Chapter 7

Whenever Dwight and Noreen had a few moments to themselves, their conversation-once the practical exigencies of household, corporate and social demands were shunted aside-invariably turned to his continuing romance with Sirri. And how were things going? Was she all the woman, the pristine innocent he'd thought she'd be? Just how was the virgin-goddess business these days?

To which questionings-Dwight totally unaware of the fact that his wife was baiting him, that via her secret vantage point she knew exactly the affair's present disposition-he usually applied in the glowing positive, assured Noreen that Sirri was sun, moon and stars, that once and for all he'd found the female, and there would never be need for him to stray again.

This particular September evening, Noreen and Ardyce dutifully departed from the house as per directions, Dwight awaiting Sirri's imminent arrival, he felt an unaccountable despair and ennui, and recalling the conversations with Noreen, he only wished he might feel as easy in his mind about Sirri as the rosy picture he'd painted for his wife might indicate. Something was definitely going wrong between him and Sirri. And what was it? Certainly he loved Sirri just as much as ever; the panic at thought of losing her was as deadly as ever. Their corybantic sex duos continued as pagan and ferocious as ever; there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that his nymphet mistress would not do to accommodate him sexually. If anything she was as avid for innovation, as instrumental in programming new expeditions into the sexual unknown as he was. And who would have believed that an innocent like Sirri, in the brief passage of a month's time at that, could develop into such a flat-out, no-holds-barred wanton?

Perhaps this was what worried him. Lurking in the darkest niches of his mind were niggling fears that in time, he himself would falter; he wouldn't be able to respond to the tireless demands Sirri made upon him; there would come a time when his overdeveloped sex drive-bolstered prodigiously lately by vitamins, testosterone shots as it was-would fail him, reduce him to a victim of mockery and contempt in his vibrant, young Lorelei's eyes. Indeed, there had already been evidence of this. That thing two nights ago, when it had taken all the concentration and will power he possessed to keep his prick hard enough to see Sirri through her third fuck of the evening? Was that ghost of Christmas to come?

He fought away the speculation, cursed himself for the fears. A man can think himself into a state, you ass! he scolded. Switching mental channels, he zeroed in on what he considered an even more crucial causative. That language of Sirri's! he concluded. The utterly conscienceless-slutty-way she throws herself into sex! As hard as he tired to reconcile himself to same, to convince himself that he was among God's luckiest creatures to have unearthed so amoral, so license-dedicated a mink as Sirri, somehow the rationalizations wouldn't sell. No matter how assiduously he assured himself that this was merely a passing phase, that he would soon accustom himself to Sirri's hoyden, piggish delight in shocking him, the unease remained. And what did it mean? Why did he allow such petty considerations to trouble him?

Basically, he supposed, it was all due to the preconceived picture of Sirri he'd manufactured. His peculiar sexual malaise being what it was, he'd desperately needed a singular female-the ultimate female-to fit into the role of aristocratic, regal and aloof mistress his most secret heart cried out for. A mistress who, though participating whole-heartedly in debauch unlimited, would, somehow, still keep a mystic part of herself in reserve; she would, even after wallowing in animalistic sex, remount her holy, supernatural dais, resume her worshipful stance. The analogy, muddled as it was, certainly didn't fit the Sirri of today.

Now Dwight withered inside as he recalled one of their most recent meetings, one in which he'd finally revealed his ultimate eccentricity to Sirri. That night, while dressing her in one of her most provocative lingerie ensembles, a groveling handmaiden of the most toadying sort, he'd described his need to be dominated and mistreated by the object of his love. A thing that Sirri hadn't understood at first, had refused to cooperate in. "But why, baby?" she'd asked. "Why would you want me to treat you like that? I love you; I only want to do nice things for you. I think I'd be ill, to have you crawling around like that. And that shoe thing ... the heels ... That's sick, Dwight. Sick-sick."

Somehow by utilization of persuasion, tactile stimulation and force-feedings of liquor, he'd eventually brought Sirri around to attempting his masochistic brand of sex play after all. Only a dim light burning in the Adair bedroom, discordant Stravinsky clogging the macabre atmosphere, Sirri regally resplendent in a butchered, tightly-boned, royal blue corset, her cunt and breasts (the tits themselves darkly rouged) almost totally exposed, she was persuaded to issue the first commands. "Here, Dwight," she'd said self-consciously. "You dirty, little boy. Come kiss Sirri's feet."

Somehow the sight of him cowering there in his black, similarly butchered panties and panty-hose, the eerie sensations of having him lick the toes of her shoes, had awakened sleeping demons within her. And as Dwight had pleadingly insisted that she verbally abuse him with more ferocity, utilize more gutty language, she had complied with in creasing, instinctive verve. "Suck the toes, you filth. As much as you can get into your rotten, dirty mouth! Suck, you bastard! Give my foot a blow job!"

The ugly fury in her voice, the demented light in her eyes had compounded swiftly, and shortly the latent sadism extant in all mankind had raked Sirri with its clawing talons, had delivered her to uncontrollable bestiality. And as he'd sucked her toes, licked her ankles, her calves then her bare thighs themselves, Sirri had twined her hands in his hair, had urged his head more fiercely to her flesh. "My tits!" she'd grated, forestalling him in his attempts to plunge his mouth into her swimming cunt, seemingly saving that for the last. "Suck 'em! Suck 'em until I can't stand it any more! Suck the little bastards raw!" At which she'd leaned, had hung her barely-cantilevered boobs in his face, had savored his abject, neck-straining pose to the utmost, at the end attempting to smother him in them.

When she'd been unable to stand his adoration any longer, the ultimate degradation had been ordained. "Now, you dirty fucker!" she seethed, completely out of touch. "My cunt! My stinking, dripping cunt. Suck that now. Put your cuntsucking mouth in my snatch, suck my twat! Suck my clit; pull my passion cherry out by the roots. Make me come again and again!" She'd allowed herself to be masticated and stripped to two quick glories, which back-breaking ecstasies had driven her to further excess.

"On your back, pig," she'd choked, tearing his mouth from her screaming gash viciously, flinging him backward. "Sirri's got something special for dirty cunt suckers like you!" Running to the upper level, she'd brought a straight chair, placed it beside Dwight's recumbent, twitching form. "Here's what you wanted, you pervert!" she spat. "And here it is. Lay still. Take your punishment like the crawly slime you are!" Whereupon, balancing her weight down on the pencil-thin heels of her black, calfskin pumps, she gingerly ground the leather spike into his flesh, exulting in his pained, grating whimpers. She prodded his near-to-exploding prick where, escaping from the opening in his panties, it stood like a minor Sequoia with the pointed toe of one shoe. "That really makes the sap rise, doesn't it? Christ! Look at the way your cock's jumping!"

Again and again she walked on his chest and belly, on his thighs even, the weight of her heels actually cutting him in places, leaving red, crescentshaped welts elsewhere. Dwight had been transfigured, driven to heights of passion heretofore unexperienced by him. Granted, he'd had women mistreat him before, but none had ever hurt him like this. Sirri was a veritable genius when it came to debauch. "You like that don't you, pig?" she'd taunted, offering a rapier heel for him to suck. "Say it, you fucker! You like it."

"I like it," he'd gasped through grunts of agony. "I love it. Oh, more, more...."

Once more she'd gone as far as to lift and massage his balls with the shiny toe of her shoe. "You love that too, don't you, creep? You can't get enough of that, can you!" She began to stroke the underside of his stalk with slippery leather, snickering viscously as the member flopped sideways, back and forth. At that moment Dwight had released a strangled howl. And then and there, a totally involuntary act, the degenerate havoc of Sirri's abuse taking irrevocable toll, Dwight had ejaculated, his sperm coursing in high arc, splashing his belly one moment, spitting white garlands of cream against Sirri's nyloned ankle, on the smooth leather of her shoe the next. "Ooh, Ooh," he'd gasped, utterly mortified.

But there had been redemption. As Sirri had stared malevolently down at him, her mouth working agitatedly. "Now that was a filthy thing to do, pig," she seethed. "You'll be sorry you did that." Summarily she'd sat back on the chair allowing Dwight to sit up. From which throne she'd imperiously extended the befouled foot and shoe. "Come here, piggy! Come here and lick all this mucky slime off me! Get me clean. Lick, do you hear!" Which further humiliation Dwight, still in the throes of a conscience-obliterating lust, had swiftly, eagerly leapt to perfom. On all fours, his head hanging down, he'd licked his semen off her shoe, off her stocking, had slavishly worked until his mistress had excused him from the chore.

"Over here, you filth," she'd commanded next, going to the bed. "You've got me all hot again. Get your head in here. Suck my twat. Suck me off a couple more times. And then...." Partially leaning, her arms supporting her, with her heels hooked on the mattress' edge, her legs brazenly splayed, she'd presented her expectantly-leering cunt, had adjusted so his lips and tongue could have free play.

"God. oh. God!" she'd screamed as first one, then another orgasm had been sucked from her, "I'm exploding. my cunt's on fire!" Then, calm temporarily established: "No. don't take it away; keep your mouth there. Keep me hot." She'd shivered convulsively. "Ooh. you got me so excited, I gotta go." Making a move to get off the bed. she'd caught herself, flopped back into her original position.

A deranged, blatantly obscene leer on her face, she'd said. "Sirri's gotta go potty. But she can't wait." Her voice took on venomous edge; her eyes were demented, heathenish. "You'll take care of it for her, won't you, cuntsucker? You'll save her the trip?" Her hand had come down, had slammed his head into her crotch, had forced his mouth to suction onto the upper regions of her vagina. "Latch on, you fucker!" she'd crowed exultantly. "Here it comes. Drink it, do you hear! Drink my piss!"

As of that moment Dwight was a mindless zombie, beyond control, beyond remorse, completely stripped of all humanity. A horrendous roaring in his ears, he'd affixed his mouth to her urethral opening, had thirstily received her hot flood. After which, incensed beyond description, his pecker miraculously revived, he'd flung himself upon Sirri, had thrown her onto her belly, cursingly burrowed his gummy weapon into the resisting portal of her ass, and all Sirri's shrieks of pain to the protest, had royally reamed her, surprising them both with the torrents of hot jazz he'd been able to bombard the forbidden channel with. "Ooh," a bemused, delightfully-sated Sirri had moaned when he'd finally unglued himself from her posterior, "that was terrible. I won't be able to shit for a week."

Abruptly now, a noise somewhere in the house jarring him from the corrupt reverie, Dwight Adair straightened in his chair, thought to go admit Sirri. He changed his mind, slumped back in his chair, knew a suffocating panic. As, passing his hand between his legs, he basketed his genitals, was amazed to find-even after the low-down, filthy introspections just concluded-that his cock was totally unaffected by same; it lay in limp curl inside his trousers. God, dear God, he agonized. It's happened! It's happened at along last!

He arose to greet Sirri as she found her own way through the house. And was further unnerved by the realization that he felt absolutely no excitement at the prospect of the impending fuck, no desire for Sirri whatsoever!

But still, as she entered, fresh and glowing, a newly ignited feral cast to her face, he managed to go through the motions of joyous welcome, thinking all the while that when the time for romp arrived, he would be ready. Once he instituted their usual preliminaries, there would be no question but that he'd be the virile, charging bull he'd always been.

Even in this he was frustrated, for Sirri displaying a singular disinterest in his fetishist fancies tonight, she begged him for more normal and forthright attentions. "None of that tonight, baby," she resisted as he attempted to caress and kiss her nyloned legs. "That scene's getting to be a drag. Is that all you think about? Why can't you just try it regular ... my way for once. That thing last time ... Wow! Like too much. You had me so far out of my tree I was afraid I'd never climb back." She fell on the bed, held imploring arms out to him. "Please, Dwight? Just a nice peaceful fuck? No shennanigans?"

Which demurral-inbred rejection large within its framework-couldn't help but devastatingly chill what small ardor Dwight still possessed. Dully, sullenly, he fell beside her, allowed Sirri to pull him into her arms, kiss him hotly. A momentary spark-initial awe at her child-like beauty, her very presence-was swiftly extinguished. "Don't pout now, baby," she coaxed. "We can do some of those things, if you like. But the silk bit I'm tired of. I'll suck you a little, you can suck me. Then you can shove that sweet prick of yours into me, fuck me blind. What's wrong with that?" A mischievous glitter exploded in her eyes. "Maybe I might even have a little surprise or two in store for you. Something I've been thinking about lately...." She pounced upon him. "Here, let's get these clothes off you...."

Dwight knew grave mortification when Sirri tugged away his trousers, found him inert inside his brightly-patterned panties. "Hey, what's this?" she teased. "A dead one? What's the matter, honey? Haven't you got it for me any more? You been flubbing the dummy on me?" She giggled, more amused at this discomfiture than chagrined, and dug playful fingers into his limp bundle. "Don't fret, love; I've got ways to put starch in that one. Trust me."

Then, Dwight lying on the bed in just his ridicu lous panties, Sirri stood before him on the first riser, made a spicy show of removing her outer clothing. As she revealed herself in a plain, juniormiss sort of white lingerie combination, the brassiere unembellished, tailored, the white, Lycra panty-girdle stiff and dull, a collage of unenticing planes, a severe diamond at belly and derriere, Dwight felt the slightest twinge in his prick. Unsexy as the underthings might be, there was still something ingenue, enough about them to restir long-interred fantasies of innocent virginity. But as quickly-Sirri briskly peeling off same to avoid his relapse into self-abasement-the fascination was gone. Briefly Sirri stood before him, her face confused as she displayed her nakedness, failed to elicit Dwight's lust.

She offered her lush breasts with her own hands, tweaked the nipples with diabolic fingers; she assumed provocative stance which had always excited him before. Her eyes narrowing, she used a favorite device and popping her index finger deep into her vagina, twisting it 180 degrees each way, she slid it out. Advancing upon the bed, she inserted the slimy digit into Dwight's mouth, bade him suck. A thing which he did dutifully, instead of eagerly. "Looks like Sirri's gotta look after her own interests," she mused. "What is it, darling? Don't you love me any more?"

Urgent panic erupted within Dwight. He did love Sirri; he didn't want to lose her, no matter what. "I don't know, baby," he muttered, mouthing the tasty finger. "It just won't get hard. I'm so ashamed. This ... this's never happened to me before."

"Don't sweat it, love. That happens, I guess. Hell, the way I've been pounding you." She came squirming up his belly, poised her snatch over his face. "Here, take a bite. This'll charge your batteries. Oooh, darling! That educated mouth of yours. I could melt on the spot."

Then, when this liberty didn't help, more drastic measures were called for. "Would you like me to suck you, darling? I'll give you a blow-job you'll never forget." Dwight's terror was multiplied a hundredfold. As, watching Sirri crouch on her haunches beside him, her back in exquisite arc, her breasts hanging like overturned beehives inches from his hands, her mouth nibbling and drawing on his deflated cock, even as she removed his bizarre costume, he still felt no stirrings of desire. Her fingers scrabbled in the mushy meat of his genitals, fought to buttress his shrunken pod long enough for her lips to slurp it in. Shortly her attentions breathed minor life into his pecker, but the feeble, crippled tube was a mere shadow of itself; he barely felt her tongue and fingers on it as she drew back the foreskin, licked and blew, licked and blew, lovingly on it.

"C'mon, little prick," she cooed, the heat of her tongue the cool of her breath generating feeble flickers deep in his scrotum, "get hard; pay attention to Sirri." She giggled. "Get hard. Simon says, 'Get hard.' C'mon, you sweet little worm; look alive. Here, how do you like this?" At which she separated the glans, sought to rape the miniature mouth with a curled tongue. "I wish I was a humming bird. So I could get way in there. I'd suck you out; I'd make you hard in no time at all. You like this, Dwight? This get to you? Mmm, your juice is beginning to flow. Yum-yum. It's delicious. Hard, you little rooster, get hard. It's coming, it's coming. Concentrate." And parodying a Peter Pan refrain: "Think dirty thoughts; think dirty thoughts...."

For perhaps ten more minutes, even going so far as to pause to retrieve a small bottle of creme-dementhe from the table on the upper level (the sticky drink a recent favorite with her), painting his prick and balls with same, sucking and licking him to fastidious cleanliness Sirri continued to im portune his penis to stiffness. All to little effect. As Dwight, more frightened by the moment, defeated her efforts by sheer mental negativism. It was only when Sirri loosed a dedicated flow of scatological language as she sucked him, that the indolent meat struggled up, fought to approximate its previous height. A minor success that encouraged her, drove her to further excesses.

Now she slid her fingers in and out of her cunt, brought the copious elixir of her Bartholin glands to the crack of her ass, where she determinedly tunneled her finger into his anus. Soon she had the tender portal runny and slippery. So much so that her finger slid in and out with easy lisp and pop. "Sweet prick," she chanted in between long, devouring suckings with her mouth, driving her finger deep with each withrawal, reversing the motion as her mouth once more descended on his firming cannon, "sweet, juicy, hard prick. Sweet fucky prick ... fucky-fucky prick. Big fat cock in my mouth. Fat, fat cock. Cock that's jamming deep into my throat. Cock that's wild to plunder Sirri's steaming cunt. Hard, hard ... that's a good boy, that's a...."

Eventually the playful, amused child was successful, and Dwight's member was rigid enough so they could risk transferring it from her mouth to her pussy. And though he didn't fail her, though the laggard weapon brought her to orgasm upon orgasm before it shot its own watery syrup deep into her bowels, it was, all in all, a lack lustre fuck. Even as he splatted the walls of her womb, as Sirri shammed an incredible delight, Dwight knew that he had failed her. Crushing presentiment of doom made itself known, and he was shattered, became the original hollow man.