Chapter 9
"PLEASE, KENYON," DAPHNE GWYNN pleaded with her husband upon hearing of his latest flight from sanity, "don't go through with it. Don't make me do this. Isn't all that other bad enough? Must we pile misery atop of misery? Call those people back, darling. Call the Donleavys ... tell them you've changed your mind. Tell them that we don't want anything at all to do with their rotten swap club. Oh, Kenyon ... whatever's going to happen to us?"
"No," he snapped, pushing his naked wife back against the pillows, "I'll do no such thing. We'll see it through. We'll meet Tait and Esmee just as arranged. Wednesday night. At that motel in Mount Hope. Don't you see ... after what happened the other night ... that this will mean our salvation. No more of that sneaking around, no more putting our necks in a noose."
"But, Kenyon, why not just stop? Why can't we put an end to all that? I've told you a thousand times that I'm content with you, sex or no sex. I'll do anything you say, I don't care how perverted it might seem. Only we can't go running around like this, in motels, in bars, in back alleys any longer. That man might have killed you. The next time, perhaps, one of them will..."
The man they both made reference to was another of Daphne's enforced pickups, a traveling salesman named Paul Fenway whom they'd encountered while once more cruising the bar at the Silver Eagle Motel. Only this time-Kenyon's psychotic compulsion growing stronger by the way-there had been a far-out variation in their plans. In that they'd booked a room of their own at the motel in advance. In which room, Kenyon-fleeing the bar just as soon as Daphne had vamped the husky, tawny-haired Fenway-had concealed himself.
It wasn't sufficient now that Kenyon merely hear his wife's account of her infidelity and sluttishness after these forays; he wasn't content any more to hide in the car's trunk, listen as some stranger screwed his lovely wife blind. Now he was possessed of a new, more dangerous desire: He must sit in on the adventures in the flesh; he must see the man covering his wife, flashing his meat in and out of her lubricous cunt with his own eyes.
Thus, as per their plan, he'd secreted himself in the bathroom of the room Daphne would insist her pickup accompany her to. From whence, once the two were enmeshed in the sweaty throes of passion, he would stealthily creep, and stationing himself in the room's darkest shadows, would gorge himself visually on forbidden, voyeur delights.
But the unexpected had happened: And as Daphne and Paul had balled blissfully. Fenway oblivious to his audience of one, a chill had wracked Kenyon, and he'd been unable to stifle three very strong, very loud sneezes.
An ugly scene had ensued. Paul had pulled out of his chippy conquest in a terrified lurch; he'd immediately been deprived of his erection. Calling them both pervert creeps, suspicioning a blackmail scheme, he'd taken a few punches at Kenyon. Only Daphne's blubbering intercession-she throwing herself between her cringing husband and the bullying salesman-had prevented full scale calamity. Fenway totally unable to believe that all this husband wanted was to see his wife plowed by another man, he'd dressed, stormed out of the room, leaving a flurry of threats in his wake.
Daphne and Kenyon had frightenedly cleared The Silver Eagle less than five minutes later.
Kenyon sported a very loud shiner as souvenir of the fiasco for almost a week following.
It should have been painfully obvious to Daphne why her humiliated, frustrated husband should eagerly embrace the promise inherent in the swap club that the Donleavys could introduce him into.
"What's what I'm saying," he answered stubbornly. "We can't take that chance. A thing like that could easily happen again. That's why this swap thing is tailor-made. Since it's obvious that I can't control myself any longer, that I have to have this outlet, sick as it may be..."
"But why, darling?" Daphne begged agonizedly for what certainly must have been the millionth time. "Why do you need this? Why do you have to deliver me to other men? Why must you watch? Why must you hear about the things they did to me afterward?"
"I don't know, Daphne. Really, I don't. Something in my past, something I can't recall. We were all right when we first got married, remember? But then something happened. All those times I couldn't get hard. Only the thought of you ... having intercourse ... with another man turned me on. Then later, I needed more than just thoughts..."
"That's sick, very sick, darling. I only went along with it because I wanted to help you. I thought you'd get over it in a while..."
His eyes glittered; he smiled snidely. "Is that right, darling?" he taunted. "You did it just for me? You didn't do any of it for yourself? You didn't enjoy sucking all those cocks? Having all those strange cocks shoved up your whorish, little twat? I think you did. Just imagine ... when we're with that group ... dozens of cocks, a world full of cocks. Two or three in your mouth at the same time. We'll arrange it. That I'd really love to watch."
Terror once more skewered Daphne. She recognized the signs. Kenyon was getting that way again. Yet she recklessly plunged forward. "No, Kenyon, that's not true. I hate it, I really do. Afterwards I loathe myself; I wish I could die; I wonder why I bother to go on. If only I didn't love you so, darling..."
"Love," he derided. "Oh, no, my pet. You love cock. Fat, juicy cock. In your cunt, in your mouth, up your ass even. You wish that there were tiny cocks. So you could have it in your ears, up your nose..."
"Please, please, baby. Stop that now. Don't get all worked up again. If only you'd let me make an appointment with Dr. Molitor for you. I've heard such wonderful things about him. He'd do you so much good. He'd help you understand what's making you behave this way. He'd..."
Suddenly Kenyon struck out at Daphne, lashed his right hand against her face full force. "He'd shit!" he spat. Daphne screamed in pain, covered her face with her hands, buried her head in the pillows. Her shoulders bucked with desperate sobs. "How many times must I tell you?" Kenyon groaned. "Not to mention that man's name to me? I'm not crazy, I tell you. Just because my sexual needs-are different from someone else's, that doesn't mean I need a parasitic head-shrinker shoving his nose up my ass!" He slapped Daphne again, on the back of her head, the blows exploding with acetylene glare inside her brain. "Stop that sniveling this instant, do you hear? I've got other plans for you. Much more interesting plans. Stop it!"
The fact of the matter was that Daphne lived in deathly fear of her husband. She was firmly convinced that he was on the verge of out-and-out insanity. At first, when he'd broached his perverted proposals to her, insisted that she accommodate perfect strangers, she'd resisted. But he'd become so violent, had slapped her around so badly that, choosing between infidelity and a broken neck, she'd gone along with the abominations. That first time had been horrible; afterwards she'd almost died, had moved in a blind trance of self-loathing.
In time she'd hardened herself to the sick surrenders, but she knew she'd never totally accept it with equanimity. There were times when she concluded that she needed a head-doctor as badly as Kenyon did. Time and time again she'd resolved to leave him. But whenever she threatened as much to him, he went into insane rages. These times she feared him the most. And when he counter-threatened that he'd find her, no matter where she hid that he'd kill her, that he'd kill three-year-old Linda as well, Daphne had invariably caved-in, had gone along with his deviate whims. There was something in the so-explicit, gory way he described the way he'd bash Linda's head against a brick wall-a maenadic lip-smacking narrative that would have made a believer out of any woman alive.
Now she stifled her tears as best she could, turned toward her husband. "Kenyon..."
"Get on your back," he snarled. "I've got an erection from all this talk. I want to get my nuts off."
Dutifully she obeyed. "Spread," he chuckled. Daphne spread.
And as his pecker steamed into her channel, as he commenced to slowly jag himself in and out of her, he said, "Well, go ahead. You know what I want."
"Please, darling? Can't we ... just this once ... without the rest of it?"
He growled, drove his pelvis brutally against hers, the impact ripping a moan from Daphne. "Do as you're told, harlot! The lingo! Tell me about that Paul creep the other night. I watched you sucking him. You couldn't get enough of that big whang of his, could you?"
"Please, baby! You know I only did that because it's what you told me to do. You wanted to watch me, you..."
"I watched you all light. If ever I saw a girl hungry for meat. Tell me about his prick. How did it feel? How did it taste? How deep did he sink it?"
Daphne expelled a ponderous, despairing sigh. And realizing that it would do no good to protest or stall, she gave in. She began to describe, in great detail, just how the man's penis felt and tasted, the sensations her wallowing behavior triggered in her sexual psyche. The words came faster, became more outrageous. She embellished and fantasied shamelessly, eager to have the ugliness finished.
They launched into the next phase. "When he was on top of you," he prompted, his tone more lunatic, phlegm-clogged by the minute, his plunging body triggering actual lust within her despite her repugnance. "When he was ramming his hammer into your filthy body. How did it feel then?"
Daphne fabricated further.
"Was it as good as mine? Did he screw you as good as I do? Tell me, you rotten, diseased prostitute!"
"No," she gasped, her passion rising, "he wasn't as good as you. No one can screw as good as you do, Kenyon. His prick wasn't as thick as yours, as long as yours. It didn't go into me as far as yours does. It didn't ream and grind the way vour gorgeous rod does."
"Yes," he whimpered, his tone piggish, orgasm in the wings. "Tell me. Tell me about my prick!"
"Oh, yes, darling, yes! I will. Your prick is so hard, so long, so grainy. It fills and rams me. It scalds me, tears the skin off the walls of my cunt. It bangs deep in my belly; it hits bottom with every stroke! Oh, sweet prick! Blessed prick! Sweet, pulsing prick! Deeper, harder! Screw me harder. Screw your harlot! Oh, shit!"
The degenerate, coerced travesty of love went on.
Tait and Esmee Donleavy listened intently that night in early December, as, the quartet gathered in a single room at The Flamingo Motel, Kenyon Gwynn tersely outlined his terms in respect to becoming a member of the swap group, evasively skirting the edges of his particular hang-up. And though the Donleavys exchanged sly, dubious glances from time to time as the weird narrative progressed, they had but to look at the white-faced, slope-shouldered Daphne, appraise her exotic beauty, and doubts were swiftly shunted aside. Even if Kenyon Gwynn wouldn't be a great addition to their corrupt coterie, the exotic Daphne would; there were any number of uses to which she could be put. Esmee, especially, had definite designs. Just to look at the child made her crotch itchy and runny.
Kenyon Gwynn explained that he would do his best to comply with the club rituals, that he would lend himself to whatever fleshly gambols he could. He explained his frequent lapses into impotency, lapses which only seeing his wife being taken by an alien male could remedy. They mustn't ask that he accommodate any other women, for, slut though she was, Daphne was the only woman he'd ever been able to make himself enter; she was the only woman he ever wanted to enter. Perhaps he could service some men, force himself to accept them. But when it came to other women-
There was this mixed-up superiority thing in his brain. It would be self-defilement to insert his very special phallus into one of their tainted cunts. Daphne, and Daphne only. She would make a very excellent addition. And if he could just sit by and watch. He would be very unobtrusive; there would be no trouble whatsoever on his part. This initiation that had been mentioned: Would it satisfy the rules if he acquitted himself with another man perhaps? Could a membership be arranged on this basis? He'd pay extra, if necessary. He was well-fixed, money was no object. If they could just see their way clear to-
Yes, Tait Donleavy finally agreed, they could accept the Gwynns on that basis. And while it was highly unusual, they were sure that something could be worked out. But first: If Daphne would undress for them.
Even as Daphne reluctantly pulled off her clothing, Esmee disrobed as well. "If you'll excuse me," Tait said, his voice an obscene hiss, "I just remembered something in the car. A way we can both ... indulge ... without your participation, Kenyon. Have you ever seen a woman attend another women? You might enjoy that. Esmee's very talented along those lines. I'll be back shortly."
Kenyon sat entranced as Esmee gathered a very reluctant and crazed-eyed Daphne into her arms, began kissing her. He was amazed at Mrs. Donleavy's skill, at the fantastic way she awoke Sapphist tendencies within Daphne, shortly had her mewling and writhing in pleasure as her face slid and dug between her legs. He was further amazed when Daphne so readily capitulated to diabolic pressures, was shortly coaxed to bury her face in Esmee's slit also, both of them avidly sucking each other then.
But if this amazement was monumental, it was nothing compared to that he felt a quarter hour later, as Tait Donleavy returned (purposely malingering) with a package in his hand. While Tait undressed, Esmee unwrapped the package, produced a tangle of rubber straps, a hard rubber pria-pus of stunning size. Which snarl she patiently undid, ended by strapping the whole contraption to her body, a sham phallus now hanging where her cunt should be.
He thought it fantastically delightful to watch the way Tait licked and sucked Daphne's slit where she crouched on all fours on the bed, the way he tongued and fingered her anus in preparation for anal entry. By then he had his own prick out, was pumping it dreamily, fighting to forestall his excitement, to withhold his discharge until the vile, troilistic act was at its most depraved height.
Kenyon gloried in Daphne's blubbering, frightened cries as Tait threaded his curiously-shaped prick up her ass. Daphne lying on her side, Esmee approached her from the front, drove the fat dildo into her slit, squeezing her tits, kissing her lips as she did so. Seeing the pagan gape to Daphne's mouth as the duo began lurching into her in staggered sequence, he entertained brief thought of joining them, inserting his cock into Daphne's mouth, implementing realization of a lifelong fantasy.
But he decided against it at the last, decided that it was far, far more pleasurable to sit in a chair like this, handle his prick in this maddening way, watch the incredibly obscene tableau on the bed.
Even as Daphne began to whine and thrash in ecstasy, even as he read the glittering, orgasm-verging light in Tait Donleavy's eyes, he went out of control. His hand flashed swiftly on his raging sentinel.
Now Daphne barked her orgasm. Tait chuckled gutturally, pumped more deliberately into her bottom, short, milking strokes. Daphne lurched more ecstatically as she felt the hot bite in her rectal cavity.
At that moment Kenyon spilled, shot halfway across the room, his sperm leaving a viscous trail on the mattress' edge.
Millicent and Carl were present the night that the youngish couple named Daphne and Kenyon were initiated into the Corybants. And while they weren't much impressed with Kenyon (he appeared somewhat of a cold fish), they did think that Daphne was a pretty thing. Granted, she was haunted-eyed, but they attributed that to first night jitters.
The newcomers received special treatment of sorts. In that Tait Donleavy himself dictated their initiation rites. Daphne cowered on hands and knees, accommodated a man named Lee in her anus. This while another man, an old hand he knew as Shaw, knelt before her, pistoned his prick in and out of her upraised mouth. As for Kenyon, his penance was purely homosexual, and he knelt behind Kenny, the swishiest of the members, plumbed his ass with a highly respectable length of prick. During which plunder another male named Gene straddled Kenny's back, ordained that Kenyon suck his prick to climax.
The segment took an inordinately long time, Carl thought. And though his playmate, a gorgeous redhead called Polly, thought it was great, he was bored by the time both men let fly. One thing could be said for the display:
The photographer certainly had a hey-day.