Club Royale was just outside the city limits of Rapier City, therefore under the Laxer County administration. Its history was long and shameful, starting from when a widow named Monique Kores opened its Colonial style doors in 1909. The local trade even then was good, for Monique Kores only kept the finest and cleanest girls to be fucked. That is, within the concept of that day and age.
Then there was a brief history of being a road-house, with the girls taking second place to the running of very bad liquor. During Prohibition, it was often harder to cage a drink than it was to find a willing girl… As so often happened in the late Twenties, the speak-easy existence attracted a cartel of gangsters, and by the time of Repeal, Club Royale – then known as Foxtail's – was a integral part of a chain of such hootch outlets, and it remained in the hands of the underworld ever since. During the War the girls, and the still considerable quantity of illegal alcohol served unknown over the bar, was supplemented by gambling. The third floor bedrooms were converted into sectional areas devoted to crap tables, poker, and roulette, with a bank of slot machines along one wall. But the motto of the club didn't change: never give the sucker an even break. Between posted house percentages and the unposted rigging of the games, winners were extremely scarce. Still, it attracted the sports for miles around; they may be crooked, but they were the only games in town.
Sam Zeigler became owner and manager of the club during the Swinging Sixties, a perfect cover and operations base for his other gangland business. He didn't like to brag about it – after all, if you are, you don't have to prove it – but he was the area crime boss, with a series of lieutenants and henchmen set up on an Army scale. The numbers racket was his, the women and dope traffic were his; even burglaries were cleared through him first, or the independent thief soon found more heat than all of the cops could put on him.
Zeigler was also shrewd enough to change the club to suit the times. Now it was the Scandalous Seventies, and the emancipation of women more complete than even the original Carrie Nation would have dreamed or approved of. The result was that his second floor prostitution operation took a steady nose-dive, while his bar and dinner business and the gambling above showed rising profits. Even the locals who didn't gamble or really have much of any other vices, liked the now re-named and refurbished Club Royale. It was posh and subdued on the main floor… and there was always that hint of mystery and wickedness from being so close to the rumored gangland overlords. But nothing could happen in so sumptuous and subdued atmosphere… Or could it?
The naive element of Rapier City and surrounding country would be most shocked to learn that yes, things could happen… and did! Using an elevator artfully out-of-the way in the back and carefully watched by a concealed guard, approved and selected clientele could go and gamble, or stop off on the second floor, where extensive changes had been made. Madame Kores would be disheartened not to find any of her fallen women plying their trade – now the willing escorts of sexually active men were customers to a lewd and erotic floor show which rivaled the wildest to be found in Tijuana, Juarez or Copenhagen.
Zeigler had been clever in using the general layout already there. Madam Kores had used the downstairs as her home and general bar and "parlor" for the gentlemen callers. The third floor – all changed now – and the second floors had been identically built for quick turnover. Her cribs were built along the four walls, all opening out to another "parlor" and bar (nowhere near as opulent as the one downstairs) which was in the center of the floor – like a courtyard in a Spanish villa. The girls would sit on the velveteen sofas and wait for their johns, and then use any of the free rooms. There were the usual escape passages: long, narrow halls running the circumference of the outside, the bedrooms opening out on their other side to them.
Zeigler made the escape passages into main halls, the little rooms soundproofed and luxurious, and the walls facing the old parlor tinted glass. With the lights out in the rooms, one couldn't see in, but if the occupants turned the lights on, they and their antics would be in full parade. The parlor was now a raised dais, used for dancing or mixing inbetween the shows… and then a large white-covered round bed would be lowered on gold chains for the show. If that's what the show called for…
Being Friday night, the rooms were full by ten; it was after eleven now and two shows had already gone on and at one o'clock there'd be another. Zeigler glanced at his watch and sipped his martini and hoped that this Mrs. Oliss and her girlfriend would soon show up. He'd not been too happy about reserving a room; lost money on a busy night like this; but Oliss had been insistent, and carefully explained how important it was for the good of his long-range plans.
The gangster sat in the downstairs bar, as he mostly did when he wasn't in his office – what had once been the dining room of Mrs. Kores' apartment – and inbetween the occasional smiles or waves or couple of words to friends and steady customers, he mused over the culpability of the Olisses. Zeigler was not stupid; a successful criminal in today's big-business method of vice and corruption would never be promoted. He had a college education, and had even considered going into teaching once. But the call of easy money and the lure of constant supply for his unquenchable lusts and his totally psychopathic personality suited him to the life he was leading now. He was happy, contented, and like the egomaniacal streak inherent in born criminals, was contemptuously smug.
He'd known of the Carmel development from the trade journals which crossed his desk, and was alert to any chance of getting his hands on it once he found out that Carmel lived in Rapier City and that Skopos was a local company. There had to be some way… and then two incidents happened which placed the invention almost in his lap. One was the request by the swap club to reserve the whole second floor for a private orgy. Zeigler was the kind who couldn't understand how people would pay through the nose for a shot of liquor when a whole bottle could be gotten for one hell of a lot less in the long run at a store, nor how some could fritter away hard-earned money trying to beat Lady Luck and his rigged percentages and then complain about always being broke. But he was always one to go along with sex games. Those he loved and sympathized with; the lavish and personal interest in the shows proved that. Not that he would have turned away the swap club any more than he openly displayed his disdain for the other vices – he was in the business to take, not judge.
He'd let them have the second floor on an off-night, giving them a bulk rate on the condition he could participate. He did, and that night was the first time he'd used a dog in the show – a specially trained German Shepherd from Mexico – and the first time he'd seen his then current girlfriend, fucked by another man. Christ, his cock had leaped at that sight – and he had to return the favor by fucking the seducer's wife. And that swap had been the second incident.
Mr. and Mrs. Martin Oliss had proved to be a well worth-while aquaintanceship. Oliss-Skopos' sales veep! What a stroke of luck! Nothing like selling a salesman, he'd found; Oliss had been putty in his hands, for if the man had been enough of an opportunist, and he had, to fuck his, Zeigler's girl, at the price of letting his wife be laid by the dog, he was sure to be greedy enough to see the pot of gold Zeigler dangled in front of him. All he had to do was get the plans or a mock-up of the invention, and Zeigler would handle the rest. And Oliss' promised cut would make him richer than his fondest dreams. His wife, the greedy, self-centered bitch, had urged her husband on, overcoming his initial reluctance.
Things hadn't been so damned easy after that, though. Zeigler couldn't tolerate excuses, yet that's all he'd gotten from Oliss. If he didn't know the sucker better, he'd almost suspect he was trying a double-cross… but he was too naive to believe in the old adage: "honor among thieves". Too bad Zeigler didn't – that is, Zeigler laughed silently to himself, too bad for Oliss. Oliss wasn't going to end up with anything when this was over, except a long jail sentence and a ruined reputation if he squealed. But Carmel's plans and models were in Kirsten, Nevada, and Oliss hadn't been able to come up with an excuse to go there until today. And now it was going to be nip-and-tuck to see if the invention could be wrenched from Skopos' control before the unveiling.
Zeigler was impatient and frustrated, and damned irritated at how close, and yet how far away he was. His superiors would brook less mercy on him if he failed than he was with Oliss. They already had the contacts lined up and the legitimate front organization with which to make a quick bleeding of the invention's worth. He had to succeed, and that was the only reason he could see for going along with this hair-brained, eleventh hour scheme of Oliss'.
To fuck some woman he'd never seen before! And a woman who never had laid for any man except her dippy husband! God, Zeigler could just imagine what Mrs. Carmel was like if she didn't like to fool around much. A sexless, horse-faced old prune, not withstanding Oliss' assurances that the wife was a looker. They always said the blind date was a stunning wanton, but if that was the case, why was she a wall-flower? Zeigler conjured up a skeletal-type in her late forties with damp-looking, string-like brown hair. She'd be wearing a limp dress with damp spots under her arms, and talk with a nasal twang.
And Zeigler could just imagine how smart she'd be. He'd tell her all the crappy lines and look mistily in her eyes, and all he'd see is vagueness, as if she'd just come up from a basement and didn't know quite why. He sighed and ate the olive and shoved his glass across to Louie, the bartender. Jesus and Mary, Mother of God, the things he had to do to make a buck these days.
"Why hello, Sam," came a familiar throaty purr, and he turned around, taking a deep breath as he started his act. He smiled in warm, yet surprised greetings to the sultry blonde standing next to him.
"Mrs. Oliss," he said with honeyed tones. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"It's Cylvia, remember?" she grinned back, and then added, "We came here for dinner. Oh – I'd like you to meet my very best friend, Lonnie Carmel. Lonnie – Sam Zeigler. A dear old friend of the family."
"How… how do you do, Mr. Zeigler," Lonnie said hesitantly.
"Fine, thank you. And call me Sam… Lonnie. Everybody does." He grinned infectuously, and then was interrupted by the bartender who placed another drink in front of him. "Your martini, Mr. Zeigler." The gangster chuckled at the two women. "Except for bartenders," he added. His cock stirred heavily in his pants. Jesus, so this is Mrs. Carmel, the woman he's to fuck! God, was he wrong! She's a knock-out, an absolutely tasty dish.
Lonnie stood and slightly blushed under the brazen gaze of Sam Zeigler. She tried to not show that his roving assessment of her curves were making her feel warm and embarrassed. Of course, she'd had that same shame-faced emotion ever since Cylvia had disapproved of her clothes and taken Lonnie to her house and selected one of the outfits hanging in her wardrobe. There had been the inevitable couple of drinks to steady her nerves, and so she'd been unable to put up more than weak resistance when Cylvia had insisted the wife put on a see-through gossamer blouse with only two small dark cups to hide her nipples, and a wet-look green plastic mini-skirt which barely covered her buttocks. And instead of her usual panties, the other woman had given her a tiny G-string which covered her actual vagina, but left her cunt lips exposed. The string rubbed against her still aroused clitoris, making her tingle every time she moved.
It was as if she was naked… and she blushed at the mere thought of allowing such indecent public display. But Cylvia had dressed similarity, and the blonde-haired woman's influence was still too strong to deny. They'd used the Oliss' flashy new Buick and before she'd realized it, they were parking in the large macadam lot of the Club Royale. She'd been here a couple of times before, on special occasions like her anniversary and Roger's birthday. After a few timorous hesitations, Lonnie screwed up her courage, and with her girlfriend's encouragement, walked through the marble foyer, keeping her eyes averted from the frank ogles which passing males gave the couple.
The interior of Club Royale was a combination of Gone With the Wind – which went with the Old Plantation style of Colonial facade – and Gay Nineties. The main dining and cocktail salon was impressive with white pillars and rich burgundy wallpaper and polished hardwood, and the booths were even out of the dim, indirect lighting, giving a romantic seclusion to their atmosphere. Their very design connotated knee-to-knee and head-to-head sitting while sipping cocktails or fine wines and talking in dusky murmurs, caught in a timeless void of sensual magnetism. The bar, at which Lonnie and Cylvia had "bumped into" the Oliss' wife's old friend was ornated carved oak with a gilt-framed mirror along the back-bar and low-hanging chandeliers of curved brass stems and rose-cups.
Lonnie was affected by the pervasive atmosphere, whether she consciously knew it or not; much time and money had been spent in making sure that the effect was not wasted. Somehow, Lonnie found that she was looking back at Sam Zeigler with less embarrassment, and with more interest. Detached interest, of course; she was not thinking in terms of him as a sex partner, but just as a good looking man. Sam was a six-footer, with a boyish and clean face and a strong, jutting jaw line. He was muscular and had a rusty brown color to his hair. In the soft light he was a handsome virile man; it wasn't until he was seen in daylight, a rare occurrence, that one could notice the softness to his skin, the slight moistness in his eyes, the small indications of beginning ravagement from his life of prolonged dissipation.
"Well, look," Zeigler said graciously, "if I wouldn't be butting in, why don't you two girls join me for dinner? I was about to eat, and," he said with a slight shrug, "who likes to eat alone?"
"Well, I don't think…" began Lonnie.
"Sounds delightful," Cylvia said strongly. "Of course we will."
"It's an expensive gesture, Cylvia," Lonnie protested. "I don't think it's fair to make Mr. Zeigler – Sam – pay for us."
"Nonsense," Zeigler said, waving his hand. "All on the expense account." He winked at Lonnie. "You're just a couple of my customers tonight. That's what I like about being a salesman."
Cylvia Oliss laughed at the harmless deception; her inner mirth came from the more evil joke that Zeigler was no more a traveling salesman than she was, and that the "expense account" was the gratis of the management. She hooked her arm through the gangster's arm and said: "Take your drink and find us a table. We're hungry!"
Yeah, I bet, Mrs. Oliss. Hungry for the show upstairs and the fun to begin. Zeigler signaled for the maitre d', outwardly pleasant, but filled now with burgeoning desire for the luscious black-haired young wife on his other side. The way she looked so damned worried! So blasted concerned and frightened! Zeigler was nearly unable to get off his bar stool as her innocent appeal made his cock stiffen into an erection and bulge his pants.
"We can't do this," Lonnie whispered urgently to her friend. "We're married women! What if somebody sees us?"
"Oh, don't be so silly," Cylvia admonished the wife. "Sam's a nice guy I've known for years. Best protection I can think of, and perfectly respectable." Before Lonnie could protest further, Cylvia grabbed her arm too, and the three of them followed the maitre d' to one of the darkest corners of the room.
Zeigler sat between the two women and while they had a delicious dinner, he steered the conversation artfully around a dozen different, innocuous subjects, fully in command. Slowly, inexorably, he moved into other, more intimate channels. He was a master of timing and could sense the most subtle of moods, knowing when to change and when to retreat or advance.
Lonnie Carmel, by her own admission, drank too much. Again. She always seemed to have a full glass in front of her; and the spicy food she'd allowed Zeigler to order for her was excellent but thirst provoking. If it wasn't the drink that was ordered before the main dinner arrived, it was the white wine with the fish course; if it wasn't the red wine which came with the meal, it was the port which was served with the dessert of cheese and crackers. By the time she was sipping her after-dinner coffee and the tulip-stem of Grand Marnier, she was more heady than she'd been at her house. It was an odd, worldly, devil-take-the-hindmost feeling she had, sitting so close to a strange man as if on a date – though she knew that it really wasn't any such thing as that, merely a friend of Cylvia and Martin. Zeigler was awful witty and even his off-color jokes kept her giggling. She'd never heard such course language before in mixed company, but it only made the jokes funnier, and she blushed at a few but laughed anyway, to be a good sport.
"Well, now," Zeigler said, sitting back from his coffee. "What did you two lovely ladies have planned now?"
"Nothing, nothing at all," Cylvia said.
"It so happens I've been invited to the party room upstairs," Zeigler said expansively. "Are you interested in being my guests?"
"A party?" Lonnie blurted out. "At this hour? Why, it's almost one in the morning!"
Zeigler burst out in laughter. "It isn't that kind of party."
"Well, I'm all for a little fun," Cylvia said, "but Lonnie here likes to go to bed early."
Her chiding remark irked the young woman, and she was just drunk enough to take umbrage. "I'd love to go. What kind of party is it?"
"Well, I don't know," Zeigler said, as if reconsidering a hasty offer. "It's a strip show, and I wouldn't want to scare you."
Now Lonnie was really stirred up. "Don't worry about me," she boasted. "I've been around a bit." Hollow words, and she knew it – but she wasn't going to admit being little more than a baby.
"I didn't know you'd ever seen a strip show," Cylvia said, adding insult to injury. "I didn't think you approved of them."
"I think they're lots of fun," Lonnie retorted, stung. She had seen one, in San Diego, with Roger before they were married, and she thought it as disgusting. "I'd love to see one, if it's good and hot." She could almost bite her tongue after blurting out the bald-faced lie. But the inferences to her Pollyanna virtue was too much to bear. Zeigler might not know her, but Cylvia should! Hadn't she given her friend her body just a couple of hours ago?
Zeigler signed the back of the bill with a flourish, not even bothering to see how much it was. Lonnie was impressed; Sam must be very successful to afford not even to look at the amount, and to be known well enough to sign rather than pay. Then he led the girls to the elevator, which she'd never even heard of before much less about the rooms above, and down one of the halls after the short ride to the second floor.
Lonnie was startled by the richness all around her. As Zeigler opened one of the doors to the converted rooms and held it open for her and Cylvia, she thought she'd entered a Hollywood set. There was a small but lavish bar next to the door, and a set of soft, low couches facing the large picture window. Through the window she could see other windows encircling a large stage, which was bare at the moment. One spotlight shone down like a ray of sun on the exact center, and some of the other rooms had their lights on, too, so that Lonnie could see other couples, three-somes, and parties of fours talking and drinking. Still other windows were dark, opaque and at first she thought they were the empty ones until she caught the fire-fly glimmer of a cigarette ember in one of them.
"Well, kiddies, how about a drink? What'll you have?" Zeigler grinned and went behind the bar. "Brandy, Benedictine, scotch, more Grand Marnier perhaps?"
The Grand Marnier had been delicious; Lonnie had another of the sweet liqueur, while Zeigler and Cylvia both had Black Russians. When Zeigler served Lonnie he let his hand slide down and half cup her right breast, but Lonnie moved away, uncertain whether it was an accident, but more worried that his one contact had made her nipple leap erect.
"Here's to a good evening, kiddies," Zeigler toasted.
Lonnie tipped her glass and the warm, smooth liquid felt wonderful going down. Then she sat down on one of the couches, tucking her feet under her buttocks after slipping her shoes off. Modestly she pressed her thighs and knees together so that Zeigler couldn't see up her tiny wisp of skirt – up to where her soft, hair-fringed cunt nestled nakedly. She smiled even as she remembered his hand on her breast, and when he winked at her she detected a certain lewd quality in the man she'd missed before. The hapless wife hoped that she hadn't gotten in over her head with her brave talk – but if things did get too rough she could always demand that a taxi be called. The logic soothed her and she drank more of the seemingly harmless liqueur.
Zeigler and Cylvia sat down on the same couch with Lonnie, crowding her, and the strange man's legs pressed against her thighs tightly. She tried to squirm away but there wasn't room. Then as a few minutes passed some of her restraints passed as once more she was laughing at Zeigler's stories and the banter which passed between him and Mrs. Oliss. Then Zeigler turned to her and said: "There's a few minutes before the show. I'd like to dance." He got up and went to a switch on the wall, and from a hidden speaker came a lilting refrain of a popular song, oozing violins and muted horns. Zeigler crossed to Roger Carmel's young wife and added: "You don't mind, do you, Lonnie?"
Lonnie looked at Cylvia pleadingly, but there was no help forthcoming. The other woman had a peculiar glint in her eyes, a shine which Lonnie had never seen before and made her uneasy. "Go right ahead," Cylvia purred in an erotic voice. "Enjoy yourself, Lonnie. That's why we came tonight, wasn't it?"
With a premonition of dread, Lonnie Carmel allowed herself to be pulled from her sitting position and into the stranger's arms. Their bodies met and Zeigler proved to be an excellent dancer, and she found herself melting in his strong embrace. The slow tempo beat through her body, and her breasts strained through the thin blouse, and after Zeigler had slipped his leg between her thighs she could sense a light dampness ease its way from her vagina as the rougher material of his suit rubbed her bare inner thighs and naked vaginal slit. It was as if he was fingering her, the way the tiny G-string pushed against her sensitive flesh and his leg grazed her tender skin – and she tried to pull back, alarmed. But his arms tightened, holding her closer.
The pretty wife turned her head and caught the length of her body and groaned with embarrassment. Her skirt was almost above her hips, and the fullness of her buttocks were visible to not only Cylvia, but to Zeigler, reflected as they were in the room's many mirrors, and to anybody in the other rooms who cared to look at her. The shiver of mortification, instead of making her stop, only seemed to urge her on, a tingle of wickedness starting in her belly. The alcohol lowered her reserves, the soothing music dropped them still further, and the awakening of her prurient desires by her lusting girlfriend shortly before shattered them. She allowed herself to drift from concerned fright into a slumberous feeling of wickedness. After all… it wasn't as if Sam was actually fucking her!
The lewd word, which had suddenly popped into her dizzy mind made Lonnie gasp. What was she thinking! She was thinking of being unfaithful to Roger… but hadn't she been already? The concept, which she promised herself would never take place, was erotically exciting to think about, though… She closed her eyes and imagined what Sam Zeigler would look like naked, his penis slipping inside her vagina – was he bigger than Roger? She opened her legs wider and bent backwards, jerking her body to the music beat, not wanting to stop now. Zeigler placed his hands on her all but naked buttocks and pulled her to his throbbing cock. She ground her hips against his loins, unable to control her body's sudden awakening, breathing a new fire which was growing in her.
The music stopped. Lonnie awoke from her stupor and shamed, she pulled out of Zeigler's arms and sat down hurriedly. The man said: "Your friend has a beautiful body, Cylvia."
"You should see her naked, Sam. She's really gorgeous."
Lonnie finished the contents of her glass in one gulp, petrified at the suggestive words her girlfriend had spoken. She blossomed in crimson and looked out on the stage. Then a cool, tall glass was slipped into her hands by Zeigler. "No more Grand Marnier, I'm afraid, Lonnie. Have a Black Russian with us." He sat down beside her, brushing her thighs as he had before…
And the house lights dimmed. Now the other windows were dark, and Lonnie noticed that the room they were in had also been plunged into darkness. The performance was about to begin! There was a soft rustling sound, and then from the middle of the stage's ceiling came a bed. It slowly lowered on gold chains – one at each corner. And on the bed was a young girl. Lonnie thought that the girl was about her daughter, Jennie's, age, perhaps a couple of years older, and as she sipped the Black Russian absently, she felt sympathy for the girl. The little titian-haired adolescent looked so forlorn and trembling as she looked around her, clad only in a brief bra and panties. They were black, and contrasted with her ivory skin.
Then the girl got up on her knees and arched her back as if yawning and tired. It seemed so real… Lonnie empathized, and identified with her innocence and melancholic look. The girl slipped her bra from her shoulders, and firm, ripe, yet almost child-like breasts hoved into view. The dias started to slowly revolve now so that little by little everybody in all the rooms, and Lonnie caught the sight off all of the lovely form as she turned.
Bending slightly, still acting as if scared witless but forced by some unknown threat to continue, the girl nervously rolled her silk panties down and took them off. Lonnie gaped stupefied at the young black pubic triangle. She'd never expected this! In the show she and Roger had seen, the girl had tassled breast cups and spangled panties at the end. It wasn't five minutes into the performance that the girl was completely nude, and making no attempt to hide it either! What more could happen!
Lonnie shifted uncomfortably on the couch, noticing for the first time that Zeigler had his arm around her waist, his hand tight on her side… but her mind was focused on the tender body on the bed as the girl lay back and opened her legs, exposing her pink cuntal slit and sparse young curls of pubic hair and her mounds of hard, pink-tipped breasts.
Lonnie blushed furiously as now the girl moved her hands first to her breasts, tweaking her nipples to hardened chips, and then down over her quivering belly to rub her inner thighs, her fingers never quite touching her vaginal parts. Lonnie shuddered, fascinated with the dual curses of remembering how she had been a little earlier on her livingroom couch, and how the girl was building to similar lusts – and taking Lonnie with her. The girl groaned, a silent plea that couldn't pass through the glass, but was obvious by her gaping mouth and tossing head.
Her fingers couldn't stay away… they had to touch her pussy, to relieve the burning itch inside her womb. Again Lonnie found herself sympathetically bound with the lovely young girl, tingling with anticipation. A soft moan escaped from her lips, and she grabbed her drink to try and quench the fluttering in her belly.
But the Black Russian only intensified the heat and excitement inside her. She squirmed down on the sofa and rubbed her nearly naked vaginal slit against the material, her body rocking in an almost discernible rhythm to the writhing girl. The girl inserted one finger… then two in her cunt hole and stroked her tiny clitoris with her other hand, her face tightening as she masturbated in full view of one and all, her white skin now glistening with the sheen of her lubricious pumpings, her black pubic curls becoming matted to her flesh. Lonnie could feel her own pussy moisten – and now she thought of how Cylvia's abandoned fingering had so aroused her prurient desires to the point where she succumbed to her fevered sexual needs. She fuzzily tried to convince herself that this time it wouldn't happen, that somehow she'd control the liquor in her and overcome any such temptations.
She leaned back, careful not to break contact with the edge of the cushion, and Zeigler's hand worked around her waist still more. Without thinking, she relaxed against its insistent tug, and rested heavily against his chest. His arm is so soothing, and it can't hurt… Zeigler's expensive cologne had a rich, suggestive aroma, stimulating her more.
The girl on the bed was now striving for her orgasm. She groaned and shuddered as her driving fingers sunk into her tight young opening, thrusting harder and harder. They were not enough. Still she tried, eyes tight, teeth clenched, straining every sinew and muscle in her frustrated longing for release.
Suddenly, from out of the black depths of one side, bounded a large, German Shepherd. He leaped on the bed, tongue lolling, and Lonnie gasped with terror, just as the girl was sitting up, her hands frozen in the position of masturbation. The giant dog bared its fangs in a menacing warning for the girl not to move, his panting head just above her exposed, defenseless crotch.
Lonnie tensed, and only Zeigler's firm grip kept her from bolting out of her seat. "My God!" she whispered, "what's that dog doing there?"
Zeigler grinned. "You'll see, my pet."
Lonnie sensed that she had better go before it was too late and her own excitement overpowered her – again. But the helplessness of the girl and the snarling of the dog sadistically fascinated her. A cold shiver ran through her, and she swallowed her drink eagerly. Then she leaned back again, the chill passing, and she couldn't resist as Zeigler's hand began to work upwards, toward her exposed, unsupported and heaving breasts. She squirmed tighter on the seat as one finger caressed the soft underside of one globe, then the finger and a thumb slipped under the minuscule cup and tweaked her nipple. Her nipple ached with hardness, and with a groan, she felt tiny throbs pulsing in her breasts and then her vagina, and she bit her lip to hold back further forbidden sensations.
She couldn't keep her eyes and attention off the stage, for now, as Zeigler massaged her aching breasts, she saw the girl moan as the dog lowered his head and sniffed her hair-covered pussy. Then the boxer snaked out a long, pink tongue and licked wetly the full length up from the girl's tiny puckered anus to the fluted little cuntal lips surrounding her clitoris. The animal wagged its tail, and flicked relentlessly between the girl's trembling, wide-spread legs. She jerked spasmodically and squirmed, raising her arms in indecision.
Lonnie could feel Zeigler become restless, and she heard the short panting gasps from her girlfriend and Cylvia twisted her buttocks on the couch nearby. She ground her own buttocks downward, and aching hunger inside her making her labor for breath. She shoved her wet, swollen vaginal lips against the soft material of the couch, and Zeigler's hand which was around her and cupping her breast, kneading it unhindered, thrilled her as much as it frightened her. She wanted to show Cylvia that she wasn't a prude, but for all of her desire to continue to watch the show, she didn't want her friend to know she was succumbing disgracefully to Zeigler's manipulations. So she snuggled closer, thankful for the lack of light in the room, and out of the corner of her eye she watched Cylvia, glad to see the blonde wife was rapturously intent on the girl and the dog and could not see her.
Zeigler dropped his other hand to her bare knee, slipping it up to the hem of her thigh-high skirt. Lonnie froze at the unexpected advance, and the man was half-way under her skirt, almost to her G-string before she recovered enough to restrain his wrist with her wrist.
The girl on the stage had capitulated to the dog's lewd demands now. She kicked her legs back and pulled his snout toward her flaming, spread cunt by holding the brute's long ears. His lizard-like tongue ravished her up-turned vagina without mercy, and she urged the dog on. The boxer worked like the savage beast it was, the rutting lust of the wild driving him on…
The girl's surrender hit Lonnie, and she was unable to stop Zeigler's hand in empathetic response. She squirmed as his middle finger began to gently stroke her cuntal lips, pushing the slender thread of her G-string panties away from the excitedly throbbing slit. A gush of shame washed over her as the waves of indecent pleasure overcame all desire to resist. Lonnie glanced at Cylvia again, but her friend showed every indication of not being aware. In fact, her own hand was under her skirt; Lonnie could see the moving bulge as the woman fingered herself underneath the cover of the material. A sudden cold rush of air across her fevered skin warned the mesmerized young wife that Zeigler had taken her moment of concentration to work her narrow skirt up over her thighs.
Zeigler wormed his finger into the moist, demanding walls of the soft, gently pulsating pussy, and she tightened her inner muscles against it, only making the electric sensations that much more acute. She held her breath for fear that some tell-tale sound would escape her lips, while her very being quivered on its foundations as Zeigler moved his finger in teasing little circles inside her. She could feel her lubricating juices cover his palm as it ground almost flat now against her pubic hair.
The girl was following the orders of the dog as Lonnie gazed enraptured at the salacious sight. The dog was nuzzling the girl's pelvis, and what he wanted was plain – for the girl to turn over on her stomach. And the girl, after one wild-eyed shudder of terror, obediently knelt, elevating her firm young buttocks, bending before the great animal in abject surrender. His relentless tongue had crushed all revulsion, his viscous temper halting any hope of resistance. She cowered, face to the bed, awaiting his attack.
Lonnie's nerves were shattered, her brain dulled almost comatose by the large amounts of alcohol she'd consumed, and her body was prickling with sexual heat. She knew deep in her mind that she should flee this carnal house, for Cylvia's friend, Sam Zeigler, was far too fast for her and this wasn't being true to Roger. She owed her husband faithfulness and herself a chance to let the wound of her earlier transgression time to heal. But she couldn't resist the maddening teasing of her inflamed cunt, and the lewd sight of the little girl and the monster dog was just too much to bear.
"What… what is she waiting for?" the young housewife whimpered gutturally. "She's… she's just hunched like that. What's the dog… the dog going to do to her?"
"Why," Zeigler chuckled throatily, lewdly, "the dog's going to fuck her, Lonnie."
"Wh-what?" His obscene explanation burned her brain.
"Fuck her," Cylvia Oliss cut in eagerly. "Fuck her just like Sam here is going to fuck you while I watch!"
Lonnie Carmel went out of her mind at that moment, and a thin film glazed over her eyes. She nearly fainted. Something had to give!