Chapter 2
Over his shoulder, Roger spoke to his wife in what was meant to be a well-modulated snarl. "What are you doing now? Playing for one last time your little cock-teasing game? One last time before we board the crummy boat for Europe? For all I care you can cancel out the Europe trip and your little final teasing game."
But then he had to look at her. Vicky was propped against a pile of pillows, reclining on the circular bed with her knees drawn up. Over her richly rounded bosom she wore a pink brassiere; a pair of matching panties encased her slim hips. The jutting tits pressed out of the top of the bra with maddening casualness. Her waist was a slim isthmus of flesh that widened provocatively to stretch against the too-small panties in what appeared to be near the breaking point. The smooth undersides of her cream-hued thighs were faintly marred by the recent impression of stocking marks.
Clipped in concentrated ringlets, her auburn hair lay close to her delicate ears. Her eyes were utterly expressionless. Even her lips, full-blown, sensual, remained quietly unconcerned.
Beautiful, Roger thought angrily. A beautiful bitch. Much too beautiful to live. Having a woman like this was torture. Only not having her would be worse.
Languorously, without motion, she filled the bed, the room, the apartment, with a kind of throat-tightening futility.
Yawning lazily--as only she could--she stretched her arms and then sat up in a bone-lessly fluid movement. Her limbs flashed enticingly as she straightened up and moved toward him. "What's the matter, dear husband? Thinking about the lousy two thousand dollars the trip will cost. We'll have fun--and we just might keep our marriage off the rocks in the bargain--isn't that worth it?"
"Yes, a good time. That's really what you're looking for."
"Oohh, darling, can I help it if I feel the way I do about interesting men? It doesn't have to affect any feeling I may have left for you. Unless you make it such. Now, then... suppose we just let nature take its course, hmmm?" Her arms went about his neck as her middle slumped into him. "It just might be fun. Moonlit nights on the high seas, romance all over the fucking place."
Roger shook his head. "How can a beautiful bitch like you always ruin things with vulgarity!"
"Oh, don't think I'm limiting the fun to myself. If you get the urge, follow it. Only fair. Likewise, I'll follow mine."
"You and your urges."
"Mmmm. I got an urge now. Know for what?"
"I can hardly guess."
Her soft body stirred warmly, and Roger was helpless... again.
A knowing smile spread itself across Vicky's face as she rubbed the cleft of her vulva, which was surrounded by silken, curly red hairs, into his groin.
Roger's face flushed red. Angrily, he stepped back and slipped out of his robe. He gripped his swollen prick, and waggled it in front of her. "This what you want, Vicky? Well sure, only thing is you're going to take it tonight on my terms, not yours."
His penis twitched as it drew higher and tighter, its rosy head, slick and firm, was nearly breaking free of its encircling foreskin.
He pushed her to the bed, down on it, and the smile never left Vicky's face. He gained a workable hold on her flashing tanned legs and wrenched them wide apart. Her pussy opened to him. It was wet already, the little mouth of her vagina gaping in anticipation of his impending thrust.
Wrapping his arms around her naked legs, he tore off the panties and bra, and gripped her thighs from underneath, working his hands upward until he had hold of her firm, resilient buttocks. Lifting her ass that way, with his fingertips tickling its warm, silken crack, he moved in close, aiming his fleshy rod at her moistly receptive cunt.
Vicky whimpered, but the sound was strangely false.
His thumping glans touched the center of her soft vulva.
Then Vicky positioned the head of his cock just between her cunt lips, and withdrew her hand. Now Roger was playing with her lovely tits, his tongue lashing about her mouth, tasting the wet juices of her saliva.
His hand closed on her tit in a more urgent, squeezing movement, thumbing hard at the nipples.
Vicky panted into her husband's mouth, her tongue seeking his. They met and they licked each other making wet sounds with their juices. Roger lifted his mouth and buried his teeth into her soft shoulder, biting into the flesh. Vicky's nails clawed at Roger's back, reaching downward until they reached his ass.
And so Vicky Martin had the only thing she had ever really wanted;--the feeling of seven inches of man in her cunt. Even if this time it had to be her husband.
Revolving his hips, Roger made his cock rotate in a circular motion inside the burning hot and juicy pussy. Vicky began to clench and unclench her buttocks, squeezing that hard cock with all her inner might.
A cock sticking rigidly into her--god! how it felt!
"Oohhh," she whined as she twisted her hips in his hands, pressing her hungry loins against the base of his phallus. She could feel his balls against the cheeks of her ass, all drawn up and tense with passion for her. She flopped her head from side to side, her teeth biting her lower lip.
Roger watched her titties quiver, and her mouth contort. He took a firmer grip on the foam-rubbery cushions of her ass, and he wiggled them as he dug his cock in and out of her.
Roger's crude hands mauled and rediscovered every lush mound and crevice of her nude body, her moist flesh, squeezing her round tits together below the weight of his pumping body.
She bit her lips harder as her body rocked violently with his entry and retreat, entry and retreat. Roger was grunting and sweating profusely, his cock enflamed as always with this woman's flesh-feeling of her soft clinging chasm that swamped around it. And now the swift thrusting shocks of locomotion as her hips became a mass of heat and pounding, her body all wrenched and bounced and caught anew with each thick, dabbing stroke... his flanks and buttocks popping up and in and off and digging, undulating and jolting ever faster, his prick feeling hotter and more bloated with every ramming plunge, his mouth still groaning and ecstatic against her shoulder, her legs wrapped tightly about his body, squeezing and pushing, as he pummeled and dug... both going crazie and wilder for the approaching moment now... that soft clamping suction gripping at his battering cock, wet and warm, sticky and damp, merged and juiced and hooked together and... and...
That familiar moment of blind ferocity, thickly stuffed inside her, his cock stretching those woman-walls, her hot box lifting up and down on it, squirting her insides, gushing swarms tearing loose from his loins, hot juices spurting in jet streams.
Patrick Doyle was a near-miss.
Nearly a poet, novelist, actor, diplomat, playboy--not quite any, yet some of each. What caused him to elude any special designation was the irrefutable fact that he had never been hungry. Bequeathed a tidy fortune, he had been able to indulge his every whim. Blessed--or damned --with a facility for words, he achieved success in various fields so easily that he became bored. And although he was periodically plagued by requests for the fruits of his talents, he lacked both the desire and the need to do anything about it.
He had approached middle age (denoted by the younger generation as anyone over forty) finding that he was still--to his astonishment--unwed and carefree. Being more than a little cynical, though, he knew he was unlikely to attract any feminine companionship unless it was with his money, which he guarded zealously. Now and then, however, he chanced upon a girl who knew nothing of his wealth and at such times he enjoyed himself thoroughly.
Possessed of a unique sense of humor, Patrick Doyle transformed some of the most ordinary acts of passion into delightful excursions. He liked young girls, the younger and less experienced, the better. Not that he ever tempted fate --or the law--by being too rash or indiscreet; he merely preferred maidens untouched by human hands. Or human anything else's.
Cynical as he was, though, he sometimes took a genuine interest in people and their problems. Armed with money, intelligence and just a bit of compassion, he would apply all three in efforts to effect changes in certain lives. It was his hobby, in a way; rather than let sleeping dogs lie he preferred to kick them once in a while just to see what might happen.
Thus--upon boarding the ship--he took a cursory look around and decided that unless he took drastic steps the voyage was going to be insufferably dull. So he set about to make alterations. All he needed was personal information on some of the passengers. Being himself, he had the necessary free hand for putting his theories into practice, which he chose to do.
It was simple enough. He sought out the purser, one Paul Taylor, and with the aid of a few large bills, gained access to the passenger files. Taylor, luckily, turned out to be other than a dolt. It did not take Patrick Doyle long to learn that the muscular young man--a onetime college athlete--was not altogether unconscious of the fair sex. For one thing, he, as the purser, had in his quarters a fine stack of better than average erotica. No mean collector himself, Doyle was quick to come to terms with a kindred soul.
So rapport was established, breaking down all the social barriers, and they were off to a flying start. Patrick Doyle gave his confidence and Paul Taylor responded by promising full support. In turn, Doyle said he would try to deal Taylor in wherever and whenever it might be possible.
"Goode, Tricia." Taylor perused his list. "Young, pretty, a college type. May have possibilities."
Doyle nodded and made a note.
"Stevens, Larry. Architectural student. Nice-looking lad. Smart, too, I'd say."
"Does he have money?"
"Not as far as I can judge."
Doyle made another note.
"And the Martins. You probably know them, don't you? Roger and Vicky Martin? They're society people."
"The Martins--ah, yes. I do know them. Her, anyway. Yes, indeed, I know Vicky. Quite a woman. She would be a worthy addition to your library, Paul."
"Really?"
Doyle scribbled in his notebook again. "In every way. A worthy addition to any man's library. Next?"
Taylor rattled off more names. Doyle frowned at some and took notes at others. "Then there are a few odd potentials," the purser said after a while. "Like the dish who is gym instructor in a girls' school. Lee Jergens. Muscles, yet, but smooth."
"Traveling alone?"
"More or less."
"What stateroom?"
"This will kill you. The same one the Goode girl is in."
"Oh? Complications?"
"More than that, Mr. Doyle--competition."
"Ah, so the plot sickens."
"I'm afraid so. But things aren't all bad. Wait till you see the chick who calls herself Sabrina Moore. Self-styled model, actress, showgirl and what-have-you. Most unselfish-looking doll I've seen in a long time."
"How do you mean--unselfish?"
Taylor chuckled. "Generous."
"Fine, fine." Doyle rose from his chair. "Paul, I think you and I will get along quite well." He drew a manicured nail along his thin mustache. "Providing..."
"Providing?"
"Providing we continue to understand each other. I too am unselfish--up to a point. After that I shoot trespassers." And with a farewell nod, Patrick Doyle stepped out of the purser's quarters, notebook clutched firmly, and returned to his cabin to draw the battle-lines.