Chapter 8
Cowering within the walls of his sumptuously appointed office at Candlelight Petroleum this dreary afternoon in mid-September, Dwight Adair was haunted by phantoms of the most terrifying and debilitating sort. A ponderous sigh escaped him as he admitted the grisly actuality of the infamy which had come to pass. The stand-off between him and Sirri had continued, was continuing-over a period of ten whole days now. There was no point in trying to pretend that it didn't exist any longer. Passing phase, indeed! Dear God in Heaven, how long? How long before Sirri tires of my half-man performance? How long will she continue to indulge me in the degrading workups before I'm man enough to service her? When a girl's been broken in the way I broke her in, when a girl's in her prime sexually and physically, when she can't help but draw young, capable studs like flies He would lose Sirri; money or no money, fervent promises of gifts unending to the contrary. For now the material facets would become secondary; it was the steady humping that would take precedence. For all he knew she was with another man now, some punk kid, a pawky, mauling, greedily-gobbling cretin who would never, in a hundred years, appreciate the rare largesse being bestowed upon him. The thought drove him into a frenzy. And yet, he temporized, why not? Sirri's been had. By a past master. The damage has been done. And if she passes herself around to any and all comers from here on in, what's the harm? He had only himself to blame. He'd taught her everything she knew. What was to keep her from taking in students on her own?
Dwight buried his face in his hands, fought to stifle frustrated groans. Please, Sirri, he raged. I'll be all right soon now. Which was a lie, and he knew it, for he'd been to his doctor, had out-lined his problems. To which the doctor had shrugged, had told him that his impotency was psychologically induced; head-shrinking wasn't in his line. The vitamins, the testosterone shots were, insofar as he was concerned, the end of the line. "Until you get right with God," the nihilistic Carstairs had caustically taunted in parting.
But Dwight wasn't about to consult a psychiatrist; he wasn't about to bare his soul to one of those charlatans. There was nothing wrong with his head. At least nothing that frauds like that could cure. His despair deepened. What then? Where to turn? Time was flying. and Sirri was becoming more cold, more distant bv the day. Soon she would be leaving for college: their idvll would end on a disruptive note: it would never be revitalized again. Dear God, the irony, the devastating irony of it all!
How can it be? he questioned, his hand slithering between his legs, his fingers encountering his cock, almost instantly triggering it into surging readiness. This? Now? When I'm away from Sirri? And yet, when I'm with her, when we're both working like someone possessed to make this dirty animal hard? Nothing. Sweet Jesus, why? Almost in incredulous trance, thinking to find it all a mirage upon closer inspection, Dwight unzipped his trousers. Digging inside the double layer of nylon-today he wore frilly pink panties, gauzy white pantyhose beneath his severe, dark business suit, his over-the-calf socks concealing his peculiar aberration from the outside world-he dug out the vein-garlanded length, balanced it in the palm of his right hand. With his other, he slapped it against his palm, felt pain, vestigial sexual excitement careen down its length, burrow into his scrotum, into the pleasurable nerve-center located slightly above and behind it.
You bastard, he accused. And for Sirri you won't get hard? What kind of a dirty stunt do you think you're pulling, anyway? Another thought crossed his mind. And while he hadn't once attempted intercourse with Noreen since Sirri had first capitulated-He wondered if, with any other woman besides Sirri-or was he impotent with all women? No matter; there was an easy way of finding out. Pulling his chair close to his desk, concealing his stiff-standing cock beneath it, he pushed the intercom button. "Miss Hill? Will you come in please?"
Moments later the tall blonde entered the office, note pad and pencil at ready. Her eyes went wide, her jaw fell in flustered confusion as she saw the cruel hungry glint in Dwight's gaze. "Mr. Adair...?"
"Please lock the door, Jessica," he snapped. "No interruptions." Whereupon he rolled his chair backward, unconcernedly revealed his swollen rod and testicles to her, his eyes flicking from Jessica to himself, inventorying the effect of her on his prick, his prick on her.
"Mr. Adair ... Dwight!" she gasped. "Really!"
"Don't play games, Jessica. You've seen this before. Now if you'll raise your skirts, please. I'm conducting a survey of sorts."
"Really, Dwight," she stammered, her eyes never leaving the bobbing, swaying extension of cock, "there's no need to be uncouth. Just like that? You expect me to ... "
""Raise your skirts, damnit! " he bellowed. "I've got no time, I said!"
The color draining from her face, the very-flustered secretary swiftly leaned, brought her dress up in embarrassed fits and starts. "Honestly, Dwight," she sputtered, "There's no need to be crude. You know you have but to ask in a nice way and I'll...."
For long moments Dwight stared at the prominent mound of her cunt in the cute, lacy panties; he wordlessly appraised the black straps of her garter belt where they cinched her hosiery to her shapely legs. Minor exultation filled him as he felt his prick throb in his hand, hot stars of desire pumping up in it. And, Christ! How come? "Very pretty, Jessica," he finally said. "I admire your taste in undies. If you'll come over here now, let me have a sample. Honey, the way your snatch bulges out...."
The crass language, Dwight's very dominating demeanor, all served to excite the female intolerably, and as always, she became so much helpless putty in his hands. "Yes, dear," she squeaked pathetically as she came to him, posed with her skirts higher than ever, "yes, Dwight. Whatever you say." She shuddered as his fingers pinched the fat, suddenly smoldering lips of her vagina; she even splayed her legs slightly to better accommodate his plucking fingers. "Oh, Dwight! You monster! You turn me into some kind of animal. Careful, now. Whatever are you doing?"
What he was doing was studying his prick, trying to see if there was any change in his excitation. There was; in that, if anything, he was even more swollen now, and a clear drop of lubricatory oil grew at its tip. "Like I said, Jessica: a little survey. Anything, you said? All I have to do is ask?"
The secretary shuddered in wanton trance as his fingers manipulated her cunt, completely unhinging her. "Yes, Dwight, darling. I'm your slave; you know that."
"If that's the case I think I'd like some hp action. Like last time, honey? Right here? On your knees."
Miss Hill's face collapsed; her legs turned to so much jelly. After but a moment's stunned hesitation, she slowly sank floorward, hobbled toward the inviting, drooling rod. Brushing the clinging pearl of his fluid away with prissy fingers, she slowly inclined her head, began to lick and suck. A thing which Dwight watched almost impassively, clinically, actually expecting his organ to droop and wither at any moment. But such was not the case: If anything his stalk grew still fatter, threatened to suffocate the hapless doxy; the raging flame within it became more intolerable by the moment. Until, fearing that he'd ejaculate before he had time for the ultimate test, Dwight abruptly pulled himself from Jessica, leaving her momentarily sucking at empty air. "Here," he commanded, helping the stunned female to her feet. "Over here. Lean over."
Arranging Miss Hill at the end if his desk, her palms on its edge to balance her, her legs slightly spread, he threw her skirt up over her back, immediately began drawing down the cute panties. He balanced her ankles as she stepped out of the silky cuffs, took furtive passes at her glassy legs as he did so. Now, still wearing his own trousers, he advanced on Jessica from the rear, fondled her rosy buttocks, adjusted her even more precisely. She released a surprised, pleasurable gasp as he sank his pecker into the depths of her snatch with one brutal stroke. Momentarily they froze, in order to savor each other. Now he began to plow the happily-groaning woman in earnest.
Again he halted-seemingly when a perfect rhythm and reciprocal flow had just been established-and withdrawing himself from Jessica, he gruffly said, "Not enough friction that way. Turn around, darling, will you?" When the bemused female did so, he whipped up her skirts in front, brusquely pushed her backward onto the desk itself. Her knees automatically came up-testament of countless such office seductions-her heels hooked on its edge, while her arms stretched wide across the broad expanse, fingers hooking under the desk overhang, further bracing her for the pile-driver onslaughts to come. Standing before her, his fingers toying with her golden muff, immersing themselves in the squish of her slit, he finally inserted his rod into her, began to saw vigorously, his stance allowing him to plumb her to her very depths, certain especially penetrating strokes causing Jessica to yip painfully. A gentleman to the last, he waited on Jessica's pleasure, and had but to hear her beginning wheezings of ecstasy, before he viciously plunged himself into her, blasted her mercilessly with hot salvos of sperm. Then it was Dwight's turn to be confused.
Sliding himself from Jessica with a glutinous plop, he leaned, retrieved her panties, wiped his cock on them. Handing the defiled garment back to her, he said authoritatively: "That will be all, Miss Hill. You may take the rest of the afternoon off, if you like."
After the humiliated woman had fled the office, Dwight repaired his own clothes, sank tiredly into his chair again, fought to take stock, to comprehend the incredible thing he'd just accomplished. A thousand times the everlasting "Why?" boomed in his brain. A thousand times there was only taunting silence in place of answer. What did it mean?
What had happened between him and Sirri? Was there any hope for them? Tirelessly the mocking questions cycled in his brain, until he could stand them no longer. And thinking to repair to his town apartment, therein steeping himself in the ghost-teeming atmosphere where he and Sirri had shared so many happy, revelatory moments together, he shortly left the office. He needed a greater solitude, a more eminently tangible reminder of Sirri. And since she'd refused him rendezvous there this afternoon, since the apartment would be solely his-It would be just what the doctor ordered. From somewhere the refrain echoed and reechoed: Physician, heal thyself Thus, he was quite unprepared-Dwight hovering outside the apartment door, sorting through his keys-for what he found upon reaching the tenth-floor aerie. Hearing the sound of muted music seeping from behind that door, he thought at first that he must be mistaken, that the sound was carying from an adjacent apartment. His heart jammed up into his throat, ungovernable rage consumed him as he pressed his ear to the door, heard Sirri's giggle, an unknown male voice override the music itself! For a moment it seemed he would pass out, so great was the pain this inglorious betrayal inflicted! So soon, his brain clamored, so soon! The minute I turn my back!
Nevertheless, mature man that he was, he maintained an icy control of sorts; he determined to make sure of his facts before he went off halfcocked. To this effect he stealthily inserted his key, pushed the door open. Seconds later he was inside the apartment, and his back to the door, his jaw agape at the incriminating evidence spread before him, he momentarily froze. The living room was deserted, the FM section of the hi-fi installation played rock-and-roll music. While on the cocktail table was the debris of the afternoon's drinking; a ragged trail of male and female clothing-Sirri's pumps here, her brassiere and panties, a set he'd recently given her, there-led toward the partially-closed door of the nearest bedroom. Rage gathering, threatening to suffocate him, he sucked air greedily, just before he crept toward the door from which the voices emanated. Then, putting one cautious eye around the door jamb He wanted to scream at the agony he felt at that instant. His heart bucked, a blood lust fragmented his brain! For here was Sirri, his beloved Sirri, totally naked upon the bed with a totally unknown stranger! Her eyes were closed in blissful swoon, while her legs were high on his plunging back, her ankles locked behind his waist. Her fingers dug into his roiling buttocks, left red welts in his tanned flesh as she piloted his plundering prick deep, deeper, deepest into her eagerly-responding gash. Carrying over the betrayed cacophony in his brain-grossest insult to injury-were her coarse, throat-abraiding, gutter-snipe cries: "Oh, God, Hal! God, God ... Slam it, drive it! Push that everlovin' meat right through me! Up my cunt, through my belly, up my cocksucking throat! You stallion, you gorgeous cock! Fuck the shit right out of me!"
Upon that note Dwight sank into an immobilized, unthinking trance. Mortally wounded, he could do nothing but cling to the door frame, watch the foul scene as one mesmerized; it was as if detaching his staring eyes would precipitate the world's end. He watched as Sirri reached an orgasm (her first? her hundredth?), barked her delight, something deadly fascinating about the vast variety of emotions that played across her face as she came: Pain, terror, ugly distortion, fanatic reaching. And finally-a beatific peace and satisfaction. He heard the alien male's throaty curses, signal of his own release, just as Sirri's face grimaced anew, just as he moved to storm the bastions of holy sensation herself again. "Baby," she scolded, her hips writhing as she reluctantly savored each blistering jet of his semen, "too fast, too fast. Hell, I was just starting to...."
It was here that the male named Hal-a handsome brown-haired youth of nineteen or twenty at the oldest-raised his head from Sirri's throat, his face forming laughing retort. And ran directly iota Dwight's enraged, incredulous glare. The boy lurched as if a hat-pin had been plunged three inches into his buttocks. "Holy Christ!" he blurted. "Where did you come from?"
Then Sirri's head shot up, her eyes focused on Dwight's face. Instantly her face went white, she sucked in a loud, rasping breath. "Dwight!" she gasped.
By the time Dwight could choke up scalding, bitter words, the advantage had already been lost. For even as he took one step into the room, Sirri's expression changed, became hard, stubborn and willful, the very expression one sees on the face of a spoiled child who's been crossed. Furious as Dwight's tirade was, as much fear as it put into her teenage lover's heart, it seemingly had little effect upon Sirri; the words ricocheted off an obdurate, totally closed mind. She had had her way all her life; she would have her way in this instance too.
"So now you know," she said at long last, when Dwight had run out of threats and cursings. "Ain't that a kick in the head? My first time out of the box and I get caught." Her look turned derisive. "So what, little man? What're you gonna do about it?"
"Do, do!" he sputtered. "I'll give you two minutes to get this young hood out of here. I'll give you two minutes to choose between us. Are you willing to risk everything we have, throw all the things I've done for you, can do for you, into the discard?" And as much as he hated to whine and grovel before the arrogant bitch, he couldn't help himself. His voice snagging, he said, "I'm the one who loves you, the one who cares for you. I'm the one who brought you along, taught you, made you what you are today."
"Thanks for nothing," she sneered.
"Sirri," he made ridiculous ultimatums, "I insist you come to your senses. I'll forgive this transgression. If you promise never to behave like this again. But you must make a choice; either this ... lout or me!"
"That's like no choice at all, Dwight. Christ, Hal's got a gun, a real live gun. One that shoots real bullets, not blanks. You were fine once, baby, real fine. But your day's come and gone; you're only good for seconds now. You better learn to be satisfied or else."
"Or else what?"
Her eyes carried deadly venom, sent warning which only Dwight could interpret, warning that turned his blood to ice. "You know, Dwight. We won't wash dirty laundry in public." Her expression turned even more contemptuous. "Short hairs, darling? My way or not at all. That's the way it's gonna be. Now what do you want to do? We were having a nice time before you busted in. Like th old saying goes: Shit or get off the pot. You want seconds or not? If you do, get out in the other room and get undressed." Her lips curled. "God knows what you've got on. Then come back here and mount up. That is, if you're man enough." Sh turned away, pushed the dazed-eyed youth named Hal back onto the bed. Whereupon, in full sight of Dwight, she dropped her head, commenced sucking his limp pecker back to life. Staring at Dwight as she worked, she seemingly savored the deranging anguish her disolute homage to Hal triggered within Dwight's heart; she giggled muffledly at the way his eyes all but bulged from his head. Pausing once, she raised her head, salaciously licked her lips. "At least with Hal I know I've got a winner. You I'm not so sure about."
Dwight wasn't to remember afterward just what insane power invested him at that moment. Gulled, disgraced, so foully used, he was still possessed of an overpowering lust to avenge himself upon the deceiving slut; he would not take this ultimate humiliation lying down. Beyond this was the unalterable fact that this stunning turnabout, this degrading comeuppance wreaked an eerie weakness upon him. And once more subjugated, attaining his most intrinsically basic status, he found his prick standing like a crowbar inside his trousers; he was possessed of a lust drive the likes if which he hadn't known in weeks. And this-after having finished with Jessica Hill less than an hour ago!
An animalistic growl broke from his throat, and he wheeled, darted from that hellhole bedroom. In the sanctuary of the bathroom-for Sirri had made implied pledge to honor his secrets-he stripped away his clothes, concealed the damning nylon underthings in a clothes hamper. Now, totally naked, an insane resolve glaring the inner walls of his brain, prying him further from what litttle normalcy he still knew, he loped back toward that bed upon which his beloved even now basely entertained her pick-up lover.
And seeing her derriere high in the air as she leaned to suck Hal, irresistible invitation, he fell upon her from behind, gloried in her surprised, jubilant yip as he buried himself to his testicles in her hole. Now, a bestial growl in his throat, an unearthly buzzing in his brain, his entire psyche humming before the vibrations of his lust drive, he cursed, drove his cock deep into her, up her, through her! Grabbing her by the hogridges of her pelvis, he used her like a novelty box; he thrust and groaned, thrust and groaned-his poundings more brutal by the moment. He heard Sirri screaming; he heard Hal bellowing, but the entreaties didn't register. Beyond the pale by then, he plowed on. Until the universe buckled, until the dome of heaven rent its seams with a brain-wringing creak and explosion.
A hundred years later Dwight emerged from his psychotic space-warp to find Hal and Sirri-the lad white-faced, frightened, Sirri smirking like a creamfed cat, her hips still undulating beseechingly beneath his hands-staring at him, incredulous, admiring expressions on their faces.