Chapter 1

The memory of the desk clerk's lecherous grin was still with Lauralee as she opened the door to one of the adjoining rooms and went inside. But she was just too woozy to wonder about the man's lifted eyebrow or the stupid question he had put to her when she registered. didn't everybody stay all night in a motel? She couldn't imagine many people leaving at two a.m.

Dropping her only luggage, the overnight case, upon a chair, she blinked around the room and heard her son and his brand new bride laugh, through the door that connected their rooms. She frowned; neither of them had the decency to be embarrassed, and they should be. Not only because they had run away to Reno to get married--and both of them so damned *young* -- but also because Robbie's beat-up old car had broken down and he'd had to cal his mother to come rescue them.

Lauralee shrugged off her sensible coat and looked around the room. She shouldn't have had those two strong drinks; she wasn't at all used to alcohol, and they had made her drowsy, so of course the only logical thing to do was stop at the first motel along the highway. And it was expensive. Silly newlyweds never considered expenses, or jobs, or planning ahead; they just leaped into marriage as if it was going to be one long and rosy romance.

She blinked at her surroundings: a huge, round water bed over there, entirely surrounded by blue mirrors; even the ceiling above it was mirrored, and she thought, *how crude*. The entire room seemed to shriek of sexuality. Lauralee's lip curled.

Walking over to the bed, she leaned to touch it gingerly, and drew back at the quiver of the thing. Next door, the girl giggled again, and Lauralee bit her lips remembering her own wedding night, the pain and ugliness, the farce that had continued throughout her marriage. But she strongly suspected that this wasn't the first time her son had been to bed with Bettina, and wondered why the girl was laughing. Maybe she was a good actress; so many women were, simply because they had to be.

Shaking her head, Lauralee walked to the bathroom and checked the shower stall for cleanliness. It would do, so she strode back into the bedroom, unbuttoning her blouse. Balancing primly upon the edge of a chair, she took off her shoes and noticed the time on her wristwatch. Time for the late news, she thought, and turned on the television set, then slid from her skirt and pulled her slip over her head as the set warmed up.

Her bra and panties were plain white and serviceable, nothing frilly and fancy; she had never even worn the lacy sets that her husband had brought home that first year. They were still packed away in a trunk. Maybe his new wife or girlfriend wore such things.

She was reaching around behind her back and had just unhooked her bra when her eyes fell on the TV screen. Lauralee gasped, and her knees unhinged themselves in a total shock that dropped her back into the chair, the bra slipping from her nerveless hand.

What she was seeing was *impossible*, but there it was, in flaming and outrageous color--the close-up of a man' thing working back and forth into a woman's organ!

Stunned, she stared in disbelief at the terrible picture, at the veined penis sliding greasily, powerfully into a hairy mound whose lips were puggy and inflamed, at the rhythm of the furry testicles that swung back and forth. Oh no, she though as her head whirled--oh no! It couldn't be; things like that were never shown on television.

It was horrible, and she felt the muscles of her stomach go tight, her thighs draw themselves together protectively. That penis looked so huge, and the woman's labia seemed to writhe. There was sound, too--that awful, wet noise of oily meat slipping into a soapy sheath, that damp slapping of the sack against the cleft of an uptilted pair of rolling buttocks.

Lauralee had never seen anything like it before; she had never even looked closely at her own husband's thing, and, after the so-called honeymoon, had always turned off the lights when Marshall had insisted upon his husbandly rights. She tired to force herself from the chair, to move forward and turn off the detestable picture, but somehow her long legs refused to work.

The camera panned back, and she could see the couple in full. Even though they were obviously perverted, they were acceptably good-looking, and she was amazed that two such normal-appearing people would dirty themselves that way, by allowing their animalistic performance to be filmed. And the way the woman was squirming and heaving, moaning deep in her throat, as if she was really enjoying the brutal thrusting of the man's thick organ.

The chill that had numbed the back of Lauralee's neck changed subtly as the woman called out shamelessly that she was coming, coming, and the camera zoomed in tight again to show the man's sack leaping convulsively as he also reached his orgasm. Lauralee hadn't ;known it did that, and she frowned again when she realized that the nipples of her breasts had grown erect.

She gripped her thighs, her fingernails digging into tender flesh as she watched the penis itself, withdrawn from the woman's vagina, the slow oozing of creamy semen that dripped down the red and swollen shaft. Then she gasped, for suddenly a mouth was up close to the thing, a smiling mouth with red lips and a pink tongue darting. The tongue lapped at the thickly sliding semen and drew the pasty stuff into her mouth.

Lauralee shuddered violently. She knew that such perversions went on in the world, but she had never had the slightest idea that she would be personally exposed to them. How depraved could people get? She fought to stand up, to blot out the nauseating scene, but her legs betrayed her.

There! The shameless bitch was actually taking the greasy glans into her mouth, drawing it deeply and sucking on it. Lauralee could see the woman's throat working and make out the in-dipping of the cheeks. How could she stand the very idea of doing that, much less the taste, which must be icky? It was bad enough to be forced to touch a man's penis, but to take it in your mouth?

Blurring back, the camera showed how the man was stroking the long, blonde hair, how he was hunching his thing into the girl's face; and they were groaning together, wiggling as if what they were doing was divine.

There were other angles, the man's taut face, a shot of his sack moving, and a strange one of the woman's had caressing her own vulva as she continued to suck lustily upon the penis in her mouth. Was she going to--to finger herself? Yes, there it was in all its forbidden starkness, the finger prodding the frothing labia and fondling those obscenely gaping lips before slipping inside. She was masturbating then, humping upon her hand and stroking the finger into her vagina as she pulled and chewed noisily upon the man's stiff organ

Lauralee trembled when she discovered that she was caressing her own mound, that its resilient mattress was pulsing beneath the wayward hand. She jerked away her fingers and closed her eyes. Enough of this shocking thing! She would simply turn off the set and go take a cooling shower. She told herself that was why she was slipping her panties down her legs.

The close-up of the finger moving within the steaming, hairy slot hypnotized her, entranced her, and she quivered when she made little, tentative movements across her mound. She had always been told this was debasing, but the actress seemed to be enjoying it so, and surely it couldn't hurt to just see--

Lauralee shot bolt upright in the chair when her fingertip slipped all too easily between her labia and inadvertently touched something that flashed wet flames throughout her tensing body. It was so strange, a queer thrill that she sought again. On the screen the other woman's finger was blurring swiftly now, and the entire curly-haired mound was surging lasciviously.