After Paul had slept with Cynthia several times his desire for her did not lessen, as she had hoped, but only seemed to grow stronger. When he visited Chicago during the next six months, he even talked about getting married, although in a very roundabout way, hedging his thoughts with "perhaps", "when we are older", and "when you want to settle down". But she had no intention of marrying just yet. It was perhaps true that she liked him well enough for her fondness to blossom into love under the right circumstances, but she was too engrossed in Frankie and her life which centered around him to really give much thought to anyone else. When she saw him, they had a good time together; but when they were apart, she forgot all about him. For with Frankie new and exciting experiences were always occurring.
She had become increasingly dependent upon Frankie. At first she had thought she would work for him only until her debt had been repaid, but then the ease of her life and the large sums of money which she earned (even though they passed through her hands into Frankie's pocket), soon made her forget all about looking for an ordinary job. And Frankie took good care of her – new clothes, their luxurious apartment which she redecorated, a plentiful supply of good food and drink – in return for which all she had to do was what she liked best: make love. That she got paid for it only made it better, for she was not only satisfying her physical desires, but also pleasing Frankie with the money she brought back. For by now she had become known in money-laden circles and could pick and choose her lovers.
And she found exciting and stimulating the swift movement of her life, the contrasts between her various friends. With her loves, one night she could dine and drink in the plushest restaurants and bars, sleep in beautiful apartments, meet well-known figures of public life, and with Frankie the next night visit the smoky dives and cluttered apartments and studios of their Bohemian friends – artists, writers, prostitutes, dope pushers where they would drink, smoke marijuana, laugh, eat prodigiously and freely make love with each other.
It was just after she had moved in with Frankie that she had found out he was selling marijuana, cocaine and heroin. Although she had not yet tried the latter, she now smoked the former whenever she was with Frankie and their friends, and had even brought Frankie a few new, lucrative customers through her contacts with wealthy lovers.
One evening she went to the "960 Club" where she was to meet him. He used the club as one of the places where he sold narcotics to clients who knew he would be there almost every day in the early part of the evening, slipping them the joints of marijuana or capsules of heroin as they sat at the bar or at one of the small, dimly-lit tables.
Frankie had not arrived yet so she sat down with a friend named Al who was also waiting for him. Al was a journalist who had quit his paper in order to write the novel he had been trying to start for seven years. Each day he would laboriously hack out five pages of what he was convinced was priceless prose and each night he would get high on marijuana and then read them out loud to whomever was around laughing uproariously at his own efforts, and toss them into the fireplace. If no one came to visit him at night, he would prowl around until he found one of his friends to drag home to listen to his reading. But as he was liberal with his "joints" there were usually several people who would drop in on him and "going to blow at Al's readings" became almost a standard procedure. That was how Cynthia had met him: when she had been taken over by a mutual friend.
Now he was sitting hunched over the table, his thin, hawk-like face morose and bleak.
"What's the matter, Al?" Cynthia said as she sat down. "Haven't you turned out your five pages for tonight's reading?"
He looked at her without speaking, grunted, sighed and stared down at the table again.
"What's bugging you? Come on, tell Mommy."
He sighed again. "When's Frankie coming? I'm out of joint." He looked up at her. "I don't hear any uproarious laughter. That was supposed to be a joke." He rubbed a bony hand over his face.
"He should be here soon. How about a drink on me?"
"Naw. Thanks anyway. You now I only drink coffee or milk." He dipped his finger in the spilled coffee on the table and began tracing designs. "I don't have any vices."
She almost laughed in his face, but he looked so unhappy, she only smiled and then said, teasingly, "Why, Al, I'd heard that you were beginning to consider your writing as a vice."
"Yeah, I'm about to give it up. I'm getting in a rut."
"What you need is a different system."
"I was thinking of buying a tape recorder and dictatin' my five pages a day." He smiled wryly. "Think of all the money I'd save. Then I wouldn't have to burn up five pages every night, but could just switch it back and erase it."
Cynthia laughed. "That might work, but I've got a better idea."
"What?"
"Instead of writing when sober and reading when high, why don't you reverse it?"
He straightened up and looked at her, his face brightening.
"Hey, that's an idea." He rubbed his chin. "By God, I think I'll do it. I'll get a lot of pot from Frankie tonight and start in tomorrow. At least it can't be any worse than what I'm writing now." He leaned over and kissed Cynthia on the cheek. "My God, Cynthia, that's really a brain wave."
Just then Frankie sat down beside them. "Hello, you two," he said.
"Hi, darling," Cynthia said. "Al's starting in on a new routine."
"Yeah, fine," he said. "Look, baby, why don't you go back and talk with some of the gals 'til I get through here."
"Okay, Frankie. See you, Al."
She got up, went back-stage and chatted briefly with some of the show girls, most of whom she knew were Frankie's customers. Then she walked down to Torchy's dressing-room. Torchy was just pulling off her gloves and hanging up her coat.
"Hi there, honey," Torchy said. "How's tricks?"
"Okay." Cynthia sat down before the other dressing-table.
"How about some gin?" Torchy said, waving a hand toward a bottle.
Cynthia poured them both a drink. She had become good friends with Torchy, often sitting in her room and talking while Mike was busy outside, and before she had to go out with clients. Although her jealousy over Frankie's attentions to other women had often prevented her from making friends with them, she knew Frankie and Torchy had grown up together and now were nothing more to each other than old friends and therefore Cynthia liked and trusted her. Now she sat and watched Torchy as she undressed, gossiping about their friends and laughing about Al's new method for writing the great American novel.
When Torchy was nude, she turned her back to Cynthia and walked over to the wardrobe.
Cynthia stared at her white, plump buttocks and then burst out laughing. Right in the center of one white, rounded buttock was a bright pink halo of teeth marks.
"Torchy," she said, choking on the drink of gin she had just taken, "have you seen your rear?"
"Yeah, I know," she said. "Looks great, doesn't it? That new boy-friend of mine is so damn near-sighted he can't tell the difference between his steak and my rump." Nude, she stood with her back to the full-length mirror, peering over her shoulder at her buttocks.
"Think I'll work up a new act," she chuckled. "How about another set on the other cheek and one on each breast?" She began wriggling so that her breasts swirled in circles and her buttocks rotated massively, the pink marks jiggling up and down.
"The bites right around each nipple in a circle," Cynthia said.
"With the tits painted to look like a tongue."
"In luminescent paint."
"So when the lights go out – it's crazy! Four sets of choppers glowing and twirling!"
They both laughed.
"And they could bill you as 'The Right Size, Bite-Size Girl'!"
Torchy walked over to the dressing-table, saying pompously, "But in the meantime, the show must go on." She picked up some cake make-up and handed it to Cynthia. "Here, cover it up for me, will you, honey?"
Cynthia began smoothing it over her pink indentations.
"By the way," Torchy said, "have you and Frankie heard about the party?"
"What party?"
"Shoo-fly's throwin' an orgy next Wednesday over at his pad. It'll be a real big blow, honey. Films and all."
"Sounds crazy."
"It'll be. It'll be."
She handed back the make up and Torchy sat down and began patting her face with cold cream. "By the way," she said, looking at Cynthia in the mirror, "I don't want to stick my nose where it has no business, but have you heard what Gypsy's up to?"
"No, why?" She had often wondered what had happened to her.
"You mean you've heard nothing since Frankie kicked her out and she got fired here?"
"No, nothing."
"Well," Torchy said as she fluffed powder over her face and body, "she's livin' with a tough hood named Flip."
"So what?"
"So she's spreadin' lots of dirt about you and Frankie. I figure she still must be in love with him and is still so mad and jealous she's tryin' to do him in. Anyway, this Flip is real gone on her and believes every word the bitch says, about how Frankie used to beat her up, made her into a junky, got her pregnant so she had to have an operation which ruined her insides, and a lot of other stuff. So she's now tryin' to get this Flip to beat Frankie up. The only trouble is that this Flip is such a moron he might do it, so you'd better warn Frankie."
"Okay, I will. Thanks Torchy."
"But don't worry about it, honey, it'd probably add up to nuthin'. She'll cool down."
"I hope so."
"She also swears she'll get Frankie to crawl back to her on his hands and knees."
Cynthia laughed, "He certainly won't do that. I can't imagine Frankie crawling to anyone, much less Gypsy."
"Yeah, maybe. But if he doesn't she says she'd screw him up."
"How?"
"Put the Narcotics Squad onto him, and do it so they'd have to haul him in. That could be bad, honey."
"Well, I'll tell him." She sat quietly, thinking, and then she became angry her face flushed and her eyes became dark. "If I ever catch that bitch, I'll tear her apart!"
"Let me know, and I'll help you out," Torchy said dryly. She finished putting on her costume, patted Cynthia on the shoulder and went off to do her act.
Cynthia remained, morosely thinking over what Torchy had told her. At first she had worried about Frankie's pushing drugs. He had reassured her, and when she saw that nothing happened to him over the months, even though he had been doing it for several years, she accepted it as safe. She had even met a member of the Chicago Narcotics Squad at one of the parties where everyone had been high on marijuana, and some had openly been using heroin. When she had asked Frankie about him, he had only laughed and said he was an addict and was on the Narcotics Squad as it was the safest place to be. She wasn't worried about Flip beating Frankie up because she knew Frankie had been in enough fights and brawls to take care of himself. Nor was she worried that he would leave her to go back to Gypsy. But if Gypsy really wanted to make a big row about Frankie to the narcotics agents, they'd have to arrest him.
Realizing that her worries weren't helping to solve anything and wanting to get over the depression, she reached in her purse and dug around until she found a small box. Inside were several joints. Although she knew it was dangerous to smoke at the club, as in all public places, she nevertheless lit it up after shutting the door. She took a deep drag and relaxed as the smoke began to take effect. As usual first the area around her eyes and cheeks felt pleasantly light and her worries vanished to be replaced by a snug, warm feeling of contentment.
Through the closed door the beat of the music in the club was muted and distant. She could recognize it as the same song that had been on the record player the first time she had made love with Frankie while high on marijuana, and she leaned back on her chair and closed her eyes, dreamily thinking of what it had been like. The record had played over and over, neither of them wanting to interrupt the flow of their love-making to change it or turn it off. Together with the joints, which extended their sense of space and time, the same rhythm and melody, repeating itself continuously, made their love seem even longer and more drawn-out.
They had returned to their apartment late at night and, still high from smoking at a party, put on the record and decided to have a last cigarette. As the joint picked her up and carried her away, she had lain down on the bed, feeling as though her body was swirling around in circles, that it was floating lightly above the bed, and that she would be blown away if she didn't hang on to something.
Laughing, she cried out, "Oh, Frankie, hang on to me! I'm going to float right out of this world!" Her nerves sensitized to a keen edge, the touch of his hand pierced through her like a needle, sharply but slowly, as though the impulse of his touch leaped from nerve to nerve. At first they had rolled on the bed, laughing and giggling like a couple of children, and then they began to help each other to undress. Each button, each zipper, each sleeve to be drawn off, each wisp of clothing to he slipped away from her hot, tender flesh, seemed like a high barrier in a dream-land where all action was retarded and drawn out in slow motion. Each movement of their bodies, each contact of their hands and lips, was a sweet agony of heightened, accentuated pleasure. Time was slowed down, and just as every note of the music seemed to go in one ear and be stretched out in a spiraling circle to infinity before the next one followed after it, so she could feel and enjoy each tingling nerve, each moving muscle.
She was aware of her body in a way she had never been before; her mind and brain scarcely seemed to function; she felt entirely liberated and uninhibited and, unchained from her thoughts and all ordinary distractions, she made love with the freedom of a sex-starved animal.
She longed for Frankie's body, for almost anyone's body, so when he came into Torchy's dressing-room, she opened her eyes, stretched out her arms and said, "I was just thinking of you. Let's make love, darling."
He sniffed the air, closed the door and said brusquely, ignoring her outstretched arms. "Look, baby, you know damn well you shouldn't smoke in here, so wise up, huh? This joint's been raided before." He switched on the ventilating fan.
She looked at him quietly.
"Okay. Okay," he said, "don't look at me like that. What's bugging you anyway?"
"Don't be so damn nasty," she said. "If you want to know, I was worrying about you, but if you don't want me to give a good God-damn about you, I'll leave right now." She stood up, but the sudden movement made her head whirl and her body sway as though she were trying to walk on the deck of a rolling ship. She couldn't remain angry.
"Oh, Frankie," she laughed, "I'm so-o-o on!"
He grinned at her. "You sure are, honey." He put his arms around her. "Now, come on. Torchy said you wanted to talk to me. Let's hear it before you leave."
"Leave?"
"Tonight's when you see Harris, isn't it?"
"Good Lord, I've forgotten all about it."
"So what's up?"
She told him what Torchy had heard about Gypsy and her threats not only to have him beaten up by Flip but also make trouble for him with the Narcotics Squad, omitting, however, Gypsy's boast that she would make him crawl back to her.
All Frankie did was laugh.
"Flip? That idiot? Sure, I know him. He couldn't kill a mosquito with a machine gun."
"But Frankie…"
"Now, don't worry, baby. Gypsy may be a bitch, but she isn't so stupid to try ratting on me. She knows what's good for her."
"But what if she does?" she said worriedly.
"I said don't worry! I know where she hangs out. I'll stop by and see her sometime. Gypsy's just a lot of hot air. Don't let it bug you." He kissed her. "And now you'd better get over to Harris'. I'll get you a cab."
"Okay, Frankie. But take it easy, please."
"Sure." He took her arm. "Come on now, and for God's sakes, don't queer the deal with Harris. We may need him sometime."
It was snowing heavily outside. Frankie hailed a cab, put her inside, gave the driver the address of Conrad Harris' apartment and went back to the club.
Cynthia sank against the cushions. Well, if Frankie wasn't going to worry about Gypsy, she wasn't, either. She wanted another joint, but didn't dare light it up in the taxi. Although she had been seeing Conrad regularly for three months, she was never sure exactly what kind of a mood he would be in. A well-known and influential politician in Chicago, he worked both sides of the street, the shady as well as the sunny, and through crooked deals and protection payment from the underworld. He had a wife and family at his home in Lake Forest, but maintained an apartment in the city as well. She neither particularly liked him nor trusted him, but Frankie had insisted she keep up the relationship, in case they ever had need of his help. Then, too, he paid liberally for the nights she spent with him, besides giving her gifts.
"Cynthia, you look beautiful," Conrad said, when he opened the door. "As usual, darling."
He took both her hands in his, drew her into the foyer, kissed her and then held her away while he looked at her admiringly. "The always lovely Cynthia." On the shoulders of her fur coat and on her golden hair large flakes of snow still rested lightly, sparkling in the light. "You look like a blue eyed snow angel."
She smiled at him sweetly, even though his sentimentality and sugary compliments often made her feel like biting the end of his nose – a large nose. But then he was a large man, tall and compact, well preserved for his forty-eight years. "Yeah," Frankie had said, "he keeps his weight down by skipping back and forth from one side of the law to the other."
As he took her coat he looked approvingly at the long-sleeved green wool dress, which fit her tightly, molding her breasts and hips, its severity relieved only by the deep cut V neckline through which her neck and chest gleamed the color of cafe au lait. "Looks wonderful on you. Have you got it all on?"
She nodded. They had been shopping and he had bought her not only the dress, but new shoes, lingerie and a tight waist-cincher. She kicked her shoes off and curled up in an armchair, talking to him while he mixed a drink. A quiet evening at home with fire and slippers, she thought. Nuts!
When they went out together she always dressed in her most sophisticated gowns, but she knew he liked her to be informal when they were alone together. "I want you to look like you lived in a sealed block of ice when other people are around," he had said, "but when we're alone, I like to know I've got a woman who's warm like a human being."
He brought her a drink and sat down on the couch.
"Cynthia," he said, "I hate to bring the subject up again, but won't you reconsider moving into an apartment? I've found a dandy not far from here…"
Here we go again, she thought to herself. "Oh, Conrad," she pouted, "not again! Really, I'm sorry, but I like this arrangement as it is."
"I can give you a lot more than that guy you're living with now."
"I know. But I don't want to settle down yet. Maybe later. Let's not argue, darling."
"Okay, Cindy, have it your way."
While he talked on she appeared to be listening intently, but her thoughts were far away. Until they got into bed, Conrad's conversation, as he droned on in a gruff voice about things she was totally uninterested in, completely bored her.
He went over in the portable bar to get another drink and paused behind her chair. She could feel him standing behind her, gazing down at the top of her head. He leaned over. She tilted her head to look up at him. He was staring down the deep V of her neckline to where her breasts nestled snugly under the green wool. She took a deep breath and threw her chest out so they arched under the material like two soft, green hills. She reached up to draw his mouth down to hers. As they kissed, his hands slid over her chest down to her waist and up again along the firm slats of her ribs until they found the opening of her neckline and creeped under to the warm, pliant dough of her breasts.
"Take your dress off," he whispered.
While he watched, she slipped the dress over her head and stood before him, her legs wide apart, clad only in long, black stockings and the black waist-cincher. Extremely tight, it nipped in her waist like an hour-glass; above, it widened upward like a black heart into a half-brassiere which, supporting only the under-part of her breasts, cupped them so they lay like two golden moons, high and full; below, it belled outward to just below the curve of her belly and the top of her swelling buttocks. Lying as closely as a second skin, a skin of satin and black lace, it made her buttocks bulge like two large, plump apples, toasted a golden tan by the sun. Framed by the long, parallel lines of the garters which stretched down to meet the silky, black sheaths of her stockings, the curve of her mound seemed even more obese and prominent, her vagina covered by fine, blond curls, more naked and mysterious.
When she turned and walked out of the room, her round thighs brushing hotly against each other, she could feel his eyes hungrily following her sensuous movements; and when she returned she knew he was ready to take her, he had already undressed and was waiting for her, his clothes in a heap on the floor, his body tense, his impatience revealed by his full erection. She walked toward him, her soft, blond hair swaying down her back; her full, rounded breasts, resting lightly in the half cups.
When she had walked to him he put his hands on her shoulders without saying a word and pushed her down so she was kneeling on the floor before him. She knew he needed this, this paying of the ultimate homage to him before he made love to her. It was his way, of always reminding her that she was a bought and paid for thing that was his to do with as he wished. She had never objected, and somehow found it strangely exciting to be dominated and humiliated this way as though she were some pet dog, or something not quite to be treated as human.
His hardened cock was directly in front of her face and without otherwise touching him, she began to slowly lick the underside of it, at first running wetly all around the hard throbbing head with her tongue. As he moaned softly above her head, she took the heart-shaped, smooth fleshed end full into the warm moistness of her mouth and her lips clamped firmly around it. She reached around behind him, cupping his hard, white buttocks and pulled him toward her, feeling the full, lubricated rod of flesh slide deeper between her teeth, her tongue running in hot, moist circles over its smooth surface. Cynthia squirmed her own buttocks down against her heel that was insinuated up tightly between the soft, globular moons. She could feel the wetness beginning there as it always did when she felt his excitement rising in the warm wet cavern of her mouth. She increased the movement of her head until it was bobbing in front of him like a balloon tossed about by the wind. Her hot, moist tongue swirled faster and faster around his still hardening cock until she knew he was almost ready to erupt deep in her mouth.
But, this time it was different. He wanted something else from her now and he suddenly reached down and jerked her bodily from her slavish task. His penis slipped from between her protesting lips with a slight sucking noise as the pressure was released against it and he half pushed, half dragged her to the overstuffed chair by the couch.
"Kneel on the arms," he said, his voice rushed from the near orgasm he had almost had in her mouth. She quickly spread her legs and climbed up on the chair, balancing her bent knees on the ends of the arms and letting her head and torso fall downwards toward the seat. Her full, ripe buttocks were thrust upward, bulging, soft and pushed outward by the tight girdle he had not had her remove. Her wide-spread crevice, breaking the two flaccid, white mounds curved down, lined with soft, blond fleece and broken only by the pink puckered entrance to her anus. With the top of her head bent into the seat of the chair, she looked back through the wide-spread arch of her thighs and saw him standing behind her, not touching her.
Suddenly she felt two slaps, one on each cheek of her buttocks so sharp and stinging that she gasped with pain. Although her body quivered with the shock, she retained her position and waited tensely for the next blow. Instead, she unexpectedly felt the light, gentle pressure of his lips kissing the bright pink imprints which burned and tingled. Just as she was beginning to relax, however, he slapped her again, this time so hard that her head was crushed up against the back of the chair and tears came to her eyes. Before she had time to recover, the stinging slaps fell again and she writhed and trembled and began to sob. But he murmured soothingly and lightly caressed her quivering buttocks with his cool hands until she thought he was through tormenting her and she stopped crying and began to purr softly with pleasure. There was shuffling of position behind her, and she felt the hot moistness of his lips against the flesh of her behind. His tongue licked up the length of the wide-split crevice between her thighs, pausing at the small crinkled hole of her anus to thrust and tease at it for a few short moments.
"Ooooooooh," she moaned at the lewd tickling sensation coursing through her. And expecting that he would now take her, she moved back on the chair, thrusting her hips to present them more fully, and rotated them slowly and teasingly under his hands around the shallow impalement of his tongue probing at her anus. He drew back, but instead of the pressure of his penis into her, she grunted at a further series of painful slaps, then his kisses again and the hard blows, all in quick succession. She crouched, cowering on the arms of the chair now, crying with agony and pleasure, gasping and choking on the salty flow of tears that dripped from her eyes down onto the seat. Her whole body was tense and trembling, her gaze directed hack between her legs to watch him.
"Cynthia, darling," she heard him croon gently. "I've always wanted to fuck you in the ass. Now, I'm going to do it."
"Oh no, Conrad, please," she whimpered, a sudden feeling of complete helplessness coming over her. "It'll hurt."
"No, it won't, my darling," he crooned on softly an almost reverent tone to his voice. "I'll do it gently."
And through the wet veil of tears covering her eyes she saw his thighs move forward slightly until the huge, throbbing head of his cock was pressed tightly between the cheeks of her ass. She automatically tightened her buttocks in a hopeless attempt to keep him from entering her there but his thumbs on either side of her anus pressed harshly outward and opened the whole of her back passage to the mercy of his unnatural desires. He pressed the slippery lubricated head of his cock tightly against the tiny, puckered entrance and pressed forward gently at first.
"Aaaaaangggggghhhhhh," she screamed as she suddenly felt the tight unyielding muscles of her anus being forced slowly outward from the strength of his relentless pressure. Her face contorted tightly in pain and she groaned like a wounded banshee down into the cushion of the chair, her scream muffled and desperate as though she were being impaled on the end of a giant spear shaft.
There was a slight pop as the tight outer ring of her anus suddenly gave way and the head of his throbbing member slipped inside. She groaned again and then the momentary pain of his initial entry passed and her rectum relaxed and opened to receive him. He grunted behind her as the tight unused flesh clamped around his cock like a vice but did not ease off on the pressure he was exerting against her. He jerked forward with short hard strokes, digging deeper and deeper into her belly until Cynthia's whole behind felt stretched and distended beyond all hope of ever recovering. She felt as though her whole insides were being pushed up hard into her throat and there was no way in the world she could escape the cruel and unrelenting instrument skewering its way deep into her bowels. His hands curved around under her trembling belly and she could feel his fingers pulling the hot, wet lips of her cunt open beneath her. He thrust forward with his fingers, sinking three of them deep up inside her. She moaned again, her loins feeling completely filled with the hard, thick cock tunneling into her rectum from behind and his probing fingers sunk deep in her vagina.
There was a sudden gasp from his lips and she felt his pelvis smack hard into the flaccid cheeks of her buttocks pushing them up and out. She whimpered and felt her whole body jerk and writhe for a moment in protest and then relax in helpless acceptance as the whole of his pulsating cock lay buried deep in the confines of her widely stretched rectum. He stood still for a moment to give her time to adjust to the unnatural invasion of her back passage and then began a series of slow short strokes in and out of her, his fingers probing deep in her cunt and keeping time to his cock gliding smoothly in and out of her rectum. And then to her surprise the driving rod and the searching caress of his fingers thrusting into her vagina soon aroused her in a strange masochistic way and she began eagerly rocking her hips in the air behind her, propelled by the suddenly mounting urgency of her own passion. She could feel the old familiar fire building again deep inside her belly and she rocked and rotated wildly beneath him, the round white magnificence of her buttocks hollowing and clenching around the hardness of his cock with each hard, brutal stroke he rammed into her. She could hear him clucking behind her in lewd delight, as he watched his thick rod of flesh disappearing deep down inside the smooth hairless mouth of her rectum and then gasping crazily to himself as he jerked out again and the tight pink flesh flowed with it with a wet sucking noise, clasping to it as though it did not want to let go. His naked lust incited her more and she began to move with earnest now, the licking flames of her own desire almost ready to erupt. She could feel he was close to cumming. She could feel him growing inside her and stretching the already stretched walls of her pulsating rectum wider and wider until she thought she could not stand the strange, obscene pain and pleasure another moment longer. Her eyes were dilated and bulged wide as she humped beneath him. The tightness of her asshole clasping and unclasping around him like a sucking fish as he fucked into her now with all his lustful strength. And then he came!
Just as the rising tide of her own passion spilled out deep inside her, she could feel the hot warm spurts of his sperm emptying deep, deep inside her rectum until it felt as though he were filling her whole body with the hot sticky fluid. Her full, rounded breasts dancing beneath her kneeling form hardened, as though he had broken through her belly and was dumping his cum into them. She could taste it on the end of her tongue swirled her tongue lasciviously around inside her mouth, savoring with delight the delicious and pungent taste. She heard him cry out behind her, and his thick pulsating member spurted one last thick jet of his sperm deep in her rectum and, with a wild cry, her whole body contracted in the final burst of her own orgasm.
Her eyes closed, she collapsed into the chair as he withdrew with a wet sucking noise, as though he were pulling a body from quicksand. A thin string of sperm followed the tip of his cock, still connecting it to the stretched hole of her rectum, a lewd reminder of the obscene coupling they had just gone though. Cynthia lay in a limp heap in the chair unable to move. Conrad reached down with his arms and picked her up and carried her into the bedroom where he laid her silently on the bed. The sheets were cool on her still tender buttocks. He quietly unzipped the tight girdle and slipped it off. The mattress sank as he lay down beside her and she turned to him, her mouth half open, her lips wet, and waited for his kiss.
When she awoke the next morning, Conrad had already left. Under the clock on the bedside table was the amount of money he gave her each time she came plus an extra hundred dollar bill. She got up, showered, dressed and tucked the money in her wallet. Smiling to herself, she put the hundred dollar bill in a separate compartment. For several weeks now Conrad had been tipping her extra, as though to say, "If you move into an apartment by yourself, you'll have all this and a lot more."
She debated whether or not to tell Mike, but had decided against it, keeping the extra money for herself. Although she knew he would be furious if he found out, lately he had not been very generous in giving her spending money and she was beginning to resent the fact that everything she earned disappeared into his pocket. Usually she had purchased clothes with the extra cash. Mike had questioned her about them, but he had seemed to be satisfied with her explanation that Conrad had bought them – at least up until now.
Continued in volume two.