The Governor's Whore Wife
by Carol Barnes
(M-4042)


FOREWORD 

Sex... prejudice... politics... bigotry. These are the ingredients that go 
into one of the wildest sagas ever written about a race for the Governor's 
mansion. 

... You're Tom Johnson, a handsome honkie with a beautiful bronze-skinned 
wife, and the latest polls show you're a few percentage points ahead of 
Charlie Smith, the closest other candidate. You need the women's vote and 
you're putting the finishing touches on a speech to be delivered to the WWW, 
an important women's group. To remind yourself of how women really think, 
you give wife Liza a dicking that will keep her pussy churning for a week. 
She loves you but, most of all, she loves that turgid poke between your legs. 

... Or you're Charlie Smith, the underdog black candidate married to a 
hot-assed honkie bitch whose pleasure is a thick black cock lodged inside 
that hot, tight, forbidden ring of muscle between the pink pillows of her 
ass. You've sunk your own money into your campaign. You stand a good chance 
of losing it, a thought that intrudes just as you're about to sink your meat 
into Alice's magnificent bottom. And as you pound into Alice, you're really 
pounding into every fair-skinned sonofabitch who has ever put you down in a 
life full of put-downs. Alice loves it. 

... Or you're Senta or Arthur, the black-white boy-girl, 
reporter-photographer team, covering the campaign for print media and 
finding kicks in every Holiday Inn in the state. 

Then there's the aging bigot with more money than God who vows that neither 
Johnson nor Smith will ever reach the Governor's Mansion. 

It's a pretty kettle of fish, as they say. 

 CHAPTER ONE 

Clutching his speech and a ball point pen in his left hand, Tom Johnson used 
his right for leverage as he lifted himself a few inches off the queen-sized 
bed and pushed back against the two pillows he had arranged against the 
headboard. A few seconds later, when comfortably positioned, he emitted a 
long, loud yawn and with a vigorous shake of his head, tried to pull away 
from sleep's demanding embrace. 

Sitting more or less erect in bed, his back propped by the pillows, his legs 
extended full length, Tom adjusted his glasses over his nose and began 
scanning the speech he planned to deliver to an audience of three hundred or 
so women this coming Monday evening. He had already devoted a considerable 
amount of time to the speech, deleting and adding sentences, sometimes 
rewriting whole pages as he tried to incorporate his own ideas with the 
shrewd suggestions made by his clever campaign manager. 

Yet, while willing to admit the reasonableness of the premise that the 
search for perfection could be carried to an extreme, Tom felt the speech 
could be improved in spots. He wanted to give certain paragraphs a bit more 
sting, tone down others, shape the mass into a cohesive whole that was at 
once both provocative and firmly rooted in realism. 

Although the latest poll placed him seven percentage points ahead of his 
closest rival, Charles Smith, the bright black lawyer and strong civil 
rights advocate, he clearly recognized the danger in assuming that the race 
was already over and that victory was assured. 

He knew a number of politicians who had awakened the day after the election 
and discovered, much to their dismay, that the decision to coast home had 
been a miscalculation of gigantic proportions. Of course, these proud 
politicos had no one to blame but themselves, and perhaps their campaign 
managers. 

Brimming with overconfidence, certain of the unerring accuracy of polls that 
showed them leading the pack by a wide margin, and surrounded by 
well-wishers who, unthinkingly, helped strengthen a false sense of security, 
these front-runners ceased addressing themselves to the issues at hand and 
basked in the warm glow of the comforting, but most unrealistic, belief that 
they were home free, that the race had been won and that they had only to 
trot triumphantly to the winner's circle to collect the garland of roses. 

Instead of confronting problems plaguing the electorate and suggesting 
remedies, instead of debating meaningful matters with the opposition, the 
calculating candidates for high office had elected to walk home rather than 
continue running briskly. With the result that they had been tagged out by 
disenchanted voters. 

It wasn't hard to understand how easily he could be victimized by vanity. 
Fearful of rocking the boat now that the election was seemingly in the bag, 
afraid to antagonize, the unsuspecting politician chose to sail home in a 
sea of banalities which offended no one. 

He started spouting platitudes and packed his speeches with inane references 
to religion, motherhood, and apple pie. Tired of running at full speed on 
the campaign trail, the now cautious candidate, like one weary of the race, 
slowed to a walk without once looking back at those ready to take advantage 
of his arrogant attitude. 

He curtailed his activities and canceled scheduled appearances, while 
mocking his opponents with a sly smile that said,""It's locked up, 
fellas-don't knock yourselves out trying to catch me," turned on that charm 
guaranteed to cement his virtual victory. 

And then came the election, the day of reckoning, and the stunned politician 
could be found drinking beer while a victorious opponent celebrated with 
champagne. Wondering what the hell had happened, he would tumble from his 
bright white cloud of carefree nonchalance and land with a resounding thud 
in a well of despair. 

No, sir, Tom thought, as he underlined a particularly important point in his 
speech, that was most certainly not going to happen to him. If he lost the 
election it would be because the voters had decided Smith was the better 
man, and not because he had allowed seeming success to change him from 
zealous campaigner to indifferent spectator. 

The politician who counted his chickens before they hatched was one destined 
to discover the perils of same. To underestimate the intelligence of the 
voter and dismiss with a shrug his ability to detect even the subtlest 
change in attitude was akin to playing with dynamite. Voters knew when a 
candidate was merely going through the motions. And there was nothing nicer 
than knocking a cocky bird off his perch. 

So it was of paramount importance that he continued hammering away, weary as 
he was from having campaigned so strenuously these last few months. There 
was still much to be done, many more people to see and talk to. 

The name Tom Johnson had to become a household word before election eve. 

With the election day two months away and since he had what some regarded as 
a comfortable if not commanding lead, a number of the pollsters considered 
him a sure bet to capture the contest. Frank Leinz, his fun-loving but 
earnest campaign manager, was of the opinion that he could begin work on the 
acceptance speech. 

But Charles Smith could not be dismissed lightly. Not only was the man a 
capable candidate, a forceful, energetic young attorney dedicated to 
correcting the inequalities of the System, he was also a tough, hardworking 
campaigner whose ability to articulate his position on a variety of issues 
important to both blacks and whites was helping him garner many sympathetic 
supporters. 

And so in spite of what the polls were saying at the moment, the results of 
the election would not be known until all the ballots had been tabulated. It 
was going to be a close race, right up to the wire. The people, having 
listened for months to the promises and the arguments of the candidates, 
would eventually reach a decision and render their verdict on election day. 
It was just about that simple. 

Tom flipped over a page of his speech and again brought pen to paper. He 
read the first paragraph and in the right hand margin scribbled the words 
"Important-Emphasize." 

It was only then as his, gaze drifted over the top of the page, that he 
realized he had company. Standing in the doorway, arms folded, was his 
beautiful brown-skinned wife, Liza. 

"Hi Governor. Still working on your speech, I see." 

"And contemplating the democratic process at the same time," Tom said, 
smiling as he placed his pen and speech on the nightstand next to the bed. 
"How are you, sweetheart? Been spying on me for long?" 

"Only for about a minute, love," Liza answered. "And do you want to know 
something?" Tom grinned. "Sure. If I'm going to be the next Governor of this 
great state. Can you tell me that, beautiful?" 

Liza chuckled lightly. "I can't guarantee it but I'd be willing to bet our 
life savings on a win." 

"Most of which has been deposited in the campaign kitty. If I don't emerge 
victorious from this thing, you and I will be dining on franks and beans for 
a year." 

"I prefer soul food, darling," Liza grinned. 

"All right. Black-eyed peas and hominy grits it is. Anyway, what was it you 
thought I should know?" 

Liza moved slowly into the bedroom until she was standing at the foot of the 
bed. 

Smiling, she said, "That I think you're the sexiest white man in politics 
today." 

Tom grinned. "Is that a fact?" 

"Yep, 'tis that, Governor." 

"Well I thank you for the compliment, beautiful. Even if it was qualified." 

"Qualified?" 

"Sure. I mean you could have left out the words "white" and politics," 
right?" 

Liza chuckled and turned away. "I'm afraid my compliment will have to stand 
as is, honey," she said, reaching back over her head to unlock the zipper of 
her soft yellow, stylish knit dress. "Sorry 'bout that." 

"And you should be, Mrs. Johnson," Tom scolded, feigning hurt. "You're 
implying that there are others you find as attractive as your husband. I 
have been dealt a blow to the ego." 

Liza chuckled. "Not a fatal one, I hope," she teased, squirming out of her 
dress. She stepped out of the garment and then bent to pick it up. 

"You certainly do have a beautiful backside, baby," Tom stated, a small 
smile creeping over his face as his eyes zeroed in on the taut, succulent 
half-moons of his wife's pantied posterior. "I can't recall ever having come 
across a prettier fanny." 

"Thank you, kind sir," Liza said, wiggling her delectable derierre. "Like 
most politicians, you have a talent for changing the subject quickly." 

"It's something we learn early in the game, sweetheart." 

"Well, have your beautiful baby blues feasted long enough on my sexy tail, 
Governor?" 

Tom hesitated briefly, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and got 
to his feet. Clad only in cock-constricting, white jockey briefs, he moved 
quickly to his provocatively positioned wife and placed himself directly 
behind her, his hands clamping warmly over her shapely hips. 

Liza straightened up and smiled. "Now what are you up to lover? As if I 
didn't know." 

"I'm up to fucking you, beautiful," Tom answered, moving to undo the clasp 
of his spouse's brassiere. 

"Do you mean to say that I inspired this sudden surge of lust, darling?" 

"Who else, honey? A face and figure like yours could trigger desire in a 
dead man." 

Tom drew the bra away from Liza breasts and dropped it on the floor, atop 
her yellow dress. Then his hand snaked around and under her magnificent 
mammaries, commenced a demanding massage of those twin globes of spongy, 
cocoa-colored flesh. Liza leaned back against her husband and sighed. 

"Oh, but you're the naughty one Governor. Think what the voters would say if 
they could see you now." 

"I'm sure they would approve, baby," Tom said, his voice thickening. 

"You approve, don't you?" 

"Oh, indeed I do, lover," Liza crooned softly, her pussy beginning to purr 
passionately as she commenced a wicked rotation of her pantied posterior, 
rubbing her beautifully rounded rear against the thick bulge in her mate's 
jockey shorts. Although she had been taken somewhat by surprise, she had no 
intention of calling a halt to the sexy proceedings. Tom devoted the next 
several minutes to a skillful caressing of his wife's tempting tits. Of all 
his possessions, a successful career, a beautiful home in the suburbs, a 
very healthy bank account, a stunning, brown-skinned, black-haired wife, the 
one he valued most highly was naturally enough, his marvelous mate. 

Liza was simply sensational. She was intelligent and warm and witty, quick 
to smile her approval and always ready to listen with sympathetic 
understanding to a problem. And only the blind, the impotent and senile 
could fail to appreciate her ravishing 38-24-36 figure, those beautiful 
hazel eyes that sparkled mischievously, the soft, carefully-crafted features 
of her lovely face. 

At thirty-two, his wife was as attractive now as she had been when they 
first met. More appealing, really, since the passing years had added a 
certain maturity to her happy-go-lucky outlook on life. Were she so 
inclined, Liza who stood a shade over five feet six inches when barefoot and 
whose long, raven tresses tumbled merrily around her smooth shoulders, could 
easily enough resume the modeling career she had abandoned for marriage. 

"Oh, honey, I like that," Liza breathed hotly, her desire growing by leaps, 
and bounds. 

She placed her brown hands over the white ones stunningly massaging her 
tingling boobs and pushed her behind into her husband's pelvis. The heat in 
her loins was spreading to all parts of her body and her sticky cunt juices 
were seeping out to dampen the crotch of her white panties. 

"Let's screw, baby," Tom husked. 

"Right here, honey?" 

"Sure, why not? It'll be a little something different." 

The good-looking gubernatorial candidate took his hand from Liza 
mouth-watering melons and brought them down to her hips. Inserting a few 
fingers in the waistband of her pants, he proceeded to push the flimsy 
garment down her sleek brown legs, past her knees to her feet. Liza stepped 
out of the panties and with her left foot kicked them aside. 

"All right, sweetheart," Tom said, "bend over and put your hands on your 
knees. I'll fuck you from behind." 

"Yes, darling," Liza said thickly, bubbling over with excitement. "From 
behind, like a pair of animals." 

Clad now in only garter belt and sheer hose, the brown-skinned beauty bent 
forward at the waist and gripped her knees with her hands. She wriggled 
provocatively, spreading her legs and adjusting her stance slightly as 
behind her Tom lowered his jockey shorts. Then seconds later, she felt her 
husband's blood-gorged pecker poking her steaming sex slit. 

"Ready, baby?" Tom asked, his briefs remaining banded about his legs, just 
above his knees, as he clamped his hands over Liza curvaceous hips and 
inched forward. 

"Do me, darling," Liza said thickly. "Put that lovely prick of yours deep in 
my belly." Tom quickly removed his reading glasses and flipped them onto the 
bed behind him, then again prepared to plow the pussy he had plowed often in 
the past. With his hands locked firmly around Liza hips, he eased his 
bloated bone up into her needy vagina and savored the feel of her viscid sex 
canal as slippery muscles closed around his invading tool. 

"Mmmm, that's so good," Liza crooned. "Do it to me, lover. Bang me from 
behind." 

"Nice and easy does it, sweetheart," Tom husked, refusing to succumb to the 
urge to batter his wife's box with maniacal force. 

When the entire length of Tom's fleshy log was snugly encased in her 
twitching twat, Liza emitted a sigh of gratitude and then demanded a 
dickings. A shiver of lust shook her as Tom began his tantalizing thrusts 
and she began a sensuous rotation of her fanny. 

"You're beautiful, baby," Tom croaked. "The most beautiful piece of ass in 
the state." 

"Such talk, such deliciously dirty talk," Liza moaned happily. "Dick me, 
darling. Shove it deep up my belly." 

It took the gubernatorial candidate but seconds to establish a smooth and 
steady reaming rhythm. In and out he plunged, carefully but with 
determination, each forceful stroke of his blood-packed organ thrilling his 
wife greatly. 

Bent forward at the waist, her hands hotly gripping her knees for support, 
the beauteous Liza Johnson eagerly accepted her white husband's drilling 
dick in unlady-like language encouraged him to greater effort. Her shiny 
raven tresses swirled around her face and neck as she twisted her head this 
way and that, pushed her posterior back into Tom's loins to greet his 
penetrating prick. "Oh honey, I love you," she trilled. "I love your big fat 
pecker in my pussy. I love your hot cunt, baby," Tom said passionately, as 
he increased the tempo of the screwing. 

This would be but a warm-up, he thought. An exciting prelude to the truly 
vigorous, mind-boggling fuck he intended to give her on the bed later. 
Although tired from another long day on the campaign trail, the 
scintillating sight of his lovely wife and thoughts of hot humping sessions 
had renewed his flagging energy. 

"Yes, that's the way," Liza cried, out. "Give it to me, darling. Fuck me 
dizzy." 

In and out Tom pistoned his prick, his hairy white thighs bumping against 
his wife's saucy seat and rubbing into her nylon-sheathed brown thighs. Tiny 
grunts of pleasure popped from his hps as he banged Liza from behind, his 
swollen cock like a fiery lance as time and again it knifed up into her 
viscous vagina. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Liza began chanting, an undisguised urgency coating her 
voice. 

Knowing it wouldn't be long before he spilled his load in his spouse's 
sizzling sex well, Tom leaned forward and brought his hands around and under 
Liza's body. He latched onto her swaying mammaries and began squeezing those 
spongy delights, pinching the blood-gorged nipples between his long fingers 
and eliciting from his wife additional moans of joy. 

"Cream in me baby," Liza pleaded. "Shoot in me." 

"Soon, soon, baby," Tom panted, as again he jerked his hips forward sent his 
turgid tool tunneling up into the comforting confines of his mate's weeping 
cunt. 

The gubernatorial candidate managed to stave off the inevitable for two 
minutes more, his body in jerking, jumping motion as he punched his prick 
into Liza's mushy love cove. But then came the fantastic finale to the fuck, 
the shivering mind-clouding climax of this cock and cunt coupling. 

An animal-like snort flew from Tom's lips as he tightened his grip on Liza's 
beautiful brown breasts and inundated her already wet vagina with a torrent 
of creamy come. The love fluid spurted from the tip of his imbedded tool 
into his wife's womanhood, there to mix with her own passion product. 

"Ohhh, Tom, darling," Liza moaned joyously, her husband's climax helping to 
trigger her own. She shut her glazed eyes tight and squeezed his ejaculating 
erectile with almost painful force, conscious only of the need to milk Tom's 
beautiful bone dry. 

Gasping and grunting, Tom washed his spouse's cunt with sticky semen and 
thrilled to the feel of his bone being bathed by her flowing juices. Spasms 
of ecstasy rocked his body as his tool throbbed in Liza's gripping sex chute 
and her happy whimpers wafted up to his ears. Not until his love stick had 
stopped spurting did he straighten up and pull out of her bubbling box. 

It took Liza a moment to recover from this most pleasurable pussy-plowing. 
Then, resisting the temptation to drop down onto her knees and curl up on 
the floor, she straightened up and turned around to face her husband. She 
promptly returned the smile which greeted her. 

"Darling, that was heavenly," she said softly, "I have a few more heavenly 
ideas, sweetheart." 

"Oh, really?" 

Tom nodded. "But we'll work them out on the bed. I think I might be getting 
a bit old for this bedroom floor business." 

"Okay, whatever you say. I'll be back in a jiff." 

"Where are you going?" 

"To the bathroom, honey. I've got to pee." 

Tom watched his brown-skinned wife turn and start out the bedroom. He pulled 
up his shorts and adjusted them around his waist. He picked up his glasses 
and put them on, then climbed back onto the bed and stretched out once 
again. He started to reach for the speech he had placed on the night stand, 
but changed his mind. Clasping his hands behind his head, Tom began musing 
about his many accomplishments to date. It had to be that he was one of the 
luckiest guys around, he thought. A man would have to be a complete fool not 
to appreciate accomplishing so much in such a comparatively short length of 
time. It would be two years before he celebrated his fortieth birthday and 
already so many good things had happened to him. 

Tucked away in one corner of a trunk presently collecting dust in the attic 
was a sheepskin, one signifying the satisfactory completion of credits 
required for a Master's degree in business administration. And resting atop 
that diploma as if symbolizing the fact that he had decided to switch from a 
career in business to one in law, was another. 

Together with two other equally energetic men he was a partner in a thriving 
law firm, one that had been nursed from the dark obscurity of a decaying 
building to the bright promise of a suite of offices which took up the 
entire floor of a magnificent structure. The firm of Johnsin, Blum and 
Higgins was one of the largest and most respected in the state, and it was 
still growing. It was quickly pointed out by those in the know, and 
reluctantly admitted by rival lawyers, that when a client was represented by 
one of the boys from JBH he was in capable hands. 

Now he had a chance to become Governor of one of the most important states. 
Governor Tom Johnson. Yes, Liza was right. It did have a nice ring to it. 
And did he ever want the job! 

Not alone for the prestige and power such a high position would afford him, 
but because he truly cared about the state and the need of its people. 
Already in mind were those crucial changes he planned to make, changes which 
would better the lives of thousands and bolster the state's economy at the 
same time. 

If elected, he intended to inject new life and vitality into a stagnating 
state legislature, to appoint various experts in the fields of narcotics and 
crime and set up commissions to study ways of ridding the state of hardcore 
drugs like heroin and LSD. Workable programs to drive out organized crime 
would be developed. 

There were, of course, some who considered him a wild-eyed radical, a 
rebellious egotist who would not rest until he had undermined the very 
foundations of democratic government and established himself as a benevolent 
despot. 

Well, he had but three short words for that bunch, Tom thought. Fuck you 
all. 

It was people like this who, with almost feverish delight, steadfastly 
refused change of any kind and in so doing halted the country's progress. 
They were hypocrites at heart, flag-waving bigots who treasured tradition to 
such an extent that the slightest mention of anything remotely resembling 
change threw them into panic. They aligned themselves in public, with those 
espousing civil liberties and decrying government interference in the 
private life of the individual, yet they wondered, in the privacy of their 
own sacrosanct homes if their next door neighbor with the long hair wasn't 
really a card-carrying Communist. 

They genuflected before those leaders who spoke out in favor of welfare 
reform, yet they trembled at the thought of one day waking to discover a 
black family in the house down the street. The idea of peaceful co-existence 
between the races was appealing, but the idea of lynching a black, a "Lyin' 
no good nigger," whetted their appetites even more. No, he didn't need that 
kind of voter. Let the bigoted bullies vote for either Hughes and Buchanan 
the two other men running for Governor beside Smith and himself. Both Hughes 
and Buchanan would need all the help they could get, since the last poll 
showed them trailing Smith by a wide margin. Which was most heartening. 

His wife's return from the bathroom inspired the smile that now broke over 
Tom's face. Liza was bare-assed naked, her desirable brown body a study in 
female pulchritude as she padded to the foot of the large bed. "I was going 
to ask what took you so long in the bathroom, baby," Tom began, "but that 
smile you're wearing has me even more curious." 

"I'm smiling because again it occurred to me how unlike a gubernatorial 
candidate you are." 

"You don't say?" 

"I do say. Look at yourself, stretched out on the bed wearing only jockey 
shorts and your glasses. Absolutely, indecent is what it is." 

Tom grinned and removed his glasses. Placing them on the night stand, he 
said, "Even gubernatorial candidates are entitled to let their hair down 
once in a while. You can't expect us to be the personification of dignity 
all the time. Struck by a sudden thought, he chuckled. "Hey, how would it be 
if I made my next public appearance bare-assed naked?" 

"Simply scandalous," Liza grinned. "Especially since you'll be addressing 
WWW-Women Who Care." 

"Could be the good ladies would start caring more if they caught a glimpse 
of my pecker." 

"Your pecker has my vote, hon." 

"A pecker in every pussy. How's that sound, baby? A nifty campaign promise, 
no?" 

"You're awful," Liza said, chuckling. She moved from the foot of the bed to 
the night stand and picked up the speech her husband had been working on. 
She had finished the first paragraph and was starting on the second when she 
felt a warm hand slip between her legs and fasten on her crotch. 

"Nice little pussy," Tom said soothingly, patting his spouse's sex nest. 
"Pretty, pretty pussy." 

"Mmmmmm, now whatcha doin' Governor?" Liza asked. 

"Teasing you because you're teasing me," was Tom's state answer. 

"I'm not teasing you, darling. I just thought I'd glance at your speech and 
perhaps suggest a few remarks. Because I'm a woman and think like one, I can 
tell you how best to address WWW. You'd appreciate some helpful hints, 
wouldn't you?" 

"Not just now, baby. Not when the sight of you standing over me in your 
birthday suit is thickening my prick." 

Liza flipped the speech back on the night stand. You can't be serious, Luv. 
I mean we just got through screwing. What happened to the pooped person I 
saw when I arrived home?" 

"Your presence rejuvenated him, baby," Tom answered, smiling as he continued 
his massage of his wife's inviting love bush. "How about joining me on the 
bed for another round of mad, passionate sex?" 

Liza placed her hands on her hips and shook her head. A small smile lingered 
on her face as her eyes roamed over Tom's body. Her husband was a beautiful 
man, she thought proudly, not too surprised to realize that desire was once 
again beginning to wend its way through her. 

Lovingly appraising Tom's rugged physique, Liza noted that one hundred and 
ninety pounds rested comfortably on a six feet two inch frame. Her mate's 
eyes were a baby blue and his black hair, which he wore fashionably long, 
sideburns and all, framed a mysteriously sexy face. One glimpse of his manly 
smile was all it took to start her pussy quivering. 

And now, once again, he was getting excited, the bulge in his shorts was 
growing large, more noticeable. It was easy enough to understand Tom's 
appeal to women voters, a large number of whom usually managed to show up 
for his campaign talks. He cut a striking figure on the campaign circuit, 
impressing even skeptics with his intelligence, charm and good looks. 

"Like what you see, beautiful?" Tom asked. 

"Enough to test its durability," Liza cracked. 

With that, she climbed up onto the bed and without delay arranged herself 
between her handsome hubby's spread legs. A smile played on her face as she 
settled back on her haunches and placed her hands on her hips. 

"You look like a lady with something devious on her mind," Tom observed with 
a grin. 

Tom chuckled. "Only if she gets the urge when he's making a speech. That's a 
no-no." 

"But we're in bed now. That makes it all very proper." 

"You know something, sweetie," Tom began, lifting hips off the bed as his 
wife slipped her fingers in the waistband of his briefs and started tugging 
them down. "You're going to make absolutely marvelous first lady of the 
state. 

"That's me, honey," Liza grinned. "An expert in the politics of passion." 

 CHAPTER TWO 

Liza favored fellatio over the other sexual practices they engaged in, Tom 
thought, the sensations flowing through his aroused body as his wife labored 
lovingly between his legs, her lovely lips locked on his fully erect prick. 
Not that she didn't enjoy having her cunt tickled by his tongue and tool and 
her fantastic fanny fucked. 

Liza thoroughly appreciated these acts and also found it perversely 
pleasurable to assume different, and sometimes awkward positions in which to 
screw. But there was something about fellatio that turned her on. It 
thrilled her like nothing else, and rare was the screwing session that 
didn't begin with Liza down there between his legs, strange, animal-like 
sounds of lust bubbling up from her throat as she orally massaged his 
manhood. 

She had gone down on him for the first time on their wedding night and had 
not come up since. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, either at home 
or away, down went Liza to feast gluttonously on his prick and hairy balls. 
Like a hungry harlot, a cock-craving, hump-happy harlot, she would grab hold 
of his organ and plop it into her mouth. Then, depending on her mood at the 
time, she would either commence a speedy suck, one that had her vigorously 
vacuuming his big one into her saliva-laden mouth, or begin a lazy, 
methodical mouthing of his manhood designed to bring him to the brink of a 
truly explosive orgasm. Right at the moment, it appeared that his wife 
favored the less hurried approach to cocksucking. Less than three minutes 
ago she had removed his white jockey briefs and tossed them aside, her hazel 
eyes bright with mischief as she contemplated his semi-hard cock. Then 
crouching low between his legs, a wicked little smile dancing across her 
beautiful brown face, she had dropped her head over his naked loins to 
commence the wicked washing of cock and balls. 

Now, as he thrilled to her tongue and the feel of her pursed lips gripping 
his stalk, Liza continued to dutifully display her exciting oral expertise. 
Like one devoted to a cause, he skillfully showed the experience born of 
innumerable encounters with her hubby's hard-on, her brown-skinned body in 
constant wriggle between his legs as she sucked with a passion. 

"Ohhhh, baby!" Tom crooned, clenching his hands at his sides and arching his 
hips. "Suck it! Milk it dry for me, baby!" 

"I love you," Liza said, looking not at her husband, but at the cock she had 
just permitted to let slip from her lips. She curled her brown fingers 
around the organ at its hairy base and lifted it up so that once again it 
loomed toward the ceiling, a perfectly perpendicular tower of warm flesh. 

"Don't stop," Tom groaned. "Stick it back in your wonderful mouth!" 

"You taste so good," Liza husked, still speaking to her handsome hubby's 
seven inch pecker. "You're so fat and juicy." 

For several seconds Liza studied the rock-hard, pulsing prick, her glazed 
eyes feasting on the fullness that has just recently been harbored in the 
warm, wet confines of her oral cavity. She started inching forward and 
slowly opened her mouth. 

Her lovely lips slid over the bulbous head of Tom's manhood and then, as her 
mate moaned his approval, she began to tenderly tease by sucking lazily on 
just that portion of his tasty, blood-thickened tool. Her head bobbed slowly 
and moved in maddening circles as she drew the knobby head of the pecker 
into her mouth, licked it licentiously. 

"Baby, chew on it!" Tom pleaded thickly. 

Again Liza took the slimy shaft from her mouth. Clasping the pear-shaped 
head of her hubby's tool with her fingers, she dipped low and commenced 
licking the underside of the organ. She twisted and turned excitedly as she 
burrowed into her husband's warm crotch, rubbed her beautiful brown face 
against his cock and hairy scrotal sac. 

Mewing with pleasure, Liza labored like one bom to the task, her talented 
tongue never still as it slithered up and down and all around Tom's 
genitals. With a wicked willingness, she worshipped her husband's equipment, 
her mind a muddle of licentious thoughts as she licked and nibbled. 

And then, when she had painted Tom's pecker and warm, spongy scrotum with 
saliva, she drew up her head and once again stuffed the tool into her mouth. 
Bracing her hands between her husband's spread legs, her long, raven tresses 
hanging down and shielding her face from view, Liza began sucking her 
lollipop in earnest. 

"That's the way, baby!" Tom rasped, trying to keep his lips still as his 
wife went to town on his pulsating organ. "Gobble it up, baby!" 

Strange, gurgling sounds of lust bubbled from her throat and struggled to 
escape her mouth, only to be partially smothered by the throbbing tool she 
was sucking. No longer of a mind to tease, to , tempt with a thrilling 
tonguing, the lovely beauty vacuumed Tom's fleshy spear into her hungry 
mouth with unallayed abandon. 

How delicious! How wonderful to suck his prick! It was so gut-jumbling good 
to feel that throbbing, jaw-stretching fullness in your mouth, to inhale the 
pungent aroma emanating from genitals. 

In servile crouch, her head bobbing over Tom's loins, Liza continued 
slobbering over and over her mate's meat with fevered delight. The 
saliva-coated cock, locked in the velvet voice of her soft lips, slid in and 
out of her mouth. 

And it wasn't long before Liza found herself in the embrace of mini-dilemma, 
one she had been required to solve many times in the past. 

To cease sucking and screw or continue blowing Tom until he came, that was 
the question. The delightful question! 

Should she tear her lips from her husband's pecker and then flip over onto 
her back, allow him to ram his beautiful organ to the depths of her pulsing 
vagina? Or should she increase the tempo of the lewd cocksuck? Wait for that 
glorious moment? His member erupted and her mouth was thick with cream! 

Liza was spared to choose between the two equally delicious options, a 
lust-happy Tom coming to the rescue in his usual decisive manner. He, too, 
had been debating the issue, trying to decide if he wanted to blast his 
semen into his wife's wonderful mouth or come in the comforting, plushy 
softness of her viscid vagina. 

Now, having reached his decision, he pushed himself up on the bed and 
grabbed a handful of Liza's lustrous hair. He yanked once, twice and 
finally, managing to pull her face away from his genitals. She looked up, 
revealing a face flushed by desire and lips coated with saliva. 

"Your cunt, baby," Tom demanded. "I've got to get in you!" 

"Yes, baby," Liza purred. 

And with that, desire streaking through her like a flaming meteor, the 
brown-skinned lovely with the near-perfect body, scrambled quickly into 
proper pricking position. On hands and knees she crawled up the bed, then 
flipped over onto her back and spread her legs apart. 

"Do me, baby," she pleaded passionately, unable to still her squirming hips. 
"Ram your bone into my twat. Fuck me hard!" 

Tom was in position before his wife's last word had entered his ears. 
Balancing on his knees and one hand, he reached back and down with his free 
hand and directed his well-greased cock to the wet portal of her pussy. He 
inserted only the pear-shaped head of his pecker between her flowering sex 
hps, then brought his hand up and placed it on the bed. 

"Ready, baby?" he asked. 

"Yes, lover," Liza answered, the feel of the fat, blood-hardened crown of 
her hubby's prick between her pussy lips triggering a violent need for more 
of his member. 

"Put it all in! Shove it up to my tits." 

"One cock comin' up," Tom growled. 

The gubernatorial candidate then threw his hips forward and sent his thick 
prick scurrying up into his wife's belly. Liza let out a lust-thickened 
groan of delight and squeezed her vaginal muscles around the penetrating 
pole of flesh. She was stuffed now, marvelously stuffed with seven inches of 
throbbing meat. 

No sooner had Tom plunged his prick into his happy spouse than he was 
pumping her pussy, his hairy, sperm-packed scrotal sac slapping up against 
her warm crotch as he drilled his dick deep. In and out he went, his hot, 
pulsating pecker scraping the walls of Liza's viscid vagina and wringing 
from her throat gutteral sobs of pure joy. 

"Baby, it's so good," she cried out. "So fuckin' good." 

"More, baby?" 

"Yes, hard!" 

Braced on hands and knees, his taut bottom bobbing rhythmically as he moved 
smoothly in and out of warm, clasping cunt, Tom looked down into his wife's 
passion-contorted face. Was she more beautiful now, he wondered, when fully 
aroused and in urgent need of a sound screwing, than she was in full control 
of her senses or just after orgasm. 

He didn't know. Not that it made a difference. Liza was beautiful to behold 
any time. She was like a cat, a graceful, sleek animal that glided 
noiselessly through the forest enhancing, by her natural beauty, the 
surrounding foliage. Never would he tire of training his eyes on her 
velvety-smooth proportioned brown body. 

As a young, up and coming lawyer, he'd had more than his share of snatch. 
The girls had flocked around him like bees gathering to sip the nectar of a 
sweet-smelling flower. Husband hunters all, they had thought of him as prime 
marriage material, a dashing, debonair young stud who would be able to 
provide very nicely. 

But he had turned all the lovely ladies down, Tom thought, as he increased 
the tempo of his fucking while gazing at his wife's countenance. Not, of 
course, before he had sampled the pussy they were all so quick to proffer. 
And he was glad he had waited, because had he wed one of the many 
marriage-minded females after him, he never would have met the dazzling 
Liza. 

And that would have been nothing short of a calamity. He couldn't imagine 
there being another woman like her. Not only was she a most delightful bed 
partner, she was also extremely bright and broad-minded. She was quick to 
console, sensitive to his needs, an excellent homemaker, and she owned a 
delightful, if sometimes maddening, sense of humor. 

And there were times, especially when Liza appeared with him in public and 
stood at his side as he accepted the applause of the voters, that he wanted 
to laugh at all those, who had warned him against marrying a Negress. How 
utterly groundless! 

Even his parents, a well-meaning couple he loved, had expressed doubts about 
marrying "out of his race." Pointing out the problems that would have to be 
met, they had questioned the wisdom of placing such a strain on a marriage, 
of burdening it with "a color problem." 

But he and Liza had followed their plans, each madly in love, convinced that 
they could handle whatever trouble might arise. Ignoring the oft stated 
warnings of sincere, but foolish friends, they were married in a quiet 
church ceremony that launched them on their most happy honeymoon in Jamaica. 

Now, nine years later, he was as much in love with Liza as he had been 
during their courtship days. The going had been rough. They had their spats, 
as did all married couples, and on two occasions he had been forced to tell 
a well-heeled client to take his business elsewhere if the fact that Liza 
was a Negro offended him so. 

But aside from this, and the fact that they still had to suffer an 
occasional raised eyebrow or a behind-the-back whisper, he and his wife had 
successfully warded off the slings and arrows of those who favored a return 
to the nineteenth century, when blacks behaved themselves as slaves and 
didn't go causin' no trouble." 

And as far as the race for Governor, Liza's color was apparently only of 
minimal importance to a growing segment of the public and would not 
adversely affect his chances of being elected. 

If the poll just taken was accurate, one had to assume that most people in 
the state had outgrown their prejudices and would vote the man, not the 
color of his or his wife's skin. If this weren't so, then Buchanan and 
Hughes would be much higher in the polls than they were at present. 

And it was just possible that his lovely spouse was an asset in the 
political arena, one small reason he could look with satisfaction at his 
lead of seven percentage points. After all, Liza was certainly an appealing 
woman, one whose warm, friendly smile and ravishing figure could melt the 
heart of the strongest, loudest heckler. So it wasn't foolish to think that 
he was picking up some of the male votes thanks to a wife's attractiveness 
and charm. 

And wouldn't those same males like to be where he was right now, Tom 
thought, spiraling closer to orgasm as he boomed his bone into his wife's 
weeping womanhood. Even those fat-assed bigots he'd encountered on the 
campaign trail would jump at the chance to slip their cocks into Liza's 
leaking love hole. 

"Honey, it's good," Liza was moaning, her lush brown body never still as it 
tossed and turned under her husband's strong white one. "Faster! Tom!" 

"Tell me, tell me how good it is," Tom panted, not missing a beat as he 
pounded his prick into the mushy confines of his cocoa-colored wife's love 
chute. 

"It's good-the greatest! I love your prick!" 

"In your brown belly?" 

"Yes! Do me, you white stud! Fuck this brown broad to heaven!" 

Emitting a gargled moan of lust, Tom dropped down atop his lovely, 
lust-crazed spouse and began smashing his tool into her twat with all the 
strength at his command. His hard, hairy, white chest mashed against Liza's 
spongy brown breasts as he buried his face in the pillow. 

Truly beyond the pale now, lust striding through her hot, trembling body, 
Liza began spewing into her humping hubby's ear the filthiest words and 
phrases she could think to match his hard, thrilling thrusts with welcoming 
wiggles and salacious swivels of her own hips, the brown-skinned, 
black-haired beauty wrapped her slender arms around Tom's white back and 
hung on! 

"Fuck it, you bastard! Cock, hot cock!" she said hotly. 

"Take it, bitch! You beautiful, hot-assed bitch!" Tom growled. 

"Pound me, stud! Fuck this brown bitch!" 

Out of his mind with lust, spurred to even greater heights, Tom plumbed the 
depths of her vagina with unmitigated abandon. Like a machine out of 
control, his body lurched up and down, to and fro, his taut buttocks weaving 
a crazy pattern in the air as he alternated between mind-blurring downward 
thrusts and rapid, hip-swiveling jabs that sent his blood-gorged cock 
spiraling up into Liza's molten womanhood. 

He had not the slightest resemblance now to the distinguished erudite young 
lawyer running for Governor, the man some felt would one day be elected 
President. No longer was Tom Johnson the personable candidate whose genuine 
concern for the welfare of others had prompted his decision to run for 
office. 

Now he was Tom Johnson, the supreme white stud, the crusader with cock out 
to challenge the elasticity of a beautiful brown woman's hot, clasping cunt. 
He had given up heavy ambitions and had shoved aside everything at the 
moment, for the demonic desire to conquer cunt! 

And to that end, Tom layed the meat to his moaning, groaning wife, time and 
again rearing back and thrusting forward to send his cock booming up into 
Liza's furiously fucking sex chute with an almost fiendish delight. 

"Ohhhhhhhh!" Liza grunted passionately, tears of joy filling her eyes as her 
handsome white mate continued ravaging her twat. 

"Soon, baby!" Tom breathed. 

"Come, cream me, baby!" Liza husked. 

For a full minute more Tom pounded his whimpering wife, his fleshy tool like 
a mighty hammer as it pestled her pulsing pussy with unrelenting, 
bone-jarring force. Legs spread wide, her arms clinging tenaciously to her 
humping hubby's hard prick, Liza moaned joyously and allowed her body to be 
buffeted like a buoy in raging waters. 

White man and brown woman-linked by love, hard cock to soft, slushy cunt, 
each wallowing in the pleasure of a thrilling, eminently satisfying screwing 
session, gelatinous brown breasts squashed by a hard white chest, slender 
brown arms hotly hugging a strong, white back, beautiful brown face pressed 
close to ruggedly attractive, stubbed white one. 

And then it was upon them, that unbelievably sweet moment! Time stands still 
and lovers are baptized anew as waves of bliss wash over their quaking 
bodies in an ecstatic flood of feeling. Nothing matters but the moment! When 
passion's plug is pulled and bodies are drained in a sudden, ejaculative 
excitement. 

"Oh, oh, lover!" Liza groaned in her storm! "I'm coming!" 

"Grab it, baby!" Tom rasped. "This is for you!" 

A mighty, mind-boggling lunge propelled the candidate's cock into Liza's 
quivering cunt a final time. The scalding semen streaked through his tool 
and spurted from the vertical "eye" at the tip into the brown beauty's sex 
canal. Waves of pleasure washed over his sweaty body as, no longer of a mind 
to pump her pussy, he stilled his hard-working hips and shuddered through a 
vision blurring orgasm. 

"Baby! Oh!" Liza moaned rapturously, arching her neck as she pressed the 
back of her head into the soft pillow, and with eyes closed, in slack, 
open-mouthed wonder, surrendered to the sublime sensations swirling madly 
inside her heated body. 

She was crumbling like a sheet of paper. Her beautiful depraved demon. Her 
body was like a slab of butter left too long in the noonday sun. Her sticky, 
sweaty flesh was burning up, her bones were being pulled from their sockets. 

Breathing hard, Tom spilled his seed into his wife's wildly contracting cunt 
and savored the feel of her own passion product as it washed over his dick. 
He dug his fingers into the pillow on either side of Liza's head and pressed 
his lips against the flesh of her neck. 

And then, all too soon, it was over! The last of his gooey seed had been 
deposited into her hole of love. Tom emitted a sigh of satisfaction and 
rolled off her supple flesh and onto his back. Drained of all energy, he 
stretched out slowly and closed his eyes, surrendered to the sweet euphoria 
now suffusing him in the aftermath of the torrid tooling. 

Free of her husband's weight, Liza took in large gulps of air as she 
restored her breathing to normal. Except for her hands, which now drifted 
down to the damp, tangled curls of her sex nest, there to commence a loving 
caress and her chest, which lifted and fell as she breathed deeply, her 
sated body remained almost motionless. 

Another fantastic fuck, she thought, her mind still clouded by intensity of 
her climax. Every screwing with Tom was good! Some were exceptional! They 
were compatible to the tenth degree and it seemed that they were getting 
even better with age. It was simply marvelous to imagine what their sex life 
would be like in the years to come. If after nine years of marriage they 
still humped like honeymooners, then the future must hold a million untold 
delights. 

Liza rested for a moment, then turned onto her left side and snuggled close 
to her husband. 

She settled her head onto his strong shoulder and then, catching a glimpse 
of his wilted cock, brought one hand down to begin a gentle massage of his 
warm genitals. 

"What are you up to now, baby?" Tom asked softly, a weary smile creeping 
over his face. "You're not ready for a second round, are you?" 

Liza smiled. "I'm thanking my favorite tool for the good time it gave me. My 
vagina feels like it's been through a meat grinder." 

"Have I asked you lately how come after nine years of good, solid screwing 
your twat is still so marvelously tight?" 

"Not lately." 

"It must be those vaginal exercises, huh?" 

"A girl has to keep in condition for the man she loves. I'm sure you 
wouldn't enjoy sinking your pecker into a cunt that was loose and flabby." 

"No I guess I wouldn't," Tom chuckled. 

"You just keep your pretty pussy in A-1 condition for me, Mrs. Johnson, and 
you and I will get along all right." 

"So you've decided to take me along to the Governor's Mansion, huh, 
sweetheart? I mean instead of that teenage trollop whose been trying to 
seduce you at headquarters." 

"Well, it's like this, beautiful," Tom answered, bringing his right arm up 
over his head and then slowly swinging it around to gently embrace his wife, 
"I've decided that it would be very foolish of me to dispose of you now. I 
mean, here you are, all broken in and nicely trained to obey without 
question." 

"What am I?" Liza asked, a puzzled smile on her face. "Some kind of a mare 
that's been tamed?" 

"It would be such an effort to break in a new girl," Tom continued, trying 
not to grin. 

"Now I can't be sure, of course, but I suspect that the little blonde doll 
who would like me in her panties is still a virgin. She flirts a helluva 
lot, but it just could be that if I called her bluff and tried to bust her 
cherry... well I'm not about to involve myself in such a hassle." 

"Oh, you tease," Liza giggled, giving her husband's hairy balls a playful 
squeeze. "I know you so well it's almost ridiculous. You wouldn't cheat on 
me if... if it meant winning the election. You're just, not the type." 

"You don't think so, huh?" 

"I know so. You're a one woman man, darling. And that one woman happens to 
be little old me." 

"I could change." 

"Never. I trust you implicitly." 

"Then you'll vote for me on Election Day." Liza smiled broadly. "Darling, 
I'd vote for you every day of the week-twice on Sunday." 

Tom chuckled and then turned quiet. Deciding not to break the silence and 
still basking in the glow of the furious fuck recently ended, Liza snuggled 
even closer to her husband's hard, well-muscled body and continued toying 
with his limp tool and wrinkled scrotal sac. 

Closing her eyes, she wondered if he could be persuaded to munch on her 
pussy for a little while-just long enough to give her a tiny come. Perhaps 
if she went down on him again, she thought, the taste of his tool still on 
her hps. Maybe... 

"Hey, you know what I forgot?" Tom suddenly asked. 

"I don't have the faintest idea, luv," Liza purred, sensuously squirming her 
velvety-smooth brown body against her white mate's hairy white one. "Is my 
virile hubby and the next Governor of this state becoming forgetful?" 

"I forgot to ask what kind of a time you had at the movies." 

"Oh, is that all?" 

"Well, since you had to go alone because I was tied up with my speech the 
least-" 

"I wasn't alone, hon," Liza interrupted. "Guess who I bumped into as I was 
waiting on line to purchase my ticket?" 

"My opponent, Charles Smith." 

Liza chuckled. "No, not quite. But you're not too far off the track." 

"Was this person you met a male or female?" Tom asked, stroking his wife's 
arm. 

"Both. I mean there was one of each." 

.Tom thought for a moment, then said, "I give up, baby. Truth is, I can't 
think of two people, friends or foes, who share your passion for old Andrew 
Jackson movies." 

"Well then you don't know your campaign manager very well, sweetheart." 

"Frank? Was he there?" 

"Yep that he was. In the company of a stunning black girl, I might add." 

"Now how do you like that? I stay at home to study my speech and my campaign 
manager is out on the town. Just wait 'till I see him Monday morning." 

"Oh, relax. This is Saturday night, honey. Frank's been working very hard 
for you these last several months and he's entitled to an occasional night 
out." Liza pause, then added. "And the girl he was out with is a real 
beauty. So beautiful, in fact, that it was with extreme difficulty I managed 
to control my envy." 

Tom chuckled. "That would be Betty Wilson." 

"Yes, I know. Mr. Leinz introduced us. Is it serious, hon, or is my favorite 
campaign manager just another one of those white men looking to lay a 
ravishing black chick?" 

"Serious? Who the hell knows? Betty showed up at campaign headquarters ten 
days ago and volunteered to help man the phones. She and Frank hit it off 
immediately." 

"I'll say they did. They couldn't keep their hands off each other. I got the 
impression that while I was trying to contain my envy, Frank Leinz and date 
were trying to contain the urge to strip and fuck-right on the ticket line." 

"Well, that might not have been so bad. I mean a candidate is always 
interested in publicity." 

"If it's that kind of publicity you want." 

Liza smiled, "the next that you're addressing an audience I'll just saunter 
up on stage in my birthday suit. That should stir up a few votes for you, 
right darling?" 

"Or cause a small riot," Tom grinned. "Listen, how about if before we go to 
sleep you give my speech a quick look. You know, just give it a-" 

"Oh, boy, here we go again-back to business," Liza broke in. 

"You did say you'd like to read it, hon. It was because I was fondling your 
twat that you didn't look at the speech earlier. You were teasing me and-" 

"I remember, luv," Liza interrupted again, "and I do want to read what 
you're going to say to all those females Monday night. It's just that... 
well... " 

"Well what?" 

"In the interim I've come up with a better idea. We'll have all day tomorrow 
to review the speech, right? I mean we've made plans for the day so... so if 
you're not too tired now... " 

"I'm beginning to catch on, baby," Tom said, a smile slipping across his 
face as he looked down toward his crotch. Although not yet ready to 
penetrate a pussy, his pecker was less limp now that it had been prior to 
his wife's crafty caresses. Another minute more of such attention and he'd 
be rock-hard and able to drill clear through a wooden door. 

"Remember you asked me why I took so long in the bathroom?" Liza asked, she 
curled her fingers to make a fleshy funnel and then proceeded to pump her 
hubby's root, her hand moving up and down and up and down in a scintillating 
caress. 

"I remember it well, beautiful," Tom grinned, swinging his left arm around 
and clamping a hand over the beautiful brown breast he had access to, the 
one not pressed warmly against his side. 

"Well, my delay was due to the fact that I was primping for you." 

"Is that a fact?" 

"It is. I washed my pussy, powered my pussy, and perfumed my pussy. But 
sucking your cock got me so hot so fast that I didn't have time to tell you 
of my preparations." 

"I forgive you," Tom said, trapping between two fingers the nipple of the 
boob he was fondling and pinching it carefully. 

"The point, darling, is that I was hoping-" 

"You were hoping I'd go down on you, right?" 

Liza lifted her head up off her husband's shoulder and propped herself up 
with an elbow. "Would you mind, darling?" she asked, smiling tenderly into 
the rough-hewn', very attractive face that had spent more than a few 
pleasant moments plastered to her steaming snatch. 

"You're a little messy down there now, aren't you?" Tom took his hand from 
his wife's spongy melon of flesh and brought it down to her crotch. 

"Yep, we got a sticky, gooey twat on our hands, beautiful." 

"I'll go and wash up," Liza said quickly, starting to spin away. 

"Hey, where are you off to?" Tom said, grinning as he pulled his spouse back 
against him. "No need to clean up for me. A httle mixture of cunt juice and 
semen won't kill me." 

"You're sure?" 

"Positive. Now if you can tear your hand away from my prick we can get the 
show on the road." 

Liza beamed. "Oh, darling, I love you so." No sooner had the brown-skinned 
lovely finished planting a wet, noisy kiss on her white hubby's cheek than 
she was rolling away from him onto her back, spreading her sleek legs wide 
apart and grabbing hold of her pliant boobs with both hands. 

Tom clambered into proper pussy-licking position and bent to his task. As he 
commenced tonguing his wife's messy twat, he thought of the huge number of 
infants he'd have to kiss in his role of gubernatorial candidate. He didn't 
mind it, really, although the pleasure he derived from kissing kids fell 
far, far short of that which he derived from "doing" Liza. 

In fact, there was no basis for comparison. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

Frank Leinz was as eager to get in Betty Wilsons' panties as she was to have 
him there. Which was by no means surprising since Tom Johnson's 
thirty-three-year-old campaign manager had a passion for pussy that rivaled 
the lusty enthusiasm with which the world's most notorious lovers perused 
their paramours. 

Rich or poor, tall or short, fashionably lean or enticingly plump, 
quick-witted or given to uttering silly, meaningless cliches, a girl stood 
an excellent chance with Frank. He had but two requirements; one, that the 
girl be reasonable pretty, two, that she enjoyed getting laid. 

While he remained firm on the first, he was willing to overlook the latter. 
But only if the female in question was an exceptionally choice piece of 
tail, one whose figure bordered on the outrageously obscene. Then he was 
willing to forgive her, her inexperience and proceed with the messy, seldom 
satisfying business of defloration. 

Because of his charming manner and clean good looks. Frank seldom 
encountered problems in his hot pursuit of pussy. Females flocked to his 
side and waited to be plucked, like ripe apples on a tree at harvest time. 

He stood six feet one inch in his stocking feet and weighed in at a trim one 
hundred seventy-eight pounds. His female fans, of whom there were many, 
enjoyed running their fingers through his coal-black, curly hair and looking 
into his warm blue eyes. Only the ultra-conservative and shy were able to 
resist the temptation to hotly massage the bulge which would develop, in no 
time at all, the front of his trousers. 

In recent months, Frank had become particularly interested in dark-skinned 
girls-not, course, to the exclusion of white females. Or Oriental maidens, a 
large number of whom he had managed to screw, learning in the process that 
beautiful Chinese women were not unlike Chinese food-one wanted more an hour 
later. 

And it was this interest that had prompted him to launch a seduction 
schedule for Betty Wilson considerably less complicated than it was vigorous 
and hectic. He wanted it in the worst way, and the sooner he broke down the 
walls of her resistance the better. He was a man in a hurry to hump. 

To his friend, Tom Johnson, Frank had excitedly expressed his wish to pick 
(read;screw) Miss Wilson' petals (read;pussy). She was, he thought, one of 
the most tempting females to ever wander into his seduction zone, and he was 
determined to test the resiliency of her pussy, and perhaps her posterior 
(oh, those taut, upthrust buttocks salaciously sheathed in a hip-hugging 
mini!), just as soon as possible. 

Now after almost two weeks of determined effort, Frank was about to take a 
firm hold, a cockhold, on Betty's elusive cunt. To one accustomed to having 
his way with a woman almost immediately, sometimes hours after meeting her, 
Betty had proven to be a formidable challenge. And Frank had spent a few 
uneasy minutes during the last few days wondering if his prey was a virgin. 

Not that he really thought such a thing possible. Even if, up to this 
moment, she had fended him off with a light chuckle and a "now, now, naughty 
boy, don't touch the merchandise," he found it difficult to imagine her with 
hymen intact. Surely someone, at sometime or other, had deflowered Miss 
Wilson. 

The two things which made Betty's virginity seem as plausible as the thought 
that the Atlantic Ocean would one day run dry, were her age and her 
fantastic sex appeal. She was a truly tempting twenty-seven-years-old whose 
physical charms were readily apparent to all but the blind. 

Betty was a dark-skinned delight, a black beauty whose body beckoned the 
touch of strong male hands. Her shoulder-length black hair, which framed a 
soft-featured face, was always carefully combed and contributed to the 
over-all picture of a female who took pride in her appearance and kept 
herself well-groomed at all times. 

She was about five feet five inches in height, had eyes the color of 
cinnamon, and, when provocatively attired in tight, breast-molding sweater 
and equally tight, fanny-hugging mini, displayed to admiring males a form 
that was nothing short of fuckable. 

So, considering Betty's age and natural beauty, Frank had at last reached 
the not unhappy conclusion that, while she didn't seem to be the promiscuous 
type, neither was she chained to the notion that nice girls don't screw. 

And now, as he slowly broke the kiss he had started a full minute ago, 
hard-working, hard-playing public relations genius, currently managing the 
political campaign of his best friend, was willing to wager a year's pay 
that tonight was the night. Having wined and dined the delightful Betty at a 
frenzied pace, he was now about to enjoy the fruits of his labor. 

"Mmmm, that was nice," she purred, reinforcing his belief that she was as 
ready as he was to get down to the serious business of screwing. "I like the 
way you kiss, Frank. It's obvious that you've had a great deal of 
experience." 

Frank smiled. "A little. Tell me, did you enjoy the dinner and movie 
tonight?" Throwing caution to the wind, he placed his right hand on Betty's 
right knee and began inching it up her smooth leg. 

"Oh, aren't you the clever one, Mr. Leinz-trying to distract me while you 
work on my weakness." 

"Your weakness?" 

Betty nodded and squirmed her succulent seat on Frank's living room sofa. "I 
have a weakness for strong, handsome men-especially white men." 

"I'm not sure I would have guessed it," Frank said, slipping his hand under 
Betty's flaming red mini-skirt as he continued worming his way toward her 
pantied-twat. The feel of his wandering hand on her warm, satiny-smooth 
black thigh was causing his pecker to stir, to attempt to lengthen and 
thicken in the hot confines of his jockey briefs. 

"Why do you say that?" Betty asked, making no move to remove the hand, now 
just inches from her crotch, from under her short skirt. 

Frank smiled. "Because we've been dating for almost two weeks and only now 
do you seem interested. I was almost beginning to wonder if you weren't just 
a tease. You kept resisting my attempts to seduce you and... " 

"Oh, you're funny," Betty chuckled. "You say two weeks as if it were two 
years. My goodness, you didn't expect me to just lie down and spread my 
legs, did you? A girl wants to know a little something about a man before 
she-ooo, that feels nice, baby." 

"You were saying, sweetheart?" 

"I was-mmmm, oh, Frank-ohhh... " Betty lifted up off the sofa, allowing 
Frank's tantalizing hand free access to her pantied pussy. Another soft moan 
of approval wafted up from her lovely throat when his fingers slid under her 
covered crotch and, with the palm of his hand, he began a slow, meaningful 
massage of her snatch. 

"You were telling me about this weakness," Frank reminded the beautiful 
black female at his side, the prospect of climbing aboard her squirming 
nakedness clouding his mind with an ever increasing lust. 

"I was not," Betty protested meekly, not bothering to lower the skirt now 
riding high on her succulent black thighs. "I'm trying to, to tell you that 
I'm not an easy lay. Some white men think that all black women are, ooooo, 
baby, do you know what you're doin' to me?" 

"Turning you on?" Frank asked, grinning. 

"That's putting it mildly," Betty answered, as she began grinding her 
covered cunt up into the hand ministering to it with such deliciously wicked 
skill. "You're, you're starting a fire down there, you lovely man." 

"Well I've got just the hose we need to put that fire out, baby," Frank 
cracked, a faintly evil expression basking on his carefully-crafted, 
fine-featured face. 

While keeping the pressure on her cunt with his right hand, he used his left 
to lower the zipper of his fly and drag out his semi-hard cock. Freed from 
the restricting confines of the jockey briefs, his excited pecker quickly 
jerked to total tumescence. It jutted up from the opening in his beige 
trousers like a miniature flagpole, a throbbing column of blood-gorged, 
white flesh ready to be buried in the warm, willing body of a beautiful 
black girl. 

Congratulating himself on his decision to ply Betty with considerably more 
liquor than she was accustomed to, he reached for her hand and brought it to 
his pulsating prick. Her fingers curled around the meaty member and she 
gripped it hotly. Through eyes somewhat glazed she stared down at the normal 
sized but powerful organ, as if trying to imagine how it would feel when 
snugly encased in her syrupy vagina. 

"Someone is excited," she observed a few seconds later, turning her gaze to 
Frank's face. 

"And that someone is you, baby," Frank grinned, "Either that or you're 
peeing in your pants." 

"Don't be vulgar, handsome. I know what-mmmmm-I know what you did to me 
during dinner." 

"And what did I do, sweetheart?" Frank asked, his voice thickening. He 
slipped his fingers under the hem of Betty's panties and, pushing the 
garment out, away from her warm flesh, began to tickle her leaking twat. 

"You knew that sooner or later-ohh, heavens, you're driving me crazy!" 

"Stroke my prick, Betty," Frank ordered, snuggling even closer to the 
ravishing black girl and nuzzling his face in her lustrous black tresses. 

"All that booze-it was bound to catch up with me. You knew that, didn't you? 
You knew I get... ohhh, so good... I get very sexy when I drink." 

"I knew no such thing" Frank said, whispering in Betty's ear. 

"Yes, you did, you crafty character. And now-now I'm all hot and bothered 
and-oh, Frank, do it to me. Get my clothes off and fuck holy hell outta me." 

Frank didn't have to be asked a second time. Requests such as the one just 
uttered by the aroused Miss Wilson, who had relinquished her strong grip on 
his rock hard cock and was now, with the aid of both hands, peeling off her 
damp white panties as she lifted her Curvaceous ass off the sofa, were never 
ever to be ignored. 

No sooner had Betty bared her loins than she was taking hold of Frank's hand 
and jamming it back between her smooth, black thighs, softly moaning her 
approval as she worked that hand up and down and all around her steaming 
snatch. She smiled wickedly at the handsome white man soon to pleasure her 
pussy with a vigorous reaming, then looked down at the pulsing tool he would 
use for said reaming. 

This was the way to end a date, Frank thought happily. How better to end an 
evening than with a desirable chunk of femininity asking for a fierce fuck, 
sitting next to you on your sofa, her short, sexy skirt hiked high on tier 
warm thighs, a look of lust lining her beautiful face as she hotly massaged 
her cock hungry cunt with one of your hands? Hot damn, but he was going to 
pound her senseless! 

He would fuck this black beauty until she begged mercy. Until, in a paraxysm 
of mind-bending ecstasy, she swore off black men forever. But if he didn't 
get it in her soon he'd shoot his load all over the place. He could see it 
now, the semen jetting from his jerking prick and forming a lewd, viscious 
arc in the air before landing on his living room rug. What a waste. 

"Come on, baby," he said excitedly, looking down at the panties banded 
around her knees. "Let's fuck." 

"Yes, oh yes," Betty whimpered hotly. "I'm so hot, so very hot, I need to be 
fucked so badly." 

Frank pried his hand from the black girl's sizzling snatch and bounced up to 
his feet. He quickly began shedding his clothes, working like a man with a 
time limit as he hurriedly removed his loosened tie, his yellow shirt and 
white T-shirt. He tossed the garments onto a nearby hassock and then bent to 
untie his shoelaces. He kicked out of his black loafers and then, 
straightening, quickly unbuckled the belt supporting his slacks. 

Betty was a close second in this race to see who could strip the fastest. 
She was now on her feet and fumbling furiously with buttons, her lush black 
body in anxious quiver as she rushed to remove all that stood between her 
and complete nudity. Eyes wide with excitement, she peeled out of her 
cream-colored sweater and threw it onto the sofa, next to the damp-at-crotch 
panties she had place there less than a minute ago, removing them while 
still seated. 

Already bare-assed naked, his blood packed prick protruding from his hairy 
loins, quivering like a divining rod close to water, Frank placed his hands 
on his hips and waited impatiently. He watched Betty step out of her red 
mini and fling the almost obscene garment onto the sofa. 

Soon now, very soon, his eyes would feast on her luscious black body. She 
was reaching back to undo the clasp of her white brassiere, to bare her 
boobs to his lustful gaze. And when her garter belt and stockings were 
removed she'd be as naked as the day she was born. And considerably more 
entrancing. 

Although darker in color, Betty was somewhat like Liza Johnson, Frank 
thought. Liza was a bit taller and perhaps slimmer, yet like Betty she had 
soft facial features and a body that could provoke an erection for all but 
the blind and hopelessly impotent. Both possessed enchanting smiles, both 
radiated charm, and both made a man very willing to accept as true the 
statement "black is beautiful." 

Liza, now there was one good-looking broad. Not only was she downright 
desirable, she was also intelligent, an attribute one found too seldom in 
truly ravishing women. She had a nicely developed sense of humor, which, 
when coupled to her intelligence and sex appeal, made Liza Johnson a very 
nice dish to set before a king. Or for that matter, a pauper. 

It was more than a little ludicrous to start thinking about his best 
friend's wife at this moment, Frank told himself. Not that he should be 
thinking about her at all. Yet such was his interest in women, and lately 
dark-skinned women, that time and again, in spite of himself, he found Liza 
creeping into his mind. 

Which perhaps wasn't too strange since she was, in the words of one of the 
more uncouth young men who did clerical work at campaign headquarters, "a 
great lookin' piece of ass." But it was certainly unfair to Tom Johnson, a 
man he considered not only a fine choice to run the state but also, and of 
equal importance, a man he loved like a brother. 

But those lingering questions would dart into his mind unbidden. How was 
Liza in bed? Did she like to suck cock and gulp down the cream as it spurted 
into her mouth? And what of Liza's delectable derriere? Had Tom buried his 
bone in his wife's choice backside? What did Liza's twat smell like? Taste 
like? Enough! He had no intention of ever finding out the answers to those 
wicked questions, Frank reminded himself. Liza belonged to Tom and that was 
that. And how foolish it was of him to feel envy. Tom had Liza but he had a 
host of panting chicks just waiting to wallow in sex with him. And at the 
moment there was Betty, bare-assed naked now and waiting impatiently for him 
to comment on her nakedness. 

"You like?" she asked finally, a sexy smile brightening her black face. 

"Beautiful, baby," Frank answered. "Turn around and let me see the back." 

Betty turned and said, "I thought maybe you weren't too pleased since you 
looked and didn't... " 

"I was thinking, sweetheart," Frank broke in, his wandering eyes resting for 
a moment on the tantalizing, upthrust tail of the gorgeous black girl. 
Suddenly he had an idea. 

"About me, I hope." 

"You bet," Frank lied. He would fuck her from behind, he decided, 
animal-style. He'd take this beautiful black bitch in what some figured must 
have been the position used by lovers before missionaries turned up and 
decreed it bestial. That way he would be able to enjoy the sensuous feel of 
her saucy fanny as she thrust it back against his pounding prick. 

"What you see is what you get, baby," Betty cracked turning around to face 
her new white lover. Her eyes dropped immediately to his pulsating prick and 
a dozen tiny darts of desire stabbed her quivering cunt. 

"And I like what I see, baby," Frank husked. His passion, which had simmered 
while he dwelt on Liza Johnson, was once again at the boiling point. "Come 
on, let's get in the bedroom." 

"Here, let's do it right here," Betty said stopping Frank in his tracks. 
"I'll be exciting. You know, something out of the ordinary." 

Frank, hesitated only a second. "All right, baby, it makes no difference to 
me. But we screw my way." 

A faint frown appeared on Betty's face. "I-I don't go in for anything 
perverted. If you're thinking of... " 

"Nothing perverted, baby," Frank interrupted. At least not yet, he added to 
himself. 

"Well then what is it you want, Frank?" 

"Here; I'll show you." The public relations expert and satyric charmer moved 
quickly to Betty and took hold of her left arm. He steered her over to the 
large tan hassock and then, with a swipe of his hand, knocked the clothes 
off the hassock. 

"You want me on that?" a still puzzled Betty queried. 

Frank nodded. "Uh huh. On your hands and knees, sweetheart. We're to do it 
doggie-style." 

"Woof!" Betty barked. "Woof, woof, woof." 

"All right, baby, let's stop the clowning." 

"Hop onto the sofa like a good doggie, you mean," Betty grinned. Frank 
stepped back and watched as the curvaceous black female positioned herself 
on the large hassock. A shy smile spread across his face when he remembered 
all the action his hassock had seen. It was a sturdy piece of furniture, 
comfortable but strong, and able to support without trouble the weight of a 
naked beauty. 

Every girl he dated was sure to wind up on the hassock at least once. And 
when properly positioned, her taut ass sticking up and out as if it were an 
obscene offering, she would receive a riotous reaming of either her sex 
chute or shit chute. 

It would be tremendously thrilling, Frank thought, to punch his pecker into 
Betty's delectable, black bottom, to hear her tremulous moans of 
pleasure-pain as he sawed in and out of her hot nether passage. Betty's ass 
was designed to be dicked. That simple fact could not be disputed. 

Unfortunately, tonight wouldn't be the night that he planted his prick in 
her impudent behind. Since Betty had expressed her dislike for anything but 
normal intercourse, he would have to lead her along, slowly and patiently, 
until she was willing to accept some of those sexual practices she termed 
"perversion." 

"How's this, Frank?" Betty asked, looking back over her shoulder. "Am I all 
right now?" Frank grinned. "You're more than all right, sugar. You're damn 
near perfect." 

"Do it to me, baby. Slip your beautiful white cock into me from behind. My 
twat is leaking something awful." 

"I'll plug it for you, sweetheart," Frank promised, stepping up into 
position behind the beautiful black girl provocatively perched on the large 
hassock. "I'll plug it good." 

Betty squirmed slightly and looked down at the hassock. While she didn't 
like to be penetrated anally or engage in oral sex, she was not at all 
averse to getting fucked in different positions. And so she was looking 
forward to getting humped on the hassock. It was going to be exciting, she 
figured. And certainly novel. Frank spent a moment caressing Betty's back 
and shapely hips, savoring the velvety-soft texture of her coal-black skin 
as his hands roamed slowly up and down and all around. Then, clamping his 
hands on her hips, he aligned cock with pulsing pussy and thrust forward. 

"Ooooo, it's good," Betty crooned happily as Frank's rock hard bone slid 
wetly up into her needy cunt. "It's filling me all up, lover. You're 
stuffing me with prick. 

"You're tight, baby," Frank said thickly. "Nice and tight." 

"Give it to me good. Sock it to me." 

Having waited for this moment for almost two weeks, Frank was more than 
willing to comply with the black girl's lewd request. He tightened his grip 
on Betty's hips and withdrew his pulsing prick until only the bulbous head 
remained sheathed in her clasping cunt, then pushed back inside the heavenly 
warm of her love cave. 

"Yesss... oh, yesss," Betty hissed. "In and out, in and out." 

As his white fingers dug into the resilient flesh of Betty's smooth black 
hips, Frank withdrew his pecker and then, seconds later, plunged back into 
her gripping, butter-soft sex chute. And it wasn't long before he 
established a steady rhythm, his hips moving methodically back and forth, 
back and forth, as he fucked at a carefully measured pace. 

"Oh, I love it, Frank," Betty moaned. 

"Don't ever stop screwing it into me." 

"Don't wriggle around so much, baby. You'll fall off." 

"Never. I'm staying on here until you hump me dizzy." 

Frank emitted a husky chuckle. He remembered the last female he had fucked 
while she perched on his hassock, a stunning, blue-eyed blonde whose passion 
for prick bordered on the nymphomaniacal. He could not now recall her name, 
but it would be a long time before he forgot how, in the middle of it they 
wound up on the carpeted floor. 

"Hump me honey," Betty cried out. "Hump this black girl to the stars." 

"I'll hump you, baby," Frank promised. His voice thickened by lust." 

"You just hang on tight." 

The cunt loving campaign manager gradually increased the tempo of the 
doggie-style fuck. Still moving easily, smoothly, he sawed in and out of the 
black female's slushy sex canal from behind, his hairy balls slapping up 
against her warm crotch on every forceful in-stroke. 

She had the kind of cunt he favored, he thought. Betty's sex chute was 
neither too tight nor too loose, which fact substantiated what she implied 
earlier; namely, that while she was far removed from a virginal state, she 
did not proffer her pussy to all those who requested it. 

"Harder, honey," Betty whimpered happily. 

"Push it way up to my tits." 

"Who's in charge here?" Frank rasped. Betty hesitated, surprised by the 
sudden irritation reflected in her partner's voice. "Y-You are, baby," she 
stammered. 

"Right. And you won't forget it, will you?" 

"N-No... of course not." 

"I'm the boss, correct?" 

"You're the boss, Frank." It took Betty a few seconds to catch on but then 
it became very clear to her exactly what Frank had in mind. He wanted to 
play a game, she realized, a somewhat sinister, sexy game. The idea had 
apparently come to him in a flash, and now he wanted to heighten his 
pleasure via this wicked amusement. 

It was a game she had played before, not all that often and with only her 
white screwing partners. Black males had no interest in this sort of thing, 
which was not at all surprising when one considered the sad history of the 
black race. But more than a few white men were fond of acting out their 
prejudices with a pretty black female. 

And apparently, even though he was running the political campaign of a man 
who seemed eminently fair and unbiased, Mr. Frank Leinz had his share of 
prejudice. Or maybe he was just in the mood to extract from his screwing 
partner a note of humility. In any event, for lack of a better name she 
called the game "master and slave." 

"So you like white cock, do you?" Frank was asking. "Stiff and throbbing 
white cock?" 

"Y-Yes... yes, I do," Betty answered meekly, slipping quickly into the role 
of the hapless black female being banged by a cruel and powerful white man. 
"I love white cock. I love it." 

"And you're getting it, black bitch," Frank growled. "My cock's buried in 
your black belly." 

Fuck me, white man," Betty pleaded, looking back over her right shoulder. 
"Fuck this black bitch good." 

Bending over, Frank slipped his hands around and under Betty's quivering 
black body and clamped them over her jiggling boobs. He continued humping 
her from behind, his blood-gorged pecker trundling up into her sodden vagina 
as he started squeezing her succulent mammaries. 

"How's this, baby?" he husked, much of his weight now resting on Betty's 
back. "I'm squeezing your boobs." 

"Do it, lover," Betty breathed hotly. "Rough me up. Pinch the nipples 
and-oww!" 

"Like that, sweetheart?" 

"Ohhh, it hurts... the pain is awful." 

"You love it, black bitch." 

"Yes I love it," Betty whimpered. "Hurt my tits, white man. Bruise me. Fuck 
my cunt and-oww!" Later, upon reflection, Frank would wonder what in 
heaven's name had gotten into him. He would remind himself that he most 
certainly wasn't a sadist-he enjoyed loving women, not hurting them-and 
decide that this sudden urge to defile Betty had been just one of those 
strange things that defied explanation. 

But at the moment he was thoroughly enjoying his role of satanic white male, 
bumping his turgid tool up into Betty's slushy womanhood with a wicked 
determination as he mauled her spongy mammaries. The feel of her warm, black 
body, her all-fours position, the possibility that sometime soon he'd be 
plunging his prick into her impudent backside instead of her clinging 
cunt-all this combined to keep his lust at a fever pitch. 

As for Betty, she only hoped that Frank wouldn't carry the game too far. She 
was enjoying the fuck, the throbbing fullness of Frank's rock hard organ as 
it thundered up into her pulsating pussy, the animal-like sounds of pleasure 
that accompanied by labored breathing, were driven from his throat with each 
mean plunge into her vulnerable vagina. 

She even liked the way he was treating her tits. He was yanking them hard, 
pulling and twisting those spongy melons of flesh as if determined to wrench 
them from her chest. It wasn't all that painful and, in fact, was rather 
thrilling. She just didn't want Frank to get carried away and force her to 
do something that would cause her real discomfort. She had enough trouble 
keeping that bastard, George Kreske, at bay. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

George Kreske was one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the 
state and some said the most bigoted. He was a large, robust man, weighing a 
firm two hundred and sixty pounds standing tall at six feet three inches. 
Although pushing sixty, he had the stamina and enthusiasm of one half his 
age, a fact he was quick to remind his subordinates when they suggested, or 
implied, that he should go slower perhaps retire altogether. 

Kreske fumed at the very mention of the word "retire," the thought of it 
alone was enough to start his blood boiling. He would work until he dropped, 
period. That was how he wanted it and that was how it would be. Never would 
he allow himself to be put to pasture like an overaged bull, to waste away 
in boring mind-numbing retirement while young eager-beavers helped 
themselves to a large slice of his pie. 

No, that wasn't for him, Kreske thought, comfortably ensconced now in his 
favorite leather armchair. He had invested much too much time and energy to 
sit back now and, watch less capable men divide among themselves all that he 
had busted his balls to achieve. For him, retirement would be akin to 
suicide. In a personal as well as business sense. 

It was like giving up, throwing in the towel, publicly proclaiming your 
inability to function intelligently any more. A guy couldn't cut the mustard 
any more and so he got out while the getting was good, while all around him 
greedy, power-hungry, overaged teenagers in blue business suits licked their 
chops and prepared to invade the financial empire he had struggled to build. 

"Well shit on that" Kreske cursed aloud, shifting his bulk a little in the 
brown armchair. He'd be damned if he would permit even talk of a takeover 
while he was still alive. When he was dead, after he had been stuffed in 
that box and while the worms were crawling all over his decaying flesh, then 
and only then could his sly subordinates sink their collective fangs into 
his empire. 

But they had a helluva long time to wait, he thought, an almost wicked smile 
creeping across his rough-hewn face. He still had some good years left. A 
lot of them, in fact. And he was going to derive some very sweet pleasure 
from watching his "friends" chafe at the bit while he went on and on and on. 

Hell, he might even be around another forty years. That would make him one 
hundred, a nice round figure that. There was no reason in the world to think 
that he wouldn't make it to the century mark, either. No reason whatsoever. 

He was still as strong as an ox. Didn't Doc Joe marvel at his physique 
everytime he visited the old codger's office? Gabe tootin' he did. And as 
far as his mental condition was concerned, well, he was as sharp now, if not 
sharper, than when he graduated college some thirty-seven years ago. 

With what closely resembled a smirk on his large, not unattractive face, 
Kreske pushed himself up out of the armchair and moved toward his bar, a 
handsome piece of furniture that took up almost half of one wall in the 
living room. He quickly fixed himself a potent scotch-on-the-rocks, then 
eased his bulk onto one of the six black barstools fronting the bar. 

He took a healthy gulp of the drink and then, with his free hand, stroked 
the carefully-trimmed Vandyke concealing his chin. Seconds later, after 
ingurgitating more scotch and smacking his thick lips, he was toying with 
the mustache he had grown after being told, by one of the few people he 
trusted, that the Vandyke alone detracted from his attractiveness. 

Yes, the key word was "sharp," he thought, resuming contemplation of his 
health, the vast the unwanted retirement bring thrust upon him by business 
associates as well as by those subordinates he knew to be brilliant but 
power-hungry bastards, and matters relating to all three. 

One had to have his wits about him in this day and age. Drop your guard for 
a minute and you had a peck of trouble. Everybody and his brother-in-law was 
out to do you in, to steal what they could while your back was turned. 
Especially those filthy blacks. 

They were at the heart of the problem, th e real reason America was falling 
apart at the seams. Together with those jabbering Puerto Ricans, the niggers 
were taking over the whole damn country. With the help of lily-livered 
liberals in Congress, who seemed determined to shove integration down 
everybody's throat, the blacks and the spies were moving all over the 
country, spreading like a dread disease. 

It was the niggers who were responsible for all the rapes and muggings and 
bank robberies. They were lazy, they were cheats, they were liars, and the 
sooner they were taken off the welfare rolls and shipped back to Africa the 
better. The nigger was nothing but a jungle bunny, anyway. He belonged in 
Africa. Not in a civilized country. 

It was a cryin' shame, Kreske thought, slipping off the barstool and moving 
back to his favorite chair. This damn nation was goin' to the dogs, and if 
something wasn't done pretty damn soon America would be known as the land of 
the lazy and the home of the blacks. 

Kreske settled himself into the leather armchair and took another slug of 
the scotch. Shaking his head in dismay, he made a silent vow to continue the 
fight against what he believed were the evils afflicting America. He was 
going to stay where he was, right here in this magnificent twenty-room 
estate, and continue managing his affairs. 

Those crafty coons weren't going to chase him out. Sweat, blood and tears 
had made him what he was today, and if necessary, he would sweat some more, 
bleed some more, and shed a few more tears to keep what rightfully belonged 
to him. He would wield what power he had to keep the niggers out of the 
state, one his great, great grandfather had helped put on the map. 

Kreske was working on his third drink an hour later when the sound of the 
door chimes intruded on his thoughts. He was not at all surprised to see 
David Einstein, the man whose arrival he had been awaiting while he pondered 
the problems facing his empire, the state, and the nation. It was with 
Einstein's help that he intended to save the state from a takeover by 
gutless, over-educated liberals who, he believed, were hell bent on 
destroying democracy and rendering impotent the very idea of private 
enterprise and freedom of choice. 

After exchanging pleasantries with the fellow millionaire, Kreske and 
Einstein had a drink and then suggested that they get down to business. 
Einstein settled himself into a comfortable modern chair near the fireplace 
while Kreske deposited his bulk in the brown leather armchair once again. 

The two had known each other for almost twelve years but neither regarded 
the other as a friend. It wasn't that they disliked or feared each other, on 
the contrary, they had closed many an important business deal with a 
congratulatory drink, but their different philosophies of life made it 
virtually impossible for them ever to become close. 

David Einstein was a lanky six footer with close-cropped brown hair and 
brown eyes. At forty-nine, he was ten years Kreske's junior. He was an easy 
going individual with a quick smile, a man always willing to lend support, 
financial as well as moral, to those who needed toward the man with whom he 
occasionally engaged in important business ventures. It bothered him to 
realize that Einstein had accumulated his wealth with comparative ease, 
whereas he had to start from scratch and claw his way to the top. 

How difficult was it, Kreske would ask himself, to become a millionaire when 
you had inherited a tidy sum to begin with. It certainly wasn't like 
starting at the bottom of the heap and battling your way to the top. All you 
had to do was stay and resist the temptation to relax. 

In all fairness, however, he had to admit that Einstein had done just that. 
The man was nobody's fool-not by a long shot. He had taken the money left 
him by his father and through shrewd business investments, parlayed his 
inheritance into a fortune within the space of eight years. 

That alone made him deserving of respect, Kreske thought. Unlike a few other 
millionaires he knew, Einstein didn't squander his money on idiotic, highly 
speculative deals. He was cautious, careful not to overplay his hand, yet he 
was a decisive individual, one who stood his ground when the going got 
tough. 

He was unafraid and he could be trusted. And it was because of this, plus 
the fact that, like him, Einstein had cause to be concerned about the health 
of the state's economy, he had phoned his fellow millionaire and suggested 
this evening's chat. Together they might be able to do something to arrest 
the disease of liberalism now destroying the state. 

"Well, I suppose you're wondering why I invited you here tonight, Einstein" 
Kreske began, running a hand through his shaggy, graying mass of hair and 
fixing his steel gray eyes on the younger man. 

Einstein took a sip of his scotch and smiled. "I'm curious, I'll admit that, 
George. In all the years we've known each other I don't think I've been here 
more than three times. Whatever's buggin' you must be mighty important." 

"You're damn right it's important. I can't think of anything that's more 
important than survival." 

"I'd be inclined to agree with you, George. 

But what's it have to do with you and me?" 

"Plenty. I suppose you've given some thought to the upcoming election." 

Einstein nodded. "Quite a bit, as a matter of fact." 

"And?" 

"And I'm still uncommitted. I'm very much impressed by both Johnson and 
Smith and I can't decide between them. They're very much alike, really. Both 
are honest, hard-working young men with a genuine concern for the country as 
a whole and the state in particular." Kreske frowned. "Haven't you forgotten 
a couple of candidates?" 

"You mean Buchanan and Hughes?" 

"Yeah. What's wrong with those two? I think either one of them would be a 
credit to the state. What we need today is a tough law and order man who 
won't take any crap from a minority group. That's why either Buchanan or 
Hughes." 

"George, you can't be serious," Einstein broke in. "I can't believe you'd 
vote for, well, on second thought maybe I can. But you'd be doing the state 
you say you love a great disservice." 

"Like hell, man," Kreske growled, his booming baritone filling the living 
room. "What this state needs is a man like Buchanan or Hughes at the helm. 
And heaven knows I'm doin' everything in my power to get one of them 
elected." 

"Campaign contributions?" 

Kreske nodded. "I've given Buchanan and Hughes close to a hundred thousand 
apiece." Einstein shook his head. "You're a fool, George. Not only are you 
wasting your money, you're putting your personal prejudices ahead of what 
you know in your heart is best for the state. Buchanan and Hughes are both 
racists, the worst kind of racists, if there is such a thing." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"They're opportunists, George," Einstein answered in an exasperated tone of 
voice. "Surely you can see that. In Buchanan and Hughes you have a 
dishonorable duo whose appeal is to man's most basic instincts. 

They're a greedy, power-hungry pair trying to take advantage of what they 
feel is the sentiment of a frustrated electorate. Both are unscrupulous 
egotists willing to pit man against man, black against white, in their 
frenzied search for votes." 

"They're telling it like it is," Kreske argued stubbornly. 

They're telling it like they want it to be," Einstein countered. "Elect 
either one of these bigots and it'll mean the ruination of this state. All 
Buchanan and Hughes are interested in is the prestige and authority that 
goes with the Governor's job, and to that end they're willing to confuse and 
divide the people." 

"The people are confused and divided right now, Einstein. Hell, man, can't 
you see what's happening in this state? We're being besieged by a horde of 
bleeding-heart liberals and their nigger friends. Buchanan and Hughes can 
see what's goin' on. They're trying to wake the people up and make em 
realize that unless we stop the nigger now, stop him cold, this state will 
be all black in another ten years." 

"George, you're talkin crazy." 

"I'm talkin sense, fella, the handwriting is on the wall. "You really 
believe that, don't you?" 

"Damn right I believe it" Einstein shook his head and then downed more of 
his drink. "Well, George, it's obvious that the majority of people in this 
state disagree with you. According to the most recent poll, Buchanan and 
Hughes are both far behind Smith and Johnson. So it would seem that, unlike 
you, most people intend to vote the man and not their prejudices." 

"And they're goin' to regret it," Kreske snapped. 

"Regret not electing a man who fosters hatred, a man trying to capitalize on 
the fear of a few? Rubbish. To their great credit, the people of this state 
are obviously more concerned about the future than they are about the past. 
They're interested in a man's qualifications, George, not rhetoric designed 
to inflame base passions. They want peace, not war, and they're smart enough 
to realize that electing either Buchanan or Hughes Governor will set this 
state back fifty years if not more." 

"And I suppose the election of a guy like Smith will be symbolic of 
progress." 

"He's a very capable man, George. He's an intelligent, forward-looking young 
man whose concern for this state is genuine. He had no ulterior motive, no 
personal ax to grind. Like Tom Johnson, Charles Smith is interested only in 
contributing to the state's progress, to its continued growth as a... " 

"He's a nigger!" Kreske shouted, pounding his ham-like fist on the arm of 
the leather chair. A no good uppity nigger who went and married a white 
woman." 

"Johnson's wife is black, George. What do you make of that?" 

"Yeah, sure she is. And it didn't surprise me one little bit when he 
introduced her to the voters. Hell Smith and Johnson are two of a kind. 
They're goin' to shove integration down our throats even if we choke on it," 
Kreske shook his head angrily. "Brother, if this isn't one pathetic 
situation. I never thought I'd live to see the day when two lily-livered 
liberals, one white with a black wife, the other black with a white wife, 
would be competing against each other for high office. It's a cryin' shame, 
that's what it is." 

"Well, George, I'm afraid you're going to have to accept it. This is the 
twentieth century and neither you nor anyone else can turn back the clock. 
You're just going to have to learn to adjust to the changing times. There's 
nothing you can do or say that will influence the electorate." 

"Says who? You're forgetting that my words carry considerable weight in this 
state, Einstein. My power to influence isn't anything to scoff at, you know. 
It might surprise you to learn that I've had dinner with every member of the 
state legislature at least once. And if you think back you'll remember that 
it was my... 

"Oh, come on, George, knock it off," Einstein interrupted. "You know as well 
as I do that the value of your so-called influence is next to nothing. When 
you get right down to the nitty-gritty, it's worth a few oh's and ah's at a 
cocktail party. Nothing more or less." 

Kreske stared hard at Einstein. "You think so, huh?" 

"I know so, George. Look, I've got almost as much pull, if you want to call 
it that, as you have. I'm on friendly terms with many important men in high 
places. But what's it all mean, George? It's good for our egos, that's all. 
Sure, we can get a traffic ticket fixed for a friend, and maybe we can 
persuade the right people to consider our interests when it comes time to 
grant building permits or change zoning laws. But our wealth doesn't place 
us outside the law. Should either one of us commit a serious crime, you can 
be damn sure the same people who helped us would be among the first to 
condemn us. And that's how it should be." 

"I'm not talking' about breaking any law," Kreske argued. "I just want to 
convince the people of this state that it would be suicide to elect either 
Smith or Johnson. If I can persuade the right people to speak out against 
those two, then maybe it isn't too late for Buchanan or Hughes. The election 
is still two months away." 

"You've already thrown away two hundred thousand dollars and now you want to 
waste time, too. Believe me, George, the people won't stand for any kind of 
smear campaign directed at either Smith or Johnson. They're interested in 
the issues and the qualifications of the candidates. They won't be swayed by 
your opinion, no matter how much you rant and rave. He moved toward his bar 
and then returned with two fresh drinks, handed one to Einstein and then 
eased himself back into the armchair. He took a sip of his scotch and then 
smiled. 

"You might be right, Einstein. Maybe the people don't respect me enough to 
value my opinion. But if I had something concrete, some hard facts to give 
to them-well, then they might sit up and start listening. And the next step 
after that would be a re-examination of Mr. Smith and Mr. Johnson. 

Einstein's brow furrowed. "Am I reading you right, George? Are you trying to 
dig up something to discredit those two?" 

Kreske gulped down a bit more scotch. "That's it, isn't it? Well, knowing 
you as I do can't say that I'm too surprised. But I think you're stooping 
pretty low." 

"Somebody's got do something to rid this state of undesirables, Einstein. I 
was hopin' that you and I could reach some sort of an agreement on this 
thing and decide on a proper course of action. But I realize now that I was 
dead wrong. Like too many others, you've been tricked into thinking that a 
solution to the world's woes rests in a liberal political philosophy. So I 
guess I'll have to go it alone." 

"What did you do, George?" Einstein asked, "hire a private detective to dig 
into Johnson's background? Or is it Smith you're out to get?" 

"I'm not out to get anybody. But it wouldn't surprise me to learn that one 
or the other, and maybe both, are card-carrying Communists. And if that's 
so, then the people should know about it." 

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard all year, George, I'm beginning 
to think your business associates are right when they suggest you consider 
retiring. I think the pressures of running a multi-million dollar 
corporation are catching up with you. A good long rest might help." 

"Don't start givin' me that crap. Einstein," Kreske broke in. "I'm as 
physically fit and clear-headed now as I've ever been. It's the health of 
this state that bothers me. I refuse to stand around and do nothing while a 
nigger-loving, big-spending liberal brain washes the people into thinking 
themselves no good if they favor a separation of the races." 

"Nobody is brain washing anybody, George. All you'll wind up doing is 
enhancing your reputation as a well-heeled bigot and a loud one at that." 

"If a bigot is someone who standup and fights for what he believes, someone 
with guts who isn't afraid to speak out against those trying, to turn this 
country into another Africa, then that's exactly what I am. The good people 
of this state deserve the best, Einstein. All I'm trying to do is avert a 
disaster." 

"George, there's just no point in arguing with you. You're entitled to your 
opinions of course, but to go and hire a detective in the hope that he'll 
unearth some juicy information which can be used to smear a candidate you 
oppose-well, I call that sinking pretty low. In fact, if what you're up to 
ever reached a reporter's ears, it could cost you in terms of status in the 
business community. When a man in your position attempts to promote his 
personal prejudices." 

"I'm not doin' anything of the sort, Einstein," Kreske broke in angrily., 
"and don't start lecturing me on what I can and cannot do, hear? It was only 
to protect the honest hardworking people of this state that I put that black 
bitch on Johnson's tail." 

"Black bitch? Who are you talking about?" 

Regaining his composure, Kreske answered in what for him was a soft tone of 
voice. "Her name's Wilson, Betty Wilson. She's a good-looking black broad I 
met at a party." 

"I thought you said that you'd hired... " 

"I never said that, Einstein. You just assumed it." 

For the first time since his arrival a broad grin blanketed Einstein's 
tanned, angular face. 

"Well aren't you the hypocrite, George Kreske? Apparently your hatred of 
blacks doesn't include beautiful black females. How long have you been 
fooling around with this chick, anyway?" 

"I'm not fooling around with her, Einstein," Kreske stated firmly, as 
visions of Betty, bare-assed naked, danced in his head. While it was true 
that he had yet to screw the dark-skinned lovely, it was only because she 
rejected his amorous advances. The thought of fucking her saucy fanny filled 
his mind more often than he cared to admit, and although his efforts had so 
far proved futile he was determined to ream her rectum before she departed 
the scene. 

"Come on George. Who are you trying to kid? I'll bet the broad is living 
right here and her host is humping her silly." 

"You're wrong on both counts. The girl has her own apartment and I haven't 
touched her. You think I'd risk gettin' a venereal disease just for the 
chance to come in some black slut's body? Not on your life." 

"I think I'll withhold comment on that, George." Einstein said, a skeptical 
smile on his face. "But what interests me is why she's working for you." 

"She needs money," Kreske explained curtly. "She wants to go to New York and 
study acting." 

"And you're backing her, huh?" 

"Yeah, but only if she completes her end of the bargain. She's going to find 
out what she can about Tom Johnson, then I'm going to have her do a study on 
Smith." Kreske paused, chuckled. "The brazen broad comes right up to me at 
this party and just about asks for a handout. That's a nigger for you, 
arrogant as all get out." 

"So you struck up a bargain with her. Money to pay for her trip to New York 
and acting lessons in exchange for whatever she brings you in the way off 
incriminating details. That's more than a little underhanded for a man who 
prides himself on his honesty." 

"The time has come to pull out all the stops, Einstein. That's what I've 
been trying to get across to you. I've got to work fast because the election 
is right around the corner. The sooner this dame gets those skeletons out of 
the closet, the sooner I can begin showing the people how very unwise it 
would be to elect either Johnson or Smith. And when the voters realize 
they're being duped, Buchanan and Hughes' stock will soar." 

"Let me remind you, George, that contrary to popular opinion, not everybody 
has dirty linen they don't want aired in public. You're going to learn that 
Johnson and Smith are both clean and that both are as concerned about the 
state as you are. All you'll have when this idiotic investigation is over 
will be egg on your face." 

"Well, we'll see about that," Kreske said, suddenly tiring of the 
conversation. He pushed himself up out of the armchair and again made for 
the bar and more scotch. "It could turn out that you're the one who's 
surprised. Messrs. Johnson and Smith might not be the all-American boys 
everyone seems to think they are." 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

Had anyone told Senta Berger that she would become intimate with Arthur 
Harrison, the sexy, black photographer accompanying her on this assignment, 
she would have told him he was out of his mind. Not once in six years as a 
reporter for the Yale-Hunter had she broken the commandment, which she had 
received in an aside by a worldly, female instructor in journalism that went 
"Thou shalt not fuck a male employed by the same newspaper that had employed 
you." 

Keeping the commandment had not been easy for Senta, a five foot five inch 
bundle of sex appeal, who at various times in her life had seriously 
wondered if she wasn't simply one of those hapless females suffering from 
incurable nymphomania. So great was her need for male cock, so overpowering 
was the urge to mate, that the blonde, blue-eyed beauty had laid every 
single one of her male professors in college and all but two of them at the 
journalism school she attended for two memorable years. 

It had taken considerable effort (newspapermen were such a dashing, virile 
lot, Senta thought) but she had managed to avoid the clutching hands and 
improper propositions of those on the Yale-Hunter staff who eyed her 
luscious curves with sex on their minds and growing pricks in their pants. 

When the urge to copulate struck, Senta would avail herself of one of many 
males, who, knowing a good thing when they saw it, (when they laid it), were 
beating a path to her apartment door. None of these handsome, horny studs 
had even the remotest connection to the newspaper business. 

Her sexual experience to the contrary, Senta had been a rather naive girl 
prior to joining the Yale-Hunter staff. Although blessed (cursed?) with an 
insatiable hunger for thick prick, one she had no trouble appeasing thanks 
to her fantastically sexy figure, Senta had known precious little about 
survival in the "real" world when she left the cloistered classroom seeking 
her fame and fortune. 

She had accepted the advice handed her by the worldy-wise newspaperwoman 
but, at the same time, questioned the necessity of keeping her distance. 
Why, she wondered, should screwing a co-worker be verboten? Was there any 
reason why business couldn't be combined with pleasure? 

Soon, however, Senta discovered the wisdom in the words of caution she had 
half-heartedly accepted. It took her less than three months on the 
Yale-Hunter to learn that those who toiled in the communications industry 
were a breed .apart. For some reason, they were decidedly different from 
people in other professions. 

People in the publishing world, people in advertising, and people in the 
newspaper business, especially, were driven, or so it seemed to Senta, by an 
almost ruthless ambition, a fanatical desire to achieve recognition. It 
wasn't so much that they desired fame and fortune-although both would be 
welcomed-as it was that they seemed possessed by the need to win the 
approval of their peers and to stamp, in the minds of those with whom they 
toiled, the lasting impression of one worthy of respect. 

This arrogant need to distinguish themselves, in one way or another, led to 
considerable back-stabbing. Jealousy abounded in the communications 
industry, Senta discovered, and one was hard put to tell friend from foe. 
Distrust ran rampant and the person you lunched with yesterday might very 
well be the person who tricked you out of a good story tomorrow. 

Nothing was sacred, certainly not friendship. Writers and editors competed 
not only with rival writers and editors, those who worked for other 
publications, but also with the men and women in their own office. Everybody 
was in the race, and since few things are as quickly forgotten as a 
well-written story, a smart scoop, or the cleverly devised advertising 
campaign, everybody had to keep running at full speed. 

The idea was to be first, never second or third, but first and to that end 
people pitted themselves against each other like enemies waging a fight to 
the death. Amidst this hysteria, this unrelenting tension, egos were 
squashed and bolstered, deceit rewarded and honesty scoffed, selfishness 
elevated to a position of prime importance and generosity viewed with a 
skeptical, if not downright distrustful, eye. 

But despite all this in-fighting, all the malicious gossip, Senta liked her 
job with the paper. She found reporting the news to be a highly interesting 
occupation, one that challenged her ability to write clearly and quickly 
with the thought of the deadline always in the back of her mind. 

She asked for and usually received, sometimes to the dismay of her fellow 
reporters, the toughest assignments. More often than not she turned in copy 
chock full of interesting facts a less diligent reporter might have ignored, 
and this, combined with her talent for sniffing out leads and then following 
through with fierce determination, had earned her the grudging admiration of 
even those who were forever trying to do her in professionally. 

And Senta, or "Sen" as she was more frequently called by co-workers and 
friends, had no intention of tainting the reputation she enjoyed. No sooner 
had she become aware of the vindictive nature of so many who toiled in the 
newspaper business, the spiteful gossip designed to discredit, and sometimes 
ruin, than she silently vowed to behave herself and not give the scandal 
mongers anything they could use to crucify her. 

But now, smack dab in the middle of what she regarded as one of her biggest 
assignments, she found herself enmeshed in a wild affair with a Yale-Hunter 
photographer. And a black one to boot. Here she was, on the campaign trail 
with Charles Smith and in bed with Arthur Harrison. 

She was covering the candidacy of one black man and being banged senseless 
by another. Either she was trailing Smith and reporting his activities to 
readers of the Yale-Hunter or she was flat on her back on a bed somewhere, 
the feel of Arthur's ebony prick in her cunt, or her asshole, or her mouth, 
driving her bananas. 

If that wasn't integration, Senta thought, then she didn't know what was. 

At the moment, she and the pussy-pleasing photographer were about to engage 
in another one of their torrid sex sessions. They had spent the day as 
usual, with Senta in hot pursuit of Smith and button-holing various members 
of his campaign staff in her tireless quest for answers, opinions, or 
anything that might make interesting reading. 

Earlier in the evening, along with other people of the press, they had 
attended a speech delivered by Smith to an appreciative audience of college 
students, during which Arthur had gotten a particularly good shot of the 
black candidate shaking hands with the Jewish dean of the school. 

Then, after Smith informed them of his intention to spend another day in the 
college town, for the purpose of addressing an impressive number of alumni 
scheduled to arrive tomorrow, Senta and Arthur deciding against the long 
trip back to her apartment, had dined together in a small restaurant before 
checking into a motel. 

It had been another grueling day but now everything was in order. Senta had 
phoned in her story and Arthur had given his two rolls of film to a 
trustworthy member of Smith's party who promised to deliver them to the 
Yale-Hunter. Now, since everything was under control, they could settle down 
and start to really enjoy each other's company. 

Senta commenced a not-too-gentle massage of her spongy boobs. 

Arthur smiled broadly. "Now who's making with the snide remarks?" 

"Just finish undressing, you clown." 

As desired snaked through her smooth, compact body, Senta continued playing 
with her breasts and watching her black lover strip. He was in the final 
stages of undressing now, down to his slacks and underwear, and it was with 
considerable impatience that she awaited the appearance, once again, of the 
fantastic cock she had accepted into her aroused body for the first time ago 
four months. 

Arthur was right, she thought, the day she refused to fuck him was the day 
she would need psychiatric counseling. Because only the totally blind and 
those females hopelessly frigid could fail to appreciate his gigantic prick, 
and when a gal liked all the screwing she could get and then some, well, it 
was like being introduced to Mr. Rod himself. 

Never in a million years would she tire of Arthur's ebony prick. Art himself 
was not really that much to look at. He was tall, about six foot three, but 
was so thin as to be almost skinny. She didn't think he weighed more than 
one hundred sixty-five which was not nearly enough to comfortably conceal 
his bones. 

His eyes were a dull brown and the rather large Afro adorning his head did 
little to disguise the sharp, angular features of his face. His mustache, 
which he trimmed only when in the mood, also hindered more than helped his 
appearance. 

So all things considered, Art Harrison was not the kind of lover girls 
dreamed about, the kind whose fantastic good looks and muscular, powerpacked 
physique inspire thoughts of lust and start pussies purring with excitement. 
Even when fully clothed he didn't spark much interest in the opposite sex. 

But when that cock of his started growing, when that truly magnificent, 
larger-than-life cock began filling with warm blood, slowly but surely 
swelling to an unbelievable, heart-stopping size of better than ten inches 
that, Senta thought, made all the difference in the world. 

One glimpse of Art's prodigious prick and a girl was ready to throw herself 
at his feet and bed to be banged out of orbit. At least she was. In all her 
twenty-seven years, twelve or which had been spent bouncing in and out of 
strange beds and trying on different dicks, she hadn't once come across a 
tool to match the monstrous member belonging to the otherwise physically 
unappealing Mr. Arthur Harrison. 

It was the kind of cock that triggered instant envy in men less 
well-endowed, Senta remembered saying to her black lover during one of their 
first fucking sessions. And in thinking back over her long list of lovers, 
recalling the many males with whom she had happily humped, she could not 
help but wonder why it was that some of the handsomest men had, at best, 
only passable pricks, while some of the less attractive had been blessed 
with noteworthy organs. 

It seemed, Senta reasoned, that nature was trying to compensate for errors 
made along the way. A good size cock certainly offset a man's 
undistinguished if not plain attractive, physical attributes. And by the 
same token a girl was inclined to forgive a man with a smaller-than-average 
weapon if in other respects he was a vision to behold. And if he knew what 
he was doing. 

"You know something, Art," Senta said suddenly braking the silence. "I'm 
just wondering if you realize how fortunate you are." 

"Me? Fortunate?" 

"That's what I said." 

"Because I got me a gal who can't get enough cock, right?" Art said. He was 
bare-assed naked now, his back towards Senta as he draped his white boxer 
shorts over the back of the straight chair next to the one dresser in the 
room. 

"Yes, and also because you not only have a beautiful large prick but you 
also know how to use it." 

Art turned around to reveal a cock still limp. 

"Well that makes you the fortunate one, doesn't it, sugar?" 

Senta grinned, chuckle. "Yep, I guess it does, lover." She looked at the 
flaccid length of flesh dangling between Arthur's legs, another wave of 
desire washing over her as she realized how quickly his cock could come to 
life. 

"You're staring, Sen," Art smiled broadly. 

"Come here, stud," Senta said thickly. The thirty-one-year-old photographer 
sauntered over to the side of the motel bed. He looked down at the dazzling 
blonde, a wicked little gleam in his eye. She was without doubt one of the 
most fuckable white chicks he'd ever met, he thought. And it had been his 
good fortune to meet and mate with many pretty Caucasian chicks. 

Senta swung her legs over the side of the bed and stared intently at her 
black lover's pecker. How deceiving was Art's erectile, she thought. How 
wickedly entrancing. Few things looked as harmless, as helplessly inept, as 
Art's penis did at the moment. Dangling there between his hairy thighs, limp 
and lifeless appearing lamentably weak and incapable of rising to the 
occasion. 

But how quickly the change in appearance occurred! Blessed with unbelievable 
self-control, Art was able to contain his excitement until it was actually 
time to fuck. Then, as if on a given signal, his magnificent member would 
begin growing and growing. 

Senta slipped her right hand between her lover's legs and moved it up to his 
crotch. Carefully, worshipfully, she rolled his hairy ball in the palm of 
her hands as his worm-like prick curled lazily on her wrist. She commenced a 
gentle squeezing of the warm, wrinkled scrotal sac, dangling his nuts as one 
would the eggs of a precious bird. 

"You want it hard, sugar?" Art asked, a touch of arrogance in his voice. 

Senta looked up. "It's amazing," she said softly. "How do you manage to keep 
so calm? I've never met a man who could control his cock like this." 

Arthur grinned. "Watch, baby." 

Senta's gaze returned to her black lover's penis. She saw it twitch and 
then, as it prodded by a silent command, begin to slowly swell size. As the 
cuddlesome blonde woman watched in fascination, her pretty blue eyes glued 
to Arthur's genitals, the still unimpressive organ slowly filled with warm 
blood. 

Snake-like it crawled up his left thigh, lengthening and thickening, 
becoming harder with each passing second. No longer did Arthur's erectile 
resemble a fat, limp noodle. No longer was it a useless, woefully weak, 
flaccid length of flesh dangling between thighs that needed more meat. 

It was getting longer and thicker all the time, beginning to suggest the 
great size it would eventually reach. Five inches, six inches and still 
growing, moving out and up, away from his sperm-packed scrotum. 

Seven inches, eight inches... nine. 

Was there a word or phrase that could adequately express the wondrous beauty 
of this erection, Senta wondered, as she dipped her left hand between her 
creamy thighs and parting her legs, commenced a methodical massaging of her 
now leaking snatch. It was truly fantastic. Unreal. 

It was at times like this that she sometimes wished she had been born male, 
that instead of a pussy she had a prick, one like Arthur's one that could 
blossom so beautifully so quickly. How thrilling it would be experience, if 
only just once, the awesome sense of power that Arthur no doubt felt as his 
organ increased in size. 

"Well, sugar, what do you think?" Arthur said, smiling down at the blue-eyed 
blonde staring hungrily at his tool. He was totally tumescent now, his 
ten-inch prick a mighty menace as it protruded proudly from his hairy loins. 

"Fuck me, Arthur," Senta breathed hotly, seemingly unable to tear her eyes 
away from her black lover's prodigious prick. "Fuck me like you've never 
fucked me before." 

Arthur chuckled softly. "Now what's that supposed to mean?" 

Senta looked up to reveal a pair of eyes glazed by passion. "It means I'm 
especially randy tonight, lover. I want you to screw me until I see double." 

"That, pretty baby, will be a pleasure." Arthur let a few seconds go by, 
then asked, "Feel like sucking me tonight?" 

Senta shook her head. "No, I mean not now. Maybe later, after you've come in 
me." 

Arthur watched his aroused girlfriend suddenly swing her legs back up on the 
bed and then, after some excited squirming around, flip over onto her belly. 
His smile broadened as he realized what it was she wanted. 

"In the ass tonight, huh, baby?" he asked. 

"Yes, that's what I want," Senta answered thickly. "A real man cornholing." 
She wrapped her arms around the pillow and hugged it hotly. "Do it to me, 
lover. Ram your big, beautiful cock way up my shitty ass." 

"I'll be right back, Senta. Don't go away now." 

Only too eager to oblige his white girl friend, Arthur moved quickly to the 
small table standing just inside the motel room door. After snapping open 
her small purse, he reached inside and pulled out the small squat bottle of 
vaseline that Senta carried with her wherever she went. 

She had told him, just before he fucked her fanny for the first time, that 
she always kept a jar of lubricant on her person. It was a habit she had 
gotten into many years ago, she explained, when she first discovered the 
delights of anal intercourse. And since a girl never know when a man would 
want to hump her heinie, the wisest thing was to always be prepared. Like a 
girl scout. 

Vaseline in hand, Arthur returned to the bed to discover Senta holding the 
cheeks of her ass apart. A lewd grin washed over his angular black face as 
he unscrewed the bottle cap and flipped it onto the nightstand next to the 
bed. The obscene sight of the beautiful blonde impatiently awaiting 
lubrication caused his mighty manhood to throb with excitement. "All right 
sweetheart," he said, dropping down onto the comfortably hard bed, "let us 
have at that pretty asshole of yours." 

"Hurry, Arthur," Senta groaned. "Shove some of that stuff up my ass and then 
fuck me. 

"How come you want a cornholing tonight, sugar?" Arthur asked, dipping a few 
fingers into the jar and scooping up a glob of the sticky vaseline. 

"I just feel real wicked, that's all. And when I feel wicked and wanton then 
I oooooooo, that's cold, Arthur." 

The black photographer chuckled. "Hang tough, beautiful. My prick will be 
hot." 

Arthur spent the next few minutes carefully preparing his white girl 
friend's posterior for penetration. Although he had fucked Senta curvaceous 
bottom many times in the past few months, he realized that without proper 
lubrication of both his teen-inch cock and her asshole, an enjoyable, 
relatively painless fanny-fuck was almost impossible. 

He was certainly a lucky devil, he thought, as he smeared large globs of a 
thick lubricant in and around Senta's shithole. He knew enough about chicks 
to recognize a wild one, but he also knew that Senta, for whatever-reason, 
was always rejecting the amorous overtures of the men at the newspaper. So 
he could only thank his lucky stars that he had been around when she decided 
to come across with her fantastic body. 

Tiny grunts of desire popped from Senta's lips as she squirmed on the motel 
bed, her fingers digging into the succulent cheeks of her fanny as she pried 
them apart to give her black lover free access to her asshole. The thought 
of once again taking his elephantine cock in her ass, feeling its great 
throbbing length deeply imbedded in her foul bowels, was clouding her mind 
with lust and sending shivers up her spine. 

The obscene preparations over, Arthur stood and placed the jar of lubricant 
on the nightstand. He looked down at the delectable blonde whose fantastic 
fanny he would momentarily fuck and tried to decide which position he 
favored at the moment. He could stuff a pillow or two under her stomach, 
thus elevating her posterior, and mount her while braced on hands and knees. 

Or, and this too had its advantages, he could have her crouch on the bed on 
elbows and knees, her delightful derriere on a line with the side of the 
bed, and then screw her dizzy while standing. To have a make a choice was 
absolutely maddening, Arthur thought. 

When at last he reached his decision, the lanky photographer took hold of 
Senta's shapely hips and started dragging her into position, eager to 
assist, the pulchritudinous reporter scrambled up onto her hands and knees 
and, guided by her lover's hot hands, swiveled around on the bed and 
squirmed backwards. 

In less than fifteen seconds she was in position, wholly perverse, 
masochistic visions dancing in her head as she savored the thought of yet 
another brutal anal ravishment. Braced on knees and shoulders, her back 
arched and her taut bottom upthrust, poised for penetration, she reached 
back and with both hands again pried apart the succulent half-moons of her 
buttocks. 

"Do it Arthur," she pleaded thickly, the right side of her beautiful and now 
flushed face pressed hotly onto the mattress. Shove it up my filthy ass. 
Ream me out, lover." 

"I'll ream you, baby, Arthur promised, his voice somewhat sinister in tone. 

"I'll ream you good." 

Not needing a second invitation, the man who took black and white pictures 
for a living but who lived for black and white sex stepped up into position 
behind his desire-dazed girl friend. Clamping his bony hands around her 
creamy, hips, he aimed his monstrous organ at the well-greased entrance to 
her ass. 

"Please, Arthur, get it in me. I need it bad tonight. Slam it to me, lover." 

"Just hold them open baby," Arthur rasped. "You'll be stuffed with cock in 
no time at all." 

"Up to my tits, Arthur," Senta moaned. "That's where I want to feel your 
prick-up to my fucking boobs." 

"Hang on, sugar. Just hang on." 

As his seldom-trimmed fingernails dug into the resilient flesh of Senta's 
hips Arthur pressed forward and began pushing his prodigious prick into her 
taut tail. He had coated his cock with a liberal amount of vaseline before 
setting the jar aside. Now, as he continued applying pressure, the 
well-greased, bulbous head of his huge manhood strained against the equally 
well-lubricated but still painfully small opening that was Senta's nether 
hole. 

"Come on, dammit," Senta breathed hotly. "Ram that fucking thing into my 
ass. Don't waste time being gentle." 

"All right, sugar. But don't say I didn't warn you." 

"I can take it. You know I can." 

"The pain will." 

"Fuck the pain!" Senta shouted. "Just bury your prick in my stinking 
rectum!" 

Not needing the additional stimulation provided by his white girl friend's 
wholly wicked, deliciously obscene request, but thrilled by it nonetheless, 
Arthur reared back and with a single, mind-jarring thrust sent three 
steel-hard inches of pulsing prick slamming up into Senta's tingling tail. 

"Aieee!" Senta screamed, -searing pain shooting through her entire body as 
her tight, resisting nether hole was savagely stretched by Arthur's brutal 
lunge. The hand that had been holding her ass open now flew forward and down 
to dig into the mattress. 

The fact that she had expected the pain made it no less difficult to endure, 
and now, as she felt her lover's massive prick begin tunneling deeper into 
her aching bowels, tears welled in her pretty blue eyes and soft, choking 
sobs of agony popped from her lovely Hps. It was as if a giant tree trunk 
had been cruelly crammed into her burning backside. 

Having breached Senta's quivering white bottom, Arthur concentrated now on 
the thrilling task of packing his girl's behind with all ten inches of his 
powerful, palpitating prick. With his hard black hands still wrapped around 
her creamy hips, as lust snaked through his body, he began burrowing into 
her foul bowels, his monstrous manhood pushing aside all in its path as it 
inched into the forbidden treasures of a dank, clinging rectum. 

"Ohhhh, owwww," Senta moaned. "It hurts so much." 

"You want me to stop, baby?" Arthur asked. "If it's too much." 

"No, don't stop," the whimpering blonde gasped. "Just get it all in me. Then 
it'll be right." 

Inspired not only by Senta's salaciously servile posture, her mournful 
moans, but also by the knowledge that total, absolute penetration of her 
creamy ass was possible, Arthur continued pushing his elephantine cock into 
the morass of her hotly gripping rectal canal. He labored carefully but with 
determination, not wanting to cause Senta any more pain than was necessary 
but intent on burying his giant root to the balls in her beautiful behind. 

Once again she was being stuffed chock full of meaty cock, Senta's 
pain-clouded mind told her. Arthur was relentlessly pursuing his goal, 
filling her fanny with his enormous tool as she cowered on the bed in 
slave-like submission. How many inches were in her rectum already, she 
wondered. Five? Six? It felt more like eight. 

"Hang tight, baby," Arthur rasped. "We're almost home free." 

"Go ahead," Senta gasped. "I want it all. Every last fucking inch." 

Arthur stared down at the point of connection, at the incredibly obscene 
sight of his girl's anus clasping his turgid black pecker. Her pinkish-brown 
asshole, which only moments ago had been a resisting ring of flesh 
stubbornly rejecting his rock-hard cock, was now stretched to at least five 
times its original size. And that niggardly opening, that portal of 
paradise, was hotly hugging his deeply imbedded bone as if it never intended 
to let go. 

Deeper, even deeper, Arthur burrowed into Senta's quivering, aching ass. The 
feel of her dank rectum around his tunneling tool was nothing less than 
fantastic. Even though he had fanny fucked the ravishing blonde many times 
before she was still marvelously tight. It was as if she had planted his 
pulsing prick in tightly-packed soil and a hundred worms were coiling their 
slippery lengths around it. 

And then, when all but a measly inch of cock remained in view, Arthur took a 
deep breath and lunged forward. Now she had it all, he thought triumphantly, 
as his pelvis thumped against Senta's bottom and his black balls bounced up 
into her upturned crotch. All ten inches of his huge organ were snugly 
encased in her grasping shit chute. 

"You got it, baby," Arthur announced happily. "How's it feel?" 

"Good-wonderful," Senta groaned. "Do me now, Arthur. But go slowly at 
first." 

"Yes, ma'am, easy does it." 

Senta hadn't lied when she described the feel of Arthur's giant-sized cock 
in her horribly stretched shit chute. It did feel good, unbelievably so. As 
was always the case, the initial pain of penetration and gradually faded as 
her rectum expanded to accommodate the flesh invader, and by the time Arthur 
had planted eight inches of his weapon in her creamy bottom, mild discomfort 
was giving was to a warm, mysterious pleasure was increasing quickly. 

And she knew it would, a strange, masochistic lust was now taking hold and 
riveting her thoughts to the depraved, utterly shameful manner in which she 
was being banged. What little discomfort remained was turning enjoyable, and 
now as Arthur commenced a lazy shagging of her ass, his mighty cock slipping 
in and out of her rectum, Senta began grinding her hips back to meet his 
well-paced plunges. 

"That's the way, lover," she moaned into the mattress. "Stir my turds with 
that fucking pole. Deep-go deep, Arthur." 

Slipping further still into a state of sexual saturation, every fiber of her 
being attuned to this wonderfully wicked reaming of her shitty rectum, Senta 
begged her lean black lover to never ever stop his forceful thrusts into her 
tail. She was being used, defiled in a most cruel manner, she told herself, 
and she couldn't bear the idea of losing Arthur's rock-hard, ebony erectile. 

That giant cock was moving in her, gouging her tender shit chute with a 
diabolical determination. Arthur had plugged her ass with his monstrous 
organ, and now he was sawing all ten inches in and out of her clasping 
rectum, his cock a giant, fleshy corkscrew as it trundled into the murky 
confines of a dark passage not designed to harbor such huge instruments. 

"Harder, lover," Senta pleaded passionately. "Do it harder now. Smash it 
into my stinking ass!" 

"You beautiful bitch," Arthur fired back, perspiration beginning to head his 
brow. "You hot-assed white cunt." 

A demented grin swept over Senta's face. She loved to loved him to hurl 
epithets at her as she knelt in shivering submissiveness and "suffered" the 
wild ravaging of her rectum by his powerful, prodigious black prick. It 
served to heighten her erotic pleasure immensely. 

He was the master and she was the hapless slave, the whimpering victim of 
his fiery, maniacal lust. He was the angry black male venting years of 
frustration on a poor white female. Hopelessly impaled on his rampaging 
root, she was forced to endure the relentless pounding of his fleshy pestel 
into her trembling behind. 

"Faster," Senta croaked. "Faster, damn you. Split my ass, you big-pricked 
stud!" 

"Wallow, you white whore," Arthur spat, punctuating his words with a 
pulverizing plunge into the passion-crazed blonde's ravaged anal passage. 
"I'm gonna burn your fucking ass for you." 

The exhilarating pressure on his tremendous tool and Senta's unashamed 
acceptance of this fiendish coupling were driving Arthur mad with lust. He 
sawed into her widely-distended asshole with merciless abandon, conscious 
only of the gut-jumbling need to empty his balls in the mulch of her 
shit-coated rectum. 

As had happened before when he was fucking the fanny of a beauteous white 
female, a sadistic fantasy took hold of Arthur and he became obsessed with 
the demonic need to punish. Through eyes glazed by a scalding passion he saw 
Senta going slightly insane, her lush white body in uncontrollable quiver 
as, teeth bared, breasts jiggling, she lewdly gyrated her ass and sent it 
spinning up and back to greet his savage, soul-charring thrusts into her 
hot, gripping back passage. 

She was his. A slave submitting to her owner. He could do with her whatever 
he wished. This gorgeous blonde, blue-eyed bitch was born to be brutalized, 
to be feverishly fucked until she begged for mercy. She was the white 
southern belle, the holier-than-thou, tempting piece of tail who was now 
getting her just desserts from the black male she enjoyed teasing. 

Placing himself in the role of violent conqueror, Arthur battered Senta's 
behind with unmitigated fury. Time and again he smashed into her grinding 
ass, his big black balls slapping up against her wet sex slit as his 
elephantine prick surged hungrily up into her clammy rectum. 

A satanic lust choking her, Senta fell to mumbling unintelligibly as the 
frantic fucking of her curvaceous posterior continued without interruption. 
The husky, animal-like grunts and groans Arthur emitted as he pummelled her 
behind were like music to her ears. That beautiful cock, that great horse's 
cock of his was tearing up her shit chute something fierce. 

She had but one goal now, one outrageously obscene wish, and that was to be 
ripped asunder by the pile-driving prick vanquishing her fanny. She wanted 
to be split down the middle, to have her beautiful buttocks cleft as one 
might have a ripe peach with a razor-sharp knife. 

And in her lust-drenched state Senta could think of no better cutting 
instrument than the one slicing up into her hot rectum. Many days would pass 
before she forgot that fortuitous moment when, quite by accident, she caught 
a glimpse of Arthur Harrison's mighty manhood. In no small way that very 
large organ contributed to her decision to break the newspaperwoman's 
commandment. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

"Ohhh, honey please, baby, take them off," Alice beseeched, her lovely face 
a mask of pleasure as she squirmed in heat on the bed she shared with her 
husband. 

She was referring to her pink panties, the crotch of which Charles seemed 
determined to nibble through. He was crouched low between her splayed knees, 
his tan-colored face plastered against an odorous, sheathed snatch as he 
sucked and nibbled like a ravenous rat on her warm, excited loins. 

A rigorous schedule of speeches, luncheons, meetings and interviews, had not 
in any way dampened the desire of the gubernatorial candidate. Nor had the 
grueling campaign effected his ability to perform to his white wife's 
satisfaction. 

After many months on the campaign circuit he was still in excellent 
condition, still able to lose himself in lust and forget, for a highly 
enjoyable hour or so, the friendly but vigorous war he was waging for the 
governorship. 

Between all those orations and lengthy conferences, all that baby-kissing 
and smiling required of one running for public office, he had managed to 
sandwich in innumerable screwing sessions with his desirable Caucasian 
spouse. Much to her delight, needless to say. 

Now again, with the election just two weeks away, Charles was pleasuring 
Alice, again demonstrating his not inconsiderable talent for cunt-licking, 
for twat-tonguing. And in the process driving her up the wall of lust. 

"Charles, please," Alice moaned. "Pull down my pants and... you devil." 

"Something wrong, sweetheart?" Charles asked, lifting his head from his 
wife's steaming, covered cunt. A sexy grin spread across his attractive face 
as he gazed between Alice beautiful breasts and saw the hungry look in her 
hazel eyes, the expression of need she was wearing. 

"You know what's wrong, you tease," Alice whined. "You've been down there 
for at least twenty minutes and... " 

"You no like?" Charles interrupted, still grinning. 

"I do like. But... but I want something more now. Please, take down my pants 
and do it to me. 

"Do what?" the candidate teased. 

"Anything!" Alice groaned, loving and hating her husband at the same time as 
he continued toying with her passion. "Fuck me, suck me, I don't care. But 
do something, damn you. I'm almost on the verge of coming." 

Charles sat back on his haunches and smiled down at his highly aroused mate. 
There was no doubt in his mind that she was close to climax. She was a girl 
who responded quickly and enthusiastically to sexual stimuli, visual or 
tactile, and the many minutes he'd spent munching on her sheethed-snatch, 
inhaling the intoxicating aroma of her passion-perfumed pussy had quite 
obviously brought her to the brink of orgasm. In fact, he suspected she had 
already enjoyed a couple of mini-comes. 

How utterly ravishing she was, he thought. Alice was the picture of 
perfection, a five foot six inch treasure of thrills. Her shoulder-length 
and wavy brunette tresses framed a compassionately-crafted, altogether 
delightful countenance. Her smile was one of the most enchanting he'd ever 
seen. 

And her creamy smooth body made a man's mouth water. Her breasts were two 
tempting globes of spongy flesh, her belly was flat, her behind was full and 
taut, as tender as a teenager's behind, her legs were two strong pillars of 
sturdy flesh, sleek stems of ivory which contrasted sharply with his hairy, 
brown limbs. 

"Darn you, Charles," Alice moaned again. "Do I have to start playing with 
myself?" She brought both hands down to her crotch and began rubbing herself 
with abandon. 

"All right, honey, all right," Charles said. "I was just admiring the 
merchandise." 

"That you can do some other time. If you don't do something damn soon, I 
think... " 

"Charles Smith to the rescue," the candidate cracked, smiling wickedly as he 
brushed his wife's hands away from her pantied pussy. 

"You haven't even started the mission yet," Alice countered quickly. 

Alice moved her hands up to her tingling tits as her husband inserted his 
fingers in the waistband of her briefs and began tugging the flimsy garment 
down. She lifted her shapely hips off the bed so that her mate could work 
her undies around and off her succulent ass. Then she dropped her derriere 
back down on the bed and brought her legs together, thus enabling the cotton 
briefs to be pulled down without difficulty. 

"There, mission accomplished," Charles said, flipping his wife's pants over 
his right shoulder. 

"You haven't even started the mission yet," Alice countered quickly, 
trapping the blood-hardened nipples of her beautiful boobs between her 
fingers and pinching them. 

Completely naked now, she looked down at her brown-skinned spouse, at the 
juncture of his thick thighs where sprouted a normal-sized but truly 
thrilling tool. He was never more handsome than when he was in a state of 
sexual excitation, she thought, unable to still her sensuously squirming 
hips. 

Charles was built like a catcher, which, appropriately enough, was the 
position he played for his college baseball team. He was five feet ten and a 
half inches in height and weighed in at close to two hundred pounds which 
made him more than a little chunky. But a regimen of exercise kept those 
pounds from turning to flab, and at age thirty-eight he was as strong, not 
to mention virile, as he had been when wed eight years ago. 

His face was more round than oval, yet it was a very appealing face. His 
brown eyes matched the color of his hair, which he kept short and carefully 
trimmed. She loved to rub her hand over his head, to tell him, teasingly, 
that his close-cropped hair resembled the brown bristle of a scrub brush. 

"Do I suck more or fuck, baby?" Charles asked suddenly, his eyes dropping 
from his wife's face to fix on her bared love box. 

"Suck me." Alice answered. Then amending her explicit, hastily-given reply, 
"but just briefly for a little while." 

Charles grinned. "I'll just touch you up around the edges, sweetheart. And 
then we'll screw." 

And with that, as his blood-gorged pecker jerked up and down, and side to 
side, the brown-skinned gubernatorial candidate quickly assumed a 
comfortable cunt-chewing posture. Once again crouched between his wife's 
creamy thighs, he dropped his head over her warm loins and began grinding 
his dark face into her seething snatch. 

"Ohhh, I love that," Alice crooned, planting her feet firmly on the mattress 
and pushing her hips up as she continued a mad manipulation of her spongy 
mammaries. 

Eyes closed, her head lolling on the pillow she surrendered to the 
deliciously sexy sensations suffusing her anew now that her husband was back 
munching on her pulsing pussy. She decided that, as passionate prelude to 
the screwing to follow, she would work toward another small climax, one 
which, like the first robin of spring, would act as happy harbinger of 
greater delights. 

His tongue in twat-thrilling twirl, Charles salaciously scoured his wife's 
pulpy, fragrant sex hps. Seemingly determined to crawl headfirst into 
Alice's aroused vagina, he burrowed between her warm, quivering white thighs 
like a huge rodent seeking shelter. 

"More, more darling," Alice moaned. "My clit, get at my damn clitoris, 
lover." 

Needing neither further inspiration or directions, Charles quickly responded 
to his spouse's lewd request. His hard-working, talented tongue zipped 
upward to commence a tantalizing massage of Alice's excited clitoris. 

As tremulous sighs and mini-growls of pleasure broke from his mate's lovely 
throat, Charles lay siege to her passion button with a hungry enthusiasm. 
His tongue jabbed and then stroked, jabbed again, curled lovingly around the 
rosy red clit. He burrowed deeper still and ovalled his hps, drew the 
mini-penis into his mouth and commenced to suck it as a baby would his 
mother's breast. 

"Ooooo arhhhhhh," Alice groaned happily darts of desire pricking her every 
nerve and as the wicked worship of her weeping womanhood moved her swiftly 
toward another come. Charles was a craftman when it came to sucking cunts, 
her passion-crazed mind told her. And just the delightfully-depraved thought 
of him down there between her legs, sniffing at her twat while he sucked 
same, was enough to keep her lust at the boiling point. 

Pausing to catch his breath, to gulp down some much needed oxygen Charles 
pulled up and away from Alice's steaming love oven. Then the brief respite 
over, he lowered his head and again plastered his face against the fluffy 
brown patch, resumed feasting with renewed determination. 

Holding fast to his wife's creamy thighs, the brown-skinned aspirant to the 
governorship glued his hungry mouth to the sopping wet, open gash of her 
excited pussy, sent his tongue slithering once more between the slick lips. 

"Ohhhh, Charles, oh, heavens so good," Alice whimpered. 

Charles lapped up his mate's sticky syrup and swallowed it, his tantalizing 
tongue roving up and down her hot, pulsating cleft. And seconds later, to 
the accompaniment of a high-pitched shriek, Alice came and splashed his face 
with additional love cream. Undaunted, the hungry cunt-chewer swallowed 
this, too, his tongue like a fleshy scoop as it shoveled the tasty gook into 
his mouth. 

For several minutes more, as Alice quivered in ecstasy, Charles worked 
between her creamy thighs. Inhaling the musky scent of her sodden snatch, he 
slobbered salaciously. With twirling tongue and nibbling lips he worked to 
arouse his wife anew, to her to the brink of another, more intense orgasm. 

"Flip over, sweetheart," he said thickly, once again sitting back on his 
haunches. 

"Stick it in me, Charles," Alice breathed hotly, ignoring her husband's 
order. "Shove that brown bone in my hot twat." 

"On your belly, Alice. I want to get at your ass." 

"No darling, not tonight. I don't want my ass fucked." 

"I'm not going to screw it," Charles explained a wee bit irritated by his 
wife's stubbornness. "I want to kiss it, baby." 

A faintly feral smile crept across Alice's smooth-complexioned face. Analism 
had a special attraction for her, a deliciously different and genuine 
attraction. It was so beautifully perverse, so fantastically filthy. 

"You like my white behind, don't you, hon?" Alice asked, a lewd wink 
accompanying her question. 

"That I do," Charles answered. "But unless you flip over onto your pretty 
tummy right this minute... " 

"Ooooo, my master threatens," Alice said, pretending fright. 

Seconds later, as her husband moved a bit to give her room, the beautiful 
brown-eyed brunette twisted over onto her tummy. But instead of stretching 
out on the bed, she slowly drew her knees up under her until she was in a 
lust-provoking crouch, her creamy smooth ass pointed toward the bedroom 
ceiling. 

"You like this position better, huh?" Charles asked, a rather wicked smile 
slipping over his brown face as he shuffled forward into position behind his 
white wife's obscenely posed posterior. 

"You can get at my asshole better this way, darling," Alice explained, 
wrapping her slender arms around the pillow under her head. "Do me now, 
Charles. Kiss my pretty fanny." 

The gubernatorial candidate placed his strong hands on his mate's delectable 
derriere and began to gently knead the spongy flesh, rolling it as a baker 
would a mass of dough. With his thumbs he traced the dark, inviting crevice 
of her succulent cheeks, pried open those twin half-moons to expose the 
crinkled little hole nestled between them. 

"Your mouth, darling," Alice purred, commencing a slow insistent rotating 
movement of her hips, grinding her beautiful bottom up against her hubby's 
playful hands. "Put your mouth on my ass. Kiss my asshole Charles." 

Charles dropped his head and placed a loud moist kiss on his wife's left 
buttock. He did the same to her right buttock, then began a lewd exploration 
of her entire rear end. Like a small serpent, his tongue snaked out from 
between his lips to trail over the provocatively positioned posterior. 

As Alice hummed her approval, Charles rubbed his brown face against her 
curvaceous, creamy backside and licked it lovingly, worshipfully. His 
hard-working tongue slid wetly over the smooth, taut flesh of her bottom, 
dipped into the dark division of her cheeks to wander wantonly up and down 
that forbidden furrow. 

Oh, how exciting and evil this was, Alice thought, continuing to rotate her 
plush behind in very slow, lazy circles as still more sex juice seeped from 
her hot hole. How deliciously depraved it was to crouch low and proffer her 
posterior, to feel her husband's lips and swirling tongue on her bottom as 
he paid oral homage to that portion of her anatomy. 

Well did she remember her introduction to the anal arts, that memorable 
moment when analism's appeal was realized. She had been eighteen at the 
time, a freshman at college, a fun-loving, broadminded student eager to 
explore the unknown, to sample the strange and unusual. 

So it had been comparatively easy for Andrew Abrams, a particularly fresh 
lad of nineteen, to reveal to her the peculiar fascination of fanny-licking. 
On a warm evening in early June, after watching a very sexy movie, Andrew 
drove her to a lover's lane and parked his old Ford on a grassy knoll. 

It was there on the dewy grass, that she discovered the dirty delights of 
analism. After some heavy petting while both were fully clothed Andrew told 
her too turn over onto her tummy. And it was only seconds after obeying his 
command that she felt her short skirt being pushed up around her waist. Then 
he was tugging down her panties, exposing her beautiful bottom in all its 
naked splendor. 

Andrew had cornholed her with care and consideration. Alice remembered, 
becoming increasingly excited as her brown-skinned husband continued his 
wicked worship of her quivering ass. After washing her fanny with his tongue 
and probing her puckered asshole with that fleshy serpent, he had very 
deliberately dicked her derriere. 

Her embarrassment had been tremendous and her pain extreme, yet that initial 
experience had left an indelible impression of her mind. It wasn't the 
fanny-fuck that she had enjoyed so much, although she had derived much 
perverse pleasure once the pain diminished, but the strangely invigorating 
tonguing of her tail. Her asshole, in particular. 

And now, thanks to Mr. Abrams, Alice thought, she had a keen appreciation of 
analism. Fortunately for her Charles also enjoyed laving her nicely-rounded 
rear end. 

"I love your beautiful fanny, sweetheart," her husband said suddenly, as if 
reading her thoughts. "I could suck and nibble on it all night long." 

"Mmmm... you do me so good, too, honey," Alice purred. "Work on my anus a 
little more, will you?" 

Eager to obey, realizing it was only a matter of seconds before he buried 
his rigid root in the mushy warmth of Alice's slushy vagina, Charles bent 
low and kissed his wife fully on the anus. Once again his tongue flicked 
out, licked at the puckered portal, burrowed inside like a fat, juicy worm 
seeking shelter. 

"Yes, - darling... oh, my..ohhhhh," Alice crooned, her brunette tresses 
falling around her face as she rolled her head on the pillow. She whimpered 
her pleasure, titled her taut tail up to provide an even better target for 
her husband's teasing tongue. 

Clamping his brown hands on his spouse's creamy flanks, his fingers digging 
into the soft flesh, Charles proceeded to piston his tongue in and out of 
her nether hole. He savored the faint, tell-tale odor emanating from Alice's 
asshole and worked his nose deeper into the warm furrow of her fanny. 

Seconds later, his prick now throbbing in defiant impatience, he turned his 
attention once again to his wife's sizzling snatch. Planting his lips on her 
fluffy patch from behind, he began to suck like a ravenous beast, to slurp 
up the juices flowing freely from her odorous love oven. It was too much for 
Alice. "Enough. No more darling." 

Charles backed off and then watched his beautiful white wife twist over onto 
her back. She quickly drew her legs up and back, bending them so that her 
knees were pressed into her breasts. It was a position they had used often 
in the past, one that afforded deep, very pleasurable penetration. 

"Now, Charles," Alice croaked. "Fuck me now. Plunge your beautiful cock into 
me." 

"Baby... sweet, baby," Charles murmured, staring down at his wife's 
wonderfully vulnerable vagina. She was inviting invasion, he thought, desire 
blanketing his mind. Alice was posed in a posture of wicked welcome, 
shamefully beckoning his thick, blood hardened brown bone. She was asking 
for it, begging for a boffing. 

Lust tearing at his gut, Charles maneuvered his stocky body into the proper 
position and then, with a sudden, searing thrust, sent his turgid tool 
shooting up into his wife's viscid vagina. The deep penetration wrenched 
from Alice's throat a husky moan in gratitude. Her slippery cunt muscles 
clasped the fleshy intruder hotly. 

"You're in, lover," she exclaimed breathlessly. "You're in so deep-way up my 
belly." 

"Squeeze me, baby," Charles rasped. "Use those twat muscles," Knowing it 
would be extraordinarily difficult to delay his ejaculation for very long, 
the brown-skinned aspirant to the governorship began fucking into his white 
wife's slushy womanhood. Braced on hands and knees, Alice's legs hooked over 
his shoulders, he pistoned his prick in and out of her hot hole. 

"Do it, darling," Alice groaned. "Do it to me. Pump that cock in my cunt." 

The fact that she was almost bent double, her body in awkward, uncomfortable 
posture, bothered Alice not a bit. Nor did she mind that with each hard 
thrust of her hubby's pecker into her molten vagina her knees were driven 
back into her soft breasts. All that mattered was the throbbing fullness in 
her soggy cunt, the thrilling, jarring thrusts of her husband's blood-packer 
brown bone. 

For a full minute more Charles drilled his dick into his delighted mate's 
weeping womanhood, each forceful plunge of his hard organ into Alice's 
pleased pussy mashing her knees against her tender tits and wrenching from 
her a passionate, animal-like grunt of genuine pleasure. 

And then... the inevitable. 

Thinking that he must remember to apologize later for coming so soon, 
Charles emitted a long groan of satisfaction and emptied his balls in his 
wife's soggy twat. As the ecstasy of orgasm traveled through his shuddering 
body, the thick, creamy come bolted from his jerking rod into Alice's love 
well. 

Her husband's orgasm triggered Alice's own. It was not the intense, fiery 
climax she had hoped for, but it was more than satisfactory since she had 
already experienced a number of small comes while Charles was orally 
worshipping her body. So while slightly disappointed in her mate's quick 
explosion, she was not at all angry. 

When his store of syrupy semen had been deposited in his wife's sloppy 
vagina, Charles pulled his slowly deflating prick from between her swollen 
pussy lips and, with a weary sigh, rolled over onto his back to lie next to 
her on the bed. Alice slowly lowered her legs and eased them down on the 
bed. 

Although she had not been required to hold her position for very long, she 
was suddenly very tired. She felt weak and there was an annoying, albeit 
small, pain in the lower part of her back. A loving smile appeared on her 
face when she turned her head on the pillow to glance at her husband who it 
seemed, had seriously underestimated the degree of his fatigue this evening. 
He looked like he was about to drop off any second. 

Well, it was no wonder he was pooped, Alice thought. A lesser man, one not 
blessed with her husband's stamina, would have succumbed months ago to the 
fearful pressures of the campaign. Although he possessed a strong body and 
sound mind, Charles wasn't a superman. No one alive could keep up the 
frantic pace required of candidates running for political office, and it 
looked now, although he would probably deny it, that her husband was 
beginning to feel the effects of an unbelievably grueling schedule. 

Despite outward appearances and the vigorous manner in which he fucked her 
almost every night of the week, Charles was losing his energy, and perhaps a 
little of his enthusiasm, as Election Day drew closer. Which was sad, Alice 
thought, because in the last month he had really come on strong, narrowing 
the gap between himself and Tom Johnson by a full four percentage points. 

And since political polls, or for that matter polls of any kind, were almost 
never completely accurate, one could safely lop off another percentage 
point. That would mean that Charles was trailing by a very slim margin, 
indeed. Overcoming a lead of three percentage points in the next two weeks 
would be difficult, of course, but certainly not impossible. 

When her husband yawned and rolled onto his side, with his back facing her, 
Alice turned her head and stared at the bedroom ceiling while continuing her 
musings. Win, lose or draw, she thought, her husband had put up one helluva 
good race. He had earned the respect and admiration of both blacks and 
whites during his campaign, and for that he could be justly proud. 

She certainly was proud of him, not only because he was running an excellent 
race and would, if he didn't win, finish a close second, but because he had 
conducted his campaign in fine style. She loved way he handled the bigots 
who showed up to heckle him when he spoke before a group, the ease with 
which he delivered a devastating witticism designed to silence, forever, the 
ridiculous ramblings of the prejudiced. 

Yes, come what may, her husband had been a credit to his race, Alice 
thought, and many years would elapse before people stopped talking about the 
brilliant young lawyer who had handled himself with dignity and grace, who, 
in the face of considerable opposition, had plunged into politics with but 
one goal in mind; to better to lot of the downtrodden, to nourish the minds 
and bodies of those impoverished souls, both black and whites, who had all 
but given up. 

At the sound of snoring, Alice again turned to look at her husband. She 
smiled softly, then, sure that he Was asleep, turned over onto her side and 
closed her eyes. 

Three hours later she was wide awake. 

Clad in a beige bathrobe, Charles was pacing the bedroom floor and trying to 
solve the problem that had to be solved immediately. Lost in thought, he had 
inadvertently kicked over an unbreakable statue of a cat. To his dismay, 
this had awakened his slumbering wife. Alice had slipped into her nightgown 
and now, back in bed, was engaged in conversations with her husband. 

"... So that's how it is, sweetheart." Charles said, in answer to his wife's 
query as to what was bothering him. "I guess you thought I was losing a 
little pep. A little enthusiasm. Conking out on you like that, so soon after 
making love, isn't like me, is it? But I've really been upset about his 
thing. I'm more tired mentally than I am physically." 

"But I just don't understand it," Alice said, her brown furrowing. "How can 
there be no more money in the campaign chest? I mean, where did it all go, 
honey?" 

"We never had that much to begin with, baby, you know that. It's always been 
touch and go. When I entered the race for Governor my name wasn't exactly a 
household word, so there weren't a helluva lot of people willing to 
contribute financially to my campaign. Besides which I'm black." 

"That hasn't made one bit of difference, Charles. The people of this state 
have proven that they're not nearly as bigoted as some so-called experts 
thought they were. Contrary to what the political pundits believed at the 
start of this campaign, the voters are going to select their governor on the 
basis of his qualification, not the color of his skin." 

"Yes, this was a pleasant surprise," Charles said, still pacing back and 
forth in front of the double bed. If the voters were as uptight about race 
as some people said they were, then Buchanan and Hughes would be where, 
Johnson and I are at the moment-almost tied for the lead." 

Alice smiled softly. "Remember, hon, when early in the campaign you met with 
Tom Johnson and discussed this whole race business?" 

Charles chuckled lightly. 

"You were both so concerned at the time. Johnson wondered how much he would 
be hurt by the fact that he'd chosen to marry a black woman, and you had the 
double problem of being black yourself and of having a white wife. But it 
all came to naught, right?" 

"True, sweetheart. But this doesn't change the point I was trying to make. 
In the beginning, when the campaign was just getting off the ground, my 
blackness was a distinct disadvantage. I mean, nobody knew who I was or how 
I stood on the various issues. Understandably, few people were willing to 
contribute much to the campaign of a mystery man. A black mystery man." 

"Maybe so, yet-" 

"We've been walking a financial tightrope from the very start, sweetheart. 
And it looks now as if we're about to fall right on our faces. There just 
isn't any money left to continue the campaign." 

"None at all?" 

Charles shrugged. "Oh, I guess there might be something like five, six 
hundred dollars available to us. But that's it, I'm afraid." 

"How could Stevens just sit back and watch the money go like that, honey? I 
mean he must have known what would happen if he kept spending the money like 
water. If there was nothing coming in, then." 

"No, that's not fair, baby." Charles broke in. "There's no way we can blame 
this mess on my campaign manager Stevens Luther is one of the most 
knowledgeable public relations men in the business. And one of the shrewdest 
when it comes to organizing a political campaign. Promoting products and 
people is has major concern." 

"Then draining a candidate's campaign fund must be the thing he does second 
best." Alice said sarcastically. "I always thought that a good campaign 
manager was one who could get maximum results from minimum spending. Stevens 
knew he was working with a tight budget, hon, and I way he should have 
planned wisely and not left you in this predicament." 

Charles dropped warily into a chair sitting near the bedroom door. "Its much 
easier said than done, sweetheart. To begin with, Stevens never spent a dime 
without first consulting me and getting my approval. And every expenditure 
was dutifully noted in a ledger one of his associates is keeping. What money 
was spent can be accounted for." 

"But that doesn't answer my question, Charles." Alice persisted. "To keep 
spending money when none was coming in was obviously more than a little 
foolish. Sooner or later the bottom of the barrel would have to be scraped. 
You and Stevens must have realized this." 

"Honey, we no choice but to keep spending. A candidate can't just curtail 
all spending in the midst of his campaign-especially if he's running a 
strong second and has a pretty fair chance of overtaking the front runner. 
That's plain suicide." 

"I realize that, Charles, nevertheless." 

"I had to keep myself in the public eye." Charles continued, interrupting 
his wife. "And that meant buying time on television. Placing ads in 
newspapers, renting auditoriums, and all the rest. Besides all this, there 
were a thousand and one other expenses connected with conducting a 
successful campaign. It was either keep pace with Johnson or allow him to 
pull further and further away. If I had stopped spending a month or so ago, 
when Stevens and I first realized just how low our funds were, then my 
campaign would have ground to a halt. Mr. Johnson could have coasted to the 
governorship. 

"I wonder what shape he's in." Alice said thoughtfully. "Financially I 
mean." 

Charles shrugged. "Could be he's running short of money. But the way he's 
still spending it seems to indicate otherwise. He just might be better off 
now than he was when he threw his hat in the ring." The brown-skinned 
gubernatorial candidate paused, then added, "And who knows, sweetheart, 
perhaps it's all for the best. Johnson is a good man who shares almost all 
my views on the issues. If I have to lose, then my choice for Governor would 
be Tom Johnson. And being white he might be able to accomplish more during 
his term in office than I could." 

Alice thought for a moment, then said, "It's just so damn unfair, darling I 
mean, to be stopped dead in your tracks now, when you were picking up ground 
so rapidly, is just... just rotten. Did you know that one of this state's 
most respected political analysts is of the opinion that Johnson's campaign 
might have peaked too early?" 

"I read his column the other day, hon, and he thinks you have an excellent 
chance of overtaking Johnson in the next two weeks." 

"He's obviously unaware of our financial plight," Charles said, a said smile 
creeping over his dark face. "If I'm going to overtake anybody I'll need 
more money a barrel full of bills, to be exact. Without that I am very dead. 

In a race as close as this the candidates have to battle right down to the 
wire. It wouldn't surprise me if Ton makes a television speech on Election 
Eve. That'll probably cement the victory for him. 

Alice emitted a long, drawn out sigh of frustration. "Isn't there some hope 
of getting enough money together? I mean enough to see you through those 
next two important weeks." 

"Very little, sweetheart," Charles answered "As worried as Stevens and I 
were about our dwindling cash supply a month ago, we didn't panic because we 
had been promised a very large contribution by one of this state's 
wealthiest men. 

"Who?" 

"David Einstein. You must have seen his name in the paper many times. He 
likes to mix with politicians and supposedly has numerous friends in the 
state capital." 

"Well what happened?" 

"The contribution fell through, that's what. Einstein was suddenly hit with 
some kind of law suit and had to use the money planned for my campaign to 
hire a battery of expensive attorneys. That left us out in the cold-to put 
it mildly." 

"Another piece of lousy luck," Alice moaned. She thought for a few seconds, 
then said. "How about an appeal to the public hon? If you made known your 
need for money, I'm sure your supporters would come to the rescue. They 
could probably scrape together enough-" 

"Time, baby time," Charles broke in. "Sure, I'm going to start begging for 
contributions first thing tomorrow morning. But what money I'll get will 
arrive in dribs and drabs. And five dollars here, ten dollars there isn't 
going to do the trick. With the election only two weeks away, I don't have 
the time needed to put such small amounts to effective use. What we need, 
and need immediately, is one very generous contributor to step forward with, 
say, thirty thousand dollars in hand." 

"Wow, that much?" Alice breathed. 

Charles shrugged. "Then more the merrier, honey. If I'm able to pull out all 
the stops, then I might just have a chance of sneaking pass Tom on Election 
Day. Otherwise it's all over but the shouting, I'm afraid." 

With a dark cloud of despair hanging over them Alice and Charles turned 
quiet. Each felt that further discussion of the illness was unnecessary. 
What was needed, and needed in a hurry, was a fast-acting remedy that would 
magically cure their financial woes and permit a continuation of the 
campaign. 

It wasn't until two hours later, when lying in bed next to her husband in 
the darkened bedroom, that Alice hit upon what she thought was an idea. At 
best, it was a long shot. A chance in a million, really. Or more likely, two 
million. 

But something had to be done, Alice thought, and soon. The Governorship 
meant so much to her husband, and the thought of seeing his opportunity go 
right down the drain for lack of funds was almost unbearable. He had worked 
so hard and come so close. To lose out now, simply because he didn't have 
the money to make that one last great effort, would be a gross injustice. 

Had the situation been less drastic and if more time were available, the 
thought of visiting George Kreske and asking him for assistance would never 
have occurred to her. As it was the idea repelled her, yet it did shed a 
faint ray of hope on an otherwise dark and dismal dilemma. 

Yes, she would go and speak to Kreske, Alice decided. The possibility that 
she could persuade the avowed racist to contribute to the campaign of a 
Negro was remote, to say the very least. Yet she would have to give it a 
try. 

Somehow she would have to accomplish the seemingly impossible during one 
visit to Kreske's palatial digs. It meant swallowing an enormous of pride, 
of course, but if by some miracle she succeeded in convincing the wealthy 
bigot that a Negro Governor didn't spell the death of the state... well, her 
dignity would be restored when her husband took office. 

It was the very next afternoon, under an entirely different set of 
circumstances, that the wife of the other politically-liberal aspirant to 
the governorship found herself faced with a very unpleasant problem. Unlike 
Alice Smith's problem, Liza Johnson's did not involve desperate need for 
money. 

Confronting Liza was the question of what to do with a cheating husband. 

Less than a half hour ago she witnessed, from afar, her loving mate 
amorously embracing another woman. Now she was sitting in a small 
restaurant, in a corner booth, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and 
trying to come to grips with her shocking discovery. On the table in front 
of her was a whiskey sour, still untouched. 

Idiot, that's what you are, Liza thought, castigating herself as in her 
mind's eye she saw, for the hundredth time, Tom drawing the blonde into his 
arms and kissing her passionately. A stupid, completely naive, trustworthy 
idiot who should have her head examined for not once suspecting her husband 
of adultery. How many times had Tom screwed the little bitch, she wondered. 
Five? Ten? Twenty? But what the hell difference did it make, anyway? The 
fact of the matter was that she had caught him embracing another female. 
There could be no mistake what, in wide-eyed shock, she witnessed on the 
sidewalk outside campaign headquarters. 

How fortunate for her, Liza thought, that she had decided to surprise Tom 
with an afternoon visit. Had she not picked the right day, the right time, 
then in all probability, she never would have learned of her husband's 
infidelity. She knew Tom would have continued merrily mating with his 
mistress behind her back. 

The sneaky bastard! Oh, but he thought he was the clever one. By making 
light of the whole situation, by laughingly describing the teenage trollup 
trying to seduce him down at campaign headquarters, he figured to throw her 
off the scent. Hell, between chuckles while in the midst of dismissing the 
girl's interest in him as childish infatuation and nothing more, Tom had 
probably been thinking ahead to their next rendezvous. Oh, the conniving 
beast! 

But if he was sneaky he wasn't very smart, Liza thought, anger and 
frustration weighing heavily on her. Public exposure of his adulterous 
relationship with the blonde slut would cost him the governorship, and do 
irrevocable damage to his future in politics. The most broadminded voter 
isn't about the elect as Governor a man who cheats on his wife-the same wife 
he praised during the year. Yet there was Tom, embracing that blonde bitch 
in broad daylight, right outside his campaign headquarters! Either he had 
lost his mind or... or he had fallen in love with the girl and didn't give a 
damn any more about the governorship. 

Could that be it, Liza wondered miserably. Would Tom arrive home tonight and 
announce his decision to chuck everything? Would he say, as his eyes 
moistened, that he was no longer interested in becoming governor and wanted 
only to run off with his teenage mistress? 

No, that was preposterous. Tom had expended too much time and energy on the 
campaign to throw in the towel now. He was on the verge of being elected 
Governor, of having a dream come true. Surely he had no intention of 
throwing everything away for the sake of some stupid, cock-crazv little 
bitch. 

Besides which, Tom wasn't the type to become seriously involved with a 
teenage hot-pants, Liza decided. This was a fling as far as her husband was 
concerned. What had happened was that the clever slut teased Tom to 
distraction and then, striking when the iron was hot, seduced him. 

Tom, who had unknowingly encouraged the seduction by not putting and 
immediate stop to the blonde's flirtatious behavior, was thrilled to realize 
that such a young, pretty creature found him attractive. And so foolishly he 
had tumbled into an affair which, because it bolstered his ego, he found 
difficult to end. 

Yes, that was what had happened. Liza thought. But what was she going to do 
about it? 

Liza took her first sip of the whiskey sour as she mulled over her problem. 
Of the notions open to her, the one she dismissed immediately was the one 
wherein she destroyed her husband's career by publicly proclaiming her anger 
at his infidelity. That, she knew, would be horribly cruel. 

On the other hand, she was determined to teach him a lesson. He had to be 
punished for his indiscreet passion. And perhaps, just perhaps, what Tom 
needed was to be shown that two could play the adultery game. It required 
further study, of course but Liza was not about to rule out the possibility 
that some day soon, very soon, she would break her marriage vows for the 
first time. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

George Kreske could not remember ever having been quite this happy, so 
genuinely satisfied with a turn of events. It would seem, he thought, that 
somebody upstairs liked him after all. For how else to explain the fact 
that, at the eleventh hour, so to speak, the problem was resolving itself?" 

Still to be wrestled with, of course, was the problem of Tom Johnson's 
candidacy. It was to be hoped that soon, damn soon, Betty would unearth the 
kind of scandalous, incriminating information needed to bring the Johnson 
campaign express to a screeching halt. Time was of the essence since 
Election Day was only eleven days away. 

But at least he was making progress, Kreske thought, slowly stirring the 
scotch on the rocks he had prepared moments ago. Before he allowed Alice 
Smith to leave his house, he would have enough to blackmail her black 
husband into leaving the state. Not to mention pulling out of the race for 
Governor. 

Kreske carefully swiveled his bulk on the barstool and then, as he smiled 
crookedly at the beautiful white woman squirming impatiently in his favorite 
armchair, raised his glass in toast. Her obvious discomfort pleased him to 
no end and it was with a sense of satisfaction that he brought the glass to 
his lips, savored the smooth, expensive scotch as it slid down his throat. 

Pig, Alice thought disgustedly. George Kreske was nothing more than a huge 
pig wallowing in the perverse pleasure he derived from her stupidity. If it 
weren't for the gag in her mouth, which made speech impossible and breathing 
difficult, she would curse him to hell and back. 

Of course, it would be equally proper if she cursed herself, was the 
reminder given Alice by small voice in the back of her mind. For she had no 
one but herself to blame for the mess she was now in. Had she not come up 
with the completely ridiculous idea of approaching Kreske for financial aid, 
she wouldn't be sitting here in her bra and panties, bound hand and foot. 

Kreske slid off the barstool and, drink in hand, sauntered over to Alice. He 
chuckled and then took another sip of his scotch. As the potent liquid slid 
down his throat he smiled at his captive, who met the smile with an angry, 
defiant gaze. 

"What's the matter, Mrs. Smith? Are you a wee bit upset with me? You're so 
much prettier when you smile, you know." 

"Arrrgh," Alice groaned into her gag, thinking that if she had a gun she 
would shoot Kreske on the spot. 

"It would seem that you bit off more than you could chew, wouldn't it?" the 
powerfully-built bigot said, a sardonic smile slipping over his large, 
beaded face. "What in heaven's name ever gave you the idea that I would be 
interested in helping, your husband?" 

"Ammmmmm," Alice groaned. 

"Did you really believe that I would come to the rescue of a man whose 
political views I find abhorrent? Your willingness to help your husband in 
this time of need is rather touching, Alice, yet your naivete is not to be 
believed. My assisting Charles Smith would be like the condemned man helping 
his executioner install the electric chair. Surely you realize that." 

What she realized was her utter stupidity, Alice thought. Like the 
frightened lamb that carelessly stumbles into the lion's den, she had 
foolishly entered the home of a man who would stop at nothing to destroy her 
husband. 

Kreske had listened to her tale of woe without so much as a nod or smile. 
And then, as she struggled against his great strength, he had briskly 
stripped her to bra and panties, stuffed the gag in her mouth, tied her 
hands and feet, and deposited her body in the large leather armchair. 

Now she was at his mercy. Fear and anger wrestled for possession of her mind 
as she wondered what lay in store for her. Kreske was a brutal bigot he had 
already ridiculed her marriage to a Negro-and there was every reason to 
expect him to take full advantage of the situation. And that meant 
humiliating her further. 

"But we won't think of this afternoon as a wasted one, will we?" Kreske 
said." An ideal opportunity to ruin your husband has been dumped in my lap 
and I intend to make the most of it. And you Alice, are going to assist me 
in my efforts." 

"Gaaaagh... " Kreske chuckled. I suggest you save your strength, sweetheart. 
You're going to need it" He paused to give an idea some quick consideration, 
then added, "If I remove your gag, will you behave yourself, Mrs. Smith?" 
Alice nodded her head. 

Kreske set his drink down on the table next to the armchair and proceeded to 
remove the small, black hand towel banded about Alice's head. After tossing 
the towel aside, he pulled the wadded handkerchief from her mouth thus 
permitting her to take her first deep breath in many minutes. 

"There, that's better isn't it? But remember, if you start yelling, the gag 
goes right back on. understand Mrs. Smith?" 

Alice swallowed hard and looked up at the beefy bigot. Eyes brimming with 
anger, she said, "You are without doubt the most disgusting excuse for a 
human being I've ever met. How can one man be so utterly insensitive, so 
viciously vindictive?" 

"Vindictive? Insensitive? No, I am neither, Alice. What I am is determined- 
determined to save the state I love from bleeding-heart liberals like your 
husband and Tom Johnson... The two of them should have been, social workers, 
not politicians. If they're so bloody interested in... " 

"And what's wrong with wanting to help others?" Alice asked, forgetting fear 
for the moment as she tried to defend her husband. "I don't suppose you're 
ever required." 

"Enough!" Kreske barked. "I don't intend to engage in a debate with you Mrs. 
Smith. I have stated my position on numerous occasions for reporters and the 
like. The people of this state know just how I stand on the issues and how I 
feel about men like Charles Smith. Unfortunately, they have chosen to ignore 
my oft-repeated warnings about what will happen should either your husband 
or Johnson take office." 

"You must be paranoid," Alice said defiantly. 

"Again you choose the wrong word to describe me, Alice. My concern is not 
for myself, but for the hardworking, over-taxed, middle class American 
forced to worry about being mugged or raped while struggling to earn a 
living. There are the people I care about." 

"How noble." 

Kreske smiled wickedly. "Enjoy these last, precious moments of sarcasm, 
Alice. Because when I present to the people proof of the Smith's wicked 
ways, when I show them evidence of your deceit, you and your husband will be 
singing a different tune." 

"Just what are you talking about? One minute after I leave her I'll be on 
the phone with the police. I intend to bring charges against you Mr. Kreske. 
Even a man of your influence and wealth isn't immune to justice. You're the 
naive one if you think you can go around stripping women and trying them up 
without it costing you." 

"Silly, silly girl." Kreske said softly. He walked slowly to the fireplace 
and from the mantel took down the small piece of equipment that had been of 
considerable help to him in his business dealings. Smiling, he brought the 
object to Alice and showed it to her. "This, Mrs. Smith, as I'm sure you 
know, is a tape recorder," Alice looked at the recorder and then up at 
Kreske. 

"A bit puzzled, are you? Well let me explain. When you phoned this morning 
and asked to see me, I couldn't imagine what it was you had in mind. I mean, 
for the wife of Charles Smith to visit me just didn't make sense. So, 
thinking it would be a good idea to have a record of our conversation, I 
moved my trusty tape recorder into the living room. I switched it on when 
you rang the bell." 

"It's meaningless," Alice said stubbornly, trying to conceal her worry. "A 
tape of our conversation if of no value to you." 

"Oh, you think not? Well let me ask you this, Mr. Smith. How you think the 
voters will react when they discover that the supposedly high-principle 
Negro candidate, the esteemed young lawyer and articulate, spokesman for 
civil rights, sent his beautiful white wife to me to beg for money? It's all 
right here, you know. Your tearful request for a loan, the implication that, 
when elected your husband would reward my generosity with a very lucrative 
advisory post in his... " 

"That's a blatant lie!" Alice exploded. "I implied no such thing. Nor did my 
husband send me to see you. I never told him of my intention to come here. I 
came because we needed money desperately and because I stupidly thought I 
could talk some sense into your thick skull. And that's the truth. 

Kreske grinned. "And who will believe it. Alice?" 

"The people -the voters," Alice blurted out. 

"And how will the voters regard the pictures of you taken in my home? 
Pictures that show you bare-assed naked and in the throes of a mindless 
passion." 

"Pictures? What are you... " Alice's voice trailed off as she realized, with 
blinding, fearful clarity, just how far her sinister captor intended to go 
in his maniacal attempt to destroy the man she loved. She thought it absurd 
that a man in his position would voluntarily involve himself in such 
scandalous, illegal goings-on, yet so obsessed was he in "saving the state" 
for those as narrow-minded as he that criminality apparently no longer 
concerned him. 

"Yes that's right," Kreske said, as if able to read Alice's thoughts. "You 
are going to star in the short time movie that I will direct. One that will 
have to be rated X, of course. " 

"You... you must be out of your mind. A scheme like this will never work, 
not in a million years. I'll tell the police the truth and they'll believe 
me. I'll tell them how you stripped me, how you tied me up and how you 
forced me to perform." 

"That's nonsense and you know it," Kreske broke in. "After listening to my 
tape and viewing the movie, after hearing my side of the story, no one in 
the world will believe you were the unsuspecting innocent of this drama. I 
have you and your husband right where I want you Mrs. Smith, and unless you 
do as I say, the damage to you both could be catastrophic." 

"No!" Alice shouted. "I'm getting out of here right now." 

Another evil smirk attached itself to Kreske's large face as he watched his 
captive struggle with her bonds. How perfect this was, he thought happily. 
How astonishingly easy everything was falling into place. Had he worked for 
weeks on a plan to blackmail. Smith and his wife he could not have come up 
with one better than what he had at the moment. 

Circumstance had enabled him to place Alice Smith in a most difficult, most 
awkward situation. The first step of course, was to photograph and film the 
beautiful white woman while she wallowed in lust. Then, armed with his tapes 
and the film, he could begin the bargaining that, at the very least, would 
result in Charles Smith bowing out gracefully from the race. In the nick of 
time too, judging form the polls, which showed the black bastard gaining 
ground rapidly. 

The Smith would have two options, Kreske thought, as he carried the tape 
recorder to the fireplace and set it back down on the mantel. They could go 
to the police and relate what transpired in his home this afternoon. By 
doing this, they not only exposed themselves to malicious gossip but ran the 
risk of losing a court battle, one he would win handily because of his 
reputation for honesty. Who would believe Alice's story when Charles Smith's 
sorry financial situation came to light.? 

It was a case of simple arithmetic, his lawyers would argue. One and one 
equals two. Needing money desperately, Charles Smith had sent his stunning 
white wife to George Kreske with instructions to do whatever necessary to 
obtain a substantial contribution. The photographs and film of Alice in the 
throes of a wild passion would convince even the most ardent Smith supporter 
that their man had stooped to a new low to attain his personal goals. 

The other option open to the Negro candidate and his pretty wife was to say 
nothing, Kreske reasoned. In exchange for their silence and Smith's promise 
to bow out of the gubernatorial contest he would give them the 
"incriminating" tapes and the film and photographs. And that would be the 
end of that. 

Kreske moved form the fireplace to stand once again just a few feet from 
where Alice sat in agitated stupor. He placed his ham-like hands on his hips 
and grinned down at her. "It's useless, you know," he said, mocking her 
attempts to free herself. "I made very sure the ropes around your ankles and 
wrists were tight." 

"Bastard!" Alice spat. 

"Why don't you just relax and conserve your energy, Mrs. Smith? You don't 
want to appear all worn-out in your first, and I assume it's your first 
movie. A star should be... " 

"You filthy pig! Alice exploded, her eyes ablaze with anger as she glared up 
at her tormentor, "You think you're so damn smart, don't you? You think I'm 
just going to meekly obey your every perverted whim and not put up a fight 
while you get what you need to blackmail my husband." 

"You are, sweetheart." Kreske said, smirking again. 

"Like hell I am. And therein lies your undoing. Mr. Fat-Assed bigot. You 
figured you had everything all worked out, didn't you? But you overlooked 
the fact of my cooperation. That film will be absolutely worthless to you 
unless... unless... Alice let her voice trail off, unable to bring herself 
to say "Unless it looks as if I'm enjoying it." 

Aware of what his captive was thinking, Kreske said, "But you will be loving 
the sex you'll be getting, Alice. I've arranged for your pleasure and you-" 

"Never! The very idea of my enjoying sex with you is unbelievably ludicrous. 
Even if you beat me black and blue, I'm not going to cooperate. You'll be 
doing it to a rag doll, Mr. Bigot. The only thing that film will prove is 
that I was victimized by a sadist. That I was forced to participate against 
my will." 

"Alice, Alice." Kreske said with a long sigh. "You're allowing your 
irritation with me to confuse your thoughts. Now stop and think for a 
moment. Although I like to think of myself as rather dexterous, it would be 
extraordinarily difficult for me to fuck you and film the action at the same 
time. I couldn't do both at once. Unfortunately." 

Alice's brow furrowed as she considered Kreske's words. If this prejudiced 
pig wasn't going to lay her, then who was, she wondered. What exactly did 
Kreske have in mind? Did he intend to move about this elegantly furnished 
living room, camera in hand, and film her fucking one or more of his sick 
friends? 

"You're wondering what I'm up to, aren't you, Alice?" Kreske asked. "Well, I 
won't keep you in suspense any longer. Come, let's adjourn to my bedroom, 
shall we?" 

"You'll have to untie me first." 

Kreske smiled. "I intend to. But if you're thinking of doing something 
foolish, like running away, for instance, I should tell you that I have men 
posted all around my house. They compose my private security force." 

Damnit, Alice silently cursed, as her captor bent down to remove the rope 
locking her ankles together. If as Kreske said he had his bodyguards 
stationed outside, she didn't have a chance in a thousand of reaching the 
main road before being caught. 

After removing the rope from around Alice's ankles, the exceptionally strong 
bigot freed her wrists and then, tossing the ropes aside, grabbed hold of 
her right arm and pulled her up out of the armchair. He pointed in the 
direction of the circular stairway, part of which Alice could see from the 
living room. 

"You just won't listen to me, will you?" she said, as Kreske started 
steering her out of the living room and into the large foyer. "Unless your 
film shows me responding to... to the lewd attention, then it's worthless to 
you. Even you should be able to grasp that simple fact." 

As they passed under the arch separating the living room from the foyer, 
Kreske said," Mrs. Smith, I'm really quite hurt that you underestimated me 
so. I tried to tell you before that you're going to enjoy performing in my 
little home movie. If I thought otherwise, than I would not have included 
filming your fuck in my shall we say, program of persuasion." 

"It's not going to work." Alice stated adamantly as she started up the 
winding stairs with her captor. "No man can make a woman respond sexually if 
she refuses to cooperate." 

Kreske chuckled. "How old are you Alice?" 

"Thirty." 

"And you've been married how many years?" 

"What has that got to do with anything?" 

"It suddenly occurred to me that you don't know very much about sexual 
intimacy. Surely a woman your age should know that she can be aroused in 
spite of herself. Willingness to cooperate hasn't much to do with it, 
actually. A knowledgeable male can excite even the most recalcitrant female. 
All that is required is the proper technique and a certain amount of 
patience." 

"Are you going to drug me, Mr. Know-It-All?" Alice asked. 

Again Kreske chuckled. "I never even gave it a thought. Mrs. Smith. Believe 
me, any sexual stimulant I could come up with would not work as well on you 
as Jack." 

"Jack Who is he?" 

"He's a surprise I have for you," Kreske interrupted, as he and Alice 
reached the landing. Still holding onto his captive's arm, he proceeded to 
steer her down the hall. "Perhaps it's only fair that I warn you of his 
physical appearance. Seeing Jack for the first time can be, well, 
frightening." 

"Frightening?" 

"Unfortunately, Jack Carty is not the most attractive of men. One would have 
to describe him as, well, as an ugly son of a bitch." 

Alice suddenly stopped and pulled free of Kreske's grip. She looked at him 
defiantly and said, "What you're doing to me is serious enough, but if you 
allow this man to hurt me, you'll spend the rest of your life in jail 
regretting it." 

"Spunk." Kreske said smiling. "Yes, I like that in a woman. It's a pity we 
didn't meet years ago under different circumstances Alice. I think we would 
have' gotten along famously." 

"Did you hear what I just said? Holding me against my will and forcing me to 
participate in perversion is one thing. Allowing another man to physically 
abuse me is another." Alice thought for a moment, then added, "Perhaps you 
think I'm one of those who respond to mistreatment. 

Kreske shook his head. "You do have a flair for the dramatic, don't you?" He 
took Alice by the arm again and started leading her toward his bedroom. You 
have my word that I will not instruct Jack to harm a single hair on your 
pretty head. Not only won't it be necessary, but Jack would probably become 
incensed if I dared suggest he hurt you. He's a lover, not cruel sadist" 

"But you said that-" 

"That Jack is perhaps one of the most unattractive men I've ever met. Well, 
that happens to be a simple fact. I'll never forget the first time I saw 
Jack and I doubt if you'll soon forget him, either. A word of caution 
though. I advise against laughing when you meet him. While it's true that he 
isn't a vicious man, he does have a temper that once in a while gets out of 
control" In spite of the anxiety welling within her and her embarrassing 
near nude state. Alice found herself becoming increasingly curious about 
Jack Carty. She silently reproached herself for being tempted to prod Kreske 
for further details. 

"So here we are, Alice." Kreske said. "Now you just make yourself 
comfortable. I'll be back in a few minutes with my equipment... and Jack." 

Alice watched her captor walk quickly back down the hall and enter one of 
the rooms they had passed. Again the thought of escape darted into her mind. 
She dismissed it, however, remembering what Kreske had said about having 
gonads all around his palatial residence. Then she slowly moved into the 
large bedroom and looked around. 

It was the kind of room one would expect a multi-millionaire to sleep in, 
she thought. And play in. Although Kreske was not what could be termed the 
average, wealthy playboy, it was obvious that advancing age had not dimmed 
his interest in the opposite sex. His bedroom decor was decidedly sexy. 

The predominant color was red, a flaming red, complemented by soft shades of 
yellow and brown. The furniture was modern in design polished, no doubt by 
one of many maids, to a brilliant shine. Not one picture could be found for 
the simple reason that on each of the four walls, from the bottom, was a 
mirror. The entire ceiling had also been laid with a mirror, so that 
regardless of where one stood in the room his or her image was seen. Despite 
her predicament, the fact that she would soon be forced to fuck a strange 
man while Kreske filmed her actions, Alice could not help but be impressed 
by her surroundings. She had been in a bedroom similar to Kreske's many, 
many years ago, when she was what today is called a "swinging single," and 
her cheeks suddenly colored as she remembered, with some shame, how much 
passion had been spent in her old flame's mirrored bedroom. 

Missing from her boyfriend's bedroom, however, had been a round bed, 
standard equipment for those who considered themselves hump-happy hedonists, 
Alice thought. But George Kreske had one. And it appeared, even under these 
perilous circumstances, to be very comfortable. 

Wondering if Kreske expected to find her naked when he returned Alice moved 
toward the bed and then climbed onto it. After arranging the pillows, she 
turned over onto her back and stretched out. Once again those annoying 
questions about Jack Carty skipped into her mind. 

Had Kreske been exaggerating or was his friend really that frightening to 
behold? How old was Jack? How tall? What was the color of his skin. And if 
he was so repulsive than how would she be able to stomach his lewd caresses? 

Alice turned her eyes to the doorway, and waited. 

A few minutes later George Kreske and friend appeared at the doorway. Alice 
could not at first clearly perceive Jack because he stood almost directly 
behind Kreske, who in his left hand held what she recognized to be a 
Polaroid and in his right a movie camera. 

There was something in Kreske's smirk that told her he was blocking Jack 
deliberately, that he was teasing her by purposely obscuring his friend's 
body with his own large bulk and thereby delaying full knowledge of Jack's 
appearance. After what seemed an interminable length of time, Kreske turned 
slightly and, taking his friend's arm, led him gently into the bedroom. 

Alice gasped. Instinctively she pushed herself back on the bed as she stared 
in wide-eyed disbelief at the half man, half animal, who stood where Kreske 
had deposited him, an impassive expression on his bloodchilling countenance. 

"Well, what do you think, Alice?" Kreske asked, setting the cameras down on 
the large round bed. "Jack here would be a great hit at a Halloween party, 
wouldn't you say? He wouldn't even have to wear a costume." 

Struck speechless by the sight of the thing that soon would climb into bed 
with her, Alice didn't even make a feeble attempt to answer her captor. In 
fear and fascination she stared at Jack, thinking that Kreske's description 
of him as an "ugly brute" was a gross injustice. Then, the animal, or 
whatever it was, was a walking nightmare! 

Never in a hundred years would she have believed that a human so hideous in 
appearance existed. Jack was a throwback to an age long since gone, to a 
period in history when man was just beginning to shed his apelike 
characteristics. He was Neanderthal man come back to life! "I met Jack while 
on safari in Africa last year." Kreske informed his shocked captive. "I gave 
the matter some thought and then decided to bring him back to the states 
with me. He's a docile chap, really. Very friendly when he gets to know you. 

"Why did I bring him back? Well, for two reasons. First, Jack had the 
strength of four men and is, believe it or not, very handy around the house. 
He does all my gardening and repairs whatever needs repairing on or in my 
humble abode," Kreske chuckled, "I suppose a talent for survival is 
mandatory when one lives in a god-forsaken, seldom-explored part of the 
african jungle." 

"You said there were t-two reasons." 

"The second was more important than the first. Jack here happens to be an 
extraordinary lover. The tribe he belongs to has an absolutely fascinating 
puberty rite, one which I can't imagine existing anywhere but in the 
remotest sections of Africa, or perhaps in the dark jungles of South 
America. Shortly after her first menstruation, a young girl is required, by 
tribal law, to undergo defloration and then live with her first lover for a 
period of three months. Alice, are you listening to me?" 

"W-Wha..oh, yes. Go on." he looked as if he could, eat me at one sitting 
Alice thought. 

"Well anyway, to make a long story short, it was my good fortune to witness 
Jack in action. On one occasion I watched him bring a dozen or so virgins to 
screaming orgasms-all in the space of one hour. He himself came every 
instance. Well, I realized then and there that I have to bring this 
fantastic stud back home with me. To date, he's starred in over twenty five 
of my home movies. He just adores white women. Alice. I honestly don't 
believe he had ever seen one until we left the jungle." 

How would she ever be able to mate with this monster without becoming 
violently ill, Alice wondered. He belonged in a creature feature, in a zoo 
somewhere. It was as if he had stepped out of the pages of a prehistoric 
history to confront her with his hideous hairy body and stony silence. 

That face, that awful ugly face! It was very long and large, the jaws 
projecting horribly. The head was massive with heavy brown ridges. The eyes 
were large dull orbs painted deep in their respective sockets. The nose was 
broad and flat, the nostrils wide. Long, shaggy hair framed this ape-like 
visage. 

In size and weight he appeared to be more, or less like Kreske, Alice 
thought. Which made Jack a hulking mass of flesh and blood, the big 
difference being that while Kreske was white, his uncommunicative friend was 
black as the ace of spades. A hairy, horrible black. 

"Say something to the nice lady," Kreske urged Jack. He turned to Alice and 
said, "Jack is a non-verbal type, but I think if you say hello to him he'll 
respond. It's worked in the past." 

"I can't do this," Alice stammered. "I don't care what you do to me. If this 
thing so much as lays a finger on me I'll scream. 

"You'll scream. But only because Jack is giving you so much pleasure. Now 
are you going to say a few words to him or-" 

"No!" Alice shouted. "I'm getting out of here!" 

The beautiful brunette bolted out of the bed and stumbled for the bedroom 
door. An agile man for his size and weight, Kreske moved quickly to cut her 
off before she had advanced six feet from the bed. Alice struggled gamely 
but soon found herself back on the bed with her obviously irritated captor 
glaring down at her form. 

"I mistakenly thought that you had decided to conduct yourself in a 
civilized manned, Mrs. Smith. And now you're going to-be punished for giving 
me such a wrong impression." 

"What's he going to do to me?" Alice whined. Ignoring the beauty's question, 
Kreske draped his arm around the beast and said, "You spank, Jack. Spank 
woman." 

Jack grunted. "Me spank. Me spank white woman." 

"Good boy," Kreske beamed. Alice looked at Kreske, then at Jack, and then at 
her cunning captor. There was a macabre humor in their exchange, she 
thought. Kreske was the white hunter instructing a most humble native, 
praising him on his ability to comprehend spoken English. Had her situation 
been less grim, less unnerving, she would have been better able to fully 
appreciate their clumsy, jungle-movie dialogue. 

"Hear that, Mrs. Smith? You're going to have your beautiful bottom warmed by 
Mr. Carty." 

"No, I won't let him touch me." 

"When were you last spanked? Not since you were a child, I bet." 

"You're sick," Alice said softly. 

"I don't suppose that black you married has the guts to swat once in a 
while. A woman needs a good spanking every so often, reminds her who's 
boss." Kreske grinned wickedly. "It'll be fun to watch Jack spank you. I 
think I'll film the moment for posterity." 

"You should be put away," Alice noted sadly. 

Kreske frowned. "Roll over onto your belly, Alice. And be quick about it." 

"If I refuse?" Alice asked. 

"You'll suffer the consequences," Kreske said. "Now get on your front before 
I push Jack on you." 

"If he starts flailing away and strikes your breasts, you'll regret not 
giving him a less tender target." 

Alice looked at the black giant standing quietly beside his white, master, 
Kreske was right, she thought miserably. It would be exceedingly dangerous 
to underestimate the strength of Mr. Jack Carty. Although at the moment he 
appeared to be as gentle as a lamb, one could easily conceive him causing 
considerable pain when angry. Or if he were told to get angry. 

"We're waiting, Alice," Kreske barked. Realizing she had little choice in 
the matter, the brunette twisted slowly over onto her tummy. Kreske gazed 
down at her pretty pantied-posterior and smiled. Then, taking his arm from 
around Jack's shoulders, he moved around the bed and picked up his movie 
camera. 

"I'll get even with you for this," Alice promised, her near-nude body in 
nervous quiver as she awaited the blow that would signal the beginning of 
her ordeal. 

Kreske chuckled as he inspected the camera he had loaded earlier. "I heard 
that same line spoken just the other evening by the hapless heroine of a 
B-movie." 

"Moo-vie," Jack said softly. 

Kreske beamed. "Very good, Jack. We'll have you speaking like an Oxford 
graduate in no time at all. Now climb up onto the bed and into position to 
spank the lady." 

"Spank," Jack said, pronouncing the word carefully. 

"That's right. And if you do a good job I'll let you watch the Tarzan movie 
on television." 

This was unbelievably ridiculous, Alice thought, feeling the round bed sag 
as Jack maneuvered his black bulk into position. It was frightening, of 
course, and certainly downright degrading. But it was also ridiculous. 

Here she was, a full-grown married woman of thirty, about to be spanked by 
an overgrown child whose age she found it impossible to guess. And as a 
reward for a job well done, Jack would be allowed to view a jungle flick on 
television. 

"All right, I'm ready," Kreske declared, camera in hand. "Alice, push your 
panties down." 

Having resolved not to co-operate, Alice made no move to comply with her 
cruel captor's lewd request. Instead, she closed her eyes and dug her 
fingers into the pillow supporting her head. She pressed the right side of 
her face into the pillow and awaited the first of what she feared would be 
numerous blows to her poor behind. 

"Have it your way, Mrs. Smith," Kreske sighed. "But you'll be sorry." He 
turned his attention to the black giant he had imported from the wilds of 
the African jungle. 

"Jack, you may begin." 

"Me, begin," Jack said, a child-like smile breaking over his ugly black 
face. 

Kreske brought the camera up to his face and then, peering in the view 
finder, began slowly circling the bed in search of a good angle. Alice 
tensed and silently prayed for a miracle that would spare her this bestial 
bottom-warming. Yet, in her heart she knew that none would be forthcoming 
and she would have to suffer the gross indignity. 

Kneeling on the round bed, his knees at right angles to Alice's left hip, 
Jack drew his right arm up oyer his head and opened his large black hand. 
Scant seconds later the arm was flying through the air, the hard hand 
landing with a resounding "splat!" on the lovely brunette's pan tied 
posterior. 

"Aee!" Alice shrieked, her buttocks jiggling in protest. "Don't!" 

No sooner had the second stinging blow landed, and Jack was raising his 
right arm in preparation of a third. It came quickly before Alice could 
recover and tense her quivering tail and again her cry of outrage filled the 
sexily-decorated bedroom. 

A fourth fiendish, fanny-hurting blow followed. And then a fifth was 
delivered. And a sixth. The black giant was quickly establishing a most lewd 
rhythm, spacing his swats about five seconds apart so that two distinct 
sounds could be heard, the sound of his hard black hand as it crashed down 
against Alice's seat and the heartbreaking howl of anguish wrenched from her 
throat by each burning blow to her ass. 

Like a child with a new toy, Kreske danced around the bed with his camera. 
He moved to his left and right, took a few steps back and then moved in 
close, bobbed and weaved like a fighter shadow-boxing in a slow motion. He 
put a knee up on the bed and shot a close-up of Alice's pained expression. 

"Stop it!" Alice whimpered. 

"No stop," Jack said, obviously enjoying the fact of the beautiful white 
woman's discomfort. He punctuated his words with yet another wicked' wallop 
to Alice's ass, one so hard that she jerked her hips a good six inches off 
the bed. To hold her down the half-civilized black placed his left hand on 
the small of Alice's back, then again raised his right to deliver another 
stinging swat. 

"Aie! Ohhhh!" 

"That's the boy," Kreske said in praise of Jack's licentious labors. "Keep 
on hitting her." 

Jack emitted an animal-like grunt and then, as if inspired by his friend's 
words, proceeded to pummel Alice's ass with renewed vigor. Again he swatted 
her seat, his arm like a well-greased lever as it moved rapidly up and down. 

"No more! It hurts!" Alice whimpered. "Please, tell him to stop!" 

"Me no stop!" Jack declared. 

"You tell her, boy!" Jack growled, the evil smile on his face concealed by 
the movie camera. 

Alice couldn't remember ever having undergone such a painful experience. 
Never had her humiliation been as great as it was this moment. On a number 
of occasions during her formative years, when her childish enthusiasm for 
devilish deeds knocked common sense and proper behavior from her 
consciousness, she had suffered through a sound spanking. 

She could remember tearfully lifting her little skirt and pushing down her 
panties, then draping herself over her angry father's knee to be punished 
with a dozen or so hard slaps across her naked fanny. But that chastisement 
and the resulting embarrassment had been nothing compared to the agonizing 
ordeal she was being forced to endure right now. 

Dear heaven above, when would it end, she wondered miserably as another blow 
landed on her bottom. Kreske's fiendish flunky was really laying it to her, 
striking her seat with all the strength at his command. Her ass ached 
something awful and each mind-clouding, searing swat sent waves of 
additional agony traveling through her body. 

Kreske suddenly lowered the camera and directed Jack to stop beating on 
Alice's tortured behind. The black brute obeyed immediately but stayed in 
position. He knew that his services were still required and that, if he 
performed to his white friend's satisfaction, he would be rewarded. 

"Alice, pull down your panties." 

"No." 

"Alice, I'm telling you again to push down your pants," Kreske said, his 
tone of voice threatening. 

"You lousy bastard," Alice whimpered, "I hate you." 

"That disturbs me no end," Kreske said sarcastically. With a shake of his 
head he told Jack, whose right hand was held high, poised to pummel, not to 
deliver, the wicked blow. "Now do as I say before I let Jack fuck you in the 
ass." 

"Bastard!" 

"Alice, I'm warning you." 

Realizing that nothing of value would come from delaying the inevitable, 
Alice sniffed back a few tears and then brought her hands down to her sides. 
As Jack and Kreske watched with interest, she inserted her fingers in the 
elasticized waistband of her undies and then began pushing the garment down. 

Less than fifteen seconds later the panties were banded about Alice's legs, 
at a point just under her rear. As another tear trickled down her cheek, 
Alice brought her arms up and encircled the pillow under her head. Now she 
was really going to get it! 

"Jack," Kreske began, "you may resume beating on the white woman's ass." 

The ugly black giant didn't move. 

"Spank, damn you! Spank the-" 

"Me spank!" Jack said happily, grinning from ear to ear. 

Shit, but you're a dumb bastard, Kreske thought. 

Throwing back his head to get some of the long hair away from his eyes, Jack 
adjusted his position just a little and then began battering Alice's bottom 
again. The toughened flesh of his black hand met the tender, spongy flesh of 
her flushed fanny and again she let out a wail. 

"Hard!" Kreske shouted, not bothering to hide the fact that he found the 
wanton walloping of Alice's posterior highly enjoyable. "Make her yell!" 

As Kreske again focused his camera on the action, Jack continued the savage 
swatting of the brunette's behind. And slowly but surely, as smack followed 
smack, his ebony erectile began to fill with warm blood. When it was gorged, 
thick and throbbing, Jack considered his fleshy spear, which measured a 
little more than six inches, as potent as the other kind he had carried in 
his days as a warrior. 

Beautiful, Kreske thought, keeping the camera glued on Alice's buttocks as 
he captured on film her painful punishment. Of course, this particular roll 
of film would have no bearing on his blackmail scheme. It would be added to 
his big. collection of deliciously obscene movies. He would run it through 
his projector in the privacy of his own home, when he was alone and in need 
of a little amusement. 

But the next film, the one that would record Alice's intense delight at 
being dicked by Jack, should be more than enough to insure Charles Smith a 
swift and sudden departure from the gubernatorial contest. The fancy-talking 
nigger would make a little speech, Kreske thought, as he zeroed in on 
Alice's face. And in that speech he would probably say that, for reasons of 
health, he had decided to bow out of the race. 

All he needed was for Betty Wilson to come up with something that she could 
use against that other lily-livered liberal, Tom Johnson. 

Alice had ceased to cry out each time Jack's hand came crashing down against 
her aching fanny. She was moaning in misery now, her full-throated, gutteral 
sobs all connected and forming one long, unending wail of woe. 

Just how many vicious blows her trembling tail had absorbed she didn't know. 
But it felt like a hundred. It was as if she had been put into an open oven, 
as if her buttocks were being branded by a red-hot iron. 

"Enough!" Kreske yelled. 

Jack stopped his hand in mid-flight. Puffing hard, he sat back on his 
haunches and placed both hands on his knees. 

Thank heavens, Alice thought. Her face was wet with tears that had slid down 
her cheeks to dampen the pillow under her head. A tiny trickle of blood 
oozed from her lower Up onto her chin, the result of having bitten down too 
hard during a series of particularly brutal smacks. "All right, Jack, you 
can start playing with the nice lady. I'll be back in a few minutes. I have 
to fill my camera again." 

The black brute didn't move. He took his right hand from his right knee and 
looked at it. A silly smile crept over his crafted face. 

"I said fuck, Jack! You fuck!" 

Jack's smile broadened. "Me fuck!" 

Do it and get it over with, Alice thought. Just don't hurt me. She closed 
her eyes and clenched her fists at her sides. Seconds later she felt Jack's 
strong hands on her breasts, pushing and pulling on her bra as he attempted 
to remove the garment from her spongy globes. 

After working Alice's bra up and off her mouth-watering mammaries, the hairy 
black proceeded to roughly massage those twin melons of flesh. Kneeling now 
next to her supine form, he kneaded her boobs and fingered the brownish 
nipples of each. As if wanting to reshape them, he squeezed Alice's tender 
tempting tits and then compacted those gelatinous globes until they were a 
single mass of creamy goodness on her chest. 

Alice suffered in silence, making no move to either avoid the mauling of her 
mammaries or leave the bed. When Jack took his left hand from her left 
breast and brought it back to her crotch, dipped his fingers in the warm 
hollow of her thighs to commence a cunning massage of her snatch, she 
reacted with indifference. 

When Kreske returned to his bedroom ten minutes later he found Jack tonguing 
Alice's tits and rubbing up her sex nest. He stood viewing the proceedings 
for a few seconds, then setting the loaded camera on the bed, reached down 
and grabbed hold of the panties still banded about Alice's legs. 

He tugged the garment down and worked it around and off her feet. Deciding 
to keep the panties as a souvenir of his triumph, he stuffed them into his 
pants pocket, then moved around the bed until he was looking down at Alice's 
expressionless face. Nothing yet, he thought. But it wouldn't be long before 
Jack's skilled caresses produced the desired result. 

Kreske tapped his African import on the shoulder and Jack lifted his face 
from Alice's tasty tits. Telling Alice to sit up, the wealthy bigot then 
reached around and undid the clasp of her bra. 

He dropped the garment onto the floor and Alice, naked now, fell back down 
onto the bed. Jack resumed his licentious labors almost at once, his hairy 
black body in stunning contrast to the creamy one he was fondling and 
kissing. 

"Say cheeeese," he said, peering into the view finder. 

"Give us a little smile." 

"Drop dead," Alice said, her soft voice devoid of emotion. 

Kreske brought the camera away from his face and smiled. "I really should be 
taping this, you know. It would be fun to compare your indifference now to 
the heathenish lust you'll be experiencing in just a few minutes. The change 
in attitude will have people wondering if I doctored the tape." 

"Go to hell," Alice snapped. 

Kreske laughed and then again looked into the camera's view finder. 

He started to circle the bed. Going slowly, he began planning his camera 
positions, deciding where he would station himself to record the various 
movements made by Jack and Alice. 

For five minutes more the black giant worked on the beautiful brunette, his 
tongue and hands never still as he licked and stroked the creamy body. He 
moved up and down her supine form, kissing and squeezing and licking. He 
pinched Alice's nipples, then eased the pain with his soothing curling 
tongue. He stroked her twat, inserted a few fingers in her love hole and 
diddled her clit. 

Not one inch of Alice's body did Jack ignore as he labored diligently to 
evoke response. He kissed her all over, from the top of her head to her 
pretty feet. He sucked her toes and her fingers, nibbled on her ears, used 
his hard-working tongue like a brush to paint every nook and cranny of 
Alice's body with warm, sticky saliva. 

And it was while he munched on her twat, his massive black head lost between 
her creamy thighs that Alice began to feel the first stirrings of desire. It 
was now that her body started to betray her, that revulsion was replaced by 
an ever increasing appreciation of Jack's salacious ministrations. 

Appalled at the unmistakable fact of her arousal, Alice tried desperately to 
quell her rising need, to kill the desire now snaking through her warming 
body. She was shocked at what was happening and disgusted with herself for 
being unable to stifle those sexy sensations that, like the incessant 
beating of a drum, were starting. 

But Alice's efforts to dispel desire was doomed to fail. Each passing second 
found her moving ever closer to the moment when no longer able to stand the 
sweet, insidious pleasure, the fiery itch on her twat, she surrendered and 
in a breathless tone of voice begged to be banged. 

Kreske watched with a smile on his face as Alice began squirming as she 
mewed with pleasure and reached down to entwine her fingers in Jack's long, 
shaggy hair. She was still fighting it, still struggling to squash that lust 
sparked by Jack's deft handling of her body, but she was losing ground 
rapidly, her guilt-ridden mind succumbing to the need of her beautiful body. 

"Ohhhhh," Alice moaned. "Please, that's good!" 

Yes, it wouldn't be long, Kreske thought, as once again he peered through 
the camera's view finder. And soon he would have on film, Alice's passion, 
her wildly enthusiastic response to Jack's reaming of her cunt. The film, of 
course, would be titled, "Beauty and the Beast." 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

Frank Leinz knew it had to be a dream, a simply fantastic, absolutely 
delightful dream from which he would awaken much too soon. For how else to 
explain the provocative presence of Liza Johnson, who some seconds ago had 
peeled out of flaming red panties to stand before him, bare-assed naked. 

More often than he cared to admit he had thought about the gorgeous, 
cocoa-colored wife of the man whose gubernatorial campaign he was managing. 
He wondered what it would be like to sink his blood-hardened white prick 
into her beautiful brown body, to feel her soft, lipsticked-lips curl 
lovingly around his meaty manhood. 

And now, exactly one week before Election Day, his wish was coming true. 
Later last night Liza had phoned to suggest they meet and discuss certain 
matters relating to the brief talk she was going to deliver to a women's 
club in behalf of her husband's candidacy. He, of course, had agreed to the 
meeting. 

Liza had arrived at his apartment about an hour ago. Over a drink they had 
reviewed her speech and chatted about Tom's campaign in general. And then, 
somehow or other, she maneuvered him into the bedroom. Now, naked and in 
need, the brown-skinned beauty was smiling provocatively at him, obviously 
aware of the effect of her nakedness on his near-nude body. 

"You're surprised?" Liza asked. 

"Stunned would be a better word." 

"Would you like me to leave?" 

"Of course not," answered Frank, who while watching his best friend's wife 
undress had managed to shed all but his undershirt and white boxer shorts. 
"I just never thought that, well, what I mean is-" Liza chuckled. "You still 
find it hard to believe your eyes, right? You're wondering what I'm doing 
here. Me, the wife of your close friend and this state's next Governor." 

Frank shrugged. "Well, it's just that I never expected to, I mean, what the 
hell! I'm tongue-tied." 

Again Liza chuckled. "That's all right, Frank. I think we've finished 
talking and you don't need a tongue to screw me." 

Frank looked hard at the beauty who has come to him to get humped. "Are you 
sure, Liza?" 

"I'm sure, Frank," Liza said, smiling. "But if you're not interested in 
loving me-" 

"Of course I'm interested," Frank said. He brought his hand to the bulge in 
his shorts and squeezed. "Doesn't this prove it?" 

"It's as good an indication of desire as anything," the succulent brown 
beauty answered, her eyes dropping down to linger briefly on Frank's 
cock-clutching hand. Then, returning her gaze to his face, she moved to her 
husband's attractive campaign manager and slid her arms around his neck. 


THE END
