Chapter 4

It didn't take me long, after I'd had my idea, to get the goods on Janet. She was the easiest girl I ever did. That was because she liked to flaunt her sexiness-even her extra-marital affairs-in people's faces. I guess she never believed anyone would have the gall to tell her husband about it, or threaten to. All I did was follow her to where she met her dates a few evenings and write down their descriptions and, where I could, their addresses and names.

After the incident at the party Janet no longer teased or taunted me much. She acted as though I didn't exist, or as though I were only a machine. She'd come into my office saving, "Mr. Parkinson wants to know whether you have the week's expenditures totaled yet," and she'd look straight into my eyes like she was looking into a fish bowl. An empty one. In a way that was even worse than the teasing and taunting. She refused to recognize my humanity. But I soon took care of that.

When I had four or five dates and times and places and descriptions on her, and three or four names and addresses, I stayed after work one night and typed out a letter to her husband. "Dear Mr. Jamieson: You may be interested in the following information concerning a few of the many extra-marital affairs in which your wife has engaged recently." And then I listed the information. , After that I said, "It doesn't sit well with a person of conscience to see a kind and generous man like yourself being deceived by a woman you think is a good and loyal and trustworthy wife, but who is actually no more than your part-time whore. In my opinion she is not deserving of your affections or your generosity, but of course it is your opinion in this matter that counts. I just thought you would appreciate knowing the truth." And then I signed it, "A Distant Friend."

I made a carbon copy and stuck it way back in the back of a drawer in my desk and took the original home.

Next I called up Bruce-whom I hadn't been in touch with for six months-and asked if he knew how a person might go about assuming a false identity. I thought his gay or antiwar activist friends might know something about that. He said he'd see what he could find out, and he didn't ask any questions. He was a good guy, Bruce.

Then I waited. I waited almost two months. I did my job and I jerked off a lot imagining how it would be. I thought to myself, "Even if it never comes off, it's worthwhile believing it will happen just to make those fantasies seem real." I saw exactly what I would do with Janet a thousand times over.

After about three weeks Bruce called me and said he had a contact. I won't tell you how it worked, but two weeks later I had all I needed to prove I was James McCawley Northrup, Jr. I gave my landlord a month's notice and opened new bank accounts in my new name. Under that name I also rented a modestly elegant furnished room in the West Village. I put the furniture from my old apartment in storage. As I looked at the few pieces I'd managed to accumulate being carted away by moving men, I thought to myself, "When I see those again, I'll be Bob again." I had no idea how long that would be-and still don't to this day. The furniture is still in storage.

I stayed in my old apartment, sleeping on an air mattress and eating all my meals out so I could continue to answer the phone at my old number until the right time came. Occasionally I went down to James Northrup's room to make phone calls inquiring about other jobs. I knew I'd have to take something pretty menial, because I wouldn't be able to take any of Bob's references with me. I'd just have to show my natural intelligence and work my way up again on the basis of what I could do.

It was late August when the right time finally came. The company was preparing a financial report for a Board of Directors' meeting in September, and that meant lots of after-hours work for the Treasurer, his secretary, and the accountant. We had about a week's worth of work left to do when I handed in my letter of resignation, effective as soon as they could find someone to replace me. I knew that with all the accountants who were out of work at that time that they'd get somebody easily. I was good at my job, but as far as my personality went I was no asset to the office, and I guess even

Gary was glad enough to see me go by that time. "What do you say?" he asked as I handed my letter to him and he read it. "Do you want to stay out the month, or would you rather leave as soon as the financial report's finished?"

"As soon as possible," I told him. "I have some urgent personal business out on the Coast, and to be truthful, I'd just as soon make Thursday my last day." This was on a Friday afternoon. "I may have to leave even before that, but whatever happens, I'll finish my work on the report. I'll try to do a lot of it over the weekend." I turned to go.

"By the way," Gary said somewhat proudly, "I'm going out with Jill tonight. I hope she introduces me around in some of those swinging circles she was talking about!"

My cock stiffened at the thought of Jill. Of all the people in the office, she alone had treated me at least sympathetically-even more so since the party-although she'd turned me down when I'd asked her out But she'd done it nicely. She'd patted me on the shoulder and said, "I'm afraid you're just not my type. But don't take it personally. You'll find someone who's your type sooner or later, and it'll be better all around." I remembered that for a long time. Gary noticed my reaction to his news, and so on the spur of the moment I said, "You don't think you could get her to drag me along sometime, do you?"

"I don't know," Gary replied, and I could tell from his expression that he thought he was gangly-looking enough that he didn't need to add my ineptitude to his social problems.

"Oh, forget it," I said. I wasn't going to be "Bob" for long enough for Jill to set anything up and get in touch with me anyway, even if she'd do it. And anyhow, I was through with taking chances on being rejected. "Have a good time, and fuck her a few good ones for me." Gary seemed mildly relieved as I headed for ihe door. "And let me know as soon as you find a replacement for me, will you?" I added. That was a very necessary remark, but I made it sound offhand.

"Yeah-okay." Gary smiled the way you do when you're saying goodbye to someone you would have liked to like if he hadn't been so intolerable at times.

I spent the weekend working like a dog on the report material and training myself to answer to "Jim" instead of "Bob." Except that on Saturday afternoon I went to Coney Island and rode the roller coaster four or five times to burn off some tension. While I was careening wildly around with the pit of my stomach dropping out and that funny tingling sensation taking over my groin, visions of my coming trial plagued me with scenes of failure: accusations, scandal, possibly even jail. But then, as I recalled how I had planned for every possible contingency, my fears evaporated to images of success that flipped before my eyes like a pack of dirty postcards. When I got off the roller coaster and wandered among the crowds I suddenly saw every desirable young woman as accessible to me. As I watched slim young girls in skin-tight pink pants and tit-grabbing halters, lusty-looking women in short skirts and see-through tops, sinuously sensual wives and girlfriends and lovers in skimpy, clinging hot-pants, all resting on the arms of their men as they strolled along easily and laughed and joked and sighed and talked in quiet whispers, I thought to myself, "There isn't one of them I couldn't track down and hang up. There isn't one I couldn't get something on-I'll bet there isn't" But right then, at that moment, there was only one that mattered: Janet.

When I went into work on Monday morning I had all but a few loose ends of the report material tied up. I could fiddle around with those as long as I wanted and feed what I'd done at home to the treasurer at will. If I hadn't felt so completely in control of everything I think I would have panicked. But I didn't see myself in an office anymore. I saw myself on a dewy forest trail in-the early morning, with my shotgun over my arm and my bird dogs out, waiting for the instant when the game was flushed and the gun-butt would jump to my shoulder and, like a precision instrument, the trigger would trip and the birdshot would find its mark. I laughed to myself over that. Birds and birdshot. It was terrible.

At just a little before five on Tuesday afternoon Gary wandered into my office. "We found a replacement for you," he said. I'd been into Janet's office just a few minutes before and I'd made sure I left the door open, but when Gary came in she was in her boss's office. "So you're free to go as soon as you get the last of the report work in. I just thought I'd stop on my way out and let you know."

"Oh, that's good," I answered, rocking back in my chair and stretching a little as though to start a conversation. "Who is he? Is he good? Where did you get him from?"

Gary chuckled slyly. "It's a woman. First-rate credentials, and a body to match. A little light on the face end, but she's okay looking. She's thirty-three, and she looks like she knows where it's at. I've had her application on file for three months now."

I could see why Gary hadn't been sorry to see me resign, and I couldn't blame him for it. "Good luck with her," I replied. "Have any luck with Jill and her friends?'

Just then Janet came back into her office and glanced at us. She was wearing a silk pants-suit. It was lemon yellow and you could see the lines of her matching bra and panties beneath it. She went to a file drawer and Gary said, "Let's not discuss that right now."

"Okay," I agreed. Janet returned to her desk with a thick file and I could see she had another few hours of work before she'd be off for the night. "Anyhow, when does my replacement want to start?" I asked loudly enough for her to hear.

"Any time. She's been out of work for a few months now, and she says she's ready to get back to the money-spending life. Hahaha."

"Well, I can understand that," I said. "I'll tell you, I've been working like a dog, and I can get everything finished up by tonight."

There was a long moment of silence. Everything had been said that needed to be said, as far as I was concerned.

"Well, then, I might not see you again," Gary said. "If I don't-good luck. With whatever those personal problems out on the Coast are, and just . . . well, you know."

I shook hands with him and he left. I pulled out my bottom desk drawer and reached far into the back of it and fished out the carbon copy of the letter to Janet's husband. At the same time I turned on a mini-cassette tape recorder I'd bought a few days before. The salesman had told me it was the kind the FBI and the police used for electronic surveillance. It was just a little bigger than a cigarette pack and it had a remote microphone which I jammed into a pile of papers toward the front of the drawer. I closed the drawer all but about a quarter of an inch and then cleared most of the papers off my desk and smoothed the letter out on it. Then I went rapidly to work tying up loose ends. That took about half an hour. During that time Janet's typewriter rattled like a machine gun and Parkinson called her into his office three times. Then he left for the night, and Janet and I were alone. As soon as he went she sauntered into my office. "Did I overhear correctly that you're going to be leaving us?" she asked, looking past me out the window behind my desk that fronted on Park Avenue.

"That's right. And pretty soon, too. In fact, I've just finished up my work on the report ahead of schedule, so this will be my last day." I patted a pile of papers on my desk. "This is it."

She looked disdainfully at me and at the papers and took a few steps around the desk to glance at them over my shoulder. "Well I must say, we're going to miss you around.. . "

Before she could get her parting shot out she saw the letter.

She froze, and then she sneered and picked it up and looked at it more closely. Her face contorted with anger. "What the hell is this? What the hell is this? What do you think you're doing, you slimy bastard?"

I smiled blandly at her and rocked back in my chair. "It's all explained in the letter. The way you cheat on your husband is disgusting. No man ought to allow it to happen. If you want to be a whore, then go be a whore, but don't ask a perfectly fine man like Hamilton to support you-to lavish money on you, for Christ's sake-in the meantime."

Her mouth dropped open and she took a half step back. "You can't do this," she gasped. "It'll ruin me.. . my life.. . "

"Rough shit," I said. "After what you did to me at that party at your house, I don't give a rusty fuck about you."

I could see the wheels spinning in her head, and I could see her noticing that the letter she held was a carbon copy, and that the original might already have been mailed. "Did you . . . did you send this yet?"

"No," I replied, "I'm going to mail it tonight. I was thinking about giving you a chance to see it first. Common politeness, you know."

"Now wait a minute," she stuttered. She took a step or two toward me and leaned over me with one hand on my desk and one hand on an arm of my chair. I averted my glance from her tits and looked her straight in the eye. "Don't you think we could . . . work something out? You don't have to do this. There's no reason for you to do this. It's just. . . well. . . there's no sense to it!"

"Work something out?" I asked. "What did you have in mind?"

Her eyes narrowed and she stared at my crotch. I was too tense to have a hard-on, which was a good thing. She straightened up a second and listened to see whether anyone else was in the office. "Well I don't want to talk about it here, but I think I may have something as important to you as that letter is to me. So why don't we discuss it after I get done working this evening? Hamilton's in London, and I had made some other plans, but I'm sure they can be adjusted."

"Well I was going to leave in a few minutes. But I certainly wouldn't deny you the right to try to talk me out of this."

She relaxed visibly. "Okay. Here's what you do. Come to the Hotel Pierre, 5th Avenue and 62nd Street, at eight o'clock. Ask for Ruth Deerborne. I'll be registered under that name. We can have dinner in my room together and talk about it"

"Fair enough," I said.

After that she went back to work and I spent fifteen minutes cleaning what was left of my personal belongings out of my office and surreptitiously packing up the tape recorder. Then I left the office for the last time.

I took a cab back to "Bob's" apartment and moved everything that was left there down to James Northrup's place. I took a shower and fixed myself a martini and put on my best suit Then, with a cheap portable recorder I'd bought in a pawn shop, I made a copy of the afternoon's conversation, and put it and the cheap recorder into my briefcase. I left James Northrup's identification in my room and took Bob's with me. I arrived at the Pierre at ten minutes past eight and by quarter after I was knocking at the door of Ruth Deerborne's room on the 14th floor. Janet answered, her face a mixed study in apprehension and relief. "Come in."

I walked into the elegant suite with its plush beige carpets and its Louis XIV-style furniture and its sconces and oil paintings on the walls. A magnum of champagne and a bucket of iced shrimp sat on a sideboard in front of a window overlooking Central Park The sun was just setting over the West Side, and the view was spectacular: a cauldron of molten orange-red. It suited my mood perfectly. I put my briefcase down and sat on a sofa. "Well," I said, "Go ahead. You're going to do the talking, right?"

"Champagne? Shrimp?" I nodded. She popped the champagne cork and filled two glasses and made us each a plate of shrimp with cocktail sauce and delivered mine to me as she came to sit next to me on the sofa. "All right. I guess there isn't too much sense in beating around the bush. You've got a lot of shit on me that I wouldn't want my husband to know about You'd also like to fuck me. Am I right?" I nodded deferentially. "So-that's what I'm offering. But . . . " She stared at me as though she were all businesswoman. ". . . just this one time. I'm not going to have you calling me up for a free screw every time you feel like it. If it came to that it wouldn't be worth it for me. Do you know what I mean?"

"Perfectly. Just this one time. But you're going to do exactly what I want. Within the limits, shall we say, of what could be expected from a versatile whore?"

She showed no sign of having been insulted. In her own way she was very tough. She put her hand in her chin and mused a little. "This one time? And that's all? Your word of honor?"

'You're a funny one to be talking about honor," I laughed. "But my honor is better than yours. After all, if I accept your suggestion, it might be construed as my having blackmailed you. And I can go to jail for that. Now I happen to have a recording of our conversation this afternoon in the office, and you can hear for yourself . . . " I pulled the cheap recorder out and turned on the tape. . . that it proves that you were the one who made the suggestion that we work out this arrangement-not me."

She listened to the tape in numb silence and gaped in disbelief.

"I'm not as dumb as you think I am," I assured her, putting the recorder away. "By the way, that tape is of course a copy. But-the only way to get away with something like this is not to press your luck. So I won't press mine. This one time and that's all. But you do exactly as I say. Right?"

She knew she'd been outfoxed right down to the wire. She lifted her champagne glass in a half sarcastic, half respectful gesture.

"The sarcasm isn't appropriate any more," I said as I clinked my glass against hers in a macabre toast. "Don't you agree?"

She nodded in compulsory agreement as she put her glass to her lips. "All right. I'm at your service. What do you want me to do?"

I stretched out and took a deep swig of champagne. "I've always fancied you sucking my cock . . . for starters." I gestured at my crotch and a thin smile came across her lips. "I have a feeling you can suck cocks quite nicely. Then we'll have dinner, which I assume you're capable of paying for, and then we'll do a few other things. But at the moment.. . why don't you take off your clothes?"

"All right." She got up and shoved the coffee table in front of the sofa back a few feet. I think she half expected me to grab my cock and start whacking, but I just lay back picking shrimp off my plate and dipping them into a blob of cocktail sauce and pulling them off their toothpicks with my teeth. That made her a little uneasy, but still, she reached up behind her and the zipper of her pants-suit hissed down.

"With a little style," I requested. "It's too bad we don't have some music." I looked over to the wall and spotted a sound system control panel. "Hold on a second." I got up and went over and found a radio station that was playing a lot of old danceable rock music; hard-driving stuff with a solid beat, the kind the band at her party had played. I returned to the couch. Janet had frozen in place with her zipper down. "Okay," I said. "Dance and strip. Strip-tease. Get it?"

She nodded numbly and began to dance. I'd seen her dance a few times at her party, and that was what had given me this idea. She had a way of rotating her hips in tight little jerks that made the flesh of her thighs and ass cheeks jiggle like jelly in the dining car of a speeding railroad train. "Just pretend you're stripping for Marlon Brando or Paul Newman or one of those super-studs," I laughed. I was still a little tense inside, but I knew everything was going to be all right now.

Janet shook her shoulders and danced around in circles. Her jugs bounced back and forth. She seemed to be taking my advice, because she certainly didn't look like she was stripping for The Worm. She was putting everything she had into it. No wonder. If she didn't please me she had her imagine house and her imagine clothes and her social position and all her money to lose.

She went down on her knees a foot or so in front of me and bent forward. The top of her pants-suit slid off down her arms, revealing her pendulous tits suspended in the cups of her gauzy yellow silk bra, their nipples poking out like pretty little pink buttons. She stood up and the pants-suit slithered down across her belly, caught for a second on her hips, and then, as she shimmied back and forth and ran her hands up and down her sides, it fell like a pile of used draperies to the floor. Her cunt-hair made a curly mosaic beneath the ripely bulging cloth of her panties.

She half-turned and shook her ass at me and reached back to peel her panties halfway down her crack. I smiled and sipped champagne and reveled in the memory of her telling me, "I bet you'd even get turned on my watching me take a shit!" She was going to pay for that-right up the ass.

Then, leaving her panties halfway down her ass, she took off her bra, with her back still to me, and flung it away just as though she was throwing it to an assistant offstage. "She'd make a good stripper," I thought to myself. "I wonder whether she's ever done it."

She cupped her tits in her hands and juggled them in her palms like the pair of ripe melons that they were. She plucked at the nipples and rolled them around between her thumbs and forefingers until they stood out like a pair of wrinkled red lightbulbs. She rubbed her palms over them and squeezed her tits and pulled them apart and shoved them together. "Nice tits," I said. "Not quite as nice as Jill's, but nice tits all the same."

She ignored the remark. She had to. She grabbed one of her tits in both hands and pointed it up and stretched it as far as it would go and lowered her mouth toward it. She could just reach the nipple with the tip of her tongue. She licked around it and wagged her tongue in sharp little jabs over it, making it glisten and sparkle. Then she did the other one. And then she started to push her panties down. Inch by inch they crept over the terrain of pale skin, from less to more private regions; first just the hairless suggestion of the rise of her pubis out of the subtle hollow of her lower abdomen, and then wisps of that mossy brown hair, and then the top of her cunt, thickly forested, with the creases between it and her thighs deepening, and then her pussy itself, scroll-lips curving inward to her deepest recesses, with just the very edges of that muted crimson oyster-flesh showing.

My cock rose and she saw it and started to feel safer. But a quick glance into my uncompromising eyes told her that she'd better keep up the good work. She kicked her pants-suit out of the way and went down on her knees again, this time bending back to let her tits hang down off her chest on either side. Her cunt pushed up toward me as she arched her back. She spread her legs like she was doing the limbo and its hole eased open. She reached down and, just the way she'd done that time at the party, pinched her clit between her cuntlips and jiggled her fingers. That started her moaning, and I knew that the moaning was for real. I thought to myself, "She has to have as hot a pair of pants for a woman as I do for a man. She can get her cunt watering in three seconds whenever there's a cock around. If only Td been born good-looking and rich!" And then I said, "Lie down on your back and kick your legs up and spread it all out nice and wide. I want to see what I'm getting, and I want to see it deep."

She did as she was told. She lay on her back and brought her knees up outside her chest and reached down around her hips to spread her cunt Inside the wishbone of where they met to fold over her clit in the front, inside the teardrop-shaped loop her inner lips made toward the back, a tawny, livid grotto of spongy inner muscle opened wide, its depths lost in the most intimate of shadows. The depths seemed to beckon to my cock, saying, "See how this pleasure-cave is made just for you? See how its walls will squeeze in on you when you push up between them?"

"Your ass-hole too," I said. "Spread your ass-hole too."

Her fingernails, delicately-filed and carefully polished, crossed the wide bridge of flesh between her cunt and her ass-hole and delved into the tight aperture of her sphincter. It was neatly creased in four, and it had an ephemerally doughnut-like pout to it, above which there was a slight indentation. An imperfection, I thought. Not a bad one. Not like some of the really gross ones I'd seen in low-rent strip shows that had bothered me; even turned my stomach. But still, an imperfection. I chuckled to myself. It didn't matter. Her ass-hole was going to get fucked anyway. And then her cunt, for a grand finale.

But first her mouth. I hadn't jerked off since Friday, saving up for this. If I had anything left after three shots she might get it in the ear or something! I laughed to myself again. "Wider," I demanded as she teased timidly at the rim of her ass-hole and spread it to a tiny little pinhead of an opening. "Relax. Push out." I knew that when she pushed out on her ass-hole that would push out on her cunt too, and I wanted to see that; the depths rising up to meet me. "Just like you've got a cock up your ass," I told her.

"I've never had a cock up my ass," she half-whined. Then she realized her tone had been wrong. But still, she was afraid. "Do you want to fuck me in the ass?" She strained to dig her fingernails deeper into the aperture and brought up a spreading panorama of cherry-pink insides. That was nice. So very tight and smooth. More perfect than a cunt, in a way. So much simpler and so much more constricting. At least, that's what my gay friends had argued.

"We'll see about that later," I told her. "But just in case I do, you'd better practice relaxing. You can do it if you concentrate. Your cunt too. You can open yourself up wider all around. Do it!"

I didn't know how far I could really push her, but it was at least that far. She hooked her little fingers and her ring fingers into her ass-hole and her index and forefingers into her cunt and I saw the muscles of her abdomen go lax and the muscles of her ass convulse in little tightening and loosening rhythms that opened her up wider each time. Her ass-hole became a wide funnel of cherry-pink flesh and the well of her cunt deepened until, in the fight that shone from a table-lamp over my shoulder, I could see all the way to the curving walls of her grotto's innermost depths. That was where my cock was finally going to go. In there. For the first time my cock was finally going to go up a cunt, and it was going to be this one, and was going to be good.

"Okay. You can blow me now." I got up in the middle of her gyrations and went over and turned off the radio and came back and stood over her. "Pull down my pants."

She was really getting into this thing. Maybe she was secretly getting off on it. Maybe she just wasn't taking any chances. But she came up off the floor onto her knees and reached around me and hooked her hands behind my calves and ran them up over my ass and nuzzled her cheek against the bulging cloth of my crotch. That sent shooting stars down my rod right to the core of my genitals and made me shudder all over.

Then she unbuckled my belt and took down my pants and underpants together, and when I stepped out of them, she got up and went to drape them neatly over a chair. Just the way I'd imagined. I sat down on the couch again and she curled up on the floor between my legs. She took my cock in her fingers and diddled it for a little bit, feeling its superficial softness over its hard, almost brittle muscle. She goosed my balls with her fingers, finding just the right place at the root of my cock to rub and stroke and vibrating her fingertips on it. "Do you want to come into my mouth?" she asked.

"Yes. I want to shoot right down your throat. When I shoot, I don't want there to be any of my cock outside your mouth. I want you to get it all. Do you understand?"

She nodded. Apparently that wouldn't be too hard for her. She was probably a very practiced cocksucker. I wondered whether she'd be as good as Ronnie or Bruce. She eyed my rod with just a trace of awe. Most-likely it was one of the bigger ones she'd run across. I wondered about her husband. Maybe he was Needle Dick the Bugfucker! Hahaha.

Then she wet her lips. I'd been waiting a long time to see her do that; to see her running her tongue up the sharp arch of her upper lip and back down again, and then straight across her slightly pouting lower lip, and then up the arch again, almost like a roller-coaster.. . .

She blew lightly on the underside of my shaft, and that felt great. Then her tongue wound out of her mouth like a fat, gentle pink snake, and licked. Then she bent down over my cock and brought her lips to it. The first contact on its horny head was total ecstasy. The coursing warmth, the live coaxing, the jolting little electric shocks of irresistible sensation . . .

Then she really came after me. All of a sudden the seal of her lips broke over my cock-head and ran down the length of my shaft like a flag down a flagpole until they nestled in the furry bed of my crotch-hair. My rod waggled far down her throat. She gulped and half-gagged on it and drew a pounding rhythm of exultation out of it. I thought I was going to let go on the first attack but I held out. I'd planned it that way. I was going to make her work for it.

She came up off me and gripped my rod in her fingers and then sucked back down to the top of her fist and swirled my cock around in her mouth with her hand, jerking and milking it all the time. The breath streamed from her nostrils onto the top of my shaft as she worked, and her tits banged against my inner thighs, and at the end of the knotted white ivory rope of her backbone, the deep cleft of her ass crack framed a curving V of plush carpet.

It wasn't only the sensations that transported me into an uncharted realm of bliss. It was the idea of a real live desirable woman totally absorbed in the task of pleasing me. For an instant I thought to myself, "How much better it would be if she really wanted to do it! How much better it would be if this were an act of passion rather than of compulsion! Then I could respond with my own passion. I would be obliged to respond with my own passion and I would love it." But this was good too, and for me it was the only way. This way I didn't have to worry about pleasing her. I could let myself be totally involved in my own pleasure; a pleasure sweet with the nectar of the clever hunter's triumph.

I closed my eyes and a surge of delirious abandonment sucked all my feelings of impotence from me. I felt like a sultan enjoying his favorite haremite. It was all there: the opulent surroundings, the subservience, the sparkling wine, and the wishes instantly translated into reality. My potency was free to release itself at will into a madly sucking mouth whose only function was to call it forth.

I let my hips succumb to the whip-lashing cadence of orgasm.

The joy-pumps were primed and the vital fluids were rising in their tubes.

Masculine muscles seized upon the semen with fierce exultation and squeezed it crazily up in grunting pleasure-thrusts.

Janet felt me coming and her throat opened wide and her whole body rocked to cram my shaft deep down her throat. Her lips and nose ground into the wooliness of my crotch-hair and lingered while her lips and tongue swirled over me like tidal eddies to the rhythm of the earthquake tremors that wracked our bodies.

The come-blast splashed with dizzy fury into the tight recesses of her gullet and surrounded the head of my cock, then the shaft, with slimy warmth and primeval wetness. My come came back around me and saturated me in the close tightness of its throat-bound channel. It spurted and gushed and filled Janet's mouth and over-flowed it at the corners, leaking and then squirting across her cheeks, down her chin. It dripped in cloudy white-gray droplets on the edge of the sofa and down onto the floor.

I rode the inebriated currents of consummate satisfaction for.. . it seemed like forever.