Chapter 37

Desirée Denning slumped on the couch, shuddering as she sat in the cozy quiet of the study. She cried plaintively, weeping her tortured emotions into her palms as if her heart would break. The sangria she had consumed to dull her sensitivities had, if anything, only loosened the barriers holding back her tears, and now, fully surrendered to the alcohol, she allowed her pent-up emotions release--again.

She had purged her soul once, to Helen Buchanan... but the intervening hours had once more built the raging storm of her torment to cyclone proportions. It had brought her, upset, to this party, had been the leading cause of her not eating and then of drinking heavily--and was, with the help of the potent sangria, completely controlling her mind. She was nearly delirious, almost psychotically hysterical, and there wasn't even the sanity of sobriety to fall back upon.

Her only prayer, her only hope was Sid Buchanan--or so her benumbed mind thought. The one thing that had kept her from dashing out of the house and fleeing--but to where? Anywhere--so long as it was far, far away. But there were the comforting words that Sid Buchanan would help her. Perhaps if she hadn't imbibed the sangria so heavily, if she didn't have a head spinning so madly, she might have considered that it had been Sid's opening words Helen told me about the black sheriff, that had sent her into such a mental and emotional tailspin.

As it was, when her husband's associate opened the other door to the study and sat down beside her, she looked upon him almost as a savior, an angel who could save her from the consequences of her reprehensible actions.

"Thank God, Sid," the pretty young housewife moaned. "I was afraid you weren't going to come." She started crying again.

"Everything will be all right, Desirée," Buchanan said, and he put his arm around her, as a father might his errant daughter. "Of course I was going to come. You don't think I'd let you be like this, do you? So upset and all."

She leaned against him, clutching to him for dear life. "It... it was terrible, Sid," she blurted. "I... I went with them to meet Mark... they said he'd had an accident..." and she went on to pour forth the total story of her humiliation by the two young men and then what she had had to do to avert a disaster when Clete had showed up, breaking into sobs of agony frequently.

As she talked, Sid was only half listening. He knew the story already, had Helen repeat it to him until he knew every detail. Instead, he was looking at the comfortable couch they sat on now. Plenty of room here for fucking, plenty of room. He had used it often enough, when Helen had knowingly and obligingly turned her back.

He took down a bottle of pernod and poured some into a glass. "Here, Desirée. Take a swallow. It'll help."

She took it gratefully and drank heavily. The liquor burned a path to her stomach, but she was too wrought up and too drunk to notice. She drank again, came up for air and continued telling her story.

"Then... they made me sit on his lap and the other one... he did it to me from behind... in my... my... I've never done that even with my husband before... and then they changed positions. Oh, Sid, it was just awful," she sobbed.

He interrupted her with an urging to take another swallow, which she did, and then he said: "Would you like to lie down, take a rest? Wouldn't that be better?"

"Yes..." The combination of the sangria, pernod, and her now purged soul had made her lethargic, dazed, and she had to fight to keep her eyes open. Her muscles seemed to be plastic and her bones like sawdust. "But I don't want to go back out there yet, Sid, not until you tell me about what you can do for us... I need your help..."

Her voice was slightly slurred and thick, as though her mouth was full of pebbles--or she had taken too much liquor and was pretty drunk. The great manipulator smiled and said, "You can stretch out on the couch if you like."

Desirée looked up from Sid's chest. "That would be nice," she replied dreamily. "Help me..."

Sid Buchanan did, his cock hardening into a throbbing beast as he carefully helped Mark Denning's wife to lie back on the couch. Her motions were a bit jerky and fumbling; but she wasn't falling down drunk, and he hoped she wasn't too present of mind to turn this situation against his plans. She sprawled on the soft fabric of the couch, not minding or even being aware that her short dress had slipped up around her panties. Buchanan sucked in his breath as he saw the thinly covered pubic mound become exposed... then he squeezed onto the couch with her, and the two of them lay side by side on the warm, padded surface, and he placed his hands around her and held her to him.

Buchanan stroked the tipsy young wife's golden hair lightly, gently, comfortingly. And in a smooth, rich tone of voice he intoned, "Don't think about it anymore, Desirée. Don't think about those hard, strange men and how you looked with them on that bed, about the passion you three were experiencing, don't think about it at all..."

In the tortured, stupefied confusion of her mind, Desirée Denning couldn't help thinking about what she and the two abductors had done--and why. She remained in her husband's associate's gently pressing embrace, stretched out on the expensive couch, a dreamy torpor making her lightheaded and giddy. His words flowed like honey, soothing and hypnotic... and although she didn't want to think about what she had done that very day, his soporific voice dredged up still more of it from her subconscious mind. She sobbed into the thin material of Buchanan's shirt, finding security in his masculine nearness and the gentle stroking of his hand on her bare arm. And horribly, perversely, the images in her drunken brain started to have a certain physical effect on her dazed mind as well. She could feel an odd twitching in her belly, and for some crazy reason she sensed that her nipples were hardening in her bra cups. She tried to will her body to cease its evil awakening and her mind to stop the vivid remembrances--but nothing she tried to do would work. And what was Sid Buchanan saying? The same thing as his wife Helen had told her?

"... You're all woman, Desirée. Of course you couldn't help but enjoy their penises inside you. Of course you liked their tongues on your lips and between your legs. You couldn't help liking it, Desirée. You're a real woman... a sexually alive woman..."

He continued to stroke her shoulder, letting his hand slide slowly down. Desirée had stopped crying now, though her face was still pressed to his shirt, and he sensed that his caress had quickened her breath. He teased the ridge of her spine, pressing his horizontal body closer to hers, and he whispered into her hair bolder and bolder words:

"You and the sheriff were making love, Desirée. Yes, making love... and fucking, Desirée. But you mustn't think badly of yourself for your actions. Everyone likes to fuck..."

Desirée was breathing faster now, and Sid could hear this tipsy little wife of his pet politician trembling with her reactions. Well, if there was ever a moment to give it everything, this was it!

Buchanan brought his hand casually from her shoulder to the swelling mound of her breast. He began to rub the pliant globe tenderly through the thin dress and bra, and there was a sharp intake of breath from the beautiful wife and a sudden stiffening of her body and a convulsive kneading of his shirt. But she made no move to pull away! Buchanan grinned eagerly, glancing toward the door from behind which he knew Khalid al-Mazkum was peeking, knowing he had won, that she would be his, and he ran his thumb over her rock-hard nipples, his heart pounding in his chest and his cock leaping in the cage that was his shorts and pants.

A warning scream tried to penetrate the foggy lethargy that inundated Desirée Denning's mind, tried to warn her that something was going to happen if she didn't pull away. And yet, unexplainably, his hand on her breast felt good, soothing, and his voice, so far away to her ears, made everything sound right. It was as if the sangria and the pernod had been some liquid cement, gluing her to this position, making her unable to move at all... and the pinwheel thoughts in her mind made her not really want to move... not yet...

And then the evil man's hand slid down from her breasts and went to her bare thigh, sliding up along the hot skin under her new dress. Higher and higher--until his fingers were touching the silk-encased mound of her vagina. He slipped up and down the now moist furrow from the outside, then pushed the damp crotchband of her panties aside and slipped his middle finger into the wet, trembling passage of Desirée's suddenly hotly burning young cunt.

Distraught, nearly comatose from alcohol, Desirée squirmed up tighter against Sid Buchanan with the contact of his finger against her naked flesh. Her whole being began to oscillate and she moaned in staccato cadence. The warning voice of before tolled again through the swamp that was her fevered mind: "Wrong... wrong... I love Mark, I must be faithful to him... not Sid... not with Sid... stop it... stop it... not again..."

But she couldn't stop it. She was incapable of pulling away, and she could only lie there on the couch and let her husband's political associate continue to work his hand down between her legs, to tease the hard bud of her clitoris and revel in her soft, elastic vaginal opening.

Christ, Buchanan thought, she really turns on, just like I hoped she would, this time, even though she knows it's me with her, I damn well knew she could after the way she got going last time. She's all fired up for a good fuck for the umpteenth time today, and when a woman like this gets that way, nothing else matters. He whispered in her ear: "Desirée, baby, help me... help me take your panties off..."

"No..." came the feeble answer. "Oh, God, no, Sid!"

"Yes..." he hissed back, and he moved around so that he hovered over her limply splayed legs, removing his finger from her wet, trembling pussy. He bunched her dress around her waist and hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and slid them down slowly over her full rounded young thighs and hips. Desirée tried to stop him, to yell out at him to leave her alone, but her body was controlled by other forces and, in spite of her hesitation, she found herself raising her hips obediently. And then her softly hair-lined, fragrant vagina came into view, and Buchanan gazed salaciously at it, his mouth watering at the beautiful sight.

The great manipulator drove his head savagely downward, unable to control his lusting emotions, and his lips mashed onto her vaginal lips, his tongue parting the softly curling pubic hair and slipping teasingly down the pink-rimmed valley. The sheriff's black cock had been in there today, but Sid didn't care because she tasted perfectly fresh and delicious. Desirée shuddered and involuntarily her legs spread a little wider, allowing him further room. She whined sharply and convulsed into lurches as his long, hot tongue speared her quaking flesh. And as he flicked his mouth and tongue around the velvety soft, flowing interior of her vagina, he unbuckled his pants and pushed them down with his shorts, allowing them to tangle around his ankles. Now that he had the little bitch so hot and ready, he did not want to take the time to fully undress. He was afraid she might suddenly come to her senses, and then all would be lost.

Desirée's mind was in complete turmoil now, the blood fever of his touch and then his mouth filling her with animal wantonness--yet the other part, the portion so satiated with alcohol as to render it nothing more than a protest in vain, cried out that this was wrong... all wrong and must stop!

And suddenly, Buchanan stopped.

He raised his head and grinned triumphantly down at her, his lips and chin wet with her sexual secretions.

"Sid... Sid... Sid..." was all that the crazed young housewife was able to chant to the manager.

"I'm going to fuck you now, my sweet little friend. I'm going to put my long, hard cock inside your pussy and cum in it." And with those words, the lasciviously grinning man moved across the writhing, weakly resisting body of his associate's wife. He held his huge lust-hardened cock at the open pink mouth of her wet, palpitating cunt, and then he levered forward, sending his sensitive, hungry cock sliding hotly, deliciously far up into her quivering young vagina.

Oh, God, he's inside me... he's inside me... in my vagina! His penis! It's happening again! Desirée thought vaguely, her mind and soul shattered by the liquor and the wretchedness of her emotions, and her body one huge sensation of pagan desire. He can't be doing this... he can't, and I can't be letting him, but he is. Not again, not another time today, with a man. Oh, he is... and, oh, God, it feels so good... I must stop him... but how can I when I can't stop myself?

Sid Buchanan's long, hard penis fucked up and down in her tight cuntal passage, causing her juices to flow like a river, his body heaving in demoniacal force as he drew his sperm-heavy cock nearly out of the clasping sheath of the mesmerized young Desirée's pussy, then plunged down again until his aching, bloated testicles slapped ruthlessly against her naked, twitching asshole, itself so sensitive and excitable after having been reamed so thoroughly today. She was itching there, her little anus, still raw from the acts performed in it this very day. He was so intent on the release of his nearly bursting orgasm that he almost forgot about Khalid al-Mazkum in the next room.

Khalid Al-Mazkum sucked in his breath sharply and felt a tingle of anticipation surge through his loins and stiffen his penis as he stealthily moved through the door and approached the pair on the couch, listening to the girl's half-repressed sighs and the liquid sounds of a cock sluicing in and out of a wet pussy. No, Buchanan hadn't been kidding. He heard the soft moan, a woman's throaty purr, and murmuring "Sid... Sid..."

His head nearly dizzy with the anticipatory thoughts of that lovely, naïve young wife of the aspiring politician being thoroughly fucked by Buchanan, of that luscious Desirée Denning first succumbing to Buchanan and then being available to him-- Allah! It was enough to send his semen shooting out right then and there!

He moved to the side of the couch.

Balls of the Prophet! He was really doing it! Old Sid Buchanan was fucking the hell out of sweet, innocent Desirée Denning! Khalid Al-Mazkum nearly staggered backwards with the dizzying excitement that the lewd, licentious coupling aroused in him. There was his business partner pumping up and down on top of Denning's angelic, lovely young wife, sinking his cock to its hilt between her widespread legs, his huge, hairy balls slapping noisily into the wide split of her buttocks, whapping down against her visible tight, pink anus. And there was Denning's wife undulating her body and buttocks in tiny, hungry circles, her face turned sideways so that the Arab could see the effect that the fucking was having on her body. Her features were contorted, as if in rapture, and her mouth hinged wide, her tongue licking her dry cherry-like lips. Slurpy, wet, sucking sounds were rising from the action of their genitals, and Khalid could see tiny ridges of tender tissue emerging from the pink-rimmed vagina as Buchanan stroked outward, which then folded back inside as he pushed back into the girl's hair-framed grotto of pleasure.

The chief of PLO Investments found his breath coming in tight gasps and the burning sensations in his belly growing to maddening proportions each moment as he watched the young, naïve girl being ravished. Her body perspired freely, and her forehead, cheeks, and upper lip were sheened with tiny beads of sweat. The heavy liquid from her clasping cunt was soaking the couch beneath her bouncing buttocks.

Desirée Denning looked almost inhuman to the Arab as he beadily focused on the wildly writhing couple. She was no longer human to him, but a grunting, panting, quivering mass of sweating, lust-deranged flesh that was begging for prolonged subjugation, was reveling in humiliation at being fucked by the evil, overweight unbeliever over her. She ground her buttocks lasciviously down into the cushions of the couch and the perspiration on her body and on the sales manager's skin glittered in the pale light of the desk lamp like moving diamonds.

Al-Mazkum couldn't stand it much longer. He slowly slid his hands down and stroked his burgeoning cock through his pants. Then, unable to resist the temptation, he unbuckled his pants and let them drop around his feet. He lifted one leg, his eyes still feasting on the lewd adultery going on before him, and removed one shoe and one pant-leg. Then the other, and then his underpants. He moaned, transfixed, his cock jutting forward from his loin, pressing against the arm of the couch by Sid's feet. The soft, expensive fabric of the furniture against the head of his cock made an odd tingling sensation. He rubbed his thick shaft up and down in time to the rhythmic drubbings of the manager, Buchanan, and the politician's wife, Desirée, as the evil one fucked into the other innocent one mercilessly.

Al-Mazkum watched with lust-filled eyes the actions on the couch, ready to crawl up on there with them to quench the fire raging through his penis and testicles. The sight of that virginal girl being buffeted by Buchanan without mercy was too much! Something had to give!

Something did.

The great manipulator, Buchanan, cried out, "Oh, Jesus! I'm going to cum! I'm going... AAHHHHHHHHHHH!" His body froze in mid-stroke, then hurtled downward again in an insane fury as his climax struck and his white hot semen spewed out of his balls like lava from a volcano, inundating Desirée Denning's vagina, filling her womb to the overflowing; Khalid Al-Mazkum could see his associate's hot sticky cum flow out around his cock and form a puddle on the expensive fabric beneath their sweating heaving bodies... Then Buchanan collapsed forward over the quivering woman, cooing his delight in her ears.