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

CHAPTER FOUR

"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 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.