Chapter 5

Ben and Angela Brinkman were dressing for dinner, dressing in their room at the Hilton.

Not for dinner at the Hilton, or anywhere else in town. For dinner at the home of Senor Ricardo Sanchez.

The invitation, delivered in person by one of the Senor's retainers, had been a complete surprise to both of them. But there it was. Ben was again fingering the expensive card with the medieval printing, requesting their presence for dinner with the Sanchez family as part of the Mexican-American Institute for Cultural Relations continuing programs for cooperation and understanding between Mexico and America.

Neither of them had ever heard of the organization-most probably because it was entirely a creation of the Senor's imaginative abilities at getting the women he wanted when he wanted them-but they knew that several European countries had similar programs for greeting the locals on their own turf, so they suspected that this was of a similar nature.

"Ben," Angela trilled, a trifle petulantly. "Please zip me up in the back, will you darling?"

To Ben, she sounded positively sexy-especially since he had, not more than an hour ago, made love with her and had had no difficulty in getting his own equipment into service. She had been positively passionate with him, more so than ever before, and he had responded with a few savage thrusts that were not necessarily in his bourgeois nature but were sharp shafts of hard cock coming that had caused her to scream with joy and bite him on the earlobes. He was pleased, because that was a good sign that the vacation, now almost a week old, was working, as far as saving their marriage was concerned. He was even paying more attention to her and less to his eternal accounting quests into the business structure. He did not know, of course, that her passion was directly related to her aroused sexuality by Juan Lopez, whom she was now having a good fuck with daily, on various pretexts. Nor, of course, did she know that his apparently increased sexual interest in her was due to his disappointment with Mexico's particular accounting system, a system that was built-in and an integral part of doing business-of any kind, and pleasure as well-yet much more venal and ruthless than even capitalistic America had ever shown him, including his own corporation. The system was called: corruption. . Probably as a result of the Spanish feudal system, or even light-years before, the practice of greasing the palms of whomever you wished to do business with had become so widely accepted and practiced in Mexico that most people did not even look upon it as tips or gratuities but as the natural way of doing business, as part of their actual salaries. Ben had discovered this fact in many ways, even during his short stay, and it disgusted him, even to the point of taking his mind off business and bringing it down to the business at hand, the reason why he and his wife were here in the first place-to salvage their marriage.

Thus, Ben's renewed interest in fucking his wife. And her renewed pleasure in fucking everyone. Including Juan's musician friends again, if she so desired; though, as Ben's passion increased twofold, hers increased fourfold or better. It was as if he was increasing his sexual interest arithmetically, while she was into the thing geometrically. Thus, the logical result, if not changed, could only be insatiability for her and frustration for him.

Ben zipped up the back of his wife's white dress of Mexican lace and silk, floor length and cut low enough so that her cleavage would have no difficulty in being seen by anyone no nearer than six feet or so. Her hair was twisted and coif fed into a complex Mexican hair style that wound it around her head in multilayered tiers, like an elaborate birthday cake, and it looked like a crown, a beige blonde crown complete with a small jeweled tiara that Ben had purchased for her in Taxco, the city of silver and gold located just outside Mexico City, where the tourists always traipsed to purchase their jewelry and kitchenware and other such items. She was, in a word, striking.

He was wearing a blue, navy blue, mohair and worsted suit that hugged his slim frame like a second skin. He, too, was ready to meet and eat with the Sanchez family, and was glad that his wife was feeling sexy enough to grab his cock in a playful manner, just before they left, and whisper into his ear, "After dinner, give me a little honey, will you honey?" He certainly would.

They left when Senor Sanchez's chauffeur arrived. He was a squat, swarthy fellow whose cap was pulled so low over his face, and whose uniform was worn so high on his neck, that the only thing that showed was the part of his face from mouth to eyebrows, and that part looked like something out of King Kong. Angela shuddered when she saw him, and Ben held her even more tightly than usual as the man drove them to the home of Ricardo Sanchez in the black Rolls Royce that allowed them to lean back comfortably in the back and get in a little finger-fucking on the way.

The home of Senor Sanchez was located near University City in the section known as Jardines del Pedregal. Rough translation: lava beds. The lava came from an extinct volcano called Xitle, and in recent years only the most affluent Mexicans could afford to build homes there, homes literally carved out of the beds of hardened lava, all designed by a leading, architect and featuring, swimming pools and indoor gardens ripped right out of the lava itself. It was the Beverly Hills of Mexico City, and that was where the Sanchez family made their $200,000 home.

The chauffeur, it seemed to Ben, was possessed of a vocabulary that spanned only one word. That word was "Si," as Ben discovered, when he asked, "Are we near Senor Sanchez's home?"

"Si."

"Will we be arriving there soon?"

"Si."

"Is that the only word you know?"

"Si."

Angela laughed, and kissed Ben on the ear, grabbing his cock and working at it so furiously that, by the time they arrived at the Sanchez home, Ben had a semi-erection. It took him a good two minutes to beat it back into submission again, while Angela continued laughing and the chauffeur continued to say, "Si."

The Sanchez house was like nothing Ben and Angela had ever seen before.

It looked like what people claimed flying saucers are supposed to look like-all symmetrical and silver (that's what it was, pure silver coating on the outside, Taxco silver that had heavily taxed the Sanchez treasury), with windows that seemed like spaceship viewing, and an observation deck on top. There was a silver-coated swimming pool nearby, and an enclosed veranda in front. It was enough to make both Ben and Angela open their mouths in astonishment.

The chauffeur escorted them to the door, and Senor Sanchez himself greeted them. He was dressed in a black formal, streaked with silver, and beneath the double-breasted ensemble was a white silk turtleneck. He greeted them, and ushered them into the living room, where the Brinkmans were seated on the sofa, the Senor on a chair facing them.

Ben and Angela looked around. The house was furnished in Spanish colonial style, with Mexican murals and other artifacts abounding, yet all blended as tastefully as the many ingredients of a stew. The silks, silver, tapestries, rugs ... all looked, and were, of the costliest material. Class all the way.

The Senor ordered tequila margaritas for all.

Then he told them, with a note of apology in his voice, "I am sorry that my wife and children are indisposed at the moment. I hope they will be here in time for dinner, but if hot, then I shall still be most happy to enjoy your company and to learn much about your country. And, of course, show you as much of my country as possible. I want nothing more than to have the best of relations with Americans."

As he said this, he smiled, his teeth gleaming as if polished by machine, at Angela, showing the front of his face to her and his profile to Ben. The relations he meant had nothing to do with all Americans; only with one in particular, and that was Angela. He also did not mention the fact that, if his wife and children were to appear for dinner, it would be a surprise, if not a miracle. They were visiting relatives in San Cristobal (near the Guatamalan border), and were not due back for another week.

The margaritas were brought, cool and glistening and the glasses, as traditionally required, rimmed with salt. They had several apiece, until Ben felt bombed, literally bombed out of his mind. There was a reason for that; the Senor had instructed his bartender to give Ben a triple, his wife a double and himself a single. Angela was feeling rather high-flying herself, and she was not slow to notice the gazes the Senor was casting at her, nor the condition of her husband. She also had calculated the cost of the Sanchez home and furnishings, and she was not averse to considering what he might do for her (she would later discover what he would do would be to, not for, her). She liked the idea of having, at the least, a rich and suave lover, an older but not colder man, especially a man of the world as Senor Ricardo Sanchez seemed to be as they discussed the worlds of literature, culture, Mexico and its customs, America and its customs, sex and its customs....

Then, it was time for dinner. As in the traditionally Spanish countries, Mexicans dine late, and it was ten in the evening before the Brinkmans and Senor Sanchez sat down to the table.

The first course was gazpacho, a cold Spanish vegetable soup that was heavily spiced. Angela's more heavily than Ben's; Angela came alive fast when she tasted her first spoonful, and ended up by following it with a glass of cold water.

The next course was a salad with Mexican vegetables, including red peppers. Angela was practically breathing fire now; the hot, heavily spiced foods were having an almost aphrodisiac effect on her, as Senor Sanchez had calculated. She started to play footsie with him under the table, removing her shoes and trying to get her still-stockinged feet up his pantsleg. She managed to touch a few inches of skin, the oily smoothness of his Latin epidermis exciting her more and more as she rubbed her toe along his skin as she might check out the material in a dress she was considering for purchase.

Mexican steak was the main meat dish, charcoal broiled with some of the savoriest spices and peppers the Brinkmans had ever encountered. It would make a traditional pepper steak seem bland as bologna in comparison. Several bottles of Carta Blanca beer were used to good effect in washing down the fiery meat, thus adding further to the alcoholic content of the Brinkmans.

Now Senor Sachez had removed his right shoe and sock, and was attempting to shove his big toe into Angela's vagina, but not having much success because she still had her panties on. His toe was tickling her clit, through the panties, and Angela's eyes were burning like beacons in a lighthouse, guiding the Senor on and on as he coolly and suavely enlightened them on the many varieties of Mexican customs. Ben was nodding, nearly passed out, his head held between his hands, hardly hearing a word that was spoken and contributing nothing of sonic quality himself except the sound of his increasingly heavy breathing. His eyes were bloodshot and half-closed, and he was fondly waiting for the final coffee to wake himself up and equally fondly hoping that he could last that long.

Now the Senor was turning on a very clever trick. With his toe, he had managed to pull Angela's panties down about her legs, and was attempting to stick his toe inside her vagina. His toe was fondling her outer lips, causing her to shiver with pleasure and reach her hand beneath the table, where she slipped the panties off, and her stockings as well, so that his toe could enter unhindered as she spread her legs as wide as they would stretch. Her liquid was starting to flow; she thought, What a fantastically sexy fellow this Senor Sanchez is ... oh, I'm so glad Ben brought me to Mexico ... I don't care about any second honeymoon any more ... I just want some first-class fucking, and judging by the Mexican men so far, they're great ... oh, Senor Sanchez, just fuck me with your foot, your fingers, anything ... I don't care, just fuck me.

Ben was too bombed to notice his wife's facial expression changing, like the running of a film, from smiles and wide-eyed appreciation to openmouthed admiration and eyes burning with insatiable passion. He did not see Senor Sanchez's very busy toe under the table; he could barely make out the room in which he was having dinner. All he could remember at the moment were two things; one, they were still on the steak, and two, Senor Sanchez's mustache looked very much like his own, only darker and thicker.

The Senor's toe had just worked itself into the opening of Angela's vagina, and the Senor was feeling sharp thrills of satisfaction, when the servant arrived to clear away the dishes. He asked the Senor what kind of dessert the guests would like. The Senor dismissed him with one word, "Flan."

A few moments later, the servant returned with three dishes of flan, a caramel/custard pudding that is a very traditional Mexican dessert. He set them before the diners, then departed as softly as he had come.

Senor Sanchez and Angela exchanged wistful smiles as he withdrew his toe from her vagina, and she made every effort to stop from coming until she could finish her dessert. Her body trembled and her vagina was dampened with desire, but she struggled and finally forced her muscles to stop their inspired palpitations.

Next to her, Ben was slowly passing out. Like a film in slow motion, his body slowly sagged, as limp as a wet washrag, until he slumped to the table. His face fell into the flan, and the thick pudding splashed onto his suit and into his hair.

"I guess my husband can't take tequila," Angela said, her face reflecting, c'est la vie. She shook him by the shoulders, but to no avail. Ben was out, and that was that. "I'm sorry, Senor Sanchez. Please forgive my husband, will you? It's not entirely his fault. I should have stopped him from drinking so much...." She paused, a quizzical look appearing in her eyes. "Except that I don't really remember him drinking that much...." She was feeling the tequila herself, and it burned like fire throughout her system. For a brief moment, she had to shake her head to clear the liqquorous fumes away. "Funny, but I don't remember that I drank that much, either...." She was now beginning to wonder just what was going on, with a touch of suspicion penetrating her brain ... but, she was tired, she was sexually aroused ... she just didn't much care, at that moment, what had really happened previously ... she knew what she wanted to happen now.

Senor Sanchez applied his toe to her vagina lips again, and she gave out a slight gasp of delight, as he said, smoothly. "Eat your dessert, my dear lady, and afterwards...." He smiled a cool, knowledgeable smile. "I shall show you a piece of art work that will make you very happy. It shall be the highlight of your visit, I promise you."

She settled back in her chair, and took a taste of the flan. It was smooth and thick, and slid easily down her throat. She licked the spoon clean, and said, "Delicious. Absolutely delicious."

He shoved his toe an inch inside her vagina. She felt the pressure of his foot and jumped slightly.

Then she laughed a knowing laugh, saying, "Yes, absolutely ... delicious ... the very best ... Senor Sanchez...."

She continued to eat, as did he. He continued to shove his toe inside her vagina until it would go no further; when he knew that his toe was all the way in, he began to twist it in her vagina like a corkscrew, and she began to squirm with delight, feeling her liquid running freely again. He was fucking her with his toe, and she could feel the manicured toenail scratching slightly at the membranes of her vagina.

She began to moan, softly. Her liquid was really flowing now, and her body began its sexual spasmodic movements. She was now so agitated that she could no longer eat the flan.

Senor Sanchez was getting an erection from his exertions. He was sweating slightly, too, and he could feel her liquid flowing onto his toe as he lubricated her vagina membranes with his ever-probing toe. Ah, he thought, things are proceeding well ... soon she will come ... soon after that I shall show her something different ... something that she will like and thank me for ... I can tell about this woman ... she loves machismo ... she wants it very badly ... she shall get it ... macho all the way.

Angela was coming now. Gripping the table for support, she arched her back and let her lovely liquid flow out of her vagina, covering Senor Sanchez's toe as if it had been dipped into some sacred river for ritual bathing. Her moans came in gasps, as if she were running out of breath, and her vaginal lips were palpitating as she came and came and came ... and let her orgasm transport her to the heights of ecstasy. She was gripping the table so hard she could almost feel her fingers biting into the wood ... while the Senor sat stiff and straight, feeling her body responding to his toe, and thinking that not long from now she would be responding to his whole body ... but in an entirely different way from what she might think.

Through some minor miracle, Angela's dress was not harmed in this encounter. The Senor, due to the way he was holding his toe, had opened her dress so that her liquid did not fall on it, but merely onto the floor below her feet ... and some on her now bare feet, of course. That, naturally, was one of the basic considerations about the Mexicans-their politeness in all situations.

Angela let the hot flashes die down, and slowly released her grip on the table. She was perspiring profusely, and her dress was damp with sweat. She could even feel that her scalp was wet but her hair was still bundled together in her complex coiffure, and was holding fast.

Senor Sanchez smiled, a soft smile that barely showed the whites of his teeth, and said, "Thank you, Senora Brinkman, for a lovely time. Oh, in case I did not mention it previously ... I think that your hair looks exceptionally lovely tonight. It is to you like a crown to a queen ... if you know what I mean."

Angela, now dazed by both the drinks and the exertions of her sexuality, smiled back at him and nodded her appreciation.

The Senor summoned his servant again. He rose from his chair, and walked over to Angela. He motioned the servant, who helped Angela to rise. The servant noticed that both of them were barefoot, but he said nothing and did not let on that he had noticed. He had been with Senor Sanchez for many years, he knew his employer's penchants and preferences, and it was none of his business. He was well-paid and well-treated, and that was enough for him.

The servant helped Angela into another room, not too many feet away, with Senor Sanchez following. The room was high-ceilinged and sparsely furnished, though the floor was covered with a multi-colored Mexican carpeting that was as bright and bold as any mural at the University. The walls and ceilings were like the Sistine Chapel in Rome, in that they were covered with murals and carvings that were exquisitely detailed and precise in their delineations of their subject matter.

But the centerpiece of the room was something unlike anything else. The Senor and the servant could, of course, observe it quite clearly, even in the diffused lighting and with the background of soft Mexican sounds that were coming from concealed speakers. Angela, though well-lubricated with liquor, was not so drunk that she did not notice exactly what the centerpiece was ... and, her eyes suddenly open, she let out a gasp of shock.

The centerpiece was a crucifix.

A gigantic cross that nearly reached from floor to ceiling, a cross with its crossbars extended perpendicular to the main post and parallel to the floor. The main post was straight up and down. But, unlike a traditional cross, there were two additional wooden bars that stretched out from the main piece like an inverted "V" and gave the odd impression that the crucifix had legs and might walk away at any moment.

On the cross-as well as the walls and ceiling, and in the pattern of the carpeting, too-was carved and recreated a multitude of sexual scenes, situations, and positions, as if in a direct delineation from the Kama Sutra and Kama Shastra, the lovely Indian manuals of love. There were boys being buggered by men, women together in attitudes of lesbian love, men and women in that lovely lotus position with loins against loins, women in coition with animals and reptiles and fishes and even insects ... and all executed with such marvelous and miraculous detail that it would take many hours to fully appreciate the subtleties and permutations that were depicted.

While Angela was still gasping, the Senor slipped behind her and began to remove her dress, with the assistance of his servant. Angela continued to stare at the figures and carvings and patterns, almost oblivious to the fact that she was being stripped. She had not worn a bra this evening, so that, when her long flowing white robes were removed, she was completely naked.

The servant departed, while Senor Sanchez removed his clothing piece by piece. The servant, as if watching all the time, returned at that moment and departed again with their clothing.

Angela and Ricardo faced each other. Angela could feel her vaginal lips twinge in anticipation, as she noticed Ricardo's cock, erect and straight before him, and as finely detailed as the carvings-a long, limber rod that would prod and pierce her right to her very core. She was not unhappy with what she saw ... though she had a vague feeling of malaise concerning the cross, and its relationship to the forthcoming sexual situation.

She was not incorrect.

The servant returned again, this time with a brace of silken cords. The Senor motioned Angela to position herself against the cross.

She hesitated momentarily. In her mind, strange fantasies were forming ... of martyrs bound to stakes ... of women forced to perform strange tasks at men's command ... of slaves being ordered to obey their master's every wish....

And then, her hesitation ceased. She knew that she needed a strength imposed upon her from outside herself. That was why she and Ben, why their marriage, was so precarious. Ben was not strong enough ... tough enough ... mean enough....

She recalled a line from one of the songs from The Three Penny Opera. It went like this: "He was a lean man ... he was a mean man...."

Yes, she thought ... that's what I need ... exactly what I need ... and perhaps ... Senor Sanchez can give that to me ... oh, I must be mad ... Mexican madness ... but ... it's what I need ... now.

She moved so that her back was against the cross, and stretched out her arms so that they paralleled the crossbar of the crucifix. The servant bound her wrists against the crossbar; now, she was in the shape of a "T" against the crucifix. Then, the servant bound her ankles against the inverted "V" so that she was, in effect, spread-eagled against the crucifix. She could feel the cool smoothness of the silk against her limbs ... the I security of being bound ... that delicious feeling of helplessness ... of her destiny, her fate, perhaps even her life being under the control of another ... of Senor Sanchez....

And she liked it.

Jolts of electricity shot through her frame as she struggled slightly to increase the ecstasy. When she felt that the bonds were secure, could feel the silken cords tighten against her limbs with the smooth wooden back of the cross against her holding her erect, she stopped struggling and just relaxed her body, awaiting the Senor's next move.

The next move was made by the servant, who departed for the last time.

The Senor approached her.

He noticed that her nipples were tumescent, like tiny fingers beckoning him on. He stood now directly in front of her. His head moved in the direction of her right breast; his tongue lashed out like a whip, hitting her on the nipple with enough force to make her suddenly tense her body. Then, she instinctively relaxed again, realizing that that was exactly what she wanted.

His tongue stabbed at her breast like an ice pick, not so much licking as thrusting like a cock at her. At the same time, his erect cock nuzzled at her vagina like a dog with a bone, and she could feel her liquid begin to flow again. His tongue moved in and out like a snake, dabbing at the base of her breast here, the side there, now and then connecting with the nipple. She began to perspire again, and waves of feeling pulsated throughout her body. This was ecstatic ... this was what she wanted ... she was into the machismo syndrome ... and loving every marvelous minute of it.

Now he moved over to her left breast.

And the other side of her body thrilled to the touch of his tongue, for several long and delicious minutes.

Sweat was pouring down her forehead, salting her eyes. She closed them momentarily, retaining the images of what was happening in her mind. She felt as drenched as if in a rain shower.

Then, she discerned his tongue in another place ... her vagina, licking the outer lips, gently probing inside the wet membranes ... then, he jabbed her as if his tongue were his cock ... she came briefly, a sweet short burst ... he licked the come into his mouth, tasted it like wine, then swallowed it ... he thought, Delicious, my American housewife, so delicious ... I shall teach you the Mexican madness that we call machismo ... and you will love every minute of it ... just as you are now doing, my dear Angela ... viva machismo.

Angela began to twist her body, to struggle against the silken cords. It was such a strange, unusual feeling for her, to be so bound, so helpless before a man. She could feel the cords at her wrists and ankles, digging into her flesh as she twisted and squirmed. Not so much to be free, but to feel the silk pulling at her flesh ... she was beginning to love that feeling ... of being helpless, secured a slave to the desire of her captor.

Ricardo continued to lick for a few more moments, probing, this time a little harder and harsher, using his tongue like a knife to jab into her delicate membranes, making her arch with tension and satisfaction. Then, he withdrew his tongue, tangling it in her vagina hairs purposely on the way out and sort of pulling them a little. She could feel the pressure as the hairs were pulled by his tongue, and it felt as if the hairs were being plucked from her with a pair of tweezers. She liked that.

Now he stood in front of her.

He said, his eyes locked on hers, his voice almost reverent, "Ave Maria ... Viva Angela...."

She said, with agony and ecstasy in her voice, thrusting the words from her throat, "Ricardo...." This was the first time she had called him by his first name. "Ricardo ... I want you ... I want you very much ... you're an experienced, sophisticated man ... I want you to fuck me ... fuck me...." She hesitated momentarily, then continued. "I want you ... to fuck ... the living shit ... out of me ... fuck me...."

In the background, the lights were still dim, the music was still playing ... and the mood was still set, still there. She said no more.

Because he placed his lips upon hers, and at the same time moved his cock into position at the outer lips of her vagina. His sharp, well-cleaned white teeth closed around her upper lip, and his mustache tickled her nose. She felt his teeth clamp down upon her lip ... felt the teeth bite deep into her flesh ... felt a few drops of blood form ... felt the pain, the sharp searing pain that jabbed through her body from its source, her sore-bitten lip....

And liked it.

Welcomed it ... appreciated it ... relished it ... and wanted more. He released his grip.

He placed his teeth on her lower lip, and his cock moved an inch into her vagina, her vaginal lips thirstily welcoming it as it began its ascent up her vaginal cavity.

His teeth bit deeply into her lower lip, and more blood flowed. Her body jerked back, fought him again ... then acquiesced in his pain-infliction, submitted to his teeth, welcomed them again.

He withdrew his mouth.

He licked the blood from her lips, swallowing it like wine. His tongue caressed her lips, easing the swollen, bitten places, soothing her sore lips. He often did this with his women-though not with his wife so much, for she controlled too much money and power to cavalierly submit completely to him; and in Mexico, marriage is usually for keeps, and for this he had and was paying his price which was worth it for the moment-and, if they were sufficiently oriented to his particular brand of machismo, they enjoyed it. If not, he converted them-it was not hard, usually.

Especially with Angela.

His cock slid another inch inside her vagina.

His tongue now darted between her lips, caressing the roof of her mouth, then stabbed at her tongue and reamed it like a lance. He used his tongue like a sword to slash into her mouth membranes, and into her throat, his lips pressed now hard on hers and pushing her head back flat against the wood. Another inch of his cock slipped into her vagina ... then another ... and still more.

Until his cock was now all the way in.

Jammed tightly, like a key in a lock.

His cock was longer than Ben's, and Angela had often complained of Ben's inability to completely fill up her sexual crevice. They had had more than one argument about that, and now she was so happy that, at last, a cock was completely jammed inside her welcoming vagina. Even Juan Lopez, that sexy young student, she recalled, could not get all the way in. Poor Juan ... she liked him ... she liked him very much ... even though she barely remembered the gangbang he had instigated with her ... he was so young, yet so experienced ... oh yes, he was good ... but Senor Sanchez was better

... Ricardo was so right for her....

As Ricardo sucked at her mouth, he also fucked with her vagina.

He began to push-and-pull his cock inside her vagina, a sort of give-and-take operation that at one moment yanked her back and at another pushed her hard against the cross. He was using his cock as a battering ram, ramming it into her until she could feel her womb almost collapse from the power and pressure he was putting on her. She was into one orgasm after another, her back arching, her limbs struggling at the silken cords, sweat pouring from her as if the temperature was over 100. She was one monstrous vagina, she thought ... just one complete vagina, nothing to me but vagina ... nothing to him but cock ... oh, darling Ricardo, fuckmefuckmefuckme.

She came and came, orgasm after orgasm, jolting explosion after jolting explosion, liquid pouring from her like a waterfall. She was drenched in her own sweat and come, as he rammed and rammed her again and again, finally culminating in a monstrous, gigantic come of his own that spurted like machine-gun fire into her quivering vagina-spurted again and again until there was no more sperm left to spurt, and no more hard erect cock to come into her vagina. He was dry, now drained, so hard had he fucked her. And she, she was like a piece of meat that a butcher had pounded into submission, had cubed and shaped into another form for ultimate consumption.

She did not even know who, much less where, she was any more. She was a vagina ... his vagina ... that was all that mattered.

And, as he finally withdrew, he whispered so softly into her ear that she did not perceive what he said for several seconds.

"Angela de la Crucifix...."