During the next few weeks Cynthia had many dates with Frankie, most of them spent making love in her room. And when she thought about him during the day, thought about their lovemaking and his captivating mixture of roughness and tenderness, she wondered if she were falling in love with him. At any rate, she found her emotions and life centering around him more and more.
The mystery as to what he did for a living, and how he spent his time when he wasn't with her, at first made her curious; he wouldn't even tell her where he lived. No matter how much she tried to find out about his life, he always cleverly evaded answering her questions. That he might be engaged in some shady dealings occurred to her, especially when she remembered considerate and nice, at least when he was with her, to do anything outside the law. She was still innocent enough to believe that any sort of lawbreaker must be so abnormal, uncouth and tough, that he would be instantly recognizable to her as though he were wearing a sign saying "Danger – Criminal at Work". Finally, however, she decided that she didn't care what he did for a living, as long as he continued seeing her and making love to her.
At the advertising agency she worked hard and continued dating Bill from time to time. She liked being with him though she hadn't as yet slept with him.
One night she was asked to come back to the office after a quick dinner to work. By now she was doing some of the research and as the deadline for the launching of a new campaign was drawing near, almost everyone connected with it had been working overtime. As it grew late that night, however, everyone left, one by one, until finally she, Bill and Stanley, another copywriter, were left.
"I'm really fagged," Stanley yawned. "Let's close up shop for the night." He got up from his desk and stretched. "Come on, Bill. Let's push off."
"You go on, Stan, I just want to finish this piece." He was seated at his desk, busily writing.
"Do you want anything else, Bill?" Cynthia asked. "If not, I think I'll go. I've finished everything they wanted for tomorrow."
He looked up at her. She was sitting on a corner of his desk, swinging her legs. Her fingers were dirty with carbon, a smudge of ink was on her cheek, her skirt was a mass of wrinkles, but she still looked fresh and lovely. He smiled at her.
"Why don't you wait a minute and I'll drive you home. I'm practically ready to wind up this great piece of literature."
She yawned and stretched her arms over her head. "Okay. I could do with a ride." She slipped off the desk and went toward the door. "I'll find something to read," she said.
"Well, goodnight, kids, I'm off. See you tomorrow," Stanley said and left, whistling.
Cynthia wandered through the offices, picked up a new Playboy from the waiting room and started back to Tom's office. On the way she passed that of Mr. Jackson, the president of the agency. She looked in, switched on the light, saw his big, leather covered chair behind his desk, walked over and sat down. She tilted back the chair and began to read.
"Well I see, we've got a new president," Bill said twenty minutes later. "I must say it's an improvement." He came into the room, carrying a pile of papers.
Cynthia laughed, put her feet up on the desk and said, "And what can I do for you, young man? Are you looking for a job? I'm afraid the only one we can offer only pays $70,000 a year."
"Won't do. Nothing less than $100,000."
He sat on the edge of the desk, laid down the papers and put his hand on her leg.
"On second thought, maybe I'll take that job. With you as boss maybe I can marry the boss instead of his daughter."
"What presumption, Sir," Cynthia said with mock horror. "Do you think I'd marry a mere hireling?"
"In that case, I'll have to be the boss – and one of his privileges is kissing the hired help." Running his hand up her leg, he stood up and scooped her neatly into his arms. She gave a little shriek which turned into a giggle.
"And is this the new position for giving dictation, boss? Or haven't I even been promoted to being your secretary yet?" She wrapped her arms around his neck as he swung her back and forth.
"With you I'd like to promote a lot more."
"Such as?" she said.
He pretended to drop her and then catch her again; she clutched him more tightly around the neck. He swung her around and put her gently on the desk, then leaned over her as she lay on her back amidst the neatly piled papers, her hair spread out against the dark wood, her arms still around him. His face close to hers, he whispered, "Oh Cynthia, Cynthia, you're so beautiful, so beautiful," and put his mouth on her lips. She pulled him closer, revealing her willingness by her eager body and searching lips and tongue, until he swung his hips onto the desk and was lying beside her.
His chest pressed against her blue-sweatered breasts, his hands cradling her head, she moved her body, so that their bellies and thighs rubbed against each other. When she felt his hand searching behind her, she arched her back and felt the sudden unloosening of her brassiere as he unclasped the hook and then the warm pressure of his hand moving beneath the cloth and up over her breast. Sweet longing stirred in her loins as he gently kneaded the pliant mound and stirred the tip to a hard rubbery crest. Breaking their kiss, he helped her take off her sweater. He fell back on top of her, murmuring, "So beautiful, so beautiful," as his lips browsed in the golden hollow of her neck, strayed lightly to her armpit, where he tongued the salty moisture and then licked away, so slowly, so tantalizingly, down her side and up to her breast. She strained against him; her hand rubbed his back and crept under his jacket; bending her knees so her skirt fell back, she wrapped her legs around his, entwining them tightly, their hips moving against each other in a slow dance. Beneath them the papers crackled and slithered to the side. A falling bottle of ink hit the rug with a soft thud.
"What in God's name is going on here!" a voice suddenly bellowed from nowhere.
They became motionless, paralyzed.
"What in the hell are you doing? Get off my desk!"
They turned their heads, eyes wide with surprise and shock. In the doorway stood Mr. Jackson, briefcase in hand, his round face an apoplectic red, his eyes black with anger, his heavy jewels quivering with an uncontrollable rage. One fist clutched around the handle of the briefcase, the knuckles white, he shook the other in the air as he strode toward them, looking as though he wanted to kill them both if he could manage to do so before he had a heart attack.
They quickly jumped off the desk, on the side away from him. Cynthia snatched her sweater from the floor and held it to her naked breasts, one hand grasping the back of the chair to steady her shaking legs. Bill stood beside her, running a hand through his hair, his face puzzled and shocked, as though he still couldn't believe that this was really happening and not a hideous nightmare. They backed away as Mr. Jackson stomped around the desk after them, roaring and cursing like a bellowing bull.
"You God-damn bastards! How dare you! Here! In my office! Do you think this is a whore house?" He was so furious he seemed almost insane, stuttering and spitting, kicking the desk with his foot and pounding it with his fist to accentuate his words. "What kind of… damnation… you bloody sucking… get the hell out of here!"
They both sidled toward the door, Bill sputtering in his attempt to apologize.
"Shut up!" Mr. Jackson roared. "You, Bill, get the hell out! I'll tend to you tomorrow." He pointed a shaking finger to Cynthia, "But you stay. I'll talk to you now!" and he brought his fist down on the desk with such force that the telephone jumped and gave a metallic buzz.
"And shut the God-damn door when you leave!" he yelled after Bill's scuttling figure.
Cynthia backed into a corner behind a chair and stood there trembling. As he stared at her malevolently, grinding his jaws, she realized that she was still clutching the sweater to her bare breasts. She turned her back to him and quickly slipped it on with fumbling fingers. Behind her, she heard him sink down heavily in his chair, wheezing and panting.
She turned around and stood quietly, afraid to look at him or move. In the silence she could hear her heart thudding wildly.
"Now, young lady," he said in a strangely quiet voice. "Just what is the meaning of all this? You're new here aren't you?"
"Yes," she replied in a faint voice. Her one desire was not to irritate him further and to get out as quickly as possible.
"Are you trying to turn this office into your private boudoir?" he asked sarcastically.
"No, I'm sorry… I… we… we were working late and…"
"Yes, so I saw. A new way to work overtime."
"No, really. We'd finished working and no one was here and…" her words tumbled out.
"Shut up! I don't care if you were really working or not. All I care about is your having the unmitigated, God-damn gall to think you could use this place to carry on your God-damn love affairs and…"
"But I…"
"I said 'Shut up'." he roared. "I don't give a damn what you do outside, but this is place of business and not a strip joint for every tart who gets the urge to take her clothes off!"
Head lowered, she looked up at him under her lashes, wondering why he simply didn't tell her to get out as he had Bill. His face was beet-red, mottled with angry purple patches; fringed with wisps of grey hair, even his bald head was a bright pink. He spat the words out between tightly clamped jaws; on the desk his hands were interlocked, the fingers nervously clenching and unclenching. Realizing that she was alone with him in the empty building, she began to feel afraid, for his anger and appearance were not that of a normal man; she began to perspire nervously under her clothes. She glanced toward the door and began edging toward it, moving sideways, inching slowly, afraid he would notice her movements.
"Where in hell do you think you're going?" he screamed, and sprang to his feet, moving with surprising quickness. She darted to the door but her perspiring hands slid fruitlessly on the metal knob and before she could get it open, he was there, his hand seizing her arm and roughly wrenching her away. He flung her back into the room. Her heel caught on the edge of the rug. She staggered and fell awkwardly to the floor. Tears came to her eyes and she began to sob. She heard the key turn in the lock and a tight knock of despairing fear turned in her stomach.
She heard a snort of evil laughter and then the sharp rasp of a match and smelled the tang of cigar smoke; she cried out as the tossed match burned through her stocking, stinging her leg, and cried out more loudly when his foot kicked her thigh. Through her tears she could see his heavy brown shoes planted solidly a few inches from her face. Afraid he would kick her again, she lay quietly, only her chest heaving as she tried to stifle her sobs.
He laughed loudly.
"Well, well, well, so the little bitch is afraid." He prodded her with his foot. "Come on," he said angrily. "Cut out the act and get up. You wanted to use that plump ass of yours tonight so you might as well at least sit on it."
She started to get up, watching his feet warily. Sudden pain pierced through her as he grabbed her long hair and roughly dragged her to her feet. She screamed, her mouth a large "O" of smudged lipstick but the sharp flick of his hand across her face closed her lips and a wave of dizziness flooded through her. She stumbled backward, landing heavily in a chair. As she began to faint she heard, as from a great distance through layer upon layer of cotton wool, his hysterical laugh, ending in a series of loud hiccoughs. He picked up a decanter of water from a side table and splashed it over her face, drenched her sweater and skirt and it dripped from the ends of her sodden hair, now hanging in limp ringlets about her tear stained face. But it brought her to her senses. Even though she was still afraid, she began to get angry.
"Stop it! Stop it!" she screamed at him and started to get out of her chair. He twisted her arm behind her and threw her back into it. Biting and kicking blindly, she yelled through her sobs, choking on tears, "Stop it! What are you doing? Why? Let me go, you bastard! Let me go!"
But he held her firmly, chuckling all the while, until finally she collapsed into the chair, weak and exhausted.
"Fighting little bitch, aren't you." He stepped back, drawing casually on his cigar, and regarded her. His eyes were cold and hard, the pupils small and steely-black. A muscle in his cheek twitched spasmodically.
"So you want to know what this is all about, heh?" He walked behind her and put his hand on the nape of her neck. "Well, I'll tell you, though God knows why. You've certainly had rougher treatment than this in your whoring life."
"But I'm not a…" she cried.
"Shut up!" he shouted. "I've seen you twitching that ass around here, pointing those knockers under everyone's nose, sash-shaying around like a bitch in heat."
"But I haven't…"
He jerked her hair. She groomed and fell silent.
"And I've wanted you ever since you first waggled into here, you God-damn cunt, but…"
His hand loosened on her hair and she heard his heavy step behind her, pacing restlessly back and forth.
"But you see, I…" his voice was suddenly quiet, almost apologetic. "God knows why I'm telling you this, you stupid bitch, but I've lusted after you so damn much and…" His voice went on, now sounding almost tearful, hopeless, "And well, I haven't been able to get an erection for years."
She drew in her breath sharply.
"Look, I'm sorry. I go out of my mind sometimes when I realize I can't…" he paused. "Look, take off your clothes for me, will you, and just let me look at you?" he pleaded.
She suddenly felt sorry for him. But she also wanted to get out as soon as possible and, thinking he'd surely let her go peacefully if she submitted to his request, she got up and quietly started taking off her clothes, fumbling at her skirt zipper, keeping her head bent so she wouldn't have to look at him.
"You can keep your stockings and shoes on," he said in a low, tense voice.
When she had undressed, she stood quietly, demurely.
"Now walk around," he whispered, "and hold your head up."
She had walked slowly about the room, feeling his eyes devouring her flesh. Self-conscious and ill at ease, at first she walked awkwardly, as if each muscle was attached to a string he was holding in his clenched hand and jerking at his command. But in the silence she gradually relaxed. Under the firm skin of her tanned buttocks the muscles rippled smoothly; her pointed breasts jiggled up and down, their nipples bobbing like small pink corks; her thighs brushed against each other with a faint sucking sound, their fullness downy with a fine golden fuzz end marred only by the large purple bruise where he had kicked her.
She looked up. He was sitting in the chair, one hand holding the cigar, breathing heavily between thick, parted lips, his eyes glazed and half closed, staring fixedly at her vagina which swelled out under her belly like a half-moon, framed by the thin strip of her black garter-belt and the elastics which stretched to the stockings whose edges hugged her thighs so tightly that the flesh bulged out above in a thin narrow roll.
Still staring, he put his hands on the arms of the chair and half rose while a thick, whimpering growl rumbled in his throat. She stopped, paralyzed, as she saw a crazed haze filming his eyes. As he got up and lunged toward her, growling drunkenly, she turned and ran toward the door. It was locked. She turned around, side-stepped his clawing hands and fled around the desk, too terrified to scream or to shout. Rounding a corner, her heel caught in the telephone cord and she fell to the floor. On her hands and knees she crawled frantically under the desk. His hands seized her by the hips and pulled roughly back and upward until his mouth was buried between her wildly thrashing legs, chewing and sucking deeply, a low, animal moan rumbling deep in his throat. His cigar was still in his hand and its red-hot coal burned into her buttock. Upside down, she screamed and fought. But he held her strongly, his nails tearing into the flesh of her cunt. Violently she beat her heels against him until finally he dropped her, snarling with fury. He snatched a ruler from the desk and began beating her; its sharp edge lacerated her back and hips into a bleeding mess. He fell on top of her and they rolled and fought like two wrestlers. His clothes protected him from her flailing fists and digging nails while her unprotected nude body was soon covered with long, bloody scratches and swollen bruises, yellow, purple, black.
"Bitch, whore," he hissed at her all during their violent struggle until Cynthia could fight no more. The pain had drained all the strength from her and her body suddenly stilled, limp to be turned and twisted as he desired.
Sensing her sudden surrender, the snarling old man rolled her violently over on her back and straddled her stomach. She could feel the rising hardness of his penis pushing up into her heaving breasts through the thick, rough material of his trousers and closed her eyes, her head rolling almost lifelessly to one side.
"Now, bitch," he rasped down at her in a wheezing, panting voice, "I'll teach you to walk around this office like a rotten whore. You're going to show me what you've been doing for all these other young bucks that I've seen looking at you with their tongues hanging out right here in my office."
In the dim haze of her half-consciousness she could hear again the now familiar sound of a zipper being ripped down in haste and then the wet underside of a thick rod of flesh lying across her naked breasts. Strange, she dreamed as though in coma, strange how it moves like a heart beat against me. She could feel it palpitating as though it had a life of its own apart from the vicious old man it was attached to.
Then… suddenly he reached down and tangling his hand in her soft, blond hair, jerked her head up off the floor. At the same time she could feel him shuffling forward slightly on her torso until the thin, fleshless bones of his buttocks were cutting excruciatingly into the firm, fullness of her breasts. She groaned in pain as they were smashed cruelly into her chest from his weight and found her eyes looking straight up into his monstrous, exposed penis. Huge and white, it reared out over her breasts toward her face with the naked blue veins criss-crossing obscenely underneath it.
"Suck it, bitch," he snarled down at her, a vicious gleam of hate sparkling in his eyes.
Her head was forced up harder and she almost became sick as he pressed his cock hard against her tightly clenched lips. She could feel the warm, sticky fluid that had seeped from the tip in his excitement covering her lips and she smelled the hot, pungent odor of it. His other hand dropped and reached down under his buttocks and his fingernails dug harshly into her left breast.
"Open your mouth, and wide," he grinned evilly as he spat the words down at her. His nails dug hard into her breast and her mouth gaped open at the pain. He jerked her head forward again until it felt as though he was ripping the hair from her head by the roots. And then… the monstrous cock filled her mouth, almost choking her as it pressed against her soft palate and gorged all the way back to her tonsils. She gagged and her stomach heaved; she groaned, her eyes closed, with the horrible thing throbbing urgently in her mouth.
"Suck – lick!" he grunted, twining his fingers more cruelly into her hair and jerking her head up and down.
Helplessly, her mouth moved up and down on the great prick.
… Oh God, the thoughts ran through her tortured mind, perhaps if I make him have an orgasm, he'll leave it at that and let me go. Suck… Suck… Lick… Lick… harder… cum… please cum! Please cum… and let me go… the words raced like wildfire through her pained and humiliated thoughts as she sucked like a hungry child feeding at its mother's breast to end her misery.
As she sucked, the huge cock pulsed in the soft wetness of her slaving mouth. There was a stale, musty taste on her tongue and the back of her throat.
"Oh God… how long… how much longer…" her mind chanted over and over again, her head hurting with the constant pull on her hair as he pumped it up and down. She wanted with all her soul for it to end and yet she didn't. The horrible, obscene thought of his lewd sperm cascading down her throat and into her stomach sickened her and she vowed she would jerk her mouth away at the last minute to avoid this intimate humiliation. She just couldn't let him have the satisfaction of looking down on her helpless face while he throbbed his vicious, wet sperm down into her mouth… she just couldn't bear it to give this dirty, old man that final stroke of pleasure.
But the passion-crazed Jackson was not to he denied and he fucked in and out of her mouth like an avenging angel of doom, spitting obscenities down at the top of her bobbing head as though she were a slave.
"Suck it, bitch, use your tongue, swirl it around… there… that's it… lick harder… I'm-I'm cummmming, I'm cummmmmming!"
And before Cynthia could jerk her head away she felt the huge throbbing cock fucking into her mouth expanding like a giant balloon and his steel-like hands clamping vice-like on either side of her head, freezing her in that position. And then it exploded, the hot, sticky sperm filling her mouth in great powerful spurts that bloated her cheeks out wide as though her mouth were filled with air. She had to swallow to keep from choking as more and more of the lewd orgasm of the groaning old man above her cascaded hotly into her mouth. Her Adam's apple raced crazily up and down her tender white throat in a crazy rhythm of desperate gasping sounds that thundered wetly through the room as though nothing else in the world existed.
And for Cynthia, it didn't. She lay limply beneath him after it was au over, feeling his long thin penis deflating slowly in her mouth. She swallowed once or twice more in order to breathe and then felt his body lifting from her tortured chest. The prick slipped wetly from her lips, leaving a thin trail of sticky sperm following it across the fullness of her naked breasts. She heard him chuckle once and then collapse to the floor close to her, his breath coming in short satiated gasps.
She lay there for a few minutes, at first too afraid to move. But as he continued his panting and weaving and made no sign of movement, she cautiously moved her pain-racked body and crawled over to where her clothes were scattered on the rug. Dragging them behind her, she inched toward the door, picking up the key from where it had fallen.
She lifted herself up on one elbow and slipped the key into the lock. He was still lying there, panting and muttering unintelligibly to himself, his words almost indistinguishable, ramming together into a crazed, dull monotone. She clawed the door open and crawled through.
Exhausted, she lay motionless on the floor of the outer office until the fear that he might come after her drove her to her feet. Clutching the wall for support, she staggered down the hall, threw her coat around her nude body and stumbled down the steps.