The Hungry Divorcee
by Jean Sifton


FOREWORD 

The plight of the divorcee in American social life is at present not an 
enviable one. As Mr. John Schafrer, the author of The Hungry Divorcee notes, 
her problem is two-fold. 

First, particularly if she has had a healthy sex life during the period of 
her marriage, she is deprived of that necessary release. Also, as Mr. 
Schaffer points out so vividly in the case of young Barbara, the heroine of 
his novel, the sudden bitter loneliness that sets in when one is deprived of 
the companionship to which one is accustomed, the dangers increase. This 
loneliness leads to emotional dependency on almost anyone who will take the 
time and patience to fill it. And what is even more important, this 
emotional dependency quite naturally leads to giving in to whomever supplies 
it in order not to lose the warmth it brings in an otherwise lonely and cold 
new world. 

This leads to the second problem. Divorcees are probably the easiest of all 
game for the roaming male. Particularly if the male happens to be without 
scruples. The Mexican, Philippe, who seemingly befriends the young Barbara 
in her hour of need and then uses her for both his own sexual satisfaction 
and also for that of his friends. 

He is the arch-type opportunist who exist in the world solely by virtue of 
the weaknesses of others. To him it is a profitable business and thanks to 
the clarity with which Mr. Schaffer describes his initial contact with the 
hapless young Barbara, one can picture as though he were there observing 
with all the horror that accompanies it, the web he spins and eventually 
ensnares her in. 

In all fairness he does present the other side of the coin and indicates 
that all divorcees are not victims. Some are the aggressor and the user. 
Patricia, who deserves her fate by virtue of her unfaithfulness to her 
husband, is one of these. Her kind deserve and receive from the general 
public the contempt that is coming to them. She, in effect, aids in 
procuring the young unsuspecting victims upon which men like Philippe vent 
their perverse passions and revenge upon womanhood for some real or 
imaginary affront they have received at some period in their fives. 

Author Shaffer has done a magnificent service to the public in exposing the 
problems and emotional impact that confront the divorcee and it is for this 
reason that we the Publishers feel his novel, The Hungry Divorcee deserves 
more than just passing consideration. It should be read and remembered. 
Particularly by those who have not heretofore held compassion for the young 
woman thrown back out into the world to struggle as a single woman again. 

-THE PUBLISHERS 

 CHAPTER ONE - DIVORCE 

Barbara Rodney knocked her patent leather purse off the stool beside her. 
She half-heartedly started to get down to pick it up, but was relieved of 
the task by the Mexican bartender who rushed around the bar with amazing 
speed and eagerly bent to deftly gather the spilled contents from the tiled 
floor. 

The stooped figure provided a drastic contrast to Barbara's sleek beauty. 
Her white summer dress accented every curve of her tanned body. Her firm, 
perfect breasts rose and fell with each breath displaying their rich 
fullness. The bartender, Manuel, looked from Barbara's eyes to her cleavage 
as he handed her the refilled purse. He quickly stripped her with his vivid 
imagination, savoring the pleasures he knew he would never have with this 
woman. 

Barbara seemed sot to notice this lewd display dancing in the Mexican's dark 
eyes. "Thank you," she said. 

"It was my pleasure, Senora," Manuel answered as he walked back behind the 
bar. "Would the Senora care for another drink?" 

"No, thank you," she answered. "Not just now." Another drink, she thought. I 
shouldn't have had this many, but, damn it all, I need something. 

Barbara had been in Juarez for thirty hours. Six of those hours she had been 
sitting on the same vinyl barstool drinking Margueritas at a rate that would 
have put the heaviest of drinkers in a stupor, yet the alcohol seemed to 
have almost no effect on her speech or actions. Her mind hungered for the 
numbness that would blot out the horrible morning's business in court. 

Business, she thought. It was more like buying a piece of antique furniture 
than dissolving four years of supposedly sacred marriage vows. 

The courtroom looked more like a small real estate office. Barbara had said 
nothing during the entire ceremony. Her Mexican lawyer handled his end of 
the courtroom procedure without interest. He had probably memorized all that 
had to be said years before and, through hundreds of similar divorce cases, 
could have finished the procedure in his sleep. 

The judge tried to maintain a semblance of dignity in order to justify his 
fee, but Barbara had noticed a trace of breakfast on one corner of his 
moustache. She would have thought it comical had been just an observer and 
not a party to the proceedings. 

Ken Jurgins had sat beside her in a hardback chair that didn't match the 
table he leaned an elbow on. 

Ken, a prosperous San Francisco attorney, had handled Barbara's legal 
affairs for nearly two years. At twenty-nine, Ken was known among San 
Francisco's professional people as the most promising civil attorney in the 
Bay area. His relationship to Barbara, however, was more than just 
professional. 

A friend of Barbara's husband, Ken had first met her at a cocktail party. He 
was impressed not only with her magnificent beauty but also her poise and 
quick mind. She, too, had been impressed with the young lawyer and asked him 
to handle her affairs. Barbara was one of his first clients. In the months 
that followed Ken grew to love her. He, however, would not allow himself to 
consciously admit it and would never have told her. She thought of him as a 
good friend. 

Three weeks before the morning in court Barbara had left Ken's office on 
Borel Place. It was an unusual June morning for San Francisco. The fog bad 
lifted early. A slight breeze kept the air cool as it caressed Barbara's 
bronzed face. As an interior decorator Barbara allowed herself more than 
ample time to spend at a small beach house she and her husband, Jerry, had 
built a few miles south of Half Moon Bay. 

Barbara dropped her purse on the passenger seat of her Alpha Romeo 
convertible, eased the key into the ignition and started the sports car with 
a roar. What a lovely morning, she thought. Perfect sun for a day at the 
beach house. 

When Barbara turned the car onto Union Street she could see Jerry's studio. 
Photography had brought Jerry and Barbara together. She had only started as 
an interior decorator when they had met. Jerry opened the door to her office 
one afternoon, walked straight to her drawing table and spilled three dozen 
photographs of house interiors he had taken, telling her that these were 
homes of prospective clients for her. Unbelieving, she listened as he talked 
for nearly an hour, explaining how he had taken the photographs and 
emphasizing their value to her. 

After he finished she had offered him a cup of coffee, but he had refused 
and offered her dinner, instead. Two months later they were married. Hers 
was a perfect marriage and this morning Barbara felt like a perfect woman. 

She parked the Alpha, put a nickel in the meter and walked toward the studio 
she had taken so much care to decorate. It had been her wedding gift to 
Jerry. It was a part of their marriage, she thought. Something from each of 
them permeated that studio. To Barbara, it was a symbol of their love. Her 
shoulder length blonde hair swayed tantalizingly across her neck as she 
walked to the studio. With no trouble at all she could persuade 

Jerry to take the day off and come to the beach with her. 

The perfect couple had a perfect sex life. Barbara's heart picked up a beat 
as she thought of last night's lovemaking. Jerry's tongue raced through the 
back of her mind, across her shoulders and hesitated at her breasts, 
bringing her nipples erect as she walked. She felt herself aroused and was 
pleased. She would often go for days at a time aroused almost to passion, 
even though she and Jerry made love as often as newly weds. He satisfied her 
each time they made love, but Barbara was always ready for more. 

Barbara opened the gate to the courtyard and dosed it softly behind her. Her 
mind could feel her heartbeat and taste Jerry's kisses. Before she was 
halfway across the brick courtyard she could feel Jerry's huge penis inside 
her, stroking back and forth in her stomach with long gentle thrusts 
building their passion with each stroke. Her thighs brushed each other 
giving her a clitoral erection. Her excitement was unusually high this 
morning. 

She decided, as she opened the great oak door, that she would not be able to 
wait until they got to the beach. Jerry could get rid of his model easily 
enough. Then he and Barbara would make love on the white bear rug she had 
searched for to complete the studio's decoration. They had made love for the 
first time on that rug four years ago, only an hour after they were married. 

She closed the large door softly behind her and entered the brightly lit 
studio. The drapes were drawn across the cathedral window, but floodlights 
the studio's center like a Greek stage. Barbara hardly noticed the setting, 
looking only for her husband. They're probably taking a break, she thought 
as she began to ascend the spiral wrought iron staircase. 

The tangled bodies on the white bearskin rug hadn't heard the great door's 
echo as it closed. Barbara's husband would not have heard an air raid siren 
at this moment. Jerry's body glistened with sweat on the half lit balcony. 
His huge penis was about to burst inside the warm raw confines of his young 
model, Janie's, anus. Jerry grunted savagely and thrust his organ into her 
aching rectum a soulful groan of satisfaction bursting from his lips. 

Excruciating pain had become excruciating pleasure for Jerry's favorite 
model. She moaned and rammed her greedy buttocks into each attack by the red 
hot log that was nearly splitting her rubbery anus in half. She moaned and 
thrust again, feeling every fiber of her body tingle. Janie moaned but could 
not gasp, for her mouth was greedily sucking on another hardened phallus. 

Ted Martin lay spread eagle on his back, his head twisting from side to 
side. Janie's mouth bobbed up and down rhythmically on his rubbery organ. He 
wanted to scream but bit his wrist hard, drawing blood. Passion rose from 
his oversized balls as Janie sucked and teased his white hot cock with her 
swirling tongue and nipped at the hard blood-filled head with her teeth. 
Janie's expertise grew with each one of these daily sessions. Ted thrust his 
body to meet her each time driving his cock deep into her throat. The 
squirming girl sucked harder trying to draw the delicious sperm deep from 
Ted's balls far into her own body. 

Jerry's hands dug into her hips and buttocks as he sodomized her from 
behind. His thrusting motions setting the rhythm for the trio. They looked 
like a single animal in convulsion to Barbara who stood at the top of the 
stairs, too thunderstruck to scream. too shocked to turn and run. Her 
emotions had struck down the passion she had built up during the last few 
minutes. Tears streamed down her cheeks, ruining her mascara as she watched 
with horror as her husband threw back his head and groaned out his orgasm. 
Aggggghhhhhhh! Now! Now! I'm coming! God, I'm coming in your ass! 

Janie' felt Jerry's hot fluids rocketing into her rectum filling her like a 
bellows. Her body thrust back with a great shudder, grinding into Jerry's 
pelvis and began to twitch, then squirm and heave, building momentum like a 
crashing wave. Her mouth sucked harder as Ted's rock hard cock throbbed 
spastically and spewed his hot, white sperm deep into the warm cavern of her 
throat. 

Barbara screamed and collapsed to the floor when she saw the great three-way 
animal on the white rug rise and scream with ecstatic joy. Neither her 
husband nor his two partners had heard Barbara's scream above their own. 
Janie still sucked on Ted's now deflated penis. Ted's breathing came deep 
from his belly, rasping in his throat. Jerry jerked himself from Janie's wet 
slippery anus and lowered his head to her legs. He brushed his lips along 
the backside of her thigh, then bit the fleshiest part of her inner leg, 
leaving a bruising red mark that reflected the intensity of his passion. 

Janie moaned, her mouth still tightly around Ted's penis. She sucked the 
last of his juices and moaned again, knowing that the tongue slithering up 
her inner thigh would soon bring her to another wild state of excitement. 
The vibration of her tongue and cheeks on Ted's cock brought blood spilling 
into the veins and the gently nibbling girl felt the new heat of his 
erection and moaned louder, from deep within her throat. 

Jerry lay on his back underneath her kneeling body working his tongue up 
into the soft wetness o Janie's pink open pussy. His hands pushed her legs 
out, bringing them almost to their full length. Her soft, blond pubic hair 
less than an inch from his face, Jerry probed the open vulva with his nose, 
the moisture from her warm, moist vagina caressing hi cheeks. He edged his 
nose to her clitoris and began to shake his head. Janie gasped, swirling her 
tongue desperately around Ted's cock. He grunted-arched his back, and 
started to cum again. He rolled his head to one side in uninhibited ecstasy 
and suddenly stopped frozen, his eyes riveted to Barbara's, while he shot 
great gushes of hot liquid cum into the young model's hungry sucking mouth. 

Jerry's tongue swirled around Janie's insatiable opening whose muscles 
flexed again and again to suck the hot licking tongue deep inside her 
vagina. 

Ted's cock deflated like a balloon and he withdrew himself from Janie's 
mouth with a jerk, tearing at the loose skin. "Oh my God! Jerry!" he 
whispered. "Jerry, Janie ... Oh my God! Look." Janie turned her head in time 
to see Barbara's arm follow through as she threw a vase at the rug. The 
crash of glass against the fireplace brought Jerry out of his sexual trance. 
He sat up, propping himself with one arm. "Stop her," he yelled to Ted. 
Barbara, in a rage picked up a lamp to heave at her husband. Ted tackled 
her, pinning her arms to her sides. Kicking and screaming Barbara fought to 
no avail against his superior strength. Her struggles ceased and she began 
sobbing helplessly in her anger and frustration. 

Barbara's tears had stopped when Janie brought a glass of water. Jerry 
kneeled beside his wife, while Ted sat on the edge of an armchair a few feet 
away. Jerry took the glass from Janie and passed it to his wife. 

"Drink this," he said rather coldly. "You need something to soothe your 
throat after all that ridiculous screaming." 

Barbara obeyed silently, her mind confused by the sight of the obscenely 
naked bodies surrounding her. The young model stood beside Ted who was 
staring out the window. Ted wanted no part of this husband and wife quarrel, 
though he had no idea what was going to happen. "Calmer now?" Jerry asked. 

Barbara nodded her head and tried to adjust the slim dress straps on her 
shoulders, but they had both broken during the scuffle. Her dress hung 
loosely over her breasts, exposing her tan line and the light brown of her 
nipples. 

"Darling, you should have told me you were coming," Jerry chided her, almost 
defensively. 

Barbara raised her eyes in amazement. She listened, unbelieving. 

"If you had told me you were coming we would have been better prepared for 
you. A picture of innocence," Jerry continued, "I have been thinking about 
asking you to join me and my friends for some time now. You saw how much fun 
it was for us. Just think how much pleasure it would be for both of us if 
you were to join our parties." 

Barbara rose to her feet, dazed. This isn't my Jerry, she thought. What has 
happened? Oh my God, who is he? She backed into the wall. Startled, she 
reached behind her trying to regain her mental balance by holding onto the 
wall. Jerry's voice pushed into her ears through the barrier she was 
building. He stood and walked toward her. 

"You can't deny, Darling, that you were not excited by what you saw." 
Jerry's grin seemed to mask a perverted horror that Barbara knew she must 
escape. The man before her was an animal, something to be caged, not loved. 
A man she didn't know-or had ever known! 

Barbara felt panic building within her as she began to slide along the wall 
toward the staircase. She watched Jerry lift his hand from his hand and 
extend it toward her. It seemed grotesque, out of proportion. The room began 
to sway as if it were a large aquarium and her husband, a slimy sea monster, 
changing shape with the waves. 

The model's voice joined Jerry's. "Please sit down, Barbara. Jerry's told us 
so much about you." 

Barbara saw the girl standing beside Jerry, her one hand on his shoulder, 
the other holding his arm. Janie's disheveled hair took the appearance of 
Medusa's snakes. Barbara thought she was losing her mind. The room began to 
spin. Ted stood next to the naked couple, his hand also extended. "Come, 
Barbara," he said. "Join us on the rug." 

The rug, she thought. Our white rug. "No! No! NO!" her scream pierced the, 
heavy air. Barbara took two steps and turned to run down the stairs. Jerry 
reached for her, but missed. Before he could say another word Barbara was 
out the door and near the bottom of the steps, tears streaming from her 
eyes. 

She could see only blurred light when she fell the last four feet. Without 
stopping Barbara hit the bottom landing, bounced to her feet, breaking both 
high heels, and ran to the great oak door, kicking off her useless summer 
shoes. She pulled the huge door open with tremendous strength, slamming it 
into the wall, then whirling out into the street. 

The summer sun slapped her face awakening her from her panic, knowing she 
still had to run somewhere, but not sure where. The memory of the last ten 
minutes upstairs did not exist for a moment. She ran barefoot and out of 
breath to her Alpha. 

She was inside the convertible and had closed the door before she realized 
she had left her purse and the keys in Jerry's studio. She started climbing 
out of the car, standing for a moment in the passenger seat. San Francisco's 
morning breeze blew her hair straight back from her head as she looked up 
and down the street. 

"Taxi!" she yelled at a Yellow Cab that had just turned the corner. Barbara 
had left her attorney's office less than an hour ago, and right now it 
seemed to be the logical place for her to go back to. There was nowhere 
else. 

Ken paid the cab driver and followed Barbara into his office. She had nearly 
fallen into a chair. Her nerves taut, she looked frantically about the room, 
searching for something to occupy her attention. 

Ken handed her a scotch and soda. "You look terrible," he said anxiously. 
"What happened?" 

Barbara stared at her drink for a moment. She yearned to blot out what she 
had seen at Jerry's studio, but her torn dress and near exhaustion betrayed 
the stark reality of Jerry's outstretched hand as he had stood beside his 
two naked partners. There was nowhere to turn. It was too late. Barbara 
began to cry her body wracked with helpless sobs. The ice cubes in her drink 
rattled. They were the only sound in the room for a few moments until she 
was too exhausted to sob any longer. Her wet cheeks contracted and contorted 
her face in mental anguish. "Oh, Ken, what am I going to do?" 

Ken knelt beside her. He gently pulled her toward him, cradling her tear 
stained face on his shoulder. There was no doubt in Ken's mind about what 
tormented the beautiful girl in his arms. He knew that one day she would 
discover Jerry's perversion for group sexual affairs. 

Shame for himself and tenderness for the girl he and Jerry had deceived made 
Ken shudder. He remembered dozens of sessions in Jerry's studio with one or 
more of the young willing models Jerry employed. Ken and Jerry had known 
each other for a number of years before either of them knew Barbara. Jerry 
had once offered Ken something a little different. Exposed to the pleasures 
of perverted sex, Ken nearly went wild. His career was nearly destroyed by 
those sessions in Jerry's studio. It wasn't until after he met Barbara, that 
Ken decided to stop. He secretly loved his friend's wife and could not bear 
the guilt of betraying her, even if Jerry could. Now, with Barbara still 
shuddering in his arms, Ken vowed he would make Jerry pay, and prayed that 
Barbara never would discover that he too, had been a part of what would 
become only a bad dream. 

"Barbara, please try to settle yourself," he said. "I can take you home now 
and maybe you'll be able to talk after you sleep." 

"No, Ken, I'll be all right. Just give me a minute." 

She took his handkerchief and tried to wipe her eyes. "I'm a mess. Don't 
look at me..." 

Just like a woman, he thought, no matter what happens she can't stand to be 
mussed. Ken stood, taking Barbara's hand and lead her across the thick 
carpet of his well appointed office. She had decorated it to suit him. He 
remembered the trouble she had gone to to make his office a perfectly virile 
and efficient, yet homey place to make his living. She had done a good job 
he thought as he opened the mirrored door that led to the bathroom. "There 
are clean towels in the closet," he told her, and then with a twinkle, "But 
of course you would know that. You're the creator of it all." 

"Oh, Ken, you're so sweet." 

"Don't worry, I'll put it on my bill." 

Barbara smiled at his effort to humor her and closed the door to freshen 
herself up as best she could after the longest afternoon of her life. 

That afternoon in Ken's office could have been a century ago Barbara thought 
as she toyed with the Marguerita in front of her. The overhead fans in the 
bar squeaked in their effort to cool the stifling Mexican summer air. Though 
she appeared cool Barbara felt as if she were about to roast in the dark, 
humid saloon. Only one other person sat at the bar. Another divorcee, 
Barbara speculated. I wonder what happened to her. Had her life been 
shattered, too? 

Barbara looked at her drink. The shaved ice had melted in her glass. The 
cloudy Marguerita looked as appetizing as a Scottish moor in mid-winter but 
Barbara wasn't drinking for the pleasure of the taste of the drink. She was 
drinking to get drunk ... stinking drunk for that matter. She lifted her 
glass. Cheers, she thought and downed half the glass in one gulp. She turned 
her head sharply and grimaced at the warm liquid running down her throat. 
Ugh! she thought. Many more like that and I won't have to worry about what 
is going to happen to me when I get home and have to make like the single 
girl again. The clink of glass on the bar broke her from her thoughts. 
Barbara looked at the bartender as he removed his hand from the glass he had 
set before her. 

"Th-hank you Manuel," she said. "Don't thank me, Senora. This is with the 
compliments of the gentleman sitting over there," Manuel said, pointing his 
head in the direction of the door. 

"Senorita, Manuel," she corrected hastily and then turned, the light from 
outside momentarily blinding her so that she could not make out the figure 
in the corner. She shaded her eyes and focused on a tall middle-aged man, 
seated erect in the corner booth. Though rigid and formal, he looked 
relaxed, almost aristocratic. His white linen suit was spotless, and 
undoubtedly comfortable. She looked back at Manuel. "Who is he?" she asked, 
curious about a man who looked so obviously upper class, yet would sit in a 
bar of this low caliber and try to pick up a completely strange girl. 

"I don't know, Senora," he bed. "I have never seen him in here before, 
though now and then I see him drive through town. I think he lives on an 
estate nearby." 

Barbara remained motionless, looking past the bartender's heavy shoulder. No 
one has ever tried to pick me up before, she thought, at least not 
seriously. Do I look that bad, or that easy? I suppose I'm just another 
divorcee now. Men always have stories to tell about us. I wonder now if 
they're true. Well, I'll drink his drink, but I'll be damned if he'll get 
near me. Maybe he's just a gigilo. Maybe he is just a man offering me a 
drink. Who cares? Who cares about anything? 

Barbara again turned toward the door, smiled and said thank you, barely loud 
enough to be heard in the comer. She lifted the glass and with an effort, 
took a lady like sip. Much better cold, she thought hazily in her alcoholic 
stupor. It doesn't seem as strong as the first one. In fact, in fact it 
almost tastes like water now. "Mmm" that's nice, so nice. 

 CHAPTER TWO - PHILIPPE 

Philippe Rodriguez acknowledged Barbara's smile. This one will be easy he 
thought. During the last hour Philippe had watched her pour half a dozen 
Margueritas down her throat. She had spilled none of them, but none the 
less, she was drunk. Philippe saw that her smile betrayed the stupor she was 
building each minute, trying to forget just like all the others that came 
down here for the "quickie" divorce. 

Philippe was an expert. After all, years spent picking the cream of the 
sorrowful crop had taught him the meaning of every gesture, had taught him 
more about women than most men learn in a lifetime. She's been hurt, he 
thought, probably her pride more than anything. She looks like she enjoys 
pleasure, but not enough to satisfy a really hungry man. I shall have to 
teach her about real pleasure first. 

Barbara would be a willing and easy mark once he had made the contact. Of 
that, Philippe was sure. Like so many others she would need someone to talk 
to, a stranger, someone who need not know her to understand the torment she 
felt. Philippe would give her the ear she needed. It was a small price to 
pay, being bored by so many women with the same story of grief. Philippe 
cared not the slightest about the emotions of the women he met. 

Some cried for hours before he ever made a move. Others were too bitter to 
cry. They cursed their husbands, swore they would never trust another man, 
but they trusted Philippe, and he made sure they would never trust another 
man again. 

Philippe had loved only one woman in his lifetime, his mother. And he hated 
her at the same time. He hated her for being a whore, but hated her more for 
dying and leaving him to her sister, Rosa. 

Philippe was not tender at fifteen when his mother had died. A life spent in 
a Juarez brothel had given him an insight to depravity that would later make 
him a wealthy man. He would spend hours behind drawn curtains, watching and 
finding that he too had passion, later relieving himself behind the garbage 
cans in an alley. 

He was always amazed when he watched his mother work. She would submit to 
brutal beatings and brutal intrusions into her body that he thought would 
certainly kill her. Philippe was fascinated and horrified that he had come 
from that same flesh, and the flesh of a man whose name his mother had never 
known. 

When tuberculosis took his mother, Philippe had not cried. He knew she would 
not have lived long, and was glad that she would no longer be forced to 
submit herself to the cruelties of so many men. 

Rosa was his only relative. She, too, was a prostitute, but a wealthy one by 
Mexican standards. She had her own house, divided into an upstairs and a 
downstairs for business. She operated alone and received more than standard 
rates for her expertise in tantalizing and pleasing her clients with rewards 
they could dream of for weeks. 

Rosa cried an ocean of tears at her sister's funeral. Though Rosa had never 
helped when there was need, it was necessary for her to show her grief to a 
town that didn't care anyway. Philippe was disgusted by Rosa's display. He 
knew that she would come to him, crying and touching and telling him of her 
great love for her departed sister. Philippe left the small funeral early. 
Those present thought him to be too distraught with grief to stay. None 
could know of his disgust with the mockery of a broken whore's life. 

Returning at night to place a small bouquet on his mother's grave and wish 
her well, Philippe was unaware that Rosa had waited for him. 

He knelt at his mother's head by the small marker, promising in a whisper 
that he would buy her a proper stone someday, when he had made his fortune 
as a doctor. Philippe's formal education had lasted only four years, but his 
quest for knowledge would allow him to conquer oceans. He knew that. No 
person would convince him otherwise. 

Rosa listened to the lean boy kneeling at his mother's grave. She had 
stepped softly behind him, standing only three feet away. 

"Philippe," she said softly. 

Startled he turned. The sight of his aunt drove tears of anger to his eyes. 
He held his rage. 

"Your mother's last wish was that you come to live with me," she continued. 
My money will help you attain your wish. I shall buy her a stone, and you 
may become that great doctor you wish to be." 

"I'll buy the stone," he said in a ragged whisper of anger. "I need nothing 
from you." 

"It was her wish," Rosa said. "At least you must respect that." 

Her wish, he thought. Oh, Mama, why? Philippe remained on his knees, staring 
at the woman hovering over him. The wind rustled weeds on nearby graves. 
There was no moon, no light, only a small breeze. 

"Please stand up, Philippe. Your mother knows how you feel. She would not 
want you to stay here all night. Come home with me." Rosa's voice was 
gentle, but had an element of command in it that he could not ignore. Rosa 
put her arm around his shoulders and they walked from the graveyard. 

At twice Philippe's age, Rosa was still a fine woman, even though she had 
been a prostitute a year before he was born. Only her eyes shown through the 
black veil across her face. Philippe was glad she had declined to wear that 
cheap perfume that usually permeated her house. Though he had only been 
there not more than a dozen times in his life, he remembered that ugly, 
heavy smell, mingled with the odor of sex that hung throughout the 
downstairs. 

The pair entered the house through the private courtyard. The entrance 
contrasted sharply with the business conducted inside. Red bricks ingrown 
with moss spread a carpet to the doorway, while lush thick grass wove in 
between half a dozen trees, accented with dozens of bright green ferns whose 
shadows at night gave a jungle appearance. Philippe had never entered the 
house through this entrance. He was impressed and for a moment forgot where 
he was. 

Once inside, a maid took Rosa's shawl. "Thank you, Maria," Rosa said. "That 
will be all for tonight." 

Philippe looked about the entryway. The paneled hall was totally unlike the 
heavily draped front entrance. It had an elegant simplicity he would have 
imagined to be in an important person's house, not that of a thirty year old 
prostitute. 

Philippe followed his aunt up the gas lit staircase. He had forgotten the 
heavily perfumed smell that ran through the rest of the house. There was no 
trace of it in his nostrils. Instead he could smell a slight fragrance of 
delicate flowers. A brighter light shown from the top of the stairs. He 
could see an ornate gold chandelier hanging from the royal blue ceding. As 
his eyes came over the top level 

Philippe was astounded. He had never seen such a room. 

It had a delicate strength that could belong to either sex. Two adjoining 
walls were covered by red, moss green and blue drapes, the colors in twelve 
inch strips, alternated. The rug, matching the red in the drapes looked not 
nearly as large as it was because of three yard-square pillows set in a line 
in the middle. An eight foot blue couch, again matching the blue in the 
drapes stood against one wall, a large table at one end, and a deep aquarium 
at the other, filled with lazy bright colored fish. Beneath a red toned 
impressionist painting across from the couch sat a modern low back moss 
green arm chair, matching a larger chair and footstool backed to the other 
draped wall, surrounded by two tables on which stood two regal lamps, 
themselves surrounded by a dozen half read novels, waiting to be finished. 

Rosa drew open the drapes by the overstuffed chair, exposing a picture 
window view of El Paso's lights only a few miles away. Philippe had never 
seen such a sight from such a viewpoint. He was awed by his aunt's taste and 
what seemed like wealth to a fifteen year old Mexican boy whose fife had 
been spent in a drab bare room in the back of a brothel. 

Philippe felt himself near tears. Why hadn't his aunt given anything to he 
and his mother. With all this money Rosa could probably have afforded a 
specialist for her sister. 

"I know what you're thinking Philippe. But it's not true. I offered to help 
your mother many times during the last few years that I have had money, but 
she was bitter about an incident that happened before you were born and 
would accept no help. It was just during the last few months that she would 
accept anything at all, but never money. Most of the clothes she wore were 
from me, and any gifts of food or special presents from some of her clients 
were actually from me. She was a proud woman, but too stubborn for her own 
good. Those shoes on your feet were from me, though Carmen never knew it. 
Please try to understand." 

Philippe listened, not knowing how to take Rosa's declaration of innocence. 
He knew his mother was a proud woman, and had remembered how she would never 
speak of Rosa, except on rare occasion. 

"Please sit down and eat," Rosa told the boy. "I'm going to take a bath. 
There is more than enough food set for you. Marie is an excellent cook. Her 
cabrito is excellent. Don't disappoint her. It will only hurt her feelings, 
and I don't want to lose her. Neither will you, once you finish the meal." 

With that, she left the room, leaving Philippe alone. He turned his head to 
the oak dining table. Six feet long with one high backed oak chair, at each 
end, the table surely must have belonged to the Emperor Maximillian, he 
thought, not knowing I it's origin. Fit for a king, he thought. Philippe 
lifted [the lid of a copper chafing dish, seeing enough vegetables for three 
people. Another dish held a cheese covered rice dish and a third, the 
barbequed goat dish, cabrito. 

Philippe picked up a plate and gingerly lifted a piece of the cabrito, the 
last remains of a pure fed goat, then scooped a small portion of rice onto 
his plate, and a similar amount of vegetables. 

He sat, trying to remember how he had seen American movie stars act in the 
few motion pictures he had seen, knowing that this setting required proper 
method. He picked up a napkin and placed it on his lap. His goblet was 
empty. A pitcher stood at arms reach on the table, sweating beads of cold, 
cool moisture. Philippe lifted it and poured ice cold milk into his glass. 
Milk. A delicacy he had tasted only once. The glass touched his lips. 
Ecstasy he thought. In one gulp the glass was empty. The cold milk burned 
all the way to the bottom of his stomach. Philippe forgot the confused 
feelings he had for his aunt. He was too busy eating to bother with emotion. 
In five minutes he had gone through three helpings of everything. His 
stomach ached from the unfamiliar heavy load it carried, but Philippe was 
full and satisfied for the first time in his fife. He had no desire to move. 

"Philippe, come here please," his aunt's voice echoed through the rooms. 

Philippe broke from his spell and lifted himself clumsily from the chair. 
The tall, lean boy had never felt so heavy, so exhausted from eating. He 
walked cautiously down the hallway hoping that Rosa would not be angry 
because he had eaten so much. 

A light pierced the darkness at the hall's end. Philippe looked into Rosa's 
bedroom, dark except for the shaft that shown from the bathroom to the 
hallway. 

"Philippe!" she called again. "Are you finished?" 

"Yes, Tia Rosa," he answered. 

"Please come here. I want you to scrub my back," she said. 

Philippe hesitated. Scrub her, back? His mind was not ready for that. 
Thinking he had misunderstood her, he didn't move. 

She called again, and Philippe cautiously walked toward the source of light. 
He peered sheepishly into the bathroom. Philippe did not see the white tub, 
trimmed in ornate gold. His eyes were riveted on the bare shoulders of his 
beautiful aunt. 

Rosa's body was submerged in blue bubbles. Her long black hair was pinned 
high on her head. She looked like a queen. 

"Come in, Darling," she said. "Haven't you ever scrubbed anyone's back for 
them." 

"N-no," was all he could say. 

"Then you must learn. The washcloth is there," she said, pointing to the 
marbled counter surrounding the wash basin. 

Philippe picked up a cloth of the softest material he had ever touched. He 
turned to face her, not moving. Rosa lifted her arm and motioned for him to 
come to her. She shifted her body, exposing the rounded tops of her firm, 
full breasts above the water. Philippe could see her brown nipples through 
the translucent bubbles, tantalizing him. 

She was no longer his mother's sister, but a luscious woman that beckoned 
him to touch her. 

Philippe kneeled beside the tub. His fear left him as he applied the cloth 
to Rosa's dark shoulders. With smooth circular strokes, timid at first, he 
began to soap her back, reaching behind her periodically in the water to 
re-wet the cloth. He increased the pressure, moving over her shoulder, then 
back and across her neck. 

Rosa, her head erect, squeezed her shoulders toward her neck, making a deep 
crevice run down her back. "That's so nice, my young nephew. Are you sure 
you haven't done this before?" 

"Never," was all he could answer. Philippe was engrossed in the pleasure of 
moving his cloth covered hand over her soft flesh, experiencing the newness 
of sensual contact with another person. The cloth slipped from his grasp 
over her shoulder and he started to reach for it, accidentally brushing her 
breast. He jumped and started to withdraw his hand but she quickly closed 
her fingers over his. 

"It's all right, my young one," she said. "Find the cloth." 

Philippe obediently groped with his blind hand in the water, searching 
around her thighs, finding the cloth lying on the forbidden fruit of 
womanhood between her thighs. He had no thoughts, only sensations and 
suddenly felt his hardened penis pushing for freedom in his pants. 

He lifted the cloth from the water, dragging it slowly across Rosa's erect 
nipples. The bubbles had receded, exposing all of her firm, almost perfect 
breasts. Her body quivered as the cloth passed over her. "Would you like to 
wash all of me, Philippe?" 

In answer the boy gently pushed the cloth around under her arm to the rising 
and falling breasts that eagerly awaited to be caressed by his sensuous 
hands. He nervously guided the cloth across the erected nipples, then under 
the roundness and between the deep cleavage of her rising and falling orbs. 

"Take off your clothes and I'll wash you, too," she whispered. 

Without hesitation, Philippe arose and in his haste nearly ripped his 
trousers and shirt off. He was not embarrassed by the over developed penis 
jutting out proudly from his loins. 

Rosa turned her head to view the young virgin cock that throbbed with heated 
excitement. A pleasant gasp of surprise slipped from her lips. She placed a 
wet hand between his thighs, running it slowly up the inside, gently 
fondling his balls, then sliding her sharp fingernails along the underside 
of his cock, gliding over the throbbing veins to the tip. 

Philippe, burning with desire and anticipation, allowed himself to be led 
into the tub by Rosa's guiding hand. He sat with bis legs spread, his knees 
above the water. Rosa rearranged herself in the tub, kneeling before the 
boy, her breasts jutting toward his hungry mouth. She took the wet soaped 
cloth from the water and began washing his shoulders with even, sensuous 
strokes. Her hand moved teasingly over his chest to his stomach, then down 
his side to the outside of his leg. 

Rosa's other hand rested on Philippe's shoulder, giving her balance. She 
guided the cloth under the outside of his leg up to his knee, then over his 
leg to the inside of his thigh. Slowly she worked her hand toward his huge 
rock hard organ, her eyes greedily watching it twitch in the water. 

Philippe felt the cloth separate the water between his balls and inner 
thigh, then enfold his sperm filled testicles, massaging them gently, 
lifting them slightly, making his prick grow, knowing it too would soon be 
enveloped in the pleasure of his aunt's hands. Rosa's fingers, gloved in the 
sponged cloth, rose to skim over Philippe's pubic hair, the cloth trailing 
its tail behind, giving her touch an electric tingle to Philippe's nerves. 

Rosa's hand and the cloth were an independent organ of pleasure. She grasped 
his now fully extended cock with her small hand. Her fingers did not touch 
at the ends. Philippe's erection was as large as any grown man's. Gently 
turning, Rosa's hand moved from the smooth, fleshy base to the throbbing 
rubbery tip. 

"Ooohhhhh!" he moaned as her hand moved over the tops of his burning prick, 
dragging the end of the cloth through the breathing opening at the end, 
taking with it the large drop of fluid that in his excitement had leaked 
from the passage. 

Rosa slid her free hand around his neck, lowered her head and pressed her 
open mouth to his, savagely thrusting her tongue deep into the boy's mouth, 
curling it around deep inside the soft, wet cavern of his throat. Philippe 
responded with awkward excitement and he pushed his own tongue clumsily into 
his aunt's mouth meeting hers, feeling shocks of excitement rivit up and 
down his spine as she nimbly curved her tongue half encircling his and 
powerfully drawing and sucking it further into her own throat. 

Her jaws worked forcefully, almost causing him pain, but an exquisite pain 
that he never imagined before, nearly pulling his tongue from its roots. 
Almost choking, his arms flailed, trying to grasp Rosa's slippery back and 
he lost his balance, pulling both of them down into the half filled tub. 
Twisting, trying to catch his balance in a reflex to a fear of drowning, he 
thrust his right hand out for something to grasp. His groping hand slid 
across the soft curve of her hips and into the arched crevice of her 
straining thighs. 

"Philippe, wait! she laughed softly at his impatience. "We'll be more 
comfortable in the bedroom." 

Dazed with the charged excitement and sudden realization that this was no 
game, that in moments he would be making love for the first time and ... 
with his own aunt. 

As he stood shakily, trying to help his mother's sister up, he reached for 
one of the huge bath towels, when she grabbed his arm. "Don't bother, 
Philippe. I know a better way to dry ourselves." He allowed himself to be 
blindly led by the wrist to the darkened bedroom, watching the shaft of 
light from the bathroom behind him cast wild undulating shadows on her 
sleekly curved thighs and golden glistening buttocks. She turned, grasping 
his other wrist and pulled him to her as she fell gracefully back onto the 
bed. 

Philippe felt a prickling chill streak down his back from the evaporating 
water. Then, without warning a blinding rush of heat enveloped him as he 
fell across her splayed form and felt her breasts, her belly, seem to 
surround his eager young body. A thin film of liquid fire boiled between 
them as the water from the bath matched the flames burning beneath his skin. 

He felt her draw one of her legs up, at the same time pressing a hand on his 
shoulder as she deftly rolled him over onto his back. He threw his arms 
around her to pull her more tightly to him, to feel every inch of her molded 
to the urgency of his craving body. But he didn't seem to have the strength 
as she raised herself to kneel astride his chest. "Don't move, Philippe, 
Darling. Let me show you a woman's true wealth." 

He lay quivering as his aunt lowered her head and he felt her lips, her 
darting tongue kissing ... then biting across his chest and teasingly across 
the straining muscles of his neck. He felt the sharpness of her teeth 
nibbling at his ear lobe. Her tongue traced erotic designs around his ears 
as he could feel the fiery bellows of her breath penetrating to the very 
center of his desire-wracked mind. A violent shock shook his body as he felt 
the probing, wet tip of her tongue voraciously devouring the whole center of 
his senses. 

Almost welded to the bed as she raked her fingernails down his arms he felt 
powerless, unable to do more than lie there in lust-maddened paralysis. His 
arms spread wide, his fingers clenched and unclenched as she moved her hips 
slowly, ever so slowly toward the agonizing ache of his loins. 

The tortuous touch of her teeth and nails continued downward as he felt the 
heaviness of her body moving even further backward on him. And then it 
touched! The jolting shock as his rigid blood filled penis brushed the deep 
ivory flesh of her quivering widespread buttocks. 

She moved downward, almost imperceptibly, until the throbbing head of his 
cock began to eagerly nestle itself between the jutting roundness of her 
buttocks. The jerking quake of his body was matched almost simultaneously by 
hers as together they felt the first electrifying shock of the softness of 
her pubic hair teasingly brush against the smooth trembling flesh of his 
hardness. 

Rosa began to raise her hips slightly, undulating them in slow revolving 
circles, forward and backward. He felt the hot wetness of her sliding 
silkenly across the straining hard shaft of his pulsating penis. Though this 
moment of pleasure was in reality, only a moment, it seemed to go on and on, 
his body crying out in maddening frustration for fulfillment and relief from 
this excruciating torture. 

Then, as if she could sense the raging urgency in him, she raised herself 
away from him. He wanted to cry out for her to come back, to scream that he 
needed her when he felt the muscles in her thighs tremble as she lowered 
herself directly upon him, the awaiting wetness and soft velvet lips of her 
widespread cunt seem to swallow the crown of his rigid pulsating cock like a 
hungry throbbing animal. 

Philippe reached violently, frantically for Rosa's hips to pull her onto 
him, but she had already moved away. His mind cried out for her. He had to 
have his mother's sister. He had to have her! Then she was there ... then 
gone! His mind echoed with the hot heaving gasp of her breath and he ached 
with a deep all pervading pain inside, feeling the pressure mounting ... 
hurting ... blinding lights flashed before his eyes when with a gutteral 
moan she dropped herself completely upon him, the smooth wet, flesh of her 
cunt enveloping his cock like a warm, moist sheath of greased rubber. 

Explosions of color, of light ... dizzying circles ... the room seemed to be 
spinning. He was caught in the vortex of a thundering, roaring whirlpool 
that was sending him down into depths of exquisite pleasure that he had 
never dreamt existed. Conjo! It was madness. There could be nothing like 
this. Then suddenly, somewhere deep in his loins a bubble rising to the 
surface of a raging sea ... expanding ... growing ... the pressure rising 
and rising ... rising, EXPLODING! Philippe came with a fury of youth that 
had never known such relief, pouring forth every rejection, every 
disappointment that had been hidden deep within him throughout his fifteen 
miserable years. 

During the weeks that followed Philippe spent hour upon hour in his aunt's 
bed. His knowledge of her body and his own pleasure increased each day, with 
such speed, that he was soon as knowledgeable as any man ten years his 
senior. Philippe's natural senses were developed to razor sharpness, 
allowing him to miss nothing. 

In gratitude for what Rosa had done for him, in bed and out, Philippe 
thought he had fallen in love with his aunt. Dressed in American sport 
clothes, presented with gifts and affection and allowed to drive Rosa's 
small European convertible, Philippe had rationalized his life with his 
mother as only a vague dream, not at all a part of his real past. 

Philippe felt an assured self importance driving Rosa's car across the 
border into El Paso, or accompanying her on shopping trips or to dinner. He 
had started smoking and developed a taste for American Bourbon, milk and 
orange juice. Philippe thought his contemporaries to be too far beneath him 
for more than a charitable "Buenas dias" as he passed them in the street, 
strutting in his J. C. Penny's slacks and buttoned-down-collar sport shirt. 

He read voraciously, still planning to re-enter school, at the college 
level, of course. A man of my importance, he often thought, need not be tied 
by conventional methods. 

Rosa, amused by her young nephew's antics of self importance, often talked 
to her friends about the boy. Rosa's procurer, a homosexual, was very much 
interested in all of Philippe's activities. He related Rosa's stories to his 
own circle of friends, who had also seen the boy, and lusted after him in 
strange communal fantasies, telling each other of how they would take 
Philippe for themselves if they could ever get their hands on him without 
Rosa's knowing it. 

Philippe accepted Rosa's work as a matter of course. They did not discuss 
it. Philippe, however, felt that his importance did demand that Rosa be 
faithful at other times. His possessiveness and jealousy amused Rosa, who 
would try to placate him, assuring the boy that he was her only real friend 
and lover. 

Rosa tolerated the boy and his pettiness, only because she had persuaded him 
to trust her. Philippe's trips into El Paso gave her the chance for other 
company, particularly Rudy, The procurer. His Homosexuality was not total, 
but his knowledge of how to please the senses was. They often spent the 
hours that Philippe was not in the house together when business was either 
over for the evening, or just not doing well. 

One such evening Philippe had driven to El Paso, then changed his mind, 
bored by the sameness of these evenings and returned to Mexico. 

He drove expertly back toward Rosa's, his arms steering the car by reflex 
while he thought of an evening of intense sensual pleasure ahead of him. 
They would bathe together as they often did after she had finished an 
evening's work with a client. Rosa enjoyed her profession. She allowed no 
more than one customer per night, and never allowed him to stay more than 
three hours. There was no need, because she could satisfy any man in that 
time, yet remain ready for her own personal satisfaction as soon as the high 
paying client had left. 

Philippe's mind followed his hands over Rosa's imagined body, then bathed 
itself in the ecstasy of her touch. Tonight would be as fiery as their first 
night, he thought. But, of course, every night was as fiery as that first 
night. The incestuous pair never seemed to tire of each other in Philippe's 
mind. She will be pleased that I have come back early, he thought as he 
pulled happily into the driveway. 

Securing the gate, Philippe entered the house and climbed the familiar 
stairs. There was no light at the top. Philippe knew it was the maid's night 
out. Perhaps Rosa, too, was out, but probably not. She was probably 
downstairs in her workbed. Philippe was glad that Rosa never took her 
clients upstairs. That would spoil the sanctity of their private bed. 

Philippe started for the kitchen to pour a glass of cold orange juice when 
he heard voices from the other end of the hall, from the bedroom. Philippe 
stared, unbelieving, at the flicker of candlelight dancing through the 
partially opened bedroom door on the wall. He thought first to walk casually 
into the sacred bedroom, expecting to find Rosa talking with the maid, who 
must have returned. But he knew better. One of the voices was male. 
Philippe's heart pounded in his throat as he tiptoed to the doorway, afraid 
to look, afraid to listen, though he knew he must. 

"The young prince would be furious if he knew about us," the male voice said 
with a laughing sneer. 

"Oh, Rudy, he hasn't the sense to know," said the familiar tone of Rosa's 
Spanish tongue. "Besides, he would never come back from El Paso. He's too 
busy driving around in that little car, like a cock strutting in a henyard. 
If Philippe knew what those girls in America thought of a young Mexican 
gigolo ... well. But, he won't. He has not the imagination." 

"When can I have him?" the male voice asked. "I'll teach him what he really 
is." 

"I wish you would stop asking me," she answered. "I told you that you and 
your boyfriends could have the little bastard when I tire of him." 

"But when will that be, my lovely little witch?" 

"Soon. It won't be ..." Rosa stopped short. Philippe stood in the doorway, 
his legs spread, his fists clenched at his side. "Why, Philippe, you're home 
early. Didn't you find enough attractive young senoritas in Texas for you?" 
Unanswered, Rosa asked, "Have you nothing to tell me about your great 
adventure tonight. Was there no parade for you?" 

Philippe could stand the mockery no longer. "Whore!" he cried. "Whore, 
whore, whore! I'll kill you both!" He charged into the room, fists flailing 
at the pimp and his aunt. He heard a large crack as one scraped knuckle 
connected with Rosa's nose, sending blood gushing onto the white sheets. But 
Philippe's fury could not match Rudy's superior strength and experience, and 
in a minute Philippe felt himself knocked sprawling on the floor, his jaw 
aching, almost numb. 

"You and your friends can have him now, Rudy," Philippe heard his aunt say 
venomously, her voice muffled by the handkerchief she held over her broken 
bleeding nose. 

"Yes, now," Rudy said, a lewd smile spreading across his face, exposing 
broken and yellowed teeth. 

Philippe knew all about Rudy and his friends. He wanted no part of them. He 
would sooner die. Rudy's wine soaked breath pushed it's sweaty palm over 
Philippe's nostrils as the black haired pimp bent to pick up his prize. 

But, at his lewd touch, animal instinct took over Philippe's body. With the 
grace of a mountain lion he kicked out with one foot, landing a blow to the 
larger man's testicles. Rudy gasped and bent double, howling in pain. 
Philippe jumped to his feet, turned and viciously kicked Rudy square in the 
face, knocking him into a corner, unconscious. 

"You'll pay you rotten whore Bitch," Philippe screamed. "You'll pay for 
this! You'll pay!" 

She paid, and you shall pay, also, Philippe thought, looking at Barbara's 
sleek young body in the dim half-light of the Juarez' Bar. He had made every 
woman he had met since that day pay for his aunt's cruelty and his mother's 
weakness, though he had taken revenge on Rosa by relegating her to the 
lowest of the one dollar whore houses many years ago. But it didn't seem to 
be enough. Philippe was driven like a man possessed by his revenge. He had 
at first felt guilty for mistreating his women, because he knew that he was 
in reality blaming them for his own mistake, his own naivet. Time, however, 
had clouded his reason. Given the proper start, Philippe could have built an 
empire with the drive and single-mindedness he applied to his quest of 
revenge. As it was he had made himself wealthy by Mexican standards, just on 
procurement fees and extortion. 

Barbara set her empty glass on the bar. She debated with herself whether or 
not to buy a fresh drink. She knew that her equilibrium was nearly gone, but 
was past caring. The alcohol had dulled her senses now past all caring. 

Philippe motioned to Manuel. The fat bartender stooped over the man's table, 
a towel draped across his shoulder. He repeated Philippe's order in Spanish, 
his voice unchanged by the fat cigar protruding from between his heavy hps. 
Two minutes later he brought two drinks back to Philippe's table. 

Returning to the bar he walked to where Barbara was sitting. She had called 
him with her eyes, to order another drink that she knew would send her to 
total oblivion and forgetfullness. Philippe watched as Manuel told the 
splendid young blonde that her drink had already been ordered and was 
sitting on the table in the corner as an invitation for her to join the 
aristocratic gentleman for an afternoon cocktail. 

What the hell, she thought through the haze of the alcohol, I probably won't 
even be able to walk that far. She thanked Manuel and started to maneuver 
herself from the tall stool. Her previous assumption had been wrong. 
Barbara's poise would not allow her to falter as she crossed the room to 
Philippe's table. 

"Thank you for the drink, Senor," Barbara said, thinking to impress the 
Mexican with her use of his native tongue. 

"It is my pleasure to drink with such a lovely lady as yourself," he said in 
perfect English. 

Barbara smiled. Of course, he would speak perfect English, she thought. "If 
you would excuse me while I powder my nose, I'll return in just a minute." 

"Of course, dear lady. "You are well worth waiting for." 

Barbara felt his eyes on her back as she walked to the rear of the bar 
toward the powder room. Once inside, she nearly passed out. Grabbing the 
counter for support, she unsteadily lowered herself into a chair in front of 
a large mirror. Lovely lady, indeed, she thought, looking into the mirror. 
Her hair, rolled high, had come unfastened in back. I look like I've been 
working in the fields. Beads of perspiration had formed at her temples. She 
turned, looking for a switch to turn on the overhead fan. Then, she began 
rearranging her makeup, leaving her hair until last. With a woman's natural 
grooming ease she found the pins in her hair and let it fall free, whisking 
at her bared shoulders. That's better, she thought, the freed hair loosened 
some of the tension seething within herself. Barbara was secretly pleased 
that she could still attract a man. Even though only twenty six, she felt 
her life was over. Jerry had rejected her, not only because of his sexual 
sickness, but because she had obviously not been attractive enough for him. 
Barbara had lost contact with the reality of her beauty. 

She stared for a moment into her own reflection, debating her obvious 
attractiveness. Her eyes lightly colored with a hint of mascara were large 
and dark. Maybe I've some Spanish blood myself she questioned. So what, her 
other self answered. She buried her head in her hands, thinking, I've got to 
stop these dialogues with myself. Since the divorce she had been so 
engrossed in thought that she would often catch herself carrying on 
conversations with herself, trying to solve the riddles that kept her from 
sleeping. Tears formed, moistening her long lashes. Quickly she pulled a 
tissue from her purse, blotting the water from her eyes before her artistic 
make up could be smeared. 

Her eyes were not bloodshot and she was thank ful for that. Her moment of 
chastisement sobered her enough to regain her poise. With sure strokes she 
brushed her hair two dozen times, then rose, straightened her dress and 
walked from the room. 

"Beautiful hair," Philippe said as Barbara approached. He rose with no 
effort and helped her be seated. 

"Had you thought I changed my mind," she asked. 

"I had my doubts, but patience won in the end." 

"Are you always so patient? I would imagine that you were not. A man like 
yourself probably has more women waiting on him than he would have time 
for." 

"Thank you very much ... I'm sorry, my name is Philippe Rodriguez. I don't 
know yours." 

"Barbara Rodney," she laughed. "You looked funny, trying to remember a name 
you didn't know. I-oh, I didn't mean to offend you." 

"Not at all. I'm glad that you're so quick to notice, and able to laugh. 
I've been watching you for an hour. You don't look like a happy woman." 

"You, too, notice, but I'm not sitting here to burden you. Let's drink to 
laughter," Barbara said, amazed that she could feel a lightness flow from 
her breasts to her head. She didn't feel drunk, but suddenly free, for a 
moment, from herself. 

"To happiness," Philippe responded, and raised his glass to meet Barbara's. 
She pushed her glass toward Philippe's knocking them together with a clunk, 
almost breaking them. 

"Oops," she exclaimed, a little girl's shame at a faux pas riding over her 
face. Her mind slapped her lightly for being so clumsy, but Philippe's voice 
eased her. 

"Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa" he said smiling like an alter boy. 

Barbara laughed at his childish look. "You must have spent a lot of time in 
church," she said, smiling. 

"Of course," he lied. "My family was very religious, even after my mother 
and father were killed My older brothers insured that we kept the faith." 

"Faith," Barbara heard herself say, shaking her head. 

"Is something wrong?" 

"Oh, no," she said hesitating. Her thoughts raced again back to that day in 
her husband's studio. Perhaps if they had had a religious background she 
would not be here now. Jerry needed the strength of some kind of faith. Now 
she realized that she had no faith. No faith in herself, in life, in God, in 
anything. 

"Here, let me," Philippe said, holding her chin and wiping the tears quickly 
from her eyes. 

"Oh, I'm so embarrassed. I didn't mean to involve you. Please, I must go." 

"Only if you let me come with you," Philippe said. "Come, we could both use 
some fresh air." 

Barbara allowed herself to be led from the booth to the door. She seemed to 
be floating behind the guiding sureness of Philippe's hand. 

The light outside nearly blinded her. She tried to focus, dabbing at her 
still damp eyes with a crumpled tissue. Looking around, Barbara saw that the 
street was nearly deserted except for three small children toying with a 
large roach in the gutter. 

"You Americans call it siesta time," Philippe said, recognizing her wonder 
at the empty street. "This time of day during the summer is much too hot to 
be out, so most of my people relax for an hour or two until the climate is 
more favorable." 

"You must love Mexico. I can tell from your voice." 

"My, you are observant," Philippe said, not looking at her. Deep down he 
hated the dirt and corruption of Mexico, but his compassion for children and 
the remembrance of the class he came from always got the better of him and 
his emotion showed through. 

"Come, let me show you a prettier Mexico," he beckoned. 

Barbara threw her head sideways, throwing her length of silken hair around 
her head and into her face. "Yes, show me. I want to see something I might 
remember without any tears. Oh, I feel so foolish." 

"Don't worry about it. You'll be all right with time." 

Philippe led her to his Buick and opened the door with a flourish, gesturing 
her inside. Barbara laughed at his flare. "Toro! Toro!" she said, mimicking 
him. 

Philippe laughed and crossed in front of the expensive car to the driver's 
side. Once inside, he inserted the key and pulled away from the curb. "Ole," 
he exclaimed. "We're off." 

Barbara wasn't thinking about Jerry, or the morning in court or her smeared 
mascara. She sat watching the town roar by, thinking about the extremely 
interesting man guiding the might General Motors chariot through the streets 
of Juarez, taking her she knew not where. 

Barbara felt a blast of heat when Philippe opened the air conditioned car's 
door and ran across the street. He had pulled in front of a small market. A 
moment later he was back with a bottle of wine a package of dried beef 
strips. "We'll have a small picnic," he told her, "By the Rio Grande!" 

Barbara thought about the river as they drove. Philippe chattered about 
passing sights. Barbara had seen the Rio Grande as she and Ken had crossed 
the international bridge. It's awfully dirty, she thought. 

They drove for about fifteen minutes. "My house is not far from here. I like 
to come to the river often. It's quite peaceful and gives me time to think." 

Barbara didn't answer, but smiled at the sweetness of his tone. She saw the 
spot they were going before he could tell her. It was just off the road, a 
sandy beach, with cliffs on either side. They got out of the car and walked 
toward the water, Philippe carrying the wine and beef, Barbara carrying a 
blanket he had pulled from the trunk. "Be careful," he said, pointing to the 
skeleton of a long dead cow that had not died of thirst, but probably old 
age. A cool breeze slipped its fingers around Barbara's calves and slithered 
to her thighs, cooling her perspiring legs. 

Philippe stopped, took the blanket, and spread it on the sand at his feet. 
Barbara stood, her arms folded, passing her eyes over the rugged low cliffs 
on either side of her. She turned toward the River. "Rio Grande," she said, 
almost inaudibly. "What?" 

"Oh, nothing," Barbara said, walking small circles around the blanket. "I 
was just thinking the river looked so different here, nothing at all like it 
does from the bridge." 

Philippe opened the wine, put the bottle to his mouth and took a short 
swallow, testing his prowess in opening the bottle. He usually never left 
any cork in any wine bottle he opened. 

He offered Barbara the opened bottle, watching her from beneath his dark 
brows. She took the bottle and dropped to her knees. She took a long drink 
while Philippe loosened his tie and removed his jacket. 

"It's good," she said, handing the bottle back. Philippe passed her a strip 
of beef while he took the wine. Barbara leaned back, supporting herself with 
one outstretched arm. Philippe propped himself on one elbow, lying 
lengthwise, his feet toward the water. 

Neither said a word as they ate and drank. Barbara's thoughts began to 
wander back to her own problems. There was no sound at the beach, except for 
the light slap of small wavelets that the breeze had stirred. Barbara 
thought of the many times she and Jerry had spent lying silently on 
California beaches all day, waiting for the sun to set. But, as always when 
she thought of her marriage to Jerry, she began to cry. She turned her face 
so that she hoped Philippe could not see her tears. 

Philippe's experience taught him to catch every sign that a woman made. He 
knew she was crying and had an idea why. It was time for him to begin. He 
sat up and reached across Barbara's shoulder, hooking his index finger 
around her chin, urging her head to turn. She resisted for a moment, but 
Philippe's gentle, but firm touch brought her head around. 

Their faces were only inches apart. "There is nothing in the world so 
terrible to make such a lovely young woman cry her hours away. No one and 
nothing is worth it. Your marriage has ended in bitterness, but it doesn't 
mean that you should stop living. You have many good years waiting for you 
to enjoy and conquer." 

"Oh, Philippe," she moaned and let herself fall limply into his arms. 

He said nothing. He held her close until he could feel that she had stopped 
sobbing. A shudder of resignation through her body gave him the signal he 
had waited for and he pushed her gently from his warm embrace, tilted her 
head slightly back and kissed her gently, almost innocent, almost brotherly 
kiss. 

Barbara needed the reassurance of that kiss. She returned it eagerly not 
thinking about who it was or where she was. She just wanted the security of 
someone wanting her. Their lips clung for a long moment, not moving, not 
grasping at each other, only holding onto a few seconds of time that she 
would know she was not really alone. 

Nice, the Mexican thought to himself. Nice. She is almost ripe and I shall 
be ready for her. She has no suspicion. I could be her brother at this 
moment. In an hour she'll know better. 

They looked at each other for a few minutes, then without question, picked 
up the blanket, leaving the bottle and beef behind and walked to the car. No 
smile crossed the man's face as he drove, listening to Barbara's story, 
looking at her from time to time. She lay, her head back on the seat, 
staring at the upholstered roof. Nearly exhausted She talked and talked, 
until finally, all the liquor of that afternoon and the tension of three 
ugly weeks alone sent her to a deep sleep! 

A white wall and tiled roof came into view. At the gate, a boy opened the 
large doors to admit the Buick Riviera. Philippe carried the sleeping girl 
gently upstairs to a large bedroom. Placing her on the bed, he began to 
undress her. She cooperated in her sleep, turning her body so that he easily 
removed her dress. He pursed his lips and emitted a soft whistle as more and 
more of her voluptuous body came into view. 

Of the scores of women who had been disrobed in one manner or another on 
this bed, she possessed, without question, the most beautiful, desirable 
form of all. Hers was the body dreamed of by every man, envied by every 
woman. Philippe didn't know where he dropped her dress. He merely stared, 
almost unbelieving, at the sight basking before his eyes in the late 
afternoon light. His dark eyes poured around the curve of her neck to her 
breasts, straining under the prison of the light summer bra. He bent forward 
and unfastened the clasp in front, unfolding the halter like a fickle woman 
opening a box of chocolates. Barbara sighed in her sleep at the awaited 
comfort that came as the air conditioned atmosphere of the room ran its cool 
fingers over her rising breasts. 

The two mounds stood erect and full, even as she lay sleeping on her back. 
They were a deep tanned gold except where she had worn a bikini top, giving 
her a tan line that accented her light brown areola, her nipples soft, 
blending into the brown circle, giving the impression of smoothness one sees 
in fold out photos in nudist magazines. No blemish broke the symmetry of her 
succulent breasts. Philippe's mouth dried as he bent above her, his mind 
savoring the taste his tongue would soon sense. 

He slid his hands down her side, the tips of his fingers barely touching the 
thin skin of her rib cage, falling into the slope of her waist, hesitating, 
then continuing over her hips, resting at the elastic top of her panties. 
Two fingers and the thumb of each hand fastened themselves inside the 
elastic, then began to slowly pull the soft white material down, exposing at 
first just a few light strands of soft blonde pubic hair leading up to the 
whiteness of her belly. He hesitated, making the last tantalizing moment one 
to remember, fixing his mind and eyes on the thin white band of silk that 
ran between her loosely open thighs. Then with one smooth motion he pulled 
the panties off, Barbara unconsciously raising her hips to help him as he 
pulled the silk briefs down her long legs and off her feet in one free 
movement. She was unconscious but the secret reverie of the sexual love she 
had missed lately lived on in the depths of her mind. 

Philippe hadn't taken his eyes from the soft garden of pubic hair that 
warmed the smooth cavern of pleasure between her legs, covering it like a 
light hand woven mohair blanket. The voluptuous sight held him immobile for 
a moment, his eyes set deep under his brows. 

The tantalizing body on the bed stirred in slumber and turned slightly, 
adjusting its legs. Philippe broke from his trance, smiled then followed the 
long line of her legs to the ankles and back again to the soft mound at the 
base of her lightly rising belly, stopping only for a moment as he lifted 
himself to his feet. He noticed a small mole three inches from her navel. He 
imagined a ruby placed in her naval, deciding on second thought that an 
emerald would be much more appropriate with her coloring. He smiled wider, 
exposing bright teeth between his dark lps. Moisture spread over the lips as 
he wet them in silent anticipation with his tongue. His mouth had regained 
its fluidity as his equilibrium returned, knowing that he would have more 
than ample time to discover every inch of this beautiful woman's secret 
treasures. For now, he would let her sleep. She will need her sleep, he 
thought. She shall get more exercise later tonight than she has had in her 
entire life. 

Philippe picked up the passed out girl's dress and soft, silk underthings 
running them gently through his fingers for a moment and then walked across 
the thick carpet to the door, taking the clothes with him as he softly 
closed the door. "Carlita," he said to the maid who had been waiting all the 
time he had been with the blonde in the bedroom. "Take these and hang them 
in our guest closet. I'm going downstairs to join my friends. Please ensure 
that Paulo has our drinks in the next five minutes." 

Phillippe walked along the balcony to the stairs. Leaning on the rail, and 
looking down into the living room, he spoke with a smile to the couple 
standing by the fireplace, "I shall be downstairs in one moment. Please go 
ahead to the party room. Paulo has refreshments ready." 

"We'll be waiting," the woman answered back to him. "Jeff says you have a 
new surprise for us," she said turning to the man at her side, smiling. 

"You shall soon see," Phillippe answered and stepped back from the railing, 
opening the door to his own bedroom. 

Pat Carter took Jeff Martin's arm and walked toward a door at the end of the 
large sunken living room. Her eager smile of anticipation gave away her 
thoughts. 

 CHAPTER THREE - PAT 

Two years exactly before the night she was to meet Barbara, Pat Carter was 
having a small party of her own. Her husband, Fred, was a rising executive 
in a large Idaho lumber firm was in New York. He spent most of his time 
flying around the country to major cities, arranging contract after contract 
for the new, fast growing company. Expansion kept Fred busy eighteen hours a 
day while he was home, which was so seldom that Pat felt she lived alone. 

Fred's business made Pat what she called a lumber widow, taking second place 
to pulp and toilet tissue. She had started drinking at home, but the 
loneliness became too much for her after a few months. During the summer 
months she would dress casually for dinner and pilot their boat from it's 
dock on Lake Coeur d'Alene to the resort town on the lake's southern shore, 
where she would eat at an exclusive dockside restaurant, then go to the bar 
to drink away her loneliness. 

At twenty-six Pat was outgoing and friendly with everyone she met, 
particularly when her husband was away and she was in one of her moods. Her 
conversations always started with the bartender on duty, who set up her 
usual drink. 

She would survey the kidney shaped cocktail lounge, searching for company. 
Usually it was too early to meet anyone. Most of the tourists would not be 
in until after nine. The first two months of that summer Pat allowed herself 
to be picked up by eleven different men, all from out of state on vacation. 
They were usually younger than herself and wanted nothing more than a few 
hours with her. Because she was known in the lake city, she would meet them 
discreetly after closing hours. 

Young men eager for sexual play, were wise enough to know that they would 
pay a small price for her favors, usually an hour or two of good 
conversation and entertainment was all she required and they gladly paid. 
Pat's hunger for her husband was more than for just company. She had an 
almost insatiable appetite in bed, one that left half of her one night 
lovers in an exhausted heap when she left the motel before dawn. She always 
enjoyed the ride back across the lake home as the sun rose giving her the 
feeling of freshness as the spray from the bow rainbowed and slapped at her 
face. She felt no guilt on these mornings after. She rationalized that Fred 
was probably taking a shower with some girl in a hotel in whichever city he 
happened to be doing business. She knew he was a human being with needs just 
as strong as her own and was certain they were being satiated in one form or 
another. 

Theirs was a good marriage in bed. Fred satisfied her as no other man had, 
or probably ever would, and she figured that if his appetite was as strong 
as hers, then he would naturally do something about it on those long 
business trips. But Pat misjudged her husband. When he was out of town, he 
was married to the company. His work left him so exhausted at the end of the 
day that he would not have the energy to play with another woman, even if he 
wanted to. He loved his wife, as a man loves a possession, and justified his 
long hours of work and travel as being for her and her comfort. He thought 
her to be faithful, and felt that he should do the same, out of respect, if 
for nothing else. Pat's misjudgement was the fatal error that destroyed her 
marriage. One particular evening she had decided not to go out to dinner, 
but instead, prepare something elaborate at home and dine by candle light on 
the veranda, overlooking the lake. The city lights, four miles distant, lit 
the whole sky at night, while she would still be able to watch the stars 
overhead. 

At five-thirty that afternoon she drove the boat to the city, parked at 
their private dock at the yacht club and walked to a nearby supermarket. As 
she reached for a shopping basket, a large tanned hand started to pull it 
away. "Oh, pardon me, Mrs. Carter," a rugged masculine voice said. 

Pat stared at the blond, tanned six foot three inch man who had just 
withdrawn his hand from her shopping cart. She could feel excitement rise in 
her breast as she looked at the beautiful beast standing before her. His 
blue eyes stroked her short black hair. He smiled, "Did I startle you?" 

"Why, yes, I guess you did," she said. Puzzled, she asked, "Do I know you?" 

"No," he said. "I'm foreman at your husband's plant. I've seen you with him, 
and assumed you were Mrs. Carter." 

"Well, yes, I am," she said, pleased that he would remember her. Pat knew 
she was attractive but didn't think she looked good enough to be remembered 
by a man who so obviously could attract any woman he wanted. 

"I'm Ray Crawford." 

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Crawford." 

"Call me Ray, please. Are you shopping for the week, or just for dinner 
tonight for you and you husband?" he asked, knowing that Fred had been out 
of town for over a week and wasn't expected back at the office for another 
ten days. Ray hadn't grabbed the shopping cart by accident. He had seen Pat 
enter the store and quickly followed her. Though attracted by her beauty, he 
hadn't followed Pat only for that reason. Her main attractiveness to him was 
Fred. Ray had come far at the lumber company, very far for a 
twenty-seven-year old high school dropout. His salary was more than enough 
for any single man, any single man except Ray. He wanted an executive 
position and the only way he could get one, fast enough to please him, would 
be through the boss wife even though he knew it was a dangerous approach to 
take. For all he knew she might blow the whistle on him at the first out of 
place gesture he made. But ... the rewards would be worth the risk. 

"No, Fred's out of town," she answered matter of factly. 

They had been walking through the store, Ray pushing the cart. He stopped at 
the meat counter and picked up a package of bologna. "Dinner," he said, 
holding the meat for a moment before he put it in the cart. 

"Oh, no," Pat heard herself say. "Dinner?" 

"It's a bachelor's curse," he said, "Unless, of Bourse, you would allow me 
to take you somewhere for a steak." 

"Nonsense," she said. "All the restaurants are going to be full tonight, 
with the boat races starting tomorrow. These tourists and sports enthusiasts 
are too much. I've a better idea. Since I'm going to fx an elaborate dinner 
for myself tonight, why don't you join me at home. Fred would be pleased to 
know that I'm taking an interest in his business associates." 

"Alright," Ray laughed, not believing his luck. You've got a deal." 

Three hours later they were sipping Cafe Diablo on the veranda. He and Pat 
had just finished dinner as the sun set. This is too easy, he thought as he 
listened to her, sitting across the candle lit table, the light flickering 
on her face as a soft summer breeze boyed with the flame. At least he had 
gotten this far with her. 

"We built the house with four children in mind," she said. "Fred wanted 
eight bedrooms for not only the family, but for the summer entertaining he 
would do here for his clients from out of town, or just friends at work who 
could come for a weekend of relaxation. But after my miscarriage the doctor 
said I could have no children. That's when Fred started working so hard. Now 
he's never home to do any of the entertaining he had planned. He's not even 
home to entertain me," she said bitterly as an afterthought. 

"I'm sorry," Ray said. "I didn't realize it could be so hard for you. A 
man's wife must have to pay just as great a price as he for the success he 
builds." 

"I'm sorry, too," she said. "Not for that, but because I'm boring you with 
my petty problems." 

"No, you're not boring me." He took her hand and stood. She gracefully rose 
and walked to the railing. "It's beautiful," he said, gesturing at the view 
of the city and the stars overhead. Behind them squares of brilliant colors, 
latticed by aluminum borders, danced in the nickering candlelight Ray eased 
his arm around her waist, hoping that his timing was right, still not quite 
sure that it was all true ... and so easy. 

She felt his arm and leaned against him, cupping her Cafe Diablo in both 
hands against her breast. Ray stood silently and sipped his hot drink. He 
gently put the cup on the rail to his left and turned toward her, putting 
his other arm around her, still separated by her cup and clasped hands. 

He started "I ..." but didn't have the time to finish. Pat put one arm 
around his neck, and dropped her cup over the railing with the other. She 
levered up to her tiptoes and crushed her mouth against his. "Mmmmmmmmmmmm," 
she moaned as she kissed his with all her strength, her hungry sounds 
punctuated by the breaking glass on the rocks below. "Take me, Ray. Please 
take me!" 

Startled, Ray took the sudden turn with silence and returned her almost 
desperate kiss not sure how to react. An aggressive man, he was unaccustomed 
to a woman who took the first step, though most women he met were eager to 
get into bed with him. Time to stop thinking you fool, his mind grinned at 
him. It's time to act. 

His huge figure bent and picked his bosses wife up with a swift, easy 
motion, never taking his lips from hers. Pat was tall for a woman, five foot 
seven, but weighed only a slim one hundred and twenty five pounds. He 
carried her as easily as he would a pillow through the sliding glass doors. 
She rested her head on his shoulder, her cheek feeling the sinewy muscles 
ripple as he lifted her higher. "It's upstairs," she said softly up into his 
ear. "On the left" 

Ray carried her up the wide pine staircase. He felt heat rising between his 
legs as he anticipated what was about to take place. He didn't have to work 
for two more days. That was two full days with this woman to bend her to his 
will, to get what he wanted. Within a few months he would have the position 
he wanted, then he could afford to live as he wished to live, and not have 
to work like a dog with his hands. His future was set, and the future of 
that moment rose in the crotch of his levis bulging against the raw fabric, 
yearning to burst into the free air and deep between the legs of the fiery 
wetness he carried in his arms. 

The blond giant carried her into the bedroom at the top of the stairs. A 
full moon was rising, casting its reflection across the lake, through the 
pines and into the darkened bedroom, it's silver light casting shadows 
across the room, giving Ray the feeling that they were not alone, that they 
were going to be watched by gently swaying pine trees and the unknown eyes 
of night animals hiding in the boughs. His excitement grew as he thought, 
then felt, the woman in his arms. He leaned to put her on the bed and fell 
on top of her, his knee burrowing its way between her full round thighs. 
There was not the slightest resistance left in her body. 

Pat folded herself within the crushing weight above her. This is a man she 
thought. Never had she felt so comfortable, yet so ready for pain and 
pleasure of lovemaking. She bent her leg, bringing it against the heavy 
bulge in his pants. Her long thighs pressed against the leg she had trapped. 
A rippled muscle answered her squeeze, telegraphing an urgent message to her 
loins. A flood of delicious warm liquid rushed from the walls of her vagina, 
wetting the pink hair-lined lips between her legs and the smooth soft silken 
crotch band of her panties. 

A tangle of teeth, lips and tongues fought a battle at their mouths, one 
biting, then probing with a tongue, withdrawing, sucking. Her feminine 
tongue, hardened like an erection, forced its way into his mouth; across the 
roof to one cheek, teasing at the wet lining, then sliding across the front 
of his teeth, sending tingling electrical shocks through his lips and the 
flesh of his cheeks. 

Both of them fought for bedroom supremacy, his hands roving over her body, 
rough and demanding, her hands grabbing at his chest, grasping his well 
developed pectoral muscles, making them react, spasmodically, involuntarily. 
Long, painted fingernails scratched their way in a single heavy stroke down 
his sides to his hardened stomach, over his belt and tried to surround the 
hardened bulge in his pants. 

"Ohh, yesss," he gasped into the hungry young wife's eager, moist ear, his 
tongue darting in and out lizard-like. 

"Oohhhh yesss," she answered, her hands slipping back to his belt, 
unfastening it with two quick motions, then unsnapping the button and 
quickly opening the rasping zipper, relieving the pressure on his straining 
blood-filled penis. 

A spot of warm seminal fluid darkened his shorts. A soft feminine hand, 
eager for something to hold, slid under the elastic band and fastened itself 
to the base of the throbbing hot penis, sliding with liquid ease down to the 
hard reddened crown. Lubricated by the warm slippery fluid at the opening, 
the fingers massaged the smooth rubbery tip, sending tiny electric flashes 
burning all the way up to the lumberman's brain. 

"Wait," he said, his breath strong, heaving like an animal. The pair stood 
up simultaneously. They stripped, their eyes devouring each others nakedness 
as their clothes fell hurriedly around their feet. Pat threw her dress over 
her head. She wore no bra. Her firm, rounded breasts fell free as the dress 
went up over her head, bouncing for a moment, swaying in the silver fight, 
like two white moons, cratered by large aureole and hardened nipples. 
Sliding her panties down off her sleek hips, Pat started to straighten up 
again but in his sudden lust for this unreachable bitch he gave her no 
chance. 

"Aarrggghhhh!" Ray almost screamed as he rushed at her with his head and 
hands, throwing her back onto the bed. But instead of following her, 
crushing her again with his own weight, the blond lumberjack forced her legs 
open wide and lowered his head between her thighs, licking, kissing and 
biting the soft inner flesh higher and higher. The black haired beauty 
thrashed her head from side to side, "Oh, oh, oh, higher, please, higher. 
Suck my cunt! Oh darling, suck it! Suck it!" 

The carnivorous lips reached the soft, matted hair at the junction of her 
thighs. The hardened tongue laced its way up the crevice on one side of the 
wet, throbbing slit of her pussy, making her belly quiver with uninhibited 
excitement, then slid down the other side, leaving the throbbing wet vagina 
still wanting, yearning for the curled tongue to find its way to her 
screaming liquid depths. 

The pink lips hidden in the soft wet forest flowered open, exposing the 
hidden treasure within that seemed to breath like the mouth of a struggling 
fish, the muscles expanding and contracting rhythmically. Hesitating for a 
few seconds to heighten the intensity of the moment, the hot tongue, an 
instrument seemingly entirely free of any other act, moved closer to the 
flesh just below the contracting mouth between her legs, then suddenly 
snaked out, lashing sword-like at the quivering flesh. Once, twice, then 
gently remaining in contact, slithering to the opening, swirling only a 
short way inside, teasing. Savoring the sweet, pungent juices that spilled 
over the straining dam of passion within, the tongue removed itself from the 
contracting entrance and searched its way higher greedily seeking the erect, 
throbbing bud of her clitoris. 

"Oh, oh, oh, oh, PLEASE! God, PLEASE!" the woman whimpered, her pleas 
rolling from her lips in a voice that sounded distant and alien to her, one 
she had never known before. "Turn around, turn around! Let me suck your cock 
with your tongue in me!" 

The giant lumberman, never losing contact with his lips between her legs, 
slithered hurriedly around I on the bed until he could feel the coolness of 
her fingers closing octapus-like around the hardness of his pulsating cock. 
Then ... then the warm, wet contact of her lips as they slid hungrily over 
the hardened, blood-filled head. He groaned, feeling the moist, warm cavern 
of her mouth close around his throbbing flesh as though she possessed 
another and more insatiable cunt than that grinding greedily around his own 
tongue. 

The more strongly she sucked, the more strongly he forced his penis into her 
mouth, fearing that the head might pop from it's giant trunk. He felt his 
cock trying to suck back at her throat, running over the washboard roof of 
her mouth, deep into the ravenous cavern of her warm, wet saliva. He, 
himself, teased the loose skin of her vulva, one side, then the other, 
sucking deep into his own mouth, drawing and biting at the enflamed bud of 
her clitoris as she writhed out of control beneath him. 

"MMMMMMMMMmmmmmmm!" she moaned again and again, the great cock in her mouth 
stifling the sound. She cupped the cheeks of his buttocks with her hands 
spreading them, allowing the cool air of the room to tease the elastic 
opening of his anus. Her fingers slightly up and down the open crevice, 
sending tantalizing electric shocks into his loins as she probed at his 
rectum a little harder with her finger. 

He took his cue and released her clitoris from between his teeth, sliding 
his tongue lasciviously down between her open thighs to the contracting ring 
of her anus, moistening the circular elastic mouth and wetly preparing it 
for a greater assault He began to probe the brown, rubbery opening with his 
tongue, his mind whirling out of control as she sucked harder on the huge 
cock buried deep in her mouth. He hardened the tip of his tongue and thrust 
it deep into her anus as she screamed aloud and rammed her own middle finger 
far into his asshole, sending him almost straight into the air with the 
sudden pain and pleasure of penetration. 

She rotated her finger around obscenely inside his rectum and then started 
to crook it, spasmodically, against his prostate from within, He felt the 
heat of a thousand suns burning through his entire body. Overcome entirely, 
he tore his cock from her mouth, her sharp white teeth raking against it as 
the weapon sought free air. He jerked his anus free of her finger, turned on 
the bed and picked her up with both arms, throwing her' face down on the 
blue bedspread. 

Automatically she rose to a kneeling position, her hips resting on her knees 
and elbows. Kneeling behind her the crazed goliath spread the cheeks of her 
ass with his thumbs, and positioned his hard throbbing cock between the soft 
cheeks of her buttocks. "Relax!" he commanded, "Or it'll hurt too much!" 

"I can't, but fuck me there anyway! Split me! Anything, just fuck me now, 
hard! Hard!!!!" 

He gave a slight jerk forward, probing against the tight, puckered opening, 
then with a deep throated grunt thrust with all his might, shoving the 
throbbing log deep, deep into the far recesses of [her rectum. 
"AAArrrrgggghhhhhh!" she screamed, "Oh God! You're killing me! You're 
lolling me!" 

She felt as if she had been split wide asunder back between her thighs. Her 
rectum was completely filled. The moon's silver light was drowned by the 
red, yellow and blue flashes slapping at her brain. The pain rose beyond all 
comprehension and then began to subside, leaving only the lewd, obscene 
pleasure filling her rear end. The rippled membrane of her rectum sensed an 
easing, then a slow, rhythmic pistoning of the trunk embedded deep between 
the soft, white moons of her upraised buttocks. 

Slowly at first, then with quickening speed, the giant cock moved back and 
forth in the warm dark passage, opening by force the tight elastic channel a 
little wider each time it thrust into her. She groaned and twisted beneath 
the cruel sodomy like an animal gone berserk. No one, not even her husband 
had ever fucked her with such wild abandon and lack of respect before and 
somehow the obscene plundering of her rectum by this giant of a man she had 
never even seen before several hours ago strangely excited her and filled 
her with the lewd desire to feel his hot, liquid cum spewing deep up into 
the virginal depths of her anal passage. She felt filthy and used, used like 
a whore off the streets, and yet she wanted more, more of the final and 
ultimate humiliation of this strange man's warm alien sperm flooding into 
her. 

Her hips slapped back at his thrusting pelvis, the flat smacking sounds of 
flesh beating against flesh resounding through the room as they crashed 
together. His oversized testicles swayed violently back and forth bouncing 
off his thighs then hers. A great swelling storm built deep within his 
balls, searching for a passageway in which to erupt. Building, scraping at 
the inside of his two crashing globes, the white hot lava found the gate and 
shot through the open tubes deep within her rectum. The sperm exploded 
forth, thrusting what seemed like gallons at a time from the gaping opening. 
"Aarrgghhh, I'm cumming. I'm cunrmmiinnnnggg!" he screamed. 

As the hot white lava spewed into her and filled her insides, Pat, almost 
instantaneously, felt a roaring torrent of blood flood the muscles of her 
belly, lift her buttocks back, then throw them forward like a snapping 
bullwhip. Again and again she jerked, her whole body erupting with the heat 
and fight of a nuclear bomb, blinding her to everything but the explosions 
within as she came in a wild cataclysmic orgasm she had never before 
experienced. 

For nearly a minute they lay still, her husband's foreman's deflated cock 
still embedded far up in her throbbing rectum. Their sweating bodies 
breathed in unison. 

"Very nice. It's too bad I have to fire you, Crawford. You do a much better 
job between her legs than I." It was Fred. 

"Don't bother to get up," he said as he snapped on the light. I'm not 
foolish enough to fight you, nor am I foolish enough to shoot you. Let 
yourself out the back door. I'll see you when you're dressed, Pat." Without 
another word he closed the door and walked downstairs. 

Well, goodbye junior executive, Ray thought as he dressed. Both of them had 
jumped off the bed as soon as the door had closed. They said nothing as they 
dressed. Ray put his boots on as Pat walked into the bathroom to prepare 
herself to meet her husband downstairs. Ray finished tying his lumberjack 
boots and let himself out the door. He never saw her again. 

Oh God, what am I going to do, Pat thought as she tried to rearrange her 
hair in the bathroom. I could just leave by the back door, too. He probably 
won't want me to stay. But why is he so calm about it? Pat stood, looked in 
the mirror, then with all the courage she could muster, walked to the door, 
snapped off the light, and stepped into the darkened hallway. The living 
room was lit only by the light from the bar. 

Cautiously she walked down the steps, watching Fred put a match to the 
kindling in the fire place and blow lightly, starting the dry wood 
immediately. By the time Pat reached the bottom step the fire was already 
crackling from the hot popping pitch in the rich dry pine. 

"Your drink is on the bar," he said, not turning to look at her. 

Pat obediently crossed the room and picked up a scotch and water. Her 
husband lifted his drink from the mantle and turned, facing the knotty pine 
bar. "To us, Darling. This is the last time we'll drink together." The 
lumber executive's plan laid itself before her as the unfaithful wife sipped 
at the last drink she would share with the man she had loved so much. 

Fred's pride would not allow him to keep an unfaithful wife. Not only his 
pride, but his business. It would be unthinkable that a powerful young man 
like Fred could not be powerful enough to keep a hold on his own wife while 
he was away. 

"Pack your things tomorrow," broke the silence. "My secretary will arrange 
for a plane on Friday. You can contact any lawyer you wish, but it will be 
just a formality. You will settle for a lump sum, seventy-five thousand 
dollars, and fly to Mexico for a divorce. It only takes twenty four hours. I 
don't want to see you in Idaho again. Do you understand?" 

"But, Fred, I ..." 

"There's nothing more to be said. I've known about these little affairs of 
yours for quite some time but I didn't think you would be indiscreet enough 
to pick up someone who works for me and then bring him to our, excuse me, my 
house. You should have stuck to motels. It might have been bearable for me. 
Now finish your drink and go to bed. I'll sleep in the guest room until 
Friday. Goodnight, Pat." 

She had been dismissed without a chance to say a word. She had been 
dismissed from the room, from the beautiful house and from five years of 
marriage in one minute. She climbed the stairs and opened the bedroom door, 
staring at the bed. The bed that had been her ultimate weakness and had 
taken everything from her. 

A few days later she sat in a Juarez' bar, not particularly sad, not 
particularly happy. Manuel poured her another Marguerita, her fourth and set 
it softly in front of her. He had called Philippe Rodriguez as he was paid 
to do every time an attractive divorcee entered his small establishment to 
drown her sorrows. 

This one, however, didn't appear to be sorrowful. She seemed void of 
feeling. Her look gave an impression of deep thought, but not self pity, not 
despair, only deep thought. Philippe would be by soon and buy her a drink as 
he did so many wealthy young American women who came through Juarez. 

Philippe saw a tanned, nicely rounded thigh, exposed by Pat's hiked skirt 
when he entered the bar. He sat on a corner stool and ordered a Grey Bull. 
Manuel took the one hundred peso note and kept the change as he did each 
time Philippe acknowledged his phone call. The bartender didn't know what 
the handsome middle-aged man did with the women he took from the bar, but 
then, he didn't really want to know. There was no reason for him to get 
involved. He only made phone calls, and an extra two or three hundred pesos 
a week. 

Philippe studied the straight line of her nose and curves of the rest of her 
body as Pat sat staring at the bottles lined against the wall. Aware that 
she was being watched, she contemplated what the aristocratic looking 
Mexican would use for an opening line. He looked very professional to her. 
Reading too many paperback books and women's magazines had given the seeds 
of her imagination too much to work with when it came to her present 
situation. She pictured Philippe as a man who had made a small fortune from 
recently divorced women like herself. He's probably pretty good at it, too, 
she thought smiling to herself. 

Manuel, knowing Philippe's routine, was already preparing a drink for the 
lady at the bar, when she called him over and surprisingly, ordered a Grey 
Bull for the dark eyed stranger, telling Manuel to leave the drink next to 
her, so that the Mexican gentleman might join her. 

Maybe she's a nymphomaniac, Philippe thought as he smiled at the woman and 
walked toward her, introducing himself as he situated himself on a fresh 
leather stool. They started with the usual niceties, boring each other. This 
one wants something extra, Philippe thought, and I shall give it to her, 
she's not the ordinary type. 

An hour after they had met, the two strangers were in the basement of 
Philippe's villa, nearly destroying each other in a wild sexual frenzy. For 
the rest of the day and the following two, the pair got to know every inch 
of each other's body. The Mexican had found his match, the one woman who 
satisfied him as he wished. Pat remembered her husband's foreman as only a 
boy now. It's true, it's not what you have, she thought, it's how you use 
it. The Mexican, in spite of being older, had the energy of a bull and the 
imagination of a sexual genius. She knew that this was the beginning of a 
beautiful, free relationship. There was no need for either of them to say 
another word. They talked mostly of her generous alimony settlement she had 
been given to leave quietly and how to invest it, Philippe would help her 
find a villa nearby, and she in turn, would help him attract more victims to 
enlarge his coffers. She also would be allowed to participate a small bit in 
the profits. 

The second day Philippe told her of his parties and friends, and what might 
be expected of her. At first she was shocked at the thought of helping him 
bring distraught young divorcees into his home to be used like animals, but 
after a while the thought of being a part of such new and sensational 
perversions began to excite her, and they were making love again, tearing 
and biting, beating and bruising each other, driving themselves to sensual 
exhaustion. 

Two years, Pat thought. It could have been twenty. She had lost track of how 
many times she had been screwed in this house, played games of lust and pure 
pleasure. The American accompanying her opened the large door at the end of 
the living room. The familiar creak brought to mind the bodies that had 
walked down the dimly lit stairs but only one face flashed before Pat's 
mind, the face of the last young, innocent girl she had brought down here 
for Philippe. She always remembered the face of the last one, never further 
back than that. The men she brought to the basement bedroom had never been 
enough for her and she could never remember them. But, there was always the 
hope that maybe the next one would be different, she thought. 

They stopped at the bottom of the steps and she already had the key in her 
hand. She put it in the keyhole easily and clicked the door open, sliding it 
gently. The American, named Jeff, followed her into the room silently. 

Without looking, Pat put her hand on the light-switch and flicked her finger 
upward. Expecting a glare, Jeff was surprised to see the room flooded with 
soft blue light, casting a strange hue over the giant ferns. Puzzled, he 
remained silent, but wondered if the unusual experience he had been promised 
tonight by the woman walking across the room in front of him, was to be a 
tour of a greenhouse. 

The fanning plants looked artificial in the light, but Jeff could smell 
their freshness and see the water beaded on the leaves. Fifteen feet from 
the door Jeff stepped from the jungle into what could have been Henry VIII's 
boudoir. A fifteen-foot-square bed stood ominously in the center of the 
room. Around the entire circumference of the bed was a foot wide ledge, on 
which were spaced glasses, ice buckets, and pitchers of orange juice, all 
intermingled with whips, vibrators and other paraphernalia used for 
perverted sex. Blue, red and green curtains, exactly like those Philippe had 
grown accustomed to in Rosa's living room in the old days, covered the 
walls, their colors shaded by the blue lights, glowing softly from carefully 
selected positions on the ceiling. 

A small artificial waterfall bubbled at the edge of the fern jungle. Though 
the heat in the room was about ninety degrees, the plants gave a cooling 
effect. The humidity was not that of stifling heat, but rather that one 
would imagine on the planet Venus. The blue light seemed almost to flicker, 
adding an even more eerie, futuristic tone to the scene. 

"What do you think?" Pat asked, jarring Jeff from his surveillance. 

"It's different," was all he could muster. 

Pat laughed. "Surely you can do better than that." 

"I really don't know what else to tell you. I'm not sure of my reaction. The 
only thing I can say positively is that that bed is no bed. It's definitely 
a playground by no other word." 

Jeff's amazement and anticipation made him too tense. Pat recognized his 
mood. "Take off your jacket and I'll pour you a drink." 

He walked to a clothes rack at the left of the room and hung his jacket on a 
shellacked wood hanger. Pat paid no attention to the thirty-year old 
electronics wizard as she stood by the huge bed and poured two glasses of 
orange juice into tall crystal glasses. 

"Take this. It'll make you relax." 

"Orange juice?" Jeff was more puzzled then ever. "I expected at least a 
tequila punch." 

"There's more punch to this than any tequila you'll ever taste," she smiled. 
"Philippe got the recipe from an old acquaintance of his. You'll see. In a 
few minutes after you finish your first glass, you'll be more relaxed than 
if you were in a coma, yet have more energy than a football player. 

Jeff was skeptical of the drink as he sipped cautiously at first. It tasted 
like ordinary orange juice. 

"That's right," Pat said. "It's only orange juice to your tongue, but it's 
worth more than gold to your other senses. Don't be such a stuffed shirt. 
You came here for something different, and you'll get it. Just be patient 
and relax. Philippe will be down in a minute." 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

"Trans Texas Flight 519 to El Paso now boarding at gate four!" boomed over 
the loudspeaker in the same monotone that announced flights at every 
airport. The announcer at New Orleans was no different than any other, Jeff 
Martin thought as he paid his tab at the bar overlooking the runways. I'll 
never have to see this place again. 

He turned the corner and found his way toward gate four, fighting the hoard 
of college students returning to the Crescent City for a rollicking summer 
vacation. Jeff could never see what made them return each summer. He could 
excuse the tourists for not knowing why they came, but he couldn't excuse 
the young people who left each year for nine or ten months, then returned 
for a boring summer of sameness. Families are not enough to come back to, he 
thought. Not if they are families like mine. 

Jeff had first come to New Orleans on a scholarship to LSU's engineering 
school twelve years ago. He had worked his way through high school, living 
alone after his parents had died, escaping from relatives or a possible 
foster home. Before he graduated from high school he had been offered 
scholarships from seven of the country's best engineering schools, but took 
the offer in New Orleans because of the fringe benefits offered. 

The two men who had approached him told him that in addition to full 
tuition, room and board, and a small allowance, in the form of a free gratis 
part-time job, Jeff would have the opportunity to wine and dine some of 
Louisiana's wealthiest and prettiest young ladies, whose fathers were not 
adverse to having a big name athlete in the family. 

After a week of wining and dining at New Orleans' most exclusive restaurants 
and homes Jeff decided that his future lay in the deep South. That summer he 
moved to New Orleans to begin training for the fall season. He allowed 
himself three years of careful testing and analyzing, researching family 
backgrounds and procrastinating on possibilities before finding a suitable 
mate ... 

Cynthia's slow even movements first caught Jeff's eye at the French Market. 
He had been living in the Vieux Carre section for over six months, courtesy 
of an avid fan. Shopping for vegetables and gourmet delicacies at the market 
across from Jackson Square, he had stopped for some Chicory 

Coffee that particular morning. His hangover fogged his vision and his 
thinking. The bitter Cajun coffee would clear his head at the first sip. 

He sat on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs worn smooth by thousands of 
tourists over the last few decades. The early morning heat was already 
taking its toll on the men working in the market, their shirts sticking to 
their backs, clinging with sweat and southern humidity. Even the breeze 
combing through the market from the river didn't lessen the thought of the 
impending oppressive heat that would soon blanket the city. 

At nine o'clock Cynthia Tousaint seated herself at the table adjacent to 
Jeff, sliding the chair easily with one hand, holding a cup and saucer in 
the other. Cynthia didn't care to bother with a waiter and had gone to the 
counter inside for her daily cup of coffee. Her wide brimmed summer hat hid 
her short strawberry blonde hair, cut recently into a pixie cut to help ease 
the coming summer discomfort. 

She turned the chair halfway from the table and sat leaning back, her long 
dark legs stretched out their full length crossing at her ankles. She 
watched Jeff shakily bring his cup to his mouth, wincing at the impending 
disaster if he took too much in the first sip. He spilled nearly an eighth 
of a cup into his saucer. 

"Bad night?" Cynthia asked, smiling at the crewcut football player. 

He looked up, not aware that she had been watching him. "Not as bad as 
some," he answered, feeling awkward, knowing that she had seen him spill the 
coffee. He picked up a napkin and put it into the saucer, trying to sop some 
of it away, so that it wouldn't cause him another accident. 

"You're Jeff Martin, aren't you?" 

"Huh, oh, yes. Are you a football addict?" 

"No, just a player addict. My father is the fan. In fact he pays for a good 
part of your scholarship. I'm not so sure his investment is worthwhile, 
though. I haven't seen you play, but if you don't do any better than you do 
drinking coffee, perhaps Daddy should know about it." 

Not sure if the girl was joking, Jeff just stared at her for a minute. Her 
half-smile seemed to be mocking him. "Now that we have established my 
identity and qualifications as a coffee drinker would you mind telling me 
just who the hell you are." 

"I won't keep you in suspense any longer," she smiled pertly, "I'm Cynthia 
Tousaint." 

Wow, Jeff thought, she was right about the old man owning my soul. Its no 
wonder she makes herself to be such a bitch from the start. She can 
certainly afford it. 

Carlton Tousaint owned among other things, one of the largest construction 
companies in the deep South. His wealth had been inherited from a family who 
had managed to keep their position after the Civil War, and whose eldest 
sons, in succession, had built a reputation and financial empire equalled 
only by a few other corporations in the southern United States. 

"Now that I'm enlightened and impressed, I apologize for snapping at you. I 
did have a bad night. Between studying, football and trying to keep myself 
entertained, I've become one of the most disagreeable morning-people in New 
Orleans." 

"You're probably the second most disagreeable morning-person in New 
Orleans," she said, picking up her coffee and moving to his table. I started 
by being so nasty, and apologize also." 

"Accepted," he said, raising his cup in salute. 

"To better mornings," she toasted, and took another sip. 

They were married six months later. Their courtship had never found its way 
into bed until after the Catholic ceremony. Hooked for life, Jeff thought, 
as they left the Cathedral. Hooked for life to millions and the opportunity 
they bring. He found his wife to be a virgin that night. He was surprised 
and told her he was pleased, though secretly it didn't matter to him. He was 
fond of Cynthia, but didn't love her. He loved only the workings of his own 
mind and the business he was going to create with the Tousaint money and his 
ideas for new electronic equipment. 

After two years of marriage and a son, Jeffrey Carlton, Jeff finished his 
Masters work, receiving the second degree filled with apprehension over what 
he could do with his ideas. 

Cynthia's father added Jeff's name to his list of vice-presidents the day 
the football player received his Master's. Pleased at the position, Jeff set 
about to show the old man his plans for a new company within the Tousaint 
complex. Carlton and Jeff were friends because they were father and 
son-in-law, but it went no further than that. The position he had given the 
younger man was a title only. Businesswise, Jeff stood no chance of moving 
forward, or securing any of the Tousaint fortune for years to come. His 
ideas remained only ideas. 

Escape first entered Jeff's mind on his twenty-fifth birthday. Cynthia 
arranged a surprise party to celebrate her husband's first quarter century. 
All of her good school friends attended, along with her parents and a number 
of New Orlean's social elite. Jeff had no friends. After he had married he 
acquired his wife's friends and acquaintances, knowing that their influence 
was that which would help him socially as well as businesswise. The contacts 
he hoped to make would enable him to ease himself from the yoke his 
father-in-law had placed on him the day Cynthia placed a gold band on his 
finger. 

But with all of Cynthia's friends and acquaintances, Jeff found himself to 
be more alone than ever. He was only tolerated socially as the football 
player with no background who had married into the Tousaint family. Nothing 
would change that. 

Jeff realized that his future was predetermined. The parties were a success 
as far as Cynthia was concerned, but to Jeff they were a total failure. He 
was moody the morning of the party. There was no doubt in his mind that 
there would be a party that night. Cynthia had given him a surprise party 
every year of the four years that they had been married. 

After a shower and a light breakfast, he left for the office, not waking his 
wife. The maid always had breakfast prepared exactly as he liked it, ready 
when he came from the bedroom freshly groomed, prepared for another day of 
nothing at the office, except for a game of golf in the afternoon. He had 
taken up golf to please Carlton and soon found he liked the game. It gave 
him a chance to talk to his father-in-law as a father-in-law, and not a 
business partner. 

The afternoon of Jeff's birthday Carlton reminisced with the younger man 
about his own twenty-fifth birthday. They sat at the nineteenth hole 
clubhouse, sipping bourbon and brandy. "My twenty-fifth birthday," the older 
man said, "I drove a new Stutz-Bearcat up the river and kept to myself for 
three days. I did a lot of thinking. The first quarter century of my life I 
had lived with no thought of anyone but myself. I had no wife, no ties, 
except, of course, to the family fortune. My job was much like yours, Jeff. 
It was a position in title only. My father didn't trust me. He thought I was 
too much a playboy with no responsible feeling toward the family or the 
business. Of course, your job isn't yours because I don't trust you, but you 
need time to learn the business. You're a quick young man, agile in mind as 
well as physically. I know your scholastic record and I am aware of all of 
your ideas. Use a little patience and they will all become realities in a 
few years. 

"Those three days of seclusion and self examination showed me that I didn't 
have the required patience or goals to continue as I was. It took me less 
than an hour to pack when I returned to the city. New Orleans was a city 
apart in those days not as dirty as it is now. It was and old city then but 
had more charm and less tourism. 

"I didn't bother to say goodbye to anyone. I left a short note saying that I 
would be gone for some time and that no one should worry about me. I don't 
know what my family's reaction was to that note. Both my parents died while 
I was away. At any rate, I left that afternoon, drove to the fishing docks 
at LaFitte where I sold my car to a fisherman for three hundred dollars and 
a passage to Cuba. It was only a two day trip. The fisherman smiled all the 
way across the Gulf. He probably made about two thousand dollars on that 
deal." The old man smiled and took a drink, savoring the South's best 
bourbon before allowing it to flow through his rough throat. Bourbon soothed 
Carlton's throat and nerves as nothing else could. 

"I spent four years away from home, traveling all over South' America. The 
friends I made in those days are still my friends. We remain in contact 
through business, some of which I began or at least helped start. The others 
are just good friends. Once a year we meet in Rio, combining a little 
business with old memories and new pleasures. We used to meet in Havana, 
until Castro took over the country. I lost more money that year than many 
men make in a lifetime. 

"But all this is history to you, Jeff. If you weren't married, I would 
suggest you do the same thing. You know I approved of your marriage to 
Cindy, but I'm sorry you both couldn't have been older. I feel you have 
something riding you. I hope it won't hurt my daughter. There's no trouble 
between you, is there?" he said, changing the subject. 

"None at all, Dad." Jeff lied, knowing it would do no good to tell Carlton 
that his daughter had become the most unstimulating woman that Jeff had ever 
known. After the baby had been born, Jeff felt as if he were a houseguest, 
and not the master of his own home. He knew that his wife tolerated him 
sexually, because she felt it was her duty. He had never been able to 
persuade her to experiment in bed. Her idea of sex was that of nineteenth 
century housewife who felt her duty as a wife was to bear children, and not 
to debase herself by anything other than straight simple sex under the 
covers, and not too frequently at that. 

Jeff had given up trying to change Cynthia. He felt as if he were impotent. 
He had no desire to sleep with his wife. They had already graduated into 
twin beds, and within a few short years he knew they would have separate 
bedrooms. 

Carlton kept Jeff occupied the remainder of the afternoon as he had promised 
his daughter. After a workout at the athletic club the pair drove to Jeff's 
home near Lake Pontchartrain. Jeff recognized the cars parked along the 
street as those belonging to every couple he expected to be at the surprise 
party. They had all parked away from the house, trying to conceal the fact 
that they were waiting for Jeff in his living room. The guests knew that 
Jeff would not be surprised, but went along with his act each year, giving 
Cynthia the satisfaction that her surprise was a complete surprise. 

Cynthia, too, knew that it would not be a surprise, though she would not 
think of admitting it to anyone, even her son. Jeff Jr. was her son. The 
youngster was now three years old and asked his mother for everything that 
he wanted. His character was molded by her and her alone. The boy knew who 
his father was and reacted with respectful fear, knowing almost 
instinctively that it was required of him. 

Jeff didn't resent the fact that Cynthia was raising the boy. Though his 
name was Martin, the boy was a Tousaint. Along with grandfatherly spoiling 
from Carlton, Cynthia made sure that her son's future would be patterned 
exactly to fit th of all the men in her family's history, ignoring the 
social changes that would perhaps one day send the boy away from her, too 
soon, too bitterly. 

"Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you ..." greeted Jeff as he opened 
the door to " home. Each year on the eighteenth of January heard the same 
greeting, ringing through the ho and through his brain. He smiled the usual 
s and stood silently, his bright teeth glistening, hf eyes expressionless, 
forcing small wrinkles to curl their edges. He heard nothing as they sang. I 
mind was in Cuba, Santiago, Rio de Janero. 

"... Dear Jeff, Happy Birthday, tooooo, Youuu!" the song ended with applause 
and congratulatory cheers. Cynthia appeared from the corner and hugged her 
husband, kissing his ear, "Happy Birthday, Darling," she said. "You look 
relaxed and ready for a party." 

"Thank you," he said, winking at her, then looking at the crowd, he walked 
into the room. 

The party began with a round of drinks served by the maid and two temporary 
helpers, along with a hired bartender. All of Cynthia's parties were alike, 
and expensive, though it didn't bother him. Be could afford them, but for 
the last two years, she had paid for them herself out of the monthly 
allowance she still received from her father. At first the newlyweds had 
argued about the allowance. Jeff's pride would not allow his wife to still 
receive money from her family, but her stubbornness outlasted his and Jeff 
resigned to her allowance, saying that he would not touch any of it, that 
every cent of it was hers to spend on trivia of any sort she wished, but 
that he didn't care to see any of the money. 

By ten thirty the party was in full swing. More guests had arrived, and 
everyone had had enough drinks to loosen ties and tongues. The games had 
ended after a short while, leaving a lull until someone mentioned a news 
item about small skirmishes in an unknown country called Vietnam. Three 
young Americans had been killed in that obscure country, and no one seemed 
to know where Vietnam was or why those young men were there. In January of 
1964 Vietnam was only an obscure word, hardly worth discussing, but one 
person at the party, who would later be known as a hawk in Congress, knew 
something about Asia, and though only partially informed, began to expound 
on the necessity of American military commitment in Southeast Asia, citing 
the Domino Theory as the basis for his argument. 

Feigning interest, the younger people at the party, most of them Cynthia's 
age, asked questions, staring intently and nodding their heads in response 
to answers to their questions, pretending to understand, though hardly 
having the faintest idea what was being said. 

Jeff slipped from the party to his study, locking the doors. He wasn't as 
bored as he was apathetic about what was happening in other parts of his 
house. Jeff knew that another war was building in Asia, but it didn't 
concern him. His thoughts were aimed at what Carlton had told him that 
afternoon. Cuba was out of the question, and the exact way that the old man 
had left the country was also out of the question. Jeff knew he didn't want 
to start something with only a few hundred, or even a few thousand dollars. 

Patience, Jeff thought. Carlton said I should have patience, and so I shall. 
A knock at the door brought Jeff out of his thoughts, "Who is it?" he asked. 

"It's me, Darling. Open the door," his wife's voice called to him. 

Christ! he thought, pulling himself from the chair. Back to the mental orgy. 
He opened the door to see his wife's pleading eyes. 

"Don't you feel well?" she asked dutifully. "Please come out. It's your 
party." 

"Just a slight headache. I'm fine now. The party's wonderful, Sugar, and I'm 
ready to have one hell of a good time. Come on, don't just stand there." 

Jeff became a new man the night of his twenty-fifth birthday. Now, five 
years and a few months later, he boarded a Trans-Texas Turbo-Prop for El 
Paso. During those five years he had directed all his energies to this day. 
He built a corporation, first on paper, taking two years of careful planning 
before approaching his first prospective employee. Carefully investing his 
earnings from Tousaint Inc., he had built a large enough capital to begin 
construction on an Electronic Research Firm in El Paso. Under an assumed 
name he had contracted Tousaint to do the building, cutting all costs to 
nearly zero. The company had been operating for the last year, directed by 
him from his New Orleans' office. 

Cynthia was at first cautious in her reaction to Jeff's new driving 
personality. It was the first time he seemed alive since their child had 
been born. Soon after his twenty-fifth birthday, he had built an extra 
bedroom onto their home, explaining that it would give them both the privacy 
they needed. She thought this was the cause of his new self. It gave her 
freedom from his sexual demands, allowing her to choose the time for bedroom 
loving. Within a few months she had become pregnant again, after her third 
visit to his bed in as many months. Two years later she became pregnant 
again, but miscarried. 

Jeff gave her every courtesy, every consideration possible. She was pleased 
that he accepted his family role so enthusiastically. To her the marriage 
was a complete success. She had her social interests to keep her busy, and 
he spent most of his time either at the office, playing golf, or working 
until the early morning hours in his study. 

Jeff found sexual relief with a number of Cynthia's friends, always being 
extremely discreet, never jeopardizing his position with the family. 
Cynthia, thinking that Jeff was too busy to be bothered about sex, was naive 
enough that she never guessed what he was up to ... 

As Jeff's plane rose from the runway, headed west, Cynthia returned home 
from a morning meeting of the Art Guild. His note was on her pillow. She 
picked it up, thinking it was a request for a special dinner. She opened the 
envelope, taking the paper out, while she put on her glasses. 

My Darling Cynthia, There are not enough words to explain to you what I am 
doing. By the time you read this I shall be gone; gone from New Orleans, the 
United States and from my family. I can be a puppet in Carlton's family no 
longer. I've spent ten years trying to be the man you all wished me to be, 
but pleasing all of you has meant that I've not been able to please myself. 
I don't know who or what I am. I've got to get away to find the answer. I 
don't know when or even if I'll be back. You will not be able to find.. me, 
so don't bother to try. Believe me, it's not your fault. It's something I 
must do myself. Goodbye, Jeff 

She'll probably call Carlton when she reads the note, Jeff thought above the 
whining of the turboprop. The old man will be more surprised than anyone. He 
might even be a bit envious. It'll throw him more than anyone.. 

The old life behind him, and horizons waiting before him, Jeff dismissed his 
thoughts of New Orleans and turned to the more important business of running 
his own company in Texas. With luck and hard work in five years he would 
have the thriving Electronics business he had always dreamed of, putting his 
ideas into working and paying realities. 

"Are you from New Orleans?" a deep feminine voice asked from the seat beside 
him. 

Jeff looked with appraising eyes at the woman sitting beside him. Her 
flowered summer suit didn't hide any of her obvious assets. About 
twenty-eight, he thought as he answered her, telling the story he had 
planned for himself, that he was from Miami, but had recently purchased a 
research company in El Paso and was moving to Texas permanently. 

He introduced himself as Jeff McCarthy. "Pat Carter," she said, smiling with 
her whole body. Their conversation carried through two drinks on the plane, 
then another at the El Paso Airport cocktail lounge. Pat explained that she 
had moved to Mexico after her divorce. She spent half of her time in El 
Paso, arranging tours for Americans eager to see a small part of Mexico. She 
had been in New Orleans buying decorations for her new villa. 

Pat was impressed with her new friend's excellent physique, knowing he must 
have been an athlete, though he denied it, saying that he always found time 
to work out, just to keep fit. Pat didn't believe Jeff's whole story. Ten 
years in New Orleans had left its mark on his speech, giving him a slight 
accent that all his efforts could not quite erase. 

He was sure of himself, aggressive and obviously self-centered, she thought, 
but for some reason a little nervous. Pat dismissed it, though, not caring 
what he had left behind. She checked her mental file to find the right 
approach to introduce him to the Mexican border town and her way of life. 

"You must be exhausted from your trip," she said. "Where are you staying?" 

"I'm not sure. I've got to call my office to find out where they have made 
reservations for me." 

"Don't bother," Pat said, almost innocently. "There is more than enough room 
at my villa and you look like a man who could use a steam bath and a good 
rub down. You could stay there tonight and call your office first thing 
tomorrow morning, unless you must get in touch with them today. I might even 
be able to find you a place to live." 

Jeff held his drink almost at eye level. "That's a marvelous idea. I am 
exhausted and a steam bath would be perfect." 

"Then we are wasting our time here. My car is in the parking lot. I always 
leave it here when I take short trips. Saludos, pesetas y amor!" 

An hour later Jeff was undressing in a guest room at Pat's villa in Mexico. 
A houseboy stood by, taking the grey suit as Jeff removed it, and hung it in 
the closet where he had hung the other things from Jeff's suitcase. The boy 
stood by with servile respect, holding a terrycloth robe and towel. Rather 
than awkward at the new experience of having a valet at hand, Jeff felt 
almost at home. He had always thought of employing a gentleman's gentleman 
to look after his needs. He enjoyed the seeming luxury of his surroundings. 
The furnishings in the room were masculine and strong. I wonder how many 
other men have used this room, he thought. Pat's a beautiful woman and is 
probably sought after by any number of men. This is too good to be true. 

Carlos held the towel after Jeff had put on the robe. "If you will follow 
me, Senor McCarthy, I will show you to the steam room." 

Jeff said nothing, but followed the boy through the corridor to a small door 
at the far end. Each door in the hallway was oak, dark and carved with 
strong designs, depicting a masculine household. Jeff thought that Pat must 
have purchased the house from a bachelor, though it looked less than two 
years old. There was no hint of a woman in the house's decoration. 

Carlos opened the door and stood aside while Jeff walked through. The 
entryway was tiled in a mosaic. Each wall was rough wood, with wood hangers, 
obviously for robes. A large shower stall stood at the left wall. Ten feet 
from the door Jeff could see the sweating glass door of the steam bath. Its 
aqua light making it look much like the water of a swimming pool. Jeff 
walked around the table in the center of the room and started to take his 
robe off. 

"Allow me, Senor McCarthy," Carlos said, not hesitating to help the older 
man disrobe. "Your towel," he said, handing Jeff a large white towel, which 
he wrapped around himself, then tucked it in. 

Opening the door he felt a blast of heat, wet and almost scalding. Jeff 
stepped inside the eight by eight steam room and groped for a shelf. His 
hands burned when he positioned them, then lowered himself with caution onto 
the tiled seat. 

The steam sucked the air from his throat for almost a minute. He had been 
smoking too much, he thought. It was hard to breath, his nose burned and he 
seemed to grasp air from his throat instead of his lips as if his mouth 
didn't exist. Cupping his hands over his parched lips he breathed deeply a 
dozen times, acclimating himself to the intense heat. Steam swirled around 
his comparatively cool body, beading immediately into streams of water. 

He couldn't differentiate between the water and his own perspiration. 

"Mmmmnurimnirnm!" he said aloud, opening his mouth and taking a few more 
deep breaths, more easily this time. He settled his head back against the 
tiled wall and watched more steam pour into the small room from the stone in 
the middle. The temperature was 130 degrees. 

"Feel better already?" a voice surprised him from across the small 
steam-filled room. 

It was Pat! 

He could hear her, but the steam was so thick that it was impossible to see. 
Surprised and delighted that she was taking a hot bath with him Jeff didn't 
hesitate to answer. 

"Like a new man," he said. "Literally like a new man." Smiling at his 
private joke he closed his eyes and waited for her to say something else. 
There was no need for him to begin the conversation. This was an aggressive 
woman, he thought. She'll make her move when she's ready and not before, and 
I have the patience to wait when I know what is in store for me. Jeff, my 
boy, you are a free man. 

Repositioning himself, Jeff looked through the steam to see the black haired 
woman's silhouette walking toward him. The artificial light gave her skin a 
greenish tone as she came closer, looking as if she were walking under water 
in a heavily chlorinated pool. "Are you ready for your massage?" she asked. 
"I've learned to do it well from Carlos, even if I do say so myself." 

"I am completely at your disposal, my lady." Jeff said, laughing. "You may 
do with me what you wish. I've not the energy to resist." 

"Lay on your stomach and let's get on with it. Those gorgeous muscles of 
yours will lose their tone if you neglect them." 

Jeff half-stood, then laid face down on the shelf, his cheek burning as it 
touched the hot tile. Beads of water dripped from the ceiling onto his back, 
scalding holes into the rippling muscles that twitched momentarily, until 
they became accustomed to the erratic bombardment. Wearing a towel exactly 
like Jeff's, Pat stood over the six foot masculine form laying straight out 
on the shelf at the wall, her eyes running from the nape of his neck across 
the rippling muscles of his back to the lean raw muscle of his buttocks, 
covered by the wet, clinging towel. Her mind touched the backs of his legs 
and traced its way through the dark hair to the taut muscles of his calves. 
Beautiful, she thought, beautiful. 

Readjusting the towel wrapped around her head, she bent, placing her hands 
on his shoulder blades to balance herself, then straddled his body, easing 
herself onto his buttocks. "I hope I won't crush you," she said. "I've been 
putting on too much weight lately by neglecting my daily steam bath. 

"Mrnmmmm. It certainly doesn't show," was all Jeff said. 

Pat hiked the towel further, almost to the tops of her thighs, so that she 
could sit more easily and leaned forward on her hands, resting them on the 
small of his back. Her thumbs together, she pushed her hands upward, leaning 
heavily on them, sliding up the center of the former All-American's back. 
Her hands traveled along his spine bumping over each knob. The steam and 
perspiration slicked his skin, allowing her hands to move as if lubricated 
by melting butter. 

Her fingers folded momentarily around the back of his neck then followed 
their trail onto the back of his head, through his thick sandy hair. 
Twisting and turning she massaged his scalp, pulling lightly at the roots of 
his thick head of hair, knotting it, then gently yanking the knots. The 
little finger on each hand spread away from its partners to the edge of his 
scalp, stroking his temples, the long nails barely scraping the surface. 

"How's that?" she asked. 

"Mmmmm!" was again all he could answer. 

"Don't go to sleep on me," the woman said. "I've only just begun." 

The heat in the room was ignored, replaced by new fires building inside as 
Jeff felt the woman's buttocks pressing softly down on his own, her nails 
working into the sides of his neck and digging their way to his well muscled 
shoulder, working along an even path, one in exactly the same place as the 
other on each shoulder, turning their way around to the front of the muscle, 
lifting his relaxed body partially from the hot tiles, then finding the 
muscles of his biceps and moving over his forearms, around his wrist and 
back up the inside to his armpits, pulling a few hairs with them as the 
painted nails ran onto his back. 

Pat felt the moisture welling up deep in her vagina, spread wide by the 
position of her legs. Her eyes followed her hands, feeling twice the 
sensation of gliding over the man's body. She flexed the inner muscles of 
her thighs against his buttocks, and he responded with a similar flex of his 
own athletic cheeks beneath the covering towel. 

Her nails found their way to the small of his back then traced small figure 
eights around his sides, her wrists touching her inner thighs to increase 
her own rising excitement. She rose to her knees, not taking her hands from 
his body, and worked her way backward so that his body was entirely free 
from restrictions except for the towel. With a sweeping motion she quickly 
passed over the towel and clawed her way down the back of his thighs, 
stopping to make tiny circles at the back of his knees, then continued 
across his calves to his ankles. 

Jeff's breathing was deep and labored in the steaming hot room. Normally the 
sensation of her nails crossing twice lightly across the bottom of his feet 
would have tickled, but instead it sent shocks through his bones to the 
center of his groin, nipping at the root of his penis, opening the channels 
to allow the blood of excitement to begin its seeping into the fleshy 
membrane, giving rise to the beginning of an erection. His whole groin 
tingled as his penis began to slowly come to erection. His mind raced 
erratically between the erotic sensation in his groin and the erotic light 
touch of her fingernails and they made their way more swiftly back up his 
legs, this time on the inner surface rather than the back. He anticipated 
the sensations that would suffuse his body as he imagined his towel being 
removed. 

Pat leaned over the back of his legs as she ran her fingers toward their 
goal. She could see the hair on his testicles from beneath the towel. Her 
hands never stopped at the wet, covering, but slid smoothly along his 
sweating skin under the tunnel and between his spreading legs. His half hard 
member lay stretched out down between his legs, straining its head against 
the hot tile painfully awaiting release. 

Instead of using her nails, Pat spread her hands on the insides of his 
thighs, stretching the tips of her fingers to the creases on either side of 
the base of his straining cock, her knuckles lightly caressing the sides of 
the rapidly growing flesh. Jeff raised himself slightly and with an even 
pressure she lifted her splayed hands up and around his sweating cheeks to 
pull the towel free and throw it to the floor. 

Before Pat could say turn over, he whipped himself up and around, freeing 
his tortured cock. Leaning on one hand he grabbed the top of her towel with 
the other and jerked it away from her body, exposing all of her in a single 
steam clouded glance. 

The heat that would otherwise be unbearable went unnoticed by the pair as 
their eyes riveted on each other as she surveyed every glistening muscle on 
Jeff's body, while his eyes ravaged her breasts, the curve of her waist and 
hips and the dark triangle of soft, wet pubic hair between her legs. 

With his free hand Jeff grabbed her behind the neck and brought her mouth to 
his, crushing her lips, forcing his tongue deep into her throat, probing at 
her own hardened tongue. 

"Wait," she said, with a teasing smile curling her lips. "I'm not through 
with you yet. I want to suck your cock first." 

Jeff said nothing. The prospect of her soft, warm mouth wrapped around his 
throbbing organ gave him the will power to stop himself from taking her 
immediately. No woman had ever said what she had just said to him and the 
lewd words excited him even further. Silently he lowered himself back, 
propping his body on both elbows so that he could hold his head up and watch 
her as she began. 

Her own legs spread wider so that she could straddle him. The pink lips of 
her cunt standing open, Pat knew she was torturing herself, but her mouth 
needed to be filled first so that her own passion and hunger would be 
totally satisfied when he would finally thrust it into her body. 

She tore the towel from her head, and wiped the water from her forehead as 
it streamed down from her sweating scalp. Her eyes stopped momentarily. Jeff 
hadn't bothered to wipe the sweat from his own brow and she reached across 
and wiped his forehead and face, knowing that the temporary delay would only 
further excite them both. She threw the towel to the side and lowered her 
head to his chest, twirling her tongue around one of his nipples, hungrily 
tasting the salt of his steam induced sweat. 

Her nose followed her tongue's path across his belly, spreading a wake in 
the water dripping on his skin. She circled his navel, probing it twice then 
swiftly moved down toward his groin, took a mouthful of loose, lean skin and 
nipped it gently, sending a shooting pain in all directions. Instead of 
tightening his muscles and moving away, Jeff relaxed even further and 
swooned in the pleasurable pain that permeated the deepest parts of his 
body. 

She loosened her grip, slowly, the teeth parting to make way for her tongue 
and lowered her head, her chin grazing tantalizingly along the trunk of his 
straining cock, as she ran her mouth to the hard, thick base and spread his 
pubic hair with her nose. Turning her head sideways she pressed her lips 
against the throbbing cock and kissed it at the base, sucking at the blue 
blood-filled veins that looked as if they were about to burst from his 
desire. 

Jeff could only see the black hair of her head hiding the show that was 
going on below. But, his view was obstructed only from his eyes. His other 
senses felt each move she made. Her tongue snaked its tip out from between 
her teeth and tested the pulsating flesh, pushing at its softness. Still 
supported on her hands, she raised her head slightly like a cat nibbling on 
sweet catnip, licking slowly up and down with even, flowing movements. 

She shifted her weight to one hand and brought the other alongside her 
cheeks, fondling his sperm filled balls, stretching the skin and cradling 
them gently in her hands. Her tongue reached the overhanging edge of the 
smooth rubbery head, with two quick strokes she licked her way around the 
cock to the "V" on the underside. The hardened tip found the fine line from 
the "V" to the small hole on the tip of the head and teased in and out of it 
like the tongue of a cobra. 

Jeff could see her purse her lips behind the black curtain of her hair as 
she kissed the rubbery tip of his cock, sucking hot steaming air into her 
mouth and making a light low whistle with her lips. She lowered her head 
slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, opening her mouth a little wider, 
never taking her lips from the throbbing head. Slowly, ever so slowly, she 
enfolded her lips around the head of his cock until it was entirely enclosed 
within the moist, warmth of her mouth. 

Her tongue mixed with his seeping sperm, lubricating the smooth, hot tip. 
Jeff leaned back on his elbows and lifted his buttocks off the tile, pushing 
his cock deeper up between her elastic-like lips. 

With her free hand she released his balls and slid her hand along the 
perspiring crevice between his buttocks to his anus, rubbing her nail back 
and forth across the tiny, puckered ring, lubricating it with scalding 
water. Then, without warning she suddenly grunted and thrust her finger deep 
into his asshole. Jeff jerked upward at the intrusion, shoving his cock 
completely into her mouth and deep into her throat, making it almost 
impossible for her to breath. 

She began working her head up and down, sucking harder with each stroke, 
while she imitated the motion with her finger in his rectum. The double 
rhythm threw him flat on his back. The mixed pain and pleasure was almost 
too much. He clenched and unclenched the cheeks of his ass in time with the 
rhythmic working of the hot, clasping mouth and the thrusting finger. 

Stroking harder and harder he felt a rising balloon of pressure building in 
his balls. It tingled with electric shocks, finding its way to his tubes and 
like a bursting dam broke and rushed to the end of his cock. "I'm cumming 
..." he wailed. "I'm cummmmiiinnnggg now!" With a jerking, spasmodic quake 
he thrust his giant exploding cock again and again into her mouth, flooding 
her open cavern with hot sperm gushing deep into her throat. She moaned and 
swallowed voraciously, feeling it force its way down her gullet to her 
stomach like raw, hot tequila. 

But, his passion still not fulfilled, he ripped his still hard rod from her 
mouth, grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her, falling to the floor on 
top of her. He bit into her neck and thrust his body hard against hers. She 
was ready and wet between the legs. She didn't need to be prepared. He 
wanted to drive inside her with all his might and force himself viciously 
into her open vagina. A sudden sense of sadism came over him. He wanted to 
destroy this woman who had in reality reversed his role and seduced him ... 
used him as he did other women. Now ... now it was her turn to be used as 
she had used him. 

Her hips lifted to meet the sperm-covered tip of his cock. Thin trails of 
semen ran down from the corners of her mouth. He opened his own mouth and 
drove his lips against hers, pushing his tongue deep into her throat, 
savoring the dry pungency of his own sperm still lining her lips and mouth. 

Her hips groped for his cock, wanting him to find her open cunt and drive 
himself home. The tip brushed momentarily against the soft open Hps. Then, 
with one grinding motion he swirled his own hips, then slammed his pelvis 
hard down against hers, throwing the whole weight of his body behind his 
rushing phallus. Though her gaping vagina had been open, anticipating his 
entry, it was not ready for the huge lust-swollen cock that hit so hard, 
almost ripping her open. His tremendous thrust, coupled with the huge size 
of his cock sent pain searing through her whole body. "Aaarrrggghhhh!" she 
screamed. "Oooohhhhh, stop, you're hurting me, you're hurting me." 

But he paid no attention to her waning, knowing full well that she didn't 
really want him to stop. He stroked again and' again, driving her further 
and further into the ecstasy of extreme pleasure. She felt as if he were a 
jackhammer driving her down like a stake into the hard, resisting tiles of 
the hot steamroom, tearing them relentlessly apart. 

On the upstroke she felt her legs twitch out wide in the air. On the 
downstroke they jerked in once again, and as he pulled out for another giant 
thrust, every tingling nerve in her body centered itself at the center of 
her belly. He drove himself deeper, harder than ever and the bomb exploded 
deep down in the muscles of her wildly contracting belly. She jerked 
spasmodically, her whole body heaving upward. "Aaaaahhhhhhhh, 
Ahaaaaahhhhhhh!" she screamed as she came. " Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhh, 
Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh!" as she came again and again in a multiple orgasm feeling 
her juices swirling around inside and mixing lewdly with his swirling sperm 
as he filled her a second time with the hot, boiling liquid of his orgasm. 
He made no sound, but continued to jerk deep inside her another few seconds 
until he had emptied the last of his passion into the greedy cavern of her 
belly. 

They both lay silent on the tiled floor. She felt absolutely complete with 
his weight on top of her and his deflated cock still enfolded within the 
walls of her still throbbing vagina. 

"We had better get out of here," Jeff said in a few moments. We've been in 
this steam bath for nearly an hour. We could damn near be dehydrated." 

He rose halfway and offered her his hands. She was too weak to raise her 
arms to him and he bent to pick her off the floor, walking her out the glass 
door to the seventy-degree coolness of the outer room. "We had better take a 
shower," he told her. A pitcher of ice water sat on the massage table in the 
middle of the panelled room. He poured her a glass. She sat on a bench 
against the wall, totally exhausted. 

"Drink this," he said. "Slowly, though, or you'll get cramps." 

She took the liquid as he had ordered. His command was law now. He had 
satisfied her as even Philippe could not. Pat held the glass to her lips and 
watched the sandy haired giant with new found admiration as he drank. 

After their shower the pair finished the pitcher of ice water and put on 
their robes. Jeff had not noticed the robe hanging next to his and figured 
that Carlos must have brought it in after he had gone into the steam. A 
perfect surprise, he thought. 

One arm around his new sex partner, Jeff opened the small oak door and 
stepped into the corridor. He started to walk toward his room. "No, this 
way," she said. "I think we both need a good sleep. My room is at this end 
of the hall." 

A minute later they both disrobed and fell onto the satin sheets of her 
queen size bed. They lay on their backs silently staring at the ceiling, 
their hands intertwined between them. 

"That was beautiful," she said after a while. An ashtray hung between them, 
suspended by a nearly invisible nylon line. The late afternoon sun filtered 
through the white drawn drapes. Jeff said nothing, but dragged on his 
cigarette. The smoke curled its way along the nylon line to the mirror on 
the ceiling, spreading like a blanket of fog over their reflection. 

"It's like nothing before," he said aloud. "I'm surprised that we're still 
alive." 

"Darling, I have a suggestion, though," she said. 

"One that should make it even better for both of us. If that's possible." 

"It would take something really different to top this afternoon," he said. 
"What do you have in mind?" 

"It will be different," she said. "I can promise you that. I have a friend, 
the one who owns a villa three miles from here. He often has small parties 
that are most entertaining. I don't want to tell you more than that now. If 
you want to know any more, you'll have to take me to his next party tomorrow 
night." 

"I'm game for anything," Jeff said, curious about what might lay in store 
for him the following night. "But for right now I'm game for about ten 
hours' sleep." 

"Sweet dreams, Darling," she said possessively. "Sleep well." 

 CHAPTER FIVE - THE AWAKENING 

Barbara stirred in the strange bed, trying not to wake from the deep sleep 
she had been in for more than five hours. Her eyes refused to open as she 
tried to focus her mind on where she was and what day it was. Gradually 
Philippe's blurred image on the beach came into view. Her mind followed him 
to the car and she remembered telling him everything that was bothering her 
and how understanding he had been listening in the car. But her mind would 
go no further. Was she at her hotel, or at his home. For a moment she did 
not wish to know. 

Her eyes opened just as the light broke the darkness. Barbara looked to 
where she had heard the Iightswitch snap on. A beautiful young Mexican girl 
stood framed in the doorway. Her hair fell around her dark bare shoulders, 
almost to the tray-she held waist high, shielding her breasts from view. Her 
narrow waist curved out to perfect hips, covered by a brief, very tight 
bikini. Her shapely legs were dotted by shining beads of water. 

"I am Carlita, Senor Rodriguez maid," the eighteen-year-old girl said in 
perfect English as she walked across the room to the large bed. "I know I 
don't look much like a maid in this bikini, but I was swimming when Senor 
Rodriguez told me to bring you a refreshment and see if you were awake. How 
are you feeling?" 

Barbara stared at the girl as she poured the orange juice from the dark 
pitcher into a crystal goblet. She could see that the maid wore no top to 
her bikini and her black hair did not conceal the perfectly round circles 
that tipped her full breasts. Maid, hell! Barbara thought. What kind of man 
is he. I wouldn't think that he would be the type to keep half-naked girls 
around to play with, especially such young ones. 

Carlita smiled and handed the full glass to the questioning figure on the 
bed. "You must be stiff," she said. "You didn't change your position once 
while you slept." 

"Th-thank you," was all Barbara could say. She was still half asleep and her 
imagination placed Carlita and Philippe on the white bear skin rug in 
Jerry's studio, entertaining themselves with her husband. She sipped the 
orange juice, unaware of the powerful aphrodisiac that laced the fresh 
juice. She shook her head, trying to throw the awful thought of her husband, 
Carlita and the aristocratic Mexican who had become her confidant from her 
mind. 

"No, no" she said aloud, trying to dismiss her thoughts, but she could think 
of nothing to replace them. "Oh, what happening to me," she wailed and threw 
herself onto the pillow, beating the headboard with her fists, unable to 
organize any thought other than the imagined one in Jerry's studio. Colors 
flashed through her mind nightmarishly in a psychedelic strobe-like pattern 
and she thought for a moment she was losing her sanity. 

Barbara felt the girl's weight shift her balance on the bed. Carlita put her 
hands on Barbara's bare back. It was the first time the weeping woman 
realized that she was nude beneath the sheets. Had Carlita undressed her, or 
was it Philippe? At last she thought of him alone. She saw him kneeling on 
the bed removing her clothing, looking at her with lust filled eyes, the 
same eyes Jerry had looked at his model with. 

"Please do not cry. You are safe here," Carlita said, bringing Barbara back 
to reality again. "Let me give you a massage. It will calm you. You are much 
too tense to enjoy yourself at the party tonight." 

"Party?" 

"Yes, Senor Rodriguez is giving a small party in your honor. Some of the 
guests have already arrived. It's past nine o'clock, you know. You've slept 
a long time." 

Barbara heard the girl's voice but felt in no condition to go to a party, 
especially if the party was for her. Philippe was so thoughtful. He probably 
decided to have the party to bring her out of her morose mood. But, perhaps 
it would be all right, if she could take a shower and freshen up first. 

The younger girl's hands slid up and down her back. Barbara imagined 
Philippe's hands kneading the light, smooth muscles that were so tense. A 
tingle passed from the hands through her skin and into her spine, sending a 
chill down her back and into her buttocks. She clenched her cheeks together, 
trying to force the tingle back to its origin. She knew she shouldn't feel 
that kind of pleasure from another woman's hands. 

The love potion had begun to take effect. Within a few minutes there would 
be nothing that Barbara wanted but the electric tingles that would shoot 
through her body each time she was touched. 

Though she commanded the tingling to cease, Barbara could not control its 
movement. Like small ripples at first it ran over her body on the surface of 
her skin, leaving no wake, only another ripple to follow. Carlita's hands 
guided the small waves gently, changing their origin from Barbara's 
shoulders, to her back, to her buttocks! "Stop It!" Barbara wanted to cry 
out, but her mouth would not respond. What's going on? she thought. She 
shook her head, trying to tell the Mexican girl that this was wrong, that no 
woman is to touch another like that, but when her head moved involuntarily 
from side to side, it seemed to be in slow motion, sending stronger and 
stronger shock waves from her neck over the washboard of her spine to the 
hands stroking the cheeks of her soft, rolling buttocks. 

Oh no, she thought again, oh no, oh no, oh, oh, oh oh oh oh, she now 
muttered as each wave rose and fell across her body, going deeper and 
deeper, far beneath her skin. She could feel her womb, hot and moist within 
her. 

A small drop of liquid seeped from her vagina, now the very center of her 
sensations, dampening her soft pubic hair, and trailing a small wet spot on 
the sheet below. 

She didn't want the girl to stop, the pleasure had found its mark. 

Each stroke of Carlita's hands as they pushed and pulled at the smoothness 
of her skin built a strange all encompassing yearning deep between her legs. 

The Mexican girl's dark skin nearly matched the tan on Barbara's leg as she 
straddled one leg. Her pink nails scratched their way to the young 
divorcee's thighs, tantalizing the borderline of white and dark skin, where 
her bikini had left a fine after so many afternoons of lying on a California 
beach. She leaned and kissed the tormented woman on the back, her rich full 
breasts brushing against the excited cheeks of the slowly writhing girl's 
buttocks. 

Carlita's own nipples reacted to the touch, standing suddenly erect. She 
marveled that she too had become slightly excited by the treatment she was 
giving Barbara. A dark spot spread at her crotch, adding an extra dot to her 
orange and brown polka dot bikini growing larger as she stroked and kissed 
the warm, squirming body on the bed. 

Philippe had instructed her to give Barbara the loaded orange juice, then a 
massage to prepare her for tonight's party. She had become expert during the 
last few years, since her thirteenth birthday. And, Philippe had never 
touched her. He had not allowed her to date any of the boys in the area and 
would let her go nowhere without a chaperon. He was like a doting mother and 
a jailer at the same time, yet, she loved him and would do anything he asked 
of her. 

Barbara was on fire. Her teeth clenched at the looseness of the pillow, 
biting and tearing at the satin case, needing to be relieved now. She no 
longer thought who the hands belonged to. The fingernails that played down 
between her legs and teased the lips of her vagina could belong to anyone. 
She didn't care. She needed it now! 

It had been so long! So long! 

Then, suddenly she felt a second pair of hands on her thighs, a second pair 
of lips kiss her buttocks, first one cheek, then the other. Not sure what 
was happening nor really caring at this moment, she didn't turn to look. All 
her energies were directed to moving her buttocks in rhythm with the hands 
at her vagina. They were still hotly teasing at the soft pink hps, caressing 
them lightly one at a time and then together. 

A second pair of legs straddled her other leg and the first pair removed 
themselves from her. The second legs were hairy and much heavier. As the new 
lips widened, allowing a moist tongue to snake its tip to Barbara's skin, 
she felt, the weight of two oversized testicles brush their way across the 
back of her thigh to the soft, pliant crevice between her buttocks, 
following their owner's weight as his lips nibbled higher and higher up her 
back. 

Philippe had dismissed Carlita as he had done so many times before. The time 
was right for the woman beneath him. Carlita stood by the door for some 
minutes, her right hand inside the polka dot bikini bottom, toying with her 
clitoris. In a moment she must go, but until then she could excite herself, 
then hide in her own bedroom and relieve the aching in her loins. 

The Mexican had already fortified himself with the special strength-giving 
orange juice and could feel the static electricity of the satin sheets raise 
the hair on his legs. The long black hairs that curled down from his balls 
connected with Barbara's body like high voltage wires, sending fire into his 
testicles and out to the head of his swollen penis. 

The entire scene was viewed on closed circuit television in the party room 
below. Jeff's eyes were glued to the set, unable to move from the two 
figures who were tormenting each other on the bed. The potion in his orange 
juice had slowed all movement, giving the lovemaking a macabre slow motion 
effect. Pat sat next to him on the huge bed, smiling at his reaction and 
watching the small set, building fires deep within her own belly, but not 
touching Jeff's enormous erection building in his grey slacks. 

Philippe kneaded at the flesh on Barbara's right cheek, the other buttock 
contracting as his hand squeezed and hurt the girl. He released his grip, 
sliding his hand around the half moon of her ass and inserted all four 
fingers between her thighs, resting them against the open lips of her wet, 
vagina, fingers joined together in a tight group. 

Without warning he drew his hand back and slapped her throbbing pussy 
between her wide spread legs, then brought his hand away and slapped the red 
welt that was left on her right cheek where he had grabbed her. "oh, oh," 
she gasped, the pain searing through her already sore behind, the pain not 
too intense, but still sending shivers through the lower half of her body. 

Philippe slapped her again, harder. "Get on your hands and knees," he 
ordered. "Now, faster!" 

Barbara obeyed like a dutiful dog, but not quite fast enough to please her 
master, but not slow enough to anger him. She raised her rear end high, 
supporting herself on knees and elbows, her head hanging loosely between her 
arms. Her kneeling body swayed limply from side to side as Philippe slapped 
her time and again, with increasing savageness. But the pain was not pain to 
the drugged girl. Each resounding slap seemed to reverberate against the 
inner walls of her fiery vagina, only heightening her obscene excitement. 

"Harder," she cried, "Harder. Hit me harder!" 

He slapped her again, this time between her wide-spread thighs, the tips of 
his fingers biting at the exposed erected bud of her clitoris. 
"AAaaarrrrggghhhhh, Ooooohhhhh!" she wailed as the pain pounded like a 
hammer on an anvil on the sensitive pink flesh between her legs each blow 
rocking her forward on her desire-contorted face. Each time she would push 
with her elbows, repositioning her buttocks high above her knees, just in 
time to meet the next blow as she rocked forward, burying her head into the 
pillow, then rocked backward to meet the torturing hand. 

The exquisite pleasure of so much pain built a well inside her, filling 
higher with each blow. She was on the brink of orgasm. "Oh, please," she 
screamed, her voice punctuated with a resounding slap. 

"Don't hit me again! Just fuck me! 

"Please, fuck me now. Now! FUCK me now!" 

But the Mexican ignored her pleas as he kneeled on the bed beside her 
swaying ass. His glazed eyes could not take themselves from the red, 
quivering moons. He lifted his hand high above her head, knowing that she 
was ready for the final blow, and hit her with all his strength. 

A sharp thunder clap exploded in the room as his open hand hit her open 
defenseless bottom. The force knocked the girl off the bed onto the floor 
and the well of fiery water inside her disintegrated, its tumbling bricks 
blowing in all directions pounding against her insides. Her legs jerked 
uncontrollably and her body arched upward as she climaxed. "I'm 
cummnninnnggg!" she screamed in one long animal howl. "Oh God, I'm 
cummming!" 

For a moment she lay horizontally against the wall breathing heavily. She 
had never experienced such a climax, such pleasure and at the same time such 
pain. But instead of hurting, the pain at her rear only kept her high on a 
floating plane of sexual excitement. She was ready for more and wanted to be 
fucked as she had never wanted to be fucked before. 

Philippe rose from the bed, took two steps toward her, and commanded, "Get 
up. Get back on the bed. We're not through." 

His cock, almost blood red stood out from his body arching upward and 
jerking uncontrollably with lust. He reached down and grabbed her by the 
wrist, pulling her to her feet like he might lift a sheet crumpled on the 
floor, and flung her onto the bed. Barbara rolled over on her back to stare 
up at the man coming toward her like a bull, throwing his weight over her 
entire body. 

He started to insert his giant weapon into the opening of her passageway, 
but changed his mind. He raised himself to his knees, straddling her body 
and crawling up over her stomach, setting his buttocks on her belly, his 
ball resting on her smooth white skin and his white hot jock jutting between 
her breasts. 

He reached to the sides of her breasts and brought them upright, to their 
fullest peak and closed them around his cock, exposing the hot throbbing 
head toward her gaping eyes. Her nipples stood straight and tall, excited at 
the touch of his thumbs, brushing lightly across the tips. 

He rolled her breasts slightly, at the same time pushing his hips back and 
forth, the red crown of his cock appearing and disappearing in the flesh of 
her tightly held breasts, drops of white hot fluid dripping on her upper 
chest. Her eyes anxiously awaited for the tip to reappear each time as she 
tilted her head up off the bed, wanting the huge weapon inside her, wanting 
him to put it in her, anywhere! Anyway! 

His rubbing hands let go of her breasts as he stroked back. They fell 
slightly apart, though still firm and hard. His huge testicles hung between 
his legs, suspended for a moment, then lifting themselves slightly up and 
down as he involuntarily flexed his stomach muscles. The swollen organ came 
forward toward her salivating mouth like a crawling snake, cruelly, 
relentlessly. Her eyes bulged, the desire to suck it rippling through her 
lust-dimmed mind. She moaned and opened her mouth wide, her lips barely 
covering her teeth. She bent her head forward an inch and snaked out her 
tongue to taste the sweet pungent liquid seeping from its tip. 

"Oh God, I want it," she moaned helplessly. "I want it!" 

Her lips parted, exposing two rows of perfect white teeth and, with a 
singular motion her teeth closed around the hard, throbbing head, just back 
from the tip and bit lightly, once, twice, nibbling greedily at the smooth, 
rubbery flesh. Then they released their grip and pulled back, allowing her 
soft, wet lips to take over the job of tantalizing the man straddling her 
chest. 

Philippe leaned forward, his hands on either side of her head, his mouth 
open, hot air passing from deep within his lungs. The lips nibbled at the 
whole of his crown like an animal sucking at a plum, trying to pull it from 
a tree. White hot razor blades raked through his throbbing cock, burning 
deep into his balls. 

He groaned aloud, and then with a gasp he pushed his cock deep into her 
throat, choking the sucking girl for a moment. She tried to gasp for air, 
unable to cope with the deeper intrusion into her throat, but with the fire 
burning inside her, she suddenly found the mass of hot, pulsating flesh in 
her mouth pleasurable and sucked at it hungrily in spite of the difficulty 
in breathing. 

Sensing her discomfort he pulled back, relieving the pressure in her throat, 
then gently pressed back again into the warm, moist cavern of her mouth. She 
moaned crazily and began to move her head in a steady back and forth rhythm. 
She cupped the cheeks of his ass with her hands and pulled him toward her as 
she pushed her head at the giant cock in her mouth, each movement more 
desperate and forceful. Faster and faster she bobbed her head, sucking at 
the white hot weapon, her hands slapping at his ass, forcing him to move 
almost spastically, trying to keep up with her wildly sucking mouth. 

In a frenzy the two animals jerked at each other trying to speed what was 
coming. Two invisible hands grasped at the insides of Philippe's balls, 
closing into fists for a moment, then, without warning, opening viciously, 
spreading their fingers, bursting the prison of passion and freeing the 
white lava from within, shooting it through the base of his cock to the 
crown and spewing out into the wet, sucking cavern of her mouth. 
"AAaaaarrrrgggghhhhh!!" he screamed as the white hot cum shot again and 
again through his cock. 

The bittersweet juices poured into her mouth, spurting deep into her open 
throat. She sucked and swallowed voraciously trying to force every drop into 
her mouth as he continued to stroke in and out viciously, her teeth tearing 
at the overheated, sensitive skin. She could taste blood ribboned through 
the cum, intensifying her desire. She wanted his sperm to fill her, to drown 
her deep down in her belly. There was nothing else in the world but that 
driving hunger torturing her there. 

Philippe fell forward onto the bed, his penis deflating in her mouth, his 
balls resting beneath her chin, relaxed. She continued to suck on the 
deflating cock, sucking it clean with her tongue, biting lightly. Her drug 
incited passion still at its height, needing climax. 

"That's enough," he said between breaths. "We shall go on in a minute. We're 
going downstairs to the party now." 

"No, Please, not yet," she said. "Please give it to me now! I need it, I 
need it!' 

With a flash Philippe sat up and slapped her. 

"Don't ever tell me I must do anything! You'll do as I say. You'll get 
fucked all right, but when I'm good and ready. And I will be when we join 
the others." 

"No, you wouldn't," she whimpered. "Not with other people in the room." 

"Not only in the room, but watching, just as they have been on closed 
circuit television," he said, pointing to the two lenses partially 
concealed, one in the ceiling and one across the room at the foot of the 
bed. 

"Oh, God, how could you?" she moaned. 

"It was easy. Besides, it doesn't matter. You enjoyed it and you'll enjoy it 
more," he said, slapping her thigh, throwing a tingling back into her body, 
the potion still working. 

The noise of the sudden slap brought Jeff out of his trance. His rock hard 
cock pushed to break free from his pants, while Pat put her hand on his 
inner thigh. "I told you it would be different," she said. "And there's more 
to come." 

 CHAPTER SIX - THE SEARCH 

Ken stood in Luis Sanchez' office. It resembled no office by Ken's 
standards. The Mexican attorney worked out of almost a closet. The room was 
eight feet square, illuminated by a bare overhead bulb. The bookshelf looked 
as if it had just suffered in the wake of Hurricane Beulah. Covers were worn 
and tattered, probably not from use, but from the hot dampness that hung in 
the air day after day. Sanchez did almost no business except divorce cases, 
which required no more work than a civic clerk could have done. 

His desk was strewn with papers, some torn, some folded, others stacked in 
what must have been the Mexican's own filing system of haphazard 
remembrance. A typewriter, covered with dust, except for the worn keys, 
stood on a portable steel table, its Spanish symbols tired from describing 
hundreds of divorce cases, accenting the same sentences and syllables over 
and over. 

Sanchez' lean features did not match his round balding head. His shining 
dark crown should have belonged to a much heavier man. Though the small room 
was air conditioned by an American portable window machine, his shirt 
dripped with sweat. He wiped beads of water from his forehead with a dirty 
brown handkerchief. "That should finish our business, Senor Jurgins. I hope 
everything is satisfactory." 

"Satisfactory is the word," Ken said sarcastically. He didn't like the other 
attorney because of his loose manner and seemingly inefficient ways, though 
everything had gone smoothly. Ken resented the fact that the other man 
called himself an attorney, though he did nothing more than type forms and 
go through an everyday performance by rote, not giving any thought to his 
client's emotional state. 

Ken's affection for Barbara, and his closeness to her grief allowed him no 
tolerance. He had wanted the business in court to be more than it had been, 
and not a phony ceremony that had no more meaning than selling the title to 
a car. 

"Perhaps we will do business again, Senor," Sanchez said smiling as he put a 
check for three hundred dollars into his wallet. "There are so many American 
women seeking divorce here that we could almost become partners on both 
sides of the borders." 

"I don't handle divorces," Ken said, looking straight into the Mexican's 
dark eyes. "This was a favor to Mrs. Rodney, who is a good friend and needed 
a friend's consolation and assistance. I wanted to make this as bearable as 
possible for her, but you didn't help matters at all." 

Sanchez still smiled, though he had been insulted. He knew that Ken did not 
like his manner of business, or the manner of the divorce court. It was 
obvious to him that the American lawyer gave more than professional 
consideration to his client. "I do my job in a painless and efficient 
manner. You came to me because of my reputation. I didn't call you," the 
forty-year-old man said. "I excuse your rudeness in my office, knowing that 
your client was distraught, and caused you a great deal of professional 
concern. But I am a busy man," he said walking to the door and opening it, 
letting a blast from the afternoon furnace into the room. 

Ken walked out the door, not looking behind him, not hearing the Mexican bid 
him "Adios." Christ, he thought. Another minute and I would have hit him. 
But, he was right... 

Going over a checklist of things yet to be done, Ken hurried to the bar 
where he had told Barbara to meet him. He knew she would probably be drunk 
by now. During the last two weeks she had done a great deal of drinking, and 
now would be the hardest time for her, trying to readjust to a new way of 
living. He would do everything he could for her, and with luck she might 
realize, once she comes out of her fog, that he loved her. 

But for now he could not think of his own needs. Hers were more important, 
and immediate, if she were to ever regain her old self, though that seemed 
improbable the way she had buried herself in pity and blame, thinking that 
her joke of a marriage had been ruined by something that she had done, and 
not the gross sexual insanity of her irresponsible husband. 

Ken pushed open the glass door and walked inside. It was two-thirty in the 
afternoon and the heat inside was nearly as bad as the blazing cauldron 
outside. Ken stood by the comer booth, his coat slung over his shoulder, his 
tie loose, hanging free. It took a minute to focus his eyes to the half 
light of the bar which smelled of the musk that nearly all bars in humid 
cities seem to acquire with age. 

Two men sat at the bar and all the boothes were empty. She must be in the 
powder room he thought. Ken slid onto the same stool that Barbara had left 
half an hour before. "Tequila," he said to Manuel. 

The obese bartender poured the famous Mexican liquor into a glass and 
brought a lemon and salt shaker to the younger lawyer who sat, turning his 
head towards the ladies room, expecting Barbara to exit at any minute. 

"Is the young American woman in a white dress back there," he said pointing 
toward the door marked Senoras. 

"No, senor," Manuel said as if he were very interested in the young man's 
problem. "She left here hours ago. Around twelve o'clock, I think." 

"Was she alone?" 

"I don't remember," he lied. "She was sitting with another man in the 
corner," he said, hoping to increase Ken's concern. 

"Who was he? Does he live here or is he an American?" 

"He was of my country, but I have never seen him before." 

Ken didn't trust the bartender. The fat man seemed to be playing a game with 
him. He finished sucking the lemon and got off the stool to begin his 
search. Barbara wasn't the kind of woman to go off the deep end like this, 
to allow herself to be picked up in a bar, especially in a strange country 
where she knew nothing of the area or the people she might have to deal 
with. Ken did not believe that she would be so foolish. Perhaps she went 
shopping. Women always seem to spend money on clothes or anything that might 
catch an eye when they are under emotional stress. 

Ken stood on the sweltering sidewalk. He looked both ways, then decided to 
start in the shops to his right. She wouldn't have gone far. 

His journey, however, was fruitless. After an hour of trying to converse 
with shopkeepers he had covered three blocks on both sides of the street and 
come up with nothing at all. He went back to the bar for another drink. 
Perhaps a ten dollar bill might loosen the bartender's tongue. 

"Shine, Senor?" the small shirtless boy asked Ken just as he pushed on 
Manuel's swinging glass door. 

Ken looked at his dusty shoes, thinking that if he got a shoe shine, it 
would last about three minutes on the street, but... 

"How long have you been out here?" he looked at the boy. 

"All day, Senor, even during siesta. I am trying to make enough money to go 
to school in America some day." The boy was about ten years old, bright eyed 
and smiling. 

Ken raised his foot and put it on the boy's shoebox. "Then, let's see how 
good you are," he said smiling down at him. 

"The best in all Mexico, Senor," the boy bragged. 

If anyone saw Barbara, this boy would have, Ken thought as he watched the 
youngster quickly clean his shoe with soap and water, then apply polish with 
his finger, spreading it in even circles on the toe, then the sides. The 
afternoon heat started to melt the polish almost before it was applied. With 
a dozen quick strokes of a dampened rag the boy put a quick luster on one of 
Ken's forty-dollar shoes, then added more polish and deftly brought the toe 
to a brilliant shine. 

"Not bad," Ken said, handing the boy a dollar. "If you can do that well on 
the other shoe there's another three dollars for you." 

The boy looked up for a moment, surprised, then turned his full attention on 
the second shoe, giving it all he had. He would be sure to earn the three 
American dollars. 

Finished, the shoeshine artist looked up for approval. "Good," Ken said. 
"Here's the three." 

"Muchas Gracias, Senor," the boy said in his native tongue, too excited to 
remember that he was talking to a gringo. 

"There is one other thing you might do for me," Ken said, his tone 
congenial. 

Thinking that the tall man wanted a girl for the night, Juan smiled. "I can 
get you anything you want, Senor. Juarez has the prettiest girls in all 
Mexico." 

"Another time for that," Ken said. "I'm looking for one girl in particular. 
An American girl who was in this bar today. Do you remember seeing her?" 

"She was dressed in white, Senor?" 

"Yes. Her hair was a light brown." 

"She is your woman? She is very beautiful." 

"She's just a friend, son. Did you see which way she went?" 

"Senor Rodriguez took her in his car," the boy said, a concerned look on his 
face. 

"Who is Senor Rodriguez? Where do you think they went?" 

"Everyone know Senor Rodriguez," the boy started. "He is a very wealthy man, 
a good man to his people. He has many girlfriends, though, all of them 
American women. I see him many times leave Manuel's with beautiful American 
women. 

"Senor Rodriguez has much money. My Papa says that he started as a shoe 
shine boy when he was my age and now he lives in a large villa outside of 
Juarez, with many servants and two fine cars. None of my people have been 
there, but my mother's cousin works for him in the kitchen. She says that 
the house has five bedrooms and bathrooms. 

"She says that he has many big parties, and always different people come, 
but she does not know much about the parties, because they are always in a 
special room in the basement that only two of the servants are allowed to go 
into, and they do not say what is in the room." 

"Where is the villa, son? Do you know where it is?" 

"Si, you follow this road that way to the junction, then turn left and 
follow the river for maybe six miles. There is only one villa before you get 
there. It belongs to an American lady who is a good friend of Senor 
Rodriguez. There will be a party tonight. My mother's cousin was at the 
market today, buying food for the party. She said there will not be many 
people, though." 

"Thank you," Ken said, handing the boy a five dollar bill. "You have been 
more helpful than you know." 

"Thank you Senor. Thank you very much!" 

Ken didn't look back, but ran toward Sanchez' office a block away where he 
had parked the car he had rented in El Paso. 

"You are in a hurry, Senor?" Sanchez yelled as Ken ran to the car, unlocked 
it and jumped in. 

"Yeah," he said. "In a hurry," and drove off, leaving Sanchez angrily 
swishing his arms at the cloud of dust that engulfed him. 

Ken sped past children still playing in the street, though it was nearly 
dark. He turned left at the junction and pushed the accelerator down, 
throwing gravel from the back tires as he wheeled down the asphalt highway 
at eighty miles an hour. 

He couldn't imagine that Barbara would do anything foolish, like being 
suckered by a Mexican playboy, which is what he imagined Senor Rodriguez to 
be, judging from the boy's description. Perhaps she was invited to the 
party, though. If Rodriguez was a wealthy man, he would probably be very 
social, giving many parties for people from both sides of the border. It 
would be understandable that a cook and other servants not be allowed in 
certain rooms in the house. The butler and housekeeper would be the only 
ones who had any business in a party room. Still, the boy seemed to be 
mysterious about the room, as if it were something special and dangerous 
behind its doors. Nonsense, he thought. It's only a young boy's imagination. 

Deep in thought, Ken drove past the road that led to Philippe's home. The 
shoeshine boy had neglected to tell him that the house was situated off the 
road out of sight from the highway. Ken drove almost ten miles before he 
realized that he had missed the turn. His concern for Barbara clouded his 
thinking. 

He stopped for a minute beside the highway and walked around the car to 
clear his head. If there's a party I should be dressed for it. He opened the 
trunk and took out a clean shirt. He pulled a suit from its hanger in the 
back seat and stepped off the road down to a small, almost dry creek where 
he washed his face and hands and changed into fresh clothing. That's better, 
he thought, getting back into the Ford. 

He drove more slowly in the dark, watching ahead of his lights for a road 
that might lead to a house away from the highway. At twenty miles an hour it 
took him almost fifteen minutes to find a road that might lead to his 
destination. He followed the dry dusty road for almost a mile, before 
turning a bend and seeing the villa spread out below in a small arroyo about 
two hundred yards wide. 

Lights in the courtyard illuminated the house. Even from where he stopped 
the car Ken could see that the house was indeed that of a wealthy man, 
completely out of place in the desert surroundings with its rich green lawn 
and immaculately clean white courtyard wall. 

The mansion looked almost like an exclusive hotel. Well, Ken thought, he 
couldn't be all bad to have the taste for a home like that. He switched his 
lights back on, dimming them from high beam, and proceeded toward the house. 

A boy inside the yard saw the lights coming toward the house and opened the 
gate to allow the red Ford to enter. Inside was a white Cadillac, probably 
belonging to the American woman, Ken thought, seeing two other cars in the 
open garage. 

The boy who had opened the gate stood a few feet from Ken's door as he got 
out, putting on his clean suit coat. He pulled a quarter from his pocket and 
flipped it to the boy, who caught it between both hands and ran toward a 
door beside the garage. Probably the kitchen, Ken thought. He might even be 
related to the shoe shine boy. O K. party, here I come. 

Inside the house Philippe lead the drugged girl from the bedroom along the 
panelled wall to the top of the stairs. She started to pass out, and he 
caught her and eased her to the carpet. "Carlita," he yelled. "Bring me some 
more orange juice, now!" 

Hearing her master's voice Carlita grabbed her bikini bottom and pulled it 
quickly on. Her body glistened with sweat. She moved as quickly as possible, 
though her movements were slow for such a lean, strong young girl. She was 
exhausted from the last half hour. After leaving Philippe and Barbara alone, 
she ran to her room, her hand still tickling her clitoris and worked herself 
into a frenzy, masturbating to a multiple climax. For the last five minutes 
she had lain spread-eagled on her bed, unable to do anything but breathe 
until Philippe called for her. 

She ran down the hall to the upstairs pantry and pulled a pitcher of the 
specially-prepared orange juice from the refrigerator. Careful not to spill 
any, she grabbed a glass and followed the sound in the hall. 

"Carlita, hurry up." Philippe stared at her as she handed him the glass. "We 
have to give her more now, or it will be impossible to revive her. Here take 
this," he said after pouring a full glass into the naked girl's mouth. "Help 
me get her to her feet and down the stairs." 

The dark eyed girl helped her master and fantasy lover lift Barbara to her 
feet. The cold liquid was beginning to take effect, and she was regaining 
her senses. One by one they walked down the stairs. Barbara felt her 
consciousness returning, but recognized that she was still burning inside, 
that she still had that wild, burning sensation deep in her loins. 

God, it was unbearable again! 

Philippe wore only a towel and Barbara yanked it from his body as he half 
carried her down the stairs, and dropped to her knees, grabbing his deflated 
penis in her hands and sucking it into her mouth. 

He shook her by the shoulders and forced her to let go. "Not yet, kitten. 
Wait until we get downstairs. Our guests are waiting." 

Barbara tried to obey, but her passion had complete control over her, even 
Philippe's military tone commanding obedience, could not force her to stop 
grappling for his body with her fingers. She put one hand between her legs 
to relieve herself, her own touch filling her with erotic shocks of 
pleasure. 

Philippe slapped her hard across her cheek, raising an immediate welt under 
one eye. The pain turned quickly to pleasure, but the force of the blow 
instructed her to cease for a moment, and the look in his eye told her to 
obey, or else. 

At the bottom of the stairs she was able to walk on her own. Philippe strode 
behind her, his arm around Carlita. He knew what she had been doing. He had 
watched her masturbate many times before through his closed circuit 
television that covered every room in the house. He knew that in a few weeks 
she would be tormented and ready enough to be his slave for as long as he 
wished, once she experienced the pleasure and pain he would give her. 

As they neared the door to the basement stair case the doorbell chimed its 
three tones. "Take her downstairs," Philippe told the small girl. Introduce 
her to my guests, then leave and go to your room." 

He crossed the room to the closet and withdrew a Japanese Kimono, wrapping 
the belt around himself and picking up a book from the coffee table. He 
straightened his hair in the hall mirror as the bell chimed once more. He 
opened the door. "May I help you." 

"I certainly hope so. Is Senor Rodriguez at home?" Ken asked. "I am he." 

"Good. I'm Ken Jurgins, a friend of Barbara Rodney, the girl you left 
Manuel's with this afternoon. I was told she had come here to your party." 

"Oh, yes, Barbara mentioned your name. She left over two hours ago, though," 
the Mexican told the man at the door. "As you can see there is no party 
tonight." 

Ken believed the aristocratic looking Mexican standing at the door. His 
manner was soft and polite, not at all like he had imagined. He was looking 
past the kimono-clad figure into the house, just to get a glimpse of the 
inside, not looking for anything, when he saw a familiar white patent 
leather purse laying on the entryway table, its gold chain dangling over the 
edge. 

"Did she say where she was going?" he asked, hoping that his discovery had 
not been detected. 

Philippe told him that she had been very tired and that his chauffeur had 
driven her to her hotel in El Paso. There was no need for alarm he said, not 
suspecting that Ken had seen the purse. 

Ken smiled, thanked him and left, the door closing quickly behind him. She 
couldn't have left, he thought. Barbara was too vain to leave her makeup 
behind, especially if it were in her purse at the door. She would never have 
been so careless to leave anything behind. Her possessions were all she had. 
They were too important. 

He drove the red Ford carefully around the circular driveway and out the 
wide gate, past the small boy who was smiling and waving, hoping to get 
another tip. Ken pointed the car along the road and drove fast enough to 
make it look to whomever was watching as if he were leaving. Instead of 
stopping around the bend he decided to drive all the way to the highway, in 
case he could be seen anywhere along the dirt road. It would be no trouble 
to come back along the road without his lights. The bright southern moon lit 
the road almost as bright as twilight, illuminated the sentinal cactus that 
stood guard along the road, tall and proud, their weapons at their 
shoulders, guiding his way. 

Philippe closed the door, believing he had convinced the unannounced visitor 
that his client had left. He turned to put the book he had been carrying on 
the table behind him when his vision stopped on the white purse. Had the 
American seen the purse? He didn't seem to be alarmed if he had. Perhaps the 
hallway had been dark enough to hide the gleaming purse, or at least conceal 
its identity. The American would have probably asked if he saw it. Jurgins 
looked too honest and straightforward to not have asked if she had left it. 
It would have been a perfect cover to give him the purse, but it really did 
not matter one way or the other. The girl would be too ashamed to try to 
take him to court for anything, and she didn't know she had been drugged. 
That could always be construed as having been a result of her highly 
volatile state, arising from her divorce. Her own emotions could be blamed 
for her intense sexual desire. She had no other charges, nothing that would 
ever stand in court. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN - THE PARTY 

"Your turn now," Philippe said to the pair sitting on the bed. Jeff watched 
his host come out of the fern jungle, smiling. He walked to the bar and 
poured himself another glass of orange juice, downed it in one swallow, then 
poured three more for his guests. Pat smiled at her friend and put an arm 
around Jeff's shoulder, turning her face toward his." 

"Drink your juice like a good boy," she said, trying to imitate a concerned 
mother, but not able to conceal her laughter at what she thought was a joke. 
Jeff obeyed, still stimulated by the first glass. If I feel like exploding 
now, he thought, what will I feel like in five minutes? 

The juice looked almost green in the grasp of the blue lights. Pat poised 
the goblet at his lips, whisking his hands away as he started to take it 
himself. "Let me do it," she said. "I'll take good care of you tonight, all 
the way." 

She banged the glass accidentally into his teeth with a clink, spilling a 
few drops on his chin and before he could reach for a handkerchief she had 
pulled the glass away and licked his chin clean. Though he had shaved and 
readied himself for the party only three hours before, his beard had already 
started to grow again, the stubble roughly scraping against the wet 
roughness of her tongue, leaving an uneven pattern on its coated surface. 

At the bar Philippe sat high atop a red leather stool, watching the two 
Americans prepare for their next encounter. He was never jealous of Pat and 
the men she brought with her, knowing that she would always come back to him 
when she wanted real pleasure. It was as if each time she brought a man to 
the curtained party room, she was performing for his benefit, rehearsing for 
the next time Philippe would call her to his bed. 

The thirty-inch television screen nickered momentarily, still concentrated 
on the guest bedroom channel. He reached behind the bar and pushed the off 
button on the wireless control panel. There would be no need for television, 
or would there. With the second thought he switched the set back on, and 
turned to the party room channel. Pat smiled as she saw her image projected 
on the overhead screen. This will be different, she thought, pointing her 
finger upwards, showing Jeff that he would also be a screen star tonight. 
The prospect would have otherwise stopped him, but the show he had seen half 
an hour earlier, and the potion in the juice that had stoned him almost like 
the marijuana, Acapulco Gold, combined with his delight as he imagined what 
his performance would look like. He had watched himself in mirrors before, 
but never like this. 

Barbara stared into her green orange juice, the blue light filtering into 
her drink making the small pieces of fresh orange glisten like multi-colored 
jewels. The moss-green throw rug, three inches thick in its softness, 
matched the green in the tri-colored drapes that surrounded the room, making 
it look smaller than it actually was. Her fingers pulled lightly at the 
thickness as she watched the gems float in her glass. She looked up 
occasionally at the pair on the bed who were seemed unaware that anyone was 
watching, though they actually knew it. It only increased their excitement. 

Barbara, afraid to move, thinking she might be slapped again, was breathing 
as quietly as possible. She was an obedient animal, trapped into something 
that gave her more pleasure than she had ever experienced, but something 
that she knew was wrong, that she had been forced to submit to. Her 
degradation and shame was nearly complete in her living cage, she had been 
used in the grossest manner, her body nothing more than an instrument for 
the Mexican's cruel pleasure, his pleasure with no thought for her own 
burning desires. She may as well be a dog. 

More puzzling than anything was the fact that she enjoyed it all. There 
seemed to be no explanation for her outrageous sexual hunger. Her memory had 
not failed her. She knew what she had done on the stairs. The thought of 
grabbing Philippe's soft penis and sucking it into her mouth produced a 
silent sob of shame in her mind, but at the same time she felt a sharp 
sensation flash between her legs at the thought of sucking him again. 

A single note from a classical guitar broke the silence in the room, 
followed by another. Philippe had turned on the stereo, selecting a Flamenco 
tape that would start softly and build to a crescendo of wild roaring 
rhythm. It was Pat's signal to start her work on the young man now lying on 
the bed. 

Slowly at first, the music tapped a light melody on his temples. He watched 
the color screen above him as Pat reached behind her and unzipped her dress. 
Her hands returned to her front and with a smooth, even motion she reached 
to her shoulders and pulled the fabric free to her waist. As usual, she wore 
no bra to hinder her breasts. They were as strong, as firm, as full as the 
day she turned eighteen, ten years before. She had no tan line; the privacy 
of her villa affording her the opportunity to sunbathe nude whenever she 
desired. 

Taut nipples, swelled and jutted out from the dark circles of their aureoles 
as if they had been placed there as an afterthought. She released the dress 
at her waist, still sitting, and brought her hands, spread wide up her 
delicious curves, over her rib cage and cupped the fullness of her breasts. 
Her thumbs moved round and round over the sides, then tantalizingly slipped 
over her hardened nipples which popped upright as her thumbs crushed, then 
released them. 

She reveled for a moment in her own world, her caresses giving her the touch 
that she alone knew she wanted at the moment. Jeff, watching the screen 
above, reached for her with his hands, but she backed away. "Not with your 
hands tonight," she said. "Not with your hands." 

Jeff held them aloft for a moment, trying to comprehend what she had said, 
then lowered them, lifting his head a moment and pillowing it in his folded 
fingers. His erection had not subsided since watching the other couple on 
television and he concentrated on the swelling between his legs as well as 
the woman beside him as she slid her dress off her hips, over her ankles and 
threw it to the floor. He could see the dark shadow of her pubic hair under 
the tight yellow panties. 

She sat down and stretched, balancing herself on her buttocks flexing the 
muscles of her outstretched legs, her hands reaching toward her knees, her 
fingers spread wide in a total muscular effort like a cat awakening from a 
long night, yawning with glistening teeth and taught face. 

Pink fingernails, clawing lightly like a playful feline, touched her knees 
curiously. She looked as though her own fingernails were not a part of her, 
but those of an unseen lover. She traced a wavy line along the inner flesh 
of her thighs to the tight elastic crotchband at their junction. The nylon 
was already wet from the show she had seen before and a new flush of 
dampness surged through the tight fabric as she excited herself further, 
slipping a finger from each hand under the tightness and toying with the 
soft black hairs, tangled and wet with her own sexual secretions. 

Each finger probed its way across the dark patch to meet in the center, but 
instead of opening the waiting lips of her vulva, they pressed the loose 
flesh together, folding it inward, depriving the pink inner lips from direct 
contact. 

The beautiful expatriot opened her mouth and sighed at the torment she was 
inflicting upon herself. Each push of her fingers, forcing her flesh to fold 
inward brought her even more torture, knowing how close, yet how far she was 
from ecstasy, yet she had the willpower to keep from going too far. 

She looked at the sprawled male beside her, his yearning phallus pressing 
hard against his restraining trousers. She ran her tongue over her lips, 
moistening them, and took her fingers from the lips of her cunt, leaning on 
her hands and kissing him. She pulled his lower lip into her mouth and 
sucked on it, pulling it hard into her mouth, as he did the same to her 
upper lip, caressing it with his tongue as it slithered between his open 
lips. 

She raised herself and loosened his tie, jerking it from his neck with a 
snap like a bullwhip. Greedily, the excited woman tore at the buttons of 
Jeff's shirt, breaking all of them from their threads before she could 
extract them from their holes. She left the shirt on his back and got off 
the bed, one knee on the mahogany ledge surrounding the satin-covered 
mattress. His loafers slipped easily off his feet, followed quickly by his 
over-the calf socks. She bent for a moment and nibbled at the sparse hairs 
that dotted the tops of his feet, then slid her hands up his pantlegs and 
quickly unfastened his belt, pulling his trousers and shorts off with two 
strong tugs of her whole body, nearly falling off the ledge as she slipped 
the remaining fabric from his ankles. 

She pushed herself off one knee to her feet, standing on the bed, straddling 
his body, her vagina lightly dripping hot sweet fluids on his stomach. With 
both hands she grabbed the wet elastic and ripped her yellow panties, 
freeing her pulsating vagina from its prison. 

Her plan was complete and she followed her outline to the letter. Yesterday 
she had spent three hours preparing an exacting course for tonight's 
experiment. Instead of dropping to his body to gorge hers with his swollen 
cock, she gently lowered herself above his head, her soft, moist pubic hairs 
dangling inches from his open mouth. 

He lifted his head, grasping the outsides of her thighs with his hands, and 
buried his nose between the fire-red lips of her excited vagina. His 
nostrils sensed the sweet scent of her pussy as he ran his nose back and 
forth along the crevice, nipping at the bud of her clitoris and playing at 
the edge of the warm, smooth cavern between her legs which opened and closed 
with practiced precisions 

"Eat me, darling," she crooned down at him, an obscene grin playing across 
her hps. "Put your tongue in me." 

She let her body sink, almost her whole weight crushing against the 
scavenging mouth that sucked and pulled at her hungry pussy, her cunt that 
chewed back at the lips and teeth that had opened to force a tongue deep 
into her fiery passage. 

Burning with raging passion she began to rock lightly up and down, her 
buttocks clenching and unclenching as she raised and lowered herself, 
rhythmically in time to his darting tongue sphtting her between her thighs. 
Jeff was glued tightly to her pussy. His hands held the soft flesh of her 
thighs. His neck muscles strained as he lifted his head with each raising 
motion of escape that she made, his whole mouth entombed within her, pulling 
at the throbbing void, anxious to cum. 

Picking up her increasing rhythm, he began to blow deep into her as she came 
down and suck and swirl his tongue around inside her as she rose again. The 
bellows that filled her only further heated the burning passage and she 
could feel hot fluids seeping from herself down onto his cheeks. Suddenly 
she raised to her full kneeling height, as if a spear had been shot through 
her entire abdomen ... a searing hot spear thrown by a neanderthal half a 
million years ago, burning its way through time and space to find its 
bestial target. "Aaarrrgggghhhhhhh, Aaaahhhhhh! she screamed with all the 
animal lust within her. "I'm cummmmmiinnnnng, now, oh yes oh yes, I'm 

Her body twitched and spasmodically she shot to her feet, her legs spread 
wide. Her body quivered out her release and with a groan fell back onto the 
bed, hitting and rolling to the side, still twitching for a moment. 

"Ooh," she moaned. "Aaahhh." She lay still, still tasting the delight of 
cunnilingus, but not forgetting her plan. 

Jeff lay on the bed where he had dropped, his own passion unfulfilled. He 
thought that she was unconscious, and her last screams had nearly blasted 
him to his own climax. He needed release and started to rub his cock 
unconsciously with both hands like a man milking a cow. 

"No, stop!" he heard. Pat pulled at his hand. "I said I would take care of 
you tonight, and I will, darling. I will!" 

Jeff said nothing but looked at her as she turned, crawling, to the side of 
the bed where Philippe stood, his erection standing out from between the 
folds of his kimono, curving slightly upward, one hand beneath it, massaging 
his balls. He bent to the ledge and lifted a concealed panel, handing two 
black cylindrical objects to the woman's outstretched hands. 

"He'll like these," he said, grinning at the red faced woman, who bent 
forward and licked the head of his throbbing erection affectionately, like a 
dog paying homage to a gracious master. 

She withdrew her head and crawled back to the other side of the bed, a 
six-inch long vibrator in each hand. Without changing her pace she crushed 
her lips against Jeff's, a drop of white sperm from Philippe's cock still at 
the corner of her mouth. For a long moment they kissed, then she broke the 
seal and began working her way downward across his muscular chest, toying 
with his navel, sticking her tongue in and out, then taking the whole well 
into her mouth and sucking the loose lean skin, giving him a strange 
sensation, one he had never experienced before. It was sexual, yet playful, 
but the aphrodesiac quickly ruled out the playfulness and he pushed his 
abdomen upward. But she loosened her toothless grip and lashed her head 
sideways, burying her mouth in the tangled hair at the base of his upright 
penis, swaying spasmodically, like a tottering tree about to fall, but not 
knowing which way to go. 

Kissing her way around his cock, one way then the other, hardly touching the 
throbbing phallus, but just pushing at the hair she built a fire at the 
stake, a fire that would soon explode as it had never exploded before. 

While her lips warmed him, her thumbs found the switches on the two 
battery-powered vibrators. A barely perceptible whirr purred in Jeff's ears, 
their volume slightly increased by the solid conductor of the bed, making 
them sound like two chain saws, ready to fall his reddened tree, threatening 
him with extinction. 

He opened his eyes to view the color screen fifteen feet above his head, 
recording her every movement, his every expression of pure ecstasy. 

Her head changed positions, moving a few inches downward between his thighs. 

His testicles, like two unborn calves, breathed within their sac, waiting 
for release, wanted the pressure to give way, that they might be free of the 
increasingly painful tension. She opened her mouth wide and pulled at the 
loose skin of his scrotum with her hps, grasping a wrinkled portion between 
her teeth and sucking it further into her mouth, one of his balls following 
it, then the other. 

Jeff watched the whirring vibrator in her hand move, slowly, haltingly, to 
the side of her mouth, resting on her swollen cheek. The vibrator contacted 
one testicle through the flesh of her mouth and nearly rattled him apart 
with intense electric shocks as it violently, yet painlessly massaged his 
balls, one touching the other, transferring what seemed like a million volts 
of high powered sensitivity through his entire body to his brain, exploding 
in brilliant fiery volcanic lights, red and yellow-bursting into orange. 

"Ooohhh Goddd," he moaned. 

Pat didn't hear him. The whirring near her ear coupled with the rising 
humming that was coming from her throat drowned out all other sounds. Her 
own gutteral sounds changed in pitch and volume, sounding like the static on 
a World War II military radio. 

One at a time, she released the excited testicles from her mouth, trailing 
saliva into the crevice between the cheeks of his ass. Her tongue 
efficiently followed the road signs of two parallel veins back to the erect, 
swaying cock and began its climb to the peak, running back and forth, time 
and time again at the mound of his glans, making him think that she had 
burned him with jagged razor blades, though he knew well what she was doing 
from the screen on the ceiling. 

Suddenly she hfted her head and dropped it upon the smooth, rubbery head, 
sucking away the few drops of sperm that had formed at its opening. She 
toyed with the whole crown rasping the roof of her mouth across its tip and 
over the top, driving him almost to insanity. 

Then, with a downward bob of her head she forced three quarters of his cock 
into her mouth, deep into the hot confines of her throat, barely allowing 
herself enough room to breath, the tip forcing a slight bulge on the outside 
of her throat just below the surface. 

She took the vibrator and applied it to the protrusion. In an instant he 
began to jerk, with the spasmodic twitch of an impending orgasm, and she 
removed the vibrator and relaxed her mouth, ceasing to suck on him and 
letting him get some control. She didn't want him to cum yet, not until she 
was ready. 

They lay silent for a minute then she replaced the vibrator against her skin 
and began to stroke her throat and cheek in an easy motion, feeling his 
passion again begin to build. 

He hardly recognized the touch of the second vibrator as he watched on the 
screen. Her hand moved from its supporting position on the bed to just below 
his balls, hanging loosely, swaying slightly, oiling themselves in the film 
of her saliva that had trailed down between his legs. 

The tip of the cigar shaped machine tingled in the hair two inches from his 
anus. Slowly, with deliberate pressure it shd toward the tiny, dark circle 
that had been violated only once before during its adult hfe. Pat laid it 
lengthwise across the uninhabited space, glistening with the moisture of her 
mouth. 

The whirring and vibrations increased in intensity as she pushed the button 
to a second position, doubling the small electric motor's pitch. 

She positioned the tip at the tightened ring of his anus. He resisted 
mentally still thrashing his head from side to side vigorously, trying to 
keep his vision focused on the screen overhead. He knew what she was about 
to do, and wanted her to do it, but somewhere inside him, something 
resisted, just for the sake of resisting, for the sake of prolonging the 
agony of waiting, making the pleasure that much more intense. 

Gently at first, then more forcefully, she probed the opening, letting the 
forbidden cavern get a hght taste of what was to come, making it more 
relaxed, so that would not tear the tender, unused flesh. More than an inch 
had vibrated its way into the opening. 

"Aaaaagh! God!" he groaned, fighting to retain his control. 

She felt him continue to resist, seemingly more strongly, so with one great 
push she shoved the black devil deep into his rectum, leaving less than an 
inch protruding from between his legs. 

"Ugh!" was all he would allow himself to utter. Even under the power of the 
strange drug, the inhibitions of his ego would not permit any more than a 
slight utterance of pain, though his eyes filled with tears as he thought 
his asshole had been ripped open. 

At first shirking from the six-inch log, his rectum had pulled away from it, 
increasing its own size naturally, adapting to the strange intruder, then 
feeling that it was not an enemy, but a friend, intent only on bringing 
further pleasure, it refolded tightly around the rounded instrument, holding 
it firmly as though it didn't want to let go. 

His body began shaking all over. The light vibrations against his cock in 
her mouth, coupled with those more intense vibrations deep within his rectum 
took hold of his entire being. He was blind to the scene on the ceiling 
above. He had no thoughts, only sensation. The pain was gone, replaced by 
the building waves shaking him inside and out, like the chain reaction in a 
nuclear reactor. 

A great rumbling started in his belly, rising like the ocean in a 
thirty-foot killer wave to his throat. Every blood vessel, every bone, every 
muscle in his lower body split into thousands of pieces at once as the tidal 
wave burst from his mouth, "AAAAaaaarrrrgggghhhhhh! God!" 

Rivers of hot sperm flooded into the temptress' mouth, filling it beyond 
capacity, some leaking from the corners onto her cheeks, covering the still 
vibrating machine with gushing rivulets of white, hot liquid, seeping into 
the ventilating holes onto the motor, where it burnt out with a bright flash 
of blue, burning a dark spot on her cheek, that raised almost immediately to 
a blister. 

She jerked her head back at the shock, almost tearing the throbbing head off 
his still wildly ejaculating cock. Blood poured onto his belly, mixing with 
the creamy white liquid that soaked his body. 

They both lay still in pain. The potion had worn off and Jeff was groaning 
almost incoherently at the pain of the still-pulsating vibrator lodged in 
his rear end. 

Philippe saw their plight and jumped onto the bed from where he had been 
kneeling beside it, watching their every move. Without a word to the 
tormented body on the bed he grabbed the slight protrusion with the grip of 
an eagle picking up a mouse from a field and ripped it from his asshole, 
freeing Jeff from the misery that had immediately followed his extreme 
pleasure. 

The Mexican threw the vibrator aside and lifted Pat from the floor where she 
had fallen, placing her on the bed, nearly unconscious. He ran in three 
steps to the bar and got an ice pack, taking it back and placing it tenderly 
on her cheek. She'll be all right, he thought. The cold will take away the 
pain and the blister in a matter of minutes. 

A few feet away Ken stood among the dripping ferns. His eyes had adjusted to 
the blue lights just in time to watch the spectacular climax across the 
room. He stood riveted to the spot, watching the young man he had seen in a 
kimono an hour earlier administer the tanned woman at his side. 

He had driven his car back to the bend in the road, just before the villa 
and parked it facing the highway in case he had to leave quickly. Not 
knowing what kind of shape Barbara might be in, he did not want to hassle 
with her to escape. 

The white wall around the courtyard had been relatively easy to scale using 
the large vines near the gate. Apparently the boy whom he had tipped was in 
bed. Most of the upstairs lights were out, with the exception of the 
servant's den where the hired help was watching an American program on 
television, unaware that he had slipped through the kitchen door, walking 
cautiously into the living room to look for the door the shoeshine boy had 
recalled. If Barbara was in the house, and the Cadillac belonged to the 
American woman who lived a few short miles away, they might all be 
conceivably in the party room below. 

The door stood obviously at the far end of the room. A shaft of dim light 
from the hallway illuminated the large paneled living room just enough for 
Ken to find his way without bumping into any of the furniture. The thick oak 
door was locked. 

He tried to find a button, remembering from old television movies that there 
was always a concealed button. Frantically he searched and in his haste he 
knocked over a green vase to the left of the door. Instead of falling to the 
floor, it dropped to a forty-five degree angle, hinged to the table. The 
door opened without a sound. He could see the gaslighted stairway below. 
Testing the door, he turned to upright the vase, then descended the ominous 
stairs, closing the door behind him. 

There was no lock on the door at the bottom, and he opened it an inch at a 
time, sticking his head into the apparent greenhouse, surprised to see the 
damp ferns, fanning out in a spider web of macabre green, bathed in the blue 
of heatless lamps. 

Crossing the room he watched for a few short minutes, not believing what he 
saw before him. Only after seeing Philippe run across the room did his mind 
react to what he saw. 

He searched the room with his eyes, looking for Barbara. He saw her standing 
beside the bar. With a crash she dropped the glass she held in her hands, 
spilling the green tinted orange juice and ice cubes over the moss colored 
rug. His shock hadn't subsided. It couldn't ... Barbara was completely 
naked. Her glazed eyes looked almost completely white, their bright blue 
color not discernable, even in the blue light. 

She began walking toward the stage in the center of the room like a woman 
asleep. Her motions seemed not to originate in her own body, but from 
somewhere without, guided by unseen hands. She flowed across the room. 
Between her and Philippe she could see rising swaying kelp. The overdose of 
the drug she had been given had started her hallucinating. Thinking the 
imaginary kelp was flowing with currents in the sea she began to move her 
arms in a breast stroke, swimming toward the blurred shape holding an ice 
pack on the bed. 

She was a fish, a giant grouper swimming leisurely through the Caribbean 
toward her lover, another grouper, intent on the scene at his side. She 
reached the bed, falling gracefully onto it, crushing her taut breasts 
against the satin sandy bottom of the blue sea. She tugged at the sheets, 
struggling to swim further when she felt an eel bite her left rear fin. 

She lashed her head to the side to attack. There stood Ken, holding her 
ankle. 

EPILOGUE 

The sun streamed through the open window laying its beams across Barbara's 
eyes. She resisted the intrusion, blinking her eyes, though not quite 
opening them, wanting to sleep longer. Her palms up, she opened her 
bloodshot blue eyes, rubbing them with her knuckles, trying to push the 
sleep away from the corners. 

Twisting her body, she turned on her side to find another day's sleep. For a 
moment she lay still, holding the pillow to her head luxuriating in its 
softness, not realizing where she was, not caring. A noise in the next room 
woke her with a start. Sitting upright, she jerked her head, looking around 
the room like a chipmunk who has smelled danger, but doesn't know what kind, 
or where it came from. 

Framed in the open window, Coit tower stood majestically along The skyline, 
the morning shadows cooling one side. Telegraph Hill's richness assured her 
that she was in familiar surroundings, that somehow she had returned to San 
Francisco. 

A vague recollection of a Spanish Villa passed through her memory. She 
reached her hand to see if Jerry was still in bed, but realized from the 
strange bedroom that she was not home. She was divorced. Jerry was no more 
for her. Divorced! 

Juarez quickly jumped into her mind, the bar, the ride, the same large villa 
again, but nothing more, except the clouded face of a handsome aristocratic 
Mexican. He was talking to her, listening to her in a car. 

She shook her head trying to clear the fog. Something is wrong, she thought. 
Effects of the drug had nearly worn off, but she was still groggy. Barbara 
scanned the strange bedroom. It was a man's room, no doubt about that. 

Blue-green drapes framed the large window looking out to San Francisco and 
the Bay. She knew she must be on Russian Hill, knowing that it was directly 
across from Telegraph Hill and the proudly erect Coit tower. A mustard 
colored bedspread lay rumpled at the foot of the queen-sized bed. Across the 
room she saw a man's tie and cuff links on a contemporary dresser, its 
mirror reflecting her tousled hair and swollen eyes, a large red welt under 
one. 

She raised her hand to test the welt, finding it tender and very sensitive 
to her touch. She winced in pain and wonderment, searching her memory to 
discover where she had received such a welt. She remembered hearing the 
slap, but could not determine where or who had slapped her. She dragged 
herself unsteadily from the bed and walked to the mirror to look at her 
face. 

The bathroom door was slightly ajar and she changed course, walking inside 
to the marbled basin. Broken blood vessels dotted the swollen redness 
beneath her eye. She stood nude before the large mirror. Amazed and worried 
she saw a dozen bruises on her breasts and tanned stomach, most of them the 
size of love bites, small and black from hard biting teeth. 

She couldn't remember where she had been or how she had gotten the bruises. 
Who had brought her here, wherever that was, and who had undressed her. 

"Breakfast!" she heard from the bedroom; a familiar voice that she could not 
quite place. 

"I didn't think you would be up yet," Ken said poking his head in the open 
door. "Oh, sorry. There's another robe hanging behind the door." 

Petrified, Barbara closed the door and put the robe around her, tying the 
terrycloth belt tightly. Ken! That's where she was. It was the first time 
she had been in his apartment, and she began to remember how she had come to 
be there. 

His face flashed before her memory as he held her ankle. She had been 
drugged, excited like a nymphomaniac, crawling to attack Philippe with all 
her sexual power to finally be satisfied. "I don't believe it," she said to 
herself with a whisper. 

The shock of Ken's face in the strange party-room had broken her from the 
potion's hold. She had stared at him in terror. The young lawyer had lifted 
his client from the large bed, unnoticed by Philippe and his equally drugged 
companions and carried her unconscious from the house. 

Painful, horrifying memories of an evening in Mexico blasted at Barbara's 
brain. It was only a dream. It must have been only a dream. But why was she 
here, nude in Ken's apartment? 

She inched the door open and peered into the bedroom seeing first the large 
masculine painting over the bed. Ken bent under the painting, his hand on a 
knob. He had just turned on the FM radio and soft stereo jazz filled the 
bedroom. He hadn't seen her come out of the bathroom. 

"Good morning, Ken. It is morning, isn't it." 

"Oh, you startled me. Yes it's morning. How do you feel. I didn't think you 
would be up and around yet." 

"I'm dizzy and sore, but otherwise, with the exception of some blank spots, 
I seem to be all' right." 

"Well sit down and have some breakfast. You haven't eaten in three days." 
Barbara got back into the bed and Ken pulled up a chair beside her, placing 
a white breakfast tray in front of her. She picked up a fork and began 
eating ravenously. He was right, she thought. I must not have eaten for 
days. She took a bite of steak, broiled exactly the way she liked it. Ken 
sat looking at her, drinking a cup of hot black coffee. 

"How long have I been asleep," she asked, not raising her eyes to meet his, 
unsure about her dream, not really wanting to know. 

"Forty-eight hours," he replied. "But don't worry, you didn't miss much. The 
world is still intact and so are you. The doctor said a few days rest and 
you'll be as good as new. The drug had no permanent effects." 

It was true. It had not been a dream. "Oh, Ken," she cried, her eyes filling 
with tears. "I-I ... tell me what happened." 

"I'm not sure if I know all of it," he said. "Are you sure you want to 
know?" 

"I remember most of it now ... until I saw you holding my ankle." 

"From there I know everything," he said. "You were hallucinating. They had 
given you some kind of aphrodesiac, but apparently too much. You were on the 
brink of destruction. When I grabbed your ankle you must have been shocked 
into reality. I could see you recognized me. You passed out and I took you 
out of there directly to a hospital. The staff worked on you for hours, 
pumping your stomach and filling you with antidotes. 

"I called the pohce, and with the help of Sanchez, who turned out to be a 
very competent man after all, we put Rodriguez and Mrs. Carter behind bars. 
It seems that the other man was much like you, though he was there of his 
own free will. He's in the hospital, recovering from wounds as well as the 
drug. It was pretty messy when I got there. 

"Sanchez told me that government officials had been wise to what Rodriguez 
had been doing for more than a year, but could never get a witness to 
establish any proof. Your hospital records and statement, along with what T 
saw and McCarthy's statement will put that gigilo, the perverted bastard, 
and his female accomplice behind bars for a long while. 

"McCarthy's background is a little vague. Though he's in the hospital, he's 
under house arrest until the police can determine exactly who he is and what 
he was doing in Mexico. 

"The woman, a Mrs. Carter from Idaho, suffered a pretty severe burn. She 
won't be beautiful any longer." 

"But how ..." 

"I chartered a Lear jet and flew you back myself. Instead of a hospital I 
thought you would be more comfortable here. My doctor and yours have been 
stopping by every few hours. I'm supposed to call them after you come to. 
They both told me you would be fine and they would probably not have to see 
you again, not for a couple of days anyway." 

Barbara looked at him trying to hold her coffee steady. "You've been so good 
to me. I'm so ashamed. I didn't think it was possible for a human being to 
do all those awful things. I have never seen such a cruel man as Philippe. 
Even Jerry wasn't that bad, was he?" 

"No, Jerry's not that bad, not yet. I've talked to him about seeing a 
psychiatrist, but he refuses to believe that anything is wrong with him. 

"But you have nothing to be ashamed of, Barbara. You should be thankful that 
you are still alive, not ashamed. That was a powerful drug ... something 
new. The Mexican authorities are trying to determine what it is." 

"Thankful," she said. "I have nothing to be thankful for. I would be better 
off dead. I feel like an animal. What's worse, a lone animal. My marriage is 
destroyed, my self respect is gone. I have nothing ..." 

"Nothing, except me, Sweetheart. I'm thankful you're alive, thankful that 
you're well. I love you, Barbara ... I've loved you from almost the day we 
met." 

Barbara felt a tingle through her whole body, as if she were falling from 
the Golden Gate Bridge, a possibility she had been considering for the last 
few minutes. Ken looked at her, not blinking, his eyes full of tears ... 
Tears of sorrow for what had happened to her and tears of joy at finally 
having the courage to tell her what he felt ... tears of sorrow, thinking of 
the possibility that she might not accept him. He did not want to be alone 
any longer, and now she was free to depend on him for strength and comfort. 

"Oh, Ken ... I-I didn't think there would ever be a chance for me with you. 
I'm a divorced woman, and now even worse, I'm no better than a prostitute. 
But I love you, too, Ken. I must have known it for some time, but didn't 
want to admit it. I was afraid of it, too wrapped up in my own miserable 
life, even before the divorce. Then afterwards I was too busy pitying 
myself. Is there a chance? Is there really a chance for us?" 

He said nothing, but smiled and picked up the tray, setting it on the floor. 
She set her coffeecup on the bedside table and waited for him. He took off 
his turtleneck and unbuckled his trousers, letting them fall to the floor, 
kicking them off his bare feet. He stood still next to the bed. 

She looked at his strong, lean body. He's so clean, she thought, so 
wonderful. He leaned and kissed her softly, untying the loose terrycloth 
belt and sliding the robe from her shoulders. She hfted her body as he eased 
the robe from her, and threw it to the floor. 

He kneeled beside her, one hand on the softness of her stomach, tracing 
small patterns with his fingers. Her head was propped against the two 
pillows. For the first time that she could remember she was comfortable, not 
yearning, not wanting with a terrible fire, but knowing that she was wanted, 
not just for sex, not just to be used but for herself ... that she wasn't 
going to be had like an animal, but that she was going to be loved like a 
woman, and she would return that love. 

Gently he kissed her again, stretching his body out beside her, carressing 
her lips with his own, moistening them, pulling lightly. She returned his 
soft kisses, rubbing the side of her nose against his, loving his touch. 

As he traced figure-eights on her soft skin, she imitated the motion on his 
shoulders and back, shding her hand to the blond hairs on his chest, running 
her fingers through the soft tangled mass, bleached almost white by the sun. 

He slid his hand to the tops of her thighs, feeling her own hand travel 
across his belly to his groin, grasping his swollen penis with her soft 
fingers, squeezing lightly. She was a woman now. Mexico had taught her all 
the things she was capable of to please a man and she would please Ken, 
giving him everything that she knew to love him. 

His fingers found their way to the soft, moist triangle between her legs, 
slipping into the open waiting slit of her pink vagina. "Oh, my Daring," she 
moaned, the ecstasy flooding through her body. 

Gentle winds blew into her ear. He nibbled at her lobe with the softness of 
falling snow caressing her whole body. With her free hand she pushed him 
hghtly back. He responded, knowing what she wanted, and fell back onto the 
bed. She turned her body and started kissing his reddened ear lobe, moving 
to his cheek, never hfting her lips from his skin. 

She kissed the smoothness of his freshly shaved chin and worked her way down 
his neck to his chest, toying with his nipples, her own erect and pointed, 
brushing across his chest as she kneeled above him. Her hand never letting 
go of his heated weapon, stroking it slowly up and down, running her fingers 
over the tip, stroking more coal into his already fiery loins. 

Her tongue found a path through his hairy chest and stomach as she moved 
lower, finally resting on his lower abdomen, holding his cock more tightly, 
now against her cheek. She turned her head to face his throbbing weapon and 
kissed the tip, cleaning it of the small, almost clear drop of semen that 
had escaped from his tense testicles. 

She pursed her lips and kissed the end again, slipping the rubbery hot crown 
into her mouth, licking and sucking at the same time. "Oooohhhhhh," he 
moaned. "Ooooohhhhh, yesss!" Slowly she bobbed her head, rubbing the 
sensitive tip against the rough roof of her mouth, its washboard clicking 
along the excited cock. More semen seeped from the tiny slit on its end and 
she swallowed it joyfully, knowing that this was his hfe fluid she was 
sucking into her throat. 

He pulled at her legs which were near his head. She followed his signal 
perfectly and moved to straddle his head. He hfted one of his arms and put 
it between her legs next to his head, giving her support and holding the 
full, tanned thighs wide apart. His whole body quivered just as hers did as 
he pressed his mouth against the hot wet lips of her aching vagina. 

Gently he forced her to turn on her side, bending his leg so that she might 
use it as a pillow. They lay completely absorbed in sucking at each other. 
Her head moved back and forth in simulated coitus, stroking his huge cock, 
shoving it deep into her throat. He used his nose and tongue expertly, 
sliding back and forth along her slit, licking the tender flesh and bumping 
his nose first against her erect clitoris, then moving a few inches and 
tormenting her moist, open cunt by dipping the hard tip of his nose inside, 
bathing his nostrils in her sweet acrid scent. 

He took the bud of her clitoris between his lips and pulled gently, slowly, 
tormenting her, arousing her more fully. She felt hot needles run through 
her loins, as hot as any she had ever had, even under the influence of the 
Mexican drugs. She loved him totally and her passion was heightened by that 
alone. She kept a stiff control on herself, not wanting to climax until he 
did. Wanting to wait until they were both perfectly tuned so that they might 
experience the pure joy of cumming together in one massive explosion. 

He, too, controlled himself, relaxing his anus, concentrating on that tiny, 
tight muscle, trying to keep it relaxed so that he might prolong their 
pleasure. 

Knowing how close they both were, he released his grip on her clitoris and 
pushed her away. Perfectly in tune with the man she loved, Barbara sucked on 
his cock one final time, keeping pressure with her lips until her mouth slid 
over the top, releasing the throbbing phallus from the warmth of her mouth 
as a hght string of semen followed her lips away. 

They raised themselves simultaneously, almost in slow motion, to a sitting 
position, their tongues poised outside of their mouths, waiting for contact 
an inch apart. Pausing for what seemed like an eternity they stared into 
each other's eyes, grasping the meaning of the moment. They had found what 
most people would never find in their entire lives. They had found each 
other. 

The two tongues touched in mid air, suspended in time and space, savoring 
the clean hot taste of love in their mouths. With little trouble Ken guided 
her to sit in his laps, hanging above his straight hard cock. She felt as 
hght as a feather, as his hands around her waist lowered her onto his 
waiting weapon. 

"Aaaahhhhh," she sighed as he filled her with his hardened, blood filled 
flesh. She settled onto it, enfolding her smooth, wet pussy tight around the 
throbbing member. She seemed to be falling slowly as it continued to fill 
her, not wanting to stop its movement as it pressed against her cervix, 
completely filling every pore of her. Never before had she felt so complete, 
so fulfilled. She didn't want to ever stop making love to this man. She was 
his forever. 

Following the guiding pressure of his hands she raised and lowered herself 
on the hardened pole of flesh inside her. More quickly now, moving faster 
with each stroke, blood filling the muscles of her white hot belly, the 
pressure of the heated crown pushing deep within her, almost seeming to 
choke her with each thrust. They were both ready. 

Coming down hard against him she felt the first waves of chmax jerk at her 
abdomen and flip them like a whip. "Oooohhh, now, my Darling. I'm 
cummmminnngggg now." 

His breath was hard and fast matching the rhythm of their fucking. The crown 
of his cock seemed to open wide like an unfolding flower as his balls 
released the imprisoned sperm deep within them and shot it out the long 
passage in hot, white hquid spurts, filling her to overflowing, mingling 
with her own juices as they overflowed out of her fiery cunt and onto the 
sheets. 

"Yess," he moaned "Oh, yesss. I love you, Barbara." 

In a moment the whole room seemed to be the only safe place in the entire 
universe. The two lovers were secure in the knowledge that they were 
together now as they should have been. It was living for Barbara, a new 
beginning, a beginning that would never have an end. 


THE END
