Carmel. The name conjures up a particular image. It is, quite simply, a tourist town on the coast of central California. It is that, and much more. Carmel: playground for the rich and the rich-retired. A quaint little town, once a village, now grown, yet still having many attributes of a village with no sidewalks, trees growing in the middle of a street, no street addresses or street lights. There are still many board-and-bat cottages built back in the days when it was truly a village and an artist's colony.
Carmel happens to be set down on a peninsula, at the mouth of a fertile valley, at a piece of coastline that is unique in the world and breathtakingly dramatic. A melding of sky, sea, mountains, and river-mouth delta land. Carmel is like a jewel nestled in a belly-dancer's navel. The Carmel River empties into the sea, and the deep royal blue of the Pacific crashes wedding-cake white waves on hoary rocks that stand off shore like prehistoric reminders of another time. The St. Lucia mountain range seems to rush – to plunge down into the Pacific as the dramatic end to the land, to America. Carmel is part of the peninsula that juts out into the Pacific and holds two other towns, or communities: Pacific Grove and Pebble Beach.
Pacific Grove is a quiet area of families and retired couples of modest means. It is a religious town and it is one of the few islands of abstinence, a dry town and proud of the fact. Consequently, Pacific Grovians have to drive outside of the city limits to package stores and is literally ringed with liquor stores. At night, the people drink at home, quietly, behind drawn shades.
Most of the people who live in Carmel and Pebble Beach regard Pacific Grove as a quiet place and seldom go there.
At the entrance to the peninsula sits Monterey with its harbor and fishing fleets and Cannery Row of John Steinbeck fame. Cannery Row is nothing more than a tourist place now with only one cannery operating and the rest of the canneries and warehouses housing craft shops and clothing stores.
Hippies, with a record store, a health food shop and a leather craft shop, have made a foothold on one end of Cannery Row.
Hippies are seen in Monterey and Pacific Grove and Carmel. They are a problem because Carmel lies between San Francisco and Big Sur. It is an attractive stop-over point for hitch-hikers and a problem to the city fathers.
There are no hippies in Pebble Beach. It is more a community than a town. Here, in breath-taking loveliness, behind walls and gates that are guarded, live the very rich. Here is the famous Del Monte Lodge where only the wealthy and famous can afford to stay. Here is the world-famous seaside links of Pebble Beach, scene of the glamorous Bing Crosby Clambake once a year. Here are movie stars and society matrons, all with an elegance and fresh clean good looks that go with the peninsula. Here, on any day, one is apt to see a blonde with that scrubbed, spanking-clean, mint-mouthed smile and dazzling white turtleneck sweater and slacks striding through the Beach Club or to Club Nineteen or seen walking down the fairway, following some golfers.
Here, at Pebble Beach, behind guarded gates, the beautiful, talented, and rich people gather to play and party, and some of them stay to live.
Pebble Beach has its own security force which guards the gates, charging admission to tourists who look respectable and patrolling the roads that cut through the forests and parallel golf courses. They patrol past the gates with gravel roads that twist and lead up to grand homes. Most of the elegant houses are hidden from sight by shrubbery and fences, for residents of Pebble Beach pay well for beauty and privacy.
There are famous admirals, generals, movie stars, and business men living there. By and large, far and away, you couldn't find a group with more character. There were a few; those that had inherited their money and couldn't handle it. There were those that came from old money, had a good family name yet suffered the inevitable consequences of too much in-breeding that bordered on the incestuous. Such a person was Web Hardman. His home at Pebble Beach was one of the best. Hidden from the road, it commanded a sweeping view of the Pacific, had a private beach and was ringed on the land side by a high cyclone fence that spawned barbed wire at the top. The gate was opened electronically, but only after a visitor had obeyed an amplified voice command and stepped up to a pillar where a television camera scanned them.
Such precautions were not out of the ordinary in Pebble Beach, for it was expected that people valued their privacy and the security patrol was there to reinforce it.
Web Hardman seldom went out and played a very respectable and passive part in the peninsula's social life. No one, outside of a trusted few, ever suspected what went on in his house. Lights late at night, parties and music, were far from uncommon at Pebble Beach, and the security patrol's principle problem at night was seeing that tipsy drivers got safely home. Whenever Web's name was mentioned in the peninsula's paper, The Monterey Herald, he was described as, "One of the coast's most eligible bachelors." Web did his best to keep his name and picture out of the paper.
Carmel is a tourist and retirement center. It also has a population of young people, many of whom work in its stores and shops. They are usually young, intelligent, ambitious, and attractive. They are the type of people concerned with where they live, concerned about beautiful surroundings. They are usually ambitious people, eager to get ahead, drawing some sort of identity from waiting on or associating with the rich.
Unlike Pacific Grove, Carmel is far from dry and it harbors some of the best bars on the peninsula. The Red Lion, a facsimile of an English pub; Su Vecimo with its Mexican motif; La Playa with its casual elegance and thick adobe walls; El Matador with its austere, regal, bullfight atmosphere. On any weekend, the mentioned bars – and more – swing late, crowded with attractive couples. One such couple sat in a comer of El Matador, drinking Irish coffees and gazing soulfully into each other's eyes. They had that sad, tender, troubled look that soulful lovers sometimes wear. The man, rugged, tall, and good looking, was obviously containing his anger and disappointment. He will be leaving the next day for the jungles and rain forests of South America where he will engineer a camp and build a bridge. His wife looked at him bravely, holding back her tears. She must, for they both know that others in the bar are looking at them, the males especially. Men always look at her. She had a wild mane of naturally red hair it frames her face in an untamed flame-licking way. Her skin was that creamy white that so often goes with red hair and her eyes are a vivid blue and set wide apart. Her mouth is large, almost but not quite too large and her wetly glistening lips are full-formed. Her profile was pure and clean and made one think of the poets in Ireland and the misty isles and a natural kind of majesty and royalty. If her face and hair weren't enough, there was her body. God must have been in a wild and ecstatic mood when he created her. Most women would give a fortune to have her body. Tall, with sensually flaring hips and long elegant thighs, she possessed a slim waist that rose to two perfectly round breasts that bulged excitingly beneath the soft sweater she was wearing. She leaned forward and put her elbows on the table as she looked wistfully at her husband, and every man could see that she wasn't wearing a brassiere by the molten, rubbery way her breasts moved. Those breasts, those two firmly jutting mounds of flesh with their nipples straining and pointing through the wool, were real! They were almost – not quite – too big for her slim build.
She had two black moles – beauty marks – on her face: one on her cheek and one on the side of her chin. She wore only a little makeup and she didn't even need that. Her eyelashes were unusually long, and her generously fun lips seemed always to be wet, to have a sheen to them. Her smoky, startlingly blue eyes had a hot provocative look to them. That look was always getting her in trouble because men misread her intentions.
This attractive redhead, this girl who reminded men of Raquel Welch, was Kim Stewart! She sat staring at her husband, Hank Stewart, engineer, husband, a scion to a Pebble Beach fortune. He was cut off from that because he eloped with Kim. Kim had worked as a waitress in a local restaurant, The Butcher Shop, when she had met Hank. He had swept her off her feet, rushing her beyond her belief. Within two weeks of meeting, they were married and Kim was walking about a quarter of an inch off the ground when their world came crashing down.
First it had been his family. They didn't approve. They were proud and powerful people. They were lofty and the family tree went back to New England and the Mayflower. She was coldly ignored, and Hank was told in formal and frosty terms that he was being cut off from any funds. This, in itself, wasn't too much of a blow. Hank had money of his own and a profession: engineering. He opened a small office in Monterey, and they rented a one-bedroom cottage in Carmel near the beach. They were happy with chilly night walks on the beach and hurrying home to a bright fire and hot toddies. They would sit by the fire, listening to the waves crashing on the beach and feeling the warm glow of the fire. Hank reassured Kim that in time, his parents would come around. "They'll see what kind of a person you really are."
Although she didn't say so, Kim was determined to show them by example what kind of a person she was. They would see that they were wrong, that she was an asset to their family even if her parents were poor and she had to work for a living. They would see Hank happy, and they would realize they were wrong. Kim vowed to lead a life that would be beyond reproach.
And that vow led to and helped sharpen their real problem. Despite her looks, Kim was not sensual. In fact, she was exactly the opposite. She felt her body was too well-endowed, that it was too shapely and provocative and as a result, she went to great lengths to hide it. And, the more she tried to hide it the more she called attention to it. Even her walk got her into trouble because it was a liquid thing that made the bottoms of her buttocks twitch in a way that made men grit their teeth. Kim was aware of her walk and when she tried to slow it down, repress it, keep it subdued, she only succeeded in making it slow and slinky. It was the same walk used by a stripper who stalks across the stage and removes the last tantalizing shred of clothing and stands magnificently naked except for a trivial G-string, sheer black stockings, and high heels. Kim walked with that breath-taking expectation of something lewd happening.
Hank compounded the problem. Although from a proper WASP (White, Anglo Saxon, Protestant) family, he was more Latin in bed than anything. In fact, when he had too much to drink, he was positively brutal and lewd in bed.
Kim wasn't sensual or didn't think she was. She had been raised in a strictly religious home and sex was always something dirty and sinful to her. On top of her natural reticence, there was her determination to show his family that she was worthy. She kept imagining the day when they would finally invite Hank and her to their house. When that day came, Kim was going to be able to look Hank's mother in the eye, and Mrs. Stewart was going to see that Kim was a decent girl, not some cheap slot. His mother was going to see it in her face because Kim was determined to live that way.
She knew Hank was frustrated, but she felt he would understand. She felt that deep down he didn't want her to behave in a lewd way. Not really! If she behaved in that way he would eventually lose respect for her. No, Kim was firm and stuck to her guns.
The situation worsened with the coming of the South American job. It was a big job and an important one and Hank felt he was lucky to have landed it. The rain forests of the upper Amazon basin was no place for a bride. It was a wilderness, and none of the men were taking their wives. Besides, there would be no time for women, only time for carving a camp out of the jungle and building a bridge.
At first, Hank wasn't going to take the job. Then he began to feel that time apart might help their marriage. He had never dreamed that his wife would be such a cold fish in bed. Everything about her led one to believe the opposite. Kim would let him have sex with her while she lay underneath him, stiff and unresponsive eager to have it over.
Now, tonight, while Nichole was in the Pebble Beach home of Web Hardman and uttering Kim Stewart's name, she was having a farewell drink with Hank. He would be leaving early in the morning and she wouldn't see him again for six months. Half a year! Hank was being polite and grim and, to Kim's concern, he was drinking too much.
So far, their parting had been tender. They left the Matador late, saying good bye to domino playing friends at the bar. Hank shook hands with the bartender and told him to keep an eye on Kim. He was polite and careful, the way he always got when drunk. Kim knew – and dreaded – what the next step would be.
Hank drove home along Scenic Avenue, above the beach of white sand that seemed almost to glow in the moonlight. Long white breakers came out of the night and broke on the shore. Far out at sea, mysterious off-shore lights winked and moved steadily along. Hank didn't have much to say on the drive home. Nor did he say anything when they went to the bedroom and Kim fled into the bathroom, closing the door and changing into her negligee. Hank slumped down on the bottom of the bed, staring at the floor, his lower lips thrust petulantly out. She, Kim, carried the modesty thing just a little too far to suit him. She wouldn't wear a brassiere because she thought the undergarment made her breasts stick out too much. As a result, her taut little nipples poked against her sweaters and blouses and drove men nuts.
He clenched his fists as he thought of her getting up in the Matador and slinking to the ladies room with every stud in the place drooling and looking at him with that "You-sure-are-getting-yours" kind of envious look. And watching her come back to the table with that wild hair and cool look and her hips twitching and her breasts cargo-shifting, rubbing together, under the sweater. It's a wonder she wasn't raped.
A drunken leer came across his face, and he gunned at the closed bathroom door. Rape! She was carrying it just a bit far, changing in there. After all, it wasn't against the law for a husband and wife to be naked together. He snorted, realizing how long it had been and knowing that she was shortly to come through the bathroom door clad in an ultra-respectable nightie – probably something made out of flannel and real itsy-poo.
He was right. Seeing things distorted through a prism of too much Scotch, he lurched to his feet as she came into the room. To him it seemed she was playing the little girl with an ugly nightie up to her Adam's apple, wearing a gown with ribbons and bows on it and only her bare toes peeking out from underneath.
Essentially, he was right. The negligee was demure and she did have a polite smile on her face, hoping he would respond in kind. She yawned in front of him as he stood swaying before her, breathing heavily through his nose. "We'd better get to bed. We've got to be up early, so you can catch that plane," she said, trying to calm him.
"Nuts. Bull! The hell with the plane," he growled as he lurched toward her. His big hands seized her by the shoulders.
"Hank! You're hurting me!"
"So what? Take it off, baby!"
"Hank, stop this instant!"
Her tone only served to annoy him. He was too far gone in alcohol and frustration to bother to listen. He saw her walking, slinky and sexy, a real prick-tease, across the floor of the Matador with her ripely rounded buttocks twitching and her big beautiful breasts shifting, quivering and wiggling under her sweater. He saw all the bar-rail studs looking at her with one thing on their minds. Mentally they had all fucked her… and what was there for him – her husband? Now, this… this Shirley Temple nightie! He hooked his fingers in the collar of the gown and pulled, tearing the negligee down the front to her slender, ripely flaring hips. He caught glimpses of her voluptuously naked flesh beneath; her protruding musk-melon breasts so round and full, so quivering with softness and fleshy promise; her firm stomach that was curved out of ivory in subtle undulations and the "V" of her lush pubic mound. Everything – her stomach, her sleek young thighs that were as smooth and warm as a baby's skin – everything seemed to swoop and rush head-long to her loins where her plumply rounded mound of Venus was licked with a tongue of softly curling flame from her sparse red pubic hair!
The drunken engineer's breath came faster as he lurched after her. Kim backed against the wall, her hands and arms trying to hide her breasts that jellied in fright and her naked loins. "Hank, don't you dare!"
He grabbed her wrist and yanked her arm to one side with a brutal ease and her firm young breasts leaped free and quivered in front of his face and he half grunted, half-growled as be stared at her softly fleshed globes. Consistent with her flame-tousled complexion, her nipples were the palest of pink, delicate and finely formed.
It was with an animal savagery that he stepped forward and locked one burly arm around the terrified young wife's slender waist and squeezed, forcing her to bend over backward. Kim tried to protest, but his other hand was clamped over her mouth with a sudden force… and her head was forced back to where it crashed against the wall, causing her to see stars. She was pinned between his hard body and the wall, bent over backward from the waist while her lovely harvest moon breasts were nakedly free and tilting up to where his hot, moistly hungry mouth ravished them. He was close to going berserk as he greedily licked the distended little nipples. Clamping his voracious mouth over them he sucked hard and then bit down on them, feeling their berry-like buds respond, grow taut and buffeted as he rolled them around with his tongue and teeth.
The red-headed wife struggled with all her might, but her frantic squirming seemed only to excite the drunken engineer to more brutality and worsen her position. His powerful hips were being savagely ground into hers, and she could feel the growing hardness of his long thick cock under his pants. Her head was forced back and the negligee had slipped down, exposing her smoothly rounded feminine shoulders and breasts and at the same time, effectively pinning her arms at her sides. Kim's breasts were completely naked now and tilted toward the ceiling; they moistly glistened in the bedroom lamplight… wettened with hot saliva as his hungrily sucking mouth darted from one nipple to the other.
Finally the struggling young girl was able to turn her head to one side, freeing her mouth. "Hank, stop, it's me, Kim!" She knew he was drunk and didn't know what he was doing; she had to bring him to his senses! "It's me, Kim!"
"KIM!" He roared out her name and let go of her, stepping back and standing in a savage semi-crouch, looking at her and letting out a wild laugh, a laugh utterly devoid of humor and full of violence and ugly contempt.
Kim stood against the wall completely naked to her waist, her twin fleshy moons heaving for breath. She tried not to move… not to startle him. My God, he was beyond reason! His eyes were glassy and wild, glazed over with lust and alcohol. She had to get through to him. "Hank, wait a minute. Take it easy. It's me, Kim." She spoke softly, as if to a child or a growling dog she was trying to reassure. "It's Kim. Your wife. Remember? Take it easy. Wait a min…"
She never got a chance to finish her sentence, for she screamed, involuntarily, as he brutally seized her by the wrist and, with a strength she never dreamed he possessed, pulled her to him and then snapped her out, across the room, hurtling toward the bed. He snapped her with an incredible strength, tossed her as if she were a child on the end of snap-the-whip; she literally flew through the air until her knees hit the edge of the bed, and momentum flung her forward – down on her face and stomach to the mattress.
She bounced up from the sudden impact, but the aroused engineer was on her from the rear, his thumb and fingers clamping themselves on the back of her neck like steel bands. They hurt a lot, made her cry out and be afraid to move, as he forced her back face down on the bed. His other hand groped for the negligee and she felt and heard it rip as he impatiently clawed at it until he had torn every last shred away. Now she was pinned helplessly down on the bed, the covers rubbing against her nipples that were extraordinarily sensitive from his ministrations. His heavy breathing was a combination of things: alcohol, exertion, and a growing, yammering, exulting passion. A horny wildness was coursing through his blood and pounding on the iron-hard, heavily-flanged head of his cock that throbbed so hard that it ached.
He looked down at his wife, at the hollow of her back and the way it arched up to where her shoulder blades stuck out like incipient angel's wings. He stared, almost drooling, at the creamy whiteness of her flesh, at the fullness of it, especially the wonderfully extravagant way her ripely full buttocks blossomed into twin mounds of succulent white flesh that were now, before his eyes, squirming, and undulating before his eyes.
Making an animal sound in his throat, he lifted her head from the bed, causing her to arch her back even more. Two tiny dimples appeared in the middle of her supplely-fleshed ass cheeks.
With his mouth twisted into a drunken shark-like smile, Hank watched as Kim worked her hands and arms under her and pushed up slightly, taking some of the pain off her tortured neck. She winced and tried to hold her head erect as she gasped. "Hank, y… you… you are hurting… mmmmeee!"
It was a plea, a plea that ended in a squeal because he was hurting her. His neck hold was pressing against nerves, and she had to have some relief. She pushed against the bed with her hands and lifted her torso a little more. In so doing, her breasts were tightly squeezed between her arms, creating a deep warmly shadowed cleavage.
Hank was looking at the creamy twin cheeks of her buttocks and the darkly inviting crevice separating them. Watching them move and form with Kim's struggles to relieve the neck-pressure, the rapaciously aroused engineer gloated as he saw her flesh ripple and the buttocks go firm and full, firm and full! Damn, it was wild to see! Damn! Hadn't he always wanted to! Damn!
He was wildly drunk and driven by a real whorehouse abandon. He had always wanted to go to a brothel, he had always wanted to buy the whole fucking place out and get just drunk enough not to care… especially not caring because of the fore-knowledge that none of the prostitutes, no one in the whorehouse would ever see him again. With all that in mind, with all those things gong for him plus a pounding all-powerful horniness; with all those things going for him, he could, just once, let himself go and do as he damned pleased!
Over his wife's nakedly tormented body, he hooked his hands between her tightly clenched legs. Holding his fingers stiff, he drove it between her thighs while he held her pinned in place face down with his iron grip on her neck.
"Hank, my God! Pleeeeaaaasssseee!"
Alcohol drifted like smoke over his brain, and his temples pounded with the brutal lust he felt heatedly boding through his body and hammering in his groin. It was a good whore he had here on the bed and the night was his. Shit, they didn't even know his name in this cathouse. He could do as he pleased. Someday, he would confess to Kim that he had gone to a whorehouse this night, and that he had fucked a prostitute with wild flame hair who looked just like her. Yes! That was it, this bitch here looked just like his wife – his cold, frigid wife with about as much sex drive as a capon chicken!
Somehow that thought was too much for Hank. Here was a common whore who looked just like Kim and he could do all the things to her he never dared do with his wife… and, best of all, he could pretend this slut was Kim! The thought was delightfully dirty to him and he gave a harsh laugh. After all, he was paying her well, and he would never see her again, and he was just drunk enough to do a couple of interesting things he'd always wanted to try.
He let go of his wife and lurched backward, losing his balance and staggering back like a punch drunk fighter as he ripped his shirt off, heedless of the buttons popping on the floor like broken teeth.
Kim spun on the bed to face him, kneeling with arms crossed over her nakedly full breasts, her long red hair hanging down like dark rich tongues of flame licking at her shoulders and breasts. Her hair framed her face in loose natural ringlets which gave her face the bawdy careless look of a teasing whore. Her arms crossed over her breasts only drew attention to their fleshy fullness as they swelled firmly to become tantalizing warm orbs ballooning upward. "My God! Hank, do you understand me? Kim! I'm Kim! Do you understand? Talk to me!"
She shrank back from him, really afraid now, her neck hurting while her eyes darted about, looking for an escape. She must get through to him or get away. He was berserk, wild, not the same man she married!
He tossed his shirt away, breathing loudly through his nose and feeling his body covered with a hot sexual sweat. He grinned at his wife as he staggered around taking his pants off. Good! He liked these whores a little afraid; he liked to see one cowering in fright before him, her thighs tightly clenched together, her sparse red pubic hair wedged tight at the "V" of her groin, her breasts all bunched up like white straining balloons as she tried to hide them. He laughed aloud as he saw the halos of her nipples peeking like pale pink half-moons over the edge of her protecting arms.
"Hank, you have to hear me! If you don't stop, I'm going to call for help!"
He paused, blinking, his thumbs hooked in his shorts. What the hell was this slut saying, what was she getting at? This was his party, he had paid for it. Wasn't he leaving for South America in the morning? He sure was, and no one, nobody, not one soul in this whorehouse would ever see him again. He grinned, bleary-eyed and unfocused, at Kim nakedly crouched on the bed in front of him. "Tonight's my night to howl," he said, his words slurred.
"Hank, you don't know what you're saying."
"Sure do. 'Sall fixed with the madam. Don't you… you worry."
"You've had too much to drink, now come to bed."
He saw Kim brush her hair back behind one creamy shoulder and saw her ripely full breasts jiggle enticingly as she leaned back and pulled the covers down, her long slender legs straightening out as she started to lie down. She smiled tolerantly and sweetly, and she urged him to bed. "Come, darling, you need some sleep."
She misunderstood his grin, thinking she had finally gotten through to him and that he understood her. The young wife had no way of knowing that all Hank saw was a wildly sensual looking chippie inviting him to bed. He yanked his underwear down, having some difficulty pulling it over his huge, throbbingly erect penis.
Kim suddenly was frightened as she looked at his massive hardness. She had never before, in their short marriage life, gotten such a good look at it. Always, before, she had seen it while he was changing clothes or coming from the shower, and then it had always been limp and hanging. She always insisted that all lights be out, that the room be in total darkness before they made love. Those nights they had grappled and groped in pitch black darkness, and she had been forced to feel his heatedly pulsating shaft with her hand; she would feel it and recoil from its size and heat and hardness. She would feel it between her legs crudely pushing and hurting, into her tightly stretched little vagina like a thick club, a coarse battering ram.
Now, her fingers flew to her mouth as she saw the full immensity of maledom throbbing so menacingly in front of her in the lamplight. Thick veins snaked along its tree-stump shaft; the lust-swollen head was bulging and a deep red where it was blood-filled. The head was spread like a cobra's head and shone in the light with its swelling thickness. It hung away from his body and swung heavily toward her, as if it were sensing her. His hairy, sperm-bloated balls hung low, and he stood in front of her a frightening specimen of masculine sexuality with layered slabs of muscles on his stomach like Roman armor, and his chest bulging hard and flat, and the veins standing out in his biceps and oak-like arms. He had told her about his working out at the Pacheco Club in Monterey and she believed him. His muscles glistened now with sex-sweat and booze. A shudder of admiration combined with fear went through her.
"Hank, NO!"
She had just time to yell before he was on her, tearing at her, seizing her wrists as she pummeled her fists against the cords of muscles on his chest. He seized her wrists and forced them wide apart, causing her full fleshy breasts to spread and rise nakedly. The terrified young wife turned her head away from the blasts of stale alcohol on his breath as he easily pulled her to him. His strength was total and terrible to Kim, for she knew she was as helpless as an infant in his grasp.
She felt the hard, hotly throbbing tip of his cock against the silken triangle at the pit of her belly and she pushed her buttocks out and away, contracting from the fearful sexual thing. Hank yanked her torso close and tightly clasped her around the shoulders, pinning her arms to her side and crushing her naked, fearfully heaving breasts against his iron-hard chest. He looked over one shoulder and saw the way she was sticking her firmly fleshed buttocks out, the way the creamy white cheeks pulled apart to reveal the depth of the crevice between them. He thought he could even glimpse her tightly puckered little anus as she struggled to pull away from him.
"Hank, I'll yell for help! I mean it!"
He seemed to relax as he looked over her shoulder and down her curving, concave back that was arching again as she struggled to hold him up and, at the same time, pull her loins away from his thick poker-like penis that seemed hot enough to burn her flesh. She thought she could still feel the seared place where it had touched her stomach. She squirmed her buttocks back further, unaware she was exciting him all the more. He looked at the smoothly rippling cheeks of her ass and thought of baby fat. Like a young teenager with that firm, sensually soft baby fat!
With a roar, the drunken engineer was over her, twisting her and sending her sprawling nakedly backwards on the bed. He fell on top of her with a crash that made little stars arc and explode in the room before her eyes as she felt the breath knocked out of her and pain, like a network of nerves, spread through her chest and stomach.
With a roar, he was on top of her and his brutal wet mouth cut off her scream and locked on hers, crushing her pulpy full lips, hurting them, bruising them, as he ground down and his hotly thick tongue exploded into her mouth. She fought to catch her breath, thinking she would gag or suffocate. She felt his full weight and the long hot hardness of his cock pulsating in her fearfully cringing belly.
Tears were in her eyes, dimming the scene as he forced her long slender legs apart, bruising, pinching the silky skin of her inner thighs. He forced her legs wider still until muscle cords stood out like flesh-colored cables along her inner thighs. With all her strength, she pulled her mouth free from his and sobbed, "For God's sake, Hank, stop! You're killing me!"
A stinging slap was his only answer. She never saw the blow, only felt it and felt it sponge into her face, numbing her with pain. She gasped for air and sobbed, thinking she would pass out… almost hoping for unconsciousness.
With a grunt, he shifted his weight and seized the stunned young wife's wrists again, forcing them up and back over her head, causing her naked breasts to stand out ripely jiggling before his face. His savagely voracious mouth fed on them again, tearing at them. She felt his cock, the head of it, like some mammoth wild thing at the entrance to her tightly tensed vagina, and she shut her eyes and tightly contracted her cuntal muscles in an effort to prevent penetration – prevent this brutal drunken rape of her tender femaledom.
"AAAAaaaaggghhhaaaa!!!"
The thick mighty head plowed forward, easily spreading her pulpy, softly wet vaginal lips. They parted under the sheer power of his thrust. Hank lifted his torso and looked down between their nakedly entwined bodies. His cock was poised, its sheath pulled back tight over the head that was almost a deep maroon color from the blood that throbbed in it. The lust-swollen head was almost covered by the flushing, pretty pink pussy lips that had reluctantly parted to make room for his invading cudgel. Laughing drunkenly, the engineer released her wrist and raked his fingernails across her stomach, feeling her softly defenseless flesh giving while she sobbed and tried to hit his face with her free hand. "Hank, you've gone crazy. Stop!"
He seized her wrist again with an agile, almost indifferent speed and forced it back over her head and raised his torso once more. Four wavering pink lines were raising on her belly where he had scratched her. The lines seemed to point like directional arrows toward the proud, defenselessly trembling swollen lips of her little cunt lips that were so sensuously curved and puckered, almost like a mouth. Her entire vagina was a vivid pink color as he thrust his massive cock-head against the lips and he saw them part, fold inward under the force of his entry. He saw the distended pink nib of her little clitoris proudly standing, revealed between her swelling vaginal lips, erect and sensitive in its own little oiled valley.
Again, he gave a laugh that ended in a snort. He thrust again, and the captive young wife cried out as his cock ran in like a thick tree stump disappearing into her soft, hotly quivering cunt.
Kim felt her legs spread even more painfully apart and she gave out another bird-like cry of distress as the total brutal thrust of his hard dominating cock into her helplessly stretched pussy forced her buttocks to roll under and her legs to fly up in the air. He began pumping with his hips with an ox-like strength, brutally and lewdly fucking in and out of her cunt, sawing away with his wetly glistening penis so thick and veined.
Hank's fucking was brutal and wild and his hands were all over her as he pinched and massaged her nakedly quivering breasts, leaving scratches on her stomach and bruises, deep and purple, on her shoulders and breasts. He was virtually raping her and she could do nothing to stop him. Her mind was near hysteria, but she really didn't want to scream and get outside help. She didn't want people to know her husband was like this. Trying to reason with him was like trying to reason with an ape in heat.
Each savage thrust was hurting her now, jolting her naked young body, as he pounded his massively pulsating hardness home, its head banging up against her cervix, causing her to wince with each stroke. He was mauling her body painfully, digging his finger nails into her softly fleshed buttocks and tearing her legs further apart. He was fucking her so hard that the force of his thrust was shoving her across the bed and her head was thumping against the headboard.
Kim never stopped struggling… or pleading, but her voiced protests were as futile as her squirming. Abruptly, as one of her hands flailed out, she touched something cold and metallic. It was a flashlight. It was no strange thing to have next to the bed in Carmel. During the winter, there was much rain and wind and trees would topple, bringing down power lines, and homes would be without light or electricity for hours on end. This was an inconvenience Carmelites gladly suffered, preferring to have their trees, their forest, instead of safe power lines.
Her hand closed around the heavy flashlight and she gripped it, wondering if she dare hit her husband – this drunken rapist atop her tortured body.
Hank was fucking her as hard as he could now with his arms straight down at his sides and his fingers digging into the soft white flesh of her buttocks. Savagely, obscenely, his fingers probed and slid into the sweat-slickened crevice between her ass cheeks. He was hurting her as he felt for her anus. His outstretched middle finger stabbed at the rubbery, tightly puckered anal ring, his fingernail cutting in deep, sending a sharp stinging pain searing through her nerve system. Kim's face contorted and she sobbed again. It was decided for her: she raised the heavy flashlight, gripped it tightly in her hand and held it above her head. Then, closing her eyes, she swung with all her might. She heard a "thunk", a sound like someone thumping a ripe watermelon. The flashlight bounced off Hank's head and was torn from her hand by the force of the blow. She heard the glass lens shatter as the flashlight fell on the bed and onto the floor.
Hank paused for a split-second, seeming not to move a muscle or take a breath. It was as if he had frozen and was expectantly listening for some alien sound. Then, he gave a mottled, choking cry, pulled his hands free, and feebly tried to hold his head. He pulled back from her, weaving, his eyes squeezed shut, his face and mouth twisted in a drunken grimace. Both his hands were on the top of his head as if he were trying to hold his skull on, as though he were trying to stop it from blowing up. "Goddamn it," he said thickly. He pulled away, and his still massively erect cock came out of her cunt with an obscenely wet plopping sound.
The engineer slowly slumped backwards onto the bed, breathing heavily, and groaned in wonderment and surprise. The combination of alcohol and the stunning blow to the head made him go limp as a rag… and he passed out – unconscious beside her.
Kim lay naked, her blue eyes watching her husband. Then, feeling something she couldn't quite fathom, she looked down between her fingernail-streaked breasts to her long flat belly… and at the scratches and bruises there… and at her prominent mound of Venus and the way her softly curling red pubic hair was wet and matted. Her legs were splayed ivory white in the lamplight, delicately carved yet strong and firm. Already she could see bruises that were a deep purple plum color and more scratches. Gingerly, she shifted her weight and tilted her groin to one side, feeling the cheek of one buttock. It was sore and stung from the gouges left behind from his fingernails.
Instinct told her that Hank wasn't going to awaken. In fact, she was going to have trouble getting his huge naked bulk under the covers. She lay on her back, relaxed, catching her breath, her ripely firm young breasts heaving up and down. The base of her neck was still pressed painfully against the headboard, wedged there by Hank's brutal thrusts, and she lay much in the same pose as Nichole had a few miles away in Pebble Beach a little earlier in the evening. Kim lay with her magnificently fleshed breasts in front of her face, her pert chin forced into her chest. Idly, she passed her hands over them, feeling their liquid weight and warmness. They were bigger, fuller, better formed than Nichole's. Kim's finger tips skimmed lightly over them, testing them tenderly for sore spots and bruises. Her lacquered fingernails gently touched her nipples; they sprang to life as she watched them, pale pink and hardening, tensing, pointing provocatively.
In a sudden odd mood, she looked down at her nakedly sleeping husband, seeing him framed between her breasts that were almost – not quite – too large for her frame… breasts that she felt she should be proud of, yet wasn't! Almost unaware of what she was doing, the voluptuous young wife dug the fingernail in the softly yielding flesh of her nipple. Than, she took the buffeted nipple between her thumb and forefinger and pinched it with her fingernails, deliberately hurting herself and sending an unexpectedly erotic tremor of excitement through her naked body.
She stopped guiltily, her hand covering her mouth against a little cry of amazement. Kim had just stumbled on a self-discovery, and it was far from pleasant. She thought: Actually, in a funny way, a wrong way, a dirty way, I really enjoyed being handled so roughly. If only I hadn't been so afraid…
She shook her head, refusing to finish the thought. Quickly, then, she got up and hurried to the closet, where she got a robe, then she fled to the bathroom while Hank snored.