Chapter 13
Bernard rubbed one hand over his painfully swollen groin and cast a baleful glance at young Spike and Cordelia, who were madly screwing on the floor of the terrace quite as though he weren't there at all. Cordelia, who was obviously neither as pure nor as prudish as she liked to pretend, had willingly raised her skirt to be finger-fucked, and now the teenage boy's turgid young cock was spearing furiously in and out of her firm, girlish buttocks as she moaned and mewled in obscene encouragement. Ungrateful little brats! But once he got into his act, they'd take some notice of him again!
It was high time the world stopped depriving Bernard Cretin of all the fun and games it had to offer. Why should he be the one who had to slave for the motorcycle which he deserved as his just due? And why should he stand here with an agonizingly aching hard-on while everyone else was getting their kicks? Who'd engineered this erotic scenario, anyway? Cretin, of course!
"All right, pal!" he growled in his best blue-movie English. "This here's my girl you're fucking in the ass!"
Puddocky froze in mid-stroke, his thick penis half-embedded in the pulsating folds of Monica's warm rectal passage. He was on such an extraordinary ego trip that he was tempted to tell the intruder to go to hell, but before he could open his mouth he caught sight of the gleaming metal blade. His powerful potency automatically shrank to half its former glory, and Monica's eyes opened in glassy frustration as she wrenched her head around to see what was the matter.
"Come on, you bastard, fuck me!" she pleaded, wallowing in her own wantonness. "C'mon, make me cum! Fuck me, HARD! Give me your-Ooohhh, NOOO!"
Cretin chortled at the fright that twisted her face when she saw him, and took another couple of steps forward. He hoped those kids out on the terrace had stopped screwing long enough to see the Miss Blakesley and her tall boyfriend cringing in terror beneath him. If his cock hadn't been so violently impatient, he'd have loved to torture them with suspense for a good long time.
"No hard feeling, buddy," he addressed the white-faced Puddocky. "I don't mind sharing the hot little bitch once in a while. Just turn her over and let me into her cunt, okay?"
He'd swished the lethal weapon through the air as he spoke, and Gene was suddenly filled with fear for his own safety; he saw no choice but to follow the Frenchman's instructions. It was funny, considering how much he'd hated Monica five minutes before, that he should suddenly feel pity at the thought of her slender body suffering two huge penises at once. Surely it wasn't possible that a woman could endure that, was it? And yet, along with his chagrin, he was simultaneously suffused with a weird, wanton wish to experience this perverted double-fucking.
Monica's mind was already so deranged that she couldn't think of anything at all. She moaned a little as her bruised body was flipped over and Puddocky's penis slipped from her asshole, leaving it empty and aching. A second later, however, she was whimpering in the throes of intense prurient passion as the detested bus driver's long penis slid smoothly up into her already soaking wet pussy. Again her figure was bounced over; now she was on top of Bernard, and Gene's cock, once again hard as an iron poker, was back in her quiveringly craving anal channel.
"Oohhhh .. . oohhhh ohohohoohhh!" she gasped in an ecstasy of uninhibited lust. "Yeah! Gimme your two hard cocks! Oh, it's gooodddddd!"
She was totally vanquished, transformed into a wanton sexual being; she knew it, but she didn't care. The old Monica was gone forever, and the new Monica only wanted one thing: hot, hard male flesh hammering her to the oblivious release of orgasm. Once again, she felt her sensual body shuddering in the bliss of onrushing climax, the passionate explosion which would obliterate all worries, all guilt, all
Then, as the two pistoning poles automatically established a lewdly arousing rhythm and her naked body was sandwiched between fiercely flexing hard male muscles, Monica exploded into her climax and became a mere mass of mindlessly spasming female flesh. Blackness swam before her pleasure-blinded eyes as thick jets of sperm spilled into both her fire-filled vagina and her quivering anal passage, and when her shrill wails of bliss finally subsided she collapsed in unconscious satiation and knew nothing for a very long time.
Cretin squirmed out from under the woman's voluptuous, perspiration-slickened form and regarded her with satisfaction as she rolled over to curl in a fetal position on the tiles, her tousled blonde curls hiding her face. Semen had spilled out from her twin orifices and dribbled over her damp pubic hair and full-fleshed thighs, and she presented a picture of absolutely obscene degradation. Just the way he'd dreamed of seeing her after she'd had the nerve to snub him! Then he turned back to the tall skinny fellow, who was stumbling to his feet and looking around anxiously for his discarded pants.
"You get the hell outta here, now," he threatened, retrieving his switchblade from under the bed where he'd dropped it to mount Monica. "And if you say nothing to anyone 'bout this, you've had it! 'Least not till you get back to wherever you come from-then you can open your big mouth all you like and I do not give a shit."
Puddocky's pleasant boy-next-door features contorted in a tragic/comic mask of despair as he, too, gaped down at Monica Blakesley's sperm-splattered figure. How would he ever forgive himself for having turned into a sex-crazed wild animal-never again would he touch a drop of Pernod! And he would definitely never forgive her either, for after the debased way she'd responded to the salacious sandwiching he knew she was in the devil's hands now. Besides, there was that knife pointing at him ...
As soon as the American man had zipped up his fly, adjusted his glasses and sidled out the door with a last stricken look at the girl, Bernard jumped into his own jeans. Paranoia was pulsing in his chest again as he realized what a lot of lurid noise they'd made, especially that sex-crazed Mademoiselle Blakesley, and he wanted to get out of the Hotel
Modern right away. The kids, he noted with relief and pride, were standing at the open terrace door with expressions of awe on their faces.
"Shit, Cretin, you sure did screw the hell out of Miss Blakesley!" said Spike Soderberg. "Didn't know you had it in you!"
"Get your clothes on," smirked the Frenchman, and he strutted proud as a peacock toward the overhanging oleander tree certain that now they would obey him unquestioningly. "We gotta split this scene quick!"
Monica was left alone .. . but not for long...
Just as her heavy lids were drifting open to stare bleakly at the broken champagne glass, just as she was starting to remember the shocking scene she'd just endured and her own inexcusably wanton response, just as hot tears were brimming up behind her burning eyes, the hotel room door burst open. Another stranger, with a horrifyingly familiar bulge in the crotch of his pants. After all she'd been through this evening, Monica wasn't even surprised.
What now? she thought, dully aware that even now her traitorous loins flickered with sinful flames at the sight of the protruding penis. What does it matter, anyway?"
After his angry exit from the Hotel Modern, tour director Dubois had raced his rented Renault along the coastal highway in reckless disregard of the hoards of holiday traffic. Finally he'd found himself in Monte Carlo and stopped in the first bar he passed to have a drink and get a grip on himself. The double whiskey cost almost as much as a duty-free bottle of Scotch, but it calmed him down enough to take a rational look at the situation.
He'd been too rash, definitely, he decided, calling for a refill. His over-reaction didn't make sense, not when he considered that he was a firm believer in sexual freedom. Besides, he honestly hadn't given the girl a chance to explain why she'd said she was a virgin when she wasn't. There could be any number of good excuses: lots of girls had accidents riding horses and things-she was a country girl, after all-; she could have been raped by an uncle or something when she was an adolescent and been too ashamed to tell him; oh, anything was possible, but he ought to have let her talk before he lost his temper.
Alan drained the watery whiskey and got back into his Renault. Only one thing to do, he decided, since he had to admit now that he genuinely cared about the voluptuous young blonde one hell of a lot more than he cared about his frigid wife back home. He'd go on back to the hotel, with another conciliatory flask of vintage champagne, and apologize. And then...
He pulled up in front of the Hotel Modern just as Elmer Watkins was ramming his blood-bloated member into the sperm-lubricated mouth of Monica's unprotestingly offered ass-hole.