The Reluctant Couple free porn video

Chapter 1

Standing at the kitchen sink in the small duplex she
shared with her husband, Roger, Diane Slater stared
gloomily out through the window at the cold, rolling
fog which had come in over San Francisco's Richmond
District from the ocean. Damn, but she hated the fog!
It made everything so dark and cheerless, so lonely.

She finished washing the last of the breakfast dishes
and put them in the rack to drip dry. Then she emptied
the dishpan and wiped her hands on a dishtowel. In the
living room, she fluffed the couch cushions and
straightened the magazines on the coffee table and
emptied the ashtrays--every day, prosaic chores,
fraught with dullness.

She wished it were tomorrow, Saturday, and Roger were
home. At least they could get out then, go for a ride
down the coast to Monterey or across the Golden Gate
Bridge into Marin County, anywhere just so long as they
got out of The City for a few hours. But it wasn't
Saturday, and Roger wasn't home. Roger was making neat
columns of figures in his ledger books, or whatever it
was Chief Accountants at Waller, Waller, Crist, and
Maxwell did during, working hours.

Diane sat down in the big overstuffed armchair. It was
cold in the front room, and she had gotten a small
chill. Well, it was always cold in there. She'd asked
Mr. Comstock, the landlord, to have the wall furnace
checked for malfunction, and he had said he would see
to it; but that had been two weeks ago, and no one had
come around yet.

I don't know why we can't afford a better place than
this, she thought. Roger makes good money, almost a
thousand dollars a month, and we live like we're in the
throes of poverty. Well, I'm tired of it. We've been
married for two years now, and we have almost eleven
thousand dollars saved. That ought to be enough for
that split-level in San Bruno that Roger is always
talking about buying, shouldn't it? At least for the
down payment, and for new furniture and appliances and
things like that?

But every time she broached the subject to him, he put
her off. "We still don't have enough money saved," he
told her. "I don't want to owe anybody anything when we
make the move, Diane. I want to be free and clear and
independent; I want to own everything outright. That's
real security."

Well, that was fine. But wasn't she entitled to some
security now? She didn't even have transportation--
Roger took their four-year old Plymouth to work every
day--and if she wanted to go downtown shopping she had
to walk half a mile to a bus line and then transfer
twice. What kind of life was that for a healthy young
woman? All she had to do all day was sit in this duplex
apartment and watch television or read, waiting for
Roger to come home and offer her a few kind words and
some companionship.

Diane stood up and went into the bedroom and began to
make the large double bed. Was she being unfair? Was
she being too demanding? No, she didn't think so. She
only wanted what other young married couples had--while
she was still young enough to fully enjoy them.

No, if anybody was too demanding it was Roger.
Physically demanding. She shuddered involuntarily as
she tucked the bottom section of the sheet under the
mattress. It seemed to her sometimes that that was the
only reason Roger married her in the first place: for
her body. All he ever thought about was sex. He wanted
to make love almost every night, and then in all kinds
of perverted positions and ways. He had even tried to
make her kiss him... there, on that monstrous penis of
his...

Diane shuddered again. The thought of Roger's huge,
purplish, rock-hard member, tearing into her
defenseless vagina, made her tremble with fright. He
was like an a****l at times, saying lewd things to her
in bed, saying foul words that rang like the bell of
doom in her ears and brought tears to her eyes. Didn't
he know how to be gentle, to be patient? She had been a
virgin when she married him, he had known that better
than anyone.

She had told him about her strict religious upbringing,
about how the word sex had never been mentioned in her
household, told him frankly about that because she
wanted to be a good, passionate wife to him. All she
had asked was that he be patient with her, give her
time to develop her sexual desires, to throw off the
inhibitions her environment had subconsciously built
within her. He had promised that he would.

And then he had all but ****d her on their wedding
night.

God, what a travesty that had been! She remembered it
clearly, the shy way she had come to his arms in the
little honeymoon cottage in Carmel, trembling with fear
and--yes, with expectation, too--only to be violated
unmercifully by that gigantic monster between his
legs...

She simply did not understand it. There had been
nothing in Roger's manner when they were dating to
indicate this was the way he was. Oh, she had been
curious, of course, and had allowed minor petting--
allowed him to play with her breasts, and to kiss them
once or twice. But he had always stopped when she asked
him to. Even that one night on Lookout Drive in Marin
County, where they had gone after dinner at Sabella's
to look at the Bay three months before they were
married.

Diane remembered that night vividly now, blushing a
little at the recollection. She had drunk a little too
much wine with the broiled lobster, and had fallen into
a giggly, playful mood, almost a teasing mood. She
hadn't meant to let things get as far as they had, and
she was sorry afterward that it had happened. But it
had happened...

They had parked in a small turnout, in a grove of
eucalyptus trees. The view of the Bay, with its
millions of tiny, winking lights had been breathtaking.
And the mood had been full and golden in the starlit
sky. She had moved close to Roger, nuzzling against
him, and his arms had gone around her. He had kissed
her then, lightly at first, then more ardently, his
tongue flicking over her lips, and she had felt a
stirring deep in her stomach, responding to his mouth,
accepting his tongue deep inside her own.

Before she quite knew what was happening, his hands had
been on her breasts, lightly, stroking gently, and a
warm lethargy had taken hold of her. His touch was so
good on her body! She had kissed him more passionately,
and when his hands strayed down inside the low-cut
front of her summer dress, she had made no immediate
move to stop him. It was only when fingers deftly slid
the dress straps from her shoulders and pulled the
front down to expose the creamy white globes of her
full, darkly pink-nippled breasts that she had felt the
first tinges of panic.

She had tried to pull away. "No, n-no, Roger, we
mustn't! We... can't go any... further!" she had said,
breathlessly. But his head had dipped down and his lips
had closed around one of the rigid pink nipples,
sucking it gently, rolling his tongue along it. She had
felt blind, wild passion surge through her at the
contact of his mouth, and in those few seconds her
resistance had melted. He sensed this, and his hands
had begun to stroke her soft, vibrant legs, moving
higher, sliding the short skirt of the dress up on the
smooth white flesh of her thighs. His fingers had
traversed the down-soft surface of her inner thighs
until they almost touched the moistening mound of her
pantie's crotch band, his mouth moving urgently on her
breast now.

"No, no, no!" she had moaned, but it was an ineffectual
cry and the sensations which coursed through her were
new, and strange and wonderful. Her brain had been
reeling, torn between the sensuous manipulations of
Roger's mouth and hands--and the inbred concept of
sexual contact before marriage as a cardinal sin. She
wanted to be free of his warm, wet lips, his moving
hands, and yet she didn't. A battle raged in her mind
as Roger's hands raised the dress even higher, bunching
it about her waist, and his hands had taunted her
smooth, flat stomach. Suddenly, his fingers were inside
the elastic waist band of her panties, touching the
soft pubic mound within, moving down to touch the
slightly quivering passage of her naked vagina.

The touches of his fingers there sent rippling waves of
ardor boiling and flooding into her brain, numbing it,
and she gave herself up momentarily to the new
sensations in her loins as he gently parted the soft
virginal pubic hair and slowly insinuated a finger into
her tender, sensitive cunt, so wet from the passion
fluid seeping from its trembling walls, expanding the
small membranous opening which denoted her virginity.

Then he had found the tiny, oscillating bud of her
clitoris and begun to stroke it lightly with the tip of
his finger, causing her to cry up into his mouth with
sheer delight. It was so good, so good, and at that
moment she didn't care if it was wrong, it felt so
wonderful...

But then she had heard the whisper of his zipper, and
her eyes had flown open and the spell was broken. She
looked down in sudden, consuming terror to see the
huge, blue-veined length of his erect cock held lewdly
in his free hand. She watched in fascinated horror as
it seemed to jerk spasmodically, and a thin oozing
liquid seeped from the tiny glans opening.

"Baby... baby, I... need you, I want you, Oh Jesus
Diane, I want you so goddamned much...," Roger had
moaned, and with his other hand he had begun to pull
her panties down.

She had begun to struggle then. "No, Roger, stop,
stop!" she had screamed. She strove with all her
efforts against him, trying to free herself from his
grasp, but he was too strong for her. He had forced her
down on her back on the seat, and she had felt that
warm sticky head of his cock against her thigh, felt it
trembling there as he tried to work its impossible
length upward to her pure, defenseless vaginal opening.
She squeezed her legs tightly together, still
struggling, still fighting, and then Roger had cried
out, "Oh Christ, oh son of a bitch, I'm going to cum,
I'm going to cum!"

His member seemed to jerk out of control against her
leg, and then Diane felt a great warm floodtide of hot
liquid flow along her thighs, inundate her fleecy
golden pubic hair, drench the soft, still quivering
folds of her cunt. It was as if she were being drowned
in a never-ending torrent of sticky sperm as he moaned
and writhed convulsively above her...

Afterward, they had sat in shameful silence in the car,
and Diane had cried uncontrollably. He had tried to
comfort her, to tell her he was sorry, but she had
refused to allow him to touch her. She had felt soiled
and dirty and humiliated. But later, when she had
calmed down enough to look at things rationally, she
had realized Roger was contrite, and as miserable as
she. He begged her to forgive him, and told her that he
wouldn't touch her again until they were man and wife.
And she had forgiven him, because it was partially her
fault. She accepted that partial blame, and told him
so, and confessed that she had allowed things to get
well out of hand.

There had been no more episodes after that. Not until
their wedding night, when he had never given her the
opportunity to allow her sexual excitement to build
normally and had attacked like some demented, mindless
b**st...

Diane felt her stomach churning as she recalled the
Lookout Drive occurrence, and her wedding night. The
chill seemed to be stronger now, and she shivered more
violently. A good, hot bath, that was what she needed.
To soak away the chill--and some of the memories with
it.

She finished making the bed and went into the bathroom.
She put the stopper in the tub and ran water into it,
testing the temperature as she twirled the two chrome
handles. When it was just as she liked it, hot but not
too hot, she undressed quickly, folding her plaid skirt
and frilly white blouse and her under things in a neat
pile on top of the clothes hamper. As she waited for
the tub to fill completely, she looked at herself
critically in the full-length mirror attached to the
back of the bathroom door.

She was a small woman, barely three inches over five
feet, but her body was beautifully and symmetrically
proportioned. Her blonde hair hung long and when she
let it fall down across her shoulder it covered
partially her full, round breasts. She did that now,
and thought: I look very sensual that way, almost
brazen. She swept the hair back again, studying the
creamy white skin of her breasts, with their marbled
and blue-veined translucence, the dark areolas making
large, perfect accents for her small, now-rigid
nipples. She raised her arms over her head, stretching
her tits taut, looking like a classic nude sculpture in
pose.

She stood that way for a long moment, letting her eyes
move down across the flat surface of her stomach, past
the tiny puckered outline of her navel. The triangle of
her womanness was silky and golden, very fine,
highlighting the pink fullness of her vaginal lips. She
could see the tip of her clitoris peeking out from the
soft puffy slit in an almost c***dish shyness there.

She pirouetted lightly, examining the dimpled roundness
of her satiny buttocks, the rippling muscles in the
backs of her slim, tapered thighs. The veins in the
soft hollows in back of her knees were prominent,
tantalizingly so, and her calves and ankles were
shapely.

I have a good body, she thought. I really do. But it
hasn't brought me any physical happiness in two full
years of marriage. I can understand, certainly, why
Roger becomes so aroused at the sight of me nude. That
much I can understand, and it pleases me; my ego is as
strong as any other woman's, and it's so nice to know
that I have an attractive body. But what I can't
understand is why Roger treats me the way he does. I
always thought men respected beauty of form, protected
it--not flailed it as if it were something terribly
ugly, to be sneered at and scorned and treated with
contempt...

Diane became aware of a wafting cloud of steam and
realized that the tub was filled almost to the brim.
She turned off the faucets and tested the water with
her hand. A little hot, but that was fine; she was so
cold. She stepped into the tub, felt the heat of the
water envelop her as she slowly sank down, banishing
the cold, filling her with a relaxed, almost contented
feeling as she lay back with her head touching the rear
lip of the porcelain.

She lay there for almost ten minutes, relaxing,
blanking her mind to all but the lethargic warmth of
the water. And then the sounds began to filter through
the thin walls of the duplex.

Diane stiffened in the tub, even though the words were
at first indistinguishable. Damn that Judy Carneal! she
thought. She's entertaining some man again in the
middle of the day. Why, she's nothing better than a...
a whore, the way she carries on! Men always in her
place, always different men, coming at all hours of the
day and night. Not that it's any of my business what
she does, but these walls are so paper thin that you
can hear practically everything that's being said and
that's going on over there...

A man's voice said suddenly, distinctly, "Come on,
baby, let's do it right here."

"Ahh, Harry, not in the bathroom," Judy Carneal's voice
answered clearly. "We'll go in the bedroom, honey."

"No, right here. I've always wanted to have my cock
sucked in the john."

"Well... all right."

"That's it, baby. Take off that housecoat so I can see
those big tits of yours while you suck me."

"How's this, Harry?"

"Beautiful, baby, just beautiful. Damn, but you got a
fine set on you. Come over here so I can feel your
cunt... Good, good. How do you like that, baby?"

"Mmmmmm!" And then, "Take your cock out, Harry. Let me
see that big monster of yours."

"Okay... there it is."

"Oh, Harry, it's so hard! It's like a chunk of granite,
Harry! God, what a beautiful cock!"

Diane lay rigid in the warm bath water, listening,
holding her breath. Dear God! she thought. They... they
were disgusting! They were sick, disgusting
degenerates! He... he wants Judy to... to kiss his...
penis and she's going to do it! She's going to take his
big ugly throbbing penis, like Roger's, between her
full red lips and... and...

"That's it, baby," the man's voice groaned. "Stroke it
a little, that's it, run your fingernails along my
balls... easy, damn you, easy..."

"There, honey. How does that feel?"

"Oh, Christ, get down on your knees, will you? Start
sucking it, you bitch, start sucking it!"

I can't listen to any more of this! Diane's mind
screamed. I've got to get out of here! It's sick...
lewd... disgusting... But she only lay motionless in
the warm water, holding her breath, feeling a strange
series of involuntary sensations churning deep in the
pit of her own stomach as she listened to the salacious
conversation filtering through the thin wall separating
the two duplex bathrooms.

"There... ahhhhh... oh, that's nice, Judy baby, the
inside of your mouth is like warm butter! Oh Jesus,
that's... ahhhhh! That's real nice, baby!"

"Ummmmmmmmmmm!"

"You know how to... ahhhhh... suck it, oh Jesus you
really know how to suck cock, baby! You love cock in
your mouth, don't you... don't you... oooohhhhh,
agggghhhh, ummmmmm!"

Stop it, stop it, stop it! Diane screamed silently. But
she looked down at her breasts and saw that the nipples
were turgid now, jutting up from the gently bobbing
globes of her breasts like mountain peaks on some
lonely Pacific island. A tender aching had begun
between her legs, in spite of the revulsion she felt at
the words she was hearing. She moved her hand from the
side of the tub and touched her breasts, touching one
of the nipples, and then pulled her hand back quickly.
The contact of her own fingers had intensified the
aching in her cunt. Dear God, what was happening to
her? Had... had she become sexually aroused listening
to that filth next door? No, no... but it was true. Her
entire being quivered beneath the tepid bath water.

"Oh Christ, Judy, Judy, suck it... suck it!" the man
groaned through the wall. "Yes, that's it that's...
it... milk it dry, you hot little bitch... suck me
dry... ohhhhhhh!"

The inside of Diane's mouth was dry, and she ran her
pink tongue over her lips several times, trying to
dispel the arid, cottony taste. She found herself
trying to picture in her mind the position Judy Carneal
and the man, Harry, were in. He was sitting on the
toilet seat... yes, that was it, sitting on the toilet
seat with his legs spread wide and Judy was kneeling
between them, her long auburn hair fanning out over his
belly and abdomen, taking his blood-swollen shaft into
her mouth and suckling it, up and down, up and down, up
and down...

A wave of shame caused her to flush a violent crimson.
She was no better than they were! Thinking lewd, filthy
thoughts, working herself up into an impossible
froth... Suddenly, she wished Roger were home. She was
aroused, all right, there was no purpose in deluding
herself that she wasn't. For the first time in two
years, she was sexually ready; if Roger were only here
she would gladly accept his huge penis now, she needed
release, needed it desperately...

"That's it, THAT'S IT! Tickle my balls, baby... tickle
them... holy Christ, I'm almost there... suck it
harder, Judy... harder... HARDER! Aaggggghhhhh,
ahhhhhhhh!"

Diane lifted her hand from the edge of the tub again
and began to massage her right breast, slowly,
rhythmically. God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! her mind
almost screamed. But I don't care, I can't stand it!
Her mind had blotted out all the evils she had been led
to believe came from masturbation. There was only her
urgency now, her need for release from the intense
arousal of her body by the lustful activities beyond
the paper thin bathroom wall.

She continued to massage her breast, avoiding the
nipple at first, cupping the creamy naked globe in her
long slim fingers, kneading the translucent flesh,
causing whirlpools of passion to seethe within her.
Then she touched the nipple with her thumb, felt it
diamond hard. She rolled the ball of her thumb back and
forth across the erect bud, intensifying further the
rising crescendo of sexual frenzy.

Diane arched her back, raising her hips off the tub
bottom, lifting her stomach and the dripping, hair-
covered mound of her loins out of the water. She braced
her body by pressing the soles of her feet to the
porcelain, and then lifted her left leg out of the
water, hooking it over the side of the tub, opening
wide the soft, fluted edges of her cunt. Still she
massaged her now wildly trembling breast, teasing the
nipple, pinching it between thumb and forefinger until
it throbbed like a thing alive.

From next door, Harry screamed, "I'm... going to cum,
baby! Suck it, bitch, suck it suck it suck it...
aaaaggghhhh, I'm cumming, I'm... cummmmiinngggg,
aaaahhhhggg!"

Diane could stand it no more. Her other hand dipped
down between her widespread thighs. It was wet with
something else besides the water, with the secretion of
her passion. She gentled her finger into the moist
flesh, and the feeling generated by her own fingers was
so very, very good. She manipulated the soft hair lined
inner lips until she could feel them swelling with the
rush of blood, and her clitoris was rigid and tingling.

Her index finger came in contact with the trembling
bud, and she began to gasp with total abandoned delight
as she felt release imminent. Her hips thrashed the
bath water and her hand squeezed her breast, released
it, squeezed it harder. Faster, faster, faster her
finger rubbed across the sensitive clit, blanking her
mind of all thoughts, all sanity; nothing existed for
her in that moment except the delirious coming of her
impending climax...

And then she was there!

She was cumming like a wild woman!

Her hips flailed frantically at the water, beat it to a
froth, as wave after wave after maddening wave of
intense, bursting release seized her. Pinwheels of
light, in kaleidoscopic colors, appeared in back of her
eyes and she cried out, once, in pleasure so acute it
was like pure pain. As her orgasm began to ebb, her
buttocks sank back to the porcelain bottom of the tub
and her hand stilled but did not leave her cunt. She
lay there, not moving, her eyes squeezed tightly shut
and her chest rising and falling spasmodically.

From next door: "Jesus, Judy, there's nobody who sucks
cock like you do. Nobody a-tall! You got every last
goddamned drop in my nuts down that throat of yours!"

"I'm glad you liked it, Harry honey. Now how about
doing the same for me? My pussy's on fire!"

"All right. And after that, I'm gonna throw a fuck into
you like you never had before. And that's a promise."

"What are we waiting for?"

There was the sound of a door being opened, and then
closed, and then there was only silence. Diane lay
there, listening disappointedly to that silence, and
sanity returned to her satiated brain.

With it came abject mortification.

She was sick with the knowledge of what she had just
done, of the act of carnal self-abuse that she had
performed on herself. What was the matter with her? Was
she so starved for love that she had to resort to
masturbation for satisfaction? Was this what Roger's
a****listic love-making had driven her to? Would she
repeat time and again these self-manipulations in order
to achieve emotional release?

The questions churned and twisted in Diane's mind. She
felt sick to her stomach, and... impure, as if her body
were harboring thousands of tiny, invisible, creeping
things. Abruptly, she stood up in the tub and switched
on the shower, letting the needle spray grow as hot as
she could stand it and then lathering herself from head
to toe with scented feminine soap.

At the end of ten minutes, she began to feel a little
better. She stepped out of the shower, refusing to
allow her mind now to dwell on what had happened only
minutes earlier. She toweled herself dry briskly, not
even looking at her glowing pink-red body in the full-
length mirror. She dressed hurriedly, and went out to
the kitchen.

This day was wrong, all wrong. Last night, she had told
Roger that she would have something special for him
when he came home from work this evening, but hadn't
told him what. It would be a surprise. What she had
been planning was a very fancy shrimp Creole for his
supper, his favorite dish, with a bottle of good
Chablis she had bought from savings out of her grocery
money, and candlelight, and soft music; it had been her
idea to get him in a gentle, tender, loving mood, so
that later on, when they went to bed, Roger would come
to her as a husband and a lover--not as a brute.

But then the loneliness of the morning had taken hold
of her, and the old bitterness at his treatment of her
over the past two years, and now the... the scene in
the bath tub... Well, it was all spoiled now. She
didn't even want to think about sex or love, much less
about making the complicated shrimp dish from her
grandmother's recipe.

Still, she had to have something with which to occupy
her time for the rest of the day, until Roger came
home. It was barely noon now, and the prospect of
simply sitting in front of the TV screen for the
remainder of the afternoon had no appeal at all for
her. Too, there was the fact that she had already
bought all of the preparations for the Creole--fresh,
deveined shrimp and green peppers and garlic and
paprika and stewed tomatoes...

Well, she might as well make it now. But there would be
none of the Chablis with it, and no candlelight or soft
music. It would just be a dinner, like all other
dinners. That was all.

Diane opened the refrigerator, took out the shrimp, and
set intensely to work on the side-board.


Chapter 2

Roger Slater was adding a long and intricate column of
figures when Marcus Cord knocked on the edge of his
office door. Roger looked up from the IBM calculator
and smiled. "Come in, Marc."

Cord entered. He was dressed in the latest semi-mod
fashion, not in the conservative grey or black three-
button business suit which Roger wore. Cord had on a
double-breasted pin-stripe jacket over checkered,
slightly bell-bottomed pants, a rich blue shirt with a
bright, wide-patterned tie, and Roger knew without
looking that the shoes would be an off-color with wide
buckles. Cord's hair, was a premature salt-and-pepper,
which he wore long with thick, bushy side-burns. The
total effect was impressive, rather than ostentatious
or absurd. If he, Roger, ever tried to wear such
clothes, he would have looked absolutely ridiculous and
would probably have been fired as well.

Cord grinned and said, "Am I interrupting?"

"No. I'm just finishing the Apperson account for
Pierson to see. What's on your mind?"

"Some of us are stopping off for a drink tonight, and I
thought you might like to join us."

"Great. Count me in." Well, why the hell not? Roger
thought bitterly. What's there to go home to, anyway?
Just a cold, frigid wife, that's all. Well, maybe after
I've had a couple of drinks, Diane will begin to look
interesting again. Although I doubt it. He said,
"Where?"

"There's that new place around the corner. You know,
the one that looks like an English pub. I understand it
has atmosphere, drinks are reasonable. Pig and Whistle,
I think is the name."

Roger nodded. "I may be a little late, but I'll come
by."

Cord slapped his hand against the door. "Fine." He
turned and walked away, swaggering a little as he
always did.

Instead of returning to the Apperson account, Roger
stared at the computer in front of him and thought
about Marcus Cord. The man was easy to envy, for he had
the handsome attributes of wavy brown hair, blue eyes,
and a dimpled smile which made women take a second
look. He had been a football player in college, which
hadn't been so many years ago to have lost Cord his
muscular and well-developed physique; and combined with
a charming and sophisticated manner, which was not
affected but extremely natural, Cord made the women
take that third and fourth look as well. He exuded sex
like an aura around him, and damnit, he knew it.

Roger remembered when Diane had first seen him after
shopping one night a couple of months ago, when she had
met him for a ride home. By chance, Cord had been
standing outside the office building with him at the
moment Diane walked up, and when she laid eyes on the
man, Roger knew she was violently attracted to him.
Physically, lustfully, hungrily; not with love or
tenderness which had characterized her desire for
Roger. a****l instincts--pure bitch heat, and he had
felt the rise of jealousy spread through him. He had
been rather nasty to her that night, and they had ended
the evening in a bitter fight.

He had thrown the way she had acted toward Cord at her
then, with all the acid of a man scorned. She in turn
had denied everything, swearing it was only Roger she
wanted, and that he was fabricating and fantasizing the
whole thing. The problem had been that she really
hadn't done anything. There was nothing Roger could
point to except the explosive air which had been
generated. He knew and she knew and Cord knew; but that
didn't win the argument for him.

Still Marcus Cord was higher up in the corporation than
Roger. He was in another section, a vice president in
charge of customer service, which meant that his power
over Roger was only indirect--but not worth crossing.
Roger knew that if he alienated Cord, his chances of a
good long term career at Waller, Waller, Crist, and
Maxwell would be ended.

Besides, Roger had no reason to feel that Cord was a
threat to his marriage, or that Diane, as indifferent
as she was in bed, would ever consummate her desire if
offered the chance. Cord had enough women to satisfy
the most accomplished satyr. Although married to a
beautiful woman from all that Roger had heard, he was
nonetheless the office cocksman.

He was smart enough not to fool around where he worked,
or at least if he had, there had been no talk of it.
God knew he could have had any of the nubile, mini-
skirted girls in the typing pool, and they wouldn't
have kept their mouths shut for a second. Yet when Cord
was some other place--a bar, a restaurant, anywhere
where there was a female around--he was definitely on
the prowl. Roger had heard from another of the staff
that Cord had once picked up and later bedded an
airline stewardess on the forty minute run between Los
Angeles and San Francisco--an almost impossible feat.

Roger shook his head. Why the hell couldn't he be that
way? He was so God-awful inhibited, not at all like
Cord. Why was he so damned straight and staid? He
slammed his fist against the desk top. Well, if Diane
kept up the way she was going, he would damn well stop
being so stuffy and start being more of a swinger!

Roger stayed late at the office, even though he didn't
feel like it. The Apperson account went slowly after he
got back to thinking about it, instead of his wife and
himself and Marcus Cord. He had to get it done; he had
promised it to his boss, Ernst Pierson by the next
morning. It was the hour here and the hour there of
overtime which made the company begin to take notice of
him, of that he was sure. Take notice they had: Two
fifty dollar raises in six months, and promises of
promotions and other benefits.

The firm was shorthanded, too, which made his position
even more valuable, and Roger willed himself to put in
the overtime and forget how tired he was. He wanted to
get ahead and earn more money, and this was the way to
do it. He had to be on his toes, though, and that took
a lot out of him. He realized that some of the problems
around his home were his, but that didn't excuse
Diane's perpetual iciness and indifference to his
needs.

Roger finished at a quarter to six, and put the account
portfolio on Pierson's desk before leaving.

He doubted that Cord would still be at the Pig and
Whistle, but he felt like he deserved a drink anyway.
He walked around the corner and entered the little bar.
It took him a moment to let his eyes accustom to the
dimness, for the crowd of men and women and the miasma
of smoke blanketed what little light filtered from the
lamps and windows.

The Pig and Whistle was as Cord said it was: an
American idea of what an English pub might look like.
The walls and ceiling were in a pseudo-Tudor wood beam
design, with the stucco painted white. There was a long
oak bar, highly polished, manned by a large, English-
accented bartender who sported a handlebar moustache.
There were long wood handles attached to the beer
spigots, and Whitbread and Guinness Stout were
advertised as being served.

There were groups of small, roughly hewn tables and
matching chairs s**ttered haphazardly around the room.
A pert waitress passed among the customers with a brass
tray of beer glasses and other drinks. She was dressed
in 18th Century fashion, except with an extremely short
skirt, and she made sharp and slightly suggestive
remarks to anybody who spoke to her. A couple of men
were throwing darts at a circular cork board in one
corner. Roger didn't recognize the shorter of the two,
but the other man was definitely Cord.

Cord laughed as the other man stuck a dart in the wall
next to the board, slapped the man on the back and
turned. He saw Slater and raised a hand in greeting.
"Roger! Over here, man!"

Roger made his way through the packed mass and reached
Cord. "Sorry I'm late. Where is everybody?"

"They've all gone. It's just us two." Cord turned back
to the man he had been playing with and said, "My
friend is here. Thanks for the game."

"I owe you for two, I think," the stranger said good
naturedly. "For someone who never played darts, you
caught on pretty fast."

Cord laughed and together, he and Roger crossed to an
empty table, leaving the other man standing alone. He
took the chair next to the wall and gestured for the
waitress. "That man over there owes me two beers," he
told her when she arrived. "Serve one to me and one to
him," he added, pointing to Roger. "And make it quick."

"I'll make it in my own sweet time," the girl snapped.
She swung the tray around and walked off, her rear end
twitching provocatively.

Cord laughed and then grinned at Roger. "She looks
tempting. Right, Rog?"

Roger smiled back awkwardly. This was the first time he
had been with Cord alone on a social occasion. He felt
uncomfortable, over his head in new and strange waters.
Cord was an over-powering force, he suddenly realized,
somebody he would be entirely unable to cope with.

The beer appeared quickly and again the girl swished
her skirt and jiggled the globoid cheeks of her ass at
Cord. This time Cord leaned over and patted her thighs
lightly. She turned and in mock anger told him to stop
with the familiarity. He only patted her again. The
scent of sex was heavy in the air. Cord merely had to
say when and she'd ask him where, Roger thought to
himself. He gripped the thick stein handle and drank
deeply of the golden brew. It washed down his throat
and he quaffed again. The waitress left, winking at
them.

Cord lit a cigarette and sipped the beer and looked
very earnestly at Roger. "I'll be honest with you," he
said. "Actually, there was nobody else here. I only
wanted you to come."

"But why--?"

"Why tell you that a group of us were meeting here?
Simple. In case I was overheard by those pack of ears
in the office. I didn't want them to know about it."

Roger's head buzzed. A warning bell rang in the back of
his mind, but he couldn't figure why, any more than he
could figure why Cord had gone to all this trouble. "I
don't understand," he replied, frowning slightly.

"You know, Roger, that you've been noticed."

"Noticed?"

"In the office. You've shown ambition and a knowledge
of the business, and you're young. You should go far
with us."

Roger couldn't help but feel pleased. Cord only paused
in his praise to order another round, and as Roger
finished one beer the other appeared in its place.

"Our business, though," Cord continued, "has a great
deal of politics." He took a final puff on his
cigarette and put it out in the pewter ash tray. "In
fact, those politics are often cruel and unjust, and to
the unwary can be deadly."

"I've never tried to do anything to buy my job, Marc,
if that's what you're driving at."

"No, no, I realize that," Cord replied. "You've been
conscientious, and you've tried to be fair with
everybody. Believe me, that's a refreshing change from
the usual." He waved to the waitress that he wanted
another round, and then refused to take the money Roger
offered. "This is going on my expense account, Rog. I
can afford it better than you. Just drink and listen to
me." He paused again. "The office has been talking
about Drake retiring soon, haven't they?"

Roger nodded. "I think Jim's due to leave next month,
isn't he?"

"He is, and that means I'll be looking for a new
general manager for my section. Now we both know that
Willard Lewis wants that position, and that he's in
line to get it."

"I thought that was pretty well settled. I mean, by the
way Willard has been talking, I assumed--"

"Right," Cord said, breaking in. "He has an excellent
record and has been with the company for a good many
years. By all the written rules of good company policy,
Roger, he deserves the job." Cord pursed his lips
thoughtfully and then took a drink of beer. "Weigh his
qualifications against anybody else's, and he's the
man."

Roger's thoughts raced at what he imagined might be
said next. Did this meeting represent... was Cord
trying to offer him... damn it, was this all a lead-up
to his appointment to the managerial position? His hand
trembled as he drank, and the thrill of such an
unlikely possibility coursed through him. God! He dare
not dream of such an advancement!

"But this is where the politics I mentioned comes in,"
Cord said, interrupting Roger's reverie. "Business
isn't always done by the rules, written or unwritten,
and quite often it's a matter of manipulations."

"I'm afraid you've lost me."

Cord chuckled. "All right, Rog, I'll lay it on the
line. In plain language, the promotion belongs to
Lewis, but my intentions are to give it to you. Am I
clear now?"

"I'm... overwhelmed, Marc! I truly am." Roger paused.
His brain was spinning excitedly. "But you said
politics. That's still a little..." He searched for the
right word. "Unclear."

"Perfectly obvious to me. Lewis is old fashioned. He's
too goddamned set in his ways, and as I move up in the
firm, he could be more of a liability than an asset.
I'd hazard to say that he could even become a danger to
me."

"And I wouldn't be, is that it?"

"I can trust a man who'll stay by me and guard my
backside. You can be that man, Rog, if you want to be.
You're interested in getting ahead, and you're young
enough to see how sticking by me can help you. Let me
break the ground, and you'll ride to the top with me,
that I promise."

Roger was stunned. He quickly took another large
swallow of beer. "That sounds fine with me, Marc.
I'll... work for you in every way I can. You can count
on me."

Cord offered his hand and Roger shook it, sealing the
bargain. "I'm sure I can count on you, Rog," Cord said
warmly. "I pride myself on analyzing character, and
you're not the kind to think up clever schemes or
angles, and stab me in the back."

For some reason Roger felt a pang of self-revulsion.
"You're right, Marc. I don't have the guts for
politics."

"I didn't say that, Roger."

"No, but it's true. I'm colorless, too staid and too
quiet. I tend to climb into a safe little hole so that
I won't see what's really going on in the world." Roger
wondered why he was talking like this, especially to
Cord. But then, hadn't his prospective new boss been
candid with him, taking a chance by confiding in him?
Embarrassed, Roger laughed self consciously and raised
the beer glass. "Here's a toast, Marc," he said. "To
the perfect combination of the swinger and the prude."

Cork clinked glasses, smiling broadly. "Here's to us,
all right. But don't belittle yourself, Rog. I'm too
flamboyant, and I think we can help each other. We're a
good complement."

Feeling better from Cord's remarks, Roger threw his
head back and drained his beer. Cord motioned for the
waitress again and ordered another round. She left and
Cord said to Roger, "After this drink, let's go some
place else. You know, find some action, have a little
fun maybe."

Roger was tempted. He was more tempted than ever before
in his married life. The idea of a hot, unknown pussy
crawling and heaving around his pistoning cock made his
head swim with desire, and he felt his prick engorge
and stiffen in his pants. He needed a good fuck
tonight, and Diane was definitely not that. Then he
remembered he had promised her he would be home early
this evening, for some special reason she had refused
to elaborate upon. In spite of his sexual hunger, he
had to admit that he still loved her, and that he was a
man who kept his promises. He wanted to pound the table
in frustration.

"Damnit, Marc, I can't tonight. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'll tell you what, Rog. Why don't you and
your wife come over to dinner tomorrow night? I want
you to meet Cindy, my wife. I think you'll like her."
He winked at Roger, then turned to the waitress. She
was back with the beers. He beckoned her to lean over
so that he could whisper something to her. Roger
overheard Cord ask the girl what time she got off work.
She told him nine, and Cord said that he would be at
this table, and if she would care for dinner...

The waitress smiled provocatively, nodded agreement and
moved away. Roger almost groaned involuntarily at the
image of what was certainly to follow the dinner. A
fine dessert, all right...

"I've got to hand it to you, Marc," he said then, with
genuine admiration. "You really have a way with the
women."

Cord gave him a superior grin. "Nothing to it, Rog.
Just takes practice. Hell, you can have it, too. Just
lose some of your Victorian prudery and play the modern
role."

"Security," Roger said. "That's my trouble. I want
security. I come from an average middle class home,
Marc. My dad was a stock broker, and you know how
conservative they are. We were close, and I guess I
picked up his attitudes toward solidarity." Roger rose
from the chair realizing for the first time that he was
somewhat drunk.

"Don't let it worry you, Rog," Cord said. "Maybe you
can loosen up a bit as we work together."

Roger steadied himself with a hand on the edge of the
table. "I hope so." He paused, then said, "Thank you,
Marc, thank you very much for this position. You...
won't regret it."

"I'm sure I won't. Now get home, Rog. I wouldn't want
to go anywhere else if I had a hot little piece like
yours waiting either. See you tomorrow night."

Roger smiled weakly, said good night, and staggered
toward the exit. Cord's last words burned in his mind.
Hot piece. If Marc only knew what kind of an icy bitch
she really was. Even out of bed, she demanded all the
little things involved in story book romance, with her
teasing, suggestive remarks and her come-on looks,
parading around in provocative clothes. But it was all
a sham. Get down to basics, and she might as well have
been encased in a block of glacier ice for all the good
it did him. His balls and penis throbbed and ached for
the loving touch of a woman, and all he had to look
forward to was cold rejection.

Roger walked to the parking lot, the cool night air
ineffectual on the rising cloud of inebriation, and
picked up his car. The beer surged through his system,
and made his thoughts hazy and his emotions fortified.
Goddamn it, he was going to show her! He was going to
fuck the shit out of her tonight whether she liked it
or not, by God!

Roger drove more recklessly than was his usual wont
from the combination of beer and passion. The alcohol
had completely flooded his mind, and with careless
abandon he speeded through the downtown traffic to
Geary Boulevard, unmindful of possible violations.
Christ, I'm drunker than I thought! he told himself. He
never could hold his liquor very well, and more than
two of anything, even glasses of wine or beer, affected
him badly.

The heat of rising desire flamed his already lewdly-
burning thoughts. Goddamn Cord and his wanton ways!
That waitress' smirking countenance again appeared in
his mind's eye. Her thinly disguised hunger for Cord's
handsome body, and no doubt huge cock, flashed before
him like a red flag in front of a maddened bull. Like
the bull, Roger more and more angry, until he almost
screamed with rage and frustration.

Goddamn his wife! His Diane, his one and only--Shit!
God, he'd be deliriously happy if only she was a woman,
a red-blooded female who wanted him! But he was denied
his rights, his end of the marriage bargain. He
pictured the ideal situation with Diane, with her
mewling and moaning with pleasure as he took her a
hundred different ways, and she in turn writhing and
sucking and kissing him with unquenchable lust. He
could almost feel the creamy secretions of her cunt as
she whispered his name, and he groaned, knowing full
well that her pussy was as dry and arid as a withered
old crone's.

His long, hardened prick was bent mercilessly in his
pants, and he could tell that he was oozing secretions
into the cotton of his underwear. Never had he been so
hot, so intensely aroused, not since the night on
Lookout Drive when Diane had first shown what kind of
lover she was to be. The pain of his doubled cock was
excruciating, and with the desperation of a tortured
man he reached down with his left hand and fumbled for
the fly of his suit trousers. The zipper protested, for
the sitting position made for awkward maneuverability;
but slowly he was able to lower it until his white
underpants bulged through the narrow opening, and the
heavy sack of cloth stretched his trousers to their
limit.

Roger looked down at the protuberance. The agony of
what he was doing almost outweighed the relief he felt.
My God, he thought with horror, here I am, driving
along with my pants undone! I can't believe it! What
the hell is happening to me? Has my sense of decency
become warped?

Then he remembered Cord's words: "Just lose some of
your Victorian prudery and play the modern role."
Modern role: the permissive man in a wide-open society,
where sex was the game--for its own sake and nothing
more. As if in agreement, his swollen member throbbed
against its restraining hold, and it seemed to jerk
restlessly, as if seeking escape.

Trembling with the pent-up fury of his overwrought
emotions, Roger touched the swelling and felt a tremor
race through his groin and buttocks. What am I doing? I
haven't done this since I was a teenager! The narrow
band of material which opened along the front of his
shorts seemed to widen as his cock bloated the front of
his pants. As if of their own volition, his fingers ran
along the band, the sensations they caused his prick
almost overwhelming. For God's sake, stop this! What
would happen if you were seen like this, manipulating
yourself like an adolescent!

But his fingers continued to caress the stiffened cock,
its outline hard against the shorts, and then he pulled
the material aside and like a steel spring, his prick
shot free. Oh Christ... no! No!

Roger tried to keep his eyes glued to the windshield,
off his erect penis, but with almost a****listic
fascination he dipped his vision, seeing the blood-
filled knob's towering size. He had never been bigger!
His fingers caressed the mighty shaft, and the cool air
made it tingle maddeningly.

The foreskin folded back as his hand stroked the
burning flesh, and the head winked with its unseeing
eye through the steering wheel at him. Sperm churned in
the boiling cauldrons of his balls, and he could feel
the rising of his cum in the base of his cock. He took
one last look at the action of his manipulations, the
full fist of his hand wrapped around the pole of his
penis, the furious pumping of his wrist and arm almost
forcing him to stop the car...

Thirty-fourth Avenue was just ahead, and his duplex
within sight. Thankfully, he took his left hand away
from his screaming, pleading cock and turned the wheel
to bring the Plymouth onto his street and then into the
duplex's driveway. He stopped the car in the protecting
shadows of the garage. He sat there for a long minute,
staring down at his still rock-hard prick, his breath
ragged and hoarse. He realized he was too far beyond
recovery to fight the primeval urges his body thrust
upon him, and his mind began to form weird erotic
scenes of the lewd positions he was going to force his
wife into. He opened the door, and started his desire-
wracked body toward the kitchen entrance, his hand once
more enclosed over the turgid shaft.

***

Diane straightened up the kitchen for perhaps the
dozenth time, waiting impatiently for Roger to come
home. She looked over at the table, set but incomplete
without the candles and wine she had originally planned
to have. Feelings of remorse and guilt swept through
her. When she was upset like this she had to keep her
hands busy, and she occupied herself by washing a
couple of kitchen shelves unnecessarily. As the hours
ticked by, the morning's horrible experience began to
return to her mind in spite of herself.

She blushed guiltily at the thoughts, shutting her eyes
tightly in a vain effort to reject the smoldering
picture of her fingers contacting the soft, wet slit of
her vagina and throbbing mounds of her breasts, and she
drew in her breath sharply to hold back a groan of
humiliation. She found herself once again reliving the
maddening onanistic caresses, and her hips churned in
unintentional rhythm to the teasing recollections of
unwanted fulfillment.

The sound of Roger's car stopping in the garage brought
Diane back to reality, shattering the horrid, vile
dream in her mind. She whimpered as tears of abasement
cascaded down her cheeks. Oh God! she cried to herself.
Only yesterday I had convinced myself I would give my
body to Roger tonight, and really find myself sexually.
Well, she had found a certain sexuality within her--but
not with her husband. The mental preparations had been
for naught, had actually turned her colder than ever.
He must never know. Roger must never know...

Suddenly the door burst open and Roger stormed into the
kitchen. His eyes blazed with the uncontrolled lust
which burned through his loins. His immense, ruby-
tipped penis leaped ahead of him as he moved
deliberately across the room toward his wife, and he
held it pointing at her with his hand still beating the
hardened flesh.

Diane shuddered, her breath frozen in her throat, and
she could only stand immobile where she was. What...?
What was this... this sick thing she was witnessing?
Roger, her Roger, standing there with his huge penis in
his hand. Her mind balked, and then she was overcome
with dreadful apprehension.

"I've got to have you, you bitch!" Roger blurted.
"Right now, right here, and goddamn it, you'd better be
good for a change!"

Diane cowered back into a corner, whimpering with
fright. He stepped closer, then grabbed her savagely
with his free hand. He swept her to him, and her
attempts to free herself from his grasp were futile.
She was hauled ruthlessly against the rigidity of his
lust-hardened cock. She felt his immense weapon through
the thin material of her housedress, and she stared in
abject horror into his contorted face. His eyes were
more lust-possessed than she had ever seen them before,
and his mouth was drawn back over his teeth in an
almost vicious snarl.

Wild thought of wrenching herself free and running from
him seized Diane, but her husband's strong arms pinned
her to him and his hot, beer-smelling mouth crushed
against hers, stifling the groans she emitted in a
tight, grinding kiss. Oh no! Oh God no! she thought
wildly. What hideously monstrous thing is happening to
me? Am I to be ****d by my own husband? Is this my
punishment for... what I did this morning? Her eyes
puddled with terrible anguish. God, I'm helpless; I
can't move; I can't move!

Roger's hands explored her body, clutching and
squeezing her soft, sensitive flesh, pulling harshly at
her clothes. His swollen, rigid prick throbbed
excitedly against her as he pinned her to him. Diane
struggled feebly for one panicky moment, feeling his
hand pressed against her tender breast and then she
went limp, allowing the softness of her lips to meet
Roger's own questing mouth. She couldn't fight him, he
was too strong, but perhaps if she gave in a little it
would help to return him to sanity. Desperately she
thrust her tongue between Roger's lips and deep into
his mouth, and he sucked it hungrily into the wetness
of his cheeks. His kisses burned her like a firebrand.

Roger eased his head away then and hissed: "Take your
clothes off!"

"Darling... please!" she tried to plead with him, but
it fell on deaf and ignoring ears. "I... have your
favorite dinner... all ready and waiting. Let's do...
this later, if you want, but not... not this way!"

Roger snarled and threw her to the floor. "Not this
way... not any goddamned way if you had your choice!"
he spat thickly, his face contorted in a mask of rage
and lust. He turned and swept his powerful arm across
the table, sending glasses and silverware crashing
cacophonously to the linoleum and then he wrenched the
tablecloth off and wadded it and threw it against the
stove. "The only dinner I want is a good fuck, you
bitch! To hell with the food, understand?"

Diane knew that to plead anymore would be useless. She
could only look up from her sprawling position on the
linoleum and quiver helplessly from the evil which she
knew was about to be perpetrated upon her defenseless
body.

"You frigid, prick-teasing, sniveling, dried-up bitch!
You were cut out to be an old maid, a virginal old
maid. Why didn't you join a nunnery, for Christ's
sake?"

Diane moaned and lowered her face to her hands as Roger
loomed over her. His long, turgid shaft bobbed above
her, and she closed her eyes. But then... it touched
her cheek! Panicked, she suddenly squirmed and
struggled with renewed strength, frenzied at the
thought of his filthy, lust bloated penis so close to
her. She raked her fingernails against his cock and
shrieked, "Get away from me! Don't touch me, you... you
a****l!"

Roger lurched back beyond the reach of her claw-like
nails. "Damn you! Goddamn you!" he shouted. "I'll teach
you!" He reached out and grabbed her wrists and threw
his body at her until his cock was jammed against her
face again. "You want to do it the hard way, well then
we'll do it the hard way!"

"No, no... please... I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Diane
pleaded, the scalding tears streaming down her cheeks
as he tore at her dress. Roughly he shredded the
clothes from her, ripping and shredding the material as
if it were tissue paper, until she was naked before him
except for panties and bra. The dress lay like a lewd
blanket around her.

"Shut up, you bitch!" he snarled.

"Roger, why... why are you acting like this?" she
moaned, his foul language and affronts a searing pain
within her. She saw him take another drunken look
between her widespread legs and her fear-quivering
breasts.

"I'll tell you what you're going to do. You're going to
suck me," Roger sneered. "That's it. You're going to
put my cock in your mouth and suck it. You'd hate that,
wouldn't you?"

She nodded uncontrollably. The very idea of his male
organ filling her mouth was abhorrent, and she
involuntarily gagged.

Without warning, he thrust forward and down, and the
mammoth, sex-crazed head of his blue-veined penis
rubbed against her taut, lipstick lined lips. She tried
to twist herself free, but he pressed on and the
saltine, musky taste of his cock began to seep inside
her mouth. She gritted her teeth and moaned: "No...
no... please...," and as she did he rammed forward. His
prick forced its way deep into the soft folds of her
mouth, like some horrible snake crawling in its hole.

"Suck, baby, suck!" he groaned, moving his buttocks in
the pagan ritual of copulation. He dragged her hair and
held it in his steel grip and drew her head toward him
in spite of her efforts to free herself; she felt his
sliding shaft burrow halfway down her throat, then back
out slightly, then forward again.

"Oh Christ, Diane!" Roger hissed, "Uhhhhhh... I love my
cock in your mouth!"

His obscene words brought back the memory of the
overheard bathroom scene of that morning, and for an
instant Diane envisioned Judy Carneal lavishly suckling
that man while he sat on the toilet. Her lips began to
nibble slowly at her husband's thrusting instrument,
and she coughed and sputtered. His balls bounced
against her chin and there was the stale odor of sweat
from his inner thighs, filling her nostrils with a
constant reminder of the cruel, depraved attack she was
being subject to.

"Jesus, Jesus!" he spluttered, "Oh my Christ!"

Roger worked demonlike, thrusting his hips, his hands
jerking her head rhythmically with his motion, and he
writhed and strained as though in the last throes of
death. He slipped her mouth up and down over the end of
his cock as though it were a cunt in which he was
venting the full wrath of his drunken, bestial lust.

Diane could feel his fleshy cock stretch and expand
against her cheeks until it completely filled her
mouth. She had never felt so dirty, so debauched in her
life, and the one urgent thought which she tried to
find solace in was that it would soon be over. She
sucked and wriggled her lips wildly, hoping to make him
cum quicker, please him as best she could and pray that
would be all he wanted or would take. She worked in a
daze at the command of his fingers, licking and sucking
like a hungry c***d as he forced her to follow
slavelike his every thrust into the tender shelter of
her mouth. Her ravishment continued, a ceaseless ****
of her fear contorted face.

Then as suddenly as he had begun, Roger withdrew his
cock. A small, sticky emission of lubricating fluid
threaded between her lower lip and the head like a wet
spider web. For a moment Diane hoped he might be
finished with her, but then she saw that his eyes still
burned with hateful lust, and her body trembled. She
felt herself fall away and roll to one side, wretched,
debased and lost, and the horrible image of how she
must have looked with his cock buffeting her mouth made
her ache with helplessness, made her want to vomit. She
dimly felt Roger kneel beside her and crawl his hands
over her thighs. She did not move, but closed her eyes
and drifted into a semi-consciousness, past all caring.

Roger fumbled with her panties, his fingers sliding
beneath the elastic leg band, hooking the wispy silk
and then ripping away the garment with one vicious
jerk. He traced the soft, hot flesh of her inner
thighs, letting the air caress the widening legs, and
momentarily his breath caught in his throat. He parted
the inner lips of her cunt and gazed lewdly into the
hot wetness which enshrined her clitoris.