going over to talk with Larry? You said you both had to talk to
the lawyer about the contract for the circus ..."

"Hey, don't get uptight, baby," Verne laughed, still in his usual
high spirits despite his wife's unenthusiastic response. "Larry
was - uh - occupied with his wife. So I just thought I'd run up
to Gary and pick up some things for you. After all, I don't want
folks to think I'm neglecting my woman just because I'm gonna be
gone most of the winter. I want you to look real a la mode,
baby!"

Sandi knew that she should be pleased that Verne had thought to
expand her exclusively summer wardrobe, but all she could feel
was irritation. Ever since her husband had informed her one month
ago that they would be permanently settling in northern Indiana,
she'd tried her best to put the news out of her mind. Of course,
she understood that this was an ideal home base for Verne's Cycle
Circus - he'd grown up in the area and had good contacts,
particularly his high school friend, Larry Johnson. Even though
Sandi felt an instinctive and no doubt unreasonable distrust for
her husband's darkly handsome manager, she had to admit that the
Cycle Circus of which Verne had dreamed for so long probably
would never have gotten off the ground if it hadn't been for
Johnson's business expertise. It had been he, too, who'd insisted
on this winter circuit of tours in the South and Midwest - it
would give them extra capital, and enable the permanent cycle
stunt riding show to open in style ne
 xt summer.

I just want you to stay home with me - I don't care about new
clothes, Sandi wanted to say. Instead, biting her lip to hold
back her frustration as he dumped the packages on the kitchen
table, she replied, "Thank you, Verne."

This time the handsome young husband could not fail to catch the
lack of enthusiasm in his wife's voice, and he felt a spark of
anger ignite in his chest.

"Well, you sure don't sound too pleased," he retorted. "Let me
tell you one thing, baby - I picked up these things myself 'cause
I want to be damn sure you're not parading around in something
like you've got on right now. If you don't like me making remarks
about it, how come you're wearing it? For some other man, maybe?"

"Oh, Verne!" Sandi cried out, exasperated by his unreasonable
jealousy. For the entire year in which they'd been married, she'd
never once given him a single reason to distrust her, but he was
nevertheless obsessed by the idea that she might be unfaithful to
him. Suddenly the unhappy nineteen year old felt very tired of
being treated like a stupid schoolgirl with no control over
herself.

"Why do you have to say mean things like that?" she demanded.
"I'm wearing this 'cause it's so darn hot, and you know it! The
way you're going on is just as dumb as your not letting me come
along to the motorcycle shows anymore, or not letting me go
riding on the back of your bike."

Verne bristled, his ordinarily even temper rising. "I can't stand
the way the guys at the track give you the eye, Sandi. You're my
woman now, and I don't ever want you to forget it!"

"Oh, they don't mean anything ... they're just looking at me.
What's so bad about that? They don't try to talk to me or
anything 'cause they know I'm your wife. Really, Verne, please
let me come along with you again. Let me come to Kansas with you
next week! I get so worried sitting back home alone thinking that
you might have an accident or something and I won't be there to
take care of you."

"Never had an accident yet," the young husband boasted. "And you
know you like those guys looking at you. Well, I'm not putting up
with it! You're damn well not coming out to Kansas, or anywhere
else! Larry told me about the way you were leading that blond guy
on at that show in Baleton, remember?"

"All I did was smile at him once, just to be friendly. He didn't
seem to have any friends and he looked lonely, just like I was.
You ... you act like I was thinking dirty things or something!"

Hot tears sprang up in her amber-tinted eyes as she defended
herself, and her voice began to tremble with an indignation
heightened by the twinge of guilt she'd felt at the mention of
the handsome blond youth. Of course she'd never even dreamed of
doing anything wrong - hadn't so much as spoken to him - yet she
could still remember the delicious little forbidden thrill that
had surged through her when she'd sensed the stranger's eyes
staring up to where she sat perched on the back of Verne's
powerful black cycle. Her widespread thighs and barely covered
buttocks had been openly revealed to the youth whenever the wind
lifted her short skirt, and wicked though it was she'd enjoyed
his obvious admiration.

Feeling sorry that his angry words had brought his young wife to
the point of tears, Verne Smith moved over toward her and circled
his arms around her slim waist.

"Awh, honey, take it easy. I just don't want some bastard
stealing my girl away from me, that's all." He paused to run his
work-calloused hands over the firm mounds of her breasts. "Yeah,
this beautiful body's all mine!"

Sandi couldn't help shivering as her husband's strong hands
tweaked at the nerve-filled tips of her round girlish breasts,
her entire body glowing at his possessive touch. It was wrong,
she knew, but no matter what harsh things he said to her, she
still felt excited the moment he drew close to her. Shameful
though it was, she could never hold back the exquisite surge of
desire that sped through her, and she often worried that she was
abnormal for not finding sex as painful and unpleasant as her
mother had warned her it would be.

"Nicest pair of tits in the state, and they're all mine," Verne
was mumbling as he squeezed her tiny nipples to taut erectness
straight through the sheer fabric of Sandi's light summer beach
dress. "And this golden pussy ... and your tight little cunt ...
all mine!"

The quivering young wife knew what her husband had in mind from
the tone of his voice and the quickening pace of his breathing,
recognizing the symptoms from those times when she'd unwittingly
allowed him to see her undressing, and he'd come to bed filled
with strange, sometimes even unnatural, passion. Although she
knew that she ought to pull away from him before it was too late,
she only whimpered weakly and let him press up against her own
trembling loins for just another tantalizing moment.

"Shit, Sandi," Verne groaned, rubbing his swelling penis up
against her trembling thighs as he reached around to bunch her
flimsy sundress up to her waist. "You look so sweet today that I
gotta screw you! Besides, you need to be reminded that you're my
girl and no one else's!"

What could be the matter with Verne? Here it was the middle of
the day, with the kitchen door standing wide open so that any of
the always curious neighbors who happened to be passing could
plainly see inside, and he was fondling her breasts and lifting
up her mini-dress to stroke at the "vee" of honey-blonde pussy
hair in between her naked thighs! What could have made him so
unnaturally excited?

The young wife shivered as Verne's bulging penis pressured hotly
against her upper leg, knowing that unless she stopped this
indecency at once that his hardened male flesh would soon be
spearing with long, smooth strokes up into her unprotected vagina
- right here against the kitchen table! And she wanted him to do
it - there was no use denying that. Up between her thighs a
voluptuous moisture was forming, and the aroused young blonde
knew very well that it wasn't being brought on by the noonday
heat.

"P-please, Verne," she managed to stammer in a low, embarrassed
voice. "N-not now ... not here in the k-kitchen! It's indecent!
Anyone might see us!"

"Who gives a damn?" her husband's lust-hoarsened voice hissed in
her ear. "I just saw Larry giving it to Clare, and now I want
you. I want you too bad to wait!"

His hands once again reached out to massage Sandi's sensitively
trembling breasts beneath her skimpy dress, while he pressed his
pulsating penis more insistently than ever against her
hair-covered pussy mound.

"I don't care what Larry and Clare do in the middle of the day!"
the nineteen year old retorted angrily, pursing her pink lips up
into a disapproving little pout and pushing her husband's body
away. "It's none of my business - or yours either! And even if
they were acting like animals, that certainly doesn't make it
right!"

Verne grabbed out for his full-bodied wife, who was tugging her
short skirt down as far as possible over her flaring thighs, and
tried to kiss her. "Come on, honey," he urged. "How come you
always got to act so goddamn prim and proper?"

Even though she secretly yearned to feel her husband's throbbing
male hardness pushing up into her indecently quivering loins,
Sandi wouldn't have dreamed of letting him realize she was so
wanton. Once again, she pushed him firmly away from her.

"D-don't swear at me, please, Verne," she said, only the
slightest quavering in her southern-accented voice betraying her
inner turmoil. "There's a time and place for everything ..."

"But baby -"

"And I don't want to talk about it any more!" The shapely young
wife turned determinedly back to her unpacking, ignoring Verne's
glare of helpless anger as she struggled to control her forbidden
emotions. It was only a minute or so before he slammed out the
back door, but she'd already almost succeeded in convincing
herself that she was proud of her willpower.

Now, three weeks later, the half-naked woman standing lost in
thought in her darkened bedroom realized with a guilty start that
her own hands had risen to caress her uncovered breasts, and that
her loins were rippling with the same liquid desire as she'd felt
that sun-drenched afternoon when her husband had tried to make
love to her right in the kitchen. Opening her eyes, which had
been clenched shut while she relived the obscene memory, the
lonely wife could not help noticing that her rose-pink nipples
were hardening into taut little buttons. Thoroughly ashamed of
herself, she snatched her hands away from her forbidden flesh and
made a conscious effort to erase all erotic thought from her
mind.

What's wrong with me, anyway? she asked herself. Here I am,
playing with my body like a thirteen year old instead of a mature
married woman. And it's no good blaming Verne for being gone so
much ... it's not his fault I love him so much I can't stand
being away from him.

Ignoring the tingling excitement in her stiffening nipples, the
flushed young woman flicked on the bedside lamp. The artificial
light lessened the strange sensual atmosphere in the silent
bedroom, but Sandi's swollen breasts were still sending out
indecent messages of arousal to all the nerve-endings in her
shapely young body. To her chagrin, the crotchband of her
snug-fitting white cotton shorts suddenly felt far too tight, as
her vaginal lips puffed up in a way that made the honey- blonde
housewife feel more ashamed of herself than ever.

"I won't try this stuff on tonight," she muttered, pushing the
cardboard boxes back onto the top shelf of the closet after
extracting an orange-colored nightgown and a soft red bathrobe.
"And I won't bother about dinner either - I'll just go right to
bed. Maybe if I start getting more sleep, it'll help my nerves."

Turning away from the dresser mirror as though she were afraid to
look at her own naked figure, the nineteen year old wife slipped
out of her shorts and at once began to pull the new nightgown
over her head to hide the body of which she was feeling so
ashamed. Then, as her eyes registered on the gossamer garment,
her hands froze in midair. The very idea that Verne had even
considered her brazen enough to wear such a revealing nightie was
shocking enough, but the lewd thrill of titillation that surged
through her bloodstream at the thought of how her husband's eyes
would light up with desire when he saw her in it was even more
shameful.

It's ... it's not just seductive, she thought. It's like
something a whore would wear, it really is!

Feeling extremely bold, the young blonde held the diaphanous,
apricot- colored scrap of lace up to her naked body and then
turned slowly to gaze at her reflection in the floor-length
mirror. As she'd expected, it didn't hide one inch of her slender
yet curvaceous figure; but she'd not anticipated the way it made
her look strikingly different from her usual wholesome self. For
one thing, the nylon-lace fabric was cunningly cut to emphasize
her well-rounded but average-sized breasts so that she looked as
though she wore a D-cup instead of a 34-B! Her hips, too,
appeared even fuller and more seductively rounded than usual.
Instead of a fashion model figure, Sandi had acquired the body of
a Playboy centerfold, and revulsion mingled with a strange
excitement in her face as she continued to stare as if mesmerized
at the unfamiliar image in the mirror.

"I look like a little girl playing dress-up!" she murmured.
"Except that little girls don't dress up to be streetwalkers!"

The clear-eyed, smooth-skinned face with its halo of naturally
wavy honey-blonde hair was indeed more like that of a sixteen
year old than a nineteen year old. An expression of virginal
naivete lingered in her soft brown eyes and rather full lips even
after a whole year of marriage, and it was quite true that her
voluptuous, though svelte, figure was in striking contrast even
without the apricot-hued lingerie. Sandi had been raised in a
home where cosmetics, hair dye, and other sophisticated beauty
aids were anathema, and since she still retained traces of guilt
for breaking certain strict rules her Methodist preacher-father
had enforced in his household, she'd never picked up these habits
even after leaving home. Consequently, she'd retained a purity
and innocence that few girls of her age could match.

In addition, she'd continued to brood over breaking the code of
morality imposed in her childhood. Consequently, as she stood in
front of the mirror clad only in the skimpy, prostitute-style
garment, she seemed to hear her mother's voice echoing in the
silence of her empty suburban bedroom.

Suddenly, she was transported back to her narrow bedroom in the
whitewashed clapboard rectory, her two suitcases and all her
clothes spread out upon her bed as she packed for her honeymoon.
Her nostrils quivered with the almost forgotten scent of wilting
flowers - the thrifty pastor's wife brought home the limp
bouquets after church services, funerals, and weddings - and her
proudly-sculpted body unconsciously took on the awkward,
hunched-over posture she'd affected in adolescence to hide her
budding breasts.

"What's that?" she heard her mother's horrified voice snap.
"Surely, Sandra, you can't intend to pack a thing like that!
Where on earth did you get it, anyway?" With the tips of her
fingers, she picked up a semi-sheer white cotton nightie, looking
at it as if its very presence in her house were enough to call
down the wrath of God. "What's the matter with that nice pink
flannel nightie Aunt Mildred gave you last Christmas? I'm ashamed
of you for wasting good money on something like this." She
dangled the offending feminine-looking garment in front of her
embarrassed daughter's downcast eyes.

"V-Verne gave me money to buy some th-things," Sandi had
stammered apologetically. "And then I had the m-money I made
babysitting."

"Humph!" the elderly woman sniffed. "Well, if Mr. Smith wants to
waste his money on frivolities, that's his business. But I
thought you were brought up better than to buy a sinful piece of
goods like this, Sandra!"

"But Mother, there's nothing really wrong with this nightie!"
Sandi had summoned up the courage to protest.

"There certainly is! Why, you can see your naked body straight
through it!"

As there seemed no appropriate rejoinder to this, the young
blonde laid the nightdress aside without comment. Later that
night, she slipped it into her suitcase, balling it up underneath
some inoffensive cotton panties just in case her mother should
feel like snooping tomorrow morning.

Now, as the memories faded, an ironic little smile appeared on
the blonde wife's face. "What would Mother think of this?" she
murmured, wrinkling her nose at the lewdly daring apricot
nightdress she was now wearing. But although she was trying to
laugh it off, the foundation of guilt was too solid to be easily
dissolved, and with trembling fingers, Sandi Smith drew the
flagrantly wanton lace nightie up over her lushly ripened body.

I know I'm being silly, she told herself as she folded the soft,
silk- like material and laid it carefully back in its box, but I
couldn't sleep a wink wearing that, even though I know it's all
right as long as Verne gave it to me. After all, he's my husband!

She leaned down to dig her ordinary cotton babydoll pajamas out
of the dresser drawer, then paused with her hand on the drawer
handle and a serious expression clouding her girlish face.

No! I'm not going to be a baby! she decided. Verne bought it for
me to wear, and I'm his wife now, not my parents' little girl!
I'll wear it, because he wants me to!

Ignoring the guilty voice pricking at the back of her brain,
Sandi again slipped the sexy, slinky nightgown over her slim
figure. You like wearing that obscene thing, don't you? the young
wife's conscience accused as she climbed into her king-sized bed.
You get a kick out of looking like a photograph in one of those
dirty magazines. And it's nothing to do with Verne!

This whisper was, of course, thoroughly unacceptable; Sandi paid
it no more heed than she'd paid the somewhat similar sensations
she'd experienced when she'd ridden on the back of Verne's big
cycle and every man on the road had stared at her long, perfectly
formed legs. Switching off the bedtable lamp, Sandi instead
directed her thoughts toward the day when her husband would
arrive home again. He should show up on Thursday, maybe Friday
morning. That gave her two days to get out of her mood of
depression. She'd prepare all the foods he especially liked, and
maybe even drive into Brunrocke, the nearest town of any size,
for some of that Danish beer he fancied. And she certainly
wouldn't let herself think about the possibility that he was with
another woman tonight, or about her censorious parents, or about
her dread of the lonely winter months ahead. Most important of
all, she'd not allow herself to think about the wonderful way she
felt when he touched her, or she might find
 herself doing forbidden things to herself as she had earlier
that evening. No, she'd save all those feelings up for his return
- after all, it was wrong to think about sex unless you were in
bed with your husband.

Sandi Smith fell asleep much more easily than usual, perhaps
because of the long walk she'd taken up in the open prairie
beyond the subdivision of Lakeview Estates. In spite of her
earnest resolves, she immediately fell into a dream in which she
was tooling down the highway behind Verne on his powerful
motorcycle, her long blonde curls whipped around her face by the
wind and her arms clutching her husband's strong- muscled body.
Gradually the lonely nineteen-year-old's firm-fleshed thighs drew
closer together beneath the sheet, and within minutes her
silken-skinned upper legs were rubbing sensually against each
other in unconscious imitation of the vibrations of the bike
motor thudding up through the leather seat into the sensitive
flesh of her widespread buttocks and quivering vagina.

As her hair-fringed pussy lips, already swollen from the erotic
dream, were stimulated by the rhythmic pressure of her
taut-muscled thighs, the sleeping girl's breath quickened. A
light coat of perspiration broke out on her flushed forehead, and
her toes curled under as lewd little fingers of excitement traced
a forbidden path from the base of her neck to the tips of her
feet. In her dream, the bike was zooming over roller-coaster type
hills at breakneck speed; and in her bed, the squirming blonde's
naked thighs were pressing so tightly together that the tendons
stood out on their ivory-white surface. Deep inside her
titillated vagina drops of heated moisture were forming, and her
clitoral bud jerked into a tautly throbbing little button of
erotic sensation.

The motorcycle was driving faster and faster, and now the
roadside was lined with handsome blond men, all of whom were
staring lustfully at Sandi's long, white legs and half-revealed
ass-cheeks. A loud wolf whistle pierced through her dream, and
then another, and another ...

Suddenly wide awake, the young wife sat bolt upright in bed, her
scantily-clad loins still trembling but all traces of physical
arousal obliterated by a cold cloud of panic. For a moment she
stared in perplexity at the luminous dial of the clock-radio,
struggling to comprehend why she had awakened at 11:45 with her
throat so constricted with fear that she could scarcely breathe.
Then the front doorbell chimed again, a long drawn out shrilling
as if someone were pressing his finger long and hard on the
buzzer, and Sandi's entire body turned to ice. Verne! Something
had happened to Verne, just as she had always dreaded it would.
Why else would the doorbell be ringing in the middle of the
night?

Leaping to her feet, the terror-stricken young wife rushed
pell-mell down the dark hallway, crashing clumsily against a
wrought iron telephone stand in her haste to reach the front
door. Although the sharp metal table edge pierced through the
naked white flesh of her thigh, Sandi was not aware of any pain.

Her trembling, white-knuckled hands gripped at the doorframe as
she eased it open a crack and stared out into the darkness.
There, his healthy tanned face glowing an eerie shade of green in
the neon light from the streetlamp, stood Larry Johnson, her
husband's partner and best friend, and Sandi saw at a glance that
her worst fears were justified.

"Verne! It's Verne, isn't it? He's not ... he's not ...?" And
then her voice trailed off, and her voluptuous young body,
protected only by the wisp of apricot-colored lace, tumbled
forward into Johnson's arms in a dead faint.

Chapter 2

Larry Johnson stood beside the Smith's white imitation-leather
sofa, a bottle of Johnny Walker in one hand and a towel filled
with ice cubes in the other. His usually self-assured, darkly
handsome face was twisted into an uncharacteristic caricature of
confusion as he gazed down at the lifeless form of his best
friend's unconscious wife, and though he made a brief effort to
concentrate on his injured partner who lay paralyzed from the
waist down in a Kansas hospital, his granite- grey eyes gradually
began to shoot out sparks of lust.

When he'd lifted Sandi Smith's limp body in his arms and carried
her in from the doorstep to the living room couch, her
transparent orange nightgown had bunched up around her slender
waist. Now, as she lay sprawled on her side, her ripely-rounded,
snow-white buttocks were completely revealed to his ardent gaze.
One full firm breast swelled out over the edge of the couch
cushion, and the young motorcyclist had to fight back an impulse
to lean down and gently lick its satin- skinned, ruby-tipped
surface.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, taking a quick gulp
of the whiskey with which he'd intended to revive the stunned
young wife. Then, without allowing his eyes to leave the
tantalizing spectacle spread out before him, he poured some of
the amber liquid into a glass and set it on the glass-topped
coffee table. In a moment he'd give it to her - but first he'd
allow himself to feast his eyes upon the sensual but forbidden
female flesh of his buddy's wife.

Whoever would have thought that Verne's goody-goody wife ran
around the house in a get-up that even his own uninhibited wife
Clare would have thought a bit risque? It just didn't go along
with the prissy way Sandi had of wrinkling her nose and frowning
when someone told an off-color joke, or the shocked looks she'd
shot at Clare when the older girl had come over one hot afternoon
in a skintight T-shirt sans brassiere. In fact, the only way he
could figure it was that she must have a lover - why the hell
else would she be wearing such sexy underwear when her husband
was gone? Well, she'd sure had him fooled - and obviously old
Verne too!

A low moan followed by a babble of incoherent words rose from the
figure on the couch, and Johnson's face quickly reverted to a
mask of concerned friend as the curvaceous blonde wife opened her
hazel eyes and attempted to pull herself up to a sitting
position.

"Verne! Wh-what h-happened to him?" she whispered. "He's not ...
not ..." Then her voice choked in her throat as tears flooded
into her fear-glazed eyes.

"Take it easy, Sandi," Larry murmured soothingly. He handed her
the glass of whiskey, adding, "Drink this, it'll make you feel
stronger. You sure gave me a scare when you toppled over like
that on the steps."

Sandi ignored the proffered glass, instead grasping her husband's
partner's other arm and imploring, "Is he all right? Larry, tell
me! Tell me!"

As the half-hysterical blonde touched his arm, the dark-haired
man felt his blood quicken in his veins, and the long shaft of
his penis gave a sudden lurch against the tight material of his
jeans.

"Calm down, honey," he reassured her, moving his arm around her
quivering figure and holding the glass against her lips until she
automatically gulped down the stinging alcohol. "Verne's had a
little accident, but he's going to be all right. Everything's
going to be all right."

Even as the words left his mouth, Larry felt a twinge of disquiet
at deliberately deceiving the distraught young woman. In his
mind's eye, he saw her husband flying through the air to land
with a sickening crunch upon the track, his virile, leather-clad
body crumpling on impact like a cricket crushed under someone's
heel. Then, Larry's memory skipping forward a few hours, a vision
of the small hospital's antiseptic white-walled corridor flashed
across Larry's brain. He'd been nervously sipping at his third
cup of wax-flavored coffee from the hall vending machine when a
plump, white-frocked doctor who looked more like an extra in a
low-budget television western than a surgeon had approached him.

"Lucky to be alive ... doubt if he'll ever walk again, though we
did save his legs ... but paralysis has set in ... no life at all
below the waist ... but no brain damage, luckily ... yeah, he was
pretty lucky."

Just the recollection brought back a flash of the horror and
disbelief he'd felt at that moment. Lucky? When he'd never again
be able to walk or even make love to a woman, much less dazzle
the crowds with his stunt-rider skills? Larry wondered if Verne
wouldn't have been better off if his brain had died along with
his body. And what about the Motorcycle Circus, into which they
had both thrown their entire savings, counting on Verne's
extraordinary prowess as a rider? He himself was ruined too,
financially if not physically.

When the grey-faced, weary-looking doctor had thrown out a grain
of hope, he'd grasped at it like a drowning man catching hold of
a chance bit of driftwood.

"... no facilities here in Kansas, but there is an operation ...
very expensive ... 50% chance of success ... very delicate,
intricate ... know of a specialist in Indianapolis ..."

Now, as he stood in his partner's living room trying to comfort
his buddy's tearful wife he wondered why he'd not told her the
truth. On the drive from the airport, he'd been full of schemes
to raise money for the operation, and he'd fully intended to
discuss this with Mrs. Smith. She'd have to get a full-time job,
of course, and he'd put on some special benefit shows or
something along that line. Anything at all, just so that Verne
got the best possible medical care and recovered at least in time
for next summer's opening of the real money- maker - the opening
of the permanent Cycle Circus here in Indiana.

It was kind of ironic, he reflected, that he found himself
depending so heavily on the slightly younger man. He, Larry, had
been the one who taught Smith all he knew about bikes, starting
when he'd been a skinny little freckle-faced freshman who'd hang
around while his older neighbor polished and repaired his big
cycle. Larry had taken a liking to the kid who so obviously
adored him, and he'd eventually let him try out the bike. Within
months the youngster had far outstripped his teacher in skill and
daring, and by the time he graduated from high school, he was
proficient enough to be able to make a living by the prize money
he won. Even after he'd become a success, however, he'd still
looked up to Larry Johnson and had asked his advice about a great
many things other than motorcycles. In fact, probably the only
decision he'd made entirely on his own was when he met Sandi on a
tour in Florida and married her three weeks later.

Larry had been prepared to dislike the new bride even before he
met her, simply because he'd have preferred to have handpicked
the star motorcycle rider's wife himself if Verne insisted in
tying himself down at this inopportune point in his career. Hell,
the guy was only twenty- one, for Chrissake, and it wasn't like
he was hurting for sex, what with all the "cycle groupies" who
liked to hang around the track and had no compunctions at all
about putting out for the muscular, personable young stunt rider.
Although the Cycle Circus had not yet become a reality at that
point, the dream had been germinating in Johnson's brain for some
months and most of the profits from his repair shop were
earmarked for this project. The last thing he needed was some
stupid broad coming along and seducing Verne away from a life of
constant touring for fear of the danger involved.

When Larry had met Sandi, his worst suspicions had been
justified. Granted, she never nagged at her husband to give up
his career in favor of a stable nine-to-five job, but he could
read in her plaintive brown eyes that this was exactly what she
would have liked. At least he'd managed to persuade Verne that it
wasn't a good idea for her to hang around the track; he'd told
his partner that guys were making passes at his wife, but the
real reason was that it was essential for Verne Smith to retain
his image of virile, available hero if the Circus was to become
popular with women as well as men.

Now, for the first time in a year, the ambitious manager found
himself looking at his partner's young blonde wife in a new light
- that of a sensuous female rather than as an obstacle in his
path toward fame and fortune. The curvaceous, apricot-lace-draped
figure now clinging to him was obviously that of a woman, and a
woman whom he suspected of having a lover as well ... and that
made her seem much more alluring to him, and available, as well.

Wonder how come I never really noticed her before? he asked
himself as he caressed the soft blonde head leaning upon his
shoulder. Ain't like me to ignore a sexy-looking chick!

"Oh Larry, Larry," Sandi murmured, hugging him more tightly than
ever in her relief that her husband was neither dead nor
seriously injured. "You're sure he'll be all right? You're sure?"

"Stop worrying, baby," Larry's normally loud voice dropped to a
soft croon as a definite plan began to formulate in his scheming
mind. "He'll have to be in the hospital awhile, but we'll get him
the best doctors and everything'll work out."

"When can I see him?"

"They're flying him in from Kansas tomorrow afternoon, and I'll
drive you into Gary to see him," Larry replied, pouring her
another glass of whiskey as he spoke. "Don't you worry about
anything - I'll be taking care of you just like Verne asked me
to. 'Help Sandi out,' that's what he said to me after the
accident. Yeah, you can count on me!"

This was a blatant lie, seeing as Verne hadn't even regained
consciousness by the time the show manager left the hospital to
catch his plane, but it had the desired psychological effect on
the young wife. Her large amber eyes flooded with tears of
gratitude, and a tremulous smile hovered on her child-like face.

"Th-thank you, Larry," she murmured. She'd never before seen her
husband's partner acting so gentle, and decided that she'd been
unjust in her estimation of him as an insensitive wheeler-dealer.
Until now, she'd half-suspected him of exploiting and
manipulating Verne, but certainly his reaction to this tragedy
proved how deeply he cared about his friend.

"I ... I just wish I could be there with him, or do something to
help him," Sandi sighed. "It's so awful to think of him lying all
alone in some awful h-hos-"

"Now don't go on like that, honey," Larry interrupted as the
blonde girl's voice began to grow unsteady. "And you can help -
you can get a job so we can give him the very best care there is.
You won't mind doing that for awhile, will you?"

"Mind? Of course not, Larry. I want to help. Anyway, it'll be
better to be doing something than sitting around here worrying."

"That's a good girl," the conniving manager murmured, moving his
hands an imperceptible inch closer to the full-swelling mounds of
her almost naked breasts. "Here, have some more of this," he
pushed the refilled whiskey glass toward her, and was pleased to
see her gulp it down obediently. "You're still shaking like a
leaf."

And no wonder! he thought to himself, considering that she's
running around virtually naked on a cold night like this! But he
restrained himself from speaking, for the last thing he wanted
was for Sandi to notice that she'd neglected to cover up her
resplendent body.

Yes, she was trembling, Sandi realized belatedly. Glancing down
at her bare thigh as she sipped the burning alcohol, she saw that
her ivory- white flesh was puckered up into goosebumps. For a
long moment she continued to stare at herself, feeling sure that
something was not as it should be, but not quite being able to
grasp just what the matter was.

"Yes ... I guess I'm cold. Maybe I should get-" Then her voice
broke off in a low, horrified gasp and her face turned a shade of
fiery red as she realized that all she was wearing was the wanton
orange nightgown her husband had bought her.

Oh God, what's Larry thinking of me? she agonized, pulling away
from him as she also noticed the overly familiar way she was
snuggled up against him. How could I have been so stupid? Thank
goodness it's not somebody else who wouldn't understand that I'm
just too upset to know what I'm doing!

"Excuse me," she mumbled, feeling exceedingly awkward and not
daring to meet her husband's best friend's eyes. "I ... I better
go get d-dressed ...,"

She rose to her feet, then collapsed in a heap upon the couch as
her left leg buckled beneath her. Glancing down in bewilderment,
she noticed for the first time that there was a jagged scratch
running along the soft white flesh of her upper thigh. The moment
she became aware of the red droplets of blood oozing down her
leg, the cut began to throb with pain.

"Sandi! What happened to your leg?" Larry exclaimed. "Just lie
there - I'll go get something to put on it."

"I ran into something when ... when the doorbell rang," she
gasped as she settled weakly down against the cushions. "But it
didn't hurt till now."

The three-inch abrasion wouldn't usually have bothered Sandi in
the least, but tonight she was already in such an emotional state
that the sight of blood made her feel as though she were about to
faint again. Gulping down some more whiskey, which made her head
spin more wildly than ever although it did help to deaden her
nerves, she focused her glazed eyes on Larry Johnson's tall,
broad-shouldered figure hurrying toward the bathroom.

I have to get something else on, even though Larry's been too
nice to say anything about the disgraceful way I look, she told
herself; but somehow she couldn't summon up the energy to move
from her prone position. At last, just as she spotted her
husband's friend returning with towel and Merthiolate bottle in
hand, she reached up to pull the afghan throw rug from the back
of the sofa over her exposed loins. The violet and blue shawl,
which she'd crocheted herself from an easy-to- sew pattern
composed of more empty spaces than threads, made her feel less
obscene without hiding any of her sensual charms.

"Now how am I going to get at that cut with that blanket over
you?"

Larry flicked away the flimsy token of modesty and with an
eagerness he tried to disguise ran his hand over the satin
smoothness of the girl's wounded upper leg. Kneeling down so
close to the sofa that he could detect the heady, feminine odor
emanating from her blonde hair-trimmed pussy, he began to dab
methodically at the angry red scratch with a dampened washcloth.
At the same time, he placed an unnecessary hand upon the taut
plane of her girlishly flat belly. Beneath the thin
apricot-colored nylon, he could feel her muscles first quiver,
then grow tense, at the unexpected contact.

She's a hot little bitch, he thought. I'm sure of it. The
question is, is she hot enough that I can get her turned on even
when she's all upset about her husband's accident? Well, I damn
well intend to give it a try! And I do know a few tricks for
getting broads into the sack!

A half-forgotten conversation he'd had with the blonde's husband
flashed into his memory, making him pause for a second with the
antiseptic bottle poised in the air above Sandi's full-fleshed
thigh. They'd been standing on the side of the track, over by the
bleachers, and watching the buxom blonde he'd set Verne up with
saunter across the field toward them.

"How'd you make out with Sherry last night, man?" he'd smirked.

"She's wild, really wild," Verne had leered back. "You sure do
know how to spot the winners, Larry. Honest to God, I never
thought a girl would want to do all those kinky things! Sandi
would freak out if I even mentioned trying stuff like that!"

Somehow this remembered conversation just didn't relate to the
image Johnson was forming of Mrs. Sandi Smith tonight. Surely
this sophisticated-looking female in her lurid lace nightgown
wouldn't be shocked by a few harmless perversions! And surely her
supposed lover couldn't be contented with a steady diet of
missionary position.

This wasn't the time for idle speculation, however; all that
mattered at this moment was the intoxicating perfume of the young
wife's voluptuous body and the satin sheen of her unblemished
white flesh beneath his roving hands. Just the innocent act of
dabbing antiseptic on her firm-fleshed upper leg was sending
electrical tremors of arousal shooting from his fingertips out to
every nerve-ending in his body, and he felt his cock expand and
pulsate in eager anticipation. Was the girl feeling the same
surges of desire? It was hard to tell from the way she lay
motionless except for a slight flinch of pain from the stinging
antiseptic.

"Am I hurting you, Sandi?" he whispered huskily, bending still
closer to the blonde's lewdly exposed body so that he could speak
directly into her ear. Strands of honey-gold hair brushed across
his cheek, and the hotly aroused motorcycle circus manager knew
that he had to have this succulent young girl, had to get to know
every inch of her lushly rounded figure, had to explore her
blonde-fringed pussy. Most of all, he longed to hear his
partner's formerly aloof and uptight wife begging for more of his
throbbing male flesh, imploring him to still the fires that he
suspected raged through her healthy young body.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" he repeated when there was no
response to his first question. "I don't want to hurt you,
honey."

The dark-haired young man set the bottle of Merthiolate down on
the coffee table, but an instant later his left hand was back on
the warm softness of the young wife's upper thigh while his right
hand gradually began a persuasive massaging motion upon her
smooth belly that eased the diaphanous orange nightie all the way
up to Sandi's slender waist. Much to his gratification, he felt
her stomach muscles ripple beneath his suggestive touch.

"You feel so tense, Sandi," he breathed into her ear, letting his
lips linger longer than necessary in the silken strands of her
naturally blonde hair. Most of the women Larry knew, including
his wife Clare, favored wigs, hair pieces, and dyes which made
their hair rather coarse to the touch. In contrast, his best
friend's wife's shoulder-length curls felt as fine and soft as
those of a child, and this plus her clean-scrubbed face and
slim-hipped, girlish figure gave her a certain vulnerable, almost
virginal quality which the older man found extremely exciting.

"Verne wouldn't want you to be feeling all tensed-up like this,"
he continued, his concerned, soothing voice betraying nothing of
his lewd intentions. "He'd want you to relax, Sandi. Why don't I
give you a massage?"

A massage? Just what did Larry mean by that? Sandi asked herself
a little uneasily. It was a loaded word, for her sole conception
of a massage was derived from a recent Chicago Tribune expose of
that city's scurrilous purge of massage parlors. But the stinging
pain from the Merthiolate was making her feel more disoriented
than ever, and it seemed too much effort to question him.

In any case, Larry slid his hand up underneath the skimpy
nightgown and began to knead the pliant warmth of her naked flesh
without giving her a chance to voice any objections. His hoarse
breathing echoed loudly in his own ears, and he hoped that the
quivering young wife had not noticed his growing lust.

Although Sandi knew that her husband's best friend was just
trying to help her feel better, his lingering hands were making
her feel most uncomfortable.

"N-no, Larry ..." she sighed at last. "I ... I think maybe it's
b- better if I just try to s-sleep ..."

Her voice was so low as to be nearly inaudible, and there was a
tremulous quality to it which told the conniving manager that she
was indeed feeling a reciprocal arousal. In fact, she sounded so
timorous that he anticipated no problem in accomplishing his
adulterous seduction. In spite of her innocent face and prim
mannerisms, she'd be just as susceptible to the lure of a long,
stiffened cock as the peroxide teenyboppers who hung around the
Cycle Circus.

All broads are the same, he reflected as he inched his eager
hands farther up toward the inviting mounds of Sandi Smith's
high-set breasts. Horny bitches, the lot of them. Only difference
is that it takes longer to get into some cunts than others. Never
had one say no to me yet!

"Awh, don't be silly, Sandi," he insisted. "You'll never sleep a
wink if you're all muscle-bound like this, and you know it.
You'll just be having nightmares about Verne!"

The slender blonde gave a slight shiver at the prospect as
visions of blood and flames and prison-like hospitals haunted by
ghost-like, white-frocked doctors and echoing with screams of
anguish ran through her alcohol-confused mind. So frightened that
she momentarily forgot her embarrassment at having Larry this
close to her wantonly revealed body, she clasped her arms around
his close-leaning back in a childish gesture of fear. The last
thing she wanted was to be left alone in the dark, silent house
with such terrifying images floating through her dreams.

Yeah - she wants me bad, all right, the egotistical older man
gloated. I bet she's been wanting me all this time when she acted
so high and mighty. Weird chick - but sometimes they're the
wildest fucks of all!

The provoking sensation of being clasped so intimately by a
female who was as weak and defenseless as she was beautiful was
almost too much for the hotly aroused male. As his penis leaped
to full blood-hardened erection, he had to fight back the
overwhelming urge to rip off his jeans and ram his aching
thickness deep into the tight little cunt that he knew lay hidden
beneath those gently curling strands of pale gold pussy hair.
That's exactly what he would have done if he'd been with most of
the girls he knew - and in his profession, he got to know a lot -
because they wanted to be fucked, not persuaded. Half the time,
in fact, they'd been the aggressors, and the whole idea of
seduction became a bit absurd. As a rule, this suited Larry just
fine, for he preferred his adulterous adventures to be brief,
uninhibited, and problem-free.

But with Sandi Smith, he instinctively realized he had to play a
different game, and an oddly pleasant one at that. He was sure
she didn't regard lovemaking as a healthy physical activity or
amusing pastime; if she had indeed taken a lover, she was
doubtless very guilty about it. No, the naive nineteen year old
still hadn't accepted the fact of her basic sensuality ... and
the real kick, as far as he was concerned, lay in proving to her
that she was just another cunt with no control over her body's
lewd desires.

"Don't get all upset, Sandi," he whispered to the quivering young
bride. "I'm here to take care of you, and I'll fix you up so that
you don't have any nightmares."

As he spoke, he continued his subtle massaging of her shaking
flesh, pressing into her smooth, pliant skin with his fingertips
and then stroking its silk-textured surface, moving higher and
higher up along her rib cage. At last he reached her firm young
breasts and grasped one in each of his eager hands, teasing their
rose-pink tips with his palms.

A strong shudder surged through the innocent blonde wife at the
unexpected titillation of her ultra-sensitive nipples. Her hands
shot down from Larry's strong-muscled back to cover her naked
breasts with the orange lace nightgown, which somehow had crept
up around her neck without her noticing it. What on earth was her
husband's manager doing to her? Surely he wasn't trying to ...
but no, that was completely impossible.

"Wh-what are you d-doing, Larry?" she stammered, her whole body
tensing as if she were about to jump to her feet and run from the
room. "D- don't do that, please!"

"Calm down," Larry said in the smooth voice he usually reserved
for selling impossible schemes or unusable objects to
recalcitrant clients. It was a tone of unquestionable honesty and
sincerity which, along with his driving ambition, was largely
responsible for his financial success. Never lost a deal or a
woman yet! he often boasted to his friends.

"A massage is mental as well as physical, and if it's going to do
any good at all you have to feel my energy vibrating on your bare
skin. Now what I want you to do is think about Verne, pretend
he's here with you now. That's what he'd want you to do! And
you'll be sound asleep in no time at all!"

Sandi's shock-widened amber eyes stared back at him in confusion,
and she continued her feeble effort to push away Larry's
relentlessly kneading hands. Her mind was whirling so wildly that
she just didn't know what to think, and all she could do was
slowly shake her head at the handsome older man bending over her.

"Didn't anyone ever give you a massage before?" the sly manager
inquired. "You're acting like I'm trying to do something wrong -
do you really think I'd do anything to my best friend's wife that
he didn't want me to do? And I know what he'd want is for me to
relax you, honey. You're being silly - childish."

Was she? the naive blonde wondered. She had, after all, never
been given a massage and had no idea of the usual procedure. And
Larry had been so kind to her that it seemed insufferably rude to
act as though he was trying to do something bad. Maybe she was
being childish, still acting as though she was home with her
puritanical parents. And what he'd said about thinking that Verne
was here with her made sense; she'd actually been doing that
already, for the two friends had very similar athletic builds and
strong, capable hands.

"Here, have a little more of this scotch. It'll help you sleep,
too," she heard Larry say, and as the glass was pressing right
against her lips there seemed nothing to do but gulp it down. The
clear brown liquid tasted nastier than ever, but it blurred her
tangled thoughts to the point where it seemed unnecessary to do
anything but close her eyes and try, as Larry had instructed, to
pretend that her husband Verne was here beside her on the couch
instead of in a hospital bed miles away.

Strong, gentle hands seemed to be caressing every curve and
crevice of her nerve-tensed body, and she allowed herself to fall
into a semi- trance where there was no remembrance of motorcycle
accidents, lewd lace nightgowns, or vague suspicions and guilt
about what her husband's friend was doing to her. Verne, her
wonderful husband, had magically arrived home safe and sound to
calm the flames of desire that had been plaguing her for the past
two weeks while he was away on tour. He was making her whole body
vibrate in the most pleasant way imaginable, and instead of the
nervous, undirected energy that had burned inside her, a flowing
honeyed current of pure relief was humming through her veins. All
she had to do was keep her eyes shut tight and not let her mind
think of anything but Verne's handsome face with its lopsided
grin and his sun-bronzed, virile body ... that was all she need
do to feel happy again ...

"Ummmmmmmmm ... oooohhhhh ..." she purred low in her throat,
letting her hands fall limply to her sides as all vestiges of
guilt vanished from her conscious mind. "Oh, Verne, Verne ...
ooooohhhh!"

Above the half-unconscious young wife, Larry Johnson was
marveling at the ease with which his plan had succeeded. Even
taking into consideration the whiskey and the shock of bad news,
Sandi had allowed herself to be manipulated into this situation
with the ease of a key slipping into a well-oiled lock. It was
really incredible - if someone had told him last week that he'd
be feeling up his star stunt-rider's prissy, conceited wife, he'd
have laughed in their face.

Still moving cautiously so as not to jolt the crooning blonde out
of her propitious trance, the lust-driven older man untied the
small satin ribbon which served as the only fastening on Sandi's
obscene lingerie and eased the translucent orange nylon away from
her body. Jesus, was she a gorgeous chick! Johnson couldn't
remember when he'd last seen such a cock-stirring figure, and now
that her unblemished skin was coated with a thin sheen of
perspiration, she might have been a polished sculpture created by
a master craftsman. Inside his tight jeans, his impatient cock
was throbbing in wild anticipation.

Massaging now with increasingly fervent strokes, the amoral
motorcycle show manager tweaked Sandi Smith's tiny pink nipples
into taut, swollen buttons. From the way she whimpered, Larry was
certain that the little nerve-filled tips were shooting hot,
tingling waves of desire throughout her unresisting body.

"Yes, Verne, yes!" Sandi breathed.

A warm, melting feeling identical to the one she experienced
whenever her handsome young husband caressed her was now building
up inside the young wife's frustrated body to a point where she
required more stimulation than gentle strokes, and she gave a low
mewl of relief when the strong male hand slipped down over her
churning belly to brush teasingly across the curl-covered "vee"
of her pubic mound. Without realizing what she was doing, Sandi
wriggled her rounded hips and eased her soft full thighs a few
inches apart. There in the rapidly moistening crevice between her
trembling legs, a hungry, undeniable pressure was building ... an
even more urgent pressure than she'd felt in bed an hour earlier
as she'd rubbed her yearning thighs against one another in
desperate search for relief.

Larry, who naturally did not realize how stimulated she'd been
before his arrival, was astonished at the speed with which the
sensuous nineteen year old blonde grew aroused.

I don't think she can have a lover, after all, he decided as he
ran one outstretched finger up and down along the damp,
hair-fringed slit of her vagina. Only a girl who's not been
getting it for a good long time would act this hot! She's as
cock-hungry as Clare was that time she had to stay on her
parents' farm for three weeks while I was in Texas. Said she was
ready to screw a horse by the time I got back!

Then, as Sandi's graceful legs eased another involuntary inch
apart, all thoughts of his uninhibited brunette wife faded from
the adulterous husband's mind. His lust-glazed eyes bugged out
like a Pekinese dog's as he watched his middle finger slide
stealthily in along the damp pink cuntal flesh nestling in
between the honeyed-gold strands of curling pubic hairs. Then
with a gentle twisting motion, he wormed his extended finger
slowly up into the virginally narrow slit of her cunt.

Christ, she's tight! he thought, beads of perspiration breaking
out on his suntanned face as he teased his finger deep inside her
pinkly glistening vaginal flesh while continuing to knead the
pliant mounds of her wide-set breasts with his other hand. Deep
down in his testicles a burning need was growing, sending his
long cock into an aching, rock- hard erection that bulged
obscenely in the front of his denim jeans. But although the urge
to yank down his fly, release his swollen penis, and ram it into
the tantalizing blonde-fringed cuntal opening beneath him was
almost irresistible, he held himself back. Even in his present
lust-maddened state, the successful business manager retained his
opportunistic, coolly logical manner of thinking.

I don't want to let her realize what's going on, at least not
till she's too hot to stop herself. If I try to fuck her now,
she's gonna scream and raise hell, and all the neighbors are
gonna hear for a block around. Some ass-hole might even call the
cops - it's happened before. You can hear everything through
these goddamn cardboard walls! No, what I have to do is get her
so turned on that she wants me inside her ... and the way she's
squirming around, that shouldn't take too long!

Moving stealthily, the well-built man slithered his muscular body
sideways up onto the couch between the writhing blonde's long
slender legs, positioning his swollen, throbbing penis up against
her gracefully curved calf. Luckily, she did not seem to notice
anything that was going on except the insistent probing of his
middle finger up into her warmly sucking cunt. As Larry located
the tiny nerve-filled bud of her clitoris with his thumb and
began circling it in a slow, rhythmic pressuring motion, Sandi
once again began to call out her husband's name.

"Verne ... Verne ... oh yes!" the confused blonde mewled. It
feels so very, very good! she marveled to herself. I wonder why
he never touched me like this before? Oh, thank you, Verne! Thank
you for making me feel so goooooood!

Above the moaning young wife, her seducer was breathing hard and
controlling his impatiently lunging virility only with the
greatest effort as he continued to gently finger-fuck into her
hungrily dilating little pussy. Sandi's cunt seemed to grow
moister with each passing second, and again he found himself
wondering at the rapidity of her arousal.

Guess maybe I'm more imaginative than old Verne, he congratulated
himself with characteristic conceit. Guess she's never had no one
treat her sweet little pussy so good! The cocksure egotist
suddenly recalled his friend's statement about Sandi not wanting
to do "kinky" things, and a lewd grin lighted up his rugged
features as he at last formed a clear plan of action. If no one's
ever sucked her, then she's going to go wild when I do it! She'll
let me do anything to her after that ... she'll be crawling to me
begging for it!

The expectation of having his star motorcyclist's lushly
contoured young wife under his complete control so excited the
ill-intentioned show manager that he bent his head down at once
to her enticingly hair- fringed cuntal crevice at once. Though
he'd never admitted it to himself, Larry was subconsciously
rather jealous of the way his younger friend had surpassed him in
stunt-riding skill, and this heightened his satisfaction at
exploiting the other man's wife sexually in ways her own husband
had never dared to attempt.

As his tongue slid into the well-lubricated slit of Sandi's
warmly flowing vagina, a rich feminine odor of tantalizing
sensuality assaulted his flaring nostrils. Breathing in deeply to
take full advantage of the heady scent, the dark-haired man let
his tongue swipe with smooth gentle strokes against the quivering
lips of her rose- petal-pink vagina. Her feminine fluids
inundated his hungry tongue, making it tingle in a way that
caused his already uncomfortably elongated penis to swell thicker
than ever, the blood-filled head grazing maddeningly against the
rough denim fabric of his formfitting jeans.

Jesus! he thought to himself as he slithered his tongue along
Sandi's fresh-tasting cuntal slit in search of her sensitive
clitoral bud. Gotta make her cum fast! Once she's climaxing, I
can shove it into her so fast she won't know it's me until it's
too late for her to give a damn. And then I'll let her know whose
cock is fucking her, I'm gonna ram it into her like I'm sure
Verne never dared to! He always did treat chicks too nice.

Sandi, who's never before experienced a tongue-fucking, gasped
aloud as she felt the strange, wetly moving object gliding along
her most intimate flesh. In the farthest corner of her mind, a
persistent little voice was attempting to warn her against this
incredibly lovely sensation, but her frustrated craving for the
wonderful waves of ecstasy that were shimmering out from her
belly to every inch of her ripe young body was so intense that it
was quite simple to block out the glowering warnings of her
conscience.

"Verne, Verne! Oh, I love you ... I love you!" she cried, her
voice overly shrill as if to convince herself that nothing was
going on except her husband making conventional love to her.
Clenching her fists so hard that her long nails left marks on her
palms, and squeezing her eyes even more tightly shut, the
tormented young wife strove to retain the wonderful illusion.

And Larry, slaving above the half-conscious wife of his injured
friend, was enjoying the tongue-fucking more than he'd expected
to. Being a naturally selfish and impatient individual, he tended
to prefer having a girl suck his urgently pulsating penis, or
sinking his long thickness hard into her welcoming cunt without
any undue delay. Tonight, however, he was experiencing a great
deal of somewhat perverse pleasure from his delightful oral
torture of this naive blonde who believed him to be her absent
husband. As he thought of how shocked she'd be when she
discovered who she'd been sucked and fucked and fingered by, his
eyes glinted with a malicious, almost sadistic delight. Yeah,
she'd be under his thumb, all right! She'd be like putty in his
hands! Even the agonizing ache in his cum-filled balls and
pounding penis was worth that eventual triumph!

Lashing out with increasing ardor, he let his stiffened tongue
vibrate in teasing little circles around the moaning
nineteen-year-old's swollen clitoris. He could feel her jerk and
groan out beneath him, and within seconds the tiny nerve-filled
pleasure-bud had grown erect and taut, not unlike a miniature
penis.

It was funny, he reflected, how different women were. His wife
Clare had a wealth of thickly tangled dark cuntal hair; he'd made
her shave it, for there was something obscene about an
unnaturally smooth pussy mound that excited him. In fact, he got
a very erotic thrill from watching her shave herself down there;
seeing the dangerously sharp razor grazing so near to her
ultra-sensitive pink vagina appealed to the sadist in him. At
first she'd objected to performing the very personal operation in
front of him, but he'd compelled her to, and she never resisted
him for very long. Neither would Sandi after he was through with
her! But he wouldn't like to see her shave off her sparsely
curling strands of gold pubic hair. No, he liked the way she
resembled a preadolescent nymphet ... and she acted incredibly
like one, too, even after a whole year of marriage.

Then, as the intoxicated, honey-blonde wife began to tremble like
a willow sapling in a Midwestern thunderstorm, Johnson lost track
of his obscene thought and he buried his face in the warm moist
crevice between her widespread legs, striving to bring on her
impending orgasm. First he flicked his skillful tongue around the
moistly glistening jewel of her distended clitoris, reveling in
the way the smooth little bud vibrated in automatic response. Her
whole body tensed beneath him, the tendons standing out on her
lower leg where Johnson's lust-hardened cock pressed against it,
and her breath coming in harsh, low gasps as she strained to
reach her climax. Although he'd rather expected her to cum
immediately, she hovered on the edge of release for so long that
the man kneeling between her naked legs changed his tactics and
glided his tongue down along her moist cuntal slit to the tiny
orifice of her pink-fleshed vagina. Stretching as far as
possible, he jabbed deep into the heate
 dly pulsing channel, then commenced a rhythmic pattern of long,
smooth in and out strokes.

"Oooooohhhhhh ... aaahhhhhh ... ooooggg hhhhh ..." Sandi moaned,
her honey-blonde hair flailing like a halo around her twisting
head as she wailed out her mindless passion. Every muscle in her
slender young body was straining for the fulfillment that lay
just out of reach, and as the young blonde cried out again, she
kicked her long, lithe legs still wider apart and curled up her
small white toes in a frenzy of desire.

Why can't I cum? Why? I need to so bad! her dazed mind shouted.

There was so much pressure mounting inside her loins that she
felt like a blown-to-the-limit balloon about to explode. As her
softly tumescent vaginal lips contracted around the warm,
vibrating object inside her pussy - no, she wouldn't let herself
think what it was, not now, not just when she was about to cum -
she thought that at last she'd reached the pinnacle.

"Pleeeeeeeeeeease!" she wailed. "Pleeeeeeease, Verne,
nooooowwwwwwww!"

Larry wiggled his tongue lewdly inside the warm, wet channel of
Sandi's pulsating vagina, then ran his tongue up over her
desire-swollen pussy lips to nip gently at the glistening
clitoral bud once more. Simultaneously, he reached up to knead
the pliant mounds of her heaving breasts, pinching their
puckering nipples much harder than before in his intense desire
to feel his friend's wife cumming as a result of his skillful
manipulations.

Suddenly the aching tension in Larry Johnson's throbbing penis
was too much to bear, and his rock-hard member lurched out of
control, pounding so impatiently that he immediately yanked down
his zipper to release it. If Sandi discovered his identity now
and began freaking out, it was just too bad for her. There was no
power on this earth that could hold back his passion a moment
longer, and with a hoarse, animalistic cry the burly motorcyclist
began tearing off his jeans.

At the unmistakable metallic sound of a zipper being ripped open
and the harsh cry in a voice which bore no resemblance to her
husband's, Sandi's dream-like illusion shattered into a thousand
pieces.

It's not Verne! she realized. It's Larry Johnson! Oh God, oh God!
How could he do this ... how could I let him get away with it?

Pulling her wits together as best she could, the despairing
blonde housewife forced her eyelids open. Not more than six short
inches above her nakedly splayed body, her husband's best friend
was extracting the enormous, glistening red shaft of his penis
from his unfastened fly. It was so close to her that she could
see the tiny pearl of over-eager pre-cum on the mushroom-shaped
glans, and as she stared, paralyzed with shame and fear, it
seemed to lengthen before her very eyes.

Adultery! Adultery! the voice in her mind screamed. How could you
have committed this unforgivable sin just when poor Verne's had
an accident?

The guilt-stricken young wife tried to defend herself, but before
she could coordinate her passion-weakened muscles, the piercing
ring of the telephone turned her blood to ice and she froze with
her legs still half lifted in preparation to kick at her
assailant. Larry also knelt stock-still, his Levi's bunched
around his knees and his powerful erection thrusting out straight
as an arrow from his loins. Both their heads whirled toward the
dark hallway, their disoriented eyes staring at the shrilling
phone.

Sandi came to her senses first, and began kicking out her legs
and pummeling her balled-up fists against Larry's menacing
figure.

"Get away from me!" she choked out. "Let me answer the phone!"

There was a huge lump of guilty fear clogging her throat which
made it very difficult to speak, for she was positive that it
must be the hospital ringing to say that Verne was dead. I've
killed him! her mind shrieked, for by now she was far too
intoxicated and shocked to be rational. It's all my fault that
he's dead!

It wasn't easy for the half-naked older man to speak or move,
what with the blood pounding so urgently through his
lust-distended cock, but he finally managed to gasp out, "Let the
goddamn thing ring, baby. Don't answer it."

"Shut up! You shut up, you - you monster!" the hysterical young
blonde screamed, giving him a violent shove which caught him off
his guard and sent him staggering away from the couch. Then she
rushed into the hallway, grabbing the phone just before it rang
for the fifth time.

"Hello?" she cried in a breathless voice quite unlike her usual
soprano tone. "Yes? Yes? What is it?"

"Hey, take it easy, honey," she heard the throaty voice of Clare
Johnson, the wife of the dark-haired man who stood in her living
room with his massive, penis shamelessly pointed straight out
from his hard- muscled stomach, and Sandi's knees went weaker
than ever in relief that at least it wasn't the hospital. Then, a
moment later, she felt a wave of sick guilt so intense that she
had to lean against the hallway's flower-papered wall to keep her
balance, and she noted distractedly that her knuckles clutching
the receiver were as white as if no flesh covered the bone. She
prayed that Larry would keep quiet, at the same time loathing
herself for having to think a thing like that.

"Clare ..." she gulped.

"Gee, honey, I'm so sorry about Verne," the other woman's voice
buzzed into Sandi's ear. When there was no answer she added
"Larry did tell you, didn't he? He called me from the airport and
said he'd be stopping by your place to ..."

"Yes," Sandi swallowed. "He ... told me." She glared with wide,
hate- filled eyes at the man in question who stood awkwardly
poised beside the living room sofa, his formerly rock-hard penis
shrinking as he realized that it was his wife at the other end of
the line. "He j-just left."

"Oh good!" Clare exclaimed. "That's why I called, really. I
wouldn't have bothered you at a time like this, but I got so
worried, what with this fog coming up and all. It's so hard not
to worry, especially after ..."

"Yes," Sandi broke in, not wanting to hear Verne's accident
mentioned, not wanting to continue this dishonest conversation.
She stared dully out of the uncurtained living room window,
scarcely hearing Clare's condolences, as it suddenly struck her
that any passerby could quite easily have seen into the living
room and observed the depraved way Larry Johnson had crouched
between her legs and touched her in unspeakable places with his
mouth. Oh God, how had it happened, how? She'd never even let her
own husband touch her in that perverted way.

Suddenly Sandi's head ached so badly and her legs felt so trembly
that she knew she was about to collapse on the floor. "G-good-by,
Clare. T- tomorrow-" she stuttered, letting the white plastic
receiver fall down with a clatter as she stumbled into a chair.
I'm still naked, she thought vaguely, I have to cover myself up.
But all she really wanted was for Larry to vanish, and Clare as
well - how would she ever face the brunette again? - and
everything about this horrible evening to be erased from her
memory forever.

"Sandi ..." Larry said, stepping toward her, his deflated penis
jerking slowly back into semi-erectness. Goddamn Clare anyway, he
cursed silently. It's gonna take a fucking miracle now to get her
back down on the couch. She looks madder than hell, the stupid
bitch!

"Get away from me, Larry Johnson! What's the matter with you?"
Sandi hissed in a voice that was more weary than angry. It was
hard to sound indignant when her traitorous body was beginning to
pulse with lewd desire for the orgasm which had been so abruptly
terminated. Inconceivable as it was that she could be feeling
like this, it was impossible to deny the wanton waves of erotic
lust still shivering in her nearly naked body.

If there was one thing that infuriated the egotistical motorcycle
enthusiast, it was to have his plans thwarted. All his life as an
only child, he had been the first, the favorite, the winner of
prizes and scholarships. The good-looking youngster had passed
from being the strongest kid on the block to being president of
his high school class without encountering any serious obstacles,
and by the time he was in his early twenties he'd capitalized on
the new motorcycle fad to become richer than most men twice his
age. All of this had occurred so smoothly as to make him feel it
was his due, and quite naturally Larry Johnson had come to
believe by now that there was no reason why he shouldn't continue
to have everything handed to him on a silver platter. He
certainly wasn't about to take no for an answer from some uptight
cunt who obviously wanted to be fucked as badly as he wanted to
fuck her!

"There's not a goddamn thing wrong with me," he snarled rather
nastily at the glassy-eyed blonde slouched disconsolately in the
chair across from the couch. "But there's sure as hell something
wrong with you! How come you're all uptight all of a sudden? You
were liking it all right five minutes ago, and you know as well
as I do you're dying to get a taste of this in your tight little
pussy." He pointed his hardening thickness menacingly at the girl
as he spoke, his face a mask of raw lust and his black eyes
shooting out sparks of impatient fury.

At her husband's disloyal friend's scathing words, Sandi Smith's
flushed pink cheeks blanched greyish-white. What hurt most was
his all- too-true assumption that she wanted to make love to him.
Waves of self- disgust rose stronger than ever in her throat, and
tears of shame welled up in her eyes as her well-meaning efforts
to draw her contoured thighs close together only succeeded in
increasing rather than eliminating the forbidden sensations
surging up from her frustrated vagina to her still crazily
churning belly.

Johnson, though, by now so aroused and enraged that he wanted to
rape the lushly ripened nineteen year old wife of his injured
friend, forced himself to think calmly. It was too late to do
anything tonight, he realized. Clare expected him home at any
moment; besides, Sandi was so distraught by now that she'd be
sure to scream and rouse the neighbors. One thing the Cycle
Circus certainly didn't need was bad publicity. And damn it all!
Here he was so horny he could hardly walk!

"Don't talk to me like that!" Sandi blazed, her indignant voice
made shriller by her knowledge of her own very real guilt. "Get
out of here! I never want to see you again!"

"But you'll be seeing me, baby," Larry snarled, his handsome face
contorted by his vindictive anger into a caricature of a villain.
"You'll be coming around begging for more of what I've got to
give!"

"Shut up!" Sandi hissed, putting her hands over her ears.

"Yeah," the dark-haired man added spitefully as he tugged his
form- fitting Levi's up over his unsatisfied and still swollen
penis. "Yeah, you'll be hurting pretty bad when you find out how
it is living with a husband who's paralyzed! It's no use
pretending to me, sweetie - I know you can't go long without a
good stiff prick in that hot little hole of yours!"

With that parting shot, he yanked open the front door,
determining to fuck the hell out of Clare and slap her around a
bit, too, to pay her back for fucking up this perfect opportunity
to screw Sandi Smith. "I'll be seeing you, baby," he hissed from
the doorstep, then slammed the door so hard the living room walls
shook, and with a loud squeal of tires headed toward his almost
identical ranch house a few blocks away.

Sandi never heard his last words or his noisy exit. At his
statement about her "paralyzed husband", she'd blanked out to all
else in her surroundings. For what seemed an eternity, but was
actually only about ten minutes, she sat frozen in the armchair.
Then, at last, she fell into unconsciousness, her voluptuous body
slumped over the wide chair arm and her dreams filled with blood
and fear and giant naked men with enormous cocks who menaced her
as she stood in the middle of a motorcycle stadium.

Chapter 3

"Typing speed?" the pinched-faced employment-office lady snapped
even before Sandi had a chance to settle herself down in the
squeaking metal folding chair. "Shorthand speed? Telex
experience? Dictaphone?" she continued as though reciting a
litany, never even glancing at the nervous young blonde.

"I ... I'm afraid I ... I never worked in an office," Sandi
stammered, trying to smooth her short navy blue skirt down over
her ripely rounded thighs. She'd chosen the skirt, a relic from
her high-school wardrobe, as being more appropriate than the
vivid-hued outfits which Verne had brought her. Although she
certainly preferred the new clothes, they'd seemed somehow too
frivolous for a job interview, and it was only now that she
realized how very short this skirt was. She felt her cheeks grow
hot as she thought that this stern woman must be thinking she was
trying to look seductive in a rather sluttish way.

She needn't have worried on this score, for the woman still did
not deign to glance at Sandi, although she did adjust her
white-plastic framed glasses to frown at the card the young
blonde had filled out in the outer office.

"No office experience?" She repeated Sandi's statement as though
she were accusing the girl of having a prison record. "Well,
then, what can you do?"

What could she do? Perhaps because she'd been so distracted by
her guilty thoughts about the depraved scene with Larry Johnson
the evening before, Sandi hadn't even thought to consider this
question. Getting a job and making lots of money to help her
injured husband had been as far as her thoughts went as she drove
into Brunrocke this morning, and she'd been very glad to have
something to do that helped to alleviate the crushing burden of
guilt about her wanton behavior. But what if she couldn't even
get a job ...?

"Well, Mrs. Smith, what skills do you have?" the gray-haired
woman asked, impatiently tapping her ballpoint against the gray
metal desktop.

"I ... I ..." Sandi began, then paused in despair as she fished
through her mind for some citable accomplishment. Verne had
always praised her cooking ... and she'd done a lot of
babysitting during high school ... and she could knit and crochet
... and she'd gotten straight A's in English, though she'd failed
algebra ... Somehow, though, none of these attributes seemed the
sort of thing that would interest this unfriendly woman.

"I ... I," she tried again, "I can cook ..."

"If you wanted a job as a domestic," the woman interrupted,
glancing at her watch, "you ought to have gone to an agency that
deals in that."

"Oh no!" Sandi exclaimed, her cheeks flushing redder than ever.
"I ... I don't think I want to be a maid."

Maids didn't make enough money to pay for Verne's operation, and
she knew that her proud husband would be ashamed to have her
cleaning someone else's home. He'd probably be resentful at the
fact she was seeking any job at all, for he'd always insisted
that no wife of his was going to work.

Catching the note of hysteria in the girl's voice, the
frozen-faced employment bureau worker glanced up at her for the
first time. The applicant didn't look a day over eighteen, though
she was certainly pretty enough ... somehow she just didn't look
like the type to be a waitress in a nightclub, which was just
about the only type of unskilled job the agency had listed at the
moment.

"Unfortunately, there are no vacancies at any of the groceries or
department stores here in Brunrocke," she said, riffling through
a stack of file cards containing job listings. "But I do have
something for a nightclub waitress at the Pioneer Bar and Steak
House just out of town, down by the new expressway. It's
well-paid, but naturally it involves night work ..."

"Oh no, I don't think so," Sandi demurred. That certainly
wouldn't please Verne either!

"Well, then," the lady was beginning to sound impatient and the
nineteen year old blonde felt distinctly embarrassed. "I just
don't know what we can offer you ..." she shuffled through her
cards again, shaking her head, and then rather doubtfully plucked
one out. "How about modeling? This is a rather - uh - odd
position, but maybe ...?"

Sandi licked her lips, then gulped, "Odd?" Models make lots of
money, she was thinking, and people are always telling me I'm
built like a model.

"Mr. Fletcher seems to be a bit particular; he never seems to
like the girls we send over. I suppose its because he's a
foreigner. But you could give it a try."

The woman's statement was a command rather than an offer, and
Sandi rose hurriedly, aware that the woman was anxious to get on
with her more lucrative clients.

Clutching the paper on which the woman had written Mr. Fletcher's
address, she slowly threaded her way cross the medium-sized town
toward the three-story brick building which housed the "Deja-Vu
Studio". She pushed the button labeled, "Tony Fletcher, Fashion
Photographer", and waited, her heart thumping against her ribs
and her mouth dry with nervousness. Suddenly the headache she'd
woken up with returned to throb behind her temples, and when no
one answered her rather timid ring she felt a sensation of
relief.

Turning so quickly that her mini-skirt caught in the current of
the autumn breeze and exposed her firm-fleshed thighs and pink
lace panties, she started down the three rather steep front
steps, her long slender legs wobbling slightly in her chunky navy
blue platform heels. I'll try again tomorrow, when I'm feeling
calmer, she promised herself. And I'll wear something more
conservative too. But try as she would, she couldn't block out
the guilty whispers that persisted in creeping through into her
consciousness.

You're just afraid - and you'll be just as much a chicken
tomorrow! her conscience accused. You're too stupid to find a job
to help Verne! You can't do anything without making a mess of it,
just like your mother always said. Just look at what you did last
night! She was right when she said you'd never be able to get
along alone up north!

A sobering image of her gray-faced mother flashed across the
already downhearted young wife's mind, so distracting her that
she failed to hear the "Deja-Vu's" front door opening and an
oddly accented man's voice calling out to her. When she felt an
arm tugging at her red cardigan, she yelped and whirled around so
quickly that she had to catch hold of the bannister to keep from
toppling over. Then, blushing with embarrassment at her
awkwardness, she turned to stare at the dark- haired,
bare-chested young man in chopped-off blue jeans who had caught
hold of her arm when she stumbled in her cumbersome shoes.

"Never did understand why you chicks want to wear those crazy
shoes. Bloody dangerous," he remarked as casually as though they
were old friends instead of complete strangers.

"I-I'm sorry ... I guess y-you startled m-me," she stammered,
annoyed at her own gauche behavior but feeling extremely
disconcerted by the way the handsome man's eyes seemed to be
undressing her right out there on the doorstep. Then, when he
failed to release his hold on her arm, she mumbled, "Well, better
be going. Th-thanks for c-catching me." With a self-conscious
laugh she turned away from him and put one foot down on the step
below, then stopped short as he tightened his grip on her
sweatered arm.

"Hey, wait a minute," he smiled, "I don't get it. You come to my
house and ring my doorbell, but the minute you see me you want to
run away. Am I so awful as all that?"

Sandi gaped at him uncertainly, wondering just what it was about
his piercing blue eyes that made her feel so exposed. "Oh no ...
I mean ... I was ... I was looking for a Mr. Fletcher," she
explained, wishing again that she'd worn something that didn't
reveal quite so much of her shapely legs.

The slim-hipped, long-haired youth grinned down at her, the
pressure of his hand upon her arm increasing as he laughed,
"Well, you found him!"

"You're ... you're not ...?" Sandi was astounded. She'd certainly
not expected that woman at the agency to send her out for an
interview with someone who looked for all the world like a
college student from nearby Notre Dame. Why, he didn't look as
old as her twenty-five year old husband Verne, and what with
those sideburns, boyishly waving long hair, and faded and patched
cut-offs, she just couldn't picture him as a prospective
employer. Of course, she'd expected a foreign photographer to
look somewhat more eccentric than an ordinary business executive,
but a bearded, baggy-trousered, bereted little man was more the
image she'd conjured up.

"Tony W. Fletcher, Fashion Photographer," the dark-haired youth
tapped his tanned, well-muscled chest, looking vastly amused at
the attractive young blonde's self-conscious confusion. "And when
I make the effort I actually look quite respectable enough to
impress the good citizens of Brunrocke, Indiana. Come on in."

Before she knew quite what was happening, Sandi Smith found
herself being led back up the cement steps and into a dimly lit,
very narrow hallway. To the left was a steep flight of stairs,
and at the end of the corridor was a shiny black door on which
was painted in red, "knock before entering".

"Darkroom," said Tony in response to her unasked question. Then,
taking the bewildered blonde's arm, he guided her up to the
second story and along a corridor decorated with rather bizarre
black and white fashion photos done in a very modernistic style.
She'd have liked to stop and take a long look at the
exotic-looking clothing and unusual lighting effects, but Tony
was pulling her into a large, brightly lit room which appeared to
be a sort of living room, bedroom, and kitchen all combined in an
overwhelming confusion of color and clutter. Much to Sandi's
consternation, there was even a shower with a see-through plastic
curtain draped around it standing right beside a pile of cushions
which apparently served as a sofa.

What a crazy place for a shower! she marveled to herself. Just
imagine being naked in there with people sitting and watching you
so close they could practically touch you! The very idea sent
inexplicable prickles of excitement shooting up her spine, and
Sandi immediately put an end to that lewd train of thought.

The young wife would have liked to inspect this curious room, so
totally divorced from her conception of a house, but the agile,
half- naked photographer was hurrying up a still steeper flight
of steps and she was so busy concentrating on not stumbling on
her clumsy, thick- soled shoes that she didn't dare to glance
anywhere but down.

The third level of Tony Fletcher's peculiar house was his studio,
and whereas his living quarters had been in wild disorder, this
room was methodically neat. Sunlight flooded into the
slant-ceilinged chamber through two large skylights, and the
white walls were ringed with photographs and colorful posters.

"What a strange building!" Sandi forgot her shyness enough to
exclaim. "It's so tall and narrow - I never saw anything like it
before."

"Yeah, it's pretty weird," Tony agreed. "It's one of the oldest
houses in Brunrocke - belonged to my friend Ted's grandfather
before he kicked off. But I like it, 'cause it reminds me of
home."

"H-home?"

"London. Sit down." The good-looking young man gestured toward a
canvas folding chair, then ambled over to the far side of the
large room and began doing something with his camera equipment.

Sandi seated herself rather gingerly on the low-slung chair,
self- consciously tugging her miniscule navy blue skirt as far
down over her flaring thighs as possible. Then she crossed her
slim ankles in the prim and proper way her mother had often
insisted upon, nervously ran her tongue over her dry lips, and
waited for Mr. Fletcher to turn around and break the silence.
Much to her embarrassment, he merely continued doing whatever it
was he was doing, whistling to himself as though he'd been all
alone in the studio.

Feeling more ill at ease then ever, the nineteen year old wife
made a deliberate effort to stare at the pictures on the walls
rather than at the rippling muscles of the photographer's
golden-tanned torso, which somehow reminded her of Larry Johnson.

Don't be ridiculous! she scolded herself. They don't look the
least bit alike, aside from both having dark hair, and besides
I'm not going to let myself think about last night. I'm not!

The guilt-tortured young housewife had been resolving to block
out the sinful, obscenely vivid memory pictures from the moment
she'd woken up to find herself nakedly draped over the living
room chair, her lurid apricot-lace nightgown crumpled on the
floor below. Now, hours later, she couldn't hold back a shudder
as she recalled how filthy she'd felt and how she'd detected a
scent of Larry Johnson's masculine odor on her own body. There
had been a dull pounding in the back of her temples, and a
disgusting stale whiskey taste in her mouth, but as she'd hurried
into the bathroom, she'd scarcely noticed her physical discomfort
in her struggle to erase the shameful images that swam before her
tear- swollen eyes.

As she'd scrubbed her traitorous body, carefully avoiding
applying any pressure to her ultra-sensitive breasts and soaping
her hair-fringed vagina over and over to destroy any trace of her
husband's friend's perverted oral assault, she'd thought she'd
succeeded in driving the obscene pictures from her mind. Praying
that she could make herself forget the ugly incident entirely,
she'd directed her thoughts toward Verne. How could she be sinful
enough to think of anything else, when her beloved husband lay
paralyzed in a hospital bed? He must never, never find out ...

But as she'd sat drinking black coffee in the spotless little
kitchen of her modern ranch house, the dreadful pictures once
again rose unbidden before her eyes. There were two disturbing
visions: the first, of Larry's head with its fashionably trimmed
dark hair burrowing in obscene feast between her own wantonly
widespread legs, his red tongue snaking out from between his
teeth toward the most intimate, sacred part of her body - the
pussy that belonged exclusively to her husband Verne; and the
second image, of her husband's friend as she'd seen him when she
opened her eyes to answer the phone, his huge, angry-red cock
brandished in his hand and his black eyes burning with lustful
desire.

All through the morning, as she carefully dressed and applied a
touch of pink rouge to her unusually pale cheeks, then as she
drove the ten miles from the subdivision of Lakeview Gardens to
the larger town of Brunrocke, the disturbing images kept
recurring. Now, as she sat in Tony Fletcher's studio waiting for
him to interview her, Larry's flicking tongue and throbbing,
swollen penis again flashed before the guilty wife's eyes.
Flinching as though she'd been slapped by an invisible hand, the
tortured young blonde exerted all her energy toward making the
horrible visions vanish.

What's the matter with me? she agonized. Why did I keep seeing
dirty pictures in my mind? I think I'm going crazy ... stark
raving mad!

Suddenly a flashbulb exploded in her face, breaking through her
troubled reverie and dispersing the lewd, unwanted images with
its burst of light.

"Scared ya, didn't I?" the good-looking man flashed a bright
smile at the shy job applicant. "A model oughtn't to be
camera-shy!"

"I - I'm not really a model," Sandi felt compelled to confess.
"The agency lady just sent me here because ... well ... because I
can't type and this was the only job there was. And I have to
find a job - I absolutely have to!"

Tony Fletcher studied the fair-haired girl curiously, trying to
guess at her story from her appearance. This was a game he often
played with himself, and with his trained eye, he was usually
able to make quite astute guesses about total strangers. So far
he'd had eleven females come in wanting to be models, and he'd
psyched out every one of them before they'd told him a thing
about themselves. Not that this was much to boast about, for
they'd all been pretty obvious types: seventeen year old prom
queens who dreamed of ending up in Hollywood, broad- hipped
mother's of three who'd won a local beauty contest ten years ago,
and so forth. All of them had been pretty enough, though a little
too heavy for the camera which added about ten pounds, but none
of them had been right for the project he had in mind. In fact,
the twenty- three year old free-lance photographer had just about
given up all hope of finding a model in Brunrocke, and had been
sending off letters to former girlfrie
 nds in less conservative corners of the country.

What would this honey-haired girl say when he told her just
exactly what sort of a model he wanted he wondered, a sly smile
flickering over his handsome face. She seemed awfully nervous and
shy, but beneath her modest, old-fashioned demeanor he sensed an
emotional intensity. Well, he sure as hell hoped she wasn't a
prude, because she had the body and face he'd been searching for
ever since he and Ted had come up with this great idea.

Once again the young photographer let his green-flecked eyes
glide over the nervous blonde's young curvaceous body. She looked
about nineteen, though it was always hard to be certain about
age, and he saw from the ring on her slim left hand that she was
married. That might just present problems, but everything else
was so perfect that he determined not to let it interfere with
his plans for her. Jesus, she was exactly what he'd had in mind,
with that southern accent and angelic face, and lush yet slender
body too! He couldn't wait to tell Ted that he'd found an
absolutely unbeatable star for the film they'd been talking about
all summer long. The deal might really be coming off! For a brief
instant he let his mind dwell on the way things would be when
this movie had made him and his friend rich and famous. His
family would sure be sorry they'd called him an irresponsible
college drop-out, and a good-for-nothing layabout.

Slow down, Tony, he cautioned himself. Just keep cool ... you've
still got to talk her into it, and you don't even know if she's
photogenic yet ...

Quickly peeling the top paper from the Polaroid shot he'd just
taken, he peered down at it intently, then flashed a broad,
triumphant grin.

Perfect! he exulted. Custom-made for us! Face like a virgin, and
a bod like the hottest whore in Paris! And even high-set
cheekbones, and one of those enigmatic kind of smiles. Wonder
what she was thinking about when I shot that? Something she
wouldn't want to tell me, I bet!

"Looks real nice," he said, sauntering over toward the young
woman who sat fidgeting uncomfortably on the canvas chair. "Lots
better than anyone that damn agency's sent round. Have a look
..."

Sandi took the proffered photo, her smooth forehead wrinkling
into a frown as she stared at it. It looked rather dreadful to
her, and she couldn't imagine what Mr. Fletcher saw in it to
please him so. For one thing, her shoulder-length hair was a
mess; and still worse, the unguarded expression in her eyes was
so different from any of the say- cheese smiling photos she'd had
taken previously that she scarcely recognized herself. Planting a
stiff little smile on her sensual pink lips, she handed the
snapshot back to the bare-chested young man.

"Of course, I'm going to have to take lots more test shots," Tony
began, "but I'd say the job's yours if you want it - uh, what's
your name, anyway?"

"Mrs. Verne Smith ... Sandi Smith," the astonished blonde
replied, an odd little tremor running through her as it always
did when she gave her married name instead of Seeburg, her maiden
name. An inauspicious giggle buggled in her throat at the sheer
absurdity of what was happening to her. How could this strange
young man be offering her a job without knowing the first thing
about her, not even her name? It just didn't make any sense at
all!

"Ten bucks an hour - how does that sound?"

Ten dollars an hour? My cousin Mary-Sue's only making $1.95 an
hour, and she knows shorthand and all that stuff. It's impossible
- there has to be a catch somewhere. But if I'm earning that much
money, I'll be able to pay all Verne's hospital bills without
taking anything from that loathsome Larry Johnson. It'll make
everything all right again ... as if last night hadn't
happened...

Tony Fletcher moved an inch closer to the gracefully contoured
young blonde so that he was standing near enough to smell the
fresh, unperfume-adulterated scent of her very feminine body.
Inside his hip- hugging cut-off jeans, he felt his virile penis
jerk to life to bulge noticeably against the much-washed denim
fabric, and his smile grew even more gleeful than before. Before
this afternoon was over, if things worked out the way he hoped,
he'd be sinking his long thick cock into this innocent-looking
blonde's sweet little pussy. It would be good and tight, he was
sure of that, and she'd be whimpering beneath him and begging for
more. The fact that she was another man's woman added an extra
fillip of erotic anticipation to the scheming Briton's lust.

There you go again, counting your chickens before they're
hatched, he cautioned himself. Talk her into getting out of her
clothes before you think about getting into her cunt!

"Tax free, of course," he added smoothly. "And a cut of the
profits too, naturally."

"P-profits?" Sandi stammered, not really liking the sound of "tax
free"; though she knew little about such matters, it somehow
sounded dishonest. Yet overriding her vague doubts was her almost
desperate desire to earn money, lots of money. If she could pay
for Verne's operation without asking Larry's help, she might be
able to get her husband out of his disloyal friend's clutches. He
could stop risking his life every day and could get a good job
that didn't take him away from her for weeks at a time, and their
marriage could be the way she'd dreamed it would be. Last night's
wanton breakdown of her willpower would never, never recur...

"Yes, you see, we're making a movie. My partner and I, that is,"
Tony explained.

"A movie? But ... but I c-can't act. I mean, I never tried ..."
Sandi broke in, her face reddening with disappointment at having
lost this wonderful job so soon.

Secretly, she'd always wanted to try out for parts in high-school
plays, but her father had been opposed to it, and besides she was
sure she'd just get tongue-tied on stage and never be able to
utter a word in the end. Still, it would have been wonderful to
be up there with all those people in the audience looking up and
admiring her, and a movie would have been even more exciting. If
only she were a different, cleverer sort of person ...

Her classic-featured young face collapsed into a mask of despair
as her short-lived vision of finding a good job faded. Probably
she'd end up being a waitress in a drive-in, or a maid, or
nothing at all. And Verne would continue to be controlled by his
selfish manager, Larry Johnson. Why was she so inept at
everything? She'd hoped that marriage would change her, transform
her into an accomplished, self-assured young woman: but no, she
was still as stupid and useless as she'd been back at her
father's vicarage back in Florida.

"Doesn't matter at all," the photographer's British-accented
voice broke through her dismal thoughts. "Why do you suppose I
went through a goddamn employment agency in a dump like Brunrocke
if I wanted a real actress? Listen, Sandi, you're exactly the
girl I'm looking for. You've got the face I need - and you can
act; everything you're thinking's reflected all over you. Don't
put yourself down!"

Sandi hung her head, letting her long, ash-blonde curls form a
protective veil around her flushed face. This was probably the
first time in her nineteen years that she'd had to make a
decision of any importance entirely on her own, and she felt
flustered and helpless. To make things worse, Mr. Fletcher -
though he did seem very nice and friendly - persisted in eyeing
her in a way that reduced her already shaky composure to shreds.
She especially didn't like his remark about her thoughts showing
on her face; it proved she still was out-of- control as she'd
been the night before because since childhood she'd usually kept
her expression smooth and guarded.

"I ... I don't know ..." she murmured.

"Let me tell you more about what we're planning to do," Tony said
in his most persuasive voice, placing one hand on the nervous
blonde's arm in a studiedly casual way. She shivered slightly at
the contact, which sent his eager penis leaping into such urgent
palpitations that he was afraid she would notice his arousal and
be frightened away. "My mate and I got this fantastic idea for a
flick - a real money-maker - but we needed a certain kind of
bird. And you're the one! You've got that sort of soft, gentle
looks, a kind of sweetness and innocence, and we just want you to
act as though you're not in a film. You dig? You just have to be
yourself!"

Sandi shook her tawny golden mane of hair away from her face to
stare in bewilderment at the enthusiastic youth beside her.
Although the pressure of his hand on her arm certainly wasn't in
the least way suggestive, she felt her entire body vibrating with
shameful excitement at his touch. All the unwanted excitation
she'd felt from Larry Johnson's obscene touches of the night
before came back in a dizzying rush, and though she tried her
best to control herself, the two depraved images that had been
plaguing her all day flickered briefly before her eyes again.

"You just have to be natural, uninhibited," Tony Fletcher's
clipped- sounding voice broke through the guilty young wife's
unwanted remembrance. "Come on, let's take a few more test shots
and I'll try to show you what I want."

Suddenly Sandi's body seemed to make up her mind for her, and
without having made a conscious decision to accept this
mysterious, almost suspicious job offer, she found her head
nodding in agreement. As she did so, a curious elation tingled
through her bloodstream, and her posture automatically grew
straight and proud.

"Okay," she said to the photographer in a voice which quavered a
little although she was trying to sound self-assured and
experienced. "I'll ... I'll take the job, Mr. Fletcher."

"Tony, please," the young cameraman smiled, his pleasure so
obvious that Sandi's self-confidence jumped up several notches.
His next words, however, brought feelings of inadequacy welling
up inside her once again. "But you'll have to get out of those
clothes - those just won't do at all," he said firmly. "Here -
you have a drink and just relax while I dig up some things,
okay?"

Sandi found herself nodding again, although a drink was the very
last thing she wanted after last night's whiskey-perpetuated
fiasco. Up until her marriage a year ago, she'd hardly even
tasted alcohol, and although she now accepted a glass of wine or
beer, or even an occasional whiskey, just to keep Verne from
making fun of her, she still viewed liquor with distrust.
Certainly she'd never have considered drinking at one o'clock in
the afternoon, but since Mr. Fletcher - Tony, rather - seemed to
think it perfectly natural, she didn't want to seem gauche by
protesting.

"Here you go," Tony said, offering her a glass of a thick,
yellowish liquid which he'd extracted from a bottle in a
well-stocked cabinet built into the wall, then diluting it with
water, so that it changed color in a mysterious way. It tasted as
peculiar as it looked, but after the first licorice-flavored sip
Sandi decided that she liked it much better than Verne's Johnny
Walker.

"Pernod," Tony replied to her unspoken question as he turned to
another cabinet and began pulling out an assortment of
brightly-hued garments. "Should get your head in just the right
place."

Sandi didn't quite know what he meant by that, but she was too
filled with inner excitement to wonder about it for very long.
I'm going to be in a movie! she thought, goosepimples breaking
out on her smooth flesh at the very idea. What would my father
and mother say? And the kids back in Florida who always thought I
was the preacher's mousy goodie- goodie daughter. What'll Verne
say when he finds out?

There was no question about how her parents would react; they
were opposed to movies in any way, shape, or form unless they
were about bible stories and somehow she was sure that that
wasn't at all what Tony had in mind. As for Verne ... well, it
was hard to tell. He seemed to get jealous about the silliest
things, and he'd always been against her working; but, of course,
now she was doing it to help him so he couldn't really mind.
Certainly he'd rather have her doing something respectable that
he could be proud of instead of washing other people's clothes or
serving drinks in some nasty bar.

But the biggest triumph of all was the thought of the reaction of
the people she'd gone to school with back in Florida. Imagine the
way their mouths would drop if they knew that skinny Sandra
Seeburg with her dishwater blonde hair and unfashionable clothes
was now Sandi Smith, movie star!?! For the first time in her
life, the green-eyed blonde began to feel as though she were an
important person in her own right, not just the dowdy preacher's
daughter, or a faceless, unpopular high- school student, or even
the famous Verne Smith's introverted wife. It was a marvelous
feeling, and as she sipped at the fresh-tasting but deceptively
potent Pernod her sensation of freedom rapidly increased.

"Here you are, Sandi. These ought to fit you," the photographer's
foreign-accented voice broke through her ego-building daydream.

Just look at the way she's livening up! the scheming youth
congratulated himself. Then, as the curvaceous nineteen year old
model turned her attention to the pile of clothes, he
surreptitiously refilled her glass. This promised to be a very
interesting afternoon indeed!

The slightly intoxicated young wife had turned toward the
costumes with eager interest, but the moment she held them up for
inspection her doubts returned in full force. First she lifted up
a long length of gossamery chiffon in the same shade of apricot
as that shameful nightgown which had been a major cause of her
downfall the night before. Not only was this thing the same
color, but it was, if possible, even more transparent; and to
make matters even worse, it had no buttons, snaps, or other
fastenings.

"That's an Indian sari, a real one," Tony broke in with deceptive
casualness as he noted the look of consternation on the naive
model's heart-shaped face.

With hands that shook slightly, the shocked blonde dropped it
back down onto the chair without replying and pulled up a scrap
of glossy emerald green material. This appeared to be some sort
of foreign garment as well, for it was embellished with
exotic-looking embroidery, but the beauty of the rainbow-colored
handiwork quite escaped Sandi. Her entire attention was riveted
on the plunging neckline, which couldn't help but expose the
wearer's breasts in a lewdly seductive manner.

"And that's Moroccan," the young photographer explained, as
though that excused the obscenity of the revealing shirt.

Sandi dropped the green cloth, took a deep swallow of the Pernod,
and then turned to Tony Fletcher. Her cheeks were flushed, and
much to her embarrassment tears of disappointment were welling up
behind her eyelids.

"I ... I can't wear things like this!" she protested. "They're
... they're just plain indecent! You can see right through them!"

"Let me explain," Tony quickly improvised. "You see, our movie's
about this American girl who goes traveling around the world and
meets this guy - real romantic, sorta like Love Story - and in
the places they go, she wants to be really in with the scene, so
she wears what the people wear."

"Yes, but ..."

"But what? These things aren't indecent! I bet the Indian women
would think your skirt's much more indecent!"

This rejoinder struck just the right chord, for Sandi was already
acutely aware of the shortness of her box-pleated mini-skirt.

"Now, why don't you just try this one on," the conniving
photographer urged, holding up the see-through orange sari, "and
I'll get a few Polaroid shots of you. You'll see - it'll look
great! This color's perfect for you."

Sandi Smith blushed, once again reminded of the nightgown her
husband had bought her. Again she gulped some of the refreshing
Pernod, then bit her lips nervously as her thoughts turned to
Verne and her urgent need to earn money for him. If she turned
down this job because she was too shy, too much a preacher's
daughter, to wear the required clothing, wasn't she being
disloyal to her husband? And besides, the photographer was
doubtless correct in saying that there was nothing really obscene
about native costumes. It was almost educational, wasn't it? Like
those pictures in National Geographic of African women with bare
breasts ... even her father subscribed to that magazine ...

"Besides, clothes aren't important - it's the person inside them
that counts," Tony continued. "I mean, if you'd seen me first in
a gray flannel suit, you'd have thought of me as just another
person, wouldn't you? Of course, you would! See - it's totally
irrelevant."

This, too, made sense, and though Sandi didn't quite grasp the
connection between gray flannel suits and native costumes, she
decided that she was just too stupid to understand. After all,
this Mr. Fletcher appeared to be well-traveled and well-educated,
and who was she to doubt his word? She'd only graduated from a
small back-country southern high school, and had just barely done
that, what with flunking both Algebra and Natural Sciences II her
senior year. In fact, she was so stupid that she was lucky to get
any job at all, much less a well- paying and interesting one like
this. Her mind made up at last, she reached out one slim white
hand for the Oriental garment.

"Good girl," said Fletcher approvingly, his semi-erect penis
thickening painfully as he grew nearer to his goal. Now came the
crucial step - she had to undress, and she was going to have to
do it in front of him. If he could get her to do that, he was
halfway there. "Let's get moving. It looks like a storm's coming
up, and I want to shoot these Polaroid shots while there's still
good light, 'cause this isn't one of my really good cameras."

Her head was reeling a little from the glass and a half of
alcohol which she'd unwittingly gulped down since arriving at the
"Deja-vu" studio, she gazed out the corner window at the
gathering clouds. Though Sandi was ashamed of feeling
intoxicated, she was simultaneously grateful for the light-headed
sensation. If she'd not had the drinks, she doubted whether she'd
have had enough courage to even consider trying on the risqu�
Indian dress. As it was, she was just dizzy enough to be able to
rationalize that she was doing this for Verne, not because of the
thrills of forbidden excitement that coursed up and down her
spine at the idea of trying on the wanton garment ... and trying
it on right in front of this strange young man who held a camera
in his hand.

"Wh-where can I change?" she asked, gulping down the last drops
of her Pernod, and getting to her feet.

I mustn't drink anymore, no matter what he says, she cautioned
herself, aware that she was starting to lose control. Surely
there must be some obvious place for changing clothes, and I'm
just too confused to notice ...

"Oh, just change here," Tony said. "I don't mind, if you don't."

Suddenly the inexperienced young minister's daughter forgot how
much she wanted this job, not only to pay her injured husband's
bills, but also for her own personal fulfillment. Indignant shock
blazed inside her at this disrespectful assumption that she was
that sort of girl, and the liquor had loosened her natural
inhibitions enough that she was able to make an angry retort.

"But I do mind! Of course I mind! I ... I think you're very
r-rude to say that to me!"

Jesus Christ! Tony thought, seeing that his impatient desire to
screw the hell out of this innocent yet subtly seductive young
woman had caused him to move too quickly. She's really something
out of Victorian times. But although his patience was wearing a
little thin, he remembered that this innocent attitude was
exactly what his friend Ted claimed was the real money-making
factor.

"I'm sorry, Sandi," he said with genuine-sounding contriteness.
"You see, I don't think there's any reason to act formal and
uptight around each other if we're going to be working together.
You're not ashamed of your body, are you? I didn't think anyone
was today ..."

Sandi flushed, trying to understand the conflicting motivations
wafting through her mind. One part of her brain told her that the
photographer was probably correct, that she was just being a
silly, uptight country hick, and that she'd have to try to change
herself if she wanted this job. She'd always avoided undressing
in front of her husband, for it seemed to make him over-sexed and
interested in trying perverted sexual positions once she'd
climbed into bed. Now, however, there was no reason to fear
anything of that sort, and her reluctance could only be a
hangover of her old-fashioned upbringing.

Yet much as she wanted to believe her rationalizations, another
voice in her brain was intoning dire warnings. You know it's
wrong to let anyone except your husband see your naked body, no
matter what the reason is. Remember what happened last night when
you had on that sluttish see-through nightgown? Well, the same
kind of thing's liable to happen again today if you don't get
hold of yourself. Do you WANT this stranger to touch you? Are you
that sinful?

"After all, the human body is the most perfect art form there
is!" the liberal-minded photographer's sophisticated-sounding
voice broke through the babble of conflicting voices in Sandi's
brain. "I suppose you don't realize it, living out here in
Brunrocke and all, but lots of the most famous statues and
paintings in the world are of nudes. Just think of Rodin!"

The nineteen year old wife tried hard to think of Rodin, but
though the name was vaguely familiar from a high-school
art-history course, she couldn't quite recall exactly what sort
of artist he was. But it didn't really matter; the point was that
she was an ignorant young girl from a southern town so small it
made Brunrocke seem like a booming metropolis. A sudden spark of
spirit ignited in the hitherto shy and docile blonde's soul as an
unprecedented wave of loathing for her own self-image shivered
through her young body.

"I'm not from Brunrocke - I'm from Cobbsville, Florida," Sandi
replied in such a bitter voice that Fletcher shot her a sharp,
inquisitive glance.

"It doesn't matter where you come from," he said. "Listen, let me
tell you a secret: I'm not really English at all - I'm from a
little hick town in New Hampshire. I say I'm British to impress
people around here, but I really just studied over there for a
year. You see, I earn more money and get better jobs this way.
It's not where you come from that matters, but where you're
going."

Sandi stared at the young photographer for a long moment, her
gold- flecked hazel eyes glinting with strange new lights as she
turned this new concept over in her mind. Was it really possible
that she could become intelligent and sophisticated, become the
kind of person who did exciting things and was admired by others?
Was this job her opportunity to find out?

"But of course, if it really upsets you, you can change
downstairs," Tony suggested in a tone that made evident his
disapproval of the idea.

All of a sudden Sandi's mind was made up. "No," she said in as
firm a voice as she could manage, her fingers moving to the
zipper fastening of her navy blue skirt. "I'm not ashamed of my
body. And I think I'd like another drink, please."

One hour, two glasses of Pernod, and six changes of costumes
later, Sandi Smith was scarcely recognizable as the same young
woman who'd hesitantly rung the doorbell of the "Deja-Vu" studio
that very morning. Her entire countenance glowed with a new
self-confident vitality, and her large eyes, glinted by
excitement to the color of polished jade, now looked directly
into Tony Fletcher's broadly smiling face as he shot picture
after picture. For the first time in ages, the lonely
motorcyclists's wife was having fun, and happy laughter and
conversation cascaded from her lips as she began to catch the
dark- haired young man's infectious enthusiasm about the
projected movie.

As soon as each Polaroid shot was ready, Tony showed it to the
flushed- cheeked blonde and listened to her comments as though
her opinion was of some value. Then he told her how this sort of
shot would fit into the plot he and his friend Ted had come up
with over a couple bottles of red mountain wine and a few
marijuana joints, embellishing the rather vague concept with
exotic details he knew would fire the girl's latent imagination
and yearning for adventure. Without ever directly saying so, he
managed to hint that if these test shots were perfect and if the
initial scenes pleased the sponsors, then maybe they would be
given funds to enable them to shoot some of the film on location
in the very places the costumes had come from.

Sandi's alcohol-befogged mind had no difficulty believing the
rather dubious logic of Tony's explanation. In fact, she was so
thrilled with the idea of actually seeing Morocco, India, Paris,
Amsterdam, Monte Carlo, Greece, and the other foreign places Tony
had been talking about that for the moment she completely forgot
about her injured husband Verne.

This is real! she kept reminding herself. It's really happening!
It's happening to ME!

By now, the young wife's spirits were so high that she refused to
be bothered by the fact that Tony had come over to her and was
helping to unlace the intricate ribbons on the bodice of the
sheer white peasant blouse she wore. Why should she get worried
about a silly, unimportant thing like his hands grazing against
her high-set young breasts? She was a modern, liberal woman now -
and the photographer was only being helpful.

"Wh-what happens now?" she asked a little breathlessly, for
although she was sure the young photographer's intentions were
perfectly innocent, the way his fingers were brushing against the
stiff-tipped buds of her sensitive breasts was a little
disconcerting. Striving to ignore the implications of the waves
of excitement that were sweeping out to every nerve-ending in her
half-naked body, she added, "Do they go from Yugoslavia to
Greece, or what?"

It was growing harder and harder for Tony to keep his hands from
grasping this beautiful young model and carrying her bodily over
to the fur-covered couch that stood in the far corner of the
studio, but he forced himself to be content with brushing his
hands over the soft- fleshed, cantaloupe-shaped mounds of her
breasts.

"Not yet," he replied, easing the peasant blouse back from her
shoulders and off. "Now she - uh - she goes down from the country
village in the mountains to visit ... a nudist colony on one of
Yugoslavia's islands. You see, she and her boyfriend love each
other so much that they want to be totally natural together ..."

A strange chill ran through the blonde model's body at this
unexpected answer, and in a rare flash of self-honesty she knew
that she had been expecting this to happen. In her heart of
hearts she had known that this job was far too good to be true.
The puritan streak that ran deep in her blood had warned her that
all pleasure has its price, but she'd chosen to ignore her
conscience.

The young wife had known Tony was going to touch her ... she'd
known it, but she'd let it happen! She'd WANTED to feel his hands
fondling her breasts, undoing her flimsy, peasant shirt, pulling
down her blue pastel bikini panties. Oh God, she still wanted it
... she couldn't bring herself to pull away from the heated
eagerness of his hands caressing her love-starved body!

The same forbidden hunger she'd experienced the night before with
her husband's best friend was once again singing through her
veins and making her muscles feel as weak and pliable as clay.
This time it was worse, though ... this time she couldn't hope to
pretend it was her husband who was setting her body on fire. No,
she knew all too clearly that it was the strange young
photographer she'd met only that morning!

"No, - " she murmured in a weak, unconvincing voice that the
hotly aroused youth chose to ignore as a mere token protest. "I
... I can't do a scene in a n-nudist Colony."

The words had scarcely left her mouth before the thin strip of
her nylon panties were being gently tugged down over her
full-fleshed hips, grazing her sensitive inner thighs as it
drifted to the floor. Sandi clenched her eyes shut, not able to
bear the humiliating reality of her naked body, but she still did
not try to pull away from Fletcher's gently clasping arms. A
sudden wave of dizziness passed through her, and it was all she
could do to keep from falling forward against his smooth naked
chest, much less move in any other direction.

"Just lie down here on the rug and pretend you're sitting on the
sand," the photographer said, guiding her unresisting body toward
a thick-pile throw-rug woven in an intricate pattern of reds and
golds. "You're at the beach with your boyfriend, and the sun's
real hot, and you're not worried about being naked, because you
love him so much you want to share yourself with him in the most
natural way. Think about how much in love you are ... about how
good his hand feels rubbing suntan lotion on your back ..."

Sandi sank to the floor in automatic response to the
photographer's demand, but it was so impossible to imagine the
situation he was talking about that she quickly returned to her
senses and reached up toward the pile of clothing on the chair to
find something to cover her sinful nakedness. Then, as Tony
pushed the chair out of reach and knelt down beside her, the
embarrassed young wife tried to hide her soft golden pubic curls
with her trembling hands and hung her head so that her long
blonde curls partially covered the white, upthrusting mounds of
her naked breasts.

"I can't do this," she said, gazing miserably up at the
photographer. "Wh-what if someone saw the pictures?"

"All movies have to have nude shots nowadays," the young
cameraman argued, reaching out to stroke Sandi's smooth arm. "And
no one you know could possibly see it, cause it's being made for
South Africa."

This last statement, at any rate, was the truth. The whole plan
for making a movie had come up because Ted's cousin in South
Africa had written them to ask for films, which he claimed were
shown in private homes at exorbitant prices because of the strict
censorship in regular theaters. It seemed to Tony and Ted that
this was a perfect set-up for making themselves some easy money.

"South Africa ...? But anyway, maybe I'm just being silly, but I
feel ... dirty ... sitting here like this. I c-can't do it! I ...
I better leave -"

"Hey, hey, Sandi, calm down," Tony interrupted as the alarmed
wife's melodic southern voice rose to a shrill, half-hysterical
wail. "You shouldn't feel like that! Hell, your body's beautiful
- just about the most beautiful I ever saw. Honest! You should be
proud of it ... be glad it makes other people happy to see it
..."

As he spoke, the desire-aroused photographer inched still closer
to the trembling blonde, placing one hand on the smooth white
pliancy of her upper leg while letting his other hand slide up
along her slender arm toward the tantalizing mounds of her
high-set young breasts. His fingers tingled as he remembered how
her warm-fleshed breasts had quivered like two frightened baby
birds beneath his unbuttoning fingers, and suddenly the movie
began to seem much less important than spearing his turgid
thickness into the tight-clasping warmth of Sandi Smith's pussy,
now hidden between her tight-clenched white thighs.

"Wh-what are you doing? D-don't touch me there ... please don't
..." Sandi whispered, wondering why she couldn't seem to make
herself pull away from the handsome stranger's wandering hands,
grab her clothes, and escape from this dangerous situation.
Fingers of forbidden flames were beginning to lick at her breasts
and fan down into her taut- muscled belly and unprotected vagina,
and the nineteen year old blonde knew that if she didn't put an
immediate end to these illicit caresses, something dreadful was
bound to happen.

"I'm just trying to get you in the right mood," the lewdly
grinning man explained, teasingly tweaking Sandi's left nipple.
"I need a certain sort of emotional reaction on your face."

Don't listen to him! You're a married woman and this is adultery!
Sandi's brain screamed. Unsuccessfully she tried to nudge Tony
Fletcher's insistent hand away from her intimate flesh. As she
began to panic, the dizzying effects of the potent Pernod cleared
away - leaving behind, however, its strange aphrodisical effects
- and the horror- stricken young wife forced herself to open her
eyes and face exactly what she was allowing to happen.

There she was, drunk in the middle of the room with a strange man
who wanted to take pornographic pictures of her, and she was
letting him fondle her in the way only her husband Verne was
permitted to do. What was worse, she was LIKING it! Oh God, how
could she have let this happen? Verne would never, never forgive
her if he should find out ... she didn't deserve to be forgiven.

Then a new, more horrible thought struck her. What was going to
happen to her if Verne were really permanently paralyzed? she
couldn't seem to control her sexuality at all anymore ... she was
half crazy after he'd been away from her for just two weeks! How
in God's name was she going to remain faithful to a husband who
could no longer make love. Yet she HAD to ... to do anything else
would be to commit the worse sin possible ... she HAD to obey her
marriage vows, and she had to begin right now, this very instant!

"NO!" she cried out suddenly, jerking her naked thigh away from
the photographer's obscenely positioned hand and rolling to the
far edge of the soft orange carpet. "GET AWAY FROM ME! I'm NOT
going to take those pictures! I'm leaving! Get someone else to be
in your stupid movie ... I'm not the kind of girl who lets
herself be pawed!"

Fletcher lunged down upon the struggling blonde, his breath
coming in loud, harsh gasps as his lust overwhelmed all sense of
direction. To hell with talking her into it! He'd waited too long
already, and his swollen cock was throbbing so painfully inside
his tight cut-offs that he couldn't bear another minute's delay.
Pinning her smooth-skinned shoulders down with his flattened
palms, he leered down at her.

"Who do you think you're kidding?" he snarled, his formerly
friendly face distorted into a mask of lust-engendered rage. "You
liked it just fine a minute ago, baby! And you aren't gonna get
away with leading me on and then running away. If there's one
thing I hate, it's a goddamn cock-teasing bitch!"

"Let go of me!" Sandi wailed, suddenly aware that willpower alone
wasn't going to be enough to get her out of this obscene man's
studio. Up between her tight-clenched legs she could feel his
thick penis bulging and throbbing against her cringing flesh, and
there was an inhuman madness in his brown eyes that told her he
would not easily be put off. Balling up her slim white hands into
fists, she began to pound ineffectually at Tony's hard-muscled
bare chest. "NO!" she moaned again. "Get away! Pleeassseee! You
can't do this to me ... my husband ..."

"I don't give a shit about your goddamned husband, lady, and
neither will you, once I get my prick inside your hot little
pussy!"

Sandi froze, her stomach churning with fear and an evil, unwanted
excitation as the well-built cameraman ripped off his faded blue
cut- offs. Since he wore no shorts beneath, his huge, angry-red
thickness burst at her like a dagger being pulled from its
protective sheath. He brandished the pulsating weapon straight at
her white-cheeked face, rubbing the heavy foreskin over the
blood-filled tip. The innocent young wife had never in her life
seen anything so obscene, and for one hopeful moment she thought
she would faint from the shock. Then the wave of dizziness
passed, and she was galvanized into desperate, self- protective
action.

Rolling suddenly out from beneath the crouching body of her
attacker, she struggled clumsily to her feet and tried to dash
for the door to the stairs, but before she'd taken two steps
Tony's strong hand had seized her ankle and the frightened girl
toppled back down on the thick rug. Hot tears brimmed up in the
naked blonde model's eyes as she realized it was utterly hopeless
to try to resist the photographer's superior strength.

"No, please! PLEASE!" she pleaded, her voice almost incoherent as
she choked back the sobs that were rising in her throat. "My
husband ... he's been in an accident ... I c-can't do this to him
... Please, please let me go!"

Tony wasn't quite sure what the tearful young model was going on
about, but her sudden moral compunctions were coming at a most
inopportune moment. He'd been looking forward to this moment all
afternoon, and now he wanted to fuck, not listen to the stupid
bitch's guilt trip. Still, there was something excitingly
different about the chick acting as if he were a rapist, and a
latent sadistic streak in his character rose to the fore at the
sight of the helpless female sobbing beneath his hard- gripping
hands.

"Shut up about your fucking husband," he snarled, slapping her on
the face with his flat palm. The blow fell a bit harder than he'd
intended, and Tony felt an even stronger thrill of power as Sandi
flinched and fell silent. "Just do what I tell you, understand?"
he threatened, "or you're gonna be sorry!"

This was the first time anyone had struck the nineteen year old
girl; her parents, though strict disciplinarians, were pacifists,
and her husband Verne was the sort who wouldn't hit a dog, much
less his own wife. Because of this, the photographer's unprovoked
slap sent Sandi into a state of blind panic. Scarcely daring to
breathe, she stared with fear-widened eyes at the face of her
assailant.

How could I ever have thought he was nice and friendly? she asked
herself, a bitter pain piercing through her as she recalled her
joyous expectations of an acting career. He looks like a madman,
or an animal ... maybe he'll kill me ... I hope he does - I'll
never be able to face Verne again knowing I've committed
adultery. I'll never be able to live with myself knowing what a
slut I really am. Because it's all my fault that this is
happening! I let it happen ... Oh, I hate myself!

Then her self-recriminations were cut short as she felt Tony's
rough hands tugging her fear-tensed thighs apart.

"Come on - spread your legs!" he ordered.

In spite of her fear of further brutality, the young wife
instinctively tried to hold her legs together. Her fear of that
gigantic cudgel of male flesh tearing into her forbidden flesh,
and her terror of committing the act she considered more sinful
and debasing than any other, overweighed the photographer's
threat, and Sandi felt that she could better bear being beaten
than the horror of being raped right here on the studio floor. At
least then she would still retain her self-respect ...

This time, however, the lust-crazed man above her was more subtle
in his choice of punishment. Grasping the voluptuous blonde
model's slender wrist, he twisted it until she cried out in pain.
At the same time, he let his other hand move to the melon-shaped
mounds of her sensitive breasts, teasing and pinching at the
rose-pink nipples until the helpless girl was squirming in an
agony not of pain, but of unwanted arousal. It was only a matter
of seconds before Sandi Smith's lushly ripened thighs parted
enough to allow the young photographer an enticing glimpse of
glistening pink cuntal flesh hidden among the softly curling
ash-blonde fringe of cuntal hairs. His already massively swollen
penis swelled to even greater girth, and with a roar like that of
an untamed jungle beast he let the full weight of his
well-muscled young loins fall upon the terrified blonde.

"Aaawwwgggghhhh," Sandi gasped, struggling for breath as the
near- stranger's hungry lips glued themselves to her mouth and
his tongue tried to press in between her clamped-together teeth.

His hands had wormed between their tightly clasped bodies to
torment her tingling breasts, and when she resisted his snaking
tongue he dug his nails so deeply into the delicate tissue that
the tormented blonde let out another whimper. Tony's tongue shot
into her mouth, thrusting obscenely against her teeth and then
sucking her own reluctant tongue back into his own heated mouth
with such force that she felt as though he were tearing it out by
the roots.

God! Verne had never, never kissed her in such a perverted way!
And he'd certainly never punished her breasts like this; he'd
never have thought of doing such a cruel thing, and she'd never
have permitted him to if he'd tried. Now, with this mad
photographer, she was helpless ... he could do whatever his
corrupt mind wished, and she was unable to raise a single
protest. His huge penis was pressing obscenely between her upper
legs, but there wasn't a thing in the world she could do about
it. She was going to be raped!

Tony found himself wishing that his need to satisfy his
impatiently throbbing cock wasn't quite so intense. He'd have
liked to take his time, teasing and tormenting the young blonde
until her resistance turned to a lust too strong for her to hide.
Maybe kiss and suck her pussy till she was screaming for more, or
force her soft pink lips to suck his pulsating hardness until his
thick cum splashed down her slender white throat. But these
things would have to wait for another day ...

The girl lay quiet beneath him now, only a slight shuddering of
her splayed-open thighs and a hesitant but undeniable quivering
response where their mouths meshed indicating that she was not
unconscious. A wave of contriteness for his cruel words and
sadistic blows surged through the dark-haired young man, but
though he felt a twinge of pity for her, he certainly wasn't
about to stop now. Sandi's soft cuntal hairs were grazing
maddeningly against the desire-sensitized head of his turgid
cock, and he couldn't wait another instant.

Tearing his mouth away from the helpless young wife's bruised and
aching lips, the dark-haired photographer leered down at the
perfectly formed body beneath him. Sandi might be reacting like a
country schoolgirl, but she was built like a goddess of
femininity. Tony, who considered himself an expert on the women
of the world after having spent almost two years in various
European capitals, decided that this slender honey-blonde must
have Scandinavian blood. She reminded him a lot of a Swedish girl
called Inga whom he'd met on the boat to Copenhagen, a girl who'd
seemed deceptively cold and reserved until they'd gotten into
bed, where she'd suddenly been transformed into a lustful
wildcat. He'd never forget her kicking her long legs against his
bare back and screaming out her orgasm so loudly that the
neighbors had banged on the walls for them to be quiet. Maybe the
same thing would happen today ... After all, no one could have
put away all that aphrodisical Pernod and not be f
 eeling pretty sexy, whether they liked it or not!

"Gonna fuck you now, baby," he cried in a hoarse, lust-strangled
voice. "You're gonna see how good fucking can be!"

Sandi felt the naked man's slim hips flick forward, propelling
his huge angry-red pole of male flesh directly toward her
unprepared pussy. Her mouth fell open, a scream of terror rising
in her throat, but before she could cry out, his turgid thickness
had plunged halfway up into her captive pussy. The pain was so
fierce that she froze, almost afraid to breathe for fear that the
searing waves of agony would intensity.

It's too big! It'll tear me to pieces! the tortured blonde's mind
screamed. It's worse than the first time with Verne even! But I
deserve it ... I deserve even worse!

The svelte young model's cunt was even tighter than the
lust-inflamed photographer had hoped it would be, and as he tried
to push in to the hilt he could feel the velvety-textured warmth
of her vaginal walls clinging to every blood-engorged centimeter
of his pressuring penis. Grasping onto her heaving breasts as
though they were handles, Tony sank his thickly swollen hardness
another couple of inches into her cringing pussy channel.

"Yeah!" he groaned in satisfaction. "Your cunt's so tight, honey!
So gooooodddd! So fucking gooodddd!"

How can he say that, when he's killing me? Sandi Smith's
pain-wracked brain shrieked. Oh God, how can it feel good to him?

Then in the next moment her own body supplied an answer to her
confusion, for the photographer's rough fondling of her already
liquor- sensitized breasts was beginning to send a peculiar sort
of depraved pleasure swimming through her bloodstream. His blunt
fingertips pinched at the tautened buttons of her nerve-filled
nipples just as his hot, hungry mouth once again crushed down on
her trembling lips, and to her horror Sandi found her own tongue
involuntarily responding to Tony's lewd kiss. Before she realized
what she was doing, she'd begun licking at his teeth and even
sucking his hungrily plunging tongue deep into her throat. The
instant she became aware of her inexcusable wantonness, a cold
thrill shot down along her backbone ... but somehow she could not
stop.

Oh God, what am I doing? I can't be liking the horrible things
he's doing - I CAN'T! Maybe I can't stop him from making me
commit adultery, but I can't let myself like it. If I do, I'm
worse than he is!

Sandi applied every ounce of her willpower to resisting the
strange, unwelcome twinges of erotic pleasure, but her strenuous
efforts were cut short as the photographer's lust-heavy penis
finally plunged all the way to the hilt. His blunt blood-filled
cock-head struck the spongy surface of her cervix, remained still
for a suspenseful moment as Tony tried to give the blonde model's
cuntal passage a chance to adjust to his lust-expanded cock, then
throbbed in a way that sent a wave of pure physical desire
surging out to every nerve-ending in the unfaithful wife's
voluptuous body.

Although the nineteen year old girl tried to keep her body as
limp as though she were totally insensate to the pulsating penis,
massaging hands, and heated lips of her rapist, she couldn't hold
back a little gasp as Tony's lengthy thickness suddenly throbbed
to obscene life inside her softly palpitating vagina. The
desire-hardened shaft pulled almost all the way out of her
helpless pussy, leaving it feeling oddly empty, and then plunged
back in as far as it could go. At first, his entry had seemed to
rip shreds of tender vaginal flesh from her unprepared passage,
but now that her feminine fluids had coated her bruised pussy
walls, the photographer's swollen rod of male flesh slid in and
out as easily as a knife slipping through butter.

As the painful burning sensation in her lewdly violated pussy
changed to an undeniably stimulating sensation, Sandi's mental
agony increased in direct proportion. It was absolutely
inconceivable that this stranger's forbidden cock-flesh was
exciting rather than repulsing her, but the honest young wife was
forced to admit that this was exactly what was happening.

I'm sick ... evil! I'm the worst wife that ever lived! I wish
he'd hurt me, punish me ... that's what I deserve, and it would
be easier to bear ...

"How d'ja like my cock, baby?" the dark-haired male leered,
breaking off an obscene French kiss to stare triumphantly down at
the broken- willed young woman. "You're just like all the other
bitches, aren't you? Pretend to be so prim and proper, but all
you really want's a good stiff prick screwing into you!"

He's right, he's right! Sandi moaned to herself. I'm nothing but
a filthy slut! And I can't help it either! I can't help wanting
him to do this to me!

"Tell me you like it!" Tony Fletcher insisted. "Tell me you want
me to keep fucking your cunt! Admit it! Admit it!"

Not only was the innocent nineteen year old rather shocked by the
photographer's ugly language - her considerate husband had always
referred to it as "lovemaking" or simply "doing it" - but her
whole body shuddered at the dreadful idea of actually confessing
her perverted desires. Though her loins burned with lust, though
she would have felt a terrible physical frustration had Tony's
pummeling penis ceased its smooth rhythmic strokes, it was
impossible for her to even think of saying this aloud. It was bad
enough that she could no longer hide the humiliating truth from
her own tortured soul.

"Say it, bitch!" Tony insisted, his deep set sadism again
surfacing as he saw what an intense affect his command had on the
impaled blonde. She was trying not to appear to be turned on, he
could see, but it was perfectly evident that her body was
responding to his illicit touch. Each time his powerful
in-strokes rammed to the hilt in her tight- muscled little pussy
and his sperm inflated balls smacked up against her rounded white
ass-checks, a low mewl rose from her open mouth and beads of
perspiration popped out on her desire-flushed face.

"Say it! Tell me you want me to fuck you!" the dark-haired
cameraman repeated, tightening his hold on her small puckered
nipples and slamming his loins against her harder than ever.

Sandi felt as though her mind was fading away into a cloud of
blackness where nothing existed but the churning, ever-building
sensations of lust in her belly and cock-impaled vagina. No
longer able to control her reactions, she began a lewd,
undulating grinding of her full- fleshed buttocks that allowed
Tony's driving thickness to hit all the way up to her womb.

Harder! I want him to do it harder! I deserve to be hurt! her
mind shrieked, but still she retained enough control to keep from
speaking aloud. Why is it so much better than it ever was with
Verne? This is just some horrible stranger who doesn't care about
me at all. He's just using me like a prostitute, and he doesn't
care what I want or if he's hurting me. But I can't help it ... I
want him to do it!

Perhaps it was something to do with the copious amount of Pernod
she'd consumed during the afternoon, but for the first time in
her life the nineteen year old wife was experiencing an arousal
so powerful that her will was completely enslaved by the power of
a male phallus. Of course, she'd enjoyed making love to her
husband - in the conventional "missionary position", of course -
she'd had orgasms, too ... and she'd craved his caresses when he
was away. But none of that was half as intense as the wantonly
depraved ecstasy she was feeling beneath the hands of this
callous stranger. Sandi realized all this in some dim corner of
her sex-glutted brain, but instead of bringing her to her senses,
it heightened her arousal to the point where all her reserves
broke down and she was wailing out her perverted passion.

"Yes! I want it!" she moaned, thrashing her head from side to
side so that her veil of golden curls whipped across the
photographer's hovering face. "I want to FUCK! I want you to do
it hard, hard, harder! Hurt me - punish me like I deserve!"

Tony Fletcher hadn't expected the frigid-acting young model to
undergo such a dramatic transformation just from voicing the
forbidden words. He'd wanted to humiliate her to satisfy his own
power-hungry male ego more than anything else, and the sudden
violent thrashings and mewlings of the previously reluctant
blonde were an extra bonus. Down in his lust-bloated testicles he
could sense the first stirrings of his pent- up semen, and he
knew it wouldn't be long before his thick hot cum would be
rushing pell-mell up the thickly distended shaft of his virile
penis and bringing on a powerful, tension-releasing orgasm.

"Yeah, baby!" he cried. "Yeah, I'll fuck you hard! I'll fuck the
life out of your hot little cunt!"

"Oooohhhh ... fuck me ... fuck me ..." Sandi moaned back, driven
half out of her mind by the strange masochistic excitement that
was searing through her blood.

She knew that what she was feeling was sinful, truly perverted -
but she no longer cared. The only reality that existed for the
lust-fevered young wife was the exquisite,
never-before-experienced sensation of being changed by this
stranger's battering male flesh into a mass of helplessly
quivering-femininity. Sandi Smith no longer existed - she was
merely this man's obscene receptacle, and he was filling every
inch of her cunt with mind-shattering erotic bliss.

As Tony fucked with ever increasing ardor into the whimpering
girl's slick, velvety vagina, his swelling testicles were
whacking against her undulating buttocks. The lewd, wetly
slapping sound they made combined with his own harsh, grunting
breathing and Sandi's mindless mewls to form an obscene chorus.

Good background music for the goddamn movie! the dark-haired
photographer laughed to himself.

Then, as the urgent churning in his testicles reached the boiling
point, his mind lost all thought except that of climaxing, and
making this fantastic hot-blooded little chick cum along with
him. Dropping one of his hands from her swollen, taut-nippled
breasts, he squeezed it down between their perspiration-slickened
bodies to locate the tiny nerve-filled button of her hidden
clitoral bud. It jerked and trembled, rising perceptibly beneath
his middle finger like a miniature penis, and the writhing girl
moaned more urgently than ever and grasped his longish brown hair
in her fists.

"Cum, baby!" Fletcher groaned. "Cum with me! Let it all loose -
aaaahhhhhh!"

As the frantically bucking photographer's lewd words faded off
into a low-pitched groan and the first heated droplets of his
sperm began spiraling up his lengthy cock, Sandi Smith's voice
echoed his violent passion.

"Oh ... ooohhh ... I-I'm cumming! CUMMING!"

She'd never before used the word "cum" - in fact, she'd always
been too embarrassed to utter anything besides an involuntary low
gasp during her lovemaking with her husband - but the feelings
that were erupting inside her now were so overwhelmingly powerful
that she had to release some of her energy. Wave after wave of
ever-increasing intensity splashed over her helplessly writhing
body, and her vagina, stimulated by the pressuring finger on her
sensitive clitoris, began dilating and clasping around the heated
male flesh that completely filled it. As the jets of his searing
hot sperm began splashing inside her quivering cuntal passage,
the final wave broke and she crashed with a soul- rending shriek
into a blissful, rainbow-hued cloud of pure physical bliss.

"Uuunnnggghhh ... oooohhhwwhhh!" Tony groaned, clutching onto the
young blonde's convulsing loins like a drowning man grasping at a
log. Turgid streams of lava shot out through his deeply embedded
penis for what seemed an eternity of heaven, and at last he
collapsed upon the still- shaking girl's body in utter
exhaustion.

Sandi's bone-shattering climax lasted for so long that she
thought she couldn't bear the bittersweet agony of it. Only when
Tony's penis began to soften and shrink inside her trembling
vagina did she begin to return to a normal state. Never in her
life had she felt anything as wonderfully satisfying as this
magnificent climax, and it was at least ten minutes before the
blissful cloud of post-orgasmic peace began to fade and she
realized with an icy shock just where she was.

With eyes still glazed with passion, she gaped up at the naked
male collapsed obscenely over her, his deflated penis still
lingering inside her as a limp reminder of the illicit ecstasy
they had just shared. All her Methodist morality returned to her
in a cascade of guilt, and she involuntary tensed up her relaxed
cuntal muscles to expel the photographer's defiling cock. Then,
shuddering now from guilt rather than desire, she shoved Tony's
half-unconscious body away from her and shakily drew herself to
her feet.

Fletcher groaned low in his throat, too pleasure-sated to bother
to open his eyes. He was unaware that the young model was
standing above him, her large hazel eyes widening in horror as
she stared down at his naked body, or that she began to shake
like a leaf at the degrading sight of thin white rivulets of his
cum streaked across her firm young thighs. Only when he heard the
door to the stairway bang did he force himself to a sitting
position and realize that Sandi Smith had vanished.

Never mind, he told himself, falling back down on the soft rug.
She'll be back! She liked my cock too much to stay away very
long...

Chapter 4

"It didn't happen ... it didn't happen ..." Sandi muttered.

There was a note of near-hysteria in the naked
nineteen-year-old's voice as she stood soaping her body in the
pink-tiled bathroom of her suburban Lakeview Estates suburban
home. For almost an hour now she'd been standing here under the
cleansing cascade of the shower, trying her best to scrub away
the desperate guilt she felt about the shameful way she'd allowed
the photographer, Tony Fletcher, to seduce her into horrifyingly
indecent acts. Yet, in spite of the bar and a half of Ivory soap
that she'd used up in her despairing effort to wash away her
guilt, Sandi still felt as lewd and despicable as ever.

How could I have let myself commit adultery? HOW? she asked
herself for the hundredth time. Father would say I'm possessed by
devils ... and maybe he's right.

The young blonde wife's guilty despair, which had been steadily
mounting ever since she'd fled from the "Deja-Vu" studio, ran far
too deep to be washed away. In spite of her determined efforts to
make herself believe that none of the afternoon's events were
real, the memory grew more and more vivid. It all seemed so
immediately real, in fact, that Sandi scarcely dared to touch her
still-swollen breasts or sensitive vaginal area with her
washcloth. Even the sharp-needled spray of hot water upon her
slender back and taut-muscled young belly sent erotic vibrations
surging through her traitorous body.

Oh God! What's wrong with me? I don't want to think about what
Tony did to me ... but I can't think about anything else. What's
happening to me?

The friction of her washcloth and the almost sensual feel of the
hot water seemed to be doing more harm than good so Sandi
switched off the faucet and toweled her tingling body dry. The
red-gold glow of late afternoon sunlight in which she'd
cautiously driven home from Brunrocke, all the while throwing
nervous glances into her rear-view mirror in fear of being
stopped for drunken driving, had finally shaded into the deep
purple of an autumn evening, and the guilt-ridden young wife was
grateful for the coming darkness. Maybe now she could sleep and
escape from her tormenting thoughts ...

But as the troubled blonde moved toward her bedroom, symbolically
cleansed and doused with fresh-scented talcum powder and spray
cologne, the shrill buzz of the telephone destroyed her hope of
finding temporary peace. Every time the phone rang lately, she
was sure that it must be the hospital telling her that Verne was
worse, or dead, for - as the unfaithful young wife's guilt
increased, so did her secret certainty that anything which might
happen to her husband would be her own fault.

Clutching a large pink bath towel around her voluptuous figure,
Sandi raced down the hall to the telephone.

"H-Hello?" she stammered, then recoiled and jerked the receiver
away from her ear as she heard Larry Johnson's salesman-smooth
voice.

The towel-draped blonde's first impulse was to slam down the
phone, for the last person she wanted to deal with in her present
emotional state was Verne's "friend" who had treated her with
such shameful disrespect the night before. Yet, perhaps he had
news about her husband ... with the utmost reluctance she
returned the receiver to her ear, nervously biting her full pink
lips as she strained to hear Johnson's indistinct voice. He was
apparently calling from a public place, for there was a babble of
voices in the background interspersed with bursts of music, and
he also seemed to be whispering.

"Sandi? Can ya hear me?"

"Yes - is something wrong? Is Verne all right?"

"I can't hear ya, honey." Sandi winced at the endearing word. Her
husband's manager was quite drunk from the slurred sound of his
speech, and she was afraid to hear what he had to say. "Where've
ya been all day, huh? I tried to call all afternoon ..."

"I've been getting a job," the blonde said stiffly.

"A job, huh?" Larry's intoxicated laugh echoed loud and clear
over the wire. "What kind of job ...?"

Sandi wasn't sure whether she was imagining the insinuating tone
in her husband's friend's voice - her mind was so disoriented
this evening that it was hard to be sure of anything at all. And
why shouldn't he imagine that she was the sort of girl who'd find
a job which people would snicker about? That was exactly the way
she'd acted with him; wasn't it?

"A modeling job," she replied, wishing she hadn't spoken the
moment the words left her mouth. Now Larry would expect her to
earn money, and of course, she could never, never return to the
"Deja-Vu" studio.

"No kidding!" the drunken manager slurred. "That's great, 'cause
Verne's being flown in to Gary tomorrow, and in a couple of days
or so, he's got to have this operation. Otherwise, he's never
gonna be able to ball again, and ya wouldn't like that; wouldja?"

The white-faced wife flinched, hot shame flooding through her
body as she realized that Larry's estimation of her character was
perfectly correct.

"Don't talk to me like that!" she protested, but even she could
hear the false tone in her retort.

"Sorry, honey; don't mind me." Johnson had intended to apologize
for his actions of the night before, but after several dry
martinis too many, he found his tongue running away from him.
"And don't be mad about last night, huh? I just couldn't help
getting carried away by that sexy little bod of yours. Let's be
friends, okay? Let me drive you into the hospital tomorrow, and
we'll talk about it ..."

How could her husband's friend be talking about his obscene
assault on her unconscious body as casually as if they'd merely
had a trivial disagreement? He was a disgusting amoral man who
didn't seem to feel the least bit of guilt about trying to trick
her into adultery even while his best friend lay in the hospital
paralyzed from the waist down, and she didn't believe for one
minute that he had any intention of treating her platonically.
His "talking about it" doubtless meant he would he turning off
onto some dark, deserted country road and trying to slip his hand
up under her skirt or inside her blouse ... or worse, much, much
worse ...

"I'll drive myself into Gary," she replied in an icy tone.

"Listen, you bitch," the egotistical motorcycle club manager
snarled, but the phone suddenly clicked and went dead. His temper
ignited when he saw that he wasn't going to have his own way
after all. Even after fucking the hell out of his wife Clare last
night, his loins still burned with desire for this unavailable
blonde, and as he sat drinking, he'd convinced himself that
tomorrow he'd be fucking her tight, blonde- fringed little cunt.
Drunken, obscene invectives spewed from his mouth with such
vehemence that several couples standing around near the phone
began laughing and pointing at him.

"Hey, buddy! Give her hell!" one of them called out.

"You bet your life I'll give her hell," Johnson swore, slamming
down the already-dead receiver. "Just wait till I get my hands on
that little bitch! I'm gonna fuck her so hard she won't be able
to walk for a week!" For several long minutes after she'd hung up
the phone, Sandi Smith stood immobile in the dimly lit hallway
with her heart pounding in her throat. A chill draft was blowing
through the corridor, but as the troubled blonde hugged her slim
arms against her chest, the friction of the rough terry cloth
against her still tender nipples caused an unnatural heat to
radiate throughout her naked loins.

If I had gone with Larry, what would I have done if he'd tried
something? Sandi searched her soul for an honest answer, then
shuddered as an obscene vision of Johnson forcing her down in the
seat of his large Buick and shoving his huge swollen penis up
into her defenseless pussy flashed before her eyes. Just the very
thought made her vagina tingle with unwanted excitement, and the
guilty nineteen year old was forced to recognize that she would
probably have had a very hard time resisting her husband's
friend.

This line of thought was too dreadful to tolerate for very long,
and the mortified girl forced herself to think of other things.
Anything, anything at all, was better than dwelling on the
unnatural perversions that were springing up in her wicked body.

"I'll get dressed, and then maybe I'll stop feeling so odd," she
muttered, falling into her old habit of talking to herself. "And
then I'll ... I'll make myself something to eat ... and ... and
then I'll read or watch TV or something ... and go to bed early
so I can look for another job tomorrow ..."

Determinedly forcing her thoughts away from the depraved sexual
experiences she'd been through during the past twenty-four hours,
Sandi donned a crimson-colored velour robe - one of the garments
Verne had bought her - and a pair of fluffy slippers. Then,
although she didn't feel the least bit hungry, she took a package
of frozen hamburger from the freezer and left it to thaw on the
kitchen counter while she wandered into the living room and
switched on the television. For a few minutes, she played with
the channel selector, but when she found nothing but a football
game, a talk show and a rerun of a western, she turned it off and
set an album on the stereo instead.

Well, baby used to stay out all night long,

She made me cry, she done me wrong.

She hurt me eyes open, that's no lie.

Table's turning now, her turn to cry.

Because I used to love her,

But it's all over now.

Because I used to love her,

But it's all over now.

Sandi's hand shook as she reached out and switched off the record
player. The album, an old Rolling Stones collection, was one of
her husband's favorites, but, though she'd often heard it before,
she'd never really listened to the words. Feeling as though she'd
been slapped in the face by the all-too-apt song lyric, the young
wife collapsed on the white imitation leather sofa with her
aching head cradled in her arms.

How am I going to face Verne tomorrow? she agonized. What if he
can tell I've been unfaithful? Mother and Father always knew
straight off when I wasn't telling the truth ...

Then, as it occurred to her that Verne might not even be
conscious, she felt ashamed of her selfish attitude. It only
happened this once, and I'll never let it happen again! she
vowed, temporarily ignoring her deep suspicions of her own sexual
nature. And I'll never let him find out - he's already been hurt
enough without that ... especially if the operation doesn't work.

The thought of the expensive, delicate operation turned her
thoughts back to this afternoon's fiasco of a job-hunt, and to
her disgust, the lips of her still slightly tumescent vaginal
lips began to quiver at the obscene memory of the magnificent but
unspeakably sinful orgasm she'd achieved there on the floor of
the photographer's third-floor studio.

"I mustn't think like this! It's driving me crazy," Sandi mumbled
into her hands. "I've got to keep busy and make myself forget
about it. Tomorrow, I'll go back to Brunrocke and try the other
agency."

Unfortunately, however, there was still this long evening to be
gotten through. With a deep sigh, the slender blonde shuffled
back into the kitchen and stood staring at the plastic-wrapped
hunk of chopped meat. Nausea rose in her nervously churning
stomach at the thought of digesting a hamburger, and she
hurriedly shoved the half-thawed meat back into the refrigerator
and stood staring at the well-stocked shelves. Eggs ... bacon ...
a wilting lettuce ... a pastel-pink plastic container filled with
leftover frozen peas ... they were all equally unappealing, and
instead Sandi extracted an almost-full bottle of white California
wine. A drink would calm her nerves and maybe help her fall
asleep, although it was still very early.

The chilled, fruity-tasting liquid felt good as it slipped down
her throat, so the young wife carried the bottle back into the
living room with her and sat down on the sofa again. Though she
refused to admit to herself that she was trying to get drunk to
block out her disturbing thoughts, she downed the first glass of
wine within minutes and poured herself another as she felt the
alcohol draining some of the unbearable tension from her aching
body.

A copy of today's newspaper lay on the glass-topped coffee table,
and the troubled blonde flicked through its pages in search of
distraction. As usual, the news was boring and incomprehensible,
and she turned almost at once to the women's pages, but somehow
tonight she couldn't concentrate on newest fall fashions or
Danish delight coffeecake to bake in ten minutes or what's wrong
with new math. Even Ann Landers, her favorite feature, let her
down.

There is a big difference between cold
and cool. Ann Landers shows you
how to play it cool without freezing
people out in her booklet, "Teen-Age
Sex - Ten Ways to Cool It." Send 50
cents and ...

Was there no escape from sex? Sandi sighed. Perhaps if she'd had
normal experiences with boys during her adolescence, this strange
sexual compulsion wouldn't be happening to her now that she was a
married woman, and she wondered briefly just what the columnist
would have to say about this theory. Then, slinging the newspaper
onto the carpeted floor, she gulped down her wine and poured
herself a third glass as she reached for the novel she was
reading.

Build me a Castle was the story of a beautiful young American
girl who meets a handsome Scottish widower while on holiday in
London and ends up working as a governess in his windswept
castle. Until tonight, Sandi Smith had found it fascinating, for
her favorite daydream was of traveling to Europe, but tonight she
found the book unpleasantly disturbing. She'd just begun chapter
eight in which the hero finally asks his governess for her hand
in marriage, and the guilt-ridden wife couldn't help remembering
how she'd felt the same joy when Verne had proposed to her one
moonlit night as they walked along a quiet country lane.

Everything was so wonderful then! she thought wistfully. Marrying
Verne was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to me.
And look what I'm doing now - destroying everything. If Verne
finds out about Larry or Tony, he'll divorce me in a minute. And
then what'll I do ... I WON'T go back to Florida ... I'll have to
find a job, and I don't know if I can do that ... not unless it's
something like that perverted modeling job ...

Tears began to sting behind her eyelids as the miserable nineteen
year old threw her paperback book across the room and reached for
the wine bottle. Then, before she could pour her fourth glass of
mind-deadening alcohol, the sound of the doorbell pierced through
her dismal reverie.

"It's Larry!" she whispered to herself. "Oh God - he's drunk, and
so am I. I don't dare open the door!"

The doorbell chimed again, so loudly that the frightened young
wife knew someone was pushing against it with all their strength,
and it crossed her mind that perhaps it was an urgent telegram.
Tiptoeing across the living room to the curtained picture window,
she pulled the drapes aside a few inches to peer out at the front
steps. By now it was completely dark; since the porch light
wasn't turned on, the only radiance came from the fog-misted glow
of the street light, and Sandi's wine-glazed eyes could only make
out that there were two figures out there. She couldn't be
one-hundred percent sure, but she thought one of them wore a
telegraph boy type uniform so she quickly padded over to the
front door and pulled it wide open.

"Hi, Sandi," the smiling face of Tony Fletcher, the photographer,
leered down at her.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" Sandi tried to slam the door in his
face, but her reflexes were dulled by the wine and Tony's
shoulder jammed into the open crack too quickly for her.

"Now that's not very friendly of you, Mrs. Smith," Tony said,
affecting a hurt expression. "I just brought the producer around
to discuss the movie contract I told you about this afternoon.
We'd like to talk with you and your husband about it."

Sandi gaped uncomprehendingly at the tall, fair-haired young man
beside Tony. He certainly wasn't her idea of a movie producer -
in fact, he looked even more like a college student than Tony in
his jeans and matching jeans jacket and long, though neatly
combed, hair. On his head he wore a beret, which was why she'd
taken him for a telegraph boy in the misty darkness.

"My ... husband ... isn't here. And you can't come in!" she
choked out, trying very ineffectually to shove the door shut.

Fletcher flashed a conspiratorial grin at his friend. "That's
okay. We were much more interested in seeing you than Mr. Smith,
anyway."

"But I don't want to see you!" Sandi whispered. Her head was
spinning dizzily, and to her consternation, the sight of the
photographer had brought back that corrupt tingling sensation in
the pit of her belly. Thank goodness she was wearing something
that covered her entire body for a change!

"I think you'll want to talk to us once you hear what we've got
to say," the dark-haired photographer gave the thin wooden door a
sudden shove which sent it flying open, and he and his blond
friend strode into the Smith's house, slamming the door behind
him with a resounding bang. So frightened now that her knees felt
weak as water, Sandi backed away from them and leaned unsteadily
against the wall beside the white couch.

"Yeah, she looks pretty good," the light-haired, slim-hipped
youth said to Tony just as if the trembling blonde had been a
piece of merchandise in a market rather than another human being.
"But I can't see much when she's all covered up in a goddamned
robe like a nun!"

The young wife's mouth fell open in shock at the stranger's lewd
comment, and she wished with all her heart that she'd not drunk
that wine. If she'd just felt a little more together, she'd have
tried to dash out of the room and escape from these two
deceptively clean-cut males who were leering at her with
menacing, undressing smiles on their faces. Tony flopped down on
the couch as if he owned the place, but his friend came over to
stand so close to Sandi that she could smell the alcohol on his
breath and see the unmistakable thick bulge in his fashionably
faded jeans.

"Hey, Ted; don't scare the chick," the cameraman called to the
other young man. "Keep your cock in your pants while we have some
of this wine and talk about things, okay?"

He tipped the bottle to his mouth and drained the last few gulps,
then waved the empty container at Sandi, who was still cowering
in the corner wishing that she could vanish through the
floorboards. "God any more of this stuff, baby? And get us some
glasses - let's put some class into this business discussion!"

Ted guffawed loudly, his eyes never leaving the firm-fleshed
mounds of the blonde's buttocks which undulated provocatively,
even beneath her heavy velveteen bathrobe as she scurried out to
the kitchen. "She looks sweet and innocent enough," the red-faced
wife heard him say, "but are you sure she's really a good fuck?"

"I oughta know! She's hot as a firecracker, and I got scratches
on my back to show it. Just needs the right guy to set her off!"
the photographer boasted.

In the darkened kitchen, the humiliated blonde leaned her
spinning head against the cool refrigerator door and blinked away
her tears. This new degradation, following so closely on the
heels of her unspeakable wanton performance that afternoon and
her husband's manager's upsetting phone call, was too much for
the intoxicated nineteen year old to handle. There was only one
clear thought in her mind - she had to get out of this situation,
for another perverted violation of her body was inevitable unless
she did so at once. In the past twenty-four hours she'd learned
to recognize the signals of sexual danger radiating from aroused
males and from her own traitorous body, and all her instincts
told her to flee before it was too late.

Shaking her tousled blonde curls to clear her mind, the desperate
young girl opened the refrigerator door and rattled the bottles
standing on the inside door rack - much more loudly than
necessary. Then, focusing her eyes on the back door, she slammed
the fridge as hard as she could and dashed toward the beckoning
safety of the dark back yard - completely forgetting in her
panic-stricken haste that the ironing board she'd used to press
her skirt that morning barred her path. The heavy metal iron hit
the tile floor with a clamorous crash, and as Sandi desperately
struggled to disentangle her foot from the legs of the
half-collapsed ironing board, she heard the two men's footsteps
thudding toward the kitchen.

A moment later, the overhead kitchen light flashed on and four
rough male hands were pulling the frantically fighting young wife
to her feet.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going, you stupid bitch?"
taunted Tony, twisting her wrist so hard that she gave a gasp of
anguish. Then, turning to his friend, Ted Gladstone, with a
conspiratorial wink, he continued, "We can't have insubordination
like this from members of our cast, can we, Ted? I think maybe
she needs to be taught a lesson!"

"Yeah," the blond youth drawled, his eyes sparking with
excitement as he caught his friend's underlying mood of sexual
sadism. It wasn't all that often that you got a woman in a
position where she had no choice but to submit to you, and they
might as well take advantage of it while it lasted. And, of
course, if the movie deal ever came off, it'd be an advantage to
have her completely under their power. "Yeah, I think she needs
to be taught that our actors do whatever we tell them to do."

There was an ugly undertone to the good-looking males'
conversation which frightened the cowering nineteen year old wife
so badly that she stopped her useless struggling and let her body
fall limp in their grasping arms. If she'd not been able to fight
off Tony this afternoon when he'd been alone, how on God's earth
could she expect to escape from the two of them? Several weeks
ago she'd come across an article about rape in one of the woman's
magazines, and though she'd never imagined it would ever pertain
to herself, something had led her to read it word for word.
Interspersed among the lurid personal accounts, there'd been a
psychiatrist's advise on what to do in case you are attacked.
"Just keep quiet and don't fight back," he'd instructed. "Any
protest may provoke the sex maniac to additional physical
violence."

But could anyone really consider it "rape" when, not four hours
before, she'd been locked in a passionate, adulterous embrace
with one of these two men almost of her own free will? As she
remembered how she'd writhed in orgasm beneath him, calling out
sinful words and urging him on, Sandi knew that once again she
had only herself to blame. Who could blame the photographer for
thinking she was just some cheap little tramp? Wasn't she, in
fact, no better than a prostitute?

"That's the way!" Tony leered as the blonde model stopped trying
to wrench her slender figure from them. "But we can't have our
star actress trying to run out the back door when we ask her to
pour us some wine. You're gonna have to be punished, baby."

"But I'm not your actress ... I'm not going to be in your movie
... I'M NOT!" Sandi wailed, tears beginning to spill down her
cheeks.

"You fucking well are!" Tony said, cruelly twisting her arm
beneath the red velvet robe. "That is, unless you want your
husband to know what kind of a slut he's married to! Sure is a
shame he's not home ... you'd sign the contract this minute if he
were."

At the mention of her husband, the degraded young wife burst into
hysterical sobs. "YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME! YOU CAN'T!" she
screamed.

"And you'd better stop making that noise, unless you want the
neighbors finding out about your extramarital activities ..." the
photographer threatened.

Suddenly, the light-haired young man let go of the frightened
woman and began ripping open the snaps on his jeans jacket and
Levi's. Sandi gaped at him, the terrible realization that her
vagina was pulsing and moistening in response to the angry-red
thickness that sprang out straight as a pole from his loins
sending icy chills of corrupt masochistic desire surging through
her veins.

"What the hell are we standing around for?" Ted demanded. "I want
to - uh - audition our new starlet before her hubby shows up."
The handsome blond male turned toward his cringing victim, his
huge penis swelling to even greater girth as he took it in his
hand and massaged its aching length. "Get undressed!" he
commanded.

Sandi Smith stood still as stone, her young body suddenly
paralyzed from the surfeit of sexual abuse, guilty anguish and
alcohol. Everything inside her brain seemed to have been caught
up inside the spiraling whirlwind of a tornado, and out of the
confusion only one clear thought emerged, It's happening again -
he's going to rape me! Oh God! Please don't let my body betray my
marriage again! Please, please don't let me like it ...

"Didn't you hear what Mr. Gladstone said?" Tony, who still
grasped her by the wrist, demanded. "He wants to take a look
without this shit!"

As he spoke, the sadistically-inclined photographer seized hold
of the floor-length red velour robe and ripped it from the
blonde-haired model's sloping shoulders. His own virile penis was
almost as erect as his friend's in lewd anticipation of the
spectacle he was about to witness, for he took a perverse,
voyeuristic delight in watching other people's sexual activities.

Sandi Smith's wide hazel eyes stared numbly down at the robe her
husband Verne had given her, wondering distractedly how she was
going to explain the jagged tear down the back of the brand new
garment. A picture of the day her husband had given her all the
clothes and had tried to make indecent love to her right in the
very kitchen in which she now stood flashed before her eyes. How
very long ago it seemed ... it was almost as though that day had
happened in someone else's life.

These thoughts were abruptly terminated as Tony Fletcher's
fingers hooked inside the elastic waistband of her pink-flowered
nylon bikini panties and tore their delicate fabric in two. As
she watched her last wisp of protection floating down between her
naked and trembling legs, Sandi felt a stinging slap on her
firm-fleshed buttock.

"Nice ass, huh?" the photographer leered at his friend Ted,
making Sandi feel for all the world like an animal being
auctioned off at a county fair. Her face blushed a furious shade
of red, and she closed her eyes to avoid the lecherous stares of
her two violators.

"Nice tits, too," Ted agreed, tweaking the rose pink buttons on
the tips of Sandi's high-set young breasts until they grew hard
in defense against his cruel fingers. The handsome but brutal and
uncaring man moved closer to the naked blonde and let the blunt
cock-head of his swollen thickness rub up against the softness of
her golden pussy curls. "Sure would like to try out that cute
little cunt," he said, "but seeing as Tony's already tested how
good you fuck, I think I'll just see how good you are at
sucking!"

Sandi's mind was so dazed by now with her effort to hold back the
forbidden tingling pleasure emanating out from her titillated
nipples to every nerve-ending in her body that the man's
threatening statement didn't sink into her consciousness. It was
only when she felt the photographer's rough hands shoving her to
a kneeling position in front of his friend's lust-thickened rod
of male flesh that she understood what they were going to do.

They - they want me to touch his penis with my lips! Sandi
thought incredulously. Of course, the innocent nineteen year old
preacher's daughter had heard whispers about this unnatural
practice; she'd even suspected once or twice that her husband was
hoping she'd perform the sinful act, though he'd never been so
vulgar as to say anything to her. Perhaps he'd known she couldn't
possibly be persuaded to do an unclean, perverted thing like that
... and she wasn't going to do it now! She just wouldn't open her
mouth!

Ted Gladstone flicked his powerfully-built hips forward
impatiently, his hardened penis throbbing in aching anticipation
against her determinedly pursed lips.

Although one pair of ruthless male arms was holding her up on her
knees from behind her and the other male was shoving her mouth up
against his obscene fleshy cudgel, the obstinate young wife
refused to open her lips. If she fell to these depths of
degradation, she knew she could never rise up again. Committing
adultery was a sin, but this - this was an inhuman crime.

They can kill me first! I'll never put that obscene thing in my
mouth, the trembling young girl told herself. But even as she
made the vow, she heard the naked man looming above her let out a
bestial roar of rage and felt his strong fingers pinching her
delicate nostrils so hard that she wanted to scream from the
pain. For a few seconds longer she refused to yield to his
torture, but finally her need for oxygen overcame her moral
scruples and her full pink lips opened to gulp down life-giving
air.

"Yaaaahhhhhhh!" Ted Gladstone's voice rang out in lecherous
satisfaction as he shoved his achingly frustrated hardness
between the naked blonde's parted lips. She tried to tug herself
away, but the lewdly grinning photographer behind her tightened
his grip on her wriggling body and as a further precaution
planted his muscular legs firmly on either side of her curvaceous
body.

No! Sandi's tortured mind screamed. NO NO NO!!! I won't do it!

But she was doing it! The smooth-skinned, mushroom-shaped head of
the fair-haired stranger's pressuring cock was being thrust
deeper and deeper into her futilely protesting mouth, and his
cruel hands were holding her head in place as he fucked into the
unnatural orifice. There was no possible way to escape from her
slave-like kneeling position on the kitchen floor, and whenever
she swallowed for air, the sensitive walls of her mouth
automatically clasped her tormentor's distended penis.

"Lick it!" Ted's guttural growl rasped in the humiliated young
wife's brain as his fingers tangled more brutally than ever in
her ash-blonde hair and forced her unwilling face so close to his
loins that her nose was pressing against his hard-muscled
stomach. "Suck my prick, and suck it good, or you're gonna be
real sorry you didn't!"

Although Sandi was finding it hard to breathe, she was surprised
to find that the penis violating her tender mouth didn't feel
nearly as repulsive as she'd supposed it would. On the contrary,
its flesh was smooth against her tongue and the eager way it
pulsated against the sensitive walls of her mouth sent strangely
erotic shivers running up and down her spine. When she let her
tongue lick along its heated surface in response to Ted's vile
instructions, the no-longer-innocent nineteen-year-old's unwanted
excitation intensified as she felt the penis jerk in response. A
weird kind of curiosity caught hold of her, and she began lapping
at the huge fleshy rod with more enthusiasm and sucking it down
into her throat just as she'd done with the photographer's
spearing tongue earlier in the day.

"That's it!" she heard the low, lewd murmur from Tony Fletcher
behind her, and then there was the unmistakable sound of his
zipper being yanked open and Sandi felt the warmth of another
fully erect cock pressing against the small of her back. The
cameraman was leaning over her helplessly sandwiched body now,
and his strong hands were kneading at the tender flesh of her
wildly heaving breasts.

"You like it don't you, you bitch?" Tony went on, carried away by
the sheer obscenity of the kitchen scene. "You're loving it,
aren't you, you hot little cunt?"

Yes, the unwillingly aroused young model admitted to herself,
he's right. I DO like it ... Dear God, what's wrong with me? Why
can't I stop myself from feeling this way?

And then, as Tony Fletcher's fingernails pinched vise-like
against her sore and sensitive nipple buds and the light-haired
youth in front of her began fucking smoothly in and out of her
no-longer-resisting throat, she realized that she no longer cared
that what she was doing was sinful.

I don't care if it's wrong! I want their cocks - I want them in
my mouth and in my pussy and all over my body! I want them to do
everything - EVERYTHING!!

A sudden masochistic desire to see the degradation being
performed on her slavishly kneeling body surged through her
lust-quivering loins, and Sandi's large Hazel's eyes popped open.
Looking up, she could see Ted Gladstone's lust-contorted face
hulking above her, his squinting grey eyes shooting out sparks of
violent passion. Then, shivering at the unspeakable perversion of
her own soul, she turned her gaze toward the glistening
red-purple thickness plunging deep in between her straining pink
lips.

Oh God, I'm sick and perverted! the unfaithful wife's conscience
cried even as her mouth and tongue, as though acting under the
directions of another mind, stepped up the fervor of their
obscene oral manipulations. Although she'd never before sucked a
man's penis, the lust-maddened blonde discovered almost at once
that when she licked teasingly at the pungent-tasting glans tip
or ran her tongue along the blood-pulsing vein on the underside
of his heated thickness, the strange man groaned out his
pleasure. He also seemed to like it when she drew his glistening
flesh rod as deep into her throat as she could without gagging,
then ran her tingling lips back up to the mushroom- shaped head,
then plunged back down so that her chin pressed up against his
velvet-soft testicles.

I'm their slave, their whore! Sandi gloated. She wished that she
could shout out her obscene passion, but when she tried to
articulate around the huge impaling penis only bestial gurgles
and grunts emerged from her tight-stretching lips. Although her
completely filled mouth and throat ached and she was having a lot
of trouble drawing in enough oxygen, she reveled in the exquisite
masochistic agony. Hurt me! her passion-crazed mind wailed
silently as the erotic vibrations settled in her churning belly
and well-moistened pussy. Use me! Punish me!

"Ugggggghhhhhh! Awwwwwhhhhh!" the photographer's young blond
friend groaned as Sandi Smith's lips and tongue slavered over his
throbbing thickness. Each time his blood-bloated balls bounced
forward against the smooth skin of the wildly sucking blonde
model's chin, he felt the seething pressure of his lust demanding
immediate release.

"Jesus Christ, Tony," he gasped to his friend, whose face was
equally lust-distorted as he watched the lurid red cock of his
best friend plunging in and out of the kneeling young wife's
frantically gulping throat and whose own turgid cock was
throbbing in urgency as it pressed against the wantonly writhing
back of the lust-fevered girl. "You were right! Once she gets
going, she's the hottest piece of ass I ever got sucked by!"

"Suck, Sandi!" Tony leered behind her, rubbing his naked rod of
lust- distended flesh up against the back of her neck in lewd
rhythm with the wanton oral fucking going on just inches away
from his own throbbing penis. He could see that Ted couldn't hold
back his orgasm much longer from the way all the muscles and
tendons in his perspiration-slicked body tautened, and he felt
hot semen seething in his own aching testicles at the thought of
the formerly frigid blonde swallowing his friend's lewd cum down
her graceful white throat.

"Suck harder!" he hissed. "Squeeze his balls - make him cum in
your mouth!"

The photographer's obscene command sent the blonde model into a
spasm of head-flailing, whimpering ecstasy. Bobbing her flushed
face up and down on the sleek fleshy pole pumping down into her
wildly contracting throat, she reached her slender white hands up
to gently cup the stranger's swaying testicles. At the same time
she gripped her helplessly quivering thighs together with all the
strength in her healthy body to bring on the climax which was
building inside her moist, swollen vaginal lips.

He's going to cum in my mouth!!! her lust-frenzied mind cried,
and the obscene vision of this unspeakably corrupt act sent her
body sweeping closer to the crest of ecstasy.

Suddenly Ted Gladstone's muscular body tensed and Sandi felt the
soft sac of his testicles vibrate in her hands. The whole length
of his enormous rod lay unmoving for one brief second, and then
she felt the cum-swollen vein on the underside quivering. A
second later, hot jets of pungent-tasting male sperm were spewing
into her mouth and she was gulping and swallowing in a mindless
frenzy as she strove to drain him of every last lewd droplet.

"Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!" groaned the photographer behind Sandi, and
then the blood-filled head of his rock-hard penis, pressed so
obscenely up against her neck was also shooting out cascades of
thick, heated sperm. Suddenly the lust-crazed young woman's
tight-pressed thighs began to tremble so violently that she had
to cling to Gladstone's legs for support, but her mouth remained
glued to the slowly deflating penis in her mouth even as her own
soul-shattering orgasm swept through her defiled young body.

For what seemed an eternity, the three orgiasts clung to one
another's perspiration and cum slickened bodies, writhing
together in mutual ecstasy there on the kitchen floor. At last
the blonde wife let the limp penis slip from her sperm-stained
lips and slumped to the floor, while the tall stranger whose cock
she'd just sucked leaned weakly back against the refrigerator,
gasping for breath. Tony, the immoral instigator of this sordid
scene, sank into a kitchen chair to stare down with lustful
satisfaction at the half-unconscious body of the violated young
model.

"That was great for starters," he leered. "Now how about me
getting her in the cunt? That's just what the little bitch wants,
I bet!"

But before anyone else could pull their sated bodies together
enough to respond to the lewd suggestion, the sound of gravel
crunching beneath car tires in the driveway outside the kitchen
window sent the two men leaping into action. Naturally enough,
they believe the car to belong to Mr. Smith; just as naturally,
they wanted to be out of the house before he arrived. Ted had the
presence of mind to switch off the overhead light, while Tony
grabbed Sandi's limp body and guided the glassy-eyed blonde into
the bathroom, turning on the taps in the tub and leaving her
propped up on the toilet seat.

"Lock the door behind me," he hissed. "And don't you dare tell
him what happened - but of course, you wouldn't want to do that!"

Then, struggling into their jeans as they ran, the two young
rapists fled through the front door and across the front yard to
the car they'd left parked out on the street. As they'd hoped,
the angle of the house hid them from Mr. Smith, whose car had
reached the end of the driveway, and without a backward glance
they sped away from Lakeview Estates in the direction of
Brunrocke. As far as they were concerned, it had been a perfect
evening climaxed by a miraculously smooth escape. If they'd
thought to look back, however, they might not have left Sandi
Smith's with such haste, for the action was nowhere near over.

Chapter 5

Lock the door behind me ... Lock the door behind me ... and don't
tell him what happened ...

The photographer's parting words resounded for at least five
minutes in Sandi Smith's ears before their meaning penetrated the
whirling black cloud blanketing her brain. Even when her mind did
begin to clear at last, the instructions made little sense
because she'd never heard the automobile pulling into her
driveway.

Why did Tony throw me in the bathroom? Have they really gone? The
nineteen year old wife's shock-widened eyes flicked in
bewilderment around the gleaming pink cubicle, then dropped to
regard her bruised, cum-stained body with disgust. And if they've
gone, why should I lock the door? And who shouldn't I tell - oh,
they meant Verne, I guess - oh Verne, Verne, Verne ...

Soul-shattering guilt suddenly returned full force to the
anguished blonde who sat slumped over on the toilet seat, her
tear-streaked face buried in her hands. An unmistakable acrid
odor composed of cock flesh, drying sperm, and perspiration
penetrated her nostrils, sending a guttural sob wrenching from
her aching throat. As she lurched unsteadily toward the bathtub,
all the perverted details of her wanton cock-sucking flashed in
vivid Technicolor detail before her tear- reddened eyes.

Since the photographer had turned on the tap as he fled from the
house, the large pink tub was now half full of hot water. Sandi
sank her bruised and aching body into the foam, and began
desperately scrubbing at her curvaceous young figure, determined
to remove every trace of the two men's lewd sperm. The thin white
cum stains seemed to be everywhere - on her chin and graceful
white throat, her painfully tender breasts, her sloping
shoulders, even trickling down her back - and down between her
still-trembling thighs were the equally appalling stains from her
own feminine orgasmic juices. In a way, the young wife was
grateful that she still felt slightly intoxicated, for without
the dulling effect of alcohol she was certain she would be unable
to bear this ultimate degradation. As it was, her hot tears were
splashing into the bathtub and wracking sobs were echoing above
the sound of splashing water.

At least now I know for sure what sort of a person I really am,
she thought bitterly. Only the most despicable slut could do what
I've just done ... and LIKE doing it! I don't think I have a
brain at all - only a vagina!

Then, as Sandi noticed that even her long ash-blonde curls were
snarled and matted with Tony Fletcher's dried semen, her
heartbroken sobs rose louder than ever. Somehow this lewd detail
was the last straw for the overwrought young girl, and she fell
into a state of near-hysteria, her sobs so loud and
uncontrollable that she never heard the urgent pounding on the
back door, nor the door opening and footsteps hurrying through
the house.

"That's funny ..." Clare Johnson muttered to herself as she
brought her Volkswagen to a halt at the end of the Smith's
driveway and turned off the lights and ignition. "I was sure I
saw a light on in the kitchen, but now it's pitch-black. She must
have heard the car - why would she switch off the light?"

Instead of getting right out of her car, the twenty five year old
brunette paused to light a cigarette and consider the situation.
She'd felt a little dubious about coming over tonight, not
wanting to intrude on the grief-stricken wife's privacy, but
she'd finally decided that if it had been her husband Larry who'd
been injured, the last thing she'd have wanted was to be all
alone. Now, though, there was this funny business about the light
- it did seem to indicate that Sandi didn't want any visitors.

Clare sighed, thinking as she often had before that Sandi Smith
was one of the most difficult to understand females she'd run
across in quite a while. Months ago, when the Smiths had moved to
a house in Lakeview Estates only a few blocks away from the
Johnson's home, Clare had looked forward to becoming good friends
with the younger blonde woman. She'd expected to have more in
common with her than with most of the other women in the
subdivision, who all seemed to have several young children and a
husband who came home for dinner every night of the week, but the
pretty new wife of her husband's best friend hadn't responded to
any of Clare's overtures. In fact, the brunette had the distinct
impression that the younger girl didn't approve of her at all,
and after several rebuffs she'd stopped ringing her up to chat or
inviting her to go places. The only times she saw her were when
Larry and Verne were in town and the two couples would get
together.

She's probably just shy, Clare told herself now, stubbing out her
cigarette and getting out of the car. And I'm sure she needs
cheering up, whether she thinks so or not ... everyone needs
friends when things are rough, and maybe this is a good
opportunity to get to be real friends ...

As the statuesque brunette made her way across the dark back
yard, the sound of a car squealing recklessly down the quiet
suburban street startled her. It seemed to be coming from right
out in front of the Smith's house, and the vague uneasiness she'd
felt as the light suddenly flashed out returned. When there was
no answer to her increasingly loud knocks, she began to feel
certain that something very mysterious was happening inside the
white frame house.

Something's going on here, I know it is! she thought. I don't
know if I like the feeling of this ...

Moving as silently as she could, the tall, voluptuous young woman
inched open the door leading into the kitchen, and the moment her
eyes had adjusted to the dimness, she knew her instinctive
suspicions had been more than justified. Only one conclusion
could be drawn from the discarded bathrobe, empty wine bottle,
and especially the heady odor of sex which permeated the small
kitchen: Verne's quiet, frigid-acting little wife had a secret
lover! Who ever would have thought such a thing!

Although Clare prided herself upon being a sexually liberated
"swinger" and in fact had a more than dutiful relationship with
her boss, plus several other boyfriends who satisfied the needs
of her healthy young body while Larry was away on tours, she had
to admit to a tremor of shock that Sandi was carrying on like
this just after Verne's accident. By now her curiosity was avidly
aroused, and she determined to ferret out the lurid details from
Sandi.

If there was anything Clare enjoyed, it was a good sex scandal,
and this was even more outrageous than her recent discovery of a
well- concealed swap club right here in the staid subdivision of
Lakeview Estates. Though she had no particular interest in
swapping, far preferring the live-and-let-live relationship she
had with Larry, it gave her a good deal of secret satisfaction to
know which prim and proper young mothers pushing their baby
carriages in the mornings would be participating in nude orgies
in someone's split-level come nightfall. Far more exciting,
though, was tonight's verification that the pretty young blonde
was actually a hot-blooded female like herself, not the mousy
prude she'd appeared to be.

Her pulse quickening, the lithe brunette tiptoed down the
carpeted hallway, hoping against hope that the car she'd heard
skidding away wasn't that of Sandi's lover and that she might be
able to observe them in the act. Before she'd gone more than a
few yards, however, her lascivious expectations were forgotten as
the sound of a woman's inconsolable sobs reached her ears.
Breaking into a run, the dark- haired neighbor hurried to the
bathroom and flung open the unlocked door.

"Sandi!" she exclaimed, genuinely concerned by the bedraggled
appearance of the young blonde girl in the tub. "Good God -
what's happened?"

The naked blonde whirled around to stare straight into the face
of Larry Johnson's wife, then buried her face in her hands in an
agony of shame, unable to bear the further humiliation of being
discovered for what she was. Everything was over now - her
marriage was finished! Clare would surely tell her husband, who'd
tell Verne out of spite ...

Clare Johnson gaped down at the rich curves of the naked girl in
the bathtub in bewilderment, trying to understand what was going
on. None of this made very much sense, and her reasoning ability
was distracted by a strange thrill curling along her backbone.
Sandi's body was far more lushly feminine than she'd ever
imagined, and the dark-haired wife felt half-forgotten emotions
surfacing rapidly as she gazed at the blonde's rose-tipped,
water-slickened breasts and taut, well-rounded ass-cheeks.
Impulsively, she reached over to stroke the weeping girl's
soft-fleshed arm, feeling an undeniable warm tingling surge
through her own body at the contact.

"There, there, honey," she murmured in a soft, soothing voice,
bending over to kneel on the fluffy pink mat beside the tub and
placing both of her hands on the younger girl's shuddering
shoulders. "Don't cry ... look at me - tell me what's the matter.
Let me help you ..."

Even as she tried to console Sandi, Clare's mind was flooded with
memories of the time eight years ago, when she'd first left her
parents' farm in Southern Illinois to go to secretarial school in
Chicago. She'd shared an apartment with a beautiful blonde girl
named Rosemary, and they'd immediately become close friends,
sharing confidences and clothes and often going out on double
dates together to prevent being pawed at by some over-amorous
young man. Both of them were determined to remain virgins until
marriage, or at least until they truly felt in love, and it was
doubtless that this unnatural denial of the needs of their ripe
young bodies had deepened their friendship to the point where
both voluptuous virgins were sharing the small apartment's double
bed instead of taking turns sleeping on the uncomfortable coach.

Now, so many years later, Clare's sensuous body vibrated with
excitement as she remembered the beautiful, erotic nights she'd
enjoyed with Rosemary, and the sensual stimulation they'd
obtained first by kissing and cuddling, later by licking and
sucking every inch of each other's smooth white flesh. Rosemary's
girlish breasts had been so soft, so warm ... her virginal pussy
so sweet-tasting ... her orgasms so poignantly intense ... Her
slender, graceful young body - so similar to Sandi Smith's -
seemed to have been designed expressly for love.

Their guilt-free, deeply satisfying love had continued for about
six months, until they both met men strong and seductive enough
to deflower them, dropped out of secretarial school, and went
their separate ways. Every Christmas Clare received a card from
Rosemary, who now lived in California with her husband, and
though she'd never met the man she was certain that he couldn't
help but be happy with a woman as sensually skilled as her friend
had been.

Now, for the first time since that short but intense affair, the
sultry brunette found herself longing to re-experience the tender
rapture of lesbian love. Perhaps it was because Sandi so closely
resembled Rosemary, but Clare was vibrating with an irrepressible
longing to caress and comfort the gracefully seductive young
blonde.

"Please, Sandi, look at me," she repeated as the naked girl kept
her face buried in her hands. "Tell me about it, and you'll feel
better. I want to be your friend - your real friend. You can
trust me, honey."

As she spoke, the aroused twenty five year old leaned closer to
Sandi, then picked up the bar of soap and began gently rubbing it
over the quivering girl's back and long, lithe legs. She was so
close to her softly swelling breasts that she could have reached
out her tongue to lick at the raspberry-pink nipples, but she
forced herself to save that for later. No use frightening the
already overwrought girl ...

In spite of her horrified guilt at being discovered in such an
incriminating position by Larry Johnson's wife, Sandi found her
sobs gradually subsiding and her body untensing in response to
the older woman's kind words and soothing hands. Until now, she'd
always thought that the sophisticated brunette was scornful of
her ... but in fact she now seemed very kind and understanding.
Suddenly the guilt-ridden blonde's need to confide in someone
overcame her reserve, and she turned to the woman above her with
a tremulous smile.

"Oh, Clare, it's all so terrible! I just don't kn-know what I'm
going to do ..."

"Calm down, honey. Everything's all right now ... he's gone away
..." Clare soothed. "Just lie back and let me wash your hair ..."

Sandi blushed a furious shade of red as she realized that Clare
saw the obscene cum-matted condition of her head, but part of her
was simultaneously glad that she no longer had to keep up any
pretense.

"There were t-two of them," she replied in a sad, broken-spirited
voice.

"Oh, you poor thing!" Clare sympathized, hoping that none of the
excitement she felt at the idea of this luscious young body being
ravished by two hard male cocks showed in her voice. "There, now
you're all clean again," she continued, giving the stricken
blonde's enticing breasts a quick caress before pulling herself
to her feet. "Come on, let me dry you off and get you into bed,
and then you can get it all off your chest."

Sandi rose obediently, holding on to Clare's hand for support,
and let her bruised and tingling body be gently toweled dry by
the sympathetic older girl. The soft feminine hands felt so good
against her violated flesh, so different from the strong,
forceful hands of the men who'd abused her helpless body, that
she wanted to cry with relief. Even when the gentle fingers
lingered so long on her ultra-sensitive breasts and inner thighs
that the all-too-familiar fingers of forbidden excitement teased
through her bloodstream, she felt secure in the knowledge that
for once the intentions were innocent.

All the ugly things that have happened have really made me crazy,
she told herself. How on earth can I be feeling all tingly again?
Clare's so nice - I wonder how she can be married to a horrible
person like Larry? She's just like the older sister I used to
dream about! Thank God she came over tonight - I'd be going out
of my mind if I were alone.

Docilely, gratefully, Sandi Smith allowed her new friend to lead
her into the bedroom and settle her well-scrubbed naked body down
on top of the big bed. It felt so good to have a competent,
understanding woman taking charge of things and making her feel
like a human being again instead of a despicable slut that the
distraught young wife felt some of the guilt and tension drain
from her fatigued loins. Gradually, the cool, almond-scented
lotion which the wife of her husband's manager was rubbing onto
her tensely muscled back almost erased the shameful memory of how
she'd wantonly sucked on the pungent-tasting male flesh of the
evil-minded photographer's friend.

"Now," Clare cooed, "tell me what those two awful men did to you.
What a terrible thing to happen, just when you were already so
upset about Verne ..."

For a fleeting moment Sandi was tempted to unburden her soul to
this kind-hearted older woman, but she was too embarrassed to
describe the humiliation she'd been through in the past
twenty-four hours. How could she ever admit the thing that
troubled her most of all? How could she ever expect any decent
person to understand that she'd liked being used by strange,
unscrupulous men?

Clare felt the younger blonde's richly sculpted figure grow tense
beneath her massaging fingertips and decided to stop pressing for
the lurid details. Soon enough, she felt certain, they'd be so
close that there'd be no secrets between them.

"Would you like something to drink, Sandi? That might help you
sleep," Clare suggested. "Some wine or something?"

Sandi's body shuddered convulsively beneath the older girl's
massaging hands. "I've had so much to drink today that I don't
think I ever want to taste alcohol again," she sighed. "My head's
still spinning. And every time I drink, I just seem to get into
trouble."

"I'll bet you've not been eating, have you? That's why you're
dizzy! Let me go fix you something - how about an omelet?"

Although she'd not had a meal for so long she couldn't remember,
Sandi was repulsed by the suggestion of eating. At Clare's
well-meaning words, she once again felt the stranger's obscenely
swollen penis throbbing inside her mouth and tasted the pungent,
heated sperm splashing down her throat.

Oh God! How could I have done it? And now I'll never be able to
forget it, never in my entire life! Sandi's mind wailed, and in
the next instant she was sobbing inconsolably.

Clare couldn't imagine what she'd said to set off this new burst
of tears, but she took advantage of the girl's near-hysterical
state to climb onto the high bed and wrap her arms around the
thrashing, sobbing blonde. Soft, comforting words poured from her
sultry pink lips as she kissed the tears away from the young
girl's tear-stained cheeks, and her arms rocked her as though
she'd been a small child.

"Please don't cry like that, honey. Nothing can be as bad as all
that," she said when Sandi's sobs had begun to subside.

"But it's me that's bad, don't you see?" the guilt-tortured
blonde moaned. "I'm sinful ... sick ..."

And then a barrier that had been dammed up inside her for years
suddenly burst, and she was pouring out her heart to the
sympathetic older girl, not thinking in her mindless despair to
omit even the degrading details of her encounter with Larry, the
other girl's own husband. At last, feeling drained and strangely
cleansed from her cathartic outburst, she fell silent with her
exhausted young body cradled in Clare's caressing arms.

For a few minutes Clare Johnson remained silent too, turning the
younger wife's anguished confession over and over in her mind.
She couldn't help feeling shocked, not over the perfectly normal
way Sandi had inadvertently fallen into and enjoyed sexual
encounters, but over the ponderous burden of guilt and
self-loathing the poor girl was carrying on her shoulders. What
in God's name had been the matter with her parents?

"Sandi," she said softly, "don't you know that you're completely
normal? All women feel just the same way you do."

The blonde's bewildered eyes flickered with hope, then grew dull
again as she shook her damp blonde curls in disbelief.

"Well, almost all," Clare amended, thinking of Sandi's mother.
"And even if maybe you're a little more sensual than some women,
I think that's a good thing. Certainly nothing to be ashamed of!"

Sandi hung her head, ashamed to meet the other wife's eyes after
her revealing tirade. "But I ... I just feel so dirty ..." she
murmured in a sad, helpless voice. "I feel so ugly ..."

"Ugly! Good God!" Clare exclaimed. "You have a beautiful body!
You should be proud of it." Her lust-smoldering eyes caressed the
naked blonde's perfectly-sculpted body, and she wondered what the
girl would do if she bent down and kissed the soft mounds of her
breasts.

"And ..., and the things I did - adultery, t-taking his th-thing
in my mouth - they're wrong. They're sins!"

"Says who?" demanded Clare. "For your parents, maybe, but not
necessarily for you. I think anything that makes two people happy
can't possibly be wrong."

Suddenly, unable to resist the temptation any longer, the
twenty-five year old brunette reached down and kissed Sandi's
enticing, rose-tipped breasts. The girl let out a low gasp, but
her nipples nevertheless tautened automatically into hard little
buttons.

"I ... I think I better get my nightgown on," Sandi whispered,
pulling away from Clare as she suddenly grew aware of the
indecency of her position.

Familiar shivers of excitement rippled from her breasts to all
the nerve-endings of her naked body, and although she didn't want
to think anything bad about the woman who'd been so kind to her,
she began to feel decidedly uneasy and to wish that Clare would
get off the bed. As for all this talk about her body being
beautiful and nothing being wrong if it made you happy - well,
she'd heard the same thing from Tony, the photographer; the words
made sense, but just look at the vile things he'd done to her!

"But you like me to kiss your breast," Clare coaxed. "See how
hard it's getting! Is it wrong, Sandi? Do you really believe it's
wrong?"

A hot blush spread over the blonde's cheeks, but before she could
gather herself together to insist that the brunette stop teasing
at her breasts, she felt gentle hands turning her from her side
onto her back, then skimming like feathers over her flat belly
and flaring thighs. Clare's smooth lips lingered on her tingling
nipples, her warm breath soothing the tender flesh of her
manhandled breasts in such a comforting way that it was terribly
difficult to make herself protest.

"N-no," she finally managed to choke out. "D-don't, please.
Wh-why are you doing that?"

"What's the matter? Are your breasts sore? Did those cruel men
hurt them so badly? And did they hurt your soft little pussy,
too?"

Suddenly a violent tremor surged through Sandi Smith's naked body
as she felt the brunette's warm lips gliding down the length of
her torso and across her belly to settle down in the forbidden
"vee" of her vagina. It was impossible! It just couldn't be
happening!

"No, Clare!" she protested, more firmly than before, trying to
draw her still weak thighs tightly together. "I ... I don't want
you to do that. Please!"

"Listen, Sandi," the dark-haired seductress spoke into Sandi's
golden cloud of pussy hair. "I'm trying to help you. Those crude
men - including my bastard of a husband - hurt you because they
didn't really care about you. Most men are like that - selfish.
But the things they did were beautiful, not ugly. Now I'm going
to show you how good sex can be when it's gentle instead of
violent."

The sexually-liberated wife paused, considering what she was
saying and trying to explain to her innocent friend as honestly
as possible the things which she truly believed. "Lord knows I
like a good stiff cock, and I like to feel overpowered. So do you
- you told me so! But maybe you just weren't ready to accept that
yet."

Clare's warm moist tongue was snaking down through her pussy hair
to the super-sensitive flesh of her still-swollen vaginal lips,
sending such wonderfully exciting sensations coursing through
Sandi's unwilling body that she knew she had to stop this at
once. All her energy was concentrated on erasing the lewd desire
from her traitorous body, and she scarcely heard a word Clare was
saying.

"No, no," Sandi moaned again. "Don't! Don't touch me like that! I
... I thought you were my friend!"

"I am your friend, honey. But I think you need to learn a lot of
things about sex, and I think I'm the best one to teach you. I
mean, I've been through the same things ... I'm a woman, too ...
I understand how you feel ..."

But Sandi refused to listen. "No, Clare. Please just leave!
Please! And promise you won't say anything to Larry about ...
about what I told you. Please promise!"

"But Sandi, I -" Clare began, then froze as the bedroom door was
flung open with a crash and heavy male footsteps clomped toward
the bed. Whirling around, the brunette found herself staring
straight at her very intoxicated husband.

"Don't tell Larry what?" he slurred. "Lemme tell you two cheating
bitches something - you don't need to tell me no secrets, 'cause
I know all about you both. And lemme tell you something else -
I'm not gonna let you get away with none of this lesbian shit,
Clare. I'm the one who's gonna fuck the hell out of that blonde
cunt!"

Chapter 6

After Sandi Smith had rebuffed him on the phone, Larry had downed
several more drinks, switching from martinis to straight scotch.
For awhile he'd flirted with a couple of cute teenagers who were
passing through Brunrocke on their way from Connecticut to San
Francisco on expensive British-made ten-speed bicycles - rich
little bitches on a phony hippie trip - toying with the idea of
fucking one or perhaps both of them. But though the high school
girls couldn't have been more than sixteen, they had none of
Sandi's appealing air of innocence and vulnerability. Their
well-padded, Levi-encased ass-cheeks didn't undulate with the
unconscious provocative wriggle which he so admired in his best
friend's wife, and his own wife Clare, for that matter. Anyway,
the girls seemed far more interested in two local long-hairs who
Larry overheard murmuring something about taking a drive out of
town to see how their crop of grass was doing.

"What's the matter with kids today anyway?" the twenty-seven year
old muttered sourly to himself as he prepared to stomp out of the
bar. "No fucking good, that's for damn sure!"

His long cock was bulging against his jeans as he gulped down the
last of his scotch, and he was just getting up to drive back to
Lakeview Gardens and once again release his raging hunger for
Sandi on his wife when he suddenly overheard a most interesting
conversation going on at the next table. Settling back down in
his seat, he pricked up his ears, a lewd smile gradually sliding
over his rugged face as he absorbed the obscene details of the
two men's conversation.

Larry, born and raised in Brunrocke, recognized both youths. The
blond one had been a few years behind him in high school, and he
vaguely recalled some scandal or other involving him and some
chick who'd been caught making it in the balcony of the swimming
pool during swim team practice. As for the dark-haired man, Larry
knew he was some kind of foreign motherfucker who'd opened a
photographer's studio several months ago.

So that's where the stupid bitch got a job, he gloated to
himself. And that's why she sounded so weird on the phone, too!

Pushing back his chair so quickly that it crashed to the floor,
the lust-crazed motorcycle circus manager elbowed his way out of
the crowded bar, jumped into his big Buick, and sped toward
Lakeview Estates. By the time he'd reached the Smith's darkened
house, he'd sobered up enough to think to park his car down the
block and to sneak in through the open kitchen door on silent
feet. Thus the two erotically aroused women never heard him until
he made his triumphant entrance.

Both naked women gaped at him with fear-widened eyes as he ripped
off his jeans and shirt and swaggered over toward the big double
bed, flicking on the bright overhead light on his way.

"Wanna see what I'm fucking here!" he laughed in a coarse way.

Sandi, forgetting her earlier effort to avoid her girlfriend's
unnatural embrace, now clutched her arms around Clare. She was
shaking like a leaf as a few stinging tears trickled down her
flushed cheeks, and her green eyes were widened and glazed with
fear.

"Don't worry, honey - he always goes crazy like this when he's
had too much to drink," Clare whispered. "Just do what he says,
or he'll get really mad. He's not going to hurt you - he just
wants to get into your cunt."

"But he can't do that! I won't let him!" Sandi hissed back,
though by now she ought to have known the futility of trying to
resist a lust- frenzied male.

"Shut up, you bitches!" the dark-haired man loomed over them,
swaying a little unsteadily. In his right hand he brandished his
enormously erect purplish cock, aiming it directly at Sandi's
fear-contorted face, and with the other he grabbed hold of his
wife's short, black hair and yanked her to her knees. Then,
slapping her across the face with a sickening sound of flesh
cracking against flesh, he shoved her off the bed.

"It's my turn to take this little cock-teasing bitch!" he
swaggered, staring down at the nakedly cringing blonde with
lecherous eyes. "Thinks she's too good to fuck me, but the next
thing I hear she's screwing around with some asshole of a
photographer and anyone else with a good hard cock!" He sneered
down at the blonde, taking a sadistic pleasure in the way her
face sagged as she realized he knew her guilty secret. "Or a
cunt," he added, glaring at Clare.

He knows! Sandi's tortured mind screamed. I don't know how he
can, but he does! Oh God ... it's all over now! He'll tell Verne,
I know he will!

"No ... no ... no ..." she moaned, burying her face in the
bedcovers.

"Yes, baby!" Larry snarled. "Now you're gonna fuck me, 'cause if
you don't Verne's gonna hear all about that goddamn dirty movie
you're making. And you know as well as I do what he'll think of
his sweet little wife then!"

Suddenly Sandi felt rough hands grasping her and trying to turn
her over, and she began to struggle before the meaning of his
words sank through her shock-stupored brain. This incensed Larry,
just as Clare had warned it would, and he decided to really give
this stupid blonde a taste of his aching cock that she'd never
forget.

"Seeing as everyone else has already had a chance at your cunt,
I'll try out that cute ass of yours," he leered.

Sandi had the sense to let her body go limp as the intoxicated
man's brutal hands pushed her face down against the mattress, but
it was too late to hope to mollify him now that the idea of
fucking her in the anus had taken seed in his lust-maddened mind.
Without any thought of the pain he was causing, Larry dug his
powerful fingers into the tender flesh of the girl's
white-skinned inner thighs, dragging her backward on the high bed
until her shapely legs dangled over the side and her firmly
rounded ass-cheeks jutted out, their flesh obscenely white
against the pale golden tan of the rest of her body. Though her
breasts were being painfully crushed, and in spite of the panic
that had risen inside her at his terrible threat, Sandi gritted
her teeth to force back her scream of terror.

He can't really be going to do it to me in the ass, she tried to
reassure herself. It's not possible - it's not human!

Never in all her nineteen years had she so much as dreamed of
such incredible perversion, and she had almost managed to
convince herself that he was just trying to frighten her when his
fingers grasped at the round half-moons of her buttocks and
forced them apart. This time she couldn't hold back a gasp of
horror.

Larry was really going to do this vile thing! And there was
nothing at all she could do to stop his perverted defilement of
her body - nothing at all! She didn't even dare to attempt to
fight him off, for then he'd be certain to tell Verne everything!

From where Clare Johnson lay on the floor beside the bed, she had
a perfect view of her girlfriend's wide-stretched buttocks and
her own husband's long, glistening hardness. It looked even
thicker than usual, and sympathy for her innocent girlfriend
mingled with the strange shivers of arousal the indecent
spectacle stirred in her sensuous body. If she hadn't been afraid
of arousing her drunken husband's wrath, she'd have liked to
comfort the blonde, to continue her abruptly interrupted caresses
of her lovely young body, but as it was she just lay quietly on
the carpet watching Larry position his penis directly over
Sandi's pinkly puckering little anal opening. Oh God, wasn't he
even going to prepare the virgin rectum with his finger?

Suddenly the suburban bedroom resounded with loud cries; first
Johnson's bestial roar as he flicked his muscular hips forward
and drove his iron-hard phallus into the tiny opening between his
friend's wife's provocatively upraised ass-cheeks, and then Sandi
Smith's wail of pain as the huge flesh rod sank halfway into her
never-before- entered anus. The pain was so intense that she
couldn't help flailing her body and jerking her hips to try to
expel the torturing penis, unintentionally doubling the agony in
her tight, dry channel.

"Aiieeeee! Stop! Stop it! Oh God, stop!" Sandi screamed.

"Hold still, goddamn it!" Larry raged, bending down to grip
vise-like to the girl's writhing back. "Get your ass up here and
help me hold her, Clare," he ordered his wife without even
bothering to glance at her.

The next moment, the humiliated, pain-wracked blonde wife felt
cool feminine hands gently turning her face to one side and
stroking her tousled hair away from her perspiring forehead. In
her relief at not feeling completely alone with the sex-crazed
maniac who was violating her straining anus, Sandi ceased her
futile struggles.

"Try to relax," Clare's sultry lips brushed against her ear.
"Then it won't hurt so bad. It'll start to feel good in a minute
if you do that. I've been through this and I promise it'll be
wonderful after you relax."

Clare had done this vile thing and dared to admit she'd liked it?
the shocked blonde shuddered. Surely ENJOYING this bestial sex
act was the most shameful part of it ... But as the loudly
panting man behind her pressured into her taut-muscled rectum
with even more sadistic force, the nineteen year old blonde's
moral scruples were drowned out by the red-hot agony surging
through her abused young body. With a heartrending sigh, she
tried her best to follow the experienced brunette's instructions,
and almost at once the pain began to fade to an uncomfortable but
tolerable heated throbbing. So great was her relief that, when
the dark-haired woman squatting beside her snaked her tongue
between her lips and began to kiss her in the lewd way Tony, the
photographer, had done that afternoon, she automatically
responded.

"Aaaaarrrrrggghhhhhh," Larry groaned, his turgid thickness
plunging to the hilt as the wife of his best friend let the
muscles of her exquisitely tight anal passage relax. He forced
his impatient penis to lie still for a moment so the girl could
continue to unclench her fear- tightened rectum, the aggressive
malicious mood he'd been in all day long vanishing as if by magic
as soon as his lust-hungry penis found itself inside Sandi's
hotly coveted vagina.

Releasing his cruel hold on the no-longer-resisting blonde's
shoulders, the husky motorcyclist began a smooth, age-old rhythm
of in and out strokes. It gratified his ego to feel her unwilling
body gradually responding to his unnatural anal fucking, and he
plunged with ever increasing fervor as he strained to completely
subjugate the girl who'd so haughtily spurned him the night
before. If he could make her climax from his obscene ass-fucking,
she'd be his slave forever!

Sandi has been through so much already that she no longer had the
will to resist the strange masochistic pleasure gliding through
her bloodstream. After only a few minutes of half-hearted
fighting back the surging waves of pleasure, the
no-longer-innocent blonde gave up and surrendered herself to wild
sensuality, a sense of forbidden freedom heightening her arousal.

I've hit the bottom now, she rationalized as she began to screw
her youthful white ass-cheeks in wanton little circles around the
impaling male flesh imbedded between them. What's the difference
now? I'm really just a whore, and there's no use pretending any
longer.

"I like it!" she purred into Clare's tight-pressing mouth, a
violent spasm of forbidden ecstasy singing in her veins as the
unforgivable admission sprang from her lips. "I like being fucked
in the ass!"

Then the lust-frenzied young wife pulled her tingling lips away
from the soft mouth of her girlfriend, lifted her head as high as
possible considering the tortured position her ripe young body
had been forced into, and wailed out her wanton passion at the
top of her lungs.

"FUCK ME, LARRY! Fuck me in the ass! Do it hard! Harder! Deeper!
FUCK FUCK FUCK MEEEEEEEE!"

"I'll fuck the hell out of your tight little ass, you beautiful
bitch!" Johnson shouted back, feeling his testicles tighten and
quiver at the formerly frigid girl's outcry.

Suddenly his eyes met an incredible sight which made him wish
more than ever that he'd not drunk so much before coming over to
Sandi Smith's house and had better control over his rampaging
cock. As it was, the unbelievable tightness of her convulsively
clasping anal cavity, combined with the lewd performance being
enacted on the bed, was making his balls churn with such urgency
that he doubted he could hold back his climax for much longer.
But there'd be other times, he reminded himself, lots of other
opportunities!

Clare, succumbing to her irrepressible desire to once again feel
a woman's soft lips on her hungrily throbbing pussy despite the
presence of her husband, had maneuvered her statuesque body so
that her long legs were spread out around Sandi's head and her
dark-haired pussy "vee" was pressed directly against the younger
girl's mouth. She'd managed to struggle out of her silky pink
shirt, and the only piece of clothing on her ripely mature body
was her miniscule black skirt which had been pushed up around her
slim waist.

"Kiss my pussy, Sandi!" she pleaded. "Kiss me like my husband did
to you yesterday."

"Yeah!" echoed Larry in a hoarse, out-of-control voice. "Suck
her! Suck her!"

By this time Sandi didn't need much encouragement. Her loins
burned to do this perverted thing ... she wanted to try every
lewd variation, to have her young body violated in every possible
way. Opening her eyes to stare curiously at her girlfriend's
fresh-scented, coral-pink vaginal flesh, she darted her tongue
between the black-curl-fringed pubic mound to lick hesitantly at
the smooth pink slit. Then, roused to a frenzy of passion by the
continuous stimulation of her forbidden anus, she began to lap
and suck with enthusiasm, instinctively seeking out the older
girl's swollen clitoral bud and tonguing it into a stiff little
erection.

"Oh God, it's good! Yes, Sandi, kiss me! Don't stop! Make me
cum!"

His wife's lustful mewl was the last straw for the hotly aroused
motorcyclist fucking into his wife's friend's anus. With a bellow
like that of an angered jungle animal, he rammed his turgid pole
of flesh between her jiggling white ass-cheeks so hard she
groaned in masochistic ecstasy.

"Now!" he shouted, digging his hands into Sandi's pliant
ass-cheeks and bracing himself for his orgasm. "I'm gonna cum
now! CCCCUUUUMMMMINGGGGGG! AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! ARRRRRRGGGHHHH!"

Hot jets of thick white sperm began splashing deep into Sandi's
shivering belly, flooding her narrow anus and oozing out onto her
trembling thighs. It felt so obscene, so wonderfully obscene,
that she felt her own loins vibrate and knew that she, too, was
going to cum. For a few more seconds she desperately lapped at
Clare's moist, quivering cunt, wanting her girlfriend to cum too,
but then the orgasm crashed through her sensuous young body and
she began writhing in helpless ecstasy on the bed, dislodging
Larry's shrinking penis from her anus with a lewd popping sound
which was inaudible beneath the wanton chorus of groans, grunts,
and wails of the three-way orgasm.

"Yeeeeeeessssss!" Sandi shrilled, then fell silent as her energy
was drained by the thundering sensations surging through her.

Clare gasped, shuddering, as the almost forgotten sweetness of an
orgasm brought on by another female swept her onto another plane
where she knew nothing but ecstasy. An incoherent babble issued
from her passion-contorted face, and if anyone had been listening
they would have heard her wail out Rosemary's name, then Sandi's,
then her husband's.

Finally all three orgiasts collapsed in exhaustion upon the bed,
and for long minutes the only sound in the brightly lit bedroom
was the rasping sound of their breathing. At last Clare rolled
over to lie next to Sandi, fondling her friend's swollen breasts
and murmuring, "How do you feel now, honey?

Sandi smiled back, a new, more mature smile in which there
lingered no traces of uncertainty or shy self-doubt.

"Of course I loved it!" she assured Clare and Larry Johnson. "Now
let's fuck some more - I want to feel a cock in my pussy. Let's
do everything!"

Chapter 7

Larry Johnson sat in the waiting room of Gary's most modern
hospital, sipping a bitter cup of plastic-flavored coffee from
the vending machine and staring out the window to the bleak
hospital gardens outside. Everything was in shades of grey, from
the dirty white hospital walls to the bare black tree trunks,
with only a few tenaciously clinging brown leaves for contrast;
but dismal as the landscape was, it couldn't disturb the
motorcycle club manager's jubilant good spirits. Ten minutes
before, he'd spoken to the specialist who'd handled Verne's
operation, and he'd been given the final assurance that his star
stunt rider would be back on the track by next summer in perfect
condition!

Everything had worked out to his advantage, Johnson gloated. For
awhile there he'd been afraid his luck had run out, but now
things were looking up again. Doing without Verne for the winter
season wasn't all that serious, for the real money rolled in from
May to October.

He was proud, too, of the way he'd obliterated the threat of
Verne's wife coercing her husband into dropping out of the
circus. Sandi seemed a changed girl, and the way she moaned and
pleaded helplessly beneath him every time he plunged his heavy
penis into one of her eager orifices made him feel certain that
she was too much under his sway to try to oppose his will, even
though, of course, she was worried about having her husband risk
his life again.

A buxom little nurse bounced into the room to announce the
beginning of visiting hours, and Larry amused himself, as he did
every time he visited his friend, by staring at her until she
broke out in a furious blush and giggled under her breath. If he
were interested, he was sure she'd be putty beneath his hands ...
all females were!

Verne was sitting up in bed, grinning more happily than he had in
this last suspenseful month of waiting to know whether he was to
be leading a normal life or would be bedridden, a paralyzed old
man at the age of twenty-five.

"You talk to the doctor yet?" he asked Larry. "Did he tell ya I'm
gonna be okay? Really okay?!"

"Yeah, pal!" Larry said, coming over and clapping his friend on
the shoulder. "He sure did! Greatest news I've ever heard! You'll
be back on the track wowing them again by next summer!"

Verne's handsome face grew serious, though his eyes still
sparkled with joy at his almost miraculous recovery. "That's
something I gotta talk to you about, Lar," he began.

"What do you mean?" the manager interrupted, immediately on edge.

"Well, I've been thinking about this bike-riding stuff a lot
since I've been flat on my back; and I've been talking about it
with Sandi, and we decided that we've pressed our luck long
enough. I want out, Lar. Especially for Sandi's sake. She's been
so great since this happened - getting that good job and all, and
driving all the way in to Gary to see me every night when she's
been working all day. I've promised her if I pull through this
operation, then I'm getting a job where I can spend more time
with her. Maybe in a garage or something, I don't know yet."

"But ... but what about the Cycle Circus? I mean, Jesus, man,
I've got lots of money sunk in this, and you know it can't go
without you! And you've got money in it too!"

"I've decided I just don't care that much about the money, Larry.
The most important thing is Sandi and me - our marriage. We want
to settle down and have kids as soon as we can save up enough."

"But -"

"Don't try to convince me, man. I've made up my mind for sure.
Before they took me into that operating room, I swore to God that
I'd never get on a bike again if he'd make me healthy again.
Well, he kept his part of the bargain and I'm keeping mine - to
him and to Sandi."

Larry's face darkened into a black scowl of frustrated hatred.
That fucking bitch! he thought. She never told me she'd talked
like that to Verne. She's double-crossed me, and she's gonna be
good and sorry! Thank God I've got those pictures I stole from
the "Deja-Vu" studio. This'll make Verne think different, all
right!

Slowly and deliberately, the dark-haired manager pulled out his
wallet and extracted the small packet of negatives he'd taken
from Tony Fletcher a couple days after overhearing the
photographer's conversation in the bar.

"Before you make a decision," he said in a voice that made Verne
know at once that something was very seriously wrong, "I think
you'll want to talk to Sandi about these."

"Wh-what's that?" Verne took the proffered photos, tore open the
paper packet, and held the negative up to the bedside lamp. His
face, so confident and hopeful only a minute before, seemed to
age before Johnson's intent gaze, the skin of his face turning a
sickly grey shade, bitter lines etching around his mouth, and a
hard, cynical expression appearing in his eyes. Though he gulped
several times as though trying to speak, no words came out.

"Just thought you'd like to know just what your wife's been doing
to earn all that money," Larry said smoothly. Then, scooping up
the negatives and replacing them in his wallet, he turned toward
the door.

"The bitch! The cheating bitch!" he heard Verne spit out in a
strangled tone.

"Be talking to you tomorrow about the summer schedule," Johnson
said, then left the room without a backward glance, his face
lighted up with an ugly smile of triumph.

Sandi Smith sped through Brunrocke, hurrying to get to Gary
before the hospital visiting hours were over. Her hazel eyes
shone happily, mirroring her mood of elation. Verne was all
right! The operation had been a success - Clare Johnson had just
called to tell her so - and now she and her husband could start
to build a real life together!

It had been a good day to work, too; they'd just completed the
next-to- the-last scene, and by the end of the week the film
would be on its way to South Africa. Sandi felt a great sense of
relief at the thought of finishing this job, for though she no
longer tried to deny that she thoroughly enjoyed being
photographed while doing things so obscene she'd never known they
existed before now, she was anxious to get back to a normal life
with Verne. She didn't like doing work that she was more and more
sure was illegal, and she didn't like the deception involved.

Actually, though, it had been surprisingly easy to make Verne
believe she was doing fashion modeling and advertisements. She'd
never even lied exactly, just left out all the things that might
make him suspicious when she was talking about her work. Most of
the time they'd been discussing the future, so she'd not really
had many bad moments. The only thing that worried her at all was
the missing set of negatives, but since there'd been no
repercussions for three weeks now she felt pretty secure even
about that. Doubtless someone had accidentally thrown them away -
everyone was usually so drunk and stoned that it would have been
easy enough for that to happen.

Nor had she minded re-shooting that particular sequence in which
she was sucking a black guy's cock and then being screwed by him.
Even just thinking about how good his hard cock had felt made her
feel all excited, and she had to force her attention back to the
road.

That's all in the past, she told herself firmly. Now it's time to
start a normal life and forget the movie, at least when I'm with
Verne.

By now she'd reached the outskirts of Gary, and as she saw the
jack-o'- lanterns gleaming from nearly every doorstep she
remembered that tonight was Halloween. Reminding herself to stop
at the all-night supermarket on the way home to buy some candy
corn and chocolate bars for the trick or treaters - there were
bound to be lots of them in Brunrocke, where children were as
common as crabgrass - she turned down the sidestreet leading to
the hospital parking lot.

A slim young mother, not much older than Sandi herself, was
leading her two children out for an early trick or treat session,
and the blonde motorcyclist's wife slowed the car to smile in a
soft, maternal way at the youngsters. A little boy of about four
was tugging on his mother's hand, eager to show off his
brightly-colored Indian costume at the next house and add to the
candy in his already overstuffed bag, while a small girl dressed
in a fluffy bunny costume toddled along behind.

That's how I'll look pretty soon! Sandi thought, warm happiness
shivering through her body at the thought. I'm so glad Verne's
all right, and that he's giving up that dreadful stunt riding
job. We're going to be so happy now! And I know I'll be a better
wife to him because of the things I've been through this past
month ... though, of course, I'll never tell him why!

Smiling in joyful anticipation of the bright future that lay
ahead for her, Sandi Smith parked the car and hurried into the
hospital to share her elation with her husband.

The End

?CALOh@I?beB^xegbmZi

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