sucked him dry. Yeah, ol' Margaret here was doing all right for a Swede.
Margaret slaved over his loins, desperately trying not to choke on the pulsing fleshy cock invading her throat; it was so big! Each time his muscular abdomen slapped against her moistly pursed lips, the terrible punishing thing pushed lewdly against the back of her throat and at first, thinking she would surely be choked to death, she had fought it back, gasping and coughing with each of his vicious skewering thrusts. But gradually she had found a way to relax her throat muscles and now it wasn't as bad. He would pull it almost all the way out of her wetly clasping mouth, out over her widely ovalled lips until the lust-swollen head of his cock was between her teeth, and then he would begin that dreaded instroke, that journey deep into her tender throat. Somehow that hardened shaft managed to bend just enough when its throbbing head rammed against the back of her gullet to go down, lubricated with her hot saliva and the first slippery traces of his seminal fluid oozing fitfully from the tiny opening on the end of his prick. And every time it went down, she would have to swallow or choke, and soon she realized that the flexing of her own throat muscles was bringing on the inevitable torrent of hot cum even sooner, and she viewed the climax with mixed emotions. She wanted it over, to be rid of his pulsating rod that gagged and choked her so painfully… but the thought of what was coming next, his ejaculated cum emptying down her throat like she was a common whore! Sandor had never made her swallow it; in fact, he'd kept a box of kleenex next to his bed for just that purpose.
Margaret tried not to swallow, but she choked immediately and he pulled it out for a moment, rubbing its still throbbing head over her moistly smeared lips, and she could taste the beginning of the end as small whitish drops of his fluid oozed from the slit end and onto her tongue. He took the blunted head between his clenched fingers and lewdly, obscenely, painted her lips with his warm, slightly saline discharge, leaving them glistening from his impatiently dribbling semen. She was totally beaten now, kneeling at his feet like a servant girl in the old country.
Roger felt the telltale twitch of his loins and could feel the dammed-up seething flood of hot semen restlessly surging behind the restraints of his aching balls as he slowly, rhythmically, pumped in and out of her ovalled lips, savoring every inch of his delicious instroke as it disappeared agonizingly down her velvety throat channel. He wanted to feel every screaming millimeter of his cum's long fast run from his lust-distended balls of his prick's throbbing, blood-filled head, and his hands squeezed in on her ears now, holding her absolutely motionless in his strong grip while he rammed his cock down, deeper and deeper down that tight, constrictive little throat.
Ah, here it comes, he thought, it's cumming… it's cumming! He could feel the hot sperm rushing out of his testicles and up the bottom of his prick, and he stopped dead still, his madly throbbing cock rammed all the way to his pubic hair down her hungry throat, her head perfectly still, as he waited impatiently for the building explosion in his loins…
'Aaaahhhh!' he gasped anxiously, emptying his lungs as, at that same infinitesimal second, he emptied his sperm-laden balls.
Margaret sucked voraciously, harder and harder, for as strongly as her better reasoning had dictated, now – tasting his pungency for the first time – she wanted it. She wanted every precious drop of his hot seething flood, and she sucked at the long quivering cock, swallowing and gulping its gushing waves of heated thick fluid like a starving animal. Her arms spontaneously wrapped around his hips as she knelt at his feet, pulling his powerful loins in hard against her face and lips until every hot swallow was safely down her eagerly working throat.
He looked down at the kneeling figure of the love-starved widow and smiled as she finally pulled her hungrily sucking mouth away from his pelvis, a thin sticky trail of semen dangling from her lips and chin like a spider's web. Yes sir, she was right where he wanted her, nothing stood in his way now, those checks might as well be his!
But Roger had other things on his mind… other things that the love-starved widow would not have understood in her silent modest humility. Things a God-fearing woman such as herself didn't even know happened in a big city where everyone is prey to other lethal talons.
CHAPTER TWO
Chris O'Brien took one look at her checkbook balance and swore. Damn! There was no way she could pay the rent and afford bus fare too, not to mention coincidentals like laundry and an occasional glass of wine. Then the worst realization imaginable struck the sandy haired girl between the eyes like 40,000 watts of voltage: there was no more money coming in until she found a job. Thank God they were getting food stamps!
Oh God! What to do? She collapsed on the single bed that squeeked under her slender weight and, covering her face with her hands, she wept, her five-foot four-inch body rocking back and forth on the Indian print bedspread. Why had she insisted on coming to San Francisco without a job? Her uncle Frank had warned her, her aunt Violet, her father, and her very own younger sister. But no, Chris O'Brien was going to prove her independence regardless of the ominous odds. So what if California already suffered from 13% unemployment, not to mention the spate of 18-22 year old jobless, of which she was but a statistic. Chris would prove them all overly cautious and narrow-minded. She would come in cold, get a well-paying, creative job with travel benefits. After all, she had a college diploma in one hand and a portfolio brimming with talent in the other. What more could she have going for her? Her professors at the University had encouraged her, telling her she should try cracking into the fashion design market out here on the West Coast. Sure, they'd said, it you want to start a career, go to New York; but the West Coast has lots more amenities. Now, after two months of scouring the streets, all she could show for her efforts was a bad blister on her left heel and an arm-long list of useless telephone numbers and contacts. And no money.
A roar as loud as her own crying rocketed through the Geary Street apartment, the din's vibrating rattle making the stereo groan, then skip a cut. Chris pounded an angry fist into her knee. And this hole! It was filthy and noisy, snorted Chris. You couldn't listen to a record album without a bus interrupting everytime its brakes ground to a halt to repeat its never ending route up and down Geary Street all night. But you could hardly complain to a landlord about cockroaches and broken windows when you still owed last month's rent and had no prospects for paying the current month's either. You bit your lip and endured: that was city living.
What could she do? Chris bit into her trembling lower lips and stared blurrily at the yellow cracked wall. She might as well call her parents collect and humiliate herself by asking them to send her a one-way ticket back to Detroit and forget there was any part of America west of the Mississippi River. No. That would be giving in, sniffed Chris, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She'd rather work at the telephone company, God forbid, than do that – if they were hiring.
The twenty-two year old slim-hipped girl braced her foot on the bed board and, out of habit, twisted to reach her cigarettes on the night stand. With a wince and a snap of her fingers she remembered she'd smoked the last one last night – or had her roommate bummed it? She couldn't remember which. Just yesterday she'd spent her last cash on a pair of stockings she didn't like, to wear to a job interview for a job she didn't want. Damn! she hissed, clenching her fists. We've got to do something. Anything!
And her roommate Sandy was no help either. God, she couldn't keep a dollar in her pocket for five minutes without it sending up flames. That, thought Christ pacing in front of the window, is the whole trouble with Sandy. Drugs. Money spent uselessly on drugs, and all it got you was a headache and another day in debt. In school it had been no problem even though they'd roomed together since neophyte freshman. One collect phone call to the folks telling them you needed another easel or art book, and the check was in the mail pronto. Now, being twenty-two and independent, neither of the girls could expect anything in the mail except for a good wish and a stamped, self-addressed envelope to back home. A case of responsibility, pure and simple.
Chris put her finger to her lip and concentrated on the old man across the street, stooping over to pick up cigarette butts from the gutter. Where had last summer's savings gone? She tapped her foot, mentally counting off the dollars. Rent-$70, clothes-about $10, rock concerts… ummm, that's where a good share of it had gone. And dope. One pound of top grade marijuana that she and Sandy had bought the first week in San Francisco. 'Good stuff… safe connection… you can sell it, keep a couple lids for yourselves and make a killing on the rest.' Right, thought Chris with a sarcastic nod of the head. Safe investment, huh! The dealer, some guy Sandy had picked up in the park and brought home for an afternoon of frolic and post-hippie lovemaking, sold them the goods and
