the escalator.
This time it was not a machine; it was a man undressing her. He pushed gently and the slick quilted sateen slid off her shoulders until the robe collapsed behind her like a deflating balloon.
I can stop him, she told herself. I know I can. He isn't any bigger than I am and he isn't any superduper athlete. I can stop him. If only I could move.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm! He was rooting like a pig in the soft valley between her full firm breasts. His hands on her shoulders slipped down around her waist and then he was bearing down until her knees bent and slowly they sank to the wall-to-wall and then they were both kneeling and he was still rooting in her warm soft jugs and his arms were around her waist and he was urging her backward and then she was on her back on her own living room rug and he was kneeling between her thighs and her knees were bent and, for Christ's sake, she was falling right into missionary position and she could feel the heat of his hot hammering cock burning her thighs and then his fingers were parting the blond-ringletted lips of her cunt and he was threading his cock into her and he didn't even have a rubber on and oooooooohhhhhh it was going in.
She gasped and tried to struggle but it was no use. He was on top of her now and her will had turned to water and, ever since she had seen that great thumping cock in full erection moving toward her, Paula had been unable to do more than protest feebly and now it was in her and he was pushing and it was sliding smoothly, slickly, not hurting at all and, oh my god, whether she had wanted it or not, her body had been ready and this stiff-pricked breaker and enterer was entering her and he hadn't even had to break in. She could feel his cock sliding in, in, in deep into her, filling her full of maleness, full of the stuff her dreams were made of, only this wasn't a dream, not even a nightmare. This was really happening. She was getting raped in her own house, in her own front room, on her own wall-to-wall rug and she was getting raped by a convicted felon and he was one of her very own clients and she had violated every rule in the book by even letting him find out where she lived and, come to think of it, how did he know?
She had violated every rule of elementary security for a woman who had to work with dangerous men and now that she had violated all the rules he was violating her and he must have had it all the way in by now.
Inside her it felt even bigger, harder, hotter, more chauvinistically insistent than when he had been rooting piglike in her tits. Only he still had his face in her tits but now he wasn't rooting. Instead, his mouth had fastened over one firm, rock-hard nipple and he was kissing, sucking, licking while he still drove his cock deep into her. Finally she felt his hard bony pelvis grind against hers and guessed it was all the way in.
'Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!' he commented and held for a moment, grinding and screwing his crotch against hers, mashing the widespread lips of her vulva, churning her insides into silly putty as his cock stirred round and round, stretching her clit and mashing it to the erotic edge of pain. Then just when she knew she was going to squeal and giggle and come and let him know the effect he was having on her, he began slowly to pull it out.
'Don't!' she gasped.
'Don't worry,' he panted as he switched to her other nipple. 'I'll put it right back in again.'
That wasn't exactly what Paula had meant. Or was it? She wondered. Jesus, it would be so nice just to surrender, let him fuck her silly and worry later about the consequences. But what would he do afterward? He was a convicted felon. Surely he couldn't think she was going to take this laying down. But she was taking it laying down, damn it! But once it was over…
Could he possibly think he was such a ladykiller she would simper and beg him for more and never ever blow the whistle on him? Or was he realist enough to have other plans? If he understood this meant he would be back in the joint and wouldn't ever get close to another parole officer…
He was going to kill her. First he would fuck her-fuck her half to death and then if she was still gasping and breathing he would find some less pleasant way to do it. She closed her eyes and tried to think. If she could just reach the telephone…
Fat chance. He'd bang her over the head and finish pouring his load into an unconscious body and once he was finished with her he'd do something to make sure she never woke up.
While she struggled to find some way out of this mess her body was reacting instinctively to the feel of something hot and hard, something male, something real after all those endless empty months of dreaming. She realized with a start that he was still pulling out from his first stroke. Either he was going in slow motion or she had finally been shocked out of her months' long session of lethargic eroticism and was finally thinking on her feet (on her back?) like a legal beagle was supposed to think.
She opened her eyes and he was still there, still real, his slight, hard-muscled body atop her, between her legs, his mouth busy bussing her tits, licking first one firm hard nipple and then the other. And all the while that prodigious prod she had seen jutting from his crotch-it was moving in and out of her as slow as an hour hand, slow as a voucher for travel expenses. My god, he was slow!
Paula had never been raped before. In the depths of her fantasies she had played with the idea, worked up whole sheikh-kidnaps-me-takes-me-to-the-desert technicolor dream sequences, but when she was awake and thinking clearly she had always assumed it would be a messy and unpleasant business. Any man so hard up and crazed that he had to rape could hardly be thinking of a woman's pleasure or of deferring his gratification until she…
But this infuriating little man who had made her play roundheels in her living room-he wasn't jigging frantically up and down on top of her. He wasn't whambamming, struggling wildly to get in just one more stroke before it exploded and left him impotent, limp and limber atop a woman who, even if she felt like fucking, would not have had time to become properly turned-on.
Instead, he was feeding his cock to her slowly, with the steady regularity of a metronome. It didn't make sense. If he really needed a woman why wasn't he whapping his ass against hers like a jack-rabbit on speed? On speed?
He wasn't on speed. But as Paula remembered those glazed, staring eyes, that ardor so unlike this self- effacing little man she abruptly knew he was on something. Had he smoked a whole lid of grass? A half-gram of Moroccan hash? She didn't know. She was supposed to know all those things and be alert for signs of drug use in all her clients but Paula had in her lifetime smoked three joints, had ended up with a pain right behind her full firm tits, a dry throat, and a tongue that tasted of camel dung. She had never felt the slightest need to repeat the experiment.
Harry Riggs, apparently, had.
She remembered stories musicians had told her of how it distorted their time sense so they could fool around with the beat and play the cracks between the keys. Did he think he was operating on central standard time? He was kissing and licking her tits just as she remembered the last time it had happened-so long ago she really didn't like to remember.
But his cock… that prodigious prod had finally made it out of her and he was still withdrawing, pulling it out so far she could feel her vuval lips closing up, feel her cunt mourning the absence of that long-awaited invader. He hovered over her, the tip of his tool wavering and just barely parting her labia, and then slowly she felt it begin once more to work its careful way into her.
Why was he so careful? Were rapists always so considerate? Probably, she realized, he was on the point of explosion and didn't dare let himself go lest his fuckfest finished before it had properly begun.
Damn! She didn't like being raped but if it had to happen at least he could do a proper job of fucking her. She wondered what would happen if she were to surrender to instinct, let her full firm ass come rising up off the rug to meet his slow-as-molasses thrust.
But she couldn't surrender. Not only would it be undignified, it would also be fatal. She had a pretty fair idea of what would happen once Harry came, once reason prevailed and he realized he had just raped the one person in the world who literally held the key to the next fifty years of his future.
Christ! After all the burning and yearning she was finally getting fucked and she couldn't even relax and enjoy it. Harry, god damn him, he was a male chauvinist pig too! And now she was going to die without ever again enjoying that most exquisite of pleasures, a full-fashioned, gut-wrenching, mind-blowing fuck.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all. She wished she could turn off her mind and concentrate on the smooth sensually delightful sensation of that hot hard cock sliding slowly in and out of her, in and out, filling her, emptying her, filling her again, radiating joy from the round, thumping knob on its rock-hard tip.
If only it could be different. He was not a big man, save down there where bigness counted. But he had a wiry, hard-muscled body and he was clean, radiating only the not unpleasant smell of a male in rutting season. And
