Chapter 6

Young, titian-haired, angelic-featured Sally Reagan sat apprehensively squeezing a handkerchief between her small hands in the back seat of a taxi cab as it sped across Morriston. Her slender, high- breasted body was rigid with the foreknowledge of what was about to happen, and a nauseous feeling eddied in the pit of her stomach.

Oh God, she prayed to herself, please don't let it be as bad as the last time. Please, don't. I... I don't think I could stand it!

She twisted the handkerchief convulsively, and an almost inaudible moan of despair burst past her soft, moistly red lips. In her mind's eye she could picture the almost obscenely ugly Postal Clerk, Steve Samuels, with his slobbering, rubbery lips and his claw-like hands and his... his horribly huge penis! She moaned again, loud enough so that the cab driver glanced up into the rear-view mirror, frowned, and asked her if she was okay.

She quickly replied that she was and sank lower in the seat, twisting the handkerchief into a twisted rope in her fingers. Why, oh, why, had she consented to come tonight? When Jack had telephoned her from work, and told her of Samuels' call to him and what the weasly blackmailer wanted, she had almost become sick as all the disgusting perversions of that last time flooded instantaneously back into her conscious mind. She couldn't go through the same hell again; she couldn't! And yet she had known that she had to, knew that now as well. If she didn't... submit to Samuels' demands, then the depraved Postal Clerk would have Jack fired, would ruin him completely through some evil stretching of the truth. And Jack's was a specialized job, which would make it very hard for him to get another. Too, there was the baby--little Jimmy--to think about, and the fact that they'd just bought a small, modest home and had to meet the payments on it promptly or risk losing their equity...

No, she was doing the right thing. She could endure another night of horror at the hands of the lust-insane civil servant, if it meant saving her home and her husband's job--and if it meant that those... those photos which Samuels possessed would never be exposed to nationwide gutter distribution.

Those damnable photographs! Why had she ever allowed Jack to take them of her, with the Polaroid his brother had let him borrow? She should have known better, but she had done it in a moment of passion, wanting to please the man she loved and that, too, was the reason she had decided to send them off for exchange, with Jack's eager approval, to members of the Polaroid Club whose newspaper Jack had somehow found. God, if she'd but known Samuels was going to find out about them, get his hands on them, blackmail the unsuspecting Reagans in such a perverted manner... But she hadn't known, and now it was too late; she--and Jack, too, although he didn't have to suffer the indignities she did--was completely at the mercy of the warped Postal Clerk.

Sally, distraught and helpless, looked up then through the window at the black night outside. Let this be the last time, she prayed. Please, God, let this be the last time.

She rubbed at her damp eyes with the handkerchief, peering out through the window. The surroundings were now familiar--an old, dingy, run-down section of Morriston and a shudder coursed through the frightened, tormented young wife's warm, vibrant body.

They were almost there.

Sitting in the front room of his ramshackle house, his wizened hands busily working among the contents of the wooden coffee table before him, Steve Samuels grinned in drooling anticipation of the arrival of the tender young Sally Reagan. Oh, he was going to fuck her good tonight! He was going to subject her to every trick in the book, goddamned right he was!

He would do to her, he reflected, the same things he would do to that uppity Mrs. Jamison... sort of a preliminary to the main event. And Mrs. Cindy Jamison was a main event, no doubt about that. His cock throbbed with aching desire as his fingers worked almost independent of his mind, with practiced ease, for his was a task he had performed many times before.

On the coffee table were a small cigarette-rolling machine, several packages of wheat-straw papers, a scarred wooden cigarette box, and a large cellophane bag filled with a dark brown, shredded leaf that resembled tobacco but wasn't tobacco at all.

It was Acapulco Gold, the best marijuana money could buy.

The weaselly postal clerk chuckled lewdly as his dexterous fingers fashioned yet another pot stick. He'd been damned lucky to get grass as good as this, and he'd had to pay a premium for it, too; but it was worth it, every penny. Good stuff like this really turned them on, these young bitches like Mrs. Sally Reagan (and yes, like Mrs. Cindy Jamison as well); it made them forget their inhibitions, their fear and hatred of him, so that they were his complete slaves to subjugate and to do with as he would. They never forgot a session with Steve Samuels, the perverted government employee boasted to himself; and they were never really the same afterwards...

His huge German Shepherd, Ringo, came bounding in from the kitchen, where Samuels had put out a large bowl of raw meat. The great animal, sleek and bright-eyed, its long red tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth, sat on its haunches next to its master, tail wagging. The Postal Clerk chuckled again, finished rolling one last cigarette, and then leaned back on the sofa, reaching down to pat Ringo on the head.

"So you're eager, too, eh, my friend?" he chortled. "Well, don't worry. You're going to get your share of young Mrs. Sally Reagan tonight- -just like you've gotten your share of the others. And you're going to get plenty of young Mrs. Cindy Jamison, too, of that I promise you. She's going to feel your prick jammed all the way up to her hot little titties, Ringo, don't you worry."

The lewd mental image of the beast's speckled red cock buried in the tight, warm, clasping pussy of the haughty Cindy Jamison caused Samuels own prick to leap into erection. Damn, he was horny tonight! He was going to really fuck little miss Sally, all right--but first, there would be games to play. Games he had perfected with a half-dozen other unsuspecting housewives in Morriston, housewives who had foolishly attempted to send lewd, pornographic items through the United States mails. Games which left them slavering and begging for his mammoth cock to rip their cunts wide and fill them with hot boiling cum...

The evil clerk began to rub his erect prick through his pants, slowly, tantalizingly, his wizened face split into an animalistic grin of lust. It had been a fine day, The Finest Day, when the government had passed the new Postal regulation allowing the Department to open anyone's mail without them being present, under the guise of checking for obscenity or subversive activities or even upon the slightest suspicion of anything illegal or immoral. And the most beautiful part about that regulation was, he could do it himself, on his whim, without asking permission of his superiors!

Oh, it was a grand day, the day of the passage of that regulation! He had complete access to the entire mail input and output of the city of Morriston; he could open letters, packages, registered envelopes at will-- and he had. Intuition and the illegal directory of names had led him to suspect certain ones, and at least half the time he had found some kind of incriminating material. He had several mild photos and some letters that were written by respectable wives in the community that, on the surface, were seemingly innocent; but turned over to the wives' husbands, they would be damning. And, of course, he had found some juicy items as well, like the photos Jack Reagan and his wife, Sally, had taken together. They were really something! But all he needed to open negotiations with the erring wives was one small indiscretion, just enough to use as a threat and as a fulcrum to lever them into his house and his bed. His list of names was ever-growing, too, and his insatiable cock, his perverted, insatiable brain, had at long last began to reap their rewards. Some day, he might have as many as twenty-five or thirty young, beautiful Morriston wives at his beck and call, for as long as the Postal regulation allowing him to indiscriminately open the public's private mail was in effect, he could never be thwarted. He had power, power, POWER!

Faster and faster the wickedly-grinning clerk's hand rubbed back and forth over his swollen prick as he gazed into the future, planning impossible orgies with a dozen women and more, planning games and perversions which boggled even his imagination. His glazed eyes sought and found the old wall clock.

Hurry up, Mrs. Sally Reagan, he thought. Hurry, hurry, hurry!

The taxi cab stopped in front of the dingy, clapboard house--the place which beautiful Sally Reagan, in her own mind, had dubbed The House of Humiliation. She shuddered again, her trembling fingers digging inside her purse.

The cab driver turned to look at her over the seat. "You sure this is the place you want to go, lady? Looks like an opium den, or something." He laughed.

"Y-yes, this is the place," Sally quavered, convulsing violently at the driver's innocent comment about "an opium den;" if only he knew what went on inside that house! She found a dollar bill, shoved it into the driver's hand, and then got out of the cab.

She stood on the cracked sidewalk a moment as the taxi meshed gears and pulled away from the curb, trying to compose herself. How should she behave this time? Not like the last--whining, piteous, obviously fear- wracked, obviously filled with hatred for her tormentor--for that only made things worse, only made Samuels do more foul things to her helpless body. No, this time she would be like ice, like a mannequin; she wouldn't plead with him, curse him, scream at him. She would let him use her as he would, and in that way get it over with as quickly as possible so that she could go home to the safety of her own house, where baby Jimmy slept in his crib under the watchful eye of the babysitter, where Jack would come to comfort her in the night.

Straightening to her full height, the long-legged, slim-hipped, black-haired young wife walked quickly up the tangled, jagged path to the front door of the house and rang the bell.

It was opened almost immediately, and the evilly-leering countenance of the Postal Clerk, Steve Samuels, materialized only inches from her own face. In spite of herself, Sally gasped and took a faltering half-step backward to see once again, up close, the ugly, twisted features of this mentally deranged man.

"Well, well, it's about time, Mrs. Reagan," croaked Samuels, opening the door wider. "My cock has been hard for half an hour, just thinking about you and your fine young body, heh heh. Come in, come in."

Sally's eyes inadvertently dropped to the front of his pants, saw the bulge there, the stain on the material, and she shuddered again. But then she composed herself and stepped past him, careful not to touch him, and walked proud and tall into the cluttered living room.

Samuels, licking his rubbery lips, followed her and said, "Sit down on the sofa there, Mrs. Reagan. In front of the coffee table there." He laughed obscenely. "As you can see, I've set out a few photos from my album for you to look at. And you're in them. You and your husband, Jack. I know you'll be interested in seeing them again, even if you have seen them before."

Sally closed her eyes, blinked them open, and crossed to the couch, sitting down as Samuels had directed her. She didn't look at the pictures displayed on the corroded surface of the table.

The wizened clerk crossed to her and stood in front of the table, looming over her, looking down at her silky black hair, at the full swell of her rich, creamy breasts, at the taper of her soft downy thighs. His cock leapt violently, and his balls ached with the buildup of his semen.

"Take your dress off, Mrs. Reagan," he husked. "It's warm in here. Make yourself comfortable."

Like a marionette, the evil clerk's voice its strings, Sally stood woodenly and pulled the simple cotton shift she wore over her head and tossed it aside. Then, quickly, she sat down again, clad only in a thin, wispy bra and panty briefs. She wouldn't look at Samuels at all.

His breath quickened as he saw her half-naked before him, and his eyes traveled like hungry beetles over her firm, resilient flesh. Her breasts were high and proud, good breasts, but not as good and as voluptuous as those of Mrs. Cindy Jamison, he reflected. Still, he wanted to see them in all their splendor, nakedly presented to his lusting eyes.

"Take your bra off, Mrs. Reagan," he commanded, his hand dropping down to his bulging pants and stroking lightly.

Obediently, the tormented young woman reached behind her and unhooked the fasteners of her gauzy bra. She let it fall away, leaning back a little to pull her firm, pinkish-red-capped breasts up high as she knew he wanted her to; there would be no need for him to tell her lewdly what to do on this night.

"You have nice tits, Mrs. Reagan," wheezed Samuels, rubbing his swollen cock. He had unzipped his fly now, and his fingers were traveling eagerly over the surface of his shorts. "Very nice tits. I like them, Mrs. Reagan. I like them very much."

Sally stifled the low groan which threatened to escape her throat, and remained sitting there almost like a statue. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. Oh, God, what kind of filthy things its he going to do to me tonight? No... no, I can't think about them, I can't think ahead... have to make my mind a blank, a blank...

Samuels came around the coffee table, still massaging his huge prick with his fingers, and sat down next to the beautiful, almost completely naked young wife. His rubbery lips were parted wide, and thin rivulets of saliva coursed out at their corners. His eyes were fever bright. "Won't you have a cigarette, Mrs. Reagan," he said gratingly. "It will relax you while you look through the pictures. These are good cigarettes, Mrs. Reagan; you've had them before, remember?"

Pot! Her mind screamed. Oh, no, not more marijuana! She remembered the last time, how he had forced her to smoke one of the little brown cigarettes, and another, how she had become giddy and light-headed, responding to his commands almost eagerly as the fear and disgust left her body under the influence of the drug. But wait... maybe that was the best thing now... yes, for if she allowed herself to become high under the emotion-numbing drug the evening would go quickly and she would not be fully cognizant of the certain perversions he would perform upon her unwilling flesh. Yes, she had to get high, very high... pretend it was Jack touching her body as Samuels would surely touch it, pretend that her loving husband's penis was being thrust inside her when the time came instead of the grotesque monster of this gnome-like fiend... yes, that was what she would do, that was how she would survive this night...

Almost eagerly, Sally Reagan's fingers sought the scarred humidor on the table next to the pictures and next to an odd looking, black-cased, slender thing she had never seen before. She opened the box, extracted one of the crude brown cigarettes, and placed it between her soft, moist lips. Beside her, Samuels snapped a lighter into flame with his left hand, his right still stroking his blood-heavy penis, and lit the cigarette.

The young wife drew smoke into her lungs, holding it there as he had taught her that first time, releasing it finally. Then she repeated the process, and a third and fourth time.

"That's fine, Mrs. Reagan, that's just fine," Samuels croaked. "Now the pictures. Look at the pictures while you smoke. Look at them, now."

Already, after the first deep drag, the marijuana cigarette was beginning to have an effect on the tense young woman, relaxing her somewhat, making some of the fear and loathing and hate disappear, and she reached out and lifted the stack of photos. She held them up to her eyes, drawing on the stick again, then began to shuffle through them.

She knew them well, these snapshots. Jack and she had taken them together that night several months ago, with his brother's Polaroid. God, she wished she had never seen them, wished they had never existed! But she had seen them, and they did exist, and she looked at them, at one after another of them...

Jack and she, lying on their bed, with her hand circling his huge, erect penis while his middle finger was extended and half-buried in the warm, glistening folds of her wide splayed pussy... Jack with his lips pressed to one of her jutting breasts, while his extended finger tickled her erect, quivering clitoris... Jack with his mouth buried in her pubic hair, and her thumb rubbing across the swollen head of his penis... Jack with his head full between her wide-splayed thighs, his tongue pressed into the tingling flanges of her tenderly excited femininity and her face twisted grotesquely with the joy of the warm, wet contact... her, now, with her lips on his stomach while she stroked his organ and his testicles... her with mouth poised above the red, seminally-lubricated head of his member... her with her mouth closed over the head now, sucking as her fingers tickled his scrotum (God, she remembered the taste of his penis, the bittersweet flavor of his masculinity; she had liked it, because it was her husband and she loved him and wanted to please him, but now it seemed so revolting and obscene)... her with the full length of his great member pressed tight into her ovaled lips, her nose gently tickling his wiry pubic hair... the two of them on the bed, she straddling Jack, her buttocks raised to the camera, knees spread wide on either side of him, his penis inserted into the shimmering, petal-opened expanse of her vagina as she rocked back on it while kissing him full on the mouth... the same photo, only with Jack's middle finger teasing along and partly inserted in the tiny, rubbery opening of her anal passage...

"You like them, don't you, Mrs. Reagan?" Samuels intoned next to her, his fingers inside his under pants and wrapped around his trembling cock now. "You like them, and you're getting hot looking at them, aren't you?"

"Y-yes," Sally heard herself answer. "Yes, yes."

"Then lean back and put your hand down between your legs," commanded the Postal Clerk throatily. "Play with yourself like I'm doing, Mrs. Reagan. Put your fingers in your cunt, Mrs. Reagan. Ah, that's it... no, no, don't pull your panties down. Just pull them aside between your legs, and put your finger in your slit... yes, yes, now you've got it!"

Under his droning directions, the young marijuana-drugged housewife had begun to slide her middle finger slowly, slowly, up and down the moistening expanse of her tender young vaginal slit, feeling the juices of her femininity begin to flow in spite of the situation and because of her relaxed state of being. It's Jack's finger, not my own, she told herself over and over, it's Jack's finger, not my own...

Samuels, tremendously excited now by the sight of the sweet young woman slowly masturbating before him, removed the swollen, blood-engorged penis from his underpants, letting it jut high into the air as his claw- like fingers stroked it up and down. Goddamn, but this was really living! To have young married sluts like this at his mercy were the finest moments of his life, the things he really lived for... Jesus, Jesus, how he loved to torment the haughty goddamned young bitches for his own pleasure!

"Another cigarette," he wheezed. "Here, I'll light it for you... no, no don't take your fingers out of your cunt, Mrs. Reagan! Keep playing with your clit while you smoke... good, good!"

The second marijuana joint relaxed the young woman even more, and she felt all her emotions go gently ebbing away, so that she was relaxed to a large degree and no longer apprehensive. And... yes, she was beginning to feel, in spite of her hopeless situation, a gentle tingling in her softly warm cunt. Jack's doing it, Jack's doing it, Jack's getting me excited like he always does, Jack Jack Jack...

She finished the second joint, and her head was swimming now, her finger moving with increasing rapidity in her cuntal valley, her eyes glazed over and her breasts heaving. The Postal Clerk, watching her and stroking his own burgeoning genitalia, snickered aloud as he saw the mounting sexuality in the young wife brought about by the marijuana and the pictures and her own manipulations. She was going to be fine tonight, a regular goddamned hellcat; he'd teach her a thing or two, son-of-a-bitch if he wouldn't!