Chapter 5
Lydia's eyes opened slowly and consciousness came upon her in little fits and starts. Her head throbbed, for a moment or two, throbbed with a dull aching pain, and there was a heaviness in her breasts. Her arms and legs had a strained feeling, and she tried to remember what had happened ...
She was on her way to the car, parked in the lot under her apartment building. It was just after ten in the morning, and she was due at her beauty salon at eleven. The morning after she'd gone out with Keith Barker. That much she was sure of.
She'd left the elevator, walked through the underground lot toward her Pinto, not really thinking of anything except the hour or two she'd spend being shampooed, clipped, blown dry, and styled, how lovely that new hairdo would look, reflected from the shiny polished glass of her mirror, how it would set off the stunning face and figure she loved to watch in her looking glass.
And she'd reached her car. Definitely. She remembered opening her purse, reaching inside for the keys. And then .. . then ...
Faces—strange faces—all around her. One looked like Frankenstein's monster, another like a gorilla, a third exactly like Richard Nixon. Horrible faces, drawn from reality and fantasy alike, faces that startled her until she realized that they were only rubber masks, that Frankenstein's monster had not joined forces with a gorilla and the ex-President to terrify her. But it wasn't Halloween, and the three bodies around her were of grown men, much too old for trick-or-treating even if it was the right season. "Hello, Lydia," one of them had growled in a strange, forced voice, and she had turned toward him—or at least toward his Nixon mask—when something exotic, something intoxicating, filled her nostrils and she felt herself suddenly sinking, sinking .. .
Lydia looked up, too weary still to move. She had never seen this room before. Of that she was positive. "Where am I?" she said aloud, looking at the low ceiling that seemed almost within touching distance of her nose tip. Her hips moved. She was lying on a bed. A solid bed but a very large one, her flickering eyes deduced. A strange bed, a strange room. Probably a strange house, too. And the more she thought, the clearer it became. That strange smell had been ether. She'd been drugged. Obvious. Otherwise, she'd remember all of it, what happened between the moment those three rubber-masked men accosted her and the moment she awoke on this bed.
Lydia blinked a couple of times. Her head wasn't hurting so much now and she decided it would be a good idea for her to sit up, take stock of her surroundings. Across the room a window let in slanted light, the light of afternoon. It had to be afternoon, for that kind of light shone only in the early morning and the late afternoon, and she'd already missed out on early morning. Perhaps if she went to that window she could look out and catch sight of a familiar landmark, something that would give her a clue as to where she was. Lydia decided to sit up.
That's when she discovered that her arms and legs ached because she was securely tied to the bed on which she lay.
It was a large bed, bigger than king-size, an old four-poster, and each of her four limbs was fastened to one of those upright phallic posts with a strong, tightly-knotted cord. She could move-at least could squirm on the mattress—but she could not sit up. Lydia's consciousness increased, and there was a cold chill in her head. Who had tied her? In the name of God, WHO HAD TIED HER??? Who had brought her to this room, a room she'd never seen before, a bed on which she'd never lain, and WHO had tied her to that bed with strong ropes?
A kidnapping? she thought instantly. My God, a kidnapping?
But why me? she asked herself. There was no one to pay a ransom for her return. She hadn't a soul in the world. Aunt Martha, her only relative, had died two years ago. Political terrorists, perhaps? In Cleveland? And if so, why had they picked her? She was of no importance to anyone except herself. No one. It was insane. Totally insane.
"Good God," Lydia said aloud, listening to the echo of her words as they bounced from wall to wall in the empty room. She began to smell a soft hint of must and mildew. "Good God!"
Again she strained at the ropes, found them as tight as before.
I was on my way to the beauty salon, she thought. I was on my way to the beauty salon. I am still on my way to the beauty salon. I probably stubbed my toe walking across the parking garage and my concentration has lapsed. I'm just fantasizing during that split second's lapse. If I blink twice, my head will clear and there I'll be, unlocking my car door, and there we be no men in Frankenstein, gorilla, and Nixon masks, no one saying "Lydia," no one doping me with an ether-soaked rag to make me pass out. If I blink twice, none of it will have happened.
Lydia blinked. Twice. Bravely. When she opened her eyes the second time she was still there, still on the bed, still bound fast, and she opened her mouth in a scream of terror.
"AAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"
She flopped, like a fish out of water, struggling against the bonds that allowed illusion of movement. The bed shook and rattled, and she kept screaming, screaming, screaming, tears rolling from her eyes even though the lids were tightly shut, tears that stung and burnt as they oozed down her scream-flushed face. Something touched her shoulder.
Lydia screamed again, and she opened her eyes slowly, blinking till the mist of tears had cleared and blurry vision returned. Richard Nixon was leaning over her, his rubber face so close she could smell the material of the mask, and once again his hand stroked her shoulder.
"So you're awake," he said behind his rubber smile.
"Where am I? Who are you? What do you want with me?"
Frankenstein was peering over Nixon's shoulder. He seemed to be a slightly taller man, but the mask made it difficult for her to be certain of anything. That input of fantasy, of displacement. "Hello, Lydia," he croaked, and she recognized the voice that had spoken to her in the parking garage.
To the rear, the man with a gorilla face stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He was near the window, as if he felt awkward about being too close to the other two.
"You look comfortable. Are you?" Nixon asked cordially. There was something about his voice, Lydia flashed suddenly. She'd heard that voice before. But where?
"I'm not comfortable!" she blurted, frothy spit bubbling on her mouth. Some of it must have sprayed his mask but he paid no attention. She couldn't see anything except the man's eyes, but Lydia knew that he was smiling beneath that rubber face.
He put his hands on her chest, cupping a palm over each of Lydia's tits. "Does this help any?" he asked, mirth evident in his tone. He clenched down, squeezing the pliable mounds with a firm grip. Lydia groaned and arched herself toward him. "I see it does help," Nixon commented. "Give us some help, would you, Kong and Boris? Let's try to make the lady really comfortable.'
That voice. Where, and when, had she heard that voice before? "Let go!" she told him angrily. "Let go of me!"
Frankenstein circled round the bed and leaned across from the other side. Lydia looked up at him, and her heart chilled, even though Nixon seemed bent upon massaging life into her tits. "Here," Frankenstein said, "let me lend a hand." He unbuckled her belt.
"STOP!!" she wailed, but the monster-faced man had already unbuttoned her slacks and was dragging them down her kicking, quivering legs, pulling panties along too. She blushed carmine, blood pounding at her temples. "Oh, my God!!!"
He pulled the slacks and panties all the way to her ankles, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. He couldn't take them completely off, because of the ropes, but a hell of a lot that mattered. She was bare from waist to ankles and through the eye slits of his mask she could see Frankenstein's gloating leers as he stared at her legs and pussy. "Please," she whispered, and her tits burned where Nixon kept abusing them with his hands.
"Good idea," Nixon commented. He let go of her breasts, and Lydia gasped in sudden relief. And then his hands flew, and he ripped open the front of her blouse, popping every button in one quick tearing motion.
"AAAAGGGGHHHH!!" Lydia screamed, bucking upward till the ropes tore into the delicate flesh of her wrists. Her bra-covered tits thrust as she moved, but they were bra-covered for only another moment. Nixon hooked a finger into the crosspiece between her boobs, jerked savagely, and the brassiere ripped as easily as had her skirt. He flung the cups away from the tits they no longer covered, and she felt the flush drop down from her face to her breasts. Oh, God, what was happening?
"Isn't this a lot better," Nixon asked silkily, "now that you're not wearing all those stuffy clothes? Mmmmm?" He tickled a nipple with the nail of his little finger, tickled until the pap erected automatically and Lydia squirmed in a vain effort to elude his casual stroking.
But she could only concentrate on Nixon's caresses for another second, because a spurt of pain emanated from her pussy. Frankenstein had closed her hand upon her cunt and was mauling her soft flesh and hair.
"This is the piece I want," said the man horror-movie face. He squeezed, underlining his words, and she moaned in a mixture of panic and revulsion.
"Of course, Boris," said Nixon. "We'll all try it out. That's why we brought her here."
"Oh, God," Lydia whispered, "what are you talking about? Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?"
"You have a lot of questions," Nixon replied. "Too many for a girl in your position, Lydia. Far too many."
That voice. She closed her eyes, trying to remember it. Where? When? Who? Richard Nixon. No. Not Richard Nixon. Richard .. . Richard ... RICHARD WELBY!!
"Richard!" she wailed. "You're Richard-" The last time she'd heard that voice, three weeks ago last night in her apartment, he'd been stroking an erection and threatening to stick it up her ass if she didn't come across with the cunt she'd been promising all evening. "Drop dead, you pathetic worm," she'd replied, in a voice dripping with honey-soaked poison.
Nixon straightened up, very quickly, and his hands fell away from her body. "Well," he said in a slightly miffed tone. "I guess our little surprise isn't working out." He peeled off the rubber face. "Why don't we all unmask," he added. "I think our lady friend has already been stripped of her own defenses, so maybe we should reciprocate."
"You bastard," she said. "You lousy bastard! What do you think you're doing, anyway? Bringing me here, treating me like some kind of kidnapped heiress—"
Richard Welby leaned toward her. He slapped Lydia with the back of his hand, firmly across her open mouth. She stopped speaking at once, and her tongue dabbed weakly at the trickle of blood flowing from a cut lip. "We'll tell you when it's time for you to speak," he smiled. Without the ugly mask he looked even more horrifying, for it was his own face she was seeing, and on that face evil was spelled out in huge legible characters. His eyes—oh, Jesus, his eyes! Like a snake's eyes, staring at her, piercing all her defenses, spewing degradation onto Lydia where she lay unable to move or resist.
Frankenstein removed his mask too. "I think you know my friend Gregory Chastain, of the Toledo Chastains," Richard said, making a courtly gesture toward the dark young man across the bed, the dark young man who still had a hand on Lydia's pussy, still cupped her quivering, tense cunt with fingers of iron will and determination. "And as for King Kong, over by the window—come on, join the crowd, Keith. You spent last evening with Lydia. She ought to remember you very well." Removing his mask as he walked, the gorilla became Keith Waters and joined his companions by Lydia's bed.
"So!" Richard Welby went on. "I presume you know why we've called you here today, now that you know who we are. Every revolutionary cause has its militant wing. The Black Panthers. The Jewish Defense League. The Symbionese Liberation Army. The Weathermen. Well, the Commies and subversives aren't the only ones who need a radical action wing. You might consider us the militant shock troops of Men's Liberation."
She gasped. Richard smiled. So did Greg. Keith still hung back, his face half shadowed.
"Yes," he went on. "We represent, in our humble presences, the needs and desires of men everywhere. Look at us, Lydia. Greg and Keith and me. We're good-looking, much better educated than the common man in the streets. We're athletic, in the prime and glory of our youth, and each of us is destined to do quite well for himself in the world of business. All in all, I think that if you could divide mankind into Homo Superior and Homo Inferior, we'd definitely rank among the upper twenty-five per cent. Do you agree?"
"Go fuck yourself!"
"Aha," he grinned. "That's exactly what we're getting at. Greg and Keith and I have taken careful note of you, and we've compared our findings. We feel that you are a young woman with distinctly warped attitudes. So, in the name of men's liberation, we intend to show you that our sex was created to dominate your sex, and that you'd better start toeing the line."
"Oh my God!"
Greg let go of her pussy. "Yeah," he said. "Women's lib is giving this country a case of blue balls. It's time for a change. And Lydia, baby, you're it."
They were crazy. What were they talking about? "Listen—" she began, but Richard laid his finger across her lips.
"Just relax," he said. "You gave us all the royal come-on, then lowered the boom when it really counted. We're just here to collect. And you're here to pay out what you owe. Gentlemen, I think Greg opted for the first bout."
"You're crazy—" but he touched her lips again. She could still taste blood from the time he'd struck her and she was afraid he'd do it again. Oh, God, he was crazy enough to do something really weird! Lydia closed her eyes. He'd already done something really weird! He and his friends had doped her and brought her here, to ... to ... to wherever she was now, and they'd stripped her clothes off and given her a fruitcakey spiel about men's liberation, and now—Jesus, what were they going to do now?
She looked at Greg. He'd taken off his shirt. Lydia's heart chilled with alarm. Oh, Jesus, he was unbuckling his belt, too! Broad shoulders, very smooth chest with small hard nipples standing up on it, a small ring of hair around his navel, trailing downward into his pants—dear God, not into his pants now, because his pants were dropping to the floor!
Greg stepped out of his fallen trousers, and now he was naked except for his shorts. Scratch that. He pulled down his shorts too, and his soft cock bounced into full view. Lydia closed her eyes. She didn't want to see his dick. She'd already seen it, the night she went out with him a couple of weeks back. They'd gone to a dirty movie, she remembered, and she'd toyed with his penis in the theater, turning him on manually while they watched Tina Russell on the big screen, fucking and sucking in livid color. He'd counted on getting a little fucking and, sucking too. Lydia had made sure he got that impression. All the better to bring him down later, at her apartment, when he was naked and hard and ready-only to find that she had no intention of giving him what he wanted. It was a little different now.
Greg climbed onto the bed. Lydia turned her face from him, but when she did she saw only Richard and Keith, watching from the sides, and Richard's face was horrible. He was gloating at her predicament, gloating as he watched Greg mount the bed, as he watched Lydia's mute plea for release. "He's only the first," Richard said. "We're all going to take you, Lydia. We're all going to fuck you. In the mouth, in the cunt, in your tight little asshole-in your armpits if we feel like it, and if we feel like it, you'd better clench yourself so we have a nice tight fuck spot."
Greg straddled Lydia's waist, and he was flipping his soft prick up and down. She stared at him, panting heavily. He moved forward on his knees, holding his limp cock toward her as he came. "I'm not hard, Lydia. See? My cock is too soft to fuck you with. Why don't you suck it till it's nice and thick and hard? Pretend you're Tina Russell in that movie we went to see. Lick my prick, and kiss it on the tip, and suck it till it swells up all big and red and hard in your mouth. What are you waiting for, Lydia? Open up wide. Come on, Lydia. Open up!"
He grabbed her face, a thumb pinching into one cheek, finger nudging at the other, till her mouth opened in a reluctant, pursed-lip oval. "NNNNNNNHHHHH!!" she grunted, but her cry of protest was cut off by the pressure of Greg's cock. He pushed it into her and he kept his thumb and finger in place so she could not spit him out. Gasping, moaning, struggling for breath, Lydia felt her mouth being raped by Greg's tool.
He tasted nasty, the way men always tasted. She closed her eyes, and suddenly she was fourteen again and Uncle George was making her suck his penis, and she didn't want to do it because it was horrid and ugly and nasty and it tasted bad and her mouth was full of him, she couldn't breathe, he was sticking that big ugly thing down her throat, trying to fuck her lungs instead of just her mouth, and she wanted to vomit, to spew up her discomfiture, but she couldn't, she couldn't, she couldn't do anything except suck, suck, suck, suck, suck on that piece of warm, quivery meat that snaked into her mouth, that jiggled around in her mouth, that began to grow and swell in her mouth, clamping down her tongue so she couldn't move it even if she'd wanted to, and now she was totally full of him, her cheeks puffed out, drool running from her lips, some of it flowing back down her throat, strangling Lydia, choking her— "That's good," Greg said, patting her forehead. He pulled his cock out of her mouth. Lydia's lips snapped shut, but the gesture was far too late in coming. She'd already been defiled.
Something moist and hot touched her face. First the forehead, then the eyelids, then down one side of her nose, beneath, up the other side. Oh, God, he was rubbing his pecker on her skin! No wonder she felt that crawly sensation in every pore of her being! Lydia squirmed, wishing that the ropes were longer, so that she could crawl just a little further from him.
Down her neck moved the tip of his pecker, still touching her. He rubbed himself on the nipples of her tits, rubbed until her paps tingled and throbbed and maybe even stood up a little higher and harder, and he even slipped his cock back and forth, in and out of her smooth-shaven armpits, worked it till she moaned and made gagging sounds of protest. It tickled! It sickened her! And she couldn't even lower her arms to keep him out, because of the ropes that bound her.
She opened her eyes, not really wanting to, and she looked at Richard. "Why?" she moaned. "Why are you doing this to me? Am I that important? Am I the only woman who ever kept you from getting your sick perverted jollies? Is that why you kidnapped me, why you're going to . . . going to... "
"No," he said lucidly. "You're not the only woman who ever teased a cock. You're not the only woman who ever teased my cock, or Greg's, or Keith's, and then left us high and dry. Ever since this Commie Women's Lib movement started, there's been a lot of that shit going around. We just decided that it's time for us to make our stand, to announce that we're not gonna take any more of it. All of us have gone out with you, and you've given us all the same treatment. We just intend to show you that it can't go on forever. You owe us, Lydia. You owe all three of us—and we're going to collect on that debt."
He was crazy. Absolutely crazy. Women's Lib? Commies? He sounded like a more grammatical Archie Bunker. She had no connection with the women's liberation movement. She simply hated men because of what her uncle had done to her when she was a child. And now—oh, my God—now they were going to do it all over again!
Greg was still astride her body, but moving downward, his cock playing a path across her chest, down her tummy. Without warning he jabbed the tip of his dick into her navel, as if he meant to fuck her there. "GGGGGHHHHH!!!" Lydia wailed, sucking in her stomach, though it was a futile means of avoiding the quick daring strokes of Greg's pecker.
"Hurry up," Richard said. "Keith and I are waiting. We want our turns, too."
Keith still hung back. He hadn't said anything. Lydia looked past Richard, at the man she'd been with last night, but his eyes shifted, as if he didn't even wish to look. Was he ashamed of what they'd done? Well, if he was, he was damned late about it! And when she got out of here, when she went to the police and had them arrested, Keith Waters would go to the penitentiary right along with his— Greg was no longer straddling Lydia. She looked down, quickly, and saw that he was even then moving into the widespread angle between her legs. "Oh, God," she whimpered. "Please—don't do this to me-"
It was too late. She screamed as his pecker rammed into her unready cunt, and he was in her to the balls, livid hot, as big as a fencepost in her dry hole. Lydia's stomach seemed to burst aflame—or was it only her pussy lips that were burning, scorching, where his giant cock split them to the breaking point, past the breaking point? His belly bumped her groin and she knew that he was completely immersed in her twat, prodding as if he meant to slip even more of himself into Lydia, his balls swollen and weighty, swishing against the clenched split of her ass.
"Jesus, she's tight!" Greg shouted, grabbing her waist and pulling her groin toward him. "She's tight as a fucking virgin!"
Of course she was tight! No the forbidden portals of Lydia's pussy since she was sixteen—ten years ago. Only her fingers, and they were slender, delicate fingers, no match at all for the thick throbbing penis that now filled her twat, spread her unendurably, made her wince and cry out in heart stopping pain. "OOOOHHHH!!!!" she shrieked, her voice breaking into falsetto, her lungs aching from the intensity, the agony of the cry.
Somewhere in the distance a dog began to howl. It was a muted howling, faint but unmistakable to Lydia's ears as her own shriek faded. "Damn it," said Richard. "Why don't you go feed Bruno, Keith? She's gotten him all upset with her squalling."
"Is it safe?" Keith asked. It was the first time Lydia had heard him speak.
"Of course," Richard said. "He won't attack unless you're breaking into the house. Besides, he knows you."
"Okay," Keith replied, reluctance in his voice. He looked at Lydia, turned when she returned his stare, and then went out. He went quickly, as if he were glad to be leaving the room, glad to see the last of this spectacle.
"As for you," Richard said, smiling, "I think I have the answer." He went round the bed, stooped, and came up holding Greg's discarded undershorts. He looked at them carefully. "Hmmmm. No shit stains on your jockey shorts, Gregory. A yellow spot or two in front, but that's only natural, I suppose. Open up, Lydia. Open up like a good girl."
She didn't open up. Instead, he pinched her cheeks the way Greg had done, and when her lips parted reluctantly, he began to stuff the shorts into her mouth.
Lydia gurgled and gagged, but the more she tried to protest, the easier it was for Richard. He crammed Greg's shorts into her mouth, then patted her cheeks. "Good girl," he said. "Now you can scream your head off and it won't distract any of us from our duty."
She bit down on the shorts, tasted cotton, and grimaced. In another moment she found that Richard spoke the truth. Greg pulled his hips back and he started to fuck her in quick, rabbit like punches that turned her stomach upside down each time he rocked her full of his organ, and she wanted to scream—did scream—but the shorts gagged and muffled her cries and she had not even the pleasure of strong vocal resistance to the rape of her body.
Greg's fingers dug into her waist as he moved himself against her, into her, alternating his fucks between shallow and deep plunges with a kind of mathematical ratio. Lydia squirmed, and each penetration was a new type of agony, and her legs tensed and flexed, her cunt seeming to shrink each time he prodded her, so that she became even tighter around him, so tight that she expected the friction to burst her cunt into hot yellow flames at any moment.
But it didn't happen. Instead, he became slightly easier to accommodate. She couldn't believe it was really taking place, but her pussy seemed to be growing moist around his invading prick. My God! Was she actually lubricating for rape? There was a tingle in her belly, and she squirmed, exerting a kind of quirky, fluctuating pressure on Greg's sex organ. "That's it!" he shouted happily, reaming her navel with the tip of his middle finger. "Now you've got the idea!"
"Damned if she hasn't," Richard observed, leaning in to watch. He stared at Lydia's face from an angle that made her neck ache, and then he lowered his mouth to her nipples. She moaned as he began to suck her teats, whimpered when he started biting. His hands kneaded and teased her tits from their curved sides, locating each vein that pumped agitated, terror-filled blood into them. Oh, Jesus—there were two men working on her! Never in her wildest, sickest dreams had she imagined that this could be possible! And now, when she wanted to scream, needed to scream, if for no other reason than to assuage the pain and shame she felt, Lydia found herself virtually mute. She could cry out, but the shorts crammed into her mouth made the cries a bitter travesty of screaming. She had not even that petty consolation.
Damn them! Damn these men! She'd see them all in prison, wearing stripes and breaking up rocks! God! Richard was chewing her stiff nipples now, literally chewing them, like they were pieces of steak, and her teats throbbed, throbbed, throbbed in his mouth. Lydia tried to rock her body but the ropes held her in place. She could only endure.
Greg's fucking wasn't nearly as painful as when he'd started. There was no reason her pussy should have grown moist, given the situation, but that moisture was all that kept her from being ripped apart by Greg's dick. He kept slipping into her, ramming his belly against her pubic mound, pressing down the splayed lips of her twat until Lydia's clit began to tingle in response to the continuous pressure.
"Look out, buddy!" she heard Greg yell, and suddenly Richard was no longer suckling her titties. He lifted his face quickly, and then Greg's cock was out of her pussy and the dark-haired man was rising up, onto his knees, leaning up with his red, swollen cock in his hand. She watched in revulsion as he stroked himself twice, three times, and then the scarlet knobby tip gushed forth a seemingly unending stream of liquid cum.
He bathed her in his ejaculation, splattering her belly, shooting the stuff onto the tits Richard had just been sucking. Some of it even struck her in the face, and it was hot, slimy, sticky goo, landing upon her in thick gobs that flowed with unendurable slowness across her skin. She looked down, saw the white soup heavy upon her boobs, oozing toward the upstanding nipples, and she gagged. The shorts crammed into her mouth were strangling, and somehow she hoped they would strangle her, that the cotton briefs might slip into her gullet, entangle themselves in her throat, and let her die now, now!! Before it got any worse. Because Lydia knew that it was going to get worse. A lot worse. .
Greg kept fondling his pecker, and each time his hand skinned the outer layer of flesh up and down, a fresh dripping of cum fell onto Lydia's tummy. She writhed in sick discomfort, watching it happen, feeling it happen. Once she'd delighted in seeing men squirt their jism, but that had been in another time, another world. Lydia Pembroke had been in charge of things then. She'd been the one who made the rules. Now it was all different. She hadn't chosen this game and she didn't want to play, but it looked as if she had no choice.
"Jerk off on your own time," Richard Welby said. He unzipped his pants and hauled out his cock. Not a giant cock, but a solid one. Lydia knew all about Richard's prick. She'd seen it before, seen it erect in her stroking hand, and she'd sent him packing from her apartment with that cock still hard and unsatisfied. Well, he was hard now, but she was certain he wouldn't go away unsatisfied.
Greg descended from the bed and started to dress. Lydia fixed her eyes upon him so she wouldn't have to see Richard climb onto the bed, arrange himself between her thighs, but the hope and wish were futile. Richard's cock slipped into her with deceptive gentleness, and as soon as he was firmly lodged between her labia he began to fuck like a maniac, ramming in and out, hurting her, abusing her, raping her— He was crazy. Greg was crazy. Keith was crazy. There could be no other explanation for their behavior. Normal men didn't act this way. Did they? What did she know about normal men, for the love of God? What did she know about men, except that they lived and breathed only for the joy of degrading women?
Lydia looked down at her body, at the face of the man who was busily fucking her. She could feel his cock moving in and out but his face and body were a blur. In her mouth, the gagging shorts were soggy with drool, and her eyes seemed to be drooling as well. She blinked, trying to clear away the mist, and she saw him then. It was Uncle George. She'd known it would be. That face—God, she'd never forget that face! Sometimes she even saw it in her dreams. The man had been dead for ten years, but she wondered if he would ever die, as far as her mind was concerned. Lydia blinked again, and she saw that it wasn't Uncle George. It was Richard Welby fucking her . .. fucking her .. . fucking her ... his cock thrusting deep, plunging home to the accompaniment of deep, low-pitched groans from his half-parted lips .. . plunges that rocked her, shocked her, sent darting twinges of revulsion through her pussy-She was wetter now inside, and the fucking wasn't so agonizing as before. The more he fucked, the wetter she seemed to become, her cunt weeping its own kind of tears while Richard stuffed her time and again with his driving pecker. It was almost bearable now. She didn't want to cry out—not exactly. She could survive this. She'd survived Uncle George, hadn't she? And he'd taken her virginity, popped her cherry, made her do all those horrid things— Not until she heard Greg say, "She's got more moving parts than a cheap wristwatch," did Lydia realize that she'd begun to undulate her hips. She looked down, saw Richard's hand planted upon an abdomen that jiggled like a plate of jello. Still fucking, he reached up her body and clamped his hands upon her quivering breasts. Lydia moaned, but much of that moan was due to the sudden pinching of his fingers upon her stiff nipples.
"Fuck me sweetly, Lydia," he panted, working his belly against hers, caressing her tits in rough but aroused fashion. "I can feel you leaking around me. Your pussy is like a hot musky swamp. This was what you really wanted all the time, wasn't it? To be taken forcibly, if necessary, by a man who knew what he needed, what you needed? The cockteasing was only a provocation. I should have raped you that night we went out together. Should have raped you just the way I'm raping you now, you bitch!" And with that he slammed his dick into her so hard it made her teeth chatter. She bit down ferociously on the shorts in her mouth, then ground her teeth in numb despair. He was crazy.
Richard pulled his cock out of her. For the briefest moment her pussy seemed empty, devoid of something, and she snapped her loins toward him, cunt twitching, slobbering, eager to be full once more. Lydia had no control over herself now.
Her body was a stormy sea, sloshing over its banks in a paroxysm of quivers and flutters.
"Let me fuck your tits," he was saying. "Of course, there's no need to ask your permission, since you're not quite in a position to refuse me anything. Are you, Lydia?" Laughing, he threw a leg across her stomach and settled down, his cock pointing up the vale between Lydia's breasts. As she watched, he leaned toward her, then crushed her titties together upon his hard rod.
She felt a vague disgust looking down, watching his cock slide back and forth between her boobs, and his prick was hot and moist where her tits came together. When he fucked forward, his prick point bumped her lips. She snapped her head back but to no avail. She couldn't move far enough to avoid the almost rhythmic frequency of his Up-touching strokes. The end of him was wet with cum, but she couldn't taste it. Thank God they'd filled her mouth with those shorts!
Richard squeezed her tits a little tighter. "You know," he said almost casually, "you have the kind of tits that were made to be fucked. Spongy but firm. That's the best kind. Hard breasts scrape a cock too much, and floppy, flabby breasts are no fun at all. Yours are just the right size, too, Lydia. What are they? I'd guess about a 34. C Cup? No, B. Definitely a B. And the B stands for beautiful.
"But you already know that. You're a very beautiful woman, Lydia, and you've been a very naughty woman, too. I think that the three of us can open your eyes, however. Lydia—your eyes are closing. Open them. Open them at once!!"
Reluctantly, she did so. The sight of that swollen prick sliding between her tits had been too much to bear. Her eyes open, she still found it too much to bear.
"I wanted you to open your eyes, Lydia, because I'm about to come. And I want you to see my sperm flying into your face, because it's going to fly, Lydia. My testicles are so full they hurt—just the way they did the night you pulled your cockteasing act on me. But I think I'm going to make up for that, Lydia. I'm going to make up for it right now! Tell them about this in Moscow, you Commie bitch!!!!"
And with that, his prick exploded, spewing, vomiting, gushing. Cum erupted from the tip of his dick in enormous spurting gobs, and Lydia closed her eyes in defense, feeling the stuff blast into her unprotected face. Richard crushed her tits together, his prick nestled between, and her flesh could pick up the telltale shudderings and throbbings as orgasm hurtled through his penis and the fruits of that orgasm blew forth like the eruptions of a volcano.
Her face was drenched with cum by the time he'd finished, and she lay on the bed no longer able, willing to move. What else could they do to her? She'd already been degraded so savagely she felt no desire to keep on living. If she could just loosen one of her ropes—if she could loosen all of them—she'd hang herself from the light fixture in the ceiling, hang herself and get it over with. Lydia choked on the undershorts clogging her mouth and she felt a trickle of cum run across her eyelid.