by Don Elliott
He rammed, paused, rammed again.
Peggy gasped and sighed. And exploded with passion. She thrashed in violent gusty throbs of delight. McHughes, his eyes closed and his jaws clenched, withheld himself, refusing to spend his passion so soon.
Finally Peggy collapsed limply, her huge breasts heaving, gleaming with sweat.
"Over here," Cleo called. "My turn!"
She was ready and waiting for him. Her knees were in the air and they were waiting for a partner. McHughes stared at Cleo's desirable body. Then he crawled over to her, still throbbing with incompleted lust.
He topped her and took her.
She was a wild one. Peggy had a better build, with bigger boobs and longer legs, but Cleo was infinitely more skillful in the use of the equipment. She churned and wriggled, writhed and pranced beneath him. Another man, who had already been with Peggy long enough to bring her to a peak, would certainly have succumbed to ecstasy thirty seconds or less after joining the hellion that was Cleo. But Jim McHughes was not an ordinary man. He gritted his teeth. He hung on. He rode right along with Cleo.
He rode her up the road to blissville.
He galloped away on top of her, clutching her to him, flattening the hot-tipped globes of her breasts out against himself. Her legs wrapped themselves around him, and her hips ground madly. Her body first spasmed and then surrendered to the conflagration. First for her and then for him, and this time he did not try to hold anything back. He let all the pent-up desire that Peggy had aroused in him spend itself with Cleo. Bolt after bolt of electric delight went through him.
He held tight to Cleo, ploughing with mighty strokes until he had taken her right to the absolute summit of her pleasures. She made a little whimpering sound deep in her throat, and fell away from him.
Three naked, sweating figures lay sprawled out on the rug, cuddling up close together. McHughes had his head pillowed against Peggy's big breasts, and Cleo had her head in his lap, and Peggy had her head in Cleo's lap. So it was all nice and cozy, ring-around-the rosy.
Pretty good for openers, McHughes thought. But the night was still young.
About fifteen minutes slid by as they rested and gathered their strength. Then Cleo twisted her head over a little way on his leg. Her lips parted in a lover's kiss.
Her head moved slowly, while she kissed away his fatigue. The strength of him increased rapidly as she worked him over. McHughes started to breathe hoarsely. Strength was returning to him, flowing back with each sly little caress.
He twisted his head, too, moving slightly to the side so that instead of cradling the back of his head against Peggy's big boobs, he had his mouth on them. Peggy sighed in pleasure as McHughes opened wide and fastened to her tenaciously. He felt the hard, throbbing nipple against his tongue. It was a good sort of thing to feel.
In another moment he was throbbing with virility.
Cleo flung one leg over him. Her satin-smooth body rubbed provocatively against him. He twisted his hips and rose to the occasion.
At the same time he held on tight to Peggy's bosom, making maximum use of those sweet, giant globes of lusciousness. Peggy gasped and sobbed in rising excitement. McHughes did his best to keep her on a hot fire until he was ready to take care of her.
His writhing, driving body sent Cleo over the brink of fulfillment.
Then he pivoted and hurled himself to the ready, eager embrace of Peggy.
A little while later, both girls were lying spread-eagled and exhausted, and McHughes was pouring another round of wine for everybody.
They rested.
Then Peggy and Cleo put on a little show for McHughes. He sat there watching while they loved each other up, for his benefit and theirs. They rubbed nipples, and then they rubbed everything from top to bottom. They grappled and rolled over and over, hips thrusting and boobs jiggling, and as the two beautiful girls went through a full routine of Lesbian passion for him, with such expertness that he got a little suspicious of them, McHughes felt physical arousal be ginning to take hold of him once more.
He was ready for action again.
And he could see that he would go right on through the night, taking these two chicks in turn, then watching them love each other until his energies recovered. A pleasant sort of amusement.
But boring, in a way. Because neither Cleo nor Peggy meant a damn to him.
Ellen was the one he wanted.
And Ellen was in another bed tonight, far away, making another man happy.
That left his mood grim. He made up his mind that he was going to have a showdown with Ellen very soon and get this thing straightened out between them, once and for all.
But in the meantime he had Cleo and Peggy.
"Again?" Cleo murmured throatily.
"Climb aboard," Peggy urged.
"Yeah," McHughes said. "Yeah."
He reached out and grabbed a handful of flesh with his big right hand. Then he stuck out his left hand and caught hold of two more jutting bazooms. Flesh filled his hands. He squeezed. He grinned.
Then he moved forward and lost himself in a writhing tangle of lustful limbs.
CHAPTER NINE
Ellen's buttocks were still throbbing from the spanking that Brubaker had given them. The tender cheeks of soft flesh ached miserably. He had been rough with her tonight, even rougher than usual. How she despised him!
And how she despised herself, for having to yield to his filthy lusts!
Sprawled naked on the rumpled, untidy bed, Ellen watched Brubaker getting his clothes back on. It was a little before eleven o'clock. He was manipulating his necktie. He looked every inch the proper middle-class executive, well fed and well paid. In a little while he would be on his way home to the suburbs, to his tudor-style house and his dull wife and quiet bed.
He had had his fun for the night. And Ellen's buttocks tingled because the pudgy, balding man had chosen her as the source for his satiation.
"Something wrong?" Brubaker asked.
"Oh, no. Nothing at all."
"You look kind of remote."
"Just sleepy."
He grinned at her. "Get plenty of rest tonight. Tomorrow's going to be a back-breaker at the office."
"As usual."
"As usual," he agreed. He came over to the bed and tugged her to her feet. He let his hands rest on the ripe mounds of her breasts for a moment, cupping the twin heavy globes lightly. Then he stroked the satin of her buttocks. "Did I hurt you tonight?" he asked.
"Not really," Ellen lied.
"It's awfully good of you to put up with my cockeyed habits," Brubaker said. "Don't think I don't appreciate it, either. I'm very fond of you, Ellen. You mean quite a lot to me, you know."
Ellen kept her face expressionless. She felt just a little sick to her stomach. If he started to come on strong with a maudlin gratitude bit, she was very likely to vomit right in his face, she thought. All she needed right now was for him to make a little speech about how wonderful and understanding she was, how perfect.
He had had his kicks and he had loved her the way he liked to love a woman. Why couldn't he Just go the hell home, now. and spare her the speeches?
But he didn't mean to be maudlin. What he did was worse than maudlin.
He let go of her bare buttocks and took out his wallet. Then, as Ellen stared at him in amazement, he said, "I feel I ought to show my appreciation in some tangible way. This is a gift for you, Ellen. Simply to indicate how happy I am with our relationship."
And he put a fifty-dollar bill in her hand. Ellen was stunned.
She was so taken aback by his sudden gesture that she did not do-what she later realized she should have done-which was to wad the fifty up and fling it into his jowly face. Instead, she just stood there, stark naked next to the bed, with her cheeks flushing, her buttocks hot and tingling and her mouth stupidly open, holding the money in her hand and gaping while Brubaker smiled politely at her and walked out the door.
&nb
sp; A moment later, Ellen snapped out of her freeze.
She gasped and stared at the money in her hand, and crumpled the bill up and flung it to the floor. Then she dropped face-down on the bed, her breasts swaying and jiggling as she landed, and buried her head in her arms as bitter sobs of shame racked her body.
The louse, she thought. The filthy stinker!
He wasn't content to make a pervert out of her. He had to turn her into a doxy, besides!
Of course, it had always been a kind of hustling that she had done for Brubaker. The understanding had been that the only way she could keep her job was to play patsy for his spanking habits. There was only one word that could describe that sort of relationship, since in effect she was selling him her body.
Even so, the prostitution had been indirect. He hadn't actually handed her a paycheck every time she pleasured him. But now the thick-headed baboon had come right out into the open. He probably thought he was doing her a great service, too-parting with fifty crackers was a major effort for a tightwad like Brubaker. And in doing it, he had made her eat dirt. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, here's your fee, and out the door. It spelled out the truth of their relationship with no subtlety whatever.
The sobbing stopped. The bitterness remained. Ellen sat up, rubbed her bare breasts, ran her hands along her thighs. The fifty lay at her feet. She was tempted to flush it down the toilet. But she was realistic enough to know that such a grand gesture was only cutting off her nose to spite her face. The insult, unintentional though it had been, had already been given. The wound was open and bleeding. Tt was too late to refuse the money, even symbolically. So she might as well accept it for what it was, the wages of sin, and make some use out of it.
She put it in her purse. Then she walked slowly into the bathroom and got under the shower. She didn't have the patience for a bath tonight.
She turned the hot water on, as hot as she could stand it, and let it come cascading down over her nipples and breasts, over her stomach, over her thighs. She let the fiery sprinkles pepper her buttocks, easing the discomfort of the spanking. She soaped herself, trying to scrub away the stain that Brubaker's fingers had left on her flesh. She leaned back against the wall of the shower, exposed herself to the downpour, tried to cleanse herself of her sins. But she still felt filthy when she turned the water off.
She dried herself and got into a nightgown. She switched off the light. The tingling of her buttocks was starting to die down, now.
But sleep was a long time in coming.
And with sleep came dreams.
Ellen, moaning, tossing and turning uncomfortably in her bed, dreamed that she was out in some desert somewhere. Barren sand stretched to the horizon. The sky was painfully, blindingly blue, and the swollen yellow sun seemed to take up a quarter of the heavens.
She was lying face-down on the hot sand. Her limbs were tied, and she was spread-eagled, staked out on the desert with her arms stretching toward the east and west, and her legs pulled far apart. Searing sunlight danced across her back and the pale globes of her buttocks. The heat of the sand throbbed against her tender nude nipples.
There was a man standing over her.
He was nude, too. He had the pot-bellied body of Brubaker, but the face was the face of Jim McHughes, twisted and distorted by hatred so that the features could hardly be recognized. He held a whip in his hand, nine leather thongs studded with nails.
He raised the whip high.
"No," the staked-out Ellen whimpered. "No, please don't, please-"
The whip descended across her buttocks. The nails raked into the tender flesh and left streaks of blood. Ellen sobbed with agony. She recoiled and quivered, but the bonds that held each of her limbs were too strong to break. She could scarcely move. She just had to lie there and take it.
The whip fell again. This time the thongs raked her back. She screamed out.
"Have pity! Have pity!"
The only answer from the nude whipper was a demonic laugh of satisfaction-and another stroke of the whip.
It caught her across the backs of her thighs. New gouts of blood spurted from her flesh. Another stroke. Another.
The whipper was merciless, and the whip seemed to have eyes of its own. It sought out the secret places of her body, not content simply to torment the obvious targets of her back and buttocks. The whip passed across her thighs, the tips of its lashes bringing torment to the soft flesh of her legs. It raked the sensitive flesh and made her howl in unspeaekable agony. It landed in the blood-filled channels of the earlier cuts.
And the sun grew hotter and hotter, baking and broiling her as she lay on the desert sand. Sweat mingled with the blood of her whip-wounds. The sand on all sides of her naked body was stained with red.
"Harlot!" the whipper shouted. "Naughty girl!"
Each word brought a new stroke of the whip.
"Please stop," Ellen begged faintly. "You'll kill me ... please stop...."
"All right," came the booming voice high above her. "No more whipping."
There was a thudding sound as the whip, cast aside, fell to the desert sand near Ellen. She let out a sigh of relief. Thank God, she thought, as blood dripped from her blazing cuts. Thank God, no more pain.
And then the naked man, with the body of Brubaker and the face of McHughes, dropped down alongside her. Ellen winced and quivered as she felt his hands roughly examining her wounds, squeezing her back, clawing at her, throwing sand into the cuts. He laughed.
He gripped her buttocks, brutally grasping the tender, throbbing cheeks.
And then his body covered hers. She realized that he was going to take her, but not in the usual way. He was going to brutalize her.
He drove forward.
Ellen felt an instant of incredible pain, far more intense than anything caused by the whipping itself. There was sudden fire in her body, as the man struck at her roughly and continued to drive, mauling her, violating her body, hurting her wounds.
It was agonizing.
The man was without mercy. His heavy body was crushing her, and her wounds were like strips of fire, and above all there was that battering weight, tormenting her, shattering her, sickening her with its loathsome, twisted, forbidden fulfillment. She was like an animal, writhing on the blazing desert.
Ellen shrieked.
With the last strength left in her tortured body she cried out from the depths of her being, protesting the shameful violation, the perverted action, the agony of her flayed body. She sucked air into her lungs and spewed it out again in a wild cry of pain.
The scream was echoing in her ears as she woke up.
Ellen huddled in the darkness. She was bathed in sweat. For a moment, she was lost. Where was the desert sun? Where was the whip, where were the thongs that held her bound and spread-eagled? What had happened to the man who had violated her?
She touched her buttocks. They were not bleeding. There was no pain.
It had all been a dream, Ellen realized in wonderment. But so real-so real.
She could still feel the desert sun beating down, the heat of the sand against her breasts and stomach, the pain of the whipping, the dripping of her blood. Above all, she could feel the impact of that sudden weight, her wounded buttocks.
She was quivering with fright. She was afraid to go back to sleep. Who knew what nightmares might still be waiting for her on the other side of the barrier of wakefulness? Agitated, trembling, Ellen rose from the bed and paced about her apartment. It was four in the morning.
She wondered if she ought to call Jim. He would come to her, comfort her, love her. In his arms, she might be able to escape the fury of the nightmare.
She decided not to. She was afraid to face him just now, now that she was ridden with guilt and shame. The fact that he had entered into her dream was sign enough that she was guilty about him, that she felt ashamed for having sold herself to Brubaker and turned Jim away. She didn't want to have to see Jim now, to blurt out t
he truth of her shame, to beg him for forgiveness. It was better to wait until she was in a calmer mood before facing him. A drink, she decided.
She had never put the bourbon bottle away after Brubaker's departure. Now she grabbed it up and poured an inch of amber fluid into her glass. She gulped it down without bothering about ice cubes or mixer. The whiskey hit her stomach, hard, and she gasped at the impact.
That steadied her. She poured herself another inch and belted it down just as quickly.
Then she walked to the window and opened the blinds to look out at the night. A cool breeze was blowing. She welcomed it, after the torrid blast of the desert in that all-too-realistic dream. She glanced across the courtyard. Most of the lights were out. One apartment still was lit.
