Chapter 5

Back in the taxicab, Monica had been offended and frightened by Alan's fingers gliding over the sensitive mounds of her breasts; but now, after his tender comments and two more strong drinks, she found herself in the grips of a series of weird but not at all unpleasant sensations. His hand on her never-before-fondled breast touched off a trigger which sent red-hot needles of electric excitement shooting from her involuntary erecting nipples to the tips of her toes, and as the warm vibrations concentrated in the intimate flesh beneath her cotton panties she couldn't help squirming a little on the edge of the hotel bed.

The strange reactions of her still-unawake body should have served as a warning that she was letting herself in for a situation she wasn't ready to handle, but she was too naive to recognize what was going on. Besides, as she glanced out of the corners of her doe-like brown eyes at the man seated beside her, she was too preoccupied to think about her body.

Alan Dubois wasn't actually handsome, at least not in the classic Hollywood star sense. At thirty-one a decade of wine, women and worries was starting to take its toll of wrinkles, broken veins, sagging jowls and softening belly, and even six years ago when he'd still made decent money modeling jockey shorts and shaving cream for magazine advertisements his clean-cut boyish good looks had been marred by a certain uneven slant to his features and a pair of unusually large and obtrusive ears. He was a vain man, though, and had successfully de-emphasized the ears by means of continental-type sideburns, his spreading stomach by a tailor-made London suit. His ambivalent gray eyes were made more interesting by a pair of brown tinted contact lenses, and although his hair was a drab shade of brown it was thick and stylishly cut.

Monica decided his craggy face had character, and the elephant ears reminded her of her favorite movie star, Donald Sutherland. A mental comparison with Gene Puddocky back in Southern Illinois placed Dubois far ahead as far as looks were concerned. The strange thing was that although always-helpful Gene had driven her to the airport only some forty-eight hours before, she couldn't seem to conjure up a clear image of his face. All that she could really remember about the serious-minded divinity student were thick bifocals, a prematurely receding hairline, and the bleached-white tone of skin which seldom left the library to catch the sun.

Her gaze rose timidly to Alan's face-he had an admirable tan, thanks to a sunlamp and lotions, which gave him a deceptively athletic air. Then their eyes locked and she turned back to her drink in confusion, shivering slightly.

What in heaven's name would Gene think if he could see me now, she wondered, and giggled under her breath. Half-drunk, sitting on a strange man's hotel bed in the early hours of the morning... it was scandalous, but she felt adventurous and free. I don't care what Gene or Daddy or anyone else thinks-I'm having fun! She told herself, and even when Dubois' finger-tips caressed along the forbidden mounds of smooth flesh beneath her bodice she didn't try to inch away.

"Penny for your thoughts ...?"

She shook her head, once again overcome with shyness. Really, she shouldn't let him squeeze her arm and breast like that, but she didn't quite know how to tell him to stop. And anyway, it felt sort of good ...

"You know, Monica, you could be a magnificent woman," his breath brushed against her ear. "Right now you're one hell of a pretty gal, but if you weren't so scared of everything. Just take the way you're sitting, all hunched over, so's no one can see what a fantastic figure you've got. And those school-teacher type clothes. How come a beautiful young chick like you wants to dress like her Grandma, honey?"

"My cl-clothes?" she gaped at him uneasily. "What's wrong with them? And . . . and I am a schoolteacher, or at least I will be come September."

"Hey, don't get uptight," he smiled, then ran his hand over the ripe swells of her breasts in a way that couldn't possibly be construed as casual. "All I mean is you shouldn't be ashamed to show you're a woman. This dress here isn't so bad, but that navy blue number you wore on the plane was the kind of thing that no guy would look at twice. Aren't you proud of your body-you sure ought to be!"

Monica stared down at her simple pink shirtwaist with its high-buttoned neckline and knee-length skirt. Well, maybe it was a little too big; she'd bought a size 38 instead of 36 because the latter had been so tight across the top that the middle button came open when she moved her arms. Anyway, she thought, I'm not interested in having men leer at me on the street. It was ugly enough the way those Arabs treated me tonight-think what might have happened if I'd been wearing a mini-skirt or something.

"Yes, a beautiful body . . . beautiful. . ."

This was really going too far! His hands were squeezing her breasts as if they were cantaloupes on display in a market stall, and he'd moved so close that he was practically sitting on top of her.

"Al-Alan, I . . . wish you wouldn't . . . please .. ."

"Wouldn't what?" His face was open, innocent. "Don't you like to be told you're beautiful?"

"Wouldn't t-t-touch me like th-that..."

"Why not? Remember when we were talking about Reverend Theasander? Remember what he said about people's bodies being a reflection of their souls? And don't tell me you don't like the way it feels!"

"Please!" Monica broke away to huddle at the head of the bed, and suddenly all the emotional excitement of the evening was too much for her and she broke into tears.

In a second the older man was beside her, enveloping her sob-shuddering figure in the comforting circle of his muscular arms and murmuring soothingly into her tousled blonde curls. By shifting his leg a fraction of an inch he found he could press the aching thickness of his turgid penis against the firm flesh of her upper leg and give his impatiently hardening cock some much-needed relief. As he'd surmised, the girl was too upset to notice his indiscretion.

Christ! he swore silently. Can't we cut the dramatics now and get on with the action? If I have to wait much longer I'm gonna go out of my ever-loving mind and rape the sexy broad! It's not fair that any chick with a body like a keg of dynamite is too uptight to know what to do with it!

Gradually the girl's sobs began to subside and her body relaxed against the hard loins of her comforter. Dubois's heart and penis leapt with eager anticipation when he felt her relax, but he reminded himself to take things slow and easy. If he played his cards right, he'd have a willing bedmate for the rest of this trip!

"Monica," he whispered gently "Listen, sweetheart, I want to help you learn how wonderful your lovely body is. . . learn that touching's the best thing in the world. Now you just lie down and relax."

He slid her down against the flat pillow, delighted that she made no protest. "We're real friends, Monica. Friends in our minds . .. and in our bodies. Friends are for helping each other, and now I'm going to help you become a woman. Okay, Monica? Monica? Monica .. .? Oh, goddamn it to hell!"

The alcohol had done its work all too well; the girl was passed out cold.

For a moment the lust-maddened man hesitated, hazy vestiges of ethics tempering the urgency of his desire. It was one thing to seduce an innocent college girl, after all, and quite another to take advantage of her while she was unconscious. What if she came to and started screaming or something?

That'd be the end of road on easy street with World Worshippers, and he wouldn't put it past the French flics to throw him in jail.

"Goddamn!" he swore again. "How the hell could anyone pass out on what she had to drink, anyhow? Went at her wine like a sparrow pecking at a bird-bath and only had one of those sissy fruit deals afterward instead of good cognac like I suggested. And she didn't even finish her second drink here."

He finished it for her, then stood up to fetch the bourbon bottle. On the way back to the bed, he hung the Do Not Disturb sign outside and very carefully double-locked the door from the inside. All this was accomplished with one hand, the other being occupied with massaging the painful protuberance in his tailored trousers.

Monica was still lying just as he'd left her, hair fanned out over the scruffy brown bedspread like a spun-gold halo, long legs sprawled apart just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of her white cotton panty crotch band. As she breathed, the perfectly rounded globes of her breasts strained against the front of her dress, and his hand pumped along in tempo with their rise and fall. Suddenly he thought of his French girl friend, Francine; her breasts weren't nearly as spectacular as Monica Blakesley's, but she liked him to rub his cock between then until it grew rock-hard and finally spewed its thick cream-white load over her breasts and throat and face . . .

The erotic remembrance flared his passion to a frustration-heightened fever pitch. Panting like a dog who'd scented a bitch in heat, he eased down to his knees beside the narrow bed and began undoing the buttons running from hem to collar along the front of her short-sleeved cotton dress. Inch by inch, the body he'd been undressing in imagination all evening was presented to his glassy, greedy eyes, and Dubois dimly realized that his arousal was all the more intense because he was feasting on forbidden flesh without her knowledge or consent.

"Jesus Christ!" he rasped as the last button left its hole and he flicked the fabric to either side of her body. "What a body!"

Monica was built even more sensuously than he'd expected, with hips and thighs that were extravagantly feminine despite her slender bone structure and satin-smooth skin without a trace of blemish or stretch marks. If only she weren't wearing those God-awful white cotton panties and bra, she'd have looked like a flesh-and-blood PLAYBOY centerfold. How the hell was he going to get the things off without waking her? he asked himself. He'd come to the conclusion that it was best if she didn't wake till he'd gotten her good and turned on.

"Yeah, you cock-teasing bitch!" he chuckled under his breath. "You're gonna find out what happens to little girls who go around passing out in other people's beds before giving them a chance to get to first base. Wait'll you find out what sexy dreams you're in for . . "

As he chuckled to himself Alan was reaching in his pocket for his Swiss pocket knife, an elaborate instrument with numerous tiny tools unfolding from its handle. He clicked down a miniature pair of shears and with another demonic chuckle neatly snipped his voluptuous victim's brassiere just between the cups to free the splendid spheres of her ivory-white breasts. Even without the supporting garment they stood straight up from her gracefully tapered torso, their raspberry-pink tips pointing straight toward the paint-peeling ceiling of the shabby Paris hotel room.

Next for the panties. Two swift cuts at their sides and there was the softly curled triangle of her pussy hair nestled between her firm-fleshed thighs and flat young belly.

"Real yellow cunt hair!" whistled Dubois. "How about that! Never saw that before!"

By now the married man was too excited to remember to keep his voice down, and just as he'd tugged her legs apart to reveal a tempting trace of coral pink vagina and was getting ready to grab hold of her delectable breasts Monica began to come to. A sound midway between a moan and a purr bubbled from her throat as her head lolled sideways and her legs quivered in response to their repositioning, but to Alan's relief her eyes remained shut. He paused, acutely conscious of the blood throbbing through his aching thickness, his hungry hands hovering in hesitation above the opulent orbs of her nakedly exposed breasts with the pocket knife still clenched between his fingers.

He must, he decided, be one hell of a lot drunker than he'd thought he was. For a start, the very idea of molesting prim Miss Blakesley while she slept was insane; the risks far outweighed the rewards, and he firmly believed in avoiding all games where the odds were stacked against him. And then there were these crazy fantasies that kept careening through his brain . . . Oh, he often imagined erotic incidents-they helped him keep his hard-on at swap club parties or with his wife whom he no longer found very exciting, and after all he was an ex-actor-but this was something different. Tonight he wasn't in control of the dreams. They rose spontaneously from some deep-seated part of his soul, and even though he considered himself a fully liberated man the imaginings struck him as bizarre, almost perverted.

The girl was a vestal virgin chained to a marble altar, and he was the all-powerful pagan god with a mighty foot-long phallus ... or he was a barbarous Viking raider butchering men with his saber before ravishing their wailing women with his merciless flesh weapon ... or he was a six-foot Black stud armed with switchblade and shotgun sneaking into the dormitory of some ritzy girls' boarding school to help himself to some high-class virgin ass ...

"Uuhhh .. . mmgghhh . .."

Faint mumbles from the nubile naked blonde brought Dubois back down to reality with a jolt, and as he watched her for signs of wakefulness he realized he'd made up his mind to fuck her and damn the consequences. Damn everyone and everything-hotel personnel, snooping teens, those stuffed shirt pilgrims back at the World Worshipers' office who paid his salary. Damn the cops even, for no punishment they could possibly inflict on him could be more painful than the torture of foregoing the flesh feast so enticingly laid out before him.

The knife clattered unheeded from his fingers to the floor as he spread his palms to grasp two overflowing handfuls of warm, milk-white breasts. Sweat droplets broke out on his brow and dribbled in slow rivulets over his forehead and into his eyes, but he couldn't tear his hands away from the smooth-skinned twin mounds to wipe his face. Firm yet pliant flesh yielded to his kneading fingers, and though he wasn't by nature a sadistic lover, the sensation was so arousing that soon he was squeezing them far more fiercely than he realized.

"Aaahhh . . .," Monica's body twitched, and her attacker's titillating fingers vanished instantly from her breasts. Then her head lolled toward the wall so that her cries were muffled into the pillow and he had to lean over to ascertain if she were still unconscious.

For a long minute he knelt unmoving beside her on the bed, hands frozen in midair where he'd hastily withdrawn them, but as soon as he was sure he hadn't awakened her he grew furious with himself. What was he-a man or a mouse? What the hell if she did wake up and freak out? He'd have her dancing like a puppet soon as he got her motor warmed up with his talented tongue, anyhow. If he wasn't capable of keeping a hundred-twenty pound college chick in hand, he might as well give up right now.

Nevertheless, it was only sensible to recognize that he'd be much safer to get her turned on while she was still unaware of what was happening. Alan always considered it bad policy to push his luck too far, and if he were careful he could have his cake and eat it too-real living and breathing cheesecake of the finest quality around! Nothing cowardly about being realistic, he assured himself as he cautiously approached his curvaceous captive.

The twin mounds of her magnificent breasts focused dizzily before his lust-glazed eyes. Two giant-size vanilla ice cream cones with bright crimson cherries on top, he mused, and licked his lips greedily before dipping down for a taste of the cream-white flesh. Just as his watering mouth closed around the succulently soft skin, he noticed the faint prints of his fingers on her resilient flesh and his cock arched into an achingly immense full erection in response to some hitherto largely latent streak of sadism.

At first he only dared to lap and kiss her gently pulsating breasts with feather-soft flickers of his lips and tongue, but it wasn't more than a few seconds before passion overcame prudence and he was nibbling furiously on the tiny pink buds of her nipples. They puckered and tautened at once, telltale evidence of her unconscious arousal, and she sighed in her sleep and smiled faintly, as though in the midst of a most pleasurable dream.

Fascinated by the way he could control her physical reactions like an obscene puppeteer, he trailed his lips up over her gracefully sculpted neck in a slithering wet ribbon of kisses. Christ, her skin was soft as a baby's . . . and she smelled like a baby, too, a fresh and innocent odor reminiscent of soap and water and wild meadow flowers and half-forgotten memories. Odd how much more arousing her girlish simplicity was than the array of provocative perfumes and paints which his wife squandered a small fortune on .. .

Alan nuzzled his face into her soft corn silk curls in order to tease at the delicate pink shell of her ear with his nose, then started lapping a lascivious route back down toward the tempting triangle of her pussy. Before he'd traveled further than the tiny hollow at the base of her swanlike throat, however, the nagging pain inside his straining groin grew unendurable so that he was forced to rise and kick off his trousers and jockey shorts. Out surged a throbbing thickness of such gargantuan girth that the blasé suburban swinger's eyes bulged in their sockets.

"Shit!" he muttered aloud, forgetting that he didn't want the girl to awaken yet. "Haven't had a hard-on like this since back in high school!"

He hadn't disturbed the girl with his words, but when he took her breasts in both hands and simultaneously snaked his tongue down over her softly swelling belly, she moaned and tossed her head to and fro on the flat little pillow. It wouldn't be long now before she drifted out of her drugged dreams; he'd have to move faster, for he wanted her to be hovering on the edge of orgasm when she regained consciousness. Besides, this phenomenal phallus of his wasn't going to wait forever for satisfaction, much as he regretted cutting short the foreplay.

Gayle, his wife, had rather small breasts and a rather large complex about them. At first he'd strived in vain to excite her by kissing and caressing them, but since his efforts only seemed to antagonize her he'd given up.

"See--I'm perfectly normal!" she'd declared one day not too long ago, thrusting one of her damn women's lib books into his face. "Thirty-eight-point-six females don't have significant nerve responses in their breasts. It's just another male chauvinist myth that they like their tits mauled! And men who're all hung-up on boobs are immature, or insecure, or else they've got a mother fixation. So there!"

Actually, she didn't particularly care for any sort of foreplay, not even having him go down on her. Oh, she didn't say so-that wouldn't have been in keeping with her liberated image-but he suspected she faked her climaxes. He was also half-convinced her dramatic orgasms at the swap club meetings were just an act to maintain her reputation as star swinger. Once he'd been turned on by her almost masculine aggressiveness, her total lack of inhibitions about trying each and every kinky position, her fashionable scorn of traditional morality; but these days he found himself wondering whether there were any genuine emotions behind her polished performances of passion.

"Hurry up! Don't bother about that kissing business!" she'd often say. "I can't wait another second for your big hard cock.". . . like he was a trained dog who could get it up on command or something . . .

Alan shook his head to clear away the disturbing thoughts. Hell, why was he worrying about his marriage at a moment like this? Tonight, with this lush-loined honey-blonde lady, there were certainly no difficulties as far as erections went. . . far from it! Carefully, very carefully he eased himself onto the narrow bed so that he was between her spread-eagled legs staring straight at the glistening rose-pink petals of her curl-fringed pussy.

Christ, he swore to himself, this bed was built for a midget! Back in the States he had a king-sized waterbed with a sexy black fur spread and a giant mirror hanging at a judicious angle overhead. That's where he and little Miss Blakesley ought to be, not this seedy Paris hotel. Through the brain-boggling clouds of alcohol and lust, the man was dimly realizing that this curvaceous coed was someone really special-maybe even a virgin!

After a bit of awkward maneuvering he managed to arrange his six-foot frame so that his loafer-shod feet and long bare legs dangled over the end of the bed and his hands could stroke her sensitive breasts and belly while he commenced his oral attack. A heady whiff of fragrant cuntal juices suffused his nostrils as he sank his head down into the warm cave between her snow-white inner thighs, dizzying him with debauched desire, and then at last silken strands of pussy hair were tickling his sideburns, his chin, his nose. Without an instant's hesitation Alan's tongue flicked toward the pinkly moist crack of her vagina for a sample, an aphrodisiacal aperitif; the droplet of lubricating liquid exploded on his taste buds like heated honey, only sweeter, much sweeter.

"Ooohhh . . . uuuhhhmmmm ..."

Her sleepy sighs sent the nervous married man's tongue darting back between his bared teeth and froze his hands on her breasts for an instant. Then, once again, he cursed himself for his over-cautious hesitance. What the hell if she did wake up? No matter what happened now he wasn't about to blow this fantastic opportunity for a feast of gourmet eating pussy! In any case he need not have panicked, for her lids remained shut with long brown lashes trailing over flushed cheeks with one transparent blue vein which quivered slightly when his extended middle finger parted her pubic fleece.

"Mmmhhhhmmmmhhhhh ..."

It sounded as though Monica would awaken any minute now, but the man crouched between her splayed legs was too excited by the warm wetness of her outer cuntal lips to heed her half-conscious moans. As his fingertip parted the close-folded petals of her pussy, his hungry hardness spasmed so emphatically that he, too, groaned aloud. In a moment he'd eased his impatient instrument to the left so he could massage it against the resilient smoothness of her dimpled knee.

Holy Christ, she was tight . .. tight, but also damp with telltale juices of desire. Dubois considered himself a connoisseur of cunts: well-used, ragged-lipped ones opening in invitation like exotic Venus flytraps . . . oddly exciting ones with clitoris almost as large as a tiny penis.. . pussies ranging in color from palest pink to a rich reddish-purple. The school-teacher's, a bright pink, dew-drenched wild rose just opening to the June sun, was the sort he especially relished. Best of all, he was willing to bet nothing had ever entered its timidly unfurling depths except a sterile Tampax.

By now Alan was so aroused that he wasn't quite as gentle as he'd intended to be as he ran his outstretched digit the length of her quivering slit, all the way from the crumpled indentation of her tiny anus to the already half-erect button of her hidden clitoris. It rose in a miniature erection as he skillfully circled it, and he wondered how in God's name she could possibly remain unconscious through this kind of stimulation. Her muffled noises had ceased, though her eyes were still glued shut. . . could she conceivably be half-awake and pretending not to be?

This salacious speculation excited him so much that he wrenched his secretion-sticky finger out of her pussy. Eyes glinting, heart thudding like a hammer against his constricted lungs, he licked the lush nectar from his middle finger and then buried his face between Miss Blakesley's full-fleshed thighs to begin his obscene feast.