“I say you’re a bitch. Am I right?”
Her frown vanished. “Yes.”
“I’m always right. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes. You’re always right.”
“What am I?”
“You’re the key.”
“What are you?”
“I’m the lock.”
He was feeling better by the minute. Not so tense as he had been. Not so jittery. Calm. In control. As he’d never been. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “You’d like me to strip you naked and screw you. Wouldn’t you like that, Brenda?”
She hesitated.
“You’d like it,” he said.
“I’d like it.”
“You’d
“I’d love it.”
“Take off your halter.”
Reaching behind her back, she slipped the knot, and the polka-dot cloth fell to her feet. The flesh beneath was white, in stark and erotic contrast to her dark tan. Her breasts were neither large nor small, but exquisitely curved, upthrust. A few freckles. Pink nipples not much darker than her untanned skin. She kicked the halter out of her way.
“Touch them,” he said.
“My breasts?”
“Squeeze them. Pull on the nipples.” He watched, found her movements too mechanical, and said, “You’re horny, Brenda. You want to be fucked. You can’t wait to have me. You need it. You want it. You want it more than you’ve ever wanted it in your life. You’re almost sick with wanting it. ”
As she continued to caress herself, her nipples swelled and turned a darker shade of pink. She was breathing heavily.
He giggled. He couldn’t suppress it. He felt terrific. So terrific. “Take off your shorts.”
She did.
“And your panties. You’re a real blonde, I see. Now, put one hand between those pretty legs. Finger yourself. That’s it. That’s good. That’s a good girl.”
Standing, her feet wide apart, masturbating, she was a stunning sight. She threw back her head, golden hair trailing like a banner, mouth open, face slack. She was gasping for breath. Shivering. Twitching. Moaning. With her free hand, she was still caressing her breasts.
The power. Good God, the power he had over them now, would always have over them, from this day forward! He could come into their homes, into their most sacred and private places, and once inside do whatever he wished with them. And not just with the women. Men too. If he ordered it of them, the men would mewl and crawl to him on their hands and knees. They would beg him to screw their wives. They’d give him their daughters, their girl children. They wouldn’t deny him any experience, however extravagant or outrageous. He would demand every thrill, and he would enjoy each of them. But on the whole, he would be a benign ruler, a benevolent dictator, more like a father than a jailer. No jackboots in their faces. He laughed at that last thought. Ten years ago, when he was still conducting lecture tours and writing about the future of behavior modification and mind control, he was subjected to extensive ridicule and vehement condemnation from some members of the academic community. In lecture halls, all but forcibly detained at the end of his speeches, he had listened to countless self-righteous bores droning through homilies about invasion of privacy and the sanctity of the human mind. They quoted hundreds of great thinkers, epigrams by the score — some of which he remembered to this day. There was one about the future of mankind amounting to little more than a jackboot in the face. Well, that was crap. Jackboots, and the cruel authoritarian state they symbolized, were only a means of keeping the masses in line. Now, with his drug and the key-lock program, jackboots had become obsolete. No one would have a jackboot pushed in his face. Of course, for selected women, he had something else to push in their faces. Massaging himself through his trousers, he laughed. The power. The sweet, sweet power.
“Brenda. ”
Shuddering, gasping, her knees bending slightly, she climaxed as her index finger worked industriously between her legs.
“Brenda.”
At last she looked up at him. She was beginning to perspire. Her hair was dark and damp at the brow.
He said, “Go to that sofa. Kneel on it with your back to me, and brace your arms against the pillows.”
When she was in position, her white butt thrust up at him, she looked over her shoulder. “Hurry. Please.”
Laughing, he shoved the coffee table out of the way, sent it sliding off the carpet, across the hardwood floor and into the magazine rack. He stood behind her, dropped his trousers and his yellow-striped shorts. He was ready, the veins about to burst, hard as iron, bigger than he’d ever been, big as a stallion’s gun, a horse cock. And red. So red it looked as if it had been smeared with blood. He ran one hand over her buttocks, over the golden hairs on her back, along her side, under to the swinging breast, pinched the nipple, smoothed her flank, pinched her ass, slipped his fingers between her thighs, to her pubes. She was wet, dripping, far more ready than he was. He could even smell her. Giggling, he said, “You’re a bitch in more ways than one. A regular little bitch dog. A little animal. Aren’t you, Brenda?”
“Yes.”
“Say you’re a little animal.”
“I am. I’m a little animal.”
The power.
“What do you want, Brenda?”
“I want you to screw me.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“How bad do you want it?”
“Real bad.”
Sweet, sweet power.
“What do you want?”
“You know!”
“Do I?”
“I already said!”
“Say it again.”
“You’re humiliating me.”
“I haven’t even begun.”
“Oh, God.”
“Listen to me, Brenda.”
“What?”
“Your cunt’s getting hotter.”
She groaned softly. Shuddered.
“Feel it, Brenda?”
“Yes.”
“Hotter and hotter. ”
“I don’t — I can’t—”
“You can’t stand it?”
“So hot. Almost hurts.”
He smiled. “Now what do you want?”
“I want you to screw me.”
