"Hold it, everybody," the director called over the studio loudspeakers. "We have a hitch here. Take a break. Mrs. Calder, please come to the control room."
Karen looked startled. The call was totally unexpected. Meekly, she got up and made her way through the tangle of cables and wires to the aisle. As she walked through the audience, they cast curious glances at her. She was sure they could smell the come clinging to her thighs and ass.
The dimly-lighted control room was crowded of switches and dials and meters. The whole side overlooking the studio was glass, from the top of the control panels to the ceiling. The back wall was bank after bank of instruments. Glowing monitors showed the views from the various cameras.
As Karen's eyes adjusted to the dim light, she picked the producer, Bernstein, out of the group of men in the booth. With him were three others two in shirt-sleeves, the third in a natty mod suit.
"Mr. Osborne here is the sponsor's representative," Bernstein said, indicating the mod-dressed man.
"How do you do?" Karen greeted him cautiously.
"Mr. Osborne, among other things, is concerned about your qualifications to be a winner on the show," Bernstein noted, studying his fingernails casually.
"I don't understand," she murmured warily, keeping her distance.
"I mean," Bernstein went on, "that you should show him exactly what it was about you that so impressed me in our interview."
Karen shook her head. "No," she answered. She was tired and sore, and suddenly, fed up with the whole scene. "No. I don't think I'll do anything of the kind."
"Now, Mrs. Calder," Bernstein went on with an oily smoothness, "I'm not asking you to do anything you haven't already done with me, with Peter, with Shanda, with Jason, and with God knows who else on our horny crew."
"I don't care…" Karen started, more sharply.
"Mrs. Calder, it would be most unfortunate if we were forced to disqualify you at this late date," Bernstein said in a voice that was velvet over steel. "All your winnings would be forfeit. And it would mean that this whole day of taping would be wasted. At no slight expense to us, I might add. I'm sure you understand that we don't want to have to take such a drastic step, over a triviality."
Karen filtered all this through her battered brain, and focused on the fact that her sexual favors were considered a "triviality". That was the way Bernstein had put it. She noted that the two shirt-sleeved men in the booth with them were studiously intent on the control boards in front of them. But she knew they must be listening to everything that was being said. She also knew that she could expect no help from them. They were, if anything, part of the conspiracy.
"Now, I suggest you get that cock-sucking little mouth of yours to work, before Mr. Osborne becomes impatient," Bernstein continued in the same deadly, reasonable tone.
Osborne, the man in the mod suit, was lean and lanky. He had long hair, and a face that was too old for the clothes and hair style. His dick was a prominent ridge in his tight trousers.
"Come on, baby, and lick my dick," the sponsor's representative invited her in a nasty tone. He unzipped his fly, and levered his pecker out. It expanded still more as Karen watched. It was long and slender, like its owner. There was a slight upward curve to it. In the dim control-room light, the shaft looked pale, the head dark and ominous.
"Mrs. Calder?" Bernstein asked softly.
"Bastard," Karen hissed, not taking her eyes off the pecker she was being offered. In spite of her hatred, and the amount of sex she had already had that day, she felt her horniness rising at the sight of Osborne's dick. Her pussy twinged. It was too beaten and tired to do more than that.
She walked over to the lean, mod man. He sat down on a high stool. He was too high for her to kneel on the floor, so she braced herself, put a hand on his warm, hard thigh. She bent over. Steadying his prick with her free hand, she licked it. She tasted sweat, and then a sticky surge of cock drippings.
She heard chairs squeak and glanced up. The two shirt-sleeved men had swivelled around to watch her degradation. Carefully, she shut her mind to everything but sucking the cock she was holding. With her tongue, she stroked the hard shaft from base to tip. She swirled her tongue around the tip.
Then she slid the hard dong between her lips, along the velvet carpet of her tongue, to the back of her mouth. She held it that way, the head just brushing the back of her mouth, and stroked the underside with her tongue. She sucked. Her cheeks in.
"Deeper," Bernstein ordered. "Deep throat it, baby. All the way! Just like you did with me."
Karen's mouth was filled with cock, so she didn't try to point out that Bernstein's stocky pecker was half the length of this one. She was beaten all she wanted to do was get the whole revolting episode over with. She slid another half inch of pecker into her mouth, and fought down her gagging. It was hard, bent over this way, to do what she had done with the make-up man.
The lean man put his hands on her head and pushed, forcing her to take more of his prick. She stroked the hard base of his whang, bleakly acceded to his demand, swallowed the head of his prick. Her throat knotted around the brutal invader.
She thought of the men watching, and felt her lust boil up. She was an exhibitionist. She was beginning to love having people watch while she committed depraved acts. See how filthy I am? she thought. I'll do anything, anything at all. Just watch me.
Someone reached under her and began unbuttoning her blouse. Without breaking the cock sucking, she let whoever it was take her blouse. Then her bra was loosened. Her heavy titties sagged as the support was taken from them. Someone was unfastening her skirt, dragging it down over her ass. She stepped out of it.
She was naked with four men. She was sucking a cock while three pairs of hands explored her naked body. Fingers tortured her tits, pinched hey ass and her legs, plunged into her dripping snatch. She continued to draw on the slender prick. She was a plaything for the four men in the control room.
Suddenly, from behind, a cock was driven into her cunt. Brutally, without warning, she was raped by one of the men. While he grasped her hard by the waist, he rammed his pecker into her burning twat. Her breasts jolted and shuddered under the slamming impact of the rape.
She didn't stop sucking cock. She kept sucking the man's prick. Her head bobbed slowly up and down, up and down. She stroked and slurped on his throbbing prick while someone rammed into her snatch from behind. He was taking her like a stud takes a bitch.
She liked it. She loved the brutal raping. She loved the taste of the dick in her mouth. She hated herself for loving it, but she was loving it. She loved the feel of a cock burning into her snatch. She loved the feel of the man's balls swinging and slapping her cunt lips. She loved the feel of his hard hips hitting her ass. She loved having her throat bruised by cock.
She hoped that she would be drowned in come. She wanted gallons of thick, creamy, hot jizz. She wanted come in her mouth, in her throat, in her stomach, in her cunt.
The cock in her mouth twitched, filled her with a titanic eruption of thick, fragrant come. Sucking and slurping, she felt the hot gobbets surge dawn to her stomach. The dong in her cunt leaped and jerked, and jizz spattered deep into her quim.
As the prick was yanked from her snatch she was grabbed from behind and dragged away from the still-pulsing, oozing one in her mouth. A spatter of come drizzled across her cheek as she was driven against the control panel under the windows. As she leaned against the cool glass, a man rammed his prick into her snatch, and lust roared up through her like fire. Not caring that anyone in the studio who looked at the control room could see her being ravished, she let the shirt-sleeved technician piston his prick in her cunt.
Come spattered her legs as the man's cock pumped out the load already in her. His penetration was deep, so deep she felt the end of her tunnel being battered. Spreading her thighs wide, she bent her knees and hauled her legs upward, so he could pound even deeper. Hands on her knees, she dragged her legs wide, wondering if she might tear herself in half.
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing at all. All there was in the world was cocks. Cocks and more cocks. Cocks to fill her cunt and her mouth and her ass. It didn't matter who the cocks belonged to. She was nothing but a receptacle for cocks and come.
When the man spearing her on his lean dick began to come, Karen felt a surge of fear, because she wasn't coming herself. Her come threshold had been jacked too high by the successive ravishings she had been jaded by too much cock. She felt the prick jerking and spurting in her steaming depths, and tightened her twat. She was suddenly afraid that it meant the fuck was over, and that she would be left hanging on the verge of her own coming. Or, worse, it meant that she would have to face herself, and she wasn't ready to face herself.
She writhed desperately against the control panel. Hard switches and knobs dug painfully into her ass. She squirmed and twisted as come oozed out around the still-spurting prick, flooded her spread gash, dripped down her ass. Then the cock was gone and she was empty and hungry.
But the void didn't last long. Another man the last one took her sharply and violently, without even giving her a chance to straighten her legs. He slammed his rigid pole into her flooded snatch with a squishy smack.
"UH!" Karen grunted, as his piston drove the wind from her lungs. Her cunt felt inflamed and bruised and sore. But she had to get to the peak one more time. She had to reach the apex of pleasure.
Hard hands clamped down on her titties and twisted them. Her boob-skin burned from the brutal wrenching of her big knockers. The man was digging strong fingers into her soft, tender globes, wrenching them. She let go of her knees, and clamped her hands down on his and urged him on. She wanted pain, and pain, and more pain until pleasure obliterated everything else.
While three exhausted, sex-drained men watched, Karen welcomed the final bruising assault of her battered body. She was making crazy, incoherent noises. She sounded like the ravaged animal she was. The huge pane of glass against her back boomed and shuddered as the impacts against her cunt were transmitted up through her body. The reflected dials and meters danced and shivered in a crazy syncopation to the pounding in her hole. A sharp switch handle was tearing a hole in one tender asscheek as she was hammered and pounded by the man's brutal drives.
But still she wasn't coming. In spite of the tearing of his hands at her boobs, the burning of his prick in and out of her blazing cunt, the mangling of her clit and the tearing at her naked tail, she was not coming. It didn't seem like she would ever come again. She had been to the top of the mountain one too many times.
Then the man began to come and she began to cry, because his climax marked the end of it all. After all, there were four men in the room and she had had all four of them. That's all there was. There was no more cock. No prick to fill her twat, no pubic bone to crash against her clit.
The cock in her cunt was heaving its load into her already glutted well. Three men's come was oozing thickly out of her, flooding the hot valley of her twat, spreading upward over her clit, washing slowly down over her asshole.
Suddenly, there was a tickle in her clit! The tickle ran the full length of the blazing floor of her snatch. There was a crazy twittering in her nerve endings, that grew and grew, and grew, and GREW! A river of fire began to burn deep in her body and spread out through her muscles, setting them all jumping and twitching. Rivers of flame streamed along every nerve path in her body until she was a quivering, jerking, heaving, shuddering mass of meat.
She was dying. Crazy, flashing bursts of color filled her maddened brain. Weird siren sounds echoed in her deaf ears. Her cunt was a crazy, knotted spasm. All her muscles were dancing. Her chest was jittering uselessly, neither taking air in nor pushing it out. Her heart beat was a crazy, futile quivering. Then everything disappeared into a spreading inky veil. Then she passed out completely.
She roused to a man pinching her nose shut as his mouth clamped down on hers. She fought the air he blew into her lungs and he drew away. The man leaning on her chest between her breasts drew back as her eyes fluttered open. She took a deep, shaky breath.
"Jesus, that was a close one," the ad man said as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. He was staring at her nervously.
Karen was still naked. She was lying on the control room floor. The four men were grouped around her. "What happened?" she asked weakly. The unbelievable orgasm was only a vague memory.
"Must have been all that come," the first shirt-sleeved man to have her answered. "You were sitting up on the control panel. Some of the come must have trickled down into the switches."
"I was being electrocuted," Karen concluded weakly.
"Yeah," the man agreed. "You were taking cock. When Carl started coming, you went into convulsions. We thought at first you were coming, having real great time. But the convulsions kept getting worse. Then you stopped breathing. We hauled you down off the board. We couldn't even get a heartbeat. You were dead!"
"I was dying," Karen agreed. "It was so beautiful. I've never felt anything like it before. It was a-a cosmic orgasm."
"Yeah, well, if you hadn't slid that ole switch half closed with your butt, it would have been your last orgasm. If that control had been wide open, the way it usually is, you would have lit up half a neon sign and burned out like a flashbulb."
She squirmed, tried to get up. The two men that had been working on her helped her sit up. She wasn't ready to try to make it to her feet. She crawled weakly toward her clothes, ignoring the hands trying to help her.
The director was checking out the panel. "We'll have to cancel the rest of today's taping. And tomorrow's," he told Bernstein. "The whole board's going to have to be torn down and dried out."
"Shit!" the producer swore. Then he sighed. "Well, could have been worse."
"Yeah," one shirt-sleeved man commented feelingly. "She could have died." Karen flashed him a smile of appreciation as she hooked her bra. He seemed to be the only one who cared.
"Yeah, then we'd have to retape all the shows," Bernstein said callously. "Tell 'em all to go home. Tell 'em to be back here day after tomorrow. We'll start taping at 10:30."
Karen was just finishing dressing when all but the man who had worried about her filed out. He asked if she was sure she was all right.
Karen nodded wearily, though her strained muscles still ached. "I'm okay," she told him. "Has anything like this ever happened before?"
"Christ no! Usually it's only the bigwigs who get a turn with the contestants. I'm the technical director, by the way."
"Bernstein always gets in his strokes, and the sponsor's man, of course," the technical director went on. "Peter is used to soften 'em up. Uh, sorry."
"That's…"
"Us union men are out in the cold when it comes to getting to rip a piece," the man added bitterly.
"Can't say I disagree with that," Karen noted. "Seeing as how I'm the piece that got ripped off."
"Oh, yeah, well, aaah…" the man stammered, embarrassed at his choice of words.
"But, on the other hand, you were the only one that really worried about me," Karen said appreciatively.
"Well, shucks, you're a person, and a nice one," the man answered, flushing. He was trying to be bluff and callous. "Besides, if you died it might screw up the whole show, and it's a good job."
Karen knew he didn't mean it. "Maybe I'll be able to thank you for saving my life. But not today," she told him.
"Shucks, if I hadn't been such an animal, it might never have happened at all," he stuttered. "You don't owe me anything."
"I'll see you day after tomorrow," she said, opening the control-room door.
"Take care of yourself. If you feel faint or anything, you should see a doctor."
Karen smiled at him. "And, just how would I explain that I almost got electrocuted in a TV studio control room? Especially considering where the burns are located?"
Outside the studio, she walked until her legs started to give out. Then she found a bus stop. She was afraid to sit down, she was so flooded with come. Wherever she sat, she would leave a big, wet splotch. She stood on the bus, even though there were plenty of seats, and the driver kept looking at her curiously.
Once in the house, she loosened her skirt and let it fall. She unbuttoned her blouse as she headed for the bathroom. As she stepped under the shower, she remembered Shanda's huge, luxurious tub. It seemed as if that had been weeks ago, not hours. After soaping the outside of her body, she got out her douche and tried to flush the gallons of jizz out of her twat.
Then she went to her bed and lay down, naked, and stared at the ceiling. Whether she liked it or not, she had to face herself. She couldn't put it off any longer. She wasn't able to tell herself that she had hated every minute of it or that she had been forced. She had invited most of it. And she had enjoyed all of it. Even her death had been pleasurable.
The only thing she hated were some of the men involved. To most of them all she was was apiece of meat. Come to think of it, that's all she was to Shanda, too. To Bernstein, and the ad man, and her celebrity "partner" and Peter Sandier, she was a cunt one of a long line of cunts.
The only one who had given a shit about her was the technical director. He had shown more thoughtfulness toward her than her husband had in the past month. Granted, the guy had fucked her, right along with the rest of them. But, she had asked for it. And welcomed it.
She had to go back there in two days. What frightened her about the situation was not that she would have to face all those men again. What frightened her was that she knew she wanted to go, wanted the endless series of fuckings and suckings.
She knew she was going to do it all again. But she didn't want to give the sons-of-bitches the idea that she was just another cunt for them to use. She wanted to get fucked, all right. But she wanted to get fucked by men it would mean something to. She wanted to be special.
Somehow, she had to manage that, without messing up her chances on the show. She still had to be the big winner. She didn't know what future her marriage would have, after it was all done. But if she didn't win, it didn't have any future at all. Her infidelities could be concealed, but the debts she had piled up couldn't.