Chapter 12
"Oh God, believe me! Please! Listen to me, let me explain! Listen, Alan, I couldn't help-"
"Shut up, you cheating slut!" he'd interrupted. "I don't want to listen to your goddamn lies. Just lie down and shut up and let me fuck the hell out of you-that's the way you like it, isn't it? Just a big hard cock pumping into your hot pussy, you whoring nympho-that's the only thing that matters to you!"
"No ... no ... noooooo . . ," she'd wailed helplessly. "I'm not like that Alan, really I'm not. Please listen . . ."
That had been five minutes ago, and she was still whimpering "no ... no ... no ...," as his cruel accusations echoed over and over in her tortured brain. The hate-filled words he'd spit down at her naked body after his eager cock had entered her vagina and he'd discovered that indeed she was not a virgin after all had wounded her far more deeply than the viciously uncaring thrusts he was now inflicting on her helpless cuntal channel. For as long as she lived, she was certain, they would haunt her nightmares . . .
But I love him. . . even when he's treating me like this, I still love him, her shattered soul sobbed in silent grief. But everything's ruined now-he hates me, and I can't blame him. How was I stupid enough to let things come to this?
It was obvious now that she ought to have gone straight to Alan after the bus driver had raped her that night in the truffle field, but she'd just been too ashamed and upset to do it. Besides, she'd been afraid that the evil little Frenchman would, when accused, be spiteful enough to tell how she herself had wailed out wanton obscenities while they wallowed in the mud. She wouldn't have been able to deny it, for she was incapable of telling even an innocuous white lie-yet wasn't lying by omission a sin in its own way? Of course it was! If that loathsome sex maniac molested one of the innocent World Worshiper girls, she'd be one hundred percent to blame! She'd sacrificed their safety for her own selfish ends, and she ought to have known that this would backfire.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!
For two days she'd managed to avoid any face-to-face confrontation with her boss-a relatively simple task thanks to an outbreak of "traveler's tummy" among the Sunday schoolers. But when he'd showed up tonight looking so handsome and sounding so sad when he asked why she'd been avoiding him, she just had to let him into her hotel room. Of course she'd had no intention whatsoever of allowing him more than a chaste kiss or two, but somehow she'd been so overwhelmed by the fragrant long-stemmed apricot-colored roses and cold, bubbling champagne that he'd convinced her to model the filmy white lace nightie, just to make sure it was the proper size--and then--oh, God, she honestly didn't know how it had happened, but his magically massaging hands had turned her into a mass of will-less female flesh and ignited fierce fires of lust in every cell of her sinful loins.
Yes, her boss was right-she was a miserable slut who deserved nothing better than his cruel, impersonal fucking. In fact, she was such a perverted tramp that she was actually deriving a weird masochistic pleasure from his battering attack on her sore vagina and even from his humiliating insults. Oh, God, how could she save herself from being sucked down into the quicksand of corruption? Was it already too late? Would she drown in the dregs of her own degeneracy?
"Take that, you lying whore!" Alan puffed as he drove his battered cock up into her tight little pussy with all the vengeful force he could summon. "And that! And that! Hurts, doesn't it? But sluts like it that way!"
His steel-stiff was ramming in all the way to the hilt on the downstroke, making his sperm-bloated balls jounce against the sensitive flesh of her upturned ass-cheeks; then he wrenched his immense instrument all the way out so that he could re-enter again a second later with fierce ferocity. He knew he was causing her pain, for her ridiculous whimpers of protest rose to a shrill cadence as he slammed against her cervix and then withdrew, pulling along tendrils and tissues of her tender cuntal flesh. By now she must be raw as a slab of uncooked meat, and he hoped it burned her like the fires of hell!
Alan was too irrational at the moment to try to analyze the reasons for his extreme reaction to the blonde's lie about her purity. All he knew or cared as he sluiced liked a satanic madman in and out of her close-clasping vaginal passage was that she'd tricked him and proved herself to be a lewd bitch like his wife who didn't care about sentiment or tender love or anything but her own ego trip. .. like the rest of her sex, she was nothing but a sex machine which he would use as he wished, damn it, because he was physically more powerful. Fuck her! Fuck her to hell!
Suddenly, at the thought of his wife, Gayle, sperm began boiling with volcanic intensity deep down in his demonically dancing testicles and he knew he was rapidly approaching orgasm. Monica was getting hot-he could tell from the way her breathing had quickened, the spasmodic clutching of her butter-smooth cunt around his ravaging manhood-but she was still a long way from climax.
Good! he snarled to himself. For the ultimate punishment was to get his own kicks and then leave her lying there frustrated. Abruptly all cogent thought vanished from his brain as ripples of anger-intensified passion started building like breakers before a tidal wave. Clutching hold of her ripe-melon breasts below the silky fabric of the sensual white negligee he'd wasted three hundred francs on in Monaco that afternoon-white for purity--ha! He bucked his muscular hips forward in a frenzy of rage and love and physical need.
"CUMMING!" he groaned as his semen seethed to the boiling point and began it's headlong stampede down the potently pulsating shaft of his long phallus. "Cumming in your dirty, cheating box, you bitch! CUUMMMIIINNNGGG!"
Monica made a last desperate effort to control the flagrantly wanton writhings of her near-naked loins, the indecent up-bucking spasms of her yearning buttocks, but she could simply not get her traitorous body to obey the frantic commands of her brain. She let out an involuntary shriek of lustful longing as the first white-hot jets of life-giving seed flooded up into her twitching vaginal depths, and thrust up toward him in demented desire for a climax of her own. It was no use. He'd cum too soon, and her fire-filled loins froze to an icy snow sculpture as his hot sperm continued to spurt from his no longer thrusting cock.
Finally he'd finished with her. He rolled away, his spent penis, a limply deflated pink balloon now instead of a proud pole of iron-hard masculinity, slipped from her aching vagina with an obscene slurping noise, and after only a short moment's relishing of his obviously intense release, he began poking around for his discarded clothing. No kisses . . . no cuddling ... no gentle words of tender affection. Monica felt filthy, like a prostitute.
Alan rose rather unsteadily to his feet and stared down at the young woman's lush-loined body and the thin trickles of his own semen drying on her faintly quivering white thighs. As though he'd read her mind, he sneered, "That's the way a whore like you gets fucked," then stumbled unseeingly toward the hotel room door.
"Nooo! Alan, please . . . ," Monica raised her bruised body from the bed to make one last effort to keep the first real Love of Her Life from leaving in this ugly way. "Please don't go... please... listen, let me explain-"
"Save the dramatics for the next guy, bitch," he spat down at her cringing figure. "I don't need that shit-not anymore. And I hope your next sucker appreciates those flowers and the sexy nightie, too."
The door slammed so loudly that the pink-papered paste-board walls vibrated and one champagne glass toppled from the small bedside table. It landed on the floor, splintering into transparent slivers with a clinking tinkle which Monica didn't hear. She was still lying curled up in a. helpless fetal position on the bed, her eyes stinging with bitter unshed tears, her breath coming in harsh rasps.
A second later the door splurged open again and Alan's sneering face peeked back in.
"See you again sometime when I'm feeling horny and can't find something better! At least you're a better lay than my wife-you're such a nympho that you don't have to fake your cumming!"
His wife! Oh, no! Oh God, no!
The traumatized teacher remained immobile on the sperm-spattered bed, dully staring at her splattered thighs and matted pubic "vee" while she listened to her boss' car screeching away with an angry scream of tires. After a moment she grew aware of frogs croaking outside the barely ajar terrace doors, of crickets chirping and waves beating against the shore and a faint burst of laughter and music wafting over from one of the nearby villas. So people were having fun somewhere, enjoying themselves in a lighthearted way normal men and women could at a party ... it seemed so very far away from her ...
A dog barked down on the beach and another two or three answered from the villa-scattered hillside. "Just like in the truffle field," she whispered, and finally the blocked tears spilled over her burning cheeks and her slender shoulders started to shake beneath the bunched-up lace negligee. Her soft sobs deafened her to the sound of another car pulling up in front of the Hotel Modern, and to the muffled moans and rustlings a few yards away on the terrace.
When the doorbell rang, her first thought was that it must be the stern, gray-haired concierge come to complain about the noise. Stifling her sobs, she struggled to her feet, tore off the see-through white gown, and threw the first thing she snatched up over her shameful nakedness. The red kimomo-style terry-cloth bathrobe had an intricate sash which her numb and shaking fingers were incapable of fastening, so she merely clutched it around her full figure as she stumbled dizzily toward the door.
"Oui?" she gasped out in French. "Qui est la?"I'll tell her I was having a nightmare-that's not really a lie, she improvised as she eased the door open a crack. "Pardon, Madame," she began, "I am sorry if-oohhh!"
"Monica, darling! At last!"
Gene Puddocky, long arms awkwardly cradling a cheap florist's bouquet, raw-boned face beaming like a little boy's on Christmas morning, squeezed through the barely ajar door. Oh, God, she'd completely forgotten about his Monte Carlo convention! How had he ever found her here at the Hotel Modern, anyway? Her already boggled brain churned with consternation as she gaped up at his familiar figure in its Orchardburg Sunday suit and conservative haircut standing just where Alan Dubois had been mere minutes before.
"Oh!" she gasped again. "Oh-you sh-shouldn't have ..."
Gene assumed she was referring to the flowers; the silver-spangled giftwrap and huge purple ribbon were indeed impressive, and ought to be, since he'd belatedly realized that he'd paid almost ten dollars for a bunch of daisies.
"Oh, it's nothing much," he smiled even more delightedly. "My cab got caught in a traffic jam in Monaco just outside a florist and I happened to see some simple daisies that reminded me of how much fun we had picking wildflowers at my Dad's farm on Sunday afternoons."
He was looking around for someplace to set down the flowers so that he could take his bride-to-be in his arms, so he'd not yet noticed the haunted glow in his girl friend's brown eyes, nor her disheveled appearance, nor the shambles the small room was in. It wasn't only excitement which dulled his perception-the truth was that he was still rather drunk, although he'd fondly hoped that the interminable taxi ride had cleared away the clouds of that perfidious Pernod.
"Oh. . .oh. . ."Monica sank limply down onto the rumpled bed behind her, too distracted to notice that her loose terry-cloth robe had fallen open to reveal a tantalizing inch of cleavage.
He's not good-looking, not half as handsome as Alan. A country hick, really. But he's kind and honest-if we were married he'd never go chasing younger girls like Dubois does. What a fool I've been! How could I dream of giving up a good man like him? Olay, life with him won't be exciting or glamorous . . . but at least I'll have my self-respect and I can try to forget all the evil secrets I know about myself. Everything will be nice and quiet and normal, and once I have babies I won't be bored ...
"Surprised to see me, Monica?!" Gene set his bundle on the bureau next to the roses, which he was too distracted to notice. "After I wrote to you I realized I'd forgotten to put down the dates I'd be here-I'm always so darn absentminded, especially since I've started my thesis. "The Christian Missionary: Past and Future Perspectives." That's what I've decided to title it."
Puddocky knew he was babbling, but he couldn't help himself. As he enveloped Monica's soft, sensuous body in his arms, he was once again so aware of his inexplicably erotic impulses that he scarcely knew what he was doing or saying. One thought was clear: he simply must keep a strict rein on himself so as not to alarm innocent Monica, who'd of course be terribly upset if she guessed he'd been imbibing Pernod all evening.
How long before he notices the champagne, the stains on the bed, the sperm drying between my legs? she thought dully as she numbly endured Gene's hug. It was odd that even after making up her mind that this was the man she ought to share her life with after all, she felt absolutely nothing at his touch. But never mind that-the chief thing was to get him out of here before he realized what a sinful slut she was and walked out of her life forever.
"Yes . .. yes, I'm surprised to see you ..."
For the first time, Gene really looked at his fiancee. Either he was much more drunk than he thought, or she'd changed immensely in one short week and a half. Everything-her hair, the smeared lipstick on her normally natural mouth, the tautness of features and panic-glinting eyes-made him uneasy.
"Are you all right, Monica? Are you ill?"
She jumped at the excuse. "Well, sort of. Too much sun, I guess. I've-I've been sleeping."
Even her voice sounded funny! Gene was naive and gullible and slightly inebriated, but he wasn't stupid. A quick glance around the room fed his suspicions: an almost empty bottle of booze on the nightstand with one glass beside it ... a second glass smashed on the floor next to a sensual splash of lace lingerie ... a dozen elegant long-stemmed roses towering above his cheap daisies . .. and worst of all, an insidious odor which reminded him of-of what? He couldn't quite identify the smell, but instinct told him it was something indecent, something sinful.
Was it possible that-but no, he wouldn't even think it! Not about sweet, innocent Monica Balesley! Still, there had been that guy on the stairs. ..
"Funny way you've got of sleeping these days," he heard himself say in a voice which was surprisingly spiteful. "And you sure don't look well rested."
The girl's face blanched a pale parchment white and her eyes grew round and almost black with panic when they focused on her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. No, she certainly didn't look like the fresh, pretty coed he remembered from Orchardburg. In fact, she looked positively haggard and-and cheap, with her make-up smeared and hair like a rats' nest and dressing gown falling open on top. She shuddered and pulled the kimona tightly closed.
"I am t-tired, Gene. Maybe-maybe I better sleep some more. Maybe you better c-come back tomorrow . . ."
"Like hell I will!" Her head jerked up in amazement, for she'd never before heard the devout divinity student swear. "Looks to me like you've felt good enough for entertaining some other guy. Least you could do is offer me a drink."
"Gene, please! I-I really don't feel well.. ." Monica whispered, but he'd already planted himself on the bed and was staring in an ominous way at the sperm-stained, crumpled coverlet. Moving like a robot, she filled the unbroken glass with the champagne remaining in the bottle and handed it toward him. "I'll just get dr-dressed . . .," she stammered, easing toward the bathroom.
"Why?" He tossed down the champagne, which tasted lots better than Pernod, in two gulps. "You didn't bother getting decent for your new boyfriend, did you?"
Monica didn't answer-there was nothing to say, even if she'd been capable of uttering a syllable. She just stood there in front of him clutching her crimson robe over breasts which still burned and tingled from Dubois' rough handling.
"And you might as well just let that red thing fall open again-those tits of yours looked pretty nice. Funny that we've been dating for years and you never let me see 'em, but you peeled off right away for some guy you just met. Well, the game's over, you can stop pretending you're a lady! You have any more of this fizzy stuff?"
Wordlessly, she moved toward her suitcase and extracted the two half-bottles of Mumms Champagne which had been given her by a leering champagne tour guide, plus the pretty little opener she'd picked up in a gift shop with the thought that she and Alan might have a romantic picnic on some lovely lonely hillside. Her heart was thudding so violently against her chest that she could scarcely breathe as she silently watched Gene ineptly extract one cork, and she wished there were another glass. It was strange how quickly she'd learned to appreciate the conscience-quieting quality of alcohol when less than a week ago she'd never even known how much smoother it made things. Perhaps there was a toothbrush glass in the bathroom ...
'Turned into a real lush, have you?" Gene slurred as she returned and poured herself a brimming glass. He was well aware that he was no one to talk, for his entire metabolism was distorted by the unusual amount of drink he'd consumed today, but he was too far gone to care. Even when his long-neglected manhood began beating an immoral tattoo against his groin, he felt no guilt.
"A real lush!" he repeated with an ugly laugh. "And a real whore!"
Could this arrogant, aggressive male really be the same considerate suitor who'd never even attempted to do more than kiss her? He sounded just the way Alan had twenty minutes earlier, and for the first time she realized that Gene had a penis, and that it was ominously tenting out the crotch of his untailored trousers. Monica quickly averted her eyes and laid one hand on her throbbing, burning temples while she drained her Colgate-flavored champagne.
"Gene, please!" she implored. "Don't talk that way! Please let me explain! It's not the way it looks! I mean, I couldn't-"
"Shut up! I don't want to hear your lies! The only thing I wanna know is how come you never let on you're a hot-blooded bitch in heat? But I guess it's no big mystery-you wanted to trick me to the altar, didn't you? Well, thank the Lord I caught onto your tricks in time, bitch, before I found myself raising a house full of bastards who really belonged to the milkman or the tv repairman or anyone else who happened along with a big hard cock!"
He paused to catch his breath and glare vindictively at his ex-fiancee, who'd slumped down on the far end of the bed with her face buried in her hands. She looked pathetic, but he didn't feel even a twinge of pity. Hell, she deserved to suffer... just like that child-molesting lady preacher his new friend Elmer had punished by fucking her in the ass!
"Cock-teasing bitch!" he snarled through gritted teeth as intoxicatingly lurid images swirled before his mind's eye and blood blazed through his veins like liquid lightning. "I think it's about time I had a taste of what you've been giving everyone else while I was crazy enough to be celebrate on account of you! First, gimme a look at those big tits of yours!"
"Gene!" Monica squealed in horror. "Oh, don't! Don't touch me! Please! Have you gone crazy?"
It was like the rerun of a horror movie. He lunged toward her, panting like a wild beast, his fingernails piercing the pliant flesh of her breasts as he ripped off the unfastened bathrobe. When Monica tried to stagger to her feet, his hands were gripping her so fiercely that she lost her balance and staggered to her hands and knees on the cool tile floor with her round white ass-cheeks pointing up in unintentional invitation.
"No . . . nooo. . . nooooo .. .," she babbled, falling into a limp heap of defeat as his steel fingers gripped her tender-fleshed buttocks.
After one last feeble attempt to squirm out of his vise-like grasp however, she gave up any idea of physical resistance. What was the use? What was the use of anything, now that her hopes and dreams and self-respect were destroyed forever? Still, the strangled whimpers continued to bubble out from her constricted throat: "Nooo. . . please, noooo .. ."
The long-frustrated divinity student didn't even hear her hopeless pleas. Behind his thick spectacles his bland brownish eyes were blazing with delirious desire as he stared at the cringing blonde's helplessly up-thrusting ass. He could see the fair fleece of her pussy through the gap between her slightly spread thighs; thin strings of dried sperm clung to her pubic curls, and the barely visible slit of her vagina gleamed wetly, as though it were still saturated with that other guy's seed. The mere thought filled him with jealous fury, plus a certain revulsion since Gene was the fastidious sort.
Who knows what sort of weird disease I'd get putting my prick into that sperm-sopped hole of hers? he asked himself. Indeed, his obsession with hygiene was justified: the one and only time he'd had intercourse had been with a prostitute on his twenty-first birthday, and he'd contracted the clap. For as long as he lived he'd never forget the humiliating session he'd spent at the seminary health clinic ...
Over and above the haunting recollection of venereal disease, however, was the exciting echo of Bible salesman Elmer Watkins' lurid account of giving it to the lady evangelist in the ass. His eyes drifted down to the billowing white mounds of Monica's backside again, fastened on the dime-sized circle of her puckered, pinkish-brown anus. Wouldn't that be the ultimate punishment. . . the act which would give him back the masculinity she'd trampled on and treated like dirt? Of course it would-and to hell with the consequences!
A Satanic snort of laughter resounded behind the sobbing schoolteacher, and she felt her former fiancé's fingers gouging even more fiercely into her own defenseless backside. Oh, no! she thought, I can't bear another huge penis battering into my pussy. I'm already rubbed raw! But a second later, as she heard the now-familiar metallic noise of a zipper being ripped open, she realized that her cuntal muscles weren't only contracting in fear, they were also moistening and blossoming in yet another burst of indecent desire. It wasn't possible! How could any girl possibly be aroused by this grotesquely groveling subjugation? , "All right, you cheating bitch!" growled Gene Puddocky. "I was dumb enough to hang around thinking I'd be the first to get into your cunt-but now I've wised up, and I bet I'll be the first to fuck the hell out of your ass!"
She'd sunk to the absolute depths of depravity--nothing in the world could possibly be more despicable than this unnatural act! Even farm animals didn't fornicate in this perverted way! And it was all her own fault, for hadn't she been plagued by a morbid curiosity about anal sex after being crudely propositioned by those Arabs back in Paris?
Hadn't she even gone so far as to gently prod her puckered little nether orifice with her finger one day in the shower? Now she was being punished for those sick thoughts by-of all people-Gene Puddocky, future pillar of the Orchardburg parish.
"Aaaggghhhhh!" she yelped as red-hot agony raged through her ravished rectum. "Stop! Have mercy! You're killliiinnggggmmmeeeee!"
Good God! He'd plunged that monstrous pole all the way down to the hilt-she could feel his heavy-testicles thudding against her upthrust nether cheeks, and his rock-hard cock-head surging straight up into the sensitive recesses of her shuddering belly! If he didn't murder her, he'd certainly maim, her for life! She'd never be able to look a decent human being in the face again!
Twisting and sobbing, the suffering schoolteacher made a last effort to escape from the outrageous attack. It was a wasted effort; her struggles stirred an unexpected streak of savagery inside Puddocky, who hammered his huge hardness more viciously down into her forbidden channel with each successive stroke until the defenseless young girl was groveling in helplessly limp defeat.
Let me pass out! she prayed frantically as she fell flat on her naked belly on the cool tile floor. I can't stand anymore of this! I'm not even human anymore! Ripples of self-loathing washed over her as the searing pain slowly subsided and was replaced by unwanted waves of the same strange masochistic pleasure she'd come to know so well in the past week, and the more she tried to control the perverted excitement, the stronger it grew. Let me pass out... before I start liking it! her tortured conscience cried again.
As far as Gene was concerned, this was the most excruciatingly triumphant moment of his twenty-five years. Not only was his long-neglected penis enjoying the most exquisite physical sensations imaginable as it furiously fucked up into Monica's tight, butter-walled anal channel, but he was also recognizing for the first time what it meant to be a powerful man. Instead of being vaguely ashamed of his unusually long penis, he was prouder of its performance than he was of his A-average academic record at the seminary. A hundred times prouder! After tonight, he dimly realized, he'd never be the same again.
When he first noticed her warm-velvet passage pulsing in rhythm to his brutal battering and her cock-impaled ass-cheeks wriggling up to meet his thrusts, Puddocky's passion flamed even higher. He was not only forcing the cheating bitch to submit to his will-he was forcing her to like it!
"Feels good, huh!" he panted. "Guess you like my cock after all, you slut! See what you've been missing?! And I should have known a hot bitch like you would love ass-fucking as much as cunt-fucking!"
As her ex-fiancé's crude insults reverberated through the warm Mediterranean night, something snapped inside Monica Blakesley. He knew how lewd and lascivious she really was, and now there was no possible hope that once he'd calmed down and listened to her side of the story he could forgive her. There was also no point in pretending she was anything more than a mass of sinful, sensuous flesh, or that she cared about anything else in the world right now except her oncoming climax.
"Yes, goddamn you, I like ass-fucking! I LOVE IT!" she heard her own voice scream out, and it excited her so much that she ground her tingling vagina against the floor in maniacal desire for release. "Fuck me harder, you bastard! Harder, deeper! Yeah, I love your BIG FUCKING COCK!"