The beautiful young secretary cried and swore as she was forced backward over her own desk.
Her long blonde hair brushed the top of the desk, and she fought and kicked as the front of her blouse was jerked open, buttons flying everywhere. Her full, round breasts were exposed to the men, cupped in a sexy beige bra with lacy trim that showed her small brown nipples through the nearly transparent material.
The bra went next, brutally ripped off and thrown aside.
The men laughed cruelly as they looked at the poor, helpless secretary, her full breasts exposed to them, her nipples inviting their touch.
"No, please," she begged. "I'll do anything, but please, not this!"
The men ignored her pleas. The leader pushed up her short blue skirt, revealing the tops of her beige thigh-highs, and her tiny beige panties, far too small to cover her abundant blonde pubic hair. His hand ran up her smooth, silky thigh, finding the warm, moist crevice between her legs, barely covered by the thin lacy material.
He tore off her panties, sliding his fingers deep into her moist folds, feeling her opening and pushing up inside...
"Is there something wrong, Mr. Willoughby?"
Martin Willoughby jerked up out of his reverie. He peered through his thick glasses into the concerned grey-blue eyes of his secretary, Miss Gretz.
"No," he said quickly, blushing. "Everything's fine. I was just thinking about a ra... A rate. A new insurance rate."
Flustered, Mr. Willoughby turned back to the clutter on his desk. He moved papers around in a hopeful simulation of a man who had, indeed, been working on a new insurance rate.
Miss Gretz smiled to herself as she returned to her own desk. She liked this odd little man. He did little favors for her all the time and was always so nice.
Of course, she had seen the way he looked at her, when he didn't think she was aware he was watching. Every guy in the office had looked at her that way at one time or another: Most had tried to do more than just look.
But never Mr. Willoughby, not even that time they had been back in the file room, searching for an old claim. They had been close together in the tiny aisle between the file cabinets for over an hour, and he hadn't even tried an "accidental" feel.
She smiled as she remembered how, while looking for a particular file, hidden in the back of one of the lower drawers, she had accidentally exposed herself. She had gotten her legs too far apart trying to steady herself, and her skirt had already ridden up high on her thighs.
She had looked up to find Mr. Willoughby staring up her skirt at her very exposed panties. His face turned bright red when he realized she had caught him looking at her. But even then he hadn't tried to make a grab or anything. He just turned away and mumbled something unintelligible.
Martin Willoughby was a queer little duck, but Miss Gretz liked him. Maybe it was because he was so shy, and always so polite.
The pirates had taken the ship and their Captain, a tall, cruelly handsome man, strode across the deck. A beautiful female passenger, fire in her eyes, glared imperiously at him.
"Sir, I demand we be put off at the next port."
He looked at her, and the other young lovelies who had been on board the Sloop they had taken.
"Ah, don't worry, Madame. You will be getting off," the Pirate Captain told her. He slid a hand over her full breasts, very exposed by her Victorian dress.
"Why should we not just take our pleasure with every one of you," the Captain asked coldly, "and throw you all overboard when we are finished?"
His cold lips sneered down at the woman.
"Captain, I cannot stop you from doing so," she admitted. "But I will offer myself to you and your men, willingly, in any manner you wish. I only ask that you do not allow your men to ravage the others. They are young and virgin, and I," she smiled both innocently yet seductively into his eyes, "I have somewhat more experience."
She moved toward him, her expensive French perfume tickling at his nostrils.
"I assure you, Captain, you will not regret your choice."
She leaned up and kissed him, her full lips pressing against his. Her mouth opened and her soft, wet, probing tongue found his, sliding...
"Martin! Martin, dinner's ready!"
... into his mouth, as he hand probed her breasts, pulling her laced bodice open and freeing her fine, large breasts, their dark nipples erect with...
"Martin! What is taking you so long? Dinner is on the table! Would you please hurry up?"
Damn it! Martin Willoughby opened his eyes.
Oh, well, he thought. Maybe later.
Getting up, he pulled up his pants, flushing the toilet for effect. He checked his image in the mirror, to make sure he didn't have a bulge in the front of his pants.
He sighed as he noted he didn't and opened the bathroom door, heading down to dinner.
Martha Willoughby was not an object to inspire lust. The daughter of a Baptist minister, he had married her in a fit of religious masochism nearly thirty years ago. He had never quit regretting it.
He sat and began to eat the overcooked meat and vegetables she had set out.
Martha had only one interest in life: leaving it. She talked endlessly about it: The Second Coming will be here any day now. Those awful sinners will pay then: It's only a matter of time. Heaven, Hell, Him, His Laws, His Plan, on and on, forever and ever, incessantly.
Martin listened tonight as he had for twenty-eight years, quietly eating his dinner. Martha's strident voice barely cut into his consciousness, as usual.
"Won't it be wonderful when He comes, Martin? All those Sinners will repent then, won't they? The destruction of Sodom; Babylon in flames; they will be nothing compared to what will happen after the Rapture. Those sinners will be..."
The flames were all around. A young Oriental woman in high heels and a short grey skirt ran across an intersection, her delectable thigh flashing through the high slit of her skirt as she was chased by the dark male figures.
Martin reached out as she passed, and grabbed her arm.
She looked at him fearfully, her lovely almond eyes etched with terror.
He slid his hand over her small breasts. She tried to pull away.
"You can please me, or you can please all of them," he told her, motioning at the many figures in the darkness.
She inhaled sharply, then nodded.
"Better one than fifty," she said, softly.
She followed him meekly as her pulled her into the alley. He turned and pushed her against the well, sliding his strong hands over her slender, resigned body. He slid his hand under her skirt.
"Spread your legs for me," he whispered. She did so, unwillingly yet fearful that if she didn't, he might turn her over to the others.
He slid his hand between her legs, feeling her satin panties. He slid his fingers along her private flesh, enjoying her acquiescence to his attentions.
"... and won't they be sorry when Christ lays his staff among them, Martin?" Martha droned on. "You and I, though, we'll be drawn up to His right hand, right up in Heaven. Won't that be wonderful, Martin? We'll be..."