Chapter 2

The divorce court that granted Terry's decree had clearly stipulated alimony payments and child support from her former husband. However it is not possible to squeeze blood from a turnip. The man simply didn't have the money. After the divorce he even managed to lose his job.

Consequently, Terry simply had to find a job to support herself and her thirteen-year-old son. After her experience at the Hunsucker Dating Service, she carefully avoided answering advertisements for secretaries in lonely heart clubs.

She finally did manage to secure employment with a legitimate company, and in a very few weeks she found herself appointed personal secretary to the boss.

"You've been working very hard," Jeff Randle said to his new secretary. "And all work and no play makes Jill a dull girl."

Terry looked back at her employer with an amused smile. Randle, a short, graying, middle-aged man reminded her of a church deacon. He always wore dark, conservative clothes. He seldom smiled and always walked about with a preoccupied air about him. Whenever he left the office at the end of the day, he always carried with him a brief case jammed with business papers that required his attention.

Terry couldn't associate the word play with him. She felt very comfortable in his presence. He represented a prim and proper father figure with whom she could feel safe and secure.

Still smiling, Terry replied to her boss. "I agree with you Mr. Randle. But ever since my divorce I've found out one very important fact of life."

The round face of her employed stared back at her. Behind the thick glass of his spectacles, the eyes of the man grew wider. With a concerned air, he encouraged her to reveal the facts of life regarding a newly divorced and attractive young lady.

"This world is built for couples," Terry went on in an almost anguished voice, glad to talk with a sympathetic soul. "All of my former friends have dropped me. Guess I'm competition for their husbands, or so they think. And don't tell me to go to a bar to pick up men. I don't drink and I'm not interested in their propositions."

Jeff Randle clucked sympathetically. "I know exactly what you're going through my dear," he informed Terry. "After my first wife passed on, I found myself alone and very, very lonely. Until I managed to meet Cynthia ... my wife ... I died a thousand deaths from sheer boredom."

"The week-ends are the most depressing times," Terry rambled on. This was her first opportunity since the divorce to talk about her situation. "If I was the crying type, I'd cry. But I keep hoping things will get better for me. Maybe," she added wistfully, "I'll meet someone ... A decent guy with something on his mind besides..." and she hesitated.

"Sex." The round-faced man supplied the word for her. "I know exactly what you mean." Clearing his throat, he added, "Not all of your weekends have to be lonely. May I make a suggestion?"

Terry looked back at him with surprise. "Of course," she said with a note of regret. Was he going to try and match her up with some old bachelor friend of the family?

But her boss had something else in mind.

"Cynthia and I have a weekend cottage in the country," he explained. "Something about the fresh, unsmoggy country air that rebuilds the soul. At any rate, you're most welcome to join us. It will help you unwind, get a new outlook, maybe come up with a new solution that will help you cope with your single world. Maybe it's not as boring or terrible as you think."

"I'd love to," Terry replied quickly and enthusiastically. "Getting out of that small apartment for one weekend will be good for me. And Jackie ... my thirteen-year-old son always spends his week-ends with friends his own age. Yes, Mr. Randle I accept and I'm very grateful to you."

Randle threw up his hands. "Don't be grateful, please. I'll be glad to have you with us.

And so will my wife. You'll like her!"

For the first time, the little owl-faced man smiled.

The smile caught Terry by surprise. It looked almost out of place on his overly serious, bookish face.

The divorcee shrugged off any negative feelings. For the first time since her divorce, she was actually looking forward to a week-end.

"I'll go home and pack," she said.

"I'll pick you up around seven," Randle said as he immersed himself in the clutter of papers on his desk.

The momentary feeling of apprehension quickly left Terry and she could hardly wait for the week-end to begin. A week-end in the country with secure, comfortable people was exactly what she needed...

Cynthia Randle turned out to be a surprise. Terry could hardly believe that this young, vibrant, shapely girl could be the wife of plain and dull Jeff Randle. Blonde, vivacious and loaded with good humor, Cynthia was the perfect hostess.

"The secret of successful living is the ability to unwind," she said to Terry.

Terry smilingly agreed and couldn't help but wonder how such a lovely, young girl could have consented to a marriage with The Deacon.

"I agree," the divorcee murmured.

Still, she couldn't picture Cynthia Randle unwinding in a quiet, out-of-the-way cottage in the country. The closest neighbor was more than two miles down the road. The voluptuous Mrs. Randle looked as though she would have been at home as the center of attention at a cocktail party.

Although Terry had promised herself to drive all thoughts of sexual matters from her mind, she couldn't help but wonder about the sexual relationship between The Deacon and his young, dynamic wife.

How on earth did he satisfy her? Terry wondered.

As though the blonde woman had the ability to tune in on Terry's thoughts, she turned the conversation towards sex.

"I'm a bit curious," Cynthia said, and continued to smile in her warm way. They were sitting around in the comfortable living room after dinner.

"About what?" Terry asked, surprised that the very sophisticated Cynthia Randle could be curious about anything.

"Sex," Cynthia said, bluntly.

"Sex?" Terry echoed, incredulously. She hadn't expected to hear the topic openly discussed in the staid household of The Deacon.

Her employer explained. "I was telling Cynthia about the problems a suddenly divorced woman has in meeting eligible men."

"Oh," Terry said, relieved. "You're curious about how a newly single woman goes about meeting eligible members of the opposite sex."

"No," Cynthia replied, firmly and quickly. "I was wondering what you do about sex." And in the most innocent-sounding voice. "About getting fucked."

This common word for intercourse was fired at Terry with such abruptness and unexpectedness that she spilled her drink. In fact, her fingers were trembling so badly she could hardly put down the glass.

Mr. Randle hastened to explain. "My wife attends a psychological encounter group. The psychologist in charge of the class encourages all of his pupils to express themselves freely and naturally."

Cynthia nodded. "No harm meant. But free expression in sexual matters is supposed to help us unwind. And," she added, "I find it works."

Her husband nodded. "Yes, we all have to be prim and proper during our business week. But on weekends, it's time to unwind, relax, and express ourselves freely and naturally." He chuckled. "I suppose I'd shock some of you girls at the office who call me The Deacon behind my back."

Terry couldn't help but laugh. This man was genuinely honest, and now he revealed a quite human touch. He even knew the office staff made fun of him behind his back and apparently didn't care. She suddenly found a new respect for this man and his wife.

Probably, his young and liberal-minded new wife had taught him to be more human. Terry decided she would be an ungrateful guest if she tolerate their belief in free expression.

Her frown disappeared, replaced by an amused smile.

"I don't," she told her hostess. "I mean ... one doesn't have sex without a partner." She grew serious again. "But quite frankly, I'm not interested in that aspect of human relationship. Companionship is what I'm after. Doing things together, sharing. Decent people needn't complicate their relationship with any sordid sex. It's not necessary at all!"

Cynthia Randle poured herself another drink. Her husband remained silent, looking more owlish than ever. After taking a generous swallow of her Scotch, Mrs. Randle said, "If you don't mind my saying so ... that's a crock of shit. Every normal female craves a good fuck ... One way or another."

Reminding herself that vulgar talk was only part of Cynthia's psychological training in the encounter group, she replied quickly. "I assure you that I most definitely do not! Why, even throughout the many years of my marriage, sex was..."

"Distasteful?" the man inquired.

"Boring," Terry admitted, much to her surprise. This was the first time in her life she had ever admitted aloud that sex with her husband had been totally unsatisfactory. She had been a virgin at the time of their marriage, and faithful to her husband. She had never had relations with another man. "Sex is a bore."

"Agreed," her blonde hostess replied with an emphatic gesture of her shapely hand. "If a man and woman fuck each other in the same old way every time, it's going to become a bore. But certain people ... people with imagination ... can make sex fascinating and guarantee each other a tremendous blow up every time they hit the sack."

Jeff Randle put in: "Cynthia learned all this in her psychological encounter group. And to be quite candid, I didn't buy it at first. I didn't buy it at all. But..."

"I convinced The Deacon to at least give it a try," Cynthia laughed at her husband who smiled back.

The man, still smiling, nodded his graying head. "And ... much to my surprise ... I found it worked. For the first time in years I began to enjoy sex with my wife. Now..." and he positively glowed..."we have a genuinely happy marriage and our sex life is never boring or dull."

Cynthia explained with gusto: "When I married Jeff, the poor little fellow couldn't even get up. In fact, he warned me he was impotent. Well, I didn't buy that kind of shit. I knew he needed treatment. And he got it. Now, he gets the stiffest bones on I've ever seen. No teenaged kid can bone up stiffer than my husband ! "

Randle threw back his chest and looked much younger than his years.

"It's true," he told Terry. "I'm a young man again ... thanks to my free-thinking wife. I have so much to thank her for."

Despite her distaste for the subject, Terry was consumed with curiosity. Perhaps there was more to a genuine sexual relationship than a polite encounter between polite, and well-mannered friends who were fond of each other. Perhaps if she did meet another man now she'd be better able to cope.

Terry found herself asking, "What is your secret?"

"No secret," Cynthia gushed back. "Hell, I'm willing to share it with the world. After all, no one can take out a patent on a good luck."

In a more diplomatic way, the blonde woman's husband stated, "Perhaps ... if we were to demonstrate. In good taste, of course," he quickly added to reassure Terry. "In the best of good taste, I assure you," and he looked very serious and very sincere when he made that assurance.

Cynthia threw back her head and laughed. "Since when is cunt-pumping in bad taste?"

Randle stood up.

"Why don't we demonstrate what we are talking about?" he asked his wife. "I'm sure Terry has certain reservations, certain doubts. Let us put them to rest at once."

Terry found herself gripping the arms of her chair. "I ... I am sure that is not necessary," she said but in a tiny, almost inaudible voice.

Cynthia waggled a finger at her guest. "You ought to join our psychological encounter group. You'd get over all those timid, old-maid ideas about sex."

Red-faced, Terry replied. "I'm not exactly an old maid after fifteen years of marriage. But," she conceded, "it won't do any harm to watch. I must admit my sexual education has been limited."

"Want to make a bet?" Cynthia asked as she stood up and calmly began to disrobe.

Terry was too surprised to reply. She had never met a woman that was so completely uninhibited.

She guessed it was all right. After all, the Deacon was with them. Nothing could happen to her as long as he remained sober and reserved.

Without waiting for a reply from her lovely guest, Cynthia answered her own question. "Sure you do. You'll bet me you'll have the biggest cunt-blow of your entire life. And you'll win."

Terry started to stand up. "Wait a minute. I promised to watch. I ... I have no intention of participating in any sordid act." Quickly, she turned to her employer for reassurance.

But she didn't get any. Jeff Randle was also busily engaged in the act of taking off his clothes. He did say, "You won't be disappointed, my dear."

As he spoke, his pants slipped to the floor to reveal his genitals. He had not been wearing shorts.

Grasping his dangling penis with one hand he gave it a few strokes. Quickly, the smallish appendage began to enlarge and slide up towards the angle of fuck.

"It's not the longest," he conceded. "But I manage to make up the difference with quality. I think you'll agree once you feel it inside your cunt which I hope is already hot and juicy by now."

By now Terry was alarmed.

Accusingly, she said, "You're both ... crazy. I don't know what's going on but I'm getting out of here!"

Cynthia Randle laughed. "Go ahead. We're twenty miles from our next-door neighbor. And trudging along a dark, country road in chilly weather isn't half as much fun as the kind of fuck we've got in mind. Now, settle back, dearie," she advised, "and let your hair down. We're not going to do anything that is psychologically unsound."

Her employer piped up. "That's the whole idea for this weekend. Letting our hair down. Dropping the facade we wear in everyday living. We're all alone and able to be ourselves ... our true selves."

"No," Terry protested. "My true self has nothing to do with such things. You're ... sex crazy," she gasped.

Yet, as she spoke, she couldn't help but admire the sight of the two naked bodies that confronted her. Surprisingly, Jeff Randle in the nude managed to look quite appealing. Although short, his body was muscular, broad-shouldered and huge-chested. His penis was not long, but it seemed to radiate a sort of magnetism ... perhaps it was the vivid color of the excited skin or the sheer animalistic lust of the man.

His purplish cockhead continued to vibrate, and the moisture that oozed through the pores of the penile shaft definitely increased its appeal. The man's buttocks were smooth and firm.

Naked, Jeff Randle did not look like a church deacon at all.

There was a velvety sheen to the white, bare body of Randle's wife. The up-thrust breasts required no support from a brassiere and the inch-long nipples, moist and supple, resembled erected pricks. The dimpled navel of the woman resembled the lips of a distended female pussy The pubic hair, long, blonde and curling like beckoning fingers, crowded up from between her legs in the shape of an inverted triangle. The long, shapely legs could only be described as a couple of nutcrackers.

A wall mirror reflected the image of her ass-cheeks. They resembled a couple of nippleless tits, and the cleavage, slightly parted, revealed wiry, rectal hairs.

If Terry was an artist she would have wanted to paint the Randle couple. But she wasn't an artist and the married couple weren't artist models.

"I'm getting out of here," Terry declared and made a move for the door.

She didn't get very far. Cynthia Randle's fingers became claws that began to rip and shred the clothes off the frightened divorcee's back. As Terry attempted to flail out with both arms in an effort to free herself, her naked employer grabbed both of her wrists and pinioned them behind her back. With her hands literally handcuffed, Terry found herself helpless.

With quick, practiced movements, Cynthia pulled off her skirt and very quickly peeled down the pantyhose. There was strength in Jeff Randle's arms, enough to hold her hands while he plucked off Terry's blouse with the other. In a very few minutes, Terry had joined her host and hostess in a state of undress.

"Let go of me," the distraught woman cried out and kicked out with one, long and very shapely leg.

For answer, Cynthia opened one hand and slammed it hard against the cheek of the struggling prisoner. Terry's face snapped to one side and for a few moments, she almost lost consciousness. The pain was fierce enough to make all of the fight drain out of her. She moaned.

"That's better," Cynthia said. "After it's over, you'll thank me."

"And what about me? Won't she thank me, too ? " the husband aksed his wife, laughing.

Cynthia joined in the laughter but in an amused, cynical sort of way. "Yeah lover, she'll thank you ... or your prick. We'll both thank you."

Terry cried out. "You disgust me, the both of you. You ... you're not normal!"

But the man and wife were paying no attention to her words. They were too anxious for the action to commence.

Jeff started to pull his reluctant partner over to the couch while Cynthia turned and walked over to a desk at the far end of the room. From a desk drawer, she took out a long instrument that resembled a male penis.

Forced to sit on the edge of the couch, Terry looked up at the woman with wide, incredulous eyes.

"It's a prick," Cynthia said, unsmilingly. "A dildo." And in an almost loving tone of voice she added, "It's my lover."

Terry simply shook her head.

As Terry continued to sit on the edge of the couch, Jeff Randle stood alongside her to prevent any further struggles from the girl. He turned to his wife.

"Why don't you tell her what it's all about. Maybe when she knows, she'll be able to get her kicks too." Complainingly, he pointed out. "It's no fun for me when they don't blow out their cunts, too."

His wife nodded. "Yes, it's time she knew why we got her up here for the weekend."

Terry looked up at the woman with the dildo. She held the instrument as though it was a living being, capable of receiving as well as giving love.

What was she going to do with the awful looking thing? Terry kept asking herself. Despite her inner feelings of revulsion, she couldn't help but stare at the instrument that looked so very much like a male penis.

The penile shaft was at least a foot in length, the skin of the outer surface was painted pink and bluish veins running along the underside. The bloated cockhead was the size of a baby's head. The paint was a special formula: the color glowed and exuded an aura of lust.

In the center of the head, the eye seemed to pulsate even though Terry knew the appendage was artificial. At the base of the shaft, two huge and hairy balls hung down and appeared so life-like that only a close inspection could reveal their artificiality. The skin of these sacks was extremely thin, and apparently both nuts were filled with a fluid. One drop oozed through the eye on the cockhead as Cynthia pressed one ball ever so lightly.

"What are you going to do?" Terry asked as tears welled up in her eyes.

"Fuck," the Randles answered in unison.

"Now," Cynthia sang out, and there was an undercurrent of anxiety in her voice, almost a desperation. She needed her own, peculiar type of sex with the same urgency a hop-head needed a fix. And her own peculiar type of sex involved an artificial prick!

"Yeah," Jeff Randle breathed, heavily. "I got to ball her, too."

Without further explanation, the man pushed Terry back on the couch and grasped both her ankles.

"Spread," he ordered. "Spread your goddamn legs so I can pump pussy!"

"Nooo," Terry cried. As long as she kept her legs folded tightly together, her employer would not be able to molest her.

Despite her situation, Terry's mind was clear enough to grasp the essentials of this situation. The couple seemed sexual abnormal. Cynthia Randle could only get excited by watching her husband have sexual relations with another woman! And Jeff Randle couldn't get excited unless his own wife watched him have sexual relations with another woman!

They were both too kinky as far as Terry was concerned and as long as she kept her legs tightly together, the man would not be able to make a proper penetration. If he should be able to force his way in, the feeling would not be. a very pleasant one for him.

Cynthia grew impatient.

"Fuck her!" she rasped to her husband. "What in hell are you waiting for? My lover wants to pump my pussy!"

Breathing rapidly, Jeff Randle grabbed hold of Terry's thighs and tried to pry them apart. He was surprised at the strength and determination exhibited by his prisoner. He didn't want to beat her into submission-he wouldn't be able to get his nuts off if she wasn't a willing participant.

He wanted her to willingly shout certain obscenities while he was pumping and his wife watched. All of these things were vital to his climax. He'd go impotent otherwise. But the more he tried to pull her legs apart, the more the girl resisted him.

Cynthia issued a series of instructions. "Go down on her. Suck her cunt. Tongue her ass-hole. Once she gets a taste of that hot, educated tongue of yours, she'll spread gladly!"

"Yeah," Jeff retorted over his shoulder. "That ought to do it."

His wife commenced to slide the cockhead of the dildo up and down her cuntal cleft in anticipation of making entry. But she would not penetrate the vagina until her husband was actually screwing the girl. It was vital for her that she watch her husband fuck another woman.

Terry, of course, also heard the orders for oral treatment, but there was nothing she could do to prevent the man from lapping her exposed, outer cunt. The thought of anyone putting his mouth against her genitals-the area where she urinated-was so abhorrent to her that she tried to reason with her employer.

"I'm not clean down there," she managed to cry out. "I ... just went to the bathroom."

Randle's-head bobbed down between her legs and he commenced to sniff. "Yeah," he breathed in a happy tone of voice. "You just had a piss. I can smell it. The smell of piss on a female cunt sure turns me on."

Without further hesitation he stuck out his tongue apparently in an effort to snare the few remaining drops of urine that still clung to the thick bush of pubic hair.

Terry arched her back as though she wanted to recoil against the wall. But Jeff had a firm hold of her waist. There was nothing to stop him from sniffing the outer surface of her genital organ.

"Filthy," Terry screeched, her face staring up at the ceiling. "Filth ... eeeee..."

Jeff Randle didn't share her judgment of the act of going down on pussy, the odors associated with the pee-hole, or the taste. To the contrary, he found it all very desirable ... and edible.

"Yummy," he breathed, his eyes shining, saliva beginning to drip from his lips. "Simply and fuckingly yummy."

Assuming a semi-squatting position, Cynthia began to press the cockhead of the dildo back and forth against the outer lips of her shining cunt. She wouldn't make an actual penetration until her husband began to screw his secretary, but even this initial play was highly desirable. Her full, thick lips pulled back into a smile while her eyes grew rounder, glassier.

The cunt-play with the dildo was being accomplished with her left hand. The fingers of her right hand searched out and discovered her lengthening clitoris and began to softly strum the female prick back and forth. Drops of white liquid dribbled through the hairy cleft as her smooth hips swayed back and forth and occasionally made a full circle like an accomplished stripper giving a professional performance.

"Go," she urged her husband. "Eat her cunt. Lick it out. And then ... then bang her box. Got to see you banging her box."

She cried out and her hips moved in a faster, more lascivious way.

Slipping both hands under Terry's firm buttocks, Jeff Randle lifted up her abdomen and jerked it against his mouth. The black cuntal hairs, thick as jungle grass, covered his features, but from the movement of his jaws there couldn't be any doubt about his activities. His tongue was darting in and out and up and down. The ultimate goal was a taste of the soft, red inner valley of love. But as long as Terry kept her legs tightly and firmly together, the penetration could not be made.

"Never," Terry babbled out tearfully. "Never let you do it ... Never..." Her voice trailed off as the male tongue kept up its insistent but gentle lapping.

Despite the fact that she was a prisoner of two perverts, and being forced to submit to an unnatural act, Terry had to concede to her inner and hidden self that the sensation caused by wet tongue flesh was not exactly unpleasant. But then, she quickly told herself as though in reproach, she was utterly confused and could not be held accountable for her true feelings. At least the beast was not hurting her.

Cynthia began to bag away on her stiffened clitoris at a much faster rate. She was beginning to let herself go because as far as she could determine, Terry's pouting pussy lips were beginning to widen. No one could eat cunt better than her husband, she laughed to herself.

Her observation was a true one. Under the determined onslaught of the tongue, the cuntal gates could not remain closed. The moisture from Jeff Randle's slobbering mouth seemed to grease the hinges. The doors of cunt slid slowly open.

"Can smell it," Jeff piped up, triumphantly. "Can smell inside ... the juicy part," and promptly forced his muscle-tightened tongue into the pink fuck funnel.

Terry's head snapped all the way back until she faced the wall behind her.

"Per ... vert..." she managed to get out in a high, nasal screech.

But for reasons beyond her comprehension, she couldn't prevent the high, thick, outer lips of her cunt from sliding apart. They moved of their own free will to accommodate the constantly wriggling tongue of the lapping man. Randle licked more furiously for he sensed he was on the road to victory.

Cynthia Randle sensed this, too. And because she felt that the prisoner's vagina was going to open wide for both writhing tongue and throbbing cock, she increased the tempo of her self-fucking movements. Her fingers grew white, tightly gripping the dildo shaft. She flung the artificial prick deeper into her own dripping cuntal crevice. With each bang of her box, she grunted to permit flecks of foam to bubble through her lips. Her face grew more flushed and she began to utter lewd expletives.

"Suck her cunt," Cynthia spat out. "Pry it open with your tongue! Then fuck the hell out of the same pussy you've just been eating!"

This thought of her husband having sexual intercourse with a vagina he had mouthed turned the woman into a raging, shouting masturbator!

"Eat her ass, too," she barked. "You've got it all under your face. Turn the bitch into a fuck fiend like we are!"

"Nooooo," Terry kept repeating but in a voice that grew smaller.

But this humid, constantly moving tongue against her cunt wasn't the horrible thing she had first anticipated. And the sight of the man's face, awash with her cuntal outpourings, really didn't appear degenerate, at all. There was a certain charm about the man's gusto and persistence. Of course that didn't excuse his actions. Acts of sex were reserved for the function of making children ... the idea that pleasure should be involved were always abhorrent to her.

With one final and determined thrust downward, Jeff Randle managed to pry open the vaginal well to its fullest extent. Juices geysered up into the face of the eating man. He opened his mouth as wide as possible to drink the liquid.

Smacking his lips, Randle laughed crazily. "Sweet as honey. Her cunt juices taste sweet like honey."

"Yeah," his wife replied, enthusiastically. "Swallow every drop of her sweet pussy juice. Then, get on top and drill it out with that prick of yours."

Remaining in the semi-squat and rotating her hips in alternating clock and counterclockwise positions, the hands of the masturbating woman increased to such a rapid tempo, it was almost impossible to follow their movements with the naked eye.

There were times when the artificial cock almost disappeared from sight within the confines of the cuntal cone. And she kept strumming on her clitoris with the wild abandon of a rock-and-roll musician during a concert.

Realizing that he had attained the goal of opening Terry's cunt with his tongue, Randle pulled his face back, and still smacking his lips happily assumed a position on his knees and elbows. His prick, vibrating and having attained its thickest possible measurement, streaked into the pussy parlor with the accuracy of a guided missile.

"Ohhhh Noooo," Terry cried as her legs jack-knifed straight up into the air and spread apart to make a pronounced figure V. In between that V, Randle commenced to pump out his fuck.

The sight of her small husband having direct cock-cunt contact with the dark-haired woman almost drove Cynthia Randle happily insane. As the dildo whistled in and out of her slobbering sex slot and her hips gyrated wildly around, the woman barked out a series of instructions to her fornicating husband.

"Goose her anus while you fuck," she called out. "Finger-fuck her ass-hole. Suck her tit. Use long, hard strokes. But fuck. Keep it up.

Drain her dry. Make her shoot out every drop of juice. And make her cry out for more prick. More," she continued to screech like a tormented harpy. "Faster. Harder. Go, husband, go. Fuck that cunt...! "

like an automaton, Jeff Randle obeyed every order issued by his domineering wife. Running both hands under Terry's round buttocks, he jammed one finger deep into the shit hole and wriggled it around. To his wife's delight, he fastened his full lips over one of the brown distended nipples of his victim.

At the moment however, the woman under his heaving and pumping body wasn't acting like a victim. To her own consternation, Terry's body began to move as though it had a will of its own. For example, her knees flexed and dropped over the shoulders of her rapist. But instead of trying to push him off her body, they exerted pressure to force Randle's face down harder over her tit.

Her hands reached back and began to caress the hairy cheeks of her employer's ass. Indeed, on several occasions, one of her more bolder fingers, burrowed into the buttocks of the man and dug itself deep into his ass-hole. Although she tried to yank the offending finger out of the male rectum, it continued to finger-fuck the tight opening. Even the animal odors that wafted up and towards her now smelled in-toxicatingly fragrant.

These co-operative movements of Terry's legs and hands stung the fucking man into a frenzy. A smile of triumph opened his mouth.

The masturbating Cynthia Randle voiced her new demands.

"Make her say fuck me. Make her cry for more hot prick! Make her admit she's one of us. Co, husband mine, go! Do your goddamndest. Making the cunt-happy bitch admit she worships hot cock!"

The pumping married man nodded. To hear the words of abject surrender to lust was a must for him, too.

"Say it!" he yelled down into the face of his secretary. "Admit you love, worship and adore my pumping prick! Tell me you love the feel of my finger inside your ass-hole! Come on, bitch. Say it! Let's hear you say it." His voice sounded fierce, determined.

But Terry had enough presence of mind to resist. Despite the co-operative movements of her fingers, body and genitals her mind and tongue would not obey the rapist's perverse request.

After working her tongue back and forth, she finally was able to reply. "Never." And the reply was delivered in a strong and emphatic way. "Never!" she repeated gathering up courage.

While she was delivering her reply, the cheeks of her ass began to behave in a most alarming way, now. The flaring buttocks began to rotate around and every now and then thrust upward, as though to encourage the thumping of the man's rigid penis.

This movement of Terry's gyrating buttocks brought her alarmingly close to a climax. In fact, thin streams of hot vaginal fluids were already spurting through the crevice. Randle felt the thick fluid wash his prick and winced. He, too, was approaching the blow-off point. But he knew that under the watchful eyes of his demanding wife, he could not, as yet, permit the ejaculation to occur.

Cynthia Randle had ways of telling that her husband was near a orgasm, and she called out in warning.

"Don't you blow that prick of yours until she admits she loves this kind of wild fucking. Don't you dare let your cock spill out now. We're too near to success." she continued to remind her husband.

Under the circumstances there was only one thing for Randle to do. He stopped moving entirely. When he made the decision to cease his fucking movement, he wasn't more than three strokes away from an orgasm. But as the friction ceased between his cock-bone and the vaginal wall, the juices flowing from his testicles abated. Only a few drops of gism splashed through the eye of his pounding cockhead.

This sudden cessation of all movement hit Terry like the sudden withdrawal of dope from a hop-head's body. For the very first time in her entire sexual life she had been very near a climax, a genuine orgasm. For a few moments, she had been teetering on the brink of the blow-off. But now, the vaginal walls stopped fluttering, and in a very few seconds, without the further application of cock-friction, she'd lose her ability to cunt-kum.

To her complete surprise, she heard herself ask, "Why ... why are you stopping?" Her voice sounded shaky, even alarmed.

"Whyyyy?" she whined as tears welled up in her eyes.

Cynthia Randle answered her question.

"Say it!" she demanded in her harsh and lewd voice. "Say you love, worship and adore my husband's brand of fucking. Tell us how much you'd love to keep that hot prick nestled in your nooky nest for the rest of your life. Come on you hot-blooded bitch, admit it. Admit you love to have your cunt ravished. Admit you love to have me watch and jack off at the same time you're getting reamed by my husband. Come on, you snotty snatch. Confess. Confess!" she screamed and continued to scream in a voice that grew more harsh and strident with each new burst from her lungs.

Randle took up the cry.

"That's right honey-cunt. No more fucks from me until you tell us how much you love to feel my prick up your cunt."

Terry clamped her lips tight as though she was frightened they would begin to move against her control. But in spite of this effort, certain words formed inside her mind, took shape in her mouth and finally her tongue moved and the words flew out.

"Fuck me," she said. At first her voice was low, tremulous, doubtful.

Glowing happily with triumph, Randle shouted, "Louder! Let's hear it again but louder."

"Fuck me!" Terry cried out again, and there couldn't be any doubt that she desperately needed the application of cock inside of her cunt.

The sudden cessation of the pump created an agony of desire that was even stronger than anything she had experienced. Terry realized, with a sense of desperation and despair, that she needed orgasm more than anything else in the world. And so, her head snapped back, her lips ripped apart, her eyes squeezed tight as she sprayed out: "FUCK ME!"

And when the male rider didn't respond instantly to her command, she let loose a string of obscene oaths that even surprised herself. "Goddammit, you little chicken-shit bastard, pump that prick deep inside my cunt and keep on banging until I tell you to stop. Go, damn you, go!"

Cynthia Randle shouted with glee.

"That's it. You've won her over, husband mine. Now fuck her. Let me watch that beautiful pumping of cunt." And as she thus exhorted her husband her own hand action increased in tempo. The dildo literally flew back and forth inside her pussy hole as though the instrument was fueled with a high energy liquid.

Her thumb and forefinger flipped the swollen clitoris until there was some danger she'd rip the female prick off her body. The sweaty cheeks of her ass jiggled as the lower portion of her abdomen swayed back and forth. Her eyes, glazed and fixed, grew larger.

The effect of Terry's demand for cock had an even more devastating effect on Jeff Randle. For one breathtaking second, he thought he was going to ejaculate prematurely. That was the reason he didn't immediately respond to Terry's cries for action.

The shaft of his penis throbbed violently and the cream leaped from his testicles into the sex stick and resumed their onward rush towards the exit. The realization he was going to lose his load stung the man into a wild, almost frenzied fuck.

Sensing the thickening of prick prior to the explosion, Terry threw up both legs and wrapped them around her rapist's rib cage. Using the scissor-grip, she was able to exert pressure on his body, and to make certain he got the message Terry reached back and dug one, long and shapely finger into Randle's rectum. And while her finger goosed the ass-hole, her round, firm buttocks began to rotate and pump back in unison with the rider's motions.

Terry warbled at the top of her lungs. "Going to..."

Now the walls of her vagina were fluttering more violently than the canvas sails of a boat caught up in a sudden hurricane.

"Going to..." she managed to screech again. The two fucking bodies thudded together with such impacts, they grunted each time contact was made. But that didn't deter them. And Terry continued to cry out:

"Fuck me, lover. I love that big, solid prick inside of me. On fire. Cunt's on fire. Burning up. Whole body is flaming ... flaming..."

"Me too," Randle coughed as Terry dug a finger up his ass-hole to such a depth he thought it was going clear through him.

"Too," he managed to repeat himself but only barely. The raging river of gism-juice had already approached the hole on the head of his cock.

"Toooooooo," he babbled crazily as the first and freshest load of cock-kum splashed out and into the gaping hole of cunt.

"Aiiiiiii," Terry kept on screaming like a mad woman. "My cunt's burning up. All the way up. Uppppp...! "

The sudden realization that her husband was climaxing into the yearning pussy of another woman provided the trigger mechanism for Cynthia Randle's climax. With one last and vicious thrust of the artificial prick, and one last tug on her clitoris, juices spiraled up from the very depths of her genitals and sprayed through her cuntal lips like an oil gusher. Her legs bucked and she teetered backwards against the wall. Slowly, she slid onto the floor where she sat with legs spread apart to let the flowing liquid of cunt spurt out and puddle under her thighs and over the floor.

Every muscle and organ in her body relaxed and at long last she was able to heave a sigh of contentment.

"Best fuck I ever had," Cynthia said to no one in particular. To watch her husband make another woman was the very special kind of stimuli she craved and continually lusted for.

Rubbering to the point of ineffectiveness, Jeff Randle's penis sloshed out of the still pulsating pussy and accordioned against the sofa cushion. But Terry no longer cared or even was aware. The after-effects of her very first orgasm at age thirty-six, were still tingling her body from toes to head.

With her eyes closed she was reliving the very last moments when she felt certain her genitals were going to spasm loose from her body and fly across the room. And the warmth of the trickling of cunt still bathed her in a happy glow.

Then, she opened her eyes.

"You're okay, kid," Cynthia told her as she wiped off her dildo. "That's just the first of many and happy fucks the three of us can have together." She added, with feeling, "You've got more talent for the fuck than any broad I've ever met. You're just a natural born fucker."

Her husband seconded that point. "Without a doubt, she's the very best piece of ass I've ever had in my entire life. Without a single, goddamned doubt, the greatest cunt I've ever eaten or dick-drilled."

The sweat on Terry's face turned suddenly cold. A numbness gripped her body within and out.

"No," she said in a very small voice. And then, louder, and with more emphasis. "NO."

Her legs slid over the side of the couch and she reached for her clothes.

Randle and his wife watched her with surprise and concern. The man spoke.

"But you just got through begging me to fuck you."

"And you loved it," Cynthia piped up. "Loved every pumping inch of prick." She said accusingly. "You can't deny you blew the biggest load of your life. And from where I'm standing, I'd say it was the first time you ever blew your cunt in your entire life."

That was true but beside the point as far as the reawakened Terry was concerned.

"For one moment, I lost control," she said in a thoroughly depressed tone of voice. As her senses came back to her, she felt a deep shame and revulsion for her acts. Dressing quickly, she promised the Randles as well as herself: "It will never happen again. Never!"

Cynthia Randle sneeringly retorted. "Bullshit, sister! You'll be back for more. And you'll be telling us how to stage the fuck. You got talent for it, dearie, and make no mistake about it. You're cock crazy."

"Never," Terry retorted over her shoulder. "I'm getting out of here and I never want to see either of you again. I'll catch a bus home."

"You'll be back for more hot fucks," the Randles jeered after her.

Terry ran through the dark night until she reached the bus stop. Tears welled up in her eyes as she thought about her humiliation and degradation. It would never happen again, she vowed to herself.

But as hard as she tried, she couldn't forget the sensation of the Big Orgasm, the feeling of total release, the ecstasy she had never known before.

"I will overcome these dirty thoughts," she kept telling herself over and over again. As many times as she repeated these terse commands to herself, however, she couldn't erase from her memory, the sneering faces of the Randles when they told her, "You've got a talent for fucking."

"No," Terry cried aloud. Several passengers, startled, turned to stare at her. They decided the young lady had just awakened from a troubled sleep.

Terry knew, though, that her troubles just beginning.