perfunctorily on the mouth, and then arched his back to put his lips over her left nipple without breaking his full- depth connection in her seething, sizzling cunt.
He began running his tongue around her suddenly rigid nipple and aureole, devoting to this lovely exercise the same tender loving care that Harry Riggs had devoted to her clitoris some-could it have been only ten minutes ago?
My god-was she insatiable? An hour ago she had lain raped and shattered. Then Harry had come back and had, at the last minute, declined to rape her orally without first savoring the delectable juices of her seething secret slit. And she had come again- at least as many times as when he had been pushing her belly out of shape with that tremendous eight-inch tool.
She had been violated repeatedly, to the edge of numbness, and now she had still another skewer poking its erotic way through her soft and yielding flesh. She was being raped, violated, her body used with no consideration for the years of effort she had put into preparing her mind. God damned chauvinist pigs! And god damn her traitorous body. Even now she could not make her body understand that this was wrong, that this was not supposed to happen, that these two sons-of-bitches were probably going to kill her once they were through, satiated, their lust slaked in her raw and bleeding flesh.
And all she could do was lie there and quiver and tremble and try not to giggle as her body reveled and told her everything was all right, that this was fun, that this was fucking, that this was what she had been born for and not to go off collecting scalps and college degrees. God damn everything! It just wasn't fair!
She wanted to scream and kick and bite but he had his mouth over her tit and he was not biting. He was kissing and licking and it felt so goooood! Oh wow, oh Jesus, did it ever feel goooooood!
She tried to remind herself of how it was all going to end but her body was not listening-only feeling and enjoying. The red-haired man switched to her other tit and licked it into a frenzied erection as highly explosive as that of the first tit to which he had given this delectable titillation.
Meanwhile he was still grinding his bony pelvis around, meshing his bright red ringlets with the abundant blond hair on her mons veneris, pressing and rubbing with such joyous abandon that she could feel friction building up heat between their straining bodies.
And the bald-headed, rough-skinned tip of his swollen tool was still stirring round and round deep inside her, tormenting her, tantalizing her, turning her will to water and her brains to come. It felt so good she wanted to kick and scream and yodel her delight and sing a hymn to the glories of uninhibited love.
She had already forgotten about Harry Riggs, who must have been somewhere behind her noting every gasp and wriggle of pleasure as she accepted gratefully the gift of love that Redhead was giving her with his tireless mix master of a cock.
Just when she knew she couldn't stand it another minute without fainting he stopped his ceaseless grinding and stirring and held tight against her for a moment, breathing deeply once before he began his first withdrawal.
Slow as an hour hand, he pulled it out of her-all the way out until his cockhead was once more free in the cold cruel air, her vulval lips closed tight over nothingness, and then-WHAM!
It almost knocked the breath out of her. Without warning, without preparation, without the slightest effort to thread her needle or even make sure he had it in the right place, he had come down on her, driven his cock halfway to her lungs, slamming his rampant maleness into her waiting cunt with all the subtlety of a Spanish-flied pile driver.
For perhaps ten seconds he wham-bammed, arms grasping her ass while he ram-slammed his cock to her like some berserk riveting machine, in and out of her love-slicked pussy so fast she knew it was all over but who cared-she was coming. Oh Jesus, was she ever coming! She realized there was no comparing this orgasm to the others of the afternoon. His machine-gun approach to the amatory arts was about as devious as a shark attack. And just as damaging to her flesh, she realized. He was using her up, destroying her as prodigally as he was expending the precious adamantine hardness of his erection. She was melting, flowing, body and soul coalescing into a pink- frothed tidal wave of orgiastic fulfillment.
Wailing, moaning, twisting, she was totally out of control, intellect and education submerged in a red-roaring cataract of come. Gasping and wheezing, she succumbed, half-fainting from sheer erotic joy. Then as the spasm of orgasm passed she sensed suddenly that his abandon was not at all like hers. He had pounded her ass in an unmerciful frenzy, acting just as if he were some hot-assed amateur struggling for just one more poke before he disgraced himself with an ejaculation praecox.
But the devious red-haired chauvinistic son-of-a-bitch was no amateur. He had pounded his cock into her until she had reached an orgiastic point of no return and then he had just stopped dead, leaving her writhing body spindled on his still intact hard-on, looking down on her lusting body with no more passion than an Indian spearing one more salmon. God damn him! God damn all men! How could they do things like that to a woman?
Before she could devote more thought to the problem he was once more moving, pushing his prodigious prod slowly into her, pulling it out, putting it back in again, moving slower than an appeal to appellate court.
A moment ago she had been dying. Her belly was still fibrillating with the aftershocks of that cataclysmic come. Yet already she could feel a new turn-on overlapping her last sudden and total thrill of erotic joy. Was there no limit to what these sons-of-bitches could make her do? She could live with rape. After all a rape-even a gang rape-served only to illustrate her thesis that it was a male chauvinist pig's world, that the whole fucking system was stacked against women, that she was being exploited as a sex object with no regard at all for her mind.
She would have been able to believe it all-if only she could have hurt and suffered a little bit. But god damn a God who gave her a body incapable of syllogism-a body which only confessed openly to its needs and erotic desires. God damn it all! Getting raped was bad enough. But did she have to like it?
Before she had time to dwell further on the world's injustice, her come-riddled cunt revived and began once more that insidious erasure of her mental processes. Despite having just melted, despite practically having died from the violence of her reaction to all that no-tomorrow wham-bamming, once more her body was responding to his slow, steady thrusting. And despite doing everything humanly possible to kill herself, she knew her full- fashioned, totally feminine body was getting ready to do it all again.
My god, how many times could she come before she died? Surely the most healthy of hearts could not endure this pounding forever. It might be different if she were a sexual athlete or a working girl like some of her clients. But she was not. She was in good physical shape-good enough to have turned every head when the goddam escalator at City Hall had performed an involuntary strip tease. But it had been more years than she even liked to think about since she had experienced the fine full flutter of wings as she took off on a series of high-flying orgasms.
It was going to kill her as sure as hell. And if it didn't these two sons-of-bitches who were taking turns raping her would. Convicted felons. There was no way they could both possibly be so stupid as to believe she was not going to blow the whistle on them the first time she could get her hands on a telephone.
Or was there? She had been wailing and squealing, twisting and turning like any other woman in the throes of joyous orgasm. That was the hell of it. They might be raping her but somewhere deep in her heart of hearts Paula knew that if they were both to desist, all the sons-of-bitches would have to do would be to lie around her house naked, their king-sized cocks at half-mast while they drank her booze and ate her food and sooner or later she would be crawling into their laps, begging them to stick it in her again.
They must both know she was incurable-unbelievable, totally turned on by the thought of fucking and unable to say no to any man no matter how unsuitable. There was a word for that kind of woman. She didn't like to think about it but it was there and she knew it. She was not taking pay, therefore she was not a whore. She was not in love with her partners, therefore she was not some silly, approaching-menopause bitch in love with love. She was a woman who just plain couldn't say no to anybody in possession of a cock. A round heels, of course. But Paula knew she was even worse than a classic round heels. She was a nymphomaniac!
No wonder these male chauvinist pigs were using her as if she were a bar of soap. They had pegged her for what she was before she even knew it herself. They admired her lush, flawless body, used it to fuck themselves into dry-bagged stillness and-
Suddenly she knew what this meant. If they were that sure her-if they knew they could come back for seconds, thirds, hundredths, there was no reason to kill her. They knew her better than she knew herself. They would be back time and again until sooner or later some newsman got wise and put a spectacular end to her career as a parole officer.
Then she remembered that the news noses were probably hanging from every tree outside right now. Oh
