Chapter 8
"Caruthers, m'boy, there's no fucking use in having dough if you don't know how to live, that's what I always say!"
Allen could think of no intelligent reply to this profound piece of human wisdom, so he concentrated on his driving, knowing that it would be disastrous if he got the corpulent businessman from Saint Louis involved in a traffic accident. This was the part of town he did not like and did not know, and he was cursing the fate which brought him here in such poor company, to see a kind of lewd spectacle of which he genuinely disapproved. He could picture the police choosing tonight to make a raid on the place and catching him inside, despite Thomas' assurances that the police had better things to do. He imagined how it would read in the morning papers when the headlines announced that Mr. Allen Caruthers, a prominent young businessman had been arrested while watching a depraved and immoral performance. The neighbors would cut him off as if he were dead, and the firm would pretend it knew nothing.
"Now down in Saint Louis, we don't get this kinda thing," continued Tompkins, unaware that he irritated Allen every time he opened his mouth. "Not much real life down there, and when this kid gets up here in the big city, he likes to let off a little steam. That old battle-axe of mine always wants to come alo'ng, damn her soul, and I once had a hell of a time talking her out of this trip. The old bitch! I don't know why she doesn't die and leave me in peace. Why with my dough I could get me one of my cute-ass little secretaries to live up in the house and really have myself a ball. Of course, I get into their pants once in awhile, anyway, but a man like me still needs it regular, goddamn it, and I can't get it regular with that damn wife of mine around. Naturally I could get it from her, but most times, I'd rather do without. You married, Caruthers?"
"Ah, yes, Mr. Tomkins, I've been married for just over a year now."
"Who'd you get hooked up with, one of them society dames?"
"Well, my wife comes from a very good family naturally," Allen lied. "But I wouldn't say she was high society."
"What a pain in the ass it is being married," grumbled that fat man, shifting around in his seat with anticipation as he thought of the night's activities ahead of him.
"Oh, I don't know," continued Allen, realizing that he had to say something or Tompkins would think he was getting high hat. "Mrs. Caruthers and I have been very happy...I must say...."
"Hey you got a picture of your old lady?"
This was going a little far, Allen thought, but second vice-presidencies are not easy to come by so he fished around in his pocket with one free hand, extracting his wallet. Inside there was a picture of Joan and he handed it to the businessman, turning on the car light so that the photo was visible."
"Wow! No wonder you like being married, kid! A good-looking babe, no question about it. She must get very bored while you're outa town."
"Well, she had her church activities," mumbled Allen, knowing perfectly well that Joan only went to church on occasional Sundays and then only under protest.
"Hey, tell me something, young fella, this wife of yours, is she...ya know...any good between the sheets?"
This question struck Allen as being out of bounds for polite conversation, but he reminded himself that Tomkins had not had the benefit of gentlemanly breeding and did not know the difference between good and bad taste.
"Mrs. Caruthers and I have a very satisfactory relationship in all respects," he replied stiffly, hoping this would end this train of conversation.
"Really? Hot shit, listen kid, will she blow once in awhile? I been asking my old lady to do it for thirty years now and every time she locks herself in the bathroom. To me, a woman ain't much good unless she puts her heart into the business and gives you everything she's got! Am I right or wrong?"
Allen quickly conceded that he was right, dodging the earlier question concerning Joan's permissiveness in the bedroom, since after his experience earlier that day, he was slightly touchy on the subject.
"Look, I think we're here," he informed his business associate, pulling the car gently over to the curb. "I was told we should knock on the door of that shop over there."
"Goddamn! Now we're getting somewhere! Hey, do you suppose they really do it? Right there in front of everyone?"
"This is my first time," admitted Allen, realizing that it was the first truthful comment he had made all evening. "I was told that they uh...actually do it, yes."
"Shit! Can't wait to see it! And I'm gonna be horny as hell after this son, so I hope you've got some good telephone numbers in your little black book. Or maybe you can take me home to see that wife of yours! Ha!"
Allen grimaced and got out of the car, contemplating the pleasure of seeing Tompkins dead and in his grave with weeds growing around the tombstone. An extremely tall and slender man answered his knock, looking at him carefully before stepping aside to allow the two men to enter.
"I'm Thomas' friend," Allen stated, preferring not to use his own name for identification.
"Yeah, Mr. Thomas called and said you guys would be coming over," said the man. "Well, welcome aboard. The show's gonna start in a few minutes and the drinks at the bar are on the house."
Allen discreetly slipped him the required amount of money and followed him through the shadows of the photography shop into a brightly lit room which seemed to be an artist's studio. There were chairs set up around a stage on which a large bed had been placed. In one comer there was a bar, and the room was already crowded with men and not a few women as well, all busily drinking and chatting as they waited for the evening's lewd entertainment to start.
Oh well, Allen thought as he elbowed his way through to the bar to get drinks for himself and Tompkins. I can always close my eyes if it gets too bad.
Joan was already blown out of her mind. Lynch was normally stingy with his marijuana, since it was difficult and dangerous to get and he made a large portion of his income by selling it, but tonight he had been extremely generous, popping a reefer into her mouth every time she turned around. The young wife was shrewd enough to realize that they were softening her up for what was to happen later on, but she willingly played along with it, knowing that it might be just as well if she were half out of her head for this little performance.
Her mind wandered vaguely as she sat before the big mirror in the dressing room, a drink in one hand and a marijuana cigarette in the other while Liza fussed over her outfit. She knew only mat she was going to be a participant in-some kind of performance tonight, and with what was left of her reasoning power, she speculated on what it might be. The idea of performing sexually rather upset her, as Split had predicted it would, but she reasoned that she had made love in front of other men frequently in the past. This time the spectators would be holding tickets and sitting on chairs, which made it all a little formal, but she decided dreamily that it made no real difference. She was being paid to fuck one way or the other and this way she would presumably only have to deal with one man instead of half a dozen as was often the case during the parties.
"How do you feel, honey?" asked Liza solicitously as she vigorously applied make-up to Joan's face.
"Oh, I'm floating...just floating," confessed the drugged young wife. "I don't know why they don't make this stuff legal. I could just stay stoned all day long and never come down."
"Hmmmmm, that's good. Open your gown, honey, I want to do your breasts."
"Wha . . . ? "
"Make-up," Liza explained, blushing a little as she considered her own role in the evening's entertainment.
Joan nodded sleepily and opened her dress while Liza got down on one knee and darkened the tip of each breast with make-up so that her nipples would be plainly visible under the lights. Both girls were dressed identically, naked under a long flowing white robe similar to an Arab shepherd's costume. The cloth was vaguely translucent and when the light was right, one could catch a glimpse of naked flesh beneath.
Joan heard Split announcing something to the crowd outside, and a dangerous tingle started in her stomach as she realized that the performance was about to begin, for better or for worse.
Tonight, she was in one of those totally abandoned moods when she cared very little what happened to her, and the pot-alcohol mixture was not doing much to increase the clarity of her thought. It doesn't matter, she told herself dreamily, rising to her feet, a little surprised that she could still stand up. I'll end up liking it no matter what they do to me. I always do. I guess I'm just evil!
The lights on the platform were terribly bright and Joan found that she could not see out into the audience very well. For a moment she felt comfortable and happy with just Liza standing next to her near the bed. She could hear the rustle of anxious bodies out in front of her, and smell the fragrance of whiskey and tobacco in the room, but all she could see were Lynch's powerful photographic lights focused on her and Liza and the bed which sat suggestively behind them. The lights were uncomfortably bright and they also generated a great deal of heat so Joan felt more relaxed with her eyes closed. But the warmth felt good on her lightly clad body, and she floated off into space again as she felt Liza's soft hands on her shoulders, barely conscious of the fact that her girl friend was once again undressing her . . .
The crowd was packed in so tightly that Allen was finding it difficult to see what was going on. Tompkins had used his enormous bulk to wade into the mob of eager spectators and Caruthers had followed in his wake, like a life boat being tossed behind a steamer. But even though he had succeeded in working his way reasonably close to the platform, he now found it impossible to see past the businessman's huge shoulders. He had caught the barest glimpse of two young women, one blonde and one brunette, moving out in front of the bed in smooth translucent gowns, but after one quick glance, his vision had been immediately obstructed by a forest of heads and shoulders. For a moment he paused, feeling a little ashamed of himself for trying so hard to see a viciously depraved spectacle to which he objected on moral grounds, but he quickly justified his efforts, deciding that he might as well look as long as he was here. After all, he would be arrested along with everyone else if the police should chance to interrupt the performance, and he would land in jail whether he was looking or not, so why not look?
He banded into something in the darkness and discovered it was a chair. Originally, Split and Lynch had intended that the audience be seated and set out chairs for that purpose, but there were too many people, and the crowd was too excited to sit down anyway. But Allen capitalized upon his discovery, by climbing up on the chair for a better view.
A second later, he nearly fell off again with shock. The blonde-haired woman who had been led out onto the platform was a dead-ringer for his wife!
He shook his head, wondering if he was losing his mind, closing his eyes with the wild hope that when he opened them again the hallucination would be over and he would see something else. But it was no optical illusion; the girl on the stage before him was Joan Caruthers, or her twin sister, one or the other. For a moment, he grabbed desperately at this new idea. Joan had a twin sister who worked in these degenerate live shows. Ashamed to mention the fact to her husband, she had never said anything about it, hoping that he would never learn of this black sheep in a family which was morally gray at best. It would explain everything. Joan was home in bed, probably dreaming of him.
This wild hope only lasted for a few seconds, since the brown haired" girl stepped behind her companion, her hands reaching over her shoulders to unfasten the long shepherd's cape which covered her body. Slowly and teasingly, she unhooked the blonde woman's cape, drawing it seductively down off of her shoulders. Allen's eyes dropped immediately to the blonde's now naked left breast where his wife had a beauty mark just above the nipple. So did this girl and his hopes went through the floor. This was Joan Caruthers, standing stark naked before a group of total strangers and presumably about to participate in some lewdly erotic spectacle.
Allen's head spun with the shock and for a moment he feared that he was going to fall off the chair. His mind searched futilely for an explanation. Perhaps she had been drugged. He searched his wife's face for a clue, but the young woman was standing with her eyes gently closed a quizzical half-smile on her perfectly formed features. She looked totally relaxed and happy, but there was no clear-cut sign of drug-induced madness.
Or had she been forced into this? Blackmail? The gun hidden behind a curtain somewhere? No, it would not wash. That same easy going smile destroyed that theory as well. She seemed perfectly happy to be where she was and an innocent woman being forced to strip in front of a group of people against her will would surely show some signs of embarrassment. Allen's mind had searched all the alleys which might lead to a decent explanation and they had all turned out to be dead ends. His keen businessman's intellect could no longer avoid accepting the obvious. His wife was leading a vicious double life. Housewife by day, and sex performer by night!
"Hey, good-looking chick, eh?" muttered Tompkins lustily, turning his head slightly to communicate this evaluation. "See those tits? You don't see tits like that in Saint Louis!"
No answer seemed called for under the circumstances, and Allen merely grunted as his disbelieving eyes helplessly followed the perverted action before him. Now that Joan was suitably naked, the brunette quickly threw the cape off of her own smoothly tanned shoulders, leaving herself as brazenly naked as her companion. Then, taking the girl by the arms, she turned her around so that both women were facing one another. It was obvious that the "live-show" was destined to start here!
What should he do? Allen Caruthers had made his rapid climb in the business world by being a man who could react quickly to emergencies, making snap decisions which inevitably turned out to be correct in the final analysis. But this was something completely out of his realm. His wife was clearly about to participate in some sort of bizarre lesbian exhibition, and in fact the brown-haired girl had already stepped close to Joan, so close that their breasts were touching. Allen found himself shivering with nervous excitement and anguish. What could he possibly do? Rush down screaming that she must come home with him immediately? No, that was insane! First he would probably be beaten up and thrown out on the street by the guards and secondly he would make a strange impression on
Mr. Tompkins. Whatever else happened, he reminded himself that he could not jeopardize this business deal. There was no use in being happily married unless the family had a secure income.
Of course, he could call the police, he considered, watching the other girl kiss his wife squarely on the lips, their bodies now crushed up against one another, and what would the result of that be? The cops would come, arrest everyone, and he and Joan would have their pictures in the morning paper. He would still be out of a job, and facing some kind of criminal charge on top of it. Tompkins would wind up in prison too.
"Goddamn, sure glad we came," chuckled the businessman from Saint Louis, pushing his way forward in a crowd. "Never saw two dames do it before, did you, Caruthers?"
Allen wished desperately that Tompkins would stop using his last name in this seamy joint. The situation was bad enough without compromising his good name!
So, when he came right down to the hard facts of the case, there seemed to be little enough he could do. Later, perhaps, he would have a little more room for maneuver, but at the moment, he was trapped by circumstances, and too dazzled by what he was witnessing to give the matter any more thought. Anything he did or said would tip Tompkins off to the fact that something was wrong.
The scene was progressing, but slowly to give the audience time to get emotionally involved in what was happening. Joan's eyes were still closed as she felt Liza lay her down gently on the bed, and the same dreamy swaying sensation was still flowing through her drug-confused mind. This isn't so bad, she was telling herself vaguely as she felt Liza's gentle lips coursing lecherously over her lewdly exposed young body. I never knew Liza went in for this kind of thing, but it doesn't hurt and who cares? Is this all it's going to amount to? Somehow she felt as if no one could see her simply because her own eyes were shut tightly and she could see no one else. It was a nice private sensation and she enjoyed it to the fullest, letting her euphoric body sink down into the mattress.
For a few moments, Joan actually dozed off to sleep, despite the circumstances she was in. She was not used to all that pot and all that alcohol, and the young wife felt herself fading in and out of consciousness. She knew she was lying on a bed, and she could feel that there was someone with her, but she had completely forgotten that there was a crowd of total strangers looking on curiously. Who was touching her? There were soft, gentle lips teasing the tiny ripples of her breasts, but they seemed softer than any man's! Liza? What was she doing? The girl was stroking her carefully, expertly, between the legs, and almost dream-like Joan felt the orgiastic juices within her body begin to flow. Too bad, she told herself dreamily...I feel so nice. . . what a pity to ruin it all by feeling sexy . . .
On top of his chair in the middle of the crowd, Allen Caruthers looked on in anguish, trying to make some kind of sense of all this in his mind. Was his wife a lesbian then? It didn't seem possible, and yet there was the evidence right before his eyes. She was spread-eagled on the bed with a naked girl crouched over her, stroking her gradually into a state of high excitement. In fact, the signs of erotic stimulation were already clear enough. Joan had opened her mouth and sighed passionately a few times, and her smooth graceful hips seemed to be twitching restlessly as the sleek, slender brunette explored the soft pussy hair.
For a moment, the thought that Joan was secretly a lesbian comforted the young husband in an odd fashion. It was hardly his fault if he had chanced to marry a woman who was queer for other girls. So long as she had not gone to bed with other men, she had not really betrayed him...but it was a shallow comfort, and not destined to last much longer. While he was considering the possibility of getting her to a good psychiatrist, a man approached the brightly lighted little stage.
"It's Homer!" cried a member of the audience, and Allen tightened up, realizing that this Homer had some role to play in this lurid spectacle. On closer inspection, he seemed exactly the type. Wearing only a towel draped suggestively around his waist, Homer looked like the statue of a Greek athlete come to life, with enormous powerful muscles bulging under his deeply tanned skin. The youth ignored the cheers of the crowd, his eyes fixed on Joan's lust-tormented body as he approached the platform.
Liza's role in the 'live show' seemed to be more handmaid than direct participant, and as Homer approached the bed, she knelt up over Joan's submissively inviting body, prepared to yield her place to the man. Allen found that his fingernails were digging fiercely into the flesh of his palms as he watched, not knowing that his worst fears were going to be confirmed. No, Joan was not a lesbian, as he had first feared. She was something much, much worse, a complete and total sensualist, too degenerate and too depraved to care whether the hand which caressed her body belonged to a man or a woman. She was just plain sex, indiscriminate, undisciplined, and rampant sex!
Homer glanced significantly at Liza and the two of them cooperated, rolling Joan's nakedly unresisting body over onto her stomach, her lush ripened breasts crushing into the firm springy mattress as her beautiful face turned towards the audience. Her eyes were still closed, but Allen thought he detected a look of abandoned mindless pleasure pass across his wife's face as she felt the man's hands on her helplessly exposed body. Homer now knelt between Joan's outstretched legs, his hand coursing lewdly over the white half-moons of her undulating buttocks while Liza crouched submissively to one side, waiting to be of service. It seemed like some ancient pagan ceremony with Homer acting as the high priest, Liza the temple slave, and Joan the willing victim, ready to be sacrificed to some powerful god of lust and sensuality.
Homer rose up on his knees, straightening his body to reveal that beneath the towel he wore draped around his waist like a loin-cloth he had already achieved an enormously strong erection. The material stuck out in front as if there was the stout shaft of a sword beneath the fabric, and Allen heard a ripple of interested comment run through the crowd. The young businessman shuddered with a combination of fear and anger wondering how it was possible for the sex actor to get an erection with so many people watching!
Liza picked up her cue, leaning forward theatrically as her hands reached out to the young athlete's face, and in a moment, Allen realized who this was. It was Homer Mendelle, the runner who had swept the Olympics three years before, bringing home a number of gold medals for track and field events, and the man who had been barred from amateur sports after he had been discovered one night with half of the Russian woman's team in his room...Allen tried to remember the details of the scandal as they had been presented in the paper, his eyes following the deft and subtle movements of Liza's hands as she undid the towel and slowly drew it away from the young man's body.
There was a scattering of applause as Homer's massive penis sprang into view, and Allen found he was feeling a little faint. He could not disgrace himself by passing out in front of all these people, and to steady himself, he put his hands on Tompkins' broad shoulders.
"Hot stuff, eh?" proclaimed the stout businessman. "He's really gonna stuff 'er with that baseball bat!"
The scene on the stage was growing more intensively erotic by the moment, and the group fell silent again. Liza, apparently acting on previous instructions, leaned forward and moistened the tip of Homer's rigid penis with her lips, taking the broad bulbous tip into the warm wetness of her ovaled mouth, and running her tongue lasciviously over the hard, blood-engorged glans. Homer looked down on her for a few moments, obviously enjoying this added attention, but then he gently lifted Liza's head away from his groin. The High Priest had not come to discharge his hot swirling cum into the humble mouth of a handmaiden!
Allen felt his head whirling, and he found it difficult to believe that this was not all part of some foul degenerate dream. He would take a cold shower when he awoke, and drink a cup of strong black coffee, and the whole unpleasant hallucination would be forgotten. Except that the dream showed absolutely no sign of coming to an end. It was going on and on, and becoming progressively more sordid and depraved as the moments passed.
Homer reached down and pulled Joan's lushly yielding body up on her knees, so that her buttocks were waving obscenely in the air while her proud young breasts continued to rest on the smooth linen sheets which covered the bed. Allen studied his wife's face, desperately looking for some sign of rebellion or resistance to the coming defilement, but the girl seemed completely passive, willing to accept anything the athlete chose to do to her. Her eyes were still closed, and she murmured softly as Homer bent down behind her, his face probing into the narrow furrow between her exposed flanks.
Obviously enjoying himself, Homer used his hands to force the yielding flesh of her buttocks farther apart, and the audience gasped as they watched his tongue flick lewdly out, burying itself in the temptingly exposed pink slit of her cunt.
Allen gritted his teeth, now aware that he lacked the moral strength to climb down off his chair and desert this vile performance. There was no question in his mind now about the caliber of his wife's morals. Any decent woman would have tried to escape at this point, but instead a shudder of delicious pleasure had run through Joan's nakedly tantalizing body, and the woman had spread her legs even farther apart, obviously wanting to give the degenerate ex-Olympic champion the greatest possible access to the moist mysteries of her body.
This could not be Joan! The woman he had married a year ago! Was this the girl who had worked so hard to learn how to dress properly, and talk to guests without using four-letter words?
His modest little bride was now flexing the twin globes of her buttocks back and forth lasciviously, as if she were inviting the man to do his worst to her. Muscles along her inner thighs had gone tight and rigid, showing that she was turning on powerfully to this bizarre unnatural stimulation, and Allen could see that a light layer of perspiration was forming on her fine tanned skin. Any minute now the young husband sensed that Homer was going to ram that massive instrument of his plunging into her helpless young cunt, and there was not a thing he could do to stop it!
But Homer's focus seemed to have changed subtly, and Allen's horrified eyes took in the fact that the corrupted athlete seemed to be licking the tiny puckered hole of her anus. There was something different about the way Joan groaned and twitched her body that told him that this new approach was not entirely unwelcome. Homer's hands were at work again, and he wrenched at the girl's buttocks as if he meant to tear her into pieces, his fingers slowly invading the moistened narrow furrow of her backside.
"Shit, he's gonna give it to her in the ass!" announced Tompkins in absolute carnal delight.
Allen stared, now really shaken. Could it be true? Did people really do such things and was it possible for his wife to be one of them?
No, there were no longer any reasonable grounds for doubt! Homer's outstretched middle finger had now plunged vilely into her rectum, worming its way past the red-rimmed flesh around her anus and entering her body with a vulgar pop which could be heard all around the room.
Joan's face tightened, as if she had not quite been prepared for anything quite this depraved, but it was obvious that the girl was in no mental or physical condition to object now to anything Homer chose to do to her. Liza was sitting quietly by on her haunches, her high, well-formed breasts visible over the top of Joan's quivering buttocks, ready to help if help were required.
But there seemed to be no difficulty. After a momentary flicker of discomfort, Joan's body seemed to relax again, and she reared back against the man's impaling finger as if it were bringing her pleasure. Homer expertly rotated his hand in ever-widening circles, preparing the narrow entrance for the greater impalement yet to come and Joan's body jerked convulsively as she caught the rhythm. Another finger followed the first, and the crowd seemed to be holding its breath waiting to see how far the athlete could take her before she rebelled.
Joan's mouth dropped open, and Allen could hear her panting like an animal as the merciless fingers worked their way in and out of her offended rectum, but the moment of rebellion never came. Joan was beginning to groan and mutter one unintelligible cry after another, but it was clear she was not beseeching him to go away and leave her alone, but begging him to keep it up.
It was the moment of truth. Yanking his fingers free of her helplessly writhing body, the man moved in for the kill, poising his lust-hardened thickness at the fragile pink entrance to her nether passage. The muscles in her anus resisted automatically for an instant, obeying some primitive instinct, but the man's strength was too great for her. The tender flesh of her rectum gave away with a sudden pop, and the next instant, his massively throbbing cock-head disappeared inside the tight anal ring.
"Oooogh," she groaned, not quite prepared for the pain, but the crowd could tell that the submissively kneeling young woman would adjust fast enough to this lewd impalement. But whether she adjusted or not, he had her skewered like a chicken on a spit, and Liza's arms were on her shoulders to prevent her from breaking away. Homer's long thick cock throbbed eagerly inside of her for a moment, while her pain-filled rectum gradually accustomed itself to the massive presence in her belly. The moment Homer felt he could move again, he did, pushing violently into her enlarged anus until his balls slapped loudly against the unprotected cheeks of her ass. As soon as he found himself in position, the former athlete began fucking methodically in and out of her, the thick glistening shaft of his muscular cock pistoning in and out of her tightly stretched passage like some drilling machine.
Allen could barely believe his eyes. As far as he could see, the pain and discomfort was now gone completely, and Joan gave every sign of reveling in this depraved unnatural defilement as the athlete rammed rhythmically into her battered young anus with hard cruel strokes. Each thrust seemed to draw the pink fragile flesh of her anal ring out with it as if he were on the verge of turning her inside out. His wife's teeth were bared as her lips curled back in approaching ecstasy, and she was chanting mindlessly beneath him, uttering a word with each pounding stroke.
"Oh...yes...fuck...me...like...that.. . oh"
Her sensually quivering body was shivering with dire masochistic pleasure, and her thighs flexed and relaxed in quick succession as the naked young girl thrust her lust-tormented body back against the man's solid loins, trying to sink his murderous shaft deeper and deeper inside of her.
"Harder! Harder!" she was grunting, and Allen instinctively covered his ears, no longer able to bear the sights he was seeing and the sounds he was hearing. He tried to close his eyes and avoid being a witness to the end, but for some perverse reason, they would not stay closed and he was forced to see it all, every bizarre unnatural minute of it.
Homer's fingers were now digging cruelly into the soft white flesh of her wantonly writhing hips, as he pounded his massive cock far up into the warm buttery depths of her rectum, fucking her with all the strength in his hard lustful body. His heavily swaying balls seemed to be swelling to an impossible size from the weight of the sperm accumulating there, and they slapped insistently against the open quivering flanges of the kneeling girl's cunt, keeping her constantly stimulated as he built towards his own gigantic climax.
Joan groaned incoherently, waving her luscious ass-cheeks back at his lasciviously as she sensed that the man was about to shoot his great flood of hot cum deep up into her wantonly quivering rectum. What was more, she wanted it, wanted it more and more with every passing minute . . .
Homer's cry caught everyone by surprise and those cynics in the audience who thought that the athlete was putting on some kind of act suddenly became true believers as they watched his iron body suddenly stiffen with the tension of the wild orgasm. Joan could feel his mighty cock exploding convulsively as he buried his hotly spewing penis one last time all the way into her widely stretched rectum. Suddenly the fire caught in her shamelessly aroused body.
With a cry which was more animal than human, her legs unexpectedly flew out from under her and she collapsed forward on the bed, pulling Homer with her. The two naked performers lay there groaning at each other like a pair of maniacs. The man's searing cum spurted into her rectum endlessly, triggering her own orgasm and the sex-crazed young wife screamed out her release as the crowd swarmed closer to the platform, trying for a better look at the end of this weird, unnatural coupling.
Allen Caruthers sat down alone on the chair, his mind spinning in agony as the mob climbed over the bed, blocking his vision. Working in the dark, he was scribbling a note on a piece of paper and when he finished writing, he held it up to the light in an attempt to review what he had said. But he was given no time to collect his thoughts. Tompkins was by his side in a moment, talking to him urgently about something, and the young businessman shook his head, trying to clear away the fog and understand what the man from Saint Louis was saying.
". . . and I've got to have her, do you understand?"
Allen looked at him dumbly as Tompkins thrust five one hundred dollar bills into his hand.
"Talk to that tall guy! Fix it up! Come on, Caruthers, do you want that contract signed tomorrow or don't you?"
Allen stumbled to his feet, his eyes streaked with tears, looking hopelessly through the crowd for the tall slender man they called Split. He found him, standing by the bar, a drink in his hand and a satisfied expression on his face. Order had been almost completely restored by this point and the two women and Homer had disappeared into the back room. Split smiled as he watched the young businessman approach him.
"Hmmmmmm, wonder what you want, you fellow," smiled the organizer lustily. "Five hundred, eh? That'll get you a half-hour with the blonde and a little bit longer with the brunette."
"I...it's for my friend...the fat guy...." Allen managed to mumble, jerking his thumb over his shoulder as Split removed the five hundred dollars from his trembling hand.
"All the same to me," said Split amicably. "Which gal does he want?"
The young businessman seemed to choke on the words and Split suddenly noticed that there were tears on his cheek. You get all kinds of nuts at these shows, he told himself, but so long as they're rich nuts . . .
"The blonde one...and give her this note for me, please...after I've left."
Jack Lynch had fallen asleep under the bar and Split walked through the broken glass on the floor, counting the money in his wallet. There was something just over five thousand dollars there, all of it clear profit, and he mentally calculated how soon he could schedule another live-show. Money like this was easy and the organizer sensed that there was plenty more where this came from. Most of his clients tonight had been rich cats from the other side of town, people with lots of cash and lots of inhibitions who would always turn their pockets inside out for a little wild life down in the slums. Like that nervous kid with the coat and tie and his fat friend, for example. Split reminded himself to give the five hundred directly to Joan and he successfully fought down the temptation to take a hundred or two for himself and give her the rest. You have to play fair with the people who work for you, he told himself sincerely, and he took the five hundred dollars out of his wallet, folded it and placed it in his shirt pocket where he would remember to give it to her.
And, ah yes, there was the note the other guy had left, the guy who was crying over something. Split took it out of his pocket curiously and walked slowly through the rubble in Jack's Studio to the bedroom in back where Joan and Liza were both still naked except for the soiled sheet they had drawn over them. Just as long as they don't get to like it too much and forget about Jack and me.
It was none of his business, but Split felt so noble about giving Joan all the money which was due to her, that he could not now fight off the temptation to read her note. There was a little light from the window, as the first rays of dawn penetrated the smog over the city, and Split held the crumpled note up in the air to read. The hand-writing was clear and concise, like a school teacher's, and he moved his lips as he digested every word.
"Joan please don't come home. My lawyers will contact you at the Photography Shop, and I will arrange for a sum of money to be deposited in your name at the First City Trust Bank which should be adequate for your needs. I intend to seek a divorce on the grounds of mutual incompatibility to spare both our names, and please do nothing to interfere with my lawyers, since you realize that I could easily cut you off without a cent. However, I prefer it this way. I will have your clothing and personal things delivered to the shop sometime tomorrow. Do not try to contact me. Allen."
Split was a tough, no-nonsense man, but somehow the note moved him deeply and he sighed as he set it down on the night table next to Joan's slumbering body. It's probably all for the best, he told himself philosophically, as he laid his long body down to sleep crossways at the bottom of the bed.