Prisoner Of Lust By Theodore Stickles


PAULA'S UNLEASHED PASSION 

Paula had always known that one day, the lust-starved prisoners that she counseled would not be able to resist her voluptuous body. 

So, as the prisoner grabbed her and forced her to undress, releasing his aching member, she shouldn't have been so shocked. 

He squeezed and fondled her bare breasts ... pinching her nipples hard ... savouring the flavor and feel of a woman's flesh ... rubbing his hard, erect penis against Paula's trembling pussy ... feeling the warm wetness of her juicy cunt ... knowing it would be a long, long time before he could feel the softness of a woman's body again. 

Paula tried fighting at first, but she liked the strength and nerve of this prisoner. Besides, her body needed some good loving—and he was doing a fine job of fulfilling the longings of lust that only a forceful man could satisfy. 

CHAPTER 1 

Paula knew she was dreaming. But even this knowledge did nothing to help. It was hot, it was hard, it was male, and, most importantly, it was in her. She lay helpless, caught up in the throes of passion, hating it, loving it, unable even to make a token gesture or croak a hoarse "No!" as he pushed it in her, pulled it out, pushed it back in again, churning her insides into a passionate pudding of pink-frothed lust. 

God damn him! She knew who it was—knew just as clearly as if she could see his face. It was the most vivid dream she could remember in years. Damn! She hadn't felt this turned-on since—since something she didn't like to think about. 

This goddam job was getting the best of her. She ought to quit—but out and go back to something safe like teaching, preferably in some all-girl school. Lately she'd been turning positively paranoid. It was bad enough having to deal with them all day, to look into their burning eyes and know exactly what they were thinking, feeling, planning for her. How could she have not known what they were thinking—after all, what could they be thinking after months or years in that place, locked up and away from even the sight of a woman? 

But could they really see it in her face too? Could they read her mind, read her lush, unused body and know how long since she—how she ached and burned, lusted in the lonely silence of her darkened room? 

God damn him! God damn the dream that was racking her empty body! God damn a god who created a full-blown woman's body with full-blown desires—and then dumped her into a place in society where she could not gratify those desires. 

Oooooohhhh god damn it all—god damn everything! She could feel that great hot thumping lump of maleness humping her, driving a dick indefatigably in and out, in and out, filling her to bursting, leaving her panting and empty for a brief instant before once more stuffing her—like a sausage—like a Christmas goose! God damn it! She wasn't a sex object—something to be fucked and forgotten. She was a woman—an intelligent, sensitive, needful woman. She had a college education. She had looks. She was still young and had her health. She had everything she needed—job, home, car—everything except a man's hot, hard hammer sliding tirelessly into her, out of her, back into her every night. 

Something had to give. She couldn't put up with this insomnia forever. And when she did finally manage to sleep it was worse. All she could dream of were those hungry eyes with their naked need that made her feel naked as they studied her statuesque blondness, mentally peeling off her severely tailored clothes, pulling hairpins from her chignon to send a cascade of blond hair almost to her small taut waist. 

In the dream those hungry lusting eyes never looked into hers, looked only at the full firmness of twin peaks that peeped through a cascade of blond hair, pointing outward like twin headlights, their rigid pink nipples betraying her need, her shame, her inability to stop thinking about those hungry men with the hungry eyes, with the hungry insatiable need that raged in their bellies. 

God damn it! She was a modern, educated woman. Liberated! Liberated—shit! What did liberation mean if her body, her belly remained in some dark, prelogical era where all it asked for was not intellectualizations or rationalizations—all her belly wanted was that prodigious prod sliding slowly in and out, in and out, pumping her full of pregnancy, pumping her full of male chauvinism, pumping her full of the peace—piece—pumping her full of the joy that passeth all understanding. 

God damn that dream! Her whole body was reacting—reacting to a goddam dream—and she wasn't even fully asleep. She knew she was dreaming. After all, hadn't she been having the same goddam dream every night, the same goddam faceless man crawling silently into her bed, not even coming manfully in on top of her like a conquering hero, but sneaking stealthily up under the covers from the foot of her bed, slinking along with his head between her legs, between her thighs, doing his bungling, stiff-pricked best to sneak up on her and get it into her while she slept ... 

It was degrading. Without ever even seeing her face or exchanging a word, civilized or otherwise with her, he was just sticking his maleness into her body like some animal—using her with no more compunction than he'd use a piece of Kleenex. A piece of toilet paper, she decided, would be more apt. 

And what good was her college education doing her? He wasn't raping her mind. He wasn't raping her body either. That was the humiliating part of it. She could live with a rape fantasy, Paula knew. That was something outside her, not a part of her. But to lie there passive, ready, waiting, willing, just to lie there while he crept into her bed like a thief in the night, lie there without a struggle. She ought to kick, scream, fight. Instead, she was not even offered the consolation of terror. 

If only she could lie there too frightened to move, paralyzed by the sudden presence of a man in her narrow bed ... But even that small consolation was denied her. Modern, college-educated, thoroughly liberated Paula was nightly subjected to the ultimate humiliation in her fantasy world. Instead of being assaulted and abused by some stiff-pricked King Kong, she lay there passive and waiting, not at all the master of her body nor captain of her soul, lay there waiting for some timid sneak-thief to scurry into her bed, up between her legs, to work ever so carefully at teasing her drowsing body into missionary position, knees flexed and thighs spread wide so that he could slip it gently into her, holding his frightened breath and struggling to perform the impossible, to fuck a lusting, deprived woman without waking her up. For Christ's sake! 

And night after night she burned, ached, raged at her weakness, at her shame as night after night she felt her thighs spread, felt her body quiver and burn in anticipation of this shameful concession to her femininity. God damn it—why must she be so weak? 

A vacation? She'd just gotten back from one only five weeks ago. It hadn't helped a bit. She'd gone fishing, clad herself in flannel shirt and Levi's, hip boots, every masculine, unglamorous accoutrement she could think of. She had stood ass-deep for hours in near freezing waters trying to catch a big fish, knowing somewhere deep in her mind even before she had decided on this abortive fishing expedition that a big fish—pesce grande, her grandmother would have called it—was old-fashioned Italian slang for a king-sized cock. And thank you, Hen Doktor Freud. 

Vacation—shit! She was going to have to quit this job, throw her career away, forget about emancipated woman and new frontiers, stow herself safely away in some comfortable woman's hole of a job and leave those haunted, lusting eyes that saw through the severe tailored suits she wore, saw through jacket, saw through blouse, saw through bra, saw the rock-hard, throbbing nipples on that pair of full firm thirty-nines that had been her cross to bear, that had turned heads and had turned off minds, making her rage because all the time she was trying to argue a point and make somebody listen to sweet reason all that person could see was a pair of tits, full, firm, appealing, totally unliberated behind that bra, totally nonverbal and convincing that person not that she had a mind, only that she had a body, that it was a sin not to use, exploit, that body. 

And she had a body, Paula knew. Damn, did she ever have a body! She was tall for a woman, almost five eight. She was a little on the heavy side too—a hundred thirty-five. But it was distributed with a totally non-intellectual symmetry above and below a twenty-four-inch waist—a full firm ass atop long straight legs, balanced by a firm bust and a pair of jugs that would have made an ordinary girl seem top-heavy. 

Paula had stopped swimming years ago, only too aware of the effect of her body on others. Once a man had caught an eyeful of her in a bikini she knew he would never listen to her again without a mental image of that superb body superimposed on anything she might say, like a double-exposure blotting out any argument, any common sense, fogging his mind with a pink-tinged hint of patronizing prurience. Aw, you're too purty to bother your little head about things like that. 

What in hell would the world be like if supreme court justices were interrupted in mid-argument— "But your honor, all that groovy white hair and all those deep thoughts inside such a handsome old head!" 

And still that goddam little sneak of a man was slipping his great big sneak of a cock, his big fish, into her, out of her, moving so unobtrusively he probably thought he was stealing a cheap thrill from her sleeping body. 

Even though it had been half an eternity since last she had sensed a man's magic working inside her, Paula could tell it was a very respectable-sized fish for so small a man. And it was coursing so steadily in and out of her cunt, poking her titillated pussy with the regularity of a metronome, of a heartbeat. 

Whenever she stopped raging long enough to breathe she knew that no matter how she might hate it, her long-deprived body was loving it. Her cunt might be liberated but she could feel a faint flutter as of untried wings, like some bird too long in a cage and confused, frightened at the prospect of a liberty too free, a world too wide for weakened wings. 

God damn it all, if she gave in to this fantasy she was going to be sopping in another minute. Already she could feel her prurient pussy pulsating in time to that steady thrust, could feel tiny drops of love's lubrication preparing her for something that was not happening, was not going to happen as long as she had anything to say about it! 

But it was happening. Against her will she felt her rage soften until she could sympathize with him, whoever the poor bastard was, sympathize with his need, with the wild, throbbing rage of his long-deprived body. It seemed as if his honker had been sliding slowly and steadily in and out of her for at least an hour, moving with the calm regularity of a pendulum, uncaring whether that slow steady eroticism were to melt her will, melt her mind, turn her liberation into bondage and wipe its ass on her diploma. 

Then he changed his rhythm slightly, stopping at the bottom of each deep stroke to grind his pelvis against the lush fur of her pubic bush, sending his rigid rammer around inside her, stirring her in deep circles, mixing her brains and her cunt into a passionate pudding of instinct that gave not a shit for all her preparation, her education, her liberation. 

Oh god damn it! Was she ever going to get back to sleep? If only she could go one way or the other: either wake up all the way and go have a shower, douche the stickiness out of her crotch and go back to bed or, for Christ's sake, forget all this prurient foolishness and go back to sleep. Did she have to spend the whole goddam night mooning here half-asleep, half-awake? 

She had a responsible position. She made decisions involving the lives of other people. She needed a clear head for her job. If this went on all night she would be so sleepy that tomorrow she would look up unexpectedly, would catch a pair of eyes devouring her, unable to conceal their naked hunger and if she were to look long enough into those eyes, Paula knew she was in danger of falling in. 

Christ! It was easy enough to understand their need. They might be imperfect, incomplete, not especially likeable, but that naked need was not, at least not directly, their fault. But Paula ... whose fault was it that she had gotten herself locked into this crazy situation? 

Nobody's but her own, she knew. There was no real reason why she couldn't have a discreet little affair, providing she didn't flaunt it about or rub somebody's nose in it. But the trouble with having an affair was that somebody she really worried about might find out. Paula might find out. 

And all her colleagues, all her friends, they wouldn't be shocked or mind-blown. Nobody would ostracize her any more than they did now. She would not be asked to resign from any professional societies. No; the penalty would be more subtle, more lasting, more totally and completely unbearable. They would all smile and be tolerantly amused. Amused, god damn them! 

And god damn this sneaky son-of-a-bitch who was fucking her! God damn this indestructible dream! Sneaking in through the foot of her bed, up between her legs, and slipping it to her ever so slowly as if he thought he could get away with fucking a full-grown woman in her right mind, in full possession of her faculties, as if somebody could fuck the daylights out of Paula and not even wake her up. Still she struggled with that dismal half-awake, half-asleep sensation. 

There was only one way to come up out of it, she guessed. She would let herself slip deeper into the fantasy, imagine him banging deeper, harder, faster until finally he provoked a trembling spasm and then she would be awake, humiliated and cheapened but awake and away from this denigrating fantasy. She kicked at the covers and threw her legs in the air, she closed them in a loving erotic scissors over a dream man and oooohhh wow! 

It wasn't a dream, Paula abruptly realized. There really was a man between her legs. He had his cock in her and he really had been fucking her! 

CHAPTER 2 

Still partly asleep, Paula was forced to amend her last observation. Not only had the faceless little sneak been fucking her—now that she had thrown her long straight legs in the air, kicked away covers and wrapped around a fantasy that was suddenly real—now that she abruptly knew it was a real flesh and blood man in there, a real flesh and blood cock sliding in and out of her—now she knew that despite her sudden explosion of movement he hadn't even hesitated in his steady stroking. He was still fucking her. 

He must be in some kind of a trance. High on something, perhaps? She opened her eyes and the room was dimly lit. She could barely make out the outline of his head. His face was in shadow. She was still being fucked by a ghost but as she clawed her way back into full awareness she began to see a connection. It wasn't just some sneak who'd found an open window and forced his way into the next open window between her sleeping legs. In a way she guessed she must have invited him in. Not deliberately, nor even knowingly. As if they didn't always know ... 

This morning early. That had been when it started. No. It had started last night with a phone call from that fine-feathered son-of-a-bitch who'd gone out into a world that welcomed men, gone from his bar exam straight into private practice, moving every six months into a fancier apartment and working his way from a battered VW to a Mark IV. God damned smart-ass! 

They had gone through law school together. Paula had graduated and gotten a job. In the time it had taken him to move from a VW to a Mark IV she had gone from nine to twelve thousand per annum. 

And last night he had called. 

Not that land of call, she had remembered. She guessed it had been years since he had wasted his time trying or even bothering to batter at a wall which— Anyhow, it had been strictly business. "That banquet thing, Paula." Before she could give him a proper blast he had hastened with, "I know you're not going. Neither am I or anybody in his or her right mind but there's a bit of PR to be done for the bar association." 

Paula had still been ready to tell him to stuff it when she remembered that she was a lawyer after all, that it wouldn't hurt her career to be seen once in a while. "I'm tied up all afternoon and evening," she warned. 

"No sweat," Smart-ass rejoined. "They're filming it so if you can just get down to City Hall early and hand the old bastard a plaque ... " 

"Well," she said hesitantly, "I guess I could do that much." 

"Fine! I knew you'd come through. Just put on some kind of long dress and be there before eight." 

"Eight o'clock in the morning!" Paula was so outraged she didn't even find the breath to tell him she hadn't worn a formal since— She was still struggling for breath when she realized the line was dead. 

God damn him! Chauvinist bastard! So the bar association wanted to hand his honor another useless honor. Why couldn't some man do it? Or if they needed a sex symbol why not hire some bunny to shed her ears and tail and pop out of a cake? She had been dialing him back to tell him to go stuff it when she realized he must have cooked it up already, that he had fixed it up with Christ only knew how many other people, and that if she were to let them down the bar association would cooperate with his honor's administration to find dozens of little ways to make her life miserable. Vacation schedules could be reshuffled. Promising or at least nonviolent clients would go to more favored officers. She could end up with the psychotics and the gorillas. Her paperwork could be sent to the wrong office, everything delayed. No matter how she might despise it, Paula knew you could kick only so hard at the system before it started kicking back. 

Shit! She'd worked till after eight this evening. Now she'd have to be there with her hair all fixed and everything in place in less than—less than nine hours! What on earth was she going to wear? 

She rummaged through her closet with a sense of despair, knowing there was nothing even remotely suitable except the gown she had worn once twelve years ago, back before she had discovered exactly how much of a man's world the law world really is, back before she'd become so embittered that her wardrobe had gradually become nothing but pants suits. 

To hell with them! They were all men and they wouldn't know whether she was in style or not. And she didn't care. She got it out. The gown was not at all what might be expected of an evening gown. It had long sleeves and a high collar, with seed pearls strategically placed around the bust line. But at least it fulfilled the requirements. It was floor length. 

She stood before the bathroom door mirror, holding the lame gown before her. Could she still get into it after twelve years? She stripped down to bra and panties and studied her reflection. She was full grown. But she really wasn't much bigger than she had been when she graduated. She slipped it over her head and struggled into it. 

It fit a bit tight about the hips but she guessed an audience of men would probably approve. And if any women saw her, to hell with them. But the bust ... she wondered if she could get away with buttoning it only halfway. Perhaps some pins or brooches ... 

The only real trouble was her undergarments. She had put on just enough weight in the last twelve years to make the gown fit more interestingly than the first time around. But now it fit just tight enough to outline bra and bikini panties with perfectly visible creases. She sighed and took the damned thing off. Then with sudden inspiration she took off bra and panties too. 

Standing before the mirror she surveyed full un-draped splendor. Poor stiff-pricked bastards ... no wonder they couldn't keep their minds on the law when they were looking at that body, trying to decipher its gorgeous outlines through all the severely tailored outfits—camouflages she was in the habit of wearing. 

Her hair, when she let it free of that confining chignon, hung straight and blond almost to her waist. Her legs were long and straight and, by some quirk of nature, possessed a special prick-stiffening quality which made them appear, even now when she stood barefoot, as if she were standing in exaggerated spike heels. 

Her hips were full and rounded, framing a belly that curved with feminine allure punctuated by a deep navel built for licking. Her waist was not really tiny but seemed that way because of the lovely bulge of hips beneath and midriff above. 

And her tits—those lovely jugs! Full, firmly all-American, upstanding, looking steadfastly onward, forward, upward with all the unlimited enthusiasm of Kiwanis and Lions. Like twin headlights they illuminated her mirror, their nonsagging, never-need-a-bra roundness still capable after all these years of turning heads on the street, of making judges forget or ignore the finely spun thread of some legal argument. 

She didn't need a bra—wore one only as an added safeguard lest her firm, hard little nipples show through layers of clothing and drive one of those haunted-eyed yearning clients right over the wire mesh that separated them. She turned sideways and studied her figure for sag. There was none. Her belly bulged in just the proper direction. Her full, firm jugs' upper slopes were twin ski jumps, curving with wicked unexpectedness as that long gentle slope approached a perky, skyward-pointing nipple. Their under surfaces were ripe with the lushness of grapefruits—twin melons full of sweet promise. 

And how long had it been since a man's lips had closed over one of those nipples? How long since a man's hot hardness had slipped gently between her thighs, parted the blond-fuzzed labia of her vulva and done its chauvinistic best to rearrange the topography of her cunt country? 

Angrily, she tore her gaze from the mirror and began struggling back into the formal. It still fit snugly and she knew she would have to walk carefully if it were not to ride up on her hips. But, with a will, plus the help of a few pins and brooches it could be done. She hung the dress where she could find it in the morning and stepped into the tub. While it was filling she lay back, reveling in sensuality as near-scalding water gradually rose round her recumbent body, inundating her until her ass was bathed in a roseate glow of not quite contentment. She lay inert while the rising water converted the blond bush on her mons veneris into a tiny triangular island next to the larger round island of her' navel-punctuated belly. Finally these islands were submerged and rising water exposed only the pink-tipped, firm-nippled aureoles of her matched set of jugs. She sighed and sunk deeper in the water. Christ but she was tired! 

Paula nearly went to sleep in the tub but she was finally aroused from her lethargy by cooling water. She pulled the plug and toweled off hastily. Not even bothering with a nightgown, she went to bed naked. 

And dreamed. 

She was a fair-sized woman but he was a giant and he was not ravishing her in the traditional sense of the word. He didn't have her on her back in missionary position while he held her down and poured his masculinity to her in eight-inch doses. Instead, he lay on his back and she was on top and she wasn't even lying down atop him. She was sitting, legs extended, her full ass firmly spiked on a prodigious prod that was not going in and out of her but was literally screwing, winding her down on his spindle while she spun down on him like a nut. 

He had his hands on her waist and he had his pelvis raised and he was spinning her, eliciting a melody from her long-playing body as if she were a rock-and-roll record spinning on the erotic turntable of his cock. And oh chauvinistic Jesus, did it ever feel goooood! 

She was gasping, her whole body quaking under the erotic onslaught of his prodding spindle. With each erotic turn he screwed it deeper into her. Her legs were high; she was jackknifed, her whole body weight supported on that lovely lance that was stabbing her to a lovely death. 

Then suddenly she was not just spinning, screwing her hot humming nut down around his bolt. Now he was bucking too, tossing her up and down while she spun; her thrumming vagina was being screwed to death and now as she bounced up and down he was driving it still deeper into her with each savage, soul-shattering thrust. She could feel her innards start to melt, shift, transmogrify into startlingly new and erotic shapes. 

He sat up and such was his strength, his size, and his agility that even sitting up he could still hump her up and down, bend her legs up past her ears and keep her spinning while still feeding his firm eight inches into her, bouncing her up and down atop and around his erotic pogo stick. Only now he was no longer turning her by her tiny waist. Now her full firm jugs were his handles and he was spinning her faster, so fast they stuck out even straighter, more provocatively skyward-pointing and with each turn he ducked his face in to plant a kiss on first one humming, thrumming, rock-hard nipple and then the other. And oh Jesus chauvinist, didn't it ever feel gooooood! 

She could feel great rhythmic contractions course through her, each surge of erotic joy leaving behind a tiny residual tension that accreted to the next pulsation of lust until her whole body vibrated with an ecstasy of anticipation. God but it was great to be fucking again, to feel a hot hard male back in the saddle, making his fleshy offering to the temple of her emancipated flesh, straining and tearing himself to erotic bits as he struggled to pleasure her throbbing body. 

She could feel herself still spinning on his purple-tipped turntable, feel herself sliding up and down that prurient prod, feel her body reacting to something she had not learned in law school, her whole being responding to an older, more natural law that she had never learned how to repeal. 

Her flesh was quivering with sweet torment, not just her belly but her whole body. With each turn he kissed a nipple, thus managing to keep both of those sensitive tips of her tits vibrating with a hope of future joy, of more, faster, deeper, now! 

The eight-inch auger that bored into her quivering flesh seemed capable of fulfilling, filling her full, of delivering on the most outrageous of campaign promises. My god, did it ever feel gooood! 

It felt so good she knew it could not last much longer. Nothing was forever—especially nothing this mind-blowingly, flesh-meltingly good. Even as she spun, Orbiting around that erotic center to her being, she sensed that the pivot on which she rotated was subject to the same physical laws as her lusting body. It was just a question of which of them would come first. Which of them would know joyous fulfillment and which would be left high and dry, needing, wanting, shedding tears of frustration and rage? 

Then suddenly she knew which one it was to be. She felt all those tense rubber bands inside her thrumming belly start to snap one by one and then suddenly she was coming right in two, in three, into tiny shattered pieces of love's culmination. Maybe she wasn't exactly coming in two but Paula knew with utter certainty that she was coming. 

CHAPTER 3 

Still in the throes of orgasm, she struggled with tangled sheets and a growing feeling of familiarity. Damn! Did she have to dream off this way every night? Two or three times a night? Her cunt was sopping with love's lubrication and she was sticky all over. She got up grumbling and changed the sheets. Still muttering, she showered off and went back to a clean dry bed, knowing that unless she took enough sleeping pills to make her useless and stupid all next day, that it would probably happen again before morning. Maybe she ought to see a doctor. 

A doctor with an eight-inch cock? 

It was so exhausting to try to stay angry with the whole world, with herself, with a creator who gave her a body with certain instincts and then dumped her in a society where ... It was, she decided with a certain accuracy, a pain in the ass. 

And having delivered herself of this prosaic opinion, Paula finally dropped once more into confused sleep where she toyed with rape, with venery, with lust and perversions of infinite variety until she was interrupted in a mountain-climbing expedition, interrupted halfway up the slopes of Mount Orgasm by the tearing, jarring, tinkle of an indefatigable alarm clock. 

"God damn it!" she greeted the new day. As she came fully awake her disposition was not improved by the memory of what she had to do that morning. Muttering curses like an angry Druid, she got her hair up in a chignon so tight it threatened to pull her eyes into a slant. Remembering the creases from bra and bikini panties, she got into the long-sleeved, floor length formal and began hanging the too-tight garment about her full-cut body, using pins and brooches wherever the endless rows of buttons refused to meet. 

Goddam, eye balling assholes that surrounded Hizzonner the Mayor would probably think the ancient dress was designed to go on her this way, with a gap here and there to make things interesting. 

She glanced at the clock and—shit! She had less than fifteen minutes. Hastily, she gave herself a final mirror check and decided it was good enough. She rushed about the house looking at window latches and spring locks. She got in the Datsun, touched the garage door opener gadget, backed out, and was on her way full speed ahead and damn the fuzz. 

It was three minutes of eight when she surrendered her Datsun to the underground parking attendant at City Hall. The goddam long skirt caught in the automatic elevator door and she had to push the red emergency button, which cost her another thirty seconds before she could make the goddam door close again and the elevator start moving. She had to present a smiling, trouble-free countenance to Hizzonner and the TV crew. How could she manage to conceal the fact that she was boiling inside? Goddam chauvinist pigs! Why did she have to wear this silly thing? If they wanted sex appeal why not get a pretty boy? After all, that kind of swinger voted too. 

It felt funny to be hurrying along without any panties. It felt funny without any pantyhose either-striding across the marble first floor of City Hall and feeling her bare inner thighs rub gently against each other with each step, feel the labia of her blond-furred vulva move back and forth past each other with a sensation very like something-hot, hard, and male coursing in and out of her with every step. 

This early in the morning there was nobody much in City Hall except the regulars. It would be another hour before the endless stream of citizens, losers, and politicos began wheeling and dealing. The janitor and the crippled woman at the news and candy stand looked at a woman in evening dress at eight ay emm with glazed eyes that had seen everything. 

Paula tried not to think about the odd feeling in her crotch as she hurried across the marble atrium toward the escalator. The goddam dress was like a hobble and she couldn't make any time. She picked up the skirt with one hand and it tangled slightly less with each hurried step. There was one longhair on the escalator ahead of her. He glanced back and suddenly began running up the escalator. She wondered if she was that frightening and then saw the minicam. He was one of the TV crews who were here to film Hizzonner getting this goddam plaque. 

Plaque—what plaque? It was one minute of eight. She hoped somebody up on the next floor at the head of the escalator would have remembered the damned thing. As if Hizzonner needed another plaque. Must have enough to shingle his hunting lodge already. 

The escalator gave a slight boggle and she nearly lost her balance. All she needed was for this damned thing to quit now so she could arrive completely breathless. Damn her itching pussy! Shouldn't have pulled her chignon quite so tight. It was stretching her eyes clear out of shape. 

The escalator glitched again and she dropped her skirt as she grabbed at the handrail. Quit fussing, she told herself. Nobody in this town's ever on time. You'll be the first one here and you'll have coffee and a cigarette with the newsmen and the TV people who've all seen it more times than you have and you'll all laugh at Hizzonner's latest stupidity and finally an hour and forty minutes from now when he does arrive with booze on his breath you'll get on with this goddam presentation and it'll last all of seven seconds on the evening news and then you can forget this chauvinistic crap and get back to your own office and get some work done. 

God damn her burning, itching, flowing pussy! Would there ever be a minute in her life when she could turn it off and think about something else apart from how nice it would be to have a man's muffin-stabber coursing valiantly in and out of her brimming cunt? 

God damn this gimping escalator! It glitched again and she nearly fell. Maintenance company was probably owned and operated by Hizzonner's brother-in-law. If ever she got enough clout and if ever she got off the city payroll where Hizzonner couldn't fire her at the first hint of rebellion Paula resolved to put a bug in the ear of the next grand jury. It was time somebody put a mousetrap in the till for Hizzonner's hand and his grasping family. 

She was nearly to the top now and the escalator was still stuttering but—to hell with it. If it quit she could walk the last few steps and emerge with a simulacrum of a smile on her face, give her mid-thirtyish best imitation of some mindless sex object. She wondered if Playboy bunnies in those absurd costumes were ever troubled with itching, burning, fuck-hungry cunts. 

Her face came up level with the second floor where she was supposed to make the presentation and Paula's worst suspicions were realized. Her watch must be wrong or else somebody had made sure everybody in city government was on time for once. The second floor lobby was full of councilmen, ward heelers, TV crews, every damn thing. Aha! Why hadn't she remembered Hizzonner was off and running again? He needed all the free publicity he could get and Paula, stuck in a city job and doubly skewered by the bar association, Paula was struggling to put a smile on her face and help elect the old bastard again even if she hated him like homemade sin. 

As her head came up past the floor level the escalator gave another slight tremor. She struggled to ignore it, to ignore the mayor and all the leering chauvinistic faces as she peered into the TV cameras. What would happen, she wondered, if she were to grab a microphone and call the mayor a thieving bastard and announce her own candidacy? 

Fat chance. It would be her first and last appearance on TV. It would also be the final appearance of her paycheck. She struggled to grin and bear it, make the best of a male chauvinist world. She peeled back her lips in a smile and the goddam escalator did its best to dump her in a sprawling heap before the TV cameras, before Hizzonner the mayor. 

She kicked wildly and caught her balance and then realized with sudden horror what was really happening. She had forgotten about that goddam long-skirted evening gown. Halfway up the escalator she had let go of the skirt. Now the worn out escalator had snagged it, had gotten it thoroughly entangled, and the idiot machine was doing its mindless mechanical best to pull her to the floor, pull her through the floor, turn her into legal-educated mincemeat as it passed through the mesh on its return trip downstairs and upstairs down. 

She was squatting already. In another minute she'd be down. She felt the skirt rip, remembered irrelevantly that she had nothing on underneath—no bra, no panties, no nothing except the blond ringlets of her pubic patch. As if it made any difference when this miserable machine was trying to kill her! 

She reacted instinctively, threw her arms and shoulders back and straightened her legs. There was a magnificent rending, ripping sound. The escalator groaned for an instant and then she saw her long-sleeved evening dress go crunching through the grating, still in more or less of a piece as the escalator treads bore it down through the plating into the unseen Freudian underside of the machine, into some dark nether region inhabited only by maintenance company gnomes. 

Paula straightened, shaking, her arms and shoulders still back and her full firm tits thrust forward like twin headlights, pointing straight into the impassive eyes of a half dozen TV cameras. She was so frightened by her near escape that for an instant she didn't realize the full significance of all those goggling male eyes, those TV lenses, the startled and absolute silence that filled the second story of city hall. 

From the corner of her eye she saw the smart-ass fellow law student who had gotten her into this. He was staring as silent and wide-eyed as all the others. Hizzonner's slightly bourbon-focused eyes were attempting to put it all together. And Paula finally did. 

The goddam evening dress was gone forever. She stood here before Hizzonner, before the bar association, before the city council, before six TV cameras, and before Smart-ass and she wasn't fully dressed. She had on a pair of high-heeled shoes. She wore her tight-pulled chignon. In between the only covering she wore was the blond bush of her prominent mons veneris! 

It was worse than a bad dream. Paula had been having bad dreams too long to even suspect this might be one. She was too alive, too totally aware for this to be anything but the tearing, mauling, humiliating truth. She was naked before half the city! Naked before everybody she knew—everybody who counted in her life. 

Hizzonner had finally gotten his unbelieving eyes in focus. He was licking his lips. And now it was beginning to turn into a bad dream. Paula stood paralyzed, still frightened stiff by her narrow escape. She supposed she ought to make at least a token effort, put a hand over her pubic patch, try to cover her tits, turn around—do something! 

She couldn't. Totally paralyzed, mouth dry, even her cunt dry for once in her lusting life, she stood looking into the TV cameras, into all those burning, yearning male eyes that stared silently back. 

They were all paralyzed too, she suddenly realized. It must be at least as startling to them as it was to her to be expecting a dignified lady lawyer and have it turn into an unannounced striptease. The bar association would have a few uneasy years living this down. And Hizzonner's political enemies must already be rubbing gleeful hands, thinking of all the wonderful uses they could make of this moment, all the unprintable jokes that would liven up the forthcoming campaign. Grimly, Paula realized that at least she had done something. Hizzonner wouldn't be able to fire her for this. He'd be too busy trying to keep her from suing the city. But she'd done her little bit to spike his campaigns Maybe the old bastard would lose, thanks to her. 

But at what a price? She could never live this moment down. If she lived another fifty years, if she were to grow as decrepit as Whistler's mother, Paula knew she would still be remembered for this unforgettable moment before the entire city government, before six separate TV cameras. Oh Jesus! 

And still nobody moved. How long had she been standing there naked, arms and shoulders back, tits thrust out like a radiator ornament? Ten minutes? One minute? Not over two seconds at the most, she realized. No wonder they talked about drowning men reviewing their whole lives. It seemed to her that she had been there forever, standing on the block at some slave auction, her body exposed for the delectation of all these male chauvinist pigs and who was going to bid? Would somebody buy her? Would somebody take her home and rape her? Would somebody rape her twice before he got her home? Would somebody spread her legs and put his great thumping mass of virility in between her legs, part of her quiff, stuff her full of chauvinism and slide his male supremacy in and out, in and out until she moaned and squealed and giggled? 

Dimly she realized it had happened. Somebody had broken the spell. Somebody had bid and bought her and now he was rushing forward to claim his prize. Dimly she perceived that it was Smart-ass, her longtime law school rival. Of all the miserable chauvinist pig sons of bitches, he'd naturally be the one. 

Totally undignified, totally lacking in courtroom decorum, he was galloping toward her, tearing off his topcoat as he ran. "Jesus H. Christ!" he gasped as he threw it over her shoulders, "Let's get out of here!" 

CHAPTER 4 

She stumbled along behind him, unable to match her step with his. Smart-ass turned, saw the glazed look on her face, and wasted no more time. Hastily, he closed his topcoat around her, grabbed her like some hairy brute of a caveman, and galloped off toward the down escalator with Paula over his shoulder. 

This isn't really happening, she tried to tell herself but she knew it was. No dream could scratch like this topcoat scrubbing her bare belly with each bounce while he galloped down the escalator, across the marbled lobby, and down the flight of cruddy stairs that bypassed an elevator to the parking garage. 

He's going to get me in a dark corner and rape me, she knew. The son-of-a-bitch had been trying half heartedly to get into her pants for as long as she'd known him. But never quite hard enough. Until now he'd been happy enough to get his name in the papers with a succession of young hard bodies and, apparently, smart enough not to let any of these conniving young cunts hitch her wagon to his rapidly rising star. But now, having finally seen a full-sized spread of her irresistible charms, he was going to make up for lost time, going to get her down in some dark corner of the parking garage and fuck her silly, fuck her until her brains turned to peanut butter and her cunt to mincemeat. He was going to- 

Instead of dumping her in a corner and threading his honker into her, Smart-ass, still draping her coat-wrapped body over his shoulder, fumbled in his pocket and then he was opening the door of a Mark IV. He put her in the front seat, handling her like a length of rolled-up carpet. Moments later they were driving out of the garage up onto the street and Paula knew despairingly that it wasn't true. He wasn't going to rape her. Smart-ass really did have a sharp mind. While all those other dipshits had leered and boggled he had rushed forward and struggled to spare her more humiliation. Now he was taking her home. 

It didn't occur to her to ask how he happened to know the way. He'd never been there. In the twelve years since they'd finished law school and been admitted to the bar he'd seen her every day or two in the courtrooms, in chambers, in the restaurants frequented by City Hall people. They'd been friendly in a brittle sort of way and he'd never once visited her home. Now, after a silent ride he was pulling up before her little house. 

He pulled into the driveway and touched a door opening gadget. Paula's eyes widened as her garage door flew open. "Any son-of-a-bitch who peddles these things for security merits whatever the law can ignore in the way of cruel and unusual punishment," Smart-ass growled as he drove his Mark IV cautiously into the space for her Datsun. 

Paula opened the door and bolted. "Don't I even get a cup of coffee?" he asked plaintively as she shot into the kitchen. 

Both of her phones were ringing. She ignored them and raced into her bedroom, shedding the topcoat as she rummaged through the closet and found a quilted robe. Then she realized that, no matter how much Smart-ass annoyed her, he really had been decent about it all. Belting her robe, she returned to the kitchen, then remembered his coat. She went back to the bedroom and got it. When she got back to the kitchen he had already rummaged through her cupboards and was plugging in a percolator. 

"I'm sorry," he said. 

Paula looked at him in astonishment. 

"I know how you feel about the whole shtick," he explained. "Next time the bar association wants to give Hizzonner a few strokes they can hire a bunny to pop up out of a cake." 

The blue phone and the red phone both started ringing again. 

"Ignore them," he growled. "You're going to have every freak in TV range propositioning you for the next three weeks. And it may even get on the networks unless that kid in my office has sense enough to make a few calls and remind them about invasion of privacy." 

"In a public place?" Paula asked witheringly. 

"Nothing wrong with bluffing is there?" Smart-ass grinned. The percolator started muttering and Paula turned to the red phone. 

"Don't!" 

"I've got to. That's the hot line for my parolees." She picked up the phone and answered. 

"Miss di Stephano?" 

"Yes." 

"This's Harry Riggs." When she hesitated the voice added, "You know—9173612. Uh look, Miss di Stephano, I've got a job. What I mean is a real job with a future but it's, uh, it's out of town." 

"How far out of town?" 

"Well, uh, it's out of state actually." 

"Harry, you know I can't make new rules. I have to obey the law just like you do." 

"But Miss di Stephano, it's a real opportunity. My boss'll go bond for me and he's got all kinds of papers and references and—can't I just bring him around and see you?" 

Paula sighed. "Give me an hour," she said. "My office." 

"Uh, couldn't I come to your house? I'm right in the neighborhood." 

"I suppose so," she said defeatedly. No matter what that burning-eyed breaker and enterer cooked up she knew she couldn't give him permission to leave the state. 

Smart-ass was looking quizzically at her. "Business as usual?" he asked. 

Paula nodded and accepted the coffee he was pouring her in her own kitchen. 

"I was going to suggest you get out of town and lie low for a day or two until it's forgotten." 

The other phone was still ringing. Smart-ass picked it up, listened for a moment, and put it down without hanging up. "First freak," he said. "You'll have to get an unlisted number for that one." 

"Who was it?" 

"Sounded like that Daily News sharpie trying to pretend he was from the city attorney's office asking if you were going to sue." 

Paula sighed and wondered if she really ought to go on vacation. But she'd just been on one. Sick leave? But she might turn out to be really sick someday. 

She studied Smart-ass from the corner of her eyes. He really was a handsome dude—early forties, tall enough to make Paula feel little alongside him. He'd kept in shape, thanks to golf and sailing and handball and Christ knew what else. His hair was just starting to gray. She caught herself wondering what he would look like naked—as naked as she had been in front of all those chauvinist pigs. How big a cock did he have? And suddenly her belly was roiling again, all those little rubber bands inside her twisting up and getting ready for her little internal airplane to go soaring in another wildly looping solo flight. 

Suddenly she knew that Smart-ass was studying her too. He finished his coffee, stood abruptly, and grabbed his coat. "Sorry," he repeated. "And if you ever change your mind, please put me at the top of the list." 

"List of what?" Paula asked absently. That breaker and enterer would be there soon. 

"The list of them as would like to handle the merchandise," Smart-ass said with a gallant bow. "If ever you feel the need of a male chauvinist pig, please count on me." Before Paula could reply he had exited into the garage. She heard the garage door open, heard his Mark IV back out, heard the door close again and then she was alone with her thoughts, alone with the realization that good-hearted, friendly old Smart-ass wasn't quite as smart as she had thought. Or possibly, she reflected, just not that interested. 

The only thing Paula knew for sure was that if Smart-ass had really wanted to punch her ticket all he'd've had to do was pick her up again, spread her out on her bed, and mount her. She felt her belly give a little flipflop. Jesus! What if he ever found out how near a miss? What if he ever learned how she burned for a man, for a cock—his cock—any cock. If only she could somehow manage a discreet little affair ... 

Shit! If she worked at it possibly she could. Fat chance now though. For the next few months every reporter would be just waiting and hoping for a follow up story on Lady Godiva of City Hall. Shit! 

Suddenly Paula was crying angry tears of rage and frustration. She was getting ready to pitch coffee over handed at the kitchen wall when she realized who would end up cleaning it up. She stood in mid-kitchen, still clad only in her quilted robe, and : saw the blue phone was still off the hook. She put it back. Immediately it started ringing. She took it off again and placed the receiver face down. Still sobbing, she waited a minute and hung up again. Immediately the blue phone was ringing again. 

She let it ring while she rummaged through the nightstand beside her bed. Finally she came back with a police whistle on a gold chain. She picked the phone up, blew the whistle with all her strength into it and hung up again. Immediately the goddam thing was ringing again. She sighed, took it off the hook, blew the whistle again, then put the phone down without hanging up. My god, was she on TV already? Didn't the idiots have sense enough to cut it or fuzz it out of focus or something? 

Was she already showing every crisp blond ringlet of her crotch to every lip-licking chauvinist pig of an asshole bandit in this city? What was she going to do? 

The doorbell chimed. She was about to ignore it when abruptly she remembered. The breaker and enterer who thought she was going to make new parole laws and let him leave the state ... She went to the door and looked through the peephole. Hat in hand, he stood on her front stoop, looking very much like what he was: a paroled breaker and enterer, a ratlike, George Raft of a man with straight, slicked-back hair, a prison pallor, and a missing chromosome—the well-meaning little shnook who always got caught in the cogs of the machinery because he quite simply couldn't understand that he wasn't all that smart, that you don't break and enter exactly the same way over a hundred times without even the dumbest of cops learning to say, "Aha, Harry Riggs is on the street again!" 

But who got caught in the cogs of the machinery this morning? Paula forced her face into an amiable neutrality and opened the door. "Good morning, Harry, like some coffee?" she asked. 

Harry most assuredly would. He followed her into the kitchen like an eager insurance salesman reincarnated as a puppy dog and was sitting in the chair recently vacated by Smart-ass before Paula even remembered that she still wore only her robe. She hoped Harry Riggs had not seen the TV news yet. 

"Well Harry, apart from not letting you leave the city, much less the state, what can I do for you?" 

Harry wasn't saying. He had a manila envelope under his arm. He put it down and began removing his topcoat. Underneath he wore a cheap suit that came from the same factory that clothed all her clients until they got a job or went back into the rackets. Paula turned her back on him and began fixing coffee. "Kitchen's a mess," she said, "Why don't you go sit in the other room and I'll bring in a tray." She remembered how short of money, how often these poor losers were actually hungry and decided it would cost her nothing to pile a couple of sandwiches on the tray. It was five minutes before she was finished. • 

Damn! Ought to duck into the bedroom and put on something but it would take time and the poor man had already waited too long and she was going to have to tell him no anyhow so ... besides, the bedroom was reachable only by going through the other room where he would be sitting on pins and needles waiting to tell her all about his chance of a lifetime. Still in the chignon and high heels with which she had greeted Hizzonner the Mayor, plus a quilted robe that would conceal the rest of her providing she was careful how she sat and didn't let a knee or a whole damn thigh escape, Paula picked up the tray and walked into the front room. 

"Harry!" She was so startled she nearly dropped the tray. Goddam! Had she gotten her files mixed up? This was Harry Riggs, wasn't it? The man who had made a career of breaking and entering? She couldn't recall any other information in his file. So what on earth was he doing standing stark naked in her front room, his clothes in a neat pile at one end of the sofa, his cock in full erection? 

"Harry, what on earth are you up to?" she babbled. "Have you been a closet flasher all these years?" Damn! had her morning been so hectic she'd gotten him mixed up with some deviate dingbat? 

Harry's face was grim and unsmiling, his eyes glazed. She remembered that look—had seen it countless times on the faces of these men locked up away from women, so hungry that even the sight of a fully clothed woman was enough to make them gasp and ejaculate. Had Harry seen the TV news already? It didn't seem to make much difference. She had let him into her house and now he was carrying an invitation one step farther. 

CHAPTER 5 

Paula stared, fascinated, her eyes ranging up and down his naked, scanty-haired body. His cock, she noted, was uncircumcised. It was in full erection, heavy veined, an angry purple head peeping from his tight-stretched prepuce. It was pointing straight at her and for the first time she truly appreciated the impact that her full, firm tits must have whenever they looked a deprived, sex-starved man straight in the eye. 

He was a wiry, muscular little man, no taller than she was. She wondered if she could overpower him and wrestle him down long enough to call for help. "Harry," she said, "Don't you know you can't do this? Don't you know what'll happen to your parole?" 

"Don't shit me," he gritted. "I know you want it. I know you're as hard-up as I am." Still moving toward her, approaching her with his ram at a dangerous angle, he continued, "Besides, who'd believe you? Told you I was comin' over half an hour ago and you ain't even dressed. Don't try to shit me!" 

As he came close to her she could feel hot male heat radiating from the throbbing head of his cock, warming her right through the quilted front of her robe. She knew she ought to resist—hit him, run, do something! 

She couldn't. Paula was paralyzed by the sight of this submissive little man stalking her with a stiff prick. It was as startling as if he had suddenly grown a hairy face and fangs. "No, Harry," she cautioned in a tremulous voice. "No, don't!" 

Paying no attention, Harry was pushing her nerveless hands aside. He tugged at the sash of her robe and it fell open to display a swatch of her frontage from neck to ankle. He put his arms on her shoulders and Paula found herself once more in a remembered position just as she had shrugged out of that long-skirted formal devoured by the escalator. 

This time it was not a machine; it was a man undressing her. He pushed gently and the slick quilted sateen slid off her shoulders until the robe collapsed behind her like a deflating balloon. 

I can stop him, she told herself. I know I can. He isn't any bigger than I am and he isn't any superduper athlete. I can stop him. If only I could move. 

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm! He was rooting like a pig in the soft valley between her full firm breasts. His hands on her shoulders slipped down around her waist and then he was bearing down until her knees bent and slowly they sank to the wall-to-wall and then they were both kneeling and he was still rooting in her warm soft jugs and his arms were around her waist and he was urging her backward and then she was on her back on her own living room rug and he was kneeling between her thighs and her knees were bent and, for Christ's sake, she was falling right into missionary position and she could feel the heat of his hot hammering cock burning her thighs and then his fingers were parting the blond-ringletted lips of her cunt and he was threading his cock into her and he didn't even have a rubber on and oooooooohhhhhh it was going in. 

She gasped and tried to struggle but it was no use. He was on top of her now and her will had turned to water and, ever since she had seen that great thumping cock in full erection moving toward her, Paula had been unable to do more than protest feebly and now it was in her and he was pushing and it was sliding smoothly, slickly, not hurting at all and, oh my god, whether she had wanted it or not, her body had been ready and this stiff-pricked breaker and enterer was entering her and he hadn't even had to break in. She could feel his cock sliding in, in, in deep into her, filling her full of maleness, full of the stuff her dreams were made of, only this wasn't a dream, not even a nightmare. This was really happening. She was getting raped in her own house, in her own front room, on her own wall-to-wall rug and she was getting raped by a convicted felon and he was one of her very own clients and she had violated every rule in the book by even letting him find out where she lived and, come to think of it, how did he know? 

She had violated every rule of elementary security for a woman who had to work with dangerous men and now that she had violated all the rules he was violating her and he must have had it all the way in by now. 

Inside her it felt even bigger, harder, hotter, more chauvinistically insistent than when he had been rooting piglike in her tits. Only he still had his face in her tits but now he wasn't rooting. Instead, his mouth had fastened over one firm, rock-hard nipple and he was kissing, sucking, licking while he still drove his cock deep into her. Finally she felt his hard bony pelvis grind against hers and guessed it was all the way in. 

"Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!" he commented and held for a moment, grinding and screwing his crotch against hers, mashing the widespread lips of her vulva, churning her insides into silly putty as his cock stirred round and round, stretching her clit and mashing it to the erotic edge of pain. Then just when she knew she was going to squeal and giggle and come and let him know the effect he was having on her, he began slowly to pull it out. 

"Don't!" she gasped. 

"Don't worry," he panted as he switched to her other nipple. "I'll put it right back in again." 

That wasn't exactly what Paula had meant. Or was it? She wondered. Jesus, it would be so nice just to surrender, let him fuck her silly and worry later about the consequences. But what would he do afterward? He was a convicted felon. Surely he couldn't think she was going to take this laying down. But she was taking it laying down, damn it! But once it was over ... 

Could he possibly think he was such a ladykiller she would simper and beg him for more and never ever blow the whistle on him? Or was he realist enough to have other plans? If he understood this meant he would be back in the joint and wouldn't ever get close to another parole officer ... 

He was going to kill her. First he would fuck her—fuck her half to death and then if she was still gasping and breathing he would find some less pleasant way to do it. She closed her eyes and tried to think. If she could just reach the telephone ... 

Fat chance. He'd bang her over the head and finish pouring his load into an unconscious body and once he was finished with her he'd do something to make sure she never woke up. 

While she struggled to find some way out of this mess her body was reacting instinctively to the feel of something hot and hard, something male, something real after all those endless empty months of dreaming. She realized with a start that he was still pulling out from his first stroke. Either he was going in slow motion or she had finally been shocked out of her months' long session of lethargic eroticism and was finally thinking on her feet (on her back?) like a legal beagle was supposed to think. 

She opened her eyes and he was still there, still real, his slight, hard-muscled body atop her, between her legs, his mouth busy bussing her tits, licking first one firm hard nipple and then the other. And all the while that prodigious prod she had seen jutting from his crotch—it was moving in and out of her as slow as an hour hand, slow as a voucher for travel expenses. My god, he was slow! 

Paula had never been raped before. In the depths of her fantasies she had played with the idea, worked up whole sheikh-kidnaps-me-takes-me-to-the-desert technicolor dream sequences, but when she was awake and thinking clearly she had always assumed it would be a messy and unpleasant business. Any man so hard up and crazed that he had to rape could hardly be thinking of a woman's pleasure or of deferring his gratification until she ... 

But this infuriating little man who had made her play roundheels in her living room—he wasn't jigging frantically up and down on top of her. He wasn't whambamming, struggling wildly to get in just one more stroke before it exploded and left him impotent, limp and limber atop a woman who, even if she felt like fucking, would not have had time to become properly turned-on. 

Instead, he was feeding his cock to her slowly, with the steady regularity of a metronome. It didn't make sense. If he really needed a woman why wasn't he whapping his ass against hers like a jack-rabbit on speed? On speed? 

He wasn't on speed. But as Paula remembered those glazed, staring eyes, that ardor so unlike this self-effacing little man she abruptly knew he was on something. Had he smoked a whole lid of grass? A half-gram of Moroccan hash? She didn't know. She was supposed to know all those things and be alert for signs of drug use in all her clients but Paula had in her lifetime smoked three joints, had ended up with a pain right behind her full firm tits, a dry throat, and a tongue that tasted of camel dung. She had never felt the slightest need to repeat the experiment. 

Harry Riggs, apparently, had. 

She remembered stories musicians had told her of how it distorted their time sense so they could fool around with the beat and play the cracks between the keys. Did he think he was operating on central standard time? He was kissing and licking her tits just as she remembered the last time it had happened—so long ago she really didn't like to remember. 

But his cock ... that prodigious prod had finally made it out of her and he was still withdrawing, pulling it out so far she could feel her vuval lips closing up, feel her cunt mourning the absence of that long-awaited invader. He hovered over her, the tip of his tool wavering and just barely parting her labia, and then slowly she felt it begin once more to work its careful way into her. 

Why was he so careful? Were rapists always so considerate? Probably, she realized, he was on the point of explosion and didn't dare let himself go lest his fuckfest finished before it had properly begun. 

Damn! She didn't like being raped but if it had to happen at least he could do a proper job of fucking her. She wondered what would happen if she were to surrender to instinct, let her full firm ass come rising up off the rug to meet his slow-as-molasses thrust. 

But she couldn't surrender. Not only would it be undignified, it would also be fatal. She had a pretty fair idea of what would happen once Harry came, once reason prevailed and he realized he had just raped the one person in the world who literally held the key to the next fifty years of his future. 

Christ! After all the burning and yearning she was finally getting fucked and she couldn't even relax and enjoy it. Harry, god damn him, he was a male chauvinist pig too! And now she was going to die without ever again enjoying that most exquisite of pleasures, a full-fashioned, gut-wrenching, mind-blowing fuck. 

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all. She wished she could turn off her mind and concentrate on the smooth sensually delightful sensation of that hot hard cock sliding slowly in and out of her, in and out, filling her, emptying her, filling her again, radiating joy from the round, thumping knob on its rock-hard tip. 

If only it could be different. He was not a big man, save down there where bigness counted. But he had a wiry, hard-muscled body and he was clean, radiating only the not unpleasant smell of a male in rutting season. And once she had gotten used to the idea, there was nothing inherently unpleasant in lying here flat on her back in classic missionary position and submitting to a slow-motion fuck. 

If only her body wouldn't react so enthusiastically ... She wondered if whatever he was on had left him enough sensation, enough awareness to sense that, though she might still be tense and unwilling, J her cunt was streaming with love's elixir, wet as if he had spent hours in long slow foreplay to raise her to this blissful state of erotic readiness. 

Was it possible to con him into believing she was a willing participant in this fuckfest? Abruptly, Paula knew it was her only hope. If he was thinking Straight he must realize that a parole officer who had just been raped, that officer was in a unique position, able to make dead certain her assailant was locked up in the deepest of dungeons and the key thrown so far no bleeding-heart social worker would ever even be aware of his solitary existence in a sweat box. Dead certain. 

If she did not end up dead first ... 

But who could say what went through a man's mind when he was on whatever he had taken? She reminded herself that if his thought processes had been capable of reasoning out simple cause and effect he would have chosen some career with a less-hazardous failure rate than breaking and entering. 

But even if he was missing a chromosome, he was capable of killing her. She tried to relax and at least enjoy what promised to be her last fuck, if she could just convince him she didn't want it to be her last, didn't want it to be his last penetration of her thrumming pussy ... 

She took a deep breath and struggled to relax, to enjoy the steady coursing of that thumping chauvinistic invader that marched and countermarched in and out of her cunt. Then she noted that his slow, steady stroking was gradually picking up in tempo. Against her will, she realized too that she no longer had to pretend. Rape or not, it was starting to feel pretty goooooooood! 

CHAPTER 6 

Of all the goddam predicaments! This wet-headed, rodent of a man was fucking her—raping her. She was enjoying it. Against her will but every time that great thumping thrill-drill coursed in and out of her she felt a fresh charge of emotion. If it had been a real rape she would have been dry and it would have hurt but, woman's libber or not, male chauvinist pig or not, the sight of his naked figure with that great thumping cock sticking out like a bowsprit had been enough to send a thrill through her long-deprived belly, to start love's lubrication flowing in her needful pussy. 

By the time he'd finished stripping her robe off, forced her down onto the rug, she had been ready, so ready his dry-shanked cock had slid smoothly into her without the slightest shudder of rebelling flesh. Smoothly, he had parted her passion-swollen vulva and put his prod between her love-dewed labia. With a slow, smooth, steady push he had driven his dong deep past her labia, deep into her .vagina, sliding smoothly and sliding deep, deep until his hard-boned pelvis was grinding against the blond ringlets of her long-unused pubic patch. 

Somewhere the phone was ringing and she realized she must have left one of them on the hook. A lot of good it would do her now that she was nailed to the rug by his fleshy spike. 

That spike had seemed oversized when she had seen it jutting out from his lithe body. Now that it was inside her it seemed to have grown at least twice as big or else she was shrinking. The knob on the end of his lance was still coursing carefully in and out of her but it seemed to have grown to the size of a golf ball, a tennis ball, and now, even though she was streaming with love's lubrication, she could feel a passage that was no longer smooth. 

My god, Paula thought, some of those yearning, woman-hungry men had called her a bitch but she had never believed she could approach one that physically. Her cunt seemed to have gone into some spastic, shrinking, clutching convulsion that struggled to lock around the head of that sliding knob that still stirred her insides. She could feel the multiplex folds of her vagina locking, pulling at his cockhead, puckering her vulva in as he pushed, pushing it in so far that even the outer hairy parts of her labia were now slicked with the chrisms of love. Each time he pulled his lumbering bargepole back out the lining of her cunt bunched around it, moving ahead of the knob on his cock until her labia everted and half her cunt turned inside out in pink accordion folds of fluttering ecstasy. 

And no matter what her rapist had taken, he was feeling her tight clasping cunt gripping and pulling at his cockhead. "Aaaaaahhhhh!" he snarled, still nibbling on her tits. He began pouring it to her harder, hotter, hurrying his beat until his wham-bam rhythm approached the joyous irresponsibility of a totally conscienceless stiff prick. 

Paula felt her body responding to love's old sweet song. No longer knowing or caring who it belonged to, she was in total communion with a cock—with the biggest cock she could ever remember having felt inside her lovely quiff. Chauvinist pig or not, it felt gooood! 

She felt her ass rising enthusiastically to meet his thrust and suddenly they were galloping, wham-bamming to a joyous photo finish, still linked together in classic missionary position and doing what came naturally. Her belly was twisting and writhing inside, every organ stretching, tensing in preparation for the lovely melting cataclysm to come. She could feel him building for a climax too, feel his cock suddenly grow even harder, bigger, hotter as he rammed deep, grunting with the effort to give her the final full measure of his devotion. 

Suddenly her long straight legs were flying as she struggled to go to heaven feet first but he was on top and holding her firmly down to the rug as he poured his prodigious prod to her seething pussy. 

"Oooooohhh!" she wailed as all those little rubber bands inside her belly started unwinding with a soul-stirring whirrrr. She was melting, moaning, twisting wildly in the throes of love, her legs clasping in joyous erotic scissor grips around his lean, hard ass. 

"Oooooooohhhhhh, aaaaaaahhhhhh, woowwww-ww!" he howled and then he was spurting, shooting great gobs of goo into her as he fired his load, emptying his passion into her waiting cunt. 

Paula was coming. This was no dream. This time she was coming with all her heart, with all her soul, with all eight inches of cock in her seething, love hungry cunt. She was dying but it felt so good she wouldn't mind dying again and again only it was feeling so good she couldn't focus her eyes and suddenly she was falling backward, spinning down and down around a funnel as she spun and dipped and slipped and skidded into ever-deeper blackness and then there was no light, no sensation at all. 

When she woke the little breaker and enterer had dressed already. She opened her eyes cautiously and tried to remember to smile. It was important that she smile. If she didn't ... 

She managed and to her amazement he smiled back. "See!" he crowed, "I knew you wanted it. No hard feelings?" he grinned. "Until next time anyhow." With a leer and a wink, he stepped out of her front door, leaving Paula raped, shattered, naked on the rug of her own living room floor. 

She lay numb. How had it happened? One minute her life had been orderly, everything in its place. And then disaster piled on top of disaster. Raped by a paroled breaker and enterer! And she had let him in herself. It would look extremely funny when she told the police about it. She could just see their knowing smiles. Then, remembering what had happened this morning with the TV cameras, in front of everybody down at City Hall, Paula knew there was only one way she could handle this situation. 

She could grin and bear it. If ever she were to complain, this outrage on top of her free show this morning would be enough to finish her forever. She had already embarrassed the mayor, had turned his presentation ceremony into a joke. He wouldn't have a minute for her, for Paula's outrage and mortification. Hizzonner would only remember how she had screwed up his show. And if she were to call the police now and report what happened, wouldn't Hizzonner ever egg the reporters on to have a real field day at Paula's expense! 

But that wasn't yet the worst of it, she knew. There was something for a woman's libber that was even worse. While that male chauvinist pig of a cocksman had been fucking her, violating her privacy, using her as a sex object, despising her mind, ignoring her erudition—what had she been doing? Had she fought? Had she kicked and screamed and scratched and gotten a couple of black eyes defending her chastity? 

Bullshit! Instead, she had Iain on her back and kicked her heels in the air and wrapped her thighs around his sinewy back and she had moaned and shrieked and yodeled her delight as he violated her. Still flat on her back, with her cunt still brimming with joy juice, with the mixed essences of male and female running thickly out of her pussy and down between the cheeks of her firm ass, Paula drew a deep, ragged breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and shuddered. It was no good. Soon she was sobbing. 

That miserable little son-of-a-bitch! He must have seen an early newscast or else he'd been there on the spot and had seen her. Could it be coincidence that mild-mannered Harry Riggs, professional breaker and enterer, had picked this of all days to rape his parole officer? 

That miserable little son-of-a-bitch! He must have seen she was a pushover, that she was round heeled whether she wanted to admit it or not. He must have seen past all her brittle self-sufficiency, seen that behind her facade of independence she was as empty, as deprived, as starved for love as he was after doing five-to-ten. 

That miserable little son-of-a-bitch! He must have known before he walked into her house what he was going to do, that he was just going to strip for action and then he was going to walk up to her and undress her and put her down and put it in and keep it in and empty his five-to-ten year accumulation of rancor, of loneliness, of deprived desire into her equally deprived duff. 

That miserable little son-of-a-bitch! He must have planned it all before he even phoned her. Big deal out of state! He hadn't even mentioned it, hadn't seemed even slightly put out when she had told him no dice. Hadn't had anything, probably, inside that manila envelope except a handful of newspaper to make an impressive bulk. 

That miserable little son-of-a-bitch! He must have known how it was all going to work out, that she was going to surrender to her belly, that her independence was going to melt and turn into come just as her brains had turned into pussy juice and run right out of her cunt. 

That miserable little son-of-a-bitch! He must have known that she thought she controlled him, held his future in the palm of her hand. 

That miserable little son-of-a-bitch! He must have known even before he started that she was going to like it, going to need it, going to want more, that she was going to start squealing and moaning and wrapping her legs around the man who was raping her. 

That miserable little son-of-a-bitch! He must have planned it this way, fucking her into a dead faint and then getting dressed and leaving before she even had time to make up her mind whether she wanted it or not, whether she was going to turn him in or not. 

That miserable little son-of-a-bitch! He must have gotten out of the way quickly so she could be alone, so she wouldn't be embarrassed to weep now that she knew what she was really crying about, now that she knew she was wailing and sobbing and moaning not because she had been raped, but because he had gone off and wasn't sticking around to do it again only slower and nicer this time, taking a little time for some smooth sensual foreplay. 

That miserable little son-of-a-bitch! 

She wanted to kill him. Putting him in prison was not enough. After what he'd done to her—not what he'd done to her body—what the hell, a douche and a shower and a half-hour's rest and she'd be good as new, but what he'd done to her mind. 

She knew now exactly how much of an ass she had been all these years, what an ass she had made of herself by trying to pretend she didn't have an ass, that she only had some full, firm musculature designed to sit on, to piss through, to watch grow old and flabby. 

She had told herself she didn't need men, didn't want to play in a world where the rules were stacked in their favor. Now she had to admit, not just to the world, but to herself, that it wasn't true. She might despise them, might hate them with a purple passion but Paula knew she could never ever lie to herself again. Hate them she might, despise them even but she needed them. Maybe not every part of them. Like those chauvinist pigs who got together to swill beer and sing, "I only want a body, not a sweetheart," Paula guessed she could do without scintillating conversation. She didn't need clothes or social position in a man. She didn't need anything in a man. All she needed was a man's cock inside her, coursing steadily in and out, in and out in the dance of love, fulfilling her, filling her full, fucking the chauvinistic daylights out of her. 

That was all she had ever needed, ever wanted, and now that miserable little son-of-a-bitch-that was exactly what he had given her! Why couldn't he have stuck around to give her some more? 

She still lay on her back, on the rug, blubbering, tears streaming down the sides of her face, come streaming down the crack of her ass. It was undignified. What if he were to see her now? 

And what was she doing wondering, worrying about what some goddam convicted 'felon thought? She took a deep breath, struggled valiantly, and made herself stop blubbering. She tried to get up and was overcome with a lassitude she hadn't known in years. She felt relaxed, loose, as if every joint in her body had been painlessly disconnected. This, she realized, was the way cats managed to drape themselves in unbelievable positions and sleep undisturbed while the world came to pieces around them. This was total relaxation in a way she had not been relaxed since—since she had seen her life and her career sour in a blind alley—since she had turned woman's libber. 

She lay still, managing to control her residual sobbing with deep breathing and finally mustered enough strength to roll over and get on her hands and knees. Still fighting off an overwhelming desire just to lie down and sleep, she crawled into the bath and began fiddling with the valves in the tub. 

She got the curtain drawn and flipped the diverter valve, recalling too late that she hadn't put on a shower cap. The water was not cold but it was cool enough to rouse her from total lethargy. She rinsed off and squatted beneath the spray to douche come from her comely cunt. Only gradually did she become aware of the telephone's insistent jangling. She wondered if the goddam thing would ever stop ringing. 

CHAPTER 7 

She shut off the water and began toweling herself off. Her hair was a mess but she wasn't going anywhere. She'd gone far enough for one day. She sat before her mirror combing and drying those long blond strands that had played such hell with her efforts not to appear as a sex object. Christ! What was she going to do? She knew from the slightly different sound of the bells which phone was ringing. It was not the hot line for her parolees. To hell with the rest of the world and nosy reporters and freaks and total idiots who would ask if she had done it all deliberately as if a woman would risk getting shredded in one of Hizzonner's defective escalators just to get her picture in the papers and on TV! 

And so far as Hizzonner was concerned, she decided, it was up to him to make the first move. If she saw the slightest hint of her career going sour or promotion being delayed, Paula resolved she was going to sue the old bastard and his corrupt administration for every dime they'd ever stolen. Hizzonner was a crook and a cheat but he was not stupid. Surely he or somebody close to him would realize that Paula was, after all, an attorney and as aware of personal injury suits as any ambulance chasing shyster. She would make careful note of the dates when statutes of limitations would come into effect. That would give her time enough—and give Hizzonner time enough—to get their heads together. 

And meanwhile back at the ranch, what was she going to do about her real problem? She gave a bitter laugh. A while ago she'd been worried about her unexpected striptease before the cameras and city council. Now she had real problems. 

There was one thing she'd better do goddam quick, she decided. That miserable little son-of-a-bitch had leered and told her he'd be back. He knew how much of a round heels she was. She knew that if he were to walk into her house again and point those eight prodigious inches at her she would roll over and play dead again. There was only one way to keep from getting fucked right out of her mind again: she had to make sure Harry Riggs, convicted breaker and enterer, did not get into her house again unless he broke and entered, whereupon she would be legally, morally, and newsworthy entitled to shoot the little bastard. 

Paula finished drying her hair and hastily began making the rounds of her house, shooting bolts, locking windows and doors. She checked out front to make sure Smart-ass had closed the garage door as he left. Damn I What if Smart-ass ever found out about Harry Riggs raping her? She could endure exposure, had already endured it, she guessed. But how could she ever endure Smart-ass's pity? 

She finished securing her little house and went back into her room, ignoring the steadily jangling phone. Then, tiring of the racket, she picked it up, blew another shrill police whistle blast into it, and put the damned thing down without hanging up. Dimly she could hear a tinny voice taking the Lord's name in vain. 

What was she going to do? 

There was, she realized, only one thing she could do. It had to be business as usual. If she made a big deal of what had happened, so would the rest of the world. If she took it in stride ... even the worst of scandals die down and many a whore has managed to die a duchess. 

The only really infuriating thing about it was she hadn't really done anything. It wasn't her fault her dress got caught in that goddam escalator. She hadn't even wanted to go through with that silly presentation, with making herself a sex object once again in this chauvinistic world. It wasn't her fault she'd been raped either. So she shouldn't have let Harry Riggs in. Damn it! Her numbers—both of them—were unlisted. None of her clients was supposed to know her home address. Either somebody had done a careful job of pumping illicit sources or that miserable little bastard had followed her home. 

The only thing that was really her fault, she guessed, was squealing and moaning and kicking her legs in the air—her only real fault had been enjoying it. So what could she do about that? Nobody had actually seen her enjoy it. It was her word against a convicted felon's. But, she realized, nobody had seen her being raped either. She'd have to come to terms somehow with Harry Riggs. The miserable little son-of-a-bitch would be trying to blackmail her next. 

He'd done her dirty once. It was up to her to get him back inside the joint where he couldn't do her again. Harry Riggs was going to break parole and it would be nothing to do with her. All she had to do was make sure she didn't give in again, that she didn't let her mind dwell on that tremendous hunk of thumping masculinity which this slightly built housebreaker carried between his sinewy legs. Housebreaker, hell! Harry Riggs had picked the wrong profession. Advertise those full firm eight inches and he'd be a homewrecker. 

But he wasn't going to wreck hers. She made the rounds again, checking every door, every window, making goddam sure that little breaker and enterer would never ever get into her house again, would never poise his slight body over her and insinuate his eight inches into her suddenly fluttery cunt. 

Damn it to hell! Just thinking about him and she was all turned-on again. Turned on by a rapist! She must be going out of her mind. Maybe she ought to see a shrink. But wouldn't that be a lovely item for the newsboys to have fun with ... lady lawyer stripteases, sees shrink to get it all together again. 

She caught herself wondering about Smart-ass. He was a high rolling swinger but he'd never married despite an abundance of willing candidates. What kind of a cock did he have? How was his bedside manner? What would have happened if he had poured his socially acceptable sabre into her instead of leaving and leaving the field clear to some breaker and enterer? 

What difference did it make? She was damaged goods now, saleable only at reduced prices. What in hell was she thinking? She didn't want a husband, didn't want to be taken care of. She was an emancipated, independent woman, for Christ's sake! She had to stop this crazy thinking, get her head back together. Get her legs back together. 

But even as she was making all these valiant resolutions Paula could feel the memory of that cock coursing in and out of her. My god! It was like getting hooked on horse! It was like turning vampire. How could she have known the depth and breadth of her appetites? Daydreams, nightmares were one thing. But to open her legs to a cruddy little breaker and enterer ... 

He wasn't tall, wasn't handsome, wasn't young, wasn't any of the things that were supposed to turn people on. Paula had dealt with him off and on for nearly her whole twelve years in this dead-end job. She had never given him more than a passing thought. Never ever had she for one moment wondered what it would, be like to be fucked by Harry Riggs, breaker and enterer. Until she had seen his tiny, almost jockey-sized body naked, had seen the sheer raw size and power of his prodigious, out-of-proportion cock. God, what a hammer! 

She remembered how she had lain helpless with her ass wrapped lovingly around that phenomenal phallus, totally enslaved by the slow sensuality of his metronomic in and out, all thoughts of emancipation and the liberation temporarily tabled until closure of the present session of sensuality. It was just like that first time ... 

Paula had been a late starter. Looking at her now, surveying that full-cut, totally voluptuous body, it was difficult for even Paula to remember that when she had been sixteen she had been of a skinniness no more promising than that of another well-known Italian sex symbol at the same age. Like Sophia, Paula had resembled nothing so much as a soda straw with two marbles taped side by side along its upper length. Apart from a pair of phenomenal tits, she had been, well—scrawny. 

Harder still had it been for her to understand that there comes a time in every man's life when the battery will not hold a charge, when heroic measures are necessary, when the only way remaining for a man to manage a jump start is with the aid of just that kind of immature, just-budding body that first excited his own budding sensuality way back when he too had been just growing hair down there, just beginning to wake up with the solution to life's eternal problem in his sticky hand. 

Mr. Costello had been such a man. Turning sixty, with a leonine mane of white hair and well-clipped mustache, he had turned every head in the geritol set. Even Paula had found him handsome and had been delighted when her parents had approved her after-school employment in his office. After all, she wanted to be a lawyer and Mr. Costello was a lawyer and Mr. Costello had offered to start her off in the proper direction and ... 

It was funny how invariably the reference Mr. Costello needed from his wall-full of books always turned out to be on the top shelf and Paula always had to go up the rickety ladder to get it and Mr. Costello, no matter how busy he was, nice Mr. Costello always had time to hold the ladder lest she fall and bump her pretty little bumpers. 

Even funnier was the warm wiggly feeling Paula got inside her every time she climbed the ladder and hunted for his book while Mr. Costello beamed up at her and clung tightly to the ladder. "Got to get that thing fixed one of these days," He kept saying but a month after little Paula had started working for him the ladder remained as rickety as ever. 

There were times when she wondered momentarily if he were doing the same thing boys at school did. But that couldn't be so. He was a friend of her parents. He was a lawyer, an officer of the court And he was old enough to be her grandfather. When the ladder jiggled and she almost fell and he grabbed her right by her firm little ass, it had to be a coincidence. Just because Paula felt all warm and fluttery inside couldn't mean Mr. Costello was feeling anything apart from properly avuncular thoughts. 

Mr. Costello was such an old man. Afternoons when he was not in court, the genial old lawyer used to take a nap in the back room which had a day bed, a small but well-stocked refrigerator, and a lock on the door. Often he would be just getting his head back together about the time Paula would arrive for her evening of reading the law. It was because he was so old, so nice, so safe that Paula loved being near him and even exchanged girlish confidences with him. He was not at all like her harried father who was so beaten down by the struggle to dress a teen-age daughter that he had no time to talk with her. 

When the ladder began jiggling more often and he had to grab her firm little ass more often lest she fall and bump her bumpers, there was such an open, playful quality to it all that she was never really on her guard like she would have been if some pimply stud of her own age had made a habit of grabbing her ass. Not even when he warned her that, "A firm little body like that could give even the oldest man young ideas." 

"Awwwwwwwwwwwww!" she had protested. 

"Truly, young lady. All a simple matter of glandular chemistry, you know. More marriages were made in hell than in heaven, as any divorce lawyer knows to his continuing prosperity. And just think of all the heartbreak and suffering that could be avoided if only humans would learn to separate the spiritual from the physical functions." 

Paula had sensed that she was exploring the delicious edge of something never before discussed. But she was still unsure just what attitude was proper for a young lady under such circumstances to assume. 

"Such a premium our society places on performance—as if we all aspired to some athletic ideal," the old man said wistfully. 

Paula could almost understand what he was talking about. 

"Trouble with all the Utopian communities," he continued, "is they're like zero population growth: if they work, they destroy themselves. If they don't ... " He shrugged. "Tell me, young lady, have you ever heard of the Oneida Community?" 

"Some place where they make silverware?" Paula hazarded. 

Mr. Costello smiled and patted her shoulder. "They do nowadays. A hundred odd years ago they made social and sexual history." 

"Oh?" 

"Even over a century ago the world was becoming over populated," the old man explained. "The Oneida Community was founded to solve this problem without removing all joy and the only relatively inexpensive recreation from people's lives." 

Paula was foundering again. What on earth was he talking about? He was such a nice old man and it made her go all quivery inside whenever he steadied the ladder and beamed up her skirt. When, as increasingly happened, she almost fell and had to be caught by a surprisingly strong arm around her thighs and bottom there were times when she came so close to melting she could actually feel a tiny trickle. 

"How did they do that?" she finally asked. 

"Very simply," he explained. "They abolished private property." 

Paula couldn't understand. 

"In a capitalist society where women have no rights, you too, young lady, would have been regarded as private property." 

Paula sensed that there were dimensions of the law and of human behavior still unexplored. "Oh!" she said in an odd little voice. She didn't know whether her surprise came from the new and fascinating intellectual vistas opened up for her by Mr. Costello or if her "Oh!" came from his hand which now rested somewhat above her knee. 

CHAPTER 8 

With a jerk that shook her body as if she had lept physically across the intervening years, Paula returned to the danger-fraught present. To hell with teen-age fantasies. She had just been raped and she didn't want it to happen again, no matter how her cunt might continue offering unwanted and minority opinions on the subject of fucking. 

Nice old Mr. Costello had turned out even nicer than she had ever expected but had she really locked every door and window? Had she possibly forgotten something? Paula was realistic enough to know that what had happened once could happen again. 

Harry Riggs had not exactly raped her. It would have been rape if she had resisted. But she hadn't. An unnecessarily delicate point of law, perhaps, but she wasn't discussing law. She was just trying to remove temptation, knowing that if ever that small sinewy body with the tremendous bowsprit were to approach her again, put hands on her shoulders again, sure as delays and injunctions, she would go round heeled one more time. 

She made the rounds of the house, fully aware of Freudian slips and of the perfectly obvious things that a mind can do when its owner tries to force mind and body down an equivocal course of action. Somewhere around this house she knew damned well she had left something open. The goddam phone was ringing again. She had left one off the hook so this had to be the other—the emergency phone for her parolees. She guessed she'd better answer it. 

"Hello?" 

"Ready for another?" 

Oh Jesus! It was Harry Riggs. She ought to have known it wasn't just bluff. He had gotten into her once. He had seen through her sham, seen how badly she wanted it, how she had surrendered to eight solid inches and to hell with eight centuries of common law. 

"No, Harry," she managed, struggling for calm authority in her voice. "I'm a reasonable person and I know you were carried away and no lasting harm was done but you can hardly expect me to continue this way." Even as she said it Paula knew that was exactly what the ferret-faced little man was expecting. And why shouldn't he? She had given him no reason to expect otherwise. There was no answer. Staring at the silent phone, she felt a rising panic. Just this tenuous connection with that small wiry body, that tremendous phallic bludgeon ... she could feel lust rising like a prickly heat from her belly until her tits, her shoulders, her face all blushed furiously. Thank god he wasn't looking at her. "I'll call the police!" she squealed. 

There was a chuckle and then she could hear the dial tone. She hung up and once more began her obsessive round of doors and windows, checking locks, checking latches, trying to divine what it was she was forgetting. She knew damned well there was a gaping hole somewhere in her defenses—gaping even wider than her cunt when those tremendous eight inches had been threatening to split her from asshole to belly button. 

She twitched a drape and looked out into the street. It was the wrong time of day for traffic. She saw a single male figure walking up the block and guessed it was the mail man, then abruptly she knew with dead, sinking certainty that it was not. 

Harry Riggs must have been phoning from right in the neighborhood because here he came bold as Superman stalking right up the street, right to her front door. She remembered that he was a professional breaker and enterer. But surely not in broad daylight—not in sight of every nervous old nellie who kept tabs on strangers in the neighborhood. Then she saw that he wasn't heading for her front door. Instead, he took something from the pocket of his ill-fitting overcoat and a moment later Paula watched her radio-controlled garage door gaping wide open. It closed after him as Harry Riggs, paroled breaker and enterer, budding home wrecker, touched the radio control gadget again. 

She remembered how Smart-ass had opened her door with his control. So much for security. So much for Freudian slips. Now what was she going to do? 

Suddenly she was thinking again. She raced for the kitchen. If she could just bolt the door before ... but Harry was already inside the kitchen, already shedding his topcoat. "Hi sweetheart," he said blithely, and began undressing. 

"Harry, you can't do this!" she stormed. "You'll end up back in prison. Even if I wanted to, I don't dare let you do it again. What do you suppose would happen to my career if the board ever found out I was mixing business and pleasure?" Even as she said it Paula knew she didn't want it, hadn't intended for it to come out that way. 

But it had. And Harry was paying no attention. Still undressing, standing one-legged in front of her with no regard for an assault he knew would not come, he danced about getting a leg out of his pants. 

You could conk him with a frying pan, she told herself. But she knew she couldn't. Already she could feel the animal heat, the maleness radiating from his slight, wiry body. Already she could feel the storm gathering inside her belly. 

My god, she thought, fucked right out of your mind less than an hour ago and still so goddam round heels you can't say no! What had happened to her will? Where was her strength of character? Where was her independence? 

Washed down the drain along with this totally irresponsible little man's semen, that's where! He had ignored all her protests, gone directly to the heart of the matter—to the cunt of the matter—and had taught her things she didn't really want to know about herself. 

He had taught her that she had no will of her own, that no matter how she had trained and disciplined her mind to thread the maze of the law, all her training stood for naught whenever he decided it was time to thread her needle. 

And now standing paralyzed, watching him undress, she knew the time had come again. God damn the miserable little bastard! He had given her just time enough to clean up, to digest what had happened, time enough to make all kinds of spurious promises to herself, and then here he was back all ready to do it all again, to rub her nose in her ass, to prove to her that all her education was nothing when placed before an older, prelogical wisdom which she had forgotten but which her body had always known. He was going to fuck her again. 

Simple as that. He was going to fuck her again. Again! And she was totally unable to do anything about it. She could be calling the police. She could be struggling. She could whop him over the head with the skillet. She could kick him in the jewels while he danced about on one foot and wrestled to get his recalcitrant trousers over the other. But even as she contemplated all these possibilities Paula knew what she was going to do. She was going to stand there and feel fire coursing through her belly, going to stand there unable to move while he undressed, while he took his own sweet time, and when finally he laid a hand to her lush and ready body she was going to have to struggle even to utter a token protest instead of the shrill giggle of delight that she could feel struggling up out of her tight throat. 

It was crazy. She had dealt with society's losers long enough to recognize the type of woman who is fascinated by low-life men, who loves to play with fire and cannot resist the undercurrent of violence in the lives of petty crooks—losers all in a society which has channeled violence in ways far more efficient than their muggings and two-dollar stickups. 

But Paula had never been that type of woman. She had never encouraged her yearning-eyed, sex-starved clients. Never ever had she dressed provocatively. Never, until this morning in City Hall, had she ever undressed provocatively. But ... had this ferret-faced little man with eight, full, throbbing inches—had he even seen her this morning? Could this all be coincidence? 

This time his eyes did not seem so flat or weird. Whatever he'd been on the first time seemed to have worn off. She wondered what had prevented him from coming down with a thud, full of horror and terror at what he had done to his parole officer. Then she saw the sad truth. Harry Riggs was a breaker and enterer because he was not smart enough to work at one of society's more legal larcenies like selling cars or houses. He was not smart enough to realize that he might not be God's gift to women. He found himself fascinating. Why shouldn't everybody else? 

Why should Paula? Christ almighty! If she were to put the other phone back on the hook, chances were she would have a hundred proposals or propositions before nightfall. Oddballs, freaks, weirdos—of course. But certainly no less suitable for studding her than a paroled breaker and enterer! 

Still she stood paralyzed, paralyzed not so much by the sight of this sleek, ferret-faced little man undressing in front of her but rather by the memory of the prodigious prod that lay beneath his jockey shorts, the memory of what that potato masher had done to her insides. 

God, how she hated him! It was crazy. An hour ago she would have said she couldn't even remember Harry Riggs, couldn't distinguish him from an even hundred hollow-eyed losers in her stable of parolees. Now ... 

The nerve of the miserable little bastard! He could barely spell his own name. He had spent half his life behind bars. He was totally incapable of finding a useful niche in society. 

But he had found his niche in her! He had found it and he had burrowed into her tender, ticklish flesh. He had pushed her unresisting body flat on her back on her own rug in her own living room and he had put his hot, throbbing cock into her and she had not been able to stop him and now he was going to do it all over again and once more she knew she was totally powerless to stop him. He was going to fuck her and she didn't want him to only she really did and it was all so unfair and she wanted to scream and if he didn't hurry up and finish getting his clothes off and get on with it she knew that sure as probate she was going to kick and scream and wail and do all sorts of things lawyers were not supposed to do. God damn him! 

Why couldn't she move? Why couldn't she resist him? As if she didn't know. Finally, after all these years her body was extracting vengeance for all the deprivation that came from independence in a man's world. God damn him! Why couldn't he move a little faster? 

Finally he was free of his clothes and stood before her with his bowsprit standing out at a rakish angle, its tremendous, golf ball-sized tip moving in lazy figure eights in time to his heartbeat. He moved toward her and Paula put up her hands in a feeble gesture to fend him off. He pushed her nerveless hands aside and once more he was peeling her quilted robe back down over her shoulders while she stood like a sacrificial lamb. 

But this time he didn't push her down to the floor. This time Harry Riggs had already blunted the fighting edge of his weapon and could permit himself the luxury of a long slow and careful buildup. He took her hand and led her unresisting into her bedroom. With a nicety that surprised her, he turned back the spread and blanket before pushing her gently back until she was touching the bed with the backs of her knees, then falling gently backward, and he was coming down on top of her, kneeling between her thighs, and it was just like an hour ago. 

Or was it? 

To her surprise and horror, Paula suddenly knew that this time Harry Riggs was not just going to fuck her again. Rape was not enough. Having tried his wings and discovered how easy it was to fly, he was moving on to the next logical step, moving slowly up her body, straddling her, no longer kneeling between her thighs. 

Now her thighs were pressed close together and his thin, wiry body squatted over her belly. As he moved a fraction of an inch forward she could see the great thumping head of his cock pointing the way before him, onward and upward like the schoolboy Excelsior poem. 

His thighs were spread wide to straddle her and as he moved she could feel the smooth roundness of her belly react to the tickle as his well-haired scrotum dragged along it, dragged along her midriff, and then the fronts of his thighs were impeded by the twin bulges of her full, firm tits and the tip of his juddering tool pointed forebodingly onward, upward. 

Paula belatedly wished she'd used a little common sense. What had ever made her think this egotistical little chauvinist would be content to repeat his last performance? Now he was preparing to force her to the ultimate in chauvinistic and porcine degradation. Why hadn't she fought back while she still had a chance? Why wasn't she fighting now? Surely there must be a way to get a grip on all that male vulnerability he was thrusting so confidently forward, onward and upward. 

What was she going to do? Her turn-on of a moment ago was gone now, submerged in a wave of terror. God damn him! Was there no limit to his male chauvinist piggery? Was there nothing she could do to protect herself from this ultimate degradation? She could feel the heat radiating like a branding iron from the tip of his cock. She could smell the essence of masculinity. She shuddered and could not tell if it was terror or if it was joy she was feeling. 

CHAPTER 9 

Paula closed her eyes and tried to tell herself it was just another dream, that soon she would awaken afflicted with prickly heat, with a strained empty feeling in her belly, and with a dampness in her crotch. She opened her eyes and he was still there. His cock was still there. She could feel the hot hardness of his stringily muscled thighs pushing at the sensitive lower sides of her full-firm tits, forcing them upward until she looked like some totally besiliconed go-go girl. 

But most of all she could feel the hot maleness radiating from the tip of his tool, so close now she could practically taste it. Unless she got on the ball and did something to break free and blow the whistle on this breaker and enterer, she was going to taste it very soon. And it was not going to be at all like the first time she had tasted it. 

"If you'd like to step into the other room," Mr. Costello explained, "I can show you some historical references to the Oneida Community." Without waiting for an answer, he got up, which automatically removed his hand from somewhere above her knee. Paula gave a tiny sigh of relief. She wasn't a bit worried about nice old Mr. Costello but she had been very afraid that if he didn't get his hand off her thigh she might betray her totally improper thoughts with a nervous giggle. Silently, she followed the old man into the back office, which was equipped with a day bed, a single easy chair, a wall full of books, and a well-stocked refrigerator. "Umm yes, up there if you please." 

Obediently, Paula climbed another rickety ladder steadied by her gallant employer and pulled a book from the top shelf. She sat beside Mr. Costello on the only seat where they could look at a book together, which happened to be the day bed. 

She had been entertaining fond hopes of being initiated into a forbidden, grown-up world of racy postcards or any of the million interesting and secret things she was always being told she was too young to worry about. Instead, to her disappointment, Mr. Costello had shown her some blurry woodcuts of a bunch of farm buildings and a lot of nineteenth-century people dressed in nineteenth-century clothes from ankle to chin. She began to wonder if she could go home early that night. There didn't seem to be much work in the office. 

"But what was so different about them?" she finally asked. 

"No marriage," Mr. Costello explained. 

Paula knew lots of unmarried people. So what? 

"They found a different, possibly better way to solve mankind's basic needs." 

She began to wonder if Mr. Costello was by any chance talking about a need that had been troubling Paula ever since before she had been old enough to demand a bra. With a tiny thrill of excitement, she managed a timid, "How did they do that?" 

Mr. Costello gave her a faint smile. "As you've no doubt observed by this time, people in our society tend to pair off—formally or informally. Either way makes for monotony." 

Paula sensed that she was approaching the brink of something important. She waited for Mr. Costello to continue. 

"Not wishing to over populate and not having the benefit of this century's contraceptive devices, the Oneida Community managed to kill two birds with one stone: they lowered the birth rate while raising the communal libido." 

Paula wasn't quite sure what he meant. Did libido really mean what she thought? Was he talking about—about screwing? 

"Young men, as you've no doubt observed, are so high-strung and demanding that just about anything will suit them. This coincides rather neatly with an older woman's delight in being called on to teach and train all that eager young flesh at a time in life when she's no longer too concerned with an inconvenient pregnancy." 

Paula tried not to gasp. He was talking about screwing, no matter how elegant his language or high-falutin' his choice of words. 

"This imbalance in the community naturally left only the older men to pair off with the younger girls, a happy circumstance if one stops to consider all the ramifications thereof." 

"Like what?" Paula demanded. 

"Boys, due to their inexperience and being in the glandular prime of their young lives, tend to have a certain affinity with rabbits." 

For once Paula knew exactly what he was talking about. She had visited her grandparents often enough and had observed rabbits in the process of making more rabbits. For the first time she had understood another girl's scathing, "He's a rabbit!" when discussing a football player of their acquaintance. She began to have a faint inkling. 

"Young love inspires a great deal of bad poetry," Mr. Costello said wryly. "But love, like any other human endeavor, does not come naturally. The Oneida Community let the older women offer the benefit of their years of experience to boys just coming of age. These boys in later years paid their dues by performing the same service for the next generation of young ladies." Mr. Costello paused a moment and added, "Odd, you may think, but eminently practical." 

Paula didn't know what to think. She had often wondered what it might be like to live in a society, in a culture, that permitted her free rein, allowed her to experiment and gratify the itch between her thighs without labeling her loose. But even more, she wondered how Mr. Costello's hand had managed once more to get between her thighs without her even noticing. Hastily, she clapped her thighs together but he did not remove his hand—not even when she crossed her legs. 

So now what was she going to do? Paula abruptly realized two things: Mr. Costello might seem harmless, seem nice, but nevertheless, he did have his hand between her smooth, tapering thighs, had it well up the road toward that ineffable spot where two teen-age thighs meld into one firm, gently rounded, compact little ass. The second thing she learned was that she liked the feel of Mr. Costello's hand there. 

She liked it there well enough to leave it there, to sit there on the day bed beside him with a book on their knees that described exotic sexual practices. She was curious about the practical results of the Oneida Community's sexual revolution. She was even more curious about what Mr. Costello intended to do with the hand he had now lost to the grip of her tight-clasped thighs. 

His white hair was unruffled, not a hair of his splendid mustache out of place. His florid complexion was just a teeny bit more rosy than usual but, apart from that, Mr. Costello seemed unchanged. Paula caught herself thinking wild thoughts. He was talking freely about sexual revolution. What would his reaction be if she were to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him? 

Golly! What was wrong with her? She had kissed a couple of boys and hadn't been all that turned-on by the grabbing, hand slapping wrestling match that had followed. So why was she so excited at the thought of this nice old man putting his calm unhurried hands on her budding young body? 

Of course she wasn't really going to do anything—much less did she contemplate going all the way. That was why it was so nice to sit around with an old man who wouldn't engage in the hand slapping wrestling match, who would not press her to go farther than she intended. It was so nice, so safe to sit here with Mr. Costello's hand between her legs and think all kinds of interesting thoughts and know nothing bad was going to come of it 

"But what happened to the Oneida Community?" she asked, not because she wanted to know but because it was awkward just sitting here with Mr. Costello's hand trapped between her tight-clasped thighs and neither of them saying anything. 

"It never actually ceased to exist," he said, ignoring his hand. "But times changed and the very nature of such an experiment means there will be no children to carry on. As times and sexual mores changed people everywhere started swinging just a little more and they just didn't get as many recruits." 

"I see," Paula said soberly, thought she actually didn't see at all, mainly because she couldn't guess what was about to happen next. Was he just going to leave his hand trapped between her tight-clasped thighs? There couldn't be much fun in that. 

They sat in companionable silence and she caught herself thinking in terms of those apocryphal strip poker games that boys and girls are always hearing about and never getting to play. If they were to get into a game, who would win first? 

There was little doubt of that—unless she were to have a phenomenal run of luck. Paula mentally inventoried what separated her just-budding body from total exposure. She wore fuzzy, ankle-length bobby sox and saddle oxfords. She wore a skirt that might be considered daring at some parochial schools but nowhere else since it came well below her knees. Her button-up-the-back blouse was high-collared and long-sleeved. Beneath it she wore the only garment in her closet that had not come from the junior miss counter. Her bra was thirty four "C". On her slight, just-rounding body the effect was devastating whenever she forgot to keep her arms folded across her chest and or her shoulders hunched. 

Apart from the aforementioned, the budding lady lawyer wore only a pair of sheer green nylon panties. She recalled abruptly that they were an old pair, bought a year ago when she had been much smaller across that portion of her anatomy covered by panties and, should anyone ever happen to see her in panties alone, it would be interesting to see her go. 

But it wasn't going to happen—not for years after she had worn out and thrown away these getting-too-tight panties. Meanwhile, why couldn't she relax? Mr. Costello had given bona fides of a total lack of fogginess. Surely in his presence she didn't have to continue that arms-folded, shoulders-hunched posture which was her only defense against pimply-faced conquistador's. She threw her shoulders back and stretched. 

The movement pushed her phenomenal pectoral protrusion forward startingly, until her blouse threatened to burst. For the barest of instants it seemed as if Mr. Costello might burst too. But the movement loosened her death grip on his hand for the barest of instants too and her mentor improved on the interval by moving his hand an inch closer to disputed territory before she remembered and clasped her crossed legs tight again. 

The book of Oneida Colony pictures fell to the floor as Mr. Costello turned half-around to face her. "Tired?" he asked. "I often get tired in the afternoons. I find it very relaxing just to lie down for a few minutes." While he talked he unobtrusively got his hand out from between her thighs, leaving Paula with a vague sense of disappointment. She allowed him to scoot her down the day bed a few inches and swing her legs up on it. Soon she lay at full length and Mr. Costello sat—rather uncomfortably, she suspected—beside her on the narrow frame, half-turned to look down on her. 

Smiling gently, he patted her shoulder and flicked a stray strand of long straight blond hair from atop her full firm tit. His hand came to rest where the strand of hair had just lain—square atop her tit. Paula felt a funny little twisting, turning sensation inside herself. It felt deliciously wicked. She wondered what would happen if she were to put her hand over Mr. Costello's. Not push him away—just put her hand over his to let him know that she was grown up and knew all about the interesting experiments they must have performed in the Oneida Community. 

She wanted to try it, do anything that would keep this lovely old man near her. It was funny how she had never noticed before the utter maleness of his well-barbered, well-bathed body. Some kind of cologne, she guessed. It was several hundred percent nicer than the grubby goatiness of her own age group with their zits, their sweaty athletic preoccupations, and their eternal petroleum stinks from crawling around under ageing automobiles. Mr. Costello smelled nice. 

But, like every woman of every age, Paula was endowed with a certain native caution. "There must have been accidents," she insisted. "What did these Oneida people do when something went wrong?" 

"Accidents?" Mr. Costello raised his bushy white eyebrows. "Oh, you mean pregnancies. Of course they had a few. Young ladies of your age are notoriously fecund, just as are young men. On the other hand, we of the geritol set have been known to contribute on occasion to people pollution too." 

"But what did they do?" Paula insisted, suddenly aware of all the disastrous implications involved in Mr. Costello's hand over her full, firm, never-been-kissed tit. Her taut young body was suddenly suffused with yearning for more hands in more places—a yearning rendered more piquant by a knowledge of the danger involved. If she were to suddenly end up pregnant it would mean the end of law school—the end of everything. What was she going to do? 

"Modern technology," Mr. Costello said, "Is amazingly resourceful. And even if we were living in the stone age, there are certain methods and procedures which are infallible in the avoidance of pregnancy. Not only are these procedures totally foolproof, they're also much more fun and that's the ultimate name of the game, isn't it?" 

Paula's eyes were much wider than they had been a moment ago. Now how, she wondered, had Mr. Costello managed to get all those buttons down the back of her blouse undone without her even knowing? 

CHAPTER 10 

Paula's memory of another time had been fleeting. She was still staring at Harry Riggs's lean, compact body, staring at his cock which was so close to her face that she could feel heat radiating from it like a branding iron. 

He squatted atop her chest, his thighs pushing her full, firm tits upward like some carnal corset. His hairy scrotum lay between her tight-squeezed jugs, tickling her faintly but she had other problems more pressing than being tit-tickled by a man's balls. 

If only she could get her body under control. Here she was facing the ultimate in degradation. He was going to make her do something infinitely more male chauvinistic, more porcine than even his semi-rape of an hour ago. And what was she doing? She could still gain the advantage over him, she knew. She could grab him where it hurt and have him quite literally by the short hairs. But it required movement and she was paralyzed, fascinated by that full-sized, hot, throbbing hunk of maleness. 

Eyes half-crossed, she focused on the heavily strung underside of his virility. It really was as large as she remembered—a full eight inches long. My god! Had she had all that inside her? No wonder she had felt—ravished. 

The knob on the end of this breaker and enterer's crowbar was perfectly round and as big as a golf ball. His foreskin was rather short and now that his cock was in full flaming erection, its round head glistening and glowering with purple engorgement, she could see the single blind eye in that head staring at her from the stretched-open tip of his prepuce. It would take only the slightest pressure to force that foreskin all the way back and present her with a weapon field-stripped and ready for any eventually. 

His foreskin was heavily veined and each swollen vein was pulsating in time to his heartbeat. Unconsciously, Paula found herself counting and realizing to her mortification that he was not as excited, his heart not racing half so fast as was hers. 

She remembered the feel when that prodigious prod had been sliding in and out of her belly, pushing her insides this way and that, churning her into a pink-frothed mist of eroticism. Why couldn't he do it that way again? If he was destined to do it at all, why couldn't he just pour his eight inches to her in the way God intended for men and women to mitigate the burnings of the flesh. Now why did that old parochial school phrase pop into her head just then? 

She was still staring myopically at the long slim shank of his cock, which seemed even thinner after the dramatic flair of his tremendous glans penis. Her belly gave a little flip flap at the memory of how that flared cockhead had gone into her like a harpoon, the flare of his glans penis digging into her yielding flesh like a barb, snagging, pulling, threatening to turn her tender cunt inside out each time he withdrew for yet another full-depth plunge into the well of her lonely femininity. 

Unable to move, she studied at close range the weapon which had destroyed her view of herself, her self-sufficiency, her tranquility. God damn him! God damn that piece of meat. It was just an enlarged clitoris—the same thing that lay like some vestigial memory of maleness inside the pouting labia of her pussy. There but for a chromosome go I, she realized. But she was not a man. She was a woman and this son-of-a-bitch was a man and he was on top of her and it was bad enough that he fucked her at will, not even asking or inviting her cooperation. Now he was planning an even more outrageous assault on her privacy and what was she doing to prevent it? 

Nothing, damn her hot little pants! Women were supposed to be so much more analytical than men, supposed to be cold-blooded for the main chance and not so apt to go ape-shit and sacrifice a career for a pair of tits. What was wrong with her? She had broken from her submissive, Catholic woman background twenty years ago. She was a lawyer, reputedly able to work out logical connections and trains of thought between totally disparate concepts. Where was her brain now? Was that tiny tickling trickle she felt between her legs—was that her brain, melted down into love's lubrication, betraying her, telling this outrager with a dip of the finger that no matter what he were to do to her she would be unable to resist the lure of those eight fabulous inches? 

God damn it! It wasn't fair. Men liked to fuck. Men fucked all the time. But men could get their Jollies and button their flies and go off to play a game of golf or close a deal or any of the other things that make a man's life varied and interesting. 

Paula ... when had her mind last been totally free of a faint overlay of fucking? Not since she had started growing tits, she realized. Since her body had grown old enough to consider the joys of sexuality she had not for one instant been totally free of this distraction. How could she concentrate on torts when her ass was throbbing with a ceaseless desire for torture? 

And here her mind went wandering again. Staring a one-eyed worm straight in the face, knowing exactly what was coming next, she could still not keep her mind on business. Maybe it was because she had actually had a man so seldom over the last twelve years ... had it been so long since she fucked that illusions, dreams were now stronger in her mind than realities? 

She wondered if this was just another super realistic dream and knew it wasn't. He was squatting atop her chest, his balls nestled in the hollow between her abundant tits. His cock was pointing straight at her face. And she wasn't moving, wasn't struggling, wasn't even murmuring a polite "No, please don't." 

Did she really want this to happen? Once more she was slipping away from reality, trying to psychoanalyze herself instead of doing something. She was still struggling, trying to tell herself this was a real man with a real cock, with a real danger, when she realized that Harry Riggs, paroled breaker and enterer, prodigious cocksman, was so sure of himself that he was no longer in any hurry. He was not moving forward now. He was backing off, sliding his balls along her midriff, across her waist, down her belly where he could squat to admire the full-length perfection of her lush body. 

Once more he was at a safe distance. She could see him without focusing her eyes now. He spread her legs again and knelt between them. Was he going to fuck her after all? 

She felt her belly give another little tremor at the thought of all that raging masculinity inside her, pumping her full of the stuff dreams are made of. God damn him—couldn't he get off the dime and something? 

Then, dimly, Paula sensed that her assailant was having problems of his own. He was breathing hard, panting as if he had been wham-bamming for ten tantalizing minutes. His face was screwed up into an agony she had hitherto seen only on crucifixes. Abruptly, he gave an inchoate roaring moan and sprang from the bed. 

Before she knew what was happening he was back again only wrong end to, his face buried in the soft warm wetness between her thighs, his eight hammering inches once more poking at her face. 

As his tongue began its first circuit around the hot hardness of her passion-swollen clit Paula gave a gasp of supernal, uncontrollable delight. And that gasp was her undoing. As if that blind opening in the end of his swollen cockhead were an eye, she felt his lunge drive that dong straight past her lips, past her teeth, past tongue and soft palate, straight down her unsuspecting throat. The things his busy tongue were doing to her cunt filled her with such a frenzy of delight that she hardly realized she had his eight-inch burglar's tool in her mouth, down her throat. She was having so much trouble separating reality from illusion that her mind once more retreated into memory. 

Now how had Mr. Costello managed to get all these two or three hundred buttons on the back of her blouse undone without her even suspecting? Not that she minded, Paula guessed. After all, it would have been brazen for her to start undoing them herself. She remembered the rumblings and teeth gnashing that occurred every time a boy of her own age was so bold as to ... but that was largely why she preferred this blouse. 

None of which had anything to do with the moment. Mr. Costello was pulling the blouse forward off her shoulders and she wasn't even putting up a token resistance. "Mustn't get your lovely clothes all wrinkled," he said smoothly and finished pulling the white material down her arms. Paula lay on his day bed, now clad only in her saddle oxfords, bobby sox, below-the-knee skirt, and a thirty four "C" cup bra of green satin. She remembered irrelevantly that it was, at least, the same color as her undersized panties. 

She had to do something, say something. He was a nice old man and she liked the clean male smell of his body but this was getting as dangerous as back seats on Saturday night. "Uh, what did they do to prevent accidents back in the Stone Age?" she asked brightly. 

"Any number of things, all of which I'll be delighted to show you," Mr. Costello said. "But to put your lovely legalistic mind to rest, your present partner is undoubtedly the safest choice on this benighted planet. Not only am I a very old man and probably well past the age of procreation, but also, having done my familial duty to society many years ago, I took advantage of a bit of surgery which has been known and practiced at least since Aristotle's day. The operation, despite propaganda to the contrary, is irreversible. There is no way on earth that I could ever render the most willing candidate pregnant, thanks to a vasectomy which has stood the test of thirty years." 

Benumbed by this facile flow of verbiage, Paula only caught the word "vasectomy." It was a word she knew. It was, she had known for some time, the principle reason why she was an only child and if the priests wanted any more, then let them raise them, her harried father had snapped. 

But Mr. Costello had not been idle. While explaining these details he had been systematically and efficiently removing his own clothing and stacking it in a neat pile over one arm of the easy chair. The other arm held only her blouse. But while Paula was noting this inequity she felt capable fingers working at the waistband of her skirt and a moment later she was doubly thankful that she had at least had the foresight to choose bra and panties of the same color. 

Had she been more knowledgeable of male thought processes, she would have realized that Mr. Costello would not have cared what color her bra and panties were. He was already busy pulling off her saddle oxfords and before she had time to cavil his arms were behind her back, lifting her half off the day bed as he found the hooks to her bra. Now that, Paula realized, was something new. Only twice had fumblers of her own age gotten that far and each time the boys had been thwarted by a total inability to get a bra unhooked. Mr. Costello had been around. 

Gosh! Was this really happening? She really hadn't intended for it to go this far. It had always been fun of a sort to wrestle with boys, to get a mild turn-on and amuse herself with their discomfiture. Boys were too easy to divert. They would believe anything—even that it could be the wrong time of the month for three weekends in a row. 

But Mr. Costello, she abruptly realized, was far from being a boy. If she were to offer excuses now, begin stalling and making vague promises for tomorrow or next week or next month Mr. Costello would give her that same tolerant smile of amusement which came whenever she wandered far afield in her girlish efforts to establish some rudimentary relationship between the law and life as it is lived by the breathing, suffering victims of the law. 

"Uh, what're you going to do now?" she asked. 

"That depends entirely on what you'd like me to do," Mr. Costello said gallantly. But she noted that without even asking what she would like he bent over her, kneeling now beside the bed instead of sitting on it. He gave her a perfunctory kiss and before she was quite used to the sensation of a kiss backed up by a mustache that mustache was tickling its way down her throat, across her chest, and then he was fastening his lips right over the hard, throbbing nipple of her pink aureoled left tit. 

It was the first time anyone had ever practiced that delightful exercise on Paula. She felt a deep surge of excitement course through her virgin body. It felt almost like an electric shock. She was tingling from crotch to eyebrows and she knew suddenly that she was blushing all the way, blushing all over her whole body and he must be watching her blush because all she had on now were her fuzzy white bobby sox and those bought-a-year-ago green panties which cut so interestingly into the outline of her firm little just-blooming bottom. 

Without missing a lick, he switched smoothly to her other nipple and began running his tongue in delightful, unbearably and erotically ticklish circles around the sudden rock hardness of her tiny virginal nipple. Gosh, did it ever feel gooood! 

She had experimented in her bath, in the loneliness of her narrow bed, running her hands over her body and pretending they were somebody else's. The experiments had suggested that great things lay in store for her once Paula found a partner for these experiments—preferably some male who would be clean, discreet, and would never even think of making her pregnant. 

Now she realized to her delight she had exactly the sort of partner she had dreamed of. She wondered if this project had really been in the back of her mind even before Mr. Costello had learned she was interested in the law. Or had she actually become interested in the law only after she had become interested in Mr. Costello? 

She wondered what would happen if ever she were to confess that she had always had ambivalent feelings about this ever-so-nice old man. What would he think if she were to tell him she knew he had been making up excuses to hold the ladder, to look up her skirt and admire the contours of her firm little ass—finding excuses to jiggle the ladder and grab that little ass least she fall and bump her lovely bumpers. Then abruptly she knew he was doing it again. Without missing a lick on her firm little nipples, his hands had discovered her ass. Smoothly, he was peeling her green panties down. 

CHAPTER 11 

Harry Riggs's abrupt end for end switch had caught Paula unprepared. One minute she had been staring eight inches of cock in the face as he squatted astraddle her tits and the next minute he had abruptly changed his mind and decided to do a little tasting of his own. 

Her lush body had been prodded and pummeled until she lay on her side and now he lay on his side too end to end, facing her, his eight enormous inches of erection once more poking blindly toward her face, only this time Harry had jumped the gun. He had grasped her knees and spread them, diving unceremoniously to place his mouth over her suddenly gaping cunt. 

It had all happened so abruptly Paula was totally unready. As his hands came off her knees and his wiry embrace settled around her ass she felt her thighs close around the bulk of his head. She wondered if he was trying to heat her up with some kind of mechanical gadgetry, and then realized with a little start that those twin foci of heat that were burning her thighs—those were Harry's prominent ears! 

Then his tongue violated the gap between her widespread vulval lips. As he ran that rasping organ up one soft damp inner lip and down the other she felt a sudden thrill of erotic delight. Her belly began to thrum as every tiny tissue inside her reacted to the rub of love. Gone were her worries and inhibitions. The son-of-a-bitch might be a male chauvinist pig, might be totally unacceptable from a social or financial standpoint. But with a mouth and tongue like that ... it felt so good she almost forgot about his cock. 

But that thumping throbbing essence of maleness was waving wildly only inches from her face, searing her with the radiation of hot, hard masculinity. She struggled to control herself, tried to remind herself that this was rape—carnal knowledge against her will, that Harry was committing a felony and would have to be punished for his effrontery. It didn't work. 

All she could think of was that mouth pressing lips to her lips, pressing tongue to the passion-swollen super-sensitized inner surfaces of her thrumming cunt. He was devouring her, eating her pussy with such gusto that she knew he would not stop until the last morsel of her lusting body had been consumed. 

It felt so wildly, so wonderfully good she could not think of anything else—could not think at all, only revel in the sweet sensuality of that questing tongue roaming at will in the tender trench of her took his. 

His sensual tongue seemed to have an instinct for the most tenderly ticklish, erotically sensual, and sensitive parts of her pussy. He licked up one lip and down the other, drove his tongue deep up her vagina and poked in delightfully new directions, stretching that receptive membrane in ways as sensual as they were strange, filling her, thrilling her in ways not even eight erect inches of cock could do. 

Some tiny, still sane comer of her passion-riddled mind kept trying to tell her it was still rape, that he had forced himself on her not once but twice now and that, no matter how nice it might feel, she had excellent and socially approved reasons for wishing this little bastard, this lovely tongued little bastard were dead—destroyed before he could finish destroying her already precarious position in society. Jesus! What could she do if somebody were to find out she was being laid by one of her parolees? The papers would have more fun with her than they had had with Watergate. 

But while she was struggling to remind herself that she had a mind Harry Riggs's agile tongue finally stopped licking up and down her labia, ceased sounding the empty well of her vagina. He paused a moment and caught his breath and then, with unerring aim, darted the tip of his tongue once more between her gaping labia to touch the round, marble-hard knob of her passion-swollen and supersensitive clitoris. 

Paula's noise was not exactly a scream. It was more a wail, a shriek compounded of equal parts of joy and despair. She knew the last barrier had come down, that no matter how she might despise this little man with the big cock—no matter how she might despise herself for succumbing to him, her body was reacting in ways totally alien to her legalistic mind. 

It was useless any longer to pretend she was anything else but a slave to her body, to her passions. This little bastard could do anything he wanted to her. She was powerless to resist and she knew it and he knew it and "Ooooooooohhhhhh!" 

That "Ooooooooohhhhhhhh!" was her undoing. As her mouth opened wide in a final cri de coeur for lost illusions she felt eight unerring inches slide past her lips, past her teeth, past tongue and uvula, and then she was swallowing, struggling instinctively to force this hot throbbing lump of meat the rest of its lascivious way down her throat. 

But Harry's tongue running in lazy circles around her clit, his firm embrace around the twin roundnesses of her ass, everything combined to distract her. She felt her ass rocking as she attempted to meet a thrust that was not even there, that was up here where a bony, black-ringletted pelvic ridge banged against her nose, retreated, banged again. 

Harry's iron self-control seemed to have evaporated too. He was thrusting madly, with no thought of pacing, ramming his cock frantically up and down her throat and she wanted to retreat but he had such a firm grip on her and her ass was whipping so enthusiastically against his tongue that she couldn't control herself. She was choking but it felt so goooood. She wanted to free herself of this octopus embrace but unbelieving, she felt her arms around Harry's ass, pulling him to her just as he was pulling her firm round ass to him and they were locked together, unable and unwilling to break free from the all-entangling tentacles of lust that held them enthralled, writhing, twisting, poking, probing, struggling frantically to extract the final flicker of eroticism from this complicated encounter. 

She was choking and strangling from the friction of all that hot throbbing meat slamming in and out of her mouth, up and down her throat, but his tongue running round and round her clit felt so good she couldn't complain. Her body was reacting whether she willed it or not, wham-bamming, bobbing her head up and down his cock, her ass up and down his supple tongue. 

Then she felt a tiny hint of moisture and the raw throbbing cock was suddenly sliding easily up and down her throat and then ooooooohhhhhhh wow! He drove it deep down her throat until her lips were mashed against his scrotum and against the bony hardness of his pelvic ridge. She could feel his rock-hard cock grow to critical mass and then it was emptying in ceaseless explosion, pumping, squirting, shooting great gouts of jizz deep down her throat, so deep she couldn't even taste that succulent fluid as it issued from the frantic firehose so deep down her throat that he was sending his seed directly to her stomach. 

She didn't know or care what was happening. Paula was too busy struggling to cope with the sudden dissolution as her belly melted, shifted, flowed into strange new and erotic shapes until it seemed as if her very soul was running around his tirelessly probing tongue. 

Even as she felt herself surrender to this total assault of eroticism Paula knew she had come before but never like this. Other times things had been new and everything was a first time experience with no standard of comparison. Now she had standards. She also had nearly twelve years of lonely self-sufficiency with which to compare this moment of madness. 

God damn him! Twelve years invested in liberation, in emancipation, and in two brief hours he had destroyed her investment, had put her back on square one of a Stone Age game where women waited, sat passively and waited for the one important event in their drab and wrenched lives: waited for some man to come along, raise his eyebrows, raise his cock, and fuck them. 

If only it didn't feel so all-pervadingly, mindblowingly goooooood! She was coming down now. They were both still thrusting feebly but the height of their twin peaks of erotic culmination had passed, leaving them still gasping and fluttering with a residual lascivity. 

"Oooooooohhhh!" Harry Puggs, paroled breaker and enterer moaned. 

"Aaaaaaaaahhh" Paula, broken and entered, sighed. For a moment she was content, able to put aside all thought of past or future. Then as she relaxed that tremendous eight-inch-long plug came out of her mouth with a "thuck" like the cork from a bottle of sparkling wine. She was sleepy and lazy, totally relaxed, but already a worm of worry was borrowing into her sensual satiety, robbing her of the tranquility and rest she had earned from this magnificent exercise in eroticism. 

Treating her with a fragile respect for the first time, Harry got her head off his stringy thigh and went into the bathroom to rinse off. Left alone, she began to sink into a rosy glow of satiation, unwilling to think about the future. Then she half-sensed that Harry had left the bathroom. She supposed he would be dressing and exiting once more from her life, ready to return only when he once more had a hard-on. Christ! What was she going to do? 

She heard him moving things and then the phone rang. He nipped the ring in the bud, jangled the receiver until he got a dial tone, and then he was talking in muffled tones just below her threshold of audibility. 

Paula felt a little thrill of fear. What was this rapist doing with her phone? Christ only knew what he was up to now and if he were consummating some illicit deal ... she had been wondering for several years now if at least one of her phones was not bugged. Hizzonner's administration was as freaked out on bugging as Nixon's. Jesus! What kind of a mess was this miserable stiff-pricked little bastard getting her into now? 

She heard the phone come down on the hook again and immediately it rang. Harry picked it up, listened a moment, and then Paula was suddenly wide awake, roused from her lethargy by the shrill sound of a police whistle. Harry had seen the weapon she used against inquisitive reporters and he was doing his shrill, full-lunged best to shatter some nosy news hound's eardrum. For the first time in hours she almost liked the little man. 

He put the phone down without hanging up and, still naked, padded back to where she still lay flaccid and spent atop her bed. "Better clean up a little," he suggested, and began helping her to her feet. 

She was so fucked-out and satiated that she could hardly stand. She wanted just to be there a while and revel in full and complete relaxation for the first time in twelve years—just lay about fucked-out, emptied, not knowing or caring how went the cause of women's lib. 

But the slight-bodied breaker and enterer chivvied her off the bed, onto her feet, and then he was in the shower with her, rinsing come smears from her face and neck, washing jizz from tangled strands of her long blond hair. As if he had spent every day of his life inside the joint doing this sort of thing, he cupped a hand in her crotch and pumped expertly, forcing water up her cunt until she was washed empty of the chrisms of love that her body had offered to his quietly questing tongue. 

She was still half-asleep in a rosy glow of eroticism when he gave her a skin-tautening, cunt-tightening blast of unadulterated cold water. She was still struggling to muster strength enough to swear at him when he turned the water off and began drying her, devoting tender loving care to every inch of skin on that flawless, lushly proportioned body. 

He spread her legs and patted her pussy dry, scrubbed the towel in her blond ringletted pubic patch until the last hint of dampness was gone. He wiped the cheeks of her ass and wiped her crack. He twisted a corner of towel to probe deep into her navel, lifted each tit in turn to pat dry the tiny strip of skin where those firm hemispheres were just beginning a voluptuous surrender to gravity. 

He wrapped towels about her, rubbed her long blond hair in more towels, ran a hot comb through her hair while she stood bemused in the middle of the bathroom wondering if this was the way show horses felt when grooms swarmed over them currying, combing, brushing, doing their all to entice another dollar from some sucker who would be buying. 

What on earth was he up to? A tiny tendril of suspicion entered her mind. Damn it! He was preparing her for public exhibition. Did this miserable little bastard of a breaker and enterer think he was going to take her out in public, show her off on his paroled arm, do his ultimate best to scuttle her career? 

No god damned way! It was bad enough to be raped by him—bad enough to know she no longer had the will power to resist his eight inches of persuasion. But Paula was damned if she was going to cooperate in her own destruction. He could fuck her again someday if she were stupid enough not to change the lock on the garage door. She knew she was going to have write this off to experience, would never dare blow the whistle on this little bastard and try to convince some grinning leering cop that he had really raped her. But no way was she going to dress up and go out on the street and be seen in public with this cruddy little loser! 

He led her out of the bath and into her front room. Still naked, Paula wondered what he was going to suggest and then abruptly she knew it was not the way she had imagined it. He wasn't going to take her out to dinner or show her off anywhere. Harry had been preparing her for something else. Now she belatedly remembered his brief phone conversation. Whom had he been talking with? She was going to find out very soon, she guessed. 

The front door of her house was opening. 

CHAPTER 12 

Now why, Paula wondered, hadn't she thought of that? With a sinking feeling she knew exactly what it was she had not thought of. The signs were all there. Harry Riggs had always been a loser—not even a competent breaker and enterer if success is measured by the time one manages to stay out of the Joint. 

He had been mild-mannered, unaggressive. Of course he had always lusted after her but that was only natural. All of them lusted after anything with tits except those who had been converted into flaming queens by their sojourn in the Joint. 

So what had sparked Harry Riggs's unassertive personality into rape? Some kind of dope, of course. But where had he gotten it and who had he taken it with? Who had discussed things with him? 

She could see it all now: a couple of gray-faced losers doping somewhere in a cheap room, telling recreational lies about all the women they had fucked, and then Harry would go into some song and dance about the pair of jugs on his parole officer and Jesus, wouldn't he like to get his cock into her! 

One thing would have led to another and, two heads being twice as bad as one, the scheme would have been hatched. And Harry Riggs's mind must have been blown right out of his head at the totally unforeseen success of his crazy idea. He would have gone back and told his partner all about it, would have been disbelieved, would have offered proofs and grudgingly the other would have decided it was worth a try. The man coming through the door would be wondering if it was for real or if he was entering a trap to face a dozen hard-faced cops with shotguns. 

There would be little room for doubt in his mind once he found his friend naked in her living room. And once his eyes burned over the contours of Paula's lush, freshly bathed and powdered body clad only in her public hair, there would be no doubt at all. 

Christ almighty! Without even hesitating to check out the scene, the stranger was peeling off his topcoat and dropping it on the floor behind him. He gave Harry a brief glance and flicker of greeting, then turned and shot the front door bolt behind him. He was the fastest undresser she had ever witnessed. Strewing clothes like a miniature tornado, he waltzed about her living room, dancing on one leg and then the other rather than sit down and take his pants off the easy way. Must be some habit from prison days, Paula guessed. 

He was a little taller than Harry Riggs, perhaps a couple of inches taller than she was. He was also younger, with bright red hair still short in a prison cut. And saving up god only knew how many years' accumulation of frustrated fucking to punish my poor pussy. 

He turned to face her again and she saw a vulpine similarity to Harry—a street wisdom that transcended anything that can be learned from books. She wondered what screw was missing in his mental equipment—what had turned him against society and made him a loser instead of a successful politician or businessman. But her attention was not really focused on his face. She was studying the hard-on that jutted aggressively from a pubic patch of the same luxuriantly red ringlets as his scalp. 

His cock was not as big as Harry's. But neither had its swollen tumescence been reduced twice in as many hours. The red-headed man's cock was circumcised. With a little shiver of anticipation Paula realized she was about to garner another new experience. She despised herself for not being horrified, for not being terror-stricken. The two of them were going to use her up like a Kleenex. And, she realized, they would dispose of her with no more compunction than if she were a used Kleenex once they had satiated their long-standing hard-ons. 

And still she could not get herself into the proper frame of mind for a rape victim. Against her will she felt her eyes riveted on that great thumping bald-headed hard-on. She had never actually seen a circumcised cock before, she abruptly realized. She knew about such things from an intellectual stand-point but to stand naked in her own living room and look at a naked stranger with a naked, bald, dry-headed cock was carrying carnal knowledge beyond the sterile bounds of intellectualization. God, it looked big! 

What would it feel like to have that great dry cockhead driving into her? Would it hurt? Irrelevantly, she caught herself wondering about something far afield from her forthcoming rape. She knew well enough how men played on their skin flutes to alleviate loneliness, using a loving hand to slide a foreskin up and down, back and forth over the slick glistening sensitivity of a throbbing cockhead. It was not all that different from the things lonely women were wont to do with a finger, a candle, a banana or even a mop handle if there was no man handy to supply a natural need. 

But what recourse was there for a man whose parents in some savage and sadistic mood had decided to punish him in advance for having a body, for having needs like any other human being? His cockhead was bald and dry. There was no way to cosset it into the splendor of a solitary eruption. Staring wide-eyed at her first circumcised cock she also abruptly realized that this cockhead had spent a lifetime rubbing bare against his clothes—against everything. It would be calloused, insensitive. It would be dry and would hurt like hell going into her but if she could contribute enough of love's lubrication ... 

There was a sudden revolution in her belly as she realized that this man's loss was her gain. He would be hair trigger from months, possibly years of accumulated lust. But his bald-headed, calloused cock would also be inured to friction that he might have a staying power beyond her wildest and most lascivious dreams. 

My god, she thought, what's happened to you? It's bad enough being raped. Do you have to look forward to it? Pollyanna couldn't have been more cheerful facing the prospect of two sex-starved losers—men desperate enough to do her in once they were through doing it in her. 

But it was too late now. If only she'd had a little willpower she could have nipped this whole thing in the bud. A couple of hours ago Harry would have slunk off with his eight deflated inches between his legs if she'd been firm enough to ignore that firm phallus, to tell him in no-nonsense terms to go fuck off instead of dithering and tacitly inviting him to fuck her. 

In an even contest she suspected she might even have been able to fight off Harry Biggs, jockey-sized breaker and enterer. But two men bound on fucking her? There was no way now—nothing Paula could do to avert the forthcoming bacchanalia. "No," she moaned. 

The red-haired, bald-cocked stranger grinned at Harry who stood behind her, naked as she was, as he was, holding her lightly by her upper arms. Then, unable to resist, she felt Harry's grip pulling her down until her rubbery legs collapsed and she lay on her back in the middle of her living room wall-to-wall. 

Belatedly, she understood what this meant. Her bed was big enough for her. It had been ample for her and for Harry only minutes ago. But now there were three players in this erotic game and the bed was big enough only for two. Harry Biggs, phenomenally phallused breaker and enterer, apprentice home wrecker, had no intention of sitting on the sidelines quietly charging his batteries while his friend got in his innings inside Paula. 

With a rising panic she wondered what they would do to her. There were only two things they could do, she realized. One of them was going to plug her pussy with a great thumping hunk of masculinity. The other was going to rape her tonsils. 

Would she be able to breathe? Would two cocks at once be too much for even the most willing of women? Would it be fun? Would they keep it up, keep driving that bare-headed, calloused cock into her until once and for all she'd had enough and didn't ever want to think about fucking again? 

How many more times would Harry Riggs get that eight-inch monstrosity up hard enough, rigid enough to penetrate her fragile flesh? Would the red-headed, bald-cocked stranger's smaller weapon make up in sustained firepower what it lacked in calibre? 

Were they going to kill her? Would they kill her with kindness—make her come so many times that finally her straining heart would surrender? Unwillingly, she found herself contemplating a lifetime of defending woman's rights in a male chauvinist society and wondered if it might not be better to die now, die happy, die with eight full firm inches of manhood lending some spice to her drab and wretched life. 

The red-headed, bald-cocked stranger was kneeling between her legs. She could feel hot maleness radiate like a branding iron from the exposed head of his circumcised stabber. 

God damn them both! This was supposed to be a rape and Harry wasn't even holding her down. He had retreated somewhere out of her line of vision and she was left only with the knowledge that somewhere he was surely watching, that a practice she had always seen as essentially private was now public: Not only was she about to be raped again—this time it was to be before an audience! 

Though it was her first experience with a circumcised cock, Paula noted that it seemed to be beginning very like every other time she had been fucked. He knelt between her thighs, grasped her knees to bend them and tilt her ass up to the proper angle, and began working the bare bald head of his hammer up and down her secret slit, wetting and smearing it with the lubrication of love which had already rendered this rape suspect. How could a woman be raped when her pussy was streaming, giving the lie to her unwillingness? 

God damn them both! How could they have guessed? Was she that transparent, so obvious in her need that even these burning-eyed, long-deprived lusters could see how badly she needed it, how neatly she had boxed herself into a corner of women's lib and locked herself into a prison even more confining than the Hotel Graybar they had just left? 

This is rape, she reminded herself. This is invasion of privacy, invasion of pussy! Not only am I being raped, I'm being ogled and delectated by an eight-inch-cocked voyeur who'll be studying me for pointers so he can make me go even more insane when it's his turn to plough my garden again. God damn them both! God damn all stiff-pricked, conscienceless men! God damn myself for needing them so bad I can taste it! 

As unhurried as if he'd spent the last few months or years of his life servicing a harem, the red-headed stranger was still slowly and carefully dragging his cockhead up and down the slick-smeared labia of her gaping vulva. Each time the rough skin of his cockhead rasped over her fibrillating clitoris Paula shuddered and barely managed to refrain from screaming. It hurt. But it hurt so gooooood she didn't know what she was going to do once he decided to drive his dong deep into the proper receptacle and no longer drag that rasping, thumping, throbbing bald head past her thrumming clit. 

Finally the inevitable happened. Still kneeling, reared back where he could admire the full length of her stripped and perfect body, he drove his cock deep into her with a single smooth thrust which, thanks to his careful preparation, did not catch or pucker and try to drag her vulval lips inside out around a clinging dry cock shank. It didn't hurt at all, she realized. To the contrary, it felt nicer that anything else she had yet experienced in this two-hour-long fuck fest. 

He bottomed out, driving so deep into her that she wondered momentarily if his cock was an optical illusion, if some subtle trick of dimension made it only seem shorter than Harry Riggs's eight unbelievable inches. 

Paula gasped, held her breath, and hoped her assailant would interpret her look of delighted disbelief as another manifestation of outrage and pain. Jesus, what a cock! She wondered if the totally unyielding rock hardness of that bludgeon that was stirring her inner depths—was it because he was circumcised and his cockhead was hard-skinned, or did he just have a bigger, hotter, more needful hard-on than her first violator? 

She struggled for sanity, struggled to remind herself where she was, what she was, that she was a parole officer, that these two men were parole violators, violating both their parole and their parole officer. Jesus! 

If only his cock weren't so big, so hard, so deep inside her ... He still held his body pressed against her ass, bottomed out and unmoving. She guessed reality had finally caught up with him. She had often suspected that these men in prison lived lives very like hers, so full of dream, of nightmare, of fantasy that it was difficult to separate fact from fancy. Even now unless she kept a strict grip on her awareness Paula's mind had a tendency to wander. She still had moments when she was sure this was all just another dream, that she would soon wake up sweaty and panting, her crotch wet as it was empty, once more a victim of her body which created its own sex life in the absence of any cooperation from her woman's lib mentality. 

Then as the red-haired stranger began very slowly to grind his pelvis against hers and stir her slowly with great circular motions of his cock deep inside her Paula knew it was not a dream. In any kind of a dream this delicious she would have awakened flopping and sweating long ago. She was wide awake. She was getting ready to come. Already! 

CHAPTER 13 

Her eyes were wide open now and she knew perfectly well this was no dream. Dreams didn't hurt like this. It was not the kind of hurt that would make her complain, though. It hurt so nice she hoped it would never stop hurting, that he could stay forever balancing on the pivot point of some delicate pleasure-pain teeter-totter. 

He was still grinding his pelvis in slow, lascivious circles, forcing the tip of his cock to move deep inside her in a rotary-stirring motion that promised to melt her, dissolve her, turn her brains to peanut butter and send them spurting and leaking out around the long straight shank of his bald-headed cock. 

He was still in that unnatural posture too, reared back above her, only his cock touching her, far enough back so his eyes could focus on the full length, splendor of her nude body. It was awful. She felt so good it was sinful even if she was being raped—especially if she was being raped. Somewhere beyond her vision Harry Biggs would be witnessing her humiliation, his haunted eyes memorizing every inch of her seductive body. 

But even worse was this calm, full-length perusal by the red-haired stranger who had plugged his outlet into her receptacle. Suddenly Paula realized she was blushing—blushing from the bulge of her belly past her deep navel, past her tiny waist, her twin pectoral mountains suffused with pink warmth that rose in a wave up her chest, up her neck to the roots of her long straight blond hair. 

Blushing, for Christ's sake! She was being fucked—raped— and was a blush the best she could come up with? She ought to be kicking and screaming and struggling and raising so much hell the neighbors would stop watching television long enough to call the cops. 

But she wasn't. Instead, she was lying here like a tremulous virgin getting long-cocked for the first time in her life—so caught up in the toils of eroticism that even though she could guess what these two weirdos might do to shut her up, she was still unable to resist, was able only to lie there and wish he'd stop staring down at her, that he'd stop that slow steady stirring and start in doing it right. Why couldn't he stop with this playing around, bend over her, bury his face in her lovely jugs, and start pushing. 

God damn him! She wanted to kick her heels high, bring them in thudding over his kidneys, spur him like a rebellious horse but all she could do was lie here all fluttery and ready, waiting, willing—oh God damn it, wouldn't he ever start some honest-to-god fucking? 

She closed her eyes and sighed and tried to still the quivering and trembling inside her belly. He was still stirring, stirring up a storm inside her that she knew was going to end in disaster. No matter which way things went it would end up in disaster. No matter how she might lust and pant for these twin outlaw cocks, she couldn't keep them. She lived in a fish bowl—especially since her involuntary strip tease this morning in City Hall. 

My god, she thought with sudden panic, I'll bet the bushes are full of reporters and photographers right now! By now they'll have wormed my address out of somebody and they'll be hanging around just waiting and when these two sons-of-bitches walk out they'll walk right into reporters and photographers and—and I'll be avenged. They'll catch them while my body is still warm and bleeding and a lot of good it's going to do me. Oh god damn it! 

But while she was thinking dire thoughts of death and dismemberment, the red-haired cocksman finally abandoned his studied verticality. Adopting a more human posture, he crouched low over her, kissed her perfunctorily on the mouth, and then arched his back to put his lips over her left nipple without breaking his full-depth connection in her seething, sizzling cunt. 

He began running his tongue around her suddenly rigid nipple and aureole, devoting to this lovely exercise the same tender loving care that Harry Riggs had devoted to her clitoris some-could it have been only ten minutes ago? 

My god—was she insatiable? An hour ago she had lain raped and shattered. Then Harry had come back and had, at the last minute, declined to rape her orally without first savoring the delectable juices of her seething secret slit. And she had come again— at least as many times as when he had been pushing her belly out of shape with that tremendous eight-inch tool. 

She had been violated repeatedly, to the edge of numbness, and now she had still another skewer poking its erotic way through her soft and yielding flesh. She was being raped, violated, her body used with no consideration for the years of effort she had put into preparing her mind. God damned chauvinist pigs! And god damn her traitorous body. Even now she could not make her body understand that this was wrong, that this was not supposed to happen, that these two sons-of-bitches were probably going to kill her once they were through, satiated, their lust slaked in her raw and bleeding flesh. 

And all she could do was lie there and quiver and tremble and try not to giggle as her body reveled and told her everything was all right, that this was fun, that this was fucking, that this was what she had been born for and not to go off collecting scalps and college degrees. God damn everything! It just wasn't fair! 

She wanted to scream and kick and bite but he had his mouth over her tit and he was not biting. He was kissing and licking and it felt so goooood! Oh wow, oh Jesus, did it ever feel goooooood! 

She tried to remind herself of how it was all going to end but her body was not listening—only feeling and enjoying. The red-haired man switched to her other tit and licked it into a frenzied erection as highly explosive as that of the first tit to which he had given this delectable titillation. 

Meanwhile he was still grinding his bony pelvis around, meshing his bright red ringlets with the abundant blond hair on her mons veneris, pressing and rubbing with such joyous abandon that she could feel friction building up heat between their straining bodies. 

And the bald-headed, rough-skinned tip of his swollen tool was still stirring round and round deep inside her, tormenting her, tantalizing her, turning her will to water and her brains to come. It felt so good she wanted to kick and scream and yodel her delight and sing a hymn to the glories of uninhibited love. 

She had already forgotten about Harry Riggs, who must have been somewhere behind her noting every gasp and wriggle of pleasure as she accepted gratefully the gift of love that Redhead was giving her with his tireless mix master of a cock. 

Just when she knew she couldn't stand it another minute without fainting he stopped his ceaseless grinding and stirring and held tight against her for a moment, breathing deeply once before he began his first withdrawal. 

Slow as an hour hand, he pulled it out of her—all the way out until his cockhead was once more free in the cold cruel air, her vulval lips closed tight over nothingness, and then—WHAM! 

It almost knocked the breath out of her. Without warning, without preparation, without the slightest effort to thread her needle or even make sure he had it in the right place, he had come down on her, driven his cock halfway to her lungs, slamming his rampant maleness into her waiting cunt with all the subtlety of a Spanish-flied pile driver. 

For perhaps ten seconds he wham-bammed, arms grasping her ass while he ram-slammed his cock to her like some berserk riveting machine, in and out of her love-slicked pussy so fast she knew it was all over but who cared—she was coming. Oh Jesus, was she ever coming! She realized there was no comparing this orgasm to the others of the afternoon. His machine-gun approach to the amatory arts was about as devious as a shark attack. And just as damaging to her flesh, she realized. He was using her up, destroying her as prodigally as he was expending the precious adamantine hardness of his erection. She was melting, flowing, body and soul coalescing into a pink-frothed tidal wave of orgiastic fulfillment. 

Wailing, moaning, twisting, she was totally out of control, intellect and education submerged in a red-roaring cataract of come. Gasping and wheezing, she succumbed, half-fainting from sheer erotic joy. Then as the spasm of orgasm passed she sensed suddenly that his abandon was not at all like hers. He had pounded her ass in an unmerciful frenzy, acting just as if he were some hot-assed amateur struggling for just one more poke before he disgraced himself with an ejaculation praecox. 

But the devious red-haired chauvinistic son-of-a-bitch was no amateur. He had pounded his cock into her until she had reached an orgiastic point of no return and then he had just stopped dead, leaving her writhing body spindled on his still intact hard-on, looking down on her lusting body with no more passion than an Indian spearing one more salmon. God damn him! God damn all men! How could they do things like that to a woman? 

Before she could devote more thought to the problem he was once more moving, pushing his prodigious prod slowly into her, pulling it out, putting it back in again, moving slower than an appeal to appellate court. 

A moment ago she had been dying. Her belly was still fibrillating with the aftershocks of that cataclysmic come. Yet already she could feel a new turn-on overlapping her last sudden and total thrill of erotic joy. Was there no limit to what these sons-of-bitches could make her do? She could live with rape. After all a rape—even a gang rape—served only to illustrate her thesis that it was a male chauvinist pig's world, that the whole fucking system was stacked against women, that she was being exploited as a sex object with no regard at all for her mind. 

She would have been able to believe it all—if only she could have hurt and suffered a little bit. But god damn a God who gave her a body incapable of syllogism—a body which only confessed openly to its needs and erotic desires. God damn it all! Getting raped was bad enough. But did she have to like it? 

Before she had time to dwell further on the world's injustice, her come-riddled cunt revived and began once more that insidious erasure of her mental processes. Despite having just melted, despite practically having died from the violence of her reaction to all that no-tomorrow wham-bamming, once more her body was responding to his slow, steady thrusting. And despite doing everything humanly possible to kill herself, she knew her full-fashioned, totally feminine body was getting ready to do it all again. 

My god, how many times could she come before she died? Surely the most healthy of hearts could not endure this pounding forever. It might be different if she were a sexual athlete or a working girl like some of her clients. But she was not. She was in good physical shape—good enough to have turned every head when the goddam escalator at City Hall had performed an involuntary strip tease. But it had been more years than she even liked to think about since she had experienced the fine full flutter of wings as she took off on a series of high-flying orgasms. 

It was going to kill her as sure as hell. And if it didn't these two sons-of-bitches who were taking turns raping her would. Convicted felons. There was no way they could both possibly be so stupid as to believe she was not going to blow the whistle on them the first time she could get her hands on a telephone. 

Or was there? She had been wailing and squealing, twisting and turning like any other woman in the throes of joyous orgasm. That was the hell of it. They might be raping her but somewhere deep in her heart of hearts Paula knew that if they were both to desist, all the sons-of-bitches would have to do would be to lie around her house naked, their king-sized cocks at half-mast while they drank her booze and ate her food and sooner or later she would be crawling into their laps, begging them to stick it in her again. 

They must both know she was incurable—unbelievable, totally turned on by the thought of fucking and unable to say no to any man no matter how unsuitable. There was a word for that kind of woman. She didn't like to think about it but it was there and she knew it. She was not taking pay, therefore she was not a whore. She was not in love with her partners, therefore she was not some silly, approaching-menopause bitch in love with love. She was a woman who just plain couldn't say no to anybody in possession of a cock. A round heels, of course. But Paula knew she was even worse than a classic round heels. She was a nymphomaniac! 

No wonder these male chauvinist pigs were using her as if she were a bar of soap. They had pegged her for what she was before she even knew it herself. They admired her lush, flawless body, used it to fuck themselves into dry-bagged stillness and— 

Suddenly she knew what this meant. If they were that sure her—if they knew they could come back for seconds, thirds, hundredths, there was no reason to kill her. They knew her better than she knew herself. They would be back time and again until sooner or later some newsman got wise and put a spectacular end to her career as a parole officer. 

Then she remembered that the news noses were probably hanging from every tree outside right now. Oh Jesus! She had to warn these bastards. Like it or not, she was involved, would have to scheme with them, cooperate with them, work together to save their separate asses. 

And come to think of it, where was Harry Riggs? Her question was suddenly answered as her sensual appreciation of the red-headed man's steady thrusting was distracted by a pair of hands slipping over her full firm tits. That made four hands on her body! 

CHAPTER 14 

Oh Christ! She had forgotten about Harry Riggs. Not exactly forgotten, she amended. She had just made some assumptions on insufficient evidence. She had supposed he would spend the interval charging his batteries so he would be ready to take up the torch and feed eight revived inches to her as soon as the red-haired man's hard-on faltered. Now she knew she had been wrong once again. 

What was he going to do to her? 

As if she didn't know! 

She reminded herself of what he had done last time, how he had been all set to do it without mitigation or preamble until some sudden access of passion—some supernal desire to lick her pussy and overcome and diverted him. But this time, with his red-headed friend already pouring his bald-headed cock to her seething cunt, there was little danger of Harry Riggs getting his face into the cockpit. 

And she could remember vividly the place where his eight erect inches had ended up last time. Her throat was still sore and strained from all that swallowing, swallowing a hunk of raw red meat that resolutely refused to be swallowed. 

My god, didn't she have enough to do now? The redhead was still pouring his cock to her with the steady dependable beat of a symphonist trying to play jazz. Her writhing, twisting body was responding in ways she had never imagined possible. Her whole being was suffused with a single desire to destroy herself, to fuck herself into premature senility, to come and come repeatedly until her heart finally gave up and she experienced that final orgasm from which nobody ever recovers. 

But despite the passion that pervaded her lusting body Paula found herself pondering things like the simple mechanics of a three-way fuck fest. The redhead was in classic missionary position, his hard-muscled ass between her gaping thighs, his bald-headed banger spreading her labia as he drove' it deep into her vagina. His chest was over hers, scant red ringlets rasping the swollen rock-hard nipples atop her twin pectoral volcanoes. 

She couldn't work out exactly where Harry Riggs was. From somewhere out of her line of vision he had his hands between her chest and the red-haired man's cupped over her full firm jugs like a living bra, his thumbs and forefingers industriously twiddling away at her tiny pink nipples as if they were not already as hard and upstanding as tiny twin Gibraltars. 

She shuddered in a joyous ecstasy under the assault of those fingers which turned her on even more than the redhead's spasmodic licking and kissing for, after all, he had only one mouth and the breaker and enterer who played with her tits had two capable hands. 

But was that all Harry Riggs intended to do? Paula couldn't believe he would be content to mark time on the sidelines while somebody else enjoyed the splendors of her abundant femininity. He couldn't fuck her, at least not until his red-haired friend had gotten his share. 

Nor would he be able, without considerable physical rearrangement, to get his tongue in the only other place she knew was of any possible interest to a lusting, thrusting male. She remembered her mixture of horror, revulsion, and delight on the occasion when she had first learned about that alternate route to gratification. 

With a suddenness that astounded her, a teenage Paula with a teen-age body surmounted by a thoroughly grown-up pair of tits had discovered herself no longer atop a ladder looking for a book while nice old Mr. Costello held the ladder and peeked up her skirt. She had known all the time what he was doing, had thoroughly enjoyed her power over this ageing pillar of the legal community. 

She had not minded at all when the old man had been tempted into indiscretions by the sight of all that firm young flesh so tantalizing, so exposed, so eminently grabable at the top of his purposely unrepaired ladder. 

And, reflecting on it with a wisdom beyond her years, Paula knew that she really wasn't sorry for the way things had worked out. She didn't yet know if she would ever become a lawyer but she had typed enough wills in Mr. Costello's office to know the wisdom of planning for the future. It was inevitable in her future that something hot, hard, and male find its way between her legs. And, she decided, the sooner the better. 

But Paula had no patience for the pimply-faced stiff pricks of her peer group. She had no intention of being stuck in a mobile home tending three brats in diapers on whatever a box-boy in a supermarket could bring home. She knew it was inevitable that sooner or later she learn the art of fucking. But if it had to come, surely well-off men with four-figure bank balances and cool pads were possessed of pricks just as stiff and probably a lot cleaner than the grabbing, groping, grubby Don Juans of the junior class. 

And now an old man, a widower, a man known to be discreet who would never ever brag in bars of his conquests—that nice old man was undressing her in the private room behind his office. 

Had already undressed her, she corrected. With a sleight of hand she was unable to believe he had managed to undress himself without her knowledge and now he knelt beside the narrow day bed, knelt naked with his machinery decently concealed beneath the level of the bed. 

By easy and imperceptible stages he had divested her of everything except her fuzzy white ankle sox and her green nylon panties. And at the moment he had eased both hands between her firm, delicately modeled little ass and was sliding his hands past the cheeks of her ass, down her long, smooth-tapered thighs and, unless Paula was misreading the signals, her too-tight green panties were accompanying his hands on this journey. 

Sweet sixteen—practically never been kissed—and naked on her back being undressed by a dirty old man! Only, she amended, he was not dirty. He smelled clean with subtle hints of expensive lotions and colognes—totally unlike the pimply-faced, billy-goat stinking scrimmage men who usually struggled and gave up trying to coax her virginal panties off. 

And, now that she thought about it, she wasn't really naked either. Mr. Costello had removed her saddle oxfords. He had unbuttoned the hundred-odd fastenings on her high-collared and long-sleeved blouse. He had undone the waistband of her below-the-knees skirt and both articles were now neatly folded over one wing of the easy chair. 

Still smiling and urbane, Mr. Costello had managed to distract her embarrassment and discomfiture with small talk and dissertations on the sexual practices of the Oneida Community while unlatching the hooks on that double-barreled slingshot which confined her totally upstanding, onward-looking boobs. Now he had just removed her too-tight, bought-over-a-year-ago panties and put them carefully atop the wispy bra of the same green shade. 

But Paula knew she was still not naked. As long as she still wore those fluffy, fuzzy, ankle-length sox nobody could ever say she had been naked. She wondered if Mr. Costello was going to remove them too. 

He did not. Instead, he removed his bifocals and placed them carefully atop the mound of clothing. Then, still as unhurried as if she had presented him with yet another simple point of law for clarification, he bent over her thrilled and tremulous body. 

Having never been seduced before, Paula was ignorant of the protocols involved in this delicate maneuver. But she had always assumed the session would begin with a kiss and work up from there. It did not. 

Instead, Mr. Costello bent his white head over her chest, directly over those tremendous jugs which were at the same time Paula's greatest pride and her greatest embarrassment. Without his glasses she was sure he could see nothing but the blurry outlines of twin pectoral peaks. But Mr. Costello was not relying on his notoriously undependable eyesight. 

Without hesitation he placed his mouth over the nipple closest to him. Before Paula even had time to get used to the novel sensation of a mustache pricking and tickling her tender body she was overcome with a wave of total rut. 

Golly! Never in her sixteen years on this planet had she ever imagined anything one half this totally overpowering in its fascination. 

It was mind blowing. For as long as she could remember she had been aware of these twin tiny buttons on her little girl's chest. Long before she had even dreamed of the joys of sex she had learned something of the mysterious tingle that could come from these tiny twin tips of her yet-to-sprout tits. In the dear, dead, pre-brassiere days of her childhood Paula's mother had, in winter months, clad her baby in wool underwear whose warmth, Paula was firmly convinced, came mainly from the increased circulation developed by constant scratching. 

Even then she had marveled at the way a little rubbing could coax these twin contact points of sensation from a quiescent flaccidity up to full firm erection visible even through woolen undervests. 

Now Mr. Costello's busy, white-mustached mouth was doing something countlessly more interesting than any scratching she had ever experienced from wool. She struggled not to move, to control herself and not surrender to an impulse to giggle and squeal and wrap her arms around that leonine white head and pull him deeper into her pectoral Cordillera. 

Just as she knew she just couldn't stand it another second her senescent seducer switched from the titillating tip of one full firm tit to the other. Impartially, he licked and kissed until this nipple was just as hard, just as insistent on further gratification as her first one had been. Then when she was ready to pound her fists over his ears if he didn't do something else to quiet the pink-frothed wave of passion that surged through her inexperienced body, Mr. Costello abandoned both of her flaming-nippled tits. 

She had supposed he would scoot around to kiss her on the mouth but her employer's interests lay elsewhere. Paula lay rigid while he kissed lazy figure eights down the full-fashioned undersides of her lushly proportioned tits, kissed his way past her midriff and past her tiny waist, past her deep, well-formed navel, past the gentle swell of her teen-age belly, past growing disbelief and right into the upper edge of her just-hairing pubic patch. 

It wasn't that sixteen-year-old Paula had lived in some kind of a moral vacuum. For as long as she could remember girls had, whenever they were totally out of earshot of boys and or adults, girls had always been as eager to exchange scraps of newly acquired knowledge as any other group of students. She had heard of cocksuckers. She had heard of muff divers. She had blushed from belly to ears at the secret thrill that had coursed through her the first time a girl had explained to her exactly what and how a sixty-nine play was played. 

Yet, despite all this knowledge acquired in bits and snippets during her sixteen years, Paula was still waiting to put some tiny bit of theory into practice. She was ready to believe people fucked. After all, dogs did; cats did; rabbits did. Once she had even seen snakes doing something very peculiar. But those other words ... surely they were merely the outpourings of some fertile imagination's outrage at being trapped in a pimply-faced and eternally tumescent body. People didn't really do things like that-did they? 

For the first time in her life, savoring the sweet sensation of Mr. Costello kissing his gentle way from tits to tush, she began to wonder, to suspect that she had been too cautious in estimating human behavior. Maybe people really did do those things. Mr. Costello was breathing hard into the sparse blond ringlets of her pubic patch. Surely he was getting ready to do something. 

Suddenly she was faced with a problem which had never come up in all these social science classes inflicted on her in her school years. She had been taught how to greet people, how to take leave of them, how to host a dinner or a soiree. Nothing and nobody had told her what was proper conduct for a lady about to be the recipient of the highest tribute to youth and beauty any man can bestow upon her. What was she supposed to do when nice old Mr. Costello did her the honor of kissing her in a place she had never been kissed before—had never even imagined that people kissed one another before? 

She knew it was going to happen. There had been just enough acceleration in the burning intensity of his bussing to give her clear indication of what all that slow gentle build-up around her firm young tits, and down midriff and belly, had been leading up to. She knew damned well Mr. Costello was not planning on kissing her toes. 

She could feel that part of her destined for the piece de resistance in his production number getting all tingly and even just a tiny bit damp as love's elixir trickled. She ought to fight and at least go through the motions of protesting but she was so filled with curiosity, with desire, that she knew it was too late. To Mr. Costello's piece de resistance she could offer no resistance. 

He oozed up a little farther onto the bed and she suspected that if she just had the strength to move, to turn her head, she would be treated with a full frontal view of that organ which separates the men from the girls. But it felt so good just to lie here and wait to see what was going to happen next that she couldn't even muster the energy to look at Mr. Costello's cock. She felt his hands grasping her knees, slowly pushing them apart. 

CHAPTER 15 

With her mind still bridging present and past, Paula felt herself being pushed and prodded until she was no longer on her back. Still unsure whether she was being moved by Mr. Costello or by the nameless red-headed felon who had entered her house, entered her body at Harry Riggs's invitation, she found herself lying on her side. 

A red-haired head was still burrowing in her tits, snuffling and kissing every square inch of seductive skin not covered by that extra pair of hands that had to be Harry's. The nameless redhead's bald-headed cock still coursed slowly and steadily in and out of her seething cunt, managing with a supernal skill to keep her teetering constantly over the precipice, looking ever with a combination of desire and horror into the depths of a chasm of orgasm. 

On her side Paula had greater freedom of action. A lot of good it was doing her. The redhead still had his hands locked round her ass, was pushing and pulling, moving her off and onto his hot raging cock like some fleshy glove. So much for her college education. 

She ought to be struggling—at least protesting. Or should she? She reminded herself that either of these men was capable of killing her. If she couldn't make them believe she was enjoying this, was eager for it to happen again and again ... 

Her belly surrendered to this constant internal massage and gave another happy little flip flop. She felt the spurt of love's elixir and knew Redhair had felt it too. It was going to require no great histrionic effort, she knew, to pretend she was enjoying this. Oooooooohhhhh wow! 

It was nothing very surprising or unusual but at just that moment Harry Riggs's hands twiddling her nipples while he nibbled on the nape of her neck was sufficient to transform what had started out to be a happy little flurry of come into a gut-busting, soul-wrenching, kicking, squealing, and moaning cataclysm of colossal come. 

She was still writhing, gibbering with ecstatic joy when she realized that it was not just Harry's hands touching her throbbing tits. He was pressing his bare body against her from behind—as if she weren't already smothering in erotic sensation from the feel of Redhead pressing between her legs, pressing against her body, face buried in her tits in an effort to gain some symmetry with the bald-headed cock he held deep in her twat. 

So what was Harry up to? He was feeling and fondling her full firm jugs from behind, rubbing his whole naked length against her back while Redhead monopolized her front and cunt. She could feel Harry's eight inches prodding hopefully at her from behind but that aperture was already occupied. Sooner or later Harry Biggs was going to grow impatient and then there would be some rearranging while he twisted and prodded her around into some pretzel formation that would keep a bald-headed cock coursing steadily up and down the slick smoothness of her vagina while Harry once more raped her esophagus. She hoped they wouldn't bend her too far or too painfully. And then Paula's eyes flew open as she suddenly understood what Harry was really up to. 

Oh Jesus! As if she didn't have enough to do now! 

But, ready or not, here came Harry. He had no intention of stuffing his eight enormous inches in her mouth and down her throat again. Now she knew why he had been so busy with the lovely twin handles on her chest; he had been positioning himself. 

Now his hands slipped momentarily away from her tits and she felt him spreading the cheeks of her already straining ass. She felt the tip of his tool pressing against the suddenly twittery rosette of her anus. My god, was he going to try to put it in there? 

For her to take those eight tremendous inches of insistent masculinity in the wrong hole would have been difficult enough under any circumstances. But now, with a bald-headed cock already ravishing her vagina, stuffing her so full of meat she felt positively pregnant every time that bludgeon bottomed out ... it was impossible. There was no possible way he could do it. And yet Harry was trying. 

She shuddered at the memory of his eight inches of rampant masculinity. It had been bad enough to take that tremendous round-headed bludgeon of a tool where nature had intended it. Down her throat had been an experience like walking a tightrope, balanced exquisitely midway between pleasure and pain, swaying now one way and now the other. But up her poor poophole? 

Paula almost relaxed, almost secure in the knowledge that not even this magnificently endowed breaker and enterer could achieve the impossible. Then she reminded herself that nobody had ever told Harry that. He was still spreading the cheeks of her ass, still pressing the blunt knob at the end of his tool against the twittery sphincter muscle of her taut anus. 

If only she weren't too busy! But while all this was happening Paula was still being vigorously fucked by the nameless redhead who grasped her ass with his hands overlapping Harry's and, lying on his side, with his weight uncomfortable on her lower thigh, was enthusiastically driving his bald-headed banger in and out of her, in and out with a gradually accelerating rhythm that was not conducive to sleep or tranquility. It was driving her right out of her skull with joy. If only Harry would go away for a minute so she could just relax and enjoy it and come a dozen more times before this stranger's hard-on, like all good things, came to an end. 

But Harry would not go away. He did finally let go of her ass and for one tiny moment of hope she thought he had given up but he hadn't. 

Instead, his blunt-tipped tool had finally forced its way a tiny fraction of an inch into her twittery asshole. It was not far but it was enough to spread slightly the tight ring of her contracting anus. With his tool centered, he let go of her buttocks and let his hands course slowly up her belly, round her waist, memorizing the feel of every square inch of soft femininity on his meandering way back up to her tits. As his hands settled once more over those lovely handles and his fingers again began their twiddling and rolling of her nipples, she felt his slight, jockey-sized body wriggling around into position and then—

"Ow!" It hurt with a pain so sharp she could only shriek. But as swiftly as it had come, the sharp pain was gone and she had an odd distended feeling as if she were constipated and was straining to squeeze out a big one that had managed to get stuck halfway. 

But she knew that was not what was stretching her ass. Instead, it was the golfball-sized knob on the end of Harry's gear shift. With one magnificent raping thrust he had forced it past her straining anal sphincter and now the damage was done. It was in her. He left it there for a moment, riding easily back and forth with her, moving his ass in time to hers, which still met Redhead's steady thrusting up her cunt with his bald-headed bargepole. 

The effect was devastating no matter how carefully he matched his movements with hers and Redhead's trying to pretend it wasn't there. The red-haired man's cock, though it had appeared smaller, had filled her gently rounded belly just as full as Harry's eight inches. She could not remember ever having felt so—stuffed—before. 

With each stroke the bald-headed bargepole inside her cunt had stretched her anew, filling her to the erotic edge of pain, emptying her until she felt like a collapsing tent each time her insides settled back in place around the vacuum left as that great gouge departed. 

And now with the golfball-sized tip of Harry's eight-inch erection stuffed up her ass, his glans penis hooked like a fleshy barb just inside the squeezing musculature of her anal sphincter everything was twice as bad. She felt—pregnant. She felt as if she had held it too long and was going to have to make it to the crapper on a dead run. She could feel her insides, already outraged by the way Redhead's bald-headed cock buffeted them with each stroke, now being crushed with the pressure of two knobs of rampant rigidity competing for space inside her belly. 

With Redhead's come-slicked bald-headed cock on the outstroke, barely parting her blond-furred vulva, she felt uncomfortably full of cock, thanks to Harry's unmoving bludgeon up her ass. When the red-haired man drove his dong deep into her, bottoming out with each stroke long enough to grind his pelvis against her mons veneris and stir his cock inside her in a lascivious circle, she felt so full she wanted to scream. The only problem was, she couldn't make up her mind whether she would be screaming with pain or with sheer uncontrollable joy. 

If only it didn't feel so goooood! She struggled to remind herself that this was rape—worse than rape, that she was being raped in duplicate as if she were a carbon copy of some kind of a sex object. For this she had struggled and fought her way through law school, through the bar exams? 

But reflection did nothing to cancel out the carnal knowledge she was gaining. If rape was defined as carnal knowledge of a woman against her will, what was the carnal knowledge she had gained of her own body? She had always known she had a body, that her body had needs and desires over which she had little control—desires that extracted their vengeance from her woman's libber mind every time she went to sleep and dreamed of stiff pricks perforating her diploma. But until now she had never known the depth of her desires. Nor, she reflected ruefully, had she ever known the true depth of her cunt. Eight inches for Christ's sake! 

How much more could she take? She discovered that no matter how uncomfortable, no matter how unbearably delightful, she could take another inch at least, for Harry's rod had been soaking a while and his Cowper's gland had been busily secreting the lubrication of love. He gripped her ass firmly from behind and stopped trying to match his movement to hers. The result was disconcerting. 

For the first time Paula discovered what it is like to be the filling in a sandwich. She was being filled from in front by the redhead's bald-headed cock. Each time he thrust she was stuffed like a Christmas goose, stuffed so full of love there was no room left for common sense or even for self-preservation, so delightful was the sensation of maleness pervading her. And each time she felt that great bald-headed banger slide smoothly out of her the movement away from Redhair's cock pushed her thrumming ass back onto Harry's busy hammer. 

Harry's eight-inch erection was sliding in and out of her asshole now, filling the gap each time his redheaded accomplice vacated the burning, tingling interior of her other hole. If felt so good she wanted to wail, yodel, and shriek her delight. If this was rape she could take it a dozen times a day until it killed her. Which wouldn't be very long, she guessed. She was coming again, coming in a steady stream of flowing love juice that issued from her quivering pussy, her belly wracked by wave upon wave of contractile ecstasy that swept restraint and common sense before it like diplomas before a tidal wave of lust. 

She could feel her whole body pulsating in constant, uninterrupted orgasm until it felt as if she were puffing and shrinking with each heartbeat, every inch of tactile surface inside and out reacting to the stimulus of two males rubbing against her front and rear, two cocks penetrating her quivering flesh, two pairs of hands fondling her, searching out every secret trigger, making her quiver with lust in erogenous zones she had never even dreamed she possessed. Two mouths were kissing her, rooting in her tits, licking aureoles and nipples, nibbling on the nape of her neck, sticking questing tongues in her ears, blowing, licking, driving her into a relentless frenzy of erotic demand where she abruptly discovered that her ass was no longer a passive bobbin shuttling between twin needles. 

Now her ass was contributing its own kinesis to this threeway ballet of lascivious bottom banging. She felt her ass buck forward, rocking to meet Red-hair's bald-headed cock as it ram-slammed deep into her to hold a minute, grinding and stirring before he withdrew for yet another thrust. She felt her ass rock backward with equal enthusiasm to greet Harry's eight inches plowing their erotic way up the old dirt road, his lean sinewy body coming up hard against her ass with a slap as if he were a jockey posting, pounding her lusting buttocks against the hard leathery saddle of his lap, her bottom spiked firmly by his prick lest she be thrown on one of the turns. 

Four hands held her by every conceivable handle, grabbing her tits, her waist, her ass in a frantic effort to hang on for the duration of this ride. She was being caressed, kneaded, handled, and fingered in so many ways that Paula suspected she would be fibrillating with an uncontrollable eroticism even if she were not being stuffed alternately with two hot hammering cocks each striving to make her come, each striving to preserve his pristine hard-on for one, two, a hundred more strokes up her thrumming cunt and anus. She wanted to wail, to shriek, but she needed all her breath just to keep up this wonderful shuttle diplomacy between two evenly matched powers that were splitting her right in two and oh Jesus, did it ever feel good to be in the middle of a power struggle! 

CHAPTER 16 

But even as she was discovering how delightful it can be to be caught in the middle of an erotic sandwich Paula was discovering something else. Vaguely, she recalled a pilot friend once telling her how necessary it was to synchronize both engines on an airplane if one were to have a smooth ride. 

She was riding between twin engines, each pumping her full of the elixir of love, each massaging her quivering belly inside and out in ways she had never dreamed possible. But something was going wrong with the synchronization. Redhair and Harry had been in perfect time, one cock going into her as the other came out, pushing her insides back and forth with a rhythm as irresistible as the tide, churning her whole being with great surging waves of pink-frothed lust that had long ago drowned any thought for her future or even for her present. 

She was living for love, living for the lustful gratification of each movement, living for the surge of flesh each time a cock went up her ass and pushed all her passion-swollen innards forward, living for the return stroke when that eight-inch erection came out of her asshole and a bald-headed cock entered her vagina and the internal rock-and-roll repeated the waving rolling lusting surge of all her insides. 

But now there was a subtle change in that rhythm as one of her partners lost the beat. Now the entry of cock into her cunt was coming a split-second too late or too early—she was too busy coming yet again to analyze which. All she knew was that instead of a lovely lustful alternation of fullness from first front, then rear, now she was experiencing instants of total emptiness, with neither cock inside her—moments of full and complete quiescence which her straining body accepted gratefully. 

But each of these respites had its price. Now, instead of one cock going into her as the other came out, she had two cocks at once going into her. Either of those tremendous, lust-engorged organs alone would have been sufficient to make the average woman throw rocks at her husband. Now Paula was getting Harry's eight inches up her ass and the red-haired man's unmeasured but more-than adequate bald-headed bargepole stuffed up her thrilled and fibrillating cunt at the same instant. It hurt but oooooohhhh Jesus didn't it ever hurt gooood! 

"No!" she moaned, "Stop, wait a minute, take it out! Ooooooohhhhh deeper, faster, quick!" 

Her partners were doing their best to oblige. Each man now marched to a different drummer, working out his own destiny and making his separate peace with his piece of her ass. And Paula was in the middle. She felt her body quivering, fibrillating, so overcome with joy that she could no longer even reward them with a proper orgasm. 

For minutes now she had been in such a state of sustained arousal that her whole body was in constant ecstasy, belly thrumming and quivering, cunt streaming as she surrendered to the total assault of carnal knowledge. 

They were thumping her now, both lean hard bellies pulling away simultaneously, both hot hard cocks pulling out of her at the same moment. And more importantly, more devastatingly, both lean hard bodies and both stiff pricks were slamming back toward her, stuffing her full, mashing her soft round belly between them just as they filled her full unto bursting. It was hurting her, stretching her out of shape, killing her, but it felt so goooooooood! 

It felt so good that suddenly she was falling backward and how could she be doing that when she was snug between two men's bodies, spiked on two cocks lest she slip out of this club sandwich of carnal delight? The telephone was ringing again and then both of the goddam telephones were ringing and both cocks were still slamming into her and it felt so good and she knew she had her eyes open but the lights had just gone out and everything was so fuzzy, so dreamy ... It was just like that time with Mr. Costello. 

But actually, it was not at all like the time when she had been a scrawny sixteen-year-old virgin with little to recommend her apart from the biggest pair of tits on the slimmest body in Midvale High School. That night when Mr. Costello's discourse on points of law had gradually been diverted into an analysis of exactly how it felt to touch the twin points forbidden by law on the front of her lusciously underage body Paula had found herself in the back room, on the day bed, with a naked Mr. Costello bending over her, kissing his slow and thorough way down the bare front of her body. She had been reassured by the knowledge that she was not exactly naked, that if anyone were ever to question her on this point she could always and truthfully say no, not naked. After all, she still wore her fuzzy, ankle-length sox. 

And if she had to be technical about it, Paula knew she was also wearing straight blond hair on her head, slightly curly blond hair on her prominent mons veneris, and pink fingernail polish. 

What she had not been prepared for was the enthusiasm with which Mr. Costello had decided to illustrate one absolutely sure way a girl would never become pregnant. Golly! How could she ever have guessed he actually intended to kiss her there? 

He lay beside her now on the narrow day bed, lay beside her wrong-end-to and Paula was so overcome by a delicious and lassitudinous sense of surrender that she couldn't even muster the curiosity to open her eyes and turn her head to look at whatever it was old men have between their legs. It felt so nice just to lie here and let nice old Mr. Costello put his hands on her knees and gently spread her thighs while he kissed his way down her flat, sixteen-year-old belly, down right into the just-growing bush of blond ringlets on her bony mons veneris. 

Unbelieving, practically dying of sheer delight, she felt his white mustache tickle the sensitive inner surface of one smooth thigh as he kissed his way past home base down nearly to her knee. He twisted and wriggled until he had his head behind her knee and was kissing the tender socket which years later in a personal injury suit she would learn to call a popliteal fossa. Now she could only call it groovy as he switched to the back of her other knee and sent a quiver of delight up her long slim thigh before kissing his way up that tender inner surface. 

As his white mustache once more approached the target area Paula could sense a rising excitement not just in herself but also in Mr. Costello whose naked arms tightened their embrace around her bare little ass. 

In the course of their groping and grappling for position her not-quite-naked, still-bobbie-sox-clad body had managed to get considerably closer to Mr. Costello's. Now they lay in intimate embrace, facing each other, touching full length along the narrow day bed—only end for end, their naked bodies not quite overlapping. His white mustache was still tickling her like a huge bumble bee buzzing round the flower between her thighs. His chest pressed against the juvenile flatness of her belly and her full firm tits were mashing against the graying ringlets of her employer's belly. Despite being such an old man, Mr. Costello's body was almost as slim as her own and considerably harder, thanks to constant exercise. 

It felt so groovy she wanted to stay there forever. Sleepily, she opened her eyes and—oh golly! 

When she had a fraction of a second to think Paula realized she had no reason to be surprised. What had she expected to see staring her in the face? Surely it was no more surprising than the odd viewpoint from which Mr. Costello was admiring her. She forced her eyes to focus on the great gudgeon that waved gently in time with Mr. Costello's heartbeat only inches from her eyes, so close she could feel the hot maleness radiate from it as if it were a branding iron ready to leave its mark on her unblemished skin. 

It was the first time she had ever seen a male organ close up unless one counted babies. And Mr. Costello's didn't look at all like those tiny nozzles she had seen on some of her friends' baby brothers. This was a man's cock, heavily veined, with a long, slightly curved shank. The tip was sharply pointed, flaring dramatically like the head of a spear and she wondered if the flaring head would lodge inside her like the barbs on a harpoon. 

It was waving gently in time to his pulsing blood, the tip circling gently but never far from her face. As she studied it his thing gave a little jerk and seemed to become slightly bigger, harder. She saw the head straining to escape his tight-stretched foreskin, managed to see the blind opening that glared at her like a one-eyed worm. While she studied this male phenomenon Mr. Costello's cock grew a little more and, still harder, did its unaided best to burst free from a confining foreskin. She stared fascinated, remembering how she had observed this phenomenon in dogs and horses, remembering also how circumspect a girl had to be and never ever admit that she was interested in things like that. As if there could be anything on earth more fascinating than a man! 

The head of his cock was swollen to an angry purple. It glistened with lubrication and while she watched yet another tiny drop of crystal-clear and honey-thick liquid appeared like a single tear at the blind eye of his urethra. She wondered if this was the stuff that made babies, then remembered that it was supposed to be white and supposed to come out with a tremendous rushing gush. And most especially, not yet. 

It felt so good just to lie here and look at it and feel his arms around her svelte little ass, feel his mustache brush and tickle her belly and thighs, to revel in the warm lubricity of all the things he was doing to her, had done to her, was going to do to her that Paula somehow managed to put a little watertight compartment in her mind and not think about what, if anything, was required of her. Surely Mr. Costello was going to want to do something. She was sure too that when the time came there would be time enough then to worry about it, to decide whether she wanted to do it or not. 

But meanwhile, for the first time since she could remember, Paula's firm young body was not bursting with nervous energy. For the first time in her life she was content just to lie there and do nothing and let Mr. Costello's arms, his hands, his mouth, and his mustache do it all. Golly! Why hadn't somebody ever told her how nice it felt to have a man's mustache tickling circles round and round her belly, up one thigh and down the other, kissing the cheeks of her ass as he ran in ever-tightening circles around the blond-fuzzed rose between her slim thighs? 

It wasn't as if she hadn't had experiences like this before. But always before they had been hurried gropes in the back seat of a borrowed car and always she had been disgusted by the frantic fumbling haste to cop a feel. And Paula knew perfectly well that all those boys had wanted only one thing— the very thing she had been determined not to give them. 

Moreover, she had always known in her heart of hearts that someday someway somehow she was going to find a man, a mature man, clean, smooth, suave, sophisticated—a man who was connoisseur enough to appreciate her pristine, still virginal little body with the tremendous tits—a man willing to pay proper obeisance before the shrine of her youth and beauty. 

Instinctively, she had always known no groping grabber of her own age would have the sensitivity to know what to do. Mr. Costello did. Without her even telling him or even hinting, he had gone straight to doing what she had always dreamed of even though she had never quite believed anyone apart from herself was perverted enough, wicked enough even to dream of such a thing. 

She caught herself wondering if her mother and father ever did things like this. She remembered nights when she had been put to bed early—nights when there had been strange squeakings and rumblings and trips to the bathroom and annoyed suggestions that she go back to sleep. Could they have been fucking? With bemused amusement, she guessed they had. 

But had they ever explored the avenues of eroticism beyond the simple-minded joys of fucking? Had Papa ever kissed Mama the way Mr. Costello was kissing her now? 

Who cared? If he hadn't, that was Papa's loss, and Mama's. Paula was sixteen and she didn't intend to miss out on anything. She had been born a girl, which was something of a disadvantage but she intended to make up for it. If boys had all the fun, they must get a great deal of it from girls. And Paula intended being one of the girls—one who won, who took her amusement from men and who used them up instead of sitting around waiting for them to come whenever they were damn good and ready. 

Mr. Costello was filling the bill quite nicely. Sooner or later, she would have to apply a little leverage, have to let him taste her honeypot first and learn how delightful, then she could set the hook and the next time they were in this delicious position there would be a subtle difference in the pecking order between them. But for now ... 

But now, Paula abruptly realized, now was no time for planning and scheming and daydreaming. Mr. Costello had finally finished with his buzzing around the flower. Now he was spreading her petals and he was putting his tongue right on her blossom. 

Golly, did it ever feel gooooood! 

CHAPTER 17 

Mr. Costello's tongue dipping into her honeypot felt so good that suddenly Paula was incapable of thinking, planning; incapable, it seemed, of anything except wailing and kicking and writhing and moaning and her whole belly was suddenly tied in knots and all the knots were coming untied and oooooohhhh! 

That ooooooohhhhhh signaled an end to her oral virginity for Mr. Costello's brimful, half-peeled prick had an intelligence of its own. While her mouth gaped wide in involuntary song his lance drove smoothly, effortlessly through her lips, past teeth and tongue and right past her palate to penetrate her throat. 

Paula was so deep in the throes of her first full-fledged orgasm that she didn't clearly understand what was happening. She knew only that suddenly Mr. Costello's mouth was so much busier down there, his tongue driving so deep that without hesitation she was piling spasm on top of spasm, her I belly writhing, her will dissolving, everything coming apart as his tongue touched her secret triggers, doing all the things she had always dreamed of but never suspected anyone might ever actually do. 

Hardly thinking, she let her body revel in spasmodic joy, sensing his cock in her mouth, down her throat, but thinking only of the wonderful things his tongue was doing to her. It felt so wildly, so wondrously good that she didn't care what she had in her mouth—didn't even realize it was there until suddenly Mr. Costello stopped licking her long enough to emit a heartfelt "Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!" and abruptly her mouth was full of sticky liquid. 

She guessed later that she must have fainted for a minute because when she was once more aware Mr. Costello still lay entwined with her, naked as she was, and very still. It was only after several minutes that she realized Mr. Costello was dead. By the time she got her clothes back on and by the time she got clothes back on Mr. Costello and got him laid out on his day bed like an old man who'd had a heart attack and died in his sleep Paula had had all the fucking she needed for the rest of her youthful life. Not even the money he left her in his will was enough to erase from her youthful mind the memory of that cooling, stiffening body that had just finished turning her on. 

She opened her eyes in the midst of an orgasm as intense and durable as that first lovely turn-on a dying Mr. Costello had given her and it was years later and she was being lustily raped fore and aft by a pair of convicted felons. God damn Harry Riggs and his red-headed friend! God damn any man who could do this to her, could make her see how badly she needed a man. God damn all men! 

God damn a social system that made it all right for men to fuck themselves silly with anything that wore a skirt but which labeled a woman as loose if she had the same desires! And god damn her traitorous body for accepting all this abuse, for accepting a double rape and—for enjoying it! 

God damn! Especially, god damn Hizzonner the Mayor and his brother-in-law's maintenance company and their woman-eating escalator. These two stiff-pricked bastards were fucking her right out of her mind and still she could hear both telephones jangling. She wondered who had put them back on the hooks. 

Christ! She was coming again but she had come so many times now that it was no longer the cataclysmic catastrophe that it had been the first time she had felt twin pricks working at cross purposes within her straining body. Now even in the midst of her come she could think, could know, that those goddam news hawks and cameramen were probably hanging from every branch in her yard waiting for a shot, an interview, to ask if she was going to sue the city, to ask if she had ever considered going in the movies—any goddam thing except—oh shit! 

They would catch these sons-of-bitches. And what good would it do her? No matter what the facts, people would remember only that in the morning she had been seen naked in City Hall. In the afternoon she had been seen getting fucked silly by two convicted felons. There went her career. 

Twelve goddam years of walking the straight and narrow. Not once had she adventured since that disastrous first time with Mr. Costello. She had scraped out of that one without any scandal. If the coroner or the undertaker had entertained their own suspicions as to what the old man had been doing when he died, they had gallantly kept such thoughts to themselves and now they were both long dead and gone. She had lived a blameless life. And now, thanks to a rape that wasn't her fault at all her whole goddam career was going down the tube and Hizzonner was probably grinning as he pulled the chain. It just wasn't fair! 

And unfairest of the unfair was the knowledge that, though these two felons had shown no regard for her as a person, had used her as a sex object with no more thought for her feelings than if she had been some warm soft bit of rubber goods from a novelty shop, the most terrible thing they had done to her was not all the physical abuse and indignities they had heaped upon her with these sexual sandwiches. They had done something far worse. They had shown her, had made it abundantly clear to a woman's libber to eternal striver for equality, that she was a fraud, that she didn't want equality, that not only did she accept this degradation—she reveled in it, that she enjoyed herself more in the last two hours than she had in all the previous twelve sterile, self-sufficient years. 

All that time wasted. And it wasn't as if she hadn't had opportunities. Very acceptable candidates had made very acceptable offers. Even Smart-ass, she knew, had come dangerously close to proposing—would have if she hadn't been enough of a smart-ass herself to divert his line of thought and turn a perfectly serious proposal into a comic preposition. 

God damn these bastards! They were still bouncing her back and forth between them, fucking her coming and going only she was doing much more coming than going and oooooooohhhhh damn! She was coming again! 

And somewhere in the background both telephones were ringing their goddam electronic innards out just as she was. One of her assailants must have decided it was safer to have them ringing than to have them off the hook where someone might possibly be listening in on all the wailing and shrieking and ooooooohhhhhhh Jesus, she was coming again! 

She had come so many times she was beyond shrieking now, was mewling and moaning, making sounds of agony and unutterable grief while still they stuffed twin cocks into her, and then abruptly Harry Riggs's eight-inch weapon came out of her ass with a thuck like the exit of a stopper from a bottle of sparkling wine. There was another thud behind her and then she saw the red-haired man's face come up out of her tits looking startled. Before Paula realized what was happening a fist with something blurry in it whizzed past her face and immediately she felt the red-haired man's hard-on undergo a drastic change even in the instant before its owner fell back from her, eyes blank with surprise and shock. 

Paula had sense enough to faint. 

When she came to Smart-ass was cleaning her up in the shower, treating her with surprising gentleness for so large a man. He had propped her up until she clung limply to the shower head while he douched the fruits of love from her still-tingling cunt. Wordlessly, he refilled the douche and gave her an enema which elicited a brown stream of come and other matter from her ass. 

Paula was beginning to settle back down to earth, aware of her mortifying position. My god—Smart-ass of all people! She had been competing with him ever since law school—ever since his first attempts at seduction had gradually devolved into a good-humored game between them. And now he was wordlessly washing another man's come out of her asshole! 

"I should've guessed something was wrong when you wouldn't even answer the other phone," he muttered. "Sorry I couldn't get here sooner." 

There being nothing to say, Paula didn't. 

He finished rinsing her off and turned off the water. He toweled her off gently, and guided her into her bedroom where he sat her before her mirror and handed her comb and hair dryer. "I'm afraid that part's a little beyond me," he said. Dazedly, she saw him go out into the front room and begin straightening up. She wondered what had happened to the two felons who'd been raping her. Smart-ass, she supposed, must have used his garage door opener just as Harry Riggs had. 

"There are twenty reporters and newsmen outside," Smart-ass was saying to somebody in the front room. "And it'd make any one of their careers to be able to film you two bastards being lynched—preferably with a hot kerosene preliminary. On the other hand, I have a client who doesn't need publicity so we're willing to trade you miserable motherfuckers your lives in return for silence." 

Paula turned off the hair dryer and listened in awe as Smart-ass, with a few well-chosen words, salvaged her honor and her career. 

"Now get this clear, you abysmal assholes, you came here to surrender to your parole officer and to confess to twenty-seven breakings and enterings over the last sixty days. For this your paroles are revoked and you'll get another seven to ten in the joint." Pausing for emphasis, Smart-ass continued, "Just remember—one single hint of what you really did to my client and you'll not just end up in the joint. You'll die there. I've got thirty-four convicted clients up there all waiting for a chance to kiss ass and do me a favor. Do you motherless creeps understand me loud and clear?" 

"Yes sir!" the rapists chorused. 

"All right," Smart-ass growled, "Now get on your feet and start cleaning up the mess you've made. I want this house spotless before the TV people get here." 

Bemusedly, Paula turned her hair dryer back on. She managed mechanically to get dressed, get her hair back into its usual taut chignon and, was it her imagination or did she really seem younger, less tense, with fewer worry lines? 

She was still so exhausted it was difficult to stand without swaying. Once more ever-resourceful Smart-ass gave her a pill and half a cup of old coffee to wash it down. "Going to be one hell of a letdown in an hour or two," he warned her, "But this'll get you through the worst of it. Oh by the way, I took the liberty of hinting to Hizzonner that I might be representing you on behalf of the whole fucking bar association and when last heard of Hizzonner and his brother-in-law were collectively urinating little green gherkins. If anybody offers a settlement, just keep mum." 

While a pair of chastened felons, their cocks now shrunken and inside their pants, moped about cleaning up the kitchen and vacuuming the rug, Smartass coached her on the fine points of the charade they were about to play for the TV and newspapers. 

"Business as usual," Smart-ass advised her. "While everybody else has been having a field day you've been working your ass off—oops, sorry," he amended. "You've been tirelessly performing your duties and, thanks to your ability to empathize with unfortunate clients, you've coaxed repentance and confessions from two hardened criminals and single-handedly ended a crime wave." 

"But what if it goes right on?" Paula asked. 

"It won't. I know who's ripping off the neighborhood. I'll tell them, through proper channels of course, that it's time for a vacation." 

"You know who it is?" Paula echoed. 

"Don't you?" Smart-ass sneered. "It's Hizzonner's goddam greedy cops out moonlighting. If they know I know—and if they know I've got enough evidence locked up in safe places—maybe this "confession" will be enough of a signal for them to cool it for a while, maybe even long enough to unelect Hizzonner and turn crooked government back to amateurs for a while." 

And thus it came about that Paula, clad in tailored pants suit and tight blond chignon, sat at her desk with two phones still ringing spasmodically, sat there and gave an idiotic business-as-usual interview which, thanks to the confession of two felons, didn't even get around to touching on her involuntary strip tease this morning in City Hall. 

She gave the interview sitting down because she was sore in every joint—sore especially in the joints around her tortured ass, and she was barely able to move. 

"Omnis animal post coitum triste," Smart-ass quoted when the last reporter and the last cameraman had left her house, shortly after the last cop had exited with a handcuffed Harry Riggs and a handcuffed red-headed man whose name she never had caught. 

"I know all animals are sad after coitus," Paula said tiredly, "But why does nobody ever finish that quote?" 

"Sed gallus qui cantat," Smart-ass continued, "Except the rooster who crows." He studied her for a long moment, then without speaking, got up and rummaged through her kitchen. 

After a moment he found whiskey and the makings for a couple of respectable drinks. He handed one to Paula and they sat drinking in silent companionship. For once Smart-ass had nothing smart to say. Probably, Paula supposed, because she was down so far that there was no more fun in kicking her. 

She had never been a boozer and now the drink on top of the pill on top of an afternoon of multiple rapes was getting to her. Dimly, she sensed Smartass taking the glass from her hands and then he was leading her to bed. He was undressing her and tucking her in. She felt his kiss and then she was asleep. 

CHAPTER 18 

Paula awoke with a jerk. Jesus, now what? It was dark and she had no idea what time of night it was. She tried to figure out what had awakened her and then her thrashing legs encountered another pair of legs in her bed. She was reaching for the light when she heard Smart-ass's sleepy voice. "Relax," he said, "It's only me, your counsel and protector." 

"What're you doing here?" Paula hissed. 

"Sleeping here until you either get a decent lock on that garage door or else come to your senses and move out of this cruddy neighborhood." 

"Oh?" Paula asked in a fishy tone. "Then what's that thing you've got poking me in the back?" 

"Ah, so you've noticed." 

Paula really hadn't. It was just the first thing that had sprung into her mind when she realized that after twelve years of fending him off, Smart-ass had finally wrangled his way into her liberated bedstead. 

Abruptly, she was also aware of several other things, that Smart-ass had been remarkably persistent in his pursuit, and that now she had probably just blown her last chance. After the way he had seen her sandwiched between two cocks, after the way he had cleaned her up like some victim of a natural catastrophe ... 

They lay side by side, silent in the darkness, in the same bed. "There are good points in everything," Smart-ass finally said. "Even rape." 

Paula quietly died. Not only had he seen her at her worst—he knew it all—knew she had been loving every minute of it. 

"It jolted you out of a rut," Smart-ass was continuing, "Dragged you, kicking and screaming, right back into the human race." He put a hand out in the darkness and tried to pat her shoulder as he said, "Welcome back." But in the darkness the hand destined for her shoulder fell square atop one splendid tit. Damn! He had undressed her but he hadn't put on a nightie or pajamas or anything on her. They were both naked, she realized. His hand lingered a moment on her tit and then fell away. "Sorry," he murmured. 

"For what?" she asked bitterly. "You saved my life and my career—even if you didn't quite manage to save my ass." 

"That's what I'm sorry about," he said. "I was coming around to make you an offer myself." 

"Make me an offer I can't refuse," she said tonelessly. 

"My home, my business partnership, my name, and my cock," he said succinctly. 

"You've got to be kidding." 

"Don't knock it until you've tried it." 

Paula wondered what their lives might have been like if only she'd met Smart-ass first instead of nice old Mr. Costello who had gone and ruined her maiden flight for her and, possibly, even for himself. Now ... she couldn't accept Smart-ass's offer no matter how sincere. She was too far down. After years of fencing while he climbed and she stagnated in her dead-end job, now he wasn't offering himself. He was offering charity. 

"Between the offers for personal appearances on every talk show for the next few years and the whopping out-of-court settlement Hizzonner's brother-in-law's going to offer you to keep certain things out of the news, you're going to have a sudden rise in disposable income," Smart-ass was continuing. "Now, if you'd like to bury it in a safe hole, that's fine. But if you'd like to help a rising young legal aid group service get off the ground, perhaps I could offer you something else to bury in a safe little hole." Imperceptibly, his hand had crept between her legs until now he was cupping her tender mons veneris and vulva, still recovering from her first fucking in twelve years. To her surprise and horror Paula discovered she was starting once more to turn on, her whole body tingling at the thought of Smart-ass touching her there after all these years of fencing, of talking about it but never actually doing anything. 

"I know you've had a rough day of it and I don't want to rush your decision," Smart-ass continued. "But I thought you might sleep better knowing it's there, ready whenever you are." 

"You son-of-a-bitch," Paula said affectionately, "How long has it been since your last indoor track meet?" 

"Month or two I guess," Smartass said apologetically. "Usually I try to do it oftener but lately I've been so damned busy ... " 

"I think," she began thoughtfully, "I think I'll make you an offer you can't refuse. But remember," she added, "No strings." 

"So stipulated." 

Before Smart-ass had time to realize exactly what he had agreed to Paula scooted down in the bed and found his cock. She grasped it with both hands, holding it upright like a kid choosing for first bats in some sand-lot ball game. While he was still gasping with delighted surprise she began blowing her warm wet breath over the tip of his tool. "How's that for woman's liberation?" she murmured, and placed her lips carefully over the tip of his straining prepuce. Light as a frightened butterfly, she began kissing her way around the tip of his tool. 

"Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!" Smart-ass opined. 

"So stipulated," Paula murmured and opened her mouth wide. She moved down over the swollen, straining head of his hammer, closed her lips behind the tremendous flare of his glans penis, and then, with the precision of a physicist, closed her teeth just enough to grasp his stretched foreskin and pull it down as her head went deeper into the heart of the matter. 

"Ooooooooohhhhh wow!" Smart-ass groaned. "I think you've discovered a new point of law." 

Paula smiled to herself in the darkness, knowing she had just discovered something far more important. It had been "a month or two" since Smart-ass's last foray into sex. He was a strong and healthy man, not more than a year older than Paula. Most men would have exploded like erotic fountains under the stimulus of what she had just done, firing their precious seed as if there were no tomorrow, as if by tomorrow her poor riddled cunt wouldn't be rested and healed and ready to sample a cock that felt—my god, she suddenly realized she had both fists over the length of his baseball bat and still the tip was sticking out of her twin fists. It was at least as big as Harry Biggs's and its owner was a great deal more considerate. 

It was unbelievable. How could she have had such incredible luck all in one day? After twelve years of mourning the mess Mr. Costello had made of her life ... abruptly she remembered Smartass's remark: dragged kicking and screaming back into the human race. So this was what human beings did to each other, did for each other every night. It might be old-fashioned, she decided, but it worked a damn sight better than tranquilizers and sleeping pills. 

While she reflected on these happy conclusions Smart-ass had been moving gently about in the bed and suddenly she knew that, ready or not, she was about to receive his gentle offering. 

Smartass was not violent—not a rapist like the first two men in her ass today. He moved her about with such loving care that she was reminded momentarily of that lovely few moments before nice old Mr. Costello's heart had blown out on him. 

It felt so gooooood—even tired and fuck-riddled as she was after all afternoon sandwiched between two madmen, it felt so good to have a nice gentle man give her a nice gentle turn-on. He wasn't stretching or straining or pushing her this way and that. Instead, his hands were caressing her ass as gently as if she were still a virgin, as if her were afraid of frightening her away. More practically, she realized, he just didn't want to hurt her after all the violence she had undergone that day. 

But a half-dozen multiple rapes did nothing to still the delicious feel of Smart-ass gently kissing the gentle roundness of her belly, digging his tongue into her navel, doing all sorts of gentle and delicate things that felt so good she wanted to giggle and kiss him and hold him and—instead, she pursed her lips and began moving them slowly and precisely up and down the bared head of his swollen, month-rested rod. 

"I'll give you a half an hour to cut that out," he murmured and went back to his gentle bussing of her belly. His arms were wrapped round her ass—not squeezing the life out of her but just hanging on hard enough to let her know he was there, that he was strong, that when she was ready tomorrow or next week or whenever, this gentle giant of a man was going to teach her what real fucking was like-fucking that involved enjoying one another, giving pleasure without exploitation, without eternally striving for one upsmanship. Why hadn't she been able to see through this lovely man years ago instead of always fighting him off with a wisecrack? Had it taken rape to learn that she was a woman, that she J needed a man, that she needed a man with a brain sharp enough to hold his own with her? 

Smart-ass was licking her ass in ways wondrous to experience. He could have been doing that for the last twelve years, she told herself, and the realization of all that wasted time brought tears to Paula's eyes. Thanking the gods of love and law for the darkness, she dedicated herself to licking his lovely lance. 

She ran her mouth up and down it, lips sliding smoothly over the bared head of his hammer. He was straining, gritting his teeth and tensing every muscle in an effort not to succumb to the assault of total eroticism she was unleashing. Must be as bad for him as twin cocks had been for her, she guessed. But Smart-ass was not giving up the battle. 

It was incredible. A month or two and still he managed to preserve his hard-on! She took a deep breath and realized what she had let herself in for. If she had to, she'd fuck him but she really didn't want to. It wouldn't be fair to Smart-ass to give him a poor third after all she'd been through that day. She wanted to be rested up, flesh-toned and taut, her cunt as perfect and as ready as possible. After all, Smart-ass had waited twelve years. He was entitled to the best and she was going to see that he got it. 

But what about right now? She couldn't just leave him high and dry like this. It wasn't his fault he had a hard-on. If she'd wanted to go back to sleep he would have let her. But she had had to go meddling, playing with the poor man's prick and now ... 

She took a deep breath and began moving her mouth up and down his cock a little faster, pausing only to run her tongue in loving, lascivious circles around the hot throbbing tip of his tremendous tool. It seemed to be growing with every lick and now she was sure it was larger than Harry Riggs's, larger even than the red-haired man's whose name she had never learned. 

But she had learned the devastating effect of his tool. Jesus, was she ever going to have a ball with this cock once she was rested up and ready to engage once more in fun and games. 

She was still licking and kissing, sucking away at the head of Smart-ass's cock and Smart-ass was huffing and puffing, straining with every muscle but he wasn't coming. God, what a man! 

When she started out this had been strictly a labor of love—something she was going to do for Smart-ass and not for herself. But under the onslaught of his tongue in her navel, his lips kissing gentle, lascivious circles around her belly, Paula discovered that it was truly more blessed to give than to receive—if giving was capable of getting her this gentle and painless turn-on. 

That was the lovely thing about it. It felt so gooood and yet she was not tearing herself to pieces as she had been between those two madmen with their raging go-for-broke cocks. Smart-ass would be here for the long haul. Hadn't he come through twice today already—rescuing her from that awful naked moment at the top of the escalator when everybody else had just stared—and now he had saved her ass, saved her life and her career this afternoon. And now he was licking her ass. Without her quite realizing how it had happened her thighs had opened, and there he was bussing the passion-swollen labia of her vulva, kissing loving circles around her, careful lest he touch some raw and tender place. 

Suddenly Paula was coming. My god, she thought, coming again after all I've been through and he hasn't even put his tongue into my pussy yet—because he was probably afraid to hurt her. But Smart-ass with his gentle kissing had set off little pinwheels of erotic fire inside her belly. Each time the eruption of joy threatened to stop he kissed her in some odd place and once more it started. It was such a gentle, continuous come that it didn't hurt at all. It felt so gooooooood. And what on earth was she going to do for him? 

She opened her mouth wide, forced her head farther down on his cock and began to swallow. Running full-length up and down, she love-laced him, driving his cock so deep down her throat that she could feel her chin grinding against the crisp ringlets of his pubic patch. Swallowing, licking, sucking, she did her god damndest to make him come. Then suddenly she was coming again under the onslaught of his educated tongue touching her tender asshole, tickling the swollen lips of her cunt, not even forcing them open to torment her tender clit. "Ooooooohhhhhhh!" she shrieked and great ribbons of erotic fire coursed up her spine to ricochet about her empty skull and melt her brains. Her brains ran down her spine to flow around her cunt. And still his hard-on was unsullied. 

She was gasping for breath, still in the throes of orgasm when he pulled it out. Grateful, she caught her breath and lay back. 

"Feel up to fucking?" he asked her cheerfully. 

THE END