"Hello, Ann. Hello you delicious cunt. Hello, mouth sucker."
"Who is this? Who the hell is this?" The sleep drained from Ann Barot's beautiful eyes.
"Ohhh, poor baby bitch! Don't remember the voice, eh? But do you remember sucking my big cock, lickin' it so smooth with that educated tongue of yours? Remember getting it up that sweet ass of yours? I remember your voice, Ann. I remember it from the way you screamed with delight every time I cornholed you, and the way you moaned at the sweet taste of my prick, mmm, you used to say how yummy it tasted. Know what else I remember? I remember them big tits of yours, especially those big wine colored nipples… when they'd swell up nice and hard. But don't worry, you little cock-hungry nympho, you won't have to remember, 'cause soon now I'm gonna let you blow me again, and then I'm gonna fuck you nine ways from Tuesday, and I'm gonna lick you like a slurpee, eat you until you die from the heat of it and…"
Ann hung up the phone.
Ann thought how lucky it was that her husband wasn't home. Or was it? If he were here, he might satisfy that damp little cloudburst in her crotch, brought on, she had to admit, by the both lovely and filthy language of the obscene phone call.
She stroked her bare breasts lightly and the nipples came alive. The caller was right, her nipples were unusually large, and they did have the color of wine to them. The stroking finger trailed down over her flat tummy and into the slightly creamed hole in the nest of soft crotch hair. She masturbated furiously, then forced herself to sleep. After all, she had to be wide awake for her biology class the next day. She would think about that, and not the sound of that monstrous voice.
The next day, in class, she thought again of the phone call. The voice had a familiar ring to it, and she told herself half a dozen times, no, it just couldn't be him. The rotten sonofabitch, she wouldn't put it past him, even after all this time. He'd be just that much of a bastard, she thought.
"Has everyone made the first incision on the dorsal side?" Professor Jacobs stood with his hands clasped behind his back, pacing back and forth between the laboratory tables where students sat clad in white smocks in her Biology 101 class.
Gradually Professor Jacobs sauntered in the direction of one of his older but prized students. "Ann, is everything okay here? Any problems separating the layer of skin from the muscle? Takes a steady hand to use the scalpel effectively."
"No, no problems, Professor." She gulped and swallowed hard as her deft hand sliced into the muscle of the artichoke-colored muscle ripping and tearing under the pressure of her graceful hand.
Professor Jacobs marveled at the woman's precision of movement. He'd taught at the University for twelve years, and never had he witnessed a female as captivated by the subject of biology as she. There was nothing this woman was frightened of. The professor, his index finger resting on his lip and one arm still clasped behind his back, recalled how enraptured and mesmerized she had been when a live snake was passed around the classroom, disproving the popular belief that snakes are cold to the touch. One student, he remembered, had fainted as Ann passed the snake entangled around her arm stroking its head, smiling.
"We have night classes with special instruction for those few students who excel in the field of biology and anatomy. Each student is given private lessons in dissection, just in case you're interested."
Ann raised her blonde head. "That's very kind of you, Professor. But you see I'm only going to school part time and I don't think it's really necessary."
Professor Jacobs removed his bifocals. He'd seen Ann from a distance, walking around the campus, books under her arm. She was, by any standards, one of the best looking women on campus. Once he had hidden in the bushes lining the football field, watching her with hungry eyes as the women's physical education class went through its ritual of exercises to warm up for their game of soccer.
She had stood with long well-developed legs and thighs, their golden tan set off appealingly by the blue gym shorts she wore. Her hips were slim and yet her buttocks stood out in an attractive way, for her waist was even smaller. Her breasts were her crowning glory; their voluptuous fullness topped her slender frame in a way that brought a pain of desire to his groin.
On countless occasions, Professor Jacobs had watched her through binoculars from the private seclusion of his office in the science building directly across from the field. His mouth would fall open as she bent and stretched her body in provocative stances, her breasts moving under her white gym shirt, the shirt unbuttoned and open at the neck, revealing the beginning of a cleavage that was golden tan and sprinkled with a fine film of perspiration. Two lovely mounds of flesh jiggled and rippled as she played goalie, bouncing the ball back to her opponents by the force of her slender foot.
The binoculars were raised now despite the shaking of his trembling hands, as he focused on her long flowing hair reaching down to her mid-back in even swirls of waves. Her face was well tanned and exceedingly healthy looking, indicating she spent a great deal of her spare time in the sun. Her brown eyes were offset by high arched brows, giving her an appearance of intelligence and alertness that favored few women. The classic straightness of her nose ended in curving nostrils, introducing her full lipped red mouth which smiled a great deal of the time. He studied her chin now, as the ball slipped through her block and she grimaced at her error in judgment. What a firm jaw line she had! So determined and set.
Professor Jacobs sighed warily. No way could he make her even look at him, except of course to ask questions that he often had to consult textbooks for an answer. He had tried everything his shrewd intelligence could muster to find out more about this mysterious beauty. Once in desperation he snuck into the registrar's office under the guise of needing information on a failing student and flipping through the files of B's, found an "out" card in her place. Accepting this misfortune as an omen, he laid his binoculars and pretensions aside for a week, but the frustration kept him awake for nights on end. He would lie there, tossing and groaning all night beside his snoring wife. The image of her blonde hair blowing in the wind would not leave him to rest. She reeked of sex. Every time she moved he interpreted her motion as a provocative invitation to sex. The way she called him 'Professor Jacobs', so polite and husky-voiced. Above all it was her selectiveness, her concentration whether she was lighting a cigarette or kicking a soccer ball, an attention to detail that made him guess she'd been around. Nothing could distract her.
Professor Jacobs treasured a scrap of paper discovered under her desk in row 2, seat 4. Although it was only a curt message to a man named John, he kept it stashed in his desk drawer along with his assortment of pipes and tobacco, right next to the bottle of sherry and two glasses – just in case Ann Barot might consent to private consultation over her mid-term exam. He had the stage set…
Until, on a breezy fall day when he had followed her from the science building to the library, his hopes soaring with desire, she was intercepted by a tall, dark haired man who grasped her lovingly. The professor could sense his heart drop to his knees as he Blinked by the embracing couple who muttered something about 'going home and spending the night together for a change.' He watched them, his armful of test papers scattered to the wind as his lifeless arm dropped in desperation to his side, and they drove off in an embrace in a white MGB enshrouded in dust.
Professor Jacobs was not alone in his screaming need for attention from the lovely Ann Barot. To a man in love there is no torture as sweet as rejection,. and his mad pursuit. He purchased a telescope, telling his wife that he was tired of biology and wanted to turn to astronomy for inspiration. It was now the second semester and Ann's gym class was learning archery.
With his telescope adjusted to the stance of the bow and arrow sport, he could sit for a full hour with his instrument encompassing the high mounds of her breasts, even more accentuated now by the exaggerated pose of archery. The Professor had met Carol Nester, the thirty-seven year old gym instructor and he had thought her a bit kinky. She was a single woman with a butch-type haircut and a broad flat face; her posture was anything but stunning now as she stood with her heavy legs spread wide and her hinds on her barely evident hips. The wind blew through her hair, but it did not stir. Christ, does she use grease or what? thought the professor in disgust as this boyish woman blocked his view to instruct Ann on how far back to draw the shaft.
Word spread like a wild brush fire a few years back when a few of Carol Nester's students complained about her enraptured attention to her girls' hygiene. There was no excuse for not showering in her class. But no one could make a well founded objection because although she was constantly tempted and excited by the naked female bodies around her, she had never actually approached any of them.
Ann Barot had never exhibited modesty in the stuffy confines of the girls' locker room, reeking from the stench of sweaty bodies and athlete's foot powdered mats, and she stripped in front of Carol as if she were a professional, and stood brazenly naked before the bulging eyes of Carol, her heart pounding with lesbian desires.
"You… you're doing just fine, Ann," Carol congratulated her student on her fine performance during the first archery lesson of the spring season.
"Why, thank you," acknowledged Ann as she swept by in her naked glory, leaving her instructor trembling with itching hands.
In five short minutes, Ann had showered and dressed in her casual attire-Levi's and a pink long-sleeved tee-shirt with "Oui" printed in bold black letters across her chest. Her hair was still a bit damp now from the shower and with a free hand she lifted her gold locks and ran her fingers through the baby soft waves, glistening in the sunlight of the warm April afternoon.
God, I've got two exams tomorrow, thought the lovely blonde strutting past the crowded library mall where countless eyes focused on her svelte form headed for the doors of the main library building. It's a good thing John won't be back from his flight to London until this weekend, she continued her thoughts, planning every minute of her busy day now that the spring session was well under way and her grades screamed for attention. Not that they were bad, she considered silently, especially for someone who hadn't been in school for four years.
Ann's life had taken a new course since her marriage to John Barot a year ago that May. Accustomed to the hectic life of a stewardess – maintaining two residences, one on each coast of the country – she found her new lifestyle surprisingly mellow and peaceful, especially now that she and John had purchased a house high on the winding road leading to Mount Tamalpais in Marin County, just a half-hour ride to San Francisco. There was the sunshine and the cool mountain air to wake up to every morning instead of rushing to put on makeup and press up uniforms. Her country life was growing on her, and horseback riding and hiking were among her newly discovered pastimes, since John spent a great deal of time away now that he was flying internationally.
Ann was humming to herself now as she thumbed through the card catalog under 'subjects' for a speech she had to give next week on changing marriage patterns in the United States. Mechanically fumbling through the endless stream of cards entitled, 'marriage,' 'courtship,' 'divorce, rate of', she sighed deeply, wondering if she should spend so much time on her speech when her two examinations were a day off. Anyway, she reasoned to herself, if anybody knows about marriage it's me.
Her mind drifted off, her hand still clutching a card, as she reflected on her first marriage, which ended two years before she met John. His name was Paul and he was a test pilot for the Navy in San Diego where she'd met him on a weekend yacht cruise from Monterey to San Diego. It was truly one of those rare 'love at first sight' occurrences that you read about in thirty-five cent magazines at bus stations. His square shoulders and red perky hair, that always stuck up in a cowlick, peeking out from the back of his head beneath the strict confines of his Navy hat, and his merry blue eyes, so typical of the Irish, struck her dead.
It was a week she would never forget! They'd met on Saturday and on Monday she called her friend and fellow stewardess, Trudy, and begged her, "Please, please, please, exchange schedules with me. I've met this knockout of a test pilot. He's with the Navy and he's such a hunk. God, Trudy, wait'til you see him!"
With thoughtful consideration, Trudy complied, and that very day Ann and Paul flew in his private plane to Reno where they were married. The honeymoon was spent at the honeymoon suite of the Harrah, breakfast delivered every morning, lunch every afternoon and dinner every evening, while the newspapers piled up outside of their hotel door, completely ignored. For three days they didn't leave the room, not even to try their luck at the tempting machines that clinked and clattered in the downstairs of their love bungalow. Frank Sinatra was opening in the very building, but they did not stir from the honey sweet love nest of their bedroom.
It was now Thursday morning and Paul had to return to the Navy base in San Diego or go AWOL – neither a pleasant choice for a newlywed husband hopelessly in love with his Cinderella blonde wife, who purred her affection endlessly in streams of provocative lovemaking. But there was no choice, and with a freckled hand, he wiped the tears from her rosy cheeks, and bade his wife goodbye. He had to hurry now as the plane still needed some last minute repairs and a good check before he'd dare cross the desert, blasted with sand storms now sweeping the Southwest.
With trembling hands Ann packed her suitcase, the tears rolling down her tanned cheeks, dampening her honeymoon peignoir soiled from their three-day celebration of love and family hood. How she loathed going back to work, 'is there anything I can get you sir!' 'an aspirin for your headache, ma'am. Of course.' Smile, smile, smile, that's all you do when you're a stewardess, thought Ann securing the top button of her red blazer. I'm so tired of taking care of everyone's needs, she sighed, but now that Paul and I are married maybe I can live in one place and maybe, just maybe, even raise a family. Tucking in a blonde curl that escaped her red hat, she considered calling the airlines and telling her supervisor that as of that very minute her career as servile female was over – for good. God, it's only been four hours since Paul left and already I'm hopelessly lost without him, she thought, stroking on her curled thick lashes.
The telephone buzzed. "Hello?"
"Ann? This is the desk. We have a call for you. Please hold on for the connection."
Ann cradled the receiver to her heaving chest; maybe it was Paul and he had decided to go AWOL and they'd romantically fly his private plane to Sweden and bask in the sun for the rest of their lives. Her reverie was broken by the flatulence of a deep voice.
"Ann Bailey. I have a notice here in my hand," he belched out every word, "that you are the recent bride of Paul Bailey."
"Yes," she stammered.
"He's had an accident. His two-engine plane took off from the runway but one of the engines failed…"
"Is he all right?" Ann anxiously screamed into the phone.
"Afraid not. Plane went up in flames. No survivors."
The receiver dangled by its curly cord for three hours before anyone from the hotel thought it worth inspecting. Delivering the ordered luncheon of cheese plates, cold cuts and cantaloupe, the bell hop knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked louder and waited. Still no response. "Goddamn it!" he muttered. "Are they still in there making love? Never seen anything like it." He fumbled for a key thinking that if anyone was in there they certainly wouldn't allow their happiness of bedtime pleasures to be interrupted for the questionable delight of dried up contents under the silver dish on his cart. He stuck the key in the lock. Still no response. With a brisk movement the door was opened and, backing in, the bell hop pivoted with the cart, his back still to the bed purposely.
"Miss!" he screamed. Christi Hope this isn't another suicide, he thought as he lifted the head of the blonde woman whose wan face clearly showed an expression of grief even in her helplessly unconscious condition. With a splash of ice water from his cart, Ann was brought back to life once more but against her will.
Straining, she rose on one elbow, then, with the bell hop inches away the stark reality of her miserable life hit her like a gust of Arctic wind. "Ohhhh, God, help me," she repeated with blankly staring eyes. "He's dead… Paul… is dead… dead…"
It was over. Her happy life as wife and lover to her Irish darling was over. It was like a dream, a six day dream. He was gone and there was no sign of him as she scanned the room for affirmation of her past husband's existence. Yellow walls lined with Picasso paintings and Dali sketches smiled back at her mockingly.
How she managed to leave the empty cell of that room was an unsolved mystery to her, even a year later. An even greater enigma to the pale figure of the blonde stewardess, thin and visibly ailing from the shock of her loss, was how she returned to her routine of `thank you for flying with us' `here is your coat, sir', and the endless stream of meaningless innuendoes that cramp the life of an airline stewardess.
Trudy, a true swinger who used to laugh and giggle incessantly at the lewd behavior of the drunken first class passengers as they slithered their hungry fingers up her tapered legs to the top of her slim thighs, convinced her to get out of the four walls of their shared Boston apartment and start acting like the young and beautiful woman she truly was.
Reluctantly, Ann followed her roommate to singles bars, where they would sit conspicuously alone sharing bottles of fine French wines and packs of femininely slim cigarettes, ogling the steady line of blurry-eyed drunken males stumbling as they sought the acquaintance of the two lovely women. But it was a bore, and Ann returned to her library of Hesse and Jung, seeking an inner truth that she was convinced lay hidden in the wisdom of their words. But words couldn't fill her vacuum of dead love and Ann searched the extreme for something to plug up that hole of loneliness that ate away at her heart like a growing seed of destitution.
Trudy, her savior during this most horrid of times, took her recalcitrant roommate along to parties, sailing in the Boston Harbor, even for drives to up-state New York in hopes of bringing her back to life. Finally, even Ann could not tolerate her apathy for life and forcing her self into submission, began accompanying her brown-haired, brown-eyed friend to parties, risquй parties. There is no one more jet-set in their mentality than those who work for airlines, and Ann was soon to find this truth for herself.
"Comin' along to the party tomorrow, aren't you?" Trudy asked, pressing her black spaghetti strapped crepe dress. Ann raised her head from the newspaper she was reading and studied her friend for a brief moment, thinking I wish I could be more like Trudy, so free and aggressive, downright sexy in her provocative approach to the opposite sex. But there had been some suspicious occurrences lately in their Boston apartment, a few too many phone calls demanding arrangements for exact times and exact meeting places – all too formal and carefully planned for casual affairs. One evening not too long before Trudy had snuck in the house unaware that Ann was still awake after a trying flight from San Diego where a thunder storm had delayed their flight twelve hours. Carefully Trudy had unlocked the door and, with her back to her roommate, tip-toed unseeingly into the bathroom. There was something strangely unnerving about Trudy's behavior and Ann put down her book and strolled into the bathroom where Trudy was running ice cold water over a washcloth for her eye – her black eye, as Ann soon discovered. The secret was out.
"Well, maybe I just might. Where is this one? Chicago?"
"God, no!" Trudy laughed vivaciously. "San Francisco. One of the pilots, he's a real swinger, they tell me. Ann, I mean really," she set down her iron to remove a roller pick that stuck mercilessly into her tender scalp. "He used to be a mechanic and he's got some tricks you wouldn't believe! Anyway, that's what Sharon tells me, remember her?" Trudy's eyes rolled back in her head in reverie. "Anyway, we'll be going for a cruise in his yacht – under the Golden Gate Bridge and everything! Oh, Ann, you have to come!"
"Mmmmm, maybe. I'll see how…" She reconsidered. "Yes, that sounds just like what the doctor ordered."
It was that evening in San Francisco that Ann was to meet the man who would change the direction of her life from a soul-searching existence to one of unequaled debauchery. His name was Mike Boston.
Ann's dreams were broken now by Professor Jacobs, busily, clawing through a card catalog a few feet away, his eyes burning a hole in the back of her head. God, I wish he would leave me alone, she thought silently, scratching down call numbers in her notebook with a dull pencil.
"Mike Boston," she whispered aloud. Heads turned. Her thoughts returned once more to a yacht party in San Francisco two years ago.
It had been a pleasant evening, a bit too cool to her liking, but Mike had conviently stashed an armful of fur coats on board just in case any of the carefully selected females felt a chill. Mike was a pleasant man, not at all like an airplane impression of the handsome forty-ish trickster. Somehow it didn't follow that anyone with a meager job such as his could make enough money to throw lavish parties even one night a year, let alone once a month.
But she was soon to realize his evil depravities: true, he did work for the airlines, but he had been a pilot who had lost his license for smuggling diamonds in from Australia, and it was from the sale of illicit goods that he could afford any high class call girl who struck his fancy. Trudy was one such who now occupied that dubious distinction.
Ann had drunk too much that night, and the vertigo of the rocking motion of the boat combined with the wine, left her a helpless mass of putty. But what did it matter? Who cared what she did? Her drinking increased with intensity and before she could grasp for support, darkness overcame her. When she awoke she was in an apartment, alone except for the moaning and groaning of provocative lovemaking a few feet away on the bed. Must be Trudy, she reasoned, up to her tricks again.
Oh, my head, she moaned silently. God! what have I done to myself? Ann's feeble hand was pressed to her aching forehead when she felt a strange pressure on her arm. Opening her eyes, her vision grossly distorted from the alcohol coursing through her veins, she barely focused on the image of a dark haired man with a high forehead and close-set eyes framed by heavy bushy eyebrows. His straight nose ended in a small bulb, very attractive, she noticed in her state of acceptance. His heavy dark hair ended at his ears where scrubby looking grey sideburns took over, leading to his cleft chin. His full and sensuous mouth formed words she could not understand, and, recognizing the depravity of her state, he motioned with a crooked finger for her to follow.
Limply, Ann rose to her feet and after staggering a few feet, kicked off her shoes with a hearty laugh, but quickly stifled her sounds, remembering her girl friend Trudy making mad passionate love with an unidentified man on the bed. The stranger beside her guided her wobbling body through huge sliding doors. "Shall we go into my living room?" the stranger beckoned with an extra tug on her arm, warning her there was no alternative.
Ann couldn't prevent an involuntary intake of breath at the sudden flamboyance of her surroundings as she stepped down, nearly falling on her face, into the sunken living room. "My God!" she looked around in awe, "it's like a terrarium." Every inch of the spacious living room was covered with plants, hanging plants, potted plants, flowering plants, cacti, even blooming perennials.
Everything in the room looked like it had come from a museum.
The Swedish sofa sumptuously designed like a pair of huge red lips looked inviting and she plopped down on the softness of its sensuous form. Beneath her was a zebra skin rug artfully placed under the glass and silver metal table where a Wedgwood vase was crammed with poorly rolled cigarettes. Her eyes traced the smooth outlines of the marble fireplace that covered the entire wall, its brown streaks glistening in the sparkling light of the crackling fire, reflecting the blues and reds of its warm blaze. Through Ann's hazed eyes she spied twinkling lights in the distance. "Oh, you have a view!" she anxiously jumped to her unsteady feet.
"Do you like it, my dear?"
"Lovely, yes lovely." Her trembling hand cling to the heavy red velvet drapes attractively framing the wide veranda of the window. "Is this a Victorian?" she muttered in amazement. "Must be from the high ceilings." Ann raised her eyes to the high ceiling, decorated with crisscrosses of wood beams.
"I'm rather proud of it, myself," he admitted with no hint of modesty. "Why don't you sit down and have a drink with me?" he smiled crookedly.
"Oh, no thank you," Ann touched the back of her slender hand to her aching forehead. "An aspirin and a glass of water, no… coffee… please," she said politely, not forgetting her etiquette ingrained from two years of riding the skies.
"Nonsence," he growled teasingly; "how about some juice, and an aspirin," he added coolly.
He motioned for her to sit back down on the huge red lipped sofa that smiled across the room at her. "Have a seat, and I shall return immediately."
Ann sat stiffly, reassessing her situation. She was in a strange town, in a strange house, with a very strange man. With a deep heave of her chest, she scanned the room for a telephone. If nothing else, she could call her stewardess friend, Janie, and stay overnight at her apartment which she guessed was not far away. But before she could gather the strength to search for the hidden instrument, Mike had returned with a tray in hand.
"I'm sorry, but I neglected to introduce myself," he said with merry eyes. "My name is Mike Boston. Please call me Mike." A hint of animal desire in his eyes made her think she might not be leaving the confines of Mike's lovely trap.
"And I am Ann, Ann Bailey."
"Are you married, Ann?"
"No, no, I was… for a few days and then…" her voice trailed off into inaudible mutterings.
"I see," he said knowingly.
He was standing in front of her then, a drink in each hand. "Here we are, Ann. This will make you feel much better. Take a joint also, it helps this time of day."
Arm's red tipped fingers grasped the sweating glass, filled with ice and orange juice and the small cigarette on the table. Tilting her head she took a deep swallow and grimaced at the taste of alcohol polluting her fresh orange juice but the marijuana cigarette made her feel better. "It's a habit of mine, too," Mike said, his eyes studying the sensuous outline of her mouth and the way the smoke curled out of its soft-rimmed opening.
With a deliberate movement, he sat down on the couch beside her, patting her nylon-covered knee in mock affection. Then, sensing her almost simultaneous recoil from his unwanted touch, he withdrew his hand and smiled.
"You are a friend of Trudy's, is that correct?" His eyes refused to leave the red outline of her lips.
Ann felt a knot in her stomach, tightening mercilessly into a ball that kept growing, feeding on her fear and confusion. It had been eons ago since any man had actually made a pass at her, or was it since she'd let him?
He leaned back on the sofa and studied her proudly postured profile over the rim of his glass. "Tell me a little about yourself, Ann. How long have you been rooming with Trudy?" And then, as if to shroud his questioning probings with ignorance, said, "I don't know the girl personally myself, but. I have friends who are well acquainted."
"A… about three years now," stammered Ann, now fully aware that something was astir as his stubby fingers reached for the pale blue Wedgwood vase and offered her a marijuana cigarette. "Oh, no thank you," she politely refused, "not when I'm already halfway there from the alcohol."
"Do you mind?" He lit one of the oily looking cigarettes. "I find it excellent for sex." He lifted his busy eyebrows and his dark eyes looked right through her. "Do you enjoy sex, Ann?" And seeing her nervous response as she wrung her trembling fingers about the glass, continued his probings. "How about a stag film? Have you ever seen one?"
"No… no thank you, Mr. Boston…"
"Please call me Mike, always."
Ann swallowed hard. There was no way out of this den of iniquity and she knew it. Oh, God I wish I were back in Boston, she thought silently.
Magically, Mike pressed a button on the same table-mounted control board that had switched off the lights, and instantly a motion picture screen began to unroll electronically from a space between the wood beams of the ceiling.
"I'm sure you'll enjoy this."
"No! I want to go visit my friend…" and realizing her nervousness, restated her demand in a calmer voice. "Mr. Boston, I appreciate your hospitality, I enjoyed the cruise tremendously, but I don't feel up to watching any movies right now, and if you don't mind I am going to call my friend Janie and ask her if I could stay…"
"Nonsense!" he boomed inches from her tender ear. "If you like, T have some things in my closet that might be a bit more comfortable…"
"No, I'm fine, thank you," she chirped in a shrill voice as she clutched her low-necked evening gown, struggling to close the generous gap that filled his eyes with lust. Before she had the chance to mutter further protest, a pale blue peignoir was thrust in her face, and in her drunken state she rose and walked over to a broad leafed plant and slipped into the robe, leaving her dress in a heap on the floor.
"Much better, dear. We'll leave the rest for later."
"But I'm not wearing anything else!" she stammered. "Well, a garter belt and my nylons." Ann could feel her cheeks redden, even through the deep tan of her cheeks.
Ann was trapped and she knew it. It was that simple. Before, when she first stumbled into the living room, her attitude had been one of cool defiance, but now, she knew that she'd been fooling no one, not even herself. He'd seen through her nonchalant attitude in. a second, just as she'd seen through his false sophistication. God! how she had wanted to break through those locked doors and grab Trudy for the soonest plane and head back to Boston to the warm confines of her apartment. She was Mike Boston's toy for the evening and she knew it! Some friend Trudy is, she thought, leaving me like this.
Mike fumbled on the control board,, "This is one of my favorites, and I'm sure you will enjoy it equally." He pressed a button and a colored light knifed through the darkened living room. He sat down beside her on the sofa. "You're really a lovely woman, did you know that?"
At the sound of his words unraveling his plot like thread off a spool, she nervously tilted her glass and orange juice spilled on the zebra rug in a huge orange blob. "Oh, I'm so very sorry," she said, bending over to wipe it up with a kleenex from her bag.
Her breasts, dangling and free, swayed ponderously before her tilted torso, glistening in the meager light from the screen. A muffled hum came from the wall adjacent to the fireplace where the hidden camera projector-apparently set and ready for action at the flick of a switch-let off its bright beam.
Mike continued to puff wild circles of grey smoke in her direction and offered her a taste after each of his own long drags. His insistence was draining her strength and soon she was puffing away with him, passing the joint back and forth as if it were her normal behavior. Anything, she thought, to get out of here!
"Come sit on my lap, Ann," he beckoned her with an insistence not to be challenged.
The thought of this sleazy man putting his hands on her naked flesh was enough to send ripples of hesitation coursing through her body, and for a moment she thought she would have to excuse herself and head in the direction of the not yet discovered bathroom. It was too bizarre for words, thought Ann.
She felt his hands on her narrow waist, felt him drawing her to him, felt the stiff and obvious bulge beneath his slacks.
The movie was already in progress, but she could tell she hadn't missed much. The girl, a young Chinese, sat on a red tipped couch… Christi he had filmed it right here, and she was reading a book and sucking on a popsicle. She was wearing a pair of blood red doll pajamas, and apparently naked underneath.
"That's my ex-secretary," quipped Mike, breathing huskily into Ann's ear, his hand lopping sinisterly around her narrow waist.
Ann sat speechless.
The young Chinese, was really beautiful. She had long, long black hair, and the most radiant olive complexion Ann had ever seen. Her eyes, glimmering black, sparkled mischievously as she read her Playgirl magazine, now spreading the center fold out so her anticipated audience could appreciate the blond Nordic male who sat lewdly naked in a sailboat, with only a sailor's cap on his blond head. The girl in the movie turned the pages quickly now, and with the other hand gripped the popsicle. Her lush sensual lips, coated thickly with deep red lipstick, slicked up and down over the shaft of the red popsicle in an obvious parody of sexual intercourse. The camera zoomed in for an extreme close-up of the girl's fleshy lips clinging provocatively to the penis-like fruit on the outstroke.
"I'm a photographer, did you know?" Mike boasted.
Suddenly a man appeared on the screen, a black man. The girl in the movie appeared frightened then, and Ann jumped as she felt Mike's hand on her naked breast, surreptitiously slipped under the blue peignoir unnoticed moments before. But Ann knew it was inevitable; there was no way she could leave that room unscathed and she vowed to make the best of it. In her nervousness, she suggested another joint as the first had left her pleasantly light-headed and more accepting of her fate.
Mike continued his ministrations, he squeezed her breasts, pinched her nipples to an infinite hardness, and then he took one puffy beige nipple into his evil mouth and began to suck on it with a lewd wet sound. It had been so long, too long, since any man had. been allowed the treasure of her sweet body and although she knew it was evil, that it would do her no good, she did not protest. It felt undeniably good!
The black man on the screen wore a trench coat with nothing beneath. He shrugged it off of his massive, hair-covered shoulders, letting it drop to a crumpled heap at his feet. From the rear, he looked like a huge ape, the blackness of his body and the curly hair of his chest made Ann gasp. At a closer glance, his enormous buttocks, flabby and the color of coal, dimpled obscenely as the black man approached the cowering girl.
Mike continued sucking on her swollen breasts, and in a position as lewd as the girl she was watching on the screen, Ann took another long hit off the joint and held her breath to the count of ten. Her mind reeled and whirled in dancing colors that flickered off the colored screen.
Her attention returned to the screen where the girl's hand covered her mouth in a rather convincing display of stark terror. Ann could feel her own lush buttocks quiver nervously on Mike's lap as she straddled him sideways, her hand now around his shoulders, her fingers playing idly in the curly hair at the nape of his neck as he continued to suck her now heaving breasts with mounting enthusiasm.
With her free hand, Ann put out the marijuana cigarette. She felt like rubber; she could be played with and stretched to any imaginable degree, and she'd feel nothing but numbness. Her attention was captured now by the black man on the screen whose lust-swollen penis jutted straight out from the matted thick hair of his loins like a spear head. It looked at least ten inches long… and still growing!
"Do you like to watch people make love?" Mike's soothing voice sounded like the innocent purr of a sleeping kitten.
"Yes, yessss."
The head of the black man's penis was as large as a nectarine and equally brilliant in color. It glistened ominously as it approached the cringing girl's mouth.
Skillfully now, Mike inched his gentle, yet powerful, hand toward the tender flesh of the blonde stewardess' naked white thighs that squeezed together so provocatively up above her stocking tops. With each rapid breath now, the marshmallow succulence of her well-sucked breasts melted into the features of his shadowed face. Her nipples, stiff as spikes, grew out of their puffy surroundings like tiny clitorises eager to be sucked.
Mike Boston laughed silently to himself. He'd seen this type before: the beauty queen trapped in an early marriage, loses her husband and clings desperately to the dream of meeting another man to fill that hole in her life: He'd seen the signs in most of his call girls; it was an old story. He had her now! She was mesmerized by the film and she was his new toy.
The black man reached forward and cruelly grabbed the Chinese girl's luxuriant mane of shimmering dark hair in his dark hand, jerking her head back viciously. His other hand shot forward in a tooth-jarring backhand that would have sent the girl sprawling backward but for his grip on her hair.
"Look at his penis, Ann. Does it look any different?"
"It's… my God! It's bigger!"
"He's a sadist," said Mike with measured precision.
Ann's trembling buttocks, naked below the clinching black strip of her garter belt, wriggled nervously on Mike's lap. She could feel the huge bulge beneath her thighs pulse and expand heatedly, and knew immediately what it was. Yet, curiously enough, there was something thrilling about being so close to the penis of a truly evil man, to feel it pressing against her naked flesh through the tweed of his slacks.
Her eyes returned to the screen again where, gripping his glistening gargantuan shaft by the base, the monstrous man was beginning to rub the blood-engorged head of his cock on the cringing girl's face, paying most attention to her full red lips, until her features began to shine with the sticky white nectar he smeared on them. Her eyes, opened wide and fluttered in anxious lustful desire.
"My God!" gasped Ann. "She really enjoys it!"
Then, miraculously, the ruby-red head of the giant's penis popped inside the straining lips of the Chinese girl. Somehow, though, it was beyond Ann's understanding, a cold shudder of delight spasmed deep in her own loins. It was exciting to watch that poor girl being subjected to evil… a strange kind of evil that was thrilling… just as she was almost being forced to stay in this apartment.
"She loves it, Ann, don't fool yourself."
Mike's lewdly searching hand was on her tingling pussy now, rubbing and probing with lingering delight. His fingers began to part the silken blonde curls of her pubic hair.
"Mr. Boston, really…"
"I'm going to finger fuck you, Ann," he rasped brokenly in her ear. "Would you like that, while you watch the girl suck that man's big thick cock?"
Oh, God, it was happening! What should she say? What could she say?
"Yes, I mean, n… yessss."
Mike Boston chuckled to himself as he felt between her thighs and pressed his middle finger slowly up into Ann's already passionately seeping pussy flesh. The powers of suggestion always seem to work best with the- sophisticates, he mused with sadistic pleasure. He felt her distended clitoris slip wetly forward to make searing contact with his probing hand as his middle finger entered her easily and wormed its way up into her unresisting vagina to the depth of his palm, and then slipped a second finger up in beside the first.
"Watch the movie, Ann. See how she sucks that cock! Look at her saliva spilling out of the corners of her mouth because there is no room for anything but his prick in there!" he purred in her ear, pronouncing each word carefully for full effect.
Long delicious minutes passed, and Mike's fingers had churned Ann's milking cunt-flesh into a virtual froth. The girl in the movie continued sucking on the black man's unnaturally massive cock, swallowing her own saliva to keep from gagging. His lust-bloated rod of flesh reached far back into her throat. He came… and came… and came. She sucked and sucked and swallowed in animal desire.
"Oh God!" Ann had never seen a stag film before and she found it strangely provocative.
"Like it, Ann? Don't you wish you were sucking a cock like that? A big, hard, thick cock, oozing with love juices. How long has it been Ann?"
"Oh, please. I can't watch anymore." Ann was losing ground fast and she knew it, even through her swimming mind.
Ann covered her eyes with her hands and began to sob. She was betraying herself, and the memory of her dear Paul, by allowing herself to be subjected to such filth. Her self-inflicted reprimands were short-lived, however; before she knew what was happening she was on her back on the couch with the beaming Mike Boston glowering over her in the dim light of the fire – now that the awful movie was finally over. She could sense him rummaging around in a hidden compartment under the sofa.
"There it is," Mike muttered in growling tones. Ann's hands now lying limply at her sides, she had a full view of the next torturous toy of this madman. A giant dildo, a plastic cock, bigger than life! It was at least nine inches long and nearly two inches thick and had a three foot long handle at the end that he could control by several buttons.
"No, no, no, no, no!" Ann had pleaded. He was insane, she was convinced of that. But did he have to kill her with that? No woman could take a monstrous cock like that up into her cunt! She watched, her eyes wide, her mouth open and screaming, as the giant plastic cock came forward and she felt its brutal size and strength at the tender opening of her cunt.
"Don't worry, my dear. It's well oiled," Mike smiled sadistically down at the contorted face of the blonde woman spread helplessly beneath his power.
It came relentlessly forward, spreading the lips of her pussy, spreading them wide and tight in a perfect circle around the head. It continued to spread the lips as the huge rubbery head burrowed slowly up inside, aided by the oil and her own excitement. The walls of her vagina were spread until she felt excruciating pressure and felt she would burst.
With a smooth, wet sluicing sound, the cockhead slid slowly up into her cant and the lips of her vagina stretched taut and white, like rubber bands, around the artificial shaft. Slowly, the great plastic head began to pull out and she realized then that it was on a great mechanical shaft. Another of his tricks!
The hard voice of Mike Boston shattered through the pressure of the cock sunk deep up between her thighs. "In a little while, you're going to beg for more and more and more."
She groaned aloud as the plastic cock started forward again, fucking deep up into her and slowly withdrawing. She groaned again, wracked with a helpless feeling, seeing stars and begging with him when she could catch her breath.
To answer her pleading cries, Mike increased the depth and tempo of the rhythmically fucking instrument and she felt him tickling her nipple with his free hand. A great growing sense of lewdness and pleasure deep inside her quivering belly rose to meet and mingle with the hesitation she was feeling. Gone were all thoughts and memories of Paul, of a life that could have been.
Then, with a final jerk forward the dildo plunged home and as she felt it press hard up against her cervix, she moaned a deep, low, moan at the momentary pressure. Stars, like pinwheels of light danced in front of her face and she blinked her bugging eyes and saw the great cock, its realistic-looking shaft glistening with her cant's moisture, retracting from her and the lips of her vagina peeling outward with it; and rolling them back, revealing parts of her soft pink cant flesh as it did so. Then it plunged teasingly back in again, rolling ends of her soft blonde pubic curls into her cant with it. The tempo and speed increased and she couldn't protest because she was fighting for her breath with each stroke.
Her strength and resistance broke down as the dildo began pumping in and out. Faster and faster it went, bigger than any real cock and much faster. It could go on all night! It was impossible to stop or fight and, as she relaxed, wincing against the pressure, she felt an evil enjoyment, a tactile, lewd, devilish enjoyment of the artificial cock fucking her, something, an animal sound, a half-moan, half-whimper, escaped from her throat. She stared, with glazed eyes and watched the huge dildo slither obscenely up into her cant and pull out again, jerking her back and forth. She was beginning to feel a wild pleasure beyond description. This hurt, but it hurt good! Better than anything she had ever felt before! She was trapped and the artificial dildo drove home with such force that her body and breasts gave a lascivious leap and his massaging of her nipples sent a thrill down to her loins where the huge phallus was preparing to fuck up into her wide-spread cant again. A loose, wanton smile formed on her lips and she felt herself straining forward to accept the next long inward fuck as the machine increased its tempo and she felt adrift, abandoned, wanton, fucking wildly back at the machine while Mike watched and gloated.
His mouth next to her ear, he asked, "You like that, Ann?" She moaned and finally hissed, "Yesssss!"
"Would you like some more?"
Sweating, her teeth gritting, her face twisted with lust, she nodded and the tempo increased and her eyes rolled in her head and her mouth fell open in a low moan.
"Is that better than anyone you've ever been fucked by?" Mike asked, his voice breathy and high.
Her mouth was open and wet and her tongue licked at her dry lips as she drooled and moaned as the great cock plunged on and she felt her body tensing in anticipation of the orgasm that would course through her.
"Answer me!"
She nodded and breathed in a husky voice, "Better!"
"Better than who?" he asked in that strange voice. "Who? Better than any man you've ever had? Tell me!" he commanded sadistically.
"Better," she breathed again, feeling an odd pleasing shudder go through her body.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked.
Ann shook her head and closed her eyes. She didn't want to think, only to feel that thing plunging into her cant while she spread her long silken legs wide and enjoyed it to the fullest.
"Your husband," Mike whispered in her ear. "Better than your husband?"
A sob bubbled in her throat and tears smarted in her eyes. She shook her head quickly. For an answer, Mike increased the rhythm of the cock, sending her higher, spinning her into space where she was fucked beyond belief. "Agggghhhhhaaaaa."
"Better than your husband?" he shouted over her scream and Ann heard herself say, "Yes! Goddamn it, you!" And she felt herself slip into a mindless animal lewdness. Yes! Nothing had ever fucked her like this before and the humiliation and debasement she was going through was beautiful! Lewd and beautiful as her whole body tensed and trembled as the tempo increased even more and she was past caring or knowing anything other than the compelling desire to cum.
"Say it!" Mike shouted, up by her head now, the dildo fucking furiously into her hungrily devouring cant.
"Yes!" she moaned as she felt her head being tilted back again. "Better than my dead husband! Much better than anybody! Oh God!"
Her cries were stifled as her head was tilted far back and she saw his cock, hard and erect in his hand. Yes, she wanted his cock! Opening her mouth, she closed her lips over the swollen tip, feeling it hot and hard in her mouth, and she sucked while her tongue twirled over the rubbery head. Holding her head in his hands, Mike looked down at her lovely twisting and writhing form with delight. She was his, helplessly hot now, and he could do anything he wanted with her.
His lips twitched back and forth as he panted, and with a sharp high yell, he pumped his hot thick cum into her mouth as he came again and again.
His body shuddered and he slumped against her, his eyes half closed, watching with pleasure as she sucked him dry and strained on to her own orgasm…
"Whew!" Ann leaned against the high wooden table in the library now, chewing on the pencil end. That was so long ago, she sighed with deep relief. She winced then as she recalled how her strange and evil relationship with Mike Boston had not ended, but only begun with strange exciting tricks hidden in every corner of his Pacific Heights Victorian mansion. Party after lewd party was followed with strange lovemaking, wicked and evil. She had become his property, his private entertainment to be shared with his friends and his body guards at the flick of a finger. So convincing and diabolical was he, that he had even rented her an apartment in San Francisco as well as maintaining her residence in Boston, and even changed her flight schedule to coincide with his wishes and demands. But she had loved it, difficult to admit though it was. It filled that vacuum in her life adequately, and, at that time, that was all she wanted out of life.
A list of call numbers scribbled down, she picked up her load of books and tucked them into her straw bag and headed for the stacks, reminding herself that it was all past history, never to be repeated.