Chapter 6
BY ELEVEN O'CLOCK THAT NIGHT, THE Welches-Pete and Helen--were feeling no pain. No pain at all.
Gathered at the Random residence this Saturday evening (Millicent timing the party to coincide with an overnight camping trip promoted by Brad's Boy Scout troop) the gala had seemingly been under a full head of steam from the first moment the newcomers had arrived.
There hadn't been a minute's letup since.
No sooner was either Helen or Pete's glass empty than one or the other of the sponsoring couples descended upon them like an avenging hawk and brought a brimming refill. Helen had protested at first, warded them off with notice that she never drank anything stronger than whiskey and sweet. But they'd insisted that she "just try" one of Carl's special, maple syrup Manhattans. After that she could switch to something lighter. Accommodatingly Helen had done just that.
She hadn't been off Manhattans ever since.
As per the swap-quartet's carefully prepared plans, the conversation was deliberately general at first. But later, assessing their guests' alcoholic intake they began subtle conversational inroads, and shortly the air was clogged with innuendo and salty language, the girls concentrating on Helen, innun-dating her with their liberal sexual attitudes. Try as the Welches might to switch the subject they barely succeeded before they found themselves swimming upstream all over again.
Helen Welch succumbed first. The Manhattans doing their deadly work, it was she, of all people, who suggested the first blue story: "Go ahead, Pete, baby," she slurred. "Tell 'em that one about Tony and Angela. With that Italian dialect. You do it so well."
Pete, flushed with drink himself, was more than willing to comply. The story had to do with an Italian laborer who lived in a one room flat, and was proud father of fourteen kids. His wife, tiring of the rat-race, though she should derive something more from the sex act than another baby. But it wasn't to be, for Tony wasn't gifted with sexual finesse. So he went to the doctor to ask for help.
"Ama no sooner get on, docator," he confessed, "than whiz ... it'sa all over. Angela she'a no lika dis."
The doctor thought a minute, then said, "That does sound bad, Tony. Tell me, did you ever try female dominant?"
"Ah, female'a dominant? What'sa dat, docator?"
"Well, that's when the woman gets on top."
At which Tony blushed, covered his eyes. "Ama so ashamed, docator. Ama already try dat."
"Oh?" the doctor replied. "And what happened?"
"Dat'sa bad. Alia da leetle bambeen, they march aroun' da bed, an 'dey seeng: 'Papa ees a sissy, Papa ees a sissy!' "
When the riotous laughter faded, Don told the one about Mandy and Rastus screwing on the hill. Seeing the parson approaching, they tried to hide the evidence, mainly Rastus. Which they achieved by covering him with leaves. Everything except his stubborn, brown pike. The parson coming nearer by the moment, Mandy did the only thing she could: she lifted her skirts, sat on it. The parson, coming up her, asked what she was doing in this isolated place.
"Ah's dreaming, parson," she answered. "Is that so, Mandy? What all are you dreaming about?"
"Ah's dreaming what Ah'd do if I had me ten thousand dollars."
"What would you do, Mandy, if you had ten-thousand dollars?"
"Why, Ah'd give four-thousand to mah Mammy. An' Ah'd give five-thousand to the Church."
"Tha's mighty generous, Mandy. But what would you do with the remaining thousand?"
"Wha, parson, Ah'd buy me a big, black horse."
"A horse, Mandy? Whatever for? What would you do with that big, black horse?"
Here Don got up, stood in the middle of the floor, pretended he was Mandy sitting on Rastus. He began to post up and down, a dreamy, blissful expression on his face. "What would Ah do, parson? Wha, if Ah had me that big, black horse, Ah'd ride an' ride..."
The jokes got more steamy by the minute after that, with Pete Welch, encouraged by his earlier success, supplying most of them. There was the one about the fifteen-dollar special at the whore house. Then the one about the fairy who had an artificial prick sewed onto himself. Then about the woman who took an overdose of hormones. Don followed with another Mandy and Rastus joke. They came faster and faster, the women laughing until they cried, Helen the most strongly affected of all.
It was here that Carl remembered a special record of bawdy songs he had hidden away, and asked if anyone would like to hear it. To a man, everyone agreed that he would like to hear it. To a man, everyone agreed that he would. One of the numbers which tickled the women immensely was one called, "Four-Letter Words":
The four-letter words, the four-letter words, That never say quite what you mean. We'd rather be known for our hypocrite ways than vulgar, impure and obscene.
When nature is calling, plain speaking is out, When Ladies, Lord love 'em, are milling about. You may wee-wee, make water, or green up the grass, You may powder your nose, even Johnny may pass.
Shake the dew off the lily, see a man 'bout a dog, Or when everyone's soused, try condensing the fog.
But please try to remember, if you would know bliss, That only in Shakespeare, do characters-
The four-letter words, the four-letter words, That never say quite what you mean. We'd rather be known for our hypocrite ways Than vulgar, impure and obscene.
Before the endless verses of the song were finished, everyone-the girls most of all-were loudly joining in on the chorus. As of that moment the part was truly launched. As they listened to a few more songs, Carl tested out Helen, playfully stroked her silky knees, got a flirtatious smile, answering pressure from her own hand, for his pains.
There were more drinks then, a gradual extinguishing of lights, and the lights initiated some half-hearted dancing, this as vehicle whereby they could breathe hard in Pete's ear, work their sweaty boxes up against his ponderous hank. Don danced with the badly squiffed Helen, gave her much of the same. He was more than elated when, as he slid his hand down her back, roiled her sassy buttocks, Helen cooingly tolerated the liberty, answered by bunting her cunt that much more salaciously to his rigid rope.
The stage was set. There was no turning back now.
Thus it was, very shortly, that Irene and Millicent managed to herd Pete into a gloomy corner, engage him in some very suggestive conversation. While Carl and Don, using the distraction that swiftly became very tactile, and the girls crowding Pete, their faces close, inviting pagan kisses, their knees and thighs sliding against him from both sides, their breasts branding him nonstop with a highly erotic graffiti, their cunts having a heyday with his engorged cock, they blatantly let him know that they could be had.
No man living could have resisted such voluptuary blandishments, and when Irene guided his ham-like hands to her breasts, invited him to play, when Millicent stood on her tiptoes, dragged his face down, kissed him devouringly, drove her tongue deep into his mouth, he was transported to that deadly point of no return. But this wasn't the worst of it. For even as Pete mauled Irene's surging, firm tits, even as he growlingly answered Millicent's tongue-sucking kiss, he felt both girls begin to caress his prick through his trousers, clench and tug the imprisoned cob. He moaned deep in his throat when he felt Irene's one hand snake between his legs, lift and weigh his balls gently. Even before this could be assimilated, Millicent crowded still closer, clamped her knees on each side of one bent leg, slithered her scalding-hot cunt on his upper leg. When he instinctively reached down, groped in her crotch, she moaned, sucked his tongue harder, even went so far as to partially raise her skirt so he could maul her soupy cabbage that much more easily.
Helen was faring no better. At first, when Carl and Don moved in on her-one from the front, the other from the back-she knew momentary panic. But then, as Carl kissed her, worked his delicious cock against her belly, as Don pressured her from behind, squirmed his dong into her buttocks, made her the meat in a very erotic sandwich, she was suffused with a debilitating sense of wickedness. Her cunt burned like fire, constricted inwardly on itself, even as great torrents of her pussy-oil seeped between the itchy lips, soaked the crotch of her panties through and through. Now Don's hands circled her from behind, held her in helpless, crisscrossing grip, each hand firmly possessing one of her tiny breasts, massaging and roiling it in a thrillingly gentle way. Then, as Carl's tongue invaded her mouth, would seemingly slither down her very throat, as he guided one of her own, disembodied hands down between their bodies, arranged her fingers around the gorgeous hank of his pulsing cock, she came quite undone.
Her head felt feverish, bloated, an insane drumming beginning in it, a voodoo chant of the blood, a siren call she was helpless to resist. Momentarily she fought herself out of the trance, thought to break away, to call out to Pete to come rescue her. But then, her eyes focusing, she saw Pete gluttonously kissing Millicent; she saw the way her red-pantied belly was balancing on his leg, the way he was lifting and clenching her freely offered cunt. Anger and jealousy, intermixed with the most mind-bending sense of unreality, lashed her. If Pete could behave so grossly, who was she to hold back? Especially when it felt so good, when her twat burned so deliciously. Especially when she seemingly couldn't get enough of it, when it seemed that it was this she'd been yearning for, seeking all her adult life.
She moaned with gratitude as someone suddenly turned out the lights in the room, delivered her to sanctifying, insulating darkness. She panted unashamedly as she felt Don and Carl half-drag her across the room, lower her onto the davenport, arrange her in supine pose, their hands almost immediately ranging over her, unzipping her dress in back, raising her skirt in front. She felt one set of hands caressing her nyloned legs, while another pulled down the top of her dress, unfastened her brassiere. Now her slip was being jimmied over her shoulders, trapping her arms, even as the alien hands tweaked her stone-hard nipples, as alien lips sucked the hot caps.
The hands on her legs continued to caress and meander, the tickling, worshipful attention dizzying beyond compare. She knew slight alarm as they caromed across the terrain of her naked thighs, but when she surrendered, decided this was the sweetest sensation of all. Now the hands undid her hose, began working down her panty-girdle, taking her panties with it. She mewled and thrashed as the man (who was it, Don or Carl?) tumbled the stiff, coppery tangle of her muff. She thought she'd die, that she'd never regain her breath again, as she felt the lips brush her tumbling belly, actually felt the hands force her thighs, spread them to allow the famished mouth, the hot, lancing tongue to close on the sodden lips of her pussy itself. And when the scalding dagger slashed at her clitoris, when the lips actually sought to suck it free from its mounting-
"My God," she moaned in disbelieving babble, "my dear God! What's happening, what's..." The words were cut off in mid-flow; hard, searching lips closed on hers; a long, avenging tongue probed her mouth anew. Then she knew she must truly be in a lunatic state of suspension. If she didn't know any better she'd swear that the man were lifting her bodily, and one bracing her shoulders, the other her legs and hips, they were carrying her out of the room. She attempted to struggle, to cry out, but once more that domineering mouth closed on hers, gagged her in that so-fiendishly-effective way.
Pete Welch, of course, had he chosen to do so, could have broken away from the demonic Circes who had now, at last, borne him floor-ward, were swarming over him like slippery eels, their hands and lips everywhere on him, their legs seeking to imprison him, the sensation of silk sliding on him everywhere will-robbing.
Millicent was kissing him famishedly, while Irene shamelessly mauled his prick through his clothing. Now his one hand was guided beneath Irene's skirt, jammed into the weeping stew of her gash. Then his other hand was commandeered, piloted to Millicent's equally swimming quim. He started, groaned in desperate incredulity, as he felt still another hand running his fly.
Now the wanton fingers actually dug inside his shorts, found his straining cock, dragged it forth.
No sooner was his salty soldier waving in the breeze, then he felt hot lips close on its aching head; he felt a vibrating, curling tongue wrap around it, immediately commence an aboriginal housecleaning, the-likes of which he hadn't known since his European army stint, when he'd visited a Paris whorehouse. He lurched, groaned thickly in his throat. Still, beside himself, immobilized as he was, he could summon up no coherent words whatsoever.
He wasn't sure, but wasn't one of the bitches standing over him? Wasn't she undressing blithely, letting her fragrant lingerie cascade down over his face? If whoever that is sucking me doesn't stop soon, he thought, she's going to get a mouthful, a whole week's worth!
He reached up, encountered naked legs and thighs, a naked ass. He recoiled in surprise. Good God! The crazy cunt was totally nude! That bush, that sloppy holel
"Don't be afraid, baby," Millicent's voice carried in lewd huskiness. "We won't hurt you. We'll be good to you, won't we, Irene?"
Irene pulled away from her lollipop chores. "Better than this you just don't get, baby." Her head plunged down again; her harlot lips wrung his joint that much more vindictively, made him grunt with pain and terror. A face full, he thought. Another minute and-
While Irene continued to suck, to toy with his swollen balls, flirt with his anus, Millicent busied herself with undressing him. Pete thought it the most exquisite of luxuries. To be sucked while another woman undressed him. To have gorgeous, opulent tits like this hanging in his face, positioned for his fingers to pinch and maul. If this was a dream, he hoped he'd never wake up.
Then he was totally naked. Millicent took Irene's place while she tore away her clothes. And if he'd thought Irene place while she tore away her clothes. And if he'd thought Irene was a talented cocksucker--
Abruptly, in a flesh-whispering rush, Irene was back. Straddling Pete's head, she came down too fast for him to demur; her dripping cunt dropped on his face, adjusted, posed itself for his sucking lips, his Conquistador of a tongue. A capitulation which Millicent abetted by latching onto his cob, stripping it like some avenging angel. Even had Pete been reluctant to confer the desired obeisance, he couldn't have resisted. Had he not had this tasty, musky sugar-tit he'd most certainly have howled in frustrated frenzy for lack of reciprocal act of his own.
As it was, he licked and sucked contentedly, felt a fantastic sense of power as Irene began swiveling her pussy above him, bringing her bulging pearl down to meet the upward lash of his scourging tongue.
"Damn, oh damn!" she wheezed. "I'm coming, I think I'm ... Oooh, Pete, sweet Pete. Lick it you bastard. Lick! You ever loving cunt-lapper. Oh, wow, wow ... Here..."
Helen thought that lying in the anonymous dark like this, having two men hover over her, gently slavishly undress her, was the most exalting thing that any woman could experience as long as she lived. Beyond that-
To have two mouths roaming her body, two heads butting as they sought to kiss her lips, to suck in her petite tits, to gobble her miniature box. To have four hands coursing over her, touching, exploring, stimulating her in every erogenous spot on her body. Her ears, her eyes, her mouth, her throat, her breasts, her belly and thighs, her vagina her anus even. A mouth on each tit, two hands groping her pubis, two fingers strumming inside her slit, while others painted her ass-hole with her overflow. Two bobbing, monstrous cocks drifting over her, around her, sliding across her thighs, her belly, her breasts even, leaving juicy signature in passing, exotic anointment. Two cocks to gather in at opportune moments, one for each tiny hand.
She fought feebly when Carl came over her, ran his slimy rod back and forth across her clenched lips; she vowed she wouldn't accommodate him that easily. But then when Don opened her legs to widest apex, when he took her complete cunt inside his mouth, sucked and masticated her in that mind-frenzying way, she, like her husband was wild to submit to orgy also. Her small mouth drifted open; her sharp, pointed tongue stabbed at the fat glans, curled beneath its corona. Little by little she let Carl ram it into her mouth, and taking as much of it as she could stand, she gloried in his pinched cries of delight. Cries which blended with her own whines of glory.
She actually thrashed, emitted a hawking, frustrated sob, her sense of loss a crushing thing, when both Carl and Don withdrew from her, left her alone on the bed, shivering and fearful, like some plucked bird. A coin appeared from nowhere, fell on the sheet beside her. "Heads it is, Carl," she heard Don say disgustedly.
Helen's dizzy rapture intensified unbearably. Now, at long last-she enthused. Oh, God, I hope this glorious sense of surrender, this feeling of filth-iness without end never leaves me. And yet she sensed regret as well. If there was only a way that Don wouldn't have to be left out.
She sighed thickly as Carl came between her legs, inserted his massive club into the vestibule of her vagina, worked it gently in small, circular spirals, gave her time to become accustomed to the foreign equipment. He was bigger then Pete, her husband's stature notwithstanding. She stifled a giggle. What a shock Irene and Millie had in store for them. Her mirth was quickly dispelled, replaced by panic, as Carl now began to thread his cock into her narrow channel. Small squeaks of mixed awe, pain and delight built up in her throat, and she sought a placebo to help her see this thing through. Until, seeing Don standing beside the bed watching, she reached out, wrapped her fingers tightly around his dick.
She held onto it throughout the stout, seemingly endless screwing that Carl administered. Until, at the end, as she was semmingly lifted by the nape of her neck, hung on the sharp point of the nearest star by as blistrenig an orgasm as she'd ever experienced, as she felt the beatifying splash of Carl's mighty hydrant deep in her belly, she dug her nails into the comforting staff, only quit when she awoke to Don's angry grunts of pain.
Then Carl moved away from her; Don took his place between her twitching, eager thighs. She thought this the most beautiful innovation of all. To think that one could service her, the other in reserve, recharging himself. Then she could be serviced by Carl again. Then by Don. Carl once more. It would be like one of those awful jokes they'd told before:
All night, and all night-
She whimpered rapturously as Don slid his delicious hole-splitting torpedo into her, drove it so deeply it seemingly tilted her heart. As he began to pound her, she beckoned Carl to the bedside. Latching onto his limp pecker, she pumped mechanically in hope that once she was finished-
While out in the other room, lots of a sort had also been drawn, and it was Irene who emerged victorious. She mewled thickly as Pete arranged her on her back, began feeding his more-than-adequate truncheon into her greedy crack.
"After you finish me," she briefed the newcomer as he executed those first, delicious plowings, "then you do Millie. After that we have another drinkie, draw straws again to see who gets you alone for an hour or so. Then it's switch beds again. So we all get a whack at each other." She whined animalistically, thrashed her hips up to meet Pete's pile-driving prongings. "Oh, God, God ... You were right, Millie. This is what the doctor ordered. Variety is the spice of life. Bang it, damn you! Oh, Pete, big Pete! Screw it, dig it! Rub it raw!"
Standing by helplessly, watching the pagan display, hearing the swinish encouragements abrading her sister-in-sin's throat, Millicent couldn't help but be vastly aroused. She wanted to be under that hulking, humping machine; she wanted that gorgeous post-hole digger socking in and out of her. And, God in heaven, how was she going to endure it? Thus it was, no other alternative presenting itself, that she inserted a bold finger into her cunt, lubricated it thoroughly. Thus it was that Millicent got into the act by corkscrewing her finger up Pete's pistoning ass, deriving depraved jollies thereby. She thought the way his sphincters constricted when he shot into Irene an eminently delightful sensation indeed.