"Good morning, Mrs. Calder."
Karen studied the man behind the desk. She had been invited in to see Mr. Bernstein, the producer of the show, just the day before the taping. The invitation had brought a jolt of fear that, perhaps, she was going to be disqualified for some reason. Reassured by the MC's calling her a "winner" at the interview, she had made a number of purchases on credit, and spent the next two weeks' grocery money. If she didn't get on the show, and win, Mark would be furious.
"Good morning," she replied, softly and carefully.
"Miss Carlson, no calls," the stocky man ordered into the intercom. "And, we are not to be disturbed."
Karen felt a little queasy when she heard this.
"I understand you are to be on Peter's show tomorrow," the steel-haired man noted.
Karen eyed him warily. He was a stocky, powerfully built man. He was very well dressed. "Yes," she answered.
"Peter gave a glowing report on you."
Karen shuddered when she thought of what the MC might have said about her.
"Peter said that your knowledge of French was aah, extensive," the man went on.
Karen frowned, puzzled. "But, I don't speak French at all."
Bernstein chuckled. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "I enjoy a girl with a sense of humor. I really do."
Karen's bewilderment increased.
The man sensed her confusion, and it seemed to increase his amusement. His chuckle, swelled to a hacking laugh. The creases on his face deepened as his grin broadened.
"My dear Mrs. Calder, you are indeed a treat," he wheezed at last. "You are an expert on French culture, and you don't even know it, do you?"
Karen was frightened, and totally at sea now. She thought the categories of the questions she would be asked were what the man meant. Peter Sandier might, of course, have misled the producer. Was her chance to be on the show on the line? How could she pretend to know something she didn't?
"Why don't you take off your clothes, Mr. Calder," the producer suggested.
"I beg your pardon!" Karen squeaked.
The man's grin was gone. His face was like stone now. "Mrs. Calder, your place on the show can be filled in art instant. Peter gave me a detailed report on your oral abilities. Now, I suggest you show me just how you impressed him. Before my patience is exhausted."
Karen was horrified. She suddenly realized that when the man had said "French" he had not meant the language or the country at all. Her naive mind had failed to make the obvious connection.
"I suggest you make it very good, too," the producer went on relentlessly. "I've seen it all before, many, many times. It takes a great deal to impress me. And, I'm sure you realize, your chance to be on the show depends a great deal on me."
Karen felt sick. She was as angry with herself as she was with the situation. Just the thought of sucking cock made her mouth and pussy drool. The sadistic pleasure of the producer was attractive to her, too.
Desperately, she examined her options. She could get up and walk out of the richly furnished office, back to the dismal hovel she called home. She could try, somehow, to explain to Mark how she had gotten herself into a stupid money jam and didn't have food money for the next week or the week after. She could try to explain how their credit card balances had suddenly doubled.
If she did that, she knew she could kiss her marriage good-bye right then. Mark scared her. But she also loved him too much to even contemplate life without him.
So, she would stay and do what Bernstein was asking her to do. She knew there was no hope of bluffing him, or arguing him out of it.
She looked at him. Her eyes met his steady, cold gray ones. He was, in his sturdy, rugged cruel way, rather attractive. And, she told herself bitterly, she wouldn't be doing anything she hadn't already done with another man not her husband. Besides, maybe she would be lucky and get fucked, too. Christ, she was so damn horny.
She answered his unspoken question by setting her purse down beside herself in the chair, and standing up. It was easy for her to stick out her cheat, to pose for him. She had never done anything like it before in her life, but it came to her naturally, so naturally she began to wonder about her true nature.
Boldly facing the man, she unbuttoned the cuffs of her long-sleeved blouse. Her chest still thrust out slightly, she began undoing her blouse. She moved carefully, not quickly, not slowly. She made no deliberate attempt to be seductive. Her body would speak for itself.
After tugging the blouse free, she let it slide down her arms, then carefully draped it over the back of the chair. She was conscious of the shift and play of her heavy boobs as she moved.
Her skirt went next. It dropped around her feet. She picked it up and folded it carefully. This time, she was wearing stockings, and a garter belt. The garter belt was white, and lacy, and matched her bra and panties.
Reaching behind her back, she unhooked the bra. She felt her tits settle lower as their support was taken away. Her titties hardened and pointed eagerly as the cool air-conditioned air of the office touched them. After dropping her bra, Karen indulged in the sensuous luxury of massaging her boobs. She was enjoying the freedom from the bra. She remembered the young, bra-less girl on the show, and reflected wryly that with her jugs, she wouldn't dare go on TV bra-less.
The stocky producer's interest in her display was obvious, even though his groin was hidden behind the desk. A film of sweat made his forehead glisten. He licked his lips tensely. His dark eyes darted over her nearly-naked body.
Hooking her thumbs in the elastic of her panties, she ran them down her legs and off. She could feel the, brown curls of her muff expanding. It was a crazy, tickling sensation. Leaving her stockings and garter belt on, Karen eased around the side of the desk, and sat on the corner. She made no attempt to shield her pussy from view, but made no deliberate display of it, either. She leaned back on her hands, and looked at him.
"Well?" she asked.
"Good enough," he allowed, his voice husky. "So far."
"You haven't shown me anything yet," she pointed out.
"You have to come and get it yourself," he answered. Obviously, if she wanted to be on the show, or if she wanted him, she was going to have to humiliate and degrade herself before him.
Karen knew she wanted both, which made her furious with herself. Angrily, she got up from the desk and walked across the room, away from him. She felt his eyes on her naked ass. Lust was a hot, gnawing worm in her gut.
She turned to face him. She ran nervous fingers down over her body toward her twat. Her fingers slid into her snatch. She toyed with her pussy, played with herself as the man watched. Her finger pressed her clit and her hips rolled as pleasure burned through her. She licked her lips and writhed uninhibitedly as her lust boiled higher. With both hands, she fondled and petted her steaming twat, spread her cunt-lips to show the wet, pink inner folds. Her upper arms, pressed inward and upward against her hefty knockers, deepened the valley between them.
She let her feet spread, let her hips roll. She plunged a finger into her dripping cunt. She finger-fucked herself, and humped her hips eagerly as her finger pumped in and out of her dripping cunt.
Bernstein swivelled his chair towards her. She could see his lap. There was a monster lump there. It looked as if his hard-on was short and stubby, just the way his body was like a barrel.
Karen drew her fingers out of her cunt, and licked the juices off the tips. She moved toward the producer. She was conscious of the sway of her, hips, the jiggle of her titties. She knelt in front of him and reached for his fly. Running the zipper down, she dug into the opening. His cock rammed up, out through the fly of his boxer shorts.
She had been right. Bernstein's cock was only half the length of Peter Sandier's magnificent ten inches. But it was twice the diameter! It squatted on the man's dense, black pubic patch like an obscene toad. The pink cap was shining with pre-come. The skin of the shaft was wrinkled. There was a circumcision scar beneath the groove.
With the fingers of both hands, Karen tested the hardness of the core of Bernstein's prick, the soft looseness of the skin. Then she placed her palms on either side of the squat pecker and rolled it forward and back, made the skin twist around the rigid center.
She knew she was going to suck it. She knew she was going to take a great, creamy load in her mouth. What was worse, she knew she was going to enjoy it.
She tried to imagine the heavy prick jammed into her twat, and felt her cunt contract with excitement. He could split her wide open, he was so bulky. But God, would it feel good!
Dipping her head, she licked the end of his cock as if it was a scoop of strawberry ice cream perched in a auger cone. But the taste was pure man-juice thick and salty and delicious. A stringy strand of clear viscous goo trailed down and stung her chin. She looked up at him, and saw the excitement in his eyes as he watched her naked humiliation.
Bending her head, she circled his pecker with her lips. It was a strain to get his hard-on between her teeth without scraping it, but she managed. Taking the full length of his dick was easy. It barely reached her throat, quite a contrast to Peter's long dick. She felt the skin sliding over the hard core as she lifted and dropped her head slowly. She stroked the knobby head with her tongue.
Wiry hair tickled her nose, made it wrinkle defensively, brought on the desire to sneeze. She fought the urge down, knowing if she failed and did sneeze, she would, unavoidably, bite down hard on the dick between her jaws. She circled the base of his hard-on with her hands, pressed his hair down flat. The urge to sneeze passed.
She was a cock-sucker supreme, and she knew it. Her cunt was dripping hungrily down the insides of her thighs as she sucked. Her gut knotted, not with revulsion, but with lust, as she drew on the thick prick. Her mouth was flooding with spit not from nausea, but from hunger for more of his delicious juices.
She wriggled the tip of her tongue into the slit at the end of his dick. She swept the head of his prick clean with a circular swirl of her tongue, and was rewarded with a renewed flow of goo. She pressed her face against his body. His entire cock was in her mouth. Gentle pressure on the underside brought yet another wave of delectable juices.
She sucked, and felt the living sausage swell and squirm against the suction. More juice oozed into her mouth from the slit. She squirmed and her breasts rubbed the rough cloth of the producer's trousers. Her cunt was a swamp of unholy lust as she sucked his cock.
Maintaining her suction, she bobbed her head over his lap, up and down, up and down. Her jaws began to ache. Once in a while her teeth nicked his sensitive flesh and he hissed in protest.
His hands touched her head, began to guide her. His hips began to squirm with arousal. His blunt fingers tangled in her hair. He began to lift and push her head. His hips jammed upward in a fucking motion. Only the shortness of his dick kept her from being run through by his pecker. As it was, her throat began to feel battered and bruised by his forceful thrusts. She began to pray for his coming as it grew harder and harder for her to breathe. The pain in her jaws was beginning to be more than she could bear.
Her face was being hammered down into his lap. The chair was squeaking in protest as he slammed his cock up into her maw. It felt as if her hair was being ripped out by the rook he had such a ruthless grip on it.
"Going to come," the man grunted.
Karen prayed he would.
"Going to come," he snorted harshly. "And you're going to swallow it."
Karen didn't care if she swallowed it or not. All she wanted was an end to the brutal bobbing, pounding, stretching.
"Coming," the producer snorted.
Karen felt it, and sucked harder as her nose was ground down against her hand.
"Gaaaaahh!!!"
The first spout of fluid was so monstrous Karen thought she was going to drown in it. Frantically, she gulped the mammoth creamy wad. She felt it sting her throat all the way down. The following spurts were less copious and spaced further apart, but so powerful she felt them spatter against her throat. Gulping and gulping, she felt the hot pulses of goo stream down to her belly and form a hot pool there. The last dribbles were thin and watery, less flavorful. She licked his click clean as it began to shrivel. She lifted her face from his prick when his grip on her hair relaxed.
Weakly, she sat back on her heels and wiped her chin with the back of one hand, then the other. Her jaw felt as if it had been dislocated. Her hair hurt from the cruel pulling. Her titties burned from being rubbed against his pants.
Wheezing with exhaustion, the producer sat back in his chair. His limp prick stuck out ludicrously from his open fly. Sweat gleamed on his face, stained his collar. He fought to catch his breath.
"Bathroom?" Karen croaked.
"Through that door," he told her, pointing.
Karen's whole body ached as she struggled to her feet. In the bathroom, she rinsed out her mouth and drank a full glass of water. It helped cut the thick taste of come in her throat. It was a relief to sit on the toilet, spread her thighs and loose a flood of pee into the bowl. She hadn't realized how badly she had needed to go. Then she forced herself to return to the man.
Still wearing only her stockings, garter belt and shoes, she went back into the plush office.
"Don't dress yet," he ordered, heading into the bathroom. Casually leaving the door open, he pissed into the toilet while she watched. Then, to her surprise, he began to undress.
He was as hairy as an ape, and just as powerfully built. There was little fat on his stocky frame. The muscles under his pale, thickly-pelted back flexed powerfully as he stripped. He turned to face her, and Karen shuddered as her lust boiled upward. The cock she had just sucked dry was already rising slowly, getting ready for a second shot at her.
"On my desk," he ordered. "Sit facing my chair."
"Why should I?"
"Because you're a slut, like all the rest of 'em," he answered. "And because you want to win. That's why."
Karen tried to deny both statements, but couldn't. Meekly, she walked around his desk and eased her fanny onto the blotter.
The producer sat down heavily in his chair and leaned back casually. "Now play with yourself. Spread those gorgeous gains of yours and play with your twat."
Karen felt a hot flush of shame and excitement, and spread her legs wide. After all, she had already played with her cunt while he watched. Her fingers found her clit and cunt. She spread her pussy lips, letting the heart of her dripping snatch flower in his face. She diddled two fingers on the gate to her hole, and flicked her clit with another finger. The man's hard mouth smiled slowly and viciously as he watched her humiliate herself. His cock was expanding quickly.
"You like that, don't you?" he asked softly.
Karen bit her lower lip and concentrated on the foul pleasure she was feeling.
"You like that, don't you?" he repeated, more loudly, more demandingly.
"Yes," she moaned. "Oh, yes, I like it. God help me, I like it."
"You like me watching, don't you?"
"I like you watching," she groaned. She was, she realized, really enjoying having an audience. She remembered driving herself to an orgasm in front of the television set under the hot, unseeing stare of Peter Sandier. Now, it was real! She was really doing it to herself while a man watched from just a few feet away. She was showing him the hot pink heart of her cunt while she shamelessly probed the dripping tunnel and diddled her burning clit.
"Don't stop," the man ordered. "No matter what, don't stop."
Karen couldn't imagine what he was going to do, but she was not about to stop. She wan rising slowly toward that exquisite peak. She wriggled three fingers into her cunt and mangled her cunt harder. He reached for his desk set, reached pest her, picked up a long, slender pen.
Casually, he used the end of the instrument to explore the rippled petals of her pussy. She felt the probe trace a chill path around the hole she had her fingers in. Then, a shot of pain that was almost pleasant, as he jabbed at her pinhole. He twisted the cold black plastic spear at the tiny opening, and she felt it penetrate slightly. She held herself motionless, terrified a slip would injure her.
Stopping that exploration, he eased the rounded point up her gash. She resumed stirring her fingers in a cunt that was wetter than ever. She felt the cold sharp pressure slither up her cunt, from her pisser to her clit. He flicked the nerve berry and her whole body convulsed violently. She was leaning back on one hand, frying to keep up the action on her cunt with the other. The flicking touch of the peal against her clit was like a high-voltage shock. Her thighs jumped crazily, her leg kicked. Desperately, she braced her feet on the arms of his chair.
Another flick of the pen brought a bellow of lust from her. Then he abandoned that target.
"Keep playing with yourself," he ordered softly, sounding slightly distracted.
Looking down, Karen watched as the producer swung the pen-tapping a lazy circle in front of her snatch. She wondered where that nasty implement might strike next. She wondered where it had been before it was poked into her quim. What kind of infection might she get from the plastic probe?
More important, what pleasure might she get from it next?
She realized suddenly that she didn't care where the implement had been before. All she cared about, really, was that it give her pleasure again. She was becoming a total wanton! She wanted that pen somewhere, anywhere it would give her pleasure.
She watched the circling stop, watched the pen slowly approach her. Her hand stopped pumping in her quim. The pen was under the fingers she had jammed in her cunt. She lost sight of the tip of the tool. She waited, her gut sucked in.
"Unnhh!" The touch brought a soft grunt. Her asshole twinged as it was delicately probed. The point scratched her bung, and she felt a pleasure she had never even imagined. Round and round and round the pucker of her brownie went the pen. Her crotch muscles knotted with ecstasy. She began diddling her clit again. Closer and closer, and closer to the pit of her pucker, and then she felt the pen settle right at the entrance of her crapper.
While she sat on the man's desk, legs raised and spread, crotch gaping at him, hand busy in her twat, she felt him slowly drill the sharp end of the pen up into her shitter. Shamelessly, she moaned her pleasure and rocked her ass to give him the best possible shot at her bung. It was such a little thing. And it felt so good! She saw his eyes glitter as he watched the pen slowly disappear up into her tail-hole.
Grunting mindlessly, stupidly, she mangled her pussy folds, jammed a fourth finger into her streaming cunt. She pulverized her cunt with her finger. She felt the pen twisting and turning in her crap-cave. Her hips squirmed and heaved. She knew that if the sharp point penetrated her asshole wall she would be hospitalized, but she didn't care. The fear was just another wonderful facet of her disgusting pleasure.
She came, suddenly and violently, almost unexpectedly. The organ raged through her like a brash fire. Her legs shivered and shuddered and it took a powerful effort of will to keep still enough to avoid being perforated by the pen. She could actually feel it scratching far up inside her dirt road, scratching her muscular, tender walls. Her cunt flooded with sex juices, drowning her hand. She felt something dripping down over her asshole, her violated, penetrated, exploited asshole she wailed as her hand slipped and she dropped to her back on the desk. She felt papers, cold and crackly, under her bare back. She felt her garder belt stretching and straining as her legs spread wider and wider.
And still that damn pen was stirring her shit. Suddenly the producer was towering over her. He was still holding the pen in her brown bung. She felt him wrench her hand away from her cunt, felt his stubby dick jam at her pussy hole, and then burrow into her slime-soaked depths.
Throwing her arms wide, she sent a calendar flying in one direction, a stack of papers in the other. She abandoned herself to being spiked by a blunt cock and a sharp pen. Her clit was mangled between their pubic bones. Her cunt was stretched wide by his thick, determined prick.
He began to fuck her. He slammed his cock into her as she lay there on his desk. Her ass squirmed with each impact. The maddening pen kept scraping and scratching her bung as his cock ravaged her cunt. His hairy belly rubbed her belly raw as he slammed his dick into her snatch. She writhed and squirmed under the assault.
He started to come. It was another slow, powerful eruption, just like the one she had taken in her mouth. She felt the heavy pulses of jizz burn her cunt walls, pool in her gut as his balls wrung dry. He stayed on top of her until his prick was down to nothing. Then he eased back off her.
She didn't dare move as he sat back in his chair. She heard a humidor open, and close, then the flick of a lighter. A stinking blue cloud of cigar smoke drifted over her. She lay on her back. Her head was hanging off the edge of his desk, her legs still thrown wide.
Because the pen was still in her asshole, she held herself rigidly still. She was terrified to do anything that might force the sharp tip through her thin rectal wall.
Then her crapping reflex took over, and she shat out the slender probe. With a whimper of relief, she sat up. The producer was sitting smugly in his chair, a cigar in one hand, the pen in the other. Delicately, he sniffed first the cigar, then the end of the pen that had been rammed up her butt.
Karen's gut heaved. She barely made it to the john in time. When she was done retching, she looked at herself bleakly in the mirror. Her lush body heavy warm tits thick brown snatch looked unchanged. But inside, she felt changed. She wondered what she would try next. If the man had asked her to lick the pen off, she knew she would have done it. She had sunk that low.
She returned to the office and sat down in the chair he indicated, without even thinking of dressing. He was still naked, too. He flipped a stack of papers across the desk to her. "These are the questions you'll get tomorrow."
Karen gaped at him, and made no move to pick them up. "But, that's cheating!!"
"Look, you got to answer the questions to get anything. And your opponent isn't an idiot. Take 'em."
"What did he have to do to get on the show?" she asked bitterly.
"Shit, you enjoyed it, and you know it," the man snorted. "Got any problems with any of the questions?"
Karen ran her eye down the list. The questions were simple. She wondered if what she had just been through was worth it. Then she admitted sourly that she had enjoyed it, and was enjoying herself now, sitting here naked while Bernstein stared at her lush tits and moist brown snatch.
"Why are you doing this? Isn't it illegal?"
"Yeah, but they all do it," he answered.
"Why?"
"Because, the audience likes winners, and losers, if the right people are the winners and the losers. You're a nice, wholesome housewife, young and pretty, but not too pretty. The audience'll automatically be on your side, and when you win, that'll make 'em feel good."
"And my opponent?" she asked.
"He's a nice young guy who we want to do well. But we don't want him to win," the producer answered. "He's not quite as simpatico as you are. So, he gives you a good run for your money, and goes home with a little less than you do."
"But, what if I screw up?"
"That's your problem. We'll give you all the help we can, but there are limits. And be sure to wear a bra. We can't have you flapping all over the stage." He relighted his cigar. "You can get dressed now."
Wearily, Karen dressed. She left the questions sitting on the desk.
"Hey, don't you want these?" he asked as he knotted his tie.
"No," she answered. "No, I don't want them. I'll do it on my own, or not at all."