'Harder! Harder, fuck my cock harder, you little bitch!' her husband yelled, and fell into a babbling frenzy of curses which he rained over his wife's bobbing head in a desperate attempt to empty both his aroused physical needs and his tortured mental anguish into her.
Sharon sucked wildly; she was cock filled again, her body was being invaded, and the debauch seemed to drive away the horror of her position. This was all that was real now, there was nothing else as the rising spiral of her impending climax came crescendoing to her befuddled ears. She screwed her buttocks back against the ape's pistoning prick like a demon-bitch with distemper, and saliva dripped from her ovalling lips.
'Mmmmmmmmmmmm!' she moaned in muffled passion around her husband's surging cock. 'Mmmmmmmmmm!'
Great hot floods of juices began throbbing from the walls of her vagina and streamed out in gushes over the cock and balls of the animal fucking her and down between the widespread crevice of her buttocks. She splayed her legs high in the air and as wide apart as they could go to give Rajah's still pistoning cock greater access, and she thrust her loins back at the animal with brutal force. Her nostrils flared and one long last gasp of breath escaped raspingly from her lungs as though she had been hit in the stomach with a fist. She quivered as the peak of orgasm blasted her almost senseless.
Her jealously maddened husband sensed her climax and drove his cock deep down her throat. He could feel the hot surge of his own cum begin in his pulsing balls and then race headlong down the length of his penis and spew wildly into the depths of her mouth, filling her so that in spite of her swallowings, there was a lewd overflow of the white, creamy semen which ran down her cheek and matted in her flailing blonde hair.
The jungle brute, Rajah, suddenly began to froth around his thick, rubbery lips, and his narrow, marble eyes glazed over and unintelligible gruntings came from his mouth. He jerked forward and his giant penis spit its hot alien sperm deep into the clasping, pink cunt. Neal watched in fascination as his wife's buttocks began contracting heavily and uncontrollably, signalling the orgastic upheaval deep down in her womb. Thick, white seminal fluid cascaded from the flowered lips of her lust-tightened vagina, squeezing and milking the cock of the grunting ape, forming thin trails of viscid liquid which ran obscene rivulets down her spastically flexing thighs. And then the rapidly deflating cock of the great beast slipped wetly from her ravaged passage, and Rajah began to back off from between the legs of the young woman, his needs satiated for the moment.
But it was still not enough for the drugged, totally demoralized young woman. She grunted out the last of her orgasm while demoniacally bucking her beautiful body upwards. Neal clenched his eyes tightly shut, some form of sanity returning now that he had creamed wildly in her mouth. He looked down at his lust-crazed blonde wife and tears of humiliation washed down his cheeks.
'Oh… Neal, darling, love me. Fuck me now… I want more, more…' whimpered Sharon Court. The ache that was her love for this man was ready to burst her heart. But she couldn't stop herself from her crazed desire now, a lusting, carnal lover of the flesh; Lord Marlowe, the Alvaros, Wafto, and the ape, Rajah, had all played their parts too well. The defilement of the lovely innocent wife had been too thorough, too depraved for any reconciliation with all the tenderness she and her husband had shared in the past.
Neal closed his eyes and a wracking sob choked his throat, and he tenderly placed a hand on her fevered brow. His spirit was totally crushed by the horrible experience. Sadness hung heavy in the pall of the sexual aftermath.
Rajah was in one corner now, happily eating his diet of fruits and vegetables, his animal mind oblivious to the scene that he in part had caused. Wafto was with him, the prideful keeper of the trained beast, his lecherous mind uncaring as to what he had himself partially created.
Marlowe looked at Neal Court and Sharon. 'Go on, Neal,' he urged in a whisper. 'Fuck her like she asks. Get down there and join in the fun. Or take Lena, like before. She's hell on wheels. We've got a long night of fun and games ahead of us.'
'Right,' Rodney Alvaro urged him. 'Go on; your wife wants you to fuck her.'
'Please, Neal… please fuck me.'
But the others hadn't taken into account the true effects such a scene as he had witnessed would have on the young husband. Or perhaps not enough potion had been fed him, for different human bodies have different reactions and the drug had worn off Neal before he was quite a convert to the lewd and debauched way of life at Marlowe Manor. Or perhaps it was that no manner of persuasion would have worked on the man, that he was too strong for their wiles. Whatever the case, Neal Court looked up and around at the glittering, lusting eyes of his tormentors, and said quietly, 'No.'
There was a stunned silence. Neal climbed down off the bed, his head bent with sorrow and didn't even look back at the bed where lay his hungrily writhing wife.
'Neal… don't leave me, darling!' she pleaded, and his heart broke, but he kept on, half walking, half staggering to the door of the bedroom and then down the hall to his own room.
He was too distraught, too confused, too emotionally shattered to feel or do anything right. He got dressed hastily and tried to shut out of his mind the raucous cries of the dwarf as Wafto could be heard clambering eagerly between his wife's widespread legs and Sharon's answering moans of 'fuck faster… fuck faster!'
He stood for a moment by the banister, suitcase in hand, and wondered if he should go back in there and become like they were for the sake of his wife. That by doing so he might find a way in time of salvaging her. But he knew instinctively that there was nothing he could do to save her now. She had found her new place. He would have to go home and find his way in this unforgiving world without her. He started down the steps to the front door. He had never felt so lost or useless in his entire life.
CHAPTER NINE
The incident at Marlowe Manor happened six months ago. To Neal Court, who can be found these days in the taverns along Broadway between 65th to 80th streets, it might have happened yesterday. His mind still dwells on the nightmare he witnessed, of the wild, excitedly grunting beast and his wife locked nakedly together on the bed, and his own crazed reaction… or of the long, grim trek back from the manor house, across the moors to the first town, Snowston… or of that first, unnamed pub in which he stopped to collect his thoughts and found that it was easier to keep on drinking than to think.
The patrons of Manny's or the Iron Key or Proud Mary or the other bars along the boulevard are typical New Yorkers. They've heard it all and seen everything and take with cynicism and boredom the tales that outsiders bring to the brass railing. But they shy away from Neal Court, sensing in some inexplicable way that there is a deep, black grief which is eating with a brooding, sharp agony at the man, that his uninterrupted silence hides a secret which they wouldn't want to hear even if the chance were to be given. There is a malignancy about Neal Court, they say, one which festers, and that no amount of alcohol dissipates. They always leave a stool empty on either side of the man, these jaded pragmatists of upper Broadway, and they hope that one of these days the man who sits alone and never speaks will move on.
He will. His money that he so diligently saved when he was married is about used up, and the cheapest hotel in the area is on 80th, the Union Central, and it charges fourteen dollars a week, which Neal no longer has. He plans to move to the Bowery, where the other derelicts of life ultimately wash together, where a bottle of wine is more important to sleep with than a bed, where privacy is more honored than even in this disreputable neighborhood. He thinks about that, but only when necessary, because any other than those of that last night in England are unwelcome and soon forgotten.
Neal raises the shot glass of cheap bourbon to his trembling lips and drinks it, mentally toasting for the hundred thousandth time his ex-boss, the ancestral head of Marlowe Manor, the dwarf servant, the nymphetic black-haired wife, and the ape. Especially Rajah; here's to Rajah. He puts his hand forward again and nods to the beefy bartender to fill the glass again.
Only once in the six months he's been a part of the seamy area has anybody ever seen the tired, rejected man break down and show some of the emotion he has bottled up inside him. Only once; on a rainy night at three a.m. when there was only two other regular customers and the sleepy bartender in The Captain's Table to see it. Neal Court sat alone as always, way back in a corner at one of the small, bench-like tables which give the bar its
