Legs weak, head spinning, Cathy pulled her skirt back down over her naked buttocks and thighs, stumbled to the door and watched Jack Bailey disappear into the darkness down the hall. Her breath was coming in hoarse strained gasps; an electric tingling darted over the nerve-ends of her flesh; down between her thighs she could feel a dribbling of feminine lubricant moisture which issued from her lust tortured little cunt, which now seemed to spasm in its own deep inner frustration. My God, she felt like she'd almost been on the verge of actually cumming if Bob's groan hadn't disturbed her and snapped her back to reality. And now she was left with a dull gnawing she thought would physically drive her out of her mind if she didn't have some kind of relief, and a mental guilt and frustration that made her almost regret the attractive feminine body and unspiritual animal sexuality which the Good Lord seemed to have sadistically blessed her.
At last, with a heaving sigh, the distraught young blonde turned away from the doorway and walked back to the bed where her husband lay in drunken oblivion. She looked at his face, young, clean shaven, again handsome in sleep though earlier in the evening he'd been wearing an expression of absolute drunken idiocy. And somehow she, in spite of all the gin she'd imbibed, in spite of the fact that she was very drunk – and she was drunk, she told herself; what had just happened here would never have happened if she'd been sober – she'd somehow stayed on her feet, stayed alert contrary to the very laws of nature, as though there were an energy and drive in her which had allowed her to overcome what should have been enough alcohol to put her flat on her back in her own oblivious stupor.
And now she was still awake, alert. She felt as if there was something swarming in her very veins. And nothing to do, nothing to do but sleep, or lie awake, or pace the room, and wait for morning when somehow, perhaps even against her secret wishes, she and Bob could get away from here before something really terrible happened.
Cathy turned away from her sleeping husband and walked to the window, pulled the curtain aside and stared restlessly out into the night, where now the rain was falling steadily, where there was silence except its endless patter, as though it were a peaceful washing-over to smooth out the havoc of the storm. She turned and looked back at the bed. Bob shifted in his sleep.
"Well," she said to herself, "I guess the least I can do is undress him and put him under the covers."
She walked back and sat down at the foot of the bed and took one of his feet and began to undo the lace of his shoe. She removed that shoe, unlaced and removed the other, then the socks. She gazed up the length of his body to his face, then let her eyes rove back downward to come to rest finally on his crotch where, though he by no means had an erection, she could distinguish nonetheless an ample bulging of his trousers caused by his big limber cock. Then, her hand trembling slightly, she reached up and deftly loosened his belt, unbuttoned his trousers and peeled the zipper slowly down. Her heartbeat slightly hastening she pulled his jockey shorts down off the flaccid shaft of cockflesh, her fingers entwining tightly around it, moving in a slow up-and-down jack-off motion along the length of the thick rubbery cock.
After a moment, as Bob groaned and again shifted on the bed, Cathy abruptly ceased the movement of her hand. She let the now slightly distended penis slip from her hand and flop down against her husband's belly. She stood up, her hands moving up to caress teasingly over her own breasts on the outside of her dress, the soft contact causing her nipples to leap visibly to erection beneath the clinging material. She paced to the window and looked out, turned away and paced to the door and looked down the dark corridor. She needed something to do, something to occupy her, to get her sanely through this night.
"Let's see," she whispered. She smiled suddenly, and continued, speaking at a whisper, almost deliriously to herself: "I know! My bra and panties. They must be dry by now, so I'll go get them and put them on and then at least… I won't have that problem of running around here like this… Tomorrow… morning."
She glanced quickly back at Bob, lying still on his side of the bed in the same position and same state of undress she'd left him – barefoot, trousers open at the crotch, jockey shorts pulled down to. expose his hairy groin, his soft cock, his balls. Then, tiptoeing in order to avoid attracting the attention of – Sylvia and Jack Bailey, she started away down the hall in the direction of the bathroom, feeling her way cautiously along in the darkness.
Cathy had gone perhaps twenty paces, when she was suddenly startled by a low feminine moan from somewhere in this end of the house.
"Emmmmmmnnnnnn, baby! Come on, brute! Hey, what… what's the matter?"
Cathy had stopped, frozen to sudden immobility. Of course the voice was Sylvia's; she was talking to her husband, Jack. Cathy hadn't missed the lustful strain in her voice, which she now almost positively identified as having come from the den. And the den was just near the end of this corridor, to the left off a large entrance way, where there was no door. The aroused and curious young blonde could have almost screamed aloud at the suggestion that realization caused to pop into her mind. My God, she could stand here and listen to them to her heart's content. She could even watch them, if she wanted to, and the idea that she could even think of such a thing should have been enough to warn her she was really in danger of slipping beyond the limits of decency.
And yet the very depravity of it seemed only to fill her with a perverse and compelling relish. And at the same time she could feel her curiosity sharpening almost beyond the point of resistance. And finally, she added in deft rationalization, she might even be able to learn something of value. Sylvia Bailey certainly didn't look like an unfulfilled woman, just as Jack didn't look – or act, Cathy added with another twinge of inward guilt – like a man who would leave a woman unfulfilled. And if, by watching them, she could learn something that would be useful in solving her and Bob's own problems, then perhaps her unbecoming action of a few moments ago would somehow be justified in the end.
But even then, Cathy hesitated a moment longer, seesawing back and forth between the concept of what she wanted to do and what she thought she should do. But if there had been any slight possibility her conscience would win out over temptation, that possibility was completely rubbed out of existence by Sylvia's next remark:
''It's the girl, isn't it?"
Cathy waited, still frozen. Her heart was pounding furiously in her breast, and Sylvia's words, which by their sound had been spoken matter of factly, and without malice or spite, echoed in her ears, over and over again and again as though it were not just Sylvia but a multitude of voices that had spoken.
And Bailey hadn't replied.
"Come on, Jack," Sylvia went on, almost at a purr. "I can see it in your eyes. You've got the hots for that little bitch, and I can't even say that I blame you. But you've really got it bad this time, haven't you baby? Haven't you?"
Almost without realizing it, Cathy had begun to move slowly again along the corridor toward the sound of Sylvia's voice, as though she were hypnotized by her words and by the spaces of Jack Bailey's silent responses in between.
"I'm not blind honey. This time it's different. So go ahead. You have… my blessing."
"What do you mean, your blessings?" Jack asked and now somehow just the sound of his voice caused a chill to go darting down the excited and shocked young blonde's spine.
"I mean I'll understand," Sylvia went on in the same lusty voice. "I'll understand as long as you understand."
"As long as I understand what?"
"I'm not going to sit back and twiddle my thumbs through all this. I can get restless too. And the husband's a good-looking young man. Strong looking."
Cathy couldn't have been more stunned if she'd been bit over the head with a hammer. They were actually making a deal, a bargain of the flesh. And she and Bob were the barter. My God, they must have felt like spiders watching jumbo grasshoppers wading into their webs when she and Bob had turned up on their land, and she knew that if she had any last remnant of decency and rationality in her own being she would turn around right now, go back to the bedroom and wake Bob up and let him hear for himself what their foul-minded host and hostess wanted to plan for them. Then he would understand why she hadn't wanted to come here, or stay here, and maybe he would be motivated to take some steps to get their car out of the ditch and get them away from this terrible place.
But Bob of course was passed out, drunk, and she'd already decided that he wasn't going to be awakened any time soon. And Cathy hadn't even slowed down. In fact, she'd hastened her silent pace, tiptoeing now swiftly along the wall toward the bend in the corridor, from where she would not only be able to overhear what was going on in the den, but actually look in and observe the expressions on the older couple's faces as they continued their shocking and outrageous discussion.
"But it's not going to be tonight," Sylvia Bailey went on in her same purring, mocking voice. "You were in there too long. If you could have made it you already would have. Tonight you're stuck with me."
There was a moment's silence, another low, feminine moan, then Jack Bailey's voice saying: "Cut it out, Sylvia."
There was another silence. Sylvia's laughter, lusty, mocking. She said: "Come on, sleepy head. Wake up."
My God, Cathy thought in horror. Was that man so crass he could be sleeping through this?
Then she was slapped mockingly in the face with her own sheer naivetй as she rounded the corner of the corridor, gazed lavish, sunken lounge, and found herself staring straight ahead at the real object of Sylvia's last puzzling remark.
She hadn't been talking to Jack Bailey. She'd been talking to his cock!
The innocent young blonde almost collapsed to her knees as she took in the lurid scene that greeted her. The lights in the den had been turned down very low, so she could see them clearly enough without worrying about them seeing her. The table had been partially cleared off; new drinks had been made and served. Jack Bailey sat on the fold-back leather easy chair, his legs propped luxuriously up. Sylvia, naked to the waist so that her amber-hued breasts shined as if slickened with oil in the dim light of the room, was kneeling slave-like on the floor beside him, her face bent over his loins so her long dark hair spilled in cascades down over his groin. But through the long black locks Cathy could see that his trousers had been undone and unzipped, the same way she'd done Bob's a little earlier. Jack's cock, also soft, was cupped tightly in Sylvia's hand. She, like Cathy a few minutes before, was moving her hand in a teasing up-and-down stroking motion along the limber shaft of flesh. Where Bob had been out unconscious, but restlessly stirring, Jack Bailey was sitting rigid in his chair, glaring down with a look of violence and contempt that almost made Cathy shudder to think of it. And there was one other even greater difference between this little scene and the one in which she had participated with her unconscious husband a few moments ago in their room.
She'd always thought of Bob's cock as being huge, but Jack Bailey's was gigantic! It was like a baseball bat, or a policeman's Billy club, or like some pagan phallic statue, blood filled, red-purple tipped, a thick dark cudgel looming from a bush of curling black pubic hair that stood up like a jungle between his hairy thighs, a full seven or eight inches in length now and, though Cathy could hardly believe her eyes, growing by the second.
Then the stunned young blonde received an even greater jolt to her innocence as Sylvia Bailey flicked her tongue from her mouth to moisten her voluptuous lips in what appeared to be a gesture of genuine relish. And as Cathy gawked in unbelieving astonishment, the excited brunette dropped her face lower, her tongue darting snake-like downward to flick right across the slickly glistening head of Jack Bailey's cock, darting right into the little slitted eye-like hole at the tip.
And as though in programmed response, the still limber length of cock flesh stiffened and distended another fraction of an inch, the head taking on an even darker hue as the blood rushed to fill it. A low moan of approval rose from Sylvia's throat, and she twirled her tongue teasingly around the end of her husband's gradually swelling cock, lashing it gently and expertly toward an erection the trembling blonde in the doorway didn't even know if she wanted to see for herself.
"Cut it out," Bailey grunted. "I told you I'm not in the mood."
"But I'm going to get you in the mood," Sylvia purred, ducking her head suddenly downward, ovalling her lips to slip them right over the swelling cocktip and caused the shaft to distend and thicken even more.