Getting Their Kicks
(Mm/Ff, inc, anal, blackmail)

by Kysa Braswell
www.kysaonline.com

A light drizzle and a leaded sky with scudding clouds greeted Dara Dupuis when she awoke in the half light of the early morning. She had left the bedroom window open slightly, and the cool air which blew through the crack rustled the flowers on the nightstand and rippled across the thin sheet which covered her. She stirred; frowning at first as she unconsciously tried to cover herself with more, then became fully awake and saw that the blanket was knotted at the foot of the bed.

Damnation, she thought, sitting up abruptly to grab the blanket. Another night of tossing and turning. She hated to sleep alone, and that was the problem. Her husband, George, was gone on another trip. Business, always business, him and his new job at Pickford, Incorporated. He never had time to be a husband to her any more, and she... well, she was little more than a pretty doll for him to use when he was around. She wasn't a wife, she was just someone - almost like a whore - for him to have sex with, always available.

Piqued, she stopped unfolding the blanket. Sleep was gone now, impossible in spite of the early hour of the morning. She stretched languidly on the bed, releasing the last of her stupor.

Dara Dupuis was a wife any man would be proud to have. Her husband called her a "sex machine that can cook," and said it with a grin. Her long, raven-black hair cascaded down over her shoulders as she stretched, curled around her full G-cup breasts and made a contrast to her blush-red nipples and areolea. Her breasts were still firm and taut, even though she was the mother of a eleven-year old daughter, and she was increasingly glad that she had followed her doctor's regimen when Jennifer was born. The exercises she'd done faithfully had prevented the slightest trace of stretch marks from the birth, and she could walk around in a bikini and still look like she was Jennifer's older sister and not her mother.

The sheet had slid down to her girlish waist and her round, tapered thighs. She kicked the sheet aside with her long, slim legs and stood up, flouncing her hair and yawning. She was naked, as she always slept; naked and desirable. Her face went well with her body, a sort of pouty, sensual, flirtatious look about it with its small nose and full ripe mouth and large hazel eyes. There was nothing aloof about her; it was pure animal, pure female.

Dara giggled to herself as she crossed to the window and shut it. A little shiver of delight passed through her stomach as she recalled the number of men who stared at her, their eyes and the bulge in their loins hard and wanting. And of their propositions even though most of them knew that she was married - not that she had ever been unfaithful. Of course, a little coy flirting never hurt anybody, and it made her feel so good. She'd never let the game get out of hand, and she didn't intend to, but it was nice to know that a woman of her years could still attract, still arouse men on a basic, primitive level.

Not that her husband seemed to take all that notice. Damn, damn - how long had it been this time since she'd had George inside her? She leaned on the window sill and stated out at the wind-whipped yard and answered herself: too long. If it hadn't been for the bright visits and constant chatter of her best friend, Maria Jennings - who also happened to be the wife of Pickford' vice-president in charge of marketing - well, if it hadn't been for Maria to help take her mind off things, Laurie didn't know what she would have done, how she could have managed this long...

When Dara had called herself a whore, it had been with a slight tingle, a secret thrill the way forbidden thoughts can do. She enjoyed the sex which she gave her husband, wanted and needed it, and was at the moment naked and desirable - and desiring.

"Hurry up, George," she moaned aloud to herself. "Hurry up and get home." George was due in sometime today and she ached to see him again. It was always like this, when he was gone. Not so bad at first, but progressively more frustrating until by the day he leas expected back, she was nearly crazy with her anticipations and pent-up needs. I could have him make love to me from now until Christmas without stopping, she groaned inwardly.

She smiled ironically as she turned from the window and lay down on the bed again. Her mother had given her interesting advice when she'd first married, advice which was now a sore point between her and George. Her mother'd said: "You keep a man with good looks and a hot body. Anything else he can buy in a store." Sure - only you needed the opportunity to use that burning little trap between the legs.

The opportunity was going to come in a little while, she hoped. The very thought of George taking her, spreading her thighs and hammering his hardened penis long and deep inside her belly was exciting. She cupped her breasts as she sat on the bed, examining the nipples, slightly startled at the way they suddenly began to harden. She moved back so that she could lean against the head rest and look down at them and tweak the nipples between her thumbs and fingers until they were fully enlarged. It was overwhelming her, this manipulation of her sensitive breasts, just as it always had. Some women aren't aroused by their breasts being touched, others are teased only if their nipples are softly stroked. But Dara had always had nerve endings more exposed than most; sometimes even wearing a brassiere sent waves of delicious feelings soaring through her.

Now, as she stared down at the white globes jutting from her, she was doubly excited by the realization that soon, very soon, her husband would be placing his hands on them, caressing them, kissing them hotly. With a low mewl of passion, she let one hand slowly move from her breasts and down her smooth, flat plane of a stomach, down to the soft curling fleece of her pubic triangle, then out around her thighs and asscheeks, then dipping once more to the lips of her pussy. Closing her eyes against the guilt in her mind she let her fingers open the swollen, moist lips, part the pubic hair, and slide in, finding the clit waiting and eager. She circled the quivering bud, spreading the rising juices in a slow caress, groaned softly between clenched teeth as her probing finger felt its way to her open, wet pussy. Her thighs widened to her squirming touch, and she pinched the tender pink skin of her vaginal lips and mouth, luxuriating in the sharp pain as her hips jerked upwards.

Then she jammed her fingers into her hungry pussy, and she pressed herself tightly to the mattress as she masturbated, writhing and twisting, her thighs pumping in time to her plunging fingers. The cords of her neck stood out and the mattress squeaked as she lashed and bucked with the fever of her sexual urgings.

"Ohgod oh God," she moaned. She felt like a panther, rubbing herself this way, and she knew that if just the thought of George returning did this to her, his real arrival would be absolute heaven. "Ohgod I want... George!"

Suddenly she heard a car stop in front of the home, and a door slam. In another moment, the car slipped into gear and sped away. Who could that be? she asked herself, her hand frozen in midstroke, still in her cunt. Is it George? He's taken a taxi home?

As if in answer, the front door of the house opened loudly, and she heard the familiar sound of his footsteps. She quickly removed her toying fingers and whipped the sheet over her. A warm flush ripped through her... George, George, hurry to me, please... I need you so much right now. Then the bedroom door banged, and a muscular, tall man with cropped brown hair and a round, open face entered, his hands gripping the handles of two suitcases. "Hi, baby!" he said breathlessly: "Took the first flight I could." He dropped the bags just inside the door and came toward her. "Boy, it's good to be home again."

"Shh," she said. "You'll wake Jennifer." She laughed delightedly. "Shut the door and come here and give your wifey a big kiss. God! How I've missed you!"

He did as she asked, and then his arms were around her and her lush lips were against his as she claw to him. "Darling... darling," she whispered in his ear. "I love you, my darling."

George kissed his wife again, then pulled away from her. "I don't have much time. Have to be at the office, you know." He grinned at her and began to loosen his shirt and tie. "Just enough time for a quick shower and change."

"Business," she pouted. "Why don't you spend sometime with your wife any more? Are you tired of her?"

"Dara, you know better to that," George said. He stood up, freeing himself from the near- tentacle grasp of his fevered wife. He unbuckled his pants and removed his shirt. "That's why I took the early flight, just so I could see you."

Impulsively, she let the sheet fall away from her nude body and stretched out, letting his eyes feast on the thighs and breasts and legs he loved so well. She raised one leg and let it part so he could see the black pubic hair, slightly damp from her fingerings, and her teasingly puffed vaginal lips. "All of me, George?" she asked in a husky voice. Little butterfly sensations flitted in her tummy as she saw the effect her display was having on her husband. She licked her lips. She felt so wicked; but he was her husband after all!

George Clair gaped with utter fascination at the breathtaking sight of his wife stretched out so wantonly on the bed. It was a replica of the vision he had beheld the previous two weeks as he'd lay in his motel bed and stared at the yellowed ceiling and wished his cock was in something warm and moist like her cunt and his arms were tight around her as he spewed his seed into her womb. It was an erotic spectacle and he swallowed tightly.

"Dara," he whispered hoarsely. He dropped his pants, and stepped out of them, leaving them to puddle with his shirt and shoes on the floor. He was now only in his underpants and socks, and his cock began to thicken with pulsing blood, hardening from the lascivious sight of his wife tantalizingly smiling at him. He glanced at the clock on the dresser. There wasn't time... he had to get to work.

With a frustrated moan, he tore his eyes from her and walked stiff- legged to the bathroom. "Tonight, baby. Tonight we'll make love. I'd, I'd like to now... but there's not enough time."

Dara wanted to cry with the overwhelming agony inside her. She'd done everything she could to interest him, and still his business was more important. She fought back tears of frustration as she heard the shower go on and her husband step into the tub and pull the curtain closed. Again she touched her throbbing pussy, gently managing the warm flesh. She rubbed harder and harder as the spray in the bathroom beat a tattoo against the tub, and she felt her cunt palpitate against the palm of her hand with heavy sexual excitement. Then the shower ended, and after a few moments, George reappeared, rubbing the drops of water away with a large bathtowel.

"George," Dara groaned, her voice provocative and husky. "George, don't get dressed... please, not yet."

George came over to the bed. "Honey, you've got to understand. I've only got an hour."

The sight of his soft cock, nestled against his balls incited still further passion from the starved young woman. She patted the bed beside her. "Sit down, George. Just for a minute. That's all. Spend a minute with me."

Her husband sat on the edge of the mattress as if he was giving himself running room to escape. He couldn't keep his eyes off Dara, in spite of his vow to be on time at the office. There was so much to do... the meeting scheduled for ten... But right before him was the sensuous, squirming details of her nakedness resplendently clear, from her erotic red nipples downward to the delicate triangle of soft, black pubic hair beneath her still flat, almost virginal white plane of her abdomen.

"Darling, don't I please you any more?" she said plaintively. Her hand was encircling his waist now and slowly slid over his hips and thighs and into his loins. He groaned with the sensations of her feather-light touch. The erection which had half begun when he'd first undressed and she'd displayed her body so salaciously had gone down in the shower. When he'd emerged from the bathroom, toweling himself dry, his cock was thoroughly limp and his thoughts were entirely on what he and his assistant, Paul Jennings, were going to say at the meeting

But now he found that he couldn't move from the bed. His penis did all the moving - straight up, leaping into full, raging erection. His wife's hand was around it now, tenderly stroking it up and down as only she could, and then she took his heavy testicles and softly rolled them between her fingers.

She looked up at him, smiling cattishly. "You like what I'm doing, George darling?"

George didn't answer. He couldn't, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His heart hammered with the beating of his transformation from businessman to lover... there was no way of stopping it, he realized. His cock's large hardness couldn't be denied. Neither could his wife. He glanced at the clock with agonized eyes. He wasn't going to make that meeting at this rate.

Then, suddenly he didn't care. His wife's ministrations and sensuous provocations were too much. Nothing else mattered to him now but plunging his aching cock into her delightful flesh, and George reached for Dara, his hand slipping gently beneath her dark tresses and drawing her head to him. Their lips met momentarily and then broke apart... reaching out but not quite touching. He drew her closer, grasping her lower lips between his teeth and pulling the moist, soft flesh into his mouth... his teeth slipped off and his lips enfolded her as he sucked her lips into her mouth.

"Darling... darling," she murmured as he sucked.

Dara felt a tingling shock run icily into her. Her darting tongue wedged beyond his lips, back inside, over the roof, and across the front of his teeth, caressing... always caressing.

George leaned forward, his momentum carrying them both back onto the pillow and he crushed his mouth harder against hers, his arms pressing her to the pillow. He raised himself and rolled, half sitting, so that he was beside her. Dara lay back against the sheets obediently, her arms wide and her legs slightly spread...

"Yes, George," she whispered softly, her lashes shadowing her cheeks as she closed her eyes. "Please take me... take me..."

"Yes, yes..." he managed to say. He ran his hands over her throbbing breasts and down her belly, into the sob, fleshy folds of her cunt where moments before she had played with herself.

Dara moaned, her body alive to his caresses. Her creamy satin skin was a lamina of hot desire. God! she wanted him! Her body cried out to be loved tenderly and totally... as he was doing now. She wanted him to merge with her, crawl up inside her and possess her and quell the raging torrents that were building up in the very depths of her soul from his maddening strokings. Dear Lord, her husband - the only man she could give herself to without fear of guilt - was making her deliriously happy.

"Oh yessss," she whimpered. "Oh yes, George, touch me there. There... oh yes, therrrrre!" she moaned, helplessly caught up in the tingling pricks of lust that were dancing through her. She sensed the dewdrops of moisture rising between her open thighs as the exposed hair-lined lips of her pussy began to spasmodically contract wetly against one another. George ran the tip of his tongue around the rim of her ear and plunged it deep inside. Her whole being seemed aflame with a febrility of surging senses. She couldn't wait much longer or she would go mad!

"Ohhhhh!" she cried. "I want you inside me! Now darling! Now!"

Dara twisted her husband's hair, pulling him violently over her. "Please, darling! Please!"

The strange obscenity of her passion-filled pleas excited George to a frenzied, blinding furor. He sensed his cock and testicles aching with blood-filled lust, and then suddenly grow flame-hot as one of his wife's hands closed like a steel trap over the thick, glistening penis. It pulsed wickedly against the palm of her hand as the slid up and down the hard flesh, and insane with lust, he didn't need further urging. He grabbed her jutting breasts and rolled on top of her, her legs wide and cradling his hips. The flowering lips of her cunt widened, and she guided his hardened cock to the wetness between her legs, her groans of desperate agony seething in his ear. She rubbed his swollen penis along her open pink slit and parted the soft, resilient pubic hair unto it was nestled teasingly in the entrance to her pussy

Her husband clamped his fingers into the full cheeks of her asscheeks and rammed his body downward. His swelling cock disappeared into her cuntal tunnel with a wet sucking sound.

Dara groaned. Her body tightened into an arch of hardened passion at the initial entry split the walls of her pussy. Then she writhed under the rising heat of her delirious sensations, her belly squirming. She raised up under the pressure of his fingers, the glistening prick sliding out until its coronal ridge caught at the straining lips of her cunt, then surged in again. Up and down, faster and faster... and Dara's face contorted with passion and her nostrils flared open as her breath burned her lungs.

George felt the smooth raw flesh of his passion-aroused wife's pussy clasp him tightly, pulse against his pumping shaft until his balls felt ready to explode, and he lost all track of time as the excruciating pleasure rocked through him. He drove deeper and deeper into her pussy with each thrust of his asscheeks. His wife twisted her head from side to side, flaying her hair against the white pillow, and rode his cock like a bitch in heat. She drove her hips up, screwing every inch of his cock and routing the huge head around in her seething belly, causing George to gasp and quiver. A fierce storm whirlwinded through him as his penis sucked deep in her pussy and battered her cervix. He felt the eruption of his boiling sperm starting deep in his groin, and knew he was about to come.

Dara sensed it, too. She could feel her husband's cock swelling and straining against the moist ribs of her fleshy vaginal walls. She begged: "Please... not yet. Not yet... wait for me, wait... please!" Her legs splayed wider and she bucked and writhed on the wildly squeaking mattress, her loins insatiable. "Now... harder!

Not even Dara, crazed with desire building for the last two weeks, or her husband, a rutting animal of pagan demands, would have been so wild and free if they'd known that less than four feet away, two small eyes were watching them with glittering, unbelieving intensity.

Jennifer Clair opened her eyes with a start, blinking rapidly in the darkened bedroom. She had been awakened by the front door opening loudly, then the thunk of a couple of heavy things hitting the floor. At the time she didn't realize that what she had heard were the suitcases her daddy had carried into the bedroom. Jennifer strained her ears to catch any more sounds, but everything was silent, save for a muffled kind of talking coming from the direction of her parent's bedroom.

Daddy was home!

With a thrill, the young teenager jumped out of bed, landing lightly on the carpet in her bare feet. She was a lot like her mother, only in younger miniature. Her pert face had the same frame of coal-black hair hanging loosely, the same color in her lovely eyes, and the same upthrust nose and full lips. Her father had given her a pale, almost iridescent quality to her skin and thinner arms and shoulders than her mother's, and a slightly higher cast to her cheekbones, which made her all the more sensual and provocative. Her breasts were smaller because they weren't quite as developed as he mother's, but they never would be as ripe or full; they were as if carved by a master ivory craftsman, small pointed cones which had peaks of black-berry-like nipples. Her asscheeks were almost boyish, lithe and feline like some predatory cat's.

She was wearing her favorite nighty, a soft pink peignoir, Empire cut with a small red bow bunching the material under her breasts, acting as a sort of loose bra to jut them like display goods on a shelf. Not that she needed support for her breasts - they were firm and resilient like unripe peaches. The gown fell just below her thighs; it had once been a set with a pair of matching panties, but after Jennifer had discovered that wonderful playground between her legs, she made sure that the panties were conveniently lost.

Jennifer was a lot like her mother mentally and emotionally as well as physically. She heard the shower go on then, and smiled to herself. Daddy was taking a shower; she couldn't go in the bedroom now. But she would in a little while, and run up and give him a big kiss. Maybe he'd be in his bathrobe and naked underneath and she'd accidentally brush against him and feel his thing against her leg. She liked doing that. Not that she'd ever seen him naked. She hadn't seen any boy naked, except for the few little babies she'd changed while babysitting. All they had were little worms between their legs which wouldn't get hard no matter how much she diddled them. She'd heard that a man's thing... his penis! - was large and could get like stone. She'd been told that by her best girlfriend, Katie Jennings.

Jennifer sat down on the edge of the bed and passed the time while her father was in tile shower by thinking briefly of Katie. It was neat having her parents so close to Tam's parents; mothers bridge-club partners, their fathers working for the same company. Tam was a grade higher than she was, but that didn't stop the popular and vivacious girl from being friends - really good friends - with Jennifer. And Katie was going steady with Vic Statler, the high-school's star half- back, a muscular, handsome boy which made all the girls swoon (including Jennifer), just as if he had stepped out of a movie magazine. How had Katie ever latched onto such a boy?

Jennifer had an idea how: sex. Tam was, well, "experienced," Jennifer was sure, and probably from Vic... but what a way to go! Just thinking about those strong arms around her made her go all goose-pimply. Not that Jennifer had ever asked Katie about it; that would be bad taste; but after that episode in the girl's shower room last April...

Jennifer had walked into the deserted locker room after staying late to practice volleyball. She'd undressed and walked into the showers, and there was Katie! The older girl was sitting on the floor, her back to the tile, the spray of the shower beating down between her legs. And her hand was down there, rubbing as fast as it could. Katie was moaning and her eyes were clenched; thinking she was in pain, Jennifer had rushed over and asked what she could do. Katie had told her, after she'd gotten the innocent girl to lie down beside her and spread her own legs wide...

The thought of Katie's cool fingers on her little pubic lips made Jennifer blush, and she averted her eyes from the image in her mirror. They didn't talk about such things in her sex and health class, but she knew instinctively that adults would disapprove. Katie and she had gotten together a few times after that, to play with each other's pussy - and once Tam had persuaded Jennifer to let her be kissed there, but Jennifer had gotten scared after a couple of minutes and made Tam stop.

But Jennifer hadn't stopped wanting to feel those strange, scintillating feelings that she'd been introduced to in the shower room. She never let the boys who dated her do it to her... never! She was going to be married a virgin like her mother did, and anything past necking and fondling her breasts was strictly off limits. There were times after a drive-in movie or party when she'd cried out her frustrations in her pillow, for a boy she'd really liked at the time would have gotten her hotter than the hinges of hell. But after a few weeks the boy would no longer be important to her, and she would grow fond of another boy, and she had known that to give into one wouldn't be good. She wasn't ready to settle down, to truly fall in love.

Of course, no boy had come along like Tam's football star, but when he did - if he did - Jennifer knew instinctively that she'd have an awful time keeping her resolutions.

So the use of her fingers had proven a salvation, a release from the gnawing frustrations which ripped through her sensitive skin now and then. Especially after a heavy date, for when she'd finished her cry, she'd relax, and let her fingers do the walking.

She realized that the shower was over, and went to the door. It was going to be nice, seeing her father again. She padded out of her room, which was at one end of the long, tri-level home, and passed through the kitchen and living room, and stepped down the wide, shallow steps to the hall leading to the guest room, patio, and master bedroom.

"Yes, George. Please take me... take me."

Jennifer froze on the landing, hand gripping the wooden railing. That was her mother! She had never sounded that way before! Was she sick? Or was she! A flash of an image came across the teenager's mind. Was her mother and her father doing things in there? Were they making love? A weird anticipatory tingling started growing in the pit of the girl's stomach. She'd never seen two people make love, though she'd often wondered about what it would look like, especially as she was masturbating. Then she would imagine herself under the heaving frame of the boy who'd fired her sexual desires that particular night. She'd never really thought about her parents doing it. They'd have to - she was here, wasn't she? The image of a hard, swollen penis screwing into her mother leaped up and she trembled with guilt. She told herself she should go back to her room and get dressed. She could see Daddy later, afterwards... and the thought of the act which she would have to patiently wait to end made her suck in her breath. Stop it! Stop it!

"Oh yesssss," her mother crooned again. "Oh yes, George, touch me there. There... oh yes, therrrrre!"

Jennifer found herself drawn down the hall, her pussy twitching with lewd thoughts. She couldn't do anything anyway, for the door to the bedroom was shut. She hunkered down by the door, every nerve and fibre of her tender young body on fire from the forbidden thrill of listening in on her parents. Her heart stopped and ache dared not to even gasp. Strange noises continued to flood her ears from the other side, their intensity increasing with every passing second. With a mind of its own, her right hand inched toward the handle. Did she dare to open it, just a crack?

"Ohhhhh! I want you inside me! Now! Now!"

Heavy rushed breathing and the staccato sounds of squeaking bedsprings punctuated by animal-like groans and moans blinded the teenager's normal sense of decency and decorum. Goaded to an uncontrollable pitch of curiosity and sexual arousal, she took a deep breath and slowly turned the handle down, not making a sound. She inched the door open, then open another fraction...

She paled and her eyes bulged wide, and a cold chill ran crazily up the full length of her spine.

The foot of the bed was pointed right at the door so that she could see the complete carnal scene. Her father and mother were making love violently! Jennifer could even see her father's thick, hard penis disappearing and reappearing into her mother's softly hair-ringed pussy with each piledriving thrust and withdrawal that he made. Her mother had her legs splayed wide on either side of his plunging body and periodically she would kick them high in the air then wrap them around her husband's driving asscheeks, her ankles locking tightly behind his thighs, pulling him into her with all her strength.

Jennifer could feel the sweat flowing freely on her young body, trickling down beneath the folds of her pink nighty. She had a strange sense of not being a part of herself, the shock of actually viewing sexual intercourse that strong on her, and she couldn't understand it. Down between her clenched thighs her tight, still virgin cunt was tingling like it had never tingled before. She thought fleetingly of leaving... but she continued to watch with hypnotic fascination, now beyond it rationality.

She centered her gaze on the muscles straining out on her mother's inner thighs as Dara Clair struggled like a drug-crazed nymphomaniac to get her husband deeper inside her hungrily sucking pussy. Jennifer's father was cupping her naked asscheeks with a savage strength that cut red, bloodless lines into the full, uplifted moons. He squeezed her asscheeks together, forcing the walls of her pussy tighter around the thickness of his rigid pelvis, and Jennifer studied the thin, moistly glistening lips of her mother's pussy as they strove to milk the giant shaft of its strength. The teenager could see the thinly parted pubic hairs grazing teasingly against the narrow ridge which ran the full length of the underside of her father's enormous penis. My god, she thought, her father was hung like a horse! His prick... must have been at least twelve inches long and extremely... painfully thick!

Jennifer heard the almost incoherent moanings as, her parents thrashed around on their bed. Goaded to a mind-warping frenzy of abandon, the little girl brought her hand down along her body and across her thighs, to rest against her own tender pubic mound, and then to rub it back and forth through the silken material of her shorty nightgown. She could feel wetness flowing on her thighs and down her inner legs, and she sat on the rug and chanced opening the door a little bit more so that she could see better from her sitting position. She gathered the hem of her nighty, bunching it up along her firm, young thighs, exposing the whiteness of them and the young, sparse growth of her pubic hair. Again she lowered her hand to her pussy mound and began to rub - faster and faster in a froth of passion and empathetic emotions.

Her mother's mewls of pleasure were becoming more desperate, and the glazed eyes of the daughter stayed glued on the lewd, obscene coupling taking place a few feet away. Jennifer's middle finger slid along her wet cunt lips and found her clit, teased it with her fingernail and felt waves of consuming lust rip through her. She dropped her finger still lower, insinuating it in her now thirstily throbbing pussy, pumping in rhythm to the fucking on the bed while her thumb toyed with her erect little clit.

The girl was caught up in the passion of the occasion. She wriggled on the rug and let her wet thighs open completely and propped one leg on the door jamb, and the shock of the autumnal cool air in the house wafted over her steaming cunt and gave her a new shudder of ecstasy. The wet, sucking sound of her masturbation was clearly discernible to her ears, and her little body heaved and bucked from her whipping fingerings. She secreted heavily, more heavily that she'd ever remembered.

George Clair was grinding down faster now, and the groans and howls were furious. He smacked against his wife, driving her deep down into the groaning mattress with each mighty surge. The loud clap of belly against belly, testicles against asscheeks, were like claps of thunder. His wife curled and uncurled her legs in wild desperation around his hips, and both of the adults were breathing wildly, with rivulets of perspiration streaming down their pumping and hollowing loins.

Jennifer wanted to scream to wail as she became delirious with her own maddening passions, straining to hold back the explosion which was threatening to inundate her like a tidal wave. She nearly went out of her mind as she heard her mother moan:

"Please... not yet, not yet wait for me, wait for me... please!" And then after a few more moments: "Now... harder!"

The young teenager's breath rasped in her throat. They were going to climax! Her parents were going to come any second now! And she was watching it! Frantically she moved her clit, her cunt, her asscheeks and ass with the fingers of both hands, impaling herself as deep as her hands would go. She was going to come too!

"I'm going... I'm going to come, George!" Jennifer could almost imagine herself saying that instead of her mother. She ground harder and deeper, quivering under the pressure, gasping for imminent release.

Dara Clair screamed, "AAhhhhh!"

And then her husband's low cry of climax came as he burst his seeds of love inside his wife. "Oooooooohhhhhhh, me tooooo!"

The daughter heard the sounds of their orgasms, and watched wide-eyed as her parents scrambled for completion. Her mother's asscheeks began small, spasmodic jerkings up tight against her father's penis. At the same time, George Clair groaned above his wife and his thick, fleshy cock throbbed out milky white semen, leaping bursts of his cum which inundated her pussy and cascaded hotly out from around the pink, wet lips of her cuntal opening.

Jennifer could see the stream of her father's ejaculations running down the widespread crevice of her mother's desperately jerking asscheeks and pool thickly on the sheet below. Then, as if by remote control, her parent's cumming triggered her own. She strained and stretched her legs out in sudden convulsion and the earth seemed to open up beneath her. She lifted herself off the rug in a trembling arch and grasped the bone wall of her pussy and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.

Then suddenly she collapsed, sliding to the floor, and breathed raggedly. She could hear noises from the bedroom, but they were noises of contentment and not of passion. She peered in with dull, half-lidded eyes and saw that her mother and father were laying still.

She beard her father say: "Oh Christ, baby, took at the time. I'm going to be late."

"Wasn't it worth it?"

"Sure, but..."

A shock of panic went through the daughter. Her father was getting up! As much as she wanted to stay and see his sperm-emptied penis as he slipped it from her mother's pussy, she couldn't risk the chance of being detected. Exhausted, her body protesting, she dragged herself to her feet and wobbled slightly, her nighty sticking to the damp sides of her thighs and the wet matted hair of her cunt. She looked around and down and saw the wet spot on the carpet where she'd lain, and as her mind returned to sanity, she felt shamed and a little dirty for what she'd done. She clutched her gown around her protectively and groped her way back to her bedroom. But she didn't feel revolted, only satiated with pleasure.

Speaking of time, she told herself, once safe in the sanctity of her own room, I don't hare much of it myself! There was less than half an hour before school stated, and she had to catch the bus four blocks away.

In a frenzied hurry, she wriggled out of her nighty. The swift change from shameless little wanton to schoolgirl was not only necessitated by the time, but also because it saved her from dwelling on what she'd witnessed and done. A blanking of the mind - a salvation so that she wouldn't have to face the responsibilities for her actions. Naked, she went through her bureau and found a clean pair of panties, which she stepped into, her fingers tugging their elastic band until the smooth round cheeks of her asscheeks and the soft mound of her cunt were snugged tight. She looked down to find a bra, and caught the sight of her tight panties and the split of full young vaginal lips, still swollen from her masturbation.

A moment of tiny shock crowed her mind, her body blending dangerously into the melting pot of sensuality she'd so recently partaken of. Then she quickly slipped into her blouse and miniskirt, and picked up her comb to untangle her hair. As she looked into her mirror and studied her dark waves, she saw that her mini skirt clung to her asscheeks and was more than half way upper tanned thighs, with slight creases in front where her legs joined her hips. With sudden awareness she realized that she could almost see the lips of her pussy... and another forbidden thrill passed through her, followed by a blush as she recalled the last few minutes and one experience she'd never had before. Embarrassed, she collected her homework and books.

She quickly left her room, only to find that her parent; still weren't out of their bedroom. She didn't have time to wait, even though she would have liked to have said hello to her father - and then decided it was probably just as well. After catching them doing what they had been doing, she wasn't sure she could look them in the eye. She went to the front door and opened it.

"Mom! Daddy!" she called over her shoulder. "Gotta run or I'll be late! See you when I get home from school!"

Not waiting for an answer, she raced down the front walk of her home; letting the door slam behind her.

The offices of Pickford, Incorporated were on the fifth floor of the old Antler Building, along Second Avenue in downtown Rapier City. George Clair parked his Ford stationwagon in the basement garage of the building across the street, and then walked down the street to the Antler Building, hurrying because he was late.

Not that he could really mind that he was late... the interlude of loving with his wife had made him feel better than he had in the last couple of weeks. No doubt about it: sex was the greatest tranquilizer in the world. He needed the eager arms and hot body of his lovely wife more than he could tell her; he needed her understanding and warmth and support, especially in these final few months before the coup was realized that was going to put Pickford on the tongue of every person in the country. He was sorry that he wasn't able to be around her much these last weeks, but it couldn't be helped. A little effort now, a little sacrifice, and the whole Clair family would be able to retire with ease, and he could start making up the lost time.

George frowned as he thought of his beautiful young wife, Dara, pouting. He was doing all of this for her, couldn't she understand it? She wasn't very understanding about what was necessary, always demanding more of his time and attention than he could afford to give, as if the future didn't matter. It was always now, now... but that was like a woman, he consoled himself.

The morning fog pulled up its skirts and dissolved among the tops of the buildings.. The street was full of ten o'clock businessmen hurrying and stenographers dawdling and women shopping. George paused long enough to buy a package of cigarettes at the counter in his building, and then he went to the elevator. The elevator operator eyed him sullenly, then carefully avoided his return gaze.

George pictured himself as the Provider of the family. The stalwart guard between Us and Everybody Else. As he rode up the elevator, he almost felt as if he was going into battle for Dara and Jennifer, that his suit was of armor, his attache case a sword, and Pickford, Incorporated the arena. In a way, his vision wasn't too wrong, if a bit romantic. Dara didn't work, and Jennifer was too young - it was up to him to be the link between the close-knit family unit and the cold, different, potentially brutal world beyond their doorstep. It was he who wore the two hats of Husband/Father and of Mr. Clair. It was he who shouldered the responsibilities to see that both hats were worn skillfully.

Dara had but one role, that of mate and mother. Sometimes it's difficult for a person who's committed to only one position to see that another person who must straddle two or more positions is constantly having to compromise. George was being pulled by the requirements of his career just as hard as he was being called upon to be with Dara. She wanted him home all the time - Pickford wanted him to be on the job all the time. The men he was going to meet this morning were going to pout in their own way just as forcefully as Dara had done, with the same cry:

"Spend more time with me!"

"What?" The elevator operator turned to George, startled.

"Nothing," George said, a little shaken. He realized that he'd suddenly burst out loud with his thoughts, a sure sign that the pressures, were getting to him. Just a little more, though, he thought... hold on for a little more; you can do it, Rog. You have to do it...

Pickford's downtown offices were actually for their sales force, though all of the upper executives were there as well. It was handier and a better area to live around than where the plant was. George, as chief engineer and vice-president in charge of development, was in the unenviable position of being liaison between the plant in Kirsten, Nevada, and the main office. He had moved from Kirsten when his promotion to vice-president had happened; Rapier City was much nicer and more varied than the smaller Nevada town; and he'd figured it really didn't matter at which end of the business he lived. He had to be at the other end half of the time, and his family would still be five hundred miles away. Here, they had a nicer home, a better neighborhood, and more things to do. For him to have turned down the promotion or shirked the duties and stayed in Rapier City all the time would be tantamount to quitting. George felt it was the best compromise under the circumstances.

Especially now, especially when his invention was at the brink of success. He went into the reception room, nodded to the PBX operator, and walked briskly to his office. His secretly, Wendy Goodfall, was all but wringing her hands.

"You're late," she said timorously.

"I know. Everybody in the board room?"

"Yes, Mr. Clair. Including Mr. Quarran. He said!"

"I'm sure he did, Wendy," George said, cutting off her whine. He took a few papers from his desk and added: "See you later."

The president and chairman of the board of Pickford was sitting at the head of the board room conference table, leaning back with a cigar in his mouth like some despot. Not so benevolent a despot though; Jerome Quarran was a ruthless shrewd manipulator who'd taken over Pickford when the electronics engineer who'd started the company five years ago went broke. A scientist does not a businessman make. Quarran looked up with his thick, heavy, watery eyes as Clair entered and took his usual chair on the left band side. He didn't say anything, merely brushed an invisible cigar ash off his plaid vest with that quick flick of annoyance superiors sometimes use on underlings.

The scientist who'd begun the company was across from Clair. Wilfred Krocklin was in his mid-fifties, but looked older and emaciated. Unlike the arrogant and fleshy-jowled face of Quarran, Krocklin was gaunt and lined with doubt, with large, ever-frightened eyes like those of a tarsier monkey. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, his collar turned up, his tie askew. His sparse white hair was uncombed where he'd run his fingers through it for one reason or another.

Sitting at the end of the table was Paul Jennings, V-P for sales. He was sharply dressed in the latest style as usual, a natty robin's egg blue suit with a slight Edwardian cut to it, and his long, wavy blond hair was perfectly in place. He looked imperturbable and slightly amused, like a cat with canary feathers caught in its mouth. That was his way, constantly cool and a little condescending.

George was sometimes piqued by Jennings; that supercilious air rasped his nerves after a while, and the ever-present preening of the fashion- plate image made George wonder if Jennings wasn't a near egomaniac. If anything personified Paul Jennings in George's mind, it was the way the man was always smoothing his thin mustache as if it was a waxed objet d'art. It was to George little more than a milk stain on Jennings's upper lip, the blondness being hardly visible. Nevertheless, Jennings was invaluable, a long-term employee who grasped what Quarran wanted, and did it. He was to the others at Pickford the emitomy of dedication and hard work. So Clair took what he considered Jennings's personality quirks in stride, saying nothing.

"Hello, George," Jennings said, fingering his mustache. "We were wondering if you'd missed the plane."

"No," George replied. "No, I took an earlier one." He smiled as if sharing a common complaint with the others. "Have to see my wife sometimes or risk a divorce, you know."

Jennings was bemused; he had one luscious babe for a wife, as Clair knew. Dara had told him that Maria had the same problem as she had when Paul went out of town.

Quarran made a noise in his throat like coal rattling down a chute. He was married to a dreadnaught of a wife, and while George had no way of knowing, he suspected that Quarran stayed away from the home and hearth as much as possible. There were office rumors about a little sweetheart stashed in a high-rise apartment on the other side of town...

"How's the Min-miniskopos doing, G-george?" Krocklin stuttered. He was referring to the invention which had made Clair the vice-president. "W-we're most anxious about it-t."

Jennings came forward and put his hands on the chair beside his boss. "Yes, George. Is it about ready?"

Clair opened his attache case and brought out a sheaf of papers. He spread them on the table. "I can announce that by this time next month, we'll have a working prototype."

"Excellent" Korcklin said, beaming.

"You said it would be done by now," Quarran grumbled. He chewed on his cigar and glared at Clair. He was never pleased.

Clair replied: "I also told you that with the aluminum companies on strike, I couldn't guarantee it. All we're waiting for is the extruded panels, which have to be made up special. If the president puts a Taft- Hartley injunction against the strikers and there's the 90-day cooling of period, we'll get the paneling and..." he paused to shrug slightly, "and then it's only a matter of putting one ; together. While I was down at Kirsten we tested one that was in sections, and it works fine, but you know 0 how the government is - they have to see shiny new boxes, not a mess of wires."

"Damnit," Quarran snorted, "we don't have the time! We have to have your miniskopos ready in time for the Fall Appropriations convention in Washington. You know that, George."

"That's..." Jennings consulted his mental calendar for a moment. "That's fifteen days from now."

"I don't know what you're going to have to do to get that blasted invention in presentable shape, George, but you're going to have to come up with something!" Quarran twisted into something of a smile, and looked levelly at Clair over his glasses. "We can't afford to wait another year."

Clair groaned and sat back in his chair. He was afraid of this. Pickford, Incorporated was in the video tape recording business, had been almost from the time of the market's inception. Krocklin had named the company after the old Greek word which eventually became the English word, scope; apt enough title, but Krocklin hadn't been able to meet the changing demands of the market as wisely.

When video tape first started, there were any number of companies, each with different systems. Unlike audio tape recorders or record players, there weren't any standard speeds or tape widths, and as a result, Ampex was out with an inch wide tape running at faster speeds than the Sony machines with quarter-inch tape. Panasonic and Concord came in with half-inch tapes at still another inches-per-second speed, and others loaded the market with their attempts. Nothing was interchangeable, and if a customer bought one brand, he sometimes found that six months later not even the same company was producing the same gear.

It was a guessing game as to who would come out on top, the developments in the industry outstripping any possibility for inter- company cooperation and standardization. Krocklin found that although his machines and cameras were of excellent quality, the average consumer was leery and often bought from the Big Boys out of fear of obsolescence - and the still high cost of manufacture had effectively stopped mass home consumption which would make the whole venture profitable.

Quarran had come in and under his guidance, sales improved a hundred percent. Then its chief engineer came up with a revolutionary development. A year ago George Clair had approached Quarran with nothing more than an idea down on paper. Out of the discussions and negotiations, Clair became vice-president with a hefty increase in salary, plus a percentage of the profits. In return he gave Pickford exclusive marketing and production rights.

Where current models were weighing sixty to eighty pounds, his miniskopos weighed less than twenty - -and it was a tenth of the size as well. Instead of bulky and expensive reels of tape, it used cartridges, 8-track music cartridges like the automobile stereo players. A person would slip in a cartridge, costing less than five dollars per hour of recording time, and depending on whether the unit was plugged into a camera or a television set, it would record or play. It could do both at once, if a person wanted to monitor what was being recorded. The whole unit was eight inches high, a foot wide, and a little over fifteen inches deep. It could fit on top of a television set. Or so it would, when the aluminum casing arrived.

And if that wasn't enough, it could also be used for color as well as black-and-white.

That was a year ago. Since then, the concept had been transformed into test units. There were bugs, of course; tape had to be specially made and the cartridge feeder mechanism designed from scratch. The components weren't available, and companies building field-effects and integrated circuits had to be talked with and their samples tested. It had been one long headache and fight - and the man who ran the whole she-bang was Clair, for he alone understood what it was all about.

Jennings, a born huckster, skillfully let the news of the pending miniskopos "leak" out. It had set the industry on its ear; everybody was talking about it, everybody wanted to buy it. The home entertainment market would have at last a dirt-cheap way of showing video tape, of transcribing favorite television shows, of making "home movies." The schools and the government would have the perfect teaching aid, which could be bought en masse without wrecking budgets.

The Dupuis miniskopos was worth a fortune.

But the time hadn't arrived when Clair could rest on his laurels. That final effort to get them over the top and the units into the hands of buyers had to be made. Quarran was right; the miniskopos had to be ready to be shown to the government in two weeks, for with contracts in hand, the high cost of production and tooling could be weathered. Later would come the home markets, which were never over-night, but took advertising, negotiations, and the slow grinding of public acceptance. Later it would be Paul Jennings's turn to work his tail off from the marketing end.

"I hate doing it," Clair said after listening to Quarran reiterate the obvious. "I hate doing it, but I suppose we could fashion one out of sheet metal. It won't look as well as the stamped paneling, and probably won't work as well, either. It sure as hell won't be as light."

"I can talk around that. Once those bureaucrats get their mitts onto a working prototype, they'll be too blinded to nit-pick." Quarran tapped his cigar ash into the large ceramic bowl beside him. "They'll specify aluminum and weight requirements, and by that time we'll be able to supply them."

"Y-yes, that s-sounds all right to me," Krocklin agreed.

Clair sighed. "Then sheet metal it is. I'll call the plant and...."

"You go to the plant," Quarran said forcefully.

"But I just got backs!"

"It can't be helped. There's not enough time to make more than one, and that one has got to be right. I don't want you to merely hope that the men down there will know what the devil you want; I don't want you to assume they can read your plans - I want you to be sure that every detail is perfect."

Clair looked at Quarran witheringly. "I suppose you want me to leave today?"

"I'm sorry."

Under the circumstances Clair realized that he would have to go. Not that he couldn't argue with Quarran, or even flatly refuse; it was the inherent realization that he was needed in Kirsten to supervise the fabrication. He glumly considered the inevitable scene with Dara. There were times when he wished he was still a bachelor.

Paul Jennings had other thoughts on his mind. Just as gloomy, perhaps, because he didn't know what he was going to do, but a great deal more dark, because of their subject. In less than two weeks he'd be handed the job of selling the finished product - not that it needed any selling. He'd just take orders, the way the miniscope was exciting the public. In less than two weeks, any chance that he had to steal the miniscope for his own use would be gone. In less than two weeks...

Jennings fingered his mustache, sighing inwardly. What had ever gotten him into this two-faced industrial spying anyway? Greed, pure and simple. The greed for other women, enhanced by his own wife's insatiable lust for strange cock, had introduced him to the swinging element in Rapier City. He Had been a devout member of the wife- swapping club for some time; it was their use of Club Sarbonne and its private shows and still more private "rooms" for viewing and fucking which had allowed him to become acquainted with Garrett Stoerner, Club Sarbonne's owner and operator.

That goddamned gangster Stoerner. Jennings conjured up a swear word for the cynical member of the state crime syndicate Mafia connected, though not controlled - who catered to the greedy vices of otherwise respectable members of the community. Greed, always greed. Greed had gotten Maria Jennings into the dog show there, a more than willing participant on the round stage when the Club had rented the whole second floor for one mass orgy last Spring.

Greed had made Paul Jennings go after and lay Stoerner's ex-chorus girl playmate; the only one who had balls enough to try, Stoerner had said afterwards.

And greed had made Jennings an enthusiastic partner when Stoerner had outlined his plan to take the secret of the miniscope and let one of the syndicate fronts - the outwardly legitimate Vantage Electronics Corporation - have it. The promise of a cut which would put Jennings on easy street overnight had put dollar signs in his eyes, and his wife had thought the scheme perfect.

The trouble had been that the miniscope was in Kirsten, and Jennings was stuck in Rapier City. He'd approached Clair with under-played, implied suggestions that there were greater riches to be made if Clair "sold out" on the sly, but it had failed dismally.

"I bet you've been approached secretly by other companies, eh, George?" had been met with open, naive shock. Clair couldn't believe that the competition could stoop so low.

"You know, you could have tripled, quadrupled, your profit if you'd considered others before or Quarran," had been met with a frown and a patriotic spiel about company loyalty.

"I'd sure like to see your drawings, George," had been met with a shrug and a vague answer that the blueprints were in short sections, constantly being revised, and that they wouldn't make sense to anybody except Clair himself.

Jennings had finally come to the conclusion that Clair was an innocent in the affairs of business manipulations, and that when it came to ethics and morals, he was as flexible as a glass rod.

Jennings was frustrated, and now the eleventh hour was here. He was going to have to do something fast, something desperate and a gamble, but then won't all business a gamble? The meek shall inherit the earth - not to Paul Jennings! The meek inherited dirt after the good stuff was grabbed by the ruthless.

Well, then damnit, start thinking of a way to grab! Jennings's brain churned with nefarious plots. He thought about blackmailing Clair with a girl, but he realized nothing short of doping the man would get him under the covers with another woman. But what about Mrs. Clair? Jennings suddenly grinned. Sure... there might be the answer. It might work... he recalled what Maria had told him a couple of times as she'd laughed over the weepings of George's sexually starved wife. "She's too much like me, Paul," she'd said. "She's as ripe for plucking as I was ten years ago."

And then with only the unadulterated viciousness of a human beast of prey, Jennings expanded his original idea to mull over the Clair daughter. She was about due to get hers, or at least that's what Katie had told her father two weeks ago. She'd really got him hot describing in minute detail how she had finger-fucked the little teenager in the high school shower room, bringing Jennifer to a climax which made her scream. And when he'd been hard, his penis jutting out of his bathrobe like a muzzle of a rifle, Katie had let him screw her on the floor of the livingroom, which was a different way than they usually did. Maria had thought it was hysterical when she'd walked in from the kitchen. Thrashing around on the carpet with the TV on beside them, the sound of gunfire and horses coming from the old cowboy movie.

Jennifer would have to be dealt with, Jennings figured, or the plan for Dara Clair wouldn't work. Jennifer had to be out of the home, preferably for the night or the weekend. He'd have to talk it over with his wife later on. Maybe Katie could lend a hand, her and her boyfriend. Who knows? Maybe she'd like it!

He groaned inwardly at the exciting image of the two beautiful and provocative women in Clair's life bowing to Jennings's debauched whims, crying for more... more... He placed his hand beneath the table and attempted to push his burgeoning cock down, without too much success. It was too provocative a dream! Dara and Jennifer Clair, a mother- daughter combination in the swap group - at the Club Sarbonne, on the stage, fucking and sucking and sucking and fucking... He groaned inwardly and shifted his thoughts to the immediate. He had to if he dared to stand up when the meeting adjourned.

"Excuse me," he said in his silky voice when there was a lull in the conversation, "excuse me, but I'd like to accompany George on this trip."

"Why?" Quarran asked warily, always watching the expenses.

"Well, for one thing because if I've got to promote the miniskopos in a couple of weeks, I'd better bone up on what the unit will do. Not just any one, or what we hope the production models will do - but the actual one we demonstrate. Also, I'm going to have to take pictures of it, metal cabinet and all. And I've been thinking that some copy and shots about the plant would be very impressive, especially in a little throw-away pamphlet. Give the company an image, an identity. After all, we're selling the name of Pickford as much as this particular product, aren't we?"

"Damned fine thinking, Paul," Quarran said. "You're about due for a trip to Kirsten anyway. You haven't been there since we expanded the east wing." He nodded. "All right, you go, too."

"Great to have you along, Paul," Clair said, almost smiling as if relieved. He was; this way it would be easier to tell Dara this way. The two wives could console one another.

The meeting droned on, covering affairs which, as vice-president, Clair was supposed to be aware of, but which he had no direct interest in. He mulled over his own problems; those of the inventions and those of his household while he chain-smoked a series of cigarettes and tried to look attentive. As usual, the meeting broke up in time for lunch, and he went with the three others to the dimly-lit cocktail lounge and steak house around the corner of Second. A couple of martinis helped - but when he got back to the office, his depression was deepened when his secretary told him, "I was very lucky, Mr. Clair. I was able to book you on a flight leaving at three-forty-five."

"This afternoon?" he cried.

"It was either that or tomorrow night. Everything else is taken. I'm sorry."

"God almighty," he groaned going in his office. "Wendy, get my wife on the phone, will you, please?"

Dara was mopping the kitchen floor when the phone rang. She was in a very good humor, had been all day after her tremendous frustrations had been taken care of by her loving husband. She hummed softly to herself, following a song on the radio. She let her mind wander as to the pagan orgy awaiting George when he came home that evening. She was going to tear his legs off, she was...

Her thoughts were broken with the ringing, and she turned the radio down before answering. When she heard Wendy's voice on the line, asking her to hold on for Mr. Clair, a dread settled with cold hands across the saddle of her back.

"Hello, baby," George said. "I, uh... that is...

"Let me guess," she said darkly. "Another trip?"

"It can't be helped. It'll only be two weeks, and believe me, I tried to get out of it, but!"

"I'm sure you did," she interrupted sarcastically. "I bet you fought tooth and nail."

"I did! Please don't be this way. Oh - and Paul's having to accompany me, too. Maybe you and Maria can get together while we're gone "

A frustrated hiss slipped from between her teeth and tried to hide her annoyance he'd heard through the phone. "When are you leaving?"

"I'll be home in an hour, baby. Pack some clothes for me, will you?"

"When?" she repeated more firmly.

"Ah... this afternoon. Three-thirty, to be exact."

"Three...!" Her face blossomed with anger. "Do you know what's in the oven, Mr. Clair? Do you know what I have slaved to the bone preparing for you, you bastard, just as a special treat for tonight and which Jennifer and I detest? Do you?"

"Now, baby."

"Don't baby me," she stormed and slammed down the receiver. Another trip! Tears of humiliation and pride welled up in her eyes as she thought of his leaving her again.

Damn... damn... damn... she wasn't enough of a woman to hold a man, she was unable to satisfy her husband enough in bed to hold him at home for one day. Was there any reason why George stayed married to her other than to screw her now and then when he was around? What did he do the other six months? Have other women?"

Oh no! The crazy idea that he was unfaithful to her crept insidiously into her brain, once unleashed by her torment of anger and frustration. If she could only go with George on his trips... but no, she had to stay home with their daughter, Jennifer. All she could do was wait and sit until he got back from wherever he went, never knowing what he was up to.

She walked to the closet and half-heartedly swung one of the suitcases she hadn't put away from that morning onto the bed. She began to put fresh clothes out, quickly filling the three-suiter and then put additional clothing in the smaller over-night case. Then, locking the lids, she wandered into the kitchen, her day ruined, and pondered about what the hell she was going to do for the next couple of weeks.

Do what George suggested she guessed. See a lot of Paul's wife. It certainly was a God-send having such a close, warm, understanding friend like Maria. She was almost more of a husband to Dara than George was.

"Oh god, Paul, I want to suck you," Maria Jennings moaned. She was writhing on their satin-covered double bed, her own fingers slipping wetly inside her cunt. Her back was arched, and her legs splayed wide, as nude, she masturbated before the lusting leer of her husband, one hand fondling her breasts and the other in her pussy.

Maria had short blond hair the color of wheat; it hugged her face in soft curls. She had high, classical features, with blue, cat-like eyes above a wide, bow-shaped mouth and aquiline nose. Her wasp waist was in contortions at the moment, and her full, thrusting breasts danced with delightful impudence on her tanned chest. She was tanned all over, not even with the normal tiger strips around her breasts and hips. Her straw-toned hair was natural, as anybody could see if they glimpsed her furry growth of pubic hair - and many men had not only glimpsed but tongued and fucked their way through the hair.

Now the hair was matted slick with her aroused cuntal secretions. "Oohhh, Paul," she panted. "You're going to be gone for so long."

"Just a couple of days if my plan goes well. No more than three."

"Too damned long for me, lover, and you know that no man can fill me they way you can. Oh... oh... oh, let me suck your beautiful prick before you leave. Oooohhhhh, please!"

Hot damn! Jennings thought as he selected a suit out of the closet. Maria is a real talent. She can turn a man on and fuck him every which-way! He'd called her from the office when he'd learned from his secretary about the sudden departure, acting the contrite husband just in case anybody heard. Now he had to be quick about it; couldn't miss the plane and his chances to land the miniskopos. He'd hurried home, only to find no bags packed but his loving mate stretched out with abandoned anticipation.

His pants, already sticky from the little drops of seminal emission caused by the thinking of his plot while in the board room, now bulged once more. He stifled a groan. "No... no, I've got to tell you about what you've got to do."

"Tell me afterwards." She reached up and undid two of his shirt buttons, then returned her left hand to the nipples of her breasts.

"No, now."

"I refuse to listen unless you take your clothes off and sit down beside me." She oscillated on the coverlet, moaning further as her hands sought the warm cavern of her hungry cunt. "C'mon, strip, lover- man. Strip for your wife."

"All... all right," he said, his voice quivering. He had to change anyway; might as well now as never. Have to keep control of myself, though. Too much to set up. He dropped his trousers and threw his shirt and tie over his jacket on the chair. When he pulled his underpants down, however, his cock leapt out to full erection, trembling with lust.

Maria stared at it, moistening her lips with her tongue as if she was already tasting its pungent male sperm. "Come on," she whispered throatily, come on and sit down."

He did, but warned her, "First things first."

Maria snaked out her left hand again and closed it around his turgid expanse. She robbed it up and down, her tongue still flicking along her lips, her eyes hot on the huge, granite shaft and bulbulous head and the wrinkled sac of his testicles. "Please, Paul," she crooned, "I'm hot now and I want to suck you. Let your hot-boxed little wife suck you now and then you can tell me all about your plan."

"No," Jennings said firmly. He moved to the foot of the bed, watching her undulate her hips and slide her fingers in and out of her trembling, pink-rimmed vaginal hole. "Now you know Dara Clair well enough so she trusts you. Well, get her drunk tonight or something, and into bed with somebody."

"Who?" Maria asked petulantly. She stretched out her leg and began to stroke his thigh with her toes, waggling her big toe upwards so she could reach the fleshy pole of his cock. "Who'll be the man?" She watched gleefully as her strokings made her husband shudder. He never could stay away for long...

"I don't care. Pick any one out of the swap group." He stopped, and then a wicked leer parted his lips. "No... no, get Garrett Stoerner to be the straight man for Dara. Call him up after I leave and set it up, maybe at his club. After all," he said with a snicker, "he's got a vested interest in seeing that this ploy works."

"And he likes innocent, unwilling cunt," Maria said, "tons of it. He's almost as insatiable as you are, my love, when it comes to fucking."

As she spoke, she moved her asscheeks down the bed so that she could once more seize his palpitating penis. She stroked it with her fingers as before, and before he was able to fend her off, she rose and pressed her lithe, tiger body against his, forcing him back in a prone position across the with of the bed.

"Damn it, Maria, I'm trying to tell you what you've got to do before my plane leaves. I..." Jennings paused as his wife trailed her soft, moist lips along the side of his neck, into the hollow of his throat, down along his bronze chest. She nuzzled the rigid tips of his male nipples, rolling her tongue back and forth across one and then the other. Finally she let her mouth roam down across the girth of his large, well-muscled stomach. Jennings groaned at her expert ministrations, and involuntarily thrust his hips up toward her. She scratched his cock lightly with her fingernails and over his testicles, reaching under his trembling body to probe briefly the puckered ring of his ass...

"The plan," Jennings continued weakly. "We have to talk... about what to do with Jennifer."

Maria smiled wryly as she looked up for a moment with half-lidded eyes. "Don't worry about a thing, lover. I'll speak to Katie when she gets home from school. I think she mentioned that Vic was taking her to one of those pot parties. And you know what happens at them."

Jennings knew; the teen age pot parties were almost as wild and debauched as the adult wife-swapping get-togethers. He still couldn't comprehend at what those kids did. Why at their tender age, he barely had learned that his cock was to piss out of, much besides how to stick it in a girl. Of course, when he had learned.

Maria was on all fours now, her mouth hovering over his erect penis. Then her warm lips closed over it, malting it throb with sensitivity. He lifted his head, unable to break away from the suckings, and he was all the more excited as he watched his wife bury his penis between her ovally pursed lips.

"Go-wa, go-wa on-a," she murmured around his cock as she plunged her head up and down in an oral simulation of a warm clasping cunt. At the same time she twirled her tongue around the moist stickiness of its blood-engorged head.

"Uuuuhhh," he panted. "You bitch, you goddamned bitch... you... know I can't... go on." He gritted his teeth, willing himself to remain on the subject. "C-call me at the El Mecca Motel when... when you've... got her and... and her daughter screwing. I... I've got to plan my end of things from that time on... on... uhhhhh." Damn it, she'd won again, Jennings thought fuzzily, capitulating to the prurient sensations of her mouth and fingers. She always won, always got her way sexually, and she knew all the tricks in the book and some not written yet. "Ahhhhh," he panted. "If I miss my plane."

Jennings lay back and shut his eyes and pretended that it was the pretty Dara Clair sucking his penis. That it was Dara's - or better yet, that it was Jennifer's lipstick-lined mouth puckering as she sawed up and down. Well, if he had his way it would be one of these days. He'd shoot his load of cum deep into the throats of George Clair's wife and daughter, first one and then the other of the females... and they'd love it.

"Suck me, Maria," Jennings urged. "Suck, suck, suck my cock!"

The blonde wife slaved above his loins, her body glistening from postules of lust sweat. The pressure grew and grew in her husband's testicles, and he arched his asscheeks and strove hard against her face, feeling his curly pubic hair graze her chin and cheeks but not hearing the slightest whimper of protest. His final release of semen boiled inside him, building like a crazy whirling dervish toward its moment of ejaculation. His scrotum tightened...

And then Jennings felt the eruption as the first stream of white-hot fire leapt along the passage of his jerking cock. He gasped, his lips pulling back across his teeth. His penis pulsed and flooded without warning Maria's maddingly sucking mouth. The burning seed bloated her cheeks until she was forced to concentrate on swallowing rather them milking, and all the while she mewled and crooned and tickled his pounding balls with the tips of her fingers. With one last earth-shattering groan, Jennings emptied the last of his cum, and his penis started to deflate.

Maria kept on sucking, and then his cock slipped from between her lips, clean of every drop of his orgasm. Her belly felt warm and filled and she smiled like a contented feline after feeding itself to capacity. She lay with her head on his thigh, nibbling gently on the limp, useless penis in front of her. She had the suspicion as her own unfulfillment started gnawing at her insides, that if they made the plane, it was going to be by the skin of their teeth. She hoped that the plane might be delayed somehow. There was still a long and delicious interlude ahead of them, and the rising moisture in her thighs told her it was about to begin. She smiled silently to herself in anticipation.

Dara Clair stared morosely into her coffee cup. The silence of the house was oppressive to her ears, its emptiness a sacrilege to her eyes. It was always thus during the week, in that magical hour or so between the end of the housework chores and the entrance of her daughter, home from school. But with the knowledge that she was without her husband for another fortnight, Dara sensed that the house was like a tomb; still as death and just as vacant.

She sighed, wondering whether it was worth saving the special steak fromage she'd prepared for George, or if she should throw it away as carelessly as it seemed to her that her errant husband was discarding their marriage. A tear welled in one eye; she blinked rapidly and it rolled down her cheek and poised uncertainly by her trembling jaw.

Her thoughts were stilled when the front door burst open and Jennifer came in. She was a little breathless and her face was a soft crimson. "Hi, Mom," she cried out happily. "I ran from the bus stop because of the rain. Whoo-ee! Anything to eat?"

"I'll fix dinner soon," Dara said woodenly.

"You look sad, Mom," the daughter said, frowning slightly. "What's the matter?"

"N-nothing," Dara said haltingly. "Nothing at all."

Jennifer, concerned, put her books on the dinette table and sat down beside her mother. "Yes there is, I can tell it."

"It's... it's just that your father had to go on another trip."

"Today?" Jennifer was shocked: her father had just gotten home this morning! "You mean he's left again, today?"

"Yes," came the whisper.

Mother and daughter sat in glum-filled sadness. The pall of quiet engulfed them; a sound-proof cloak effectively sealing their separate thoughts even from being shared between them. After awhile, the daughter said: "I think it's a crime. Daddy's never home."

"It seems that way at times," her mother agreed. "But we have to remember that he's doing it for us."

"You say that, Mom, but you don't believe it."

Dara winced inwardly at the telling remark. It was hard to be coldly analytical in a situation as emotion-fraught as this. She had to remember, though, that it wasn't good to display her marital troubles in front of Jennifer. It only hurt the family needlessly, and certainly didn't help solve the problem. She tried to smile, it came out forced and shallow. "Well..." she said, "well, we can't just sit around and cry in our soup, can we?"

Jennifer remained sullen. Mothers were one thing, and she loved hers very much. But Jennifer had always been "Daddy's little girl," and she felt drawn to him strongly. When she worked hard in school, it was to make Dad proud of her; when she had a problem, it was to Dad that she went; when she thought about the man she would marry someday, the image came out to look like Dad. It was the natural, common Oedipus complex in female garb - nothing serious or especially unhealthy - but a source of frustration and anger when Dad was away.

George Clair never dreamed how much his family really loved him. They would do anything for him, and might not have recognized how well he'd succeeded as a mate and parent. The Olisses did. They were counting on it, in fact.

"Tell you what, Jennifer," Dara said, a little more sprightly, now that she had something to do to keep her mind occupied, "I'll whip up a batch of pancakes. Norwegian ones; you always like them."

"Sure. Fine." Jennifer remained unmoved.

"Then we'll go to the movies, if you like."

"I don't feel like going out. Thanks anyway."

Dara glanced over at her offspring, wondering how to snap her teenage daughter out of the blue funk she was in. She chastised herself again for being as maudlin as she'd been when Jennifer had first come home. Her moroseness has transmitted itself, and she felt, as a mother, the burden of responsibility.

Her considerations were interrupted by the ringing of the door chimes. Now who could that be?

"I'll get it," Jennifer said, and rose. She wasn't overly quick about it, though she wasn't dragging her feet; merely disinterested and sluggish with sadness. She was surprised when she answered the door to find the Jennings women standing on the porch. "Why... Katie! And Mrs. Jennings!"

"Mind if we visit, Jennifer?" Mrs. Jennings said sweetly. "Tam and I are without our man, just like you two. We thought we'd at least make it a lonesome foursome."

"Of course," Jennifer said, standing back so they could enter. "Come on in. Mom was fixing dinner."

"Oh, well if she's busy..."

"Not at all, Maria," Dara said, coming out of the kitchen and wiping her hands on a towel. "I hadn't really started yet. Coffee?"

"Sounds wonderful. Unless I can plead for a drink instead."

"Of course. Scotch and Ginger? I'll join you."

"Got a coke, Mrs. Clair?" Tam said, the picture of adolescent respectability. If only Dara and Jennifer could have seen inside the girl's mind, read her evil and depraved thoughts, they wouldn't have been so glad to see her or her mother. But all they saw were the facades, and as a result, Dara and Jennifer were pleased and relieved to have them here. It was easier to share the depression with four people than with two, especially when the others were in the same boat.

Jennifer and Katie went into the teenager's room, and within seconds the house reverberated with the sounds of rock music, the latest "top ten" singles.

Katie, like her mother, was naturally blonde, but she'd let her hair grow long and combed it in that tangled, careless look as if she'd been in a convertible all day, driving with the top down. She had a little stubby nose, freckles across its bridge, and her greenish eyes were more cat-like and devilish than her mother's. Her pert breasts were twin small, firm cylinders, tapering from their swollen moorings to cherry-nippled crests. They bobbed invitingly as she jumped onto Jennifer's bed, and she purposely sat in such a way that her short skirt hiked past her thighs and Jennifer couldn't help but see the shadowed white band of molded panties between her legs.

A secret tingle went through Katie's nerves, making her breasts electric and her pubescent pussy secrete little droplets of fluid. Her mother had told her what she wanted done, told her and Vic when he had driven Tam home from school and dropped in for a drink. Get Jennifer Clair! Get her naked and hungry for her first taste of cock! She shivered with forbidden delight and one area of her mind dwelled on what was in store for her younger friend if everything went right tonight. The other portion of her brain was doing the talking, worming Jennifer around to accepting the initial stage of her seduction...

"I can't stay for long, Jennie," Katie said, outwardly sad-faced. "Vic's invited me to a party."

"Oh?" Jennifer tried to conceal her obvious disappointment. If it wasn't her father, it was her friend who was deserting her. "Gee, I'd sort of hoped you could stay. I mean, your mom and mine will be talking for hours. I'll have nothing to do." She averted her eyes from the uncovered loins of Katie's lithe body and changed a record. "What kind of party is it?"

"A real fab one. Most of the foxy guys from the football team," Katie said conspiratorially. "If word leaked out about the drinking and... things, they'd be dismissed from the squad!" She almost made a slip; the time wasn't right to tell the innocent virgin girl what the other "things" would consist of. "It's going to be outa sight!"

"Wow!" Jennifer breathed with envious excitement.

"Vic's going to pick me up here at nine." She lowered her head, now looking contrite. "I'm sorry about it, Jennie. I know how you were counting on us keeping each other company tonight."

"Yeah, well I can understand."

"If there was some way you could come along."

"Forget it. I'd just be in the way." She picked a cuticle. "You go and have a real nice time."

There was a long moment of silence - or as much silence as could be had when the record player was screaming out "yah, yah, yah, yah, yahhhhhh!" Then a small smile began an Katie's lips. She said: "Wait a minute! Maybe we can get you along!"

"How?"

"That is... if you really want to go."

"Sure I do. You don't think I want to stay around Dullsville tonight, do you?"

"It might get a little... rough."

Katie's warning only whetted the natural curiosity and the refusal in Jennifer to admit she wasn't "grown-up" enough; she jutted her jaw forward and said defiantly, "Don't worry about me none. I won't faint or something."

"Well, promise me you'll not panic, no matter what you see." She saw nervousness and indecision in Jennifer's eyes, so she hastily added, "Not that you have to do any of it." She didn't say what the "it" was - better not scare the poor virgin off entirely. Anyway, Katie knew Jennifer well enough to know that the younger teenagedr's imagination would fill in some of the gaps, and would only entice her more than if she was told everything. "Just don't start making a scene. Act as if you're part of it like everyone else, and not a wet blanket." She smiled again wickedly. "That is, if you don't care for some of the action. What the hell, you might; I sure do."

"Sure I promise, Tam," Jennifer said hurriedly, her throat parched with excitement. "What do you take me for, a kid? I won't embarrass you any. You'll see. But how'll you fix it so I can go?"

"Well, we'll have to get you a date."

"But I'm not going with anybody. Besides, you said the guys are from the football team, and they're all going with girls now.'

"Dave Lugin isn't. He broke off with Marsha Dixon last weekend, up at the mountains. Didn't you know?"

"Jeez! 'The Slam?'" Jennifer spoke in awe of the team's star fullback. His size and offensive determination had earned him the monicker of Dave 'The Slam' Lugin. He was Vic's buddy, and next to Vic, was the school's biggest athletic hero. "You think you could get me a date with Dave?"

"I can't promise, but I'll call Vic and see if he'll talk to Dave. If we do swing it, that's even more reason for you to be a sport. He doesn't cotton to sissies."

"For Dave," Jennifer said, stars twirling in her eyes, "I'd do most anything"

We'll see," Katie said under her breath. Then to Jennifer she said: "Let's go ask your mother if it's all right first, and then I'll call Vic."

Dara Clair was ambivalent to the request. On one hand she saw the excitement in her daughter, and wanted to make her happy. But Jennifer was so young for such things. And besides, that would leave her home all alone, which was the last thing on earth the wanted to be faced with tonight. She shook her head. "I... I don't know, Jennifer."

"Aw, Mom! Please!

"I'm sure Jennifer will be quite safe," Mrs. Jennings offered. "If I had any doubts, I'd never allow Katie to go. But Vic's a good boy, and from the little I've met of Dave Casey, he's been very polite and well mannered." She had a very hard time keeping a straight face, saying that garbage. Maria Jennings had first hand knowledge that Dave Casey had gained his nick-name from his way of fucking girls as much as from ho football techniques. The third worst person to entrust a young naive virgin with was Dave Casey in her estimation; Vic and her husband being the first and second, and not necessarily in that order.

"I'll keep an eye on her, Mrs. Clair," Katie sad. Damned right I will. I love watching The Slam' in action.

"Yes, but!"

"Tell you what," Mrs. Jennings said, as if suddenly struck with a thought. "Let the girls go out, and we'll go out, too. I think we deserve a dinner and a couple of drinks, after the way Paul and George deserted us."

"Sure, Mom, that sounds swell. You haven't been out for ages."

Dara had drunk three scotch and gingers, and her mind wasn't quite as sharp as it was normally... The liquor had relaxed her, made her feel as if life was worth living a little. Maybe going out for a dinner instead of slaving over the stove wasn't a bad idea; Lord knew she had earned a break.

"If I know Paul, he's lounging in the cocktail bar right now, lapping up martinis and ogling the girls," Maria continued. "Acting like he wasn't married, and he's just like all other men when they're away Tom home. Huh!" she sniffed, as if outraged at masculine games. "We ought to have the same privileges. We ought to have a night out once in a while to act as if we were the girls' ages again, without responsibilities."

"A dinner and a drink would sound nice," Dara said, already half convinced that she should go out and it would be entirely innocent. That nothing would happen. That George would approve if he knew what she was considering. That made her think of George, and the insidiously implanted suggestion of Maria's made her imagine George sitting beside Paul at the cocktail bar. Well, she would go, and damn the consequences - of which she was, sure there would be none. She and Maria were both adult and mature - and two unescorted women this day and age were not considered bad as they had been in her mother's time.

"I'm convinced," she said giddily. "Jennifer, if you promise to be good, and if Vic's friend wants to take you to the pity, then I'll let you. And you, Mrs. Jennings, will have the pleasure of escorting Mrs. Clair to a steak dinner and drinks a little later on."

"Excellent!" from Maria.

"You're swell, Mother!" from Jennifer.

"I'll call Vic," from Katie.

The phone call was pure fraud. A bald-faced con to convince the Clair mother and daughter that this was all spontaneous. In fact, it had been carefully laid out before-hand; even 'The Slam' and his girl, Marsha, with whom he hadn't broken up with at all, were in on it. They hadn't been told why the alteration in Jennifer's virginal status was desired; Vic and Katie had merely told them they had thought it up as the evening's entertainment highlight, a new twist to the usual alcohol and marijuana and sex kicks. They thought the forced seduction of Little Miss Clair was one grand joke.

The result was that Katie went through the motions of asking and arguing and hearing the I-don't-knows and I'll-have-to-check-and- call- you-back. The wait of fifteen minutes had been added as a special, exquisite form of psychological torture to insure that Jennifer was fully ensnared, wanting the date more and more with each passing second.

Maria got up, and as a long-time and trusted friend of the Clair family, made herself and Dara another drink. She liberally laced Dara's with scotch, and added some vodka for good measure. What she had in store for Mrs. Clair was going to take all the help she could get, and having her friend drunk would "grease the runway," to use a phrase of her father's.

Then the phone rang, and Katie answered it. She attentively listened to Vic tell her what he was planning to do with his cock to her that night, and then she put the receiver down and turned to Jennifer. With a solumn tone she said what she had known all along: "Dave says he'll take you."

Dave leaned over the back seat of the car and said to Vic: "Any juice kicking around?"

Katie giggled and turned her head. She smiled at Dave. "Can't wait for the party, huh?"

"Hell, that's a half hour's drive away yet," Dave complained. "Gotta have something to prime my engine before then."

Vic laughed. "Sure. I could use a pull myself. Reach in the glove compartment, Tam, and get the bottle."

Katie did; she unstoppered a refilled coke bottle and took a stiff swallow. She sputtered, and her throat worked, and then she handed the bottle to Vic. "Wow! That stuff's good!"

"Yeah," Vic said. He took his eyes off the road long enough to drink. The large convertible weaved erratically for a moment, throwing Jennifer off balance, and against Dave. The rugged football player put one arm around her so that she couldn't regain her position, and when Katie took the bottle from Vic and handed it to Dave, he offered it first to the young teenager. "Here," he said with a grin, "ladies first. Just don't hog it."

Jennifer hesitated.

"What's the matter?" Dave frowned. "You drink, don't you?"

"Sure, I do," Jennifer said stoutly. She was bluffing and hoped that it wasn't too obvious. She wondered if she wasn't talking herself into a bad future position, for anything over a glass of wine gave her the woozies, but Katie had kept repeating that this was her big chance to get in with the "In" crowd around school, and she couldn't afford to be childish or stubborn...

The eleven-year old virgin tilted the coke bottle and a warm, sweet liquid filled her mouth. She could taste the tinge of bourbon or whisky - she didn't know which, just that it wasn't vodka or gin or stuff like that - and a syrupy flavor like raspberry or strawberry soda. It wasn't bad, not bad at all, and she took another drink before handing it to Dave. She drank again...

Dave Casey and Vic Statler had come to collect the girls promptly at nine in Vic's Pontiac Bonneville, and after introductions and a few minutes of conversation, they and the girls had left. Dave almost made Jennifer giddy from the start. He was too much! He was going to be eighteen in the Spring, and looked at least a year older. He had long brown hair, combed back and around his collar, was six-foot-two, slim waisted, his shoulders and arms bulging with muscles. His face was pleasant, average, as ordinary as the clothes he wore: levi's, sweater, and loafers.

Dave pulled the girl close to him, hugging her, and for an instant, he scared Jennifer. Things were certainly happening fast! They were driving from one end of Rapier City, where Jennifer lived, right through the town to the hills on the other side. It was up in the desolate hills, at the end of an old, dead-end road that the party was going to be held. And they'd barely gone two miles before the bottle of liquor had been brought out and Dave and she were in the back seat cuddling!

Dave let his hand dangle gently over her shoulder, his fingers brushing softly against the tip of her breast. He smirked to himself as he thought of the way she had guzzled the booze - leave it to an inexperienced girl to get drunk before anybody else, not having the faintest idea what the liquor can do or when to slow down. He was growing more confident by the moment that the lewd and obscene things in store for this tender virgin were going to happen - tonight! - just as planned. Man, once she reached the stage of helpless submission he was going to turn Jennifer every way but inside out, and maybe he'd find a way for that, too. She'd know what fucking was all about when he finished with her! When he and all the others finished with her!

With a suddeness which bespoke his nickname, Dave crushed his lips on Jennifer's unsuspecting mouth, grinding wetly, and the girl moaned and struggled for one moment, panicked, feeling his hand on her breast, tenderly cupping the soft, resident mound.

"Hey, baby," Dave crooned, "I really like you, you know?" He felt his "date" jump slightly as she heard his lying words. He held her tighter, pressing his hands once more against the palpitating hardness of her nubile breast. She'd never before been this drawn to a boy, never believed that a kiss or a caress could be so exciting. She wanted Dave to like her, wanted him to take her as his girlfriend. Boy! Wouldn't that be a coup! She shivered, and the alcohol seemed to effuse through her system. She pressed her thighs tightly together to control a peculiar tickle which was worming its way through the sensual valley between her legs.

Dave Casey pressed his attack, massaging her breast. He could feel the tiny, bud-like nipples harden under the thinness of her brassiere. Jennifer knew that she was going to have to stop him soon before things got out of control. She squirmed, trying to move his fingers away without him noticing and her short skirt hiked up over her hips. Her thighs were naked and she could almost see the white crotchband of her panties down between her legs.

She blushed furiously and tried to pull her skirt down. Dave stopped her. "Let it be, Jennie baby," he murmured. "You've got nice legs so don't hide them. You ain't got nothing between yours that I don't know all about!"

That brought a shriek of laughter from Katie and a furious blushing from Jennifer. The young girl felt hot, but not wanting to let Dave think she was square, she didn't move her skirt. She leaned against Dave and nuzzled his chest affectionately

Yeah, Dave thought, this one may be a virgin, but she'll be one hell of a hot box when I really turn her one, just like Vic promised. His cock swelled in his pants as he looked down between her thighs. He felt himself getting blazing hot, the tension grinding his loins, his testicles aching to be released...

He'd have to take it slow, he knew. Slow and easy and not scare the girl. First time's the big one, he realized, having melted many a cherry in his day. The heavy car sped through the night, toward the rendezvous with Jennifer's destiny, and all that the foursome inside acted like was as if this was just another night out, another date, an evening to laugh and joke and sip from the coke bottle...

The party was in full swing when they arrived. They had to park the Pontiac down the hill, the last of a line of other cars which had gotten there before them. The house was actually more of a summer cabin; it was a small retreat belonging to the parents of one of the boys attending, a small place facing the undeveloped Guadalupe Canyon and the flatlands beyond. By turning around and staring at the black hills behind, the glimmer of distant Rapier City could be seen at their crest, their fusion of lights shining above like an Aurora Borealis. The bottle of liquor was empty and discarded when they stopped; Katie was mellow and giggly, but Jennifer was half stumbling from the unaccustomed potion, and she allowed Dave to help her over the rough gravel road to the house.

Music spilled out as they opened the door, hot blow of smoky air and laughter hitting the cool air and damp drizzle of the Autumnal night. Jennifer laughed for no particular reason, just that she was empathetic to the swinging crowd. She allowed Dave to kiss her at the entrance, and then again, harder and longer. His hot moist lips seemed to be her world at that point, her alcohol fuzzed by not totally aware of too many other things at the same time, and she almost fell over from the spark of electricity which invaded her stomach.

"All right!" yelled one of the boys from inside. "Break it up, you two!"

Blushing again, Jennifer and Dave, followed by Vic and Katie, entered the golden glow of the livingroom. She knew the others from school, and they all acted pleased and as if she truly belonged to the select group of high school students. There was George Slade and his steady girl, Gloria Talbot; Sanders, one of the ends, and Beverly Harland; Greg Mothra and Anita Funabass, one of the cheerleaders; Ken King and his girl, Fay Raye; and the last couple, Gene Rogers and Dale Butram.

The quartet wended their way through the crowded room, talking and joking with the others. Somebody pressed a drink into Jennifer's hands and almost unconsciously she found herself sipping it as she talked. The cool liquid felt good, dispelling some of the heavy, dense air of the room, but adding to the warmth inside her. And it helped her seem more at ease, for she was still very nervous and afraid, intent on making a good impression on Dave and Vic, and yes, on everybody else. She knew that Katie had gone out on a limb for her, and she didn't want anything to hurt either her girlfriend's popularity, much less her own entrance into the social whirl that up to now she'd only heard about.

Eventually they found some space on one of the long, low, overstuffed couches. The room was rustic in decor, with hanging "Kerosene" lanterns and a large brick fireplace and exposed beam ceilings. The walls were of knotty pine and Currier & Ives prints, and the furniture was the heavy masculine version of Early American. She rubbed the craved maple arm of the couch to wipe some of the sweat from her palm. The boys left them for a moment, and disappeared.

Katie leaned over and whispered, "You're doing fine, Jennie. I'm really proud of you. Just keep it up."

Jennifer's heart was like a trip hammer inside her chest. "I am?" She sipped her drink, her throat suddenly parched. "Oh, I hope so."

"Vic and Dave will be right back; relax and enjoy the evening." Katie was interrupted by Ken King, who jovially spiked their drinks from a bottle of brandy. It changed the taste - not unpleasantly so - and .the effects. Jennifer found the glow was still there, but a strange giddiness began to pervade her. She should have had more for dinner than she had had, but she'd lost her appetite with all the excitement of going out with Dave Casey, and had barely been able to choke down a half can of spaghetti and meat-balls. Now, she had to squint her eyes to see any distance, and to focus on Ken as he made conversation. It struck her then: Ken King was talking to her! Why, up till now, he'd not even nodded to her in the halls! She glanced around at the others when Ken moved on; seeing with reasonable clarity the groups of threes and fours scattered around the sofas, chairs, and on the floor. Rogers and the Butram girl were at the fireplace now, putting together a fire. He was laying the logs across the andirons while Butram stood beside him and handed the kindling and paper as he needed it.

"Want another stick of wood, Gene?" she asked.

"Naw, just gimme the matches now." He lit the fire, and soon it was sending a cheery blaze into the room. They doused the lights, and everybody became shadows and figurines in the flickering radiance.

Jennifer became aware then that Vic and Dave had returned, and she settled back, warm and snug and heavy with sedation from the powerful drinks. Dave curled his arm around her and made her lean back against the cushions with him. "More like a bed, isn't it?" he said.

"Yes... yes, I guess it is," Jennifer said, a slight stutter in her voice.

"Here," Dave said, and pressed a cigarette into her hand. She looked at it; it was like no other cigarette she'd ever seen! It was hand-rolled in a brownish paper. He grinned at her. "Light-up," he urged.

Jennifer had the sinking suspicion what the brownish cigarette was made of. Marijuana! She quivered with indecision, for she was afraid of what the drug might do to her - she'd heard too many stories and lectures from adults - but she was just as afraid of screwing up this good fortune she'd been having. She looked over at Katie for guidance, for help. Katie was already lighting up her cigarette, her eyes shut, oblivious to her girlfriend's plight.

What's the matter," Dave growled, "aren't you hep?"

"I-I never smoked one before," Jennifer blurted, and then felt like biting her tongue. How uncool could she be? She wished she hadn't drunk so much out of the coke bottle and then the glass in her other hand; she wasn't thinking clearly and was awfully warm, and there was a weight preying down on her forehead and eyes.

"A little grass never hurt anybody," Katie said, exhaling. "Don't worry so much, Jennie."

"Ah, I knew we shouldn't have brought a kid here," Vic taunted with a sneer. Jennifer blanched with the direct punch of his contempt. Rebellion and resentment made her place the cigarette between her lips with defiance. A child, was she!

"Go on," Dave urged. "Let me light it for you. Once you're a little high, you'll feel things you never felt before." He drew out his lighter and trembling slightly, Jennifer allowed him to light it for her. She drew in heavily, and then coughed.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Vic said disgustedly. "What a waste of good grass."

"Let her alone," Katie said. "She'll learn. Try again, Jennie. Hold the smoke in your lungs."

The second puff was easier, and the naive young girl held the sour- sweet smoke down until she thought she'd burst. She exhaled, looked around with a smile of triumph, only to see she was behind the others, who were all busily inhaling their joints. She continued to follow suit, and by the end of the marijuana cigarette, she began to float.

Jennifer had never felt better in all her born days. She was happy and carefree, without a worry in the world. She felt a comradeship with everyone in the room, and she laughed and talked and laughed some more. Everything seemed so funny all of a sudden.

Dave gave her another smoke, and then reminded her that her drink was going stale. "How's it going, baby?" he asked.

"Like I'm on the moon!" Jennifer said breathlessly.

"Christ, there's so much smoke in here that I could get stoned without a cigarette," Katie said. She cuddled in the protective arms of Vic. "Kiss me," she demanded of her boyfriend. "Kiss me hard..."

There was a long pause and then Jennifer heard the unmistakable rustling of clothes as Katie and Vic settled back against the couch in a passionate embrace. There were the soft, wet sounds of their kissings and moanings, and the teen aged girl tried hard to avert her eyes from the petting so close at hand. But as she turned away, she found that instead of being horrified by the sensual display so openly being performed beside her, she was becoming aroused, and her breasts ached slightly with excitement. Jennifer was too close in her friendship with Katie Jennings not to be drawn by the building, writhing apassionata, and the knew instinctively that she was approaching her own danger point from which there was no return if passed.

She looked around the cabin, and her eyes bulged as she saw the others in wild tableaus of sex. She'd been to spin-the-bottle and post-office type parties before - but nothing quite as blatant as this! Why... why in the firelight she couldn't be sure, but wasn't Slade moving underneath Gloria's blouse, molding his hand to her breasts? And... and Anita! She had her legs splayed wide and Greg Mothra was rubbing her clothed genitals, causing her to moan lasciviously in his ear. My God!

How far would they go? All the way? Jennifer felt a sudden chill hit the pit of her belly. No... no that was impossible, not with everybody here. Maybe alone the couples might, but even that was one of those things she found embarrassing to think about. The picture of any of them - of Jennifer herself - being naked and displayed unabashed in front of everybody was shattering.

It was entirely out of the question, and she lulled her mind to security again with a long drink from the glass in her one hand, and a long drag on the marijuana cigarette in her other. She leaned against Dave, the delicious warmth of the liquor and drugs seeping through her veins. She'd never felt as deeply involved before in her life. But as she curled up with Dave and his hand once more closed over her breast, the touch of her panties and the cushions pressuring up between her thighs exciting her more and more each moment. Material bunched against her thighs and grazed the sensitive, virginal pink lips of her pussy. Tiny throbs of secret pleasure pulsed in the bud of her clit and she tried to hold them back

But it was to no avail. The heat of the room, the lulling, sensual effects of the liquor and marijuana, the lecherous scenes of lust before her naive and innocent eyes were all too much to be swept away. Necking while watching a distracting motion picture, or outside her house with the threat of being caught by her parents was one matter. This pagan and completely uninhibited fulfillment of lusts was another, and it was working its debauching influence on the virgin teenager.

She couldn't resist the ever-building fire which swelled in her breasts, her loins, her pussy. No matter how hard she squeezed her thighs together, the flames of her flowering young pussy seethed and lashed with constant pressure. She moaned and squirmed, terrified that she wouldn't be able to control herself much longer.

Just as Dave knew she wouldn't. Just as Katie and Vic knew she wouldn't. Just as everybody in the cabin knew she wouldn't - and they all waited impatiently for the trap to spring shut with a finality which would rip Jennifer Clair from all her final moral moorings. They waited, beasts of carnivorous appetite, secretly gloating over what they were dead certain would soon be the hapless virgin's uncontrolled plunge into their own carnal world of hedonistic delight.

"I could use another drink, Dara," Maria Jennings said. She glanced at the young wife, smiling cat-like to herself. I don't need one - and by the way she's having trouble keeping steady, she doesn't need another, either - but she's going to!

"No... no I better not," Dara said. Her head was spinning from the unaccustomed heavy dosage of alcohol which had been fed to her. Fed by her own hand and the alternate turns at mixing by her best friend. On an empty stomach, the liquor went straight to work, and she realized belatedly that she was on the verge of being drunk, not just euphorically high. She couldn't even remember whether the empty glass on the coffee table was the symbol of her fifth or sixth drink; worse, she really didn't care. She just knew that she had to slow down...

"What about going out for dinner now?" she asked. 87

Maria Jennings stood up, smoothing her short dress. She shrugged as the picked up her glass - and Dara's as well. "I'm not hungry yet, I'm afraid. I ready feel like having another short one - I'll make a weak one for your." She walked into the kitchen and again poured both vodka and scotch into Dara's glass, then a good dollop of ginger ale; the sparkling mix only made the liquor be absorbed faster. She looked at the scotch bottle and smirked. It had been a fresh bottle when the evening had started. Here it was nearly ten o'clock and there was less than an inch left in the bottom. She was feeling good, not tipsy or anything even close to drunk because she'd made sure that Dara Clair had gotten the bulk of the bottle.

"I certainly hate it when Paul's away," she sighed, sitting down beside Dara. She was so close that her thigh rubbed against her friend's leg... the move was not accidental.

"I know what you mean," Dara moaned.

"Without... without George I feel positively barren."

"No sex?" the Jennings woman said lewdly, slyly grinning.

"No!" The sudden question, with its salacious overtones, surprised Dara. How bold! What did her friend think she did, anyway? Fool around while her husband was away? "Why, why Maria!" she gasped, "I'm faithful to George!"

Maria chuckled. "I didn't mean it like that, though God knows you could have all the men you wanted." She appraised the young housewife with calculating eyes, openly admiring her lush figure. "Your breasts are much larger than mine, and your hips... well, I don't mind telling you I'm envious of you."

"Thank... you," Dara said, shaken by the overt praise, and a little unsure how to accept it. It must be the liquor talking in Maria, she thought. We've both had quite a lot. She blinked as she found herself frankly studying her friend, not as a friend or even as a person, but as a woman - a sexual object which could attract and please. She wondered what Maria would look like in the nude, what it would be like to be a man and kiss her, caress her breasts (which were as sensual a pair as she'd seen, and certainly a match in their own right for her fuller ones) until the nipples stood out hard, to make love to her...

In shock, she smiled embarrassingly as Maria caught her gaze, and drank nervously from her full drink. Maria leaned over her to get a cigarette from the cannister on the table, and her breast swung heavily against Dara's arm. The heady musk of her perfume filled her nostrils, and with deliberate provocation Maria straightened and searched for a match in her purse with a sensuous motion of the hips and legs. Her skirt rose a little higher...

"No, I think that you could find lots of males, and nicely endowed ones, too; with lots of money, good looks and long hard cocks."

"Maria-!" came a horrified choke at her sudden use of the lewd word.

Don't be shy. It's just hen-talk between us girls." Maria winked at Dara. "Haven't you ever wanted to say a few dirty words? Let your hair don and use them the way a man does?"

Dara hesitated, embarrassed but at the same time fuddled by the vodka and scotch enough so that it all seemed sort of innocently daring. A private game between the two of them which couldn't hurt.

Say a dirty word," Maria wheedled. "Say something like cock."

"C-cock," Dara found herself repeating. She blushed madly.

Something else. Go on."

Screw..." Dara shivered at the use of the vulgarisms. It was exciting and perverted, and tinged with excitement. She felt a small surge of pleasure in her abdomen, and a little lower in her pussy. She giggled slightly, and averted her eyes. "Screw," she said louder.

"Screw," Maria said disparagingly. "What kind of dirty word is that? Screw! What does George do when he wants to empty his cock and balls into your cunt, Dara? Tell me the real word for what he does to you."

"He... fucks me," she stammered.

"Where?" The question came out with a gasp, as if the words were exciting the Jennings wife... which they were, but her reaction only helped feed the rising thrill in Dara Clair's loins. Maria licked her lips, her pink tongue circling them and leaving them glistening. "Where does George fuck you?"

"In... in..." she wasn't sure if she could say it! But then she felt like such an innocent, such a prude in front of her friend. Maria was enjoying it, and in honesty, she had to admit she was as well... and she trusted her friend, trusted her as only one true confident can trust another. It wasn't as if she was on stage, addressing an audience. She could be free with Maria... and more important, with Paul and George gone and only the two of them together now, she wanted to be free with her. She was drawn closer to her friend by the circumstances, and the bond tightened another notch as she said haltingly: "George... fucks me... in the... cunt! In my cunt!"

"Sure he does," Maria said. "Just like Paul fucks me in my cunt." She leaned back in her seat and stretched out her legs and to Dara's amazement, began to rub her thighs and belly with the palms of her hands. She stroked all around her genital area, moaning slightly as if in heat. "Ohhhhh, Dara, sometimes when Paul's not around, I nearly go out of my mind wanting a cock in me. My cunt gets so hot, that I think it'll burn a hole in my panties." She grinned lewdly at the lovely wife. "Sometimes," she whispered as if it was a guilty secret, "I even walk around without my panties. Without anything, just so the cool air will calm the fire in my pussy down."

"You... do?" Dara gulped her drink, the brazen confessions forging new and evil images on her brain. Maria... pantyless, going about the house naked between her legs... but why not?

Who's to know; Who's to see? It... even sounded like fun! Dara's heart began to pound faster, and she blamed the alcohol for her broken barriers of propriety, and for the way Maria was confiding the most inner secrets about her private life and marital relations...

"And... I-do other things!" Maria said. She inched still closer, as if afraid the walls had ears. She put one arm around Dara's shoulder. "I have to... or I'd go mad."

Dara asked before she realized what she was saying, "What kind of things?"

Maria tried to blush - a harder task than she had had to do so far. "I'll... show you." She picked up her purse, a wide, straw basket with leather straps. "Paul once bought these books in Europe," she said, bringing out a set of pamphlets. They were about the size of a Reader's Digest, only about twelve pages in thickness. There were different colored paper covers on them, but all were entitled: Climax Illustrated, with different volume numbers on them. "We would sit in bed and look at the pictures and get hotter than hell. We'd be naked, you see, and I'd look at his cock get excited and grow straight up in the air. Then we'd make love; screw, to use your word. He'd fuck my toenails off, in my language."

Dara took one of the booklets, and said as she opened the cover, "But I don't understand." She was confused, dizzy from the liquor, upset by not having her husband here, tortured by the increasing tingles of prurience which was emanating stronger and stronger from her loins and breasts, and mentally distraught from the deepening lewdness of the conversation. She didn't understand anything - and wh