Chapter 9

Countless times, during the harrowing, shameridden nightmare following the expose of Sirri's duplicity, Dwight almost convinced himself that it was absolutely futile to continue with their MayDecember arrangement, that nothing but evil could result from further capitulation to her sensualist whims. And just as many times, forcing himself to resist calling her, summoning her to rendezvous either at the apartment or the house, he found himself absolutely incapable of seeing his bravura resolve through. He had but to think of her sexually accommodating her juvenile stud (Hal Gilmartin, he'd discovered), and his resistance melted like snow in July. Humiliating though his participation in their quaint, troilistic orgies might be, he had no other course but to defer to same, to wallow in any corruption his daily-more-cruel, more contemptuous mistress might command.

For the truth of the matter was that he was, by now, in complete thrall to the evil child; there was no way under the sun for him to break her all-encompassing spell over him. Though she mocked and degraded him, he still loved her; more desperately than ever, if such could be. Perhaps-it was a line of conjecture he queasily preferred not to pursue this very magnification of his love was due, in itself, to the humiliations, he suffered at her hands, to the low esteem in which she held him. Certainly Dwight would be the first to admit that his sexual drive had never been stronger, it was a soul-spanning, braggart transformation, and he constantly amazed himself-and Sirri and Hal as well-at the ferocity and duration of his sexual assaults lately.

Whatever the reasons, it was painfully evident to Dwight that he could not-under penalty of a metaphysical death--terminate his tainted liaison with her. He withered inside every time he conceived of life without Sirri. Beyond these cowardly considerations were the more practical ones as regarded Sirri's potential for creating scandal in the community. And while he could not possibly see how she could implement such without jeopardizing her own sacrosanct image in Benton Falls, he was not about to put her to the test. It was vastly more simple to accede to her picayune requests for inexpensive pretties, a more adequately stocked larder and liquor cabinet at the apartment, then to venture into the uncertain quick sands of a head-on confrontation.

Needless to say, Dwight had not informed Noreen of the latest, unsavory development in his star-crossed love. Whenever she snidely inquired after the widening gap between assignations at the house, commenting on the fact that she hadn't been asked to absent herself from the premises for a long, long time now, he fabricated alibi about Sirri's growing preference for the apartment. An explanatiin which Noreen accepted with a jaundiced smile. Dwight necessarily walked on eggs when he was about Noreen, he fully realized it would be a catastrophic blunder to let her learn of the deadly double-jeopardy he had recently placed himself in. Noreen would scream and claw, create a scene of scenes.

The latest news was Sirri's startling announcement that she'd changed her mind about college. She wouldn't be going now. Her present hedonistic pursuits immeasurably more exciting than any transient allure the academic life could offer, she would sample same to the limits, reconsider an education when life had nothing better to offer. "Who needs it?" she sneered. "Who wants to lock himself up with some dusty old books when it's happening out here? The whole ball of wax. Baby's gonna swing, swing ... There's time enough to crack the books, ball the professors, when I'm old and gray. But for now ... Oh, honey, lick my pussy! Like wow, Daddy!"

Attendant to Sirri's decision to skip college was the arrangement whereby she took delivery of her long-promised Cougar in Benton Falls itself. It was left to Dwight to see to the details of how she would drive it without her parents, friends and relatives becoming suspicious as to how she'd come by same. Thus the sporty, steel-blue auto was garaged either downtown, or at a service station a few blocks from Sirri's home, the papers, the subterfuge skillfully smoke-screened by her experienced benefactor himself.

Accepting her decision to remain in Benton Falls with mixed feelings (Dwight entertaining ephemeral hopes of somehow weaning her from Hal Gilmartin's ugly influence while she was away), he also found it among his appointed chores to scout up a suitable job for Sirri, her parents insisting on same as part of their acquiscence to her headstrong rebellion concerning college. Thinking to install her at Candlelight Petroleum, he thought better of it, prevailed upon Clint Garvey, a long-standing friend and fellow industrialist, to employ her in the mailroom at his plant; which job was not too demanding, would afford Sirri ample time in which to steal away for occasional afternoon rendezvous at the apartment.

Hal Gilmartin was the unknown quotient. A relatively inexperienced youth whom Sirri knew from high school-a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, who'd not been included in her regular, fawning coterie-he didn't quite know what to make of the bizarre game he'd been dealt into. In this respect Sirri had made good her promise to Dwight, and so far as the rakishly handsome Hal knew it was merely a matter of rich sugar-daddy and over-sexed young nympho getting together for some cash-on-the-line kicks. At this point he was merely content to go along with things, not make waves. If this crazy cunt wanted to ring the old poop in on their fuckfests, if she wanted to coerce him into all sorts of sick didos, that was her business. Who was he to complain? So long as he got his. Or so Dwight deduced, understanding Hal, positive that in time he could find an angle whereby he'd be able to shoehorn the kid out of their arrangement.

Thus, for the time being at least, some superficial strata of equilibrium was once more established in Dwight and Sirri's relationship.

Equilibrium like that which he was dubiously enjoying this Indian Summer afternoon at the apartment, making the best of things, considering the fact that he was being forced to share Sirri with the ubiquitous Hal Gilmartin again. And yet, not really share, in that it was he who conducted a solo performance, an exhibition as it were, for the callow youth's edification. Both he and Hal naked, their rods standing at straining attentions (the contrast between Dwight's flabby, milk-white body and Hal's tawny, muscular one painful indeed), they were gathered in one of the pad's three bedrooms. Where Sirri, clad in the fetishist garb she knew would turn Dwight on so well-a flashy orange ensemble with black lace overlay, garter-belt beneath the panties, jet-black hosiery and Chinese-red patent leather pumps-was laid out on the bed, giggling and squealing vulgarly as she adjured Dwight to perform all his cute tricks for her.

"You dig this outfit, darling?" she taunted. "Really turns you on, doesn't it? Just like Halloween.

The Great Pumpkin, huh?" She writhed as his tickling lips climbed up her legs, meandered over her bare thighs. Then, with a convulsive lurch she reached down, grabbed his head, pulled it equidistant to her vagina, jammed his face into the simmering mush there. "Go ahead, baby, gobble it. Eat Sirri's hot, little squash. Oooh, you devil, that's delicious; it feels marvelous." While, looking over Dwight's hunched, driving shoulders, she addressed Hal. "Watch this, baby. Watch close. This gig you gotta learn. If you really want to turn a doll on. God, it's fantastic. You pay attention. It'll be your turn next."

Hal made a wry grimace. "That'll be the day. God, what some people won't do. It turns my stomach."

"What do you know, Hal? Christ, you're even dumber than I thought. What makes you think you're so damned much?" She squirmed, pulled the by-then-nearly-oblivious Dwight from her throbbing crotch. "Take the damned things off, will you, hon? Cherchez la chat. The real thing now, love."

"I can take care of you," Hal retorted.

"You call that taking care of a girl? That jackrabbit stuff?"

"You never complained before."

She sent an indifferent moue at him. "It's okay, I guess. When a girl's dying to get fucked, but fast. There are times and there are times. I suppose every girl needs a square." She snickered. "But for the long haul, you need a guy like Dwight here. Hell, I'm just getting warmed up and you're all through."

"Yeah?" Hal sneered. "Well I can come back damned fast, don't forget that. Something that old creep can't do."

"So? What're you good for that time? One more. So I got two pops out of you. Big deal. In the meantime Dwight's made me come seven or eight times. He's making me come right now." Her face distorted into an ugly mask, and transported to sexual delirium, she jittered on the bed, actually drew her knees back toward her face, braced her feet against his shoulders, the bite of her sharp heels into his flesh making his exultation the more intense. Dwight fervidly drove his tongue into her oily crack, lashed her clitoris mercilessly, built a minor orgasm atop the initial one. "You fuck," she growled, when he finally relented allowed her to topple from her high, "you ever-lovin' fuck!"

She stared ferally at Hal. "See?" she challenged. "Two already, and he hasn't slipped an inch to me yet. And, brother, when he does...." She winced in anticipatory delight. "Watch, Hal. You just might learn something." Whereupon, twisting on the bed, she pulled Dwight beside her, immediately struggled up, commenced to dandle and caress his freestanding hank. "Pretty baby," she cooed, slicing it maddeningly with pink flickings of her tongue. "I'm so glad you got him back." Her eyes became harsh. "But I had to cheat on you, I had to put you to the wall to do it. Maybe it was all for the best. Isn't that so, Hal?"

"You said it, I didn't," he snarled. "I don't know what in hell you're talking about."

"Our secret, isn't it, Dwight, baby?"

"Our secret," he chuckled delighting in the sight and sensation of Sirri playfully winding her tongue around the slimy, purplish, knob, nowingesting it as far as she could into her hot, stripping mouth. Humiliated he might be, errent slave to his perverted compulsions, but there were compensations of sorts in being praised by Sirri for his finesse and lasting power-especially in front of her arrogant, short-fuse punk. He lurched, sucked in a pained gasp, as Sirri bore down with teeth and palate in that devastating way he'd taught her, all but flayed the skin on his member.

"Staying power?" she taunted Hal. "Hell, you'd have shot all over me by now." A demonic light erupted in her gaze. "C'mon over here, baby," she husked. "Let's see just how good you really are. Something I've always wanted to try ... Stand up, Dwight. Beside the bed." Sirri sat up, dangled her legs off the edge of the mattress. "Both of you ... stand close together. No, Hal! Put your hip up against Dwight's. There, like that."

Then, something fanatically diabolic filming her eyes she gathered each man's cock, guided it toward her evilly stretched mouth. Somehow she managed to arrange both swollen stalks so that she could stuff them simultaneously into her mouth. "Sirri," Hal protested. "For Christ's Sake!"

"Shut up, damn you," she scolded, her words mangled. Almost immediately she began to exert irresistible pressure, to run her mouth back and forth in swift cadence upon the double-barreled monstrosity, was able to consume a mere two or three inches of the outre machine at the most. She applied such suction as she could muster, allowed her lower teeth to abrade the underside of each pecker, and she soon had both men-Hal especially-pleading for mercy. Then, a minute later, the inexperienced youth set up a guttural, barking howl, attempted to remove his rod from the fiendishly massaging orifice, received a vicious clamping of teeth for his troubles. Sirris mouth churned vindictively, sadistically, determinedly.

Now Hal groaned sobbingly, swayed, nearly fell. As he disgraced himself, involuntarily discharged inside Sirri's mouth, his cream sluicing down her throat in great, gushing jets. "I ... I'm sorry, Sirri," he said shamefacedly when she eventually released both of them. "I didn't mean...."

There was a brief pause while Sirri gulped down the last of his sap, lovingly licked her lips in the bargain. "Didn't I tell you? Jack-rabbit, that's all you are." She fell back onto the bed, a hand on each prick, dragged the two men down beside her. "Just for that...." She snickered salaciously. "The glory hole for you...."

Hal protested feebly, yet fascinatedly as Sirri out-lined the next barbarism on the afternoon's agenda-another variation she'd always been curious about, but had never been able to attempt for a singular lack of manpower. "At least take off your shoes ... that crazy underwear," Hal grumbled. "I like my dolls naked."

"Fuck you!" she snarled. "Dwight likes his dolls in silk. And since Dwight behaved himself ... I like it too. Sometimes, anyway. This just happens to be one of those times." She virtually handed the clumsy Hal into place behind her, became impatient. "Dwight, will you show this jerk what to do? I swear ... some people!"

Inwardly pleased by Hal's priggish reluctance and lack of savvy, Dwight tersely instructed the boy in the procedures. Borrowing vaginal wash from between Sirri's legs, he proceeded to anoint her crack with same, to work the viscous oil into her anus. "Now you do it," he commanded.

"Damn it!" Hal rebelled at the last. "I don't want to do it this way. What kind of a pervert's convention is this anyway? Regular okay. But this ... I've never done anything like this before."

"For Christ's sake!" Sirri snarled. "Will you quit whining? Seems to me there's an awful lot of things you've never done before. You're in no position to be fussy, Hal. Either do what I tell you to, or clear out. If I want it this way, that's the way it's gonna be. You want your ups regular, you do as I say. Otherwise there's the door."

Which scolding temporarily mollified the recalcitrant lad. "Well if I hurt you...." he sputtered.

"So hurt me, baby. Do you hear me complaining? Now c'mon, both of you. Let's get together on this, shall we?" The simultaneous double entry-with Dwight plugging her cunt, Hal her anal port-was not affected as easily as might be thought. But finally, their legs in a depraved tangle, Sirri twisted awkwardly, the meat in the grisly human sandwich, at the last forced to insert Hal with her own fingers, the aberrated fusion was completed.

"Oh, God," she keened as both men were totally lodged inside of her, "don't anybody move. Just lay there, let me get used to it. What a feeling! The girl's just full of pricks. If Mother could only see her little baby now. Oooh, oooh. Wonderful. A treat no woman should miss. Easy, Hal. Don't get carried away." Until, at long last, Sirri felt sure enough of herself so that she ordered her two paramours to begin. "You first, Dwight. One goes in while the other comes out. Oh, gorgeous! I feel like I'm gonna split! Now. Both of you at the same time. Oooh, oooh! Slow, boys, very slow. Easy does it. Oh, lord. There we go. It's fantastic, simply fantastic."

She instantly subverted to aboriginal trance, and her breath bubbling animalistically in her throat, she reflexively began to grind her hips, almost tearing herself in two with the desire to meet both reamings with reciprocal thrust and wriggle of her own. "I'll die, I'll die...." she grated. "In, damn you! In, deep as you can go. Together! God, dear God." Now an even more corrupt innovation struck her. "You, Hal. When you get close, let out a yell, let us know. Dwight especially. He can time himself perfectly. I want you to both shoot at the same time." She broke into pagan gruntings and lurchings. "Fuck it, damn you! Fuck like you never fucked before!"

Sirri kissed Dwight then, drove her tongue in and out of his mouth in rhythm to the pricks pumping into her, and he was possessed of the most gut-blistering desire to let his charge fly as of that moment. But there was a reputation to uphold, he must acquit himself well before this shitting-his-pants boy. Nevertheless-the sensation of Hal's cock working in the tiny channel next to the one he occupied a deranging thing-he had all he could do to control himself. He almost sobbed with relief as Hal's throat-rupturing cries began. Then all together with Sirri screaming like someone was driving splinters beneath their nails-they fell in fiery flame, like Daedalus and Icarus, arms and legs flailing, a ribbon of pure sound binding them in extricable knot all the way down.

It was, of course, too much to expect that Hal Gilmartin shouldn't, eventually, get wise to himself-and to Dwight and Sirri's sick arrangement as well. It was inevitable that the swiftly-maturing opportunist should ferret the truth about Sirri's sugar-daddy's real identity from her before many more weeks had passed. Perhaps when he caught Sirri off guard in a moment of orgasm, when she was so much helpless putty in his hands, would have given anything not to be left hanging. Perhaps he had, in his new, man-child perception and arrogance risked brutality with Sirri, had slapped the information from her.

Whatever the tactics used, it soon became apparent to Dwight there there was a new mood at large within their minor world, and he quickly resigned himself to the fact that the price of pussy had just gone up. Upon hearing Hal's ultimatum-the stupid fool demanding fifty-dollars for himself, fifty for Sirri-Dwight merely shrugged, smiled inwardly. It was cheap at the price; were it not for Sirri he might have been forced to pay twice as much weekly in call-girl fees alone. Inflation-it was everywhere.

So a few more weeks passed in daily-more-ourre debauch, the trio becoming strangely close-knit, with Dwight even benign, almost fatherly toward Hal. There were occasional interludes when Sirri excluded Hal from their sessions, and he treasured them, comforted himself with thoughts to the effect that there were a thousand hells much more agonizing than the one he existed in now. For instance, the one he inwardly writhed in whenever he knew that Sirri was alone with Hal, that she was paganly accomodating him, savoring the very gut-scrambling preludes and obeisances which he himself had taught the pawky stud.

But there was-unbeknownst to Dwight-still another hell, still another purgatory lying in wait for him. As he discovered this night in mid-November, upon appearing at the appartment at Sirri's behest, expecting, from the start, that only he, Hal and Sirri would be present for the imminent orgy. Imagine his chagrin then, as he opened the door to his luxurious pad, to find the living room awash with raucous rock-and-roll, clouded skeins of cigarette smoke, to see beer, whiskey and wine being poured like Prohibition loomed on the morrow. But the most devastating intrusion of all The extra teenagers, five in all-two unknown boys, three girls-who suddenly froze where they stood, turned to regard him with sex-smirky grins, patent derision in their eyes. "Sirri ... Hal...." he choked stupidly. "What's the meaning of this? Who are these chil ... these people?"

"A li'l party, Dad," Hal sneered his alcoholic intake already thickening his voice "that's what it is.

We knew you wouldn't mind. C'mon in, meet the gang."

The "gang" consisted of three girls named Lisa Brewster, Edith Coventry, and Cleo Trepanier, a male duo who called themselves Slade Mackey and Gary Lockman. All in all, Dwight swiftly inventoried they were a scruffy lot, the boys long-haired, weasel-eyed, the girls hardly as pretty as Sirri. There was one-the Coventry girl-who was fairly striking, a long-tressed blonde with frightened eyes whose diffident manner immediately appealed to Dwight. He couldn't help but be reminded of Sirri when he'd first known her. The lot was indifferently dressed, the boys in jeans and sloppy shirts, the girls in their version of party dress, skirts and overly-tight sweaters, the clumpy pumps that passed for high fashion these days gracing their feet. Though they all made great effort to appear casual, all greeting Dwight with a forced "Hi," an insouciant wave there was something about their eyes that made Dwight feel uneasy, warned him that there was a deadly undercurrent here. Almost immediately after he'd been introduced around (his first name only), the kids returned to their drinking and their listless jerky dancing.

Which gave Dwight a chance to collar Sirri, demand an explanation. "Surely you and Hal didn't tell your friends who I am, did you? You don't expect me to pay off the whole world do you?"

"Unlax, darling," she slurred. "They don't know a thing. A blast, a party, we told them. That's all. A party thrown by a dirty, old man. A rich, dirty old man." She giggled. "By the way; you owe us twenty-five for the booze we put in."

Though it was against his better judgment, Dwight was so confused, so disheartened, that he deliberately set out to drink himself into a stupor. Something ugly was brewing; something it would be best not to remember tomorrow. Throwing ice cubes into a glass, he attempted to drown them with straight Bourbon. Very quickly, the hard edges on everything began to soften; he knew a hazy benevolence toward the kids who tried to be friendly, and there were moments with the new girls-Cleo, Edith and Lisa-looked almost beautiful. Moment by moment things became more hazy, more riotous.

What it was that caused the females to suddenly repair to a distant bedroom, emerge moments later dressed in just their lingerie, hosiery and shoes, he never could determine. But as the four girls sidled into the room self-consciously, drew hoots and whistles from the boys, lined up against a distant wall, each staring pointedly at Dwight, he realized it had been due to some prearranged signal, that there was a method to their collective madness. Despite the chilling apprehension that immediately filled him, he couldn't help but be titillated by the variety of exotic flimsies-their Sunday best, obviously-the juvenile tarts wore. Lisa was in a lemon yellow ensemble, Cleo was in a super-frilly black, Edith in clinging red while Sirri was the most extravagantly caparisoned of all, and proudly posed herself before his gaping eyes in a pastel blue with subtle black applique at the points of her brassiere, in the crotch of the panties. Almost as if informed of his peculiar tastes, they all wore just panties, the garter-belt beneath, their hosiery a rainbow of shades. For the briefest moment Dwight thought that here was the ultimate realization of a lifelong dream. A bevy of nymphets, all dressed in the most alluring of scanties, parading before his dazzled eyes. But then the grisly significance of this charade cut through his lecherous thoughts, and he realized that he was being made victim, the butt of a very cruel joke.

"You like, Dwightie?" Sirri taunted. "This really gets you where you live, doesn't it? We dressed this way special. Wouldn't want to disappoint our generous, old Daddy, would we?" And when he continued to stand in gaping trance: "You don't get it, honey? Take your pick. Not me though ... the other girls have been looking forward to you too much. I told them what a fantastic lover boy you are. After all, the father of the feast. You should have first choice."

All at once, almost as if they'd been turned on by a concealed key, the three child-sluts began writhing before him, aiming their breasts, undulating their rears, massaging their thighs and cunts in his direction, their travesty of style show the most insulting mockery of Dwight's quirk he could imagine. Abruptly a heavy, icy knot formed in his belly. Had he been any less drunk, he would have leaped up, bolted from this hellish torture chamber posthaste. But he did nothing of the kind; instead he sat immobilized in his chair, stared fixedly at the slow-gesticulating wantons, his libido piqued unbearably, his lust in the saddle now.

"Pick one, Daddy-oh," Hal snickered. "You choose it, and it's yours. We were kind of hoping you'd give us a little demonstration of that famous bedroom style of yours, we're all willing to learn, you know."

What happened next was like something out of a surrealistic movie. As realizing that these kids were determined to hound him until he capitulated, he decided to humor them, get the abominable mortification over as quickly as possible. "Why, of course." He shammed indifference, robbed the boys of some of their sport. "Where would you like it?"

"Why not right there? On that pretty little rug by the fireplace? Where we can all see. What's your pleasure, Dwight?"

He pointed blindly, indicated the slightly scrawny blonde named Edith. "She'll do. She'll do very nicely."

Immediately her miffed sisters-in-debauch pushed the frozen-faced, shy child forward, forced her to stand in the middle of the oval-shaped rug. Without a moment's hesitation, determined to beat the young gutter-snipes at their own game, Dwight began peeling off his clothes. He was delighted, as he dropped his jockey shorts, at the chorus of "Ooohs" that escaped the girls as his stalwart cock swung up in majestic arc. With one graceful, fluid move, he fell to his knees before Edith, instantly drew her toward him, planted a long, grinding kiss upon her scraggly-haired cunt. The moistness of her squooshy lips, combined with scent of the dime store perfume she'd painted her pussy with, inflamed him, and the poignant reminder of Sirri that first time stronger than ever, he threw all caution to the winds. As of that moment it was as if his hooting, mocking, and alternatedly sighing audience didn't exist.

His procedures were no different than ever, with the exception that he lingered longer over each facet of his addled adoration-at Edith's shoes, her ankles, her knees and calves, the creamy softness of her thighs. He made flamboyant gesture of drawing down her breasts, sucking the nipples wet through her brassiere, before he finally unpinned the garment itself, gathered both breasts, worked the tits together, stuffed them both into his mouth simultaneously. By that time the clamor had died down; the boys watched attentively, while the girls were in rapt trance, their eyes dreamy, their lips pursed as if they, themselves, were sucking Edith's breasts in so gentle and loving a manner. For an eternity he sucked her cunt through the sheer red bikini panties, until Edith moaned stertorously, trembled and flung her head wildly at the fantastic sensations he was inducing within her. Seemingly Dwight was not the least surprised when he saw Hal, naked now also, draw Sirri onto the far end of the rug, kneeling commence to suck her crotch as well. Suddenly, as though possessed, everyone was wild to try duplicating Dwight's servile style.

"Please, Gary," Cleo pleaded, across the room, her fingers buried in his crotch, unashamedly massaging him. "At least try. I'll do you if you'll do me. I swear."

Moments later the remaining boys were naked, and sprawled in chairs, in isolated areas of the room, Lisa with Slade. Cleo with Gary, they tore at each other's clothes, the girls resisting until the boys had at least tried to emulate Dwight's obeisances. Had the children not been so deadly serious about their efforts, the whole scene would have been hilariously funny. Now Dwight drew down the panting, jittering Edith's panties, immediately pulled her floorward. Where, making prolonged ritual of arranging her on her back, steepling her knees, he kissed her churning belly, slowly slid his face southward, insinuated his tongue into her lubricious crack. One searing swipe across her bulging clitoris, and she began to moan incoherently, came completely apart at the seams. Her head flopped back and forth, her eyes rolled wildly as his tongue slithered deeper inside her. In the process she saw Sirri reverently fellating Hal while he swabbed her entire pussy with the flat of his tongue. Which was all she needed, and grabbing the monstrous, drooling prick that swung before her dazed eyes, she hungrily plunged it into her mouth.

When Dwight commenced to fuck Edith, he didn't recall; the consummation was an unconsciously perfect continuation of the ecstasy they'd begun, and he was amazed at the tightness of her previously-used hole, at the way a hundred inner lips seemingly sucked at him. Positioning Edith more perfectly, cleaving his rod into her with slow, precise strokes, he became conscious of a reverent silence about him. "Watch," how he does it. How he does Edith to a golden brown. Tell us, Edie. Every time it happens. Count 'em off."

A breathless hush fell over the watchers as Edith proudly, thickly announced her initial orgasm. Then her second. And a third. On and on they went. An incredulous murmur swept through the room now as Edith, screaming and thrashing ecstatically, announced her ninth, then tenth climax, even as she gasped at the simultaneous glory of Dwight's thick muck splashing into the molten grotto of her womb. Then Dwight was up, starting to move away, when Edith caught him, drew him back. Clinging to his legs, she beseechingly commenced to suck his slime encrusted prick, so avid was she to have him rejuvenated, scouring her guts anew.

But Cleo tore her away, knelt before him, wrapped her lips around the limp pod. "My turn. I want some of that. Any man who can hang in there like that ... Me, me!"

The crowd watched as Dwight drove Cleo to a dozen, claw-the-sky orgasms. "Oh, Christ," Lisa snapped at Slade. "You and your sixty-second specials. You guys all better shape up." As Dwight arose this time, leaving a blissfully panting Cleo spread-eagled on the floor, headed for the cocktail table for a desperately-needed drink, he couldn't help but notice the shamefaced, envying expressions on the boys' faces. At that moment he felt proud, fully ten feet tall.

Lisa was upon him then. Forestalling her briefly, he fell into a chair, sipped his whiskey, even as she mauled his pecker with sadistic fingers, finally relented to employ fellatio upon him. While she sucked him, he watched a self-conscious Gary Lockman permit Cleo Trepanier to mouth his cock. Her head bobbed shamelessly up and down upon the turgid meat. Moments later he stifled a laugh as he heard Cleo sputter: "You dumb ass! You shot in my mouth! Christ, don't you know anything!"

Not too much later he had Lisa in one of the bedrooms, fucking her for all he was worth. Finally, after countless climaxes, he nowhere near coming, she could endure no more, and breathlessly begged off. Whereupon Dwight stumbled drunkenly out into the other room, found Sirri on all fours, being taken dog-fashion by Gary Lockman. He thought it the most appropriate finale to the night's depravities to kneel before her, force her head up, hold her by the ears while he savagely humped his hips back and forth, all but raped her mouth.

Hearing Sirri's yips of ecstasy as Gary creamed her from the rear, he from the front, Dwight knew a strangely incongruous despair and ennui. And where there should have been elation, soaring sense of conquest Seemingly the black buzzards of doom circled in blood-red skies above his head. Now they set their wings, banked, planed lower. They spiraled closer, ever closer. He jammed his eyelids shut, blotted them out, while his hips still jutted at Sirri's suctioning mouth, ordained that she suck forth every last gram of his watery sperm.