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Prisoner Of Lust By Theodore Stickles

PAULA'S UNLEASHED PASSION

Paula had always known that one day, the lust-starved prisoners that she
counseled would not be able to resist her voluptuous body.

So, as the prisoner grabbed her and forced her to undress, releasing his
aching member, she shouldn't have been so shocked.

He squeezed and fondled her bare breasts ... pinching her nipples hard
... savouring the flavor and feel of a woman's flesh ... rubbing his
hard, erect penis against Paula's trembling pussy ... feeling the warm
wetness of her juicy cunt ... knowing it would be a long, long time before
he could feel the softness of a woman's body again.

Paula tried fighting at first, but she liked the strength and nerve of
this prisoner. Besides, her body needed some good loving--and he was doing
a fine job of fulfilling the longings of lust that only a forceful man
could satisfy.

CHAPTER 1

Paula knew she was dreaming. But even this knowledge did nothing to
help. It was hot, it was hard, it was male, and, most importantly, it was
in her. She lay helpless, caught up in the throes of passion, hating it,
loving it, unable even to make a token gesture or croak a hoarse "No!" as
he pushed it in her, pulled it out, pushed it back in again, churning her
insides into a passionate pudding of pink-frothed lust.

God damn him! She knew who it was--knew just as clearly as if she could
see his face. It was the most vivid dream she could remember in years.
Damn! She hadn't felt this turned-on since--since something she didn't
like to think about.

This goddam job was getting the best of her. She ought to quit--but out
and go back to something safe like teaching, preferably in some all-girl
school. Lately she'd been turning positively paranoid. It was bad enough
having to deal with them all day, to look into their burning eyes and know
exactly what they were thinking, feeling, planning for her. How could she
have not known what they were thinking--after all, what could they be
thinking after months or years in that place, locked up and away from even
the sight of a woman?

But could they really see it in her face too? Could they read her mind,
read her lush, unused body and know how long since she--how she ached and
burned, lusted in the lonely silence of her darkened room?

God damn him! God damn the dream that was racking her empty body! God
damn a god who created a full-blown woman's body with full-blown
desires--and then dumped her into a place in society where she could not
gratify those desires.

Oooooohhhh god damn it all--god damn everything! She could feel that
great hot thumping lump of maleness humping her, driving a dick
indefatigably in and out, in and out, filling her to bursting, leaving her
panting and empty for a brief instant before once more stuffing her--like a
sausage--like a Christmas goose! God damn it! She wasn't a sex
object--something to be fucked and forgotten. She was a woman--an
intelligent, sensitive, needful woman. She had a college education. She
had looks. She was still young and had her health. She had everything she
needed--job, home, car--everything except a man's hot, hard hammer sliding
tirelessly into her, out of her, back into her every night.

Something had to give. She couldn't put up with this insomnia forever.
And when she did finally manage to sleep it was worse. All she could dream
of were those hungry eyes with their naked need that made her feel naked as
they studied her statuesque blondness, mentally peeling off her severely
tailored clothes, pulling hairpins from her chignon to send a cascade of
blond hair almost to her small taut waist.

In the dream those hungry lusting eyes never looked into hers, looked
only at the full firmness of twin peaks that peeped through a cascade of
blond hair, pointing outward like twin headlights, their rigid pink nipples
betraying her need, her shame, her inability to stop thinking about those
hungry men with the hungry eyes, with the hungry insatiable need that raged
in their bellies.

God damn it! She was a modern, educated woman. Liberated!
Liberated--shit! What did liberation mean if her body, her belly remained
in some dark, prelogical era where all it asked for was not
intellectualizations or rationalizations--all her belly wanted was that
prodigious prod sliding slowly in and out, in and out, pumping her full of
pregnancy, pumping her full of male chauvinism, pumping her full of the
peace--piece--pumping her full of the joy that passeth all understanding.

God damn that dream! Her whole body was reacting--reacting to a goddam
dream--and she wasn't even fully asleep. She knew she was dreaming. After
all, hadn't she been having the same goddam dream every night, the same
goddam faceless man crawling silently into her bed, not even coming
manfully in on top of her like a conquering hero, but sneaking stealthily
up under the covers from the foot of her bed, slinking along with his head
between her legs, between her thighs, doing his bungling, stiff-pricked
best to sneak up on her and get it into her while she slept ...

It was degrading. Without ever even seeing her face or exchanging a
word, civilized or otherwise with her, he was just sticking his maleness
into her body like some a****l--using her with no more compunction than
he'd use a piece of Kleenex. A piece of toilet paper, she decided, would
be more apt.

And what good was her college education doing her? He wasn't r****g her
mind. He wasn't r****g her body either. That was the humiliating part of
it. She could live with a **** fantasy, Paula knew. That was something
outside her, not a part of her. But to lie there passive, ready, waiting,
willing, just to lie there while he crept into her bed like a thief in the
night, lie there without a struggle. She ought to kick, scream, fight.
Instead, she was not even offered the consolation of terror.

If only she could lie there too frightened to move, paralyzed by the
sudden presence of a man in her narrow bed ... But even that small
consolation was denied her. Modern, college-educated, thoroughly liberated
Paula was nightly subjected to the ultimate humiliation in her fantasy
world. Instead of being assaulted and abused by some stiff-pricked King
Kong, she lay there passive and waiting, not at all the master of her body
nor captain of her soul, lay there waiting for some timid sneak-thief to
scurry into her bed, up between her legs, to work ever so carefully at
teasing her drowsing body into missionary position, knees flexed and thighs
spread wide so that he could slip it gently into her, holding his
frightened breath and struggling to perform the impossible, to fuck a
lusting, deprived woman without waking her up. For Christ's sake!

And night after night she burned, ached, raged at her weakness, at her
shame as night after night she felt her thighs spread, felt her body quiver
and burn in anticipation of this shameful concession to her femininity.
God damn it--why must she be so weak?

A vacation? She'd just gotten back from one only five weeks ago. It
hadn't helped a bit. She'd gone fishing, clad herself in flannel shirt and
Levi's, hip boots, every masculine, unglamorous accoutrement she could
think of. She had stood ass-deep for hours in near freezing waters trying
to catch a big fish, knowing somewhere deep in her mind even before she had
decided on this abortive fishing expedition that a big fish--pesce grande,
her grandmother would have called it--was old-fashioned Italian slang for a
king-sized cock. And thank you, Hen Doktor Freud.

Vacation--shit! She was going to have to quit this job, throw her
career away, forget about emancipated woman and new frontiers, stow herself
safely away in some comfortable woman's hole of a job and leave those
haunted, lusting eyes that saw through the severe tailored suits she wore,
saw through jacket, saw through blouse, saw through bra, saw the rock-hard,
throbbing nipples on that pair of full firm thirty-nines that had been her
cross to bear, that had turned heads and had turned off minds, making her
rage because all the time she was trying to argue a point and make somebody
listen to sweet reason all that person could see was a pair of tits, full,
firm, appealing, totally unliberated behind that bra, totally nonverbal and
convincing that person not that she had a mind, only that she had a body,
that it was a sin not to use, exploit, that body.

And she had a body, Paula knew. Damn, did she ever have a body! She
was tall for a woman, almost five eight. She was a little on the heavy
side too--a hundred thirty-five. But it was distributed with a totally
non-intellectual symmetry above and below a twenty-four-inch waist--a full
firm ass atop long straight legs, balanced by a firm bust and a pair of
jugs that would have made an ordinary girl seem top-heavy.

Paula had stopped swimming years ago, only too aware of the effect of
her body on others. Once a man had caught an eyeful of her in a bikini she
knew he would never listen to her again without a mental image of that
superb body superimposed on anything she might say, like a double-exposure
blotting out any argument, any common sense, fogging his mind with a
pink-tinged hint of patronizing prurience. Aw, you're too purty to bother
your little head about things like that.

What in hell would the world be like if supreme court justices were
interrupted in mid-argument-- "But your honor, all that groovy white hair
and all those deep thoughts inside such a handsome old head!"

And still that goddam little sneak of a man was slipping his great big
sneak of a cock, his big fish, into her, out of her, moving so
unobtrusively he probably thought he was stealing a cheap thrill from her
sleeping body.

Even though it had been half an eternity since last she had sensed a
man's magic working inside her, Paula could tell it was a very
respectable-sized fish for so small a man. And it was coursing so steadily
in and out of her cunt, poking her titillated pussy with the regularity of
a metronome, of a heartbeat.

Whenever she stopped raging long enough to breathe she knew that no
matter how she might hate it, her long-deprived body was loving it. Her
cunt might be liberated but she could feel a faint flutter as of untried
wings, like some bird too long in a cage and confused, frightened at the
prospect of a liberty too free, a world too wide for weakened wings.

God damn it all, if she gave in to this fantasy she was going to be
sopping in another minute. Already she could feel her prurient pussy
pulsating in time to that steady thrust, could feel tiny drops of love's
lubrication preparing her for something that was not happening, was not
going to happen as long as she had anything to say about it!

But it was happening. Against her will she felt her rage soften until
she could sympathize with him, whoever the poor bastard was, sympathize
with his need, with the wild, throbbing rage of his long-deprived body. It
seemed as if his honker had been sliding slowly and steadily in and out of
her for at least an hour, moving with the calm regularity of a pendulum,
uncaring whether that slow steady eroticism were to melt her will, melt her
mind, turn her liberation into bondage and wipe its ass on her diploma.

Then he changed his rhythm slightly, stopping at the bottom of each deep
stroke to grind his pelvis against the lush fur of her pubic bush, sending
his rigid rammer around inside her, stirring her in deep circles, mixing
her brains and her cunt into a passionate pudding of instinct that gave not
a shit for all her preparation, her education, her liberation.

Oh god damn it! Was she ever going to get back to sleep? If only she
could go one way or the other: either wake up all the way and go have a
shower, douche the stickiness out of her crotch and go back to bed or, for
Christ's sake, forget all this prurient foolishness and go back to sleep.
Did she have to spend the whole goddam night mooning here half-asleep,
half-awake?

She had a responsible position. She made decisions involving the lives
of other people. She needed a clear head for her job. If this went on all
night she would be so sleepy that tomorrow she would look up unexpectedly,
would catch a pair of eyes devouring her, unable to conceal their naked
hunger and if she were to look long enough into those eyes, Paula knew she
was in danger of falling in.

Christ! It was easy enough to understand their need. They might be
imperfect, incomplete, not especially likeable, but that naked need was
not, at least not directly, their fault. But Paula ... whose fault was it
that she had gotten herself locked into this crazy situation?

Nobody's but her own, she knew. There was no real reason why she
couldn't have a discreet little affair, providing she didn't flaunt it
about or rub somebody's nose in it. But the trouble with having an affair
was that somebody she really worried about might find out. Paula might
find out.

And all her colleagues, all her friends, they wouldn't be shocked or
mind-blown. Nobody would ostracize her any more than they did now. She
would not be asked to resign from any professional societies. No; the
penalty would be more subtle, more lasting, more totally and completely
unbearable. They would all smile and be tolerantly amused. Amused, god
damn them!

And god damn this sneaky son-of-a-bitch who was fucking her! God damn
this indestructible dream! Sneaking in through the foot of her bed, up
between her legs, and slipping it to her ever so slowly as if he thought he
could get away with fucking a full-grown woman in her right mind, in full
possession of her faculties, as if somebody could fuck the daylights out of
Paula and not even wake her up. Still she struggled with that dismal
half-awake, half-asleep sensation.

There was only one way to come up out of it, she guessed. She would let
herself slip deeper into the fantasy, imagine him banging deeper, harder,
faster until finally he provoked a trembling spasm and then she would be
awake, humiliated and cheapened but awake and away from this denigrating
fantasy. She kicked at the covers and threw her legs in the air, she
closed them in a loving erotic scissors over a dream man and oooohhh wow!

It wasn't a dream, Paula abruptly realized. There really was a man
between her legs. He had his cock in her and he really had been fucking
her!

CHAPTER 2

Still partly asleep, Paula was forced to amend her last observation.
Not only had the faceless little sneak been fucking her--now that she had
thrown her long straight legs in the air, kicked away covers and wrapped
around a fantasy that was suddenly real--now that she abruptly knew it was
a real flesh and blood man in there, a real flesh and blood cock sliding in
and out of her--now she knew that despite her sudden explosion of movement
he hadn't even hesitated in his steady stroking. He was still fucking her.


He must be in some kind of a trance. High on something, perhaps? She
opened her eyes and the room was dimly lit. She could barely make out the
outline of his head. His face was in shadow. She was still being fucked
by a ghost but as she clawed her way back into full awareness she began to
see a connection. It wasn't just some sneak who'd found an open window and
forced his way into the next open window between her sleeping legs. In a
way she guessed she must have invited him in. Not deliberately, nor even
knowingly. As if they didn't always know ...

This morning early. That had been when it started. No. It had started
last night with a phone call from that fine-feathered son-of-a-bitch who'd
gone out into a world that welcomed men, gone from his bar exam straight
into private practice, moving every six months into a fancier apartment and
working his way from a battered VW to a Mark IV. God damned smart-ass!

They had gone through law school together. Paula had graduated and
gotten a job. In the time it had taken him to move from a VW to a Mark IV
she had gone from nine to twelve thousand per annum.

And last night he had called.

Not that land of call, she had remembered. She guessed it had been
years since he had wasted his time trying or even bothering to batter at a
wall which-- Anyhow, it had been strictly business. "That banquet thing,
Paula." Before she could give him a proper blast he had hastened with, "I
know you're not going. Neither am I or anybody in his or her right mind
but there's a bit of PR to be done for the bar association."

Paula had still been ready to tell him to stuff it when she remembered
that she was a lawyer after all, that it wouldn't hurt her career to be
seen once in a while. "I'm tied up all afternoon and evening," she warned.


"No sweat," Smart-ass rejoined. "They're filming it so if you can just
get down to City Hall early and hand the old bastard a plaque ... "

"Well," she said hesitantly, "I guess I could do that much."

"Fine! I knew you'd come through. Just put on some kind of long dress
and be there before eight."

"Eight o'clock in the morning!" Paula was so outraged she didn't even
find the breath to tell him she hadn't worn a formal since-- She was still
struggling for breath when she realized the line was dead.

God damn him! Chauvinist bastard! So the bar association wanted to
hand his honor another useless honor. Why couldn't some man do it? Or if
they needed a sex symbol why not hire some bunny to shed her ears and tail
and pop out of a cake? She had been dialing him back to tell him to go
stuff it when she realized he must have cooked it up already, that he had
fixed it up with Christ only knew how many other people, and that if she
were to let them down the bar association would cooperate with his honor's
administration to find dozens of little ways to make her life miserable.
Vacation schedules could be reshuffled. Promising or at least nonviolent
clients would go to more favored officers. She could end up with the
psychotics and the gorillas. Her paperwork could be sent to the wrong
office, everything delayed. No matter how she might despise it, Paula knew
you could kick only so hard at the system before it started kicking back.

Shit! She'd worked till after eight this evening. Now she'd have to be
there with her hair all fixed and everything in place in less than--less
than nine hours! What on earth was she going to wear?

She rummaged through her closet with a sense of despair, knowing there
was nothing even remotely suitable except the gown she had worn once twelve
years ago, back before she had discovered exactly how much of a man's world
the law world really is, back before she'd become so embittered that her
wardrobe had gradually become nothing but pants suits.

To hell with them! They were all men and they wouldn't know whether she
was in style or not. And she didn't care. She got it out. The gown was
not at all what might be expected of an evening gown. It had long sleeves
and a high collar, with seed pearls strategically placed around the bust
line. But at least it fulfilled the requirements. It was floor length.

She stood before the bathroom door mirror, holding the lame gown before
her. Could she still get into it after twelve years? She stripped down to
bra and panties and studied her reflection. She was full grown. But she
really wasn't much bigger than she had been when she graduated. She
slipped it over her head and struggled into it.

It fit a bit tight about the hips but she guessed an audience of men
would probably approve. And if any women saw her, to hell with them. But
the bust ... she wondered if she could get away with buttoning it only
halfway. Perhaps some pins or brooches ...

The only real trouble was her undergarments. She had put on just enough
weight in the last twelve years to make the gown fit more interestingly
than the first time around. But now it fit just tight enough to outline
bra and bikini panties with perfectly visible creases. She sighed and took
the damned thing off. Then with sudden inspiration she took off bra and
panties too.

Standing before the mirror she surveyed full un-d****d splendor. Poor
stiff-pricked bastards ... no wonder they couldn't keep their minds on the
law when they were looking at that body, trying to decipher its gorgeous
outlines through all the severely tailored outfits--camouflages she was in
the habit of wearing.

Her hair, when she let it free of that confining chignon, hung straight
and blond almost to her waist. Her legs were long and straight and, by
some quirk of nature, possessed a special prick-stiffening quality which
made them appear, even now when she stood barefoot, as if she were standing
in exaggerated spike heels.

Her hips were full and rounded, framing a belly that curved with
feminine allure punctuated by a deep navel built for licking. Her waist
was not really tiny but seemed that way because of the lovely bulge of hips
beneath and midriff above.

And her tits--those lovely jugs! Full, firmly all-American, upstanding,
looking steadfastly onward, forward, upward with all the unlimited
enthusiasm of Kiwanis and Lions. Like twin headlights they illuminated her
mirror, their nonsagging, never-need-a-bra roundness still capable after
all these years of turning heads on the street, of making judges forget or
ignore the finely spun thread of some legal argument.

She didn't need a bra--wore one only as an added safeguard lest her
firm, hard little nipples show through layers of clothing and drive one of
those haunted-eyed yearning clients right over the wire mesh that separated
them. She turned sideways and studied her figure for sag. There was none.
Her belly bulged in just the proper direction. Her full, firm jugs' upper
slopes were twin ski jumps, curving with wicked unexpectedness as that long
gentle slope approached a perky, skyward-pointing nipple. Their under
surfaces were ripe with the lushness of g****fruits--twin melons full of
sweet promise.

And how long had it been since a man's lips had closed over one of those
nipples? How long since a man's hot hardness had slipped gently between
her thighs, parted the blond-fuzzed labia of her vulva and done its
chauvinistic best to rearrange the topography of her cunt country?

Angrily, she tore her gaze from the mirror and began struggling back
into the formal. It still fit snugly and she knew she would have to walk
carefully if it were not to ride up on her hips. But, with a will, plus
the help of a few pins and brooches it could be done. She hung the dress
where she could find it in the morning and stepped into the tub. While it
was filling she lay back, reveling in sensuality as near-scalding water
gradually rose round her recumbent body, inundating her until her ass was
bathed in a roseate glow of not quite contentment. She lay inert while the
rising water converted the blond bush on her mons veneris into a tiny
triangular island next to the larger round island of her' navel-punctuated
belly. Finally these islands were submerged and rising water exposed only
the pink-tipped, firm-nippled aureoles of her matched set of jugs. She
sighed and sunk deeper in the water. Christ but she was tired!

Paula nearly went to sleep in the tub but she was finally aroused from
her lethargy by cooling water. She pulled the plug and toweled off
hastily. Not even bothering with a nightgown, she went to bed naked.

And dreamed.

She was a fair-sized woman but he was a giant and he was not ravishing
her in the traditional sense of the word. He didn't have her on her back
in missionary position while he held her down and poured his masculinity to
her in eight-inch doses. Instead, he lay on his back and she was on top
and she wasn't even lying down atop him. She was sitting, legs extended,
her full ass firmly spiked on a prodigious prod that was not going in and
out of her but was literally screwing, winding her down on his spindle
while she spun down on him like a nut.

He had his hands on her waist and he had his pelvis raised and he was
spinning her, eliciting a melody from her long-playing body as if she were
a rock-and-roll record spinning on the erotic turntable of his cock. And
oh chauvinistic Jesus, did it ever feel goooood!

She was gasping, her whole body quaking under the erotic onslaught of
his prodding spindle. With each erotic turn he screwed it deeper into her.
Her legs were high; she was jackknifed, her whole body weight supported on
that lovely lance that was stabbing her to a lovely death.

Then suddenly she was not just spinning, screwing her hot humming nut
down around his bolt. Now he was bucking too, tossing her up and down
while she spun; her thrumming vagina was being screwed to death and now as
she bounced up and down he was driving it still deeper into her with each
savage, soul-shattering thrust. She could feel her innards start to melt,
shift, transmogrify into startlingly new and erotic shapes.

He sat up and such was his strength, his size, and his agility that even
sitting up he could still hump her up and down, bend her legs up past her
ears and keep her spinning while still feeding his firm eight inches into
her, bouncing her up and down atop and around his erotic pogo stick. Only
now he was no longer turning her by her tiny waist. Now her full firm jugs
were his handles and he was spinning her faster, so fast they stuck out
even straighter, more provocatively skyward-pointing and with each turn he
ducked his face in to plant a kiss on first one humming, thrumming,
rock-hard nipple and then the other. And oh Jesus chauvinist, didn't it
ever feel gooooood!

She could feel great rhythmic contractions course through her, each
surge of erotic joy leaving behind a tiny residual tension that accreted to
the next pulsation of lust until her whole body vibrated with an ecstasy of
anticipation. God but it was great to be fucking again, to feel a hot hard
male back in the saddle, making his fleshy offering to the temple of her
emancipated flesh, straining and tearing himself to erotic bits as he
struggled to pleasure her throbbing body.

She could feel herself still spinning on his purple-tipped turntable,
feel herself sliding up and down that prurient prod, feel her body reacting
to something she had not learned in law school, her whole being responding
to an older, more natural law that she had never learned how to repeal.

Her flesh was quivering with sweet torment, not just her belly but her
whole body. With each turn he kissed a nipple, thus managing to keep both
of those sensitive tips of her tits vibrating with a hope of future joy, of
more, faster, deeper, now!

The eight-inch auger that bored into her quivering flesh seemed capable
of fulfilling, filling her full, of delivering on the most outrageous of
campaign promises. My god, did it ever feel gooood!

It felt so good she knew it could not last much longer. Nothing was
forever--especially nothing this mind-blowingly, flesh-meltingly good.
Even as she spun, Orbiting around that erotic center to her being, she
sensed that the pivot on which she rotated was subject to the same physical
laws as her lusting body. It was just a question of which of them would
come first. Which of them would know joyous fulfillment and which would be
left high and dry, needing, wanting, shedding tears of frustration and
rage?

Then suddenly she knew which one it was to be. She felt all those tense
rubber bands inside her thrumming belly start to snap one by one and then
suddenly she was coming right in two, in three, into tiny shattered pieces
of love's culmination. Maybe she wasn't exactly coming in two but Paula
knew with utter certainty that she was coming.

CHAPTER 3

Still in the throes of orgasm, she struggled with tangled sheets and a
growing feeling of familiarity. Damn! Did she have to dream off this way
every night? Two or three times a night? Her cunt was sopping with love's
lubrication and she was sticky all over. She got up grumbling and changed
the sheets. Still muttering, she showered off and went back to a clean dry
bed, knowing that unless she took enough sleeping pills to make her useless
and stupid all next day, that it would probably happen again before
morning. Maybe she ought to see a doctor.

A doctor with an eight-inch cock?

It was so exhausting to try to stay angry with the whole world, with
herself, with a creator who gave her a body with certain instincts and then
dumped her in a society where ... It was, she decided with a certain
accuracy, a pain in the ass.

And having delivered herself of this prosaic opinion, Paula finally
dropped once more into confused sleep where she toyed with ****, with
venery, with lust and perversions of infinite variety until she was
interrupted in a mountain-climbing expedition, interrupted halfway up the
slopes of Mount Orgasm by the tearing, jarring, tinkle of an indefatigable
alarm clock.

"God damn it!" she greeted the new day. As she came fully awake her
disposition was not improved by the memory of what she had to do that
morning. Muttering curses like an angry Druid, she got her hair up in a
chignon so tight it threatened to pull her eyes into a slant. Remembering
the creases from bra and bikini panties, she got into the long-sleeved,
floor length formal and began hanging the too-tight garment about her
full-cut body, using pins and brooches wherever the endless rows of buttons
refused to meet.

Goddam, eye balling assholes that surrounded Hizzonner the Mayor would
probably think the ancient dress was designed to go on her this way, with a
gap here and there to make things interesting.

She glanced at the clock and--shit! She had less than fifteen minutes.
Hastily, she gave herself a final mirror check and decided it was good
enough. She rushed about the house looking at window latches and spring
locks. She got in the Datsun, touched the garage door opener gadget,
backed out, and was on her way full speed ahead and damn the fuzz.

It was three minutes of eight when she surrendered her Datsun to the
underground parking attendant at City Hall. The goddam long skirt caught
in the automatic elevator door and she had to push the red emergency
button, which cost her another thirty seconds before she could make the
goddam door close again and the elevator start moving. She had to present
a smiling, trouble-free countenance to Hizzonner and the TV crew. How
could she manage to conceal the fact that she was boiling inside? Goddam
chauvinist pigs! Why did she have to wear this silly thing? If they
wanted sex appeal why not get a pretty boy? After all, that kind of
swinger voted too.

It felt funny to be hurrying along without any panties. It felt funny
without any pantyhose either-striding across the marble first floor of City
Hall and feeling her bare inner thighs rub gently against each other with
each step, feel the labia of her blond-furred vulva move back and forth
past each other with a sensation very like something-hot, hard, and male
coursing in and out of her with every step.

This early in the morning there was nobody much in City Hall except the
regulars. It would be another hour before the endless stream of citizens,
losers, and politicos began wheeling and dealing. The janitor and the
crippled woman at the news and candy stand looked at a woman in evening
dress at eight ay emm with glazed eyes that had seen everything.

Paula tried not to think about the odd feeling in her crotch as she
hurried across the marble atrium toward the escalator. The goddam dress
was like a hobble and she couldn't make any time. She picked up the skirt
with one hand and it tangled slightly less with each hurried step. There
was one longhair on the escalator ahead of her. He glanced back and
suddenly began running up the escalator. She wondered if she was that
frightening and then saw the minicam. He was one of the TV crews who were
here to film Hizzonner getting this goddam plaque.

Plaque--what plaque? It was one minute of eight. She hoped somebody up
on the next floor at the head of the escalator would have remembered the
damned thing. As if Hizzonner needed another plaque. Must have enough to
shingle his hunting lodge already.

The escalator gave a slight boggle and she nearly lost her balance. All
she needed was for this damned thing to quit now so she could arrive
completely breathless. Damn her itching pussy! Shouldn't have pulled her
chignon quite so tight. It was stretching her eyes clear out of shape.

The escalator glitched again and she dropped her skirt as she grabbed at
the handrail. Quit fussing, she told herself. Nobody in this town's ever
on time. You'll be the first one here and you'll have coffee and a
cigarette with the newsmen and the TV people who've all seen it more times
than you have and you'll all laugh at Hizzonner's latest stupidity and
finally an hour and forty minutes from now when he does arrive with booze
on his breath you'll get on with this goddam presentation and it'll last
all of seven seconds on the evening news and then you can forget this
chauvinistic crap and get back to your own office and get some work done.

God damn her burning, itching, flowing pussy! Would there ever be a
minute in her life when she could turn it off and think about something
else apart from how nice it would be to have a man's muffin-stabber
coursing valiantly in and out of her brimming cunt?

God damn this gimping escalator! It glitched again and she nearly fell.
Maintenance company was probably owned and operated by Hizzonner's
brother-in-law. If ever she got enough clout and if ever she got off the
city payroll where Hizzonner couldn't fire her at the first hint of
rebellion Paula resolved to put a bug in the ear of the next grand jury.
It was time somebody put a mousetrap in the till for Hizzonner's hand and
his grasping family.

She was nearly to the top now and the escalator was still stuttering
but--to hell with it. If it quit she could walk the last few steps and
emerge with a simulacrum of a smile on her face, give her mid-thirtyish
best imitation of some mindless sex object. She wondered if Playboy
bunnies in those absurd costumes were ever troubled with itching, burning,
fuck-hungry cunts.

Her face came up level with the second floor where she was supposed to
make the presentation and Paula's worst suspicions were realized. Her
watch must be wrong or else somebody had made sure everybody in city
government was on time for once. The second floor lobby was full of
councilmen, ward heelers, TV crews, every damn thing. Aha! Why hadn't she
remembered Hizzonner was off and running again? He needed all the free
publicity he could get and Paula, stuck in a city job and doubly skewered
by the bar association, Paula was struggling to put a smile on her face and
help elect the old bastard again even if she hated him like homemade sin.

As her head came up past the floor level the escalator gave another
slight tremor. She struggled to ignore it, to ignore the mayor and all the
leering chauvinistic faces as she peered into the TV cameras. What would
happen, she wondered, if she were to grab a microphone and call the mayor a
thieving bastard and announce her own candidacy?

Fat chance. It would be her first and last appearance on TV. It would
also be the final appearance of her paycheck. She struggled to grin and
bear it, make the best of a male chauvinist world. She peeled back her
lips in a smile and the goddam escalator did its best to dump her in a
sprawling heap before the TV cameras, before Hizzonner the mayor.

She kicked wildly and caught her balance and then realized with sudden
horror what was really happening. She had forgotten about that goddam
long-skirted evening gown. Halfway up the escalator she had let go of the
skirt. Now the worn out escalator had snagged it, had gotten it thoroughly
entangled, and the idiot machine was doing its mindless mechanical best to
pull her to the floor, pull her through the floor, turn her into
legal-educated mincemeat as it passed through the mesh on its return trip
downstairs and upstairs down.

She was squatting already. In another minute she'd be down. She felt
the skirt rip, remembered irrelevantly that she had nothing on
underneath--no bra, no panties, no nothing except the blond ringlets of her
pubic patch. As if it made any difference when this miserable machine was
trying to kill her!

She reacted instinctively, threw her arms and shoulders back and
straightened her legs. There was a magnificent rending, ripping sound.
The escalator groaned for an instant and then she saw her long-sleeved
evening dress go crunching through the grating, still in more or less of a
piece as the escalator treads bore it down through the plating into the
unseen Freudian underside of the machine, into some dark nether region
inhabited only by maintenance company gnomes.

Paula straightened, shaking, her arms and shoulders still back and her
full firm tits thrust forward like twin headlights, pointing straight into
the impassive eyes of a half dozen TV cameras. She was so frightened by
her near escape that for an instant she didn't realize the full
significance of all those goggling male eyes, those TV lenses, the startled
and absolute silence that filled the second story of city hall.

From the corner of her eye she saw the smart-ass fellow law student who
had gotten her into this. He was staring as silent and wide-eyed as all
the others. Hizzonner's slightly bourbon-focused eyes were attempting to
put it all together. And Paula finally did.

The goddam evening dress was gone forever. She stood here before
Hizzonner, before the bar association, before the city council, before six
TV cameras, and before Smart-ass and she wasn't fully dressed. She had on
a pair of high-heeled shoes. She wore her tight-pulled chignon. In
between the only covering she wore was the blond bush of her prominent mons
veneris!

It was worse than a bad dream. Paula had been having bad dreams too
long to even suspect this might be one. She was too alive, too totally
aware for this to be anything but the tearing, mauling, humiliating truth.
She was naked before half the city! Naked before everybody she
knew--everybody who counted in her life.

Hizzonner had finally gotten his unbelieving eyes in focus. He was
licking his lips. And now it was beginning to turn into a bad dream.
Paula stood paralyzed, still frightened stiff by her narrow escape. She
supposed she ought to make at least a token effort, put a hand over her
pubic patch, try to cover her tits, turn around--do something!

She couldn't. Totally paralyzed, mouth dry, even her cunt dry for once
in her lusting life, she stood looking into the TV cameras, into all those
burning, yearning male eyes that stared silently back.

They were all paralyzed too, she suddenly realized. It must be at least
as startling to them as it was to her to be expecting a dignified lady
lawyer and have it turn into an unannounced striptease. The bar
association would have a few uneasy years living this down. And
Hizzonner's political enemies must already be rubbing gleeful hands,
thinking of all the wonderful uses they could make of this moment, all the
unprintable jokes that would liven up the forthcoming campaign. Grimly,
Paula realized that at least she had done something. Hizzonner wouldn't be
able to fire her for this. He'd be too busy trying to keep her from suing
the city. But she'd done her little bit to spike his campaigns Maybe the
old bastard would lose, thanks to her.

But at what a price? She could never live this moment down. If she
lived another fifty years, if she were to grow as decrepit as Whistler's
mother, Paula knew she would still be remembered for this unforgettable
moment before the entire city government, before six separate TV cameras.
Oh Jesus!

And still nobody moved. How long had she been standing there naked,
arms and shoulders back, tits thrust out like a radiator ornament? Ten
minutes? One minute? Not over two seconds at the most, she realized. No
wonder they talked about drowning men reviewing their whole lives. It
seemed to her that she had been there forever, standing on the block at
some slave auction, her body exposed for the delectation of all these male
chauvinist pigs and who was going to bid? Would somebody buy her? Would
somebody take her home and **** her? Would somebody **** her twice before
he got her home? Would somebody spread her legs and put his great thumping
mass of virility in between her legs, part of her quiff, stuff her full of
chauvinism and slide his male supremacy in and out, in and out until she
moaned and squealed and giggled?

Dimly she realized it had happened. Somebody had broken the spell.
Somebody had bid and bought her and now he was rushing forward to claim his
prize. Dimly she perceived that it was Smart-ass, her longtime law school
rival. Of all the miserable chauvinist pig sons of bitches, he'd naturally
be the one.

Totally undignified, totally lacking in courtroom decorum, he was
galloping toward her, tearing off his topcoat as he ran. "Jesus H.
Christ!" he gasped as he threw it over her shoulders, "Let's get out of
here!"

CHAPTER 4

She stumbled along behind him, unable to match her step with his.
Smart-ass turned, saw the glazed look on her face, and wasted no more time.
Hastily, he closed his topcoat around her, grabbed her like some hairy
brute of a caveman, and galloped off toward the down escalator with Paula
over his shoulder.

This isn't really happening, she tried to tell herself but she knew it
was. No dream could scratch like this topcoat scrubbing her bare belly
with each bounce while he galloped down the escalator, across the marbled
lobby, and down the flight of cruddy stairs that bypassed an elevator to
the parking garage.

He's going to get me in a dark corner and **** me, she knew. The
son-of-a-bitch had been trying half heartedly to get into her pants for as
long as she'd known him. But never quite hard enough. Until now he'd been
happy enough to get his name in the papers with a succession of young hard
bodies and, apparently, smart enough not to let any of these conniving
young cunts hitch her wagon to his rapidly rising star. But now, having
finally seen a full-sized spread of her irresistible charms, he was going
to make up for lost time, going to get her down in some dark corner of the
parking garage and fuck her silly, fuck her until her brains turned to
peanut butter and her cunt to mincemeat. He was going to-

Instead of dumping her in a corner and threading his honker into her,
Smart-ass, still dr****g her coat-wrapped body over his shoulder, fumbled
in his pocket and then he was opening the door of a Mark IV. He put her in
the front seat, handling her like a length of rolled-up carpet. Moments
later they were driving out of the garage up onto the street and Paula knew
despairingly that it wasn't true. He wasn't going to **** her. Smart-ass
really did have a sharp mind. While all those other dipshits had leered
and boggled he had rushed forward and struggled to spare her more
humiliation. Now he was taking her home.

It didn't occur to her to ask how he happened to know the way. He'd
never been there. In the twelve years since they'd finished law school and
been admitted to the bar he'd seen her every day or two in the courtrooms,
in chambers, in the restaurants frequented by City Hall people. They'd
been friendly in a brittle sort of way and he'd never once visited her
home. Now, after a silent ride he was pulling up before her little house.

He pulled into the driveway and touched a door opening gadget. Paula's
eyes widened as her garage door flew open. "Any son-of-a-bitch who peddles
these things for security merits whatever the law can ignore in the way of
cruel and unusual punishment," Smart-ass growled as he drove his Mark IV
cautiously into the space for her Datsun.

Paula opened the door and bolted. "Don't I even get a cup of coffee?"
he asked plaintively as she shot into the kitchen.

Both of her phones were ringing. She ignored them and raced into her
bedroom, shedding the topcoat as she rummaged through the closet and found
a quilted robe. Then she realized that, no matter how much Smart-ass
annoyed her, he really had been decent about it all. Belting her robe, she
returned to the kitchen, then remembered his coat. She went back to the
bedroom and got it. When she got back to the kitchen he had already
rummaged through her cupboards and was plugging in a percolator.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Paula looked at him in astonishment.

"I know how you feel about the whole shtick," he explained. "Next time
the bar association wants to give Hizzonner a few strokes they can hire a
bunny to pop up out of a cake."

The blue phone and the red phone both started ringing again.

"Ignore them," he growled. "You're going to have every freak in TV
range propositioning you for the next three weeks. And it may even get on
the networks unless that k** in my office has sense enough to make a few
calls and remind them about invasion of privacy."

"In a public place?" Paula asked witheringly.

"Nothing wrong with bluffing is there?" Smart-ass grinned. The
percolator started muttering and Paula turned to the red phone.

"Don't!"

"I've got to. That's the hot line for my parolees." She picked up the
phone and answered.

"Miss di Stephano?"

"Yes."

"This's Harry Riggs." When she hesitated the voice added, "You
know--9173612. Uh look, Miss di Stephano, I've got a job. What I mean is
a real job with a future but it's, uh, it's out of town."

"How far out of town?"

"Well, uh, it's out of state actually."

"Harry, you know I can't make new rules. I have to obey the law just
like you do."

"But Miss di Stephano, it's a real opportunity. My boss'll go bond for
me and he's got all kinds of papers and references and--can't I just bring
him around and see you?"

Paula sighed. "Give me an hour," she said. "My office."

"Uh, couldn't I come to your house? I'm right in the neighborhood."

"I suppose so," she said defeatedly. No matter what that burning-eyed
breaker and enterer cooked up she knew she couldn't give him permission to
leave the state.

Smart-ass was looking quizzically at her. "Business as usual?" he
asked.

Paula nodded and accepted the coffee he was pouring her in her own
kitchen.

"I was going to suggest you get out of town and lie low for a day or two
until it's forgotten."

The other phone was still ringing. Smart-ass picked it up, listened for
a moment, and put it down without hanging up. "First freak," he said.
"You'll have to get an unlisted number for that one."

"Who was it?"

"Sounded like that Daily News sharpie trying to pretend he was from the
city attorney's office asking if you were going to sue."

Paula sighed and wondered if she really ought to go on vacation. But
she'd just been on one. Sick leave? But she might turn out to be really
sick someday.

She studied Smart-ass from the corner of her eyes. He really was a
handsome dude--early forties, tall enough to make Paula feel little
alongside him. He'd kept in shape, thanks to golf and sailing and handball
and Christ knew what else. His hair was just starting to gray. She caught
herself wondering what he would look like naked--as naked as she had been
in front of all those chauvinist pigs. How big a cock did he have? And
suddenly her belly was roiling again, all those little rubber bands inside
her twisting up and getting ready for her little internal airplane to go
soaring in another wildly looping solo flight.

Suddenly she knew that Smart-ass was studying her too. He finished his
coffee, stood abruptly, and grabbed his coat. "Sorry," he repeated. "And
if you ever change your mind, please put me at the top of the list."

"List of what?" Paula asked absently. That breaker and enterer would be
there soon.

"The list of them as would like to handle the merchandise," Smart-ass
said with a gallant bow. "If ever you feel the need of a male chauvinist
pig, please count on me." Before Paula could reply he had exited into the
garage. She heard the garage door open, heard his Mark IV back out, heard
the door close again and then she was alone with her thoughts, alone with
the realization that good-hearted, friendly old Smart-ass wasn't quite as
smart as she had thought. Or possibly, she reflected, just not that
interested.

The only thing Paula knew for sure was that if Smart-ass had really
wanted to punch her ticket all he'd've had to do was pick her up again,
spread her out on her bed, and mount her. She felt her belly give a little
flipflop. Jesus! What if he ever found out how near a miss? What if he
ever learned how she burned for a man, for a cock--his cock--any cock. If
only she could somehow manage a discreet little affair ...

Shit! If she worked at it possibly she could. Fat chance now though.
For the next few months every reporter would be just waiting and hoping for
a follow up story on Lady Godiva of City Hall. Shit!

Suddenly Paula was crying angry tears of rage and frustration. She was
getting ready to pitch coffee over handed at the kitchen wall when she
realized who would end up cleaning it up. She stood in mid-kitchen, still
clad only in her quilted robe, and : saw the blue phone was still off the
hook. She put it back. Immediately it started ringing. She took it off
again and placed the receiver face down. Still sobbing, she waited a
minute and hung up again. Immediately the blue phone was ringing again.

She let it ring while she rummaged through the nightstand beside her
bed. Finally she came back with a police whistle on a gold chain. She
picked the phone up, blew the whistle with all her strength into it and
hung up again. Immediately the goddam thing was ringing again. She
sighed, took it off the hook, blew the whistle again, then put the phone
down without hanging up. My god, was she on TV already? Didn't the idiots
have sense enough to cut it or fuzz it out of focus or something?

Was she already showing every crisp blond ringlet of her crotch to every
lip-licking chauvinist pig of an asshole bandit in this city? What was she
going to do?

The doorbell chimed. She was about to ignore it when abruptly she
remembered. The breaker and enterer who thought she was going to make new
parole laws and let him leave the state ... She went to the door and
looked through the peephole. Hat in hand, he stood on her front stoop,
looking very much like what he was: a paroled breaker and enterer, a
ratlike, George Raft of a man with straight, slicked-back hair, a prison
pallor, and a missing chromosome--the well-meaning little shnook who always
got caught in the cogs of the machinery because he quite simply couldn't
understand that he wasn't all that smart, that you don't break and enter
exactly the same way over a hundred times without even the dumbest of cops
learning to say, "Aha, Harry Riggs is on the street again!"

But who got caught in the cogs of the machinery this morning? Paula
forced her face into an amiable neutrality and opened the door. "Good
morning, Harry, like some coffee?" she asked.

Harry most assuredly would. He followed her into the kitchen like an
eager insurance salesman reincarnated as a puppy dog and was sitting in the
chair recently vacated by Smart-ass before Paula even remembered that she
still wore only her robe. She hoped Harry Riggs had not seen the TV news
yet.

"Well Harry, apart from not letting you leave the city, much less the
state, what can I do for you?"

Harry wasn't saying. He had a manila envelope under his arm. He put it
down and began removing his topcoat. Underneath he wore a cheap suit that
came from the same factory that clothed all her clients until they got a
job or went back into the rackets. Paula turned her back on him and began
fixing coffee. "Kitchen's a mess," she said, "Why don't you go sit in the
other room and I'll bring in a tray." She remembered how short of money,
how often these poor losers were actually hungry and decided it would cost
her nothing to pile a couple of sandwiches on the tray. It was five
minutes before she was finished. *

Damn! Ought to duck into the bedroom and put on something but it would
take time and the poor man had already waited too long and she was going to
have to tell him no anyhow so ... besides, the bedroom was reachable only
by going through the other room where he would be sitting on pins and
needles waiting to tell her all about his chance of a lifetime. Still in
the chignon and high heels with which she had greeted Hizzonner the Mayor,
plus a quilted robe that would conceal the rest of her providing she was
careful how she sat and didn't let a knee or a whole damn thigh escape,
Paula picked up the tray and walked into the front room.

"Harry!" She was so startled she nearly dropped the tray. Goddam! Had
she gotten her files mixed up? This was Harry Riggs, wasn't it? The man
who had made a career of breaking and entering? She couldn't recall any
other information in his file. So what on earth was he doing standing
stark naked in her front room, his clothes in a neat pile at one end of the
sofa, his cock in full erection?

"Harry, what on earth are you up to?" she babbled. "Have you been a
closet flasher all these years?" Damn! had her morning been so hectic
she'd gotten him mixed up with some deviate dingbat?

Harry's face was grim and unsmiling, his eyes glazed. She remembered
that look--had seen it countless times on the faces of these men locked up
away from women, so hungry that even the sight of a fully clothed woman was
enough to make them gasp and ejaculate. Had Harry seen the TV news
already? It didn't seem to make much difference. She had let him into her
house and now he was carrying an invitation one step farther.

CHAPTER 5

Paula stared, fascinated, her eyes ranging up and down his naked,
scanty-haired body. His cock, she noted, was uncircumcised. It was in
full erection, heavy veined, an angry purple head peeping from his
tight-stretched prepuce. It was pointing straight at her and for the first
time she truly appreciated the impact that her full, firm tits must have
whenever they looked a deprived, sex-starved man straight in the eye.

He was a wiry, muscular little man, no taller than she was. She
wondered if she could overpower him and wrestle him down long enough to
call for help. "Harry," she said, "Don't you know you can't do this?
Don't you know what'll happen to your parole?"

"Don't shit me," he gritted. "I know you want it. I know you're as
hard-up as I am." Still moving toward her, approaching her with his ram at
a dangerous angle, he continued, "Besides, who'd believe you? Told you I
was comin' over half an hour ago and you ain't even dressed. Don't try to
shit me!"

As he came close to her she could feel hot male heat radiating from the
throbbing head of his cock, warming her right through the quilted front of
her robe. She knew she ought to resist--hit him, run, do something!

She couldn't. Paula was paralyzed by the sight of this submissive
little man stalking her with a stiff prick. It was as startling as if he
had suddenly grown a hairy face and fangs. "No, Harry," she cautioned in a
tremulous voice. "No, don't!"

Paying no attention, Harry was pushing her nerveless hands aside. He
tugged at the sash of her robe and it fell open to display a swatch of her
frontage from neck to ankle. He put his arms on her shoulders and Paula
found herself once more in a remembered position just as she had shrugged
out of that long-skirted formal devoured by the escalator.

This time it was not a machine; it was a man undressing her. He pushed
gently and the slick quilted sateen slid off her shoulders until the robe
collapsed behind her like a deflating balloon.

I can stop him, she told herself. I know I can. He isn't any bigger
than I am and he isn't any superduper athlete. I can stop him. If only I
could move.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm! He was rooting like a pig in the soft valley between
her full firm breasts. His hands on her shoulders slipped down around her
waist and then he was bearing down until her knees bent and slowly they
sank to the wall-to-wall and then they were both kneeling and he was still
rooting in her warm soft jugs and his arms were around her waist and he was
urging her backward and then she was on her back on her own living room rug
and he was kneeling between her thighs and her knees were bent and, for
Christ's sake, she was falling right into missionary position and she could
feel the heat of his hot hammering cock burning her thighs and then his
fingers were parting the blond-ringletted lips of her cunt and he was
threading his cock into her and he didn't even have a rubber on and
oooooooohhhhhh it was going in.

She gasped and tried to struggle but it was no use. He was on top of
her now and her will had turned to water and, ever since she had seen that
great thumping cock in full erection moving toward her, Paula had been
unable to do more than protest feebly and now it was in her and he was
pushing and it was sliding smoothly, slickly, not hurting at all and, oh my
god, whether she had wanted it or not, her body had been ready and this
stiff-pricked breaker and enterer was entering her and he hadn't even had
to break in. She could feel his cock sliding in, in, in deep into her,
filling her full of maleness, full of the stuff her dreams were made of,
only this wasn't a dream, not even a nightmare. This was really happening.
She was getting ****d in her own house, in her own front room, on her own
wall-to-wall rug and she was getting ****d by a convicted felon and he was
one of her very own clients and she had violated every rule in the book by
even letting him find out where she lived and, come to think of it, how did
he know?

She had violated every rule of elementary security for a woman who had
to work with dangerous men and now that she had violated all the rules he
was violating her and he must have had it all the way in by now.

Inside her it felt even bigger, harder, hotter, more chauvinistically
insistent than when he had been rooting piglike in her tits. Only he still
had his face in her tits but now he wasn't rooting. Instead, his mouth had
fastened over one firm, rock-hard nipple and he was kissing, sucking,
licking while he still drove his cock deep into her. Finally she felt his
hard bony pelvis grind against hers and guessed it was all the way in.

"Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!" he commented and held for a moment, grinding and
screwing his crotch against hers, mashing the widespread lips of her vulva,
churning her insides into silly putty as his cock stirred round and round,
stretching her clit and mashing it to the erotic edge of pain. Then just
when she knew she was going to squeal and giggle and come and let him know
the effect he was having on her, he began slowly to pull it out.

"Don't!" she gasped.

"Don't worry," he panted as he switched to her other nipple. "I'll put
it right back in again."

That wasn't exactly what Paula had meant. Or was it? She wondered.
Jesus, it would be so nice just to surrender, let him fuck her silly and
worry later about the consequences. But what would he do afterward? He
was a convicted felon. Surely he couldn't think she was going to take this
laying down. But she was taking it laying down, damn it! But once it was
over ...

Could he possibly think he was such a ladykiller she would simper and
beg him for more and never ever blow the whistle on him? Or was he realist
enough to have other plans? If he understood this meant he would be back
in the joint and wouldn't ever get close to another parole officer ...

He was going to kill her. First he would fuck her--fuck her half to
death and then if she was still gasping and breathing he would find some
less pleasant way to do it. She closed her eyes and tried to think. If
she could just reach the telephone ...

Fat chance. He'd bang her over the head and finish pouring his load
into an u*********s body and once he was finished with her he'd do
something to make sure she never woke up.

While she struggled to find some way out of this mess her body was
reacting instinctively to the feel of something hot and hard, something
male, something real after all those endless empty months of dreaming. She
realized with a start that he was still pulling out from his first stroke.
Either he was going in slow motion or she had finally been shocked out of
her months' long session of lethargic eroticism and was finally thinking on
her feet (on her back?) like a legal beagle was supposed to think.

She opened her eyes and he was still there, still real, his slight,
hard-muscled body atop her, between her legs, his mouth busy bussing her
tits, licking first one firm hard nipple and then the other. And all the
while that prodigious prod she had seen jutting from his crotch--it was