Chapter 2
It was mid-afternoon. Dinner long since over, nothing on TV appealing, Dwight Adair had retreated to the privacy of his sumptuous bedroom sitting room suite on the mansion's second floor. Where, particularly disturbing thoughts at large within his brain, he fought a solitary battle with himself. Though he'd attempted to resist the degrading impulse, he hadn't been successful, and now the hated scrapbook-ultimate indictment of his damnable weakness-was on his knees. Idly he leafed through it, none of the pictures, strangely enough, having much effect upon him today. Touching himself lightly between his legs, he found his prick a soft, slumbering curl, and he snorted angrily. Down? he questioned. At a time like this? Mister, you are beyond hope. You're really getting old.
That goddamned Sirri, he concluded. She's to blame. And of all the senile performances, of all the imbecilic regressions! What in hell-just what in hell has gotten into you? His despair broadened, and he found it impossible to believe that he had accredited himself so foolishly.
One of the city's most influential and respected industrialists; acting like a horses-ass in church. Before friends and business acquaintances he'd known all his life. Sweet Jesus, how tongues must be wagging all over Benton Falls this afternoon! And poor Sirri. If she noticed my display, if some of her friends-so adolescent and adult alike-get to teasing her about her not-so-secret admirer His eyes glazed, and he stared unseeing at the glossy photograph of the lingerie-clad female before him; he struggled to understand the weird relapse that had overtaken him. The vision of Sirri dancing in his mind's eye again, her impact largely diluted now, he simply couldn't believe that he'd behaved so execrably. The things he'd thought, the appalling emotions that had convulsed him, had literally wrung his heart! What did it mean? And in church besides! A hard-on big enough to stumble over, a cold sweat, the smothered whimpers of sexual need? Bad scene, Dwight. Real bad. The worst it's ever been. Now, in retrospect, he couldn't understand how the lovely nymphet had affected him so strongly. Granted, she was an exquisite creature; he would give his right arm--as would any man alive-to be allowed to worship at the altar of her virginity. But was she that much more lovely, that much more desirable than some of the other women in his life, women he'd taken to bed, fucked to near coma as recently as two weeks ago? Was her spell such that it was only effective when she was flesh-and-blood entity, in the presence of her dumbstruck idolater? What was there about her? Her beauty? Her beauty combined with pristine youthfulness and innocence? The irrefutable aura of virgin that seemingly radiated from her? Those taunting, dark eyes imbedded in that alabaster flesh? The enigmatic, fey smile which hinted at wanton tigress hidden behind that facade of childish purity?
He ground his knuckles into his eyes. Something, he groaned. Some mesmerizing something. To make me play the village idiot! What new weakness, what new descents into depravity did the morning's developments pressage? He shiveringly concluded that his libertine excesses of late were finally taking their toll, that he was verging on crackup. A nineteen-year-old girl? A sweet angelic kid like Sirri? Dwight, you've got to be going psycho!
Now, hoping his warped predeliction would intervene, scour his brain of unwanted fantasies, as it always had in the past, he shook his head angrily, bringing his eyes back into focus. A mildly-slathering grin on his lips, he studied the photograph before him, one of a series he'd ordered from a specialty house in Los Angeles, a depiction of a tall, willowy blonde posing in just her lingerie, hose and shoes. Admittedly the get-up was fetishist oriented, the pumps exaggeratedly pointed in the toe, the heels pencil thin, at least four-inches high. Then there was the obscenely pointed brassiere the virago wore, plain black silk, a garment that jacked her breasts into ultra-high uplift. The panties were equally severe in design, with a sheer, diamond-shaped panel down the front of the belly that revealed the golden snarl there, the shadowed indenttion of the trollop's cunt as well. A black garter-belt snaked its way from beneath each leg of the panty, cinched black, gleaming hosiery into snug second skin about her legs. Concentrating on the pictures, Dwight felt his cock unlimber now, stiffen, and he briefly passed his hand over himself, sensed a groin-tingling sensation as he worked concealed silk against the drooling weapon. There, he rejoiced, I'll be all right now.
The next page of his unique album revealed the same model, only this time with her panties off, just the exotic garter belt about her waist. Her pubic hair ruffled to an awry corona now, she-spread the lips of her cunt with her own fingers, plainly revealed the slippery vestibule of her vagina, the incipient pimple of her clitoris. The camera work was exceedingly detailed, crystal-clear on this shot. Dwight felt further arousal; he wondered if a brief jack-off might not be in order just now. God knew, with the lunatic stimulation he'd received this day, such certainly wouldn't do any harm. His fingers massaged his swollen prick even more urgently.
He nipped the page, came upon a foundation-manufacturer's ad he'd torn from a magazine. Staring at the beautiful model who wore an extremely lacy, high uplift brassiere, was shown only from the waist up, he wondered at the effect such representation should have upon him. She was lovely, her face perfectly made up, her lipstick luminous, her large eyes darkly shadowed, her brows in imperious sweep. Her complexion flawless, she sported an extreme mane of silky, off-blonde hair, the long tresses flowing down her back on one side, coiling about her regal throat like a muffler from the other side. The total impression was one of aloofness, of unapproachability-she was a goddess beyond the gross touch of mortal man. Momentarily Dwight was puzzled. That unexplainable tightness in his loins still existed, the same sort of jitteryness he'd felt upon looking at Sirri in church this morning. If only there could be such a woman-a woman-child like Sirri-in his life! Someone so beautiful, so above him. Someone worthy of eternal worship and adoration.
Confusedly he turned the page again. To find another such patrician brassiere model long-throated, distant, possessing diminutive breasts which were encased in a tailored, bandeau-type brassiere of white cotton. The alarm in his soul heightened, and he instantly turned the page again; to reveal a seated model, her legs in provocative stance as she prepared to pull a stocking onto one leg. Leaning slightly forward, her breasts caught in nylon cages that resembled nothing so much as the nosecones of artillery shells, her pose was such that Dwight found himself trembling again. The scrapbook was closed, then opened to the back. A harlot-type, dressed in a black, fishnet ensemble-brassiere, panties and rolled hose-immediately revulsed him, killed the tremors. Shod in black, patent-leather spikes her tits, her snatch plainly visible through the net, she seemed supremely available, a trait much needed by the agitated man at that moment.
Again his eyes glazed, and Dwight regained composure of sorts. Closing the book, determined he was through with it for today, he breathed deeply, gradually regained a modicum of composure. He was more than a little chagrined, then, upon opening his eyes, staring at his reflection in the phalanx of floor-to-ceiling mirrors covering the entire west wall of the bedroom, to discover that Noreen, a thin, scheming smile on her lips, was standing directly behind him. Momentarily he froze, said nothing. Summoning up the appropriately scathing words with which to blast her intrusion, his eyes wandered, took in the spotlights cleverly concealed in the ceiling, the satin-draped, king-sized bed; then the mirrored wall hiding the massive wardrobe again. Next he appraised the sunken pit in which the bed resided, the white-carpeted risers-three steps in all-that descended into that voluptuary arena.
Noreen spoke before he could, and patronizing disdain edging her voice, she said, "Having fun, darling? You and your adult bed-time stories?"
"How long have you been standing there?" he snapped.
"Long enough." She sneered. "You're in a very bad way this afternoon. Maybe we should take care of that."
His voice blurred. "You've no right, Noreen."
"No right? What do you mean? This is my bedroom as well as yours. I don't see as I need your permission to...."
"All right, all right!" he growled. "Leave it go, will you? If there's something you want...."
"My," she said, coming around the chair, poising herself on the edge of the boudoir's drop-off, "we're certainly touchy today, aren't we? You act like I've never caught you with your sick little book before. Really bad, huh? I don't know what you're sore about. If anyone's got the right to be angry, it's me. After that performance in church this morning...."
"Turn it off, will you, Noreen? I've said I was sorry, that I'll never let it happen again. What more do you want?"
Her eyes became slightly lewd. "You should know by now, darling. Sunday afternoons can get to be a drag at times. I thought ... since you're in such a state anyway ... A girl has to seize opportunity where she can." Then, blatantly, confidently, Noreen's eyes locking in her husband's, her smile a pagan challenge, she leaned slightly, grasped the hem of her skirt. Slowly, teasingly, she drew up the skirt in front, making an erotic taunt of the exposure. The skirt rose above her knees, then higher, to reveal the tops of the smoke-toned stockings she wore. The garter tabs came into view. Now her white, firm thighs, the black elastic straps leading up into the shadowed vale of her sex were revealed. Until, finally-strangest revelation of all-her skirts were about her waists, and her elegant belly, glossed tempestuously in black nylon, was on show. Black nylon of extremely strange design, in that her panties were uniquely altered at the heartland of her body to showcase the tawny delta of her cunt, the pink scramble of its lips and mouth.
Unashamedly, Noreen's fingers spiraled on her belly, flicked at the partially opened orifice of her sex. A motion that caused her to hiss audibly, and a pain wince crossed her face. Bawdily she let one knee sag, ground her hips at him, an action that further exposed her slippery snatch. At 38, ten years younger than her husband, Noreen Adair was still an attractive female. Slim, conscious of diet and proper grooming, pampered, financially able to keep abreast of the latest fashions, she was a handsome woman, was the envy of many of Dwight's male friends and business associates. But, sad to say, familiarity does take deadly effect, and her impact upon her husband was less than devastating; she was no longer beautiful in his eyes; she no longer had the power to unfailingly incite desire within him. As she so blatantly attempted to do at this moment. There were times-But this was not one of them.
An unmistakable shriveling of the soul registered on her face as she took a step toward Dwight, begged him to reach out, feel her. But he sat impassively, no flicker of desire lighting his eyes. "No, darling?" she smirked stiffly, attempting to gloss over her failure to allure, immediately letting her skirts fall, smoothing her dress in self-conscious flutters. "That doesn't race your motor any more? I can remember the time." She smiled wanly. "Shame. I even wore the ... dressed the way you like."
Summarily the woman's mood changed; she became brisk, business-like. Drawing up a chair, she sat to one side. Leaning forward, her eyes incisive, unflinching, she said, "Well? Do we talk about it?
It's that Sirri Stenson, isn't it? You've been pretty antsy lately ... almost impossible to live with. Getting to be that time again, isn't it?"
"Please, Noreen. Let's drop it, shall we?"
"No, darling, we won't drop it. Remember me? Old dog Tray? Ever loyal, ever faithful. The professional lecher's friend? We talk, Dwight. Before you really go off the deep end. You know it's quite impossible, don't you?"
"What?" He shammed dullness.
"Sirri Stenson, that's what. Forget her; don't waste another moment's thought on her. That one simply can't be. Those others, okay. They were older, they knew what they were doing. You could buy sluts like Jeanne Whitmore and Vonnie Schuyler. You could romance nitwits like Ivy Jicha. And that super-nit, Darlene Carter. But they were beyond the age of consent. Young, granted; but nevertheless smart enough to know how to handle your kind of weirdo affair."
"There's no need for name-calling, Noreen."
Her face worked agitatedly, revealed ineradicable hurt; she was momentarily diminished. "Oh, Dwight," she husked, "how can it be? After all this time? Any other woman would have given up by now; she wouldn't care any more. Much as I'm ashamed to admit it, I still do." Her voice caught. "I still care."
"Nobody's asking you to, Noreen. I've told you I'd give you a divorce, consent to a separation anytime you asked."
"I don't want a divorce," she choked, "I don't want to go away from you. I want to stay married to you. Can't you understand that? No matter what you do, I still love you ... still need you. What would I do as a divorced woman?"
"You're still beautiful, Noreen. You'd find someone very quickly. Someone good, who'd treat you the way you...."
"Beautiful?" She snorted. "But not beautiful enough; not something enough for you." Abruptly she wiped the mendicant expression from her face, replaced it with blase sophistication. "But that's neither here nor there, is it, Dwight? The fact is that we've got problems. Problems we've got to deal with before we bring this whole madhouse caving down on us."
"Problems? What problems?"
"Problems like that thing this morning. Whether you realize it or not, dear, things are getting out of hand. Do you think I'm blind? Or stupid, or something? Don't you think I know what's happening? If you can't see it, I can. Vonnie was thirty-one. Then came Jeanne. She was twenty-nine. God knows why I ever helped you with Ivy Jicha. I all but led her into this pervert's bedroom for you. She was twenty-five. Then Darlene was twenty-two. Ardyce is twenty-three." Her eyes narrowed vindictively. "Are you getting any messages, Dwight?"
Dwight didn't answer. His jaw set in stubborn jut, he stared straight ahead, refused to discuss the impasse with his shrewish wife.
"I'm telling you right now, Dwight," she snapped. "I'm not helping you with Sirri. She's not equipped to cope, do you understand? She's a spoiled, arrogant brat ... she'll ruin you, but good.
God knows, women are born with intrigue in their blood, but they do need some seasoning. And Sirri's not it. Give her a couple years, perhaps. And then...."
"No!" Dwight lashed out, surprising himself at his bitter vehemence. "I won't give her a couple years ... I won't have some pimple-faced snot of a boy handling her, playing dirty with her! I...."
"So," Noreen sneered, "that is the way the wind blows, after all." Her expression turned wrathful. "I'm warning you, Dwight. Leave her alone. You'll ruin every last thing I ... we ... have left." Her exasperation choked her, and she leaped to her feet. "Oh, God, what's got into you, Dwight? I thought you'd outgrow this eventually. But no! If anything, you're worse than ever. You're almost fifty, Dwight, don't you realize that? Isn't it about time you grew up?" A panicky, grasping-at-straws expression fled across her face. Plucking at her skirt, partially raising it above her stockingtops once more, she plaintively said, "You're sure, Dwight? If I can help ... even in this small way."
"No, Noreen. Thanks, but no thanks. I'm just not in the mood."
"All right, you obstinate bastard!" she seethed. "Go look at your book then! Get your kicks that way, you damned pervert!" Then she stormed from the bedroom, the shame of outrage enraging her, clouding judgment.
By the time Noreen had traversed the classic, winding staircase to the house's lower level, she'd recovered a stoic resignation of sorts. Whereupon, realizing that she had to do something to stem her husband's blind stubbornness, no matter how desperate, she sought to enlist the help of Ardyce, their outrageously paid, live-in maid. Finding the beautiful, cafe-au-lait Negress relaxing with the Sunday paper on the sun porch, she casually said, "I'm afraid Mr. Adair's in one of his states again. I've tried to talk to him, to ... do what I could to help, but he seemingly isn't interested. Perhaps you could help, Ardyce. You seem to have a ... calming effect on him. Would you? If you'd run up to your room, freshen up ... change ... you know what he likes. Please, Ardyce? I'll make it right with you."
The pretty girl, slim and neat, possessed of lustrous eyes, softly flowing hair, stared up at her employer with an impassive, vaguely contemptuous look. Momentarily, she didn't speak. Now a smoldering blaze erupted in her eyes, a thing of victorious one-upmanship. She rose from the chaise lounge, smoothed her uniform, revealing, in the process, her extraordinary mammary development, the prominent roundings of her buttocks. "Yes, ma'am," she shammed docility. "I'll do just that. Anything you say."
Watching the uppity nigger saunter from the room, her buttocks working in exaggerated waggle, Mrs. Dwight Adair knew nadir; she knew crucifying mortification.
Abruptly, however, her mood changed. A sly, enigmatic grin on her lips, she shortly followed Ardyce, reclimbed the stairs herself.
Dwight sensed extreme irritation when the bedroom door opened once more, and Ardyce, still dressed in her maid uniform, let herself in. Then as he saw her shit-eating grin, he snapped. "Yes, Ardyce. What is it?"
"Mrs. Adair sent me. She said you was having one of your bad times. She thought I could...."
"I told her I wasn't interested. What does she think she's pulling? Am I some robot you just wind up and turn on?"
"I don't know about that, Mr. Adair," Ardyce replied, her salacious grin not fading for an instant, "I just thought I'd do my best." Upon which, standing before him now, she duplicated her mistress' ploy, slowly commenced working her skirt up in front, revealing her black-stockinged legs, her bronze-toned thighs, the very prominent bulge of her pussy itself. Her hips rotating slightly, her stomach subtly socking in and out, she revealed another duplication of her mistress' behavior. In that she too wore black panties, exact match for Noreen's, similarly butchered in the crotch so that they revealed the wiry tangle of black hair on her cunt, the pink folds of her machine itself. "You sure you ain't interested, Mr. Adair?" she said, moving closer to him.
"I told Noreen no. The answer's the same for you, Ardyce. I do have some self-respect, after all!"
Ardyce's grin became absolutely obscene. "Do you now, Dwight, honey?" she teased. Upon which she bent her knees, splayed her legs just wide enough so she could slide one of her fingers into the depths of her snatch. "We'll see about that." Now she came closer to him, waved her dripping, malodorous finger beneath his nose, making pantomime of popping it into his mouth. "Can you say no to this, Dwight, lover?"
Momentarily he was revulsed. But then, the very audaciousness, the barbarity of her approach intrigued him, and he was instantly undone. Besides, there was the further goad of vengeance. Still angry with Noreen, he thought it would be a fitting retaliation upon her if he should allow this Negro bitch to succeed where she had failed. To this effect he reached forward, caught Ardyce's entire pussy in his hand, clenched down on it until she squealed. "Okay, you black bitch," he wheezed. "You win. I want some. Get out of those clothes. But your undies...."
"I know," Ardyce grumbled, her eyes flashing. "F'r Christ's sakes! After all this time...."
She barely glanced up from the sunken pit where she bounced on the bed when Dwight-naked except for one aberrated item-started down toward her. Briefly her eyes locked on his lean, still-muscular body, only a trace of a pot visible at his thickening middle, before they slid to his hips, settled on the red, nylon, bikini panties he wore. It was a tight, figure-hugging item, sporting an appliqued sequin daisy on the right hip, a panty that was now grotesquely distorted by the stiff slab of pecker that rode proudly behind that nylon screen. "Oh, lordee," she sighed bemusedly as he came toward her, "if this ain't the craziest, ofay family I ever did work for...."
For perhaps ten minutes Dwight kept the obliging Negress moving about that square area of lust, striding the rim like it was a vaudeville runway, coming down two stairs, going up one. Sitting, standing, reclining. At his direction she assumed outrageous poses-legs straddled, back arched, black brassiered breasts offered in her hands-with the capper being a painful stance wherein Ardyce caught the heels of her spicy pumps in the carpeted edge of one riser, while her back rested on the one behind. It was an extreme position that forced her knees wide, pushed her heaving belly and cunt up, caused the pink, salivating lips to grin widely, give him devastating look into the center of her black bitch heart. For long moments Dwight prowled the room, taking in the kinky sight from every angle, using the mirrored wall to their right to good advantage, studying her reflected self with equal delight, his excitement becoming more intense by the moment.
Forcing Ardyce to maintain the position for a long time, he crawled up the stairs, a demented glitter in his eyes. The Negress was just about to complain about her painful position, when she heard the liquid click of her employer's lips, shortly felt the maddening tickle of his tongue as he licked her foot, on the toes of her pumps. Gradually he worked his way up her silk-glossed ankles. Now, at her calves, he circumnavigated her knees, and Ardyce writhed ecstatically, groaned her extreme pleasure at her ascendancy over Whitey. But it was as nothing when she felt his lips tickle her inner thighs, his tongue flattening on her most erogenous flesh, closing in on the palpitating mush of her slit itself. Her hips bucked, and she released guttural, animalistic cries when she felt his tongue slide inside her there, vibrate and loll along the walls of her vagina, his nose tickling her clitoris as he seemingly fought to drive that juttering sabre of flesh deeper into her hole. Brief moments later he withdrew, commenced to suck and nibble and lick her clitoris itself, his tongue alternating between flat, fleshrasping lickings and rapier thrusts to the throbbing tip of her passion button. Ardyce's gasps became even more throaty, even more aboriginal, and verging on her initial orgasm, she became oblivious to the discomfort of her position.
Her first sizzling, cursing, argot-smothered climax out of the way, Ardyce begged Dwight to desist momentarily. "I can't stand two of those in a row, Dwight, honey," she gasped. "You know that by now. Up here now. Come and lick Ardyce's tits now." Then the tortured position still gladly retained, Ardyce suffered Dwight's lips on her nipples, an attention that was facilitated by the fact that the brassiere was also butchered, open at the tips so that her pink, frustro-conical tits shone alluringly upon the jam-packed cushions of black nylon. While he licked and nipped and sucked the nubs to painful tightness, Ardyce contented herself by pulling his great cob from the panties, honing its slimy tip on her clitoris, alternately inserting its tip into the vestibule of her gash.
Moments later Dwight came over her head, and resting his knees on the riser beneath her back, he gently fed his prick between her greedy, eager lips. As he worked the white hank back and forth into her mouth-deep, shallow, deeper-he gloried in the contrasts of color beneath him: Ardyce's brown face, her palely-lipsticked lips, the vibrant coral of her tongue, the white of her teeth-all contrasted to the comparative pallor of his cock-the tableau vwant filled him with an exalting sense of omnipotence.
Then it was time for the final seizure. And as he poppingly pulled himself from her sucking lips, immediately sought to crawl upon her belly, take her then and there, Ardyce protested. "Not here, man. On the bed. Please. My back's about broke in two."
But by then Dwight was beyond recall. Brutality, an atypical surge of sadism rampant within him, he refused to honor her request. "No, you black bitch!" he husked. "Right here. If I move, I'm gonna paint the walls. Here!"
"Okay," she relented grudgingly, "but make it quick. Drive that meat into me. I'm so hot I could die." Then, as he positioned himself between her yawning, brown thighs, introduced the tip into the greasy folds of her yearning pussy, she gasped: "Do it, you fuck! You gorgeous ofay fuck! Jugg me! Ram that grease gun home."
Dwight growled thickly, his lust seemingly rupturing his veins at that moment. Crowding forward, he buried his rod within her brown box with all his strength, the impact, as their pelvises rammed, squeezing a loud, joyous grunt from Ardyce. Then, kneeling between her legs, partially reclining on her belly, his fingers cruelly plucking and dialing the hard nipples of her breasts, he began to drive his prick into her like some runaway pile driver.
Ardyce's screams of ecstasy carried muffledly to Noreen where she crouched in the closet, the entire, debauched scene clearly visible to her where she'd had one sheet of the mirrored doors secretly replaced with one made of two-way glass. It was only a matter of entering the wardrobe in the bedroom adjoining their own, sliding aside a concealed panel she'd battered through with her own hands, groping her way through some of her husband's fetishist gear, and she was afforded an unhindered view into the madhouse amphitheater that passed for a bedroom. Not more than five feet away from her, Dwight fucked Ardyce with vicious abandon, and she felt as if she could reach out and touch them then and there. A deranged light in her eyes, Noreen stared avidly; she gloried in the contorted expression on her husband's face, the way he watched himself so concentratedly in the other side of the glass.
As always, when she conducted these secret vigils, Noreen couldn't help but become sexually swayed herself. Until now, bolstering herself against the wall, her knees wide, the butchered panties giving her instant access to her throbbing cunt, she drove her right hand between her legs, sought to affect head start by sadistically pinching and twisting her distended clitoris. And now, her fingers dipping in and out of her slit, painting the raw, screaming pearl with her own vaginal fluids, Noreen worked faster; she felt the first spine-kinking tensions of orgasm begin to grow. She wanted to scream and howl, but somehow she stifled her cries. A blood-red glare formed behind her eyelids, phlegm seemingly bubbled in her throat. Now her finger-her blessed finger-sliced faster, still faster.