Chapter 8
Cindy had just paused in the act of wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked in panic at Curt's barrel chest, hairy belly, and sneering smile. He grinned at her, delighted at her evident fearful disgust.
No carpeting could completely deaden the sound of Bobby's furious charge. Curt looked up from pulling off his boots just as Bobby arrived in front of him, the younger man's muscular upper body already launched in a powerful right hand swing. The punch landed, but high on a cheekbone. Curt went backward a step, then lowered his head like a rutting bull as he went into a crouch. "When I get finished with you, kid, you're gonna remember me every time you look in a mirror!" he raged. "Every day of your life you're gonna-"
Bobby rushed him again. Curt stumbled backward once more as Bobby's compact weight hammered into him. Curt flung up his arms as he started to fall, and Bobby nailed him with three solid shots on his way down to the floor, right-left-right. Bobby put everything he had into all three blows, and it felt as though he'd splintered every bone in his right hand on Curt's craggy features.
Bobby's heart sank when Curt rolled over and bounded to his feet like a rubber ball, mouthing inarticulate curses. Blood streamed from a cut under one eye, and lumps were already springing up on Curt's face from Bobby's razorlike knuckles, but the big man charged.
The naked bodies collided heavily, and Curt grabbed Bobby around the waist. Bobby found out at once why his uncle had such a hard reputation around town. Curt had hands like steel hooks. Everywhere he grabbed, he hurt. Bobby punched his way free only to catch a wild-swinging right hand on the top of the head. The blow was so powerful Bobby felt the hinges of his knees loosen.
Cindy stood petrified as uncle and nephew fought like savages. She could have run from the room, but it never occurred to her. She winced at each blow that Bobby absorbed. A sweeping left hook by Curt knocked Bobby down, and the girl gasped. Curt kicked Bobby twice before Bobby seized Curt's leg and upset him. They swapped punches on their knees, snarling at each other. Red welts sprang up on the bare bodies where solid punches landed.
Curt emitted a roar and surged upright. Bobby staggered to his feet just as Curt sizzled across the room, head down like a billygoat. Bobby shoulder-blocked him to one side, and Curt's momentum carried him across the room. He missed a desk in that corner but smashed right through a hi-fi. Bobby dived for him, and they thrashed around on the floor in the fragments of expensive cabinet-wood.
Cindy screamed piercingly when she saw blood on Bobby's face. The warriors paid no attention. They rolled under the desk with Bobby momentarily on top, hard-punching fists and flailing elbows connecting savagely. They crunched against the legs of the desk, and wood screeched in protest before the desk collapsed. It sagged down upon the pinwheeling bodies.
The desk's remains sailed into the air and crashed down drunkenly in the center of the room. It dissolved like a house of cards. Curt snatched up a broken desk leg and smashed Bobby alongside one ear, knocking him over sideways. The ear puffed up like a toadstool.
Anger powered Bobby upright again. He took the next murderous sweep of Curt's club on a shoulder, wrenched the desk leg away from his uncle, and with one savage swing of his own fused Curt's mouth and teeth into a bloody smear.
Incredibly, Curt didn't even go backward. Roaring, he tackled Bobby and brought him to the floor. They rammed around the room, rolling over and over, the heavy bodies crushing the remains of the lightweight furniture in their path. In close, Curt's superior weight and strength began to tell. He levered himself upright on his knees above Bobby's prostrate body and rained blows down at his face. Bobby's return blows weakened and finally ceased.
Cindy screamed again and ran forward. She dropped to her knees and tried to interpose her slender nudity between Bobby's semi-conscious body and Curt's fists. Curt flung her to one side like a rag doll, but the interruption brought him partly back from the blood-lust world he was occupying.
He scowled at Cindy who had slid across the carpeting from the force of her landing. Blood ran down from his forehead into Curt's left eye, and he slapped at it impatiently. He looked down at Bobby's chest pinned under Curt's massive thighs, and he backed off slightly. "Good thing . . . you stopped me, blondie," he mumbled through mashed, blood-smeared lips. "Didn'. . . wanna kill ... the kid."
He pushed himself up to his knees and then to his feet. His legs felt heavy as iron posts, and the large muscles in his thighs were jumping uncontrollably. He looked down at his nephew and shook his head in disbelief. Cindy had crawled back to Bobby and was crouched beside him, smoothing his blotchy-looking features with her hands, openly crying.
Cindy tried to soothe the puffball that was Bobby's ear, but it exploded at her touch. Blood ran down his neck onto his shoulder, and Cindy wailed aloud. "Damn it, he'll be . . . practic'ly good as . . . new in a couple . . . hours," Curt rasped irritably. Some of the tightness had left his chest, but it still heaved mightily from hard-drawn breaths. "Who the hell 'd a thought ... the little shit . . . had it in him? Nobody's given me ... a go like that ... in ten years."
He glared at Cindy crouched over Bobby. "Get the hell out've . . . the way so's ... I can put him on the bed." When she didn't move, he placed his big toe between her bare buttocks and rolled her to one side. He bent down and, with seeming effortlessness, picked Bobby up and carried him to the bed. He deposited him there, and Cindy ran into the bathroom and returned with a towel wrung out in cold water.
Curt took it away from her. "He'll keep," he told the girl. "You 'n me have got a little unfinished business first." She stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Did he tell you I just been waitin' for your peach fuzz to flower before I fucked you?"
"N-no," she faltered.
"Well, I told him, an' when Curt Sylvester waits that long for a fuck, he fuckin' well gets it."
She looked at him wonderingly. His breathing was almost normal again, but blood still oozed from half a dozen places on his face, and rivulets of sweat rolled down his hairy chest over his hard-looking belly into the groin where she had been forced to suck his meaty penis. Curt Sylvester was a bear of a man, seemingly indestructible.
"You hear me, blondie?" he said when she remained silent. She nodded. "The kid fought for you, but he lost. An' in this world losers eat shit." He grinned at her through swollen lips, displaying chipped teeth. " 'Course if I fuck you I might give you a baby."
She listened in rising panic. "I want Bobby's baby!" she blurted.
He nodded approvingly. "Spoken like a true little square, sugar. So instead, you just turn up your fat little ass an' I'll plug your asshole."
"What . . . what did you say?" The girl felt nauseous.
"What I meant." His voice had turned hard again.
"Please," Cindy begged. "We didn't do anything to you. We didn't do anything to anyone. We . . . we were just enjoying each other."
"An' will again," he said with a suggestive leer. "What's a plugged asshole among relatives?"
She glanced at the bed where Bobby still lay motionless. She couldn't provoke this man unduly. She couldn't fight the mortifying humiliation he proposed to inflict upon her. Intransigence on her part might well result in an additional beating for Bobby. "Let's . . . let's get it over," she said with a rush, her attitude the same as when she had confronted Curt's big prick.
"Fine," he said casually. "Just suck my cock up again an' we're in business, sweetie."
Cindy almost gagged. Even from where she was standing, she could smell the pungent masculine odor made much more rank by perspiration. To put her face down into that hairy groin, then have to tongue sweat and the previous residue of spend from the greasy, drooping prong . . .
Do it fast, Cindy told herself. Get it over. She dropped to her knees and forced herself to move her face close to the repugnant flesh. She swept her long blonde hair over one shoulder to get it out of the way, then without giving herself time to think she opened her mouth and swallowed the limp peter. She flinched at the acrid, ammoniac smell that was so strong in her nostrils. The nasty taste in her mouth, not at all like the flavor of Bobby's sweet cock, trickled down her throat.
She tongued and sucked busily as the blood-engorged cock rose in her mouth. She tried to foreclose from her mind what was going to happen to her next. She knew it would hurt, but how much? Bobby had kidded her about it, telling her he'd get around to it some day. But Bobby would have made it hurt lovingly, while this brute . . .
The gristly shaft forced her backward until she was sitting on her haunches. Desperately she licked and swirled her tongue along the ragged cord on the underside, and Curt Sylvester's thighs stiffened. He pushed Cindy's blonde head away. She had one quick glimpse of the ravening monster she had created before Curt seized her arm and half-carried, half-dragged her to the bed. Bits of broken furniture crunched under their feet, and Cindy winced as a sliver penetrated one foot.
Curt pulled a pillow from under Bobby's unconscious head and placed it over the footboard. He picked Cindy up and doubled her over the pillow as casually as though she were a side of beef. Her heart beat faster as she hung there, helpless, her toes straining to touch the carpeting.
He stood behind her, admiring with his eyes the long, slender back flaring into the surprisingly sturdy velvety buttocks, the globes on a direct line with his renewed erection. He parted her sleek hemispheres with his thumbs, exposing her golden cleft and brown bung. Cindy squirmed uneasily as the prick advanced between her widened cheeks and impacted lightly upon her puckered, shrinking anus.
Curt would have enjoyed prolonging her distress, but a tingling in his loins warned him not to procrastinate. He fitted his blubbery tip into her shallow depression and shoved. "Oooh!" Cindy exclaimed. Her voice was highpitched and her breath fluttered in her throat. Curt thrust mightily against the dry hole, and the blonde girl yelped repeatedly at the sharp pain.
"Shut up an' shove back on it!" he ordered fiercely. Lodged beyond the coronal rim, he bucked his way farther inside in a series of plunging, ramming surges that shook Cindy's whole body like a terrier shaking a rat.
The girl shrieked. Her knees flailed the bedstead impotently. The pain was so acute she thought her entire crevice was being split in two. She s< reamed again as Curt plunged in farther with another series of lunges, and she was positive that her torturer was using a hot poker inside her instead of his prick.
Curt thrust hard with his hips, then thrust again. He lunged past the barrier of the tight sphincter suddenly and buried his beefy cock in the warm, buttery smoothness of the girl's rectum. The sensation intoxicated him. In recent months the best fucking had begun to take second place in his mind to a virginal, tight asshole.
"I'll show you what an ass fucking is now!" he told the girl hoarsely, and began to propel himself in and out of her clinging anus. Cindy still cried out with each renewed penetration, but there was a different quality to her outcries. "Gettin'... to like it, hah?" Curt grunted, and gave his steely rod an extra-hard shove. Cindy wailed despairingly.
On the bed Bobby opened his eyes. He blinked at the ceiling, then tried to focus on the room. Cindy? Had he heard Cindy? Oh, the fight. Curt. Curt? Curt and Cindy? Where was Cindy? Sick and dizzy, he tried to sit up. The room whirled, and he started to sink back on the bed, but another of Cindy's agonized yells rang in his ears.
Bobby rolled toward the edge of the bed. He almost landed on the floor, barely supporting himself with his hands. While trying to stand up he saw them: Cindy, nude, doubled up over a pillow at the end of the bed while Curt Sylvester bucked his hard belly into her soft buttocks. Whimpering little moans issued from Cindy's straining throat.
Almost crying in frustrated rage, Bobby reached the end of the bed by balancing his weight with his hands on the bed itself. His legs felt like spaghetti and his face, chest, and upper arms throbbed painfully. His ear felt as if it were on fire. He rounded the end of the bed at a staggering run and tried to launch a punch at Curt Sylvester.
But Curt had seen him coming, and it was simple for him to counter with a jolting blow to the rib cage. The already weakened Bobby doubled over and sank to his knees, almost blacking out again. His breath was a tortured gargling sound in his throat as he crouched at his uncle's feet. So close he could almost have bumped it with his nose as he swayed on his knees, his uncle's thick gristle fucked Cindy's distended asshole. The girl's choked pleas had ceased as the big prick disappeared almost to the last half-inch on the in-stroke while her anus drew out along its length on the return trip.
Curt increased the speed of his lunges, and Cindy's sweaty-looking soft buttocks began to tremble. She was making sounds again, but Bobby recognized the sounds. Unbelievably, Cindy was coming.
And so was Curt Sylvester.
Bobby tried to throw himself against Curt's knees, but missed. He sprawled on the carpeting, unable to move. Above him he could hear the beseeching yips of Cindy peculiar to her moments of highest sexuality, combined with Curt's roar.
It seemed to go on for hours.
And then there was silence.
He tried to push himself up from the floor, and then Cindy was suddenly on the floor beside him, crying hysterically, trying to burrow into his arms.
Curt's hard voice spoke above their heads. "Make some arrangement for payin' off the man who lent you the room," the voice said. "He ain't gonna like it a damn bit when he sees his furniture."
There was silence again, but it was some moments later that Bobby, crooning softly to Cindy while he stroked her shuddering naked body, realized that they were alone again.
Monica Simpson couldn't sleep in the narrow bed in her tiny room. Too many thoughts buzzed persistently through her mind. Curt . . . Dr. Ralph Fairbanks . . . Bobby Maxwell . . . but most of all, her husband, Pete Simpson.
Twice before she'd gone back to him. Pete never came after her; he waited. And when she went back, he whipped her. Her knees drew up into her stomach at the remembrance.
But after he whipped her, there were no further recriminations. Life went on as before. And Pete was wonderful in bed; a soft glow enveloped her at the thought. And Curt was about to cut her loose; she recognized the signs. She didn't fit into Curt's future plans.
Wasn't it better to ease away from the relationship with Curt before his sexual cruelty became cruelty without sex? He stirred her, there was no doubt about that. She responded to him as she did to all forceful men. But Curt was a butterfly always seeking new sexual flowers.
She turned over restlessly in the bed. She wasn't meant to live alone. And at least Pete understood her. Monica didn't know what it was about herself that made sex without pain a blah experience after the first couple of times with a new man, but it was a fact of life. Pete had remarked once that her periods of bed-hopping coincided with the intervals when he had neglected her with his belt. And Pete was probably right.
But to go back to that again? There would be a thrilling painful homecoming, of course. Her hand wandered down between her thighs and fondled her pussy at the thought. But then familiarity would breed its usual contempt, and she would begin responding to the glances and verbal sallies of other men. She would begin making dates, and eventually Pete would catch her at it, and the entire life cycle would renew itself.
Monica Simpson sighed deeply, turned onto stomach, and finally fell asleep without having made up her mind about anything.
Curt Sylvester wheeled the cruiser well above the speed limit to the Harris estate on the outskirts of town. He had arranged the afternoon's confrontation with care. Monica had called Dr. Ralph Fairbanks and set up a supposed rendezvous, while Curt had called Isabel Fairbanks and demanded her presence. The husband was due to arrive fifteen minutes before the wife.
These things couldn't be prolonged. Experience had taught him that it was impossible to do anything to a woman, no matter how outrageous, that she wouldn't eventually confide to someone, bringing unwanted outsiders into the picture. Curt had co-opted a few meddling outsiders, too, but it was messy.
No, hit-and-run was best. Straight women responded to the stimulus of shame only for the first few times. New depths of shame had to be contrived for them continually or the first thing you knew they'd be calling up for a date. Most men didn't understand this facet of the feminine nature, but Curt Sylvester did. He'd be exploiting it for years.
Isabel Fairbanks was no exception despite her cloistered background. With a little more experience she'd be as fast off the reservation as any of them when a strange prick beckoned. Curt prided himself that he had opened many a woman's eyes to what was really going on in the world around her. Once a woman got the feeling she was missing something, the rest was easy But Curt wanted them only in small doses. To fuck them, sure, but even more to humiliate them, and then move on. There were so many women available to an energetic man he had no intention of concentrating his talents upon a few. He already had his eye on the gorgeous-looking, big-titted receptionist who worked for Doc Leonard in the Forester Building. And then there was the plain-looking but big-assed wife of Joe Kearns whom Curt had learned was having an affair with her dentist. Both of them should respond beautifully to having their noses shoved into Curt's hairy balls.
He parked the cruiser at the rear of the house and went around and unlocked the front door. He was barely in time. Ralph Fairbanks drove up the crushed-stone driveway and parked in front. Curt met him in the foyer, and he enjoyed the minister's surprise. "I'm Monica's assistant at marriage counselin', Reverend," Curt said. The look of shock on Ralph Fairbanks' handsome face delighted him. "She couldn't make it today, so she deputized me."
He removed from the pocket of his uniform blouse the pictures taken of Isabel Fairbanks. "Here's my references," Curt said, handing the pictures to the minister. Ralph Fairbanks took one look and blanched at the sight of his wife in the throes of sexual ecstasy with a man who could be no one but Curt Sylvester.
"You wouldn't care to have those mailed to the church's Board of Trustees, would you?" Curt inquired. Ralph shook his head, still numb with shock. "Then I'm sure you'll have no objection to my marriage counselin' this afternoon," Curt went on. Ralph was still staring at the pictures, only half-hearing. Could that really be Isabel with that flagrant, totally depraved look of sensuality on her face? But he knew it was.
" 'Course you understand all this because you're a sinful man, Reverend," Curt continued. He grinned hugely. "Like you preach on Sunday, it's the woman who pays, though. So we're gonna be a little hard on your erring wife. Would you believe that erring wives expect it, Reverend? They-"
He broke off at the sound of the taxi he had instructed Isabel to take to the Harris home. Curt hurried to the foyer. He was in time to see through the glassed-in portion of the front entrance when Isabel stopped in her tracks as she saw the Fairbanks car parked nearby. Curt opened the door and went outside to meet her. "Ralph's here," he informed the shocked Isabel. "C'mon in."
"Ralph? How-?" Isabel swallowed; she couldn't seem to think. "W-why?" she got out finally.
"I sent for him. Did you know he's been fucking your friend Monica?"
She knew instantly that it was true. It explained so many little things that had been out of the normal pattern recently. I drove him to it, she thought guiltily. If I'd been any kind of a wife he'd never have noticed her.
"I've got pictures of 'em together," Curt lied. "Just like you 'n me." He paused for effect. "I'm gonna mail 'em to the church trustees unless-"
"Unless what?" Isabel demanded.
"Unless you cooperate in our fun-an'-games this afternoon."
"I'll do anything if you won't hurt Ralph's career," she said quietly. I certainly owe him after my behavior, she thought.
"Then we'll strike up the grand march," Curt said, ushering her inside. He led her to the drawing room where he had left Ralph. "Dr. Ralph Fairbanks, meet Mrs. Fairbanks," he introduced them mockingly.
Husband and wife looked at each other, then looked away. "We're here this afternoon for some marriage counselin', in case I forgot to tell you," Curt said to Isabel. "So I suggest we all strip an' get comfortable."
He proceeded rapidly to follow his own dictate. He was standing before them, thick-shouldered and hairy-bellied, wearing only his boots while a pale Ralph Fairbanks had removed only his tie and shirt. Isabel had been unable to nerve herself up sufficiently to begin. "Need any help, you two?" Curt inquired.
"No," they said in chorus.
It was with a huge sense of glee that Curt watched the Fairbanks reluctantly undress. Isabel suffered her usual struggle with her girdle. Ralph hesitated when he was reduced to his shorts, then stripped them down when he saw his wife removing her panties. "Let's get a little closer together now," Curt urged them. He eyed Ralph's sexual apparatus with interest. Monica was right; he was really hung.
Ralph stared at his wife's big breasts with their nutty aureoles and perky nipples, then moved his glance downward to the rounded sweep of her white belly and the thick black curls surmounting her prominent mound. Isabel gazed shyly at her husband's clean leanness of frame and his bushy-looking sexual pod with its long penis looking stalwart even in quiescence.
"Shake hands with his prick," Curt urged Isabel.
She knew there was no hope in resistance.
Timidly she reached out to touch the member heretofore encountered only during a time of darkness. Ralph flinched at her touch, but stood still. Isabel's fingers encircled the fleshy tube which at once began to swell. "Ohhh!" she exclaimed softly, and dropped it. She felt herself blushing furiously.
"No bashfulness, now," Curt's voice boomed. "Give her cunt a good feel, Ralph."
Isabel stood with eyes closed while her husband's fingers slipped between her bare thighs and fondled her crinkled cupcake. Her nipples stiffened, and muscles twitched in her legs.
"Nice to see you two gettin' along so well," Curt commented. Isabel opened her eyes in time to see Curt draw the quirt from his boot and slap it across his palm. She hadn't noticed it previously, and her stomach lurched. "Now we're all in agreement that you've been a naughty girl recently?" Curt said.
Isabel nodded, her eyes on the quirt. Curt handed it to the surprised Ralph. "My marriage counselin' experience tells me it's time for y J to exercise your husbandly right arm, Reverend.'
Ralph tried to hand back the quirt. "I'm just as guilty as she is," he said soberly.
"But we just got done agreein' it's the woman who pays," Curt said suavely. Then his hardened. "So she gets fifteen of the best from you in the proper wifely place. Or I mail the picture." He seated himself in a straight-backed chair, pulled Isabel's upper body down until he could thrust her head between his clamping thighs, and left her nude buttocks pointing out into the room. "You got to be careful how you do this," he explained to the wide-eyed Ralph, pointing to Isabel's facial position, "because when they get to squealin' some of 'em try to bite. Now let's go with a little deserved wifely correction. I'll count for you."
Isabel found herself with her nose and mouth tightly compressed into Curt's rank-smelling groin. His penis rested against her left cheek. She blushed when she thought of her husband's eyes upon the swelling amplitudes of her naked bottom. "You want me to do it?" Curt asked when Ralph made no move.
"No!" Isabel blurted muffledly. "You do it, Ralph!"
Ralph took an experimental cut at the air with the quirt, and Isabel instinctively clenched her cheeks when she heard the hissing whir. "This thing is murderous!" Ralph protested.
"She'll live," Curt said laconically. "Remember if I don't like the way you do it, she'll get it all over again from me." .Ralph firmed his lips, drew back his arm, and flashed the quirt around with what he felt was moderate force. He was startled at Isabel's convulsive leap when the braided leather thwacked into her soft body cushions. A hot-looking crimson streak jumped up on the voluminous hemispheres. "One!" Curt counted.
Ralph swallowed, then cut again. Despite himself he was fascinated by the dancing, rotating gyrations of Isabel's bell-shaped bottom. Her muffled shriek was smothered against Curt's hairy groin.
By the third stroke he knew was swinging harder, but he couldn't seem to restrain himself. Curt continued to count as Isabel yelled steadily. Even in her distress she could feel Curt's penis swelling in a giant erection against her cheek.
Ralph felt a trembling tingle in his own loins as his wife's bare behind wriggled frenziedly. His traitorous arm continued to forcefully whip the quirt around into Isabel's naked seat. Even her outcries, muffled though they were, excited him. One part of him couldn't understand himself while another urged an additional toll of the quivering behind.
Curt's count passed a dozen as Isabel's screams soared despite her facial confinement. The pain in her bottom had spread to a fiery incandescence. She kicked backward lustily but futilely at each implacable cut of the dreadful quirt, but Curt held her firmly. Her whole madly plunging backside felt as if it. were being cut with knives, and she moaned pitifully with each slashing impact.
"Fifteen," Curt intoned. Ralph's arm was raised again. "Hold it," Curt told him. The big man was grinning. "We don't want the game called because of the condition of the playin' field," he told Isabel's husband. Ralph lowered his arm sheepishly.
Curt had already released Isabel. She had straightened up and was hopping awkwardly from one foot to the other while both hands caressed the rising weals on her striped bottom. The flame in her agonized seat seemed to permeate her entire being.
"Take a look at your dear hubby's prick now," Curt said.
Isabel turned and looked with wet eyes at Ralph, standing with the quirt still in his hand, a fierce-looking tumescence standing out rigidly from his belly. She sniffled loudly and licked with the tip of her tongue at the salty tears at the corners of her quivering mouth. Each breath felt as though she could never produce another from her straining lungs.
"I think you ought to give that a little kiss since it's standin' up in your honor," Curt remarked. He stood up and took Isabel's arm, then led her in front of Ralph.
She knelt before him helplessly, one hand still soothing her excoriated nude backside. With the other she took her husband's tremendous erection in her palm and gingerly guided it toward her mouth. She kissed the bulging head flinchingly, then let it go.
"Ahhh, g'wan, take a real taste," Curt insisted. He was grinning again.
Afraid to refuse, Isabel took hold of the rigidly swaying penis again and inserted it partway into her mouth. She breathed through her nose as her lips closed around the fleshy spear. She worked it around in her mouth gently, uncertain of what to do. The taste was salty-sweet, hardly unpleasant at all.
"I think you've got the makin's of a first-class cocksucker in your household, Reverend," Curt commented. "She just needs a little trainin' with the quirt as a standby accessory. I'll make you a present of it."
He laughed at the bemused expression upon Dr. Ralph Fairbanks' face as he stared down at his wife's dark head bowed over his erection.
"Okay," Curt went on briskly, "let's take her into the bedroom for the next item on the agenda."
Isabel felt herself raised and supported by a masculine hand under each arm as she was led in a stumbling walk from the drawing room.