Chapter 6
After Myers' warning I didn't have to be a psychiatrist to figure out that General Turnbull's sexual tastes were undoubtedly kinky.
Well, it figured. I'd read in "Cosmopolitan," or someplace, that the more powerful a man was the more erratic his sex life was. Apparently Air Force generals were no exception to the rule.
"Trixie," he called me by alias, as he draped his braided arm around my shoulders and guided me from the Hospitality Pen, "do you like people."
"A lot of people?"
"Yes," he said, directing me down a long corridor of rooms.
"You mean like a party?" I asked.
"Yes, something like that," he chuckled. "Sort of like a birthday party, in a way."
"Oh, whose birthday is it?"
"Nobody's birthday," this hawk-visaged, beribboned Air Force general actually giggled. "Just birthday suits."
Christ, I was stunned. Turnbull was a man with direct influence over the finger on the button that could blow us all to kingdom-come. I'd read about more than one President consulting the eminent silver-haired General on potential ways to annihilate everybody.
Somehow it chilled me that a man in a position of such awesome responsibility should have the sense of humor of a ten-year-old boy. That kind that thinks it's funny to pull the wings off flies.
"Let go of my tits," I almost hollered when he reached out and started twisting my nipples. Somehow I suppressed it, though, knowing how crucial the General's goodwill was in my plan for escaping from Gila Flats.
He was so arrogant the way he contemptuously used my body for his amusement. He was so casual about it-as though he took it for granted that, as a woman, I was automatically at his disposal. God, his touch made me feel so damn cheap.
"You're an interesting looking little whore," he pushed me even further down in the dregs of degradation. I felt like his shiny boot was on my neck.
Even though it tore me up inside, there was no rational way I could contradict the old satyr. He, of course, had no reason to believe I was not a hooker. And that was to my advantage, at least for now, if I was going to please him.
Frankly, I was playing it close the vest. Conservative, like the General's well-known politics.
As a woman in trouble, it was safest to play the prostitute. Feminine intuition counseled that this was the best way to ingratiate yourself with a man from whom you wanted something.
"You have the interesting quality of a housewife gone to seed one doesn't often find in the hardened faces of most cathouse personnel," General Turnbull was telling me, as he maneuvered me backward down one of the Comstock's garish pink and black corridors.
Here, I could have taken a chance. Sprung the truth on him right away. Gone for broke.
But I didn't do it. There was no denying it-in this perverse environment, I felt more comfortable in the part of a hooker than I would have as my real self.
"No, I'm a full-blooded whore," I assured him. "Just a fucking machine. Now what about this, uh, birthday party you were telling me about?"
"Oh, yes, it's right in there," he grinned a mouthful of teeth that seemed almost to be made of stainless steel. He was a most metallic man.
The General pointed toward a door bearing the words, "Uncle Roy's Play Pen."
"But, before we go in," he said, "I want to bite your cunt."
"I beg your pardon."
"It's an old habit I picked up from my father," the General gave me an apparent insight into how he became such a sadist. "He was a Yankee Trader in New Hampshire. Any coins that came his way worth over fifty cents, he bit into it to see if they were sound."
"And you just like to do the same thing with your women," I concluded.
"Say, I wish my staff were as quick to catch on," he unexpectedly said.
"Not to mention some Presidents you could mention," I instinctively fielded the conversational ball, and fired a strike in return.
He laughed out loud. Guffawed. I really thought I was getting someplace.
And just in the nick of time for my morale. Because I needed all the inner strength I could get when, still chuckling the General dropped to his knees and sank his teeth into my bare pussy.
The cunt is by far the most sensitive part of a woman's body. The flesh and skin and tissue there are so delicate that they're like body-lace. Can you imagine what it feels like to have fragile perfection torn apart by a set of gnashing fangs?
"Oh, my God!" I shrieked, hopping up and down when he let me loose. "It hurts, it hurts!"
"Is that right?" the General said with an air of smug triumph. The smile turning up the corners of his lipless mouth indicated that he was more than pleased by my excruciating pain.
I wanted to kill him. Stomp off his nuts. Cram his pile of fucking medals down his throat.
But nice whores don't do that. When a man hurts them, they just whisper as I now did, "It hurts so good, hurts sooo gooood."
"Mmmmm, I think you've survived the test, young lady," the General passed the favorable judgment I'd been eagerly awaiting. "Incidentally, take a look at your cunt. I'm sure you'll be intrigued by the beneficial results of having it bitten by the son of a Yankee Trader."
I looked down and was astonished. The still indented teeth-marks formed a crown circling the heart of by vulva. Distended by adjacent swelling, my pussy lips splayed jaggedly out like bear claws. No hard-on could have been more conspicuous than my mutilated twat.
"I wonder what I'll look like with my legs spread," I verbally contradicted my inner concern over permanent vaginal disfigurement.
"Let's find out at the birthday party, shall we?" the General said, gesturing me toward the Play Pen.
He opened the door on a huge room covered with a wall-to-wall water bed. Its occupants were the same people who had been watching the blue movies, including Kitty, Sheila, Brenda, Gloria and Jenny. Their birthday suits were unanimously in evidence. Apparently they'd taken a quicker route to the Play Pen than the General and I.
"One last thing, Trixie," the General whispered in my ear as my mind boggled. "At this birthday party, everyone is the birthday boy or girl. Except for you, that is-you're the gift."
Then he put his boot to my backside, a familiar gesture around Gila Flats, and kicked me through the doorway. Toppling head over heel on the springy water bed, I eventually wound up landing with my legs spread in the center of a rapidly assembled circle of naked bodies. A kaleidoscope of hard-ons, tits, and cunts seemed to swirl around me.
Then it abruptly closed in on me. Suddenly I was buried by an avalanche of rippling bare flesh. Cock and balls and pussies and tits smeared all over me. Hungry mouths nibbled at my most private parts.
I felt like a human sacrifice. The meat thrown to the wolves. Wolves of sex.
Through it all, the General was watching. Of course I couldn't see him, but I could certainly hear him commenting from afar. He sounded like a football coach exhorting his team. Or, come to think of it, like a General firing up his troops.
"Eat her tits, someone," he barked. "Somebody get a dick inside that pussy. Get a fist or a hard-on in her ass and punish her. She needs something in her mouth."
The platoon scouting over the terrain of my all but naked body was obedient to a fault. They were all soldiers in this particular cause of the General's. Even Kitty, Sheila, Brenda, Gloria and Jenny were marching to his beat.
In fact, it was the latter two that sat on my tits. Sitting side-saddle on my torso, they each captured a breast, nipples leading the way, within their spread pussies.
I had no idea who it was who abruptly filled my mouth with stiff cock. The only thing I could be sure of is that it wasn't the boyishly endowed Lieutenant Myers. The hard-on hurtling down my throat had already penetrated nine inches, and its hairy balls seemed to be a third of that away from my lips.
"Fuck her mouth to the maximum, soldier!" the General stridently ordered. "Make her feel it in her belly."
It happened before long. The testicles were oozing against my lower hp and chin. The cockhead was ticking like a time bomb at the mouth of my abdominal cavity.
Now the General shifted his attention specifically to my cunt. He proclaimed that he wanted to see it engorged with not one, but at least two pricks.
"Tear her up inside, boys," he commanded. "The rougher you treat her the better she'll like it. The cheaper these tramps are, the more brutal they like it. They expect to be abused. When you ravage trash like this, you win their hearts and minds."
The two heads of the volunteering cocks began to jockey for equal shares of my fuck-hole. Hot that much meat got inside me at once, I'll never know.
But, even more incredibly, it was only the beginning. The head of a cock in your cunt means the certainty of several inches of shaft to follow. Two cockheads mean a pair of shafts in the same tight orifice. And, in this case, exceptionally thick ones.
"Oooommmmppphh!" both guys grunted at once. Wedging so the corners of their pelvic girdles ground together at the crux of their lewd design, they collapsed their loins on me.
Both hard-ons penetrated my snatch at once. Since there was a brace of them, they couldn't, of course, achieve maximum insertion. But they got in plenty far.
Far enough for me to experience the incredible sensation of the crowns of two pricks rubbing simultaneously against the sensitive nodule guarding my womb. An inch or so away my uterus was spasming like an interior cunt.
"Now her asshole," the General concerned himself with my last unplugged orifice. "Find the man in the squadron with the biggest cock. I want him to fuck her ass."
"Glenn Johnson," was the name a number of my Air Force bedmates said at once.
I recognized the name immediately. Glenn Johnson, the astronaut! A genuine celebrity was going to corn-hole me.
A cock that had traveled the surface of the moon was going to tunnel up my anus. Under normal circumstances, I'd have been tugging at his sleeve and asking for an autograph. Now I was going to get something far more intimate to remember our chance meeting by.
And then, suddenly, there was the great man himself looming over me. Everything about him I recalled was exactly in place-the closely cropped sandy-hair that receded from his forehead, the bland but Ail-American handsomeness, the piercing blue eyes that helped set him apart from the ordinary man whom he so closely resembled in most ways. He looked like a wax statue of himself.
An obscene wax statue, however. Something like you'd see if Madame Tussaud went porno.
In any case, Glenn Johnson had a cock that definitely wasn't made of wax. It was so big I wondered how he'd kept from tripping over it when he was walking around on the moon in that clumsy space-suit.
He was stroking it affectionately, letting its shadow fall over my belly and the bare backs of Gloria and Jenny as they continued to suck my tits up their pussies. It was clear that he wanted me to see every rock-hard inch of what he had to offer before he rammed my ass. I could only guess that for all his acclaim, the super-hero astronaut was one of those insecure men who could only get their kicks by terrifying women.
Even though it was demeaning, I could easily play it his way. Why not let Johnson ritualize taking me in the ass if it would bolster the fortunes of his apparently short-changed ego. Especially if it would ingratiate me further with the big man himself-General Turnbull.
However, Glenn Johnson was not faring so well in the approval department.
"You're not a hot item on the six o'clock news anymore, Colonel Johnson," General Turnbull thundered impatiently at the cock brandishing astronaut, emphasizing the man's inferior rank so there would be no doubt who was in charge. "Just stop prancing around like a chorus girl and corn-hole the little bitch. Can't you see how badly the filthy slut wants it? We all know you've got a big prick to go with your inflated reputation, now let's see you use it in the tramp's tight ass."
"Yessir!" Johnson answered and saluted like a raw cadet. The General could have told him to go shit in his own face and he'd have done it.
And, for that matter, all the others would have too, not excluding my cellmates. It occurred to be that being a General was like being in command of your very own human circus, if you wanted it that way. Power over your minions was absolute.
I couldn't help but wonder how the General got along with the equally autocratic Uncle Roy Dean. A meeting of those two power-made minds must have been like a clashing of two rabid dinosaurs.
"In her ass, Colonel, without further delay," the
General reiterated his insistence that the astronaut get down to business. "Just remember, Johnson," he continued contemptuously, "except for your big cock you're just another fly at this carcass of meat. Moon acrobatics don't impress anyone at an orgy."
Abruptly Glenn Johnson disappeared from the view I had of him. The next time I sensed him it was with the tactile nerve-endings of my anal rosebud rather than my eyes. He'd wormed his way underneath the tangle of humanity and was obediently beginning to make his phallic insertion up my quivering, waiting shit-pit, starting to fuck me in the ass on orders from his General.
When I'd seen it with my eyes, the astronaut's hard-on had seemed immense. But when it started to ram up my butt it seemed much, much bigger than that. I felt like I had a missile in my crap-chute.
"That's it, my boy," the General's attitude toward Johnson softened considerably now that orders were being properly discharged. "Really fuck the little whore in the ass. I don't want her sitting down again for a week after you're through with her."
An anxious to please his master as a puppy, Colonel Johnson shoved harder and harder with his huge tool. His cock was no popgun like Lieutenant Myers' had been-accepting inch after inch of it and remaining conscious took me to the limit of my physical resources, especially when there was so much other juicy action titillating my body simultaneously.
That's right, despite their briefly passing interest in the ass-fucking astronaut's little pre-hump dance and show, the original quintet of feasters at my body had kept up the erotic rhythm of their specialties. And once Johnson had about six thick inches of cock in my ass, the individuality of his effort faded. His presence became lumped with the cumulative effect of the group.
There were no longer a half-dozen entities servicing my erogenous zones. Instead it seemed a single organism that was ravishing me-a six-headed hydra with multiple limbs and a plentitude of the turgid genitalia of both men and women. A monster of sex.
I felt like Beauty being ravaged by the Beast. The ugly brutality of what was happening to me in this obscene fairy-tale was what seemed to excite me most of all.
Meanwhile, the monster was showing its versatility, taking on a new humanoid appendage through the generation of lust. A man stuck his stiff cock into one of my armpits and started fucking me there.
Immediately I was glad I hadn't shaved under my arms for several days. With the man's big hard-on sliding back and forth in the curly hair and sticky sweat, my armpit felt just like a cunt.
And so did the other one when somebody slipped his iron dick into its cleavage. Now I was being fucked in both of them.
My hands lay at my sides. They were the only part of me that I could think of that should be giving and receiving erotic stimulation and weren't. Sex without meat-filled fingers is somehow incomplete, no matter how many people are screwing you.
By my count there were only three unoccupied pussies remaining in the Play Pen. My cellmates, Kitty, Sheila and Brenda, I ached to dip my fingers into at least two of their honey-pots.
Quickly I became aware of an additional talent possessed by General Turnbull's trained sex monster. It could read minds. Just like that it added Kitty and Sheila to its proliferating mass, placing at my digital disposal the wet cunts I craved.
With their legs apparently spread as far as they could go, their pussies were gaping. I stuck an entire hand in each on the first try without any difficulty. Balling my knuckles, I began vigorously fist-fucking them.
My debauchery seemed complete. There seemed none of my body left to pillage. Brenda was forced to take her left-over blonde twat and join the daisy-chain by sticking it in Kitty's face. Alas, I had no more vacancies for her golden muff.
Meaning that General Turnbull had dealt himself out. Apparently the old tyrant was just a voyeur. A star-spangled peeping Tom.
God, how I wished that mild assessment were true when I caught my first glimpse of the old man since the orgy had begun. As the only clothed person in the Play Pen, instead of whipping out his cock, he whipped out a knife.
A switchblade. The same kind teenage punks, whom the General probably hated, carry. A menacingly long stiletto thrusting out of a black bone handle with a simple click. Deadly.
Of course I assumed he intended to slash me with it. He was that kind of guy. They're called sadists.
The others didn't seem to mind, though. They were too busy doing it to me in their sundry ways. Apparently they didn't care if I was alive or dead as long as I was there to fuck. It was clear that when human beings joined together for an orgy, sexual pleasure mattered above all. If the General got his kicks carving up helpless women, then so be it.
I tried to scream with terror, but of course it was impossible with a big cock down my throat. A cock whose bulging veins seemed like metal rims against the delicate tissues of my esophagus.
I tried to throw my hands up to shield myself from the knife-wielding General, but they were hopelessly snagged in cunts. Apparently wise to what was going on, Sheila and Kitty had abruptly closed their thighs. My fists were going nowhere in their pussies but deeper.
My legs were useless. They had been paralyzed by the intense, three pronged fucking action at my crotch-two dicks in my cunt, another the size of a forearm to the hilt in my asshole.
I couldn't even lift myself up. Not with Gloria and Jenny grinding their snatches against my breasts.
I was bound as surely as if I were in chains. A sacrificial feeling invaded me and I made the only movement of which I was capable. I trembled.
General Turnbull was amused. It was clear that he liked scared women.
In his right hand, the long blade of his knife twitched like an erect penis. To the General, I was sure it was his penis. I suspected his real dork was as limp as a noodle. I'd read about these types in Dr. Joyce Brothers.
Then, with my eyes bugging out of my head, I caught the silver flash of the blade. By the time I lost sight of its descent, I knew it was heading for my belly. It looked like disembowelment was my fate.
I was certain I could hear my own flesh being cut open with a quick incision. However, to my astonishment, I could feel nothing.
And where was the hot blood that I had expected to well to the surface? The entrails oozing out?
The hissing rip that I now heard should have split me in two, as the General tore at my belly. Still, I felt nothing.
There had to be a simple explanation for what was happening. The General's hot breath against my navel solved it.
He'd used the switchblade to slash my rubber corset, not my flesh. Now he was drooling over the hole in my tummy.
I'd had the old pervert all wrong. He wasn't a sadist, after all-he was a belly-button freak.
And now he was diligently tonguing that usually neglected orifice. Getting the tip right down into the hardest to reach cracks. Believe me, that old boy could really do it.
Will you believe me if I tell you that General Turnbull actually made my navel feel like a miniature cunt? Well, he did. I actually felt orgasmic ripples spreading in concentric rings across my abdomen.
But as good as his tongue was, his cock was even better. Unzipped and out of his pants, it skidded across my tummy and notched itself in my umbilical crater.
Did I say that I thought General Turnbull was impotent? Forget it-the old man had a cock like a stallion's. He must have constantly exercised with it to keep it so fit.
The head of his prick was like a fist as it pushed through my navel against my guts. With Glenn Johnson's monstrous hard-on engorging my adjacent colon, my insides roiled. I felt like I was having an intestinal orgasm.
With the General's unique contribution as the frosting on the cake, the orgy could now continue to its logical conclusion. Everybody was humping like crazy, now-and that meant coming. Lots of it.
"Jesus, I'm gonna blow my nuts," one of the stalwarts fucking my cunt warned his slit-mate. Undoubtedly the. pressure a load of fresh cum would add to my already engorged pussy would be enormous.
"Me, too," his partner gasped. "This is the tightest fucking I've ever had."
Abruptly they both grunted, sending their cocks an extra inch a piece up my tortured cunt. The twin explosions of cum followed like clockwork.
Flooded with the sperm of two men, my pussy did its best to accommodate it all. However, it was a hopeless task. Soon the excess was spewing out of the corners of my slit. Eventually semen was washing down my thighs.
Of course some of the jizz trickled down to my ass. There it inadvertently lubricated the steadily pumping cock of Johnson, the generously endowed astronaut. His momentum accelerated by the slick moisture, the Colonel began pistoning rather than merely pumping.
The friction of his cockhead inside my colon was intense. No lubrication could soften this abrasion.
My shit was gurgling. My lower intestine was shipping itself around like a serpent. I felt like I was getting an enema.
An enema of cum. The cum that suddenly surged into my bowels from the erupting head of the astronaut's over-sized cock.
Hot, sticky cum. Volumes of it.
More, I thought, thatn the two guys in my cunt combined. If there were no women there, Glenn Johnson was wasting his time on the moon.
But I couldn't concentrate on it too long. Something was stirring in my mouth that I couldn't ignore.
There had been about ten inches of steel-hard cock down my throat for a lone time now. Then, with a violent jerk, there seemed to be eleven. A spurt in phallic growth like this meant only one thing. Ejaculation!
I opened up my belly for him, eager to catch every drop of his hot jizz. When it came, it was in buckets. It was the first real nourishment I'd had since I'd been arrested, and it was damn good.
Then, as I savored the glow in my stomach, the boys in my armpits got busy proving their manhood. I could feel their balls tightening at the crux of arm and torso, getting ready to blast out their contents.
They came simultaneously, each on a pulling stroke. That meant most of the cum sloshed over on my chest. Which was fine with me because it got all mixed up with the pussies fucking my tits.
The cunts I had been fist-fucking had been coming all along. But now with so much excitement in the air, they really began to orgasm. New waves of juice saturated my arms halfway to the elbows. It was a discharge as thick and rich and voluminous as most men's cum.
Only my navel remained free of any liquid evidence of passion. The General was taking his time with the hole of his preference, apparently coveting the center-stage he would get by coming last.
When he was sure everyone was finished shooting their wad, Turnbull finally cranked up. His cock heaved into my guts, making the muscular wall between my flesh and stomach seem nonexistent. He made my belly-button feel a foot deep.
His orgasmic explosion was like taking a grenade in the bread-basket. For an instant I really felt that his cum was rushing inside me rather than spewing all over my torso.
My navel had, of course, been filled at once. The overflow then spread immediately until the middle of my body was lumpy with jizz. It must have looked like I'd spilled a quart of curdled milk all over myself.
By the time the General finished ejaculating, I was covered from head to toe with sperm and pussy juice. At the end of my first orgy, I resembled a used scumbag.