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From: godot@pacbell.net (Godot)
Subject: Story: The Straying Wife (03/26)
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With a groan, the young girl let her heavy breast fall from her mouth.
She was gasping for air, panting with lewd passion, and her ripe,
quivering breast was wet and glistening with her saliva. She opened
her fevered eyes a slit and her free hand groped for her other breast.
It trembled under her grasp as she cupped her fingers on it and pulled
it toward her mouth, her fingers depressed in the softly yielding
flesh so that the nipple stood out all the more. Her tongue lashed out
at the nipple, and Web watched it grow even more taut as she rimmed
the nipple then let the flat wet tongue engulf it. With mouth wide
open, she put the pinkly puckered little nipple in her mouth and,
closing her eyes, looked ecstatically happy. Her cheeks hollowed as
she sucked, white her hips roiled slowly and lewdly causing her
buttocks to lift clear of the leather seat. Her twin asscheeks
twitched and contracted so that Web could see her tightly puckered
anus and the shining moistness from her cunt trickling down the deep
crevice.

Web went behind his desk to the small console board, dimmed the
lights, and punched a button. Still pictures suddenly appeared on the
movie screen. They were shots of Nichole. She was wearing black boots
that came to her knees, a flimsy black G-string, and a tight half-bra
that only served to hold her big, fully rounded breasts erect; her
nipples stuck out, free, taut, enticing. The G-string barely covered
her sparse, pubic hair and completely exposed her nakedly white
buttocks. The still pictures were in color and changed, with a
"click-click" automatically.

Nichole opened her eyes and looked up at the screen to see a montage
of herself in various suggestive and obscene poses: a close-up of her
with a huge glistening cock wedged between her tightly compressed
breasts. Then she was on her knees in another picture with her legs
spread wide apart showing a man crouched before her; his face was
buried in her vaginal crevice. Another naked man knelt behind her and
pressed his whitely massive cock against her young buttocks; he had
reached around and cupped her breasts while she turned her head and
had her little red tongue in his mouth. The pictures came one after
another, quickly, seemingly endless with Nichole lewdly kneeling over
a naked man, with Nichole sucking a cum-covered penis while being
fucked dog fashion, with Nichole obscene and obedient, doing whatever
Web wanted.

"Stop!"

The shamelessly aroused girl collapsed in the chair, her face twisted
by the near orgasm that was writhing, smoky and aching, through every
nerve in her young body. She lay, panting, her eyes closed.

After a moment she took a deep shuddering breath and opened her eyes
to see the pictures were off the screen. Web was leaning against the
desk again, his arms folded over his chest. He was tall and gray, in
his middle forties and habitually wore all gray, like a trademark.
Gray suit, shirt, tie. Even, sometimes, gray patent leather shoes. He
was looking at her with a faint, ironic, grin on his thin lips.
Nichole simply stared at him as she sprawled obscenely, her beautiful
wet, firm breasts heaving, the vibrating mechanical penis buzzing
forgotten in her hand. 

"You know, Nichole, I'm getting bored with you."

The words were spoken so quietly, almost casually, yet they struck
terror in her heart. She looked at him showing her fear. What would he
do with her? What would she do if he threw her out? Where would she
go? Tears, real tears, welled like glistening slivers in her eyes.
"Why?" she asked, shaking her head. "I try. I try to please you."

Web became preoccupied with a mote or speck on the cuff of his
expensive coat; he carefully picked it off with thumb and forefinger
and let it drop into an ashtray on the desk. "I know. I know. You'll
do anything I ask, won't you?"

"Anything," Nichole said the word carefully, feeling the lewd thrill
that such an admittance gave her. She would, literally, do anything he
wanted.

"That's the trouble," he went on, going behind the desk and sitting
down, joining the tips of his fingers together in front of him like a
cathedral. "That's the trouble. I know you'll do anything l want.
There's no challenge left and I'm bored." His forehead became
wrinkled. "I'm bored, Nichole."

Still slumped obscenely in her chair, the young girl shook her head
and bit her lip. "But... I try!" was all she could think of saying.

Tapping his fingers, Wed nodded, looking off. Nichole dreaded the next
few minutes, dreaded hearing the words. She knew there had been other
girls. Beautiful girls! She had seen then in movies that Web would run
for her and his guests; beautiful girls who performed obscenities for
Web just like she did. These girls she saw were no longer around, and
Web would never say what had happened to them.

He had Nichole addicted in a subtle way. She was used to and keyed to
a life of orgies and money. She was hooked on jetting to England for a
week, then a ski weekend at Squaw Valley, then catching a new show
opening on Broadway. She now needed the excitement of being near
famous people and speaking with them. Once, she had met a famous
comedian who liked her so much they had sex together. She was used to
and, in a sense, needed the clothes and champagne that Web bought. He
was more than generous, he was lavish in his style of living. So long
as she had that, so long as she felt she was part of his entourage,
she felt her life had some meaning. And excitement! "Excitement" meant
places, seeing people, being conscious that she was at the hub of
things, that she was where the action was, that she was envied and
photographed. "Excitement" was something she had now come to need. Web
Hardman being bored with her meant banishment. She would eventually
have to get a job somewhere a!  nd read in the paper about the "Jet
Set" and their adventures. No, Nichole didn't want the terrible gray
obscurity that would come if Web cast her off like an old unwanted
item of clothing. 

Web, with the timing of a master-actor, cleared his throat and said,
"Of course, there is something."

"What?"

He concealed his smile. "It might just work."

Nichole slid out of the leather chair, kneeling on the floor, her
dress sliding up over her nakedly exposed young loins. "What, Web?
I'll do it! You know that! I'll do anything you want me to do!"

Web cocked his head to one side. "Would you betray a friend for me?"

"What?" Nichole looked distressed.

"Would you betray a friend? Would you bring me a new girl?"

"Yes!" Nichole leaped at the idea.

Web held up a finger. "It can't be just anyone. It must be a good
friend and she must be attractive. I don't want you hiring any
prostitute."

"I won't, I won't."

"This little exercise is as much for you as it is for me. Think of it.
A complete betrayal. I want you to seduce a friend until she's just as
depraved as you are now." He got to his feet and pointed to the chair
behind her with one long thin finger. "In a matter of weeks or days, I
want a friend of yours in that chair using that vibrator the way you
just did."

Nichole jumped. The plastic vibrator was buzzing still in her hand.
She shut it off. "Yes! I'll do it!"

"And it will excite you, won't it?"

"Yes! Oh, yes!"

"You'll enjoy it, won't you?"

"Yes!"

"Very well. Who will it be?"

"Huh? What? Who?"

Web strode around the desk and looked down at her as she subserviently
knelt in front of him. She was afraid of his tall figure towering over
her. Her mind raced for a name. It couldn't be anyone. It had to be
someone special or he wouldn't be pleased at all and, above all, she
had to please him. Her hand brushed across her forehead. Who? Who? Her
face suddenly lighted up. "I know," she cried.

"Who?"

"Kim. Kim Stewart. She lives in Carmel." Web nodded. Kim Stewart.
Fine. Kim Stewart is it."


Chapter 2


Carmel. The name conjures up a particular image. It is, quite simply,
a tourist town on the coast of central California. It is that, and
much more. Carmel: playground for the rich and the rich-retired. A
quaint little town, once a village, now grown, yet still having many
attributes of a village with no sidewalks, trees growing in the middle
of a street, no street addresses or street lights. There are still
many board-and-bat cottages built back in the days when it was truly a
village and an artist's colony.

Carmel happens to be set down on a peninsula, at the mouth of a
fertile valley, at a piece of coastline that is unique in the world
and breathtakingly dramatic. A melding of sky, sea, mountains, and
river-mouth delta land. Carmel is like a jewel nestled in a
belly-dancer's navel. The Carmel River empties into the sea, and the
deep royal blue of the Pacific crashes wedding- cake white waves on
hoary rocks that stand off shore like prehistoric reminders of another
time. The St. Lucia mountain range seems to rush - to plunge down into
the Pacific as the dramatic end to the land, to America. Carmel is
part of the peninsula that juts out into the Pacific and holds two
other towns, or communities: Pacific Grove and Pebble Beach.



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