In Search Of Lust
by Steve Savage 


"Whether you realize it or not, dear, things are getting out of hand. Do you 
think I'm blind? Or stupid, or something? Don't you think I know what's 
happening? If you can't see it, I can. Vinnie was thirty-one. Then came 
Jeanne. She was twenty-nine. God knows why I ever helped you with Ivy Jicha. 
I all but led her into this pervert's bedroom for you. She was twenty-five. 
Then Darlene was twenty-two. Ardyce is twenty-three." Her eyes narrowed 
vindictively. "Are you getting any messages, Dwight? ... I'm not helping you 
with Sirri." 


CHAPTER ONE 

It seemed extremely ironic-and more than a little shamefully titillating-to 
Dwight Adair that he should have noticed Sirri Stenson for the first time 
(of all places!) in church. Which is not to say that she had never 
registered on his consciousness before. After all, he and his wife had been 
members of St. Alban's all their lives; he'd most likely been in attendance 
the day infant Sirri had been baptized. But this particular Sunday morning 
was the first she'd ever registered as a woman-lovely and desirable-as a 
mind-boiling object of carnal lust. 

Sirri's parents were nodding acquaintances; he and Harry Stenson had served 
as co-chairman upon several fund-raising campaigns, thus it was unavoidable 
that Sirri had often crossed his path-as tottering child, pubescent 
adolescent, and now as eminently alluring woman-creature-during the span of 
the past twenty years. In light of such, it was absolutely unthinkable that 
he should regard her with lecherous cravings. Sirri was eighteen or nineteen 
at the most; Dwight Adair was, at 48, certainly old enough to be her father. 

And yet it was so; suddenly (Sirri and her mother steaming into church late) 
his heart hammered with a deafening, erratic roar; he simply couldn't keep 
his eyes off her. He stared unashamedly, the raw hunger in his eyes there 
for the entire congregation to see. What has she done to herself? he raged 
inwardly. Why haven't I noticed her-this way-before? Lovely. Dear God, she's 
lovely, a veritable vision of taunting, female beauty! 

It was her haughty, yet self-consciously bobbing, little-girl walk as she'd 
hurried up the aisle, one hand holding the charming straw boater to her 
tempestuous black curls, that had touched him first. As she'd followed her 
mother into the pew across, had knelt to pray, his eyes had taken in her 
navy-blue dress, a pseudo-nautical creation, baggy and loose, which hadn't, 
nevertheless, concealed the ripe, lush voluptuousness of her hips, buttocks 
and breasts. Like one mesmerized, he'd studied her exquisite profile, had 
been enthralled by her retrousse nose, her sharp chin, by the aristocratic 
throat, the impishly-conceited black eyes couched beneath artificial lashes 
and thin, flaring brows. Sirri's lips slightly parted as she'd looked 
altarward, her expression rapt, she'd been the ultimate representation of 
chaste innocence, and Dwight's heart had felt like it was being ripped from 
its moorings; he'd hated himself, cursed himself for the licentious thoughts 
that had tumbled in his brain at that moment. It was then that Noreen nudged 
him for the first time. 

She might as well have nudged the retaining pillars of the church itself, 
for by then Dwight was beyond recall, caught up helplessly in the ruthless 
grip of an erotic fantasy the likes of which he hadn't known in years. 
Tirelessly his eyes pored over Sirri Stenson's body, her legs, her 
enchanting face as she sat during the epistle; he became aware of his 
fingers convulsively digging into his knees. The stunning beauty of that 
patrician profile, the almost-alabaster pallor of her flawless complexion as 
contrasted to her dark mane, to her taunting eyes, her pink, 
irridescently-glowing lips, seemingly left him breathless, and he knew the 
most soul-consuming desire to rush to her, actually touch her! If her entire 
body-those vibrant, pointed breasts, her derriere and inner thighs-were 
equally as white and unblemished! Again he awoke to find Noreen digging him 
with her elbow. "Dwight!" she hissed. "You're making a spectacle of 
yourself." 

He was able to keep his snarling lust at bay until it came time for Father 
Wilkinson to mount the pulpit, where he would deliver his usual lifeless, 
irrelevant, scripture-clogged sermon. But now as everyone sat, and Dwight 
saw Sirri cross her legs, he was lost again. In the process her skirts rode 
high on her white-nyloned legs and thighs, presented him with an almost 
total view of her excitingly formed limbs, of the cute, black-patent pumps 
she wore. Another few inches and he'd certainly have seen the shadowed 
threshold of her panties beneath the panty hose she so-obviously wore. The 
cheek! he gasped. The unmitigated cheek! And in church too. The little minx 
knows I'm watching; she's having the time of her life showing off for me! 

Seemingly Sirri read Dwight's thoughts for just then she raised her chin in 
more lovely profile, slowly, deliberately swung her head, stared directly in 
his direction. A teasing moue formed on her lips as she fleetingly regarded 
him, a smile that caused Dwight's heart to jam up into his throat, seemingly 
choking him. Even as she turned away, she demurely reached down, tugged her 
skirts to as modest a concealment as the mini-skirt would allow. Abruptly 
Dwight's face felt feverish, his armpits erupted in a sticky flow of 
perspiration While he simultaneously berated himself for a fool. What's got 
into you? Have you taken complete leave of your senses? Usually he was 
content to wait for the after-Communion parade to conduct his avid appraisal 
of every comely woman's face, breasts, swaying hips and legs, to take in the 
shoes, dress and accessories each wore. While he supposedly offered up 
prayers of thanksgiving for the Holy Sacrament, his brain was alive with 
libidinous thoughts of the most volatile sort; he imagined what Mrs. 
Holloway looked like beneath her tight linen suit; he speculated on the 
thickness of Mrs. Lanier's pubic hair as she so saucily swayed down the 
aisle; he wondered how many cocks the supercilious Mrs. Winston had 
accommodated in her pouty, made-for-sixty-nine mouth. And where this corrupt 
pass-in-review had served to breathe life into the stale religious pro 
cesses previously-Now, just because this teenage tart waves her sexy legs at 
you-Even before Communion! The scathing self-condemnation went unfinished. 

Father Wilkinson still prated gibberish about the unity of the Trinity (or 
was it the Trinity of the unity; none of it ever made sense to Dwight) as 
Noreen angrily elbowed him this time. Momentarily Dwight managed to behave 
himself; he contented himself with speculation upon the availability of Mrs. 
Donnelly, a pretty, flashily-dressed prick-teaser type of thirty who'd 
always fulfilled his erotic fantasies before. He fought to imagine himself 
indoctrinating her into the joys of fellatio, longed for that delightful 
tightening in his trousers which such reveries had always induced before. 

But it was no good; Peggy Donnelly paled into insignificance beside the 
exquisite Sirri Stenson. Stealthily his eyes framed her again, and he 
gloried in her beautiful, innocent face, in the pearl-like texture of her 
skin. She was young, a veritable child, first looking on life through 
untainted, joyous eyes. In fact, Sirri still possessed faint traces of baby 
fat at jaw and cheeks, a discovery which entranced Dwight even more, and he 
couldn't help but compare her beauty to that of Elizabeth Taylor when she'd 
been Sirri's age, just starting out on her home wrecker career. As he 
watched, Sirri leaned slightly, gently scratched her right calf, a thing 
which caused Dwight's guts to knot painfully. Dear Lord, he thought. If only 
that could be me scratching her, touching her lovely flesh! To caress, to 
know every square inch of that delectable frame! 

Immediately he sank into further trance, and as of that moment Sirri 
Stenson-totally oblivious to the manifestation, herself-was suddenly 
divested of her gown and slip; she sat in church dressed in nothing but her 
brassiere and panties, the white panty hose and stubby-heeled pumps. Before 
Dwight's mind's-eye the color of her lingerie fleetingly shifted, from white 
to pink, from pink to pastel-blue, from blue to harlot-red, from red to 
jetblack. Her undies became plain, severely tailored; they instantly were 
embellished with lace inserts and overlayers, the panty legs dripped with a 
frilly hem of lace; the lingerie became patterned, a riot of psychedelic 
color and design. Dwight Adair trembled helplessly all at once; he was sure 
great beads of sweat must be standing out on his forehead. 

His breath came painfully now, as he shifted gears, methodically went into 
the second segment of his compulsive daydream. Now he imagined himself 
divesting Sirri of her scanties. He imagined her bounteous, firm 
breasts-great, ebullient hemispheres-crowned by stiffened nipples of the 
most crystalline pink. His fingers grazed her flesh slightly, and he 
recoiled, actually knew hot pain in his chest, a yearning cry stillborn in 
his throat. Her sweet, fluttering bowl of belly was envisioned next, and he 
wanted to sob at the beauty of it where her waist sloped gracefully in from 
her upper torso, her hips and thighs exploding voluptuously forth in 
cornucopia of female mystery, giving way to fleshy thighs of the most 
elegant creaminess and texture. That ivory convexity, lithe yet opulent, was 
crowned by a diadem of thick, black fur, the contrast of it against her 
white flesh almost blinding in intensity. Beautiful, beautiful! Beautiful 
beyond a man's wildest imaginings! 

Dwight's eyes glazed at that moment; St. Alban's, Father Wilkinson in his 
silly pulpit, the other parishioners-all blurred before his eyes. As within 
his brain Sirri now turned and posed her breathtakingly-lovely body for him, 
a chance sag of one leg giving him fleeting glimpse of the swollen, fat lip 
of her coral-toned cunt. The sight assumed proportions of an artistic 
masterwork, a symphony of ivory and pink, mounted upon a swollen mound of 
the most silken fur imaginable. The legs clamped coquettishly then, and with 
a mischievous giggle Sirri pirouetted gracefully, gave him view of her saucy 
bottom, posed it salaciously in his direction. Dwight started involuntarily 
in his reverie, thought how delicious it would be to caress those vibrant 
rondules, how exciting to dig his fingers into her moist, aromatic snatch, 
to actually invade that oily pussy! To kiss! To lick! To literally suffocate 
himself, his entire face churning and digging into its dripping 
convolutions! And how-how would Sirri react to reverences, to worshippings 
and adorings like that! Had she ever, would she ever know sexual ecstasy of 
that sort? 

But no, Dwight caught himself. Of course not. For Sirri was pure; she was 
virginal. No man had ever been allowed to touch her in any way approximating 
intimacy. Not this aloof, regal Madonna! Still the thought tore him up. To 
conceive of kissing Sirri, embracing and caressing her. What would it be 
like? Did she have a boy friend? Did she allow him to kiss her, to feel her 
breasts, to run his fingers along her legs, up under her skirts even? Did 
she allow him-had she allowed anyone-to-fuck her? 

No! he growled in heart-strangling agony. Sirri must be a virgin! No one has 
ever touched her there! 

Frustration crushed Dwight, and he pondered the injustice of the profligate 
squandering of so rare a female treasure as this. That she would allow some 
callow, pimple-faced clod to kiss those pristine lips, that she would suffer 
his pawkish maulings, his clumsy pokings of her most intimate self. Waste, 
an absolute waste! Pearls before greedy, unappreciative swine. When he could 
teach her, develop her, bring her to the fullest fruition of her female 
entity. She deserved better, so much better. She deserved an experienced, 
sophisticated man, a cultural and sensitive man, a man much like he himself 
was. She deserved a man who could teach her liberating philisophies, sweep 
away the musty cobwebs that centuries of Puritan prudery and religious 
self-interest had inflicted upon the world. He could tutor her, bring her to 
heights of ecstasy few women realized existed; he could protect her, take 
care of her, give her luxury, all the pretty things that should normally 
accrue to a goddess such as she. 

Again Dwight Adair was forced to stifle groans of the most acute anguish. 
And yet she'd fall in love, throw herself away on some athletic cretin who, 
with his hunting and bowling and Sunday afternoon football games, his 
beer-can-littered hovel, would never once-in his entire stupid, groundling 
life-realize what a rare treasure he'd won. The thought was enough to drive 
a sentient man to mayhem, to cause him to run amok, to flee screaming from 
the confines of this holy edifice. 

His vision cleared gradually. But still, a disturbing chord from his 
barely-finished reverie reverberated in his brain. And what-? Then it came 
to him. Luxury. The pretty things he could give her. The pretty things he 
could dress her in. Once more Sirri stood nakedly before him, in mendicant's 
pose, her eyes trusting and loving. He smiled, his expression slightly 
demented. And how would he caparison Sirri this first time? Which shoes, 
which lingerie ensemble, what color would be appropriate? White, opaque 
silk? Royal blue nylon, with see-through inserts that would reveal her 
nipples, the glorious verdancy of her sweet cunt? Or the skin-tight scarlet? 
The secretly-altered black? Perhaps something patterned; Sirri would look 
simply beautiful in polka dots. But no. What with her fairness, her majestic 
virginity, perhaps the white was the more fitting. White, silk hose, white 
pumps, with white brassiere and panties, perhaps even an abbreviated veil, a 
Luckily the tedious sermon came to an end at that moment. "In the name of 
the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost," Father Wilkinson intoned. Everyone 
started up, Dwight included. And blinking like a startled owl, he found his 
erotic daydreams shattered, the suddenness of his return to reality 
triggering momentary vertigo within him. Somehow, realizing his folly, 
despair demolishing him at the futility of his fantasied liaison with Sirri, 
he was able to keep his eyes off her during what remained of the service; he 
attended to the Book of Common Prayer intently, booming the responses with a 
hypocritical vigor that astonished even him. 

All his noble resolves to block further visions of Sirri went for naught, 
however, for Communion time upon them, he and Noreen flinging themselves 
from their pew, heading toward the altar, Dwight confronted Sirri head-on as 
she emerged across the aisle. In that brief second she smiled directly at 
him. her expression sly, almost as if she were clairvoyant, as if she had 
actually lived through her debauched role in his sick peepshow. 
Shame-facedly he averted his gaze, knew a clamorous tattoo within his chest. 
Nevertheless, as they proceeded altarward, he found himself purposely 
hanging back, the better to appraise Sirri from the back. His eyes devoured 
the thrilling line of her legs in the strangely-affecting, white hosiery, 
and he cursed his obviousness when he allowed his gaze to hang on the 
pistoning protuberences of her buttocks inside her skirt. Once more he dared 
to dream the most impossible dreams. As the line came to temporary stop, he 
took in her adorable shoes, the fragile trimness of her ankles; he even went 
so far as to glory in the faint shadow line of her panty hem where her dress 
briefly pulled tight against her flanks. He was searching for a similar 
indication from her brassiere, when the line moved, advanced on the 
Communion rail itself. 

Almost as if performing a contrite penance, Dwight kept his head down once 
they'd regained their pew; he punished himself by not ogling the re turning 
female communicants. It was an incredible torture not to steal a last glance 
at Sirri as the congregation intoned the Thanksgiving together. In fact, he 
joined in so lustily that Noreen sent him a sarcastic glance for his pains. 
His resolve held; he did not stare back at the lingering Sirri Stenson, but 
instead marched resolutely out of St. Alban's. Shaking Father Wilkinson's 
hand vigorously, he muttered: "A very inspirational sermon, Father." 

Then they were out in the church parking lot, and Dwight was handing Noreen 
into their glittering, black Cadillac. As he started the car, piloted it 
onto the street, headed in the direction of Mt. Pleasant, the elite suburban 
development in which they lived, Noreen angrily snapped, "Well, I just hope 
you're satisfied with yourself! I've never been so mortified in my life!" 

Neither of them said another word all the way home. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

It was mid-afternoon. Dinner long since over, nothing on TV appealing, 
Dwight Adair had retreated to the privacy of his sumptuous bedroom sitting 
room suite on the mansion's second floor. Where, particularly disturbing 
thoughts at large within his brain, he fought a solitary battle with 
himself. Though he'd attempted to resist the degrading impulse, he hadn't 
been successful, and now the hated scrapbook-ultimate indictment of his 
damnable weakness-was on his knees. Idly he leafed through it, none of the 
pictures, strangely enough, having much effect upon him today. Touching 
himself lightly between his legs, he found his prick a soft, slumbering 
curl, and he snorted angrily. Down? he questioned. At a time like this? 
Mister, you are beyond hope. You're really getting old. 

That goddamned Sirri, he concluded. She's to blame. And of all the senile 
performances, of all the imbecilic regressions! What in hell-just what in 
hell has gotten into you? His despair broadened, and he found it impossible 
to believe that he had accredited himself so foolishly. 

One of the city's most influential and respected industrialists; acting like 
a horses-ass in church. Before friends and business acquaintances he'd known 
all his life. Sweet Jesus, how tongues must be wagging all over Benton Falls 
this afternoon! And poor Sirri. If she noticed my display, if some of her 
friends-so adolescent and adult alike-get to teasing her about her 
not-so-secret admirer His eyes glazed, and he stared unseeing at the glossy 
photograph of the lingerie-clad female before him; he struggled to 
understand the weird relapse that had overtaken him. The vision of Sirri 
dancing in his mind's eye again, her impact largely diluted now, he simply 
couldn't believe that he'd behaved so execrably. The things he'd thought, 
the appalling emotions that had convulsed him, had literally wrung his 
heart! What did it mean? And in church besides! A hard-on big enough to 
stumble over, a cold sweat, the smothered whimpers of sexual need? Bad 
scene, Dwight. Real bad. The worst it's ever been. Now, in retrospect, he 
couldn't understand how the lovely nymphet had affected him so strongly. 
Granted, she was an exquisite creature; he would give his right arm--as 
would any man alive-to be allowed to worship at the altar of her virginity. 
But was she that much more lovely, that much more desirable than some of the 
other women in his life, women he'd taken to bed, fucked to near coma as 
recently as two weeks ago? Was her spell such that it was only effective 
when she was flesh-and-blood entity, in the presence of her dumbstruck 
idolater? What was there about her? Her beauty? Her beauty combined with 
pristine youthfulness and innocence? The irrefutable aura of virgin that 
seemingly radiated from her? Those taunting, dark eyes imbedded in that 
alabaster flesh? The enigmatic, fey smile which hinted at wanton tigress 
hidden behind that facade of childish purity? 

He ground his knuckles into his eyes. Something, he groaned. Some 
mesmerizing something. To make me play the village idiot! What new weakness, 
what new descents into depravity did the morning's developments pressage? He 
shiveringly concluded that his libertine excesses of late were finally 
taking their toll, that he was verging on crackup. A nineteen-year-old girl? 
A sweet angelic kid like Sirri? Dwight, you've got to be going psycho! 

Now, hoping his warped predeliction would intervene, scour his brain of 
unwanted fantasies, as it always had in the past, he shook his head angrily, 
bringing his eyes back into focus. A mildly-slathering grin on his lips, he 
studied the photograph before him, one of a series he'd ordered from a 
specialty house in Los Angeles, a depiction of a tall, willowy blonde posing 
in just her lingerie, hose and shoes. Admittedly the get-up was fetishist 
oriented, the pumps exaggeratedly pointed in the toe, the heels pencil thin, 
at least four-inches high. Then there was the obscenely pointed brassiere 
the virago wore, plain black silk, a garment that jacked her breasts into 
ultra-high uplift. The panties were equally severe in design, with a sheer, 
diamond-shaped panel down the front of the belly that revealed the golden 
snarl there, the shadowed indenttion of the trollop's cunt as well. A black 
garter-belt snaked its way from beneath each leg of the panty, cinched 
black, gleaming hosiery into snug second skin about her legs. Concentrating 
on the pictures, Dwight felt his cock unlimber now, stiffen, and he briefly 
passed his hand over himself, sensed a groin-tingling sensation as he worked 
concealed silk against the drooling weapon. There, he rejoiced, I'll be all 
right now. 

The next page of his unique album revealed the same model, only this time 
with her panties off, just the exotic garter belt about her waist. Her pubic 
hair ruffled to an awry corona now, she-spread the lips of her cunt with her 
own fingers, plainly revealed the slippery vestibule of her vagina, the 
incipient pimple of her clitoris. The camera work was exceedingly detailed, 
crystal-clear on this shot. Dwight felt further arousal; he wondered if a 
brief jack-off might not be in order just now. God knew, with the lunatic 
stimulation he'd received this day, such certainly wouldn't do any harm. His 
fingers massaged his swollen prick even more urgently. 

He nipped the page, came upon a foundation-manufacturer's ad he'd torn from 
a magazine. Staring at the beautiful model who wore an extremely lacy, high 
uplift brassiere, was shown only from the waist up, he wondered at the 
effect such representation should have upon him. She was lovely, her face 
perfectly made up, her lipstick luminous, her large eyes darkly shadowed, 
her brows in imperious sweep. Her complexion flawless, she sported an 
extreme mane of silky, off-blonde hair, the long tresses flowing down her 
back on one side, coiling about her regal throat like a muffler from the 
other side. The total impression was one of aloofness, of 
unapproachability-she was a goddess beyond the gross touch of mortal man. 
Momentarily Dwight was puzzled. That unexplainable tightness in his loins 
still existed, the same sort of jitteryness he'd felt upon looking at Sirri 
in church this morning. If only there could be such a woman-a woman-child 
like Sirri-in his life! Someone so beautiful, so above him. Someone worthy 
of eternal worship and adoration. 

Confusedly he turned the page again. To find another such patrician 
brassiere model long-throated, distant, possessing diminutive breasts which 
were encased in a tailored, bandeau-type brassiere of white cotton. The 
alarm in his soul heightened, and he instantly turned the page again; to 
reveal a seated model, her legs in provocative stance as she prepared to 
pull a stocking onto one leg. Leaning slightly forward, her breasts caught 
in nylon cages that resembled nothing so much as the nosecones of artillery 
shells, her pose was such that Dwight found himself trembling again. The 
scrapbook was closed, then opened to the back. A harlot-type, dressed in a 
black, fishnet ensemble-brassiere, panties and rolled hose-immediately 
revulsed him, killed the tremors. Shod in black, patent-leather spikes her 
tits, her snatch plainly visible through the net, she seemed supremely 
available, a trait much needed by the agitated man at that moment. 

Again his eyes glazed, and Dwight regained composure of sorts. Closing the 
book, determined he was through with it for today, he breathed deeply, 
gradually regained a modicum of composure. He was more than a little 
chagrined, then, upon opening his eyes, staring at his reflection in the 
phalanx of floor-to-ceiling mirrors covering the entire west wall of the 
bedroom, to discover that Noreen, a thin, scheming smile on her lips, was 
standing directly behind him. Momentarily he froze, said nothing. Summoning 
up the appropriately scathing words with which to blast her intrusion, his 
eyes wandered, took in the spotlights cleverly concealed in the ceiling, the 
satin-draped, king-sized bed; then the mirrored wall hiding the massive 
wardrobe again. Next he appraised the sunken pit in which the bed resided, 
the white-carpeted risers-three steps in all-that descended into that 
voluptuary arena. 

Noreen spoke before he could, and patronizing disdain edging her voice, she 
said, "Having fun, darling? You and your adult bed-time stories?" 

"How long have you been standing there?" he snapped. 

"Long enough." She sneered. "You're in a very bad way this afternoon. Maybe 
we should take care of that." 

His voice blurred. "You've no right, Noreen." 

"No right? What do you mean? This is my bedroom as well as yours. I don't 
see as I need your permission to...." 

"All right, all right!" he growled. "Leave it go, will you? If there's 
something you want...." 

"My," she said, coming around the chair, poising herself on the edge of the 
boudoir's drop-off, "we're certainly touchy today, aren't we? You act like 
I've never caught you with your sick little book before. Really bad, huh? I 
don't know what you're sore about. If anyone's got the right to be angry, 
it's me. After that performance in church this morning...." 

"Turn it off, will you, Noreen? I've said I was sorry, that I'll never let 
it happen again. What more do you want?" 

Her eyes became slightly lewd. "You should know by now, darling. Sunday 
afternoons can get to be a drag at times. I thought ... since you're in such 
a state anyway ... A girl has to seize opportunity where she can." Then, 
blatantly, confidently, Noreen's eyes locking in her husband's, her smile a 
pagan challenge, she leaned slightly, grasped the hem of her skirt. Slowly, 
teasingly, she drew up the skirt in front, making an erotic taunt of the 
exposure. The skirt rose above her knees, then higher, to reveal the tops of 
the smoke-toned stockings she wore. The garter tabs came into view. Now her 
white, firm thighs, the black elastic straps leading up into the shadowed 
vale of her sex were revealed. Until, finally-strangest revelation of 
all-her skirts were about her waists, and her elegant belly, glossed 
tempestuously in black nylon, was on show. Black nylon of extremely strange 
design, in that her panties were uniquely altered at the heartland of her 
body to showcase the tawny delta of her cunt, the pink scramble of its lips 
and mouth. 

Unashamedly, Noreen's fingers spiraled on her belly, flicked at the 
partially opened orifice of her sex. A motion that caused her to hiss 
audibly, and a pain wince crossed her face. Bawdily she let one knee sag, 
ground her hips at him, an action that further exposed her slippery snatch. 
At 38, ten years younger than her husband, Noreen Adair was still an 
attractive female. Slim, conscious of diet and proper grooming, pampered, 
financially able to keep abreast of the latest fashions, she was a handsome 
woman, was the envy of many of Dwight's male friends and business 
associates. But, sad to say, familiarity does take deadly effect, and her 
impact upon her husband was less than devastating; she was no longer 
beautiful in his eyes; she no longer had the power to unfailingly incite 
desire within him. As she so blatantly attempted to do at this moment. There 
were times-But this was not one of them. 

An unmistakable shriveling of the soul registered on her face as she took a 
step toward Dwight, begged him to reach out, feel her. But he sat 
impassively, no flicker of desire lighting his eyes. "No, darling?" she 
smirked stiffly, attempting to gloss over her failure to allure, immediately 
letting her skirts fall, smoothing her dress in self-conscious flutters. 
"That doesn't race your motor any more? I can remember the time." She smiled 
wanly. "Shame. I even wore the ... dressed the way you like." 

Summarily the woman's mood changed; she became brisk, business-like. Drawing 
up a chair, she sat to one side. Leaning forward, her eyes incisive, 
unflinching, she said, "Well? Do we talk about it? 

It's that Sirri Stenson, isn't it? You've been pretty antsy lately ... 
almost impossible to live with. Getting to be that time again, isn't it?" 

"Please, Noreen. Let's drop it, shall we?" 

"No, darling, we won't drop it. Remember me? Old dog Tray? Ever loyal, ever 
faithful. The professional lecher's friend? We talk, Dwight. Before you 
really go off the deep end. You know it's quite impossible, don't you?" 

"What?" He shammed dullness. 

"Sirri Stenson, that's what. Forget her; don't waste another moment's 
thought on her. That one simply can't be. Those others, okay. They were 
older, they knew what they were doing. You could buy sluts like Jeanne 
Whitmore and Vonnie Schuyler. You could romance nitwits like Ivy Jicha. And 
that super-nit, Darlene Carter. But they were beyond the age of consent. 
Young, granted; but nevertheless smart enough to know how to handle your 
kind of weirdo affair." 

"There's no need for name-calling, Noreen." 

Her face worked agitatedly, revealed ineradicable hurt; she was momentarily 
diminished. "Oh, Dwight," she husked, "how can it be? After all this time? 
Any other woman would have given up by now; she wouldn't care any more. Much 
as I'm ashamed to admit it, I still do." Her voice caught. "I still care." 

"Nobody's asking you to, Noreen. I've told you I'd give you a divorce, 
consent to a separation anytime you asked." 

"I don't want a divorce," she choked, "I don't want to go away from you. I 
want to stay married to you. Can't you understand that? No matter what you 
do, I still love you ... still need you. What would I do as a divorced 
woman?" 

"You're still beautiful, Noreen. You'd find someone very quickly. Someone 
good, who'd treat you the way you...." 

"Beautiful?" She snorted. "But not beautiful enough; not something enough 
for you." Abruptly she wiped the mendicant expression from her face, 
replaced it with blase sophistication. "But that's neither here nor there, 
is it, Dwight? The fact is that we've got problems. Problems we've got to 
deal with before we bring this whole madhouse caving down on us." 

"Problems? What problems?" 

"Problems like that thing this morning. Whether you realize it or not, dear, 
things are getting out of hand. Do you think I'm blind? Or stupid, or 
something? Don't you think I know what's happening? If you can't see it, I 
can. Vonnie was thirty-one. Then came Jeanne. She was twenty-nine. God knows 
why I ever helped you with Ivy Jicha. I all but led her into this pervert's 
bedroom for you. She was twenty-five. Then Darlene was twenty-two. Ardyce is 
twenty-three." Her eyes narrowed vindictively. "Are you getting any 
messages, Dwight?" 

Dwight didn't answer. His jaw set in stubborn jut, he stared straight ahead, 
refused to discuss the impasse with his shrewish wife. 

"I'm telling you right now, Dwight," she snapped. "I'm not helping you with 
Sirri. She's not equipped to cope, do you understand? She's a spoiled, 
arrogant brat ... she'll ruin you, but good. 

God knows, women are born with intrigue in their blood, but they do need 
some seasoning. And Sirri's not it. Give her a couple years, perhaps. And 
then...." 

"No!" Dwight lashed out, surprising himself at his bitter vehemence. "I 
won't give her a couple years ... I won't have some pimple-faced snot of a 
boy handling her, playing dirty with her! I...." 

"So," Noreen sneered, "that is the way the wind blows, after all." Her 
expression turned wrathful. "I'm warning you, Dwight. Leave her alone. 
You'll ruin every last thing I ... we ... have left." Her exasperation 
choked her, and she leaped to her feet. "Oh, God, what's got into you, 
Dwight? I thought you'd outgrow this eventually. But no! If anything, you're 
worse than ever. You're almost fifty, Dwight, don't you realize that? Isn't 
it about time you grew up?" A panicky, grasping-at-straws expression fled 
across her face. Plucking at her skirt, partially raising it above her 
stockingtops once more, she plaintively said, "You're sure, Dwight? If I can 
help ... even in this small way." 

"No, Noreen. Thanks, but no thanks. I'm just not in the mood." 

"All right, you obstinate bastard!" she seethed. "Go look at your book then! 
Get your kicks that way, you damned pervert!" Then she stormed from the 
bedroom, the shame of outrage enraging her, clouding judgment. 

By the time Noreen had traversed the classic, winding staircase to the 
house's lower level, she'd recovered a stoic resignation of sorts. 
Whereupon, realizing that she had to do something to stem her husband's 
blind stubbornness, no matter how desperate, she sought to enlist the help 
of Ardyce, their outrageously paid, live-in maid. Finding the beautiful, 
cafe-au-lait Negress relaxing with the Sunday paper on the sun porch, she 
casually said, "I'm afraid Mr. Adair's in one of his states again. I've 
tried to talk to him, to ... do what I could to help, but he seemingly isn't 
interested. Perhaps you could help, Ardyce. You seem to have a ... calming 
effect on him. Would you? If you'd run up to your room, freshen up ... 
change ... you know what he likes. Please, Ardyce? I'll make it right with 
you." 

The pretty girl, slim and neat, possessed of lustrous eyes, softly flowing 
hair, stared up at her employer with an impassive, vaguely contemptuous 
look. Momentarily, she didn't speak. Now a smoldering blaze erupted in her 
eyes, a thing of victorious one-upmanship. She rose from the chaise lounge, 
smoothed her uniform, revealing, in the process, her extraordinary mammary 
development, the prominent roundings of her buttocks. "Yes, ma'am," she 
shammed docility. "I'll do just that. Anything you say." 

Watching the uppity nigger saunter from the room, her buttocks working in 
exaggerated waggle, Mrs. Dwight Adair knew nadir; she knew crucifying 
mortification. 

Abruptly, however, her mood changed. A sly, enigmatic grin on her lips, she 
shortly followed Ardyce, reclimbed the stairs herself. 

Dwight sensed extreme irritation when the bedroom door opened once more, and 
Ardyce, still dressed in her maid uniform, let herself in. Then as he saw 
her shit-eating grin, he snapped. "Yes, Ardyce. What is it?" 

"Mrs. Adair sent me. She said you was having one of your bad times. She 
thought I could...." 

"I told her I wasn't interested. What does she think she's pulling? Am I 
some robot you just wind up and turn on?" 

"I don't know about that, Mr. Adair," Ardyce replied, her salacious grin not 
fading for an instant, "I just thought I'd do my best." Upon which, standing 
before him now, she duplicated her mistress' ploy, slowly commenced working 
her skirt up in front, revealing her black-stockinged legs, her bronze-toned 
thighs, the very prominent bulge of her pussy itself. Her hips rotating 
slightly, her stomach subtly socking in and out, she revealed another 
duplication of her mistress' behavior. In that she too wore black panties, 
exact match for Noreen's, similarly butchered in the crotch so that they 
revealed the wiry tangle of black hair on her cunt, the pink folds of her 
machine itself. "You sure you ain't interested, Mr. Adair?" she said, moving 
closer to him. 

"I told Noreen no. The answer's the same for you, Ardyce. I do have some 
self-respect, after all!" 

Ardyce's grin became absolutely obscene. "Do you now, Dwight, honey?" she 
teased. Upon which she bent her knees, splayed her legs just wide enough so 
she could slide one of her fingers into the depths of her snatch. "We'll see 
about that." Now she came closer to him, waved her dripping, malodorous 
finger beneath his nose, making pantomime of popping it into his mouth. "Can 
you say no to this, Dwight, lover?" 

Momentarily he was revulsed. But then, the very audaciousness, the barbarity 
of her approach intrigued him, and he was instantly undone. Besides, there 
was the further goad of vengeance. Still angry with Noreen, he thought it 
would be a fitting retaliation upon her if he should allow this Negro bitch 
to succeed where she had failed. To this effect he reached forward, caught 
Ardyce's entire pussy in his hand, clenched down on it until she squealed. 
"Okay, you black bitch," he wheezed. "You win. I want some. Get out of those 
clothes. But your undies...." 

"I know," Ardyce grumbled, her eyes flashing. "F'r Christ's sakes! After all 
this time...." 

She barely glanced up from the sunken pit where she bounced on the bed when 
Dwight-naked except for one aberrated item-started down toward her. Briefly 
her eyes locked on his lean, still-muscular body, only a trace of a pot 
visible at his thickening middle, before they slid to his hips, settled on 
the red, nylon, bikini panties he wore. It was a tight, figure-hugging item, 
sporting an appliqued sequin daisy on the right hip, a panty that was now 
grotesquely distorted by the stiff slab of pecker that rode proudly behind 
that nylon screen. "Oh, lordee," she sighed bemusedly as he came toward her, 
"if this ain't the craziest, ofay family I ever did work for...." 

For perhaps ten minutes Dwight kept the obliging Negress moving about that 
square area of lust, striding the rim like it was a vaudeville runway, 
coming down two stairs, going up one. Sitting, standing, reclining. At his 
direction she assumed outrageous poses-legs straddled, back arched, black 
brassiered breasts offered in her hands-with the capper being a painful 
stance wherein Ardyce caught the heels of her spicy pumps in the carpeted 
edge of one riser, while her back rested on the one behind. It was an 
extreme position that forced her knees wide, pushed her heaving belly and 
cunt up, caused the pink, salivating lips to grin widely, give him 
devastating look into the center of her black bitch heart. For long moments 
Dwight prowled the room, taking in the kinky sight from every angle, using 
the mirrored wall to their right to good advantage, studying her reflected 
self with equal delight, his excitement becoming more intense by the moment. 

Forcing Ardyce to maintain the position for a long time, he crawled up the 
stairs, a demented glitter in his eyes. The Negress was just about to 
complain about her painful position, when she heard the liquid click of her 
employer's lips, shortly felt the maddening tickle of his tongue as he 
licked her foot, on the toes of her pumps. Gradually he worked his way up 
her silk-glossed ankles. Now, at her calves, he circumnavigated her knees, 
and Ardyce writhed ecstatically, groaned her extreme pleasure at her 
ascendancy over Whitey. But it was as nothing when she felt his lips tickle 
her inner thighs, his tongue flattening on her most erogenous flesh, closing 
in on the palpitating mush of her slit itself. Her hips bucked, and she 
released guttural, animalistic cries when she felt his tongue slide inside 
her there, vibrate and loll along the walls of her vagina, his nose tickling 
her clitoris as he seemingly fought to drive that juttering sabre of flesh 
deeper into her hole. Brief moments later he withdrew, commenced to suck and 
nibble and lick her clitoris itself, his tongue alternating between flat, 
fleshrasping lickings and rapier thrusts to the throbbing tip of her passion 
button. Ardyce's gasps became even more throaty, even more aboriginal, and 
verging on her initial orgasm, she became oblivious to the discomfort of her 
position. 

Her first sizzling, cursing, argot-smothered climax out of the way, Ardyce 
begged Dwight to desist momentarily. "I can't stand two of those in a row, 
Dwight, honey," she gasped. "You know that by now. Up here now. Come and 
lick Ardyce's tits now." Then the tortured position still gladly retained, 
Ardyce suffered Dwight's lips on her nipples, an attention that was 
facilitated by the fact that the brassiere was also butchered, open at the 
tips so that her pink, frustro-conical tits shone alluringly upon the 
jam-packed cushions of black nylon. While he licked and nipped and sucked 
the nubs to painful tightness, Ardyce contented herself by pulling his great 
cob from the panties, honing its slimy tip on her clitoris, alternately 
inserting its tip into the vestibule of her gash. 

Moments later Dwight came over her head, and resting his knees on the riser 
beneath her back, he gently fed his prick between her greedy, eager lips. As 
he worked the white hank back and forth into her mouth-deep, shallow, 
deeper-he gloried in the contrasts of color beneath him: Ardyce's brown 
face, her palely-lipsticked lips, the vibrant coral of her tongue, the white 
of her teeth-all contrasted to the comparative pallor of his cock-the 
tableau vwant filled him with an exalting sense of omnipotence. 

Then it was time for the final seizure. And as he poppingly pulled himself 
from her sucking lips, immediately sought to crawl upon her belly, take her 
then and there, Ardyce protested. "Not here, man. On the bed. Please. My 
back's about broke in two." 

But by then Dwight was beyond recall. Brutality, an atypical surge of sadism 
rampant within him, he refused to honor her request. "No, you black bitch!" 
he husked. "Right here. If I move, I'm gonna paint the walls. Here!" 

"Okay," she relented grudgingly, "but make it quick. Drive that meat into 
me. I'm so hot I could die." Then, as he positioned himself between her 
yawning, brown thighs, introduced the tip into the greasy folds of her 
yearning pussy, she gasped: "Do it, you fuck! You gorgeous ofay fuck! Jugg 
me! Ram that grease gun home." 

Dwight growled thickly, his lust seemingly rupturing his veins at that 
moment. Crowding forward, he buried his rod within her brown box with all 
his strength, the impact, as their pelvises rammed, squeezing a loud, joyous 
grunt from Ardyce. Then, kneeling between her legs, partially reclining on 
her belly, his fingers cruelly plucking and dialing the hard nipples of her 
breasts, he began to drive his prick into her like some runaway pile driver. 

Ardyce's screams of ecstasy carried muffledly to Noreen where she crouched 
in the closet, the entire, debauched scene clearly visible to her where 
she'd had one sheet of the mirrored doors secretly replaced with one made of 
two-way glass. It was only a matter of entering the wardrobe in the bedroom 
adjoining their own, sliding aside a concealed panel she'd battered through 
with her own hands, groping her way through some of her husband's fetishist 
gear, and she was afforded an unhindered view into the madhouse amphitheater 
that passed for a bedroom. Not more than five feet away from her, Dwight 
fucked Ardyce with vicious abandon, and she felt as if she could reach out 
and touch them then and there. A deranged light in her eyes, Noreen stared 
avidly; she gloried in the contorted expression on her husband's face, the 
way he watched himself so concentratedly in the other side of the glass. 

As always, when she conducted these secret vigils, Noreen couldn't help but 
become sexually swayed herself. Until now, bolstering herself against the 
wall, her knees wide, the butchered panties giving her instant access to her 
throbbing cunt, she drove her right hand between her legs, sought to affect 
head start by sadistically pinching and twisting her distended clitoris. And 
now, her fingers dipping in and out of her slit, painting the raw, screaming 
pearl with her own vaginal fluids, Noreen worked faster; she felt the first 
spine-kinking tensions of orgasm begin to grow. She wanted to scream and 
howl, but somehow she stifled her cries. A blood-red glare formed behind her 
eyelids, phlegm seemingly bubbled in her throat. Now her finger-her blessed 
finger-sliced faster, still faster. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

Dwight Adair's sexual predelictions-like his wealth and community 
influence-had not come about through any great conscious effort on his own 
part. Suffice it to say that both had been more or less wished upon him. 
When Dwight was 34, his industrialist-empire father (Candlelight Petroleum 
Products) had died, and had, in the process invested his only son in the 
multi-millionaire mantle of his image. The transition had not been hard to 
take: Dwight-always a pampered child, dominated by his positivist, 
conservative parents-had been duly trained in the business, and the exchange 
of reins had been made with no noticeable fuss whatsoever. Life had gone on 
as always. Luxury and status and power-the very wealth and power to purchase 
another person's soul if such should convenience the Adair clan-had accrued 
to him quite naturally; indeed Dwight was often to wonder why the rest of 
the world didn't live at as lofty a plateau as he did, why everyone didn't 
embrace the libertarian values he did. Money was something he simply didn't 
think about. It was alwavs there, and whether it was five-dollars to tip a 
cabby, or five-thousand-dollars for a weekend in New York, the total impact 
of wealth never really registered in his consciousness. 

Quite understandably, a thoughtless, stressless milieu like the one Dwight 
was born to could not help but engender a uniquely emancipated outlook 
toward fleshly joys within him. Thus it was that marriage-to one Noreen 
Whalen in 1950, a parent-engineered union-should quickly pall, and that 
Dwight, pampered, accustomed to self-gratification from his earliest years, 
should seek more diverse outlets for his sensual urges even within the 
confines of matrimony. Noreen had been twenty, a lovely, exquisite-figured, 
cultured, intelligent and materialistic, venally-practical creature. 

Which attention to social punctilio, preoccupation with status, security and 
wealth had heightened, if anything, during their eighteen years of marriage. 
It was the only thing-Dwight discounting all her florid declarations of love 
undying as so much sentimental twaddle-that kept them together. All her 
maudlin entreaties to the contrary, Dwight was positive she lived only for 
her exalted status as Mrs. Dwight Adair, pillar of Benton Falls society, 
that she tolerated his endless peccadilloes and infidelities only because 
such was all part of her master plan. She would outlive him. 

Thus all the privileges of the Adair name and its attendant wealth, would 
one day fall to her. Then, in the winter of her life, she could bask in past 
glories, rein as dowager queen over the insular, Midwestern city in which 
they lived; all the indignities of her married life could be forgotten, 
swathed in billowy soubriquets of saccharin recollection of: "My beloved, 
late-departed husband." It was for this uncertain future that Noreen 
suffered this denigrated present. 

Almost from the outset Noreen had accepted his abnormal sexual tastes; she 
had dutifully attended him in same, shrugged them off as a childish fancy. 
They were anomalies that would soon pass, make way for the more settled, 
classic marriage virtues. Indeed, Dwight had been more than happy with his 
marriage during their first five years (he was entirely unhappy with it 
now), for there had been novelty and flesh-crawling excesses without end. 
Beautiful in mien and figure, Noreen had been realization of his wildest 
dreams; she had become love object worthy of his most extravagant 
worshippings. Then there were times, Noreen seeking to cure her husband by 
outdoing him, when she became an absolute Satan in the bedroom; she left 
Dwight gasping for breath, pleading for surcease. 

But, alas, as the folksong goes: "Love grows old ... love grows cold," and 
Dwight was driven by a merciless need for new conquests, for fresh victims 
to his aberrated lusts. Even here Noreen had indulged him, looking the other 
way during times of direst stress. Later, despairing of ever changing her 
husband, she'd even been recruited as a procuress herself. Dwight in a 
dangerous, irresponsible mental state for a time there, there had been no 
alternative. Either that or risk the disgrace of a disastrous community 
scandal. To this effect she'd promoted a veritable platoon of comely maids 
for him, had virtually served as overseer at some of those sessions. Now it 
was she who laid groundwork for Dwight's liaisons with her prettier female 
friends, she leading them to believe she was completely in the dark about 
the fact that her husband followed through, conducted endless, erotic gambol 
with them at the elite penthouse apartment he maintained in downtown Benton 
Falls for just that purpose. 

All of which caused Dwight-during certain mellow moods-to call down 
blessings on Noreen's name. For, though her interests were wholly mercenary, 
he was sure that he might have done much, much worse in his selection of a 
wife. Other females would have taken an exhorbitant settlement, and run, a 
defection that would have left his life in a horrible muddle. Yes, Noreen 
was a good wife, a helpmate in the truest sense of the word, and there were 
times when he could become sentimental about her. He still enjoyed her in 
bed, and those nights when there wasn't fresh flesh to be explored, he and 
Noreen had some rousing copulatory bouts; she was still possessed of little 
coquettries, mannerisms and items of demonic finesse that none of his other 
women, had they lived to be a hundred, would ever have stumbled upon. 

And from whence had come this inextinguishable partiality toward fetishism, 
toward this bondage of silk? Again, the silk taste was part of his 
inheritance, a gift from over-indulgent parents. Or so Dwight 
self-righteously shifted the blame. There had been a maid at home when he 
was a boy, a charming, dark-eyed, prematurely concupiscient girl of eighteen 
named Delphine. A maid to whom, seemingly, was entrusted all minutiae 
involved in his care. His mother and father being very social people, they 
were constantly away from home, and there was limitless time for the 
impressionable boy and the sexually-budding girl to get to know one another. 
How well no one-save for Noreen-had ever found out. 

Dwight a very selfish, childish sort of boy, even at thirteen, accustomed to 
the intimacy from childhood, had always enjoyed being bathed. If not this, 
then someone must at least be present to scrub his back. Delphine had 
demurred at the propriety of this chore, but Dwight being the prince of the 
household, her protests had been ignored. That had been the start of it. 

A chance pass at his slack prick in the tub one night had thrilled Dwight, 
as had Delphine's soft lavings on his back, the sweet aura of her cologne 
intermixed with her woman smell. Moments later his prick had been standing 
up in the tub like a minor periscope, and he'd become apprised of sexual 
awareness for the first time in his life. An innocent conversation had 
followed concerning the phenomenon, and while both participants were 
embarrassed, they pursued it nonetheless. As result of their discussion, 
Delphine had saucily played with his prick and balls, had become overly 
excited at the flushed trance which her sport induced in Dwight. "Let's see 
if you're a man yet, darling," she'd chirruped. Whereupon she'd wrapped her 
pretty, slim fingers about the tiny, hairless tube had commenced to pump it 
for all she was worth. Very shortly, Dwight groaningly immobilized, unable 
to resist her even if he'd been inclined, the girl had been rewarded by as 
pretty an arcing of seminal discharge as anyone could ask for. 

For a week then, every night at bathtime-it never dawning on Dwight that 
there was reciprocal female equivalent, totally oblivious to the fact that 
Delphine might have needs of her own-the masturbation became a regular rite. 
But one night, the house entirely at their disposal, the masturbationary 
procedures attended to, with Delphine in a particularly aroused state, a 
crossroads had loomed. And in her bedroom, Dwight's underdeveloped prick 
hard again, he sitting naked on her bed, Delphine sought release of her own. 
Would Dwight like to see her naked body? Would he like to touch her, to play 
with her? They could have such wonderful fun together. 

Admitting that he would, he sat as captive audience while Delphine, reveling 
in the realization of her snug, secure sex-experimentation laboratory, had 
made an extraordinarily teasing show of undressing herself. It being the 
first time in his life Dwight had ever seen a woman's underwear (except for 
those few furtive times he caught his mother en dishabille), the exhibition 
was to have devastatingly far-reaching effect upon him. Delphine had 
obviously been planning forward to Dwight's final indoctrination into the 
mysteries of love for some time, and she purposely wore her newest, most 
enticing scanties. A red silk brassiere, red panties, a black garter belt to 
cinch the black silk stockings (nylon unheard of at that time) that were 
part of her maid's uniform, were revealed in teasing, tormenting fashion, 
until Dwight was delivered to a virtual fit of choking desire. 

An unexpected detour had taken place at that moment, in that Delphine, 
worked to intolerable pitch of sexuality, by then, moved by sight of 
Dwight's straining, drooling, baby prick, had flung herself upon the bed 
still dressed in her undies, had immediately gathered the adorable stem, 
dropped her mouth onto it in crooning frenzy, had commenced sucking it 
dedicatedly. A homage which, taking into account Dwight's sexual agitation, 
had caused him to discharge almost immediately into her mouth. It was an 
accident Delphine hadn't anticipated, but nevertheless she made the best of 
it, and without a moment's hesitation, she swallowed his watery muck, 
commenced to suck and lick him clean, managing, in the bargain, to revive 
his penis as well. 

The vision of the beautiful, gypsy-like naiad, clad in her silky finery as 
her head bobbed and tugged on his screaming prick, was to haunt Dwight the 
longest day he lived. 

Afterwards, of course, there were the customary options of sexual love, and 
Dwight became a fantastically apt pupil as Delphine instructed him in the 
endless varieties of fucking, coached him to techniques and prowess some men 
never acquire. In time she taught him to suck her cunt, to torment her 
clitoris, to lick and nip her breasts, belly and buttocks; she even 
introduced him to the joys of anal byplay, in the end, adjudging that his 
baby stalk would be relatively painless, even going so far as to teach him 
how to sodomize her. But always, no matter how outre their sexual exploits 
might become, there was the silk, the allure of Delphine's lingerie and 
hosiery, the fascination of her shoes. Without fail he insisted that 
Delphine let him caress her body through the thrilling film, let him kiss 
and lick her nipples, her legs, her belly and cunt through that slippery 
veil. Until, eventually, the preliminary adoration became more important to 
Dwight than the ultimate act of slithering his tiny cock into her slimy 
hole, discharging a hot, reeking salvo of his muck there itself. 

One day, their time limitless, both in a gay, mischievous mood, Delphine 
sought to affect novelty into their love by dressing Dwight in her pretty 
underthings. He much of a size with the diminutive maid, they found that her 
things fit him almost perfectly. Granted, they must stuff the brassiere with 
tissue paper, his prick must be crowded back between his legs; Dwight found 
the act of squeezing his feet into her cheap, flashy pumps difficult, but at 
the end he was a synthesized female. As he paraded and posed clumsily before 
the giggling Delphine, he knew, for the first time in his life, that evil 
clutch in his groin that silk against his own flesh could induce. As of that 
moment he knew he would never be the same again. 

Of such playful sport are fetishists born. 

It was one of the saddest days of Dwight's life when Delphine left the 
service of his parents. He was fifteen at the time, and suffered the 
bleakest despair, the most crushing sense of betrayal when Delphine didn't 
reappear at the house one day. Investigation revealed that she'd run off 
with one of the local bully-boys, a machinist employed at his father's 
plant, who, apparently, had got the amoral doxy in a "family way." 

Even now, sitting alone in his bedroom-ultimate sanctum sanctorum of late, 
seemingly, Dwight couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness in his heart to 
remember Delphine. To think, he mused, after all these years. After all the 
women ingenues and tireless wantons alike-I've had in my lifetime. That I 
can still remember Delphine. He sighed heavily, slumped further into his 
chair, the sense of disquiet in his soul becoming oppressive. He laughed 
sardonically. What did it all mean? What is life all about, anyway? A farce, 
pointless farce. Nothing more. He took a deep sip of the Scotch sitting at 
his elbow, sank into further mediations, allowing the elegiac strains of the 
piped-in Vaughan Williams to wash over him. A monstrous ennui suffocated 
him, and he felt alone, utterly drained. 

Thus it was that he almost welcomed the intrusion, as Noreen, dressed in a 
flowing, violet peignoir, her feet still in the sexy, black pumps she'd worn 
throughout the evening, entered the bedroom, advanced directly upon him. 
Seeing the pagan glint in her eyes, the fey smile, he was further innundated 
with boredom. Noreen would make her try again, he concluded. And why, why in 
heaven's name can't she wait? Why can't she let me make the first move? he 
rumbled to himself. Because another voice immediately retorted, if she did, 
she'd probably never get serviced. Grudgingly, Dwight admitted that it was 
so. He hadn't been very considerate of Noreen lately. And God knew, she was 
a healthy, sensual woman, possessed of certain needs. Needs which were, now, 
she in the prime of her sexual life, more dominating than ever before. 

A strange sense of benevolence, intermixed with a lingering sexual 
stimulation which his just-concluded introspections had triggered, suffused 
him now. And why not? It won't take much time to get into the mood as things 
stand now. The least I can do for Noreen. That insidious, old shoe sort of 
affection was back, and he thought that sex with his wife would be rather 
nice at that. After all, Noreen knew the ropes; she could be emminently 
expertise and satisfying at times. He shouldn't punish her for the fact that 
she wasn't a promiscuous woman, that she hadn't once, during his long career 
of inconstancy, chosen to retaliate by engaging in seamy, back-street 
affairs of her own. By and large, she deserved better, much better. 

"You look so morose, darling," she said brightly, a cute pixie tonight, as 
she held her hands behind her back, shielding a surprise. "What is it?" 

"Nothing, my dear. That time of the night, I guess. My you look pretty 
tonight. The peignoir. Is it new?" 

"Thank you for noticing, Dwight. You like it?" 

"Yes. It's quite fetching." 

She knelt before him, her eyes mischievous. "Fetching enough to investigate 
the mysteries beneath?" 

He smiled. "I imagine I could be prevailed upon." 

Her expression darkened. "Still thinking about Sirri?" 

"I expect I am. I'm afraid I've got the bug. I'm sorry, Noreen, truly I am. 
But you know how I am when I get that way." 

"Yes," she said, her smile turning rueful, "I'm afraid I do. I don't suppose 
any special effort on my part ... perhaps Ardyce and I could make it a 
cooperative effort ... would help. It can get devilishly sticky, you know." 

He sighed ponderously. "I realize that. But what's to be done? When a man's 
been used to having his own way all his life." 

"But can't you see the handwriting on the wall, dear? All good things have 
to come to an end sooner or later." 

"I dread to think of it. Just the thought of growing that old throws me into 
a virtual fit of despondency. I want to scream, commit the most atrocious 
acts of mayhem." 

"That's why you must start tapering off. Now, while there's still time. If 
you line yourself up with a small harem of presentable, but trustworthy old 

... friends, if you exclude risks ... The transition can be made gracefully, 
you know." 

"You're a sweetheart, Noreen. Do you know that? Sometimes I don't know how 
you tolerate me. All these years...." 

"How many times must I tell you? I love you, dear. You should know that by 
now. I only want for you to be happy." 

"Even to the point of helping me with Sirri?" 

Noreen frowned. "I'd hoped you'd listen to reason." Now it was her time to 
sigh deeply. "I suppose there's no other way. If that's what you want. It 
will be dreadfully dangerous." 

"I thought you unequivocally refused last week." 

"I did. I was terribly hurt. But I've had time to reconsider. It could be 
managed, I suppose. I should intervene myself. Before you make a miserable 
botch of it. Although, as I said ... it can be extremely tricky." 

"You are a good old girl, Noreen." His eyes brightened, and his heart 
lifted. "But how? How do you propose to swing it?" 

"I haven't decided yet. There are several angles. It all depends on how you 
cooperate with me." 

"Cooperate with you?" 

Her smile turned licentious. "Surely, darling, you must understand: You be 
good to me; I'll be good to you." 

"I will, darling," he breathed, already excited, his cannon unlimbering 
inside his trousers, "I promise. Tonight. But about Sirri. How...." 

"I'll get her and her mother here on some pretext. Doris Stenson's been 
dying to see the inside of this house for years. That will give you time to 
sound Sirri out. Ater all, you have to contribute something. If all else 
fails, there's always money. Avaricious as young people are nowadays ... " 

"That seems rather crude." 

"As I said, I haven't really put my mind to it yet." 

"When? I mean, when will you invite them?" 

"I haven't decided." Her eyes glittered. "It all depends." 

"On what?" 

"On how good my daddy is to me between now and then." 

Dwight pulled Noreen forward, placed a hard, impatient kiss on her lips. 
"Right now, then," he hissed. "We'll start this very moment." 

Upon which Noreen brought her hands from behind her back, proffered a small, 
tastefully wrapped package. "I was rather hoping you'd say that. See? I came 
prepared. For you, Dwight. Go ahead, open it up." 

Puzzledly Dwight tore open the gift-ribbons, scrabbled inside the wrappings. 
And as he found the gauzy hose, held it up, revealing a panty hose in his 
size, navy blue, with a petit-point pattern, a scanty pair of blue and 
gray-striped, rayon panties to go with it, Noreen said: "I was shopping for 
something unusual for myself this afternoon; I thought you'd like a set for 
yourself." With that she undid the peignoir ties at the throat, and flung it 
open to reveal herself dressed in a stunningly-pointed rayon brassiere in 
the same vertically-striped pattern, her subtly opulent belly contained in 
matching panties, the overlaying panty hosiery. It was an enchanting 
ensemble, one which combined beautifully with her black, saber-toed pumps, 
caused Dwight's heart to instantly race. And as Noreen rose, assumed 
provocative pose: "Do you like it?" 

"I like it very much, darling," he gulped. "It's beautiful ... it makes you 
look irresistibly desirable. Look, I'm hard as a rock already." 

The peignoir drifted to the floor, puddling at Noreen's feet. Now she 
reached for Dwight; helped him to his feet. "Come, baby. Get on the bed. 
I'll get you dressed." Docilely, trembling hard, Dwight shambled forward, 
the clutch of net and rayon held tightly in his hand. While he stood before 
the bed, commenced tugging off his jacket and shirt, Noreen drifted about 
the room like some conspiratorial wraith; she extinguished the lights, 
glided to the control panel built into the bed's headboard, clicked two, 
small, electric-blue baby-spots to life in the ceiling. The beams 
crisscrossed, fell upon the bed proper, made the crimson, satin sheets 
glitter and writhe like silken snakes as Noreen now pulled the spread back. 

When Dwight had stripped himself down to the plain, black panties he wore, 
Noreen advanced upon him, pushing him onto the bed. "Here, pet," she 
breathed, "let me." Whereupon she hovered over him, matter-of-factly slid 
his flimsy briefs down his legs, ended with a brief, loving obeisance where 
she licked the shimmering love oil from the tip of his distended pecker, 
fleetingly tortured its swollen head with lips, tongue and teeth. Shortly 
she had worked the new panties onto him, making playful show of trying to 
tuck the offending prick back between his legs so that it wouldn't tent the 
front of his panties so hideously. Each time it spanged up, she gigglingly 
retucked it. 

Now she arranged the legs of the panty hose, fastidiously began running them 
up his shaved legs, smoothing and stretching the garment as she did so. The 
panty was in a bikini cut, rose high on his hips (as did the underlying 
panty itself), formed a double knit cache for his still struggling prick and 
testicles. Noreen took special pains fitting the leotard in the crotch, saw 
to it that the stockings fit snugly everywhere. "You have the prettiest legs 
for a man, Dwight," she complimented as she did so. "Some women would give 
their right arms for legs as pretty." Again she leaned, gently nibbled the 
bulge of his cock through the double layer of nylon. "There," she said, 
"done. Now look at yourself in the mirror." 

Dwight dreamily rose, circled the bed. Where, positioning himself in an 
especially provocative beam of light, he stood before the banks of mirrors 
in preening, twisting pride, a poseur who affected several erotic stances, 
ended by actually basketing and clutching his genitalia with fervid hands. 
An attention that drove Dwight deeper into deviate's fit, and ragged 
whimpers of lust broke from him. "Oh, darling," he wheezed, "you're so good 
to me. I don't deserve ... You know just what I want. Oh, please...." He 
shuddered, came completely unglued. "You know what I want...." 

Noreen's eyes flared with demonic blaze. Her voice harsh-and yet somehow 
kind, pitying as well-she said, "Yes, darling. I know what you want." Her 
tone became almost as eerie as his. "You'll get what you want...." Upon 
which she started up from the bed, went to sit on one of the carpeted 
risers, almost as Ardyce had sat on Sunday afternoon. Outside of the direct 
glare of the spotlights, her body took on deeper blue shadowings, the silky 
conoids of her breasts sent back phosphorescent scintilla, further dazzling 
Dwight. "Over here, darling. Come to Noreen. Come show Noreen how much you 
love her." 

"Please, please...." he babbled, hobbling toward her, falling to the floor 
like some shimmering snake, crawling up to incline after her. "Command me 
... command...." 

"I'll command you, all right, you rotten filth," she husked. "I know just 
what you want." She raised one foot, poised a deadly spiked heel in his 
face. "That's far enough, slime. Kiss it, do you hear? The sole, the heel." 
Then, as Dwight unhesitatingly complied, ministered to first one offered 
shoe, then the other: "The toes now. Suck them. Lick them. Suck, you crawly 
pervert!" An expression of addled bliss on his features, Dwight again 
complied, and his head rose and fell, his mouth consuming the entire toe of 
each pump, much as if he were fellating it. 

Then he must remove Noreen's shoe; he must suck her toes through her 
stocking; one by one, then collectively. Now the other foot. He must crowd 
as much of her foot into his mouth as was humanly possible; he must suckle 
and suckle. Until her foot was sopping wet, the sick noises he made 
resembling a farrow of pigs at feeding time. Once more her shoes were 
slavishly replaced upon her feet. Whereupon Dwight rose to his knees, 
gathered both her feet to his naked chest, commenced to press the hard, 
sharp tips of her heels into the flesh of his chest and abdomen. A beatified 
expression distorting his face, he drove the torturing projectiles as deeply 
into his skin as he could endure, releasing them only with a barking 
ejaculation of agony. Into his stomach now, with the man lapsing further 
into frenzy, attempting to jam the leather daggers into his lower belly, the 
bundle of his masculinity as well. 

At this Noreen forestalled him, brought her legs back. But when he still 
fought to punish himself, she let fury craze her voice. "Enough, Dwight! 
Enough, do you hear! My legs now. Love my legs." She endured his tickling 
lips, his swabbing tongue on her ankles, calves, knees and thighs as best 
she could, knowing all the while how dearly Dwight savored this segment of 
the masochistic rite. But when she could endure the maddening adoration no 
longer, she seethed: "My tits, you fucker! Come suck my tits." A creaky 
whimper issuing from his throat, he eagerly came over her, gnawed and licked 
her swollen nipples, tugged and gobbled them, taking as much of each breast 
into his mouth as he possibly could, his slobbering ministrations soon 
soaking the satin brassiere through and through. While, throughout, he 
watched himself, as often as he could, in the voyeur mirrors to his right. 
Until, now, at long last: 

"Noreen's cunt now, you swine. Her stinking, slimy cunt! Go get it. Suck it! 
Suck it until Noreen tells you to stop." Again an eager bark broke from 
Dwight, and dropping back, arranging her knees over his shoulders, he forced 
her back on the riser, brought her hips high in the air, positioned her 
vulnerably exposed snatch so that it loomed irresistibly in his face. With a 
harsh growl, he buried his mouth in the odorous cache, began to gnaw and 
lick and suck her through her undies with fanatic fervor. Once more the 
liquid suckings carried in the totally-insulated boudoir, overriding his 
mounting growls of pleasure. 

Shortly, despite the double tier of nylon protecting her cunt-ultimate 
testimony to Dwight's proficiency-Noreen felt the lips of her vagina open; 
she felt his tongue drive the nylon in on the sensitive surface of that 
mouth. Then his tongue was flattening itself in tireless swipe against the 
sopping crotch of her panties, plastering the material against the swollen 
bud of her clitoris. It was a mind-unhinging sensation-subtle, yet 
ruthlessand Noreen dug her nails into his forearms where he balanced her 
hips; she loosed a top-of-the-voice scream to announce the intensity of the 
orgasm Dwight had just induced. "More," she shrieked as he hesitated, "give 
me more! Make me pop again. Lick, you fucker! Lick me raw!" 

Twice more she erupted, the climaxes making hot shards of exploding meteors 
backfire inside her brain, dragging even louder, more ragged cries of 
victory from her lungs. And now: "The bed, you crawly filth! Bring the 
scissors." Moments later she kicked and writhed upon the glittery panoply of 
restless satin, while Dwight rummaged in a bed stand drawer for the vastly 
essential scissors. A tremor paralyzed Noreen as he returned, pulled the 
tips of the brassiere away from her nipples, snipped the points of the bra 
off, the fear that he would go berserk one of these times looming large in 
her mind. Abruptly she pulled his suckling lips from the stone-hard buds, 
ordained that he should tailor her new ensemble in the crotch as well. Again 
there was the moment of held breath, as the scissors went snip-snip. 
Suddenly she felt cold air on the dripping lips of her cunt. 

"Now!" she gulped victoriously. "The real thing! Suck Noreen's greasy cunt 
again. Like you meant it. Lick her ass. Do it, do you hear!" Her hands dug 
into Dwight's crotch as she felt that first searing, delectable swipe of his 
tongue across her clitoris, and she squeezed his balls, clenched his prick 
until hot grunts bombarded the erogenous petals of her most holy, most 
sanctified snatch. "Your tongue!" she seethed. "In, oh in! As far as it'll 
go. Put your finger up my ass. Darling, darling ... I'm coming already." Her 
voice shattered explosively. "I'm coming, coming, coming ... Lick! Suck! 
Suck me silly! Your finger! Shove it in and out! Yes, that's exquisite. Suck 
Noreen's cunt! Make her comecome-come come...." 

A guttural yawp abraded her throat then, proof positive of the totality of 
her orgasm. "Gorgeous," she praised. "Gorgeous, gorgeous ... Yes, lick me 
more ... lick my asshole...." 

Short moments later the sado-masochist segment of their passion was over, 
and Noreen feeling she would die if she wasn't immediately filled with yards 
and yards of cock, she pulled away from Dwight, pushed him onto his back. 
Then it was her turn to alter his new undies, oblivious to the damage she 
inflicted, she firmly intending that the ensembles be one-shot, throw-away 
items from the outset. Noe she drew Dwight's monstrous cudgel from that 
sopping slit, even going so far as to pluck out his testicles as well, 
arranging them just so before she swooped down, consumed the slimy mast with 
avid lips, restless tongue. 

But Dwight could only stand a little of the barbaric homage, and now, with a 
guttural growl, he tore her head away, came over her, drove his pecker 
through the tattered opening in her undies with one cruel stroke. They both 
groaned their delight as the long, fat torpedo was rammed home, as he 
seemingly hit bottom, sprang back, hit bottom again. "Fuck it, darling!" 
Noreen grunted as she raised her silken legs, wrapped them about his flanks. 
The slippery heels of her shoes slid along Dwight's hose, snagged here and 
there before they came to rest in the concavity of his knee, where they dug 
mercilessly, both savoring the voluptuary dividend the slide of silk against 
silk presented to the utmost. Just as they savored the slide of flesh inside 
of flesh-a sensation akin to being immersed in molten glass, in a viscous 
broth, a broth so thick it clung, veritably milked the assaulting member. 

Dwight sucked her nipples as he fucked; he chewed his wife's lips; he drove 
his tongue halfway down her throat. Until now, at her specific command, he 
oiled his finger with the overflow muck careening down the crack of her 
buttocks, he corkscrewed it into her anus, deep, deeper, deepest. Their 
bodies rocked, pistoned, ground, devoured. Dwight became aware of Noreen's 
staccato outbursts of ecstasy, the way the inner muscles of her pussy wrung 
his cock, as she came again-and again-and again-in machine-gun sequence 
seemingly. Then his finger drove deeper within her, gathered that thin 
septum to his raping prick; he almost felt the throb of his hot sperm 
battering against the other side of that membranous wall. He cursed, howled 
raggedly just before he plummeted toward the fiery cauldron of his climax: 
"You fuck! You magnificent fuck!" 

Now the haunted bedroom was dark, and the Adairs supposedly slept. Only one 
member of the corrupt team was still awake. And lying stiffly beside her 
husband, staring into the darkness, Noreen Adair suffered a most bitter 
sense of despair and defeat. Perverted their love might be, she admitted. 
But at least it was good; it was sufficient; it had purged her of damnable 
tensions, at least temporarily. And so long as it was a private matter, kept 
within these four walls, the secret of husband and wife, all was well. But 
once another party intervened, once their secret was cast to the four winds. 
Fury and frustration rocked her, and she had all she could to do keep from 
screaming aloud. 

Sufficient? she castigated. To whom? To me perhaps. But to Dwight? No, it 
hadn't been enough; she could tell. The ugly thing was staring again; there 
was absolutely no way on earth to stop it. 

And what was she going to do now? Noreen died a hundred, tortured deaths at 
the irrefutable realization that now, at long last: 

Armageddon-terrifying, grisly, absolutely unavoidable-loomed. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

As it turned out, three more weeks were to pass before Dwight-aided by 
Noreen-was able to implement even the most vestigial strategems attendant to 
his seduction of Sirri Stenson. Miserable, tormenting weeks at that, for the 
Sunday morning seances during which he furtively ogled Sirri were something 
akin to Inquisitional torture. To be so close to the beautiful object of his 
desire, and yet so far ... Needless to say, Dwight Adair's attendance record 
at St. Alban's went unblemished during those weeks, with Father Wilkinson 
even being so gauche as to comment on his revived religiosity. One Sunday 
morning disaster struck, and Harry and Doris Stenson arriving without Sirri, 
the total impact of the child's hold on him was brought home with 
devastating force; Dwight suffered a debilitating despair throughout the 
entire service. 

And yet the disappointment was not without its merits. His sexual anomaly 
being what it was, he was able to romanticize the setback, relegate it to 
symbolic punishment and suffering, infinitesimal token of what he would 
willingly endure at Sirri's hands in the name of their love. In addition to 
this mendicant posturing on his part, there were unexpected side-effects 
conferred by the church atmosphere, and Dwight found it inexplicably 
thrilling to sit in God's holy house beside his inamorata-to-be, to think 
all his filthy thoughts about her, formulate disgusting plans for their 
future. While, all about him, the religious mumbo-jumbo went on just as if 
the world wasn't coming down about his ears. To sit through the sermon while 
imagining himself divesting Sirri of her white silk panties (he had 
unalterably decided that it should be white), while imagining himself 
burrowing his face into her aromatic, virgin cunt, imagining her jejune 
sighs and squeaks of pleasure as his tongue curled itself around her baby 
clitoris, was an almost wholly sexual experience in itself, and it seemed 
that Satan himself intervened, that an internecine struggle between good and 
evil was being fought right then and there, with Satan, sad to say, usually 
emerging as victor. It gave Dwight the most exquisitely filthy feeling to 
steal stealthy passes at his silk-swatched genitals at those moments of 
extreme agitation, to find his prick stone hard, stretched to its fullest 
dimensions inside his pants. Even as his fingers furtively caressed its 
expanding head through his clothes, he made painfully aware of the fact that 
his thigh was awash with slippery discharge, the frustrated tears of his 
over-anticipatory-organ. 

How far reaching the intervention of Holy Church in the prosecution of his 
nefarious affairs was to be, Dwight Adair couldn't have begun to imagine in 
a hundred years. For it was through the altogether innocent guise of the 
annual St. Alban's Fall Bazaar that Dwight finally managed to lure Sirri 
into the symbolic spider-web which would gradully influence, dazzle and lure 
the superficial child into her eventual downfall. And Noreen blithely 
announcing her plan that evening in mid-June, it seemed the most perfect 
scheme imaginable; neither could conceive of why they hadn't thought of same 
sooner. "I'll just ask Doris Stenson to serve on the committee with me, 
that's all," Noreen smirked, ulterior purposes burning like beacons in her 
eyes. "And what with Sirri at loose ends this summer, won't it be the most 
natural thing in the world for her to come along with her mother, help out. 
She's a dutiful child; I know she'll join in. If you can't ingratiate 
yourself with Sirri that way, then I'm afraid there's no help for you." 

Of course, it was the answer to Dwight's prayers, and he immediately set to 
work to formulate long range strategies concerning Sirri. This was to be the 
grandest scheme of his career, his masterpiece, so to speak, and no loose 
ends must be allowed to frustrate his corrupt aims. From the very first time 
Doris Stenson brought her ravishing daughter to his house there must be a 
logical progression of sequences; nothing must be left to chance. He must 
not let eagerness betray him into a too-early expo sure of his carnal 
intents, either to Doris or Sirri. All his previous conquests had been 
child's play compared to the master tactics involved in conquering Sirri. 

It was with the greatest of frustration that Dwight forcibly kept himself 
from the house on that first Wednesday afternoon the committee fathered to 
plan for the bazaar. All that afternoon at the office, knowing that Sirri 
was in his house, he fretted and stewed, thought of a hundred excuses for 
going home early, looking in on the hen-clutch, passing pleasantries with 
the half-dozen females present. So great had his sexual excitement been that 
he'd been forced, in the end, to summon Jessica Hill-a previous secretarial 
conquest whom he'd debauched systematically, leaving her a broken hulk whose 
only ambilition in life was to one day be reinstituted into his favors-into 
his office. Whence he'd commanded her to strip in salacious manner for him, 
had administered a rousing bout of mortarand-pestle to her on a convenient 
davenport immediately afterwards. Even this not enough, he'd resummoned 
Jessica later in the afternoon, had contented himself with mauling her 
pulled-from-the-dress tits while she'd knelt between his legs, had lovingly 
sucked his prick to a second, gushing ejaculation. At last, once the 
happily-servile pig had sucked his tool to pristine cleanliness, his lust 
was assuaged. 

Temporarily, at least. For that night, Noreen describing in minute detail 
everything that Sirri had said that afternoon, describing what she wore, how 
she looked, Dwight became aroused all over again. 

Merely imagining Noreen conducting a semi-private tour of the house for 
Sirri and her mother (the other ladies having departed, Noreen making point 
of becoming overly chummy with the social-climbing Doris Stenson), imagining 
Sirri bemusedly inventorying the opulence of their exotic bedroom, was more 
than enough to inflame the most libidinous furies in his psyche, and-as was 
to become tireless trademark of the weeks building up to Sirri's conquest-he 
had to have Noreen's most amenable body then and there. A thing which Noreen 
had counted on, a fee almost, for her part in her husband's scheme. She 
cultivated those toll-takings zealously, borrowing on Sirri's image in her 
husband's brain. The subtle substitution resulting turned Dwight into a 
madman, and he fucked Noreen tirelessly, inventively, as if tomorrow had 
been irrevocably called off. Knowing that she would lose Dwight once he 
toppled Sirri, she thought to make the most of her situation. There were 
even those nights when Dwight was so insatiable, his reserves so 
undepletable that she was forced to ring in Ardyce on their events. Working 
as a team-Ardyce sucking him while he sucked Noreen; Noreen being sucked 
while Ardyce posted upon his ceiling-sweeping prick; both heads busy, both 
mouths gluttonous in that stronghold of his sexuality, with Noreen sucking 
his rod, Ardyce mouthing his testicles-they managed to finally put his 
rampaging lust to rest for another night. But generally, greedily jealous as 
she was, Noreen kept him to herself. The fear of old age exerting as strong 
effect upon her as upon Dwight, she didn't know when she might pass this way 
again. Thus: 

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a flying. 

According to Dwight's painstakingly-ordered plan, Noreen more and more 
became confidante of Doris Stenson, and more and more she and Doris (and 
Sirri also, of course) chose to work on the bazaar projects as a trio. The 
other ladies on the committee, their handwork delegated, came less and less 
to the Adair home. Which, as Dwight had correctly diagnosed Doris Stenson's 
aggrandizing makeup, was perfectly all right with the professional do 
gooder. Her husband, a soft-wear salesman, perpetually on the road, she had 
filled the vacuum with church and civil activities; she thus found nothing 
awry in the quick rush the sought-after Mrs. Dwight Adair had instituted; 
she fawned upon Noreen's every word, lived for those days when she was 
summoned to the palatial, Mt. Pleasant residence. 

Gradually Dwight commenced returning home early, engaging the three females 
in casual, bantering talk before it was time for mother and daughter to 
return home. A thing which, though he brought it off with fantastic aplomb, 
charming both Stensons completely, was incredible torture for him. Seeing 
Sirri in this familiar setting, in his own private world, as it were, seeing 
her dark curls so prettily disheveled, her face smudged from their gluing 
and sewing and stuffing, seeing her piquant breasts poking through cute 
dresses, blouses and sweaters, was an agonizing thing, and he fought eternal 
battle to keep his murderous lust from registering on his face. All he could 
think, as he forced inane chatter, was of how beautiful, how eminently 
desirable Sirri looked. He longed to draw her apart from the female gabble; 
he longed to touch and caress her, to praise her extravagantly and 
endlessly, telling her of her beauty, of his deathless love for her. If only 
the rest of the wolrd would go away, leave them be. 

At first he made his look-in visits brief. Then, gradually, he lingered 
longer and longer, chaffed and laughed with the females, was delighted that 
Sirri looked upon him favorably, could be amused by his antics. There were 
times when she smiled quite directly at him, something vaguely admiring and 
wistful (a longing after the missing father image in her life perhaps?) in 
her expression. Those times there came a great soaring in Dwight's chest, 
and it was all he could to to keep from drawing her tiny, frail form into 
his arms, burying his lips in her glorious mane, sliding them in her velvety 
throat. If only I could keep her, an insane fury thundered within, if only I 
could protect her, take care of her, give her all the luxuries life has to 
offer. Needless to say, wisely safeguarding his plan, he abruptly absented 
himself from their company at such nearmaudlin moments. 

Next on the agenda were the impromptu dinners that commenced, gala events 
when, Harry Stenson not in town anyway, Doris and Sirri remained to have 
dinner with them. Either that or Dwight generously treated at some fabulous 
Benton Falls restaurant. These incidences occurring at least once a week, 
sometimes twice, there was time for cocktails, even more frivolous 
conversation, and it soon be came evident that both Doris and Sirri trusted 
him implicitly, no inkling of his darkest motives had, as yet, penetrated. 
Doris gloried in his courtly attentions to her, while Sirri was thrilled 
that Dwight treated her as a near-equal, elicited her opinions on current 
events, mores, music and the like. "I like to keep abreast of what the 
younger generation's thinking," he explained these departures. And still 
another facet of his appeal to Sirri; "Come now, Doris. Don't be such a 
prude. Surely you don't think Sirri hasn't had a drink behind your back? A 
small Manhattan for her? A small glass of sherry then? You know how young 
people are about things which are forbidden to them?" 

Generally Doris capitulated, and it was at these crucial moments, Sirri 
slightly tipsy, that Noreen usually found some ruse whereby she might spirit 
the mother from the living room for an extended period, gave Dwight and 
Sirri private moments in which to get to know each other better. Using these 
intervals to good advantage (only coming close to groping for Sirri once), 
Dwight skillfully brought the conversation around to her romantic 
aspirations, teased and probed as regards her sexual experience, her current 
swains and all. Once he said, "I pray, Sirri, that you won't make the 
mistake of getting involved early in your life. There's so much time, you've 
got your entire life before you. When I think of an exquisite girl like you 
... a jewel among women ... marrying an immature, callous boy, a boy who 
wouldn't be able to bring you to the fullest realization of the potential 
involved in the married state, a boy who wouldn't be able to provide you 
with the pretty clothes, the furs, the jewelry, the rich setting a lovely 
girl like you deserves...." His voice became shattery with emotion and he 
cautioned himself to restraint. 

"Mr. Adair...." she flushed prettily. "Really, you shouldn't. Such a 
beautiful thing to say. You can't mean those things." 

"But I do," he persisted. "You don't realize, my dear, what you possess, 
what you are. The world, Sirri; the world wrapped in shiny paper. You can 
have it. If you wait. If you're wise. A house like this, fancy cars, travel, 
luxuries unlimited ... they can all be yours." 

"Oh, Mr. Adair ... but how?" 

"By waiting, Sirri. By taking stock of yourself. By knowing what you want 
out of life, placing a price tag on yourself, so to speak. There are men who 
can give you this ... older men, perhaps less physically attractive men ... 
but that's all part of the taking stock I mentioned. These men would worship 
and cherish you, spend their every waking hour thinking of ways to make your 
life the dream existence it should be. Men who...." 

Summarily he'd caught himself in mid-sentence, and realizing how close he'd 
come to exposing himself, he'd switched the subject. But not before he'd 
glanced up, seen the long, speculative stare Sirri sent him, a flickering 
venality and hardness glimmering just before her face went innocently blank 
again. 

Another time, due to some mix-up with the Stenson family car, mother and 
daughter were left stranded at the Adair house, a crisis Dwight solved by 
allowing them to take one of the Jags, he further maneuvering it so that 
Sirri herself was obliged to drive the sporty auto home. "Keep it for a few 
days if you like," he said pointedly to Sirri, knowing full well that the 
impressionable kid would nag her mother until she could do just that, and 
would use the extra time to tool the machine around, show off to her 
juvenile friends. Later, during a private moment, he mentioned the car, 
asked if she would like to have one like it. "A girl as pretty as you should 
drive in nothing less. Cadillacs, Continentals, DualGhias ... they were made 
for the beautiful people. People like you. Or perhaps you'd like a little 
Mustang, a Fiat. It shouldn't be hard to arrange. If a girl gets wise to 
herself." 

Otherwise there were little gifts which he gave to Sirri-expensive gloves, 
scarves, a bracelet, a pinitems small enough for her to smuggle into the 
house without her mother's knowledge. "I just happened to see this pin in a 
store; I thought how pretty it would go with that green dress of yours. I 
couldn't resist it. You do deserve such pretty things, you know." By the 
very acceptance of the tokens, the matter of hiding them from her mother, a 
web of complicity was woven, and unwittingly, guilelessly, the avaricious 
child walked into his trap. If there were doubts in Dwight's mind as to the 
efficacy of his campaign, they were soon erased by the manner in which Sirri 
seldom appeared in pick-up costume any more, no matter how messy the bazaar 
project they worked on that day; she dressed as alluringly as she dared. 
There was always some excuse so she might be near Dwight when he was 
present, remain behind when private words might be exchanged. He noticed 
that she soaked up flattery shamelessly, her adolescent soul virtually 
flowering as he once more launched into lavish rhapsodies as to what 
glittering goodnesses life should hold for a princess such as she. 

Yet, all of these was still in the realms of circumstance; certainly there 
was no proof that he had propositioned her. The gifts, the praises of her 
beauty, they were the most random of actions and thoughts. Until one night 
in early August, positive of Sirri's susceptibility, an electric something 
charging the atmosphere, he decided to make his move. There was a shower for 
a girl friend. And while Doris and Noreen made paper flowers for 
decorations, Dwight volunteered to drive her into the city. It was as he 
drove through the gathering dusk, that he decided. "You know, Sirri," he 
said with a dramatic catch in his throat, "I'm going to hate to see this 
church bazaar thing come off. It'll mean the end of our friendship. I've 
enjoyed this. More than you can ever know. Talking to you, being with you 
... it's like I've experienced a rebirth. I feel almost young again; I'm not 
an old man any more." 

"Old man?" She smiled coquettishly. "Everyone should be such an old man. 
You're not old at all. Mature, perhaps. Charming, certainly. But not old. 
I'm going to miss it too, you know. Mom also. She thinks you're wonderful; 
she talks about you all the time." Her eyes twinkled. "If you want to know 
the truth, I think she's got a crush on you." 

"That's encouraging. There's hope for me yet. And our lovely Sirri? Does she 
care? Is there a twinge when she thinks of next week? Or will she be glad to 
be rid of her meddling old geazer?" 

There was a short pause. "Please, Mr. Adair...." 

"Dwight. I thought we had an understanding." ... "Dwight. Anyway, stop 
talking about yourself like that. You're still a very attractive man, a 
very...." She searched for words. "I'm going to hate to see this end, 
Dwight. You've taught me to look at myself in an entirely different way, 
I...." 

"It needn't end, you know, my dear. Surely you've given some thought to the 
things I've said." 

"Please, Dwight. Don't say things like that. It's impossible." 

"Oh, you have thought about them, then? What I said about a car? You're 
leaving for college in October, as I understand. A car could be delivered 
there. A new Cougar. Would you like that?" His voice became blurry. "I can 
afford to be very generous, Sirri. If you can ... for once in your life ... 
be honest with yourself...." 

Suddenly he was trembling uncontrollably, and slowing the car somewhat, he 
boldly dropped his right hand onto her knee. Where-the sensation of touching 
her for the first time electric, heart-stoppingly thrilling-he caressed her 
hot, silken flesh gently. For the briefest moment Sirri permitted his touch, 
her body tense, her eyes focused straight ahead. Then her grasp firm, yet 
gentle, she dropped her hand upon his, removed it from her leg. 

Terror that he'd ruined everything convulsively gripping him, Dwight froze, 
managed to stammer: "I'm sorry, Sirri. I didn't mean ... You will think 
about my offer?" 

"Yes...." she breathed tonelessly. "I will." They said no more about it as 
they entered the city. 

But a week later, as they stole a private moment in the living room, Doris 
and Noreen occupied elsewhere, the question was reiterated. Once more he 
summoned up the courage to caress Sirri's knee. "Have you...?" he choked. 

"I ... I have." 

"And...?" His breath seared his throat as he waited for her reply, so 
positive was he of refusal. 

When Sirri said nothing, he turned toward her, saw the panic, intermixed 
with an amoral resolution, in her gaze. A crooked, uncertain grin twisted 
her lips. Now she dropped her hand on his, and slowly, deliberately, knowing 
full well what she was doing, she guided his spasming hand even higher on 
her glossy leg. 

Thus was the news carried to Ghent. Here was the answer of stunningly 
definitive, unmistakable sort. 

Dwight-the roof of the world blown off for him at that moment-was just 
toying with the bare flesh of her inner thigh, leaning to embrace and kiss 
her, when he heard Doris and Noreen returning. He and Sirri were not given 
benison of a moment alone for the rest of that evening. 

Later, aroused to fever pitch, Dwight couldn't help but celebrate his 
victory in a most depraved way. Almost before the Stensons had cleared the 
drive, he herded Noreen upstairs, to the safety of their erotic sanctuary. 
In a totally dominating mood at that moment, there was no time for slavish 
worship. Instead, Noreen still wearing her prescribed fetishist garb, there 
was aggressive, brutal sport. And Noreen dazzled, completely submissive 
before his whirl-wind attack, lay in brassiere, garter-belt, hosiery and 
high heels on the bed. Face down, two fat pillows bunched beneath her 
stomach, holding her buttocks high in the air, she allowed her husband to 
transfer lubricant from the end of his drooling prick, work it into the 
portals of her anus. She moaned helplessly as he corkscrewed his finger into 
her, prepared her for that ultimate digit. 

Shortly, as he slowly, painfully cleaved his swollen, reaming cock into her 
ass, she was transported to a limbo of sexual excess. One hand beneath her 
belly, he masturbated her while he jagged his organ in and out of that 
miserly mouth. To which a filth-hazed Noreen exhorted: "In, oh shove it in! 
Shove that beautiful pole right through me. Ow, ow, oh owww! Don't stop. 
Don't ever stop. Fuck me! Fuck Noreen's ass. Gorgeous, gorgeous! It hurts 
and it doesn't hurt. Deep, oh deep! Until it comes up my goddamned throat! 
Baby?" 

"What, Noreen?" 

"Will you do this to Sirri too? Will you teach her? You must you know. Even 
if she doesn't think she wants it. Afterwards she will. No woman's complete 
without this. Rub, darling, rub. Harder now, faster!" 

And after another moment's pause to better savor the vilification: "I'm 
almost sorry, darling. Sorry it's over. This has been so wonderful. Having 
you again. The little bitch! Why did she have to cave in so easy?" She 
thrashed more insanely. "Oooh, you baby stallion. Fuck! Oh, fuck Noreen's 
bottom!" 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

If Dwight Adair's strategy relative to winning Sirri's consent to seduction 
was thorough and painstaking, it was almost nothing in comparison to the 
elaborate plans he made for the night of the seduction itself. For the two 
days following her telephone acceptance of assignation-Dwight calling her 
home at a time when he knew she was alone-he removed in a dazed trance, his 
brain spinning like tandem slot machine cylinders, a tireless sequence of 
jackpots, a ceaseless click-click-click meshing that always came up: 
Cherry-cherry-cherry. And where his previous conquests had required 
cut-and-dried preparations, he knew that for this purest of the pure special 
pains should be taken. 

Fearful lest Shirri develop cold feet, he had set up their rendezvous for 
the earliest possible date. 

Despite her protests, he had insisted that the event take place at the 
house, in the exotic atmosphere of his specially equipped bedroom. Crazy to 
have Sirri this first time in the sunken, satin-swathed bed, to savor the 
play of the vari-colored spots on her exquisite body, to have image of her 
figure, that of their conmingled bodies, reflected a dozen-fold in the 
banked mirrors, he didn't, for a minute, consider taking her to the downtown 
apartment. To this effect he'd given both Noreen and Ardyce strict orders to 
clear the house this Friday night; the strictest privacy was integral to the 
fullest enjoyment of his holy victory. In a separate drawer in the spacious 
dresser at the foot of the bed Sirri's "trousseau" waited. Expertly 
estimating her sizes, he'd shopped for her things himself, had spent 
lavishly on everything from peignoir right down to white-satin pumps. While, 
for "wedding night" gift there was an extravagantly-costly choker of 
cultured pearls. Later, when he was more positive of their relationship's 
footing, there would be a genuine duplication. Then money would be no 
object; only the rarest of the earth's treasures would be fit to grace the 
beloved flesh of his exquisite goddess. 

Again, ignoring Sirri's plea that their first confrontation should be a 
brief one, he had insisted that she prepare alibi that would allow her to 
remain for indefinite term. Noreen would be visiting her parents in Chicago 
that weekend; couldn't Sirri come up with a ploy whereby she could at least 
spend the night? Thus Sirri engineered subterfuge with a girl friend, the 
story she gave her mother being one involving a slumber party. 

Most of all Sirri had been concerned with what Dwight might do to her, how 
many times she must surrender to him in order to earn her "gift" and its 
attendant "allowance". Which cute gaucheries Dwight took with a smile, so 
sure was he that once he'd indoctrinated her into the mysteries of sexual 
intercourse, she would hardly be concerned with such irrelevant worries. 
Perhaps, in the bargain, she might even learn to feel a modicum of affection 
for him. Which was, in the long run, the most dear-tobe-hoped-for 
culmination of all. Otherwise, a designated car would be left for her in a 
downtown parking lot; the key would be found in a specified hiding place 
therein. She would drive, to the Adair residence at approximately 9:30 p.m. 
where she would circle the house, park in the garage itself. Dwight waiting 
for her, he would see to closing the door, guiding her into the house 
personally. 

It was that heart-racing arrival which Dwight impatiently waited on at this 
very moment. The house empty, only the dimmest of sidelights burning 
downstairs, he checked cartridge components of his living room hi-fi 
installation, started the continuous-threading reels of Eglar, Delius and 
Sibelius that would saturate the house throughout the rest of the night. He 
mentally audited his appearance and toilette (he wore a satin paisley robe, 
a softcollared sport shirt, regular streetclothes otherwise; lingerie 
affectations had been eschew for fear of alarming Sirri), as well as his 
above stairs preparations. Sirri was quite daring as regarded Manhattans; no 
harm would be done by permitting her two mild drinks to dull her 
understandable apprehensions, to rout niggling inhibitions. 

Nevertheless he cursed himself, his trembling limbs, the erratic tattoo of 
his heart, as he watched for her from a darkened window. You idiotl he 
lashed. You'd think this was the first woman you'd ever had! Calm down, will 
you! If your contagion affects poor Sirri.... 

Sirri! The name rumbled in his brain, and suddenly he felt quite weak and 
dizzy, as if he were going to faint. It can't bel Not after all this time. 
My blessed Madonna! She's actually going to let me touch her, possess her. 
An unworthy swine like myself. I can't believe-New fear paralyzed him as he 
glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty-five. She isn't coming; she's changed her 
mind; she's At that moment a brilliant glare of light exploded in the drive, 
and he saw the dark-blue Chrysler barrel toward the house. Instantly he was 
darting into the depths of the house, heading toward the connected garage. 

For long moments-once the door rumbled down and Sirri could emerge from the 
car-they stood apart, Sirri's face dazed, her eyes unable to meet his. As 
per his plan, Dwight didn't rush her. Lightly placing one arm about her 
shoulders, he breathed, "Sirri, my darling. You did come. You are here. I 
was so worried. I thought...." He terminated his stupid chattering. "Here, 
baby. This way." 

Wordlessly, her shoulders slightly hunched, her face strained, Sirri allowed 
him to guide her through the house. Until now, standing inside the door of 
the Adair bedroom, surveying the bizarre setting, the sunken pit in which 
the white-satined bed stood, the blue, yellow and red spotlights that played 
across its glittering surface, she was stunned to immobility. Great shudders 
swept her, and instantly her flesh was splayed with goose bumps. "Dwight ... 
Mr. Adair...." she gasped suddenly aghast at the incredible setting. 

"Don't be upset now, baby," he soothed, coming behind her, guiding her to 
the dais upon which the escritoire, the tables and chairs stood. "There's 
nothing to be afraid of. I promised I'd be gentle. Nobody's going to hurt 
you. But surely you've seen the bedroom, Noreen told me she'd brought you 
and Doris up here...." 

"Yes, but it wasn't like this. Those spotlights ... I didn't see those. 
Those crazy sheets. I don't understand...." 

"A mere touch, Sirri. It reflects a certain aesthetic taste. You'll like it 
once you become accustomed to it." He caught himself. "It enhances the 
erotic. Here, sit down, pet. I'll fix us a drink. That'll relax you." He 
smiled reassuringly down at her, his hands trembling anew at prospect of 
soon touching, kissing, taking sexual liberties with the elegant female. 
"How lovely you look tonight, Sirri. You're absolutely ravishing. That gown; 
it's gorgeous." 

He stood back momentarily, appraised Sirri with hot, hungry eyes. The dress 
was lovely, a skimpy, chartreuse crepe that clung to her breasts alluringly 
in the bodice, while flouncy pleats in the skirt emphasizing the opulence of 
Sirri's hips and thighs. Lime-green stockings, sheer, glistening, graced her 
legs; her pretty feet were stuffed into matching, green pumps. Contrasted to 
her dark tresses, her ivory flesh, the dress made her a vision of 
mouthwatering desirability, and immediately Dwight conjectured about her 
lingerie. But abruptly, remembering his pledge not to frighten Sirri, he 
turned off his lecherous stare. "You will have a drink?" 

"I don't know. Do you think I should?" 

"Definitely. Not too many, but just enough to loosen you up a little. Every 
thing ... sex especially ... is better after a little liquor." He guided her 
to a chair. "Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Let me feast my eyes on 
you." Once more, though busy with the drinks, his eyes flitted to her 
voluptuous body. She leaned forward slightly, the reflected light from the 
bed giving her complexion a psychedelic, polarized cast, creating deep, 
tantalizing shadows in her abundant cleavage where the low-cut gown 
charmingly fell away. She crossed her knees slightly; Dwight got a fleeting 
glimpse of white flesh above her stockings, and he became painfully aware of 
the sudden throb of his engorged cock inside his trousers. Dear God, he 
raged. If I don't shove this into someone-something-soon! 

Nevertheless, he heeded his blueprint, fought for composure. Slow, Dwight. 
Don't crowd her. Thus, giving her drink to her, he resisted the impulse to 
fall at her knees, kiss her taunting, pink lips, bury his face in her ripe 
breasts, burrow his famished face into her fragrant, humid thighs. "To us," 
he toasted. "May we both find the love we seek." Still he couldn't dispel 
his most basic yearnings, and as she sipped the drink, he leaned, took her 
left hand, buried his lips in the soft, smooth palm. "Lovely," he choked, 
"so indescribably lovely. Forgive me, Sirri, I just can't help myself. I 
don't want to frighten you, really I don't." 

He drew up his chair, sat facing her. For a time he erected diversion by 
inquiring after her escape from home. There was no trouble finding the car? 
What time would her mother expect her home tomorrow? Was there any chance 
she might call her girl friend? To which he was reassured, she inquired 
after Noreen, strong relief registering when she was informed she had left 
for Chicago. Dwight then informed her about his downtown apartment, told her 
they would meet there from time to time, then explained his reasons for 
wanting their initial meeting to be here. He neglected to mention anything 
of his fetishist tastes, of course. She would learn about that soon enough, 
there was no sense in alarming her prematurely. 

"Groovy," Sirri remarked now. "That music, I mean. Not my speed, but nice. 
Speakers in every room. Some people have everything." 

"Correct, darling. Just the way you will have everything. If you're good ... 
very good to me." 

She shrugged, and her eyes slightly sultry, the cocktail taking quick 
effect, she said, "Well, I'm here, aren't I?" 

"Yes, darling," he hissed. "You're here. At long last. I'm so happy, I've 
waited so long." 

"I ... I wish we didn't have to talk. I mean, if we could just do it. I feel 
kind of rotten inside. Guilty and cheap, you know. Imagine ... doing this to 
Noreen ... Mrs. Adair. After all the nice things she's done for me." 

"Please, baby, don't feel like that. Don't give Noreen a second thought. 
What she doesn't know won't hurt her. I'm sure, if she knew, she'd 
understand. It's only natural that a man ... any man ... should fall 
helplessly in love with you." 

"It's the first time I've ever done anything like this. Honest, Dwight. 
Sure, I've had guys kiss me, some of them got fresh. But those jerks got a 
faceful of finger nails. They never tried it a second time." 

"Please, Sirri," Dwight said, an insane jealousy piqued, "don't talk about 
those others, I don't want to hear." 

"That doesn't mean I don't know what's coming off, Dwight. I'm a hip kid; I 
know things. I've read the books. There are some marriage manuals hidden in 
my room. Along with some porny books. I know things. But ... I've never done 
anything ... I am a ... virgin. I've read that it hurts the first time. It 
hurts awful. Is that the truth? You won't hurt me, will you, Dwight? You 
promised...." 

"I'll try not to hurt you, precious," Dwight breathed, his heart bloated 
with joy at the longed-after affirmation of Sirri's virginity. "With some 
girls it doesn't hurt at all. With others there's just a little pain. I'm 
sure you'll be one of these. A healthy, athletic child like you...." 

Sirri's face reflected surprise as she realized she'd so quickly downed her 
Manhattan. And proffering her glass anew: "I guess you were right, Dwight. 
That does help. I don't feel quite so nervous and scared now. But that bed 
and all ... those spotlights. It is kind of weird. Another, please?" 

"Certainly, my pet." He was up, pouring refills all around. "Don't think 
about the surroundings then. Just think about the bed, about how wonderful 
those silky sheets will feel. About the wonderful things I'm going to teach 
you, do to you." His voice became slightly slathering. "Once you've had it, 
you'll never be able to live without it. That's why God made men and women 
the way he did." 

Gradually her voice became blurred, the liquor cutting in rapidly, evidence 
of Sirri's inexperience as a drinker. "You make it sound so wonderful, 
Dwight. In a way I'm glad. Sure I'm afraid ... I'm damned scared ... but I'm 
glad it's someone who knows what he's doing. Like you said ... no punk kid 
in the back seat of a car somewhere." 

"Trust me, darling. I'll be good to you. So very good." He slid to his knees 
before her, fervidly caressed her silken, glossed legs-her ankles, calves 
and knees, stopping at the hem of her skirt. "Oh, I want you, Sirri. So 
desperately. Will you let me take you to bed now?" 

A shudder slammed her, and briefly she froze, stared ahead with glazed eyes. 
A moment later a helpless jittering convulsed her, she pressed her knees 
together, scissored her thighs reflexively. "Like wow," she giggled. 
"Zingies. Isn't that the craziest feeling? It's like when I read those dirty 
books. Only this is the real thing, isn't it?" She shrugged, heaved herself 
to her feet, stood bemusedly in the embrace of his arms, her belly, the 
bulge of her cunt equidistant to his stunned face. Until now, helplessly, 
involuntarily, Dwight leaned forward, buried his face in her crotch, 
breathed in her fragrance-flowery yet musky. An awesome spasm ripped him, 
and he had the most insane impulse to gobble her there, to bite her 
mercilessly. Somehow he resisted the yearning, contented himself with a 
lingering kiss. "Hey...." Sirri seethed. "Oh, hey. That's something. Oh, 
mister, are you one of those...?" 

He didn't answer, but instead stood, solemnly commenced leading her down the 
risers to that erotic arena. "Here, angel," he sighed thickly. "Lie here on 
the bed. Let me take care of it all, let me adore you...." 

Self-consciously, tremblingly, Sirri allowed herself to be pushed onto her 
back on the bed; she allowed him to arrange her full length-shoes and all-on 
the maddeningly-slippery sheets. But then, staring up, terrified as Dwight 
sprawled beside her: "Aren't you going to turn out the lights, Dwight? I'd 
much rather ... this first time...." 

The angel, the sweet, innocent angel! Dwight raged. How adorable of you to 
ask, how typical! "Please, baby," he choked. "Let's leave the lights, shall 
we? This first time especially. I must see you. A body so lovely as yours 
must be bathed in light." 

"Oh, Dwight, please...." she squeaked. 

He drowned out the rest of her plaints with hot, greedy kisses. As now, at 
long last, he fell upon her supine body, gathered it into his arms, and 
burying his lips in her exquisite, velvety throat, he slowly worked them up 
under her jaw, advancing on the vaunted fortress of her lips. Then, as his 
mouth closed on hers, as the heat of her body was transfused to his own, as 
the points of her breasts electrified and branded him, he groaned sobbingly 
in his throat at the ecstasy of finally possessing her like this, he 
gratefully learned that her warmth, softness, the very texture of her flesh 
was everything he'd ever hoped it would be. He couldn't get enough of her, 
he wanted to submerge himself in this lush mouth, to be swallowed up in this 
voluptuously slithering flesh beneath him. It was all he could do to keep 
from driving his fingers into the slimy mush of her cunt then and there. 

Nevertheless, he managed control, and knowing that such would spook Sirri, 
work to the detriment of his master plan, he contented himself with 
famished, adoring kissings, pulsing embraces, incipient passes at her 
charging breasts, hips and thighs. Until, very quickly, Sirri a natural 
child, relaxed beneath him. Then she was breathing hard, her legs jittering, 
her mouth amateurishly answering his kisses. Until now as he pulled away, 
stared worshipfully down at the rumpled virgin, he read vestigial, witless 
lust in her own eyes. "Sirri, my beloved," he intoned, "you're lovely beyond 
description, you taste ... feel absolutely divine. I'm dying ... I want you 
so terribly. You're all I've ever dreamed you'd be. I feel so unworthy, so 
humble before beauty ... virginity like yours." His voice cracked 
ridiculously. "May I feel ... will you allow me ... to ... undress you now?" 

For long moments, Sirri's eyes rolling wildly in her head, she said nothing. 
But finally: "Shouldn't I?" she quaked. "Maybe I should go into the bathroom 
or something." 

"No, darling," he pleaded. "My way. Let me." And as his fingers reached for 
her, groped behind her back for snaps and zippers, she stiffened one last 
time, made move to resist. But as his torrid lips buried themselves in the 
creamy valley of her brimming breasts, she sighed shatteringly, surrendered 
once and for all, the look in her eyes one of gratitude-gratitude that there 
was proficient paramour here to skillfully indoctrinate her, remove all fear 
of gauche ineptitude from her shoulders. 

Characteristically, Dwight made a prolonged fantastically slavish ceremony 
of divesting' his dream goddess of her garments. Amidst a ceaseless flurry 
of sighs an extravagant litany of praises and kissings and adoring caresses, 
he floated first one item then another off her body, making the disrobing a 
thing of dreamy beauty. Until, despite her qualms, Sirri was gradually 
transported into a limbo of sexual delirium, she became proud, preening, a 
profligate dispenser of largesse, as her gown, the underlying slip were 
peeled from her, drifted off into that abyss of darkness. She whimpered, 
writhed luxuriously upon the slippery satin beneath her, she thought it 
exceedingly voluptuous to feel her sharp heels dig into the sheets. Now, at 
long last, her tempestuous body lay clothed in just a lazy, black brassiere, 
panty-girdle, pastel-green hose and green shoes. Frozen in delight, Dwight 
hovered over her, stared down upon her. His eyes slavishly roving her body, 
his brain amok, he gloried in the fact that her flesh was as white and flaw 
less as he'd imagined it. Until, helpless now before his transcending lust: 

Sirri lurched, whimpered as his fingers grazed the tips of her breasts, as 
his other hand swept ticklingly along the puffing bowl of her belly, 
lovingly clutched and gathered the wiry matte of her by-now-melting snatch. 
Pinched mewlings broke from her as he parted her legs slightly, let one 
finger lazily strum and pressure the weeping lips of her cunt itself. Even 
when Dwight commenced undoing her brassiere, toying with the waist of her 
charming girdle, she made no move to stop him. 

The adorable pink tits appeared now pouty blood-engorged plum puddings, a 
knurled cherry of flesh aton a minor mound of smooth, seemingly-burnished 
aureole. Tits Dwight raged, that all but scream for a merciless sucking! 
Whereupon he impulsively dipped his head, sent serpentine tongue to wrap 
about each succulent bud, followed each searing lashing with a compressing 
tugging of his lips. Attentions which caused Sirri's hips to jut up, tore 
blissful yips from her maiden lips. Somehow Dwight was strong enough to pull 
himself away from the tantalizing turrets; he proceeded to finish disrobing 
her. The shoes were flung aside, the stockings were undone, slowly worked 
down her legs, the peeling accompanied by many and many a tickling kiss. At 
the last Sirri gasped, blocked his hands feebly as he moved to draw down her 
panty girdle, reveal that most secret, most highly-guarded treasure of her 
body. But as Dwight's hands persisted, she whined piteously, allowed him to 
have his way. Then the mildly-stiff garment descended inch-by-inch, 
revealing her puffing, dazzlingly white belly. And now, the jet-black 
diamond of her lower belly, a crisp, vibrant bramble of curls that seemingly 
erupted as the nylon was drawn away, a hairy pompadour that careened down 
between her thighs, obscured the lips of her pussy itself. 

The panty went sailing, and instantly Dwight's fingers sallied forth to 
ruffle and play with her matte, one finger, in the process, slicing deep 
into that lubricious heartland, grazing the pearl of her clitoris 
skillfully, a liberty that truly made Sirri leap and twist. It took all the 
will power Dwight possessed to content himself with but one fleeting pass 
with his lips across that wiry gorse. For the briefest wild moment he 
thought to fling all his carefully prepared plans to the winds, he was wild 
to pull those delectable thighs, to plunge his greedy, gobbling, licking, 
pentrating tongue and mouth onto that vulnerable target, drive Sirri to 
screaming fits then and there. From whence the reserve will power came, he 
was never to know. But suddenly a guttural gasp escaping him, he jerked his 
face from that maladorous font; he was up from the bed in a rush. 

"Dwight...." Sirri groaned dazedly. "What...?" 

"This first, my pet," he seethed. "Something special." 

Whereupon he fled up the steps, opened the dresser drawer. Now he stood with 
a swirl of silk in one hand, a black jewel box in the other. In a rush he 
was upon Sirri, kissing and hugging her tender ly, raising her from the bed 
while he affixed the expensive choker to her throat. Then she must appraise 
her reflection in the mirror, she must watch as he caressed and lifted her 
breasts from behind, his lips busy on the nape of her neck, an homage which 
seemingly pulled pagan strings attached to her cunt, seemingly made it 
tingle and tighten delightfully. "For me, Dwight?" she gasped. "It's 
beautiful." 

"Only the beginning, princess," he seethed. "There will be so many beautiful 
things in your future." 

She turned dazedly, regarded the clutch of silk which Dwight, even now 
disentangled beside her. "What's this?" 

"More pretties, baby. I bought them just for you." He shook out the hosiery, 
the brassiere, the panties and garter belt, he arranged the witchy pumps on 
the sheets beside her. "For our wedding night, angel. The only wedding night 
we'll ever have. It's only fitting." Whereupon he commenced to dress the 
bemused child in the rich, heavy, silk lingerie: The brassiere first, 
tailored and plain, emphasizing the high uplift of youthful breasts, the 
simple, unadorned garter-belt; the opaque, thigh-slashed, lace-hemmed 
step-ins (a special fetish in itself; then the white sheer hosiery; finally 
the dagger-toed and heeled slippers, with the chaste strap across the vamp. 

All of which Sirri docilely, dazedly lent herself to, the rampaging 
sexuality within her eventually overriding the mild pangs of repugnance 
suffusing her. Eerie his love might be. But the incredible feelings it 
generated within her belly and groin were worth any and all submissions. 
Still there was one more weird addition to her costume. As, once more, 
Dwight deserted the bed, returning this time with-of all things!-an 
abbreviated net veil, crowned with a pearl-studded tiara-the ultimate 
artifice of his psychotic obsession with her virginity! Sirri's limbs were 
awash with goose pimples as she bowed her head, allowed him to place the 
veil upon her disheveled curls. 

Now, numbly, nearly falling as Dwight slid her from the bed, forced her to 
stand, walked her to the second tier, Sirri was asked to pose for him there, 
the picture-so far as the man was concerned-thrillingly provocative beyond 
his wildest fantasies. A virgin, decked out in a virgin's costume-a costume 
to celebrate her impending defloration! , He could only stand the 
heart-wrenching vision briefly. And then, his eyes glittering fiendishly: 
"Come, my beloved. Walk to me. Walk proudly, walk regally." He fell to his 
knees before her as she reached the floor of the arena, upon which, 
strangled whines searing his throat, he groveled before her, kissed the toes 
of the shoes, the silky incline of her ankles, his tongue flicking forth in 
tiny stabbings, the tandem torture making Sirri moan, causing a fiery itch 
and constriction in the deepest recesses of her vagina. , "Dwight!" she 
gasped. "What...." 

"Please, please," he babbled. "Let me adore you. Let me confer the adoration 
you deserve." How long he knelt before her, how long he slid his lips up and 
down her ankles, calves, knees and thighs, how long he circled his lips 
about those fleshly pillars, Sirri was never to remember. All she knew was 
that shortly she could stand no more of it, and in escape attempt, fell 
toward the bed. Immediately Dwight was upon her, crawling forward, his body 
jamming her knees, his face buried in her thighs, spiraling on the silky, 
puffing dome of her belly. She groaned thickly-the cry half fright, half 
delight-as his mouth opened, then closed on her mons veneris struggled for 
even more total entrapment of her entire twat. "Dwight, Dwight...." she 
pleaded. But then, as a heathenish, filthy yearning exploded backward within 
the depths of her belly, she protested no more. 

For perhaps five minutes, his fingers tormenting her tits while he worked at 
her crotch, Dwight was derangedly content to suck and nibble her cunt 
through the rich silk of her ritual costume; he chewed and licked and sucked 
until the material was soaked completely through, impregnated with a mixture 
of his saliva and her vaginal liqueur. By then Sirri was beyond the pale. 
Enthralled with the unholy sensations, she let her legs open and close in 
slapping spasms; she twisted and rotated her pelvis the better to make 
contact with his tongue, with his gently nipping teeth. In her heart of 
hearts, she was crazy to have him remove her panties, to introduce the 
torturing tongue and mouth into the screaming flesh of her realest self. 

Very shortly then, her fondest yearnings were realized. As, still kneeling, 
Dwight raised her buttocks, slid the sticky step-ins off her hips. 
Immediately his mouth reattacked her gash. His hands joining in the fray, he 
led Sirri's dazed fingers down to her cunt, where he guided her to hold 
herself to even more gaping grin as his fiery, vibrating tongue charged 
inside her most sacred flesh. Then, when his tongue branded her clitoris, 
wove incandescent bracelets of sensation about the swollen button, when it 
stabbed the raw, shrieking tip itself she could contain her cries no longer. 
"Go ahead," Dwight wheezed at her muffled outbursts, pausing briefly in his 
obeisance, "Let it go, darling. Nobody will hear you." 

"What is it, Dwight?" she barked, her pelvis rocking savagely. "Darling, 
what's happening? It's so intense, I feel so wild, like I'm going to die or 
something! Darling!" 

Sirri's final breakdown, her usage of the darling endearment thrilled Dwight 
to the very eore of his being, and he wrapped his tongue more demonically 
about the distended pearl, he formed cowl with his mouth which would 
seemingly create vacuum powerful enough to suck her very pussy inside out. 
It was further torture that caused Sirri to shriek hideously, unashamedly. 
"You baby," he chuckled upon again relenting, "you adorable baby! You're 
coming, that's what's happening. You're coming for the very first time. A 
pop, a climax, an orgasm ... whatever you want to call it. You're coming, 
darling! Let it happen. Let it go!" Once more he buried his face in her 
swimming, sweet-tasting cunt, he swirled his tongue in the serrated, 
compound lips there, ended by virtually scalpeling her clitoris with a 
keeling tongue, a thing that made her growl raggedly, caused her to clamp 
her legs about his head, almost suffocate him. 

"Oh, oh, ohh...." she yawped. "It's heavenly, it's ... You're killing me. 
Stop, oh stop ... I can't stand any more!" 

At which Dwight removed his tongue from the passion cherry, by no means 
deserted the tasty twat itself. Around and around his tongue went-in and 
out-providing soothing cornedown from that apex of sensation. Finally, as 
her sighs and writhings diminished, he withdrew his mouth from her crack, 
began slithering up her belly. Across her pubic delta, across her navel, 
across her diaphragm, between her breasts. Until now, in a decisive move, 
the act accomplished before Sirri realized what was happening, he clamped 
her head between his hands, drove his oily cunt-reeking lips into hers, 
forced his slimed tongue between her teeth, swirled it deep into the depths 
of her mouth. It was an uncontrollable sadism and filth designed to either 
outrage or to inflame the nymph beyond control, deliver her to a mindless 
limbo where any excess would be permitted. As it turned out, the calculated 
risk paid off, for Sirri exploded beneath him, her mouth clamping and 
sucking his tongue, her face rolling paganly upon his. "Yes," she hissed 
when he finally broke away. "Oh, yes, now. Do it to me, whatever you want! 
I'm not afraid now." 

Reluctantly Dwight drew away from Sirri. Standing beside the bed, he 
commenced to undress. His underwear plastered to him, he tore at his robe, 
shirt, undershirt, kicking off his shoes simultaneously. His trousers' 
zipper sang; and he brought down pants and undershorts in one fell swoop. 
His socks then. And now, reflected light silvering a plummeting stream of 
his prick oil as he allowed the prodigious length to spring to its fullest 
extension, he turned toward the bed. Whereupon, her eyes widening in abject 
terror as she saw the awesome cock staring at her eye-to-eye, Sirri recoiled 
slightly, expelled a sibilent gasp. "No, Dwight! You aren't ... I had no 
idea ... You aren't going to put ... that ... big thing into me! You'll hurt 
me, you'll kill me!" 

He leeringly advanced on the bed. "I won't, my pet. You underestimate the 
powers ... the adaptability of a woman. And you are a woman ... Such a 
woman! I'll be careful, I promise; I'll make it easy for you as I can. But 
first...." Once more he whirled away from the bed, reappeared from the gloom 
bearing two articles this time: One a fringed, white, silken coverlet 
perhaps three-by-three, the other a hastily-charged applicator containing 
contraceptive foam. Even as he placed the silk scarf beneath Sirri's 
buttocks, the fetishist within him demanding that he keep its stained 
message as memento of this conquest, he said, "I noticed that your hymen is 
all but non-existent. A good sign. You'll bleed, but not over much. Even 
so...." 

The mesmerized girl stared girl stared aghast as he forced her knees, moved 
to insert the long, plunger-type dispenser into her vagina. "Dwight ... what 
is that?" 

"Relax, my dearest. Only a little precaution. To keep the babies away. Later 
I'll supply you with pills, but for this first time...." Sirri gasped, 
started as he drove the syringe into her gaping slit, then gasped anew as 
she felt the eold foam spill into her. "There, that isn't so bad, is it?" 
The clouded syringe was withdrawn, flung aside. "And now, my beloved...." 

She froze as he came over her, as he spread her legs, brought her knees up, 
delighted in the exotic starbursts her sharp heels poked into the white 
satin. Then, as he slid forward, the massive, hanging stalk horrifying her 
further, she protested, "My clothes. The bra and belt, my shoes and 
stockings ... aren't you going to take them off?" 

His sneer became even more sick. "No, precious," he snickered. "That won't 
be ncessary. This will do very nicely indeed." He made a slight advance, his 
movement bobbing his dripping prick against her thigh, and Sirri froze anew. 
"Relax, darling," he soothed. "Everything's going to be just fine...." 

"I'm afraid, Dwight," she rasped. "I'm so afraid. 

He took the slippery snout of his phallus, gently worked it in the vestibule 
of her vagina, pointedly slid it across her blatantly-exposed clitoris, the 
hot caress causing her to whimper piteously. "There, doesn't that feel 
wonderful? Doesn't that excite you? How can a thing like that do you any 
harm? Be brave, my darling, be brave." He continued to swivel his cannon 
against her outer lips, against that touchstone of her passion, until, not 
too much later, Sirri's hips began to rotate; harsh, drawn-out sighs began 
striating her throat. "Be brave," he intoned a last time. 

Then, his own fingers guiding the slippery, red knob of his cock into that 
narrow, cringing mouth-the contact of his sex machine with the hot lips of 
hers causing Dwight to croon viscously-he commenced his inexorable, 
punishing, stretching and rupturing descent into that most holy of holies. 
"Oh, ouch, owww, Dwight," she gasped. "Oh, darling, please don't. I've 
changed my mind, I can't stand it. You'll tear me. I can feel it starting, I 
can...." But, practiced swordsman that he was, Dwight never relented for an 
instant. Gentle as he could possibly be under the circumstances, he 
nevertheless drove on, realizing that to hesitate now would be folly of the 
grossest sort. His rapture was magnified intolerably as he bulldozed the 
remnants of Sirri's sacred seal, actually felt them tear at his passage. 
Appalled at the tightness of her channel, a sound of pain erupted from his 
own mouth. He felt a fine, hot mist splash against his thighs, he felt 
streams of blood, intermixed with their genital effluent, meander down the 
bunching rondules of Sirri's buttocks. A virgin, he exulted, nearly insane 
with lust and joy, a bona fide virgin! Dear God, can a man ever be more 
proud, more sanctified! He grunted, pushed relentessly on, knew continuing 
amazement at the resistance the tiny mouth threw up. Even Noreen's asshole, 
he admitted, wasn't this narrow. Rampaging bestiality further took him, and 
he twisted, dug, pressured still deeper, Sirri's pinched cries serving as 
spur of the most fanatic sort. 

"Dwight, Dwight...." she pleaded. "Stop, oh stop! It hurts, it hurts 
terribly. You're going to tear me, I know you will!" 

He ignored the pleas, leaned into her all the more stubbornly. Until now, 
finally, their pelvic bones ground together, their hairy, muck-plastered 
crotches fused and wove into one superabundant mat. Here Dwight paused 
pantingly savored the agonizing sleeve into which he'd forced himself; he 
delighted in the involuntary tremors and milkings the naiad's sweet cunt 
conferred upon his cock. Now, gradually, there was infinitesimal relaxing, 
s'gnal seemingly, and he began a slow steady ebb and flow. "There, baby, 
there...." he soothed. "It's better now, easier ... isn't it?" 

"It still hurts," she whimpered. "Oh, Dwight, I don't think I'll ever get to 
like this. How can anything so painful ever...." 

"Patience, my love, patience." Up and down he went-in and out. Until the 
scalding, viscous tunnel became more juicy and loose, until soft, slurping 
lisps carried to his ears. Dwight groaned anguishedly. He wanted to shoot, 
to spill his cream so desperately. And yet, seasoned provocateur that he 
was, he knew that if he delivered before Sirri did, he would have a devil's 
own time inducing her to participate again. Her own orgasm was of the 
essence, once she'd achieved it, she'd be a tireless devotee of cunt and 
cock, a convert until the day she died. Thus he forestalled his own climax, 
dulled his lust by chanting endless flatteries and endearments into Sirri's 
ears, concentrated on her pleasure. He kissed her repeatedly, cradled her 
bottom with one hand, flirted with the puckered, besmirched star of her 
anus. Now and then he paused to readjust his position, and hers, so that the 
can't of his penetration would afford ultimate contact between his pistoning 
meat and her swollen clitoris; he instructed her to wrap her legs around his 
flanks, the slide of silk on his flesh, the sharp stab of her heels behind 
his knees piquing his lust intolerably despite all his good intentions. He 
mustn't fail this innocent! 

Then, shortly, the tenor of Sirri's pleas changed, and pained mortification 
was replaced by hectic desperation. "That feeling," she squeaked, pumping 
her hips of her own volition now, "it's beginning again! Only it's better 
this time, stronger; it seems perfect and holy. Oh, darling!" Her voice 
snagged. "Darling, darling. I'm coming! It's happening! Yes, yes ... Push, 
push, never stop pushing. Hurt me, tear me! I don't care! Just so long 
as...." Now a horrendous, deafening scream ruptured her throat, filled the 
room, shot to the ceiling. Where it shattered into a million pieces, 
descended as slow-drifting, gold-plated confetti. Confetti which stung and 
seared like liquid fire as it landed upon Dwight's back. 

As of that moment his control was demolished, and pumping like one gone 
berserk, he reamed Sirri's cunt savagely, exulted in the fact that he 
seemingly hit bottom. Now he knew that scalding backup inside his guts; he 
felt the hot, gushing stream rumble down his swollen cock; he felt the 
recoil, Sirri's startled murmurings as the torrid charges arced repeatedly 
into the depths of her womb, splashed and painted her very bowels in a way 
she would never-in her whole life-ever tire of. 

While at that selfsame moment, on the other side of those mirrored closet 
doors, an ugly, black, fat dildo enscounced in the depths of her gaping 
gash, being worked frantically back and forth over her voyeur-maddened 
clitoris A deceitful Noreen, who hadn't flown to Chicago after all. Who had 
deemed that her role in implementing this seduction most certainlv entitled 
her to ringside seat at the consummation itself. And now, marveling at her 
husband's innovationary preparations, at the fantastically skillful way he'd 
brought Sirri along, had delivered her to screaming climax There was no 
other alternative but to produce the outrageous dildo, to deliver herself to 
orgasm upon orgasm. Now the fiendish instrument dug and swiveled even more 
ferociously, made Noreen seethe raggedly through clenched teeth. As she saw 
Dwight buck and plunge atop Sirri, saw eviscerating agony mask his features, 
undeniable evidence of his own climax, of his own blistering discharge of 
sperm without end. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

It was precisely as Dwight had predicted. Before a laggard dawn once more 
made its appearance, Sirri had been converted into a confirmed addict of 
sexual delights. Between the time they began and the birth of the new day, 
they had completed at least five separate events-speaking for himself, that 
is; there was no telling how many orgasms Sirri wrested for herself along 
the way-and neither of them would ever be the same again. Though 
understandably modest and at least superficially reticent as regards her 
desires, Sirri nevertheless managed to jettison enough of her conditioned 
inhibitions so that she unmistakably made her desires known. Desires there 
were. As was evidenced when they awoke shortly after 9:00 a.m. Saturday 
morning, and Dwight stealthily awoke to find an in tent-faced Sirri staring 
down at his residue-encrusted tumescent prick. Playing possum, he watched 
through slitted-lids as the adorable child raptly and carefully handled his 
cock, unfurled and weighed it. 

It was a charmingly ingenue performance which he couldn't resist, and 
watching her amazement as his pecker stiffened before her very eyes, he had 
but to open his eyes, smirk at her, and rampant lust blazed in her eyes. The 
sweet nymph had but to fall back, smile pleadingly-not a single word 
necessary-and he was upon her, couched between her legs, glorying in her 
grimaces and whimpers as his rod plumbed her stiff, aching depths anew. 

They had dozed again following this impromptu fuck. After which he had 
spirited Sirri to the bathroom. Where, in the opulent, sunken tub, they had 
gamboled for nearly an hour, with Dwight making a religious rite out of 
scrubbing her to within an inch of her life, something symbolic about the 
purification. 

Again-as had transpired throughout that endless night-there were the 
enchanting, ingenue questions, the majority of them centering on 
nomenclature, anatomy and the "sin" connected with the variations employed. 
Dwight's predeliction with lingerie for instance? What did that mean? Why 
did he do it? Wasn't it perverted? The way he'd put his mouth between her 
legs, done the things he had to her there. Certainly that must be abnormal, 
a taboo deviation. And what about the way he'd fingered her bottom? Why had 
he done that? Granted, she'd enjoyed it; the liberty had triggered the most 
fantastic sensations within her-belly. And how could that be reason in 
itself? To merely enhance the ultimate gratification? It wasn't right for 
them to wallow as they'd done; she'd been taught that a man and a 
woman-correction; a husband and wife-should only make love in a prescribed 
manner, face-to-face, with no detours; they should take care of the barest 
necessities in the swiftest, most forthright manner possible. And yes, she'd 
enjoyed their "detours", but that didn't make it any the less "sinful", did 
it? 

"You prig," Dwight had laughed often at her gamin questions and counter 
answers, "you adorable little prig. What a joy it will be for me to teach 
you about the endless varieties of love. And you have so much to learn." 

How much Sirri had to learn-was fanatic about learning-became evident in the 
weeks following. Having formulated a code whereby they might call each other 
during the day, they were quickly enmeshed in as convoluted an intrigue as 
anyone might ever wish. And where Dwight had thought that it would be his 
place to constantly persuade Sirri to rendezvous, it turned out to be quite 
the other way around. She putting herself in his hands entirely, trusting 
him with an innocent love that made Dwight's heart melt at times, Sirri 
pestered him for assignation-either at the house, or at the downtown 
lovenest he'd introduced her to-constantly, no risk, seemingly, too great 
for her in order so that she might be with him, continue her lessons in 
love. Quite often Sirri was able to get away in the afternoon, and it was a 
special joy of theirs to meet at the apartment then, create a special, 
private and amoral world-microcosm-all their own within those luxurious 
perimeters. 

Needless to say, Dwight was deliriously in love with the pixie; Sirri was in 
his thoughts morning, noon and night, the actuality of their liaison causing 
Dwight to founder in the most incredible of daydreams. Dreams in which there 
was no Noreen, no conventions, no establishment to frown on a man of 48 
taking to wife a ravishingly beautiful woman of 19. Strange to say, Sirri 
felt an almost equally strong bond of affection for Dwight as well. Almost 
from the start each declared his love for the other, something 
heartbreakingly sincere in Sirri's tone when she said the words to Dwight. 
All mention of financial or material remuneration for the unstinting 
surrender of her holy body to him was forgotten now; it was as if such a 
bargain had never been made in the first place, and Sirri refused to speak 
of it whenever Dwight broached it. Which is not to say that there weren't 
constant gifts; it was one of life's greatest joys for him to shop for 
Sirri, to shower her with all the baubles, clothes, perfumes, shoes, and 
silks that the commercial world outside could provide. The apartment 
literally bulged with pretties of every description, and there weren't, 
seemingly, enough hours in their "days" for Sirri to even model her new 
clothes, jewels and shoes, let alone put them into service. For after all, 
when they gamboled in near-nakedness ninety-percent of the time Dwight came 
to implicitly believe in Sirri's love; there were times when it seemed he 
would die if that love, that innocent trust and dependency were ever taken 
from him. Granted, he accepted it for what it was-a father substitution-yet 
he eternally hoped for the time when it would become something different, 
when he would be loved for himself. In Sirri's eyes she had now acquired the 
patient, gentle, understanding patriarchal image, the man she'd always 
hungered after in her endlessly-absent father. Someone she could share her 
dreams with, question about those most fundamental philosophies regulating 
life itself. But still, with a miraculous, never-never land difference. For 
this father archetype was a paramour as well, forbidden incarnation of the 
most repressed, secret dreams any daughter can have. Under his all-seeing 
guidance she could flower into the ultimate female being, realize the 
potential she could achieve with no other man living. And while neither of 
them ever articulated these thoughts in so many words, both must have 
recognized the unearthly uniqueness of their relationship and treasured it 
zealously. 

She was a child and I was a child, In this kingdom by the sea But, of 
course, all could not be perpetual moonlight and roses; there were bound to 
be thorns in their magic garden as well. Of particular distress to Dwight 
was the swiftness with which Sirri cast off the ingenue attributes which he 
prized so highly. Certainly there were moments when he wished her to be 
unregenerate pagan, to engage in top-of-the voice paen to lust. But 
otherwise he would have preferred the demure, reticent, 
goddess-upon-a-pedestal embodiment he had envisioned her to be from the 
outset. However, Sirri was not always so ready to fill her prescribed role. 
In the long run, he had only himself to blame, for he had thought her jejune 
innocence charming, and had extended himself to instruct her in the "earthy" 
nomenclatures of love. Thus, one night, Sirri very irritated with his 
fetishist overtures, anxious that he cut short his preliminaries: 

"Oh, please, darling! Don't fool with me any more. I want you. I want you in 
me. Your thing; give it to me." 

"My thing?" he'd teased lightly. "What thing are you talking about?" 

"You know, Dwight; don't make me say it. Your thing. Your penis." And 
exasperatedly: "Your water-spout." 

At which he'd laughed delightedly. "Come now, darling," he'd said, "There's 
nothing wrong with a little straight-forward language." He'd guided her hand 
to his swollen member, had wrapped her stripping fingers about it. "Let's 
get it straight. My thing, as you call it is a prick. A pecker. A cock. 
Never dick or whang or dong. Those words will suffice. Can you say that? 
Pecker?" 

"I couldn't darling. I'd be ashamed." 

"Say it, baby. Pecker?" 

"Pecker." 

"Prick." 

"Prick." 

"Cock." 

"Cock." 

"Now, Sirri. See if you can be more explicit." 

"Oh, yes, baby," she'd said, a feral, dark light in her eyes. "I will." She 
grabbed his tool, ground it into the hot mush of her cunt. "Please, Dwight. 
Shove your prick into me. Now! I need you so bad. Your prick. Your pecker. 
Your cock. Inside me. Oh, I'm dying for him." 

Dwight had sought to capitalize on his lesson. "Inside you?' he reproached. 
"You can do better than that. Inside of what?' 

"My vagina?" she said lamely. 

"Silly. No, not vagina. You sound like a doctor, instead of the adorable 
little whore you are." He shoved his finger inside her gash. "This is your 
cunt. Say it." 

Like a child reciting by rote, Sirri had joyously joined in the game. "This 
is my cunt." 

"This is my pussy." 

"This is my pussy." 

"This is my snatch." 

"This is my snatch." 

"This is my slimy snatch that wants Daddy's big fat cock stuck into him." 

"This is my slimy snatch that wants Daddy's big, fat cock stuck into him." 
By that time Sirri was truly agitated, the vernacular inflaming her libido 
disproportionately, and her face flushed, her lovely legs flailing 
impatiently, she'd dug her nails into his phallus, literally forced him to 
immerse it in her gash, gave him as remorseless a fucking as he'd ever 
administered to any woman. 

Another time he'd been hovering between her legs (Sirri in a maddeningly 
exotic scarlet and black ensemble, the brassiere's tips cut away, she in 
just garter-belt and black silk hose), sucking and licking her cunt, 
commencing his assault on her clitoris, when she'd forestalled him, 
inaugurated another of her ingenue question and answer periods. "Why do you 
do that, honey? Lick me there, I mean? What do you get out of doing that?" 

Again he'd been moved by her childish frankness. "Why do you ask, Sirri? 
Don't you enjoy it?" 

"Of course I do. It's heavenly; sometimes I can't get enough of it. But what 
do you get from it?" 

"I don't really know. I'm just proving how much I love you, I guess. If I 
give you pleasure, then I'm happy too." 

"Is that all? There should be something for you too." 

"I can't quite explain it, angel. I just love to do it, that's all. 
Sometimes I feel like I love you so much that there aren't words expressive 
enough to show you how deeply I feel. Then I have to suck your cunt; it's 
ultimate demonstration of my adoration for you." 

Sirri's voice broke. "Oh, lover, such a sweet thing to say." 

"I suppose there's a selfish angle too. If I get you terribly excited, it 
can't help but be that much better when I finally get around to fucking 
you." 

"Do my parts down there have names, too? I know about the vagina and vulva 
and clitoris. Labia majora, labia minora, urethra and all that. You know ... 
dirty names?" 

"Not dirty names, precious. The ... the broader language." He wrapped his 
tongue around her clitoris, made Sirri yelp and writhe. "This is just called 
Clitoris. Sometimes clit. The French refer to it as le bouton electronique 
... the electric button. I like fuck pearl. Or passion cherry. As for these 
other things ... we've covered them already. Some crude types refer to what 
I'm doing as gobbling the cabbage, or muff-diving. I don't care much for 
those." 

Whereupon Sirri had lightly grazed her anus with a pearly finger. "And this? 
You play with me there sometimes." 

He'd shrugged. "Anus, mostly, Asshole, shithole sometimes, depending on how 
horny you are. The homos call it the cornhole, plus other unsavory things. 
The old dirt road, when they're talking about sodomy." 

"Sodomy? What's that?" 

"Let's not get that far afield today, huh, Sirri? Now where was I before I 
was so rudely interrupted?" 

"You were sucking my passion cherry," she mischievously announced. "Oh yes, 
baby, that's wonderful. I'll never get enough of it. Suck my hot clit, you 
fucker! Mmmmmmmm! Not so hard, Dwight. Run your tongue around it. Oooh! Like 
that! It's heavenly." 

"What does it feel like?" Dwight had seized erotic initiative. "When I lick 
you? Can you describe it?" 

"It's heard to say. Sometimes it's so peaceful; I feel like a safe, 
protected baby. Other times it hurts and I feel like my guts are being tied 
in knots. Just before I pop it's so intense I want to die; I want to stop 
you, but I can't. Like I'm torn between two desires; one to come, the other 
to claw your mouth away. But once I really get over the hump, there's no 
stopping me. After I come, it only takes a lick or two and I'm shooting all 
over again." She'd stopped talking then, had concentrated on total savorance 
of her hovering orgasm, assisting Dwight by moving her hips up and down, 
already skillful at jamming her clitoris to the minor penis of his tongue. 

Afterwards, shivering like a contented puppy, she'd grown reflective. 
"Dwight, baby?" 

"Yes, darling?" 

"Would you like me to do that to you sometime too? Suck your prick, I mean?" 

His heart had leaped. He'd been working up to that very thing, had prolonged 
his sessions of cunnilingus to inordinate lengths in the hope that she'd get 
carried away, would reciprocate of her own accord. But for her to offer 
same, in the relative calm of afterglow was more than he'd ever dared dream. 
"You know I would, Sirri. I'd feel like a giant among men if you would. But 
it's not important. Just so long as you let me do you. You have to want to; 
otherwise it's no good." 

"Supposing I told you I wanted to. Right now?" 

"You don't have to, Sirri." 

"I know that. But I'm just curious about what it would be like. How you'd 
taste, what sort of feelings I'd get. If you enjoy doing me that way so 
much, there must be something to it. I'm not sure I can; I might get sick. 
But I'd like to try. You won't go shooting ... in my mouth, will you? I 
don't think I could stand that." 

He'd laughed adoringly. "You angel. It's not as easy as that." 

"How do you know? Have you ... has Noreen done it for you?" 

"No," he lied, "I've never had a woman do that for me. I've just heard. Some 
men do talk...." 

She'd puffed up at that. "Then this will be my gift to you. My thank you for 
being so good to me, for loving me. Because I love you, honey." She'd 
partially dropped her head, had paused in minor revulsion. "You won't laugh 
it I can't do it?" 

"I won't laugh, angel." When her lips had paused inches from the drooling, 
red knob of his prick, he'd reassured her: "Just take a little taste. Lick 
it a little. If you don't like it, then stop." 

Her voice still indecisive, she'd said, "Tell me, won't you? Tell me how it 
feels.'" Then she'd taken a gingerly lick of his prick. Then another. 
Another and another. In a moment the flat of her tongue rasped the underside 
of his glans; the point flirted with its weeping eye. "Well?" she prompted. 

"It's heavenly, pet," he'd gasped, the idea of having Sirri reverence his 
sex thusly exalting, thrilling his beyond description. "It feels like a tiny 
bee. A bee that keeps stinging me. But a delicious sting. You angel; you 
sweet angel." He'd groaned thickly as her mouth had boldly ventured to 
consume the entire knob. Then her mouth had opened wide, had slithered down, 
down, down, until she had accommodated as much of him as she could. As she'd 
come up this time, had removed herself with a liquid pop; "How about you, 
Sirri? Is it as bad as you thought? The taste; is it repulsive?" 

"No, it isn't. Not at all. I can't describe it. I thought it would be 
bitter, that it wouldn't ... smell good. But it's a nothing taste ... just 
nothing. I like doing it for you, though. You were right ... it is a good 
feeling to know you're giving someone pleasure ... like it's something only 
you can do. May I, Dwight? Suck you some more? I only wish he wasn't so big. 
I got wild there for a minute. I wanted so desperately to swallow every 
blessed inch." 

"There'll be times," he chuckled softly. But then, anxious to have her 
succulent, hot mouth rewrapped around his throbbing penis, he urged, 
"Please, princess. More. I'm just dying to have your gorgeous, little mouth 
wrapped around my cock. Suck me, baby. And afterwards I'll fuck the 
goddamned wrinkles off the inside of your cunt." 

"Naughty," she'd teased. "You know how hot it makes me when you talk dirty 
like that." Upon which she'd dropped her head again, had attached her mouth 
to him like some sort of vacuum cleaner attachment, had blown him like she'd 
been doing it all her life. 

But that had been a long time ago, a week at least. And by now Sirri was an 
accomplished cocksucker; she thought absolutely nothing of sucking him to 
climax now, swallowing every blessed ounce of his muck, licking his prick 
shiny clean, hard enough to fuck her in the bargain. She also thought 
nothing of using the most scatological language non-stop; such seemingly 
enhancing-the sex act immeasurably for her. 

Another highlight in their brief career in lechery-one of the happiest times 
in Dwight's life-was in process this night in early September, the session 
taking place at the Adair home. It was to be a red light night, with Sirri 
capitulating to his fetishist quirks by presenting him with a pair of 
panties, garter belt, and emerald green hosiery to match an ensemble he'd 
recently bought for her. Dressing him herself, making a great fuss over his 
appearance, rubbing her nylon-cocooned breasts, belly and thighs against 
him, a truce, a symbolic understanding was effected between them. And as 
they kissed, and caressed, as they built to exotic finale in the harsh glow 
of a white spotlight, both wild to indulge excesses unlimited, Sirri had 
queried him as to the reasons for his weird anomaly. "That's hard to say, 
Sirri," he'd replied, reluctant to go into the unsettling ramifications of 
his perversion. "I suppose it's all grounded in a person's past, a thing few 
people can put their finger on. It's there; I accept it, make the best of 
it. It does pay certain dividends in the long run. To both participants. 
Everyone, I suppose, has fetishist tendencies of one sort or another. Some 
men go for earrings, for fur, for women in boots. I happen to dig lingerie, 
silk and satin. Even women have fetishist traits. For instance: Think about 
some conditions ... a way I dress, a way I smell, a particular part of my 
body that turns you on. That's fetishism, whether you're willing to admit it 
or not. Can you think of such a situation, angel?" 

Her eyes glittered. "Now that you mention it, I can. Crazy. I never thought 
about it that way before, though." 

"Do you intend to tell me about it?" 

"Not tonight, honey. Someday, but not now. It'd be far too embarrassing." 
She sought to change the subject. 

"How about Noreeen? Does she know about this trait of yours?" 

"Yes, she knows. She's been living with it, going along with it all her 
life." 

"Well then, why weren't you satisfied? If you had a woman who indulged you?" 

"I was, up to a point. At least until you came along. Suddenly Noreen was 
from nowhere. The first time that's ever happened." He passed off the 
grandiose lie without cracking a smile. "All of a sudden she didn't appeal 
any more. I had to have you or die." 

Sirri's grin was snide. "Considering this was your first straying, you were 
certainly expert. You had me interested almost from the start." 

"Necessity is the mother of invention," he glossed over expertly. Then doing 
some subject switching of his own: "Thank you for the lovely gift. You'll 
never know what it means to me. To have you understand what makes me 
tick...." He pushed her back onto the bed. "Just for that I'm going to lick 
your cunt until you scream for mercy." 

At which Sirri pulled down his panties, allowed his monstrous, veined prick 
to spring forth. "Only if you let me suck a pint or so of jazz out of this 
sweet cock of yours as well." 

Shortly the two figures, still clad in their bizarre undies, were joined in 
the soixante-neuf position, Sirri on top, milking Dwight's phallus as though 
her life depended upon it. "All of it," she snickered as she finally coaxed 
jetting floods of his semen from his tube. "Shoot it down my throat ... 
every blessed ounce." 

Afterwards, Sirri's legs hooked over Dwight's shoulders, the heels of her 
pumps drumming his back as he dredged the furrowed channels of her cunt with 
a revitalized rod, she exacted still another sluicing from him. Later, made 
irresponsible by too much drink, there was time for still a more outre 
demand from Sirri. As harking back to sodomy, having heard somewhere that a 
twice-defeated phallus is diminished in rigidity, if not dimensions, she 
begged that her lover teach her this forbidden art as well. Stall though 
Dwight might, she was adamant, and not too much later, he stretching her 
with semen-lubricated fingers, he finally acceded to her corrupt request. 
And Sirri standing beside the bed, her palms on the mattress, her derriere 
charmingly offered, she had her depraved way. After much shrieking and 
puffing and pumping, his rod was eventually shoe-horned into her maddeningly 
tight ass. Not too much later, sensing impending orgasm as induced by 
Dwight's strumming finger, she shifted her buttocks into high, forthrightly 
exacted a watery tribute from him. A climax that coincided precisely with 
hers. "Gorgeous!" she shrieked hoydenly, "I can feel him shoot! Every single 
squirt! So hot; it's so hot! It burns something awful!" 

Which was, all at once, entirely too much for Noreen to bear. And enduring 
as much of the voyeur bacchanal as she could, she suddenly found that 
masturbation wasn't enough; she had to have a more concrete expression of 
her sexual need or go stark raving mad. Thus-the first time she'd ever 
attempted such-she streaked for Ardyce's quarters. Where, breaking in on the 
drowsy, confused Negress, she flung herself into bed with her, immediately 
whipped up her nightgown, buried her lips in the maid's milky musky vagina. 
A thing which Ardyce, innured to sexual abnormalities of every description 
in this household by now, shrugged off, endured as best she could. 

But then, Noreen flung her own clothes off, fell prone upon Ardyce's body, 
arranged her belly so that it touched hers, actually opening the Negress's 
pussy with her own fingers. Now, bringing her glistening, pink clitoris into 
prominence, she commenced sawing at it with her own engorged pearl. Ardyce 
shuddered, bitterly said: "Easy does it, Ma'am. You ain't going to no fire. 
The way you're abusing it, you'll scrape the varnish off before you even get 
close to what you're needing." 

"Don't talk!" Noreen snapped. "I don't need any of your hp. Just move, damn 
you! Move, move...." 

The dusky-skinned female stiffened momentarily at her mistress' officious 
tone. But then, a contemptuous smile forming on her lips, she did as she was 
commanded. She moved. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

Whenever Dwight and Noreen had a few moments to themselves, their 
conversation-once the practical exigencies of household, corporate and 
social demands were shunted aside-invariably turned to his continuing 
romance with Sirri. And how were things going? Was she all the woman, the 
pristine innocent he'd thought she'd be? Just how was the virgin-goddess 
business these days? 

To which questionings-Dwight totally unaware of the fact that his wife was 
baiting him, that via her secret vantage point she knew exactly the affair's 
present disposition-he usually applied in the glowing positive, assured 
Noreen that Sirri was sun, moon and stars, that once and for all he'd found 
the female, and there would never be need for him to stray again. 

This particular September evening, Noreen and Ardyce dutifully departed from 
the house as per directions, Dwight awaiting Sirri's imminent arrival, he 
felt an unaccountable despair and ennui, and recalling the conversations 
with Noreen, he only wished he might feel as easy in his mind about Sirri as 
the rosy picture he'd painted for his wife might indicate. Something was 
definitely going wrong between him and Sirri. And what was it? Certainly he 
loved Sirri just as much as ever; the panic at thought of losing her was as 
deadly as ever. Their corybantic sex duos continued as pagan and ferocious 
as ever; there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that his nymphet mistress 
would not do to accommodate him sexually. If anything she was as avid for 
innovation, as instrumental in programming new expeditions into the sexual 
unknown as he was. And who would have believed that an innocent like Sirri, 
in the brief passage of a month's time at that, could develop into such a 
flat-out, no-holds-barred wanton? 

Perhaps this was what worried him. Lurking in the darkest niches of his mind 
were niggling fears that in time, he himself would falter; he wouldn't be 
able to respond to the tireless demands Sirri made upon him; there would 
come a time when his overdeveloped sex drive-bolstered prodigiously lately 
by vitamins, testosterone shots as it was-would fail him, reduce him to a 
victim of mockery and contempt in his vibrant, young Lorelei's eyes. Indeed, 
there had already been evidence of this. That thing two nights ago, when it 
had taken all the concentration and will power he possessed to keep his 
prick hard enough to see Sirri through her third fuck of the evening? Was 
that ghost of Christmas to come? 

He fought away the speculation, cursed himself for the fears. A man can 
think himself into a state, you ass! he scolded. Switching mental channels, 
he zeroed in on what he considered an even more crucial causative. That 
language of Sirri's! he concluded. The utterly conscienceless-slutty-way she 
throws herself into sex! As hard as he tired to reconcile himself to same, 
to convince himself that he was among God's luckiest creatures to have 
unearthed so amoral, so license-dedicated a mink as Sirri, somehow the 
rationalizations wouldn't sell. No matter how assiduously he assured himself 
that this was merely a passing phase, that he would soon accustom himself to 
Sirri's hoyden, piggish delight in shocking him, the unease remained. And 
what did it mean? Why did he allow such petty considerations to trouble him? 

Basically, he supposed, it was all due to the preconceived picture of Sirri 
he'd manufactured. His peculiar sexual malaise being what it was, he'd 
desperately needed a singular female-the ultimate female-to fit into the 
role of aristocratic, regal and aloof mistress his most secret heart cried 
out for. A mistress who, though participating whole-heartedly in debauch 
unlimited, would, somehow, still keep a mystic part of herself in reserve; 
she would, even after wallowing in animalistic sex, remount her holy, 
supernatural dais, resume her worshipful stance. The analogy, muddled as it 
was, certainly didn't fit the Sirri of today. 

Now Dwight withered inside as he recalled one of their most recent meetings, 
one in which he'd finally revealed his ultimate eccentricity to Sirri. That 
night, while dressing her in one of her most provocative lingerie ensembles, 
a groveling handmaiden of the most toadying sort, he'd described his need to 
be dominated and mistreated by the object of his love. A thing that Sirri 
hadn't understood at first, had refused to cooperate in. "But why, baby?" 
she'd asked. "Why would you want me to treat you like that? I love you; I 
only want to do nice things for you. I think I'd be ill, to have you 
crawling around like that. And that shoe thing ... the heels ... That's 
sick, Dwight. Sick-sick." 

Somehow by utilization of persuasion, tactile stimulation and force-feedings 
of liquor, he'd eventually brought Sirri around to attempting his 
masochistic brand of sex play after all. Only a dim light burning in the 
Adair bedroom, discordant Stravinsky clogging the macabre atmosphere, Sirri 
regally resplendent in a butchered, tightly-boned, royal blue corset, her 
cunt and breasts (the tits themselves darkly rouged) almost totally exposed, 
she was persuaded to issue the first commands. "Here, Dwight," she'd said 
self-consciously. "You dirty, little boy. Come kiss Sirri's feet." 

Somehow the sight of him cowering there in his black, similarly butchered 
panties and panty-hose, the eerie sensations of having him lick the toes of 
her shoes, had awakened sleeping demons within her. And as Dwight had 
pleadingly insisted that she verbally abuse him with more ferocity, utilize 
more gutty language, she had complied with in creasing, instinctive verve. 
"Suck the toes, you filth. As much as you can get into your rotten, dirty 
mouth! Suck, you bastard! Give my foot a blow job!" 

The ugly fury in her voice, the demented light in her eyes had compounded 
swiftly, and shortly the latent sadism extant in all mankind had raked Sirri 
with its clawing talons, had delivered her to uncontrollable bestiality. And 
as he'd sucked her toes, licked her ankles, her calves then her bare thighs 
themselves, Sirri had twined her hands in his hair, had urged his head more 
fiercely to her flesh. "My tits!" she'd grated, forestalling him in his 
attempts to plunge his mouth into her swimming cunt, seemingly saving that 
for the last. "Suck 'em! Suck 'em until I can't stand it any more! Suck the 
little bastards raw!" At which she'd leaned, had hung her 
barely-cantilevered boobs in his face, had savored his abject, 
neck-straining pose to the utmost, at the end attempting to smother him in 
them. 

When she'd been unable to stand his adoration any longer, the ultimate 
degradation had been ordained. "Now, you dirty fucker!" she seethed, 
completely out of touch. "My cunt! My stinking, dripping cunt. Suck that 
now. Put your cuntsucking mouth in my snatch, suck my twat! Suck my clit; 
pull my passion cherry out by the roots. Make me come again and again!" 
She'd allowed herself to be masticated and stripped to two quick glories, 
which back-breaking ecstasies had driven her to further excess. 

"On your back, pig," she'd choked, tearing his mouth from her screaming gash 
viciously, flinging him backward. "Sirri's got something special for dirty 
cunt suckers like you!" Running to the upper level, she'd brought a straight 
chair, placed it beside Dwight's recumbent, twitching form. "Here's what you 
wanted, you pervert!" she spat. "And here it is. Lay still. Take your 
punishment like the crawly slime you are!" Whereupon, balancing her weight 
down on the pencil-thin heels of her black, calfskin pumps, she gingerly 
ground the leather spike into his flesh, exulting in his pained, grating 
whimpers. She prodded his near-to-exploding prick where, escaping from the 
opening in his panties, it stood like a minor Sequoia with the pointed toe 
of one shoe. "That really makes the sap rise, doesn't it? Christ! Look at 
the way your cock's jumping!" 

Again and again she walked on his chest and belly, on his thighs even, the 
weight of her heels actually cutting him in places, leaving red, 
crescentshaped welts elsewhere. Dwight had been transfigured, driven to 
heights of passion heretofore unexperienced by him. Granted, he'd had women 
mistreat him before, but none had ever hurt him like this. Sirri was a 
veritable genius when it came to debauch. "You like that don't you, pig?" 
she'd taunted, offering a rapier heel for him to suck. "Say it, you fucker! 
You like it." 

"I like it," he'd gasped through grunts of agony. "I love it. Oh, more, 
more...." 

Once more she'd gone as far as to lift and massage his balls with the shiny 
toe of her shoe. "You love that too, don't you, creep? You can't get enough 
of that, can you!" She began to stroke the underside of his stalk with 
slippery leather, snickering viscously as the member flopped sideways, back 
and forth. At that moment Dwight had released a strangled howl. And then and 
there, a totally involuntary act, the degenerate havoc of Sirri's abuse 
taking irrevocable toll, Dwight had ejaculated, his sperm coursing in high 
arc, splashing his belly one moment, spitting white garlands of cream 
against Sirri's nyloned ankle, on the smooth leather of her shoe the next. 
"Ooh, Ooh," he'd gasped, utterly mortified. 

But there had been redemption. As Sirri had stared malevolently down at him, 
her mouth working agitatedly. "Now that was a filthy thing to do, pig," she 
seethed. "You'll be sorry you did that." Summarily she'd sat back on the 
chair allowing Dwight to sit up. From which throne she'd imperiously 
extended the befouled foot and shoe. "Come here, piggy! Come here and lick 
all this mucky slime off me! Get me clean. Lick, do you hear!" Which further 
humiliation Dwight, still in the throes of a conscience-obliterating lust, 
had swiftly, eagerly leapt to perfom. On all fours, his head hanging down, 
he'd licked his semen off her shoe, off her stocking, had slavishly worked 
until his mistress had excused him from the chore. 

"Over here, you filth," she'd commanded next, going to the bed. "You've got 
me all hot again. Get your head in here. Suck my twat. Suck me off a couple 
more times. And then...." Partially leaning, her arms supporting her, with 
her heels hooked on the mattress' edge, her legs brazenly splayed, she'd 
presented her expectantly-leering cunt, had adjusted so his lips and tongue 
could have free play. 

"God. oh. God!" she'd screamed as first one, then another orgasm had been 
sucked from her, "I'm exploding. my cunt's on fire!" Then, calm temporarily 
established: "No. don't take it away; keep your mouth there. Keep me hot." 
She'd shivered convulsively. "Ooh. you got me so excited, I gotta go." 
Making a move to get off the bed. she'd caught herself, flopped back into 
her original position. 

A deranged, blatantly obscene leer on her face, she'd said. "Sirri's gotta 
go potty. But she can't wait." Her voice took on venomous edge; her eyes 
were demented, heathenish. "You'll take care of it for her, won't you, 
cuntsucker? You'll save her the trip?" Her hand had come down, had slammed 
his head into her crotch, had forced his mouth to suction onto the upper 
regions of her vagina. "Latch on, you fucker!" she'd crowed exultantly. 
"Here it comes. Drink it, do you hear! Drink my piss!" 

As of that moment Dwight was a mindless zombie, beyond control, beyond 
remorse, completely stripped of all humanity. A horrendous roaring in his 
ears, he'd affixed his mouth to her urethral opening, had thirstily received 
her hot flood. After which, incensed beyond description, his pecker 
miraculously revived, he'd flung himself upon Sirri, had thrown her onto her 
belly, cursingly burrowed his gummy weapon into the resisting portal of her 
ass, and all Sirri's shrieks of pain to the protest, had royally reamed her, 
surprising them both with the torrents of hot jazz he'd been able to bombard 
the forbidden channel with. "Ooh," a bemused, delightfully-sated Sirri had 
moaned when he'd finally unglued himself from her posterior, "that was 
terrible. I won't be able to shit for a week." 

Abruptly now, a noise somewhere in the house jarring him from the corrupt 
reverie, Dwight Adair straightened in his chair, thought to go admit Sirri. 
He changed his mind, slumped back in his chair, knew a suffocating panic. 
As, passing his hand between his legs, he basketed his genitals, was amazed 
to find-even after the low-down, filthy introspections just concluded-that 
his cock was totally unaffected by same; it lay in limp curl inside his 
trousers. God, dear God, he agonized. It's happened! It's happened at along 
last! 

He arose to greet Sirri as she found her own way through the house. And was 
further unnerved by the realization that he felt absolutely no excitement at 
the prospect of the impending fuck, no desire for Sirri whatsoever! 

But still, as she entered, fresh and glowing, a newly ignited feral cast to 
her face, he managed to go through the motions of joyous welcome, thinking 
all the while that when the time for romp arrived, he would be ready. Once 
he instituted their usual preliminaries, there would be no question but that 
he'd be the virile, charging bull he'd always been. 

Even in this he was frustrated, for Sirri displaying a singular disinterest 
in his fetishist fancies tonight, she begged him for more normal and 
forthright attentions. "None of that tonight, baby," she resisted as he 
attempted to caress and kiss her nyloned legs. "That scene's getting to be a 
drag. Is that all you think about? Why can't you just try it regular ... my 
way for once. That thing last time ... Wow! Like too much. You had me so far 
out of my tree I was afraid I'd never climb back." She fell on the bed, held 
imploring arms out to him. "Please, Dwight? Just a nice peaceful fuck? No 
shennanigans?" 

Which demurral-inbred rejection large within its framework-couldn't help but 
devastatingly chill what small ardor Dwight still possessed. Dully, 
sullenly, he fell beside her, allowed Sirri to pull him into her arms, kiss 
him hotly. A momentary spark-initial awe at her child-like beauty, her very 
presence-was swiftly extinguished. "Don't pout now, baby," she coaxed. "We 
can do some of those things, if you like. But the silk bit I'm tired of. 
I'll suck you a little, you can suck me. Then you can shove that sweet prick 
of yours into me, fuck me blind. What's wrong with that?" A mischievous 
glitter exploded in her eyes. "Maybe I might even have a little surprise or 
two in store for you. Something I've been thinking about lately...." She 
pounced upon him. "Here, let's get these clothes off you...." 

Dwight knew grave mortification when Sirri tugged away his trousers, found 
him inert inside his brightly-patterned panties. "Hey, what's this?" she 
teased. "A dead one? What's the matter, honey? Haven't you got it for me any 
more? You been flubbing the dummy on me?" She giggled, more amused at this 
discomfiture than chagrined, and dug playful fingers into his limp bundle. 
"Don't fret, love; I've got ways to put starch in that one. Trust me." 

Then, Dwight lying on the bed in just his ridicu lous panties, Sirri stood 
before him on the first riser, made a spicy show of removing her outer 
clothing. As she revealed herself in a plain, juniormiss sort of white 
lingerie combination, the brassiere unembellished, tailored, the white, 
Lycra panty-girdle stiff and dull, a collage of unenticing planes, a severe 
diamond at belly and derriere, Dwight felt the slightest twinge in his 
prick. Unsexy as the underthings might be, there was still something 
ingenue, enough about them to restir long-interred fantasies of innocent 
virginity. But as quickly-Sirri briskly peeling off same to avoid his 
relapse into self-abasement-the fascination was gone. Briefly Sirri stood 
before him, her face confused as she displayed her nakedness, failed to 
elicit Dwight's lust. 

She offered her lush breasts with her own hands, tweaked the nipples with 
diabolic fingers; she assumed provocative stance which had always excited 
him before. Her eyes narrowing, she used a favorite device and popping her 
index finger deep into her vagina, twisting it 180 degrees each way, she 
slid it out. Advancing upon the bed, she inserted the slimy digit into 
Dwight's mouth, bade him suck. A thing which he did dutifully, instead of 
eagerly. "Looks like Sirri's gotta look after her own interests," she mused. 
"What is it, darling? Don't you love me any more?" 

Urgent panic erupted within Dwight. He did love Sirri; he didn't want to 
lose her, no matter what. "I don't know, baby," he muttered, mouthing the 
tasty finger. "It just won't get hard. I'm so ashamed. This ... this's never 
happened to me before." 

"Don't sweat it, love. That happens, I guess. Hell, the way I've been 
pounding you." She came squirming up his belly, poised her snatch over his 
face. "Here, take a bite. This'll charge your batteries. Oooh, darling! That 
educated mouth of yours. I could melt on the spot." 

Then, when this liberty didn't help, more drastic measures were called for. 
"Would you like me to suck you, darling? I'll give you a blow-job you'll 
never forget." Dwight's terror was multiplied a hundredfold. As, watching 
Sirri crouch on her haunches beside him, her back in exquisite arc, her 
breasts hanging like overturned beehives inches from his hands, her mouth 
nibbling and drawing on his deflated cock, even as she removed his bizarre 
costume, he still felt no stirrings of desire. Her fingers scrabbled in the 
mushy meat of his genitals, fought to buttress his shrunken pod long enough 
for her lips to slurp it in. Shortly her attentions breathed minor life into 
his pecker, but the feeble, crippled tube was a mere shadow of itself; he 
barely felt her tongue and fingers on it as she drew back the foreskin, 
licked and blew, licked and blew, lovingly on it. 

"C'mon, little prick," she cooed, the heat of her tongue the cool of her 
breath generating feeble flickers deep in his scrotum, "get hard; pay 
attention to Sirri." She giggled. "Get hard. Simon says, 'Get hard.' C'mon, 
you sweet little worm; look alive. Here, how do you like this?" At which she 
separated the glans, sought to rape the miniature mouth with a curled 
tongue. "I wish I was a humming bird. So I could get way in there. I'd suck 
you out; I'd make you hard in no time at all. You like this, Dwight? This 
get to you? Mmm, your juice is beginning to flow. Yum-yum. It's delicious. 
Hard, you little rooster, get hard. It's coming, it's coming. Concentrate." 
And parodying a Peter Pan refrain: "Think dirty thoughts; think dirty 
thoughts...." 

For perhaps ten more minutes, even going so far as to pause to retrieve a 
small bottle of creme-dementhe from the table on the upper level (the sticky 
drink a recent favorite with her), painting his prick and balls with same, 
sucking and licking him to fastidious cleanliness Sirri continued to im 
portune his penis to stiffness. All to little effect. As Dwight, more 
frightened by the moment, defeated her efforts by sheer mental negativism. 
It was only when Sirri loosed a dedicated flow of scatological language as 
she sucked him, that the indolent meat struggled up, fought to approximate 
its previous height. A minor success that encouraged her, drove her to 
further excesses. 

Now she slid her fingers in and out of her cunt, brought the copious elixir 
of her Bartholin glands to the crack of her ass, where she determinedly 
tunneled her finger into his anus. Soon she had the tender portal runny and 
slippery. So much so that her finger slid in and out with easy lisp and pop. 
"Sweet prick," she chanted in between long, devouring suckings with her 
mouth, driving her finger deep with each withrawal, reversing the motion as 
her mouth once more descended on his firming cannon, "sweet, juicy, hard 
prick. Sweet fucky prick ... fucky-fucky prick. Big fat cock in my mouth. 
Fat, fat cock. Cock that's jamming deep into my throat. Cock that's wild to 
plunder Sirri's steaming cunt. Hard, hard ... that's a good boy, that's 
a...." 

Eventually the playful, amused child was successful, and Dwight's member was 
rigid enough so they could risk transferring it from her mouth to her pussy. 
And though he didn't fail her, though the laggard weapon brought her to 
orgasm upon orgasm before it shot its own watery syrup deep into her bowels, 
it was, all in all, a lack lustre fuck. Even as he splatted the walls of her 
womb, as Sirri shammed an incredible delight, Dwight knew that he had failed 
her. Crushing presentiment of doom made itself known, and he was shattered, 
became the original hollow man. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

Cowering within the walls of his sumptuously appointed office at Candlelight 
Petroleum this dreary afternoon in mid-September, Dwight Adair was haunted 
by phantoms of the most terrifying and debilitating sort. A ponderous sigh 
escaped him as he admitted the grisly actuality of the infamy which had come 
to pass. The stand-off between him and Sirri had continued, was 
continuing-over a period of ten whole days now. There was no point in trying 
to pretend that it didn't exist any longer. Passing phase, indeed! Dear God 
in Heaven, how long? How long before Sirri tires of my half-man performance? 
How long will she continue to indulge me in the degrading workups before I'm 
man enough to service her? When a girl's been broken in the way I broke her 
in, when a girl's in her prime sexually and physically, when she can't help 
but draw young, capable studs like flies He would lose Sirri; money or no 
money, fervent promises of gifts unending to the contrary. For now the 
material facets would become secondary; it was the steady humping that would 
take precedence. For all he knew she was with another man now, some punk 
kid, a pawky, mauling, greedily-gobbling cretin who would never, in a 
hundred years, appreciate the rare largesse being bestowed upon him. The 
thought drove him into a frenzy. And yet, he temporized, why not? Sirri's 
been had. By a past master. The damage has been done. And if she passes 
herself around to any and all comers from here on in, what's the harm? He 
had only himself to blame. He'd taught her everything she knew. What was to 
keep her from taking in students on her own? 

Dwight buried his face in his hands, fought to stifle frustrated groans. 
Please, Sirri, he raged. I'll be all right soon now. Which was a lie, and he 
knew it, for he'd been to his doctor, had out-lined his problems. To which 
the doctor had shrugged, had told him that his impotency was psychologically 
induced; head-shrinking wasn't in his line. The vitamins, the testosterone 
shots were, insofar as he was concerned, the end of the line. "Until you get 
right with God," the nihilistic Carstairs had caustically taunted in 
parting. 

But Dwight wasn't about to consult a psychiatrist; he wasn't about to bare 
his soul to one of those charlatans. There was nothing wrong with his head. 
At least nothing that frauds like that could cure. His despair deepened. 
What then? Where to turn? Time was flying. and Sirri was becoming more cold, 
more distant bv the day. Soon she would be leaving for college: their idvll 
would end on a disruptive note: it would never be revitalized again. Dear 
God, the irony, the devastating irony of it all! 

How can it be? he questioned, his hand slithering between his legs, his 
fingers encountering his cock, almost instantly triggering it into surging 
readiness. This? Now? When I'm away from Sirri? And yet, when I'm with her, 
when we're both working like someone possessed to make this dirty animal 
hard? Nothing. Sweet Jesus, why? Almost in incredulous trance, thinking to 
find it all a mirage upon closer inspection, Dwight unzipped his trousers. 
Digging inside the double layer of nylon-today he wore frilly pink panties, 
gauzy white pantyhose beneath his severe, dark business suit, his 
over-the-calf socks concealing his peculiar aberration from the outside 
world-he dug out the vein-garlanded length, balanced it in the palm of his 
right hand. With his other, he slapped it against his palm, felt pain, 
vestigial sexual excitement careen down its length, burrow into his scrotum, 
into the pleasurable nerve-center located slightly above and behind it. 

You bastard, he accused. And for Sirri you won't get hard? What kind of a 
dirty stunt do you think you're pulling, anyway? Another thought crossed his 
mind. And while he hadn't once attempted intercourse with Noreen since Sirri 
had first capitulated-He wondered if, with any other woman besides Sirri-or 
was he impotent with all women? No matter; there was an easy way of finding 
out. Pulling his chair close to his desk, concealing his stiff-standing cock 
beneath it, he pushed the intercom button. "Miss Hill? Will you come in 
please?" 

Moments later the tall blonde entered the office, note pad and pencil at 
ready. Her eyes went wide, her jaw fell in flustered confusion as she saw 
the cruel hungry glint in Dwight's gaze. "Mr. Adair...?" 

"Please lock the door, Jessica," he snapped. "No interruptions." Whereupon 
he rolled his chair backward, unconcernedly revealed his swollen rod and 
testicles to her, his eyes flicking from Jessica to himself, inventorying 
the effect of her on his prick, his prick on her. 

"Mr. Adair ... Dwight!" she gasped. "Really!" 

"Don't play games, Jessica. You've seen this before. Now if you'll raise 
your skirts, please. I'm conducting a survey of sorts." 

"Really, Dwight," she stammered, her eyes never leaving the bobbing, swaying 
extension of cock, "there's no need to be uncouth. Just like that? You 
expect me to ... " 

""Raise your skirts, damnit! " he bellowed. "I've got no time, I said!" 

The color draining from her face, the very-flustered secretary swiftly 
leaned, brought her dress up in embarrassed fits and starts. "Honestly, 
Dwight," she sputtered, "There's no need to be crude. You know you have but 
to ask in a nice way and I'll...." 

For long moments Dwight stared at the prominent mound of her cunt in the 
cute, lacy panties; he wordlessly appraised the black straps of her garter 
belt where they cinched her hosiery to her shapely legs. Minor exultation 
filled him as he felt his prick throb in his hand, hot stars of desire 
pumping up in it. And, Christ! How come? "Very pretty, Jessica," he finally 
said. "I admire your taste in undies. If you'll come over here now, let me 
have a sample. Honey, the way your snatch bulges out...." 

The crass language, Dwight's very dominating demeanor, all served to excite 
the female intolerably, and as always, she became so much helpless putty in 
his hands. "Yes, dear," she squeaked pathetically as she came to him, posed 
with her skirts higher than ever, "yes, Dwight. Whatever you say." She 
shuddered as his fingers pinched the fat, suddenly smoldering lips of her 
vagina; she even splayed her legs slightly to better accommodate his 
plucking fingers. "Oh, Dwight! You monster! You turn me into some kind of 
animal. Careful, now. Whatever are you doing?" 

What he was doing was studying his prick, trying to see if there was any 
change in his excitation. There was; in that, if anything, he was even more 
swollen now, and a clear drop of lubricatory oil grew at its tip. "Like I 
said, Jessica: a little survey. Anything, you said? All I have to do is 
ask?" 

The secretary shuddered in wanton trance as his fingers manipulated her 
cunt, completely unhinging her. "Yes, Dwight, darling. I'm your slave; you 
know that." 

"If that's the case I think I'd like some hp action. Like last time, honey? 
Right here? On your knees." 

Miss Hill's face collapsed; her legs turned to so much jelly. After but a 
moment's stunned hesitation, she slowly sank floorward, hobbled toward the 
inviting, drooling rod. Brushing the clinging pearl of his fluid away with 
prissy fingers, she slowly inclined her head, began to lick and suck. A 
thing which Dwight watched almost impassively, clinically, actually 
expecting his organ to droop and wither at any moment. But such was not the 
case: If anything his stalk grew still fatter, threatened to suffocate the 
hapless doxy; the raging flame within it became more intolerable by the 
moment. Until, fearing that he'd ejaculate before he had time for the 
ultimate test, Dwight abruptly pulled himself from Jessica, leaving her 
momentarily sucking at empty air. "Here," he commanded, helping the stunned 
female to her feet. "Over here. Lean over." 

Arranging Miss Hill at the end if his desk, her palms on its edge to balance 
her, her legs slightly spread, he threw her skirt up over her back, 
immediately began drawing down the cute panties. He balanced her ankles as 
she stepped out of the silky cuffs, took furtive passes at her glassy legs 
as he did so. Now, still wearing his own trousers, he advanced on Jessica 
from the rear, fondled her rosy buttocks, adjusted her even more precisely. 
She released a surprised, pleasurable gasp as he sank his pecker into the 
depths of her snatch with one brutal stroke. Momentarily they froze, in 
order to savor each other. Now he began to plow the happily-groaning woman 
in earnest. 

Again he halted-seemingly when a perfect rhythm and reciprocal flow had just 
been established-and withdrawing himself from Jessica, he gruffly said, "Not 
enough friction that way. Turn around, darling, will you?" When the bemused 
female did so, he whipped up her skirts in front, brusquely pushed her 
backward onto the desk itself. Her knees automatically came up-testament of 
countless such office seductions-her heels hooked on its edge, while her 
arms stretched wide across the broad expanse, fingers hooking under the desk 
overhang, further bracing her for the pile-driver onslaughts to come. 
Standing before her, his fingers toying with her golden muff, immersing 
themselves in the squish of her slit, he finally inserted his rod into her, 
began to saw vigorously, his stance allowing him to plumb her to her very 
depths, certain especially penetrating strokes causing Jessica to yip 
painfully. A gentleman to the last, he waited on Jessica's pleasure, and had 
but to hear her beginning wheezings of ecstasy, before he viciously plunged 
himself into her, blasted her mercilessly with hot salvos of sperm. Then it 
was Dwight's turn to be confused. 

Sliding himself from Jessica with a glutinous plop, he leaned, retrieved her 
panties, wiped his cock on them. Handing the defiled garment back to her, he 
said authoritatively: "That will be all, Miss Hill. You may take the rest of 
the afternoon off, if you like." 

After the humiliated woman had fled the office, Dwight repaired his own 
clothes, sank tiredly into his chair again, fought to take stock, to 
comprehend the incredible thing he'd just accomplished. A thousand times the 
everlasting "Why?" boomed in his brain. A thousand times there was only 
taunting silence in place of answer. What did it mean? 

What had happened between him and Sirri? Was there any hope for them? 
Tirelessly the mocking questions cycled in his brain, until he could stand 
them no longer. And thinking to repair to his town apartment, therein 
steeping himself in the ghost-teeming atmosphere where he and Sirri had 
shared so many happy, revelatory moments together, he shortly left the 
office. He needed a greater solitude, a more eminently tangible reminder of 
Sirri. And since she'd refused him rendezvous there this afternoon, since 
the apartment would be solely his-It would be just what the doctor ordered. 
From somewhere the refrain echoed and reechoed: Physician, heal thyself 
Thus, he was quite unprepared-Dwight hovering outside the apartment door, 
sorting through his keys-for what he found upon reaching the tenth-floor 
aerie. Hearing the sound of muted music seeping from behind that door, he 
thought at first that he must be mistaken, that the sound was carying from 
an adjacent apartment. His heart jammed up into his throat, ungovernable 
rage consumed him as he pressed his ear to the door, heard Sirri's giggle, 
an unknown male voice override the music itself! For a moment it seemed he 
would pass out, so great was the pain this inglorious betrayal inflicted! So 
soon, his brain clamored, so soon! The minute I turn my back! 

Nevertheless, mature man that he was, he maintained an icy control of sorts; 
he determined to make sure of his facts before he went off halfcocked. To 
this effect he stealthily inserted his key, pushed the door open. Seconds 
later he was inside the apartment, and his back to the door, his jaw agape 
at the incriminating evidence spread before him, he momentarily froze. The 
living room was deserted, the FM section of the hi-fi installation played 
rock-and-roll music. While on the cocktail table was the debris of the 
afternoon's drinking; a ragged trail of male and female clothing-Sirri's 
pumps here, her brassiere and panties, a set he'd recently given her, 
there-led toward the partially-closed door of the nearest bedroom. Rage 
gathering, threatening to suffocate him, he sucked air greedily, just before 
he crept toward the door from which the voices emanated. Then, putting one 
cautious eye around the door jamb He wanted to scream at the agony he felt 
at that instant. His heart bucked, a blood lust fragmented his brain! For 
here was Sirri, his beloved Sirri, totally naked upon the bed with a totally 
unknown stranger! Her eyes were closed in blissful swoon, while her legs 
were high on his plunging back, her ankles locked behind his waist. Her 
fingers dug into his roiling buttocks, left red welts in his tanned flesh as 
she piloted his plundering prick deep, deeper, deepest into her 
eagerly-responding gash. Carrying over the betrayed cacophony in his 
brain-grossest insult to injury-were her coarse, throat-abraiding, 
gutter-snipe cries: "Oh, God, Hal! God, God ... Slam it, drive it! Push that 
everlovin' meat right through me! Up my cunt, through my belly, up my 
cocksucking throat! You stallion, you gorgeous cock! Fuck the shit right out 
of me!" 

Upon that note Dwight sank into an immobilized, unthinking trance. Mortally 
wounded, he could do nothing but cling to the door frame, watch the foul 
scene as one mesmerized; it was as if detaching his staring eyes would 
precipitate the world's end. He watched as Sirri reached an orgasm (her 
first? her hundredth?), barked her delight, something deadly fascinating 
about the vast variety of emotions that played across her face as she came: 
Pain, terror, ugly distortion, fanatic reaching. And finally-a beatific 
peace and satisfaction. He heard the alien male's throaty curses, signal of 
his own release, just as Sirri's face grimaced anew, just as he moved to 
storm the bastions of holy sensation herself again. "Baby," she scolded, her 
hips writhing as she reluctantly savored each blistering jet of his semen, 
"too fast, too fast. Hell, I was just starting to...." 

It was here that the male named Hal-a handsome brown-haired youth of 
nineteen or twenty at the oldest-raised his head from Sirri's throat, his 
face forming laughing retort. And ran directly iota Dwight's enraged, 
incredulous glare. The boy lurched as if a hat-pin had been plunged three 
inches into his buttocks. "Holy Christ!" he blurted. "Where did you come 
from?" 

Then Sirri's head shot up, her eyes focused on Dwight's face. Instantly her 
face went white, she sucked in a loud, rasping breath. "Dwight!" she gasped. 

By the time Dwight could choke up scalding, bitter words, the advantage had 
already been lost. For even as he took one step into the room, Sirri's 
expression changed, became hard, stubborn and willful, the very expression 
one sees on the face of a spoiled child who's been crossed. Furious as 
Dwight's tirade was, as much fear as it put into her teenage lover's heart, 
it seemingly had little effect upon Sirri; the words ricocheted off an 
obdurate, totally closed mind. She had had her way all her life; she would 
have her way in this instance too. 

"So now you know," she said at long last, when Dwight had run out of threats 
and cursings. "Ain't that a kick in the head? My first time out of the box 
and I get caught." Her look turned derisive. "So what, little man? What're 
you gonna do about it?" 

"Do, do!" he sputtered. "I'll give you two minutes to get this young hood 
out of here. I'll give you two minutes to choose between us. Are you willing 
to risk everything we have, throw all the things I've done for you, can do 
for you, into the discard?" And as much as he hated to whine and grovel 
before the arrogant bitch, he couldn't help himself. His voice snagging, he 
said, "I'm the one who loves you, the one who cares for you. I'm the one who 
brought you along, taught you, made you what you are today." 

"Thanks for nothing," she sneered. 

"Sirri," he made ridiculous ultimatums, "I insist you come to your senses. 
I'll forgive this transgression. If you promise never to behave like this 
again. But you must make a choice; either this ... lout or me!" 

"That's like no choice at all, Dwight. Christ, Hal's got a gun, a real live 
gun. One that shoots real bullets, not blanks. You were fine once, baby, 
real fine. But your day's come and gone; you're only good for seconds now. 
You better learn to be satisfied or else." 

"Or else what?" 

Her eyes carried deadly venom, sent warning which only Dwight could 
interpret, warning that turned his blood to ice. "You know, Dwight. We won't 
wash dirty laundry in public." Her expression turned even more contemptuous. 
"Short hairs, darling? My way or not at all. That's the way it's gonna be. 
Now what do you want to do? We were having a nice time before you busted in. 
Like th old saying goes: Shit or get off the pot. You want seconds or not? 
If you do, get out in the other room and get undressed." Her lips curled. 
"God knows what you've got on. Then come back here and mount up. That is, if 
you're man enough." Sh turned away, pushed the dazed-eyed youth named Hal 
back onto the bed. Whereupon, in full sight of Dwight, she dropped her head, 
commenced sucking his limp pecker back to life. Staring at Dwight as she 
worked, she seemingly savored the deranging anguish her disolute homage to 
Hal triggered within Dwight's heart; she giggled muffledly at the way his 
eyes all but bulged from his head. Pausing once, she raised her head, 
salaciously licked her lips. "At least with Hal I know I've got a winner. 
You I'm not so sure about." 

Dwight wasn't to remember afterward just what insane power invested him at 
that moment. Gulled, disgraced, so foully used, he was still possessed of an 
overpowering lust to avenge himself upon the deceiving slut; he would not 
take this ultimate humiliation lying down. Beyond this was the unalterable 
fact that this stunning turnabout, this degrading comeuppance wreaked an 
eerie weakness upon him. And once more subjugated, attaining his most 
intrinsically basic status, he found his prick standing like a crowbar 
inside his trousers; he was possessed of a lust drive the likes if which he 
hadn't known in weeks. And this-after having finished with Jessica Hill less 
than an hour ago! 

An animalistic growl broke from his throat, and he wheeled, darted from that 
hellhole bedroom. In the sanctuary of the bathroom-for Sirri had made 
implied pledge to honor his secrets-he stripped away his clothes, concealed 
the damning nylon underthings in a clothes hamper. Now, totally naked, an 
insane resolve glaring the inner walls of his brain, prying him further from 
what litttle normalcy he still knew, he loped back toward that bed upon 
which his beloved even now basely entertained her pick-up lover. 

And seeing her derriere high in the air as she leaned to suck Hal, 
irresistible invitation, he fell upon her from behind, gloried in her 
surprised, jubilant yip as he buried himself to his testicles in her hole. 
Now, a bestial growl in his throat, an unearthly buzzing in his brain, his 
entire psyche humming before the vibrations of his lust drive, he cursed, 
drove his cock deep into her, up her, through her! Grabbing her by the 
hogridges of her pelvis, he used her like a novelty box; he thrust and 
groaned, thrust and groaned-his poundings more brutal by the moment. He 
heard Sirri screaming; he heard Hal bellowing, but the entreaties didn't 
register. Beyond the pale by then, he plowed on. Until the universe buckled, 
until the dome of heaven rent its seams with a brain-wringing creak and 
explosion. 

A hundred years later Dwight emerged from his psychotic space-warp to find 
Hal and Sirri-the lad white-faced, frightened, Sirri smirking like a 
creamfed cat, her hips still undulating beseechingly beneath his 
hands-staring at him, incredulous, admiring expressions on their faces. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

Countless times, during the harrowing, shameridden nightmare following the 
expose of Sirri's duplicity, Dwight almost convinced himself that it was 
absolutely futile to continue with their MayDecember arrangement, that 
nothing but evil could result from further capitulation to her sensualist 
whims. And just as many times, forcing himself to resist calling her, 
summoning her to rendezvous either at the apartment or the house, he found 
himself absolutely incapable of seeing his bravura resolve through. He had 
but to think of her sexually accommodating her juvenile stud (Hal Gilmartin, 
he'd discovered), and his resistance melted like snow in July. Humiliating 
though his participation in their quaint, troilistic orgies might be, he had 
no other course but to defer to same, to wallow in any corruption his 
daily-more-cruel, more contemptuous mistress might command. 

For the truth of the matter was that he was, by now, in complete thrall to 
the evil child; there was no way under the sun for him to break her 
all-encompassing spell over him. Though she mocked and degraded him, he 
still loved her; more desperately than ever, if such could be. Perhaps-it 
was a line of conjecture he queasily preferred not to pursue this very 
magnification of his love was due, in itself, to the humiliations, he 
suffered at her hands, to the low esteem in which she held him. Certainly 
Dwight would be the first to admit that his sexual drive had never been 
stronger, it was a soul-spanning, braggart transformation, and he constantly 
amazed himself-and Sirri and Hal as well-at the ferocity and duration of his 
sexual assaults lately. 

Whatever the reasons, it was painfully evident to Dwight that he could 
not-under penalty of a metaphysical death--terminate his tainted liaison 
with her. He withered inside every time he conceived of life without Sirri. 
Beyond these cowardly considerations were the more practical ones as 
regarded Sirri's potential for creating scandal in the community. And while 
he could not possibly see how she could implement such without jeopardizing 
her own sacrosanct image in Benton Falls, he was not about to put her to the 
test. It was vastly more simple to accede to her picayune requests for 
inexpensive pretties, a more adequately stocked larder and liquor cabinet at 
the apartment, then to venture into the uncertain quick sands of a head-on 
confrontation. 

Needless to say, Dwight had not informed Noreen of the latest, unsavory 
development in his star-crossed love. Whenever she snidely inquired after 
the widening gap between assignations at the house, commenting on the fact 
that she hadn't been asked to absent herself from the premises for a long, 
long time now, he fabricated alibi about Sirri's growing preference for the 
apartment. An explanatiin which Noreen accepted with a jaundiced smile. 
Dwight necessarily walked on eggs when he was about Noreen, he fully 
realized it would be a catastrophic blunder to let her learn of the deadly 
double-jeopardy he had recently placed himself in. Noreen would scream and 
claw, create a scene of scenes. 

The latest news was Sirri's startling announcement that she'd changed her 
mind about college. She wouldn't be going now. Her present hedonistic 
pursuits immeasurably more exciting than any transient allure the academic 
life could offer, she would sample same to the limits, reconsider an 
education when life had nothing better to offer. "Who needs it?" she 
sneered. "Who wants to lock himself up with some dusty old books when it's 
happening out here? The whole ball of wax. Baby's gonna swing, swing ... 
There's time enough to crack the books, ball the professors, when I'm old 
and gray. But for now ... Oh, honey, lick my pussy! Like wow, Daddy!" 

Attendant to Sirri's decision to skip college was the arrangement whereby 
she took delivery of her long-promised Cougar in Benton Falls itself. It was 
left to Dwight to see to the details of how she would drive it without her 
parents, friends and relatives becoming suspicious as to how she'd come by 
same. Thus the sporty, steel-blue auto was garaged either downtown, or at a 
service station a few blocks from Sirri's home, the papers, the subterfuge 
skillfully smoke-screened by her experienced benefactor himself. 

Accepting her decision to remain in Benton Falls with mixed feelings (Dwight 
entertaining ephemeral hopes of somehow weaning her from Hal Gilmartin's 
ugly influence while she was away), he also found it among his appointed 
chores to scout up a suitable job for Sirri, her parents insisting on same 
as part of their acquiscence to her headstrong rebellion concerning college. 
Thinking to install her at Candlelight Petroleum, he thought better of it, 
prevailed upon Clint Garvey, a long-standing friend and fellow 
industrialist, to employ her in the mailroom at his plant; which job was not 
too demanding, would afford Sirri ample time in which to steal away for 
occasional afternoon rendezvous at the apartment. 

Hal Gilmartin was the unknown quotient. A relatively inexperienced youth 
whom Sirri knew from high school-a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, 
who'd not been included in her regular, fawning coterie-he didn't quite know 
what to make of the bizarre game he'd been dealt into. In this respect Sirri 
had made good her promise to Dwight, and so far as the rakishly handsome Hal 
knew it was merely a matter of rich sugar-daddy and over-sexed young nympho 
getting together for some cash-on-the-line kicks. At this point he was 
merely content to go along with things, not make waves. If this crazy cunt 
wanted to ring the old poop in on their fuckfests, if she wanted to coerce 
him into all sorts of sick didos, that was her business. Who was he to 
complain? So long as he got his. Or so Dwight deduced, understanding Hal, 
positive that in time he could find an angle whereby he'd be able to 
shoehorn the kid out of their arrangement. 

Thus, for the time being at least, some superficial strata of equilibrium 
was once more established in Dwight and Sirri's relationship. 

Equilibrium like that which he was dubiously enjoying this Indian Summer 
afternoon at the apartment, making the best of things, considering the fact 
that he was being forced to share Sirri with the ubiquitous Hal Gilmartin 
again. And yet, not really share, in that it was he who conducted a solo 
performance, an exhibition as it were, for the callow youth's edification. 
Both he and Hal naked, their rods standing at straining attentions (the 
contrast between Dwight's flabby, milk-white body and Hal's tawny, muscular 
one painful indeed), they were gathered in one of the pad's three bedrooms. 
Where Sirri, clad in the fetishist garb she knew would turn Dwight on so 
well-a flashy orange ensemble with black lace overlay, garter-belt beneath 
the panties, jet-black hosiery and Chinese-red patent leather pumps-was laid 
out on the bed, giggling and squealing vulgarly as she adjured Dwight to 
perform all his cute tricks for her. 

"You dig this outfit, darling?" she taunted. "Really turns you on, doesn't 
it? Just like Halloween. 

The Great Pumpkin, huh?" She writhed as his tickling lips climbed up her 
legs, meandered over her bare thighs. Then, with a convulsive lurch she 
reached down, grabbed his head, pulled it equidistant to her vagina, jammed 
his face into the simmering mush there. "Go ahead, baby, gobble it. Eat 
Sirri's hot, little squash. Oooh, you devil, that's delicious; it feels 
marvelous." While, looking over Dwight's hunched, driving shoulders, she 
addressed Hal. "Watch this, baby. Watch close. This gig you gotta learn. If 
you really want to turn a doll on. God, it's fantastic. You pay attention. 
It'll be your turn next." 

Hal made a wry grimace. "That'll be the day. God, what some people won't do. 
It turns my stomach." 

"What do you know, Hal? Christ, you're even dumber than I thought. What 
makes you think you're so damned much?" She squirmed, pulled the 
by-then-nearly-oblivious Dwight from her throbbing crotch. "Take the damned 
things off, will you, hon? Cherchez la chat. The real thing now, love." 

"I can take care of you," Hal retorted. 

"You call that taking care of a girl? That jackrabbit stuff?" 

"You never complained before." 

She sent an indifferent moue at him. "It's okay, I guess. When a girl's 
dying to get fucked, but fast. There are times and there are times. I 
suppose every girl needs a square." She snickered. "But for the long haul, 
you need a guy like Dwight here. Hell, I'm just getting warmed up and you're 
all through." 

"Yeah?" Hal sneered. "Well I can come back damned fast, don't forget that. 
Something that old creep can't do." 

"So? What're you good for that time? One more. So I got two pops out of you. 
Big deal. In the meantime Dwight's made me come seven or eight times. He's 
making me come right now." Her face distorted into an ugly mask, and 
transported to sexual delirium, she jittered on the bed, actually drew her 
knees back toward her face, braced her feet against his shoulders, the bite 
of her sharp heels into his flesh making his exultation the more intense. 
Dwight fervidly drove his tongue into her oily crack, lashed her clitoris 
mercilessly, built a minor orgasm atop the initial one. "You fuck," she 
growled, when he finally relented allowed her to topple from her high, "you 
ever-lovin' fuck!" 

She stared ferally at Hal. "See?" she challenged. "Two already, and he 
hasn't slipped an inch to me yet. And, brother, when he does...." She winced 
in anticipatory delight. "Watch, Hal. You just might learn something." 
Whereupon, twisting on the bed, she pulled Dwight beside her, immediately 
struggled up, commenced to dandle and caress his freestanding hank. "Pretty 
baby," she cooed, slicing it maddeningly with pink flickings of her tongue. 
"I'm so glad you got him back." Her eyes became harsh. "But I had to cheat 
on you, I had to put you to the wall to do it. Maybe it was all for the 
best. Isn't that so, Hal?" 

"You said it, I didn't," he snarled. "I don't know what in hell you're 
talking about." 

"Our secret, isn't it, Dwight, baby?" 

"Our secret," he chuckled delighting in the sight and sensation of Sirri 
playfully winding her tongue around the slimy, purplish, knob, nowingesting 
it as far as she could into her hot, stripping mouth. Humiliated he might 
be, errent slave to his perverted compulsions, but there were compensations 
of sorts in being praised by Sirri for his finesse and lasting 
power-especially in front of her arrogant, short-fuse punk. He lurched, 
sucked in a pained gasp, as Sirri bore down with teeth and palate in that 
devastating way he'd taught her, all but flayed the skin on his member. 

"Staying power?" she taunted Hal. "Hell, you'd have shot all over me by 
now." A demonic light erupted in her gaze. "C'mon over here, baby," she 
husked. "Let's see just how good you really are. Something I've always 
wanted to try ... Stand up, Dwight. Beside the bed." Sirri sat up, dangled 
her legs off the edge of the mattress. "Both of you ... stand close 
together. No, Hal! Put your hip up against Dwight's. There, like that." 

Then, something fanatically diabolic filming her eyes she gathered each 
man's cock, guided it toward her evilly stretched mouth. Somehow she managed 
to arrange both swollen stalks so that she could stuff them simultaneously 
into her mouth. "Sirri," Hal protested. "For Christ's Sake!" 

"Shut up, damn you," she scolded, her words mangled. Almost immediately she 
began to exert irresistible pressure, to run her mouth back and forth in 
swift cadence upon the double-barreled monstrosity, was able to consume a 
mere two or three inches of the outre machine at the most. She applied such 
suction as she could muster, allowed her lower teeth to abrade the underside 
of each pecker, and she soon had both men-Hal especially-pleading for mercy. 
Then, a minute later, the inexperienced youth set up a guttural, barking 
howl, attempted to remove his rod from the fiendishly massaging orifice, 
received a vicious clamping of teeth for his troubles. Sirris mouth churned 
vindictively, sadistically, determinedly. 

Now Hal groaned sobbingly, swayed, nearly fell. As he disgraced himself, 
involuntarily discharged inside Sirri's mouth, his cream sluicing down her 
throat in great, gushing jets. "I ... I'm sorry, Sirri," he said 
shamefacedly when she eventually released both of them. "I didn't mean...." 

There was a brief pause while Sirri gulped down the last of his sap, 
lovingly licked her lips in the bargain. "Didn't I tell you? Jack-rabbit, 
that's all you are." She fell back onto the bed, a hand on each prick, 
dragged the two men down beside her. "Just for that...." She snickered 
salaciously. "The glory hole for you...." 

Hal protested feebly, yet fascinatedly as Sirri out-lined the next barbarism 
on the afternoon's agenda-another variation she'd always been curious about, 
but had never been able to attempt for a singular lack of manpower. "At 
least take off your shoes ... that crazy underwear," Hal grumbled. "I like 
my dolls naked." 

"Fuck you!" she snarled. "Dwight likes his dolls in silk. And since Dwight 
behaved himself ... I like it too. Sometimes, anyway. This just happens to 
be one of those times." She virtually handed the clumsy Hal into place 
behind her, became impatient. "Dwight, will you show this jerk what to do? I 
swear ... some people!" 

Inwardly pleased by Hal's priggish reluctance and lack of savvy, Dwight 
tersely instructed the boy in the procedures. Borrowing vaginal wash from 
between Sirri's legs, he proceeded to anoint her crack with same, to work 
the viscous oil into her anus. "Now you do it," he commanded. 

"Damn it!" Hal rebelled at the last. "I don't want to do it this way. What 
kind of a pervert's convention is this anyway? Regular okay. But this ... 
I've never done anything like this before." 

"For Christ's sake!" Sirri snarled. "Will you quit whining? Seems to me 
there's an awful lot of things you've never done before. You're in no 
position to be fussy, Hal. Either do what I tell you to, or clear out. If I 
want it this way, that's the way it's gonna be. You want your ups regular, 
you do as I say. Otherwise there's the door." 

Which scolding temporarily mollified the recalcitrant lad. "Well if I hurt 
you...." he sputtered. 

"So hurt me, baby. Do you hear me complaining? Now c'mon, both of you. Let's 
get together on this, shall we?" The simultaneous double entry-with Dwight 
plugging her cunt, Hal her anal port-was not affected as easily as might be 
thought. But finally, their legs in a depraved tangle, Sirri twisted 
awkwardly, the meat in the grisly human sandwich, at the last forced to 
insert Hal with her own fingers, the aberrated fusion was completed. 

"Oh, God," she keened as both men were totally lodged inside of her, "don't 
anybody move. Just lay there, let me get used to it. What a feeling! The 
girl's just full of pricks. If Mother could only see her little baby now. 
Oooh, oooh. Wonderful. A treat no woman should miss. Easy, Hal. Don't get 
carried away." Until, at long last, Sirri felt sure enough of herself so 
that she ordered her two paramours to begin. "You first, Dwight. One goes in 
while the other comes out. Oh, gorgeous! I feel like I'm gonna split! Now. 
Both of you at the same time. Oooh, oooh! Slow, boys, very slow. Easy does 
it. Oh, lord. There we go. It's fantastic, simply fantastic." 

She instantly subverted to aboriginal trance, and her breath bubbling 
animalistically in her throat, she reflexively began to grind her hips, 
almost tearing herself in two with the desire to meet both reamings with 
reciprocal thrust and wriggle of her own. "I'll die, I'll die...." she 
grated. "In, damn you! In, deep as you can go. Together! God, dear God." Now 
an even more corrupt innovation struck her. "You, Hal. When you get close, 
let out a yell, let us know. Dwight especially. He can time himself 
perfectly. I want you to both shoot at the same time." She broke into pagan 
gruntings and lurchings. "Fuck it, damn you! Fuck like you never fucked 
before!" 

Sirri kissed Dwight then, drove her tongue in and out of his mouth in rhythm 
to the pricks pumping into her, and he was possessed of the most 
gut-blistering desire to let his charge fly as of that moment. But there was 
a reputation to uphold, he must acquit himself well before this 
shitting-his-pants boy. Nevertheless-the sensation of Hal's cock working in 
the tiny channel next to the one he occupied a deranging thing-he had all he 
could do to control himself. He almost sobbed with relief as Hal's 
throat-rupturing cries began. Then all together with Sirri screaming like 
someone was driving splinters beneath their nails-they fell in fiery flame, 
like Daedalus and Icarus, arms and legs flailing, a ribbon of pure sound 
binding them in extricable knot all the way down. 

It was, of course, too much to expect that Hal Gilmartin shouldn't, 
eventually, get wise to himself-and to Dwight and Sirri's sick arrangement 
as well. It was inevitable that the swiftly-maturing opportunist should 
ferret the truth about Sirri's sugar-daddy's real identity from her before 
many more weeks had passed. Perhaps when he caught Sirri off guard in a 
moment of orgasm, when she was so much helpless putty in his hands, would 
have given anything not to be left hanging. Perhaps he had, in his new, 
man-child perception and arrogance risked brutality with Sirri, had slapped 
the information from her. 

Whatever the tactics used, it soon became apparent to Dwight there there was 
a new mood at large within their minor world, and he quickly resigned 
himself to the fact that the price of pussy had just gone up. Upon hearing 
Hal's ultimatum-the stupid fool demanding fifty-dollars for himself, fifty 
for Sirri-Dwight merely shrugged, smiled inwardly. It was cheap at the 
price; were it not for Sirri he might have been forced to pay twice as much 
weekly in call-girl fees alone. Inflation-it was everywhere. 

So a few more weeks passed in daily-more-ourre debauch, the trio becoming 
strangely close-knit, with Dwight even benign, almost fatherly toward Hal. 
There were occasional interludes when Sirri excluded Hal from their 
sessions, and he treasured them, comforted himself with thoughts to the 
effect that there were a thousand hells much more agonizing than the one he 
existed in now. For instance, the one he inwardly writhed in whenever he 
knew that Sirri was alone with Hal, that she was paganly accomodating him, 
savoring the very gut-scrambling preludes and obeisances which he himself 
had taught the pawky stud. 

But there was-unbeknownst to Dwight-still another hell, still another 
purgatory lying in wait for him. As he discovered this night in 
mid-November, upon appearing at the appartment at Sirri's behest, expecting, 
from the start, that only he, Hal and Sirri would be present for the 
imminent orgy. Imagine his chagrin then, as he opened the door to his 
luxurious pad, to find the living room awash with raucous rock-and-roll, 
clouded skeins of cigarette smoke, to see beer, whiskey and wine being 
poured like Prohibition loomed on the morrow. But the most devastating 
intrusion of all The extra teenagers, five in all-two unknown boys, three 
girls-who suddenly froze where they stood, turned to regard him with 
sex-smirky grins, patent derision in their eyes. "Sirri ... Hal...." he 
choked stupidly. "What's the meaning of this? Who are these chil ... these 
people?" 

"A li'l party, Dad," Hal sneered his alcoholic intake already thickening his 
voice "that's what it is. 

We knew you wouldn't mind. C'mon in, meet the gang." 

The "gang" consisted of three girls named Lisa Brewster, Edith Coventry, and 
Cleo Trepanier, a male duo who called themselves Slade Mackey and Gary 
Lockman. All in all, Dwight swiftly inventoried they were a scruffy lot, the 
boys long-haired, weasel-eyed, the girls hardly as pretty as Sirri. There 
was one-the Coventry girl-who was fairly striking, a long-tressed blonde 
with frightened eyes whose diffident manner immediately appealed to Dwight. 
He couldn't help but be reminded of Sirri when he'd first known her. The lot 
was indifferently dressed, the boys in jeans and sloppy shirts, the girls in 
their version of party dress, skirts and overly-tight sweaters, the clumpy 
pumps that passed for high fashion these days gracing their feet. Though 
they all made great effort to appear casual, all greeting Dwight with a 
forced "Hi," an insouciant wave there was something about their eyes that 
made Dwight feel uneasy, warned him that there was a deadly undercurrent 
here. Almost immediately after he'd been introduced around (his first name 
only), the kids returned to their drinking and their listless jerky dancing. 

Which gave Dwight a chance to collar Sirri, demand an explanation. "Surely 
you and Hal didn't tell your friends who I am, did you? You don't expect me 
to pay off the whole world do you?" 

"Unlax, darling," she slurred. "They don't know a thing. A blast, a party, 
we told them. That's all. A party thrown by a dirty, old man. A rich, dirty 
old man." She giggled. "By the way; you owe us twenty-five for the booze we 
put in." 

Though it was against his better judgment, Dwight was so confused, so 
disheartened, that he deliberately set out to drink himself into a stupor. 
Something ugly was brewing; something it would be best not to remember 
tomorrow. Throwing ice cubes into a glass, he attempted to drown them with 
straight Bourbon. Very quickly, the hard edges on everything began to 
soften; he knew a hazy benevolence toward the kids who tried to be friendly, 
and there were moments with the new girls-Cleo, Edith and Lisa-looked almost 
beautiful. Moment by moment things became more hazy, more riotous. 

What it was that caused the females to suddenly repair to a distant bedroom, 
emerge moments later dressed in just their lingerie, hosiery and shoes, he 
never could determine. But as the four girls sidled into the room 
self-consciously, drew hoots and whistles from the boys, lined up against a 
distant wall, each staring pointedly at Dwight, he realized it had been due 
to some prearranged signal, that there was a method to their collective 
madness. Despite the chilling apprehension that immediately filled him, he 
couldn't help but be titillated by the variety of exotic flimsies-their 
Sunday best, obviously-the juvenile tarts wore. Lisa was in a lemon yellow 
ensemble, Cleo was in a super-frilly black, Edith in clinging red while 
Sirri was the most extravagantly caparisoned of all, and proudly posed 
herself before his gaping eyes in a pastel blue with subtle black applique 
at the points of her brassiere, in the crotch of the panties. Almost as if 
informed of his peculiar tastes, they all wore just panties, the garter-belt 
beneath, their hosiery a rainbow of shades. For the briefest moment Dwight 
thought that here was the ultimate realization of a lifelong dream. A bevy 
of nymphets, all dressed in the most alluring of scanties, parading before 
his dazzled eyes. But then the grisly significance of this charade cut 
through his lecherous thoughts, and he realized that he was being made 
victim, the butt of a very cruel joke. 

"You like, Dwightie?" Sirri taunted. "This really gets you where you live, 
doesn't it? We dressed this way special. Wouldn't want to disappoint our 
generous, old Daddy, would we?" And when he continued to stand in gaping 
trance: "You don't get it, honey? Take your pick. Not me though ... the 
other girls have been looking forward to you too much. I told them what a 
fantastic lover boy you are. After all, the father of the feast. You should 
have first choice." 

All at once, almost as if they'd been turned on by a concealed key, the 
three child-sluts began writhing before him, aiming their breasts, 
undulating their rears, massaging their thighs and cunts in his direction, 
their travesty of style show the most insulting mockery of Dwight's quirk he 
could imagine. Abruptly a heavy, icy knot formed in his belly. Had he been 
any less drunk, he would have leaped up, bolted from this hellish torture 
chamber posthaste. But he did nothing of the kind; instead he sat 
immobilized in his chair, stared fixedly at the slow-gesticulating wantons, 
his libido piqued unbearably, his lust in the saddle now. 

"Pick one, Daddy-oh," Hal snickered. "You choose it, and it's yours. We were 
kind of hoping you'd give us a little demonstration of that famous bedroom 
style of yours, we're all willing to learn, you know." 

What happened next was like something out of a surrealistic movie. As 
realizing that these kids were determined to hound him until he capitulated, 
he decided to humor them, get the abominable mortification over as quickly 
as possible. "Why, of course." He shammed indifference, robbed the boys of 
some of their sport. "Where would you like it?" 

"Why not right there? On that pretty little rug by the fireplace? Where we 
can all see. What's your pleasure, Dwight?" 

He pointed blindly, indicated the slightly scrawny blonde named Edith. 
"She'll do. She'll do very nicely." 

Immediately her miffed sisters-in-debauch pushed the frozen-faced, shy child 
forward, forced her to stand in the middle of the oval-shaped rug. Without a 
moment's hesitation, determined to beat the young gutter-snipes at their own 
game, Dwight began peeling off his clothes. He was delighted, as he dropped 
his jockey shorts, at the chorus of "Ooohs" that escaped the girls as his 
stalwart cock swung up in majestic arc. With one graceful, fluid move, he 
fell to his knees before Edith, instantly drew her toward him, planted a 
long, grinding kiss upon her scraggly-haired cunt. The moistness of her 
squooshy lips, combined with scent of the dime store perfume she'd painted 
her pussy with, inflamed him, and the poignant reminder of Sirri that first 
time stronger than ever, he threw all caution to the winds. As of that 
moment it was as if his hooting, mocking, and alternatedly sighing audience 
didn't exist. 

His procedures were no different than ever, with the exception that he 
lingered longer over each facet of his addled adoration-at Edith's shoes, 
her ankles, her knees and calves, the creamy softness of her thighs. He made 
flamboyant gesture of drawing down her breasts, sucking the nipples wet 
through her brassiere, before he finally unpinned the garment itself, 
gathered both breasts, worked the tits together, stuffed them both into his 
mouth simultaneously. By that time the clamor had died down; the boys 
watched attentively, while the girls were in rapt trance, their eyes dreamy, 
their lips pursed as if they, themselves, were sucking Edith's breasts in so 
gentle and loving a manner. For an eternity he sucked her cunt through the 
sheer red bikini panties, until Edith moaned stertorously, trembled and 
flung her head wildly at the fantastic sensations he was inducing within 
her. Seemingly Dwight was not the least surprised when he saw Hal, naked now 
also, draw Sirri onto the far end of the rug, kneeling commence to suck her 
crotch as well. Suddenly, as though possessed, everyone was wild to try 
duplicating Dwight's servile style. 

"Please, Gary," Cleo pleaded, across the room, her fingers buried in his 
crotch, unashamedly massaging him. "At least try. I'll do you if you'll do 
me. I swear." 

Moments later the remaining boys were naked, and sprawled in chairs, in 
isolated areas of the room, Lisa with Slade. Cleo with Gary, they tore at 
each other's clothes, the girls resisting until the boys had at least tried 
to emulate Dwight's obeisances. Had the children not been so deadly serious 
about their efforts, the whole scene would have been hilariously funny. Now 
Dwight drew down the panting, jittering Edith's panties, immediately pulled 
her floorward. Where, making prolonged ritual of arranging her on her back, 
steepling her knees, he kissed her churning belly, slowly slid his face 
southward, insinuated his tongue into her lubricious crack. One searing 
swipe across her bulging clitoris, and she began to moan incoherently, came 
completely apart at the seams. Her head flopped back and forth, her eyes 
rolled wildly as his tongue slithered deeper inside her. In the process she 
saw Sirri reverently fellating Hal while he swabbed her entire pussy with 
the flat of his tongue. Which was all she needed, and grabbing the 
monstrous, drooling prick that swung before her dazed eyes, she hungrily 
plunged it into her mouth. 

When Dwight commenced to fuck Edith, he didn't recall; the consummation was 
an unconsciously perfect continuation of the ecstasy they'd begun, and he 
was amazed at the tightness of her previously-used hole, at the way a 
hundred inner lips seemingly sucked at him. Positioning Edith more 
perfectly, cleaving his rod into her with slow, precise strokes, he became 
conscious of a reverent silence about him. "Watch," how he does it. How he 
does Edith to a golden brown. Tell us, Edie. Every time it happens. Count 
'em off." 

A breathless hush fell over the watchers as Edith proudly, thickly announced 
her initial orgasm. Then her second. And a third. On and on they went. An 
incredulous murmur swept through the room now as Edith, screaming and 
thrashing ecstatically, announced her ninth, then tenth climax, even as she 
gasped at the simultaneous glory of Dwight's thick muck splashing into the 
molten grotto of her womb. Then Dwight was up, starting to move away, when 
Edith caught him, drew him back. Clinging to his legs, she beseechingly 
commenced to suck his slime encrusted prick, so avid was she to have him 
rejuvenated, scouring her guts anew. 

But Cleo tore her away, knelt before him, wrapped her lips around the limp 
pod. "My turn. I want some of that. Any man who can hang in there like that 
... Me, me!" 

The crowd watched as Dwight drove Cleo to a dozen, claw-the-sky orgasms. 
"Oh, Christ," Lisa snapped at Slade. "You and your sixty-second specials. 
You guys all better shape up." As Dwight arose this time, leaving a 
blissfully panting Cleo spread-eagled on the floor, headed for the cocktail 
table for a desperately-needed drink, he couldn't help but notice the 
shamefaced, envying expressions on the boys' faces. At that moment he felt 
proud, fully ten feet tall. 

Lisa was upon him then. Forestalling her briefly, he fell into a chair, 
sipped his whiskey, even as she mauled his pecker with sadistic fingers, 
finally relented to employ fellatio upon him. While she sucked him, he 
watched a self-conscious Gary Lockman permit Cleo Trepanier to mouth his 
cock. Her head bobbed shamelessly up and down upon the turgid meat. Moments 
later he stifled a laugh as he heard Cleo sputter: "You dumb ass! You shot 
in my mouth! Christ, don't you know anything!" 

Not too much later he had Lisa in one of the bedrooms, fucking her for all 
he was worth. Finally, after countless climaxes, he nowhere near coming, she 
could endure no more, and breathlessly begged off. Whereupon Dwight stumbled 
drunkenly out into the other room, found Sirri on all fours, being taken 
dog-fashion by Gary Lockman. He thought it the most appropriate finale to 
the night's depravities to kneel before her, force her head up, hold her by 
the ears while he savagely humped his hips back and forth, all but raped her 
mouth. 

Hearing Sirri's yips of ecstasy as Gary creamed her from the rear, he from 
the front, Dwight knew a strangely incongruous despair and ennui. And where 
there should have been elation, soaring sense of conquest Seemingly the 
black buzzards of doom circled in blood-red skies above his head. Now they 
set their wings, banked, planed lower. They spiraled closer, ever closer. He 
jammed his eyelids shut, blotted them out, while his hips still jutted at 
Sirri's suctioning mouth, ordained that she suck forth every last gram of 
his watery sperm. 

 CHAPTER TEN 

Dwight hadn't been able to believe his ears; he'd felt like someone had just 
landed a powerful blow to the pit of his stomach, had collapsed his lungs. 
He hadn't been able to breath; he'd been unable to think. This? From Sirri? 
The one-time ingenue he'd done so much for, lavished "pretties" unending 
upon? The sweet virgin he'd once loved? A dull cynicism struggled its way up 
to the surface of his clamoring brain: It's happened. The worm does turn. 

"That's how it is, lover," Sirri had said, smirking in lupine taunt. "A 
person can't help it if he gets the itch. Especially when we know you're 
good for it. Hal wants a car too. He's hot for a Buick Riviera. Can do?" 
She'd giggled dirtily. "Oh, yeah. We both think we should be getting a 
hundred a week each. After all ... the fun times we've been showing you 
lately...." She'd put a very strange emphasis on the word, fun. 

That had been how it was. And though Hal hadn't had anything definite in 
mind as to what sort of trouble he might cause for the illustrious Dwight 
Adair, there was no doubt-if Dwight was to judge by the conniving, cruel 
look in the suddenly-come-of-age boy's eyes-that he could come up with 
something very messy indeed. And should Dwight defy the two greedy 
extortionists, dare them to do their worst, who-in the long run-had the most 
to lose? Granted the scandal would destroy Sirri and Hal. But what would it 
do to Dwight, to the Candlelight Petroleum empire? No, there had been no 
choice. No choice whatsoever. Fair value, Dwight had bitterly conceded. Fair 
value rendered for price received. 

Even now, as he sat alone in his bedroom, a lion left for carrion, the ugly 
consequences of this latest sellout to the avaricious adolescents rambled 
sickly in his mind. A barely-tasted glass of Scotch at his elbow, the 
once-provocative arena of the bed in dark shadows, Dwight sat hunched in his 
great chair, stared hauntedly into the gloom beneath him. A tearing sigh 
exploded from him. The fantastic, orgiastic splendors that have transpired 
in that bed, he mused. With Sirri-all the rest. With Noreen even. And now 
Thought of Noreen generated an enigmatic throb of warmth and hope in his 
heart for a fleeting moment. And what-? He shook his head to recall where 
she'd told him she was going tonight. To some church thing? One of those 
concerts she was always trying to drag him to? No matter. She'd be home 
soon, they could go to bed at long last. He was surprised to find himself 
anticipating same, a weary yearning to huddle to her, to hold her prominent 
in his brain. After all this time The vagrant sense of peaceful security 
faded summarily, was replaced by sneering image of Hal Gilmartin. Once more 
bile rose in Dwight's throat. Thus far he'd been able to stall him on the 
car. Until such time as he could come to some firm decision as to whether he 
should capitulate or not. The hundred-dollar payments had already started; 
it was inevitable that they'd eventually be kited again and again. Dwight 
was no fool. He knew that once such a blood-sucking enterprise was launched, 
there was no turning back, there were no limits to the avarice of the human 
soul. 

If I know this, he raged inwardly, writhing where he sat, then why am I so 
helpless to do something about it? Why have I become such a gutless wander? 
What is this paralyzing, unbreakable spell, this power Sirri holds over me? 
Why can't I see her for what she is? How can I still tell myself I love the 
sadistic, cheating bitch? 

His brain reeled again, and in his mind's eye he saw Sirri again-definitive 
condemnation-as she'd been just the other night. At the apartment again, 
with the gang gathered for "party" once more. He envisioned her on the bed, 
with everyone gathered around to watch the depraved spectacular. Hal buried 
in her cunt, Dwight in her anus, while she somehow managed to twist her 
throat so that Gary could fuck her in the mouth. But even this hadn't been 
abomination enough; she'd insisted that Slade Mackey and a newcomer named 
John Kiley crowd close to the bed, allow her to simultaneously masturbate 
them. Had there been penises tiny enough for her ears-Dwight finished 
caustically. 

His fury threatened to suffocate him. And I think I'm in love with this! 
Dear God, where had reason, sense of proportion got to? 

At that moment his galling reverie was interrupted, as he heard the door 
click behind him, and Noreen entered the bedroom. He turned to greet her, 
was further shaken by the fact that he was sincerely glad to see her. 
"Hello, darling," she smiled gently. "Still up? I thought you would've been 
in bed an hour ago." She kissed him fleetingly on the lips, passed down into 
the sunken portion of the bedroom. Turning on a few of the spotlights, she 
flung open the bed, then proceeded to matter-of-factly undress, prepare for 
bed herself. 

Dwight partially turned in the chair, indifferently watched as she 
unbuttoned the smart jacket of her dinner gown, ran the zipper on the 
matching skirt. In her slip and shoes, she went to her closet, hung her 
things. Now the slip was slowly pulled over her head. Watching his wife, 
appraising her svelte, yet opulent figure as she reached inside the closet, 
he was surprised to find himself actually desiring her, to find that his 
prick was painfully swollen, already weeping inside his pajamas. She wore a 
simple, black brassiere, a long-leg girdle that did marvelous things for her 
body. As she swept from the closet, nightgown in hand, he further savored 
the double and triple reflection of her faded, yet still patrician beauty in 
the mirrors behind her. 

It was as Noreen sat on the edge of the bed, ran her fingers gracefully 
along her legs, prepared to unfasten her garter tabs, that it happened. And 
suddenly Dwight was sweeping down the stairs, he was prostrating himself 
before Noreen. "Here, dear," he said in a pinched, barely-controllable 
voice, "Let me do that for you." But then, as his fingers grazed her creamy 
flesh, swept across her stocking tops, and he looked up to see the tender, 
genuinely-pleased expression on her face, he could contain his despair no 
longer. His head dropped; he buried his face in her warm, woman-fragrant 
thighs, and let the wracking, confused sobs come. 

Noreen loosed a compassionate gasp of her own, then wisely chose to say 
nothing. For perhaps five minutes she held his face in her lap, gently 
caressed his hair at the nape of his neck, allowing him to be quits with his 
mortifying grief. When finally the barking sobs subsided, when Dwight 
finally raised his head, looked imploringly into her eyes, she said, "What 
is it, darling? Something's happened, hasn't it? Do you want to tell me 
about it? It has to do with Sirri, hasn't it?" 

"No," he choked, "there's nothing. It's not about Sirri. I don't want to 
talk about anything." 

"What do you want then, Dwight?" 

"I just ... just want to ... love you, Noreen. Love you like I used to do. 
Is that too much to ask? You're so lovely tonight ... you excite me so...." 

Her smile was wan, unaccusing. "Then that does mean something's wrong. You 
never want me ... really want me ... otherwise." Again, intuitively 
perceptive wife that she was, she did not pursue the subject further. And 
gently disconnecting herself from Dwight's restless hands, she stood beside 
the bed in her exotic lingerie. "By all means, baby," she breathed, "love 
me. Love me any way you like. This ... outfit? Will it do? Or would you like 
me to put on something more exciting? My new orchid ensemble would...." 

"No," he blurted. "That's just fine. That's what got me going in the first 
place." 

"Would you like me to choose something for you? Some of your panties? 
Perhaps that black panty-hose...." 

"No, darling, that's not necessary. Just you. The way you are. If I may just 
adore you...." 

A dark, preening glitter erupted in Noreen's eyes, and drawing a deep, 
shivering breath, dizzy with delight, she posed herself before Dwight, felt 
her vagina tingle and tighten as Dwight threw off his clothes, began 
slithering closer to her. "Darling...." she seethed as she felt his first 
slathering kisses on her feet. 

Their strange love was highly routinized, no better, no worse than any of a 
hundred similar fetishist ceremonies they'd celebrated over the past years. 
And yet it was special in that it was the first time Dwight had come seeking 
Noreen since Sirri had appeared on the scene. For this reason an extra 
excitement was visited upon both participants. 

There was another singular difference, also. In that Noreen (as Dwight 
stared up at her beseechingly from time to time) did not regard him 
contemptuously; she did not shame or degrade him as Sirri might have done 
under similar circumstances. Instead she understood his affliction, she 
indulged him in it, loving him throughout just the same. Since this was his 
preference, she would lend herself to the love, pilot him to its most 
complete fruition, the stigma of perversion did not once register upon her 
mind. 

Dwight groveled at her feet, adored her ankles and calves, buried his lips 
in the concavity behind her knee. Noreen well schooled in special small 
touches her husband preferred, introduced same to every segment of his 
adoration: The sliding of her shoe against his cheek; the nudging of her 
pointed toe in his genitals as he stretched to accept her gift of brimming 
tits into his straining mouth, her furry moans and purrings of pleasure as 
he sucked her crotch soggy, keeled his teeth across her nylon-shielded 
clitoris; the gentle crowding of his face into her cunt, her palms rustling 
on his ears. All contributed to the total and final frenzy as he flung her 
backward onto the bed, actually pulled off her pumps, her girdle (the 
stockings still attached) with ravenously restless teeth. Until now, Noreen 
still in her black brassiere, the skimpy black panties, she joyously 
tolerated his rape of the nylon itself, Dwight tearing the flimsy crotch to 
ribbons with his own hands, the better to permit the final oral assault upon 
this last bastion of her sex. 

Noreen pitched and moaned on the bed as Dwight snaked his tongue deep into 
her slippery hole as he caught her clitoris between suctioning lips, 
seemingly pulled it-and her spine along with it-from her body inch-by-inch. 
Almost immediately her initial orgasm sundered her, and she vaingloriously 
shrieked her glory, a thing she knew thrilled Dwight tremendously. Next, in 
order to postpone the excruciating agony of a fresh sucking of her lust 
pimple, she lapsed into that most barbaric command Dwight loved so well. 
"Not yet, beloved," she hissed. "In a minute you can make me come again. But 
for now ... Put your tongue in my ass ... lick me there. Oooh, that's 
heavenly. In, shove it in! As far as it will go." 

There wasn't time for a second tongue-induced orgasm for Noreen. For, 
sensing her husband's imminent ejaculation, she instinctively knew it was 
time to get on with things. Thus she pushed him down, lovingly licked his 
testicles, the underside of his prick, eventually consuming almost all of 
the gummy stalk in her mouth, gaggingly struggling to shove all of it down 
her cock-famished throat. But this devotion, also, could only be conferred 
briefly, and desperate to have his blessed sperm douche in the depths of her 
vagina, she forcibly pulled her mouth from its heavenly pinion, drew her 
husband over her turbulent hips. With her own hands she branded her clitoris 
with his slimy prick before she gruntingly plunged it into the screaming 
depths of her cunt. 

Two, brain-searing orgasms thundered down upon Noreen almost immediately, as 
she screamed obscenities without end, flopped and writhed beneath him like 
some grounded tarpon. "You fucker!" she praised. "You fantastic fucker!" 
Then she was gone again, intent upon wresting still another fiery climax for 
herself. And was halfway up the mountain, symbolically stuffing bull pricks 
up her crack, when Dwight cursed, let loose with his own discharge. Noreen 
was momentarily stunned at the hotness of his cannonade, at the endless 
quantities of semen, at the force with which he jetted the rich cream 
against the innermost membranes of her bowels. But then, as his plunge 
slowed, indicated his completion, she administered a swift flurry of 
belly-writhings, ground her pearl upon his squashy prick, triggered still a 
last descent-into-the-sun climax of her own. 

For a long time afterward, his prick still inside Noreen, his finger still 
tucked in her anus, Dwight lay atop his wife. Dazed, breathless, he was 
still conscious enough to evaluate the fantastic fuck just given him by his 
wife; he was sentient enough to know it was one in a million, the kind of 
fuck most men dream about, but never, in their lifetimes receive. And what 
was the difference, what had caused the incredible gap between this ecstasy 
and the ones he tore from Sirri's belly? It had to do with something more 
than home-cooking, he concluded; it had to do with that ephemeral virtue 
known as love. For when the woman truly loves the man she copulates with 
Eventually he fell away from Noreen. Snuggling in her arms, caught up in 
soul-down-the-drain torpor and ease-a monumental sense of tightness. She 
never wanted to leave this fleshly sanctuary again. Thus it was, as Noreen 
gently, yet firmly asked him about his troubles with Sirri, that it suddenly 
seemed the most natural thing in the world the ultimate, the only 
answer-that he should confide in her. She would know what to do, she would 
grant the stability and safe harbor he so desperately needed. 

"And what, darling," she said levelly, no indictment in her tone, as he 
finished, "do you intend to do about it? Surely you don't intend to let them 
get away with it, do you?" 

The night rustled and hissed eerily about her. And yet, Dwight asleep for an 
hour already, Noreen couldn't sleep herself. Black fury, a gut-clawing lust 
for vengeance prowled within her. As, the aftermath of Dwight's abject 
surrender to the degenerate hoodlums' demands still rankling, she realized 
the deadly jeopardy her own life was in. If she allowed Dwight to go through 
with this sniveling sellouts-And hadn't he been horribly ambivalent about 
his truest feelings toward that Sirri slut?-the entire fabric of her life 
would be threatened. 

It isn't like Dwight, she thought. It's as if someone's eviscerated him. It 
isn't like him at all. Sick he might be so far as his sex needs are 
concerned. But spineless, no. He's come too far to be without the guts 
needed to survive in this dog-eat-dog world. And what's that rotten pig done 
to him, anyway? Even in the fetishist thing there are compensations. Once 
those crawling preliminaries were over Dwight invariably became all 
man-aggressive, dominating male animal. Ask me, I know. Ask all those other 
hot pants bitches he's tumbled. More man than that no woman living ever 
needs. The way he lasts and lasts Yet, it was so. Something had happened to 
Dwight. Her fury threatened to strangle her. And if he isn't man enough to 
stop these renegades, someone has to take hold. I haven't worked and 
humiliated myself, I haven't schemed all my life just to let a gang of 
juvenile Johnny-come-latelies move in, steal everything right under my nose. 
Fun is fun. But this? The gall, the unmitigated gall Now Noreen's brain spun 
faster; a bloodthirsty vindictiveness loomed increasingly larger. She 
actually chewed her lips as a plan suggested itself, as she visualized a 
long overdue comeuppance. Judgment Day-Noreen trembled now, breathed hard, 
was actually impatient for the night to pass. Tomorrow, she exulted, 
tomorrow-- 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

It wasn't until afterward-long, long afterward-when Hal Gilmartin woke up in 
Julian Phelps Memorial Hospital days later, that the foolish boy realized 
exactly what had happened to him. Then, as he found himself trussed and 
bound in an antiseptic bed, his left leg and his right arm in traction, his 
face swathed in bandages, just before the murderous pain blacked him out 
again, the grisly picture suddenly came back into focus. A day later, when 
he realized his nose and jaw were broken, when the nurse told him every 
finger on his right hand was snapped, the picture became even more clear. 
And lastly, when he begged a nurse's aid for a mirror, when he partially 
tugged away the bandages with his good left hand and saw the raw hamburger 
that had once been a face Then, had he been able to unhinge his locked jaw, 
he would have truly bellowed. Then the total impact and significance of the 
merciless beating he'd received truly swarmed over him, taught him the 
realest meaning of terror! 

As he'd left the apartment Dwight Adair so generously maintained for his 
eternal convenience that cold, blustery night in mid-December Hal Gilmartin 
had felt strangely uneasy. Climbing into the junk-heap Ford that would have 
to suffice until he accepted delivery on the promised '69 Buick Riviera, 
he'd had distinct twinges of fear. He could have sworn that the rakish Caddy 
parked across from him had been empty, its lights out, its motor dead only 
moments ago. But then, when the tail-gating car had turned off behind him 
only two blocks on his way to his dumpy West Side pad, Hal's fears had been 
allayed. Partially drunk, weak as a cat from the demands of the tireless 
Sirri, he'd had much more important things to think about. 

Thus he'd been totally caught off-guard as he'd parked on Grant Street, and 
started toward his apartment building. His mind a million miles away, he 
certainly couldn't have been expected to notice the same Cadillac parked a 
half block up the street. The voice had lashed him, galvanized him into 
instant immobility. Someone in the alley? At three o'clock in the morning? 
"Gilmartin?" the soft-spoken man said. "Hal Gilmartin?" 

He should have bolted; anyone with half a brain should have known there had 
to be a clinker somewhere. Instead, he'd turned, had stupidly stared into 
the darkness. "Yeah, I'm Hal Gilmartin. What d'ya want?" 

"I've got something for you, buddy." Before Hal had been able to make a 
move, the man had strong-armed him from behind. Shutting off his wind, he'd 
dragged his victim deep into the alley. Where, with a stunning ease belying 
his modest size, he'd swung Hal against the brick wall, the sudden stop 
responsible for minor skull concussion the doctors later found. 

"Please, please...." Hal gasped dazedly. 

"A Christmas present, Hal," the man had wheeled. "In advance. From an old 
friend. If you're smart, you won't need a second. The name Adair mean 
anything to you? He wants you to lay off. Or else." At which, with blurring 
speed, the dark-suited thug had buried his brass-bound fist into the center 
of Hal's mouth, the blow efficiently breaking off all Hal's front teeth at 
the gum line. 

A flurry of blows had followed the initial, ox-stunning smash, the jagged 
metal protecting the man's fist breaking Hal's nose in two places, gouging 
out huge pieces of his flesh in the bargain. When Hal had commenced to 
scream he'd been rewarded with a larynx-paralyzing chop across his throat. 
As he'd gaggingly folded up, his hands to his face, the goon had knead him 
in the groin three times in quick succession. Hal hadn't been able to 
remember very much after that. One, massive, grunting ball of superhuman 
pain, he'd been picked up from the ground again and again, had become a 
human punching bag as the hired-ape had poured fist after fist into his 
stomach, his chest, his back and kidneys. Hal had heard ribs collapse; he'd 
wheezed and gasped for life as the breath was repeatedly knocked out of him. 
Again the knee came up, seemingly drove a jagged timber up his pelvic 
cavity. Until finally Hal had mercifully passed out, had crumbled into a 
bloody heap upon the crumbling cement. 

He'd awakened to find the man kicking him in the ribs. "Can you hear me, 
pal?" the softly-wheezing man had called. "Listen good, you." 

"I hear you," Hal had bubbled through a blood-clogged mouth. 

"You ever bug my friend again, I'll kill you next time. Understand?" 

"I understand." 

Then Hal's very head had exploded with sirening pain; he'd screamed, his 
cries emerging as a muffled, "Unh, unh...." And the man had deliberately 
stomped Hal's right hand, as he'd jumped up and down on his leg, then his 
arm, until he was satisfied with the timbre of the bones breaking. Upon 
which Hal had once more passed out cold. 

Now, staring at the mirror, regarding his Grand Guignol face, he wanted to 
die. He would never be handsome again; no woman living would ever take a 
second look at his face so long as he lived! 

It was on the day following Hal's admission into the hospital-that knowledge 
in itself strongly jarring her-that a very wary and uncomfortable Sirri 
Stenson kept a spur-of-the-moment appointment at the Adair residence. But, 
for a wonder, not with Dwight Adair. But with his wife-the stone-faced, 
cruel-eyed Noreen Adair instead. "Yes, Mrs. Adair," Sirri put on her best 
school-girl air. "My mother told me you'd called, that you wanted to see me. 
What is it about?" 

Noreen never smiled once during the entire interview. Impassive, curt, she 
was in total charge from the minute Sirri entered the luxurious Adair living 
room. And indicating the place beside her on the contemporary davenport, she 
said, "Sit down, won't you, please, my dear. I'm quite sure you know what 
this is all about." 

"Mrs. Adair?" , "Let's not play games, Sirri. There isn't time." Her eyes 
drilled into Sirri's, froze her where she sat. "It's come to my attention, 
child, that you and my husband have become rather close of late. Intimate, 
shall I say?" Further vitriol erupted in her gaze. "Games, did I say?" She 
chewed out the remainder of the accusation: "Intimate, hell! I happen to 
know that you two have been screwing like fuck-crazed minks for the past 
four months now!" 

Sirri nearly voided her bladder where she sat. Her face white, her voice 
blurred, she said, "Mrs. Adair! What are you saying? How ... dare you!" 

"I told you, Sirri. Knock off the act. I've got you cold. This says I do." 
With a quick movement she drew the plain, brown envelope from beneath the 
davenport cushion, handed it to the girl. "Open it. Take a gander at those." 

With trembling hands, terror threatening to collapse her very skull, Sirri 
drew out the eight-by-ten glossies-a dozen in all-which showed her and 
Dwight disporting themselves in sexual deviations of every description. The 
photographs were expert, taken with super-fast film, a fabulously wide, fast 
camera lens, and they showed Sirri and Dwight in simple copulation, in the 
soixante-neuf position, in the weird lingerie ensembles, as well as naked. 
They showed Dwight performing unadorned cunnilingus, as well as Sirri, with 
her lips blissfully wound about his massive prick. The pictures of Sirri 
were especially clear, her face in unmistakable close-up, her expression 
undeniably pagan. There were others, but the piece de resistance was the 
glossy depicting Sirri accommodating Dwight via anus. 

"Where, where did you get these?" the ashen-faced girl blubbered as she 
looked up from the last photograph. 

"That's irrelevant. I've got them; that's all that matters." What followed 
was very terse and brutal indeed, and amounted basically to an ultimatum; 
one which Sirri Stenson could not, in good conscience, refuse to honor. The 
photographs would be doctored so that Dwight's identity, as well as the 
background, would be concealed. And should the dim-witted little bourgeois 
be so foolish as to consider bucking Noreen, the photographs would be sent 
to her parents, to Father Wilkinson at the church, to relatives and friends. 
Should she dare to reveal who her seducer was, the total might of the Adair 
fortune would be brought to bear in Benton Falls; she'd have as much chance 
as a snowball in hell of proving her charges. Money does have its inherent 
privilege after all. So if Sirri had any sense at all The blackmail 
adventures would cease immediately; as would the group parties recently 
foisted upon Dwight. Sirri would continue to make herself available to 
Dwight as long as he might continue to find her fascinating. For which 
acquiescence she would continue to be taken care of handsomely up to such 
time as she and Dwight tired of her. Status quo would continue insofar as 
clothes, gifts, allowance, and her automobile were concerned. But for now: 

"Come upstairs with me now, my dear. I've got a little surprise for you." 
Docilely, all will to resist dead within her now, Sirri did as she was told. 
Upon reaching the bedroom, once again among familiar surroundings, Sirri 
trembling as the door was locked behind her, an eerily-aroused Noreen said, 
"I think you owe me an apology, Sirri. After I trusted you, brought you into 
my own home, treated you like my own daughter. How did you repay me? By 
stealing my husband right from under my nose. That was a very naughty thing 
to do, don't you think?" 

Noreen's voice became more arch, more pinched by the moment. "Aren't you 
sorry for what you've done?" 

"I'm sorry...." Sirri pleaded. "Very sorry...." 

"That won't do, I'm afraid, my dear. Don't you think you should show me how 
sorry you are?" She led the shuddering girl down to the bed. "Undress, 
please, Sirri. I think it's time I found out what there is about you that 
Dwight finds so irresistible. I am a woman of certain strong needs myself, 
you know." 

Sirri instinctively knew what it was the wild eyed Mrs. Adair was leading up 
to. "Please, Mrs. Adair ... Noreen! Don't ask me to...." 

"If you will undress, please!" 

Shamefacedly, in agonizing fits and starts, Sirri began removing her 
clothes. By the time she was finished, Noreen was naked also, and she sat in 
an imperious pose in an upholstered chair on the top tier. "Come up, please, 
Sirri," she commanded, an addled ring to her voice. And as Sirri complied 
falteringly: "If you will kneel, dear. Here, in front of me-between my legs. 
You're sorry, aren't you, baby? Very sorry. You wish to make amends ... show 
me how sorry you are, don't you?" 

Mesmerized, wholly confused by then, Sirri whispered, "Yes, Mrs. Adair. I 
want to show you how sorry I am." Then she was sinking to the floor between 
Noreen's legs; she dazedly crawled forward. 

Noreen endured the child's sweet lips at her nipples as long as she could. 
But then, as the Satanic fires raged out of control in the depths of her 
cunt, she snapped, "Enough, darling! Enough of that! My cunt now, my burning 
cunt. Lean down, kiss it, lick it. Move, you little pig! I'm on fire, do you 
hear. Suck my cunt! Suck it until I give you permission to stop!" For long, 
brain-fevered moments Sirri swayed before Noreen, acted as if she hadn't 
heard. Until, finally, a strangled sob escaping her, the futility of 
resistance crushing her spirit, Sirri slowly slumped to her haunches before 
Noreen, began the long journey along her thighs. 

There was a last hesitation. As Noreen now brought up her bare feet, dug the 
heels into the chair's cushion. A move that totally exposed her black-furred 
hole, the glistening film of vaginal elixir that clung, then popped like a 
soap bubble. Even this was not blatant invitation enough, for then Noreen's 
fingers dropped, pulled the lips of her yawning pussy even wider. 

Sirri shuddered, abjectly forged ahead; she buried her mouth in that hot, 
slimy mush, let her tongue slither forth. Moments later, only the sound of 
wet clickings, Noreen's thick wheezings of delight could be heard in the 
echoing vault of that macabre torture chamber. 

 CHAPTER TWELVE 

Another dreary winter month had passed in Benton Falls, and now it was 
February, bitter cold, blustery and snowy, daring all but the most hearty to 
venture forth on such a night as this. Inside the stately Adair residence, 
however, there was no trace of chill whatsoever. Especially as far as the 
troilistic group gathered in one of the guest bedrooms at the farthest end 
of the second floor was concerned. A group which was composed of none other 
than Noreen, Sirri, and a still-fragile, badly-scarred Hal Gilmartin. Who, 
his spirit crushed as definitively as Sirri's had been, had recently been 
prevailed upon to enter the dowager queen's corrupt menage. A pension of 
sorts endowed upon him also, he'd gratefully agreed to sign on with the 
unique repertoire company, and was, even now, engaged in another orgiastic 
"audition." 

Granted, he was not the prettiest of specimens, but the saying having to do 
with cats in the dark applying here, the bedroom deep in shadow, he would 
serve Noreen's purposes admirably. At least until something better came 
along. All of them slightly drunk, fighting to forget that each was, to some 
extent, a castoff, they pursued sensation with a tireless dedication. And 
Noreen posting happily upon Hal's daily-more-proficient prick, while Sirri 
straddled his head, hissingly enjoyed his incisive, pistoning tongue as it 
scoured the membranes of her cunt and clitoris, the madcap trio took their 
jollies where they could. 

While in the master bedroom, that fool's paradise of satin sheets, silk 
apparel and crisscrossing spotlights, still another travesty of love was 
being enacted. 

A new philosophy had been instituted in the Adair household since Noreen's 
brutal showdown with Sirri and Hal, a philosophy encompassing the "If you 
can't lick 'em, join 'em" adage. Since it was painfully obvious that Dwight 
would never change, that his lecher-fetishist fantasies became more 
compelling with each passing day, it was up to Noreen to employ her waning 
youth as creatively as she could. More and more often lately she caustically 
defended her capitulation to outright sensuality with the catch-phrase: 
"Every woman ought to have a hobby." 

Beyond this acceptance of Dwight's most intrinsic, unchanging nature, there 
had evolved a determination that never again should their future ever be 
threatened again as it had been so recently. It had been proven that Dwight 
was no longer .the strong, dependable male he'd once been. So be it. In that 
case it was up to Noreen herself to become overseer and warden-zookeeper was 
apropos also-all in one. If Dwight was going to engage in lifelong debauch, 
then she would be obliged to provide setting for same, keep close watch on 
his flesh preserve lest he roam too far afield, destroy them all with his 
reckless lust for eternal fresh conquest. 

As singular case in point was the exquisite young thing of eighteen, named 
Elaine Cotter-an ingenue Sirri herself had been instrumental in 
recruiting-who was, at this very moment, in the midst of erotic trance in 
Dwight's fantastically-appointed boudoir. An elfin blonde, petite in every 
respect, she was dazedly recumbent upon the bed, savoring the insane 
excitement within her loins as Dwight slavishly dressed her in the white, 
"wedding night" costume, almost exact duplicate of the one in which he'd 
once accoutered Sirri. Now the odd step-ins were being pulled up her thighs, 
accompanied by a chewing kiss to the golden floss of her moras veneris. "I 
don't understand," the adorable innocent questioned when her shivers of 
rapture died down. "Why do you keep dressing and undressing me?" 

In the guest bedroom Noreen was now lovingly sucking the depleted Hal back 
to life, her head moving in dreamy ebb and flow, even as Sirri, devoted 
aficionado of bi-sexual love by then, eagerly returned her new mistress to a 
relatively pristine condition. 

Dwight was groveling at Elaine's feet now, kissing and licking the pretty 
white shoes, beginning to work his tongue up her white stockings, a thing 
that made the virgin whimper with intermixed delight and dismay. 

"Let's get Sirri ready," Noreen snickered now as she pumped Hal's hard cock, 
brought droplets of his love liqueur forth. "You hold her legs; I'll get her 
juiced up." Even as she transferred the clear oil from the knob of his organ 
to Sirri's puckered star, squirmed her own finger inside her anus to stretch 
her, she recalled the time she'd commanded Dwight to play also; the memory 
of simultaneously having Dwight up her ass, Hal up her snatch, actually made 
her dizzy with longing. 

Elaine was positioned provocatively upon the white sheets now, the glitter 
of her mounting fabulously exciting to Dwight. Her white lingerie, her 
creamy flesh, the tantalizing pinkness of her tits, her blatantly exposed 
pussy, as contrasted to the shiny satin, made him want to scream. He stifled 
the impulse by burying his face in the golden fur of her gash, making her 
groan naggedly as his tongue investigated that intact seal of her chastity. 

Noreen positioned herself precisely beneath Sirri, pulled a pillow beneath 
her head the better to reach the child's pussy where Sirri, on all fours, 
angled her buttocks to receive Hal's swaying phallus. Noreen took a 
tentative swipe at Sirri's clitoris, was rewarded with an adoring lick of 
her own, Sirri avid to return the homage, stroke for stroke. 

Elaine screamed piteously now, as Dwight forced his rod into her 
squeaky-tight hole, ruptured her hymen, the outflow swiftly staining the 
silk scarf beneath her buttocks. Shortly her cries diminished, and Dwight 
impaled her more vigorously. 

Noreen thought the sight of Hal's brown cock, as it sallied in and out of 
Sirri's anal passage, eminently exciting. Even more exciting was the act of 
licking his flopping testicles themselves as they came in range, a 
ministration she alternated with searing lavings of Sirri's clitoris. The 
frenzy in Noreen's belly heightened by the moment. 

But still there were moments of brief despair, misgivings Noreen couldn't 
quite identify. She should be happy; she should be satisfied. Here was her 
new life, her totally new attitudes. There was even promise of Elaine, when 
Dwight tired of her; unknown Elaines, as-yet-to-be-invented sexual games she 
couldn't even begin to imagine yet. And yet-this damnable uneasiness, this 
guilt. She worked harder, fought to shut out conscience. Her tongue lolled 
frenziedly, and she struggled to concentrate, to gather sensation to 
transfiguring magnification. Momentarily she was successful in blotting out 
her chagrin. 

It seemed to Noreen that there should be something more to life than this. 
More than wholesale wallowing. Power and wealth should rightfully invest 
their owners with more happiness, more meaningful endeavors. But for the 
life of her, she was unable-at this so-crucial moment-to think of what such 
lofty pursuits might be. 


THE END
