Carl Van Marcus

The motorcyclist_s wife

PROLOGUE

The air hung heavy over the flat Kansas prairie, dense and feverishly heated as a sick person's breath. As the afternoon progressed, ominous black clouds encroached on the Western skyline, and violent gusts of wind – like the wracking coughs of an invalid – stirred but failed to cool the crowd below.

"Smith! Smith! Where the fuck are you? Your act's supposed to begin now!" a darkly handsome man in his late twenties emerged from the shack that served as an equipment shed on this makeshift motorcycle stunt circus track, shouting to make himself heard over the roar of the large crowd. Spotting his star stunt rider standing beside the concession stand with a buxom peroxide blonde clinging to his muscular arm, the irritated show manager strode in that direction.

"What the fuck's holding you up?" the dark-haired man snapped. "We've got a show going here, remember? It's past time for your act, and the crowd's waiting for you."

"Don't make him do it, Larry!" the girl pleaded, throwing her arms around the well-built stunt rider. "The wind's too bad! The radio said there's gusts up to 30 miles per hour!"

Larry Johnson, the manager, stared down at the girl, his face reflecting the contempt and dislike he felt for her. Though she was still in high school, her face and hair were already coarsened by overuse of cosmetics and dyes, and her large breasts, bulging conspicuously under her tight CYCLE CIRCUS T-shirt, would be sagging by the time she reached the age of twenty. Still, she was a good lay – he ought to know, for he'd tried her out before passing her on to his star stunt rider. And, more important, she was the daughter of the man who owned the most popular radio station who'd given their two-week Kansas tour so much free publicity. Anyway, she was probably just what Verne Smith needed, what with that beautiful but frigid wife of his back home. There was so much tension involved in this sort of dare-devil stunt riding that it wasn't a good idea for the guys to be sexually frustrated as well.

"What's the matter, Verne?" Larry asked, staring hard at his top bike rider. "You turn chicken over a little wind?"

Verne Smith laughed, looking embarrassed as he glanced at the teenager hugging him. He'd never quite learned to handle these precocious cycle groupies, nor quite managed to overcome his innate guilt about cheating on his wife.

"I ain't scared of no wind," he said to Larry, "you know me better than that. But I was just trying to calm down Sherry here."

"Just go on and get that act moving. I'll handle Sherry."

Verne moved out onto the track and mounted his powerful black cycle to the accompaniment of the crowd's loud yells. Though he was only twenty-five, he was already famous among cycle enthusiasts around the country for his fearless skill.

"Don't do it, Verne! Don't do it!" he heard Sherry's shrill adolescent voice calling and turned to smile and wave reassuringly before gunning his bike and tearing across the field to the first hurdle.

Suddenly, so quickly that the watching crowd hardly saw what happened, a particularly violent gust of wind caught the speeding, climbing cycle at an angle that sent it hurtling back down the hill. Verne Smith's black leather clad body flew through the air to land not far from the spectators with a sickening thud, then lay as still as a crushed insect. Beyond him, the accelerating bike's powerful engine immediately burst into crimson flames that shot high into the darkening sky.

Larry Johnson rushed toward his friend's twisted body, the terrified screams of the crowd and the wail of the fire siren echoing in his ears.

"Verne! Verne!" he shouted, kneeling beside the sprawled out body. But the stunt rider was unconscious, and in the next minute his inert body was being lifted into a shrieking ambulance which raced toward the nearest hospital.

CHAPTER ONE

Dusk had just fallen, and in the last crimson-gold rays of the setting sun, the row of identical pastel ranch houses which jutted up from the flat Indiana prairie seemed to be bursting into flames. In spite of the rosy glow, the air grew chill, almost forbidding, as the thin September sun sank beyond the horizon. High above the level plain a clamorous flock of blackbirds hovered for an instant in the darkening sky, then suddenly turned and vanished toward the south.

"Winter's coming at last…" the slender blonde girl murmured to herself, shivering and drawing her lightweight red cardigan tightly around her scantily clad body as a chill breeze rustled through the meadow. With a dispirited sigh, she turned away from the bubbling creek and started trudging back toward the subdivision houses silhouetted against the evening skyline.

Indian Summer had stretched on for so long that Sandi Smith had almost dared to hope that the cold and snow would never really arrive. This would be the first time the Florida born and raised young wife had ever spent in the north, and although she'd not let her husband know how she felt, she'd been dreading the winter ever since he'd told her they were settling permanently in the Midwest.

I know Verne says that northern Indiana's the only place in the country where his darned old Cycle Circus can really get off the ground, she thought rebelliously, but what does he expect me to do all winter long while he's away on his stupid tours? I just wish he'd let me come with him like I used to or get a normal job where he wouldn't have to leave me by myself all the time…

Kicking angrily at a pebble as she stepped from the overgrown field onto the concrete sidewalk of the brand new subdivision which bore the optimistic name of Lakeview Estates, the long-legged blonde tried to prevent herself from falling into a state of morbid depression. More and more often in these past few months, she'd been plagued by uncontrollable moods of frustration and uncertainty. Sometimes, she wondered what had happened to the starry-eyed optimist who'd been foolish enough to believe that marriage to a handsome motorcycle stunt rider meant living happily ever after, just like in the fairy tales and romance novels. It grew more and more difficult to recall the joyous sense of freedom she'd felt less than a year ago when, after the marriage ceremony in her father's Florida parish, she and Verne had set off on his big motorcycle for his home in Indiana.

As the shapely honey-blonde rounded the corner to Lemon Lane where the Smiths' two-bedroom house was located, her dismal thoughts were momentarily diverted by a group of junior high school boys racing by on their bicycles. The moment the youngsters spotted the attractive nineteen year old in her skimpy white shorts and tight red sweater, they squealed to a halt and circled around to stare after Sandi's tautly rounded buttocks wriggling in unintentional invitation and at her long, classically-sculpted legs. One of the youths, braver than the others, let out a loud wolf whistle which brought a bright red flush of embarrassment to the young housewife's face.

Quickening her pace – an action which had the unfortunate result of making her rounded hips undulate even more provocatively than before – Sandi hurried down Lemon Lane and into her own front yard. Instead of making a careful inspection of the wealth of flowers and bushes which transformed the Smith's quarter acre into a little oasis of color among the barren plots of crabgrass which were the general rule in Lakeview Estates, the red-faced blonde hastened into her white frame house.

Although the air was really quite cool now that night had fallen, the svelte young wife did not close the open living room windows. The blush which had begun on her cheeks seemed to have spread throughout her entire body, making her feel unaccountably warm.

They're just a bunch of silly kids, she told herself firmly, but deep inside, the innately honest girl could not deny that she'd been flattered by the young boys' obvious admiration. It seemed so long, so very, very long, since her husband had complimented her on her appearance.

"He was so different before we were married," she thought, her thoughts drifting to the whirlwind courtship which had been the talk of Collinsville, Florida. "Now he just seems to take me for granted… when I see him, that is…"

Her low, plaintive voice echoed eerily in the empty house, and Sandi clamped her lips shut and vowed once again to curtail the bad habit she'd been developing lately of talking to herself. What on earth would people think if they knew that she wandered around babbling to herself like a senile old maid?

"They'd think I'm stark, raving mad!" she murmured, realizing as the words left her lips that she'd broken her vow within seconds of having made it. "Well, maybe I am then!" she shrugged. "And if I am, it's all Verne's fault for leaving me alone like this while he's off with his stupid motorcycles!"

Without bothering to switch on the electricity, the unhappy young woman made her way down the short hallway to the master bedroom. By now it was pitch-black outside, but the street light out on the parkway cast its rays into the small room and illuminated the king-sized bed, brand new dressing table and bureaus with an almost surreal radiance that suited Sandi's morbid mood just perfectly. As she crossed over toward the closet to dig out the wool slacks and sweaters her husband had bought her, her eyes caught the color photograph of Verne that stood in a prominent position on her dressing table. Whenever he was gone for long stretches, the lonely wife always removed the wedding picture from the album and brought it in here so that she could look at it before she went to sleep, a habit that had started one dreadful day when she'd realized she could no longer conjure up an image of his face.

Now, as she'd done so many times before, Sandi stood staring at the handsome, sun-bronzed man in the photo. His deep blue eyes seemed to stare directly back at her, and she felt an urge to push the lock of wavy chestnut hair off his forehead. Though the young bridegroom was unsmiling, she could tell from the faint suggestion of a dimple in his strong jaw that he was not unhappy, merely embarrassed at having to pose in his wedding clothes when he really only felt comfortable in jeans and a motorcycle helmet. Even the rented tuxedo, however, could not conceal his healthy, masculine physique, and as Sandi gazed at her husband's muscular figure she felt a familiar rush of pride.

Then, as she remembered that Verne was miles away in Kansas with the Cycle Circus, the smile that was starting to form on her lips faded to a worried frown. What was the good of having a handsome husband when you never saw him? And when he was surrounded by plenty of cute girls all day long, his good looks really became a liability rather than an asset. In the early months of their marriage, Sandi had often accompanied her husband on his tours, and she'd had plenty of opportunity to observe the other girls who hung out around the cycle tracks. Most of them, the worried young wife felt certain, wouldn't hesitate to chase after the show's handsome star whether or not he happened to be married. And Verne… would Verne be able to resist their attentions… would he even try to…?

"I won't keep thinking those things about him!" she told herself firmly. "I won't be a jealous wife."

But try as she might, the suspicions remained in the back of her mind, even as she attempted to push away the fearful imaginary vision of her chestnut-haired husband standing beside some peroxide blonde in a low-cut blouse, his strong arm draped around her bare shoulders and his warm lips mashed against her lipstick-smeared mouth. Even though the picture was pure fantasy, Sandi's slender body began to shake in anger and she had to bite her knuckles to keep from bursting into tears.

After a moment, when she'd gotten a hold on her emotions, the golden-haired girl tore herself away from Verne's picture and moved in the direction of the closet. There, still in the shop's cardboard boxes, were all the new winter clothes her husband had bought for her – fluffy sweaters, woolen slacks, a few dresses in bright-hued cashmere-like fabrics, a shiny pair of leather boots, and even a nightgown and a pair of furry red angora slippers with a matching robe. For a moment Sandi felt sincerely guilt-stricken for the unproven doubts she'd been feeling.

"Verne's so good to me. I don't know what's wrong with me, why I'm so unhappy," she pondered aloud as she lifted each of the brand new garments from their wrappings. "I never had nice stuff like this before I met him – I ought to be grateful."

Deciding that trying on her new winter wardrobe would distract her from her gloomy fantasies, the young blonde pulled off her cardigan sweater and snug-fitting cotton halter top. Then, as her fingers sought the zipper of her skintight white shorts, her mind slipped back to the day when her tall, dark-haired husband had come home with the trunk loaded down with packages for her.

"Here you go, baby," he'd boomed in his usual hearty tone. "A few goodies to keep you snug and warm while I'm not around to warm your bed up this winter!"

She'd come to the back door, she remembered now, dressed only in the sheerest of sundresses, a strapless affair actually intended to be worn over a bikini, but which she'd thrown on that morning because of the truly suffocating heat. Since it was only eleven in the morning and she'd not expected Verne to come back until evening, she'd not even bothered to don her brassiere and panties before tackling the chore of unpacking the last of their things which had just arrived from Florida.

Her husband's habitual enthusiasm irritated her that morning – he had no more sensitivity to the sticky Midwest heat than he apparently had to the icy winters – and his vulgar words only added fuel to the fire. While she'd certainly been agonizing about the dreaded lonely winter months which she was supposed to spend alone in Lakeview Estates while her new husband toured the southern circuit, the crude way he spoke brought a crimson color to her already heat-flush cheeks.

"What are you going on about, anyway?" she demanded, too flustered to remember at first that she was as good as naked in the sheer beach dress.

"Hey, baby, I like that get-up!" Verne whistled, his glinting blue eyes boring into her body in a way that made his nineteen year old wife feel sordid and dirty. "How come you never wore this pretty little see-through number before?"

"Verne, I wish you wouldn't talk to me like that!" Sandi said stiffly, folding her arms to hide her proud, high-set young breasts and wishing that she had four arms instead of two so that she could cover up her shamefully revealed vaginal hair as well. "What are you doing back here now, anyway? I thought you were going over to talk with Larry? You said you both had to talk to the lawyer about the contract for the circus…"

"Hey, don't get uptight, baby," Verne laughed, still in his usual high spirits despite his wife's unenthusiastic response. "Larry was – uh – occupied with his wife. So I just thought I'd run up to Gary and pick up some things for you. After all, I don't want folks to think I'm neglecting my woman just because I'm gonna be gone most of the winter. I want you to look real a la mode, baby!"

Sandi knew that she should be pleased that Verne had thought to expand her exclusively summer wardrobe, but all she could feel was irritation. Ever since her husband had informed her one month ago that they would be permanently settling in northern Indiana, she'd tried her best to put the news out of her mind. Of course, she understood that this was an ideal home base for Verne's Cycle Circus – he'd grown up in the area and had good contacts, particularly his high school friend, Larry Johnson. Even though Sandi felt an instinctive and no doubt unreasonable distrust for her husband's darkly handsome manager, she had to admit that the Cycle Circus of which Verne had dreamed for so long probably would never have gotten off the ground if it hadn't been for Johnson's business expertise. It had been he, too, who'd insisted on this winter circuit of tours in the South and Midwest – it would give them extra capital, and enable the permanent cycle stunt riding show to open in style next summer.

I just want you to stay home with me – I don't care about new clothes, Sandi wanted to say. Instead, biting her lip to hold back her frustration as he dumped the packages on the kitchen table, she replied, "Thank you, Verne."

This time the handsome young husband could not fail to catch the lack of enthusiasm in his wife's voice, and he felt a spark of anger ignite in his chest.

"Well, you sure don't sound too pleased," he retorted. "Let me tell you one thing, baby – I picked up these things myself 'cause I want to be damn sure you're not parading around in something like you've got on right now. If you don't like me making remarks about it, how come you're wearing it? For some other man, maybe?"

"Oh, Verne!" Sandi cried out, exasperated by his unreasonable jealousy. For the entire year in which they'd been married, she'd never once given him a single reason to distrust her, but he was nevertheless obsessed by the idea that she might be unfaithful to him. Suddenly the unhappy nineteen year old felt very tired of being treated like a stupid schoolgirl with no control over herself.

"Why do you have to say mean things like that?" she demanded. "I'm wearing this 'cause it's so darn hot, and you know it! The way you're going on is just as dumb as your not letting me come along to the motorcycle shows anymore, or not letting me go riding on the back of your bike."

Verne bristled, his ordinarily even temper rising. "I can't stand the way the guys at the track give you the eye, Sandi. You're my woman now, and I don't ever want you to forget it!"

"Oh, they don't mean anything… they're just looking at me. What's so bad about that? They don't try to talk to me or anything 'cause they know I'm your wife. Really, Verne, please let me come along with you again. Let me come to Kansas with you next week! I get so worried sitting back home alone thinking that you might have an accident or something and I won't be there to take care of you."

"Never had an accident yet," the young husband boasted. "And you know you like those guys looking at you. Well, I'm not putting up with it! You're damn well not coming out to Kansas, or anywhere else! Larry told me about the way you were leading that blond guy on at that show in Baleton, remember?"

"All I did was smile at him once, just to be friendly. He didn't seem to have any friends and he looked lonely, just like I was. You… you act like I was thinking dirty things or something!"

Hot tears sprang up in her amber-tinted eyes as she defended herself, and her voice began to tremble with an indignation heightened by the twinge of guilt she'd felt at the mention of the handsome blond youth. Of course she'd never even dreamed of doing anything wrong – hadn't so much as spoken to him – yet she could still remember the delicious little forbidden thrill that had surged through her when she'd sensed the stranger's eyes staring up to where she sat perched on the back of Verne's powerful black cycle. Her widespread thighs and barely covered buttocks had been openly revealed to the youth whenever the wind lifted her short skirt, and wicked though it was she'd enjoyed his obvious admiration.

Feeling sorry that his angry words had brought his young wife to the point of tears, Verne Smith moved over toward her and circled his arms around her slim waist.

"Awh, honey, take it easy. I just don't want some bastard stealing my girl away from me, that's all." He paused to run his work-calloused hands over the firm mounds of her breasts. "Yeah, this beautiful body's all mine!"

Sandi couldn't help shivering as her husband's strong hands tweaked at the nerve-filled tips of her round girlish breasts, her entire body glowing at his possessive touch. It was wrong, she knew, but no matter what harsh things he said to her, she still felt excited the moment he drew close to her. Shameful though it was, she could never hold back the exquisite surge of desire that sped through her, and she often worried that she was abnormal for not finding sex as painful and unpleasant as her mother had warned her it would be.

"Nicest pair of tits in the state, and they're all mine," Verne was mumbling as he squeezed her tiny nipples to taut erectness straight through the sheer fabric of Sandi's light summer beach dress. "And this golden pussy… and your tight little cunt… all mine!"

The quivering young wife knew what her husband had in mind from the tone of his voice and the quickening pace of his breathing, recognizing the symptoms from those times when she'd unwittingly allowed him to see her undressing, and he'd come to bed filled with strange, sometimes even unnatural, passion. Although she knew that she ought to pull away from him before it was too late, she only whimpered weakly and let him press up against her own trembling loins for just another tantalizing moment.

"Shit, Sandi," Verne groaned, rubbing his swelling penis up against her trembling thighs as he reached around to bunch her flimsy sundress up to her waist. "You look so sweet today that I gotta screw you! Besides, you need to be reminded that you're my girl and no one else's!"

What could be the matter with Verne? Here it was the middle of the day, with the kitchen door standing wide open so that any of the always curious neighbors who happened to be passing could plainly see inside, and he was fondling her breasts and lifting up her mini-dress to stroke at the "vee" of honey-blonde pussy hair in between her naked thighs! What could have made him so unnaturally excited?

The young wife shivered as Verne's bulging penis pressured hotly against her upper leg, knowing that unless she stopped this indecency at once that his hardened male flesh would soon be spearing with long, smooth strokes up into her unprotected vagina – right here against the kitchen table! And she wanted him to do it – there was no use denying that. Up between her thighs a voluptuous moisture was forming, and the aroused young blonde knew very well that it wasn't being brought on by the noonday heat.

"P-please, Verne," she managed to stammer in a low, embarrassed voice. "N-not now… not here in the k-kitchen! It's indecent! Anyone might see us!"

"Who gives a damn?" her husband's lust-hoarsened voice hissed in her ear. "I just saw Larry giving it to Clare, and now I want you. I want you too bad to wait!"

His hands once again reached out to massage Sandi's sensitively trembling breasts beneath her skimpy dress, while he pressed his pulsating penis more insistently than ever against her hair-covered pussy mound.

"I don't care what Larry and Clare do in the middle of the day!" the nineteen year old retorted angrily, pursing her pink lips up into a disapproving little pout and pushing her husband's body away. "It's none of my business – or yours either! And even if they were acting like animals, that certainly doesn't make it right!"

Verne grabbed out for his full-bodied wife, who was tugging her short skirt down as far as possible over her flaring thighs, and tried to kiss her. "Come on, honey," he urged. "How come you always got to act so Goddamn prim and proper?"

Even though she secretly yearned to feel her husband's throbbing male hardness pushing up into her indecently quivering loins, Sandi wouldn't have dreamed of letting him realize she was so wanton. Once again, she pushed him firmly away from her.

"D-don't swear at me, please, Verne," she said, only the slightest quavering in her southern-accented voice betraying her inner turmoil. "There's a time and place for everything…"

"But baby…"

"And I don't want to talk about it any more!" The shapely young wife turned determinedly back to her unpacking, ignoring Verne's glare of helpless anger as she struggled to control her forbidden emotions. It was only a minute or so before he slammed out the back door, but she'd already almost succeeded in convincing herself that she was proud of her willpower.

Now, three weeks later, the half-naked woman standing lost in thought in her darkened bedroom realized with a guilty start that her own hands had risen to caress her uncovered breasts, and that her loins were rippling with the same liquid desire as she'd felt that sun-drenched afternoon when her husband had tried to make love to her right in the kitchen. Opening her eyes, which had been clenched shut while she relived the obscene memory, the lonely wife could not help noticing that her rose-pink nipples were hardening into taut little buttons. Thoroughly ashamed of herself, she snatched her hands away from her forbidden flesh and made a conscious effort to erase all erotic thought from her mind.

What's wrong with me, anyway? she asked herself. Here I am, playing with my body like a thirteen year old instead of a mature married woman. And it's no good blaming Verne for being gone so much… it's not his fault I love him so much I can't stand being away from him.

Ignoring the tingling excitement in her stiffening nipples, the flushed young woman flicked on the bedside lamp. The artificial light lessened the strange sensual atmosphere in the silent bedroom, but Sandi's swollen breasts were still sending out indecent messages of arousal to all the nerve-endings in her shapely young body. To her chagrin, the crotchband of her snug-fitting white cotton shorts suddenly felt far too tight, as her vaginal lips puffed up in a way that made the honey-blonde housewife feel more ashamed of herself than ever.

"I won't try this stuff on tonight," she muttered, pushing the cardboard boxes back onto the top shelf of the closet after extracting an orange-colored nightgown and a soft red bathrobe. "And I won't bother about dinner either – I'll just go right to bed. Maybe if I start getting more sleep, it'll help my nerves."

Turning away from the dresser mirror as though she were afraid to look at her own naked figure, the nineteen year old wife slipped out of her shorts and at once began to pull the new nightgown over her head to hide the body of which she was feeling so ashamed. Then, as her eyes registered on the gossamer garment, her hands froze in midair. The very idea that Verne had even considered her brazen enough to wear such a revealing nightie was shocking enough, but the lewd thrill of titillation that surged through her bloodstream at the thought of how her husband's eyes would light up with desire when he saw her in it was even more shameful.

It's… it's not just seductive, she thought. It's like something a whore would wear, it really is!

Feeling extremely bold, the young blonde held the diaphanous, apricot-colored scrap of lace up to her naked body and then turned slowly to gaze at her reflection in the floor-length mirror. As she'd expected, it didn't hide one inch of her slender yet curvaceous figure; but she'd not anticipated the way it made her look strikingly different from her usual wholesome self. For one thing, the nylon-lace fabric was cunningly cut to emphasize her well-rounded but average-sized breasts so that she looked as though she wore a D-cup instead of a 34-B! Her hips, too, appeared even fuller and more seductively rounded than usual. Instead of a fashion model figure, Sandi had acquired the body of a Playboy centerfold, and revulsion mingled with a strange excitement in her face as she continued to stare as if mesmerized at the unfamiliar image in the mirror.

"I look like a little girl playing dress-up!" she murmured. "Except that little girls don't dress up to be streetwalkers!"

The clear-eyed, smooth-skinned face with its halo of naturally wavy honey-blonde hair was indeed more like that of a sixteen year old than a nineteen year old. An expression of virginal naivete lingered in her soft brown eyes and rather full lips even after a whole year of marriage, and it was quite true that her voluptuous, though svelte, figure was in striking contrast even without the apricot-hued lingerie. Sandi had been raised in a home where cosmetics, hair dye, and other sophisticated beauty aids were anathema, and since she still retained traces of guilt for breaking certain strict rules her Methodist preacher-father had enforced in his household, she'd never picked up these habits even after leaving home. Consequently, she'd retained a purity and innocence that few girls of her age could match.

In addition, she'd continued to brood over breaking the code of morality imposed in her childhood. Consequently, as she stood in front of the mirror clad only in the skimpy, prostitute-style garment, she seemed to hear her mother's voice echoing in the silence of her empty suburban bedroom.

Suddenly, she was transported back to her narrow bedroom in the whitewashed clapboard rectory, her two suitcases and all her clothes spread out upon her bed as she packed for her honeymoon. Her nostrils quivered with the almost forgotten scent of wilting flowers – the thrifty pastor's wife brought home the limp bouquets after church services, funerals, and weddings – and her proudly-sculpted body unconsciously took on the awkward, hunched-over posture she'd affected in adolescence to hide her budding breasts.

"What's that?" she heard her mother's horrified voice snap. "Surely, Sandra, you can't intend to pack a thing like that! Where on earth did you get it, anyway?" With the tips of her fingers, she picked up a semi-sheer white cotton nightie, looking at it as if its very presence in her house were enough to call down the wrath of God. "What's the matter with that nice pink flannel nightie Aunt Mildred gave you last Christmas? I'm ashamed of you for wasting good money on something like this." She dangled the offending feminine-looking garment in front of her embarrassed daughter's downcast eyes.

"V-Verne gave me money to buy some th-things," Sandi had stammered apologetically. "And then I had the m-money I made babysitting."

"Humph!" the elderly woman sniffed. "Well, if Mr. Smith wants to waste his money on frivolities, that's his business. But I thought you were brought up better than to buy a sinful piece of goods like this, Sandra!"

"But Mother, there's nothing really wrong with this nightie!" Sandi had summoned up the courage to protest.

"There certainly is! Why, you can see your naked body straight through it!"

As there seemed no appropriate rejoinder to this, the young blonde laid the nightdress aside without comment. Later that night, she slipped it into her suitcase, balling it up underneath some inoffensive cotton panties just in case her mother should feel like snooping tomorrow morning.

Now, as the memories faded, an ironic little smile appeared on the blonde wife's face. "What would Mother think of this?" she murmured, wrinkling her nose at the lewdly daring apricot nightdress she was now wearing. But although she was trying to laugh it off, the foundation of guilt was too solid to be easily dissolved, and with trembling fingers, Sandi Smith drew the flagrantly wanton lace nightie up over her lushly ripened body.

I know I'm being silly, she told herself as she folded the soft, silk-like material and laid it carefully back in its box, but I couldn't sleep a wink wearing that, even though I know it's all right as long as Verne gave it to me. After all, he's my husband!

She leaned down to dig her ordinary cotton babydoll pajamas out of the dresser drawer, then paused with her hand on the drawer handle and a serious expression clouding her girlish face.

No! I'm not going to be a baby! she decided. Verne bought it for me to wear, and I'm his wife now, not my parents' little girl! I'll wear it, because he wants me to!

Ignoring the guilty voice pricking at the back of her brain, Sandi again slipped the sexy, slinky nightgown over her slim figure. You like wearing that obscene thing, don't you? the young wife's conscience accused as she climbed into her king-sized bed. You get a kick out of looking like a photograph in one of those dirty magazines. And it's nothing to do with Verne!

This whisper was, of course, thoroughly unacceptable; Sandi paid it no more heed than she'd paid the somewhat similar sensations she'd experienced when she'd ridden on the back of Verne's big cycle and every man on the road had stared at her long, perfectly formed legs. Switching off the bedtable lamp, Sandi instead directed her thoughts toward the day when her husband would arrive home again. He should show up on Thursday, maybe Friday morning. That gave her two days to get out of her mood of depression. She'd prepare all the foods he especially liked, and maybe even drive into Brunrocke, the nearest town of any size, for some of that Danish beer he fancied. And she certainly wouldn't let herself think about the possibility that he was with another woman tonight, or about her censorious parents, or about her dread of the lonely winter months ahead. Most important of all, she'd not allow herself to think about the wonderful way she felt when he touched her, or she might find herself doing forbidden things to herself as she had earlier that evening. No, she'd save all those feelings up for his return – after all, it was wrong to think about sex unless you were in bed with your husband.

Sandi Smith fell asleep much more easily than usual, perhaps because of the long walk she'd taken up in the open prairie beyond the subdivision of Lakeview Estates. In spite of her earnest resolves, she immediately fell into a dream in which she was tooling down the highway behind Verne on his powerful motorcycle, her long blonde curls whipped around her face by the wind and her arms clutching her husband's strong-muscled body. Gradually the lonely nineteen-year-old's firm-fleshed thighs drew closer together beneath the sheet, and within minutes her silken-skinned upper legs were rubbing sensually against each other in unconscious imitation of the vibrations of the bike motor thudding up through the leather seat into the sensitive flesh of her widespread buttocks and quivering vagina.

As her hair-fringed pussy lips, already swollen from the erotic dream, were stimulated by the rhythmic pressure of her taut-muscled thighs, the sleeping girl's breath quickened. A light coat of perspiration broke out on her flushed forehead, and her toes curled under as lewd little fingers of excitement traced a forbidden path from the base of her neck to the tips of her feet. In her dream, the bike was zooming over roller-coaster type hills at breakneck speed; and in her bed, the squirming blonde's naked thighs were pressing so tightly together that the tendons stood out on their ivory-white surface. Deep inside her titillated vagina drops of heated moisture were forming, and her clitoral bud jerked into a tautly throbbing little button of erotic sensation.

The motorcycle was driving faster and faster, and now the roadside was lined with handsome blond men, all of whom were staring lustfully at Sandi's long, white legs and half-revealed ass-cheeks. A loud wolf whistle pierced through her dream, and then another, and another…

Suddenly wide awake, the young wife sat bolt upright in bed, her scantily-clad loins still trembling but all traces of physical arousal obliterated by a cold cloud of panic. For a moment she stared in perplexity at the luminous dial of the clock-radio, struggling to comprehend why she had awakened at 11:45 with her throat so constricted with fear that she could scarcely breathe. Then the front doorbell chimed again, a long drawn out shrilling as if someone were pressing his finger long and hard on the buzzer, and Sandi's entire body turned to ice. Verne! Something had happened to Verne, just as she had always dreaded it would. Why else would the doorbell be ringing in the middle of the night?

Leaping to her feet, the terror-stricken young wife rushed pell-mell down the dark hallway, crashing clumsily against a wrought iron telephone stand in her haste to reach the front door. Although the sharp metal table edge pierced through the naked white flesh of her thigh, Sandi was not aware of any pain.

Her trembling, white-knuckled hands gripped at the doorframe as she eased it open a crack and stared out into the darkness. There, his healthy tanned face glowing an eerie shade of green in the neon light from the streetlamp, stood Larry Johnson, her husband's partner and best friend, and Sandi saw at a glance that her worst fears were justified.

"Verne! It's Verne, isn't it? He's not… he's not…?" And then her voice trailed off, and her voluptuous young body, protected only by the wisp of apricot-colored lace, tumbled forward into Johnson's arms in a dead faint.

CHAPTER TWO

Larry Johnson stood beside the Smith's white imitation-leather sofa, a bottle of Johnny Walker in one hand and a towel filled with ice cubes in the other. His usually self-assured, darkly handsome face was twisted into an uncharacteristic caricature of confusion as he gazed down at the lifeless form of his best friend's unconscious wife, and though he made a brief effort to concentrate on his injured partner who lay paralyzed from the waist down in a Kansas hospital, his granite-grey eyes gradually began to shoot out sparks of lust.

When he'd lifted Sandi Smith's limp body in his arms and carried her in from the doorstep to the living room couch, her transparent orange nightgown had bunched up around her slender waist. Now, as she lay sprawled on her side, her ripely-rounded, snow-white buttocks were completely revealed to his ardent gaze. One full firm breast swelled out over the edge of the couch cushion, and the young motorcyclist had to fight back an impulse to lean down and gently lick its satin-skinned, ruby-tipped surface.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, taking a quick gulp of the whiskey with which he'd intended to revive the stunned young wife. Then, without allowing his eyes to leave the tantalizing spectacle spread out before him, he poured some of the amber liquid into a glass and set it on the glass-topped coffee table. In a moment he'd give it to her – but first he'd allow himself to feast his eyes upon the sensual but forbidden female flesh of his buddy's wife.

Whoever would have thought that Verne's goody-goody wife ran around the house in a get-up that even his own uninhibited wife Clare would have thought a bit risque? It just didn't go along with the prissy way Sandi had of wrinkling her nose and frowning when someone told an off-color joke, or the shocked looks she'd shot at Clare when the older girl had come over one hot afternoon in a skintight T-shirt sans brassiere. In fact, the only way he could figure it was that she must have a lover – why the hell else would she be wearing such sexy underwear when her husband was gone? Well, she'd sure had him fooled – and obviously old Verne too!

A low moan followed by a babble of incoherent words rose from the figure on the couch, and Johnson's face quickly reverted to a mask of concerned friend as the curvaceous blonde wife opened her hazel eyes and attempted to pull herself up to a sitting position.

"Verne! Wh-what h-happened to him?" she whispered. "He's not… not…" Then her voice choked in her throat as tears flooded into her fear-glazed eyes.

"Take it easy, Sandi," Larry murmured soothingly. He handed her the glass of whiskey, adding, "Drink this, it'll make you feel stronger. You sure gave me a scare when you toppled over like that on the steps."

Sandi ignored the proffered glass, instead grasping her husband's partner's other arm and imploring, "Is he all right? Larry, tell me! Tell me!"

As the half-hysterical blonde touched his arm, the dark-haired man felt his blood quicken in his veins, and the long shaft of his penis gave a sudden lurch against the tight material of his jeans.

"Calm down, honey," he reassured her, moving his arm around her quivering figure and holding the glass against her lips until she automatically gulped down the stinging alcohol. "Verne's had a little accident, but he's going to be all right. Everything's going to be all right."

Even as the words left his mouth, Larry felt a twinge of disquiet at deliberately deceiving the distraught young woman. In his mind's eye, he saw her husband flying through the air to land with a sickening crunch upon the track, his virile, leather-clad body crumpling on impact like a cricket crushed under someone's heel. Then, Larry's memory skipping forward a few hours, a vision of the small hospital's antiseptic white-walled corridor flashed across Larry's brain. He'd been nervously sipping at his third cup of wax-flavored coffee from the hall vending machine when a plump, white-frocked doctor who looked more like an extra in a low-budget television western than a surgeon had approached him.

"Lucky to be alive… doubt if he'll ever walk again, though we did save his legs… but paralysis has set in… no life at all below the waist… but no brain damage, luckily… yeah, he was pretty lucky."

Just the recollection brought back a flash of the horror and disbelief he'd felt at that moment. Lucky? When he'd never again be able to walk or even make love to a woman, much less dazzle the crowds with his stunt-rider skills? Larry wondered if Verne wouldn't have been better off if his brain had died along with his body. And what about the Motorcycle Circus, into which they had both thrown their entire savings, counting on Verne's extraordinary prowess as a rider? He himself was ruined too, financially if not physically.

When the grey-faced, weary-looking doctor had thrown out a grain of hope, he'd grasped at it like a drowning man catching hold of a chance bit of driftwood.

"… no facilities here in Kansas, but there is an operation… very expensive… 50% chance of success… very delicate, intricate… know of a specialist in Indianapolis…"

Now, as he stood in his partner's living room trying to comfort his buddy's tearful wife he wondered why he'd not told her the truth. On the drive from the airport, he'd been full of schemes to raise money for the operation, and he'd fully intended to discuss this with Mrs. Smith. She'd have to get a full-time job, of course, and he'd put on some special benefit shows or something along that line. Anything at all, just so that Verne got the best possible medical care and recovered at least in time for next summer's opening of the real money-maker – the opening of the permanent Cycle Circus here in Indiana.

It was kind of ironic, he reflected, that he found himself depending so heavily on the slightly younger man. He, Larry, had been the one who taught Smith all he knew about bikes, starting when he'd been a skinny little freckle-faced freshman who'd hang around while his older neighbor polished and repaired his big cycle. Larry had taken a liking to the kid who so obviously adored him, and he'd eventually let him try out the bike. Within months the youngster had far outstripped his teacher in skill and daring, and by the time he graduated from high school, he was proficient enough to be able to make a living by the prize money he won. Even after he'd become a success, however, he'd still looked up to Larry Johnson and had asked his advice about a great many things other than motorcycles. In fact, probably the only decision he'd made entirely on his own was when he met Sandi on a tour in Florida and married her three weeks later.

Larry had been prepared to dislike the new bride even before he met her, simply because he'd have preferred to have handpicked the star motorcycle rider's wife himself if Verne insisted in tying himself down at this inopportune point in his career. Hell, the guy was only twenty-one, for Chrissake, and it wasn't like he was hurting for sex, what with all the "cycle groupies" who liked to hang around the track and had no compunctions at all about putting out for the muscular, personable young stunt rider. Although the Cycle Circus had not yet become a reality at that point, the dream had been germinating in Johnson's brain for some months and most of the profits from his repair shop were earmarked for this project. The last thing he needed was some stupid broad coming along and seducing Verne away from a life of constant touring for fear of the danger involved.

When Larry had met Sandi, his worst suspicions had been justified. Granted, she never nagged at her husband to give up his career in favor of a stable nine-to-five job, but he could read in her plaintive brown eyes that this was exactly what she would have liked. At least he'd managed to persuade Verne that it wasn't a good idea for her to hang around the track; he'd told his partner that guys were making passes at his wife, but the real reason was that it was essential for Verne Smith to retain his image of virile, available hero if the circus was to become popular with women as well as men.

Now, for the first time in a year, the ambitious manager found himself looking at his partner's young blonde wife in a new light – that of a sensuous female rather than as an obstacle in his path toward fame and fortune. The curvaceous, apricot-lace-draped figure now clinging to him was obviously that of a woman, and a woman whom he suspected of having a lover as well… and that made her seem much more alluring to him, and available, as well.

Wonder how come I never really noticed her before? he asked himself as he caressed the soft blonde head leaning upon his shoulder. Ain't like me to ignore a sexy-looking chick!

"Oh Larry, Larry," Sandi murmured, hugging him more tightly than ever in her relief that her husband was neither dead nor seriously injured. "You're sure he'll be all right? You're sure?"

"Stop worrying, baby," Larry's normally loud voice dropped to a soft croon as a definite plan began to formulate in his scheming mind. "He'll have to be in the hospital awhile, but we'll get him the best doctors and everything'll work out."

"When can I see him?"

"They're flying him in from Kansas tomorrow afternoon, and I'll drive you into Gary to see him," Larry replied, pouring her another glass of whiskey as he spoke. "Don't you worry about anything – I'll be taking care of you just like Verne asked me to. 'Help Sandi out,' that's what he said to me after the accident. Yeah, you can count on me!"

This was a blatant lie, seeing as Verne hadn't even regained consciousness by the time the show manager left the hospital to catch his plane, but it had the desired psychological effect on the young wife. Her large amber eyes flooded with tears of gratitude, and a tremulous smile hovered on her child-like face.

"Th-thank you, Larry," she murmured. She'd never before seen her husband's partner acting so gentle, and decided that she'd been unjust in her estimation of him as an insensitive wheeler-dealer. Until now, she'd half-suspected him of exploiting and manipulating Verne, but certainly his reaction to this tragedy proved how deeply he cared about his friend.

"I… I just wish I could be there with him, or do something to help him," Sandi sighed. "It's so awful to think of him lying all alone in some awful h-hos…"

"Now don't go on like that, honey," Larry interrupted as the blonde girl's voice began to grow unsteady. "And you can help – you can get a job so we can give him the very best care there is. You won't mind doing that for awhile, will you?"

"Mind? Of course not, Larry. I want to help. Anyway, it'll be better to be doing something than sitting around here worrying."

"That's a good girl," the conniving manager murmured, moving his hands an imperceptible inch closer to the full-swelling mounds of her almost naked breasts. "Here, have some more of this," he pushed the refilled whiskey glass toward her, and was pleased to see her gulp it down obediently. "You're still shaking like a leaf."

And no wonder! he thought to himself, considering that she's running around virtually naked on a cold night like this! But he restrained himself from speaking, for the last thing he wanted was for Sandi to notice that she'd neglected to cover up her resplendent body.

Yes, she was trembling, Sandi realized belatedly. Glancing down at her bare thigh as she sipped the burning alcohol, she saw that her ivory-white flesh was puckered up into goosebumps. For a long moment she continued to stare at herself, feeling sure that something was not as it should be, but not quite being able to grasp just what the matter was.

"Yes… I guess I'm cold. Maybe I should get…" Then her voice broke off in a low, horrified gasp and her face turned a shade of fiery red as she realized that all she was wearing was the wanton orange nightgown her husband had bought her.

Oh God, what's Larry thinking of me? she agonized, pulling away from him as she also noticed the overly familiar way she was snuggled up against him. How could I have been so stupid? Thank goodness it's not somebody else who wouldn't understand that I'm just too upset to know what I'm doing!

"Excuse me," she mumbled, feeling exceedingly awkward and not daring to meet her husband's best friend's eyes. "I… I better go get d-dressed…"

She rose to her feet, then collapsed in a heap upon the couch as her left leg buckled beneath her. Glancing down in bewilderment, she noticed for the first time that there was a jagged scratch running along the soft white flesh of her upper thigh. The moment she became aware of the red droplets of blood oozing down her leg, the cut began to throb with pain.

"Sandi! What happened to your leg?" Larry exclaimed. "Just lie there – I'll go get something to put on it."

"I ran into something when… when the doorbell rang," she gasped as she settled weakly down against the cushions. "But it didn't hurt till now."

The three-inch abrasion wouldn't usually have bothered Sandi in the least, but tonight she was already in such an emotional state that the sight of blood made her feel as though she were about to faint again. Gulping down some more whiskey, which made her head spin more wildly than ever although it did help to deaden her nerves, she focused her glazed eyes on Larry Johnson's tall, broad-shouldered figure hurrying toward the bathroom.

I have to get something else on, even though Larry's been too nice to say anything about the disgraceful way I look, she told herself; but somehow she couldn't summon up the energy to move from her prone position. At last, just as she spotted her husband's friend returning with towel and Merthiolate bottle in hand, she reached up to pull the afghan throw rug from the back of the sofa over her exposed loins. The violet and blue shawl, which she'd crocheted herself from an easy-to-sew pattern composed of more empty spaces than threads, made her feel less obscene without hiding any of her sensual charms.

"Now how am I going to get at that cut with that blanket over you?"

Larry flicked away the flimsy token of modesty and with an eagerness he tried to disguise ran his hand over the satin smoothness of the girl's wounded upper leg. Kneeling down so close to the sofa that he could detect the heady, feminine odor emanating from her blonde hair-trimmed pussy, he began to dab methodically at the angry red scratch with a dampened washcloth. At the same time, he placed an unnecessary hand upon the taut plane of her girlishly flat belly. Beneath the thin apricot-colored nylon, he could feel her muscles first quiver, then grow tense, at the unexpected contact.

She's a hot little bitch, he thought. I'm sure of it. The question is, is she hot enough that I can get her turned on even when she's all upset about her husband's accident? Well, I damn well intend to give it a try! And I do know a few tricks for getting broads into the sack!

A half-forgotten conversation he'd had with the blonde's husband flashed into his memory, making him pause for a second with the antiseptic bottle poised in the air above Sandi's full-fleshed thigh. They'd been standing on the side of the track, over by the bleachers, and watching the buxom blonde he'd set Verne up with saunter across the field toward them.

"How'd you make out with Sherry last night, man?" he'd smirked.

"She's wild, really wild," Verne had leered back. "You sure do know how to spot the winners, Larry. Honest to God, I never thought a girl would want to do all those kinky things! Sandi would freak out if I even mentioned trying stuff like that!"

Somehow this remembered conversation just didn't relate to the image Johnson was forming of Mrs. Sandi Smith tonight. Surely this sophisticated-looking female in her lurid lace nightgown wouldn't be shocked by a few harmless perversions! And surely her supposed lover couldn't be contented with a steady diet of missionary position.

This wasn't the time for idle speculation, however; all that mattered at this moment was the intoxicating perfume of the young wife's voluptuous body and the satin sheen of her unblemished white flesh beneath his roving hands. Just the innocent act of dabbing antiseptic on her firm-fleshed upper leg was sending electrical tremors of arousal shooting from his fingertips out to every nerve-ending in his body, and he felt his cock expand and pulsate in eager anticipation. Was the girl feeling the same surges of desire? It was hard to tell from the way she lay motionless except for a slight flinch of pain from the stinging antiseptic.

"Am I hurting you, Sandi?" he whispered huskily, bending still closer to the blonde's lewdly exposed body so that he could speak directly into her ear. Strands of honey-gold hair brushed across his cheek, and the hotly aroused Motorcycle Circus manager knew that he had to have this succulent young girl, had to get to know every inch of her lushly rounded figure, had to explore her blonde-fringed pussy. Most of all, he longed to hear his partner's formerly aloof and uptight wife begging for more of his throbbing male flesh, imploring him to still the fires that he suspected raged through her healthy young body.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" he repeated when there was no response to his first question. "I don't want to hurt you, honey."

The dark-haired young man set the bottle of Merthiolate down on the coffee table, but an instant later his left hand was back on the warm softness of the young wife's upper thigh while his right hand gradually began a persuasive massaging motion upon her smooth belly that eased the diaphanous orange nightie all the way up to Sandi's slender waist. Much to his gratification, he felt her stomach muscles ripple beneath his suggestive touch.

"You feel so tense, Sandi," he breathed into her ear, letting his lips linger longer than necessary in the silken strands of her naturally blonde hair. Most of the women Larry knew, including his wife Clare, favored wigs, hair pieces, and dyes which made their hair rather coarse to the touch. In contrast, his best friend's wife's shoulder-length curls felt as fine and soft as those of a child, and this plus her clean-scrubbed face and slim-hipped, girlish figure gave her a certain vulnerable, almost virginal quality which the older man found extremely exciting.

"Verne wouldn't want you to be feeling all tensed-up like this," he continued, his concerned, soothing voice betraying nothing of his lewd intentions. "He'd want you to relax, Sandi. Why don't I give you a massage?"

A massage? Just what did Larry mean by that? Sandi asked herself a little uneasily. It was a loaded word, for her sole conception of a massage was derived from a recent Chicago Tribune expose of that city's scurrilous purge of massage parlors. But the stinging pain from the Merthiolate was making her feel more disoriented than ever, and it seemed too much effort to question him.

In any case, Larry slid his hand up underneath the skimpy nightgown and began to knead the pliant warmth of her naked flesh without giving her a chance to voice any objections. His hoarse breathing echoed loudly in his own ears, and he hoped that the quivering young wife had not noticed his growing lust.

Although Sandi knew that her husband's best friend was just trying to help her feel better, his lingering hands were making her feel most uncomfortable.

"N-no, Larry…" she sighed at last. "I… I think maybe it's b-better if I just try to s-sleep…"

Her voice was so low as to be nearly inaudible, and there was a tremulous quality to it which told the conniving manager that she was indeed feeling a reciprocal arousal. In fact, she sounded so timorous that he anticipated no problem in accomplishing his adulterous seduction. In spite of her innocent face and prim mannerisms, she'd be just as susceptible to the lure of a long, stiffened cock as the peroxide teenyboppers who hung around the Cycle Circus.

All broads are the same, he reflected as he inched his eager hands farther up toward the inviting mounds of Sandi Smith's high-set breasts. Horny bitches, the lot of them. Only difference is that it takes longer to get into some cunts than others. Never had one say no to me yet!

"Awh, don't be silly, Sandi," he insisted. "You'll never sleep a wink if you're all muscle-bound like this, and you know it. You'll just be having nightmares about Verne!"

The slender blonde gave a slight shiver at the prospect as visions of blood and flames and prison-like hospitals haunted by ghost-like, white-frocked doctors and echoing with screams of anguish ran through her alcohol-confused mind. So frightened that she momentarily forgot her embarrassment at having Larry this close to her wantonly revealed body, she clasped her arms around his close-leaning back in a childish gesture of fear. The last thing she wanted was to be left alone in the dark, silent house with such terrifying images floating through her dreams.

Yeah – she wants me bad, all right, the egotistical older man gloated. I bet she's been wanting me all this time when she acted so high and mighty. Weird chick – but sometimes they're the wildest fucks of all!

The provoking sensation of being clasped so intimately by a female who was as weak and defenseless as she was beautiful was almost too much for the hotly aroused male. As his penis leaped to full blood-hardened erection, he had to fight back the overwhelming urge to rip off his jeans and ram his aching thickness deep into the tight little cunt that he knew lay hidden beneath those gently curling strands of pale gold pussy hair. That's exactly what he would have done if he'd been with most of the girls he knew – and in his profession, he got to know a lot – because they wanted to be fucked, not persuaded. Half the time, in fact, they'd been the aggressors, and the whole idea of seduction became a bit absurd. As a rule, this suited Larry just fine, for he preferred his adulterous adventures to be brief, uninhibited, and problem-free.

But with Sandi Smith, he instinctively realized he had to play a different game, and an oddly pleasant one at that. He was sure she didn't regard lovemaking as a healthy physical activity or amusing pastime; if she had indeed taken a lover, she was doubtless very guilty about it. No, the naive nineteen year old still hadn't accepted the fact of her basic sensuality… and the real kick, as far as he was concerned, lay in proving to her that she was just another cunt with no control over her body's lewd desires.

"Don't get all upset, Sandi," he whispered to the quivering young bride. "I'm here to take care of you, and I'll fix you up so that you don't have any nightmares."

As he spoke, he continued his subtle massaging of her shaking flesh, pressing into her smooth, pliant skin with his fingertips and then stroking its silk-textured surface, moving higher and higher up along her rib cage. At last he reached her firm young breasts and grasped one in each of his eager hands, teasing their rose-pink tips with his palms.

A strong shudder surged through the innocent blonde wife at the unexpected titillation of her ultra-sensitive nipples. Her hands shot down from Larry's strong-muscled back to cover her naked breasts with the orange lace nightgown, which somehow had crept up around her neck without her noticing it. What on earth was her husband's manager doing to her? Surely he wasn't trying to… but no, that was completely impossible.

"Wh-what are you d-doing, Larry?" she stammered, her whole body tensing as if she were about to jump to her feet and run from the room. "D-don't do that, please!"

"Calm down," Larry said in the smooth voice he usually reserved for selling impossible schemes or unusable objects to recalcitrant clients. It was a tone of unquestionable honesty and sincerity which, along with his driving ambition, was largely responsible for his financial success. Never lost a deal or a woman yet! he often boasted to his friends.

"A massage is mental as well as physical, and if it's going to do any good at all you have to feel my energy vibrating on your bare skin. Now what I want you to do is think about Verne, pretend he's here with you now. That's what he'd want you to do! And you'll be sound asleep in no time at all!"

Sandi's shock-widened amber eyes stared back at him in confusion, and she continued her feeble effort to push away Larry's relentlessly kneading hands. Her mind was whirling so wildly that she just didn't know what to think, and all she could do was slowly shake her head at the handsome older man bending over her.

"Didn't anyone ever give you a massage before?" the sly manager inquired. "You're acting like I'm trying to do something wrong – do you really think I'd do anything to my best friend's wife that he didn't want me to do? And I know what he'd want is for me to relax you, honey. You're being silly – childish."

Was she? the naive blonde wondered. She had, after all, never been given a massage and had no idea of the usual procedure. And Larry had been so kind to her that it seemed insufferably rude to act as though he was trying to do something bad. Maybe she was being childish, still acting as though she was home with her puritanical parents. And what he'd said about thinking that Verne was here with her made sense; she'd actually been doing that already, for the two friends had very similar athletic builds and strong, capable hands.

"Here, have a little more of this scotch. It'll help you sleep, too," she heard Larry say, and as the glass was pressing right against her lips there seemed nothing to do but gulp it down. The clear brown liquid tasted nastier than ever, but it blurred her tangled thoughts to the point where it seemed unnecessary to do anything but close her eyes and try, as Larry had instructed, to pretend that her husband Verne was here beside her on the couch instead of in a hospital bed miles away.

Strong, gentle hands seemed to be caressing every curve and crevice of her nerve-tensed body, and she allowed herself to fall into a semi-trance where there was no remembrance of motorcycle accidents, lewd lace nightgowns, or vague suspicions and guilt about what her husband's friend was doing to her. Verne, her wonderful husband, had magically arrived home safe and sound to calm the flames of desire that had been plaguing her for the past two weeks while he was away on tour. He was making her whole body vibrate in the most pleasant way imaginable, and instead of the nervous, undirected energy that had burned inside her, a flowing honeyed current of pure relief was humming through her veins. All she had to do was keep her eyes shut tight and not let her mind think of anything but Verne's handsome face with its lopsided grin and his sun-bronzed, virile body… that was all she need do to feel happy again…

"Ummmmmmmmm… oooohhhhh…" she purred low in her throat, letting her hands fall limply to her sides as all vestiges of guilt vanished from her conscious mind. "Oh, Verne, Verne… ooooohhhh!"

Above the half-unconscious young wife, Larry Johnson was marveling at the ease with which his plan had succeeded. Even taking into consideration the whiskey and the shock of bad news, Sandi had allowed herself to be manipulated into this situation with the ease of a key slipping into a well-oiled lock. It was really incredible – if someone had told him last week that he'd be feeling up his star stunt-rider's prissy, conceited wife, he'd have laughed in their face.

Still moving cautiously so as not to jolt the crooning blonde out of her propitious trance, the lust-driven older man untied the small satin ribbon which served as the only fastening on Sandi's obscene lingerie and eased the translucent orange nylon away from her body. Jesus, was she a gorgeous chick! Johnson couldn't remember when he'd last seen such a cock-stirring figure, and now that her unblemished skin was coated with a thin sheen of perspiration, she might have been a polished sculpture created by a master craftsman. Inside his tight jeans, his impatient cock was throbbing in wild anticipation.

Massaging now with increasingly fervent strokes, the amoral motorcycle show manager tweaked Sandi Smith's tiny pink nipples into taut, swollen buttons. From the way she whimpered, Larry was certain that the little nerve-filled tips were shooting hot, tingling waves of desire throughout her unresisting body.

"Yes, Verne, yes!" Sandi breathed.

A warm, melting feeling identical to the one she experienced whenever her handsome young husband caressed her was now building up inside the young wife's frustrated body to a point where she required more stimulation than gentle strokes, and she gave a low mewl of relief when the strong male hand slipped down over her churning belly to brush teasingly across the curl-covered "vee" of her pubic mound. Without realizing what she was doing, Sandi wriggled her rounded hips and eased her soft full thighs a few inches apart. There in the rapidly moistening crevice between her trembling legs, a hungry, undeniable pressure was building… an even more urgent pressure than she'd felt in bed an hour earlier as she'd rubbed her yearning thighs against one another in desperate search for relief.

Larry, who naturally did not realize how stimulated she'd been before his arrival, was astonished at the speed with which the sensuous nineteen year old blonde grew aroused.

I don't think she can have a lover, after all, he decided as he ran one outstretched finger up and down along the damp, hair-fringed slit of her vagina. Only a girl who's not been getting it for a good long time would act this hot! She's as cock-hungry as Clare was that time she had to stay on her parents' farm for three weeks while I was in Texas. Said she was ready to screw a horse by the time I got back!

Then, as Sandi's graceful legs eased another involuntary inch apart, all thoughts of his uninhibited brunette wife faded from the adulterous husband's mind. His lust-glazed eyes bugged out like a Pekinese dog's as he watched his middle finger slide stealthily in along the damp pink cuntal flesh nestling in between the honeyed-gold strands of curling pubic hairs. Then with a gentle twisting motion, he wormed his extended finger slowly up into the virginally narrow slit of her cunt.

Christ, she's tight! he thought, beads of perspiration breaking out on his suntanned face as he teased his finger deep inside her pinkly glistening vaginal flesh while continuing to knead the pliant mounds of her wide-set breasts with his other hand. Deep down in his testicles a burning need was growing, sending his long cock into an aching, rock-hard erection that bulged obscenely in the front of his denim jeans. But although the urge to yank down his fly, release his swollen penis, and ram it into the tantalizing blonde-fringed cuntal opening beneath him was almost irresistible, he held himself back. Even in his present lust-maddened state, the successful business manager retained his opportunistic, coolly logical manner of thinking.

I don't want to let her realize what's going on, at least not till she's too hot to stop herself. If I try to fuck her now, she's gonna scream and raise hell, and all the neighbors are gonna hear for a block around. Some ass-hole might even call the cops – it's happened before. You can hear everything through these Goddamn cardboard walls! No, what I have to do is get her so turned on that she wants me inside her… and the way she's squirming around, that shouldn't take too long!

Moving stealthily, the well-built man slithered his muscular body sideways up onto the couch between the writhing blonde's long slender legs, positioning his swollen, throbbing penis up against her gracefully curved calf. Luckily, she did not seem to notice anything that was going on except the insistent probing of his middle finger up into her warmly sucking cunt. As Larry located the tiny nerve-filled bud of her clitoris with his thumb and began circling it in a slow, rhythmic pressuring motion, Sandi once again began to call out her husband's name.

"Verne… Verne… oh yes!" the confused blonde mewled. It feels so very, very good! she marveled to herself. I wonder why he never touched me like this before? Oh, thank you, Verne! Thank you for making me feel so goooooood!

Above the moaning young wife, her seducer was breathing hard and controlling his impatiently lunging virility only with the greatest effort as he continued to gently finger-fuck into her hungrily dilating little pussy. Sandi's cunt seemed to grow moister with each passing second, and again he found himself wondering at the rapidity of her arousal.

Guess maybe I'm more imaginative than old Verne, he congratulated himself with characteristic conceit. Guess she's never had no one treat her sweet little pussy so good! The cocksure egotist suddenly recalled his friend's statement about Sandi not wanting to do "kinky" things, and a lewd grin lighted up his rugged features as he at last formed a clear plan of action. If no one's ever sucked her, then she's going to go wild when I do it! She'll let me do anything to her after that… she'll be crawling to me begging for it!

The expectation of having his star motorcyclist's lushly contoured young wife under his complete control so excited the ill-intentioned show manager that he bent his head down at once to her enticingly hair-fringed cuntal crevice at once. Though he'd never admitted it to himself, Larry was subconsciously rather jealous of the way his younger friend had surpassed him in stunt-riding skill, and this heightened his satisfaction at exploiting the other man's wife sexually in ways her own husband had never dared to attempt.

As his tongue slid into the well-lubricated slit of Sandi's warmly flowing vagina, a rich feminine odor of tantalizing sensuality assaulted his flaring nostrils. Breathing in deeply to take full advantage of the heady scent, the dark-haired man let his tongue swipe with smooth gentle strokes against the quivering lips of her rose-petal-pink vagina. Her feminine fluids inundated his hungry tongue, making it tingle in a way that caused his already uncomfortably elongated penis to swell thicker than ever, the blood-filled head grazing maddeningly against the rough denim fabric of his formfitting jeans.

Jesus! he thought to himself as he slithered his tongue along Sandi's fresh-tasting cuntal slit in search of her sensitive clitoral bud. Gotta make her cum fast! Once she's climaxing, I can shove it into her so fast she won't know it's me until it's too late for her to give a damn. And then I'll let her know whose cock is fucking her, I'm gonna ram it into her like I'm sure Verne never dared to! He always did treat chicks too nice.

Sandi, who's never before experienced a tongue-fucking, gasped aloud as she felt the strange, wetly moving object gliding along her most intimate flesh. In the farthest corner of her mind, a persistent little voice was attempting to warn her against this incredibly lovely sensation, but her frustrated craving for the wonderful waves of ecstasy that were shimmering out from her belly to every inch of her ripe young body was so intense that it was quite simple to block out the glowering warnings of her conscience.

"Verne, Verne! Oh, I love you… I love you!" she cried, her voice overly shrill as if to convince herself that nothing was going on except her husband making conventional love to her. Clenching her fists so hard that her long nails left marks on her palms, and squeezing her eyes even more tightly shut, the tormented young wife strove to retain the wonderful illusion.

And Larry, slaving above the half-conscious wife of his injured friend, was enjoying the tongue-fucking more than he'd expected to. Being a naturally selfish and impatient individual, he tended to prefer having a girl suck his urgently pulsating penis, or sinking his long thickness hard into her welcoming cunt without any undue delay. Tonight, however, he was experiencing a great deal of somewhat perverse pleasure from his delightful oral torture of this naive blonde who believed him to be her absent husband. As he thought of how shocked she'd be when she discovered who she'd been sucked and fucked and fingered by, his eyes glinted with a malicious, almost sadistic delight. Yeah, she'd be under his thumb, all right! She'd be like putty in his hands! Even the agonizing ache in his cum-filled balls and pounding penis was worth that eventual triumph!

Lashing out with increasing ardor, he let his stiffened tongue vibrate in teasing little circles around the moaning nineteen-year-old's swollen clitoris. He could feel her jerk and groan out beneath him, and within seconds the tiny nerve-filled pleasure-bud had grown erect and taut, not unlike a miniature penis.

It was funny, he reflected, how different women were. His wife Clare had a wealth of thickly tangled dark cuntal hair; he'd made her shave it, for there was something obscene about an unnaturally smooth pussy mound that excited him. In fact, he got a very erotic thrill from watching her shave herself down there; seeing the dangerously sharp razor grazing so near to her ultra-sensitive pink vagina appealed to the sadist in him. At first she'd objected to performing the very personal operation in front of him, but he'd compelled her to, and she never resisted him for very long. Neither would Sandi after he was through with her! But he wouldn't like to see her shave off her sparsely curling strands of gold pubic hair. No, he liked the way she resembled a preadolescent nymphet… and she acted incredibly like one, too, even after a whole year of marriage.

Then, as the intoxicated, honey-blonde wife began to tremble like a willow sapling in a Midwestern thunderstorm, Johnson lost track of his obscene thought and he buried his face in the warm moist crevice between her widespread legs, striving to bring on her impending orgasm. First he flicked his skillful tongue around the moistly glistening jewel of her distended clitoris, reveling in the way the smooth little bud vibrated in automatic response. Her whole body tensed beneath him, the tendons standing out on her lower leg where Johnson's lust-hardened cock pressed against it, and her breath coming in harsh, low gasps as she strained to reach her climax. Although he'd rather expected her to cum immediately, she hovered on the edge of release for so long that the man kneeling between her naked legs changed his tactics and glided his tongue down along her moist cuntal slit to the tiny orifice of her pink-fleshed vagina. Stretching as far as possible, he jabbed deep into the heatedly pulsing channel, then commenced a rhythmic pattern of long, smooth in and out strokes.

"Oooooohhhhhh… aaahhhhhh… ooooggg hhhhh…" Sandi moaned, her honey-blonde hair flailing like a halo around her twisting head as she wailed out her mindless passion. Every muscle in her slender young body was straining for the fulfillment that lay just out of reach, and as the young blonde cried out again, she kicked her long, lithe legs still wider apart and curled up her small white toes in a frenzy of desire.

Why can't I cum? Why? I need to so bad! her dazed mind shouted.

There was so much pressure mounting inside her loins that she felt like a blown-to-the-limit balloon about to explode. As her softly tumescent vaginal lips contracted around the warm, vibrating object inside her pussy – no, she wouldn't let herself think what it was, not now, not just when she was about to cum – she thought that at last she'd reached the pinnacle.

"Pleeeeeeeeeeease!" she wailed. "Pleeeeeeease, Verne, nooooowwwwwwww!"

Larry wiggled his tongue lewdly inside the warm, wet channel of Sandi's pulsating vagina, then ran his tongue up over her desire-swollen pussy lips to nip gently at the glistening clitoral bud once more. Simultaneously, he reached up to knead the pliant mounds of her heaving breasts, pinching their puckering nipples much harder than before in his intense desire to feel his friend's wife cumming as a result of his skillful manipulations.

Suddenly the aching tension in Larry Johnson's throbbing penis was too much to bear, and his rock-hard member lurched out of control, pounding so impatiently that he immediately yanked down his zipper to release it. If Sandi discovered his identity now and began freaking out, it was just too bad for her. There was no power on this earth that could hold back his passion a moment longer, and with a hoarse, animalistic cry the burly motorcyclist began tearing off his jeans.

At the unmistakable metallic sound of a zipper being ripped open and the harsh cry in a voice which bore no resemblance to her husband's, Sandi's dream-like illusion shattered into a thousand pieces.

It's not Verne! she realized. It's Larry Johnson! Oh God, oh God! How could he do this… how could I let him get away with it?

Pulling her wits together as best she could, the despairing blonde housewife forced her eyelids open. Not more than six short inches above her nakedly splayed body, her husband's best friend was extracting the enormous, glistening red shaft of his penis from his unfastened fly. It was so close to her that she could see the tiny pearl of over-eager pre-cum on the mushroom-shaped glans, and as she stared, paralyzed with shame and fear, it seemed to lengthen before her very eyes.

Adultery! Adultery! the voice in her mind screamed. How could you have committed this unforgivable sin just when poor Verne's had an accident?

The guilt-stricken young wife tried to defend herself, but before she could coordinate her passion-weakened muscles, the piercing ring of the telephone turned her blood to ice and she froze with her legs still half lifted in preparation to kick at her assailant. Larry also knelt stock-still, his Levi's bunched around his knees and his powerful erection thrusting out straight as an arrow from his loins. Both their heads whirled toward the dark hallway, their disoriented eyes staring at the shrilling phone.

Sandi came to her senses first, and began kicking out her legs and pummeling her balled-up fists against Larry's menacing figure.

"Get away from me!" she choked out. "Let me answer the phone!"

There was a huge lump of guilty fear clogging her throat which made it very difficult to speak, for she was positive that it must be the hospital ringing to say that Verne was dead. I've killed him! her mind shrieked, for by now she was far too intoxicated and shocked to be rational. It's all my fault that he's dead!

It wasn't easy for the half-naked older man to speak or move, what with the blood pounding so urgently through his lust-distended cock, but he finally managed to gasp out, "Let the Goddamn thing ring, baby. Don't answer it."

"Shut up! You shut up, you – you monster!" the hysterical young blonde screamed, giving him a violent shove which caught him off his guard and sent him staggering away from the couch. Then she rushed into the hallway, grabbing the phone just before it rang for the fifth time.

"Hello?" she cried in a breathless voice quite unlike her usual soprano tone. "Yes? Yes? What is it?"

"Hey, take it easy, honey," she heard the throaty voice of Clare Johnson, the wife of the dark-haired man who stood in her living room with his massive, penis shamelessly pointed straight out from his hard-muscled stomach, and Sandi's knees went weaker than ever in relief that at least it wasn't the hospital. Then, a moment later, she felt a wave of sick guilt so intense that she had to lean against the hallway's flower-papered wall to keep her balance, and she noted distractedly that her knuckles clutching the receiver were as white as if no flesh covered the bone. She prayed that Larry would keep quiet, at the same time loathing herself for having to think a thing like that.

"Clare…" she gulped.

"Gee, honey, I'm so sorry about Verne," the other woman's voice buzzed into Sandi's ear. When there was no answer she added, "Larry did tell you, didn't he? He called me from the airport and said he'd be stopping by your place to…"

"Yes," Sandi swallowed. "He… told me." She glared with wide, hate-filled eyes at the man in question who stood awkwardly poised beside the living room sofa, his formerly rock-hard penis shrinking as he realized that it was his wife at the other end of the line. "He j-just left."

"Oh good!" Clare exclaimed. "That's why I called, really. I wouldn't have bothered you at a time like this, but I got so worried, what with this fog coming up and all. It's so hard not to worry, especially after…"

"Yes," Sandi broke in, not wanting to hear Verne's accident mentioned, not wanting to continue this dishonest conversation. She stared dully out of the uncurtained living room window, scarcely hearing Clare's condolences, as it suddenly struck her that any passerby could quite easily have seen into the living room and observed the depraved way Larry Johnson had crouched between her legs and touched her in unspeakable places with his mouth. Oh God, how had it happened, how? She'd never even let her own husband touch her in that perverted way.

Suddenly Sandi's head ached so badly and her legs felt so trembly that she knew she was about to collapse on the floor. "G-good-by, Clare. T-tomorrow…" she stuttered, letting the white plastic receiver fall down with a clatter as she stumbled into a chair. I'm still naked, she thought vaguely, I have to cover myself up. But all she really wanted was for Larry to vanish, and Clare as well – how would she ever face the brunette again? – and everything about this horrible evening to be erased from her memory forever.

"Sandi…" Larry said, stepping toward her, his deflated penis jerking slowly back into semi-erectness. Goddamn Clare anyway, he cursed silently. It's gonna take a fucking miracle now to get her back down on the couch. She looks madder than hell, the stupid bitch!

"Get away from me, Larry Johnson! What's the matter with you?" Sandi hissed in a voice that was more weary than angry. It was hard to sound indignant when her traitorous body was beginning to pulse with lewd desire for the orgasm which had been so abruptly terminated. Inconceivable as it was that she could be feeling like this, it was impossible to deny the wanton waves of erotic lust still shivering in her nearly naked body.

If there was one thing that infuriated the egotistical motorcycle enthusiast, it was to have his plans thwarted. All his life as an only child, he had been the first, the favorite, the winner of prizes and scholarships. The good-looking youngster had passed from being the strongest kid on the block to being president of his high school class without encountering any serious obstacles, and by the time he was in his early twenties he'd capitalized on the new motorcycle fad to become richer than most men twice his age. All of this had occurred so smoothly as to make him feel it was his due, and quite naturally Larry Johnson had come to believe by now that there was no reason why he shouldn't continue to have everything handed to him on a silver platter. He certainly wasn't about to take no for an answer from some uptight cunt who obviously wanted to be fucked as badly as he wanted to fuck her!

"There's not a Goddamn thing wrong with me," he snarled rather nastily at the glassy-eyed blonde slouched disconsolately in the chair across from the couch. "But there's sure as hell something wrong with you! How come you're all uptight all of a sudden? You were liking it all right five minutes ago, and you know as well as I do you're dying to get a taste of this in your tight little pussy." He pointed his hardening thickness menacingly at the girl as he spoke, his face a mask of raw lust and his black eyes shooting out sparks of impatient fury.

At her husband's disloyal friend's scathing words, Sandi Smith's flushed pink cheeks blanched greyish-white. What hurt most was his all-too-true assumption that she wanted to make love to him. Waves of self-disgust rose stronger than ever in her throat, and tears of shame welled up in her eyes as her well-meaning efforts to draw her contoured thighs close together only succeeded in increasing rather than eliminating the forbidden sensations surging up from her frustrated vagina to her still crazily churning belly.

Johnson, though, by now so aroused and enraged that he wanted to rape the lushly ripened nineteen year old wife of his injured friend, forced himself to think calmly. It was too late to do anything tonight, he realized. Clare expected him home at any moment; besides, Sandi was so distraught by now that she'd be sure to scream and rouse the neighbors. One thing the Cycle Circus certainly didn't need was bad publicity. And damn it all! Here he was so horny he could hardly walk!

"Don't talk to me like that!" Sandi blazed, her indignant voice made shriller by her knowledge of her own very real guilt. "Get out of here! I never want to see you again!"

"But you'll be seeing me, baby," Larry snarled, his handsome face contorted by his vindictive anger into a caricature of a villain. "You'll be coming around begging for more of what I've got to give!"

"Shut up!" Sandi hissed, putting her hands over her ears.

"Yeah," the dark-haired man added spitefully as he tugged his form-fitting Levi's up over his unsatisfied and still swollen penis. "Yeah, you'll be hurting pretty bad when you find out how it is living with a husband who's paralyzed! It's no use pretending to me, sweetie – I know you can't go long without a good stiff prick in that hot little hole of yours!"

With that parting shot, he yanked open the front door, determining to fuck the hell out of Clare and slap her around a bit, too, to pay her back for fucking up this perfect opportunity to screw Sandi Smith. "I'll be seeing you, baby," he hissed from the doorstep, then slammed the door so hard the living room walls shook, and with a loud squeal of tires headed toward his almost identical ranch house a few blocks away.

Sandi never heard his last words or his noisy exit. At his statement about her "paralyzed husband", she'd blanked out to all else in her surroundings. For what seemed an eternity, but was actually only about ten minutes, she sat frozen in the armchair. Then, at last, she fell into unconsciousness, her voluptuous body slumped over the wide chair arm and her dreams filled with blood and fear and giant naked men with enormous cocks who menaced her as she stood in the middle of a motorcycle stadium.

CHAPTER THREE

"Typing speed?" the pinched-faced employment-office lady snapped even before Sandi had a chance to settle herself down in the squeaking metal folding chair. "Shorthand speed? Telex experience? Dictaphone?" she continued as though reciting a litany, never even glancing at the nervous young blonde.

"I… I'm afraid I… I never worked in an office," Sandi stammered, trying to smooth her short navy blue skirt down over her ripely rounded thighs. She'd chosen the skirt, a relic from her high-school wardrobe, as being more appropriate than the vivid-hued outfits which Verne had brought her. Although she certainly preferred the new clothes, they'd seemed somehow too frivolous for a job interview, and it was only now that she realized how very short this skirt was. She felt her cheeks grow hot as she thought that this stern woman must be thinking she was trying to look seductive in a rather sluttish way.

She needn't have worried on this score, for the woman still did not deign to glance at Sandi, although she did adjust her white-plastic framed glasses to frown at the card the young blonde had filled out in the outer office.

"No office experience?" She repeated Sandi's statement as though she were accusing the girl of having a prison record. "Well, then, what can you do?"

What could she do? Perhaps because she'd been so distracted by her guilty thoughts about the depraved scene with Larry Johnson the evening before, Sandi hadn't even thought to consider this question. Getting a job and making lots of money to help her injured husband had been as far as her thoughts went as she drove into Brunrocke this morning, and she'd been very glad to have something to do that helped to alleviate the crushing burden of guilt about her wanton behavior. But what if she couldn't even get a job…?

"Well, Mrs. Smith, what skills do you have?" the gray-haired woman asked, impatiently tapping her ballpoint against the gray metal desktop.

"I… I…" Sandi began, then paused in despair as she fished through her mind for some citable accomplishment. Verne had always praised her cooking… and she'd done a lot of babysitting during high school… and she could knit and crochet… and she'd gotten straight A's in English, though she'd failed Algebra… Somehow, though, none of these attributes seemed the sort of thing that would interest this unfriendly woman.

"I… I," she tried again, "I can cook…"

"If you wanted a job as a domestic," the woman interrupted, glancing at her watch, "you ought to have gone to an agency that deals in that."

"Oh no!" Sandi exclaimed, her cheeks flushing redder than ever. "I… I don't think I want to be a maid."

Maids didn't make enough money to pay for Verne's operation, and she knew that her proud husband would be ashamed to have her cleaning someone else's home. He'd probably be resentful at the fact she was seeking any job at all, for he'd always insisted that no wife of his was going to work.

Catching the note of hysteria in the girl's voice, the frozen-faced employment bureau worker glanced up at her for the first time. The applicant didn't look a day over eighteen, though she was certainly pretty enough… somehow she just didn't look like the type to be a waitress in a nightclub, which was just about the only type of unskilled job the agency had listed at the moment.

"Unfortunately, there are no vacancies at any of the groceries or department stores here in Brunrocke," she said, riffling through a stack of file cards containing job listings. "But I do have something for a nightclub waitress at the Pioneer Bar and Steak House just out of town, down by the new expressway. It's well-paid, but naturally it involves night work…"

"Oh no, I don't think so," Sandi demurred. That certainly wouldn't please Verne either!

"Well, then," the lady was beginning to sound impatient and the nineteen year old blonde felt distinctly embarrassed. "I just don't know what we can offer you…" she shuffled through her cards again, shaking her head, and then rather doubtfully plucked one out. "How about modeling? This is a rather – uh – odd position, but maybe…?"

Sandi licked her lips, then gulped, "Odd?" Models make lots of money, she was thinking, and people are always telling me I'm built like a model.

"Mr. Fletcher seems to be a bit particular; he never seems to like the girls we send over. I suppose its because he's a foreigner. But you could give it a try."

The woman's statement was a command rather than an offer, and Sandi rose hurriedly, aware that the woman was anxious to get on with her more lucrative clients.

Clutching the paper on which the woman had written Mr. Fletcher's address, she slowly threaded her way cross the medium-sized town toward the three-story brick building which housed the "Deja-Vu Studio". She pushed the button labeled, "Tony Fletcher, Fashion Photographer", and waited, her heart thumping against her ribs and her mouth dry with nervousness. Suddenly the headache she'd woken up with returned to throb behind her temples, and when no one answered her rather timid ring she felt a sensation of relief.

Turning so quickly that her mini-skirt caught in the current of the autumn breeze and exposed her firm-fleshed thighs and pink lace panties, she started down the three rather steep front steps, her long slender legs wobbling slightly in her chunky navy blue platform heels. I'll try again tomorrow, when I'm feeling calmer, she promised herself. And I'll wear something more conservative too. But try as she would, she couldn't block out the guilty whispers that persisted in creeping through into her consciousness.

You're just afraid – and you'll be just as much a chicken tomorrow! her conscience accused. You're too stupid to find a job to help Verne! You can't do anything without making a mess of it, just like your mother always said. Just look at what you did last night! She was right when she said you'd never be able to get along alone up north!

A sobering image of her gray-faced mother flashed across the already downhearted young wife's mind, so distracting her that she failed to hear the "Deja-Vu's" front door opening and an oddly accented man's voice calling out to her. When she felt an arm tugging at her red cardigan, she yelped and whirled around so quickly that she had to catch hold of the bannister to keep from toppling over. Then, blushing with embarrassment at her awkwardness, she turned to stare at the dark-haired, bare-chested young man in chopped-off blue jeans who had caught hold of her arm when she stumbled in her cumbersome shoes.

"Never did understand why you chicks want to wear those crazy shoes. Bloody dangerous," he remarked as casually as though they were old friends instead of complete strangers.

"I-I'm sorry… I guess y-you startled m-me," she stammered, annoyed at her own gauche behavior but feeling extremely disconcerted by the way the handsome man's eyes seemed to be undressing her right out there on the doorstep. Then, when he failed to release his hold on her arm, she mumbled, "Well, better be going. Th-thanks for c-catching me." With a self-conscious laugh she turned away from him and put one foot down on the step below, then stopped short as he tightened his grip on her sweatered arm.

"Hey, wait a minute," he smiled, "I don't get it. You come to my house and ring my doorbell, but the minute you see me you want to run away. Am I so awful as all that?"

Sandi gaped at him uncertainly, wondering just what it was about his piercing blue eyes that made her feel so exposed. "Oh no… I mean… I was… I was looking for a Mr. Fletcher," she explained, wishing again that she'd worn something that didn't reveal quite so much of her shapely legs.

The slim-hipped, long-haired youth grinned down at her, the pressure of his hand upon her arm increasing as he laughed, "Well, you found him!"

"You're… you're not…?" Sandi was astounded. She'd certainly not expected that woman at the agency to send her out for an interview with someone who looked for all the world like a college student from nearby Notre Dame. Why, he didn't look as old as her twenty-five year old husband Verne, and what with those sideburns, boyishly waving long hair, and faded and patched cut-offs, she just couldn't picture him as a prospective employer. Of course, she'd expected a foreign photographer to look somewhat more eccentric than an ordinary business executive, but a bearded, baggy-trousered, bereted little man was more the image she'd conjured up.

"Tony W. Fletcher, Fashion Photographer," the dark-haired youth tapped his tanned, well-muscled chest, looking vastly amused at the attractive young blonde's self-conscious confusion. "And when I make the effort I actually look quite respectable enough to impress the good citizens of Brunrocke, Indiana. Come on in."

Before she knew quite what was happening, Sandi Smith found herself being led back up the cement steps and into a dimly lit, very narrow hallway. To the left was a steep flight of stairs, and at the end of the corridor was a shiny black door on which was painted in red, "knock before entering".

"Darkroom," said Tony in response to her unasked question. Then, taking the bewildered blonde's arm, he guided her up to the second story and along a corridor decorated with rather bizarre black and white fashion photos done in a very modernistic style. She'd have liked to stop and take a long look at the exotic-looking clothing and unusual lighting effects, but Tony was pulling her into a large, brightly lit room which appeared to be a sort of living room, bedroom, and kitchen all combined in an overwhelming confusion of color and clutter. Much to Sandi's consternation, there was even a shower with a see-through plastic curtain draped around it standing right beside a pile of cushions which apparently served as a sofa.

What a crazy place for a shower! she marveled to herself. Just imagine being naked in there with people sitting and watching you so close they could practically touch you! The very idea sent inexplicable prickles of excitement shooting up her spine, and Sandi immediately put an end to that lewd train of thought.

The young wife would have liked to inspect this curious room, so totally divorced from her conception of a house, but the agile, half-naked photographer was hurrying up a still steeper flight of steps and she was so busy concentrating on not stumbling on her clumsy, thick-soled shoes that she didn't dare to glance anywhere but down.

The third level of Tony Fletcher's peculiar house was his studio, and whereas his living quarters had been in wild disorder, this room was methodically neat. Sunlight flooded into the slant-ceilinged chamber through two large skylights, and the white walls were ringed with photographs and colorful posters.

"What a strange building!" Sandi forgot her shyness enough to exclaim. "It's so tall and narrow – I never saw anything like it before."

"Yeah, it's pretty weird," Tony agreed. "It's one of the oldest houses in Brunrocke – belonged to my friend Ted's grandfather before he kicked off. But I like it, 'cause it reminds me of home."

"H-home?"

"London. Sit down." The good-looking young man gestured toward a canvas folding chair, then ambled over to the far side of the large room and began doing something with his camera equipment.

Sandi seated herself rather gingerly on the low-slung chair, self-consciously tugging her miniscule navy blue skirt as far down over her flaring thighs as possible. Then she crossed her slim ankles in the prim and proper way her mother had often insisted upon, nervously ran her tongue over her dry lips, and waited for Mr. Fletcher to turn around and break the silence. Much to her embarrassment, he merely continued doing whatever it was he was doing, whistling to himself as though he'd been all alone in the studio.

Feeling more ill at ease then ever, the nineteen year old wife made a deliberate effort to stare at the pictures on the walls rather than at the rippling muscles of the photographer's golden-tanned torso, which somehow reminded her of Larry Johnson.

Don't be ridiculous! she scolded herself. They don't look the least bit alike, aside from both having dark hair, and besides I'm not going to let myself think about last night. I'm not!

The guilt-tortured young housewife had been resolving to block out the sinful, obscenely vivid memory pictures from the moment she'd woken up to find herself nakedly draped over the living room chair, her lurid apricot-lace nightgown crumpled on the floor below. Now, hours later, she couldn't hold back a shudder as she recalled how filthy she'd felt and how she'd detected a scent of Larry Johnson's masculine odor on her own body. There had been a dull pounding in the back of her temples, and a disgusting stale whiskey taste in her mouth, but as she'd hurried into the bathroom, she'd scarcely noticed her physical discomfort in her struggle to erase the shameful images that swam before her tear-swollen eyes.

As she'd scrubbed her traitorous body, carefully avoiding applying any pressure to her ultra-sensitive breasts and soaping her hair-fringed vagina over and over to destroy any trace of her husband's friend's perverted oral assault, she'd thought she'd succeeded in driving the obscene pictures from her mind. Praying that she could make herself forget the ugly incident entirely, she'd directed her thoughts toward Verne. How could she be sinful enough to think of anything else, when her beloved husband lay paralyzed in a hospital bed? He must never, never find out…

But as she'd sat drinking black coffee in the spotless little kitchen of her modern ranch house, the dreadful pictures once again rose unbidden before her eyes. There were two disturbing visions: the first, of Larry's head with its fashionably trimmed dark hair burrowing in obscene feast between her own wantonly widespread legs, his red tongue snaking out from between his teeth toward the most intimate, sacred part of her body – the pussy that belonged exclusively to her husband Verne; and the second image, of her husband's friend as she'd seen him when she opened her eyes to answer the phone, his huge, angry-red cock brandished in his hand and his black eyes burning with lustful desire.

All through the morning, as she carefully dressed and applied a touch of pink rouge to her unusually pale cheeks, then as she drove the ten miles from the subdivision of Lakeview Gardens to the larger town of Brunrocke, the disturbing images kept recurring. Now, as she sat in Tony Fletcher's studio waiting for him to interview her, Larry's flicking tongue and throbbing, swollen penis again flashed before the guilty wife's eyes. Flinching as though she'd been slapped by an invisible hand, the tortured young blonde exerted all her energy toward making the horrible visions vanish.

What's the matter with me? she agonized. Why did I keep seeing dirty pictures in my mind? I think I'm going crazy… stark raving mad!

Suddenly a flashbulb exploded in her face, breaking through her troubled reverie and dispersing the lewd, unwanted images with its burst of light.

"Scared ya, didn't I?" the good-looking man flashed a bright smile at the shy job applicant. "A model oughtn't to be camera-shy!"

"I – I'm not really a model," Sandi felt compelled to confess. "The agency lady just sent me here because… well… because I can't type and this was the only job there was. And I have to find a job – I absolutely have to!"

Tony Fletcher studied the fair-haired girl curiously, trying to guess at her story from her appearance. This was a game he often played with himself, and with his trained eye, he was usually able to make quite astute guesses about total strangers. So far he'd had eleven females come in wanting to be models, and he'd psyched out every one of them before they'd told him a thing about themselves. Not that this was much to boast about, for they'd all been pretty obvious types: seventeen year old prom queens who dreamed of ending up in Hollywood, broad-hipped mother's of three who'd won a local beauty contest ten years ago, and so forth. All of them had been pretty enough, though a little too heavy for the camera which added about ten pounds, but none of them had been right for the project he had in mind. In fact, the twenty-three year old free-lance photographer had just about given up all hope of finding a model in Brunrocke, and had been sending off letters to former girlfriends in less conservative corners of the country.

What would this honey-haired girl say when he told her just exactly what sort of a model he wanted he wondered, a sly smile flickering over his handsome face. She seemed awfully nervous and shy, but beneath her modest, old-fashioned demeanor he sensed an emotional intensity. Well, he sure as hell hoped she wasn't a prude, because she had the body and face he'd been searching for ever since he and Ted had come up with this great idea.

Once again the young photographer let his green-flecked eyes glide over the nervous blonde's young curvaceous body. She looked about nineteen, though it was always hard to be certain about age, and he saw from the ring on her slim left hand that she was married. That might just present problems, but everything else was so perfect that he determined not to let it interfere with his plans for her. Jesus, she was exactly what he'd had in mind, with that southern accent and angelic face, and lush yet slender body too! He couldn't wait to tell Ted that he'd found an absolutely unbeatable star for the film they'd been talking about all summer long. The deal might really be coming off! For a brief instant he let his mind dwell on the way things would be when this movie had made him and his friend rich and famous. His family would sure be sorry they'd called him an irresponsible college drop-out, and a good-for-nothing layabout.

Slow down, Tony, he cautioned himself. Just keep cool… you've still got to talk her into it, and you don't even know if she's photogenic yet…

Quickly peeling the top paper from the Polaroid shot he'd just taken, he peered down at it intently, then flashed a broad, triumphant grin.

Perfect! he exulted. Custom-made for us! Face like a virgin, and a bod like the hottest whore in Paris! And even high-set cheekbones, and one of those enigmatic kind of smiles. Wonder what she was thinking about when I shot that? Something she wouldn't want to tell me, I bet!

"Looks real nice," he said, sauntering over toward the young woman who sat fidgeting uncomfortably on the canvas chair. "Lots better than anyone that damn agency's sent round. Have a look…"

Sandi took the proffered photo, her smooth forehead wrinkling into a frown as she stared at it. It looked rather dreadful to her, and she couldn't imagine what Mr. Fletcher saw in it to please him so. For one thing, her shoulder-length hair was a mess; and still worse, the unguarded expression in her eyes was so different from any of the say-cheese smiling photos she'd had taken previously that she scarcely recognized herself. Planting a stiff little smile on her sensual pink lips, she handed the snapshot back to the bare-chested young man.

"Of course, I'm going to have to take lots more test shots," Tony began, "but I'd say the job's yours if you want it – uh, what's your name, anyway?"

"Mrs. Verne Smith… Sandi Smith," the astonished blonde replied, an odd little tremor running through her as it always did when she gave her married name instead of Seeburg, her maiden name. An inauspicious giggle buggled in her throat at the sheer absurdity of what was happening to her. How could this strange young man be offering her a job without knowing the first thing about her, not even her name? It just didn't make any sense at all!

"Ten bucks an hour – how does that sound?"

Ten dollars an hour? My cousin Mary-Sue's only making $1.95 an hour, and she knows shorthand and all that stuff. It's impossible – there has to be a catch somewhere. But if I'm earning that much money, I'll be able to pay all Verne's hospital bills without taking anything from that loathsome Larry Johnson. It'll make everything all right again… as if last night hadn't happened…

Tony Fletcher moved an inch closer to the gracefully contoured young blonde so that he was standing near enough to smell the fresh, unperfume-adulterated scent of her very feminine body. Inside his hip-hugging cut-off jeans, he felt his virile penis jerk to life to bulge noticeably against the much-washed denim fabric, and his smile grew even more gleeful than before. Before this afternoon was over, if things worked out the way he hoped, he'd be sinking his long thick cock into this innocent-looking blonde's sweet little pussy. It would be good and tight, he was sure of that, and she'd be whimpering beneath him and begging for more. The fact that she was another man's woman added an extra fillip of erotic anticipation to the scheming Briton's lust.

There you go again, counting your chickens before they're hatched, he cautioned himself. Talk her into getting out of her clothes before you think about getting into her cunt!

"Tax free, of course," he added smoothly. "And a cut of the profits too, naturally."

"P-profits?" Sandi stammered, not really liking the sound of "tax free"; though she knew little about such matters, it somehow sounded dishonest. Yet overriding her vague doubts was her almost desperate desire to earn money, lots of money. If she could pay for Verne's operation without asking Larry's help, she might be able to get her husband out of his disloyal friend's clutches. He could stop risking his life every day and could get a good job that didn't take him away from her for weeks at a time, and their marriage could be the way she'd dreamed it would be. Last night's wanton breakdown of her willpower would never, never recur…

"Yes, you see, we're making a movie. My partner and I, that is," Tony explained.

"A movie? But… but I c-can't act. I mean, I never tried…" Sandi broke in, her face reddening with disappointment at having lost this wonderful job so soon.

Secretly, she'd always wanted to try out for parts in high-school plays, but her father had been opposed to it, and besides she was sure she'd just get tongue-tied on stage and never be able to utter a word in the end. Still, it would have been wonderful to be up there with all those people in the audience looking up and admiring her, and a movie would have been even more exciting. If only she were a different, cleverer sort of person…

Her classic-featured young face collapsed into a mask of despair as her short-lived vision of finding a good job faded. Probably she'd end up being a waitress in a drive-in, or a maid, or nothing at all. And Verne would continue to be controlled by his selfish manager, Larry Johnson. Why was she so inept at everything? She'd hoped that marriage would change her, transform her into an accomplished, self-assured young woman: but no, she was still as stupid and useless as she'd been back at her father's vicarage back in Florida.

"Doesn't matter at all," the photographer's British-accented voice broke through her dismal thoughts. "Why do you suppose I went through a Goddamn employment agency in a dump like Brunrocke if I wanted a real actress? Listen, Sandi, you're exactly the girl I'm looking for. You've got the face I need – and you can act; everything you're thinking's reflected all over you. Don't put yourself down!"

Sandi hung her head, letting her long, ash-blonde curls form a protective veil around her flushed face. This was probably the first time in her nineteen years that she'd had to make a decision of any importance entirely on her own, and she felt flustered and helpless. To make things worse, Mr. Fletcher – though he did seem very nice and friendly – persisted in eyeing her in a way that reduced her already shaky composure to shreds. She especially didn't like his remark about her thoughts showing on her face; it proved she still was out-of-control as she'd been the night before because since childhood she'd usually kept her expression smooth and guarded.

"I… I don't know…" she murmured.

"Let me tell you more about what we're planning to do," Tony said in his most persuasive voice, placing one hand on the nervous blonde's arm in a studiedly casual way. She shivered slightly at the contact, which sent his eager penis leaping into such urgent palpitations that he was afraid she would notice his arousal and be frightened away. "My mate and I got this fantastic idea for a flick – a real money-maker – but we needed a certain kind of bird. And you're the one! You've got that sort of soft, gentle looks, a kind of sweetness and innocence, and we just want you to act as though you're not in a film. You dig? You just have to be yourself!"

Sandi shook her tawny golden mane of hair away from her face to stare in bewilderment at the enthusiastic youth beside her. Although the pressure of his hand on her arm certainly wasn't in the least way suggestive, she felt her entire body vibrating with shameful excitement at his touch. All the unwanted excitation she'd felt from Larry Johnson's obscene touches of the night before came back in a dizzying rush, and though she tried her best to control herself, the two depraved images that had been plaguing her all day flickered briefly before her eyes again.

"You just have to be natural, uninhibited," Tony Fletcher's clipped-sounding voice broke through the guilty young wife's unwanted remembrance. "Come on, let's take a few more test shots and I'll try to show you what I want."

Suddenly Sandi's body seemed to make up her mind for her, and without having made a conscious decision to accept this mysterious, almost suspicious job offer, she found her head nodding in agreement. As she did so, a curious elation tingled through her bloodstream, and her posture automatically grew straight and proud.

"Okay," she said to the photographer in a voice which quavered a little although she was trying to sound self-assured and experienced. "I'll… I'll take the job, Mr. Fletcher."

"Tony, please," the young cameraman smiled, his pleasure so obvious that Sandi's self-confidence jumped up several notches. His next words, however, brought feelings of inadequacy welling up inside her once again. "But you'll have to get out of those clothes – those just won't do at all," he said firmly. "Here – you have a drink and just relax while I dig up some things, okay?"

Sandi found herself nodding again, although a drink was the very last thing she wanted after last night's whiskey-perpetuated fiasco. Up until her marriage a year ago, she'd hardly even tasted alcohol, and although she now accepted a glass of wine or beer, or even an occasional whiskey, just to keep Verne from making fun of her, she still viewed liquor with distrust. Certainly she'd never have considered drinking at one o'clock in the afternoon, but since Mr. Fletcher – Tony, rather – seemed to think it perfectly natural, she didn't want to seem gauche by protesting.

"Here you go," Tony said, offering her a glass of a thick, yellowish liquid which he'd extracted from a bottle in a well-stocked cabinet built into the wall, then diluting it with water, so that it changed color in a mysterious way. It tasted as peculiar as it looked, but after the first licorice-flavored sip Sandi decided that she liked it much better than Verne's Johnny Walker.

"Pernod," Tony replied to her unspoken question as he turned to another cabinet and began pulling out an assortment of brightly-hued garments. "Should get your head in just the right place."

Sandi didn't quite know what he meant by that, but she was too filled with inner excitement to wonder about it for very long. I'm going to be in a movie! she thought, goosepimples breaking out on her smooth flesh at the very idea. What would my father and mother say? And the kids back in Florida who always thought I was the preacher's mousy goodie-goodie daughter. What'll Verne say when he finds out?

There was no question about how her parents would react; they were opposed to movies in any way, shape, or form unless they were about bible stories and somehow she was sure that that wasn't at all what Tony had in mind. As for Verne… well, it was hard to tell. He seemed to get jealous about the silliest things, and he'd always been against her working; but, of course, now she was doing it to help him so he couldn't really mind. Certainly he'd rather have her doing something respectable that he could be proud of instead of washing other people's clothes or serving drinks in some nasty bar.

But the biggest triumph of all was the thought of the reaction of the people she'd gone to school with back in Florida. Imagine the way their mouths would drop if they knew that skinny Sandra Seeburg with her dishwater blonde hair and unfashionable clothes was now Sandi Smith, movie star!?! For the first time in her life, the green-eyed blonde began to feel as though she were an important person in her own right, not just the dowdy preacher's daughter, or a faceless, unpopular high-school student, or even the famous Verne Smith's introverted wife. It was a marvelous feeling, and as she sipped at the fresh-tasting but deceptively potent Pernod her sensation of freedom rapidly increased.

"Here you are, Sandi. These ought to fit you," the photographer's foreign-accented voice broke through her ego-building daydream.

Just look at the way she's livening up! the scheming youth congratulated himself. Then, as the curvaceous nineteen year old model turned her attention to the pile of clothes, he surreptitiously refilled her glass. This promised to be a very interesting afternoon indeed!

The slightly intoxicated young wife had turned toward the costumes with eager interest, but the moment she held them up for inspection her doubts returned in full force. First she lifted up a long length of gossamery chiffon in the same shade of apricot as that shameful nightgown which had been a major cause of her downfall the night before. Not only was this thing the same color, but it was, if possible, even more transparent; and to make matters even worse, it had no buttons, snaps, or other fastenings.

"That's an Indian sari, a real one," Tony broke in with deceptive casualness as he noted the look of consternation on the naive model's heart-shaped face.

With hands that shook slightly, the shocked blonde dropped it back down onto the chair without replying and pulled up a scrap of glossy emerald green material. This appeared to be some sort of foreign garment as well, for it was embellished with exotic-looking embroidery, but the beauty of the rainbow-colored handiwork quite escaped Sandi. Her entire attention was riveted on the plunging neckline, which couldn't help but expose the wearer's breasts in a lewdly seductive manner.

"And that's Moroccan," the young photographer explained, as though that excused the obscenity of the revealing shirt.

Sandi dropped the green cloth, took a deep swallow of the Pernod, and then turned to Tony Fletcher. Her cheeks were flushed, and much to her embarrassment tears of disappointment were welling up behind her eyelids.

"I… I can't wear things like this!" she protested. "They're… they're just plain indecent! You can see right through them!"

"Let me explain," Tony quickly improvised. "You see, our movie's about this American girl who goes traveling around the world and meets this guy – real romantic, sorta like Love Story – and in the places they go, she wants to be really in with the scene, so she wears what the people wear."

"Yes, but…"

"But what? These things aren't indecent! I bet the Indian women would think your skirt's much more indecent!"

This rejoinder struck just the right chord, for Sandi was already acutely aware of the shortness of her box-pleated mini-skirt.

"Now, why don't you just try this one on," the conniving photographer urged, holding up the see-through orange sari, "and I'll get a few Polaroid shots of you. You'll see – it'll look great! This color's perfect for you."

Sandi Smith blushed, once again reminded of the nightgown her husband had bought her. Again she gulped some of the refreshing Pernod, then bit her lips nervously as her thoughts turned to Verne and her urgent need to earn money for him. If she turned down this job because she was too shy, too much a preacher's daughter, to wear the required clothing, wasn't she being disloyal to her husband? And besides, the photographer was doubtless correct in saying that there was nothing really obscene about native costumes. It was almost educational, wasn't it? Like those pictures in National Geographic of African women with bare breasts… even her father subscribed to that magazine…

"Besides, clothes aren't important – it's the person inside them that counts," Tony continued. "I mean, if you'd seen me first in a gray flannel suit, you'd have thought of me as just another person, wouldn't you? Of course, you would! See – it's totally irrelevant."

This, too, made sense, and though Sandi didn't quite grasp the connection between gray flannel suits and native costumes, she decided that she was just too stupid to understand. After all, this Mr. Fletcher appeared to be well-traveled and well-educated, and who was she to doubt his word? She'd only graduated from a small back-country southern high school, and had just barely done that, what with flunking both Algebra and Natural Sciences II her senior year. In fact, she was so stupid that she was lucky to get any job at all, much less a well-paying and interesting one like this. Her mind made up at last, she reached out one slim white hand for the Oriental garment.

"Good girl," said Fletcher approvingly, his semi-erect penis thickening painfully as he grew nearer to his goal. Now came the crucial step – she had to undress, and she was going to have to do it in front of him. If he could get her to do that, he was halfway there. "Let's get moving. It looks like a storm's coming up, and I want to shoot these Polaroid shots while there's still good light, 'cause this isn't one of my really good cameras."

Her head was reeling a little from the glass and a half of alcohol which she'd unwittingly gulped down since arriving at the "Deja-Vu" studio, she gazed out the corner window at the gathering clouds. Though Sandi was ashamed of feeling intoxicated, she was simultaneously grateful for the light-headed sensation. If she'd not had the drinks, she doubted whether she'd have had enough courage to even consider trying on the risque Indian dress. As it was, she was just dizzy enough to be able to rationalize that she was doing this for Verne, not because of the thrills of forbidden excitement that coursed up and down her spine at the idea of trying on the wanton garment… and trying it on right in front of this strange young man who held a camera in his hand.

"Wh-where can I change?" she asked, gulping down the last drops of her Pernod, and getting to her feet.

I mustn't drink anymore, no matter what he says, she cautioned herself, aware that she was starting to lose control. Surely there must be some obvious place for changing clothes, and I'm just too confused to notice…

"Oh, just change here," Tony said. "I don't mind, if you don't."

Suddenly the inexperienced young minister's daughter forgot how much she wanted this job, not only to pay her injured husband's bills, but also for her own personal fulfillment. Indignant shock blazed inside her at this disrespectful assumption that she was that sort of girl, and the liquor had loosened her natural inhibitions enough that she was able to make an angry retort.

"But I do mind! Of course I mind! I… I think you're very r-rude to say that to me!"

Jesus Christ! Tony thought, seeing that his impatient desire to screw the hell out of this innocent yet subtly seductive young woman had caused him to move too quickly. She's really something out of Victorian times. But although his patience was wearing a little thin, he remembered that this innocent attitude was exactly what his friend Ted claimed was the real money-making factor.

"I'm sorry, Sandi," he said with genuine-sounding contriteness. "You see, I don't think there's any reason to act formal and uptight around each other if we're going to be working together. You're not ashamed of your body, are you? I didn't think anyone was today…"

Sandi flushed, trying to understand the conflicting motivations wafting through her mind. One part of her brain told her that the photographer was probably correct, that she was just being a silly, uptight country hick, and that she'd have to try to change herself if she wanted this job. She'd always avoided undressing in front of her husband, for it seemed to make him over-sexed and interested in trying perverted sexual positions once she'd climbed into bed. Now, however, there was no reason to fear anything of that sort, and her reluctance could only be a hangover of her old-fashioned upbringing.

Yet much as she wanted to believe her rationalizations, another voice in her brain was intoning dire warnings. You know it's wrong to let anyone except your husband see your naked body, no matter what the reason is. Remember what happened last night when you had on that sluttish see-through nightgown? Well, the same kind of thing's liable to happen again today if you don't get hold of yourself. Do you want this stranger to touch you? Are you that sinful?

"After all, the human body is the most perfect art form there is!" the liberal-minded photographer's sophisticated-sounding voice broke through the babble of conflicting voices in Sandi's brain. "I suppose you don't realize it, living out here in Brunrocke and all, but lots of the most famous statues and paintings in the world are of nudes. Just think of Rodin!"

The nineteen year old wife tried hard to think of Rodin, but though the name was vaguely familiar from a high-school art-history course, she couldn't quite recall exactly what sort of artist he was. But it didn't really matter; the point was that she was an ignorant young girl from a southern town so small it made Brunrocke seem like a booming metropolis. A sudden spark of spirit ignited in the hitherto shy and docile blonde's soul as an unprecedented wave of loathing for her own self-image shivered through her young body.

"I'm not from Brunrocke – I'm from Cobbsville, Florida," Sandi replied in such a bitter voice that Fletcher shot her a sharp, inquisitive glance.

"It doesn't matter where you come from," he said. "Listen, let me tell you a secret: I'm not really English at all – I'm from a little hick town in New Hampshire. I say I'm British to impress people around here, but I really just studied over there for a year. You see, I earn more money and get better jobs this way. It's not where you come from that matters, but where you're going."

Sandi stared at the young photographer for a long moment, her gold-flecked hazel eyes glinting with strange new lights as she turned this new concept over in her mind. Was it really possible that she could become intelligent and sophisticated, become the kind of person who did exciting things and was admired by others? Was this job her opportunity to find out?

"But of course, if it really upsets you, you can change downstairs," Tony suggested in a tone that made evident his disapproval of the idea.

All of a sudden Sandi's mind was made up. "No," she said in as firm a voice as she could manage, her fingers moving to the zipper fastening of her navy blue skirt. "I'm not ashamed of my body. And I think I'd like another drink, please."

***

One hour, two glasses of Pernod, and six changes of costumes later, Sandi Smith was scarcely recognizable as the same young woman who'd hesitantly rung the doorbell of the "Deja-Vu" studio that very morning. Her entire countenance glowed with a new self-confident vitality, and her large eyes, glinted by excitement to the color of polished jade, now looked directly into Tony Fletcher's broadly smiling face as he shot picture after picture. For the first time in ages, the lonely motorcyclists's wife was having fun, and happy laughter and conversation cascaded from her lips as she began to catch the dark-haired young man's infectious enthusiasm about the projected movie.

As soon as each Polaroid shot was ready, Tony showed it to the flushed-cheeked blonde and listened to her comments as though her opinion was of some value. Then he told her how this sort of shot would fit into the plot he and his friend Ted had come up with over a couple bottles of red mountain wine and a few marijuana joints, embellishing the rather vague concept with exotic details he knew would fire the girl's latent imagination and yearning for adventure. Without ever directly saying so, he managed to hint that if these test shots were perfect and if the initial scenes pleased the sponsors, then maybe they would be given funds to enable them to shoot some of the film on location in the very places the costumes had come from.

Sandi's alcohol-befogged mind had no difficulty believing the rather dubious logic of Tony's explanation. In fact, she was so thrilled with the idea of actually seeing Morocco, India, Paris, Amsterdam, Monte Carlo, Greece, and the other foreign places Tony had been talking about that for the moment she completely forgot about her injured husband Verne.

This is real! she kept reminding herself. It's really happening! It's happening to me!

By now, the young wife's spirits were so high that she refused to be bothered by the fact that Tony had come over to her and was helping to unlace the intricate ribbons on the bodice of the sheer white peasant blouse she wore. Why should she get worried about a silly, unimportant thing like his hands grazing against her high-set young breasts? She was a modern, liberal woman now – and the photographer was only being helpful.

"Wh-what happens now?" she asked a little breathlessly, for although she was sure the young photographer's intentions were perfectly innocent, the way his fingers were brushing against the stiff-tipped buds of her sensitive breasts was a little disconcerting. Striving to ignore the implications of the waves of excitement that were sweeping out to every nerve-ending in her half-naked body, she added, "Do they go from Yugoslavia to Greece, or what?"

It was growing harder and harder for Tony to keep his hands from grasping this beautiful young model and carrying her bodily over to the fur-covered couch that stood in the far corner of the studio, but he forced himself to be content with brushing his hands over the soft-fleshed, cantaloupe-shaped mounds of her breasts.

"Not yet," he replied, easing the peasant blouse back from her shoulders and off. "Now she – uh – she goes down from the country village in the mountains to visit… a nudist colony on one of Yugoslavia's islands. You see, she and her boyfriend love each other so much that they want to be totally natural together…"

A strange chill ran through the blonde model's body at this unexpected answer, and in a rare flash of self-honesty she knew that she had been expecting this to happen. In her heart of hearts she had known that this job was far too good to be true. The puritan streak that ran deep in her blood had warned her that all pleasure has its price, but she'd chosen to ignore her conscience.

The young wife had known Tony was going to touch her… she'd known it, but she'd let it happen! She'd WANTED to feel his hands fondling her breasts, undoing her flimsy, peasant shirt, pulling down her blue pastel bikini panties. Oh God, she still wanted it… she couldn't bring herself to pull away from the heated eagerness of his hands caressing her love-starved body!

The same forbidden hunger she'd experienced the night before with her husband's best friend was once again singing through her veins and making her muscles feel as weak and pliable as clay. This time it was worse, though… this time she couldn't hope to pretend it was her husband who was setting her body on fire. No, she knew all too clearly that it was the strange young photographer she'd met only that morning!

"No…" she murmured in a weak, unconvincing voice that the hotly aroused youth chose to ignore as a mere token protest. "I… I can't do a scene in a n-nudist colony."

The words had scarcely left her mouth before the thin strip of her nylon panties were being gently tugged down over her full-fleshed hips, grazing her sensitive inner thighs as it drifted to the floor. Sandi clenched her eyes shut, not able to bear the humiliating reality of her naked body, but she still did not try to pull away from Fletcher's gently clasping arms. A sudden wave of dizziness passed through her, and it was all she could do to keep from falling forward against his smooth naked chest, much less move in any other direction.

"Just lie down here on the rug and pretend you're sitting on the sand," the photographer said, guiding her unresisting body toward a thick-pile throw-rug woven in an intricate pattern of reds and golds. "You're at the beach with your boyfriend, and the sun's real hot, and you're not worried about being naked, because you love him so much you want to share yourself with him in the most natural way. Think about how much in love you are… about how good his hand feels rubbing suntan lotion on your back…"

Sandi sank to the floor in automatic response to the photographer's demand, but it was so impossible to imagine the situation he was talking about that she quickly returned to her senses and reached up toward the pile of clothing on the chair to find something to cover her sinful nakedness. Then, as Tony pushed the chair out of reach and knelt down beside her, the embarrassed young wife tried to hide her soft golden pubic curls with her trembling hands and hung her head so that her long blonde curls partially covered the white, upthrusting mounds of her naked breasts.

"I can't do this," she said, gazing miserably up at the photographer. "Wh-what if someone saw the pictures?"

"All movies have to have nude shots nowadays," the young cameraman argued, reaching out to stroke Sandi's smooth arm. "And no one you know could possibly see it, cause it's being made for South Africa."

This last statement, at any rate, was the truth. The whole plan for making a movie had come up because Ted's cousin in South Africa had written them to ask for films, which he claimed were shown in private homes at exorbitant prices because of the strict censorship in regular theaters. It seemed to Tony and Ted that this was a perfect set-up for making themselves some easy money.

"South Africa…? But anyway, maybe I'm just being silly, but I feel… dirty… sitting here like this. I c-can't do it! I… I better leave…"

"Hey, hey, Sandi, calm down," Tony interrupted as the alarmed wife's melodic southern voice rose to a shrill, half-hysterical wail. "You shouldn't feel like that! Hell, your body's beautiful – just about the most beautiful I ever saw. Honest! You should be proud of it… be glad it makes other people happy to see it…"

As he spoke, the desire-aroused photographer inched still closer to the trembling blonde, placing one hand on the smooth white pliancy of her upper leg while letting his other hand slide up along her slender arm toward the tantalizing mounds of her high-set young breasts. His fingers tingled as he remembered how her warm-fleshed breasts had quivered like two frightened baby birds beneath his unbuttoning fingers, and suddenly the movie began to seem much less important than spearing his turgid thickness into the tight-clasping warmth of Sandi Smith's pussy, now hidden between her tight-clenched white thighs.

"Wh-what are you doing? D-don't touch me there… please don't…" Sandi whispered, wondering why she couldn't seem to make herself pull away from the handsome stranger's wandering hands, grab her clothes, and escape from this dangerous situation. Fingers of forbidden flames were beginning to lick at her breasts and fan down into her taut-muscled belly and unprotected vagina, and the nineteen year old blonde knew that if she didn't put an immediate end to these illicit caresses, something dreadful was bound to happen.

"I'm just trying to get you in the right mood," the lewdly grinning man explained, teasingly tweaking Sandi's left nipple. "I need a certain sort of emotional reaction on your face."

Don't listen to him! You're a married woman and this is adultery! Sandi's brain screamed. Unsuccessfully she tried to nudge Tony Fletcher's insistent hand away from her intimate flesh. As she began to panic, the dizzying effects of the potent Pernod cleared away – leaving behind, however, its strange aphrodisical effects – and the horror-stricken young wife forced herself to open her eyes and face exactly what she was allowing to happen.

There she was, drunk in the middle of the room with a strange man who wanted to take pornographic pictures of her, and she was letting him fondle her in the way only her husband Verne was permitted to do. What was worse, she was LIKING it! Oh God, how could she have let this happen? Verne would never, never forgive her if he should find out… she didn't deserve to be forgiven.

Then a new, more horrible thought struck her. What was going to happen to her if Verne were really permanently paralyzed? she couldn't seem to control her sexuality at all anymore… she was half crazy after he'd been away from her for just two weeks! How in God's name was she going to remain faithful to a husband who could no longer make love. Yet she HAD to… to do anything else would be to commit the worse sin possible… she had to obey her marriage vows, and she had to begin right now, this very instant!

"No!" she cried out suddenly, jerking her naked thigh away from the photographer's obscenely positioned hand and rolling to the far edge of the soft orange carpet. "Get away from me! I'm not going to take those pictures! I'm leaving! Get someone else to be in your stupid movie… I'm not the kind of girl who lets herself be pawed!"

Fletcher lunged down upon the struggling blonde, his breath coming in loud, harsh gasps as his lust overwhelmed all sense of direction. To hell with talking her into it! He'd waited too long already, and his swollen cock was throbbing so painfully inside his tight cut-offs that he couldn't bear another minute's delay. Pinning her smooth-skinned shoulders down with his flattened palms, he leered down at her.

"Who do you think you're kidding?" he snarled, his formerly friendly face distorted into a mask of lust-engendered rage. "You liked it just fine a minute ago, baby! And you aren't gonna get away with leading me on and then running away. If there's one thing I hate, it's a Goddamn cock-teasing bitch!"

"Let go of me!" Sandi wailed, suddenly aware that willpower alone wasn't going to be enough to get her out of this obscene man's studio. Up between her tight-clenched legs she could feel his thick penis bulging and throbbing against her cringing flesh, and there was an inhuman madness in his brown eyes that told her he would not easily be put off. Balling up her slim white hands into fists, she began to pound ineffectually at Tony's hard-muscled bare chest. "NO!" she moaned again. "Get away! Pleeassseee! You can't do this to me… my husband…"

"I don't give a shit about your Goddamned husband, lady, and neither will you, once I get my prick inside your hot little pussy!"

Sandi froze, her stomach churning with fear and an evil, unwanted excitation as the well-built cameraman ripped off his faded blue cut-offs. Since he wore no shorts beneath, his huge, angry-red thickness burst at her like a dagger being pulled from its protective sheath. He brandished the pulsating weapon straight at her white-cheeked face, rubbing the heavy foreskin over the blood-filled tip. The innocent young wife had never in her life seen anything so obscene, and for one hopeful moment she thought she would faint from the shock. Then the wave of dizziness passed, and she was galvanized into desperate, self-protective action.

Rolling suddenly out from beneath the crouching body of her attacker, she struggled clumsily to her feet and tried to dash for the door to the stairs, but before she'd taken two steps Tony's strong hand had seized her ankle and the frightened girl toppled back down on the thick rug. Hot tears brimmed up in the naked blonde model's eyes as she realized it was utterly hopeless to try to resist the photographer's superior strength.

"No, please! Please!" she pleaded, her voice almost incoherent as she choked back the sobs that were rising in her throat. "My husband… he's been in an accident… I c-can't do this to him… Please, please let me go!"

Tony wasn't quite sure what the tearful young model was going on about, but her sudden moral compunctions were coming at a most inopportune moment. He'd been looking forward to this moment all afternoon, and now he wanted to fuck, not listen to the stupid bitch's guilt trip. Still, there was something excitingly different about the chick acting as if he were a rapist, and a latent sadistic streak in his character rose to the fore at the sight of the helpless female sobbing beneath his hard-gripping hands.

"Shut up about your fucking husband," he snarled, slapping her on the face with his flat palm. The blow fell a bit harder than he'd intended, and Tony felt an even stronger thrill of power as Sandi flinched and fell silent. "Just do what I tell you, understand?" he threatened, "or you're gonna be sorry!"

This was the first time anyone had struck the nineteen year old girl; her parents, though strict disciplinarians, were pacifists, and her husband Verne was the sort who wouldn't hit a dog, much less his own wife. Because of this, the photographer's unprovoked slap sent Sandi into a state of blind panic. Scarcely daring to breathe, she stared with fear-widened eyes at the face of her assailant.

How could I ever have thought he was nice and friendly? she asked herself, a bitter pain piercing through her as she recalled her joyous expectations of an acting career. He looks like a madman, or an animal… maybe he'll kill me… I hope he does – I'll never be able to face Verne again knowing I've committed adultery. I'll never be able to live with myself knowing what a slut I really am. Because it's all my fault that this is happening! I let it happen… Oh, I hate myself!

Then her self-recriminations were cut short as she felt Tony's rough hands tugging her fear-tensed thighs apart.

"Come on – spread your legs!" he ordered.

In spite of her fear of further brutality, the young wife instinctively tried to hold her legs together. Her fear of that gigantic cudgel of male flesh tearing into her forbidden flesh, and her terror of committing the act she considered more sinful and debasing than any other, overweighed the photographer's threat, and Sandi felt that she could better bear being beaten than the horror of being raped right here on the studio floor. At least then she would still retain her self-respect…

This time, however, the lust-crazed man above her was more subtle in his choice of punishment. Grasping the voluptuous blonde model's slender wrist, he twisted it until she cried out in pain. At the same time, he let his other hand move to the melon-shaped mounds of her sensitive breasts, teasing and pinching at the rose-pink nipples until the helpless girl was squirming in an agony not of pain, but of unwanted arousal. It was only a matter of seconds before Sandi Smith's lushly ripened thighs parted enough to allow the young photographer an enticing glimpse of glistening pink cuntal flesh hidden among the softly curling ash-blonde fringe of cuntal hairs. His already massively swollen penis swelled to even greater girth, and with a roar like that of an untamed jungle beast he let the full weight of his well-muscled young loins fall upon the terrified blonde.

"Aaawwwgggghhhh," Sandi gasped, struggling for breath as the near-stranger's hungry lips glued themselves to her mouth and his tongue tried to press in between her clamped-together teeth.

His hands had wormed between their tightly clasped bodies to torment her tingling breasts, and when she resisted his snaking tongue he dug his nails so deeply into the delicate tissue that the tormented blonde let out another whimper. Tony's tongue shot into her mouth, thrusting obscenely against her teeth and then sucking her own reluctant tongue back into his own heated mouth with such force that she felt as though he were tearing it out by the roots.

God! Verne had never, never kissed her in such a perverted way! And he'd certainly never punished her breasts like this; he'd never have thought of doing such a cruel thing, and she'd never have permitted him to if he'd tried. Now, with this mad photographer, she was helpless… he could do whatever his corrupt mind wished, and she was unable to raise a single protest. His huge penis was pressing obscenely between her upper legs, but there wasn't a thing in the world she could do about it. She was going to be raped!

Tony found himself wishing that his need to satisfy his impatiently throbbing cock wasn't quite so intense. He'd have liked to take his time, teasing and tormenting the young blonde until her resistance turned to a lust too strong for her to hide. Maybe kiss and suck her pussy till she was screaming for more, or force her soft pink lips to suck his pulsating hardness until his thick cum splashed down her slender white throat. But these things would have to wait for another day…

The girl lay quiet beneath him now, only a slight shuddering of her splayed-open thighs and a hesitant but undeniable quivering response where their mouths meshed indicating that she was not unconscious. A wave of contriteness for his cruel words and sadistic blows surged through the dark-haired young man, but though he felt a twinge of pity for her, he certainly wasn't about to stop now. Sandi's soft cuntal hairs were grazing maddeningly against the desire-sensitized head of his turgid cock, and he couldn't wait another instant.

Tearing his mouth away from the helpless young wife's bruised and aching lips, the dark-haired photographer leered down at the perfectly formed body beneath him. Sandi might be reacting like a country schoolgirl, but she was built like a Goddess of femininity. Tony, who considered himself an expert on the women of the world after having spent almost two years in various European capitals, decided that this slender honey-blonde must have Scandinavian blood. She reminded him a lot of a Swedish girl called Inga whom he'd met on the boat to Copenhagen, a girl who'd seemed deceptively cold and reserved until they'd gotten into bed, where she'd suddenly been transformed into a lustful wildcat. He'd never forget her kicking her long legs against his bare back and screaming out her orgasm so loudly that the neighbors had banged on the walls for them to be quiet. Maybe the same thing would happen today… After all, no one could have put away all that aphrodisical Pernod and not be feeling pretty sexy, whether they liked it or not!

"Gonna fuck you now, baby," he cried in a hoarse, lust-strangled voice. "You're gonna see how good fucking can be!"

Sandi felt the naked man's slim hips flick forward, propelling his huge angry-red pole of male flesh directly toward her unprepared pussy. Her mouth fell open, a scream of terror rising in her throat, but before she could cry out, his turgid thickness had plunged halfway up into her captive pussy. The pain was so fierce that she froze, almost afraid to breathe for fear that the searing waves of agony would intensity.

It's too big! It'll tear me to pieces! the tortured blonde's mind screamed. It's worse than the first time with Verne even! But I deserve it… I deserve even worse!

The svelte young model's cunt was even tighter than the lust-inflamed photographer had hoped it would be, and as he tried to push in to the hilt he could feel the velvety-textured warmth of her vaginal walls clinging to every blood-engorged centimeter of his pressuring penis. Grasping onto her heaving breasts as though they were handles, Tony sank his thickly swollen hardness another couple of inches into her cringing pussy channel.

"Yeah!" he groaned in satisfaction. "Your cunt's so tight, honey! So gooooodddd! So fucking gooodddd!"

How can he say that, when he's killing me? Sandi Smith's pain-wracked brain shrieked. Oh God, how can it feel good to him?

Then in the next moment her own body supplied an answer to her confusion, for the photographer's rough fondling of her already liquor-sensitized breasts was beginning to send a peculiar sort of depraved pleasure swimming through her bloodstream. His blunt fingertips pinched at the tautened buttons of her nerve-filled nipples just as his hot, hungry mouth once again crushed down on her trembling lips, and to her horror Sandi found her own tongue involuntarily responding to Tony's lewd kiss. Before she realized what she was doing, she'd begun licking at his teeth and even sucking his hungrily plunging tongue deep into her throat. The instant she became aware of her inexcusable wantonness, a cold thrill shot down along her backbone… but somehow she could not stop.

Oh God, what am I doing? I can't be liking the horrible things he's doing – I can't! Maybe I can't stop him from making me commit adultery, but I can't let myself like it. If I do, I'm worse than he is!

Sandi applied every ounce of her willpower to resisting the strange, unwelcome twinges of erotic pleasure, but her strenuous efforts were cut short as the photographer's lust-heavy penis finally plunged all the way to the hilt. His blunt blood-filled cock-head struck the spongy surface of her cervix, remained still for a suspenseful moment as Tony tried to give the blonde model's cuntal passage a chance to adjust to his lust-expanded cock, then throbbed in a way that sent a wave of pure physical desire surging out to every nerve-ending in the unfaithful wife's voluptuous body.

Although the nineteen year old girl tried to keep her body as limp as though she were totally insensate to the pulsating penis, massaging hands, and heated lips of her rapist, she couldn't hold back a little gasp as Tony's lengthy thickness suddenly throbbed to obscene life inside her softly palpitating vagina. The desire-hardened shaft pulled almost all the way out of her helpless pussy, leaving it feeling oddly empty, and then plunged back in as far as it could go. At first, his entry had seemed to rip shreds of tender vaginal flesh from her unprepared passage, but now that her feminine fluids had coated her bruised pussy walls, the photographer's swollen rod of male flesh slid in and out as easily as a knife slipping through butter.

As the painful burning sensation in her lewdly violated pussy changed to an undeniably stimulating sensation, Sandi's mental agony increased in direct proportion. It was absolutely inconceivable that this stranger's forbidden cock-flesh was exciting rather than repulsing her, but the honest young wife was forced to admit that this was exactly what was happening.

I'm sick… evil! I'm the worst wife that ever lived! I wish he'd hurt me, punish me… that's what I deserve, and it would be easier to bear…

"How d'ja like my cock, baby?" the dark-haired male leered, breaking off an obscene French kiss to stare triumphantly down at the broken-willed young woman. "You're just like all the other bitches, aren't you? Pretend to be so prim and proper, but all you really want's a good stiff prick screwing into you!"

He's right, he's right! Sandi moaned to herself. I'm nothing but a filthy slut! And I can't help it either! I can't help wanting him to do this to me!

"Tell me you like it!" Tony Fletcher insisted. "Tell me you want me to keep fucking your cunt! Admit it! Admit it!"

Not only was the innocent nineteen year old rather shocked by the photographer's ugly language – her considerate husband had always referred to it as "lovemaking" or simply "doing it" – but her whole body shuddered at the dreadful idea of actually confessing her perverted desires. Though her loins burned with lust, though she would have felt a terrible physical frustration had Tony's pummeling penis ceased its smooth rhythmic strokes, it was impossible for her to even think of saying this aloud. It was bad enough that she could no longer hide the humiliating truth from her own tortured soul.

"Say it, bitch!" Tony insisted, his deep set sadism again surfacing as he saw what an intense affect his command had on the impaled blonde. She was trying not to appear to be turned on, he could see, but it was perfectly evident that her body was responding to his illicit touch. Each time his powerful in-strokes rammed to the hilt in her tight-muscled little pussy and his sperm inflated balls smacked up against her rounded white ass-checks, a low mewl rose from her open mouth and beads of perspiration popped out on her desire-flushed face.

"Say it! Tell me you want me to fuck you!" the dark-haired cameraman repeated, tightening his hold on her small puckered nipples and slamming his loins against her harder than ever.

Sandi felt as though her mind was fading away into a cloud of blackness where nothing existed but the churning, ever-building sensations of lust in her belly and cock-impaled vagina. No longer able to control her reactions, she began a lewd, undulating grinding of her full-fleshed buttocks that allowed Tony's driving thickness to hit all the way up to her womb.

Harder! I want him to do it harder! I deserve to be hurt! her mind shrieked, but still she retained enough control to keep from speaking aloud. Why is it so much better than it ever was with Verne? This is just some horrible stranger who doesn't care about me at all. He's just using me like a prostitute, and he doesn't care what I want or if he's hurting me. But I can't help it… I want him to do it!

Perhaps it was something to do with the copious amount of Pernod she'd consumed during the afternoon, but for the first time in her life the nineteen year old wife was experiencing an arousal so powerful that her will was completely enslaved by the power of a male phallus. Of course, she'd enjoyed making love to her husband – in the conventional "missionary position", of course – she'd had orgasms, too… and she'd craved his caresses when he was away. But none of that was half as intense as the wantonly depraved ecstasy she was feeling beneath the hands of this callous stranger. Sandi realized all this in some dim corner of her sex-glutted brain, but instead of bringing her to her senses, it heightened her arousal to the point where all her reserves broke down and she was wailing out her perverted passion.

"Yes! I want it!" she moaned, thrashing her head from side to side so that her veil of golden curls whipped across the photographer's hovering face. "I want to fuck! I want you to do it hard, hard, harder! Hurt me – punish me like I deserve!"

Tony Fletcher hadn't expected the frigid-acting young model to undergo such a dramatic transformation just from voicing the forbidden words. He'd wanted to humiliate her to satisfy his own power-hungry male ego more than anything else, and the sudden violent thrashings and mewlings of the previously reluctant blonde were an extra bonus. Down in his lust-bloated testicles he could sense the first stirrings of his pent-up semen, and he knew it wouldn't be long before his thick hot cum would be rushing pell-mell up the thickly distended shaft of his virile penis and bringing on a powerful, tension-releasing orgasm.

"Yeah, baby!" he cried. "Yeah, I'll fuck you hard! I'll fuck the life out of your hot little cunt!"

"Oooohhhh… fuck me… fuck me…" Sandi moaned back, driven half out of her mind by the strange masochistic excitement that was searing through her blood.

She knew that what she was feeling was sinful, truly perverted – but she no longer cared. The only reality that existed for the lust-fevered young wife was the exquisite, never-before-experienced sensation of being changed by this stranger's battering male flesh into a mass of helplessly quivering-femininity. Sandi Smith no longer existed – she was merely this man's obscene receptacle, and he was filling every inch of her cunt with mind-shattering erotic bliss.

As Tony fucked with ever increasing ardor into the whimpering girl's slick, velvety vagina, his swelling testicles were whacking against her undulating buttocks. The lewd, wetly slapping sound they made combined with his own harsh, grunting breathing and Sandi's mindless mewls to form an obscene chorus.

Good background music for the Goddamn movie! the dark-haired photographer laughed to himself.

Then, as the urgent churning in his testicles reached the boiling point, his mind lost all thought except that of climaxing, and making this fantastic hot-blooded little chick cum along with him. Dropping one of his hands from her swollen, taut-nippled breasts, he squeezed it down between their perspiration-slickened bodies to locate the tiny nerve-filled button of her hidden clitoral bud. It jerked and trembled, rising perceptibly beneath his middle finger like a miniature penis, and the writhing girl moaned more urgently than ever and grasped his longish brown hair in her fists.

"Cum, baby!" Fletcher groaned. "Cum with me! Let it all loose – aaaahhhhhh!"

As the frantically bucking photographer's lewd words faded off into a low-pitched groan and the first heated droplets of his sperm began spiraling up his lengthy cock, Sandi Smith's voice echoed his violent passion.

"Oh… ooohhh… I-I'm cumming! Cumming!"

She'd never before used the word "cum" – in fact, she'd always been too embarrassed to utter anything besides an involuntary low gasp during her lovemaking with her husband – but the feelings that were erupting inside her now were so overwhelmingly powerful that she had to release some of her energy. Wave after wave of ever-increasing intensity splashed over her helplessly writhing body, and her vagina, stimulated by the pressuring finger on her sensitive clitoris, began dilating and clasping around the heated male flesh that completely filled it. As the jets of his searing hot sperm began splashing inside her quivering cuntal passage, the final wave broke and she crashed with a soul-rending shriek into a blissful, rainbow-hued cloud of pure physical bliss.

"Uuunnnggghhh… oooohhhwwhhh!" Tony groaned, clutching onto the young blonde's convulsing loins like a drowning man grasping at a log. Turgid streams of lava shot out through his deeply embedded penis for what seemed an eternity of heaven, and at last he collapsed upon the still-shaking girl's body in utter exhaustion.

Sandi's bone-shattering climax lasted for so long that she thought she couldn't bear the bittersweet agony of it. Only when Tony's penis began to soften and shrink inside her trembling vagina did she begin to return to a normal state. Never in her life had she felt anything as wonderfully satisfying as this magnificent climax, and it was at least ten minutes before the blissful cloud of post-orgasmic peace began to fade and she realized with an icy shock just where she was.

With eyes still glazed with passion, she gaped up at the naked male collapsed obscenely over her, his deflated penis still lingering inside her as a limp reminder of the illicit ecstasy they had just shared. All her Methodist morality returned to her in a cascade of guilt, and she involuntary tensed up her relaxed cuntal muscles to expel the photographer's defiling cock. Then, shuddering now from guilt rather than desire, she shoved Tony's half-unconscious body away from her and shakily drew herself to her feet.

Fletcher groaned low in his throat, too pleasure-sated to bother to open his eyes. He was unaware that the young model was standing above him, her large hazel eyes widening in horror as she stared down at his naked body, or that she began to shake like a leaf at the degrading sight of thin white rivulets of his cum streaked across her firm young thighs. Only when he heard the door to the stairway bang did he force himself to a sitting position and realize that Sandi Smith had vanished.

Never mind, he told himself, falling back down on the soft rug. She'll be back! She liked my cock too much to stay away very long…

CHAPTER FOUR

"It didn't happen… it didn't happen…" Sandi muttered.

There was a note of near-hysteria in the naked nineteen-year-old's voice as she stood soaping her body in the pink-tiled bathroom of her suburban Lakeview Estates suburban home. For almost an hour now she'd been standing here under the cleansing cascade of the shower, trying her best to scrub away the desperate guilt she felt about the shameful way she'd allowed the photographer, Tony Fletcher, to seduce her into horrifyingly indecent acts. Yet, in spite of the bar and a half of Ivory soap that she'd used up in her despairing effort to wash away her guilt, Sandi still felt as lewd and despicable as ever.

How could I have let myself commit adultery? HOW? she asked herself for the hundredth time. Father would say I'm possessed by devils… and maybe he's right.

The young blonde wife's guilty despair, which had been steadily mounting ever since she'd fled from the "Deja-Vu" studio, ran far too deep to be washed away. In spite of her determined efforts to make herself believe that none of the afternoon's events were real, the memory grew more and more vivid. It all seemed so immediately real, in fact, that Sandi scarcely dared to touch her still-swollen breasts or sensitive vaginal area with her washcloth. Even the sharp-needled spray of hot water upon her slender back and taut-muscled young belly sent erotic vibrations surging through her traitorous body.

Oh God! What's wrong with me? I don't want to think about what Tony did to me… but I can't think about anything else. What's happening to me?

The friction of her washcloth and the almost sensual feel of the hot water seemed to be doing more harm than good so Sandi switched off the faucet and toweled her tingling body dry. The red-gold glow of late afternoon sunlight in which she'd cautiously driven home from Brunrocke, all the while throwing nervous glances into her rear-view mirror in fear of being stopped for drunken driving, had finally shaded into the deep purple of an autumn evening, and the guilt-ridden young wife was grateful for the coming darkness. Maybe now she could sleep and escape from her tormenting thoughts…

But as the troubled blonde moved toward her bedroom, symbolically cleansed and doused with fresh-scented talcum powder and spray cologne, the shrill buzz of the telephone destroyed her hope of finding temporary peace. Every time the phone rang lately, she was sure that it must be the hospital telling her that Verne was worse, or dead, for – as the unfaithful young wife's guilt increased, so did her secret certainty that anything which might happen to her husband would be her own fault.

Clutching a large pink bath towel around her voluptuous figure, Sandi raced down the hall to the telephone.

"H-Hello?" she stammered, then recoiled and jerked the receiver away from her ear as she heard Larry Johnson's salesman-smooth voice.

The towel-draped blonde's first impulse was to slam down the phone, for the last person she wanted to deal with in her present emotional state was Verne's "friend" who had treated her with such shameful disrespect the night before. Yet, perhaps he had news about her husband… with the utmost reluctance she returned the receiver to her ear, nervously biting her full pink lips as she strained to hear Johnson's indistinct voice. He was apparently calling from a public place, for there was a babble of voices in the background interspersed with bursts of music, and he also seemed to be whispering.

"Sandi? Can ya hear me?"

"Yes – is something wrong? Is Verne all right?"

"I can't hear ya, honey." Sandi winced at the endearing word. Her husband's manager was quite drunk from the slurred sound of his speech, and she was afraid to hear what he had to say. "Where've ya been all day, huh? I tried to call all afternoon…"

"I've been getting a job," the blonde said stiffly.

"A job, huh?" Larry's intoxicated laugh echoed loud and clear over the wire. "What kind of job…?"

Sandi wasn't sure whether she was imagining the insinuating tone in her husband's friend's voice – her mind was so disoriented this evening that it was hard to be sure of anything at all. And why shouldn't he imagine that she was the sort of girl who'd find a job which people would snicker about? That was exactly the way she'd acted with him; wasn't it?

"A modeling job," she replied, wishing she hadn't spoken the moment the words left her mouth. Now Larry would expect her to earn money, and of course, she could never, never return to the "Deja-Vu" studio.

"No kidding!" the drunken manager slurred. "That's great, 'cause Verne's being flown in to Gary tomorrow, and in a couple of days or so, he's got to have this operation. Otherwise, he's never gonna be able to ball again, and ya wouldn't like that; wouldja?"

The white-faced wife flinched, hot shame flooding through her body as she realized that Larry's estimation of her character was perfectly correct.

"Don't talk to me like that!" she protested, but even she could hear the false tone in her retort.

"Sorry, honey; don't mind me." Johnson had intended to apologize for his actions of the night before, but after several dry martinis too many, he found his tongue running away from him. "And don't be mad about last night, huh? I just couldn't help getting carried away by that sexy little bod of yours. Let's be friends, okay? Let me drive you into the hospital tomorrow, and we'll talk about it…"

How could her husband's friend be talking about his obscene assault on her unconscious body as casually as if they'd merely had a trivial disagreement? He was a disgusting amoral man who didn't seem to feel the least bit of guilt about trying to trick her into adultery even while his best friend lay in the hospital paralyzed from the waist down, and she didn't believe for one minute that he had any intention of treating her platonically. His "talking about it" doubtless meant he would he turning off onto some dark, deserted country road and trying to slip his hand up under her skirt or inside her blouse… or worse, much, much worse…

"I'll drive myself into Gary," she replied in an icy tone.

"Listen, you bitch," the egotistical motorcycle club manager snarled, but the phone suddenly clicked and went dead. His temper ignited when he saw that he wasn't going to have his own way after all. Even after fucking the hell out of his wife Clare last night, his loins still burned with desire for this unavailable blonde, and as he sat drinking, he'd convinced himself that tomorrow he'd be fucking her tight, blonde-fringed little cunt. Drunken, obscene invectives spewed from his mouth with such vehemence that several couples standing around near the phone began laughing and pointing at him.

"Hey, buddy! Give her hell!" one of them called out.

"You bet your life I'll give her hell," Johnson swore, slamming down the already-dead receiver. "Just wait till I get my hands on that little bitch! I'm gonna fuck her so hard she won't be able to walk for a week!" For several long minutes after she'd hung up the phone, Sandi Smith stood immobile in the dimly lit hallway with her heart pounding in her throat. A chill draft was blowing through the corridor, but as the troubled blonde hugged her slim arms against her chest, the friction of the rough terry cloth against her still tender nipples caused an unnatural heat to radiate throughout her naked loins.

If I had gone with Larry, what would I have done if he'd tried something? Sandi searched her soul for an honest answer, then shuddered as an obscene vision of Johnson forcing her down in the seat of his large Buick and shoving his huge swollen penis up into her defenseless pussy flashed before her eyes. Just the very thought made her vagina tingle with unwanted excitement, and the guilty nineteen year old was forced to recognize that she would probably have had a very hard time resisting her husband's friend.

This line of thought was too dreadful to tolerate for very long, and the mortified girl forced herself to think of other things. Anything, anything at all, was better than dwelling on the unnatural perversions that were springing up in her wicked body.

"I'll get dressed, and then maybe I'll stop feeling so odd," she muttered, falling into her old habit of talking to herself. "And then I'll… I'll make myself something to eat… and… and then I'll read or watch TV or something… and go to bed early so I can look for another job tomorrow…"

Determinedly forcing her thoughts away from the depraved sexual experiences she'd been through during the past twenty-four hours, Sandi donned a crimson-colored velour robe – one of the garments Verne had bought her – and a pair of fluffy slippers. Then, although she didn't feel the least bit hungry, she took a package of frozen hamburger from the freezer and left it to thaw on the kitchen counter while she wandered into the living room and switched on the television. For a few minutes, she played with the channel selector, but when she found nothing but a football game, a talk show and a rerun of a western, she turned it off and set an album on the stereo instead.

Well, baby used to stay out all night long,

She made me cry, she done me wrong.

She hurt me eyes open, that's no lie.

Table's turning now, her turn to cry.

Because I used to love her,

But it's all over now.

Because I used to love her,

But it's all over now.

Sandi's hand shook as she reached out and switched off the record player. The album, an old Rolling Stones collection, was one of her husband's favorites, but, though she'd often heard it before, she'd never really listened to the words. Feeling as though she'd been slapped in the face by the all-too-apt song lyric, the young wife collapsed on the white imitation leather sofa with her aching head cradled in her arms.

How am I going to face Verne tomorrow? she agonized. What if he can tell I've been unfaithful? Mother and Father always knew straight off when I wasn't telling the truth…

Then, as it occurred to her that Verne might not even be conscious, she felt ashamed of her selfish attitude. It only happened this once, and I'll never let it happen again! she vowed, temporarily ignoring her deep suspicions of her own sexual nature. And I'll never let him find out – he's already been hurt enough without that… especially if the operation doesn't work.

The thought of the expensive, delicate operation turned her thoughts back to this afternoon's fiasco of a job-hunt, and to her disgust, the lips of her still slightly tumescent vaginal lips began to quiver at the obscene memory of the magnificent but unspeakably sinful orgasm she'd achieved there on the floor of the photographer's third-floor studio.

"I mustn't think like this! It's driving me crazy," Sandi mumbled into her hands. "I've got to keep busy and make myself forget about it. Tomorrow, I'll go back to Brunrocke and try the other agency."

Unfortunately, however, there was still this long evening to be gotten through. With a deep sigh, the slender blonde shuffled back into the kitchen and stood staring at the plastic-wrapped hunk of chopped meat. Nausea rose in her nervously churning stomach at the thought of digesting a hamburger, and she hurriedly shoved the half-thawed meat back into the refrigerator and stood staring at the well-stocked shelves. Eggs… bacon… a wilting lettuce… a pastel-pink plastic container filled with leftover frozen peas… they were all equally unappealing, and instead Sandi extracted an almost-full bottle of white California wine. A drink would calm her nerves and maybe help her fall asleep, although it was still very early.

The chilled, fruity-tasting liquid felt good as it slipped down her throat, so the young wife carried the bottle back into the living room with her and sat down on the sofa again. Though she refused to admit to herself that she was trying to get drunk to block out her disturbing thoughts, she downed the first glass of wine within minutes and poured herself another as she felt the alcohol draining some of the unbearable tension from her aching body.

A copy of today's newspaper lay on the glass-topped coffee table, and the troubled blonde flicked through its pages in search of distraction. As usual, the news was boring and incomprehensible, and she turned almost at once to the women's pages, but somehow tonight she couldn't concentrate on newest fall fashions or Danish delight coffeecake to bake in ten minutes or what's wrong with new math. Even Ann Landers, her favorite feature, let her down.

There is a big difference between cold and cool. Ann Landers shows you how to play it cool without freezing people out in her booklet, "Teen-Age Sex – Ten Ways to Cool It." Send 50 cents and…

Was there no escape from sex? Sandi sighed. Perhaps if she'd had normal experiences with boys during her adolescence, this strange sexual compulsion wouldn't be happening to her now that she was a married woman, and she wondered briefly just what the columnist would have to say about this theory. Then, slinging the newspaper onto the carpeted floor, she gulped down her wine and poured herself a third glass as she reached for the novel she was reading.

Build Me a Castle was the story of a beautiful young American girl who meets a handsome Scottish widower while on holiday in London and ends up working as a governess in his windswept castle. Until tonight, Sandi Smith had found it fascinating, for her favorite daydream was of traveling to Europe, but tonight she found the book unpleasantly disturbing. She'd just begun chapter eight in which the hero finally asks his governess for her hand in marriage, and the guilt-ridden wife couldn't help remembering how she'd felt the same joy when Verne had proposed to her one moonlit night as they walked along a quiet country lane.

Everything was so wonderful then! she thought wistfully. Marrying Verne was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to me. And look what I'm doing now – destroying everything. If Verne finds out about Larry or Tony, he'll divorce me in a minute. And then what'll I do… I won't go back to Florida… I'll have to find a job, and I don't know if I can do that… not unless it's something like that perverted modeling job…

Tears began to sting behind her eyelids as the miserable nineteen year old threw her paperback book across the room and reached for the wine bottle. Then, before she could pour her fourth glass of mind-deadening alcohol, the sound of the doorbell pierced through her dismal reverie.

"It's Larry!" she whispered to herself. "Oh God – he's drunk, and so am I. I don't dare open the door!"

The doorbell chimed again, so loudly that the frightened young wife knew someone was pushing against it with all their strength, and it crossed her mind that perhaps it was an urgent telegram. Tiptoeing across the living room to the curtained picture window, she pulled the drapes aside a few inches to peer out at the front steps. By now it was completely dark; since the porch light wasn't turned on, the only radiance came from the fog-misted glow of the street light, and Sandi's wine-glazed eyes could only make out that there were two figures out there. She couldn't be one-hundred percent sure, but she thought one of them wore a telegraph boy type uniform so she quickly padded over to the front door and pulled it wide open.

"Hi, Sandi," the smiling face of Tony Fletcher, the photographer, leered down at her.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" Sandi tried to slam the door in his face, but her reflexes were dulled by the wine and Tony's shoulder jammed into the open crack too quickly for her.

"Now that's not very friendly of you, Mrs. Smith," Tony said, affecting a hurt expression. "I just brought the producer around to discuss the movie contract I told you about this afternoon. We'd like to talk with you and your husband about it."

Sandi gaped uncomprehendingly at the tall, fair-haired young man beside Tony. He certainly wasn't her idea of a movie producer – in fact, he looked even more like a college student than Tony in his jeans and matching jeans jacket and long, though neatly combed, hair. On his head he wore a beret, which was why she'd taken him for a telegraph boy in the misty darkness.

"My… husband… isn't here. And you can't come in!" she choked out, trying very ineffectually to shove the door shut.

Fletcher flashed a conspiratorial grin at his friend. "That's okay. We were much more interested in seeing you than Mr. Smith, anyway."

"But I don't want to see you!" Sandi whispered. Her head was spinning dizzily, and to her consternation, the sight of the photographer had brought back that corrupt tingling sensation in the pit of her belly. Thank goodness she was wearing something that covered her entire body for a change!

"I think you'll want to talk to us once you hear what we've got to say," the dark-haired photographer gave the thin wooden door a sudden shove which sent it flying open, and he and his blond friend strode into the Smith's house, slamming the door behind him with a resounding bang. So frightened now that her knees felt weak as water, Sandi backed away from them and leaned unsteadily against the wall beside the white couch.

"Yeah, she looks pretty good," the light-haired, slim-hipped youth said to Tony just as if the trembling blonde had been a piece of merchandise in a market rather than another human being. "But I can't see much when she's all covered up in a Goddamned robe like a nun!"

The young wife's mouth fell open in shock at the stranger's lewd comment, and she wished with all her heart that she'd not drunk that wine. If she'd just felt a little more together, she'd have tried to dash out of the room and escape from these two deceptively clean-cut males who were leering at her with menacing, undressing smiles on their faces. Tony flopped down on the couch as if he owned the place, but his friend came over to stand so close to Sandi that she could smell the alcohol on his breath and see the unmistakable thick bulge in his fashionably faded jeans.

"Hey, Ted; don't scare the chick," the cameraman called to the other young man. "Keep your cock in your pants while we have some of this wine and talk about things, okay?"

He tipped the bottle to his mouth and drained the last few gulps, then waved the empty container at Sandi, who was still cowering in the corner wishing that she could vanish through the floorboards. "God any more of this stuff, baby? And get us some glasses – let's put some class into this business discussion!"

Ted guffawed loudly, his eyes never leaving the firm-fleshed mounds of the blonde's buttocks which undulated provocatively, even beneath her heavy velveteen bathrobe as she scurried out to the kitchen. "She looks sweet and innocent enough," the red-faced wife heard him say, "but are you sure she's really a good fuck?"

"I oughta know! She's hot as a firecracker, and I got scratches on my back to show it. Just needs the right guy to set her off!" the photographer boasted.

In the darkened kitchen, the humiliated blonde leaned her spinning head against the cool refrigerator door and blinked away her tears. This new degradation, following so closely on the heels of her unspeakable wanton performance that afternoon and her husband's manager's upsetting phone call, was too much for the intoxicated nineteen year old to handle. There was only one clear thought in her mind – she had to get out of this situation, for another perverted violation of her body was inevitable unless she did so at once. In the past twenty-four hours she'd learned to recognize the signals of sexual danger radiating from aroused males and from her own traitorous body, and all her instincts told her to flee before it was too late.

Shaking her tousled blonde curls to clear her mind, the desperate young girl opened the refrigerator door and rattled the bottles standing on the inside door rack – much more loudly than necessary. Then, focusing her eyes on the back door, she slammed the fridge as hard as she could and dashed toward the beckoning safety of the dark back yard – completely forgetting in her panic-stricken haste that the ironing board she'd used to press her skirt that morning barred her path. The heavy metal iron hit the tile floor with a clamorous crash, and as Sandi desperately struggled to disentangle her foot from the legs of the half-collapsed ironing board, she heard the two men's footsteps thudding toward the kitchen.

A moment later, the overhead kitchen light flashed on and four rough male hands were pulling the frantically fighting young wife to her feet.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going, you stupid bitch?" taunted Tony, twisting her wrist so hard that she gave a gasp of anguish. Then, turning to his friend, Ted Gladstone, with a conspiratorial wink, he continued, "We can't have insubordination like this from members of our cast, can we, Ted? I think maybe she needs to be taught a lesson!"

"Yeah," the blond youth drawled, his eyes sparking with excitement as he caught his friend's underlying mood of sexual sadism. It wasn't all that often that you got a woman in a position where she had no choice but to submit to you, and they might as well take advantage of it while it lasted. And, of course, if the movie deal ever came off, it'd be an advantage to have her completely under their power. "Yeah, I think she needs to be taught that our actors do whatever we tell them to do."

There was an ugly undertone to the good-looking males' conversation which frightened the cowering nineteen year old wife so badly that she stopped her useless struggling and let her body fall limp in their grasping arms. If she'd not been able to fight off Tony this afternoon when he'd been alone, how on God's earth could she expect to escape from the two of them? Several weeks ago she'd come across an article about rape in one of the woman's magazines, and though she'd never imagined it would ever pertain to herself, something had led her to read it word for word. Interspersed among the lurid personal accounts, there'd been a psychiatrist's advise on what to do in case you are attacked. "Just keep quiet and don't fight back," he'd instructed. "Any protest may provoke the sex maniac to additional physical violence."

But could anyone really consider it "rape" when, not four hours before, she'd been locked in a passionate, adulterous embrace with one of these two men almost of her own free will? As she remembered how she'd writhed in orgasm beneath him, calling out sinful words and urging him on, Sandi knew that once again she had only herself to blame. Who could blame the photographer for thinking she was just some cheap little tramp? Wasn't she, in fact, no better than a prostitute?

"That's the way!" Tony leered as the blonde model stopped trying to wrench her slender figure from them. "But we can't have our star actress trying to run out the back door when we ask her to pour us some wine. You're gonna have to be punished, baby."

"But I'm not your actress… I'm not going to be in your movie… I'm not!" Sandi wailed, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks.

"You fucking well are!" Tony said, cruelly twisting her arm beneath the red velvet robe. "That is, unless you want your husband to know what kind of a slut he's married to! Sure is a shame he's not home… you'd sign the contract this minute if he were."

At the mention of her husband, the degraded young wife burst into hysterical sobs. "You can't do this to me! You can't!" she screamed.

"And you'd better stop making that noise, unless you want the neighbors finding out about your extramarital activities…" the photographer threatened.

Suddenly, the light-haired young man let go of the frightened woman and began ripping open the snaps on his jeans jacket and Levi's. Sandi gaped at him, the terrible realization that her vagina was pulsing and moistening in response to the angry-red thickness that sprang out straight as a pole from his loins sending icy chills of corrupt masochistic desire surging through her veins.

"What the hell are we standing around for?" Ted demanded. "I want to – uh – audition our new starlet before her hubby shows up." The handsome blond male turned toward his cringing victim, his huge penis swelling to even greater girth as he took it in his hand and massaged its aching length. "Get undressed!" he commanded.

Sandi Smith stood still as stone, her young body suddenly paralyzed from the surfeit of sexual abuse, guilty anguish and alcohol. Everything inside her brain seemed to have been caught up inside the spiraling whirlwind of a tornado, and out of the confusion only one clear thought emerged: It's happening again – he's going to rape me! Oh God! Please don't let my body betray my marriage again! Please, please don't let me like it…

"Didn't you hear what Mr. Gladstone said?" Tony, who still grasped her by the wrist, demanded. "He wants to take a look without this shit!"

As he spoke, the sadistically-inclined photographer seized hold of the floor-length red velour robe and ripped it from the blonde-haired model's sloping shoulders. His own virile penis was almost as erect as his friend's in lewd anticipation of the spectacle he was about to witness, for he took a perverse, voyeuristic delight in watching other people's sexual activities.

Sandi Smith's wide hazel eyes stared numbly down at the robe her husband Verne had given her, wondering distractedly how she was going to explain the jagged tear down the back of the brand new garment. A picture of the day her husband had given her all the clothes and had tried to make indecent love to her right in the very kitchen in which she now stood flashed before her eyes. How very long ago it seemed… it was almost as though that day had happened in someone else's life.

These thoughts were abruptly terminated as Tony Fletcher's fingers hooked inside the elastic waistband of her pink-flowered nylon bikini panties and tore their delicate fabric in two. As she watched her last wisp of protection floating down between her naked and trembling legs, Sandi felt a stinging slap on her firm-fleshed buttock.

"Nice ass, huh?" the photographer leered at his friend Ted, making Sandi feel for all the world like an animal being auctioned off at a county fair. Her face blushed a furious shade of red, and she closed her eyes to avoid the lecherous stares of her two violators.

"Nice tits, too," Ted agreed, tweaking the rose pink buttons on the tips of Sandi's high-set young breasts until they grew hard in defense against his cruel fingers. The handsome but brutal and uncaring man moved closer to the naked blonde and let the blunt cock-head of his swollen thickness rub up against the softness of her golden pussy curls. "Sure would like to try out that cute little cunt," he said, "but seeing as Tony's already tested how good you fuck, I think I'll just see how good you are at sucking!"

Sandi's mind was so dazed by now with her effort to hold back the forbidden tingling pleasure emanating out from her titillated nipples to every nerve-ending in her body that the man's threatening statement didn't sink into her consciousness. It was only when she felt the photographer's rough hands shoving her to a kneeling position in front of his friend's lust-thickened rod of male flesh that she understood what they were going to do.

They – they want me to touch his penis with my lips! Sandi thought incredulously. Of course, the innocent nineteen year old preacher's daughter had heard whispers about this unnatural practice; she'd even suspected once or twice that her husband was hoping she'd perform the sinful act, though he'd never been so vulgar as to say anything to her. Perhaps he'd known she couldn't possibly be persuaded to do an unclean, perverted thing like that… and she wasn't going to do it now! She just wouldn't open her mouth!

Ted Gladstone flicked his powerfully-built hips forward impatiently, his hardened penis throbbing in aching anticipation against her determinedly pursed lips.

Although one pair of ruthless male arms was holding her up on her knees from behind her and the other male was shoving her mouth up against his obscene fleshy cudgel, the obstinate young wife refused to open her lips. If she fell to these depths of degradation, she knew she could never rise up again. Committing adultery was a sin, but this – this was an inhuman crime.

They can kill me first! I'll never put that obscene thing in my mouth, the trembling young girl told herself. But even as she made the vow, she heard the naked man looming above her let out a bestial roar of rage and felt his strong fingers pinching her delicate nostrils so hard that she wanted to scream from the pain. For a few seconds longer she refused to yield to his torture, but finally her need for oxygen overcame her moral scruples and her full pink lips opened to gulp down life-giving air.

"Yaaaahhhhhhh!" Ted Gladstone's voice rang out in lecherous satisfaction as he shoved his achingly frustrated hardness between the naked blonde's parted lips. She tried to tug herself away, but the lewdly grinning photographer behind her tightened his grip on her wriggling body and as a further precaution planted his muscular legs firmly on either side of her curvaceous body.

No! Sandi's tortured mind screamed. No no no!!! I won't do it!

But she was doing it! The smooth-skinned, mushroom-shaped head of the fair-haired stranger's pressuring cock was being thrust deeper and deeper into her futilely protesting mouth, and his cruel hands were holding her head in place as he fucked into the unnatural orifice. There was no possible way to escape from her slave-like kneeling position on the kitchen floor, and whenever she swallowed for air, the sensitive walls of her mouth automatically clasped her tormentor's distended penis.

"Lick it!" Ted's guttural growl rasped in the humiliated young wife's brain as his fingers tangled more brutally than ever in her ash-blonde hair and forced her unwilling face so close to his loins that her nose was pressing against his hard-muscled stomach. "Suck my prick, and suck it good, or you're gonna be real sorry you didn't!"

Although Sandi was finding it hard to breathe, she was surprised to find that the penis violating her tender mouth didn't feel nearly as repulsive as she'd supposed it would. On the contrary, its flesh was smooth against her tongue and the eager way it pulsated against the sensitive walls of her mouth sent strangely erotic shivers running up and down her spine. When she let her tongue lick along its heated surface in response to Ted's vile instructions, the no-longer-innocent nineteen-year-old's unwanted excitation intensified as she felt the penis jerk in response. A weird kind of curiosity caught hold of her, and she began lapping at the huge fleshy rod with more enthusiasm and sucking it down into her throat just as she'd done with the photographer's spearing tongue earlier in the day.

"That's it!" she heard the low, lewd murmur from Tony Fletcher behind her, and then there was the unmistakable sound of his zipper being yanked open and Sandi felt the warmth of another fully erect cock pressing against the small of her back. The cameraman was leaning over her helplessly sandwiched body now, and his strong hands were kneading at the tender flesh of her wildly heaving breasts.

"You like it don't you, you bitch?" Tony went on, carried away by the sheer obscenity of the kitchen scene. "You're loving it, aren't you, you hot little cunt?"

Yes, the unwillingly aroused young model admitted to herself, he's right. I do like it… Dear God, what's wrong with me? Why can't I stop myself from feeling this way?

And then, as Tony Fletcher's fingernails pinched vise-like against her sore and sensitive nipple buds and the light-haired youth in front of her began fucking smoothly in and out of her no-longer-resisting throat, she realized that she no longer cared that what she was doing was sinful.

I don't care if it's wrong! I want their cocks – I want them in my mouth and in my pussy and all over my body! I want them to do everything – everything!!

A sudden masochistic desire to see the degradation being performed on her slavishly kneeling body surged through her lust-quivering loins, and Sandi's large hazel eyes popped open. Looking up, she could see Ted Gladstone's lust-contorted face hulking above her, his squinting grey eyes shooting out sparks of violent passion. Then, shivering at the unspeakable perversion of her own soul, she turned her gaze toward the glistening red-purple thickness plunging deep in between her straining pink lips.

Oh God, I'm sick and perverted! the unfaithful wife's conscience cried even as her mouth and tongue, as though acting under the directions of another mind, stepped up the fervor of their obscene oral manipulations. Although she'd never before sucked a man's penis, the lust-maddened blonde discovered almost at once that when she licked teasingly at the pungent-tasting glans tip or ran her tongue along the blood-pulsing vein on the underside of his heated thickness, the strange man groaned out his pleasure. He also seemed to like it when she drew his glistening flesh rod as deep into her throat as she could without gagging, then ran her tingling lips back up to the mushroom-shaped head, then plunged back down so that her chin pressed up against his velvet-soft testicles.

I'm their slave, their whore! Sandi gloated. She wished that she could shout out her obscene passion, but when she tried to articulate around the huge impaling penis only bestial gurgles and grunts emerged from her tight-stretching lips. Although her completely filled mouth and throat ached and she was having a lot of trouble drawing in enough oxygen, she reveled in the exquisite masochistic agony. Hurt me! her passion-crazed mind wailed silently as the erotic vibrations settled in her churning belly and well-moistened pussy. Use me! Punish me!

"Ugggggghhhhhh! Awwwwwhhhhh!" the photographer's young blond friend groaned as Sandi Smith's lips and tongue slavered over his throbbing thickness. Each time his blood-bloated balls bounced forward against the smooth skin of the wildly sucking blonde model's chin, he felt the seething pressure of his lust demanding immediate release.

"Jesus Christ, Tony," he gasped to his friend, whose face was equally lust-distorted as he watched the lurid red cock of his best friend plunging in and out of the kneeling young wife's frantically gulping throat and whose own turgid cock was throbbing in urgency as it pressed against the wantonly writhing back of the lust-fevered girl. "You were right! Once she gets going, she's the hottest piece of ass I ever got sucked by!"

"Suck, Sandi!" Tony leered behind her, rubbing his naked rod of lust-distended flesh up against the back of her neck in lewd rhythm with the wanton oral fucking going on just inches away from his own throbbing penis. He could see that Ted couldn't hold back his orgasm much longer from the way all the muscles and tendons in his perspiration-slicked body tautened, and he felt hot semen seething in his own aching testicles at the thought of the formerly frigid blonde swallowing his friend's lewd cum down her graceful white throat.

"Suck harder!" he hissed. "Squeeze his balls – make him cum in your mouth!"

The photographer's obscene command sent the blonde model into a spasm of head-flailing, whimpering ecstasy. Bobbing her flushed face up and down on the sleek fleshy pole pumping down into her wildly contracting throat, she reached her slender white hands up to gently cup the stranger's swaying testicles. At the same time she gripped her helplessly quivering thighs together with all the strength in her healthy body to bring on the climax which was building inside her moist, swollen vaginal lips.

He's going to cum in my mouth!!! her lust-frenzied mind cried, and the obscene vision of this unspeakably corrupt act sent her body sweeping closer to the crest of ecstasy.

Suddenly Ted Gladstone's muscular body tensed and Sandi felt the soft sac of his testicles vibrate in her hands. The whole length of his enormous rod lay unmoving for one brief second, and then she felt the cum-swollen vein on the underside quivering. A second later, hot jets of pungent-tasting male sperm were spewing into her mouth and she was gulping and swallowing in a mindless frenzy as she strove to drain him of every last lewd droplet.

"Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!" groaned the photographer behind Sandi, and then the blood-filled head of his rock-hard penis, pressed so obscenely up against her neck was also shooting out cascades of thick, heated sperm. Suddenly the lust-crazed young woman's tight-pressed thighs began to tremble so violently that she had to cling to Gladstone's legs for support, but her mouth remained glued to the slowly deflating penis in her mouth even as her own soul-shattering orgasm swept through her defiled young body.

For what seemed an eternity, the three orgiasts clung to one another's perspiration and cum slickened bodies, writhing together in mutual ecstasy there on the kitchen floor. At last the blonde wife let the limp penis slip from her sperm-stained lips and slumped to the floor, while the tall stranger whose cock she'd just sucked leaned weakly back against the refrigerator, gasping for breath. Tony, the immoral instigator of this sordid scene, sank into a kitchen chair to stare down with lustful satisfaction at the half-unconscious body of the violated young model.

"That was great for starters," he leered. "Now how about me getting her in the cunt? That's just what the little bitch wants, I bet!"

But before anyone else could pull their sated bodies together enough to respond to the lewd suggestion, the sound of gravel crunching beneath car tires in the driveway outside the kitchen window sent the two men leaping into action. Naturally enough, they believe the car to belong to Mr. Smith; just as naturally, they wanted to be out of the house before he arrived. Ted had the presence of mind to switch off the overhead light, while Tony grabbed Sandi's limp body and guided the glassy-eyed blonde into the bathroom, turning on the taps in the tub and leaving her propped up on the toilet seat.

"Lock the door behind me," he hissed. "And don't you dare tell him what happened – but of course, you wouldn't want to do that!"

Then, struggling into their jeans as they ran, the two young rapists fled through the front door and across the front yard to the car they'd left parked out on the street. As they'd hoped, the angle of the house hid them from Mr. Smith, whose car had reached the end of the driveway, and without a backward glance they sped away from Lakeview Estates in the direction of Brunrocke. As far as they were concerned, it had been a perfect evening climaxed by a miraculously smooth escape. If they'd thought to look back, however, they might not have left Sandi Smith's with such haste, for the action was nowhere near over.

CHAPTER FIVE

Lock the door behind me… Lock the door behind me… and don't tell him what happened…

The photographer's parting words resounded for at least five minutes in Sandi Smith's ears before their meaning penetrated the whirling black cloud blanketing her brain. Even when her mind did begin to clear at last, the instructions made little sense because she'd never heard the automobile pulling into her driveway.

Why did Tony throw me in the bathroom? Have they really gone? The nineteen year old wife's shock-widened eyes flicked in bewilderment around the gleaming pink cubicle, then dropped to regard her bruised, cum-stained body with disgust. And if they've gone, why should I lock the door? And who shouldn't I tell – oh, they meant Verne, I guess – oh Verne, Verne, Verne…

Soul-shattering guilt suddenly returned full force to the anguished blonde who sat slumped over on the toilet seat, her tear-streaked face buried in her hands. An unmistakable acrid odor composed of cock flesh, drying sperm, and perspiration penetrated her nostrils, sending a guttural sob wrenching from her aching throat. As she lurched unsteadily toward the bathtub, all the perverted details of her wanton cock-sucking flashed in vivid Technicolor detail before her tear-reddened eyes.

Since the photographer had turned on the tap as he fled from the house, the large pink tub was now half full of hot water. Sandi sank her bruised and aching body into the foam, and began desperately scrubbing at her curvaceous young figure, determined to remove every trace of the two men's lewd sperm. The thin white cum stains seemed to be everywhere – on her chin and graceful white throat, her painfully tender breasts, her sloping shoulders, even trickling down her back – and down between her still-trembling thighs were the equally appalling stains from her own feminine orgasmic juices. In a way, the young wife was grateful that she still felt slightly intoxicated, for without the dulling effect of alcohol she was certain she would be unable to bear this ultimate degradation. As it was, her hot tears were splashing into the bathtub and wracking sobs were echoing above the sound of splashing water.

At least now I know for sure what sort of a person I really am, she thought bitterly. Only the most despicable slut could do what I've just done… and like doing it! I don't think I have a brain at all – only a vagina!

Then, as Sandi noticed that even her long ash-blonde curls were snarled and matted with Tony Fletcher's dried semen, her heartbroken sobs rose louder than ever. Somehow this lewd detail was the last straw for the overwrought young girl, and she fell into a state of near-hysteria, her sobs so loud and uncontrollable that she never heard the urgent pounding on the back door, nor the door opening and footsteps hurrying through the house.

***

"That's funny…" Clare Johnson muttered to herself as she brought her Volkswagen to a halt at the end of the Smith's driveway and turned off the lights and ignition. "I was sure I saw a light on in the kitchen, but now it's pitch-black. She must have heard the car – why would she switch off the light?"

Instead of getting right out of her car, the twenty five year old brunette paused to light a cigarette and consider the situation. She'd felt a little dubious about coming over tonight, not wanting to intrude on the grief-stricken wife's privacy, but she'd finally decided that if it had been her husband Larry who'd been injured, the last thing she'd have wanted was to be all alone. Now, though, there was this funny business about the light – it did seem to indicate that Sandi didn't want any visitors.

Clare sighed, thinking as she often had before that Sandi Smith was one of the most difficult to understand females she'd run across in quite a while. Months ago, when the Smiths had moved to a house in Lakeview Estates only a few blocks away from the Johnson's home, Clare had looked forward to becoming good friends with the younger blonde woman. She'd expected to have more in common with her than with most of the other women in the subdivision, who all seemed to have several young children and a husband who came home for dinner every night of the week, but the pretty new wife of her husband's best friend hadn't responded to any of Clare's overtures. In fact, the brunette had the distinct impression that the younger girl didn't approve of her at all, and after several rebuffs she'd stopped ringing her up to chat or inviting her to go places. The only times she saw her were when Larry and Verne were in town and the two couples would get together.

She's probably just shy, Clare told herself now, stubbing out her cigarette and getting out of the car. And I'm sure she needs cheering up, whether she thinks so or not… everyone needs friends when things are rough, and maybe this is a good opportunity to get to be real friends…

As the statuesque brunette made her way across the dark back yard, the sound of a car squealing recklessly down the quiet suburban street startled her. It seemed to be coming from right out in front of the Smith's house, and the vague uneasiness she'd felt as the light suddenly flashed out returned. When there was no answer to her increasingly loud knocks, she began to feel certain that something very mysterious was happening inside the white frame house.

Something's going on here, I know it is! she thought. I don't know if I like the feeling of this…

Moving as silently as she could, the tall, voluptuous young woman inched open the door leading into the kitchen, and the moment her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, she knew her instinctive suspicions had been more than justified. Only one conclusion could be drawn from the discarded bathrobe, empty wine bottle, and especially the heady odor of sex which permeated the small kitchen: Verne's quiet, frigid-acting little wife had a secret lover! Who ever would have thought such a thing!

Although Clare prided herself upon being a sexually liberated "swinger" and in fact had a more than dutiful relationship with her boss, plus several other boyfriends who satisfied the needs of her healthy young body while Larry was away on tours, she had to admit to a tremor of shock that Sandi was carrying on like this just after Verne's accident. By now her curiosity was avidly aroused, and she determined to ferret out the lurid details from Sandi.

If there was anything Clare enjoyed, it was a good sex scandal, and this was even more outrageous than her recent discovery of a well-concealed swap club right here in the staid subdivision of Lakeview Estates. Though she had no particular interest in swapping, far preferring the live-and-let-live relationship she had with Larry, it gave her a good deal of secret satisfaction to know which prim and proper young mothers pushing their baby carriages in the mornings would be participating in nude orgies in someone's split-level come nightfall. Far more exciting, though, was tonight's verification that the pretty young blonde was actually a hot-blooded female like herself, not the mousy prude she'd appeared to be.

Her pulse quickening, the lithe brunette tiptoed down the carpeted hallway, hoping against hope that the car she'd heard skidding away wasn't that of Sandi's lover and that she might be able to observe them in the act. Before she'd gone more than a few yards, however, her lascivious expectations were forgotten as the sound of a woman's inconsolable sobs reached her ears. Breaking into a run, the dark-haired neighbor hurried to the bathroom and flung open the unlocked door.

"Sandi!" she exclaimed, genuinely concerned by the bedraggled appearance of the young blonde girl in the tub. "Good God – what's happened?"

The naked blonde whirled around to stare straight into the face of Larry Johnson's wife, then buried her face in her hands in an agony of shame, unable to bear the further humiliation of being discovered for what she was. Everything was over now – her marriage was finished! Clare would surely tell her husband, who'd tell Verne out of spite…

Clare Johnson gaped down at the rich curves of the naked girl in the bathtub in bewilderment, trying to understand what was going on. None of this made very much sense, and her reasoning ability was distracted by a strange thrill curling along her backbone. Sandi's body was far more lushly feminine than she'd ever imagined, and the dark-haired wife felt half-forgotten emotions surfacing rapidly as she gazed at the blonde's rose-tipped, water-slickened breasts and taut, well-rounded ass-cheeks. Impulsively, she reached over to stroke the weeping girl's soft-fleshed arm, feeling an undeniable warm tingling surge through her own body at the contact.

"There, there, honey," she murmured in a soft, soothing voice, bending over to kneel on the fluffy pink mat beside the tub and placing both of her hands on the younger girl's shuddering shoulders. "Don't cry… look at me – tell me what's the matter. Let me help you…"

Even as she tried to console Sandi, Clare's mind was flooded with memories of the time eight years ago, when she'd first left her parents' farm in Southern Illinois to go to secretarial school in Chicago. She'd shared an apartment with a beautiful blonde girl named Rosemary, and they'd immediately become close friends, sharing confidences and clothes and often going out on double dates together to prevent being pawed at by some over-amorous young man. Both of them were determined to remain virgins until marriage, or at least until they truly felt in love, and it was doubtless that this unnatural denial of the needs of their ripe young bodies had deepened their friendship to the point where both voluptuous virgins were sharing the small apartment's double bed instead of taking turns sleeping on the uncomfortable coach.

Now, so many years later, Clare's sensuous body vibrated with excitement as she remembered the beautiful, erotic nights she'd enjoyed with Rosemary, and the sensual stimulation they'd obtained first by kissing and cuddling, later by licking and sucking every inch of each other's smooth white flesh. Rosemary's girlish breasts had been so soft, so warm… her virginal pussy so sweet-tasting… her orgasms so poignantly intense… Her slender, graceful young body – so similar to Sandi Smith's – seemed to have been designed expressly for love.

Their guilt-free, deeply satisfying love had continued for about six months, until they both met men strong and seductive enough to deflower them, dropped out of secretarial school, and went their separate ways. Every Christmas Clare received a card from Rosemary, who now lived in California with her husband, and though she'd never met the man she was certain that he couldn't help but be happy with a woman as sensually skilled as her friend had been.

Now, for the first time since that short but intense affair, the sultry brunette found herself longing to re-experience the tender rapture of lesbian love. Perhaps it was because Sandi so closely resembled Rosemary, but Clare was vibrating with an irrepressible longing to caress and comfort the gracefully seductive young blonde.

"Please, Sandi, look at me," she repeated as the naked girl kept her face buried in her hands. "Tell me about it, and you'll feel better. I want to be your friend – your real friend. You can trust me, honey."

As she spoke, the aroused twenty five year old leaned closer to Sandi, then picked up the bar of soap and began gently rubbing it over the quivering girl's back and long, lithe legs. She was so close to her softly swelling breasts that she could have reached out her tongue to lick at the raspberry-pink nipples, but she forced herself to save that for later. No use frightening the already overwrought girl…

In spite of her horrified guilt at being discovered in such an incriminating position by Larry Johnson's wife, Sandi found her sobs gradually subsiding and her body untensing in response to the older woman's kind words and soothing hands. Until now, she'd always thought that the sophisticated brunette was scornful of her… but in fact she now seemed very kind and understanding. Suddenly the guilt-ridden blonde's need to confide in someone overcame her reserve, and she turned to the woman above her with a tremulous smile.

"Oh, Clare, it's all so terrible! I just don't kn-know what I'm going to do…"

"Calm down, honey. Everything's all right now… he's gone away…" Clare soothed. "Just lie back and let me wash your hair…"

Sandi blushed a furious shade of red as she realized that Clare saw the obscene cum-matted condition of her head, but part of her was simultaneously glad that she no longer had to keep up any pretense.

"There were t-two of them," she replied in a sad, broken-spirited voice.

"Oh, you poor thing!" Clare sympathized, hoping that none of the excitement she felt at the idea of this luscious young body being ravished by two hard male cocks showed in her voice. "There, now you're all clean again," she continued, giving the stricken blonde's enticing breasts a quick caress before pulling herself to her feet. "Come on, let me dry you off and get you into bed, and then you can get it all off your chest."

Sandi rose obediently, holding on to Clare's hand for support, and let her bruised and tingling body be gently toweled dry by the sympathetic older girl. The soft feminine hands felt so good against her violated flesh, so different from the strong, forceful hands of the men who'd abused her helpless body, that she wanted to cry with relief. Even when the gentle fingers lingered so long on her ultra-sensitive breasts and inner thighs that the all-too-familiar fingers of forbidden excitement teased through her bloodstream, she felt secure in the knowledge that for once the intentions were innocent.

All the ugly things that have happened have really made me crazy, she told herself. How on earth can I be feeling all tingly again? Clare's so nice – I wonder how she can be married to a horrible person like Larry? She's just like the older sister I used to dream about! Thank God she came over tonight – I'd be going out of my mind if I were alone.

Docilely, gratefully, Sandi Smith allowed her new friend to lead her into the bedroom and settle her well-scrubbed naked body down on top of the big bed. It felt so good to have a competent, understanding woman taking charge of things and making her feel like a human being again instead of a despicable slut that the distraught young wife felt some of the guilt and tension drain from her fatigued loins. Gradually, the cool, almond-scented lotion which the wife of her husband's manager was rubbing onto her tensely muscled back almost erased the shameful memory of how she'd wantonly sucked on the pungent-tasting male flesh of the evil-minded photographer's friend.

"Now," Clare cooed, "tell me what those two awful men did to you. What a terrible thing to happen, just when you were already so upset about Verne…"

For a fleeting moment Sandi was tempted to unburden her soul to this kind-hearted older woman, but she was too embarrassed to describe the humiliation she'd been through in the past twenty-four hours. How could she ever admit the thing that troubled her most of all? How could she ever expect any decent person to understand that she'd liked being used by strange, unscrupulous men?

Clare felt the younger blonde's richly sculpted figure grow tense beneath her massaging fingertips and decided to stop pressing for the lurid details. Soon enough, she felt certain, they'd be so close that there'd be no secrets between them.

"Would you like something to drink, Sandi? That might help you sleep," Clare suggested. "Some wine or something?"

Sandi's body shuddered convulsively beneath the older girl's massaging hands. "I've had so much to drink today that I don't think I ever want to taste alcohol again," she sighed. "My head's still spinning. And every time I drink, I just seem to get into trouble."

"I'll bet you've not been eating, have you? That's why you're dizzy! Let me go fix you something – how about an omelet?"

Although she'd not had a meal for so long she couldn't remember, Sandi was repulsed by the suggestion of eating. At Clare's well-meaning words, she once again felt the stranger's obscenely swollen penis throbbing inside her mouth and tasted the pungent, heated sperm splashing down her throat.

Oh God! How could I have done it? And now I'll never be able to forget it, never in my entire life! Sandi's mind wailed, and in the next instant she was sobbing inconsolably.

Clare couldn't imagine what she'd said to set off this new burst of tears, but she took advantage of the girl's near-hysterical state to climb onto the high bed and wrap her arms around the thrashing, sobbing blonde. Soft, comforting words poured from her sultry pink lips as she kissed the tears away from the young girl's tear-stained cheeks, and her arms rocked her as though she'd been a small child.

"Please don't cry like that, honey. Nothing can be as bad as all that," she said when Sandi's sobs had begun to subside.

"But it's me that's bad, don't you see?" the guilt-tortured blonde moaned. "I'm sinful… sick…"

And then a barrier that had been dammed up inside her for years suddenly burst, and she was pouring out her heart to the sympathetic older girl, not thinking in her mindless despair to omit even the degrading details of her encounter with Larry, the other girl's own husband. At last, feeling drained and strangely cleansed from her cathartic outburst, she fell silent with her exhausted young body cradled in Clare's caressing arms.

For a few minutes Clare Johnson remained silent too, turning the younger wife's anguished confession over and over in her mind. She couldn't help feeling shocked, not over the perfectly normal way Sandi had inadvertently fallen into and enjoyed sexual encounters, but over the ponderous burden of guilt and self-loathing the poor girl was carrying on her shoulders. What in God's name had been the matter with her parents?

"Sandi," she said softly, "don't you know that you're completely normal? All women feel just the same way you do."

The blonde's bewildered eyes flickered with hope, then grew dull again as she shook her damp blonde curls in disbelief.

"Well, almost all," Clare amended, thinking of Sandi's mother. "And even if maybe you're a little more sensual than some women, I think that's a good thing. Certainly nothing to be ashamed of!"

Sandi hung her head, ashamed to meet the other wife's eyes after her revealing tirade. "But I… I just feel so dirty…" she murmured in a sad, helpless voice. "I feel so ugly…"

"Ugly! Good God!" Clare exclaimed. "You have a beautiful body! You should be proud of it." Her lust-smoldering eyes caressed the naked blonde's perfectly-sculpted body, and she wondered what the girl would do if she bent down and kissed the soft mounds of her breasts.

"And… and the things I did – adultery, t-taking his th-thing in my mouth – they're wrong. They're sins!"

"Says who?" demanded Clare. "For your parents, maybe, but not necessarily for you. I think anything that makes two people happy can't possibly be wrong."

Suddenly, unable to resist the temptation any longer, the twenty-five year old brunette reached down and kissed Sandi's enticing, rose-tipped breasts. The girl let out a low gasp, but her nipples nevertheless tautened automatically into hard little buttons.

"I… I think I better get my nightgown on," Sandi whispered, pulling away from Clare as she suddenly grew aware of the indecency of her position.

Familiar shivers of excitement rippled from her breasts to all the nerve-endings of her naked body, and although she didn't want to think anything bad about the woman who'd been so kind to her, she began to feel decidedly uneasy and to wish that Clare would get off the bed. As for all this talk about her body being beautiful and nothing being wrong if it made you happy – well, she'd heard the same thing from Tony, the photographer; the words made sense, but just look at the vile things he'd done to her!

"But you like me to kiss your breast," Clare coaxed. "See how hard it's getting! Is it wrong, Sandi? Do you really believe it's wrong?"

A hot blush spread over the blonde's cheeks, but before she could gather herself together to insist that the brunette stop teasing at her breasts, she felt gentle hands turning her from her side onto her back, then skimming like feathers over her flat belly and flaring thighs. Clare's smooth lips lingered on her tingling nipples, her warm breath soothing the tender flesh of her manhandled breasts in such a comforting way that it was terribly difficult to make herself protest.

"N-no," she finally managed to choke out. "D-don't, please. Wh-why are you doing that?"

"What's the matter? Are your breasts sore? Did those cruel men hurt them so badly? And did they hurt your soft little pussy, too?"

Suddenly a violent tremor surged through Sandi Smith's naked body as she felt the brunette's warm lips gliding down the length of her torso and across her belly to settle down in the forbidden "vee" of her vagina. It was impossible! It just couldn't be happening!

"No, Clare!" she protested, more firmly than before, trying to draw her still weak thighs tightly together. "I… I don't want you to do that. Please!"

"Listen, Sandi," the dark-haired seductress spoke into Sandi's golden cloud of pussy hair. "I'm trying to help you. Those crude men – including my bastard of a husband – hurt you because they didn't really care about you. Most men are like that – selfish. But the things they did were beautiful, not ugly. Now I'm going to show you how good sex can be when it's gentle instead of violent."

The sexually-liberated wife paused, considering what she was saying and trying to explain to her innocent friend as honestly as possible the things which she truly believed. "Lord knows I like a good stiff cock, and I like to feel overpowered. So do you – you told me so! But maybe you just weren't ready to accept that yet."

Clare's warm moist tongue was snaking down through her pussy hair to the super-sensitive flesh of her still-swollen vaginal lips, sending such wonderfully exciting sensations coursing through Sandi's unwilling body that she knew she had to stop this at once. All her energy was concentrated on erasing the lewd desire from her traitorous body, and she scarcely heard a word Clare was saying.

"No, no," Sandi moaned again. "Don't! Don't touch me like that! I… I thought you were my friend!"

"I am your friend, honey. But I think you need to learn a lot of things about sex, and I think I'm the best one to teach you. I mean, I've been through the same things… I'm a woman, too… I understand how you feel…"

But Sandi refused to listen. "No, Clare. Please just leave! Please! And promise you won't say anything to Larry about… about what I told you. Please promise!"

"But Sandi, I…" Clare began, then froze as the bedroom door was flung open with a crash and heavy male footsteps clomped toward the bed. Whirling around, the brunette found herself staring straight at her very intoxicated husband.

"Don't tell Larry what?" he slurred. "Lemme tell you two cheating bitches something – you don't need to tell me no secrets, 'cause I know all about you both. And lemme tell you something else – I'm not gonna let you get away with none of this lesbian shit, Clare. I'm the one who's gonna fuck the hell out of that blonde cunt!"

CHAPTER SIX

After Sandi Smith had rebuffed him on the phone, Larry had downed several more drinks, switching from martinis to straight scotch. For awhile he'd flirted with a couple of cute teenagers who were passing through Brunrocke on their way from Connecticut to San Francisco on expensive British-made ten-speed bicycles – rich little bitches on a phony hippie trip – toying with the idea of fucking one or perhaps both of them. But though the high school girls couldn't have been more than sixteen, they had none of Sandi's appealing air of innocence and vulnerability. Their well-padded, Levi-encased ass-cheeks didn't undulate with the unconscious provocative wriggle which he so admired in his best friend's wife, and his own wife Clare, for that matter. Anyway, the girls seemed far more interested in two local long-hairs who Larry overheard murmuring something about taking a drive out of town to see how their crop of grass was doing.

"What's the matter with kids today anyway?" the twenty-seven year old muttered sourly to himself as he prepared to stomp out of the bar. "No fucking good, that's for damn sure!"

His long cock was bulging against his jeans as he gulped down the last of his scotch, and he was just getting up to drive back to Lakeview Gardens and once again release his raging hunger for Sandi on his wife when he suddenly overheard a most interesting conversation going on at the next table. Settling back down in his seat, he pricked up his ears, a lewd smile gradually sliding over his rugged face as he absorbed the obscene details of the two men's conversation.

Larry, born and raised in Brunrocke, recognized both youths. The blond one had been a few years behind him in high school, and he vaguely recalled some scandal or other involving him and some chick who'd been caught making it in the balcony of the swimming pool during swim team practice. As for the dark-haired man, Larry knew he was some kind of foreign motherfucker who'd opened a photographer's studio several months ago.

So that's where the stupid bitch got a job, he gloated to himself. And that's why she sounded so weird on the phone, too!

Pushing back his chair so quickly that it crashed to the floor, the lust-crazed Motorcycle Circus manager elbowed his way out of the crowded bar, jumped into his big Buick, and sped toward Lakeview Estates. By the time he'd reached the Smith's darkened house, he'd sobered up enough to think to park his car down the block and to sneak in through the open kitchen door on silent feet. Thus the two erotically aroused women never heard him until he made his triumphant entrance.

Both naked women gaped at him with fear-widened eyes as he ripped off his jeans and shirt and swaggered over toward the big double bed, flicking on the bright overhead light on his way.

"Wanna see what I'm fucking here!" he laughed in a coarse way.

Sandi, forgetting her earlier effort to avoid her girlfriend's unnatural embrace, now clutched her arms around Clare. She was shaking like a leaf as a few stinging tears trickled down her flushed cheeks, and her green eyes were widened and glazed with fear.

"Don't worry, honey – he always goes crazy like this when he's had too much to drink," Clare whispered. "Just do what he says, or he'll get really mad. He's not going to hurt you – he just wants to get into your cunt."

"But he can't do that! I won't let him!" Sandi hissed back, though by now she ought to have known the futility of trying to resist a lust-frenzied male.

"Shut up, you bitches!" the dark-haired man loomed over them, swaying a little unsteadily. In his right hand he brandished his enormously erect purplish cock, aiming it directly at Sandi's fear-contorted face, and with the other he grabbed hold of his wife's short, black hair and yanked her to her knees. Then, slapping her across the face with a sickening sound of flesh cracking against flesh, he shoved her off the bed.

"It's my turn to take this little cock-teasing bitch!" he swaggered, staring down at the nakedly cringing blonde with lecherous eyes. "Thinks she's too good to fuck me, but the next thing I hear she's screwing around with some asshole of a photographer and anyone else with a good hard cock!" He sneered down at the blonde, taking a sadistic pleasure in the way her face sagged as she realized he knew her guilty secret. "Or a cunt," he added, glaring at Clare.

He knows! Sandi's tortured mind screamed. I don't know how he can, but he does! Oh God… it's all over now! He'll tell Verne, I know he will!

"No… no… no…" she moaned, burying her face in the bedcovers.

"Yes, baby!" Larry snarled. "Now you're gonna fuck me, 'cause if you don't Verne's gonna hear all about that Goddamn dirty movie you're making. And you know as well as I do what he'll think of his sweet little wife then!"

Suddenly Sandi felt rough hands grasping her and trying to turn her over, and she began to struggle before the meaning of his words sank through her shock-stupored brain. This incensed Larry, just as Clare had warned it would, and he decided to really give this stupid blonde a taste of his aching cock that she'd never forget.

"Seeing as everyone else has already had a chance at your cunt, I'll try out that cute ass of yours," he leered.

Sandi had the sense to let her body go limp as the intoxicated man's brutal hands pushed her face down against the mattress, but it was too late to hope to mollify him now that the idea of fucking her in the anus had taken seed in his lust-maddened mind. Without any thought of the pain he was causing, Larry dug his powerful fingers into the tender flesh of the girl's white-skinned inner thighs, dragging her backward on the high bed until her shapely legs dangled over the side and her firmly rounded ass-cheeks jutted out, their flesh obscenely white against the pale golden tan of the rest of her body. Though her breasts were being painfully crushed, and in spite of the panic that had risen inside her at his terrible threat, Sandi gritted her teeth to force back her scream of terror.

He can't really be going to do it to me in the ass, she tried to reassure herself. It's not possible – it's not human!

Never in all her nineteen years had she so much as dreamed of such incredible perversion, and she had almost managed to convince herself that he was just trying to frighten her when his fingers grasped at the round half-moons of her buttocks and forced them apart. This time she couldn't hold back a gasp of horror.

Larry was really going to do this vile thing! And there was nothing at all she could do to stop his perverted defilement of her body – nothing at all! She didn't even dare to attempt to fight him off, for then he'd be certain to tell Verne everything!

From where Clare Johnson lay on the floor beside the bed, she had a perfect view of her girlfriend's wide-stretched buttocks and her own husband's long, glistening hardness. It looked even thicker than usual, and sympathy for her innocent girlfriend mingled with the strange shivers of arousal the indecent spectacle stirred in her sensuous body. If she hadn't been afraid of arousing her drunken husband's wrath, she'd have liked to comfort the blonde, to continue her abruptly interrupted caresses of her lovely young body, but as it was she just lay quietly on the carpet watching Larry position his penis directly over Sandi's pinkly puckering little anal opening. Oh God, wasn't he even going to prepare the virgin rectum with his finger?

Suddenly the suburban bedroom resounded with loud cries; first Johnson's bestial roar as he flicked his muscular hips forward and drove his iron-hard phallus into the tiny opening between his friend's wife's provocatively upraised ass-cheeks, and then Sandi Smith's wail of pain as the huge flesh rod sank halfway into her never-before-entered anus. The pain was so intense that she couldn't help flailing her body and jerking her hips to try to expel the torturing penis, unintentionally doubling the agony in her tight, dry channel.

"Aiieeeee! Stop! Stop it! Oh God, stop!" Sandi screamed.

"Hold still, Goddamn it!" Larry raged, bending down to grip vise-like to the girl's writhing back. "Get your ass up here and help me hold her, Clare," he ordered his wife without even bothering to glance at her.

The next moment, the humiliated, pain-wracked blonde wife felt cool feminine hands gently turning her face to one side and stroking her tousled hair away from her perspiring forehead. In her relief at not feeling completely alone with the sex-crazed maniac who was violating her straining anus, Sandi ceased her futile struggles.

"Try to relax," Clare's sultry lips brushed against her ear. "Then it won't hurt so bad. It'll start to feel good in a minute if you do that. I've been through this and I promise it'll be wonderful after you relax."

Clare had done this vile thing and dared to admit she'd liked it? the shocked blonde shuddered. Surely ENJOYING this bestial sex act was the most shameful part of it… But as the loudly panting man behind her pressured into her taut-muscled rectum with even more sadistic force, the nineteen year old blonde's moral scruples were drowned out by the red-hot agony surging through her abused young body. With a heartrending sigh, she tried her best to follow the experienced brunette's instructions, and almost at once the pain began to fade to an uncomfortable but tolerable heated throbbing. So great was her relief that, when the dark-haired woman squatting beside her snaked her tongue between her lips and began to kiss her in the lewd way Tony, the photographer, had done that afternoon, she automatically responded.

"Aaaaarrrrrggghhhhhh," Larry groaned, his turgid thickness plunging to the hilt as the wife of his best friend let the muscles of her exquisitely tight anal passage relax. He forced his impatient penis to lie still for a moment so the girl could continue to unclench her fear-tightened rectum, the aggressive malicious mood he'd been in all day long vanishing as if by magic as soon as his lust-hungry penis found itself inside Sandi's hotly coveted vagina.

Releasing his cruel hold on the no-longer-resisting blonde's shoulders, the husky motorcyclist began a smooth, age-old rhythm of in and out strokes. It gratified his ego to feel her unwilling body gradually responding to his unnatural anal fucking, and he plunged with ever increasing fervor as he strained to completely subjugate the girl who'd so haughtily spurned him the night before. If he could make her climax from his obscene ass-fucking, she'd be his slave forever!

Sandi has been through so much already that she no longer had the will to resist the strange masochistic pleasure gliding through her bloodstream. After only a few minutes of half-hearted fighting back the surging waves of pleasure, the no-longer-innocent blonde gave up and surrendered herself to wild sensuality, a sense of forbidden freedom heightening her arousal.

I've hit the bottom now, she rationalized as she began to screw her youthful white ass-cheeks in wanton little circles around the impaling male flesh imbedded between them. What's the difference now? I'm really just a whore, and there's no use pretending any longer.

"I like it!" she purred into Clare's tight-pressing mouth, a violent spasm of forbidden ecstasy singing in her veins as the unforgivable admission sprang from her lips. "I like being fucked in the ass!"

Then the lust-frenzied young wife pulled her tingling lips away from the soft mouth of her girlfriend, lifted her head as high as possible considering the tortured position her ripe young body had been forced into, and wailed out her wanton passion at the top of her lungs.

"Fuck me, Larry! Fuck me in the ass! Do it hard! Harder! Deeper! Fuck fuck fuck meeeeeeee!"

"I'll fuck the hell out of your tight little ass, you beautiful bitch!" Johnson shouted back, feeling his testicles tighten and quiver at the formerly frigid girl's outcry.

Suddenly his eyes met an incredible sight which made him wish more than ever that he'd not drunk so much before coming over to Sandi Smith's house and had better control over his rampaging cock. As it was, the unbelievable tightness of her convulsively clasping anal cavity, combined with the lewd performance being enacted on the bed, was making his balls churn with such urgency that he doubted he could hold back his climax for much longer. But there'd be other times, he reminded himself, lots of other opportunities!

Clare, succumbing to her irrepressible desire to once again feel a woman's soft lips on her hungrily throbbing pussy despite the presence of her husband, had maneuvered her statuesque body so that her long legs were spread out around Sandi's head and her dark-haired pussy "vee" was pressed directly against the younger girl's mouth. She'd managed to struggle out of her silky pink shirt, and the only piece of clothing on her ripely mature body was her miniscule black skirt which had been pushed up around her slim waist.

"Kiss my pussy, Sandi!" she pleaded. "Kiss me like my husband did to you yesterday."

"Yeah!" echoed Larry in a hoarse, out-of-control voice. "Suck her! Suck her!"

By this time Sandi didn't need much encouragement. Her loins burned to do this perverted thing… she wanted to try every lewd variation, to have her young body violated in every possible way. Opening her eyes to stare curiously at her girlfriend's fresh-scented, coral-pink vaginal flesh, she darted her tongue between the black-curl-fringed pubic mound to lick hesitantly at the smooth pink slit. Then, roused to a frenzy of passion by the continuous stimulation of her forbidden anus, she began to lap and suck with enthusiasm, instinctively seeking out the older girl's swollen clitoral bud and tonguing it into a stiff little erection.

"Oh God, it's good! Yes, Sandi, kiss me! Don't stop! Make me cum!"

His wife's lustful mewl was the last straw for the hotly aroused motorcyclist fucking into his wife's friend's anus. With a bellow like that of an angered jungle animal, he rammed his turgid pole of flesh between her jiggling white ass-cheeks so hard she groaned in masochistic ecstasy.

"Now!" he shouted, digging his hands into Sandi's pliant ass-cheeks and bracing himself for his orgasm. "I'm gonna cum now! Ccccuuuummmmingggggg! Aaaaahhhhhhhhhh! Arrrrrrggghhhh!"

Hot jets of thick white sperm began splashing deep into Sandi's shivering belly, flooding her narrow anus and oozing out onto her trembling thighs. It felt so obscene, so wonderfully obscene, that she felt her own loins vibrate and knew that she, too, was going to cum. For a few more seconds she desperately lapped at Clare's moist, quivering cunt, wanting her girlfriend to cum too, but then the orgasm crashed through her sensuous young body and she began writhing in helpless ecstasy on the bed, dislodging Larry's shrinking penis from her anus with a lewd popping sound which was inaudible beneath the wanton chorus of groans, grunts, and wails of the three-way orgasm.

"Yeeeeeeessssss!" Sandi shrilled, then fell silent as her energy was drained by the thundering sensations surging through her.

Clare gasped, shuddering, as the almost forgotten sweetness of an orgasm brought on by another female swept her onto another plane where she knew nothing but ecstasy. An incoherent babble issued from her passion-contorted face, and if anyone had been listening they would have heard her wail out Rosemary's name, then Sandi's, then her husband's.

Finally all three orgiasts collapsed in exhaustion upon the bed, and for long minutes the only sound in the brightly lit bedroom was the rasping sound of their breathing. At last Clare rolled over to lie next to Sandi, fondling her friend's swollen breasts and murmuring, "How do you feel now, honey?"

Sandi smiled back, a new, more mature smile in which there lingered no traces of uncertainty or shy self-doubt.

"Of course I loved it!" she assured Clare and Larry Johnson. "Now let's fuck some more – I want to feel a cock in my pussy. Let's do everything!"

CHAPTER SEVEN

Larry Johnson sat in the waiting room of Gary's most modern hospital, sipping a bitter cup of plastic-flavored coffee from the vending machine and staring out the window to the bleak hospital gardens outside. Everything was in shades of grey, from the dirty white hospital walls to the bare black tree trunks, with only a few tenaciously clinging brown leaves for contrast; but dismal as the landscape was, it couldn't disturb the motorcycle club manager's jubilant good spirits. Ten minutes before, he'd spoken to the specialist who'd handled Verne's operation, and he'd been given the final assurance that his star stunt rider would be back on the track by next summer in perfect condition!

Everything had worked out to his advantage, Johnson gloated. For awhile there he'd been afraid his luck had run out, but now things were looking up again. Doing without Verne for the winter season wasn't all that serious, for the real money rolled in from May to October.

He was proud, too, of the way he'd obliterated the threat of Verne's wife coercing her husband into dropping out of the circus. Sandi seemed a changed girl, and the way she moaned and pleaded helplessly beneath him every time he plunged his heavy penis into one of her eager orifices made him feel certain that she was too much under his sway to try to oppose his will, even though, of course, she was worried about having her husband risk his life again.

A buxom little nurse bounced into the room to announce the beginning of visiting hours, and Larry amused himself, as he did every time he visited his friend, by staring at her until she broke out in a furious blush and giggled under her breath. If he were interested, he was sure she'd be putty beneath his hands… all females were!

Verne was sitting up in bed, grinning more happily than he had in this last suspenseful month of waiting to know whether he was to be leading a normal life or would be bedridden, a paralyzed old man at the age of twenty-five.

"You talk to the doctor yet?" he asked Larry. "Did he tell ya I'm gonna be okay? Really okay?!"

"Yeah, pal!" Larry said, coming over and clapping his friend on the shoulder. "He sure did! Greatest news I've ever heard! You'll be back on the track wowing them again by next summer!"

Verne's handsome face grew serious, though his eyes still sparkled with joy at his almost miraculous recovery. "That's something I gotta talk to you about, Lar," he began.

"What do you mean?" the manager interrupted, immediately on edge.

"Well, I've been thinking about this bike-riding stuff a lot since I've been flat on my back; and I've been talking about it with Sandi, and we decided that we've pressed our luck long enough. I want out, Lar. Especially for Sandi's sake. She's been so great since this happened – getting that good job and all, and driving all the way in to Gary to see me every night when she's been working all day. I've promised her if I pull through this operation, then I'm getting a job where I can spend more time with her. Maybe in a garage or something, I don't know yet."

"But… but what about the Cycle Circus? I mean, Jesus, man, I've got lots of money sunk in this, and you know it can't go without you! And you've got money in it too!"

"I've decided I just don't care that much about the money, Larry. The most important thing is Sandi and me – our marriage. We want to settle down and have kids as soon as we can save up enough."

"But…"

"Don't try to convince me, man. I've made up my mind for sure. Before they took me into that operating room, I swore to God that I'd never get on a bike again if he'd make me healthy again. Well, he kept his part of the bargain and I'm keeping mine – to him and to Sandi."

Larry's face darkened into a black scowl of frustrated hatred. That fucking bitch! he thought. She never told me she'd talked like that to Verne. She's double-crossed me, and she's gonna be good and sorry! Thank God I've got those pictures I stole from the "Deja-Vu" studio. This'll make Verne think different, all right!

Slowly and deliberately, the dark-haired manager pulled out his wallet and extracted the small packet of negatives he'd taken from Tony Fletcher a couple days after overhearing the photographer's conversation in the bar.

"Before you make a decision," he said in a voice that made Verne know at once that something was very seriously wrong, "I think you'll want to talk to Sandi about these."

"Wh-what's that?" Verne took the proffered photos, tore open the paper packet, and held the negative up to the bedside lamp. His face, so confident and hopeful only a minute before, seemed to age before Johnson's intent gaze, the skin of his face turning a sickly grey shade, bitter lines etching around his mouth, and a hard, cynical expression appearing in his eyes. Though he gulped several times as though trying to speak, no words came out.

"Just thought you'd like to know just what your wife's been doing to earn all that money," Larry said smoothly. Then, scooping up the negatives and replacing them in his wallet, he turned toward the door.

"The bitch! The cheating bitch!" he heard Verne spit out in a strangled tone.

"Be talking to you tomorrow about the summer schedule," Johnson said, then left the room without a backward glance, his face lighted up with an ugly smile of triumph.

***

Sandi Smith sped through Brunrocke, hurrying to get to Gary before the hospital visiting hours were over. Her hazel eyes shone happily, mirroring her mood of elation. Verne was all right! The operation had been a success – Clare Johnson had just called to tell her so – and now she and her husband could start to build a real life together!

It had been a good day to work, too; they'd just completed the next-to-the-last scene, and by the end of the week the film would be on its way to South Africa. Sandi felt a great sense of relief at the thought of finishing this job, for though she no longer tried to deny that she thoroughly enjoyed being photographed while doing things so obscene she'd never known they existed before now, she was anxious to get back to a normal life with Verne. She didn't like doing work that she was more and more sure was illegal, and she didn't like the deception involved.

Actually, though, it had been surprisingly easy to make Verne believe she was doing fashion modeling and advertisements. She'd never even lied exactly, just left out all the things that might make him suspicious when she was talking about her work. Most of the time they'd been discussing the future, so she'd not really had many bad moments. The only thing that worried her at all was the missing set of negatives, but since there'd been no repercussions for three weeks now she felt pretty secure even about that. Doubtless someone had accidentally thrown them away – everyone was usually so drunk and stoned that it would have been easy enough for that to happen.

Nor had she minded re-shooting that particular sequence in which she was sucking a black guy's cock and then being screwed by him. Even just thinking about how good his hard cock had felt made her feel all excited, and she had to force her attention back to the road.

That's all in the past, she told herself firmly. Now it's time to start a normal life and forget the movie, at least when I'm with Verne.

By now she'd reached the outskirts of Gary, and as she saw the jack-o'-lanterns gleaming from nearly every doorstep she remembered that tonight was Halloween. Reminding herself to stop at the all-night supermarket on the way home to buy some candy corn and chocolate bars for the trick or treaters – there were bound to be lots of them in Brunrocke, where children were as common as crabgrass – she turned down the sidestreet leading to the hospital parking lot.

A slim young mother, not much older than Sandi herself, was leading her two children out for an early trick or treat session, and the blonde motorcyclist's wife slowed the car to smile in a soft, maternal way at the youngsters. A little boy of about four was tugging on his mother's hand, eager to show off his brightly-colored Indian costume at the next house and add to the candy in his already overstuffed bag, while a small girl dressed in a fluffy bunny costume toddled along behind.

That's how I'll look pretty soon! Sandi thought, warm happiness shivering through her body at the thought. I'm so glad Verne's all right, and that he's giving up that dreadful stunt riding job. We're going to be so happy now! And I know I'll be a better wife to him because of the things I've been through this past month… though, of course, I'll never tell him why!

Smiling in joyful anticipation of the bright future that lay ahead for her, Sandi Smith parked the car and hurried into the hospital to share her elation with her husband.

Content

Carl Van Marcus
The motorcyclist_s wife

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN