Chapter 5

THE RANDOMS AND THE HATCHERS were together again.

This night-undeniable urgencies to wallow to excess upon them-deeming it wise to desert their usual haunts, they were installed in The Sleepyland Motel, a sumptuous hostelry located twenty miles from Porterfield. Telling the desk clerk they were traveling together, they'd snagged adjoining rooms, no small feat for a Saturday night. And the children left in the care of trustworthy sitters-

They were prepared to ball, to indulge any and all sexual idiosyncrasies. They would frolic until dawn, and then frolic some more. The percale pyrotechnics they would attempt would make the dowdy sun hide its face in shame.

At this moment convened in the Random bedroom (or was it the Random-Hatcher bedroom?), they primed themselves for the long journey ahead with the ever-faithful clutch of martinis, all of them far along by 10:00 p.m. So far along that none of the spouses present thought it the least bit out of the way when Don (appropriating the cute loveseat the room afforded; drawing Millicent onto his lap) commenced to fondle her boobs and box in full view of the others. A liberty which was immediately reciprocated by Carl and Irene, he tossing her back onto the bed, flipping her skirts up to reveal her satin-bound belly and thighs, immediately dropping his head into her crotch, nibbling her cunt through her filmies.

Which was definitive testament to the erotic miles the couple had covered during the past month and a half. No one batted an eye at such liberties now. They had all stripped to the skin in each other's presence long since; it was no big deal when they played four on a bed, Don with Millicent, Carl with Irene. Indeed they found such piggish innovations conducive to orgies of the most outre sort; voyeur sports were pretty much de rigueur by then.

Several times, as workup to the final event, they'd taken turns performing for each other. Once Carl and Millicent screwed each other silly while the Hatchers watched, this in the name of education, Don and Irene desiring to observe positions and technique, "See how real pros brought each other off". Going along with the gag, Carl and Millicent had laughingly paused from time to time, had actually provided a critique, an illustrated lecture as it were:

"Now, look, Don," Carl advised. "When you mount up, make sure that you're riding high on the girl. Sure, it's nice to be mouth to mouth, cheek to cheek. But that don't scrape no clams. Fix it so your prick is sawing across Irene's clit, so you're all but skinning her alive on every in and out. See, like this."

Whereupon he readjusted himself on Millicent, gave her a slow, stinging poke that made her screech with delight.

Another night they watched Don and Irene go at each other, shouted bawdy encouragements, offered pointers as they huffed and puffed.

Then there was the time each swap-couple wanted to sit in the grandstand when the other two screwed, Don and Millicent watching Carl and Irene, and vice-versa.

They even went so far as to take turns providing demonstrations of oralistic procedures, the more experienced Millicent and Carl looking up from their exotic labors from time to time, addressing pertinent, helpful hints to them, telling them just how a woman or a man liked to be done.

By now they'd indulged in almost any variant they cared to sample, from sodomy to sixty-nine, from oral climax to ancillary experimentations, and there was very little that fazed any of them now. It goes without saying that a certain amount of boredom, or sameness had crept into their antics, and small, wistful plaints were heard in the land. And, God knew, they weren't about to jettison their new liaison. They'd die before they gave up this salvatory diversion; it was the only thing that made life worth living. But wasn't there something else? Weren't there new directions their activities could take?

It was exactly this tack which Carl discreetly veered into now. Irene's pretty blue girdle, panties and hose off by then, his finger clickingly boring in and out of the pink temple nestled in those gold-furred foothills, he said: "I've been thinking about new blood lately. You know, another couple or two? To spice up things? You know what they say about variety."

"Oh?" Irene teased gaminly, squeezing her thighs closed, whining as his finger became cruel. "Bored already? I'd hardly call what we're doing now dull." She sucked in a earing breath. "Oooh, Carl! You devil! Careful. It feels like a boil that's about to burst."

"Carl's right," Don called from across the room, looking smugly across Millicent's head where she gracefully rode it up and down on his freshly-exposed prick. "We could use some new faces around here."

Millicent pulled away with a liquid plop, sent him an irritated moue. "Ingrate," she sniffed, licking away a thin trail of saliva and prick oil that dribbled down her chin. "All my hard work. And this is the thanks I get."

"Be serious, darling," Carl said, removing his finger from Irene's cunt, casually inserting it into her mouth to suck clean. "Don't tell me you wouldn't like a few new studs. I hate to admit it, but some of the magic's gone out of this thing of ours. I don't want to quit, understand. But there are ways to make it even better."

"For instance?" Irene said, pausing in her loving, lollipop sucking. "Who've you got in mind? You've obviously given this some thought."

"Well, Pete and Helen Welch for one. Maybe Earl McIver and that hot-tailed wench of a Rachel of his. If ever there was a doll with a mouth made for sixty-nine, that bitch's it. The way she kisses at some of those parties..."

Millicent, distracted, forgot to go back down on Don. "I wouldn't mind calling Pete Welch's bluff either," she said. "He's always pushing his whang up against me when we dance. I'd like to check that one out."

"You're just a frustrated, old pecker-checker," Irene teased.

"You'd better know it," Millicent laughed off the barely-veiled dig. "Someone else I know, too."

"Man, I'd love to plow Helen Welch," Don added. "She's such a little doll. All things being equal with women as well as men, I'll bet she's got the tightest little puss in town. I'd like to be the man to crack that one. Probably need help. A shoehorn maybe."

"Not with that baby banana of yours," Irene laughed.

"You never used to complain."

"I ain't complaining now. I just don't want someone getting the big head. Getting all sorts of ideas about Helen-Welch. You used to say my hole was plenty tight. Carl thinks its a real squeaker. Don't you, Carl?"

Carl neatly sidestepped the tricky situation. "Any ideas on how we work this thing with Pete and Helen? Or maybe we should promote the McIvers first."

"No," Don said, "The Welches. Pete and Helen have been married ten years. They'd be more like prospects than Earl and Rachel." He shrugged. "Hell, it's worth a try. We invite 'em to a little get-together, get 'em high, move in on 'em. I sure's hell wouldn't be able to say no if two sexy cunts like Millie and Irene ganged up on me."

"Same for me," Irene said. "Once you and Carl get on Helen's tail. She's a little on the dim side anyway; she'll be easy as pie."

"All they have to do is look at each other," Millicent joined in, "see the other one fooling around, and they'll see red. The rest of it'll take care of itself. They'll never know what hit 'em. A hard spasm of lust ripped through her abruptly, and a pained grimace crossed her face. "Let's give it a whirl. We'll sleep on it, make our final plans the next time we get together. Our house, if I recall. But for now, there are more immediate things to be taken care of. Things like this great, big, beautiful..."

The rest of her words went unsaid. As she paganly dropped her head on Don's cock again, began to ride it up and down like a fireman (firewoman?) who can't make up his mind. Don groaned, leaned forward slightly, the better to undo her blouse, start drawing it off her shoulders.

Ten minutes later they were all naked in the room. And the lights out, soft music playing on the Muzak, they all jittered and kissed and murmured on the spacious bed, it being a foregone conclusion that they'd make this a community hump. The first one, at least. Perhaps afterward one couple would fling some clothes on, repair to the next room, finish out the night in private debauch.

"Hey!" Irene enthused, pulling her head away from where Carl partially straddled her chest, fed his oozing pipe to her sipping lips, "why don't we try that daisy chain thing? like the other night? I kind of liked that. For a warmup, I mean. It makes me feel so filthy when we all do each other at the same time."

"Oh, hey," Millicent slurred. "Now you're talking."

Moments later they were arranged on the bed in a conventional square, and slightly angled at the waist, each eagerly affixed searching, torturing lips to the genitalia they found hanging in his face. The men crouched on all fours, the women on their backs, directly beneath those swollen, mouth-stretching faucets. Irene strained up, nuzzled Carl's glans with indescribably soft, mushy lips. A sizzling caress which caused him to drop his head, work his mouth in the soggy marshlands of Millicent's sex. His lancing tongue served as trigger for her, as she reached up, played with Don's balls, flirted an obscene finger in the crack of his ass as she drew that ponderous hank down, immediately licked the sweet syrup off it with practiced lappings. Upon which Don groaned, summarily dropped down upon his wife's cunt, began to eat her gluttonously.

The sighs and groans and involuntary twitching mounted. An eerie, electric hiss filled the air, formed canopy of lust-inciting sound above them. As of that moment the Paradise Express left the station, set out on a Sybaritic trip to oblivion.

Back in Porterfield, at that same moment, another, equally corrupt connection was also being made. As, once more, Kenyon Gwynn had brought out his beautiful wife, Daphne; together they prowled the night, their mission depraved beyond belief. And in an out-of-the-way night club called Twelve Oaks-

Again the mysteriously-manipulated Daphne, dressed to the nines-her gown, coiffure, hosiery and shoes skillfully chosen to incite sexual riot was separated from her husband; she was indulging his psychotic wishes, playing major role in as perverted a fantasy as any husband and wife have ever known.

Seated in a dark corner of the bar with the man who'd picked her up shortly after she'd entered, she was anxious to have the sick adventure over. Thus she smiled sultrily at the husband-on-the-town named Gray Forrester, made no negative motions as he worked his thigh against hers, even went so far as to caress her silken knees. Hearing his quick breathing, feeling his uncontrollable tremblings, Daphne knew that her time was very near.

To this purpose she excused herself, drifted toward the women's restroom, managing to send a high-sign to her husband as she passed. Very quickly he finished his drink, left the bar.

They met briefly outside, keeping to the shadows in the club's murky parking lot. "Oh, please, Kenyon," Daphne pleaded desperately, "must I? Can't we forget it this time? I don't like him; it'll be terrible. Anything you want, darling. Only not this..."

He stared at her with those demented, sadistic eyes, and she died inside, all will, all semblance of resistance instantly fading. "Don't argue, my dear. You know what it is I need. We've gone over this too many times already, for you to be stubborn at this late date." Car keys jangled; their footsteps rang on the tarmac. "Lock me in, just the way I told you."

"But, Kenyon..."

"Lock me in!" he snarled.

The trunk of the hulking Cadillac sprung up.

The lights revealed the comforter that was already arranged on its deck. Instantly, after checking the parking lot, Kenyon Gwynn stepped into the trunk, rolled into a ball there, the sickness of his embryonic pose making Daphne momentarily queasy. "Close it!" he spat.

Daphne closed the trunk lid, checked to be sure it was firmly caught. Now she dropped the keys into her purse, furtively made her way back into the club.

Kenyon Gwynn didn't wait long. His heart soared; it was all he could do to control his shuddering arms and legs. Immense sexual excitation filled him, coursed through his veins; he was pleased to find that his prick was suddenly erect, stood as hard as a crow-bar in his trousers. He heard Daphne and the man softly arguing as they stood beside the car, and his heart froze at the chance that Daphne would be too forceful, scare him off. But no. In the end Daphne prevailed. They would take her car. They would drive out into the country. No, it was a warm, summer night; she'd take her chances on an al fresco rendezvous, rather than going to a motel. Upon finishing she'd drive him back to pick up his own car.

The adorable little mink, Kenyon exulted, squirming where he lay, his hands cradling his monstrous erection. The way she handles those jerks. The idiot's probably on the verge of shooting in his pants.

Moments later the car started, and Daphne left the parking lot. Gwynn's anticipation mounted to fanatic pitch as the car picked up speed, and he realized they were leaving Porterfield, heading into the farmlands surrounding the city. He further exulted in the way that Daphne followed his explicit instructions. "Anything that guy does to you," he'd ordered, "I want to know it." Thus he stifled snickers, squirmed his legs together more hotly, manhandled his cock nonstop, as he heard Daphne's overloud sighs and giggles, unmistakable signal of Forrester's roving hands as they drove.

"Oooh. Gray! You are the naughtiest one. Watch out! You'll wreck us. A girl can stand only so much of that. Oh, baby, you make 'em ache. You do know how to play with a woman's breasts, don't you? Heavenly." There was a brief silence. Then: "Oh, don't, Grav. Can't you wait? Put my dress down. You shouldn't touch me there. Oooh, oooh! Don't pinch! I'll let you. Here, how's this?"

"Wow, you're all juicy down there," the man chuckled. "Real hot item, aren't you?"

"How else should a girl act? With a handsome stud like you? I've had certain thoughts too, you know."

"You angel," he breathed. "Oh, God I can't believe this is really happening."

Gwynn listened to their inane, yet incendiary chatter all the way. Until finally, the man indicating a deserted, bush-concealed lane where they might take care of things, Gwynn felt the car slow down. Shortly he was bouncing and rolling in the back as the powerful automobile felt its way along the rutted lane.

Now the engine went dead; there was only the sound of the crickets, the sough of the wind, an occasional pop or squeal from the cooling automobile. But above that-and foremost-there were the sounds Daphne and her man made as they climbed into the Cad's back seat, the finale about to be concluded less than a foot away from Gwynn's head. He listened to their wet, passionate kisses, to their sighs of appreciation and adoration as her alabaster body was bared to the glaring moonlight, as she allowed him to suck her nipples, to kiss her belly and thighs, to caress her from head to toe.

But then he heard the most beautiful, the long-awaited sound. The sound ofthe man's voice as Daphne went into the next, prescribed segment of her charade. "Oh, God, baby," Forrester protested. "You aren't! You don't have to do a thing like that. You shouldn't ... I don't want. . . "

"You don't want me to suck your cock?" Daphne said in a smug, lilting way, her voice carrying clearly to Gwynn. "But why not? I thought all men liked to have a woman do that to them. Don't be shy, darling. I've done it before; I won't hurt you. I like to do it. It's almost as good as the rest of it. When you put your prick into me."

"Daphne..." The man's voice became flawed, frightened. As always, Gwynn reveled. When they wonder just what the hell they've gotten into. "What is this, anyway?"

"What is this?" she teased. "Why, the lady wants to give you a blow job. That should be quite obvious. Now lay back like a good boy. Here, I'll even kneel on the floor before you. Oh, my, isn't he a big one? Juicy too. That's the kind Daphne-likes the best of all."

For the next five minutes Gwynn existed in an ecstatic sexual frenzy. If ever a man was close to paradise, this was it. He heard Forrester's continuing objections. Which objections shortly faded. As Daphne's skilled mouth flowed more freely on him, and dismay was replaced by flat-out lust. Forrester's cries became gulping, stentorious, like some barnyard animal in rut. Gwynn heard the thrash and whisper of their bodies, the squeak of the leather upholstery; he heard the click and slide of his wife's lips on the stranger's flesh. He heard Forrester's choked protests as he realized that Daphne sought more than appetizer, that she intended to go all the way, suck him to completion.

By then Gwynn's prick was out of his trousers, and stealthily adjusting his body to allow his cannon proper trajectory, he pumped slowly, precisely, paced himself so that his ejaculation would coincide with the one impending on the other side of the flimsy barrier to his right. Again he listened, let his fist whisper softly; he heard the man's gargling cries of buildup; he heard the smack and suck of Daphne' lips, her heavy, impatient pantings. And now-

My God, my God! he raged. I swear I can hear him. I can actually hear him! Spurting and gurgling down her filthy, cocksucking throat. Listen to her gobble it, will you?

And then, with an expert flip of thumb and forefinger beneath the bloated glans of his cock, Gwynn let fly. Seemingly he hit the other side of the trunk with his discharge.

"Oh, baby, baby..." the man groaned. "Why, oh why? You didn't have to ... Forgive me, I didn't mean to..."

But Daphne didn't answer. Instead she reaffixed herself to the limp pipe, drained him of every last drop of his muck, began to revive him anew. Gwynn heard her every gulp, every constriction of her filthy mouth. He commenced to pump himself to new erection also. He must be ready!

He listened while Daphne extorted a muff job from the man before she allowed him entrance into her holy font. He thought the sounds of his flicking tongue, the seething gasps that broke from Daphne throughout, especially thrilling. But not as thrilling as the sound of Forrester's prick sawing back and forth in Daphne's rotten, little hole. There was a lisp and a sigh and a plop. There was the squeak of leather, the slither and suction of two human bellies as they slithered back and forth on each other. There were the inadvertent suckings and flurries as the man's prick fell out of her hole, fought to regain its scalding sanctuary.

There were Daphne's deliberately loud yips, her mounting sighs of passion, as she shammed (or perhaps actually achieved) approaching orgasm. There were the groans which issued from the man's lips. There were the hissing whines which squeezed through Gwynn's clenched lips.

At the end the whole car was seemingly rocking back and forth on its springs.

Daphne screamed. Forrester cursed. Kenyon fought a full-fledged howl, eased it out in short, animalistic barks. Two pricks spoke. One cunt spasmed.

And, once more, the abomination was finished.