"Fuck me! Fuck meeeeeeee!" Monica James shouted, her voice blurring with passion. Bracing her feet and lower back against the mattress, she shoved her pelvis into Scott Forsmo's groin, grinding her hips and forcing his burgeoning cock as far up into her vagina as it would go.
They had been at it for hours now, and Scott was beginning to feel as though she were burning out. Still, the woman's complete, rabid sexual hunger inspired him to new, ball-blowing efforts. Monica was insatiable. It seemed to Scott that no matter how violently he rammed his rigid penis into her soft, wet vagina she did not get enough of.
"Harder. Fuck me harder! Screw me to deeee eeath!" She orgasmed again. Scott had lost track of how many times it had been. His prick was suddenly bathed in a fresh supply of Monica's syrupy, thick woman's juice. He wondered if it still smelled of banana. "Oh, Scotty… Scotty, you do it so good. What, a man you are! Better than all the others."
"Better than your husband, the cop?" he asked, gasping for breath as he speeded up the action of his hips, his slim buttocks dimpling and flexing as he shoved his penis into her again.
"A hundred times, a thousand times. You're even harder than his nightstick." She broke off into soft, urgent mewling cries, her hot, perspiring body undulating beneath him on the narrow bed.
"You've tried his nightstick?" Scott asked jokingly.
"Yes, oh, yes. He used it on me once when he couldn't get hard. It was wonnnnnderful, but not as wonderful as you are. I can feel your heartbeat throbbing inside me. You're so huge and strong and thick. I love it! Love it. I want it in me forever."
"Oh, yesssss," she hissed, tossing her blonde head from side to side. "Hurt me. Make my titties ache with your big, hard hands. Ohhhhhhhhhhh!"
Suddenly the tingling sensations in his nuts intensified again, and his belly swirled with warmness. He was going to come. He did not believe it was possible to come this much or this often. He was killing himself, turning himself into a drained, sexual cripple, but he loved every second of it. It was all worth whatever price it cost him. Monica twisted about, writhing like a wild animal, as she felt his cock swell larger than before. He was coming together again, uniting all his forces for her to spew a fresh, hot load of his steamy semen far up into her needing body. "Give it to me," she shouted, "give me all of it. I want your manjuice. Nooooooow!"
Scott climaxed. With a wild cry of startled pleasure, he came, twisting on top of her as he poured a gallon of white hot sperm rammingly up into her vaginal opening. It came in waves from his testicles, up his swelling urethra, out through the deep slit in his glans, and into her body. He choked and gulped for breath, explosions of violet light going off behind his eyes. He might have been suspended in midair, unable to tell up from down, spinning in a sexual void. He might be dying, completely cut off from living reality, but he did not care. If this death, he had gone to heaven. He lay across the woman's body, gasping and trying to force his being to return to something near normal.
Slowly and carefully he drew his deflating phallus from her body, groaning with exhaustion as he fell beside her.
"What time is it?" Monica asked after a long moment.
"About ten-thirty," he answered, looking at the clock radio.
"Jesus Christ, I gotta get home," Monica cried, jumping up. "He'll be home from his shift in less than an hour." She hurried to the bathroom.
"I'll get you some fresh towels," Scott called after her, resentfully rousing himself to sit groggily at the edge of the mattress.
"No time for a shower. I'll just comb my hair."
"But what about…?"
"How I smell? Never mind that. He won't come close enough to notice." She began pulling on her clothing.
Scott came to stand in the bathroom doorway, watching her dress. "Can I call you?"
She shook her head resolutely. "It's best if I call you. He works different shifts. I can always reach you at the station, can't I?"
"At night, yes."
"You don't mind if I call, do you? At the station, I mean?"
"Christ, no. I wish you would. I wish a lot of people would."
The telephone rang, waking Scott out of a deep, exhausted sleep. As soon as Monica left his apartment, he fell back in bed, this time to get some rest. Goddamn, he thought, let it ring. He covered his head with a pillow and tried to blot out the jangling sound. It continued.
Finally he had no choice but to get up and answer it. He padded to the kitchen and picked up the receiver of the wall phone. "Hello?" he said, mumbling.
"Oh, dear. I didn't wake you up, did I?" asked a female voice.
"Yeah. It's okay," he answered, rubbing his head, trying to make the ache go away.
"This is Rona Barnes, the receptionist at KSZX."
"Oh, yeah?" He wanted to add, "so what?" but decided he had better not. It never paid to get on the wrong side of a secretary.
"We've never met, because I work days and you don't."
"I know that," Scott said, trying to maintain his patience. "Is that what you called to tell me?"
"No, not really. I called to say Mr. Ransberg wants to see you."
"The manager? What for?" Scott asked, afraid he already knew.
"I'm sorry. I don't know that. I'm only the receptionist, after all. He wants to see you right away."
"Why doesn't he come in to see me on my shift?"
"Mr. Ransberg is not on duty from midnight to eight in the morning," the receptionist answered flatly.
"And I'm not on duty from nine, or ten, or whenever he does get there to whenever it is he cuts out for his afternoon golf game."
There, was a silence at the other end of the line. Finally the receptionist said, "I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything. I'm sorry for blowing up at you. It's not your fault. I'll get dressed and be right down."
Scott walked into the outer office. Behind the desk sat a very young redhead, her hair arranged casually around a girlish, good looking face.
"Hi," Scott said. "You the receptionist who called me?"
"Yes. I'm Rona Barnes. You must be Mr. Forsmo." She smiled warmly.
"It's Scott, Rona. I don't remember seeing you when I came in the first day, or when I came for my interview."
"I'm new, just started this week."
"Nice to see somebody's newer than I am around this place. Is the boss ready for me?"
"Just have a seat, Scott, and I'll buzz his office." She gestured toward the couch, her eyes flickering up and down the length of his body.
Scott wondered briefly whether her look meant what he thought it did, but he was so tired out from his marathon session with Monica that he did not want to think about if. Besides, she was young, hardly more than eighteen. Even though the girl was intriguing, he was not sure he wanted to take a chance with a kid. It was too bad, though, that they worked at different times from one another. If anything were to pappen under normal circumstances, it never would the way things were now.
"Mr. Ransberg will see you now," Rona said as she put down the telephone. "You know how to get to his office, don't you?"
"Yeah. Thanks, Rona. It's a pleasure meeting you."
Scott was again aware of the girl's dark eyes traveling up and down the length of his muscular body. He wended his way back through the studios to Ransberg's large, corner office.
"Come in, My Boy, come in!" Hal Ransberg said, jumping up from behind his long, walnut veneer desk. "Take a seat."
Scott sat down uneasily opposite the desk, uncomfortable in the straight backed chair. The manager was too jovial. As he had suspected, this was not going to be a pleasant meeting.
"How is your show going, Son?" Ransberg asked, settling back in his high backed chair. He crossed his pudgy hands across his bulging belly and smiled at Scott paternally.
"Okay, I guess," Scott mumbled.
"Okay? Is that all? Okay?" Ransberg rumbled, the smile still on his puffy lips. "We're expecting big things from you, Son. That's why I sought you out. That's why I saw to it you were hired. Yes, Sir, we expect big things." He said big things as though he were describing a whale. His tone made Scott more uncomfortable than ever.
"Yes, Mr. Ransberg," he replied, trying not to squirm.
"Yes, Sir. When Myra and I were driving along through your part of the country, Myra's the little Missus, you know, we were listening to the radio in the car. Little station from some hick town, and then your voice came over the speaker."
Scott nodded. He had heard the story twice before, once in his first interview and again right after he was hired. He smiled docilely, wishing once more he had stayed right where he was. It was not as much money, not nearly as much, but he had no hassles, and he had Celia.
"Celia," he had said as soon as he walked into the apartment, "Sit down, okay? We need to talk."
The girl came out of the kitchen, wiping he hands on a towel. She kissed him, and his hands automatically began roaming over her back. She pushed her body against his, her pelvis pressing on his already aroused penis. He took a deep breath and held her at arm's length.
"What is it, Scotty?" she asked.
"Come on and sit down." He led her to the white velvet couch. When the two of them were settled, he said, "I got a call today, from Indianapolis."
"Who do you know there?"
"Nobody, at least I didn't think I did. Actually, I still don't, or that is, I do now, but I didn't before the call came today."
Celia giggled at his confused explanation. "So, who called?"
"A guy named Hal Ransberg. He's manager of a radio station, FM."
"So?" Celia's hand was on his knee, the fingertips of it massaging him slightly. Soon, he knew, she would begin to move upward along his inner thigh, until she could cup his rapidly erecting cock.
"So he was driving through here, and he happened to hear me on the car radio."
"Interesting. What else?" Her hand stopped moving. It was as if she suspected what was coming next.
"He asked me to come to Indianapolis for an interview."
"Interview for what?"
He put his hand on hers. "For a job. They need a new voice for their night programming."
"A job? In Indianapolis? You've got to be kidding."
"You act like you can't believe anybody'd offer me a job."
"No, it's not that, not at all. You know that. It's just that… well, Indianapolis is such an awful place."
"For one thing, I came through there with my folks a couple of times on the way to Florida. It's ugly, and the land all around it is flat. If you built a hill, you could charge people a dollar to climb it and get rich. Besides that, the people there are real rednecks, conservatives."
"Don't you think you're generalizing a little?" Scott was growing angry, and he was not sure why. He had no commitment to Indianapolis. Yet he suddenly felt called upon to defend the place.
"Maybe I am generalizing. All I know is I read it's the headquarters of the John Birch Society, the Klu Klux Klan, and the American Legion. I don't know how much more conservative you can get than that."
"And so, My Boy, Myra agreed with me," Hal Ransberg went on. "It's not everybody KSZX offers to interview. This is your big break. Don't screw it up. I went out on a limb to hire an unknown."
"Yes, Sir," Scott answered mechanically. "It's just that…"
"Just that what?" Ransberg countered, the smile fading.
"I don't know how to make people call in if they don't feel like it."
Ransberg coughed. "That calling in idea's kind of a loser, anyway, don't you think?"
"You seemed to like it fine in the interview," Scott said, flaring. "So did everybody else. Besides that, it works everywhere else in the country but Indianapolis."
Ransberg shrugged his beefy shoulders. "It's your baby. It's up to you to make it work."
Scott jumped to his feet and headed for the door. "Gee, thanks!" he snapped. "Thanks for your support. I really appreciate it." He slammed the door behind him.
"Through with your meeting already?" Rona Barnes chirped as he passed her desk.
"You damn right!" Scott growled.
"Oh, dear, it sounds like things didn't go well. Mr. Ransberg can be aggravating all right. I know how it is. Anything I can do to help?"
"You can call me on the program tonight if you're up that late. I don't know why you should be, though. Nobody else is." He pushed open the double doors and strode down the hall toward the elevators. Jabbing the button, he waited a few seconds until the doors slid back and strode into the car. As it descended he thought again what he had been thinking in Ransberg's office, that he should have stayed in that little town with Celia.
"What do you say, Celia?" he asked that night, already afraid he knew her answer.
"I can't, Scott. I just can't go." She looked as if she were about to cry.
"But, Celia, Honey, what about you and me?"
"I can't help that," she whispered brokenly, shrugging her shoulders. "Don't you see, Scott? My plant store is just starting to make money. If I leave it now, I'll lose all the hard work I've put in. It's mine, Scott, my own business. If I had some kind of secretarial job I could leave here and pick up something there with no problem. I'd go then, even if it is Indianapolis."
"Buy a plant store there," Scott said.
Celia stared at him, the tears streaming down her face. "A plant store? In Indianapolis? I don't know why, but that's one of the craziest things I've ever heard in my life." She began to laugh, urgently, raucously, the tears still coming. She sniffled, and laughed, and grew weak, and fell into his arms, her despair wracking her entire body and turning her into an hysterical, sobbing child.