Chapter 3

Dwight Adair's sexual predelictions-like his wealth and community influence-had not come about through any great conscious effort on his own part. Suffice it to say that both had been more or less wished upon him. When Dwight was 34, his industrialist-empire father (Candlelight Petroleum Products) had died, and had, in the process invested his only son in the multi-millionaire mantle of his image. The transition had not been hard to take: Dwight-always a pampered child, dominated by his positivist, conservative parents-had been duly trained in the business, and the exchange of reins had been made with no noticeable fuss whatsoever. Life had gone on as always. Luxury and status and power-the very wealth and power to purchase another person's soul if such should convenience the Adair clan-had accrued to him quite naturally; indeed Dwight was often to wonder why the rest of the world didn't live at as lofty a plateau as he did, why everyone didn't embrace the libertarian values he did. Money was something he simply didn't think about. It was alwavs there, and whether it was five-dollars to tip a cabby, or five-thousand-dollars for a weekend in New York, the total impact of wealth never really registered in his consciousness.

Quite understandably, a thoughtless, stressless milieu like the one Dwight was born to could not help but engender a uniquely emancipated outlook toward fleshly joys within him. Thus it was that marriage-to one Noreen Whalen in 1950, a parent-engineered union-should quickly pall, and that Dwight, pampered, accustomed to self-gratification from his earliest years, should seek more diverse outlets for his sensual urges even within the confines of matrimony. Noreen had been twenty, a lovely, exquisite-figured, cultured, intelligent and materialistic, venally-practical creature.

Which attention to social punctilio, preoccupation with status, security and wealth had heightened, if anything, during their eighteen years of marriage. It was the only thing-Dwight discounting all her florid declarations of love undying as so much sentimental twaddle-that kept them together. All her maudlin entreaties to the contrary, Dwight was positive she lived only for her exalted status as Mrs. Dwight Adair, pillar of Benton Falls society, that she tolerated his endless peccadilloes and infidelities only because such was all part of her master plan. She would outlive him.

Thus all the privileges of the Adair name and its attendant wealth, would one day fall to her. Then, in the winter of her life, she could bask in past glories, rein as dowager queen over the insular, Midwestern city in which they lived; all the indignities of her married life could be forgotten, swathed in billowy soubriquets of saccharin recollection of: "My beloved, late-departed husband." It was for this uncertain future that Noreen suffered this denigrated present.

Almost from the outset Noreen had accepted his abnormal sexual tastes; she had dutifully attended him in same, shrugged them off as a childish fancy. They were anomalies that would soon pass, make way for the more settled, classic marriage virtues. Indeed, Dwight had been more than happy with his marriage during their first five years (he was entirely unhappy with it now), for there had been novelty and flesh-crawling excesses without end. Beautiful in mien and figure, Noreen had been realization of his wildest dreams; she had become love object worthy of his most extravagant worshippings. Then there were times, Noreen seeking to cure her husband by outdoing him, when she became an absolute Satan in the bedroom; she left Dwight gasping for breath, pleading for surcease.

But, alas, as the folksong goes: "Love grows old ... love grows cold," and Dwight was driven by a merciless need for new conquests, for fresh victims to his aberrated lusts. Even here Noreen had indulged him, looking the other way during times of direst stress. Later, despairing of ever changing her husband, she'd even been recruited as a procuress herself. Dwight in a dangerous, irresponsible mental state for a time there, there had been no alternative. Either that or risk the disgrace of a disastrous community scandal. To this effect she'd promoted a veritable platoon of comely maids for him, had virtually served as overseer at some of those sessions. Now it was she who laid groundwork for Dwight's liaisons with her prettier female friends, she leading them to believe she was completely in the dark about the fact that her husband followed through, conducted endless, erotic gambol with them at the elite penthouse apartment he maintained in downtown Benton Falls for just that purpose.

All of which caused Dwight-during certain mellow moods-to call down blessings on Noreen's name. For, though her interests were wholly mercenary, he was sure that he might have done much, much worse in his selection of a wife. Other females would have taken an exhorbitant settlement, and run, a defection that would have left his life in a horrible muddle. Yes, Noreen was a good wife, a helpmate in the truest sense of the word, and there were times when he could become sentimental about her. He still enjoyed her in bed, and those nights when there wasn't fresh flesh to be explored, he and Noreen had some rousing copulatory bouts; she was still possessed of little coquettries, mannerisms and items of demonic finesse that none of his other women, had they lived to be a hundred, would ever have stumbled upon.

And from whence had come this inextinguishable partiality toward fetishism, toward this bondage of silk? Again, the silk taste was part of his inheritance, a gift from over-indulgent parents. Or so Dwight self-righteously shifted the blame. There had been a maid at home when he was a boy, a charming, dark-eyed, prematurely concupiscient girl of eighteen named Delphine. A maid to whom, seemingly, was entrusted all minutiae involved in his care. His mother and father being very social people, they were constantly away from home, and there was limitless time for the impressionable boy and the sexually-budding girl to get to know one another. How well no one-save for Noreen-had ever found out.

Dwight a very selfish, childish sort of boy, even at thirteen, accustomed to the intimacy from childhood, had always enjoyed being bathed. If not this, then someone must at least be present to scrub his back. Delphine had demurred at the propriety of this chore, but Dwight being the prince of the household, her protests had been ignored. That had been the start of it.

A chance pass at his slack prick in the tub one night had thrilled Dwight, as had Delphine's soft lavings on his back, the sweet aura of her cologne intermixed with her woman smell. Moments later his prick had been standing up in the tub like a minor periscope, and he'd become apprised of sexual awareness for the first time in his life. An innocent conversation had followed concerning the phenomenon, and while both participants were embarrassed, they pursued it nonetheless. As result of their discussion, Delphine had saucily played with his prick and balls, had become overly excited at the flushed trance which her sport induced in Dwight. "Let's see if you're a man yet, darling," she'd chirruped. Whereupon she'd wrapped her pretty, slim fingers about the tiny, hairless tube had commenced to pump it for all she was worth. Very shortly, Dwight groaningly immobilized, unable to resist her even if he'd been inclined, the girl had been rewarded by as pretty an arcing of seminal discharge as anyone could ask for.

For a week then, every night at bathtime-it never dawning on Dwight that there was reciprocal female equivalent, totally oblivious to the fact that Delphine might have needs of her own-the masturbation became a regular rite. But one night, the house entirely at their disposal, the masturbationary procedures attended to, with Delphine in a particularly aroused state, a crossroads had loomed. And in her bedroom, Dwight's underdeveloped prick hard again, he sitting naked on her bed, Delphine sought release of her own. Would Dwight like to see her naked body? Would he like to touch her, to play with her? They could have such wonderful fun together.

Admitting that he would, he sat as captive audience while Delphine, reveling in the realization of her snug, secure sex-experimentation laboratory, had made an extraordinarily teasing show of undressing herself. It being the first time in his life Dwight had ever seen a woman's underwear (except for those few furtive times he caught his mother en dishabille), the exhibition was to have devastatingly far-reaching effect upon him. Delphine had obviously been planning forward to Dwight's final indoctrination into the mysteries of love for some time, and she purposely wore her newest, most enticing scanties. A red silk brassiere, red panties, a black garter belt to cinch the black silk stockings (nylon unheard of at that time) that were part of her maid's uniform, were revealed in teasing, tormenting fashion, until Dwight was delivered to a virtual fit of choking desire.

An unexpected detour had taken place at that moment, in that Delphine, worked to intolerable pitch of sexuality, by then, moved by sight of Dwight's straining, drooling, baby prick, had flung herself upon the bed still dressed in her undies, had immediately gathered the adorable stem, dropped her mouth onto it in crooning frenzy, had commenced sucking it dedicatedly. A homage which, taking into account Dwight's sexual agitation, had caused him to discharge almost immediately into her mouth. It was an accident Delphine hadn't anticipated, but nevertheless she made the best of it, and without a moment's hesitation, she swallowed his watery muck, commenced to suck and lick him clean, managing, in the bargain, to revive his penis as well.

The vision of the beautiful, gypsy-like naiad, clad in her silky finery as her head bobbed and tugged on his screaming prick, was to haunt Dwight the longest day he lived.

Afterwards, of course, there were the customary options of sexual love, and Dwight became a fantastically apt pupil as Delphine instructed him in the endless varieties of fucking, coached him to techniques and prowess some men never acquire. In time she taught him to suck her cunt, to torment her clitoris, to lick and nip her breasts, belly and buttocks; she even introduced him to the joys of anal byplay, in the end, adjudging that his baby stalk would be relatively painless, even going so far as to teach him how to sodomize her. But always, no matter how outre their sexual exploits might become, there was the silk, the allure of Delphine's lingerie and hosiery, the fascination of her shoes. Without fail he insisted that Delphine let him caress her body through the thrilling film, let him kiss and lick her nipples, her legs, her belly and cunt through that slippery veil. Until, eventually, the preliminary adoration became more important to Dwight than the ultimate act of slithering his tiny cock into her slimy hole, discharging a hot, reeking salvo of his muck there itself.

One day, their time limitless, both in a gay, mischievous mood, Delphine sought to affect novelty into their love by dressing Dwight in her pretty underthings. He much of a size with the diminutive maid, they found that her things fit him almost perfectly. Granted, they must stuff the brassiere with tissue paper, his prick must be crowded back between his legs; Dwight found the act of squeezing his feet into her cheap, flashy pumps difficult, but at the end he was a synthesized female. As he paraded and posed clumsily before the giggling Delphine, he knew, for the first time in his life, that evil clutch in his groin that silk against his own flesh could induce. As of that moment he knew he would never be the same again.

Of such playful sport are fetishists born.

It was one of the saddest days of Dwight's life when Delphine left the service of his parents. He was fifteen at the time, and suffered the bleakest despair, the most crushing sense of betrayal when Delphine didn't reappear at the house one day. Investigation revealed that she'd run off with one of the local bully-boys, a machinist employed at his father's plant, who, apparently, had got the amoral doxy in a "family way."

Even now, sitting alone in his bedroom-ultimate sanctum sanctorum of late, seemingly, Dwight couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness in his heart to remember Delphine. To think, he mused, after all these years. After all the women ingenues and tireless wantons alike-I've had in my lifetime. That I can still remember Delphine. He sighed heavily, slumped further into his chair, the sense of disquiet in his soul becoming oppressive. He laughed sardonically. What did it all mean? What is life all about, anyway? A farce, pointless farce. Nothing more. He took a deep sip of the Scotch sitting at his elbow, sank into further mediations, allowing the elegiac strains of the piped-in Vaughan Williams to wash over him. A monstrous ennui suffocated him, and he felt alone, utterly drained.

Thus it was that he almost welcomed the intrusion, as Noreen, dressed in a flowing, violet peignoir, her feet still in the sexy, black pumps she'd worn throughout the evening, entered the bedroom, advanced directly upon him. Seeing the pagan glint in her eyes, the fey smile, he was further innundated with boredom. Noreen would make her try again, he concluded. And why, why in heaven's name can't she wait? Why can't she let me make the first move? he rumbled to himself. Because another voice immediately retorted, if she did, she'd probably never get serviced. Grudgingly, Dwight admitted that it was so. He hadn't been very considerate of Noreen lately. And God knew, she was a healthy, sensual woman, possessed of certain needs. Needs which were, now, she in the prime of her sexual life, more dominating than ever before.

A strange sense of benevolence, intermixed with a lingering sexual stimulation which his just-concluded introspections had triggered, suffused him now. And why not? It won't take much time to get into the mood as things stand now. The least I can do for Noreen. That insidious, old shoe sort of affection was back, and he thought that sex with his wife would be rather nice at that. After all, Noreen knew the ropes; she could be emminently expertise and satisfying at times. He shouldn't punish her for the fact that she wasn't a promiscuous woman, that she hadn't once, during his long career of inconstancy, chosen to retaliate by engaging in seamy, back-street affairs of her own. By and large, she deserved better, much better.

"You look so morose, darling," she said brightly, a cute pixie tonight, as she held her hands behind her back, shielding a surprise. "What is it?"

"Nothing, my dear. That time of the night, I guess. My you look pretty tonight. The peignoir. Is it new?"

"Thank you for noticing, Dwight. You like it?"

"Yes. It's quite fetching."

She knelt before him, her eyes mischievous. "Fetching enough to investigate the mysteries beneath?"

He smiled. "I imagine I could be prevailed upon."

Her expression darkened. "Still thinking about Sirri?"

"I expect I am. I'm afraid I've got the bug. I'm sorry, Noreen, truly I am. But you know how I am when I get that way."

"Yes," she said, her smile turning rueful, "I'm afraid I do. I don't suppose any special effort on my part ... perhaps Ardyce and I could make it a cooperative effort ... would help. It can get devilishly sticky, you know."

He sighed ponderously. "I realize that. But what's to be done? When a man's been used to having his own way all his life."

"But can't you see the handwriting on the wall, dear? All good things have to come to an end sooner or later."

"I dread to think of it. Just the thought of growing that old throws me into a virtual fit of despondency. I want to scream, commit the most atrocious acts of mayhem."

"That's why you must start tapering off. Now, while there's still time. If you line yourself up with a small harem of presentable, but trustworthy old

... friends, if you exclude risks ... The transition can be made gracefully, you know."

"You're a sweetheart, Noreen. Do you know that? Sometimes I don't know how you tolerate me. All these years...."

"How many times must I tell you? I love you, dear. You should know that by now. I only want for you to be happy."

"Even to the point of helping me with Sirri?"

Noreen frowned. "I'd hoped you'd listen to reason." Now it was her time to sigh deeply. "I suppose there's no other way. If that's what you want. It will be dreadfully dangerous."

"I thought you unequivocally refused last week."

"I did. I was terribly hurt. But I've had time to reconsider. It could be managed, I suppose. I should intervene myself. Before you make a miserable botch of it. Although, as I said ... it can be extremely tricky."

"You are a good old girl, Noreen." His eyes brightened, and his heart lifted. "But how? How do you propose to swing it?"

"I haven't decided yet. There are several angles. It all depends on how you cooperate with me."

"Cooperate with you?"

Her smile turned licentious. "Surely, darling, you must understand: You be good to me; I'll be good to you."

"I will, darling," he breathed, already excited, his cannon unlimbering inside his trousers, "I promise. Tonight. But about Sirri. How...."

"I'll get her and her mother here on some pretext. Doris Stenson's been dying to see the inside of this house for years. That will give you time to sound Sirri out. Ater all, you have to contribute something. If all else fails, there's always money. Avaricious as young people are nowadays ... "

"That seems rather crude."

"As I said, I haven't really put my mind to it yet."

"When? I mean, when will you invite them?"

"I haven't decided." Her eyes glittered. "It all depends."

"On what?"

"On how good my daddy is to me between now and then."

Dwight pulled Noreen forward, placed a hard, impatient kiss on her lips. "Right now, then," he hissed. "We'll start this very moment."

Upon which Noreen brought her hands from behind her back, proffered a small, tastefully wrapped package. "I was rather hoping you'd say that. See? I came prepared. For you, Dwight. Go ahead, open it up."

Puzzledly Dwight tore open the gift-ribbons, scrabbled inside the wrappings. And as he found the gauzy hose, held it up, revealing a panty hose in his size, navy blue, with a petit-point pattern, a scanty pair of blue and gray-striped, rayon panties to go with it, Noreen said: "I was shopping for something unusual for myself this afternoon; I thought you'd like a set for yourself." With that she undid the peignoir ties at the throat, and flung it open to reveal herself dressed in a stunningly-pointed rayon brassiere in the same vertically-striped pattern, her subtly opulent belly contained in matching panties, the overlaying panty hosiery. It was an enchanting ensemble, one which combined beautifully with her black, saber-toed pumps, caused Dwight's heart to instantly race. And as Noreen rose, assumed provocative pose: "Do you like it?"

"I like it very much, darling," he gulped. "It's beautiful ... it makes you look irresistibly desirable. Look, I'm hard as a rock already."

The peignoir drifted to the floor, puddling at Noreen's feet. Now she reached for Dwight; helped him to his feet. "Come, baby. Get on the bed. I'll get you dressed." Docilely, trembling hard, Dwight shambled forward, the clutch of net and rayon held tightly in his hand. While he stood before the bed, commenced tugging off his jacket and shirt, Noreen drifted about the room like some conspiratorial wraith; she extinguished the lights, glided to the control panel built into the bed's headboard, clicked two, small, electric-blue baby-spots to life in the ceiling. The beams crisscrossed, fell upon the bed proper, made the crimson, satin sheets glitter and writhe like silken snakes as Noreen now pulled the spread back.

When Dwight had stripped himself down to the plain, black panties he wore, Noreen advanced upon him, pushing him onto the bed. "Here, pet," she breathed, "let me." Whereupon she hovered over him, matter-of-factly slid his flimsy briefs down his legs, ended with a brief, loving obeisance where she licked the shimmering love oil from the tip of his distended pecker, fleetingly tortured its swollen head with lips, tongue and teeth. Shortly she had worked the new panties onto him, making playful show of trying to tuck the offending prick back between his legs so that it wouldn't tent the front of his panties so hideously. Each time it spanged up, she gigglingly retucked it.

Now she arranged the legs of the panty hose, fastidiously began running them up his shaved legs, smoothing and stretching the garment as she did so. The panty was in a bikini cut, rose high on his hips (as did the underlying panty itself), formed a double knit cache for his still struggling prick and testicles. Noreen took special pains fitting the leotard in the crotch, saw to it that the stockings fit snugly everywhere. "You have the prettiest legs for a man, Dwight," she complimented as she did so. "Some women would give their right arms for legs as pretty." Again she leaned, gently nibbled the bulge of his cock through the double layer of nylon. "There," she said, "done. Now look at yourself in the mirror."

Dwight dreamily rose, circled the bed. Where, positioning himself in an especially provocative beam of light, he stood before the banks of mirrors in preening, twisting pride, a poseur who affected several erotic stances, ended by actually basketing and clutching his genitalia with fervid hands. An attention that drove Dwight deeper into deviate's fit, and ragged whimpers of lust broke from him. "Oh, darling," he wheezed, "you're so good to me. I don't deserve ... You know just what I want. Oh, please...." He shuddered, came completely unglued. "You know what I want...."

Noreen's eyes flared with demonic blaze. Her voice harsh-and yet somehow kind, pitying as well-she said, "Yes, darling. I know what you want." Her tone became almost as eerie as his. "You'll get what you want...." Upon which she started up from the bed, went to sit on one of the carpeted risers, almost as Ardyce had sat on Sunday afternoon. Outside of the direct glare of the spotlights, her body took on deeper blue shadowings, the silky conoids of her breasts sent back phosphorescent scintilla, further dazzling Dwight. "Over here, darling. Come to Noreen. Come show Noreen how much you love her."

"Please, please...." he babbled, hobbling toward her, falling to the floor like some shimmering snake, crawling up to incline after her. "Command me ... command...."

"I'll command you, all right, you rotten filth," she husked. "I know just what you want." She raised one foot, poised a deadly spiked heel in his face. "That's far enough, slime. Kiss it, do you hear? The sole, the heel." Then, as Dwight unhesitatingly complied, ministered to first one offered shoe, then the other: "The toes now. Suck them. Lick them. Suck, you crawly pervert!" An expression of addled bliss on his features, Dwight again complied, and his head rose and fell, his mouth consuming the entire toe of each pump, much as if he were fellating it.

Then he must remove Noreen's shoe; he must suck her toes through her stocking; one by one, then collectively. Now the other foot. He must crowd as much of her foot into his mouth as was humanly possible; he must suckle and suckle. Until her foot was sopping wet, the sick noises he made resembling a farrow of pigs at feeding time. Once more her shoes were slavishly replaced upon her feet. Whereupon Dwight rose to his knees, gathered both her feet to his naked chest, commenced to press the hard, sharp tips of her heels into the flesh of his chest and abdomen. A beatified expression distorting his face, he drove the torturing projectiles as deeply into his skin as he could endure, releasing them only with a barking ejaculation of agony. Into his stomach now, with the man lapsing further into frenzy, attempting to jam the leather daggers into his lower belly, the bundle of his masculinity as well.

At this Noreen forestalled him, brought her legs back. But when he still fought to punish himself, she let fury craze her voice. "Enough, Dwight! Enough, do you hear! My legs now. Love my legs." She endured his tickling lips, his swabbing tongue on her ankles, calves, knees and thighs as best she could, knowing all the while how dearly Dwight savored this segment of the masochistic rite. But when she could endure the maddening adoration no longer, she seethed: "My tits, you fucker! Come suck my tits." A creaky whimper issuing from his throat, he eagerly came over her, gnawed and licked her swollen nipples, tugged and gobbled them, taking as much of each breast into his mouth as he possibly could, his slobbering ministrations soon soaking the satin brassiere through and through. While, throughout, he watched himself, as often as he could, in the voyeur mirrors to his right. Until, now, at long last:

"Noreen's cunt now, you swine. Her stinking, slimy cunt! Go get it. Suck it! Suck it until Noreen tells you to stop." Again an eager bark broke from Dwight, and dropping back, arranging her knees over his shoulders, he forced her back on the riser, brought her hips high in the air, positioned her vulnerably exposed snatch so that it loomed irresistibly in his face. With a harsh growl, he buried his mouth in the odorous cache, began to gnaw and lick and suck her through her undies with fanatic fervor. Once more the liquid suckings carried in the totally-insulated boudoir, overriding his mounting growls of pleasure.

Shortly, despite the double tier of nylon protecting her cunt-ultimate testimony to Dwight's proficiency-Noreen felt the lips of her vagina open; she felt his tongue drive the nylon in on the sensitive surface of that mouth. Then his tongue was flattening itself in tireless swipe against the sopping crotch of her panties, plastering the material against the swollen bud of her clitoris. It was a mind-unhinging sensation-subtle, yet ruthlessand Noreen dug her nails into his forearms where he balanced her hips; she loosed a top-of-the-voice scream to announce the intensity of the orgasm Dwight had just induced. "More," she shrieked as he hesitated, "give me more! Make me pop again. Lick, you fucker! Lick me raw!"

Twice more she erupted, the climaxes making hot shards of exploding meteors backfire inside her brain, dragging even louder, more ragged cries of victory from her lungs. And now: "The bed, you crawly filth! Bring the scissors." Moments later she kicked and writhed upon the glittery panoply of restless satin, while Dwight rummaged in a bed stand drawer for the vastly essential scissors. A tremor paralyzed Noreen as he returned, pulled the tips of the brassiere away from her nipples, snipped the points of the bra off, the fear that he would go berserk one of these times looming large in her mind. Abruptly she pulled his suckling lips from the stone-hard buds, ordained that he should tailor her new ensemble in the crotch as well. Again there was the moment of held breath, as the scissors went snip-snip. Suddenly she felt cold air on the dripping lips of her cunt.

"Now!" she gulped victoriously. "The real thing! Suck Noreen's greasy cunt again. Like you meant it. Lick her ass. Do it, do you hear!" Her hands dug into Dwight's crotch as she felt that first searing, delectable swipe of his tongue across her clitoris, and she squeezed his balls, clenched his prick until hot grunts bombarded the erogenous petals of her most holy, most sanctified snatch. "Your tongue!" she seethed. "In, oh in! As far as it'll go. Put your finger up my ass. Darling, darling ... I'm coming already." Her voice shattered explosively. "I'm coming, coming, coming ... Lick! Suck! Suck me silly! Your finger! Shove it in and out! Yes, that's exquisite. Suck Noreen's cunt! Make her comecome-come come...."

A guttural yawp abraded her throat then, proof positive of the totality of her orgasm. "Gorgeous," she praised. "Gorgeous, gorgeous ... Yes, lick me more ... lick my asshole...."

Short moments later the sado-masochist segment of their passion was over, and Noreen feeling she would die if she wasn't immediately filled with yards and yards of cock, she pulled away from Dwight, pushed him onto his back. Then it was her turn to alter his new undies, oblivious to the damage she inflicted, she firmly intending that the ensembles be one-shot, throw-away items from the outset. Noe she drew Dwight's monstrous cudgel from that sopping slit, even going so far as to pluck out his testicles as well, arranging them just so before she swooped down, consumed the slimy mast with avid lips, restless tongue.

But Dwight could only stand a little of the barbaric homage, and now, with a guttural growl, he tore her head away, came over her, drove his pecker through the tattered opening in her undies with one cruel stroke. They both groaned their delight as the long, fat torpedo was rammed home, as he seemingly hit bottom, sprang back, hit bottom again. "Fuck it, darling!" Noreen grunted as she raised her silken legs, wrapped them about his flanks. The slippery heels of her shoes slid along Dwight's hose, snagged here and there before they came to rest in the concavity of his knee, where they dug mercilessly, both savoring the voluptuary dividend the slide of silk against silk presented to the utmost. Just as they savored the slide of flesh inside of flesh-a sensation akin to being immersed in molten glass, in a viscous broth, a broth so thick it clung, veritably milked the assaulting member.

Dwight sucked her nipples as he fucked; he chewed his wife's lips; he drove his tongue halfway down her throat. Until now, at her specific command, he oiled his finger with the overflow muck careening down the crack of her buttocks, he corkscrewed it into her anus, deep, deeper, deepest. Their bodies rocked, pistoned, ground, devoured. Dwight became aware of Noreen's staccato outbursts of ecstasy, the way the inner muscles of her pussy wrung his cock, as she came again-and again-and again-in machine-gun sequence seemingly. Then his finger drove deeper within her, gathered that thin septum to his raping prick; he almost felt the throb of his hot sperm battering against the other side of that membranous wall. He cursed, howled raggedly just before he plummeted toward the fiery cauldron of his climax: "You fuck! You magnificent fuck!"

Now the haunted bedroom was dark, and the Adairs supposedly slept. Only one member of the corrupt team was still awake. And lying stiffly beside her husband, staring into the darkness, Noreen Adair suffered a most bitter sense of despair and defeat. Perverted their love might be, she admitted. But at least it was good; it was sufficient; it had purged her of damnable tensions, at least temporarily. And so long as it was a private matter, kept within these four walls, the secret of husband and wife, all was well. But once another party intervened, once their secret was cast to the four winds. Fury and frustration rocked her, and she had all she could to do keep from screaming aloud.

Sufficient? she castigated. To whom? To me perhaps. But to Dwight? No, it hadn't been enough; she could tell. The ugly thing was staring again; there was absolutely no way on earth to stop it.

And what was she going to do now? Noreen died a hundred, tortured deaths at the irrefutable realization that now, at long last:

Armageddon-terrifying, grisly, absolutely unavoidable-loomed.