Debbie Bingham stood in front of the mirror, naked, knowing she would not be interrupted by anything, least of all by her husband, whom she knew would be gone for hours. He would be gone ministering to his "flock," to the regular people he always ministered to during the week—visiting the sick, the infirm, the ones whom he felt needed his support.
Debbie felt somewhat guilty, but not that much. She felt that it was a small sin at the most to view herself totally naked in the mirror. And in the past year she had begun doing it quite a bit. She was not an exhibitionist by any means, but she felt a compulsion every now and then to view her naked body, and she felt there was no harm in it. It wasn't as if she was committing some unpardonable sin. She was simply observing her body.
And her body was nice indeed.
Debbie was twenty-five, and had been married for four years to a preacher who was fifteen years her senior. If anyone had asked her "Do you love your husband?" She would have answered: "What kind of question is that? Of course I love him." But in reality, she had married him because it was the thing to do, and because he had asked her to marry him. It was that simple. She did like him; he was a nice enough guy and he was a nice provider; but did she love him passionately? No, she did not. But she had determined early in her marriage to make the best of it, so she had been a dutiful wife.
The fact that her husband did not satisfy her sexually was something that she had convinced herself came with the territory; it was an unavoidable part of being a minister's wife; it was something she had determined that in the overall scheme of things was secondary.
Her husband, being forty years old and an ordained minister for fifteen years was, to say the least, set in his ways. He was a dedicated preacher, spending his week ministering to the ill, the infirm, and the hospital-bound, and preparing and writing his sermons. As far as sex went, he looked upon it as a duty, as something to perform every now and then, but under no circumstances to view it with unadulterated pleasure. To him, sex was something to do every week or so, no more or less. In fact, he felt sex to be something not exactly unpleasant but overall a task that was expected of him.
In a few words, Terence Bingham could be described as short, chubby, conservative, inhibited, incurious, and horrified at the thought of experimentation of any kind—especially sexual experimentation. With Terence Bingham you got what you saw.
His wife Debbie, on the contrary, had a secret life—of which no one, especially her husband, was aware.
She got off on viewing herself naked. She masturbated quite a bit, and sometimes even fantasized about being fucked by a stranger—by someone whom she didn't even know. She suppressed and excused any guilt she felt of masturbating or fantasizing by rationalizing it as a normal thing and fantasy that every woman felt at some time or other.
As Debbie looked at her naked body in the mirror, she automatically checked herself out, and carried on a one-way conversation: Hmm, twenty-five years old, how am I doing? I'm attractive no doubt about that—some have even compared me to Catherine Zeta-Jones, Megan Fox, Felicia Crowton, April Scott and Charisma Carpenter—although I have no idea who those last three are. I must admit, in all honesty and with no exaggeration or pride, I do have an attractive face and body ... it's no sin to acknowledge that—it's the truth, and the truth is always right.
She moved her hands up underneath her breasts, and lifted them up a little. My breasts are full, firm, upthrusted, no sagging—I am simply stating the truth--I'm not exaggerating. My nipples are rubbery and erect—naturally—they need no stimulation—although it does feel good when I stroke them.
She began almost unconsciously stroking her breasts and nipples, pinching and squeezing the nubs.
"Ooh ah," she breathed out. This can't be a sin, she thought. I'm just stroking a little. Nothing wrong with that.
She began rubbing her titties and her nipples, breathing hard at the sensation that stabbed through her body. Ah, it feels so good, she thought. This cannot be a sin. It simply can't.
As she rubbed her breasts, she checked the rest of her body out.
Dark brown hair halfway between her shoulders and waist, deep blue eyes, heart-shaped face, curved shapely hips, long sleek legs, and a ginger-brown thatch of pubic hair covering her slit. She half-turned to view her butt. It was big and rounded, but not fat; it was a perfect ass, firm and upthrusted.
Debbie was as far from being vain as you could get, but she had to admit honestly to herself that she had a nice face and body. In fact, she had been told on more than one occasion, that if she were not married to a preacher, she could make it as a movie star or model. Debbie had shrugged it off, for she was indeed a modest person; but she was not immune to statements that were truthfully made. And she could admit to herself without any false modesty that she was indeed attractive. She accepted it as a simple fact. There was no sin involved in acknowledging the truth.
Her hand moved down of its own accord, down her tummy, past her navel to the top of the thatch of ginger-brown hair. She hesitated for a second, and then shrugged and wagged her head. It can't be a sin to do this, she thought. It's not hurting anyone or anything.
She ran her hand on down to between her legs and pressed. Ooh, that feels good, she thought to herself.
She began sliding her hand up and down, stroking her cunny. Ah, that's so good—ooh yes, it feels so good. She began rubbing vigorously, using four fingers to stroke up and down. She gasped aloud as she watched herself in the mirror.
Oh yes—so good, she panted. Oh ah, I wish something would—ooh ah, I wish something would fill me up. I want it. I want something deep in me—filling me up. I want it deep in me—all the way to my core ... Oh ah, I want something deep in me—all the way...
She stroked and rubbed her clit till a mini-climax jabbed through her pussy up through her tummy to her breasts. But even at the instant of her mini-orgasm, she felt regret at the thought that it wasn't the real thing, that the real thing was something she would probably never experience, given her position. After all, she was a preacher's wife, someone who, for a number of reasons, was not expected to feel passion, much less actually physically experience it.
Debbie sighed with frustration.
She thought about her husband. He's really a good man, she thought, but he just doesn't ... doesn't understand ... how can he—given his situation—his position—his make-up. There's no way he can understand what I want—what I need ... There's just no way ... And he doesn't—he won't —he would be horrified if I suggested trying something ... and he's--so small too ... he's really very short and thin between his legs—and he doesn't last very long ... at the most a minute ... he's just so small—and doesn't last long...
Although they had been married for four years, and wanted children, so far they had not been blessed. Debbie had at first placed the blame on herself, but finally, after three years of marriage, and knowing she was fertile, she had finally convinced her husband to be checked out. It had been discovered that he had a condition that had resulted in his having a low sperm count. It had at first somewhat injured his self-esteem, but he had finally accepted it and attributed it to the "Lord's Will." Debbie had mixed feelings about it, and considered it had nothing to do with the lord's will, but was actually a deficiency in her husband. In many ways, Debbie was much more realistic than her husband...
At the same time as the preacher's wife was observing herself in the mirror and stroking between her legs, two men sat in a bar across town. They had just gotten off from work—they were employed as construction workers for the city—and they were engaged in their normal routine after work, which usually consisted of going to this certain bar and quenching their thirst. They were big husky guys, in their mid-twenties, and dressed in their usual work clothes; that is, jeans and khaki shirts.
Looking at them, an objective observer would notice nothing peculiar about them. But if one had the ability to look inside, he or she would probably be shocked. For it would be seen that they were rapists. They had committed a number of rapes; they were experienced; they had been working as a team for quite awhile. And they had never been caught. There were two reasons why they had not been caught. For one thing, they were professional, in the sense that they planned their rapes meticulously, sometimes going months between rapes; and they scoped their victim; that is, they picked her out, watched and observed her as much as possible—as far as her habits went, and discovered where she lived, and what her situation was. They did nothing on the spur of the moment; they planned as much as possible. The second reason they had not been caught had to do with the victim herself—her psychological make-up, so to speak. They had learned through experience that most—perhaps seventy-five percent or more of rape victims never reported the rape (for a variety of reasons). And the ones who did report the rape were usually vague about the description of the rapists or uncertain in some ways, or were late in reporting it. The two rapists had learned through experience that it was actually quite easy to rape and get away with it and be gone from the vicinity before the victim even had made a call.
The two guys were about the same size; that is, about six feet tall and weighing a good 225 pounds. But they were different in appearance. Bert Boswald was a year older than his partner and had short dark brown hair and dark eyes. The younger guy had straw-colored hair and green eyes. His name was Rick Lamance, and in manner he was obviously subservient to Bert.
It had been a month since they had performed their last rape and both were growing itchy to go on another caper.
"I've got someone in mind," Bert said. "She could pass for Catherine Zeta-Jones, or even Megan Fox."
"Damn," Rick replied chugging on a beer. "Catherine Zeta-Jones. Are you serious?"
"Yep, sure am," Bert replied. "I've scoped her out pretty well. Thing is, she's a preacher's wife, and she lives out of town—in a parsonage next to a church. No kids as far as I could tell. This one should be pretty easy—no hassle really. I know her husband leaves most days—usually in the mornings. So we shouldn't have any problem with this."
"She's a preacher's wife, hunh?" Rick asked.
"Yeah, and you wouldn't believe how good she looks," Bert said. "She's in her mid-twenties, I'd say, and something tells me that she wouldn't even report it. She'd be too inhibited and mortified to report it."
"Sounds good," Rick replied. "When do you want to try it?"
"I think we could try it tomorrow morning. Tomorrow's Friday. For some reason, Fridays seem to be a big day for preachers—for making their visits to the sick, the infirm, and the hospital-bound—whatever. I think we can do it tomorrow morning. She should be all alone.'
"Sounds good to me, ' Rick replied.
"Yeah, we can use the same excuse we always use," Bert said. "We're taking an early lunch, because we have a lot of work to do in the afternoon."
Late the next morning, Terence Bingham pecked his wife on the cheek as he left for his weekly hospital visit. He would be gone for a couple of hours. Debbie as usual was dressed in a housecoat; she didn't really dress around the house. Only if she went out would she be dressed appropriately as befitted a minister's wife; that is, in a long skirt below her knees and a loose blouse tucked in primly
Although the house robe she wore was long and loose, it didn't succeed in hiding her voluptuous body. Her full firm breasts and curved hips and full rounded ass could not be hidden, no matter what she wore. Her long brunette hair hung down in shimmering waves midway between her neck and breasts; her heart-shaped face with full lips couldn't be hidden; and her naturally tan complexion was something that it never occurred to her needed to be hidden. She wore no make-up, no lipstick, no rouge, no blush of any kind, partly because it was considered, not a sin as such, but unbecoming in a preacher's wife, and a mark of vanity. She didn't need make-up anyway. She was quite comely without it.
It was about eleven a.m. when the white van with a big stick-on logo on both sides pulled up in the driveway.
The two men got out of the van, dressed in their "costumes"--white coveralls with the DUB logo on the right side, which stood for Davidson Utility Board. They had utility belts strapped around their waists. They made their way confidently to the front door, pulling out their fake IDs
Bert rang the doorbell, and Debbie, who had noticed through the window the white van with the DUB logo pull up in the drive and the two men dressed in their "costumes" walk confidently up to the door, had slipped on a quilted house robe over her housecoat and had opened the door without trepidation or suspicion.
"Ma'am," Bert said politely, "we've had a report of some utility trouble here with your telephone. It seems there's a bad connection." He flashed his ID up so she got a good look at it, and Rick did the same.
Debbie looked quizzically at them, and then said: "Well, no, I don't think so. The phone seems to be working okay."
"Would you try it, please?" Bert asked. "Just pick the phone up there and see if there's a connection."
Debbie had no reason to suspect anything. She walked across the living room to the telephone. The two men followed her into the house; Rick closed and latched the door as he entered.
Just as she picked up the receiver, Bert and Rick went into action. They were well experienced and synchronized in their movements.
Rick grabbed her from behind, placing a hand over her mouth and grasping her around the waist as Bert clasped her legs and spread them apart. Before she even had a thought of what was happening, she was held tightly in grips that made movements on her part futile. Her waist and her legs were held tightly and securely.
The sounds she made were muffled by Rick's hand on her mouth; her arms flailed uselessly; they didn't make any effect on the two men.
They carried her over to a settee. They were well rehearsed in what they did. Even while they held her tightly, Rick grabbed a cloth out of his utility belt and wrapped and tied it around her mouth, effectively gagging her, while Bert took ropes from his utility belt and quickly tied one of her hands to an arm of the settee, as well as moving one of her legs up and tying it. They left one of her arms and legs free. Although she was only half-tied, she was effectively bound enough so she couldn't break free.
Rick sat down on the settee, pulling her up onto his lap.
Bert raked at the two robes, pulling them open. He unsnapped her bra and tossed it aside, and tugged at her panties and pulled them down and off.
If the sounds she made could have been heard they would have been these: "No! No! This can't be! You mustn't! No! No! Stop!" But of course the sounds she made were muffled by the gag and couldn't be heard as coherent sounds. She screamed but it came out as only a muffled sound.
She struggled as much as possible, twisting and squirming her body and trying in every way physically possible to break free, but the two men simply held her free arm and leg in grips that were unbreakable.
By this time, Rick had moved his arms up to her breasts and was rubbing and mashing her tits, squeezing and pinching her nipples. Bert had thrown her free leg over his shoulder and holding her thighs securely had buried his face on her vulva and was rubbing it up and down.
Although his cock was rock-hard and he wanted to stuff it deep in her lovely body, Bert held off, wanting to taste and lick and suck her delicious pussy. And delicious it was. He jammed his tongue into the sweet-tasting cunt. It was luscious. It tasted like musky cinnamon. He held her legs securely with his hands as he tongue-fucked her, jabbing and jamming and squirming his tongue inside her pussy, sliding it up and down the clit and sucking on it with his lips. He had licked and sucked a lot of cunt in his time, but this was the sweetest-tasting pussy he'd ever tongue-fucked.
Debbie had never experienced the feeling of a mouth, lips or tongue near her pussy, much less inside it, and she was shocked and filled with disgust—at first.
By this time, she had realized the futility of trying to break free. She was simply held too securely. She had also realized the futility of trying to scream or cry out. Her cries could not be heard. But she still struggled. With every fiber of her being she resisted, even though she knew it was futile.
In the meantime, Rick had been having a field day with her breasts. He rubbed and mashed and squeezed both of them, especially the nipples. Her titties were the size and shape of softballs with nipples that were thick and rubbery. He licked and sucked on her soft neck as he rubbed her titties. Inadvertently, in her struggling, her rump came into contact with his crotch. He unbuckled his utility belt and unsnapped his coveralls and pulled them down. He hunched up, thrusting and pushing his hard throbbing cock on her big smooth rounded ass. His dick was hard as a rock, and he felt the sperm churning in his big puffy balls. In spite of the woman he physically held securely, Rick found it hard to believe that he and Bert were actually going to be able to fuck such a beautiful young woman—one who in his mind truly did resemble Catherine Zeta-Jones.
Debbie was beginning to have mixed feelings and emotions to say the least.
Her soul and spirit and her mind were still resisting, but her body was responding. She couldn't help it. No matter how much she fought against it, her body was beginning to respond, was beginning to betray her. She fought with her will against it, but it was a losing battle. It was as if her body had become divorced from her mind and spirit and will. The rubbing of her breasts and nipples, and the jamming flicking squirming tongue inside her pussy and on her clit were simply too irresistible. Even in her shocked disgust at the perversity of the act, her body gave an involuntary hunch against the sucking mouth. It was beyond her control now. When Rick moved his head down and began licking and sucking on her tits, her muffled screams and sounds of protest changed to moans and groans.
But even though her body had given in and was enjoying itself, something told her that she must keep resisting, that she must not under any circumstances show that she was enjoying it, that it would be an inexcusable sin to show that she was enjoying the feeling. So she kept her body's movements at a minimum as much as possible. But it was growing more difficult.
She still flailed with her free arm and leg and twisted and squirmed her body, but it was really just for show, and she knew it was totally ineffective, but she did it anyway; her pride, if it could be called that, demanded that she show some resistance however futile.
Bert couldn't wait any longer. He unhooked his utility belt, unsnapped his coveralls and pulled them down. His prick stood up and out, throbbing, at its full length and thickness and stiffness. His balls tingled and ached, filled to the brim with semen. To Bert, this was one of the supreme moments of rape: When the woman was held securely without chance of escape; totally helpless; her body before him; her cunt opened to his cock; nothing to prevent his fucking her, raping her, pumping his hard prick in her pussy—and in the end squirting sperm deep in her cunt. And all the time it was happening, there was nothing she could do to prevent it.
This rape was special though; it stood out—for two reasons: first, the woman was extremely attractive. Unlike Rick who imagined in his mind that Debbie resembled Catherine Zeta-Jones, Bert saw Debbie as resembling Megan Fox, which in truth, she did. It wasn't a big leap for him to imagine that he was going to fuck the beautiful young model. The second reason this rape stood out was the fact that the woman was married to a preacher. Something within Bert—some perverse element—made it seem to him that he was committing an act of the utmost perversity; to rape a young attractive preacher's wife seemed to him to be the ultimate act of perversion; although, looking at it objectively, it wasn't perverted; it was simply taking her against her will; it was a criminal act; it was rape. That was the bottom line.
Bert pushed forward, driving his rock-hard dick into Debbie's slit. She jerked back and squirmed to avoid it, but it was no use. He kept thrusting forward till the head of his cock found contact and entered into the slit. Debbie's scream and yells came out muffled, and all her twisting and squirming accomplished was to enable Bert to thrust more of his prick in her. He heaved forward, stuffing his cock up her pussy in a continuous stroke.
"Unh yeah!" he grunted as he dug his dick in her cunt. She was tight but moist, and his prick slid slowly but surely up her pussy. "Umm yeah, so good, ' he groaned. "Sweet tight-fucking cunt."
Debbie cringed at the sound of the words he was making. She simply was not used to hearing such words, and they shocked her even as she was being raped.
She was totally helpless, and was fully aware of it. There was absolutely nothing she could do.
Bert was now pumping her pussy, screwing her with strong quick but full strokes, filling her cunt up. He cupped her ass cheeks and squeezed them. Rick was sucking on the nub of one of her breasts, flicking his tongue on the nipple as he rubbed and squeezed her tits.
Debbie was unaware of when she had stopped struggling, and had begun responding. The sensations that her body was feeling had now taken over totally. Her breasts were now hot, swollen and throbbing, the nipples erect and tingling; her ass was hot and tingled; and the feeling running and stabbing up and down her pussy was indescribable. Never had she felt such sensations.
The sounds she made now were grunts and groans and moans.
Still, even though her body was now loving being raped, she kept the resolve in mind that she mustn't let them know she was enjoying it; she must, as much as possible, not make any movements that would give herself away. She was in the main successful. The two rapists remained unaware that she was in reality on fire. The only indications her body gave that she was loving being raped was her fast heavy breathing and the clasping and gripping of her pussy on Bert's dick.
He was too involved and wrapped up in his own feeling to be aware that her cunt sucked on his cock.
He raped her good and deep, rapping the full length of his prick up and down her pussy. Never had he raped such an attractive woman; never had he screwed such a delicious tight cunt. "Oh baby, you're so fucking tight!" he exclaimed. "Ah, yeah, you've never been fucked by anyone but your husband, have you."
On her part, never before had Debbie been filled up so completely; never before had she been fucked so fully and strongly. And never before had she felt hot juice churning in the core of her cunt. Oh ah, she silently thought. So good. Oh yes, this is what I've wanted and needed for so long—ah, something deep in me—filling me up—so good!
Bert speeded up his thrusts, raping her fast and hard. The juice in her womb churned and whirled. She let out a gasping groan as the juice gushed and an orgasm ripped through her cunt, her ass, her tits, and every part of her body. It was the first orgasm she had ever had.
She was torn between ecstasy and suppression. Never had she felt anything so good, but she was forced at the same time to suppress and not show what she was feeling.
Bert gave a mighty heave and drove every inch of his cock up her pussy and let her have it. "Ah yeah, here it comes!" he gasped. "Hot fucking cum in your cunt!" His semen erupted, gushing up his prick. He squirted gob after gob of sperm deep in her cunt. She gasped and moaned as her pussy gripped his dick, sucking the sperm into her womb.
Oh, ah, yes! She thought silently. Ooh ah—so good and hot and deep! Ah, so thick and creamy good!
After Bert had emptied his balls, spurting the final drop of sperm into her pussy, he slid his dick out.
The two professional rapists never let up; they never let go of Debbie, or gave her a chance of breaking free
Rick now took his turn. He wrapped his arms around her waist and moved up closely behind her, moving his legs between hers, thrusting his rock-hard cock into her pussy from behind. He stuffed his prick up her cunt in one continuous stroke.
Rick fucked her hard and fast, slamming his dick up and down, pumping her pussy furiously. He squeezed her tits good and hard as he raped her.
"Ah yeah!" he cried out. "Sweet tight hot-fucking cunt! Raping you, baby, raping you good! You hot fucking movie star you!"
Rick was so horny and was pumping her so fast and hard, he didn't last long. After only a few minutes, he jabbed his prick full-force and full-length up her pussy, spewing sperm in her core. As with Bert, Debbie's cunt gripped his cock, sucking up his sperm, sucking it into her womb. The last thing on her mind was the fact that she was perhaps getting impregnated.
As stated before, the two men were experienced rapists. Once finished with their rape, they wasted no time or movement. They quickly and efficiently grabbed their utility belts and pulled their coveralls up and snapped them, got up, and headed for the door.
By the time Debbie untied her hand and leg, they had already gotten into the van. By the time she had stood up, they had pulled out and were gone...
The next hour was a complex one for Debbie.
She sat on the settee, a number of things whirling through her mind. She thought at first that she should call for help. But whom should she call? A neighbor? The police? Her husband? A strange feeling came over her. The longer she sat thinking about it, the less inclined she was to call anyone. The more she thought about what had happened, the more inclined she was not to tell anyone. She felt a sense of guilt, but it was a vague feeling. She felt a sense of being violated, but it grew less and less the more she thought about it. She had resisted; she had struggled; she had fought as hard as she could against it, but she had been simply overpowered. She decided finally that there was no reason for her to feel guilty. She had done nothing wrong; she had not led them on in any way. It was not her fault. In a way she felt degraded. The two men had violated her, had taken her against her will, had raped her. But then the thought struck her: She had finally stopped resisting; she had given in to them. She could not deny the truth. She had finally not only given in to them, but had finally ended up enjoying it, wanting it. In the end, she had loved it. She finally came to the conclusion that, yes, it had been rape at first, but it had changed; and in the end it was not rape.
She struggled with the thought about her husband. Should she tell him? Was it the right thing to do? What purpose would be served by telling him? Would it not do more harm than good to tell him? The act had been accomplished. She had been raped. Nothing could change that fact. What good would it do to tell him? It would only cause him anguish. It would only hurt him. It would not do any good.
In a way, she struggled with the fact that the two men had gotten away with it; they were at large; they had probably raped before, and would probably rape again. But something in the back of her mind stopped her from viewing them with any negative feelings. She didn't try to analyze her feelings. She simply accepted the fact that she did not hate them; she didn't detest them; she didn't view them as criminals. Quite the contrary.
In the end, she decided the best thing to do was to take a shower.
When her husband returned, he found her in the kitchen, preparing a late lunch. He pecked her on the cheek and she returned the favor, and then went on preparing lunch...
The next three days were apprehensive ones for the two rapists. The three days after they performed a rape was always filled with some anxiety and apprehension. There was always a chance that the victim would quickly report the rape and give a detailed description of their appearance, and that they would be apprehended. It had not happened before, but they knew that it could happen. And so they were naturally anxious and nervous for a few days afterwards. But after three days came and went, and no news came of any reported rape, they knew they could generally relax. They had gotten away with it again.
In most of the rapes they committed, it was a one-time deal with the woman, but there had been a few times when the victim had actually ended up enjoying it, even loving the rape, and they had paid her return visits. This was the way they felt about Debbie Bingham. Although she had not verbally encouraged them, there had been unmistakable bodily signs that she had in the end enjoyed it—perhaps even loved it, and just maybe wanted it to happen again. They decided that with her—with someone so attractive and sexy enough to be a movie star or model —and married to a preacher to boot—it was worth taking the risk.
They decided to pay her a return visit in a few days.
Three days after the rape, Debbie's husband fulfilled what he essentially considered a duty: he fucked his wife. It had become almost a regular routine for him. Once a week or so, when they went to bed at night, he would roll over and mount her, and without any foreplay, would begin rubbing his short thin cock between her legs until it was half-stiff, and then he would stick it in her. He would last for a brief time, giving her a dozen strokes before he ejaculated. Not a word would be spoken. After he had finished jacking his meager watery supply of cum into her, he rolled over and was usually asleep within a few minutes, leaving Debbie awake and frustrated and unsatisfied...
Far from trying to suppress the memory or thought of the rape, Debbie found herself in the next days thinking more and more about it. It was true that the two rapists had handled her rather roughly, but they had not actually physically hurt her, or caused any real pain. They hadn't beaten or roughed her up in any way. All they had wanted to do was fuck her, and they had sure done that. Debbie began dwelling on that quite a bit. When it came down to it, she realized that, yes, they had raped her, but what had that rape consisted of? Tying and binding her forcibly and fucking her. That was the truth. Of course it was rape; it was performed against her will—at least at first it was. but in the final analysis, it had turned into them fucking her—nothing more or less. And she had ended enjoying it. She had ended loving it. She had to be honest with herself. Debbie was a truthful person, and she found it repugnant to lie. She refused to lie to herself. And the truth was simple: With the two men, she had experienced her first orgasm; and she had for the first time been filled up completely; and she had experienced the most intense pleasure she had ever known.
A fleeting thought crossed her mind: What if they have impregnated me? What if they have made me pregnant? It's possible. What would I do if that happened? Would I know it was they? If I got pregnant would I be sure one of them was the father? Not a hundred percent sure, but pretty sure. Since hubby has a very low sperm count, it would be most likely that one of them was the father. But what are the chances of that happening? They did it to me twice. They squirted sperm in me twice ... so much sperm—especially the dark-haired one ... he kept pumping it in me—so much of it—it was so thick—and he was so big—so long and thick and stiff—both of them were ... mmm, they just kept pumping it in me. If I became pregnant there would be no way to know who was really the father except by running tests ... mmm, they're both so long and stiff and thick ... so much bigger than hubby ... oh, stop that—it's wrong to think that ... but even if it happens, and I'm already pregnant, hubby doesn't have to know. He would think it's his. He wouldn't suspect at all. We both want children. We want a baby. Even if I got pregnant by them, if I didn't tell him, it wouldn't be as if I was lying to him ... oh, they reached my core—they reached all the way—so deep, so deep in me—filling me up...
Almost involuntarily, without thinking about it, Debbie slid her hand inside her robe and squeezed a breast. "Ooh, yes, oh yes," she breathed out. She slid her other hand inside her robe and began rubbing her breasts, squeezing and pinching the nipples. "Ah, yes, oh, that feels so good," she gasped.
Her husband was gone and Debbie went to the bedroom, slid her robe off and lay on the bed. She began stroking her body, rubbing her breasts, mashing and squeezing them. She ran a hand down between her legs and began rubbing up and down.
"Ooh ah, it feels so good," she moaned.
She rubbed and squeezed one of her tits, pinching the nipple hard; she slid her middle finger over her clit, rubbing it back and forth. "Oh ah, what I wouldn't give for it," she breathed out hotly.
She kept stroking and rubbing till a mini-climax rippled through her body.
Oh, if hubby was just bigger, she thought ... longer and thicker ... he's really small—and he doesn't last long—not even a minute ... oh, I'm so hot, I can't stand it...
In four years of marriage, Debbie had learned quite well how to suppress guilt about masturbation or erotic thoughts of any kind. She simply pushed them into the back of her mind and didn't give them a second thought, or she dismissed them as insignificant "sins" that didn't really count for much. Of course the rape had been an entirely different matter. But Debbie was beginning to learn how to suppress and deal with much bigger and more serious "transgressions."
Debbie still considered herself a religious person, and she really did like her husband and was dedicated to him and to fulfilling the role that was expected of her as a preacher's wife. She had no notion of being a hypocrite at all. To her way of thinking, she had committed no serious sin, and no hypocritical actions at all. It was true that she had been raped and had in the end enjoyed it, but that was not her fault; it was nothing that she should feel guilty about. It was not as if she had invited the rape, or enticed the men. She was not to blame. She couldn't help the way her body had responded. It had been beyond her control. Therefore she felt no guilt. But never in a thousand years could she believe it would ever happen again. It was, in her opinion, a once-in-a-lifetime-thing. She couldn't have been more wrong.
The two rapists waited till the following late Friday morning, and then they went into action. They drove in Bert's car rather than the van and dispensed with dressing in their DUB "costumes". They were familiar enough now with the surroundings. They drove the car to a street down from the church and parked and waited. They could see the parsonage beside the church. It wasn't long till they noticed the preacher come out of the parsonage, get into his car, and leave. They then drove into the church parking lot and parked next to the church. The parsonage was located on the other side of the church. They got out of the car and walked around the rear of the church, and halted for a moment, checking out the situation. The parsonage was only a few yards away from the church. They could easily walk to the rear, and the parsonage was located some distance from the nearest house. There were some trees blocking the view. The trick would be to make it to the back door of the parsonage, and with the skeleton key and pins they possessed open the back door without Debbie becoming aware of it. If they could get inside without her knowing it, then the rest would be a piece of cake.
It would take at the most a minute to do it, but there was still a risk involved. But it was a risk they were prepared to make. If something went wrong, they would simply quickly retreat, rush to the car, and get the hell out of there.
In this instance, something happened that assured them of their undiscovered entry into the back door. From their position behind the church looking around the corner, they saw Debbie come out of a side door of the parsonage, and walk toward the front of the church. They waited till she was out of sight, and then walked hurriedly to the back door, and tried the skeleton key. It worked. In less than thirty seconds, they were in the house.
Debbie had walked to the church for a specific reason: to check the mail container beside the church door. It was usually filled, and this morning was no exception. She picked out the mail and headed back to the parsonage. She entered the house half-checking the mail as she headed for the kitchen. All the mail was addressed either to the church itself or to her husband, the Reverend Terence Bingham. She stacked the mail neatly in the container on the kitchen counter and headed for the bedroom. She was dressed as usual, in a housecoat and a long quilted house robe.
The rapists had hidden themselves well—in the bathroom with the door opened a crack so they could see where she would go when she entered the house. They noticed that she walked toward an opened door. From his vantage point, Bert saw that it was a bedroom; he saw part of a bed and dresser. This is going to be even easier than we figured, he thought. A thrill of perversity shot through him for an instant. We're going to rape her in her husband's bed, he realized.
They wasted no time. In silent unison they left the bathroom and headed for the bedroom, which Debbie had already entered. They were hard, throbbing and ready.
Debbie stood by the bed with her back to them when they struck.
Before she made a sound, they had her pushed down on the bed, covering her with their bodies, and holding her down. Bert turned her over and she got a look at them, and she gave out a half gasp, half cry. Rick covered her mouth with his hand, and Bert lay on top of her. She was virtually helpless
"Yeah, honey, it's going to happen again." Bert said. "And there's not a damn thing you can do to stop it. So you might as well lay back and enjoy it. We're going to rape you good—we're going to fuck that sweet tight married pussy. We're going to screw your whole body this time. Not just your pussy."