Chapter 1

Say good-bye to evenings out, say good-bye to middle managements slobs, Veronica said to herself. She'd had enough of all that at this juncture. Three downers followed by a fair-to- middling degenerated into the pits was almost too much to take. Sam Barber was smooth, no doubt about that. He came on like an ad from a men's magazine, but then it happened. Vern already had the script memorized: (1) this is an affair; (2) my wife doesn't have to know; (3) you don't have to play second fiddle.

Second fiddle!--more like symphony janitor.

So now Vern had her mind all made up. Days would be the usual office nonsense--the light chatter, the senseless flirting, the search for Mr. Right--but nights, she would be pure auto. Vern surveyed her body, and was pleasantly impressed. Her breasts were huge, her hips curved in the right place and her ass was outstanding enough to cause takes in the office, even on Monday mornings. She had a good apartment, too. The bed dominated the studio, but she had the necessities, like an eating area, and a sitting area, and best of all, a fireplace to warm whatever might be in need of simmering.

Vern's eyes skidded about and then settled on her package. It was a big package, but not that big. But not that small. Actually it was one of the most important packages the girl'd brought home in quite a while. Thinking of the contents made her tingle, first through the spine, then in more favored spots. She looked at it and fingered it. Vern walked over to the curtains, then she put the bag on the table. Vern needed a drink. Martini in hand, she soon returned to her little surprise. A smile escaped her lips. Come now, this label's a joke, she said. Vern looked at several pictures of a wholesome lass holding an elongated structure, applying it to her back and upper shoulders.

The caption read: "Learn how to relax. Let Vibro Lax let you sit back and unwind."

Vern began to hum to herself: "Dum da-dum, da... dum, da..." Removing the package, the young secretary's voice became lower, like a breathy moan. Oh, I am a young wench and I'm going to get mine!

Slowly, Vern opened the top, then began to slide her accessory out of the box, already conjuring her imagination, remarking on the vibrator's phallic qualities. It's all mine, she thought. No jilts, no wilting, no wives, no mornings after at the office, and best of all, now Vern was captain--it was her show. Vibrator in hand, Veronica walked over to her full-length mirror and decided to bask for a few minutes in her own reflection. Not bad, she had to admit, not bad at all.

Vern felt something deep inside of her cunt send some desire up into her skull. Sure, she was horny and she was proving she didn't need some corporate stud to keep her going. Why, she was a machine, a unit unto herself, the captain of her own sex ship.

She gazed upon what most men would feel compelled to look at twice, and then do more than look.

Then she moved closer to the mirror.

Vern delighted at her form, the way her brown hair fell on full shoulders; her eyes were large and brown, and if we make take the liberty at this juncture, a hotbed of power, when activated, bringing a man down on his knees, ready to beg for the box; then there were her breasts, large, in the eyes of some positively huge, but best of all, firm and proud; the rest of the young lady was on the thin side but strategically formed.

What did the Greeks call it? Pollution? Laying the body waste? Not at all, said Vern with a sly smile across her lips. Suddenly, gripped by passion instigated by looking in that mirror, Vern grabbed her breasts and began to squeeze them, knead them, push them together and then to the side, manipulate them until she could feel her spongy nipple getting hard, pushing into her palm, becoming redder and larger. Oh, ooh, she moaned to herself, engulfed in her own passion, and we might add, momentarily losing interest in her new toy.

Vern fell back on her rug and landed on several cushions, breaking her fall (it could not have been better if she had poised, aimed, and fired). Instantly male names and faces raced through her mind as her hips moved upward, as her hands wrenched her undies down below her knees, exposing her luxurious pubic hairs, and when she spread her knees apart, a seething, pink honey-box. The names passed: Jack Waterhouse, Marty Ingleton, Ross Ruens, Doug Meunier; bodies: fat, tall, athletic (ectomorph, endomorph, mesomorph)--one after the other.

Vern couldn't remember being so horny, because besides the comfort, they were all so real and all hers for the choosing. Pressing her hips up into the air, churning and twisting, eyes rolling slightly up ward, the lady conjured her scenes and then in a moment of recognition settled upon her material: John Winston, John the Con, the man with the schlong, or as the steno pool used to say, sshhh... it's long." Now he was all hers to live out again, this time without the jilt of an ending. She remembered.

"I'd like to defoliate you," he said.

"Is that right?"

"I'd like to defoliate, violate, and not even mitigate," he'd quipped.

Vern remembered it as if it were yesterday, the way she shamelessly bared her breasts beside him in the front seat, the way she placed his hand on her breast, right over the nipple, the way she cupped her hand and placed it on top of his crotch, feeling his manhood grow. She remembered everything. Placing her hand inside her slit at this point in time, she recalled the billboard outside the car, the way the '0', was missing from "COUNTLESS WOMEN USE DIAL," the way she laughed just when he was penetrating. She remembered how red he became, then joined in when he turned and noticed what tickled her.

Vern's fingers were moist now. Her finger had be come John's cock, fat and full. Vern felt her body from head to toe, pushing her fingers through her hair, ascribing circles about her breasts, then pushing downward on her sides (feeling the curve of her hips). Her mind's eye was dynamite, bringing dialogue into play until she wasn't sure what was fact and what was fancy. "Put it in John, put that big cock inside all the way." She could feel its tender, pink head penetrate and then the way the entire shaft seemed to enlarge once inside. Rolling her eyes, Vern tried to flatten her breasts, but the tissue was so firm--had such consistency--that they defiantly remained protruded.

She was in the front seat now: 'CUNTLESS' outside the window, rain pouring down incessantly, John's snipe thickening the air, "You're no frump," coming at her with his hot breath. The scene was chiseled like a fresco: John the Con's hand pushed from her stomach, then settled in the dark place under breast. They were naked (that was one thing Vern still couldn't picture--how the hell had they managed it?) and Vern managed to perch her leg over John's thigh until her knee was just over his groin. At the very moment she applied pressure, at the instant she could feel his member pushing into her skin, she pushed her titty upward, positioning his finger so that her nipple came forward, begging to be sucked, even bitten, anything! The more Vern pushed on her knee, the harder John squeezed, the wider Vern opened her mouth, the more tongue and spittle she received from that dynamo.

"Baby," he'd interjected, as if so excited he could no longer hold his tongue back, "I've had a lot of women, you know that; I'll be honest with you: secretaries, management people, lady execs, academics--a French teacher at Sorbonne to be exact-- political chicks, but Vern, you're completely unique." Vern egged him, until he continued, "It's not just body, it's something about you, those... those eyes." That's when Vern realized that was her main weapon, drawing card, seducer, invoker, revoker, whatever the situation may call for. Some pash, she thought, but then she was overcome by what this man was doing to her.

John pushed her back on the seat until the back of her head rested against the window (she didn't even notice that the door handle had begun to dig into her back, indenting her otherwise perfect form). "You were born to love, Veronica," he'd said, "You're my baby, let me put my stem inside you all the way," he'd said, and then he'd said some weeks later, sorry Ron (Veronica was called by many a name, an advantage or disadvantage of polysyllabic nomenclature), the wife calls, and I'm getting too much heat. "But enough of this," Ron said to herself as she pulled against her couch--she'd write (right) the script now.

It was pure action in her mind's eye: she had her thigh pushing against John's cock with such pressure, that she began to think that his stem was penetrating her skin. The executive buried his face into her breast then licked, then licked the skin just above her nipple. Ron could feel her swollen nipples craving for man handling, and she felt the ecstasy of his tongue warming and seething her cherries. John managed to move his body (turning it completely around) so that he was now on the bottom, his long and lean form dominating the upholstery, gradually lubricating it with his rank yet manly sweat. The stud was able to position his lovely atop his form--which he negotiated by holding onto her buns and pressing her, almost wrenching her against his groin section. He cupped his fingers then pushed his pinky on Ron's dark, steamy underside, gradually moving forward until he reached her anus (was he unaware if he was coming or going?). But Veronica knew he was intentional in his obscene movement, and was even a little surprised at the pleasure he evoked in exploring her asshole. Pushing his finger up from the long slit between her buns, he settled in the triangular spot just above the crevice and pressed on her until Veronica almost laughed. Wrenching Veronica about on her side, then turning her over completely, the young woman lay with her ass perfectly positioned over John's cock She could feel his stem settle into her crack. She could sense his heaving chest push against her own. She could sense his distended, huge balls push against her thigh, the prickly thin skin sending shivers straight through her spine and into her nipples.

Veronica kept finger fucking herself, kept orchestrating the pattern of her encounter. There was even dialogue:

"Baby, you're the greatest. I want you all over all of your fucking gorgeous body."

"Do it, fuck me all the way.

"Ooh, yes, yes!" Veronica could see his eyes vividly, two fire balls. It was close now, dangerously so.

The young woman was writhing off her couch, falling onto the rug. Once again she could see her form in the mirror and before continuing her reverie, she spread her legs in order to view her pulsing pussy. She was a raggle, and knew it, an eye full of steamy, woman meat who could make any male lose his cool. Just look at that, she said to herself, narrowing her eyes, breathing even deeper--positively excited by the sight of her inner womanhood. Veronica thought fleetingly of literature--after all, she was an English major at Sarah Lawrence--of Fitzgerald's convoluted love affairs, of Hemingway's hunts and the desperation of Capote's characters in their sadistic and sexual longings. But when she looked right into the heart of that pussy, she knew that it all boiled down to that, the least common denominator, male and female meat.

"CUNTLESS WOMEN"--hah, thought Veronica, that can't be this college bitch. Veronica was captivated by her own body, by the convolutions of her steamy cunt, the folds of skin and the moist, glistening tissue. (We might add that as Veronica was known for her fantastic ass, and gigantic mammaries, her reputation had also risen in certain corporate circles for having exceptional vaginal lock powers. Her ability to open up, and then put on the steam-- as some put it, the "clamp"--was almost uncanny.)

Just then the saucy lady realized she'd been neglecting her essential accessory, the piece of equipment which guaranteed her liberation from male domination. It lay on the table, virginal in status, yet expectant in condition. The broad turned the power switch then touched the top of the mechanism and was delighted with the resulting tingle. But even better than that was the fact that she could feel heat, quantums distinctly emanating from that phallic, as Ingmar B. would say, symbolska. Veronica put it against her heaving bosom, and loved it. Then she pressed it straight into her nipple. Dare she press further? She did. As a matter of fact, Veronica pressed the electric dick into her until the blood began to take its leave, and she began to feel pleasure degenerate into pain. She pressed harder, until she couldn't stand it, and only then did she have mercy and allow her breasts to take their original form.

When Veronica pushed the vibrator downward, below her pubic hair (it looked like some monstrous war machine plowing through guerrilla terrain as it parted her bushes) she could not help but think of John's magnificent cock. She was able to bring to mind that magnificent penetration. John hadn't been at all handicapped by the cramped quarters, spreading out and going to town as if in the most expansive of double, queen or king beds. After what seemed like an eternity of tit sucking, he finally released his grasp and lowered his head to her midsection, blazing a trail to the south with his probing fingers. Sniffing and inhaling extremely deeply, John the Con moved his nose through the pubics, obviously basking in the erotic itch created therein. Veronica remembered the ultimate pleasure of his hot, wet tongue, splitting apart her labia and entering the depths of her insides. As a bird flies, so did our Veronica, inhaling with total passion, exhaling in preparation for greater highs: sexual highs. As John pushed into her and continued to eat, he moved his hands upward until he was again atop her mountainous melons, until he was pressing against them which did nothing if not heighten her pleasure.

The girl was on the floor again, in the warmth of her studio apartment, with dildo in hand, yet she might as well have been in that car on that rainy eve, for that was where her mind (and cunt) was at. She couldn't forget that John had driven her mad with desire, especially by means of his genius for holding her off, making her ache for the real heavy action. After sucking her cunt, the man put his key in the ignition. "Where are you going?" our friend asked. The man answered they were in need of stimulation and proceeded to Pacific Grove, to a place with the most awesome view in the entire Cisco area. Without further exchange of words, he pushed Veronica almost against the window pane. John, holding his cock proudly upward, was able to penetrate in this manner, from the rear. (It had been a first for Veronica--she'd never even imagined a guy could get it that way.)

"One, two, three..." John said, "And here she goes!"--with that the stud shot deep within her, and even managed before shooting his wad to pull his cock out and cover her buns with his precious night juice.

Veronica lay in her apartment, spent but unspent, satiated but hot as hell, half cocked in the feminine sense. Well, not bad, she thought, I've got the throttle in hold this time, simple as that. The cock's completely under my control and I can drive myself as high, as far and as long as my little heart desires. Vern rose and looked in the mirror. She could tell she'd been through something. A few of her pubic hairs were pasted against her thighs. Several drops of sweat had formed in key places- her upper lip, under her breasts, between her legs just under the cunt.

The woman pushed her body against the mirror until her protuberances touched, forming a hot vision as if two nymphs were preparing to make it. Two huge nipples pulsing against each other; two palms stretching out making contact; and then, two ominous looking white dicks moving toward each other. Vern had to smile a little as she watched the vibrators coming near and then touch. Well now, you two look like you're quite the friends, quite the friend. But my story's not over, not just yet. Vern knew then that what she really wanted, what would make it all worthwhile was nothing less than a reenactment of her entire recent love life, from John on' the entire macho repertoire. But this time there'd be a twist: a happy ending.

What will it be, thought Ron. Perhaps a ball with John, or maybe conjuring that hot party she went to in L.A., that den of inequity with all the drugs; hell, anything was available from hashish to hard acid. No, thought Ron, she wasn't quite through with John left. There was more to that story.

But Ron was a bit preoccupied at that moment by her own reflection. Who knows, maybe she was falling in love with herself after all, she loved her body. She liked carrying her weight, liked the way her skin felt all over. She even liked the manner in which her tits flopped against her midsection. But was that love?--she wasn't ready to ponder the imponderables.