Chapter 9
Monica stood in the middle of a desolate open space outside the small village, a sandy, stony square of soil interspersed with dwarfed oaks which she quite naturally failed to identify as a "truffle trees". Everything-chalky pebbles, shriveled foliage, distant silhouettes of derelict farm buildings-was bathed in an eerie silver light as the waxing moon broke through a thick bank of black clouds. She pulled her lightweight cardigan closer around her breasts and continued on . . . walking, even in this wasted wilderness, was preferable to vegetating in that silent hotel room ...
Her stomach felt hollow, but she scarcely heeded the hunger pangs. Far more compelling were the insistent twists of sexual desire which knotted her belly with each slashing stab of jealousy. Was Alan dancing with young Arlene or Cordelia right now . . . ? was his hand circling tightly around a teenaged waist, drifting toward the succulent swefls of firm adolescent buttocks and breasts? Probably she ought to have gone to the discotheque with the rest of them, for no reality could be worse than these love-sick fantasies .. . but she'd been ashamed to admit that thanks to her strict upbringing she'd never learned to dance.
Besides, she reminded herself, I wanted to be alone to think about Gene. But here all I can think about is Alan!
Until now, Monica had not considered herself a jealous person; in fact, she'd considered it a somewhat unchristian emotion. The fact that she was so obsessed with the darkly handsome older man surely must prove the depth of her love, mustn't it? Think of Romeo and Juliet, Othello, Tristan and Isolde ... It was also evident that she'd never truly been in love with Gene Puddocky, for even when they'd been at separate schools and only saw each other once a month or so, she'd never so much as wondered what he was doing in her absence.
"Why should I have worried what he was up to?" she whispered into the shrouded silence. "I knew he was either down at the library or over at the chapel."
Furthermore, there hadn't exactly been dozens of nubile nymphs parading their budding bodies around the seminary. Would he have noticed, even if there had been? No, most likely not. Gene had a lot of praiseworthy qualities, but he wasn't very- very, oh, masculine . . . masculine in the sense that Alan Dubois was.
At the thought of what a man the tour director was, a spasm of torment shuddered through her belly and vagina. Forty-eight short hours from now they would be lying in each other's arms in a room overlooking the sea, kissing and caressing and rediscovering that wild wonder they'd known in Paris. She assured herself she had no intention of letting him actually go all the way, but it was thrilling to know he wanted her, and her sensually starved body was ravenously eager for another taste of his skillful hands and lips.
Of course he wasn't fooling around with silly schoolgirls down at the disco, not if he loved her enough to desire her in this ultimate way! Her jealousy began melting away, but she still yearned to be beside Dubois instead of wandering all alone in this peculiar oak grove.
Oh, God! The crotchband of her panties was damp again! Monica feared she was turning into a depraved sex maniac, for this was happening several times a day lately, but she just couldn't control it.
Somewhere in the distance a dog howled at the moon, another dog answered it, and a human snarled out a string of obscenities which the hounds interpreted as meaning, shut up. Beneath all this was a strange sort of snuffling sound which puzzled the girl until she suddenly recalled long, dull Sunday dinners in the Puddocky's white frame farmhouse. . . lazy flies circling above the groaning platters of fried and chicken and mashed potatoes and berry pie . . . Gene's mother force-feeding seconds . . . Gene's father's prize porkers rutting in the pigsty outside the open kitchen window.
If Monica had needed more stimulus than her lust for Dubois to dismiss Gene from her future, this memory flash provided it. Even if she and Alan hadn't fallen head over heels in love, she realized that deep in her heart she didn't want her life to begin and end in Southern Illinois. Thank goodness she'd found out the Truth in time! Now, of course, she would have to tell Gene the Truth-to do anything else would be dishonest, even sinful-and pray he'd understand and meet some nice girl who really wanted to help him run his parish.
It would be a simple matter of a carefully composed "Dear Gene" letter, except for that religious publishers' convention in Monte-Carlo. Maybe she could manage to avoid him; quick re-reading of the letter in the moonlight showed he'd mentioned no specific dates, not even the name of his hotel. But no-that would be cowardly, childish . . . and anyway, she'd given him a copy of her itinerary so he'd know where to write her. She'd simply have to fight that battle when the time came. "No point worrying about it till then, either," she murmured to herself. Then her heart unexpectedly lightened by having come to a definite decision, she turned back toward the distant churchspire marking the village. Worry? What was there to worry about? She was young and pretty and in love, and sometime when those tormenting teens weren't around she'd have Alan teach her how to dance, and-
Her thoughts trailed off abruptly as she heard soft footsteps somewhere behind and to the left, but she was a country girl at heart and didn't panic. No doubt it was just some farmer making a before-bed inspection of his fields, and it might even be interesting to chat with a real peasant. Find out what crop grew in this strange stone soil. . . improve her French ... practise being the more extraverted Monica she was trying to become ...
The cold metal smashed against the back of her skull before she'd had a chance to feel fear, knocked her into immediate unconsciousness as she tumbled sideways with a thud onto the gritty ground. She rolled over onto her back, neck twisted, mouth gasping open like a dead fish washed ashore, lovely long legs twisted like a tangled marionette's, a jagged crimson gash on one naked thigh ... unmoving.
"Mon Dieu!" Bernard's fingers clutched spasmodically at his switchblade handle as a blinding flood of fear washed over him, and his huge erection vanished as rapidly as it had appeared when he'd spied Miss Blakesley wandering alone through the truffle field. "Mon Dieu, did I kill her? Oh, no, no . . ."
He'd never meant to hit her that hard, just a little tap to knock her unconscious long enough to scare her into not screaming for help, but the wine had impaired his sense of judgment and he was in a furious mood due to having found no truffles at all in over an hour's searching. Just before seeing the Sunday school teacher, it had begun to dawn on his drunken mind that even if he had found the mushrooms he had no way to transport them and, more importantly, no place to hide three kilos of truffles from ten nosey fifteen year old roommates. He'd been heading back to the village bar.
Now he'd really blown everything! Not only had he missed his chance at screwing the sexy blonde American lady, but he'd probably spend the rest of his life rotting in prison and never fuck any female again. Prison? He'd be lucky to get a life sentence. Prison was for dope smugglers and robbers, not murderers. Murderers were sentenced to death! Bernard's blood froze to ice in his veins as he wondered whether they still executed people with a guillotine these days. .. there'd been an illustration in one of his textbooks, and it was about the only thing he still remembered from his eight years of schooling.
"Ooouugg . . . uuuggghhhh . . ."
She was alive! In pain, by the sound of it, but Cretin was too thankful to have escaped the guillotine's deadly blade to be bothered by petty details such as that. One thought focused clearly in his muddled mind: FUCKING. Fucking quickly and quietly so they'd not be heard by one of those bovine peasants who might choose to consider it nape, which of course it wasn't. The shapely chaperone might act like an old maid aunt, but she sure as hell wasn't one; he'd heard her begging for it in Dubois' hotel room in Paris, and she'd soon be pleading for his powerful prick in just the same lust-maddened manner!
The glinting silver blade snapped from its sheath in exact synchronization with his re-hardening phallus.
"Don't you dare make a sound," he waved the blade in her terror-twisted face, "or you'll be good and sorry!"
Her scream strangled in her fear-constricted throat, so that the cries which escaped were mere choking grunts, similar to the sounds of the swine in the nearby barnyard. This must be a nightmare-it had to be. No one was raped in the peaceful French countryside! So far, her head was still so dizzy that she failed to recognize the World Worshiper bus driver and assumed he must be a half-witted farm-boy until he spoke again, in English this time.
"I said you to shut up the mouth!" he growled ungrammatically, crouching down to hold the deadly instrument almost against her cringing neck. "Now I'm gonna fuck you, you slut! So just lie back and enjoy it!"
This was one phrase he knew by heart, for it had figured in many of the blue movies. For several years he'd been hoping against hope that he'd have the chance to use it someday.
"Wh-what? No, no!" she whispered. "B-Bernard? You can't You wouldn't dare!"
"You bet I dare, babydoll! You are the one who will not dare to say no!"
"What!? Oohhh, you're cr-crazy!"
"You are the one who is crazy, too! Crazy for the fucking! I know about you and the boss, baby! You make any trouble, and everyone else will know! So like I have said, lie back and enjoy it!"
Monica's heart leaped to her throat, more terrified than before even though he set the knife aside at last. Her lovely face distorted into a mask of pure horror, and her bruised body shook like a tree during a tornado.
"What's the matter? Mademoiselle doesn't think the bus driver's good enough for her precious pussy?"
Initially, the Frenchman hadn't really wanted to use violence; it had merely seemed a necessary means to his erotic ends, and he had been secretly wishing she'd voluntarily screw him out here in the moonlit truffle field. Now, however, a streak of sadism boiled in his bloodstream and he suddenly wanted to humiliate her the way the world constantly humiliated him. This savage intent was evi- dent in his viciously glinting gray eyes, his lewdly sneering lips, and Monica instinctively sensed that he was a dangerous wild animal whom she did not dare resist.
"Please, Bernard. Please!" she tried to pacify him, plead with whatever better instincts he might possess. "Please don't do this to me! I'm-I'm a virgin, and-"
"Your are full of bullshit!" he displayed his new vocabulary. Then his feverish fingers were tearing her pink dress and modest white cotton brassiere and panties away from her shuddering body. "Full of bullshit. Now we fuck, fuck, fuck! And you will love it!"
Oh, God! What could she do? The boy was truly mad, there was no question about that, and the stench of wine on his garlic and onion breath told her that he was probably very drunk as well. Although he was an inch or so shorter than she was, he was far more muscular and was wielding a knife in a way that said he meant business.
He's going to RAPE me! The words were branded across her aching temples in day-glo headlines flashing over and over again. He's going to RAPE me! RAPE ME! RAPE ME!
While he finished ripping off her clothes, the chauffeur's prominent Adam's apple was bobbing up and down in tempo to his rasping breathing. The ugly sound reminded Monica of Gene's family's collie-it had made noises just like that when the beagle next door was in heat and it had to be chained up. If only this crazy criminal could be chained up, right now! If only she'd never left Orchardburg! If only-
"Aaahhhhh! Don't! Ugh, don't, don't!
The horrible boy's drooling lips had fastened fang-like on her tender nipple tips, biting down so viciously she was sure he was drawing blood. Was he perhaps a vampire as well as a rapist? At this point, she was ready to believe anything!
"TaJquille!"he slobbered against her ivory white mounds, nipping ferociously again.
The Sunday school teacher froze into paralyzed silence, not because she understood his command- the most vulgar form of "shut up", not included in her dictionary-but because she saw that one of his grimy-nailed hands was yanking down the zipper of his bell-bottomed pants. Oh, God, she couldn't let this happen! But what could she do to stop him- nothing!
Bernard's zipper was stuck. He reluctantly removed his mouth from the delicious mounds of flesh, noting with sadistic glee that red droplets of blood were poised on their snow-white skin, to apply himself to the important task of getting out of his trousers.
"Bet that made your tits feel good," he sniggered as he frantically fumbled at his painfully swollen fly, "and this here is going to make you feel even better, you slut!"
Stinging tears brimmed up in the corners of the young woman's big brown eyes, and a convulsive shudder wracked her naked figure. The tears weren't from pain, though her back and buttocks were cruelly cut by the gravel she was lying on and her head throbbed from his first blow. What was far, far more distressing than these hardships, so humiliating that she wished she could die on the spot, was that in fact her tortured breasts were tingling with the same pleasure as when Alan had tenderly sucked them. Her degraded body fell limp as she concentrated every ounce of her remaining energy on obliterating the forbidden tremors shooting out from her stimulated nipples.
"Here we go, baby!" Bernard groaned in relief as the zipper finally gave and his pulsating cock burst forth into the cool night air of the truffle field. "How do you like that? Big enough for ya, huh?
More lines from the movies. And, in fact, he felt like one of those heroes with a huge, endlessly hammering hard-on as he brandished his impressive thick-veined cudgel above the cowering blonde's terrified face.
"Bigger than the boss', I bet!" he bragged, easing back his foreskin to reveal the bloodbloated head and eagerly oozing glans slit.
Monica prayed that he was going to put the vicious-looking flesh weapon between her lips. That would be disgusting enough, but at least she'd still retain the precious gift of her maidenhead to give to the man she loved. But no-he was yanking her shaking thighs apart, his ragged nails cutting into their sensitive skin like nails, his stink of garlic and wine and sweat suffusing her nostrils as he straddled her helpless virgin loins.
"No, no, no!" she whimpered. "Forgive me, Alan ... I can't help it!"
"Damn you! Forget about that shithead Dubois! You're with me, bitch, and you're going to love it, too!"
"No!" She knew it was very unwise to argue with the perverted sex maniac, but how could she save at least a scrap of her self-respect if she didn't defend herself? "You can use my body, you animal, because I can't stop you! But you'll never, never make me like it! Never!"
He slapped her face with all the pent-up strength of frustration in his wiry body, receiving such a jolt of brute sexual excitement from her grovel of groaning pain that he slapped it again and again.
Now she'd have two black eyes and a lot of bruises to explain away tomorrow, and it served the stuck-up bitch right! Thought she was too good for him, did she? He'd show her a thing or two!
For a moment or two the agony-wracked woman actually lost consciousness again, and when she came to she wished she hadn't. Better that he kill her out here in the arid moonlit acre than that she suffer any more of this ego-destroying degradation.
The worst thing of all was that deep in her heart she realized her brave rebutal was a lie. His sadistic slaps, the way he treated her like a chep slut, his absolute power over her body were exciting her in a strange masochistic way. Down in her traitorous pussy, damning droplets of quivering desire were forming . . . when he saw that, he'd know for sure that she was indeed the secret whore he'd claimed she was. This particular mortification didn't come to pass after all, for Cretin's angry red cock was pulsating with out-of-control arousal. Unless he wanted to spill his seething seed over the truffle beds, he hadn't a moment to waste.
"Turn over!" he barked. "Get on your belly. I wanna take you from behind like the she-bitch you are!"
Hating him, but loathing herself even more for the sinful slithering pleasure she derived from following his vile orders, she eased onto all fours just like a dog and arranged her bruised body facedown on the rough soil. Bits of sand and gritty gravel crushed painfully against the bloody cuts on her upper leg and bitten breasts, but in a way she was grateful to be able to bury her face in the cold damp ground instead of looking at the acne-scarred assailant's evil grin of lecherous triumph.
The moment of vague relief lasted about half a second before his sweat-sticky hands were back on her naked thighs. "Spread your goddamn legs, whore! Let me at that hot little cunt of yours!"
Even if she'd dared to try, she would have been' unable to resist his hoarse commands. Her muscles had developed the flabby consistency of putty and had totally stopped obeying the orders her dazed brain dully attempted to send them. It was no use .. . her dream of a delicate deflowering by a romantic lover was already destroyed by this merciless monster. His blunt cock-head abruptly pressed up against the cringing mouth of her vagina, white-hot and wet and hard as granite; perhaps the gigantic cudgel would kill her ... that might be all for the best. ..
The moon emerged from a passing cloud, a lopsided silver circle starkly silhouetted against the starless sky, and Bernard moaned in rapid hunger as his helpless victim's voluptuous figure was clearly outlined. Jesus Christ! Never in his life had he so much as dreamed of actually ravishing a woman who looked better than his favorite Color Climax models! Milk-white buttocks billowing out from a gracefully indented waist and a pair of legs which would tempt a saint... and that pussy! sparse ringlets of gold half-hiding a glistening slit of coral-pink cunt! When he dug his nails into the resilient flesh of her ass-cheeks to spread them, he could see the dime-sized ring of her tiny anus winking at him in unwitting invitation.
"When I get done with your pussy, I'll give you a taste of my prick! he chuckled crudely, sluicing his middle finger down into the spasmodically clutching orifice. "Betcha like it in the ass too, don't you, cunt?"
Monica was so innocent she didn't really know what he was talking about, but she was too horrified by her body's lewd lurch of response to his probing finger to wonder about it. Oh, God, she had to quench these lascivious tongues of flame which were starting to spread like wildfire through her treacherous loins. She had to!
After a couple stinging smacks on the pliant half-moons of each trembling nether cheek, Cretin couldn't wait another second. He hadn't believed for a minute that she was telling the truth when she wailed out that she was a virgin, and even if he had he was too aroused to give a damn about treating her gently. All that mattered to the wine-and-lust maddened Frenchman was immediate satisfaction for his torturously throbbing thickness. He plunged it like a battering ram into the tiny pink hole between her splayed-apart thighs, moaning like a madman, digging his hands into her jouncing buttocks for support so fiercely he again drew blood.
"AAAHHHHHH!"
Pain, the most excrutiating physical agony she'd ever endured, sliced through her like a flame-fanged sword. Monica writhed and shrieked beneath the impaling torture instrument, her sinful arousal blotted from her brain as wave after wave of murderous misery crashed out to every cell in her battered body. Suddenly she realized that he really was going to kill her, and that she did not want to die.
"Oh, dear God, help me! Save me!" she tried to pray, but the imploring words echoed hollowly in her own head, and neither her Guardian Angel nor the Heavenly Father sent any aid.
"Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy word be done, on- on-on-"
Her babbles died off in a sob as she realized she'd forgotten the words to the Lord's Prayer-her Faith had deserted her! Perhaps this obscene assassin had been sent to punish her for her sins of the flesh with Alan Dubois back at the Hotel Modern, for drinking alcohol and painting her face and fading off into lurid, pussy-dampening dreams during tours of sacred chapels.
Her assailant's pile-driving piston plunged harder, trying to tear its way through the tissue-thin barrier of her resisting hymen, and all attempts at prayer gave way to another outburst of anguish. It was impossible to endure this agony much longer!
"Aarrhhhhh! Nooooo, STOP, SSTTOOPPPP! Ooouuhhhwwwwww!"
Hounds in surrounding farms chained began howling in answer to what they thought was a bitch in heat, a canine chorus of carnality, which echoed eerirly in the mottled moonlight and hid the subjugated schoolteacher's screams from their slumbering masters' ears. Had it been winter, the peasants would have left their warm beds to investigate, but there was no reason to fear truffle thieves till the season began in late October. This was July; they shrugged and yawned, perhaps rolled over to pump into their plump, impassive bed partners, then started snoring soundly once more.
The frenzied French rapist was as oblivious to the barking dogs as the animals' owners. Paranoid fantasies about gendarmes and guillotines had been blotted from his brain, and he was now groaning almost as loudly as the subjugated school-teacher beneath his grinding groin. Her cunt was so incredibly tight that even his fierce impaling thrusts had a hard time parting the clinging pink petals of her pussy-lips and inching down into her narrow, butter-smooth channel. Every vein and pucker of the closely clasping walls was branded against his strenuously stroking flesh pole, and the exquisite erotic sensations were so intense they were almost agonizing.
"Ohhh, pleeezzzeeee! Stop, STOP! You're killing me!"
Bernard paid no more heed to her panting pleas than he did to the guard dogs. Until tonight he'd never been laid without investing at least fifty francs for the privilege of pouring his pent-up sperm into some streetwalker's shopworn cunt- this shameful secret had been the scourge of his sex-obsessed existence. Triumph throbbed through his veins as he realized that from now on in he could hold his head high against any six-foot super-stud around, for no cock on the continent could possibly have conquered a more exciting pussy than beautiful Miss Blakesley's!
"AAArrgghhhhhh ... oh, God! Oouugghhhhh!"
American guys must have real skinny little pricks or something, the Parisian bus driver decided, for she'd obviously never had a cock even half as powerful as his inside this gloriously pressuring passage of hers. Christ, she was as tight as a-as tight as a-
"Goddamn!" he bellowed suddenly as the truth hit him. "I don't fucking believe it! You've got your cherry!"
His first virgin! And, what was even more monumental, he'd gotten into her tight blonde box before his boss, that stuck-up asshole Dubois!
Flicking his passion-propelled hips forward in a violent thrust, he battered his blunt-nosed knob against the fragile membrane of the groaning girl's straining maidenhead. His bellowing battle cry resounded through miles of moonlit truffle orchards.
"Get ready, bitch! Here it comes! AAAG GGH HHHH!"
Monica had sincerely thought she'd reached the utmost limits of human endurance, but the urgency of his animal outcry warned her that worse was yet to come. A fresh flood of fear tensed the stretched muscles of her fire-filled vagina into rigid ropes, heightening her agony as his relentless ramrod finally shattered her hymen and charged straight up to the hilt to crash against her sensitive cervix.
The fatal thrust stunned her into silence. Her tortured loins twitched like a gasping fish washed up to wither on the shore, and then she collapsed in a limp heap of pain as devil's pitchforks raked searing blue flames from her vanquished vagina to every nerve and fiber of her being. For a seeming eternity she wallowed in a black sea of swirling, sickening agony, too dazed to realize the awesome significance of the sticky pool of warm moisture forming between her spasming inner thighs.
"Uuhhh ... ooohhh ... uuuhhhh ..."
The breath broke in harsh rasps from Bernard Cretin's lungs as he recuperated from his energetic assault. For short minutes he let his conquering cock lie still inside the warm sheath of his victim's vagina, but as he spied small drops of blood oozing out around his impaling weapon, he grew so excited that he immediately withdrew his throbbing cock part of the way out and began fucking in earnest. His seed was already boiling down in his bloated testicles, demanding release.
A shriek burst from the Sunday school teacher's constricted throat as his turgid cock pulled nearly out of her no-longer-pure pussy, but in the same instant her well-stretched vaginal muscles automatically relaxed. In her almost total ignorance of the sex act, she believed that everything was over. Thank God! She'd probably been damaged in some dreadful way internally-perhaps she'd never walk again-and she would never in her entire life feel clean or decent again, but at least the torture was over and she was miraculously still alive. At least- "Aagghhhh! NO! Pleeezzzeee-not again! Aaa-hhh!"
His thick member slid smoothly into her relaxed vagina this time and immediately began pumping in and out in the age-old rhythm of man fucking woman. Despite Monica's continuous stream of wails and whimpers, it wasn't more than a minute before she realized with a dull thud of despair that her anguish was metamorphasizing by some black magic into the first twinges of obscene arousal.
"No ... no ... no ... " Her voice dropped to a plaintive prayer as she vainly attempted to quell the rising tide of sensuality.
This was unthinkable! She must be going insane! How could her belly be flooded with wicked excitation by an immoral madman who'd just robbed her of her innocence, integrity, and every cherished childhood ideal?
Exerting every ounce of energy she could summon, the self-repulsed blonde squeezed her bruised white thighs shut around his impaling hardness ramming into her from behind and simultaneously clenched her full ass-cheeks together. This well intentioned but ignorant maneuver only sparked new tingles of strange masochistic excitement; and the ensuing spasm of guilt, oddly enough, also ignited her traitorous loins with unwanted warmth.
"You like my cock, baby?" wheezed the wildly fucking Frenchman. "Better than the big boss, huh? He wasn't enough of a man to screw you, was he? What did he do-have you jerk him off while he twiddled your twat? Haaaaaa!"
The lewd chortle of mirth chilled Monica-God, how she loathed this inhuman creature-but it had no effect on the onrushing tide of passionate pleasure-pain. What in the world was the matter with her? She could detest Cretin! She did hate him, in fact; but she nevertheless craved his pounding penis, longed for more and more of his brutal strokes even though her punished pussy passage was burning and sore.
"You like my prick?" he demanded again. In all the blue movies the hero had made the heroine beg for it, and his own pleasure wouldn't be complete without hearing Miss Blakesley humble herself. "C'mon, bitch, say it! Say you love my big hard cock!"
Where did this filthy-minded bus driver ever learn to speak that kind of English? Monica's mind whirled wildly. But she didn't care, not really. All that mattered was that she suddenly felt her backside arching up in lewd invitation, just as it had done to meet darling Alan's loving tongue thrusts. She forced her loins to lie still against the damp gravel, but the swollen nub of her clitoris nudged against an inconveniently located smooth stone and the friction was so titillating that before she knew it her buttocks were once again wriggling up to the rapist's rampaging rod.
"Say it, slut! Say you want more of my cock in your cheap cheating cunt! Say it!" He lashed out his open palm to smack first one, then the other of her firmly jouncing ass-cheeks. Hell, he couldn't wait much longer before shooting his load into this fantastically tight cunthole-the pressure of his balls dancing on her smooth buttocks was growing unendurable! "BEG FOR IT!"
She'd not really paid any attention to Bernard's commands till he struck her, had only been aware that he was spewing out vile obscenities and that these were having a wickedly arousing effect on her sinful body. Now, realizing what he wanted her to do, she felt a wave of fresh horror ripple over her.
"No . . . nooo . . . NNOOOOO! I d-don't want it! NOOO!"
The girl's wails were loud, but unconvincing. Even the intoxicated, lust-maddened bus driver could hear the hysterical note in her voice, the ready-to-break tone of anguish.
"Then why are you bucking back on my prick, you crazy nympho?" he jeered, allowing himself the sadistic pleasure of a few more vicious blows on the pliant moons of her backside. "You think you're something special 'cause you teach Sunday school- but you're just another hungry cunt like every other woman around. BEG FOR MY COCK!"
Something was starting to crack inside the girl's soul at the barrage of blows and venomous vulgarities, plus the throbbing chords of oncoming orgasm which were strumming a wanton symphony in her cock-stuffed pussy and churning belly. I have to do what he says, she rationalized in a last moment of semi-clarity, not admitting even to herself that she not only wanted his brutally battering cudgel, but actually wanted to spit out all the filthy obscenities she'd ever heard. If I don't say it, he'll beat me up . . . kill me with his knife, maybe ...
"All right, you bastard!" She rose her head from the ground, spitting grit and sand from her lips as she gave way at last to lascivious lust. "I want it-I want your cock in my cunt! I love your fucking cock, and I want more, more, MORE!"
Good Lord, was that her own viice shrieking out in the darkness? She'd turned into a depraved, degenerate subhuman like himself-and she didn't give a damn any longer!
"FUCK ME!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, body writhing in unrestricted lust now as she strained for the same marvelous climax she'd experienced only once before in her twenty-two years. "FUCK ME-fuck me hard! Hit me, kick me, do whatever you want to me-but make me cum! MAKE ME CUM!"
It was too much for Cretin. Even as her carnal cries split the night air, his sperm-bloated balls gave a vigorous lurch and the first seething drops of seed started their pellmell rush down the long tube of his penis. This was going to be the most mind-blowing orgasm he'd ever had!
Monica felt the vein on the backside of the man's tightly embedded flesh rod pulsing crazily, and some instinct told her he was about to ejaculate inside her. She strained like a madwoman to reach her own release in time, pressing her quivering clitoris against the rough ground, mashing her raw nipples into the mud, flailing her buttocks upward so his velvet-soft sperm sacs danced against the backs of her upper thighs. Just two minutes more-one minute more . . . she was on the brink and any moment now she would explode with mindless ecstasy . ..
"Ahhhh!" groaned the busdriver. "Now-yes! Aaagghhh, I'm cumming! CCUUMMIINNGGGG!"
Gushing jets of white-hot semen splashed against the walls of the crazily gyrating girl's vagina, and suddenly her whole body fell limp as the dizzy peak of desire on which she'd been hovering evaporated and left her wallowing in a cold vacuum of frustrated lust. Her lacerated loins lay in a sensationless heap as the blissfully moaning male shot flood after flood of warm life-giving seed into her numbed channel. Why hadn't the bastard waited for her? Oh God, why, why?
Then, as Bernard's shrinking phallus shot its last sticky white spurt and slipped from her cuntal lips with a lewd sucking slurp, guilt and self-loathing once again overwhelmed the no-longer-innocent Sunday school teacher. With a shudder she craned her neck around to stare in repulsion at the half-naked youth, at the sticky rivulets of his copious cum dribbling over her dirty, bruised legs... at the dark-red stains of dried blood on the stones of the truffle field. She tried to roll out from under Bernard, to locate her clothes, to escape.
Escape? What escape would she ever find from the ugly knowledge of her own depravity?
There were mud stains on her pink dress, the same garment Alan Dubois had complimented her on this morning. He'd said she was like a spring blossom. No longer.
On the hem was a reddish-brown smudge of blood from her ravished vagina. And her white brassiere and panties had both been torn by the despicable driver who now lay sated and half-snoring on the ground, his wasted erection dangling like a limp pink balloon between his thin, wiry thighs. Monica shuddered violently, and her fingers trembled so badly she could barely fasten the few remaining buttons on her dress.
"Hey, what's wrong with you?" Cretin mumbled as he half-awoke from his post-orgasmic daze. "We got the whole night ahead of us! Just wait a couple minutes, cherie, and I'll show that sweet asshole of yours those tricks I promised."
She stumbled back a few steps, collided into the trunk of one of the dwarfed oak trees, and began to cry helplessly.
"What are you bawling about? We had a great fuck, huh?" A belligerent note crept into his voice as he recognized the familiar contemptuous dislike in her wide brown eyes. "Git out of that dress and back down here, stupid bitch!"
He lunged to his feet, but before his hands could touch her paralyzed body an expression of pure terror wiped the puffy-lipped leer from his pimply face and he too snatched up his imitation snakeskin boots and frantically began stuffing his limbs into his over-tight trousers. It was a second or two before the stunned blonde realized what had frightened him so badly: heavy footsteps, and a dog's yapping barking, suddenly resounded in her boggled brain; the noises were a long way behind them ... but not that far. And there was a pinpoint of light waving in search between the twisted treetrunks of the truffle plantation, the sort of glare cast by a high-power flashlight or large lantern.
"What the hell's going on out here?" a sleepy, faraway voice echoed toward them.
Bernard didn't even bother trying to pull up his bothersome zipper. Visions of guillotines danced through his head as he darted into the shadows beside the girl's frozen figure, gripped her arm, and hauled her off after him at a stumbling run.
"Move, you stupid bitch! You want them to catch us?"
Why run? Where's there to run to now? she sobbed into the bleak silence of her soul. There was nowhere to go now but the deadend of hellish depravity, of that she was absolutely sure, for above all other emotions there was still that dull ache of desire hungrily throbbing down in her sinful cunt.