"The motorcyclist_s wife" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Marcus Carl)

CHAPTER THREE

"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 girlfriends 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 risque 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 feeling 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…