Chapter 13

Roger Carmel groaned and lifted his face from the double bed as the entrancing young whore, Kim Copeland, sucked his stiffened, aching cock. He stared down at her contorted face, and the salacious view of his hard shaft of flesh sunk between her ovaled lips increased his excitement a thousand-fold. His penis was still wet from the juices of her recent orgasm and it glistened like the stump of a rained-upon tree as she bucked over him, a mad demoness of desire. Vast heat built deep in his balls and he arched his back, moaning incessantly, and the muscles of his stomach tensed until he thought his spine would snap.

Suddenly he howled as from the depth of his boiling testicles swirled the mad rush of his hot, sticky sperm up his rigid cock, and before he could warn her of his climax, his cock-head was spewing thin streams of creamy hot semen into her mouth. Kim's cheeks expanded and contracted as she greedily swallowed the warm flood of his surging release, and she held her head to his pulsing shaft as he emptied his molten seed down her throat until the flow ended and Carmel collapsed with a groan, to lay still and spent on her bed. She nibbled gently on him for a few moments and then crawled up his body to cradle his head in her heaving breasts, and she bent and kissed him warmly on his quivering lips.

"There," she whispered. "Your cum tasted so good going down my throat."

"Mmmm," was all that Roger could muster, looking up into her eyes with an appreciative gleam.

"I just love to suck cock," the lascivious girl said with a shudder of delight. "I can't describe the thrill I get running my tongue over a great big prick and tasting the cum when it shoots into my mouth. It's like the finest candy in the world to me!"

In the hidden closet, Harry Saunders couldn't control a groan of anguish, for the prurient sight of the prostitute hired by Sam Zeigler -- and who had, in turn, hired Saunders -- performing the lewd, perverted act of fellatio made his own penis nearly ejaculate the load of cum he'd built while snapping pictures of the couple through the two-way mirror. He had been totally absorbed by the passionate and fevered Kim Copeland burying the straining cock up in her throat until she was nuzzling pubic hair, the lust-producing scene making the photographer nearly throw his camera aside and rush out to join the carnal orgy. He quivered, sweat streaming down his face, and wiped his damp, clammy palms on the thighs of his stained pants. Well, now it was over, and both the lovely girl and the stranger who had been set up by Sam Zeigler's express and insidious order were resting after their orgasms. In just a little while he, Harry Saunders, could throw off his clothes and burrow his fat, angry cock in Kim Copeland's pussy and mouth, and if she was game, her asshole too.

Another wheezing groan bubbled from his lips as he clenched his thighs closed around his fully erect prick...

Roger Carmel heard that last groan. He furrowed his brow, wondering what the strange, out-of-place, muffled cry had been. He sat up on his elbows and turned to the sensual young woman he thought was merely the secretary to Skopos' personnel manager. "Kim, what was that?"

The Copeland girl knew full well what it was -- Harry steaming in his juices behind the mirror -- but she wasn't about to say so; the last thing she wanted was a scene here and now. Let Zeigler have that fun when he showed the pictures to the vice-president; she was only the girl who got Carmel in trouble, not sprung what the trouble was on him. She said hesitantly, "I didn't hear anything, Roger honey. You must be mistaken."

She licked her still-wet lips, savoring the few droplets of Carmel's semen which had stuck to her mouth. "Just relax for a minute, and... and then perhaps you'd better go."

"Go?"

"I mean, if you want." She grinned weakly at him, feeling a tendril of apprehension. She knew that Saunders, as good a photographer as he was -- as good a fuck as he was -- was one man who couldn't be stalled indefinitely. Most of the times she actually got a little evil enjoyment out of making him suffer as he watched her being fucked by her male "customers" -- it helped to arouse her own insatiable desires when finally he came to her, rutting and grunting like some jungle animal. But Roger Carmel had proved one fine cock to satisfy; it was almost as if he hadn't had a piece of cunt in all the time he was married, which his prowess in making her excited and screaming for more belied, and to Kim he was one of the finest men she had ever had make love to her, no question about that. As a result the time had flown by, way past the usual deadline where she had the guy dressed and out the door.

She was a little sorry to have to see Carmel leave, to tell the truth, for her pussy was almost seeping new and lustful lubrications of desire again, and not for Harry's prick either but for the muscled, handsome one rooted in the loins of the virile male lying next to her.

Still, she had a job to do, and a girl in her profession could only mix so much pleasure with business. She had to get him out of her apartment before Saunders was unable to control himself and do something stupid like groan again. It wouldn't take much to set Roger Carmel on the scent of what was happening; he wasn't dumb in spite of his lack of extra-marital affairs. Kim rose languidly and walked to the closet beside the bureau, trying to keep her eyes off the bureau's mirror, which was actually the two-way glass behind which Saunders sat with his camera. She opened the closet door and took out a thin nylon robe, and was about to slip it on when Carmel said from the bed:

"Don't, Kim. Don't cover that beautiful body of your's. I want to see it, all of it." His eyes were feverish with pure lust for her. "I'm not about to leave, not unless you want me to. I can't explain it, Kim, but you make me so damned hot just standing in the nude like that, your cunt hair glistening and your breasts hard and throbbing, that I'm going to get hard again."

Kim stifled a moan of her own, lewd reawakening, only to hear a soft, course whisper from behind the wall -- Saunders again, the damned fool! -- but as fearfully aware as she was, the excited young prostitute was still shivering from the thrills Roger's merciless penis had given her. She gazed with enrapturement at his supine form, saw that incredibly his cock was slowly filling out with blood, growing harder... harder... and a hot seething knot of tingling need lashed at her vaginal area... yet she couldn't risk Roger staying here any longer... She groaned and taking a shuddering breath, said, "Maybe another time. T-tomorrow, perhaps."

"Now," he grinned wickedly at Kim, catching the luster in her eyes and knowing that it would be now if he wanted it, which he did. He stared with rapacious eyes on her beautiful, provocative loveliness as she smiled with a combination of shyness and passion, and unknowing to him with indecision as her lusting mind swirled indecisively between prudence and desire but her body ruled supreme, and with breasts jiggling proudly and thighs matted pubic down flashing enticingly, she began to teasingly parade before him, unable to control her own spasms of lurid ecstasy... and he was tantalizingly brought under her sheer wanton depravity.

He had the sudden urge to kiss her pink-tinged, moist cunt and smell the tang of her perfumed secretions as her cuntal valley opened to his lips and mouth -- and he said so unashamedly.

"Come here, Kim, and I'll suck your pussy like you sucked my cock!"

His lewd words brought forth the moan of licentious excitement that Kim had been able to choke down before, and on rubber, trembling legs she started for the bed, running her hot, fevered hands up and down her rich, white and tanned body, cupping her breasts...

Roger Carmel was completely captivated by this abandoned vamp of a girl, and the guilty self-loathing which he had tried to conjure up earlier in an attempt to assuage his feelings of lust and satisfaction were now entirely blotted out by the absolute free and unhesitating debauchery of which he was a willing partner.

He had tried to tell himself that he should feel shame and remorse for what he was doing, tried to tell himself that the only reason he had allowed himself to become an adulterer was because of anger and hurt and jealousy over his wife's similarly despicable behavior -- but he knew that it wasn't true. He didn't know for sure that Lonnie was unfaithful to him, and what difference did it make anyway? He would have still thirsted for this girl who was slowly and teasingly coming across the bedroom to him... He just plain wanted to suck, fuck Kim Copeland and God knew how many other willing, depraved girls if he could... Fuck -- the word described what he wanted to do perfectly, as in contrast to making love, which was what he and Lonnie did in the privacy of their marital bed.

And perhaps even more perverse was the consummate love he still had for his black-haired, desirable wife. He still wanted to go home and wrap his arms around Lonnie and have her wrap her vagina around his cock so he could make love to her, for no longer was he tortured with righteous indignation over whatever lewdness she had gotten involved in. He had the faith and the unquestioned belief that Lonnie loved him in return -- that she was fucking that man, if she was at all, as he was fucking this girl, in a purely physical gratification of the senses and nothing more. In a way, he had the urge to call her up and tell her this... but he wouldn't. Because Kim Copeland was placing one knee on the bed now, her eyes wide with hunger and her lips wet with the moisture of her licking pink tongue-tip...

A psychiatrist might have diagnosed Roger Carmel as a man who had an irrational and sub-conscious fear of the basic male characteristic to mate indiscriminately. Perhaps this had stemmed from his Victorian mother who had smothered him from birth with the conviction sex was inherently bad and all men were beasts, and who had sentenced her son to a cocoon of prudery as he reflexively strove to prove that he wasn't such a contemptuous type, that he was a gentleman first, last and always.

Perhaps... but Roger Carmel wasn't a psychiatrist, nor at that moment was interested in pondering why he had kept the lid on his perfectly natural instincts with a blind attitude and stiff-necked disdain, or why this one adulterous fling had not brought the wretched self-incriminations he had assumed he should feel. Time enough to unravel such details later, for his chest was pounding as Kim Copeland crawled across the sheets to him, the predatory feline that she was, and his semi-hard cock began to flinch with the renewed pressure of arousal...

Roger Carmel had not changed -- he had evolved, breaking out of his self-imposed, unhealthy cacoon from a mind-shattering combination of pressures from his work, his turmoil of anguish over his wife's alleged infidelities, and the liquor-fogged plunge into the world of sex for its own hedonistic sake. He had matured into a complete, physically whole man, virile, ripe, and alive, as his unconscious grip on the darker caverns of his soul was wrenched away, and no longer could he -- or would he attempt to -- return to the shell of his former half-life.

"Yes, lover," Kim breathed in panting harshness, "kiss my cunt and make me cum that way... then we'll fuck some more..."

And Harry Saunders in the closet couldn't repress the tortured moan of frustration as he saw that he was in for another voyeuristic session before he could empty his balls of their overloaded weight of churning seed. His hands trembled and he knew that he couldn't take any more

pictures not now. He couldn't hold the camera steady enough, and all he felt was the crazy tide of his own sex-craved passions, the insane jerkings of his thighs and belly and especially of his now stone-hard cock as it fought the imprisonment of his trousers. His breath steamed the two-way glass and he thought he was going to have to take his penis out right there and use his hand to release some of the burgeoning explosions which engulfed his mind and body.

And Roger Carmel heard that groan, too, and recognized it for what it was. He sat upright, the shock of knowing there was a man some where nearby dampening some of his prurient longings for the warm, moist cunt of the girl panting over him. "Damnit," he said, "I heard it that time for sure. There's somebody else in this apartment!"

"No!" Kim Copeland cried out sharply. "No you must be wrong. It -- it must have come from next door."

"Don't be silly, Kim," Roger said, getting off the bed. "Your bedroom overlooks the back garden; there's no connecting walls with the other apartments." He shook his head, frowning. "I'm going to take a look in the living room."

"No! Please don't!" the luscious, now panicked prostitute tried to grapple Roger by the arm. "Come back to bed, don't leave me."

Carmel eyed her, frowning over her odd resistance. "You sure as hell don't want me to go out there, do you? Why not? You know something I don't?"

"Of -- of course not, Roger. It's just that... that I'm so hot and I want you now... I've got to have you," she pleaded insistently. "What's more important to you? Having me or some imaginary noise?"

"It'll take me just a moment, and then I'll feel more at ease. I want you as bad as you want me, lover, but I just won't feel right until I make sure we're alone. It could mean our jobs if we're caught. I'd think you'd want me to check around."

"No..." Kim whimpered, but it was too late. Roger opened the door to the living room and padding in baby naked, he looked around. Every thing was as he had left it, glasses on the table, the two thin pieces of Kim's lust-provoking sun suit... Carmel went on silent bare feet across the carpet to the kitchen and stuck his head in; nobody there. He turned around, scratching his hair and wondering if his imagination was playing tricks on him, that thinking only peripherally of his wife and her suspected lover hadn't given him an over-impression of plots and blackmail.

Harry Saunders, whipped to a fever pitch of sexual emotions, rashly took that moment to shift positions on his stool. He had heard and seen the man jerk upright and knew that he had heard his groaning. Trembling with the fear of being discovered, Saunders had sat perfectly still while the man went into the living room, but he couldn't see the man while he was looking through the two-way glass into the bedroom; he had to turn around and look through the living room mirror for that, and when he heard the squeaking kitchen door, he assumed in his blind position that the man had stepped inside. If he was going to turn and follow the man's search, he had to do it then... which he did. He was very quiet about it, too.

But his trembling, sweat-slick hands dropped the camera.

Roger Carmel whirled around, hearing the thank of something coming from what he had assumed was the coat-closet door. Anger stirred in him, and with caution and modesty thrown aside, he crossed and wrenched open the door, and the pale light of the living-room fell across the hulking figure of a middle-aged man, his straw-colored hair brushed European style back across his head, his large nose and dilated nostrils quivering, and his two, small, marble-glittering eyes filled with the kind of illogical fear of a cornered rat.

Saunders hurled himself off the stool, panic making him into a single-motivated body in search of escape. He swung at Carmel with his camera, unthinking that he was using the one object which he had been hired to use, its metal case hit Carmel on the side of the head and inadvertently the catch on its back snapped, and the roll of film flew through the air, unwinding to the light like a spool of yarn a cat plays with. Saunders stumbled toward the front door and freedom...

Stars danced in front of Carmel's eyes, but with unleashed fury of a man pressured far more than a mere tight corner, he reached out and caught the fleeing photographer's coat-tail and spun the short, dumpy man around. The camera came up again, Saunder's teeth set in a grimace of frenzy...

Carmel blocked the metallic blow with his left forearm, and blood pounded in his temples as he answered with a fist to the belly of the intruder. It was like slugging a bag of sand -- wet, hard sand -- and then he was catapulted forward as Kim ran from the bedroom screaming and lunged at his naked back. He swiped with his arm, and the lovely young prostitute fell away, sprawling unceremoniously on her delectable buttocks, her legs splayed wide and showing the full, rich furrow of her cuntal slit, where only moments before both men had been so lustfully engrossed. Her breasts heaved and danced, but the men took no notice now; her attack had sent them down on the floor in a tangle of arms and legs and the foulest collection of swearing Roger had ever heard in one place before. He caught the photographer's right wrist in his hand and bent it back, squeezing for all his might, and the older, unconditioned, unmuscular Saunders squealed in pain and dropped the camera he'd used as a weapon.

Kim Copeland was trying to crawl between them and bite Carmel's hand or leg or cock... anything to allow her confederate time to escape, but Carmel twisted away and then kicked out at her, catching her in the breast. She howled and toppled away, in a somersault which exposed her full white expanse of buttocks and the deep, pink, and still moist crevice between. Carmel, catching Saunder's ear, pulled the man upright in one savage jerk which brought a guttural cry from the man, and then Carmel, seething with rage at what he instinctively knew was a plan to compromise him, allowed all of his built-up frustrations to explode and in a purge of his confusion and torment that had collected from yesterday evening, drove his naked knee crashing into the unprotected groin. Saunders yelped and doubled over, and Carmel unmercifully brought his knee up again, catching the nose this time, and the blackmailing photographer sagged and dropped, moaning and babbling incoherently, his face chewing bits of the wool tuft, his nostrils gushing red blood on the carpet.

Panting, still livid with all the fury which had driven him on, Carmel turned to the cringing whore, Kim. She was slumped against the table, her sensual face pale white and waxy, her mouth a twisted pink slash, and her hands were clamped to her bruised breast where he had hit her.

"All right," he snarled grimly, "Spill."

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," Copeland said sullenly, averting her eyes.

"Yes you do, and you're going to tell me, right now!"

"I never saw that... that man before in my life!" Kim cried out defiantly. "I don't know how he got in here! Honest!"

Enraged by the bald-faced lie, Carmel swung the flat of his hand across her face, slapping her with a resounding sound that rocked her over onto her side and left a red imprint on her swollen cheek. "You slut! Who do you think you're trying to snow, anyway? Some half-assed kid out of the hills? You were helping him, not me... or don't you call trying to bite my cock off fighting against someone? You're in this up to your cunt, you filthy bitch, and by God you'll talk or I'll beat the ever-loving shit out of you!" His own lewd threats shocked even him, for never in his life had he allowed himself such full reign of his emotions -- but that was the new Roger Carmel. Even the old one would have recognized the situation for what it was, but where before Roger would have slunk off with his tail between his legs, dejected and a gelatin of confused self-pity, now he was a dervish of cold-blooded intensity as strong as the hot-blooded reaction to Kim Copeland's salacious, teasing body he had had and expressed.

He glowered at the gasping, terrified young whore, void of any sympathy for her. He had fucked her, not loved her; used her, in a sense, and he was neither in the mood nor the rationale to brook her mercy. He brought his hand back, fully intending to hit her again if she didn't cooperate. "Talk, you hear?"

"Please..." came the whimpering whine, and she brought up one quivering arm to ward off the stinging blow, her eyes horrifyingly darting first from the savage male standing wide-legged and naked over her to her coughing, writhing partner on the rug and then back again to Carmel's enraged features. "I... I'm sorry, Roger... I get my kicks this way, see; yes, that's it. Harry is a friend of mine who likes to take pictures of people fucking, and I... I get turned on by it... just like I do when I suck cock."