Chapter 2

"Do you think they'll riot again today?" Kathy asked her husband, who sat across from her at the breakfast table, gulping his coffee as he read the morning paper's none-too accurate account of the previous day's riot. "I think we can count on it," Tom said, his voice full of matter-of-fact resignation. "How much longer do you think they'll go on this time?" "Until I back down or they get bored with it. You know how it is." "Yes," she said, knowing all too well. "Pray for rain," he said.

She said nothing. This was their private joke, but it was wearing a little thin now. Theirs was the most volatile campus in the state system--one series of riots, one "cause" after another--yet the students wouldn't riot if it was too difficult. The mob always moved downhill during a riot or before one, never uphill to the other side of campus. And a year and half earlier, a riot had ended and the issue causing it left unresolved and basically forgotten, when it had rained for a week.

"You don't plan to ask the governor for troops this time, do you?" she asked. It was always worse when the troops came.

"No," he said, "but the son of a bitch might decide to send them, anyway."

Kathy frowned. On several occasions her husband and the governor had screamed at each other over the use of troops. Her husband thought it possible to take a hard line on dissent without actually shooting students, without setting up a situation wherein someone was likely to get shot. The governor appeared to think otherwise.

"Why would he do that?" she asked. "There's no election this year."

"No, but you never know when he's going to start worrying that the public has forgotten him."

"Well, this is certainly the stupidest riot we've had yet," she said.

"What makes you say that? In most ways all of them have been stupid."

"What makes you say that? In most ways all of she asked. "What's gotten into them anyway?"

Tom frowned. After five years of marriage, sex was still something of a sore point between them. Tom Kimbal had, as an energetic administrator in his mid-thirties, taken a bride ten years younger than himself. With an hourglass shape and a pliant body that undulated whenever she moved and sometimes when she just sat still breathing, with her sense of compassion and her articulate mind, she had seemed the bride any man would wait for. But she was still frightened of sex. Basically, he blamed her for their problems, but in his more dispassionate moments he was sometimes inclined to admit that some part of their difficulties might be due to the fact that he worked so hard he'd had to, to become president of a large university before he turned forty--and had not been able to spend enough time helping her work out her... her hang-ups, he thought to himself, surprised that the first word to come into his mind would be one that his students so overused.

And this morning sex was an especially sore subject. She had lain there like a goddamn ramrod all the while they'd made love the night before. She had fought off his best efforts to arouse her. Not that she had fought him off physically whenever he got a hard-on she would part her legs and let him do it until he came, gritting her teeth as he exercised his marital prerogative--but she had fought her own arousal, she had fought letting it get to her. But last night, knowing from her body, from her flushed color and taut nipples, that her body had wanted to become aroused, he had gotten mad. She'd said, "I do my wifely duty. That's all you have a right to ask," and that had made him even madder.

"Well," he said, "We'd been thinking about easing up on the dormitory restrictions for some time. Kids today seem better able to handle themselves than we were at their age. They know more and--let's face it--there are fewer taboos."

"Unfortunately," she said.

"Who knows?" he said, an edge in his voice, "They may someday build better marriages."

"Then why don't you give in? Capitulate. You might save someone's life," she said, her voice as edgy as

his.

"This Mrs. Grundy thing makes it a different ball game," he said wearily.

"It sounds like she should have been fired years ago. "True," he said, turning back to his newspaper.

"It's true that students shouldn't let themselves get carried away in the social room, but even so, I guess it's basically their own business. Imagine her wanting to surprise them like that," she said, sipping her own coffee. "What do you plan to do now?"

"I don't know. If they had come in to talk to us, we could have reached some sort of agreement with them. But they choose to take to the streets. Riot-No Bargain. You know, how I feel about that. So I guess we're just going to have to ride it out," he said, standing up to leave.

Tom Kimbal hated the press. The city newspapers had had a field day with Mrs. Grundy. HOUSEMOTHER KIDNAPPED, read one headline; another, ICHABOD CRANE RIDES AGAIN. Mrs. Grundy had identified three of her assailants to the police, for sure, and three others, maybe. All had been picked up for questioning. Unfortunately for Mrs. Grundy, all had alibis. Four of them were actually innocent of the incident in the social room, and the other two had friends. The district attorney had no case. No charges had been filed, but all six were being held "pending further investigation."

If the press hadn't gotten hold of it, the whole matter might have been settled peaceably. But the right-wing element was scandalized, or pretended to be, and there was a cry for blood: "Imagine tying up your housemother just so you can have sex in the dorms. What is happening to youth today? They ought to be horsewhipped. Those students think they can get away with anything."

The D.A. didn't really want to hold the students. Politically, however, he couldn't let them go. The students, already resentful over dormitory conditions, were irate at Mrs. Grundy and all those in the system who seemingly supported her. The campus was a powder keg, and people began to speak in support of the "hostages."

In this atmosphere, a leaflet was handed out one morning. Titled "Eyewitness Account," it was a faithful if anonymous account of what had happened in the social room that night, and in general was an indictment of Mrs. Grundy and the whole system. It was the only spark needed. The riot was on.

Tom Kimbal left for his office, which was in the middle of campus, without knowing what the day would bring. But having been through so many riots in the past six years-first as vice president and then as president of the university--he knew that the day would bring nothing new. His wife Kathy gave him an affectionate kiss when he went out the door. Because although he abused her frequently at night--she thought of him as a satyr--he was usually a very nice man. She was truly fond of him. All men had their weaknesses. When she kissed him, however, putting her arms around his neck, her nipples dark shadows visible through her nightie, he merely accepted her kiss without kissing back. Her lips quivered for a few seconds after he'd walked out the door, as if his coolness had wounded her.

She tried to like sex, she really did. But she couldn't and as time went on that seemed to upset him more and more. She liked it all right up to a point. He was kind and gentle and always excited her at first. Last night, when he had buried his head in her breasts and kissed them so sweetly, sucking her nipples so angelically, and then put his hand there between her legs, she had been delirious and thought sure she would like it this time. Then she had felt it, his organ, which was so big and blue-veined with that horrid red knob on the endshe thought, frankly, that it was frightfully ugly--and when she felt it her body went rigid. She had no control over it--she didn't see anything the least sexy about him sticking his thing into her. She always shut her eyes and tried not to think about anything at all--like when she was a little girl and had to eat something she didn't like. What bothered her about sex was simply that she couldn't bear the sight of his sex organ, but she'd never had the nerve to tell him so.

About noon a crowd gathered in the student square, campus police and the county sheriffs reserves were out of sight in the basement of the Administration Building. Toward one side of the crowd, two plainclothesmen made an arrest of a non-student who had thrown a rock through a plate glass window the day before, identifying him from a newspaper photograph. When he refused to "come along peacefully," one officer grabbed him from behind and the other pulled out a truncheon and a pair of handcuffs. The lad struggled, twisting to break the stranglehold on his throat, when the second officer hit him along the side of his head with his short club.

They had attracted attention, those nearby turning to watch. People began shouting: "Pigs!" "Off the pigs!" and "Save our brother!" As the crowd closed in, a tall young man jumped on an officer's back and rode him to the ground. After a brief scuffle, the officer made it back to his feet and both men ran to safety.

Jack, standing with Suzie nearer front center of the crowd, because of the shouts became aware of the scuffle, and regretted not being nearer. He carried his camera, and for the past several days had been collecting photographic evidence of police brutality. But the crowd was angry; he knew there'd be more to photograph today.

Less than five minutes later, an announcement came over the loudspeakers attached to the corners of the Administration Building: "This is the chief of campus police speaking. This is an unlawful assembly. You are in direct violation of the State Criminal Code, Section eighty-four, Paragraph nineteen, which reads: 'It shall be unlawful for a crowd of more than twenty-five persons to assemble on State Property without prior written consent of the concerned officials.' This is an unlawful assembly. If you have not dispersed in ten minutes, you will all be arrested. This is a warning."

The crowd had begun to jeer even before the loudspeaker crackled to silence. When the chief stopped, the cat calls were deafening and continued for several minutes before dying away. Everyone stayed in place. Some looked about nervously and others began speculation about how many pigs they'd have today. Sneers did not fully leave faces. If someone had looked carefully, they'd have seen pockets bulging with rocks. Standing relatively isolated near the front of the crowd were six or eight people carrying brown paper bags; everyone else maintained his distance from them because the bags were carefully filled with human feces.

"The Blue Meanies!" someone shouted.

Sure enough, around the corner of the building marched a phalanx of blue-coated helmeted nightstick-wielding policemen. All wore gas masks. Those in front held their clubs at ready and those behind carried rifles and canisters of tear gas. At first the crowd moved back, but then there was no place to retreat. Someone threw a rock, striking a policeman on his face shield; he shook his head and stayed in formation. One, two, three canisters of tear gas were fired, with a crack and then a hiss as each canister, trailing a thin stream of gas, flew threw the air and into the center of the crowd, which was fast becoming a mob. The front row of police came up to the edge of the mob and each man began clubbing whomever he could reach. The shit flingers threw their bags of shit. More canisters flew, and many were thrown back. The riot had begun. To Tom Kimbal, viewing it from his fourth-floor office window, it looked more like a pitched battle. He wondered how he'd manage to hold the governor off for a few more days.

But such a battle could never go on for very long without becoming a massacre. Guerrilla tactics were called for: hit quickly and then retreat; throw a rock or lob back a canister and then run. Besides, tear gas quickly suffuses even a large open area. Since it worked unpleasantly on mucous membranes, the women were more susceptible to it than men. When the gas was thick, it irritated not only their noses and eyes, but it made their vaginas smart.

Another company or two of police advanced in formation from around the other end of the Administration Building. The students panicked, dropping their picket signs to run. In addition to the exits at the ends of the Administration Building, there was a main exit from the square between the science hall and the library, a broad section of pavement slopping to the lower plaza, from which one could run in any number of directions. The mob poured between the two buildings and onto the plaza.

Jack paused to get a shot of two pigs clubbing a prostrate body, alternately hammering like two carnies driving a tent peg. A puddle of blood spread from wounds in the unconscious person's head onto the blacktop. Running hard, another pig approached Jack from the side, nightstick held like a tomahawk. In the nick of time Jack saw him out of the corner of his eye and stumbled back. The whistling club slashed through the air right where Jack had held his camera. Jack grabbed Suzie's hand and ran, but didn't get completely out of the way before the careening bull caught him with his back swing: Jack took a glancing blow on the back of his head. He blanked out for a fraction of a second and might have fallen were he not already in motion and pulled along by Suzie.

They reached the lower plaza just as another group of officers approached from the other side of it, throwing the retreating mob into a complete rout. Instead of giving them a wide berth and fleeing around them, or even running to the sides, which were open, some students lost their heads at the sight of the pigs and

turned around, going against the crowd. They bumped heads with comrades, some students fell, some were trampled. Seeing their quarry in rout, the officers broke ranks and charged.

A student with a pig on his heels charged between Jack and Suzie. The officer automatically swung his club as he passed, but Jack ducked in time. He stood still and looked around for Suzie without seeing her. Pigs poured into the plaza from both ends now. It was time to get out. Jack ran downhill in the direction he'd told Suzie to run if they were separated, heading past the president's mansion and into town, if they got that far.

Running along in a group of forty or fifty others, a platoon of pigs hot on their heels, as they rounded the corner of the mansion Jack spotted a line of pigs spread out on the sidewalk ahead of them. The crowd of students divided, running to either side. Most of them got away, since most of the pigs carried their pot bellies with them and had become winded. Jack, still feeling dizzy and knowing he couldn't run much farther, dived into the bushes as soon as he saw the waiting reinforcements. He climbed under a camellia bush and tried not to breathe.

There were a few scattered shouts and cries, either from irate pigs or students who didn't make it clear of them, and someone heaved a rock through one of the mansion's windows on his way by. Then it was still, still enough for Jack to hear from thirty yards distance, one pig speaking to another, "Better beat the bushes for a minute--I thought I saw someone jump in there."

His blood froze for a second in panic. He didn't know whether to crawl deeper into the camellia bush or make a run for it. In the same split second that he stepped out from behind the bush to get his bearings, his eye caught the fact that the window beside him was open a few inches. Moving quickly, thinking just maybe, he stepped over to it and onto the gas meter, where he jumped in surprise and almost fell off: there was a bone-crushing thunk and an animal yelp not ten yards from him. "Got the mother-fucker," someone yelled, dragging out of the bushes someone else who had apparently gotten the bright idea of diving there. Jack eased the window up and got his foot up over the ledge. Pulling himself in was more of a strain than he had anticipated. When he tried to stand upright, he felt his head spin.

Kathy Kimbal had taken her time squaring away the breakfast room and taking her bath. As she toweled dry she heard the shouts of the rioters and the general clamor from the middle of campus, and from her upstairs bedroom window watched the hazy cloud of tear gas rise into the air. The gas carried in the wind and, unless she had her windows closed, it permeated the house. As it was, all the bushes and trees carried its acrid stench for days after any riot. She couldn't remember whether she'd shut the parlor window or not, and made a mental note to check on it before the gas cloud drifted. *

The shouting and tumult drew nearer and soon footsteps thumped by as the first of the fleeing rioters ran past. She ran her bath towel between her legs once more to make sure her crack was dry and that no moisture remained in her generous jet-black muff. She stepped into her panties and the nylon stretched thinly over the flaccid womanly globes of her ass, Leaning forward slightly so that her breasts dangled, she fitted them into the cups of her brassiere and then straightened up to fasten it. It was a flimsy flesh-colored "non-bra" bra, the kind which had just come into fashion; it so revealed the natural hang of her breasts that she was still self-conscious about wearing it in public. Tom said it looked like she wasn't wearing one at all.

She was searching her closet for a dress when she heard a tinkle of glass from downstairs. She hurriedly grabbed her bathrobe and put it on as she trotted down the hall. Footsteps and shouts were all around the house now. She quickly spotted glass on the living room floor and saw a rock nearby. "Damn them," she thought.

She looked out the window and was surprised to see the line of police standing along the sidewalk. What did they intend to do? Usually the police just chased everyone away... she remembered that the mayor had requested they try to restrict the riots to campus--there had been general vandalism downtown the day before.

She watched as three or four club-swinging policemen caught up with confused rioters, whacking them from behind. Since nightsticks had a row of beveled ridges on their club end, whenever a student was hit on the skull the skin broke, the flesh tore, blood spurted or ran. It was sickening. Kathy had never seen it so close up before. She watched, mouth agape, as a policeman caught up with a girl who was not fleet enough of foot, clubbing her several times across the neck and shoulder. The girl stumbled and fell, perhaps given a nudge from the policeman's boot. When she tried to stand again, he kicked her in the stomach. Holding her stomach as she sat doubled up on the ground, the girl looked into the officer's face and made a defiantly obscene

gesture. Her voice was shrill as she screeched, "You mother-fucking pig!" The policeman shoved her with his boot and put one foot squarely on her chest to begin beating her, the girl futilely fighting the club with her arms. Kathy was nauseous, her throat felt funny and she broke into a cold sweat. She shut her eyes, thinking she would vomit.

What kind of a world was this?

Kathy swayed weak-kneed and held her hand over her mouth. Her eyes popped open and she took a deep breath when she heard a window slide open in the next room. She heard Levi's scratch across wood and the nearby klunk of a footstep. Someone had climbed into the room! Walking on the balls of her bare feet, almost clinging to the wall, she walked to the parlor door and peered through the glass. A man was standing there. Swaying dizzily, he seemed hurt. He was a young man with long hair.

When Kathy opened the parlor door, Jack looked at her with uncomprehending eyes, his face twisted in pain and confusion. His body seemed to crumple in the middle. He sagged and then fell face forward onto the floor, still clutching his camera. Kathy gasped. The back of his head was scarlet with blood.

She stood over his prostrate body for a moment before stooping to inspect his wound and then feel his pulse. She was on her way to the bathroom for towels and a basin of water when she heard the doorbell ring. There was a policeman on the steps.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Kimbal?" he asked.

"Oh ..." she hesitated. "Yes, I'm fine."

"Well, we were just wondering," he said. "We saw the window was open and thought somebody mighta busted in."

"No, it's okay." "You sure?" he asked. "Uh--yes! I opened it," she said.

"Oh. Well, somebody said that window was closed ten minutes ago and we just thought we'd check," he said.

"Everything's fine," she said. "No one's here."

His eyes, just slits in his pockmarked face, ran from her face to her breasts and below. "Maybe I'd better come in and take a look around," he said, leering, "better play it safe." So saying, he grasped her arm just above the elbow and tried to squeeze into the house.

"No!" she said, looking him in the eye. "No one's here who shouldn't be. Just Mabel the cleaning woman and myself," she lied. "Thank you for your concern, officer, but I'm sure we'll be okay."

"If you say so, Mrs. Kimbal," he said, hooking his thumbs into his belt, rocking back to peer at her body with those beady eyes.

Instinctively drawing her robe tighter about her waist, she thought, My God, this man really is a pig! as she shut the door in his face.

"Come on, Mullins," somebody yelled. "We've got to get the fuckers out to the prison farm." "Okay," he said, and clomped down the steps.

Holding his head in her lap, Kathy rinsed the dried blood out of the back of Jack's hair, thankful that the gash on his scalp had stopped bleeding. He had a knot where he'd been hit and the whole area was purple-looking. Some blood had run down the back of his neck and she unbuttoned the top buttons to his shirt to reach her wet towel in. She then moved to the other side to rinse his brow.

His long hair was wispy and he seemed so angelic. She wondered how anyone would want to hit him. She lightly stroked his cheek, wondering what more she should do for him.

When Jack's eyes fluttered open, the first thing he saw was the insides and undersides of a woman's thighs, her skin silken from her knees to her pantie-covered mound: the woman knelt just in front of him.

"Uhh," he groaned, shutting his eyes again, "where am I?"

"You'll be okay. Don't worry," she said, as his eyes blinked and opened again.

Now Jack looked into a face, a beautiful face and a kind face, the face he would have expected to go with those thighs he'd just seen.

"How do you feel?"

"Oh, I'll be all right," he said. "But right now I've got a bit of a headache. Do you happen to have any aspirin?"

"Sure," she said, and she stood up to go get some.

Her buttocks undulated as she strode away and her breasts swayed as she walked back with a bottle and a cup of water; and while she was gone Jack figured out that this must be President Kimbal's wife or his niece or daughter or somebody.

"Here," she said, stooping to hand him a bottle and cup, her robe falling away to reveal swaying cleavage between magnificent breasts. "I brought Emperin. They're stronger. They'll get rid of it in a hurry."

"Thank you." She bent over him with a look of obvious concern in her face and Jack decided to indulge in it. "Ohhh," he moaned, "it was terrible out there. You wouldn't believe some of the things those pigs do to people."

"I think I know what they do," she said, her brow knitting at the too vivid memory of what she'd seen out her window.

"I've got it all right here on film," Jack said, reaching for his camera. "I don't know," he said. "Try to keep it from happening again." "Somebody ought to do that," she said.

Struggling to get to his feet, he said, "Here, help me up," his eyes communicating that he couldn't get up by himself.

"Oh," she said, taking his arm and helping him to his feet, "you can't leave yet. You should rest a moment longer."

He swayed a bit melodramatically and said, "I think maybe you're right. Let me sit on your couch for a moment."

Still holding his arm, she backed him several steps to the sofa. When he felt it touch the backs of his legs, he flopped down, dragging Kathy with him.

"What's wrong with the world?" he said, turning to lightly nuzzle her neck as she sat holding his arm between her breasts. His hand was on her leg and he flicked her slightly parted robe aside to touch her bare silken skin.

"I often wonder that, too," she said, thinking, poor upset child.

Their eyes met in a look of intense communication. He lifted his hand, his other hand, not the one with which he squeezed and now slowly caressed her thigh, to her cheek and brushed it lightly. "Y'know, you're a very nice lady," he said.

Before she could say anything, Jack began grunting as he breathed, as if in pain. His hand slid from her cheek down her throat to the upper part of her chest, his fingertips just inside her brassiere. "What's wrong?" she asked, fearing he might have a relapse.

"I ... I don't know," he stammered, moaning deeply and rolling his head back as if he'd passed out, his hand falling lifelessly--not so lifelessly or suddenly, however, that it fell anyplace other than directly into the cup of her flimsy brassiere, gliding over her breast and relaxedly cupping the end of it.

While Kathy looked at him with a frown, with genuine concern for his well-being, Jack was aware that her nipple had stiffened and pressed achingly into his palm. Kathy turned facing him and eased him back onto the couch until he was flat on his back and she was kneeling over him, straddling him with one knee on the couch and her other foot on the floor. While his one hand had dropped from her thigh, his other had remained in the cup of her brassiere, seemingly caught there, and as their bodies shifted in relation to each other, his wrist had smoothly drawn her flimsy brassiere as well as her robe to the side: her left breast dangled free in front of Jack's seemingly lifeless eyes, her nipple red and marvelously elongated. He hoped she didn't notice his erection.

She felt somewhat awkward perched above him like that, but before she could move she realized that she would have to free herself of the hand caught in her clothes. She tugged at his wrist and her breast quivered as Jack's hand brushed it, her nipple scraping across his palm.

"Don't let 'em kill me yet!" Jack gasped, clutching the back of her neck with his free hand and pulling her down on top of him, her breasts crushed between them, one breast by chance clutched in his hand--although she

didn't realize it at the moment.

"It's okay," she consoled, knowing he couldn't hear her since he was delirious.

Eyes closed now, he rolled his head as she consoled him. He worked his mouth and throat like a deaf-mute trying to speak for the first time and, continuing ever so softly to massage the overwhelming handful of fine wobbly teat, he deftly and lightly tugged at the back of her robe, pulling it up over her ass. After an especially violent momentary spasm, during which she thought he'd swallow his tongue, his hand wound up in her panties, palm quivering on a buttock and fingertip poised pressing a hair-covered cunt lip, close enough to the center of her heat for Jack to know that the moment he touched her she would discharge fluid all over his hand.

She lay with her head on his shoulder, curious at her own outpouring of sympathy for this boy. She knew quite well that the way he touched her had something to do with it, but her emotions had been touched first and her sexual arousal merely abetted that--the two merged. She knew he was touching her in an insanely intimate way a finger had probed and was buried to the second joint in her throbbing liquefied vagina, and that if he were not so delirious with pain she would never let him do this.

Then she suddenly realized that he wasn't delirious anymore--not delirious in the same mindless way. She knew it--she knew it beyond a doubt from her own urgency, her urgency in response to his as he madly manipulated her breast, his thumb rolling her nipple in a dozen directions, her swollen aching nipple, and, as he used two fingers on her hot wet cunt, whipping her vagina to a froth.

She knew this was a sex act that she had unwittingly begun to participate in knowledge which in that instant chilled her soul and summoned to mind an image of a saddened Tom--and yet for a full thirty seconds beyond the instant she knew this she continued to participate. That thirty seconds seemed like an eternity: she clamped her legs together and clenched her buttocks to encapture the frothy probing fingers, fingertips swishing around her cervix at the depths of her cunt in one long maddened inward push, and she consciously thrust her breast more tightly into the clutching hand. So great was her rapture she went to the edge of a dead faint.

But she was a woman of principles and knew the time had come to obey them. Perhaps she knew somewhere in her mind that it was always shortly after she'd reached this peak with Tom that he shattered it with his ugly horrid penis. In one smooth movement she rocked back on her knees and yanked her pelvis forward. Jack's fingers, his forearm bumped by her buttock, slid out and over her anus. The rubied gash of her pussy winked at him when she lifted her leg to climb off the couch. She straightened her garments and turned to face him, surprisingly composed.

Jack had known from the way she yanked her pussy away that he wasn't going to get any further this way. "Well, I didn't know what was happening to me there for a minute or two," he said.

"Neither did I, quite," she said, her tone clipped.

"I sure as hell liked it though," he said.

"I'm sure you did," she said.

"And didn't you?"

"Oh, for a moment," she said. "But that's neither here nor there."

"Well," he said. "I feel better. My headache has gone. I should be on my way."

"I guess so," she said.

He picked up his camera. He had no intention of leaving just then, but thought he'd go through with the masquerade. "Well, I can't tell you how grateful I am," he said. "This is one rioter you've given great solace to. I'll spread the word."

She didn't quite believe him, about his spreading the word--she could tell by his face. "Are you proud of it?" she asked. "Of being a rioter? Is that your way of doing your own thing?"

"Well, yes," he said, smiling, "in a way it is. As long as I agree with the principles at stake and think they're worth fighting for."

And her voice dripping with contempt, she asked, "And 'free sex'? Is that worth fighting for?"

"Don't you think everyone has a right to have sex with whomever they please?" he asked.

"Sure. I hate to see people degrade themselves, but I'm willing to grant them the freedom to do so."

"Degrading?"

he asked, incredulously. "You find sex degrading?" "Not with my husband, no." Ahha, his wife!

Jack thought. "Okay, lady. Let's look at it this way. You like to fuck, don't you?" "Not always, no," she said. "Not that it's really any of your business."

He thought otherwise, but decided to leave that lie for the moment. "Well, you just said, or implied, that you were willing to grant other people the right to fuck. Isn't that so?" "Yes?"

"Well, that's the issue. That's what we're fighting for the freedom to fuck if we want. What are young lovers without fucking? They're nowhere, man!" "And that's all you mean by 'free sex'?" "Yes."

"You're lying. 'Free sex' implies having it willy-nilly, with an odd assortment of people, showing no particular discretion. And sometimes not even any affection."

"Oh yeah?" he said. "You think not? I'll tell you one thing, lady, and tell you for damn sure. If you had had sex a little more freely when you were young, you wouldn't be such a hypocrite now."

"Hypocrite!" she cried, shocked and offended.

"You're goddamn right," he said, sitting on the arm of the easy chair she'd plopped into. "Christ, a minute ago I passed out. My mind was on the blink for a while. I might have died for all you know. And what happened? Well, I woke up and there you were--you were all over me. You'd hauled your tit out and you'd stuffed my hand up your cunt! Then you turn around and try to pretend none of it happened. That, I call hypocrisy."

"That's not quite what happened," she said. "Nor is it how it happened."

"No!" he yelled. "You enjoy having your tits played with, and you goddamn well better admit it."

Without further ado, Jack ripped open the front of Kathy Kimbal's bathrobe, its two top buttons popping and rolling across the floor, then reached violently into the cups of her flimsy bra and hauled out her tits, holding one in each hand. "No!" she said weakly, trying to push his hands away.

But Jack squeezed rudely, digging his fingers into her softness to hang on in ten different places. She gave up trying to push him away. She realized that at the moment she was vulnerable and, knowing she would have to endure being mauled, she gritted her teeth.

Jack did not want to cause her pain--quite the opposite--and when she ceased physical resistance, relaxing his grip he manipulated her with gentleness. Her nipples became erect in his palms, rubbing circles in his hands as he brushed her, fingers dabbling slightly. She gritted her teeth not to ward off unpleasantness, she discovered, but to ward off pleasure. She was acutely aware of the tantalizing friction on her nipples. The whole ends of her breasts had begun to throb. Her breathing quickened.

He lifted her breast, holding it high as he lowered his head and seized its knot-hard aching central adornment in a long sucking bite, undoing the belt of her robe and her last two buttons. In one motion his hand slid into the top of her panties, over her muff and into the furry hollow between her legs, cupping her mound with all four fingers. She gushed a bit of her thick syrup; he pressed more deeply with his middle finger which slid easily into her hot wet slit. The knuckle of his rapidly rubbing finger butted her clitoris. She slid down a ways in her seat, spreading her legs. He probed ardently, aware that she throbbed on his fingers.

"Do you enjoy it?" he asked, drawing back for a moment.

"Oh, yes!" she said.

"Tell me exactly what you enjoy," he said, biting her nipple softly and giving it several rapid flicks with his tongue.

"I enjoy having you play with my breasts," she said.

"What else?" he asked, his fingers swishing about madly inside her, touching on every fold and crease

within her cunt.

"I enjoy-uh--down there too," she moaned.

"Tell me exactly what it is that you enjoy," he said. "Say it."

"I enjoy being finger-fucked!" she cried, suddenly beginning to jerk her hips back and forth with such vigor that her breasts bounced, wanting harsher contact with the fingers which seemed to scour her entire being.

When he slid her robe back on her shoulders, she worked her arms out of it and unfastened her brassiere--not that the skimpy thing did anything to contain her breasts, but since their pulchritudinous weight hung over its flattened cups, its straps dug into her shoulders. Still rotating her pussy on his fingers, she lifted first one buttock and then the other to allow him to draw her panties down over her hips; he drew them to her knees and let them drop about her ankles.

Pulled by him, she scooted her ass out to the edge of the easy chair so that she almost lay flat in it. Poised, his hips between her knees, he dropped his pants and undershorts. When she saw his cock standing out ramrod straight, her eyes narrowed in fright.

"No!" she said, scooting away from him back into the easy chair, "That's all."

"What do you mean?" he asked, incredulous.

"I mean, let's stop now," she said. "I don't wish to continue further."

"Hypocrite!" he screamed.

"No," she said calmly, "I enjoyed what you were doing and I admitted it. And I'm saying I don't want to continue. That isn't hypocritical."

Where he'd been incredulous at her about face, her nonchalance now angered him. He grabbed her hips with both hands and pulled her ass back out within reach of his cock. She tried holding her knees together but his hips forced them ever wider. Her ankles were still caught in her panties and so she didn't have full use of her legs, her stretched panties caught beneath his knees. He positioned his cock right in the center of her wrinkled pussy lips and caught both hips again. She sat up and began flailing at his head and shoulders with her hands. His hand on her chest, he shoved her back down. When she immediately sat up again, yelping "No!" he held her by the throat at arm's length. His reach being longer than hers, all she could do was scratch at his arm and look at him with narrow hate-filled eyes while he held her firm by the hip and artfully wedged his stiff thrusting cock into her, when with a fleeting victory-smile he shoved her flat onto her back again.

Holding her tight by the hips again, he rammed brutally into her, her body going completely stiff as her cunt took the blow. Ramming brutally the walls and end of her sopping once-throbbing cunt with his cock, feeling her stiffness in his hands as her back arched, he thought he had her. He knew she'd come around, failing in his own urgency to note that her nipples had relaxed, that she did not have a deep flush, and that her breathing did not quicken. He was thinking, by God, good ol'Prexy Kimbal's hot little honey is gonna cum like a pack of firecrackers, when, catching his half-glazed eye, she said, her voice icy with contempt, "You snot-nosed little son of a bitch!"

While he didn't loose his hard-on, that remark cooled his ardor. He realized that the stiffness in her body and the pain in her eyes really was that, that it bore no relation to arousal. For a moment he debated whether to get his rocks off while he had the chance or to try to correct whatever had gone wrong. He looked at his watch and saw that it was only two-thirty. Hell, Kimbal probably wouldn't be home until dinner. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I thought you were just being stubborn or that you had some momentary reservations or something. I had no idea you felt that way about me, the way you were enjoying it," he said, just a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

Kathy thought for a moment she would cry, not because of Jack--her feelings about him were not that strong, especially as regarded "success" in bed--but because his tone of voice was exactly like that of Tom's the night before, when he'd said, "Have you ever thought about another woman? Maybe they'd be able to do you in a way I don't seem to be able to.

Would she always be this way? she wondered. She sensed that Tom's love for her was beginning to wane and that her repeated failures had something to do with it. She looked now at Jack's penis which he had eased out of her and which had begun to droop. It wasn't so frightful-looking as she'd imagined while it was inside her. For some reason, it was less horrid than Tom's: it was circumcised and as it began to dwindle its veins

were not so blue. Jack's balls, a bit smaller than Tom's, seemed almost cute. The fact that this cock before her now shrank because of something she said made it seem vulnerable rather than blindly ravaging; she had a certain power over it.

To Jack, Kathy appeared sad. He hadn't wanted to make her unhappy; he'd just wanted to give her a memorable shafting. Saying, "You'll have to forgive me if you feel I've been unfair or anything. You have an absolutely irresistible body--it's the most beautiful body I've ever seen--and I think anyone would have done the same thing."

His voice was gentle and as he spoke he bent forward to nuzzle her fine teats, rubbing one on each cheek. Her nipples soon poked rigid again and he thought, my God, she's like a yo-yo ... we'll see how long we can keep her spinning this time. The aroma of her pussy lingered sweet and sour on his fingers. He rocked back on his heels and then, pinching her pulpy hair-covered outer lips to pull her apart, he sucked her moistly lustrous delicacies between his lips, his tongue dabbling the folds at the mouth of her vagina, tasting the source of her womanly musk.

Her body became pliant again. She spread her legs wide, tendons standing out, and canted her pussy up to him. She emitted her slick lubricant onto his tongue. Her quim itself became pliant.

This was the third time her cunt had begun to throb this afternoon. It was almost unbearable. Sometimes after Tom had aroused her and then abused her, she would lie awake in frustration until she heard his regular breathing, when she would masturbate: she would masturbate when this boy left. The tension had built in the core of her until she felt like a spring, a spring tight with too much weight on it. The more Jack gobbled, the more her pussy liquefied and throbbed. She remembered an epileptic in a grand mal seizure, drooling. That was how she felt now--on the brink of a grand mal--her pussy was drooling.

Just when she began to bounce on the globes of her ass, Jack realized that she was almost to the point where she'd turned off on him twice now. She wasn't quite there yet, however, and he drew back and said, "Do you want me to eat your pussy some more or do you want me to stop?"

"Oh! Eat me!" she cried.

"Okay," he said, "But I want you to spread your pussy out with your fingers so I can get a good bite on it. And nothing will make me stop this time."

Her hands guided by his, she spread her pussy wide with both thumbs and both forefingers. He then rearranged her fingers so that she held the outer lips stretched to their utmost with her thumbs and middle fingers, one forefinger now out of sight to its second joint within her throbbing hole and the other posed just above her clitoris, pressing it slightly to the side.

Picking up his camera, he quickly set the light meter for indoors--it was bright enough so that he didn't need a flash--and clicked it, holding it steady for the four seconds he judged it would take to get a print. He focused to catch every detail of her gaping twat. Her breasts, like dream mounds, would be less in focus behind, and between them her face, blurred but recognizable, her eyes closed, her lips parted.

She began thrusting her finger into herself and massaging her clitoris, and she continued to diddle herself when he doubled her legs back, dropping them on either arm of her chair. This brought the tiny ring of her anus into view. He spread further the plump cheeks of her woman-sized ass and, after dunking a finger into her cunt for lubricant, he plunged it into her rectum.

She squealed through her nose and her sphincter resisted him, but her over-charged nervous system was in no shape to resist for long. She seemed intent on masturbating, she now whipped her cunt to a froth with two fingers while she diddled her clitoris with her other hand. He skewered her rectum at will.

His cock was rock hard and he'd forgotten all about eating her. Carefully, he pried her hand loose, the hand that blocked her vagina, and inserted the tip of his cock. She continued to beat her clitoris with two fingers as he rocked his hips forward, watching her labes part to admit the broad head of his shaft and then swallow it, two-thirds of it. Her throbbing cunt walls parted to accept it, gushing liquid to ease its passage.

He had figured out that she reacted to other stimuli somewhat better than to a cock: the more, the better, he figured. He regretted that he wasn't able to shove his aching cock all the way into her, but accepted for now that she needed to beat her clit, needed to have her asshole skewered, and needed his other hand, which massaged her tits and plucked her nipples.

"Don't you like it?" he asked.

"Yesss!" she moaned, "Yesss! Yess!"

Kathy had never felt anything like this. There were almost too many sensations in competition with each other: each of the most sensitive parts of her body were burning with flickering flames, all of which soon merged into one great bonfire. She was on the verge of melting. With his cock gliding so smoothly and clingingly in and out her overheated cunt (which she found herself rocking up and down for him) and her rectum indecently probed and her titties tickled and her clitoris lit like a fuse, she knew that she was on the raw edge of insanity. "Oh! Oh! OH!" she moaned. "Oh ... I'm going to ... I'm almost..."

He unfingered her asshole and seized her bursting melon breasts with both hands, his thumbs scouring swollen nipples, and began thrusting fully and pell-mell at her upraised cunt, his balls slapping her sensitized anus--she clenched her buttocks on his scrotum, holding it tight in her crack so that it was drawn rapidly back and forth over her raw little ring.

The first twitch of his cock did her. "Aiiiieeeeee! Aiiiie e e ee e!" she yelped. Her body's muscles twitched all in concert as she rolled her head and eyeballs, her breasts aquiver as she felt her spasmodically out-of-control cunt grip his churning cock. She'd never done it to herself like this, and as her orgasmic yelps echoed in her brain, she knew somewhere that right now she'd become that epileptic she'd once seen, and admitted that a smoothly wielded cock could make all the difference in the world.

"Agghhh!" Jack cried as he felt the first protracted spurt well up from his balls, the sight of this lusciously writhing female beneath him in her throes of spending, that sight coupled with the final acquiescent grip of her foaming churning cunt together sending him inexorably over the edge. "I'm cumming!" he panted.

"Yes! Yes!" she said, for the first time in her life actually grateful for a man's semen, thankful that his hot cum filled her. She rocked her pussy on him for a few moments after his final spurt, wanting all of it.

As the president's wife lay in her spent stupor afterward, Jack took several pictures of her, focusing as clearly on her face as on the puddled semen which had begun to drool out her quim and into her hair, milk white on jet black. Jack was glad he had color film. She seemed too spent to care, a lapse she would soon rue.