The pilot plant was located at a far corner of the four-hundred-acre plant site, and Laura drove to it in her white VW bug, expecting Coleman to be gone. He worked there as a watchman for the data-taking instruments. His employment came as a part of the Manpower Rehabilitation program, and his job and good behavior were, a part of his parole from prison, where he'd served five years on a counterfeiting charge. On the surface he was a model employee, but Laura knew very well that this was only a facade, that the criminal had been far from rehabilitated. Now, approaching the little concrete building, the sinking feeling returned to her stomach as she saw his car still parked there. He was working late, probably trying to repair an instrument, and she'd have to face him after all. She was steeling herself for this ordeal as she rounded the bend in the road, and it was then that she saw the other car parked there.
It was a garish little sports car, one she'd seen parked in the main lot, and she knew it had no business being there, guessing it belonged to some other ex-convict who might be plotting a crime with Coleman. They could be making bogus hundred-dollar bills there each night after work. They might be planning a payroll robbery. It might be in elaborate embezzlement scheme. But that was foolish. It was her overactive imagination at work again. Mr. Markham was right, Perry Coleman was harmless, and the car might belong to a second-shift maintenance man, there to keep the pilot plant functioning. She parked and walked the last fifty feet over soft ground.
She realized she was all tensed up, on the balls of her feet, leaning forward to peer through the window before she reached it, and it took an effort to relax. She unclenched her fists and rubbed her hands over her thighs and made herself breathe more slowly. As she neared the window, however, she couldn't help but hope she'd be instrumental in averting a crime.
Laura was immediately sorry she'd looked, for there before her, not ten feet away, was the most shocking, the most disgusting spectacle she'd ever seen in her life. Perry Coleman was naked, sifting in a straight-backed chair, and astraddle his lap, facing him, was an even more shamelessly naked woman. She had artificial red hair, and her skin looked almost blue-white in comparison to Coleman's olive complexion, gleaming with a thin film of perspiration now from their odious exertions. He looked lean and hard, like burnished oak, and she looked soft and flabby, like a gross, obscene marshmallow-but animated. The woman was obviously in agony, and rightly so, for he had one long hand clamped over her left breast and was twisting it as if to screw it off her body. And far, far worse, he had her impaled on his penis. The amazingly thick thing, gleaming wet, was stuck right in the center of the woman's thatch of brown, matted hair, the stout shaft splitting labia that were swollen and inflamed by the torment being put to her. He was adding to that torment by inflicting her vulva with the moving fingers of his other hand, as well as with his mercifully motionless penis.
Laura's' first impulse was to crash through the window and save her, but then the woman did something so foul and desecrating that she proved herself beyond redemption.
With her arms about his neck and her red-smeared mouth agape, she leaned forward with her bright-pink tongue stuck out and wriggling like some awful worm. He met it with his, and as they hung there with their lips not touching, furiously tangling tongues, she began to work her big hips vigorously on his lap.
Laura had to leave before she became ill. She had to get out of there before she witnessed even one more second of the awful invasion of a female's most delicate parts by that man's grotesquely huge pole. She walked away stiff-legged and straight-backed, her face burning with shame for the female of her species, and even then she couldn't escape them entirely.
"Oh, fuck! Fuck me! Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
It could have been either or both of their voices; it could have been a cry from hell, but whatever its source it made Laura break into a headlong run, hands over her ears, not caring how much noise she made in escaping them. Nearing her car, she tripped and fell, and even before she hit the ground she knew they'd catch her. She lost more precious seconds in clutching at her crotch to keep from wetting her pants in her sheer panic.
When she chanced to look behind her, the pilot plant was as she'd left it, the window looking properly barren again as, behind it, the sex-crazed degenerates went about their dirty business without even knowing someone had witnessed their shame. With great calm, Laura picked herself up, brushed her clothing and proceeded on to her car. She observed all the traffic laws driving home, walked up the stairs to her apartment with decorum. It wasn't until she had her back against the locked door that she allowed herself to break down for a moment and heave several heavy sighs of relief. She washed her hands and face and had a small glass of her cooking sherry, and then she felt better.
Her appetite had failed her, but the ritual of cooking dinner was good for her. She methodically ate it. It was after dark when she went to take her second shower of the day. Undressing in her bathroom, she caught sight of her face in the mirror. Her deep-blue eyes looked even larger than usual and her heavy lips more crimson, and in the frame of her glossy black hair, her face was almost dead white, a testament to the fear that still dwelt in her. She looked as white as that awful woman.
The hunger, the animal lust on her face. Nostrils flared and eyes heavy-lidded but bright, so very bright. Red mouth agape, panting directly into his. And his face, cruelly handsome, sinisterly luring the slut on, and somehow able to grin even through the lust that showed on it.
The errant thoughts brought spots of rosy color to Laura's cheeks, and she spun away from the mirror. Taking off her bra, she consoled herself with the knowledge that Coleman would be fired on the morrow. Her breasts felt full and slightly sore from the tight brassiere, and as she massaged away the indented strap marks, she looked down and confirmed the fact that her breasts were much better shaped than the woman's, though not so large.
The woman had known ecstasy when he was mauling her there. Her big, pink-tan nipples had beckoned to him as surely as her tongue had. And his nipples, much smaller, much darker, and standing stiff like the woman's.
Laura's nipples, bright pink, were standing at attention, and she looked away from them as she kicked off her shoes and rolled off her hose. She sincerely hoped Personnel wouldn't merely transfer Coleman to another plant. Taking off her skirt, she wondered whatever had attracted the woman to him to begin with. She started off with her prim, white panties and when their crotch stuck to her she thought for a moment that she had indeed wet her pants in her first terror. But when she touched her black-thatched vulva she realized with a shock that it was a sexual secretion that was so warm and slimy there.
That brown crotch, saturated with moisture, matting the hairs and undoubtedly reeking far more pungently than what Laura's nostrils were then detecting. The red, red lips, swollen to bursting, yet clasping and sucking at that huge shaft. And the shaft itself, incredibly big, glistening wet from the woman's juices. His hair as black as Laura's but standing stiff, like the penis that jutted from it to seek a hole, any hole.
The cold water in the shower strengthened her resolve to rid the company of the former criminal. Perhaps his conduct might end the entire foolish criminal rehabilitation program. But as long as Coleman was gone, that was all that mattered. She emerged from the shower shivering and goosefleshed, and the thick towel felt good as she briskly rubbed herself dry. She wondered how they could possibly have done it in a chair, in that brightly lit instrument room, instead of in the proper fashion, face to face, heart to heart, in the warm darkness of a marital bed.