husbands, they would be damning. And, of course, he had found some juicy items as well, like the photos Jack Reagan and his wife, Sally, had taken together. They were really something! But all he needed to open negotiations with the erring wives was one small indiscretion, just enough to use as a threat and as a fulcrum to lever them into his house and his bed. His list of names was ever-growing, too, and his insatiable cock, his perverted, insatiable brain, had at long last began to reap their rewards. Some day, he might have as many as twenty-five or thirty young, beautiful Morriston wives at his beck and call, for as long as the Postal regulation allowing him to indiscriminately open the public's private mail was in effect, he could never be thwarted. He had power, power, POWER!
Faster and faster the wickedly-grinning clerk's hand rubbed back and forth over his swollen prick as he gazed into the future, planning impossible orgies with a dozen women and more, planning games and perversions which boggled even his imagination. His glazed eyes sought and found the old wall clock.
Hurry up, Mrs. Sally Reagan, he thought. Hurry, hurry, hurry!
The taxi cab stopped in front of the dingy, clapboard house — the place which beautiful Sally Reagan, in her own mind, had dubbed The House of Humiliation. She shuddered again, her trembling fingers digging inside her purse.
The cab driver turned to look at her over the seat. 'You sure this is the place you want to go, lady? Looks like an opium den, or something.' He laughed.
'Y-yes, this is the place,' Sally quavered, convulsing violently at the driver's innocent comment about 'an opium den'; if only he knew what went on inside that house! She found a dollar bill, shoved it into the driver's hand, and then got out of the cab.
She stood on the cracked sidewalk a moment as the taxi meshed gears and pulled away from the curb, trying to compose herself. How should she behave this time? Not like the last — whining, piteous, obviously fear-wracked, obviously filled with hatred for her tormentor — for that only made things worse, only made Samuels do more foul things to her helpless body. No, this time she would be like ice, like a mannequin; she wouldn't plead with him, curse him, scream at him. She would let him use her as he would, and in that way get it over with as quickly as possible so that she could go home to the safety of her own house, where baby Jimmy slept in his crib under the watchful eye of the babysitter, where Jack would come to comfort her in the night.
Straightening to her full height, the long-legged, slim-hipped, black-haired young wife walked quickly up the tangled, jagged path to the front door of the house and rang the bell.
It was opened almost immediately, and the evilly-leering countenance of the postal clerk, Steve Samuels, materialized only inches from her own face. In spite of herself, Sally gasped and took a faltering half-step backward to see once again, up close, the ugly, twisted features of this mentally deranged man.
'Well, well, it's about time, Mrs. Reagan,' croaked Samuels, opening the door wider. 'My cock has been hard for half an hour, just thinking about you and your fine young body, heh heh. Come in, come in.'
Sally's eyes inadvertently dropped to the front of his pants, saw the bulge there, the stain on the material, and she shuddered again. But then she composed herself and stepped past him, careful not to touch him, and walked proud and tall into the cluttered living room.
Samuels, licking his rubbery lips, followed her and said, 'Sit down on the sofa there, Mrs. Reagan. In front of the coffee table there.' He laughed obscenely. 'As you can see, I've set out a few photos from my album for you to look at. And you're in them. You and your husband, Jack. I know you'll be interested in seeing them again, even if you have seen them before.'
Sally closed her eyes, blinked them open, and crossed to the couch, sitting down as Samuels had directed her. She didn't look at the pictures displayed on the corroded surface of the table.
The wizened clerk crossed to her and stood in front of the table, looming over her, looking down at her silky black hair, at the full swell of her rich, creamy breasts, at the taper of her soft downy thighs. His cock leapt violently, and his balls ached with the buildup of his semen.
'Take your dress off, Mrs. Reagan,' he husked. 'It's warm in here. Make yourself comfortable.'
Like a marionette, the evil clerk's voice its strings, Sally stood woodenly and pulled the simple cotton shift she wore over her head and tossed it aside. Then, quickly, she sat down again, clad only in a thin, wispy bra and panty briefs. She wouldn't look at Samuels at all.
His breath quickened as he saw her half-naked before him, and his eyes traveled like hungry beetles over her firm, resilient flesh. Her breasts were high and proud, good breasts, but not as good and as voluptuous as those of Mrs. Cindy Jamison, he reflected. Still, he wanted to see them in all their splendor, nakedly presented to his lusting eyes.
'Take your bra off, Mrs. Reagan,' he commanded, his hand dropping down to his bulging pants and stroking lightly.
Obediently, the tormented young woman reached behind her and unhooked the fasteners of her gauzy bra. She let it fall away, leaning back a little to pull her firm, pinkish-red-capped breasts up high as she knew he wanted her to; there would be no need for him to tell her lewdly what to do on this night.
'You have nice tits, Mrs. Reagan,' wheezed Samuels, rubbing his swollen cock. He had unzipped his fly now, and his fingers were traveling eagerly over the surface of his shorts. 'Very nice tits. I like them, Mrs. Reagan. I like them very much.'
Sally stifled the low groan which threatened to escape her throat, and remained sitting there almost like a statue. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. Oh, God, what kind of filthy things its he going to do to me tonight? No… no, I can't think about them, I can't think ahead… have to make my mind a blank, a blank…
Samuels came around the coffee table, still massaging his huge prick with his fingers, and sat down next to the beautiful, almost completely naked young wife. His rubbery lips were parted wide, and thin rivulets of saliva coursed out at their corners. His eyes were fever bright. 'Won't you have a cigarette, Mrs. Reagan,' he said gratingly. 'It will relax you while you look through the pictures. These are good cigarettes, Mrs. Reagan; you've had them before, remember?'
Pot! Her mind screamed. Oh, no, not more marijuana! She remembered the last time, how he had forced her to smoke one of the little brown cigarettes, and another, how she had become giddy and light-headed, responding to his commands almost eagerly as the fear and disgust left her body under the influence of the drug. But wait… maybe that was the best thing now… yes, for if she allowed herself to become high under the emotion-numbing drug the evening would go quickly and she would not be fully cognizant of the certain perversions he would perform upon her unwilling flesh. Yes, she had to get high, very high… pretend it was Jack touching her body as Samuels would surely touch it, pretend that her loving husband's penis was being thrust inside her when the time came instead of the grotesque monster of this gnome-like fiend… yes, that was what she would do, that was how she would survive this night…
Almost eagerly, Sally Reagan's fingers sought the scarred humidor on the table next to the pictures and next to an odd looking, black-cased, slender thing she had never seen before. She opened the box, extracted one of the crude brown cigarettes, and placed it between her soft, moist lips. Beside her, Samuels snapped a lighter into flame with his left hand, his right still stroking his blood-heavy penis, and lit the cigarette.
The young wife drew smoke into her lungs, holding it there as he had taught her that first time, releasing it finally. Then she repeated the process, and a third and fourth time.
'That's fine, Mrs. Reagan, that's just fine,' Samuels croaked. 'Now the pictures. Look at the pictures while you smoke. Look at them, now.'
Already, after the first deep drag, the marijuana cigarette was beginning to have an effect on the tense young woman, relaxing her somewhat, making some of the fear and loathing and hate disappear, and she reached out and lifted the stack of photos. She held them up to her eyes, drawing on the stick again, then began to shuffle through them.
She knew them well, these snapshots. Jack and she had taken them together that night several months ago, with his brother's Polaroid. God, she wished she had never seen them, wished they had never existed! But she had seen them, and they did exist, and she looked at them, at one after another of them…
Jack and she, lying on their bed, with her hand circling his huge, erect penis while his middle finger was extended and half-buried in the warm, glistening folds of her wide splayed pussy… Jack with his lips pressed to one of her jutting breasts, while his extended finger tickled her erect, quivering clitoris… Jack with his mouth buried in her pubic hair, and her thumb rubbing across the swollen head of his penis… Jack with his head full between her
