who would be buying.
What on earth was he up to? A tiny tendril of suspicion entered her mind. Damn it! He was preparing her for public exhibition. Did this miserable little bastard of a breaker and enterer think he was going to take her out in public, show her off on his paroled arm, do his ultimate best to scuttle her career?
No god damned way! It was bad enough to be raped by him-bad enough to know she no longer had the will power to resist his eight inches of persuasion. But Paula was damned if she was going to cooperate in her own destruction. He could fuck her again someday if she were stupid enough not to change the lock on the garage door. She knew she was going to have write this off to experience, would never dare blow the whistle on this little bastard and try to convince some grinning leering cop that he had really raped her. But no way was she going to dress up and go out on the street and be seen in public with this cruddy little loser!
He led her out of the bath and into her front room. Still naked, Paula wondered what he was going to suggest and then abruptly she knew it was not the way she had imagined it. He wasn't going to take her out to dinner or show her off anywhere. Harry had been preparing her for something else. Now she belatedly remembered his brief phone conversation. Whom had he been talking with? She was going to find out very soon, she guessed.
The front door of her house was opening.
CHAPTER 12
Now why, Paula wondered, hadn't she thought of that? With a sinking feeling she knew exactly what it was she had not thought of. The signs were all there. Harry Riggs had always been a loser-not even a competent breaker and enterer if success is measured by the time one manages to stay out of the Joint.
He had been mild-mannered, unaggressive. Of course he had always lusted after her but that was only natural. All of them lusted after anything with tits except those who had been converted into flaming queens by their sojourn in the Joint.
So what had sparked Harry Riggs's unassertive personality into rape? Some kind of dope, of course. But where had he gotten it and who had he taken it with? Who had discussed things with him?
She could see it all now: a couple of gray-faced losers doping somewhere in a cheap room, telling recreational lies about all the women they had fucked, and then Harry would go into some song and dance about the pair of jugs on his parole officer and Jesus, wouldn't he like to get his cock into her!
One thing would have led to another and, two heads being twice as bad as one, the scheme would have been hatched. And Harry Riggs's mind must have been blown right out of his head at the totally unforeseen success of his crazy idea. He would have gone back and told his partner all about it, would have been disbelieved, would have offered proofs and grudgingly the other would have decided it was worth a try. The man coming through the door would be wondering if it was for real or if he was entering a trap to face a dozen hard-faced cops with shotguns.
There would be little room for doubt in his mind once he found his friend naked in her living room. And once his eyes burned over the contours of Paula's lush, freshly bathed and powdered body clad only in her public hair, there would be no doubt at all.
Christ almighty! Without even hesitating to check out the scene, the stranger was peeling off his topcoat and dropping it on the floor behind him. He gave Harry a brief glance and flicker of greeting, then turned and shot the front door bolt behind him. He was the fastest undresser she had ever witnessed. Strewing clothes like a miniature tornado, he waltzed about her living room, dancing on one leg and then the other rather than sit down and take his pants off the easy way. Must be some habit from prison days, Paula guessed.
He was a little taller than Harry Riggs, perhaps a couple of inches taller than she was. He was also younger, with bright red hair still short in a prison cut. And saving up god only knew how many years' accumulation of frustrated fucking to punish my poor pussy.
He turned to face her again and she saw a vulpine similarity to Harry-a street wisdom that transcended anything that can be learned from books. She wondered what screw was missing in his mental equipment-what had turned him against society and made him a loser instead of a successful politician or businessman. But her attention was not really focused on his face. She was studying the hard-on that jutted aggressively from a pubic patch of the same luxuriantly red ringlets as his scalp.
His cock was not as big as Harry's. But neither had its swollen tumescence been reduced twice in as many hours. The red-headed man's cock was circumcised. With a little shiver of anticipation Paula realized she was about to garner another new experience. She despised herself for not being horrified, for not being terror-stricken. The two of them were going to use her up like a Kleenex. And, she realized, they would dispose of her with no more compunction than if she were a used Kleenex once they had satiated their long-standing hard-ons.
And still she could not get herself into the proper frame of mind for a rape victim. Against her will she felt her eyes riveted on that great thumping bald-headed hard-on. She had never actually seen a circumcised cock before, she abruptly realized. She knew about such things from an intellectual stand-point but to stand naked in her own living room and look at a naked stranger with a naked, bald, dry-headed cock was carrying carnal knowledge beyond the sterile bounds of intellectualization. God, it looked big!
What would it feel like to have that great dry cockhead driving into her? Would it hurt? Irrelevantly, she caught herself wondering about something far afield from her forthcoming rape. She knew well enough how men played on their skin flutes to alleviate loneliness, using a loving hand to slide a foreskin up and down, back and forth over the slick glistening sensitivity of a throbbing cockhead. It was not all that different from the things lonely women were wont to do with a finger, a candle, a banana or even a mop handle if there was no man handy to supply a natural need.
But what recourse was there for a man whose parents in some savage and sadistic mood had decided to punish him in advance for having a body, for having needs like any other human being? His cockhead was bald and dry. There was no way to cosset it into the splendor of a solitary eruption. Staring wide-eyed at her first circumcised cock she also abruptly realized that this cockhead had spent a lifetime rubbing bare against his clothes-against everything. It would be calloused, insensitive. It would be dry and would hurt like hell going into her but if she could contribute enough of love's lubrication…
There was a sudden revolution in her belly as she realized that this man's loss was her gain. He would be hair trigger from months, possibly years of accumulated lust. But his bald-headed, calloused cock would also be inured to friction that he might have a staying power beyond her wildest and most lascivious dreams.
My god, she thought, what's happened to you? It's bad enough being raped. Do you have to look forward to it? Pollyanna couldn't have been more cheerful facing the prospect of two sex-starved losers-men desperate enough to do her in once they were through doing it in her.
But it was too late now. If only she'd had a little willpower she could have nipped this whole thing in the bud. A couple of hours ago Harry would have slunk off with his eight deflated inches between his legs if she'd been firm enough to ignore that firm phallus, to tell him in no-nonsense terms to go fuck off instead of dithering and tacitly inviting him to fuck her.
In an even contest she suspected she might even have been able to fight off Harry Biggs, jockey-sized breaker and enterer. But two men bound on fucking her? There was no way now-nothing Paula could do to avert the forthcoming bacchanalia. 'No,' she moaned.
The red-haired, bald-cocked stranger grinned at Harry who stood behind her, naked as she was, as he was, holding her lightly by her upper arms. Then, unable to resist, she felt Harry's grip pulling her down until her rubbery legs collapsed and she lay on her back in the middle of her living room wall-to-wall.
Belatedly, she understood what this meant. Her bed was big enough for her. It had been ample for her and for Harry only minutes ago. But now there were three players in this erotic game and the bed was big enough only for two. Harry Biggs, phenomenally phallused breaker and enterer, apprentice home wrecker, had no intention of sitting on the sidelines quietly charging his batteries while his friend got in his innings inside Paula.
With a rising panic she wondered what they would do to her. There were only two things they could do, she realized. One of them was going to plug her pussy with a great thumping hunk of masculinity. The other was going to rape her tonsils.
Would she be able to breathe? Would two cocks at once be too much for even the most willing of women?
