Chapter 7

THE GANG WAS GATHERED AT PETE AND Helen Welch's home this Saturday night in late September. A remarkably enlarged group, it might be said. For now, besides the Randoms and the Hatchers (honored founders) there were two new couples named Earl and Rachel McIver, Mark and Alison Lamb. There were other differentiations as well.

One was that the group now referred to itself as Hedonists, Incorporated. At one very alcoholic gathering several members had protested the lackluster use of "the club," and a general commotion had ensued, with the result being the new, vastly more intriguing appellation now adopted.

Another was self-evident at that moment. As, the witching-hour now at hand, all doors locked, all windows firmly secured and covered, illumination provided by lamps tamed to firefly intensity, all five couples were sprawled about the living room in total nudity.

Community foreplay, community screwing, had come to be a derigueuer of late. How the evolution had come about, no one could pinpoint exactly. At first there had been some protests. But then, as the majority chose to cavort en-masse, had touted the therapeutic benefits, the mind-searing highs gained from same, the holdouts had come around; they had discovered that it was exactly as the militants claimed:

It was more fun to ball in public, to indulge in the coy strip games leading up to general debauch in the buff. It was more fun to have a female suck you off with the others watching. It was more fun to eat the female en circus, glory in the moans and yips from the watching women as one's victim began to writhe and lurch her butt, as the orgasm-verging bitch screamed with joy. It was more fun to join up in multiple-connections inspired in the participant's remotest psyche fantastic beyond description.

Orgy-that was the name of the game.

A game that seemingly became wilder with each passing week. A game full of endless innovations, all the members scouring their brains between meetings, attempting to come up with new, more depraved gimmicks each time.

The action had been markedly transformed. And where once it had been confined to a friendly little bout of cock and cunt, now such mild pastimes weren't enough; there must be constant intensification of sensation, constant out-reachings of the sexual experience. Pleasure for pleasure's sake, the more outer the better.

As evidence, the quaint diversion that was even now, taking place:

Each man sitting on a chair, a linen napkin tucked under his balls, he was being attended by a female other than his wife, said female frosting her mate's prick with generous dousings of chocolate syrup. At the given signal each wanton was to suck and lick away every last drop of the gooey dressing. Upon completion of this chore, she was to latch on for all she was worth, administer a frenetic suckoff, the Circe who made her man come first winning a prize provided by the host (in this case a quart of Beefeater's). There were built-in catches, of course.

One, the man must be totally clean. Any lingering traces of chocolate would disqualify the suck-artiste, no matter how swiftly she finished. Secondly, the men, wanting their wives to win the award, would do their utmost to resist the attentions of his paramour; they would exercise all the control they possessed, concentrate on things other than the gross defamation being entertained at that southern-most extremity.

The scene itself was enough to make a man pop before his woman attached vacuum-cleaner lips to him, commenced to suck and draw like there was no tomorrow:

Here was the opulent-bodied, dark-haired Millicent Random, her head burrowing between Mark Lamb's thighs, her tongue flashing and curling, her face splotched with chocolate sauce.

Here was the more lithe, blonde-haired Irene Hatcher, gruntingly gulping the sticky topping away from Pete Welch, agonizedly forestalling herself, the desire to wrap her lips around his stalk a killing thing.

Here was Helen Welch, diminutive, creamy bodied, her coppery, bouffant coiffure askew as she sucked and licked at Carl Random's crotch, balanced him better by clutching his balls.

Here was Rachel McIver, auburn-haired, her fantasy-inspiring lips cruising the underside of Don Hatcher's dong, her tongue darting like a serpent, cleaning her victim from balls to top, rapidly closing in on the much-desired object of her lust. Thin, big-hipped, her breasts jiggling heavily where they hung down as she groveled on all fours, she groaned exasperatedly as Don leaned over, distracted her by fingering her anus.

Finally there was Allison Lamb, mousy, blonde and demure (at least until she'd downed two martinis-then watch out!), a bit on the plump side, her breasts crowned with the fat, frustro-conical tits the men seemingly never tired of sucking. Who was fantastically lapping Earl McIver's balls, she having made the mistake of frosting him too liberally. The look on her face was one of sheer panic. And of sheer delight as well.

Now the girls were coming down the stretch. And one by one they administered the final flashing of tongue, pounced upon the main course itself, the melange of sounds-the liquid click of lips, the throaty groans of the men, the happy, female hummings, the loud plop of disconnection when a woman became over-eager-enough to make a saint ejaculate. Then the coarse cries of the men:

"Oh, eat it, doll! Go down, Moses."

"Suck, you angel. Suck me inside out."

"Careful, baby. Your teeth. Purple hearts I don't need."

"My God, Rachel! Easy! You'll skin me alive."

"Irene! Good night!"

"You cocksucker. Go get it. You're killing me!"

Then the cries faded, turned into throaty, agonized howls. As the men conjunctively verged on climax. And all the girls evenly matched, experienced, uninhibited, they concentrated fiendishly, brought lips, tongue, teeth and palate to bear, stripped and milked with depraved abandon. The clamor now sharp male yips, stertorous female breathing, the omnipresent suck-suck sonata, the thrash of involuntarily-slapping thighs-was a lunatic thing. A man, Carl Random thought, would just have to look around, watch those five, pumping, swoony-eye heads, and he'd shoot. He groaned, fought to resist the amazonish plunging of carrot-top's wringing mouth. The way she dug her teeth under his glans at the end of each pull! Any second now!

But as it was, Helen Welch, only came in second best, with the dark horse candidate, Allison Lamb, carrying away the honors. "Damn you, damn you," they all heard Earl McIver choke. "Oh, God, not yet, not so soon!" There was no mistaking the immediacy in his tone. Then they heard Allison chortle muffledly. They saw Earl buck and sag, a whiplash of sensation flinging him back in his chair. They heard Allison's victorious hummings, one for each new spurt of jazz she coaxed from the gushing tube.

Seconds later Carl let fly. And even though he and Helen hadn't won, he didn't care; the sweet way she sucked him dry, the blissful sighs and slurpings escaping around the edges of her clinging mouth, were prize enough.

The others shortly followed his example, with Don Hatcher drawing the ultimate tribute from Rachel McIver: "You dirty bastard," she gagged. "You must have been saving that all week."

"Not me, baby," he laughed. "Ask Irene. That just goes to show what a gifted cocksucker you are."

Then everyone turned, set up a chaffing chant. As they saw that Irene Hatcher still knelt before Pete Welch, her mouth pistoning desperately, her face livid with frustration. "Slacker, slacker!" they taunted. Then hooted with glee as Pete finally went stiff, bucked and writhed in ecstasy. Gathering around the duo, they watched avidly as Irene made outrageous show of draining him to the last drop.

"Goddamn," Earl McIver complained as Helen Welch presented the gift-wrapped bottle to the once more self-conscious Allison Lamb, "anybody'd come if they got treated like she did me. She got left at the post. But she came back with a vengeance. She had her ringer up my ass all the way, goosing me to the front for all she was worth."

Which admission everyone greeted with a ribald commotion, the women immediately crying "Foul," pressing Pete and Helen for a ruling. The gin stayed with Allison.

A brief lull ensued in the festivities. Everyone resting up for the next event, the group gravitated toward the bar, replenished their drinks, gossiped among themselves. It was during this interim that the name of Tait and Esmee Donleavy entered into the conversation. The hushed, respectful way that Mark Lamb mentioned the couple was enough to command attention from all present.

"What are you saying?" Pete Welch pressed. "That there's another swap club in town? Bigger than Hedonists, Incorporated? I didn't think the old burg had it in it."

"Hey," Irene whooped. "That sounds interesting. Tell us more. Who are these Donleavy people?"

"Got me," Mark, a tallish, slightly rotund and balding man of forty replied. "I haven't heard that much about him. I can't connect him with any business in town. But he's loaded I guess. He's in his early-fifties, and has this big country spread about five miles out of Porterfield. It's an isolated mansion dug into the side of Marble Mountain, with electric fences and patrol-dogs and everything. I've seen the place plenty of times, but I never suspected anything like this. I still wouldn't have, if it hadn't been for meeting you wonderful people. I always thought he just was some kind of an eccentric. But, brother!"

"I've seen that place," Millicent said. "You mean the one out on Crawford Road?"

"That's the one."

"Real creepy. All those thick trees and all. And you say that he's got a swap club there?"

"Let me finish, will you?" Mark bridled. "I'm only telling you what I heard. Just a whiff of something. Might not be true at all." Then Mark went on to inform the fascinated group that he'd heard that the out-of-the-way mansion was often the site of some very wild parties. Jaded sexual savants, the Donleavys had set a portion of the house aside for the purpose of promotion the swap revolution. Over a period of time they'd recruited dozens of members in Porterfield and adjoining cities; some of the bashes he threw were said to be real bacchanals.

"But what's the point?" Carl Random said, feeling remotely threatened. "What's he got out there that we haven't got?"

"Security for one thing," Mark said. "A whole new slant on things for another. They say he's got rooms set up in the place. Rooms that are equipped for every sort of sexual activity known to man. For those who dig weirdo sex. Otherwise, hack it regular. The cops can't get in there, no matter how many warrants they might have. Even if they do, there are a series of inside gates and house doors that'll give anybody inside a good half hour to pretty up before they got there. The rooms are in a secret wing ... sliding panel stuff and all."

"Sounds cute," Helen giggled. "Maybe we should investigate? How about it, Carl?"

Everyone looked to Carl, the unofficial president of Hedonists, Incorporated. "It's worth an inquiry," he said. "How does it work? They are taking in new bodies?"

"I've got a number," Mark said. "Very hush-hush. You call them, they'll let you know. There's a stiff initiation fee. Photography stuff, I guess, to protect themselves. You want to give it a whirl?"

Immediately there was a general clamor that Carl and Millicent look into the matter. All more than interested in widening their circle of "friends", all dedicated to variety unlimited, they agreed that only good could come of such an alliance. Dubiously Carl made mental note of the phone number, said he'd think about it.

By then, the females antsy by virtue of their solo performance, conversation and drink would not suffice. Action became the call word. And here and there, scattered on the floor, in various chairs, Rachel McIver even going so far as to spread Don Hatcher on his back on a long coffee table, suck his prick to resurgence, feed it into her hungry cunt as she lasciviously straddled him, table and all, posted happily, tensions commenced to mount.

In one corner Pete Welch had upended Allison Lamb on an upholstered chair, and her head down, her back curved, her splayed legs bent over its back, she submitted to as gut-tangling a cunt-lapping as any woman could want. So great was her appreciation that she gratefully reached up, tugged his erect cock down, hungrily stuffed it into her own mouth.

Carl Random and Helen Welch danced to barely-heard music, his prick imbedded in her belly as they moved, his more energetic turns actually lifting the petite female off the floor upon that unique peg.

Mark Lamb contented himself modestly, and lying underneath Irene Hatcher, he made great show of sucking her abundant tits, in the end jamming both tits together so he could suck both nipples at the same time, an innovation that thrilled her so immensely that she squirmed her buttocks up, groped with yearning pussy lips, tried to suck his prick into her by merit of determination alone.

Millicent Random surrendered to Earl McIver, and the newcomer especially intrigued with anal games, she allowed him to finger and lubricate her there, all the while promising that later, when they gained private bedroom together-

Not too much later, Rachel McIver delivered to a fit of sexual frenzy, she broke away from Don Hatcher's splendid prick with a noisy slurp, became instigator of still another naughty game. Only this time it was ladies choice.

Thus it was, not three minutes later, that the women were sprawled on the floor in a circle, pillows beneath their bottoms, pussies facing in. Another contest. Only this time the men must lick their cunts until they climaxed. After which the men would ram their cannons home, pump until they exploded themselves. And though there was no prize, the challenge was reward in itself.

Shortly the depraved, animalistic cacophony of licking, sucking lips, of pagan grunts and sighs and whimpers, of slapping, pumping flesh was once more set off.

It was a sybaritic scene. A picture torn directly from Satan's coloring book.

"Your information is basically correct," Tait Donleavy said, sipping his martini, the light catching drops of gin in his beard as he brought the glass away. "Certain details are inaccurate, but there's no need to go into that right now. All other things working out, we'll rectify that when the time comes." He smiled roguishly. "After all. That would be like knowing what's inside all your presents on Christmas morning, even before opening them."

The man who faced Carl and Millicent this midweek night, the foursome met in the anonymous privacy of the Sleepyland Motel once more, was slight, pasty-faced, beginning to bald slightly. His brown hair was still dark, remarkably silky and long, and Millicent suppressed an urge to reach out, see what his sparsely trimmed beard would feel like. Even more disconcerting (her cunt tingled fiercely at the thought) how it would feel when Donleavy went down on her, grazed between her thighs? There was a strange contradiction of expressions in his face. One moment his black eyes seemed sinister; the next (especially when he smiled warmly) they seemed cherubic. A charming man, perfectly frank, unfazed as obscenities tripped off his tongue, he very soon put both the Randoms at ease.

His wife, Esmee, an exotic, severe-faced creature of perhaps 42, was equally charming. Her hair jet black, combed in severe straightness to the back of her head, it enhanced the unflinching imperiousness of her dark, penetrating eyes. Her costume equally severe, her legs thin and bewitching, she was diabolic sexiness personified. Noticing the sharp points of her breasts through the clinging velvet, Carl was immediately drawn to her, he couldn't help but think that Mrs. Donleavy devoted her every waking hour to thinking about, to preparing for consummation of sex. His prick rode tightly inside his trousers; his heart set up a terrific racket in his chest every time he thought that-in just a very short time now-he and Esmee, Millie and Tait-

Incredible! The insights, perspectives and opportunities-beyond the belief of the uninitiated-that swapping opens up to you!

Again that prissy, pink mouth opened amidst that forest of soft hair, and Tait Donleavy smiled, put him further at ease. "I should mention the initiation fee, which will amount to two-hundred dollars a couple. Which hardly begins to cover the expense involved in introducing new members into our group. But we find that it keeps out the merely curious, the fringe people who aren't, really, down deep in their hearts, dedicated to the swap movement. You mentioned the initiation. Yes, I'm afraid we must insist on that. There will be questionnaires of a psychological nature for you to fill out."

"Questionnaires?" Millicent said.

"Yes. But nothing of an implicating nature. Your sexual tastes, more or less. So that we can program you in the proper direction. We do have over one hundred couples in our group. We call ourselves The Corybants, by the way. Look it up in Greek mythology sometime. It has to do with believers in orgiastic behavior..."

"Tait, dear," Esmee smiled archly. "The questionnaire."

"Oh, yes, do forgive me," He sipped at his drink again. "This is merely so we don't match you with a flagellant or a fetishist or some such. Have you ever tried bondage? Or flagellation? Very charming sidelines, those." Momentarily he lapsed into dreamy silence. "But that's neither here nor there. You have all the time in the world to decide. Once our man ... he's a psychologist member of our group ... evaluates your form, we'll know just how to categorize you."

"Don't worry about identity, my dear," Esmee assured Millicent. "First names only. You'll merely be a number as far as the questionnaire's concerned. She slid closer to Millicent, where they both sat on the bed. "You're really quite pretty, Millie." Her hand came up, brushed Millicent's cheek gently. "I'm sure I'll love it with you."

"Esmee digs it with females," Tait announced casually. "She digs it with anything. Men, dogs, buck niggers, ponies I expect ... if any were available."

Esmee smiled fixedly into Millicent's face, unconcernedly reached down, caressed her left breast. "There's no need to be vulgar, darling. You've no cause to complain. Have I ever stinted you?"

Donleavy shrugged. "There you have it. Esmee's signal. That it's about that time." He matter-of-factly reached over, fondled Carl's turgid rod through his clothes. "As I mentioned on the phone ... there will be a trial session. In order to ... ah ... gauge your sincerity. Agreed?"

Carl's hair prickled on his scalp; he wondered just what he'd allowed Millie-and the rest of The Hedonists-to talk him into. "Yes, Mr. Doneav ... Tait. We're prepared to co-operate with you in any way you suggest."

Abruptly Donleavy was up, locking the motel room door, extinguishing the lights. As he groped his way back through the dark: "You won't mind, will you, Carl? If I suck your cock? If Esmee sucks your wife off?"

Carl stifled a sardonic chuckle as he heard a rustle of clothes on the bed, Millie's surprised gasp. "We're mostly a heterosexual group. We've never ventured into..."

"No matter, Carl. I won't expect you to participate. If you'll indulge me ... if Millicent will allow Esmee..." His fingers deftly ran Carl's zipper, fished inside. "If you'll undress, please, Carl. Just a taste. Afterwards I'll want Millicent." His voice rose pointedly. "That is, if Esmee will turn her loose for a moment."

"Screw you, darling," Esmee's muffled voice came.

Very shortly both Carl and Millicent were naked, the deftness and finesse which the Donleavys brought to the act amazing in itself. Stunned by the rapid turn of affairs, wondering if they were quite up to homosexual love as yet (in reality, the variant had never arisen at their regular swap sessions), they both sat dazedly, watching Tait and Esmee as they swiftly shucked off their own clothing.

A moment later Carl was pushed backward in his chair; he fought to control his wracking shudders as best he could. Without a moment's hesitation, Tait fell onto his knees before him, immediately clutched his prick, administered several, searing licks to its weeping glans. "Quite pretty," Tait sighed. "Not too big, not too small. Bite-size, as they say in the commercials." Then his mouth wrapped around the sturdy mast; Carl almost laughed as he saw his cock disappear into that fur-rimmed cave. But then, as he felt the fantastic things Tait did with his lips and tongue, the magic constrictions he performed with the deepest fasts of his throat, he completely forgot about humor.

If Carl was amazed, it was nothing compared to the quick, melting compliance which flooded Millicent, caused her to wonder after her truest nature. And though she'd occasionally entertained thought and curiosity concerning application of her mouth to female genitals (after all, if she could suck a man, could a woman be any worse?) she'd never really thought she'd actually commit such. Yet, as Esmee's hot mouth coursed down her belly, nuzzled her thick muff, as her fingers parted the lips of her cunt (the heel of one hand expertly pressuring her pubis, forcing it back to make her clitoris explode forth in vulnerable prominence), as her tongue instantly lanced that swollen pimple, she found herself consumed with the most overpowering desire to reciprocate upon Esmee's muskily-aromatic cunt as well.

Thus it was-as Esmee arranged Millicent more comfortably on the bed, swirled her cork-screw tongue deep into her hole, withdrew it with a totally new, thrilling motion, nearly triggered orgasm then and there-that Millicent sank into a primordial torpor, thought little of it when Esmee draped her own cunt in her face. Involuntarily her neck strained, her already-vibrating tongue was waiting to pounce the second that Esmee's slit came within striking distance. She thought the taste of her, the depraved surrender exquisitely filthy and exciting.

She was totally lending herself to the anomalistic workup, her orgasm looming, when there was abrupt and jarring interruption. "No you don't,"

Tait chuckled mockingly as he pulled Esmee off of her. "Just a taste, remember?"

"You selfish swine!" Esmee spat. "Why didn't you stay with Carl a little longer?"

"Because I could see he was embarrassed. Those things shouldn't be rushed. There'll be time for that later. I think he's much more interested in your adorable plumbing." He wound his fingers domineeringly in her hair, forced his wife away from Millicent's gaping snatch. "On your knees, my dear. With your pretty bottom in the air. You too, Millicent. I'd like it that way too." He chuckled, turned to Carl, as they watched both women docilely scramble up on the bed, assume the demanded position. "How will you have Esmee, my friend? She's extremely adaptable."

"Up my ass," Esmee said in a venal, muffled snarl. "I love that. For openers, anyway."

"Indeed she does." He pushed Carl forward. "You do indulge, don't you?"

"Yes," Carl said, not wanting to appear gauche. "On occasion."

"Then you know the procedures. And Millicent?"

"Yes," she yearningly answered for her stunned husband. "I've been buggered, too." She sank deeper into depraved trance, wondering dazedly how Esmee's kisses and suckings could so swiftly transform her into degenerate slut. "I think I'd like that too."

At least Millicent thought she'd been buggered. But Carl's sodomitic efforts were like nothing compared with the dizzying skill which Donleavy brought to the act. She moaned, hunched her body into an even tighter bell, strained her butt towards him. And was amazed, vastly titillated to feel the man's bushy face careen down the nubby trail of her spine, his tongue keeling the V of her buttocks maddeningly, pausing to drill her anus, actually raping it an inch or so, before his mouth closed on the blatantly-exposed mouth of her cunt itself. If Esmee's tongue had been rapture, his was no less so, and she found the tickling of his beard conferred bonus sensations.

How long he tongued her gash she couldn't remember, but once again she hovered on the brink of orgasm, groaned agonizedly as he drew away, left her hanging. Then his tongue was stabbing her anus again, moistening her there, forcing her to relax those stubborn muscles. A moment later she felt him slide and jam the succulently soft, slimy knob of his phallus against that stingy port. He continued to swirl and dig himself there, until she was awash with his liqueur. Now a finger, two, were inserted into her to the second knuckle. And finally, the pressure compacting her, squeezing muffled cries of pain and pleasure alike from her.

He was inside of her; he was slowly, excruciatingly lisping in and out of her ass. She wanted to sob at the ecstasy his talented bung conferred in that forbidden portal. Staring at Esmee where she knelt beside her, she got vague ghostly impression of Carl hissingly going in and out of her rear as well. A particularly wicked thrust made her cower into the bedspread the more, squeezed a pinched wail from her. "Sorry, my dear," Tait apologized. "I got carried away. You are a bit tight, you know. Carl's been rather negligent, it appears. But we'll take care of that in jig time, I promise." And to Carl. "How do you find Esmee?"

"Wonderful," the surprised man mumbled. "Simply wonderful."

"She has excellent action, hasn't she? Not every woman can use her ass as well as she can her cunt. Quite loose, don't you think? We'll have to see to Millicent, however. Whatever you do, don't let her drain you."

Millicent whimpered deep in her throat, sought to redeem herself by swirling her ass in response to Tait's slow in and out. She was amazed at her corrupt sensations. That she could actually be ashamed because she wasn't versed in the anal arts, because her ass was too tight. God, she wailed, how utterly, deliciously depraved! How gut-bustingly dirty! She worked her bottom even more crazily.

She knew an acute panic and disappointment as Tait now disengaged himself from her just-loosening, sucking aperture. She was actually laggard when he rolled her onto her back, began feeding his slender, oddly-shaped pipe into her gash. Glancing to her right he saw that Esmee had insisted that she be turned over-likewise. But with a difference. And noting the way that Esmee raised her legs to the perpendicular, draped her knees across Carl's shoulders, the better to facilitate his total penetration of her cunt, she scrambled to emulate her.

Tait chuckled, drove a rippling wrinkle-ironing fuck into her, sent a stabbing shiver of delight through her from toes to brain. But as good as he was, expertly as he shot bolt upon bolt home, she was still possessed of the desire that she might be receiving him in the lower port, that she might receive his hot load there.

The concept sent Millicent into further frenzy, made her wonder just what sick labyrinth of unnatural love she was lost in now. If this was but her first encounter with Tait and Esmee Donleavy-

What would recurrent meetings bring?