Chapter 9
Mickey White's big semi tractor-trailer rig barreled down the highway, his CB letting him know it was OK to keep up his sixty-nine miles an hour speed. Just so long's he got way, way away from that sorority house full of green-speckled girls who were all pissing green!
In the back seat of a taxicab taking him home, Doc Driessen suddenly lurched forward to look out. Yeah, that was she, all right. The waitress they'd tried out the formula on, yesterday. Maybe the subject had to sleep awhile before the strange effect happened. Victoria had dropped off a time or two, hadn't she? At any rate—the waitress, like all the DIK sisters, was green-speckled and hurrying into the hospital emergency room.
Doc's examination of Vicky Chambliss had already indicated no other effects. Just green excrescences and green urine. Some bodily reaction to his formula. A chemical change, inside. Nothing serious.
He leaned back and sighed. "Back to the old drawing board," he muttered. "Or rather the lab."
Then he grinned. "Well . . . Vicky can be my subject this time. Shell be willing, I've no doubt!" And he proudly patted his crotch.
Meanwhile, hours away, Grif and Anne Treece were barreling down the highway on his motorcycle. And Fred and Henrietta, despite her weird rash, were busily moving her into his apartment. And Cesar was sound asleep in the bed in the downstairs room that would soon be his, as soon as he called the service station to let 'em know he quit . . . and then went home and got his stuff. He was going to love his new digs, and his new employers, the girls of Delta Iota Kappa sorority!
And at Bill Martin's house ...
Bill had arrived just before sunup and let himself in very, very quietly Some clever thinking had resulted in his neatly hanging up his coat, getting a topcoat from the hall closet, and stretching out on the living room couch. He'd be here, sweetly snoozing, no hangover, no liquor on his breath, no headache, when Winifred awoke and came down later. Where had he been? Out! He was damned well going to turn over a new leaf. There'd be a few changes around here, or ... or else. He loved her, or thought he did. He loved Winifred's magnificently breasted body. But she'd start behaving differently, or he'd just move out and call a lawyer. He had never had such an enormous soaring feeling of confidence in his life. He went to sleep.
While he slept, various doctors examined various girls and found nothing they could identify. The girls were fine. They just happened to be broken out in citrine hives or warts or something, and happened to piss green. And they noticed that each time they went to the bathroom, the green tinge was paler. And the breaking out was not so noticeable. It was all going away.
Bill Martin knew nothing about that. He knew nothing about the measles-like rash or the strangely hued urine; he'd left before the phenomena manifested themselves. And he slept. And slept.
Bill Martin awoke. His wife Win stood over him.
"Morning," Bill said.
"Good MOR—is that all you've got to say?"
Bill yawned. He had resolved to turn over a new leaf. Don't be intimidated, he told himself. You called and said you had to work late. Now brazen the rest through, Bill. Get ahold of yourself—and Win ... and your marriage!
He scratched. "Just at the moment. I just woke up—and I'm a bit stiff. Got to admit the bed's more comfortable than the couch."
"Then just why aren't you in it?"
Bill yawned. "I told you I had to work late. You haven't forgotten? Good. Well—I had no idea it would be so late. I just decided to flake out down here, rather than disturb you getting into bed." He swung his legs over, looked at his watch. "Oh hell! You overslept and didn't wake me—guess you forgot to set the alarm with me not here, huh? Well! I've got to get out of here!"
She followed him around, sputtering, incredulous that he was so cool and unapologetic, while he stripped, shaved, dressed again, without a shower. He said nothing about breakfast and neither did she. She wanted to tell him about her experience of last night; wanted to chew his ass; wanted him to apologize and grovel and then sympathize with his poor almost-raped wife. With him hurrying so to get to the office though, adamant and barely responsive to her increasingly shrill, petulant words, she decided to hold that story for tonight.
Still sputtering, she hit on one last try as he reached the front hall: "I do hope you won't have to ... work late... again tonight."
"I will not. I absolutely will not, Win! If Crutcher wants me to, I'll just have to tell him tough titty; you and I have something going tonight." He smiled and, totally unlike him, slapped her ass.
Her eyebrows had already danced upward at his "tough titty" phrase, which wasn't like him; neither was a slap on her fundament anything either of them was accustomed to.
"William Martin!"
"William Henry Martin," he said, nodding. "Yep. That's me, that's me. Now don't let me be a liar to Crutcher, Win. Let's get something on tonight." He swallowed nervously. Oops. She probably didn't know that phrase. "Get it on" was what those sorority girls said instead of "fuck." Some of them. Some of the time. "Put on something sexy, why don't you, Win? Break out that old Merry Widow bra you say's gone out of style. Maybe that low-necked lavender thing. Flash me with some of that magnificent marvelous breast flesh of yours! Ho ho!" And he grabbed her and gave her a sudden kiss that would have melted wax.
"B-BILL!"
"See ya tonight, sweetheart," he said, and slapped her ass, and departed.
She stood staring after him, absently rubbing her backside.
Bill reached the office twenty-three minutes late. No way to be sneaky about it. Crutcher was standing there in the outer office, hovering over the new girl, and he turned and stared as Bill entered.
"Good morning, Bill. You are, late," Crutcher said, with a measured beat between each word.
"Morning, Earl. Yeah—first time in over two years!" he said, and went into his office. He didn't look back at Earl Crutcher, knowing the man was standing there staring, wanting to say that same line to be used on kids: "Is that all you have to say?"
Crutcher didn't. Bill put in a damned .good day's work.
When he reached home that evening, he was disappointed to see that Win wore neither the old-time Playboy Bunny bra nor the scoop-neck lavender top. As a matter of fact she wore the old chenille robe that hung like a sack and whose blue was faded to a cloudy-sky gray. Spite.
"HI BABE!" he cried gustily, and gave her another of those huge hugs and long deep kisses. And, leaving her giddy and confused, he bounced up the steps. When he descended, he was wearing one of the V-necked teeshirts that looked good on him, and a pair of tightish tan chinos. He bustled into the kitchen.
"How's about a Martini?" he gusted. "You'll have to fix it," she said, without turning from the stove. "Right. I am."
He was sipping it, not leaving the kitchen, when she said, "I don't know what happened to you last night, but you're not yourself."
He didn't know that was her lead-in to telling him what had happened to her last night. "Win: yes I am! I am myself. Exactly. I just haven't been, for several years."
She wheeled to stare at him, her hands on her hips. "Must be change of life!"
"The hell it is! I'm not old enough! We're both still young enough to—my GOD, woman, look at you!
You shameless wench—you're braless inside that loose thin robe, aren't you!"
She was, and somehow she was soon backed up against the sink and the robe was wide open and her husband had one hand working in her crotch and one at her right breast while he licked and sucked the stiffening tip of the left one. She began to moan and shiver. She stopped objecting and trying to push him away.
"Ummmmgrrrrgllll-rrr!" he said, around her breast, and he bit.
"Oww!"
Keeping both hands clamped, two fingers up a warm cleft that had definitely just squirted over his knuckles, he pulled back from her breast. "Hurt you?"
She blinked, shivering. "You—you—of course you hurt me! You bit my breast!"
"So I did. Lick it and make it well," he said, and proceeded to that activity.
He kept it up until she was moaning and quivering and tugging his head to her, soundlessly praying that he'd bite it again. Her prayers were answered. "Ow!" she cried, and he grabbed her upper arms with both hands and chewed her swollen aureole and thickly stabbing nipple. She whined. She trembled. She squirmed, rubbing her chenille-clad butt against the sink. She closed her eyes. It was the Phantom Tit-nut all over again—and all over again, she loved it!
He loosened up his grip on her arms. "Get my pants open," he mumbled, around the nipple in his mouth.
"Bill! Dinner!"
He released her, swung to the stove, punched off the three burners, and swung back, all in about three seconds.
"You'll spoil my dinner!"
"I'll spoil yer ass if you don't shut up and get my pants open!" he told her very positively, and seized on both her breasts. Using those big gourds to pull her to him, he opened her mouth but shut off her words, with a kiss. She struggled against him. He let go one breast and slapped her butt, then grabbed a handful of that jiggling cheek.
"Jesus Christ Bill Martin you can't TREAT me like this!"
He was much into his role. Act confident and cool, and something happens. So long as it isn't overdone to become ridiculous . . . you feel confident and cool. Bill Martin did. Besides—as well to be hanged for a horny goat as for a lamb!
"It's going to have to be rape, then," he said, growling around her breast, which he bit. And then he raped her.
It was the first time they'd fucked on the floor in eleven years. The floor was chilly—at first. It soon warmed up, under the cushiony ass Bill Martin's body was pounding into the linoleum tiles, while rodding his cock in and out of his wife's wide open and very wet and hot pussy. She minded plenty—for about thirty seconds. Then she couldn't mind anything, other than those eleven blown years.
She was exceptionally, unbelievably turned on. Her inner cunt writhed and seethed and leaked the juices of her passion in hot trickles. It squished as he ran cock in and out of her.
"Oh yeah, yeahh, yesssss, oh, oh do me, do me good and hard!" Unable to stop, she kept emitting high, sobbing squeals of pleasure and delight. She couldn't understand it. She didn't care, though. It was as if Bill knew about what had happened last night, knew what she needed and wanted, and was resolved to turn over a new leaf and give it to her. She met every one of his hard, jarring strokes with an insistent pumping of her broad hips. Sobbing gasps poured from her quivering lips and tremors shook her sensual and bewitching body, its breasts shaking like great masses of cream-stuffed rubber.
Her body was wracked by a huge upheaval and his deeply delving cock was squeezed viciously. Her legs kicked high on either side of him. Passion distorted her features. Her face writhed. He'd come a lot last night/this morning, and he wasn't about to be easily got off now. He hadn't yet discovered Vitamin E, and wasn't yet into the increased sexuality he planned to continue from now on. He fucked and fucked, loving it, loving what he was doing, loving what he was doing to her, and he didn't give a shit whether he came for an hour.
Neither did Win Martin. She lay there, moaning and groaning, grunting and gasping, making high squealy noises, and clutched at him and tried to hump up against his plunging lunging body. That wasn't easy, with him banging her as hard as he was. She tried anyhow. His ass swiveled lewdly in his efforts to drive in farther. Hard-driving cock massaged the trembly, tissue-like walls of her pussy, and it was one hell of a forceful massage. Under his pounding chest, her finely molded big titty-mounds swelled beautifully with the passion that rippled hotly through the writhing, delighted woman.
"Ah!" she cried. "Ha! Ah, annngh!" Great strong male organ found a home within her and he claimed possession of her inner chamber with vicious twists of his hps. He claimed possession of her. And he was damned well going to maintain that possession, and control.
Doc Driessen's formula had changed a sorority. It had changed a number of girls, all of whom were by now nearly over their rashes, and no longer pissing green. It had changed the men, too—and it had changed Bill Martin, and his life, and his wife and her life. Doc Driessen was a hero and didn't know it.
Bill Martin had become a hero to his wife, and she knew it, and he was about to. He shuttled about inside her, shuttling his hips from side to side, back and forth, delighting in the sheer wanton youthful lust that registered on his woman's writhing features. They looked lovely that way. She looked sexy, and happy. He fucked hard, and their bodies moved helplessly across the floor.
He fucked her through two shaking quaking squealing orgasms. He fucked her half-unconscious. He fucked her for twenty-eight minutes, and then, lunging, panting, and writhing, he pumped her full of semen.
When he came home from work next day, Martinis were ready, steaks were just going into the oven, and his wife greeted him with her breasts burgeoning high and liquid and sexy above the low neck of the lavender blouse. Only the old Merry Widow could lift them that way, he knew, and he grinned.
Later, messing around happily on the couch in the living room she gave his cock a squeeze that was a bit too much.
"Here, wench, watch that! Treat me that rough again and I'll be forced to take you up and tie you to the bed and rape you blind, black, and blue."
"Oh?" Her mouth was round and so were her eyes.
He shoved his hand into her bodice. "Yeah."
"Oh," she said, and gave his cock a hard squeeze. It leaped. So did Bill Martin's heart. He stared at her. She smiled lazily, and looked down. "Do it to me," she murmured.
Bill and Win didn't know it, but those were the same words that Victoria Chambliss, standing at Doc Driessen's door, had just said to him.