Chapter 5
Isabel Fairbanks didn't hear much of the preceding conversation. Her breath was still coming in rasping sobs as her scarlet flesh writhed slowly in the painful aftermath of its anguished ordeal. Only the persistence of the forbidden Anglo-Saxon in the exchange between Curt and Monica belatedly engaged her attention.
And she was beginning to become aware of other things than her feverishly inflamed gluteal region. The heat in her behind made the rest of her body feel chilled. She had perspired freely during her unavailing struggles against the paddle's burning kisses, particularly in the deep cleft between her smarting hemispheres, and heat-loss now created a process of evaporation, adding to her chilliness. Goosebumps appeared and disappeared all over her body.
Isabel flinched as someone thumped down onto the bed, close to her head. She opened her eyes fearfully, blinking the sticky tears from their red-rimmed corners. Her lips parted in an O of mute surprise as a vaginal orifice was pointed at her, fully disclosed by uplifted legs and parted thighs. Isabel stared at the stripes crisscrossing the lower part of the buttocks, identifying the behind as Monica's.
Isabel's head was so low on the bed she couldn't see Monica's face, the upraised legs blocking out the upper body, but she could certainly see everything that only Monica's husband should have been permitted to see. Isabel's neck hurt in its strained, upraised position, but somehow she couldn't look away. She gulped hard as a man's big hand appeared and began to fondle Monica's well-developed vaginal lips. Monica's thighs trembled as a blunt finger slipped inside her crack. Isabel forced herself to close her eyes. The indecency of it! But at once her eyes opened again with no conscious volition on her part.
The finger was plunging deeply in and out of Monica's chute. Then the bed was jarred heavily, shaking Isabel's field of vision. When she focused again, a swarthy, hairy male body was clambering between Monica's naked thighs, a thick, powerful-looking penis projecting toward her unguarded sex. Isabel stared. The penis was as long as Ralph's, and thicker.
The male still had his boots on, she noted. The hairy hips surged forward, and the blunt, rocklike erection disappeared inside Monica's gaping channel with seeming effortlessness. The male made a grunting sound as he lodged himself while a flutelike sound escaped Monica that seemed not so much a response as an accompaniment. The male's lusty shaft began to emerge and submerge in a slow-reaming assault upon Monica's reddening receptacle while the male's hairy testicles swung freely beneath. Long shudders rippled through the redhead's clutching thighs.
She had to stop watching this, Isabel told herself. But she found herself unable to turn her head away. The brawny prong had churned up a milky-looking foam around the lips of the hideaway into which it was swooping with slow, fierce thrusts matched by the well-timed upthrusts of Monica's well-rounded bottom as she plainly encouraged her ravisher.
"Oh, God!" Isabel heard Monica's half-strangled outcry. "Oh, Jesus, Curt, that's good! Ohhh, God, fuck me!"
Isabel tried to close her ears to the blasphemy and the profanity. She was no more able to do so than she was able to close her eyes to the tremendous sexual effort being expended within inches of her nose. An unexpected twitch deep in her own interior startled her; it was the first bodily sensation she had experienced recently not directly connected with her deep-glowing bare behind.
"Curt!" Monica shrieked. The woman's frantic assistance of her own degradation appalled Isabel. What was the male brute doing to her that caused her to react like that? "Ohhh, I'm . . . coming, Curt!" Monica moaned.
Monica's frantic hip-swinging cooperation wrenched her upper body to one side, out of line of the hairy male still furiously plunging into her, and Isabel saw Monica's face for the first time. It was brightly flushed, and the lips were working, and the eyes were rolled back in an expression of, yes, ecstasy, a look Isabel had never seen before. The man roared like a penned alligator that Isabel had seen once and hammered his hairiness into Monica's swimming box. Isabel could see her arms tightly clutched him to her.
Monica stirred finally beneath the masculine weight pinning her to the bed after Isabel marveled at the cessation of movement disturbed only by heavy breathing. "Do you think she watched us?" she whispered.
"Who the hell cares?" Curt Sylvester answered loudly. "We could've charged admission to that fuck."
Isabel buried her face in the bedcover, sensing he was about to move. She would just die if they knew she'd been watching everything! And watching avidly, to her avowed shame.
Curt rolled off Monica with a satisfied grunt. "How are you going to be able to keep her from talking about seeing us, Curt?" Monica asked with a note of apprehension in her voice.
"The same way I'll stop her from talkin' about the whalin' you gave her ass," Curt responded. "Slip your dress on an' run out to the cruiser an' bring me the Polaroid on the back seat."
Polaroid? Isabel heard the bedsprings creak lustily as Monica got off the bed. That was followed by the quick rustle of her dress being slipped over her head. Then the bedroom was quiet, and Isabel realized she was alone in it with that dreadful hairy man. And they were both naked!
Her worst fears were realized when she heard him walking around the end of the bed behind her. "Well, sister," he said in the hard tone that passed with joviality with him, "you're bleachin' out pretty good. Your ass is just kind of ruby-colored now." He chuckled heavily.
Isabel almost screamed when she felt his big hands on her sore bottom. He spread her voluptuous globes with his thumbs and exposed her fissure and pale anus. "Plenty white meat the paddle didn't reach," he assured her, probing at her anus with a finger tip. Isabel moaned in mortification and also in renewed pain at his rough handling of her paddled rear.
Curt was still holding Isabel's buttocks apart when Monica reentered the bedroom. "Did you ever see a twat with so much hair on it?" he demanded. "This broad could make herself a wig."
"Here's the camera," Isabel heard Monica's voice.
"Yeah, okay. Let's see now. I'll take it an angle-" there was the sound of shuffling feet "-like this, so I can get her ass an' her face in the same picture. Put a pillow under her head to raise her face a little from the bed." Isabel hardly dared to breathe. They were going to take a picture of her shame? She felt her head lifted and a pillow thrust under it. "Yeah," Curt Sylvester's heavy voice said. "That's got it."
Even through closed eyelids Isabel saw a quick flare of light. Curt rose from a crouching position. "Give it a full minute now," Monica said. There was a silence, and then Isabel heard a sound like ripping paper. "Look at that!" Monica marveled. "You're quite a photographer, Curt."
"If you'd taken as many automobile accident pictures as I have, you'd be quite a photographer, too," he said complacently. "Notice how her ass looks even redder in the picture?"
"It surely does. I was thinking while you were screwing me that we should probably have taken the picture first."
"When I'm screwin' you, baby, you're not s'posed to be thinkin' about anything else than gettin' screwed. But anything red comes out redder in Polaroid color. Don't ask me why. I better take a couple more for insurance."
Isabel cringed as Curt went through the same process twice more. "Do we let her go now?" Monica asked at last. "Now that she knows we can show the pictures if she talks?"
There was no answer from Curt Sylvester. Then Isabel gasped as she felt her smarting bare behind gripped in his big, hard hands again. She squeaked in dismay when he crowded in behind her and she could feel his bare stomach against her bottom.
For a second she didn't understand the increasing pressure between her thighs, moving upward. "Ohhh, no!" she cried out when she realized his erection was renewing itself and working its way between her half-parted legs. She tried to squeeze them tightly, but he had already advanced too far.
"Damn, she's got an ass!" he said fervently. "You know what, Monnie? I got to fuck this one. I just got to fuck her."
"No!" Monica protested. "She'd holler rape!"
"She ain't gonna holler nothin'," Curt argued. "Not with the pictures we've got of her red ass to show her husband an' his flock. For that matter, you can take a couple pictures while I'm fuckin' her, too. Stand up on a chair alongside the bed an' be sure you get her face while she's treadin' water on my beef."
There was a clinking sound, and Isabel felt her ankle released. Curt gave her a slap on her bare bottom, and Isabel squealed like a school girl. She hated herself immediately. "Spread that handsome big butt of yours on the kip, sis," Curt ordered.
She was afraid not to move. She stifled a groan as she straightened up gingerly. Sore muscles pulled in her behind. Curt unlocked the handcuffs containing her wrists. Isabel crossed her arms over her large breasts when she saw Curt appraising them.
"On the bed!" he demanded. "Or would you rather try the paddle again?"
From the corner of her eye she could see his robust erection without looking directly at it, and her stomach fluttered. "Please!" she appealed directly to Monica. "You've had your revenge. Won't you let me go now?"
"She hasn't got one goddamn thing to say about it!" Curt interjected angrily.
"And wouldn't if she could," Monica said curtly. She looked coolly at Isabel. "I don't remember your being so solicitous on my welfare."
"But I'm a m-married woman," Isabel stuttered. "You can't-" She broke off with a yelp of anguish as Curt once again slapped her bare rump hard.
"One more word out've you an' it's the paddle again," he informed her.
"No, no, no, no," Isabel said hastily. She sat down on the bed, stifling a whimper as her sore buttocks absorbed her weight.
"On your back," Curt demanded.
Obediently she lowered herself onto her back. Her features turned scarlet when she saw Curt staring gloatingly at her furred juncture. "Lift up your ass," he commanded, and when Isabel did so, he shoved a pillow under it. "Get the goddamn camera ready," he said to Monica, and climbed onto the bed.
Almost before Isabel realized it the meaty penis was fumbling between her legs. She shuddered heavily. Could this really be happening to her? Could this beast actually intend to use her so animalistically? She jerked convulsively as she felt the thick rod part her labial lips and slip into her opening.
Curt plunged into her with a half-snarl. The first lunge took him so deeply into the minister's wife's hairy cunt that he found himself lodged to the hilt. "Son-of-a-bitch!" he exclaimed in surprise to Monica. "She must be usin' a table leg on herself in her spare time." He looked down at Isabel's averted face. "Here's to good fuckin', you big assed twat."
Isabel tried desperately not to think of what was being done to her as the animal astride her shrinking belly began to rise and fall in long, slow strokes. A corner of her mind insisted on making comparisons, though. Ralph's penis was longer, if not as thick. This plunging rod seemed to be penetrating her at a different angle somehow. Could it be the pillow? Something felt different, so much so that a warming glow and a distressing wayward tremor seemed to be- She gasped and thrust herself upward to get away from a twisting pinch Curt administered to a paddled globe. "Move that thing, sister!" he barked at her. "What 'n hell d'you think you got it for?"
She bucked herself upward again, afraid of another pinch. And she dared not stop. She flung her hips upward repeatedly, out of synchronization at first, but quickly timing her movements to that of the steadily plunging penis violating her arbor. She bit her lower lip. The rhythmical immersion of the hard gristle in her vagina was stirring a sensation she had never experienced before.
Isabel's breath caught sharply in her throat. The previous faint tremor lodged deeply within her was amplified outrageously as her vagina suddenly took on an independent life of its own. "What are you . . . doing to me?" she breathed an instant before a series of throbs, pulsations, and quick-flurried vibrations convulsed her secret flesh. Her legs climbed involuntarily and met over Curt's muscled back. "What's ... happening?" she whimpered.
"Shut up an'. . . move your ass," Curt snarled.
He speeded up and pounded her so hard she heard her own inelegant grunts. Monica watched curiously as the fleshy prong plummeted into Isabel's crevice. Belatedly remembering her instructions from Curt, she pulled a chair to the bedside and stood up on it, camera in hand.
Isabel closed her eyes as she felt herself standing on the edge of an unknown abyss. She tried to draw back, but instead a hot tide of delicious sensation enveloped her completely as Curt's big prick massaged her clitoris. "Ohhh!" Isabel cried out in startled wonder. "Ohhh! Ohhh!"
Her legs threshed wildly as an internal explosion convulsed her. Her breath almost stopped as her thighs squeezed Curt while she tried to extract still more of the blissful palpitation wringing out her vaginal walls. Then the deep throbbing slowly died out and left her feeling drained.
She sank back upon the bed, breathless, trying to understand what had happened. She sensed Curt reaching beneath her to pinch her sore behind again, and she hurriedly resumed meeting his thrusts. She saw Monica standing on a chair aiming a camera downward, and felt almost indifferent. What had happened to her?
And then it started again! First the tingling tremor which caught her breath in her throat; then the glowing vibrations which expanded to finger tips and toes; and then the mind-bending soft implosion which catapulted her into temporary mindlessness from the surfeit "of sensation tingling and twitching every nerve end. She felt herself drowning in sensation, drowning delightfully.
A flashbulb went off above the bed as Curt began to snort and heave on Isabel's belly. To her shamed amazement she found herself clasping his furry shoulders as he ejaculated into her with fierce grunts. Her own feeling was that of a watch which had run down.
Curt blew half a dozen hard breaths before raising himself from Isabel. "She's sure as hell some kind of fuck," he said. There was an almost thoughtful note in his voice. "Get any pictures, Monica?" Silently she handed him down a Polaroid shot. "Hey, that's a dandy!" he exclaimed. "Here, take a look at yourself in action, sis."
He thrust the picture at Isabel. She found herself looking at a clear likeness of herself in color taken at an angle which showed the rigorous penis thrust halfway into her wet furrow at the same time it showed the most extraordinary expression on her face: head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth opened widely. The whole thing looked like nothing so much as what she might have looked like if her pussy had a feather up it.
She tried to get indignant about the picture, but was unable to do so. Everything about the experience seemed frozen in space, imbedded in plastic. The worst thing in the world, supposedly, that could happen to a woman had happened to her, and- Dare she say it, even think it? No, she thrust the thought hurriedly away.
She had been so deep in thought that Curt's hand on her arm startled her. "You're not a bad fuck once you get it in gear," he told Isabel.
Even the verbiage didn't shock her the way it would have an hour before. She was still trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. How could this brutish, ignorant, uncouth male have aroused in her never-before-experienced sensations?
Her eyes went to Curt still standing beside the bed. The sticky-looking, shiny knob of his reddened penis dangled limply, and Isabel quickly looked away. She was becoming positively shameless! She simply couldn't understand herself. She should be furiously angry. Instead, she couldn't begin to analyze how she felt.
"You better be on The Pill, sis," Curt warned. Isabel made no reply. She was on The Pill, at her own insistence, not Ralph's. She had never felt able to cope with sweaty, smelly babies. "Okay, the party's over," Curt continued. "It's time I gave the taxpayers a little somethin' for their money." He looked down on Isabel's plump nudity still sprawled on the bed. "You do any talkin', girlie, an' we show the pictures to your husband, understand?" Isabel nodded. "Okay, rack it up an' drag it out've here."
She got up from the bed on trembling legs. She knew it wasn't from the paddling. There was only a faint heat in her behind now to remind her of the dreadful experience. Almost like a sleepwalker she picked up her panties from the floor after cleansing herself with a tissue taken from her handbag. It was only afterward that the intimacy of the act performed before the watching male and female eyes dismayed her.
She couldn't get her panties on. Her paddled bottom had definitely swollen, and the constricting panties were far too uncomfortable. She didn't even attempt her girdle. She donned slip, blouse, skirt, and jacket, and fluffed out her disordered hair. She rolled up panties and girdle and stuffed them into the depths of her bag. She looked around the bedroom with a stranger's eyes, her gaze lingering longest on the bed.
When she looked at him again, Curt's pale blue eyes were examining her curiously. Monica was standing to one side. "Is that all?" Isabel asked uncertainly.
Curt nodded. "For now," he said. "Roll it."
Still in a sleepwalking mood, Isabel left the bedroom and walked to the foyer where she let herself out the front door.
Curt Sylvester and Monica Simpson watched her go. "How come she took a strange prick like a kitten?" Curt demanded. "You had me thinkin' she was a lioness. You reckon maybe the paddle fevered her brain along with her tail?"
"I can't understand it," Monica declared. "Do you suppose she could be scheming something?"
"She's got to have more sense 'n that when she knows we'd show the picture," Curt reasoned. He strode to a window through which he could see Isabel getting into her car. He chuckled when he saw her edge herself cautiously under the steering wheel. "You really teed off on her with that paddle. Although I still say that ounce for ounce my little quirt stirs up more action."
"Yes, dear," Monica said with mild irony. "I know."
He was looking at her speculatively. "We could copper the bet on her runnin' to her husband with the story after she's had time to think it over. Whyn't you pay a call on the Reverend Fairbanks? You know, the lost sheep seekin' guidance? Lean on his shoulder an' give him a look at your tits. If he made a pass, we'd have the pair of 'em locked up."
"Doctor Fairbanks make a pass at me?" Monica exclaimed. "Are you out of your mind? He wouldn't have made a pass at Cleopatra."
"He's a man, isn't he? Give him a chance to get his hand up your dress. It'd be goddamn cheap insurance till I can figure out why that wife of his was such a meek little fuck. C'mon, let's go."
He locked the house carefully when they left.
Isabel Fairbanks lay in bed and listened to the snoring of her husband, Ralph. Sleep had evaded her since their retirement for the night. She had returned home in a very subdued mood. She had forgotten her reddened eyes, and when Ralph commented upon them, she had hastily fabricated a story about a sudden cold.
She wondered what he would say if he saw the condition of her bottom. Hours after the paddling it still hadn't returned to its usual whiteness, and the usually velvety skin was still roughened. Isabel had examined it carefully in the bathroom mirror. Some soreness still persisted, although no longer to the touch; she experienced a quick thrill of pain only when she sat incautiously or put undue stress upon that portion of her anatomy. She was sure in a couple of days it would only be a memory.
But what a memory! She drew a long, slow breath. Had it all really happened? Had she actually let that boorish man use her so whorishly? She should have fought him. That's what decent women did when faced with rape. Why hadn't she reacted similarly?
It was no good telling herself the terrible burn in her paddled behind had robbed her of judgment. She still knew right and wrong. When had fear ever excused the exercise of proper choice? No, she had succumbed like a, well, whore.
And how explain the inexplicably marvelous stimulation that had occurred during the ugly act? Isabel sighed tiredly, turned over carefully, and sought once more for elusive sleep.
Bobby Maxwell knuckled his eyes when a persistent series of knocks at his door penetrated his subconscious. He bounded from bed in his underwear and went to the door.
"Hi, sweetie," Monica greeted him. "How about letting me in before one of the neighbors sees me and creates a scandal for the jaybirds?"
"Hi, Monnie," he responded, standing aside to let her enter. "What's happened now?"
"Nothing except that I had a wonderfully cleansing experience and it reminded me I wanted to finish paying off my debts. Like I promised to stop in and give you a treatment, if you remember?" she said archly.
Bobby felt foolish standing in front of her, tousled haired and crummy mouthed as he was, while she looked crisp and fresh. "You look wonderful," he said, eyeing her colorful linen dress.
"I got the job at Gamble's, and I'm on my way to work," she said lightly. "But I thought I'd stop in and see if I couldn't repay my friend Bobby for the favor he did me the other night."
"You were damn nice to me then," he said warmly. "You don't owe me a thing, Monnie. You-"
She went to him and kissed his cheek. "I know where the favor lies," she said firmly, then smiled at him. "D'you mean you're refusing my expert services?"
"No, no," he said quickly. "I'll be right back!"
"Bring back a towel," Monica's voice floated after him as he ran down the hall to the bathroom. He took his morning piss, brushed his teeth, slicked down his unruly hair, grabbed up a towel, and returned to his room. Monica had removed her dress and placed it on the bed. She took the towel from him and made a bib from it, draping it over her front as she tied it behind her neck. Her expression was serenely unselfconscious as she slipped down his jockey shorts until they collapsed around his ankles.
She placed his balls upon her palm and jiggled them lightly while Bobby drew in his breath. "Men's pricks are so darling, when they're all the way down," Monica observed. "Just like babies'."
"That one's not going to stay down long with you fooling around with it," Bobby said tensely.
"That's the idea, sweetie," she told him calmly. She knelt down in front of him and advanced her face until her warm breath was tickling his groin. He placed his hands on the bare flesh of her sleek shoulders.
"How's your ass?" he asked with attempted nonchalance as though this was something that happened to him every day.
"Improving," she replied.
"You gettin' along with Curt?"
"We have an understanding," she said ambiguously before lowering her chestnut head still farther and lightly tonguing the golden hairs on Bobby's upper thighs. The touch of her mouth upon his sleep-warmed flesh produced an almost instantaneous reaction. "Mmm, lovely!" Monica murmured as the circumcised prick shot upward with its head trembling and its veined underside throbbing. "Lovely!"
She kissed the rubbery tip lightly, swirling her tongue over the slit in the head while the muscles in Bobby's thighs bunched. Then Monica took all the head in her warm mouth. She rolled it from side to side while flirting her tongue at the cord underneath, and Bobby's knees quaked.
Gradually she drew more of the rigorous young cock into her mouth, alternately licking and sucking it. The soles of Bobby's feet tingled. "Ohhh, Jesus!" he groaned. Afraid his clutching hands would hurt her bare shoulders, he removed them and placed them behind her head where almost at once they roved instinctively in the mane of her hair.
Monica's mouth ovaled still farther while she drew on the rigid muscle. She slid easily from beyond the midpoint on his erection to the bulbous head and back again, licking, sucking, and teasing with a searching tongue until Bobby threw back his head and stared up at the ceiling. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!" he said fervently. "I'm warnin' you, Monnie, I'm gonna shoot!"
By way of reply she completely swallowed his penis. His toes curled up as her soft mouth, fiendishly knowledgeable about male tactile points, stimulated him right out of his mind. "Monnie!" he gasped as her lips slid back and forth on almost the entire length of his steely young cock, pausing only to nip gently at the pulsating head. "Monnie! I'm . . . coming! Monnie!"
She made a sudden motion with her head, humming deep in her throat, and the resulting vibration triggered the orgasm he had desperately been holding off. His hands gripped Monica's head blindly and held it firmly to his jetting tube.
Not that holding was necessary. Monica swallowed eagerly after the first preliminary throb of the pulsing prick in her mouth, and she kept swallowing through the deluge that followed. A bit of the surplus escaped the straining corners of her mouth and ran down onto her bib. She choked once momentarily but immediately caught up again.
Bobby's knees sagged weakly as the ejaculation which seemed to go on forever gradually slackened. "Hooo, boy!" he whispered through dry lips. Monica released her limp prisoner and looked up at Bobby, greasy mouthed but smiling. She removed her bib and used a dry corner of it to wipe off her face. She glanced down at her front, but none of the pulsating male sperm had penetrated to her slip.
Bobby patted her head gently. "Thanks, Monie," he said sincerely. "That was really something else."
"I thought you'd like it," she replied softly.
"Monnie?"
"Yes?"
"Bring it up again, please?" His voice was eager. "And let me fuck you?"
"I'm having my period, Bobby. I'm sorry." "Ah, damn!"
She stroked his hairy bare thighs. "Otherwise I'd love to have you fuck me."
He patted her head again. "Well, thanks anyway, Monnie. You've made my day."
She rose from her knees and went to the bed, picked up her dress, and slipped it over her head. "Zip me up," she said, turning her back.
He did her bidding, then folded her in his arms for a moment, his palms cupping her brassiered breasts. "Look at that," he said ruefully, releasing her. He pointed downward to another erection. "It didn't hear you."
She smiled, then reached for his prick and gave it a quick squeeze before she walked to the door. She paused there and looked over her shoulder. "Don't ever let on to Curt about any of this," she said.
"You know it!" he agreed fervently. "Well, thanks again, Monnie. It was great. You were great."
She gave him another quick, bright smile before she opened the door and descended the wooden stairway to the rear of the bakery.