Chapter 9

By nature, Velma Watkins was not a suspicious woman. But after living with her husband for sixteen years, she was not only suspicious - she was paranoid.

A voluptuous blonde with striking large tits and an ass that was almost comically sexy, Velma had peered into Sylvia's bedroom when she got home. There she found a bra and a pair of panties on the floor, both cut with scissors. She knew for a fact they were not Sylvia's underthings.

She knew this because she often poked around in her daughter's underthings, looking for soiled panties. When she found a pair with traces of Sylvia's cuntjuice in the crotch, Velma lustfully sniffed and licked them while she pumped her vibrator deep in her hot pussy, until she came in fierce gushes of pussy juice.

Velma often fantasized taking Sylvia's cherry with her vibrator, after going down on her for an hour or two, of course. She'd just recently discovered the strange joys of pussy-eating from her boyfriend's daughter, who was no match for Sylvia when it came to sexy curves and a pretty face.

In her daughter's bedroom, Velma also found her vibrator, lying on the soiled bed-sheets. As if this weren't enough, there were lengths of nylon cord tied to the bed-frame.

What the hell was going on in this house? Buzz's wife made herself a stiff drink and sat down with a cigarette, thinking deeply. Something had obviously happened to Sylvia. Should she call the cops?

She was married to one, she recalled with disgust.

All sorts of lurid and frightening possibilities raced through Velma's mind.

Hardly a genius, she was nevertheless smarter than her husband. Glancing at her watch, Velma realized he would be off duty in another thirty minutes or so. Should she wait or call now?

Her dilemma was solved for her when the phone rang. Velma quickly answered. A woman's husky voice spoke rapidly and hung up. For a few minutes, Velma sat, blinking her eyes, gulping a fresh drink and wondering what the hell was going on.

The woman said Velma's husband and daughter were having an orgy with her. Now what kind of weird bullshit was that? It just didn't sound possible, not with Buzz Watkins, who believed that all freako-perverts who had orgies should be lined up against a brick wall and shot down with sub-machine guns.

Velma herself had just come from a swinging three-way, and in fact she was a trifle pissed because she'd had to cut the delicious triangle short in order to be home before her husband arrived.

But the woman sounded dead serious. Velma shook her head and made herself still another stiff drink. Was it a trap? Did her violent ape-like husband know about her lusty affair with the adult bookstore owner and his daughter?

It smelled suspiciously like some sort of trap to Velma. But if it were true, then Velma's hot lust would be on easy street.

Because she'd catch Buzz in the act with Sylvia and this unknown woman. With that kind of leverage, Velma would end up having sex with her gorgeous daughter, too. It sounded just too good to be true. It just had to be some sort of cunning trap on her jealous husband's part.

But what about the mangled bra and panties upstairs, and her vibrator and the ropes on the bed? Had Buzz flipped his lid finally and tied Sylvia down and raped her with the vibrator?

That didn't make sense, either, not with Buzz's enormous prick. In spite of his crazed vendetta against freako-pussy-eating-perverts and dope-infested-virgin-fucking-bastards, Buzz Watkins could do anything her vibrator could do, and better. She had to say that for the maniac.

Velma gulped her drink down, trying to decide. If she hadn't been so paranoid and feverishly cautious from living with Buzz for so many years, she would have shot out the door the minute she got the phone call.

But what did she have to lose by checking it out?

"Nothing," Velma said aloud. And if it were true, oh wowwwwww! She would, after all these frustrating, madly exasperating long years with the raging pervert-smasher, have him by his big, hairy balls.

He would have to share Sylvia with her. And, to cap it off, Velma could continue her hot action on the side with her horny boyfriend and his daughter.

What was she waiting for?

The address! Was it 123 Sutton Drive, Apartment 1? Or 121 Sutton Drive, Apartment 3? She should have written it down!

After living with a man who made all her decisions for her for so many years, including when to wash her pussy and wag her overripe ass, Velma was not big on efficiency.

But when she finally moved, it was with grim-jawed purpose. She'd check both addresses out!

First, Velma had to stop at a gas station and get directions to Sutton Drive. She carefully wrote them down. Then she drove to 123, which had to be it, because his car was parked at the curb.

Velma strode up the stairs, wishing she'd had one more stiff drink before she'd left. But she'd face him on his own raw terms this time, if it wasn't a trap.

She pressed her ear to the door of Apartment 3. She heard low screams and a growl she definitely recognized. Softly, Velma opened the door. She slipped inside the apartment. She headed toward the obscene sounds - the bedroom. The door was open.

She stepped in the doorway, focusing her eyes.

What Velma saw made her lusty breasts heave and her sultry mouth open wide. It was Buzz, all right, and he was screwing Sylvia. In the ass! Tied down on the bed was a beautiful, long-legged brunette. And Sylvia was eating her pussy!

Velma could only stand and gape in shock. After all the years of listening to her husband rant and rave about pussy-eating perverts, after being savagely back-handed by the gorilla for hinting that he might go down on her pussy, it was the most beautiful sight Velma had ever seen.

She did not know what the term poetic justice meant, but it was what she witnessed. She took a deep breath. "Buzz Watkins!" she roared, coming up to the bed. "Buzz Watkins, you are a pervert!"