his cock-shaft until it burst through the parted glans into the dilated interior of Susan's rectal depths, filling the young wife with a radiant burst of wet heat that even further enhanced her throbbing delight.
The three-way orgasm seemed to go on forever, until finally Art pulled his cock from Susan's drenched pussy and collapsed exhausted on the floor, leaving only Sal to complete his last few hard strokes until he too, was drained of his sperm. Then even Sal was still lying on the floor with Susan's body still pressed tightly to his.
It was all the sodomized young wife could do to remain conscious after the overwhelming experience of her double fuck. Nothing so shattering had ever even remotely happened to her before, and her naked young body was still bathed in the lascivious glow of her experience. She could feel Sal withdrawing his limp rod from her stretched and seething rectum, leaving her lying alone on her side on the soft carpet.
'Well, get a load of this, will ya,' she heard Art saying. Turning slowly, as if in a dream, she saw Tanya slumped against the wall near the entranceway, her vaginal passage completely exposed and glistening with a tell- tale moisture. Beside her lay the yellow candle, and there was a sly smile on her face as she picked it up to indicate to her corrupt lover what she had been up to while he had been fucking the young wife.
'Art, my man,' Susan heard Sal remark, 'that's a mighty fine gal you got there, a mighty fine gal.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
'Hey, dig this ashtray,' Art shouted to Sal in the living room of the Jameson house. He was holding a porcelain ashtray from Austria, a delicate painted piece that was one of Susan's favorite objects. 'Pure shit!'
He slammed the object against the wall and the distraught young housewife shuddered miserably as it smashed to bits. The living room was a complete mess now, bits of shattered china and broken knickknacks scattered everywhere. After the long orgy, Sal, Tanya and Art had continued their drinking spree and run through the house, completely naked, searching through drawers, scattering belongings everywhere, while Susan watched them, not permitted to raise even the feeblest protest. Art had forced her to continue drinking also, and for awhile she had lost all consciousness of her old identity, laughing drunkenly, dancing obscenely at their commands. But now, as twilight faded into early evening, this latest wrecking spree initiated by Art had begun to sober her up quite a bit. Her house, her beautiful house that she had taken such pains to decorate, was being destroyed. This had been her sanctuary, where she hoped to obliterate the ugliness of her childhood and the haunting memory of Miss Whitfield and the others, but now, thanks to Art and his corrupt friends, her cozy retreat was being ruined.
'Hey, Susie, look at this,' Art crowed as he entered the living room from a brief sojourn on the upper floor. The young wife and Sal, who had stayed in the living room to keep an eye on her, glanced up in time to see Tanya prance into the room with a long piece of white lace wrapped around her firmly rounded young body. Susan recognized the material at once — it was one of the long curtains that hung on the bedroom windows, gossamer white lace. Now Art's blonde girl friend danced around the room with the fragile fabric clutched around her curvaceous form. The material had obviously been ripped down crudely, for there were large holes and tears in the cloth. Tim's young wife felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes as she sat dismally in the armchair and watched the crude spectacle taking place before her.
'The bitch is cryin', Art,' Sal remarked with a sneer. 'Look, she's all uptight 'cause we're fuckin' up the house.'
'Yeah, well cry your eyes out, cunt, 'cause we ain't through yet. I guess you don't know what it's like to have to scrape your life together like a beggar, huh? Livin' from hand to mouth. We never had shit like this, big beautiful palaces that you pampered bitches live in all day readin' magazines!'
Suddenly Susan felt a flash of anger welling up inside her, a torrent of violent resentment that suddenly tore loose like a raging hurricane.
'It's not true!' she shouted, suddenly rising to her feet, shaking with fury. 'I wasn't born into this, I was an orphan, I lived without a penny when I was a child, and all I had was a wooden bed! I never had anything until I got married! Never! And now you and your filthy friends are ruining it! You think you're the only ones who've had it hard, but you're not! And I hate you! I hate all of you!'
There was a momentary silence in the room, as the others listened to her unexpected angry speech in open-mouthed awe. Tanya let the material fall from her tanned body, and glanced at Art and Sal. Susan's vicious reaction was completely unexpected and took them all by surprise.
'Well, well, well,' Art said calmly after a long silence, 'so you've got some guts after all, bitch. Good for you. Guess you ain't such a mealy-mouthed chick as I thought. In fact I'd say you got as much anger inside you as we got, maybe more, I don't know. But I tell you one thing, sister, you got to let that anger out! All of it, and all this furniture and crap won't mean a thing 'til you do. Take it from me, Susie, I got more anger in me than any fifty people I know. You think I'm a pervert, maybe a criminal, nuts too… and maybe I am… but I got a right to be! Oh, baby, believe me I got a right to be. My old man was a junkie — he made my mother whore for him to get bread for smack. And when I got old enough he made me pimp for her. Sal here got sent up to prison when he was twelve for stealin' some food so his family could eat.'
'I never had nothin' either,' Tanya said, looking directly at the young wife. 'All my life I've been treated like a piece of shit. Art here's the first guy to take care of me nice. Guess you can't believe that, seein' how we are. But it's true. Sure he knocks me around now and then…'
'Yeah, but you like it, bitch,' her boy friend reminded her.
'Sure, I like it. I like it the way you do it, honey. But that ain't all… sometimes… when I'm real scared… he'll cool me out… and I don't feel so scared no more. It's crazy, but nobody gave me so much as a pot to piss in before. Art made me somebody, somebody I like bein'.'
The young wife found herself listening to their stories with rapt attention. She even experienced a certain amount of… of sympathy toward them. They had humiliated her beyond measure and were now destroying her home, yet there was an odd kinship between them all, for all four of them had struggled up from the very bottom of society's depths. It was ironic, bitterly ironic, but true.
'So now you got a husband and a fine house,' Art continued, 'and all we got's a fleabag existence runnin' from cops. But you're like us, baby, you got a real big anger inside you, you got to let out. I know it, I know it from the way you start howlin' like a dog when I fuck you, like you ain't never had nothin' so good in your whole life. You're startin' to let it out… let it out all the way!'
'What… what do you mean?' the young wife stammered nervously.
'I mean you got to let go of that anger like you mean it,' the young man replied. 'That is, if you got the guts to do it.'
Suddenly Susan understood something that she had struggled for years to comprehend. No matter how she had tried before she could never let go, particularly sexually. But with Art she had finally broken through her resistance, and found, strange as it seemed, that she had begun to experience her real self for the first time in her life, her real sexuality. She knew now, knew with unshakable certainty, that it wasn't her fear that had kept her locked up, but her anger. Anger at the world for giving her a hopeless childhood, anger at Miss Whitfield for twisting her mind and making sex a thing to be ashamed of, anger at herself for letting herself be such a willing victim to so many lies and injustices. Maybe Art had hit the nail right on the head, maybe the heart of the problem lay in her anger, not her fear.
'But how… how can I let it out?' she asked curiously. 'I don't know how to do it.'
As if from nowhere, her youthful tormentor produced his switchblade knife and snapped it open, making Susan start with fear.
'Don't worry, baby, this ain't for you. Watch.' He went over to the sofa, motioning for Sal to leave it, then plunged the knife into the soft thickness of the upholstery on the seat and made a wide gash. At once cotton stuffing erupted from the wide hole he made and steel springs shot upward, ruining the couch.
'Don't!' the young wife shouted angrily.
'You see,' Art said, turning to face her, 'all this shit means more to you than getting yourself straightened out. You're too scared to let it out. Here. Take this knife, baby, and stick it in that armchair. Rip it to god damn shreds and see what happens.'
'Don't give her the knife, Art,' Sal cautioned.
'It's okay, she won't do nothin'.'
