She remembered clearly his grunt of half-pleasure, half-defeat as he reached orgasm prematurely, without plunging his prick into the very heart of her cunt. She vividly recalled the searing impact of his cum on the outer lips of her cunt as it geysered forth, erupting from the cyclopic slit in his glans like a tidal wave of superheated passion juice.
Just the memory of that scalding flood between her thighs was sufficient to push young Penny Tucker over the final edge and into the swirling mental maelstrom of total orgasmic explosion. Both hands were locked atop her pumping, rotating pussy, fingers buried deep inside the steamy little crevice of her womanhood. She squirmed and danced on those impaling fingers, humping madly downward onto the artificial cock formed by the intertwining of her manual digits. Inside her reeling skull, colored lights danced, and skyrockets seemed to blossom and explode behind the tightly clenched lids of her watery eyes.
"Ohhh JJJeessuuss!!!!" she moaned desperately, throatily, "I'mmm cccuuummmiiiinngggg!"
She gave herself completely to that exhilarating moment, sliding downward into a seated position on the click, wet floor of the shower cubicle, unmindful of the watery stream which now battered her upturned face, conscious only of the roaring, ripping sensations evoked by the driving hands pinned between her legs.
It seemed to Penny that there must be an echo there in the bathroom, as if some smaller, weaker version of her voice was repeating her words and moans of ecstasy with several seconds of delay. She thought nothing of it until her head had begun to clear slightly, after endless seconds of swirling, reeling chaos, and then she suddenly realized that she herself was no longer speaking, no longer crying out the name of Luke Hollowell and the soulful imprecations for him to fuck her faster and harder.
Penny's eyes snapped open, and she turned her head abruptly to one side, facing the gaping door of the bathroom and the darker hallway beyond. What she saw there, however dimly, caused her to jerk upright in surprise, her cheeks already reddening with shame and embarrassment.
Outside the bathroom door, leaning against one wall of the narrow hallway, stood Penny's younger sister, Melanie. The young girl's skirt was pulled up around her hips, and both of her hands were thrust deep down inside the elastic waistband of her bikini panties. Even from that distance, and in the murk of the corridor, Penny could tell that the crotch of Melanie's undergarment was soaking wet with her own freely-flowing love secretions. Melanie's cheeks were also flushed, and she was panting rapidly, obviously caught in the after-throes of a very powerful orgasm. Her eyes peered through slitted lids directly at Penny, where the older girl sat on the floor of the shower, both hands cupping her fevered little twat.
Penny opened her mouth to speak, feeling the lump rising in her throat as if to strangle her. She could think of nothing to say which would make the terrible situation any better, any less humiliating, than it was. "Oh, Melanie…" was all she could manage.
The younger girl seemed about to say something, when both of them were distracted by a loud knocking at the front door.
Melanie quickly jerked her wet fingers out of her panties and smoothed her skirt, turning back down the hallway toward the living room as Penny clambered to her feet in the shower, reaching for a towel.
Whatever they had to say to one another, whatever apologies must be uttered or explanations made, they would all have to wait. Someone was at the door, someone whose touch was loud, firm and demanding. Penny Tucker's mind raced ahead, trying to fathom who it might be that came to call during the afternoon, and what they might want from her and her sister.
CHAPTER TWO
Bart Masters had been driving since dawn and he was tired. The long trip from Atlanta had seemed to go on forever, and the constant fretting and complaining of the two men he traveled with had done nothing to soothe his jangling nerves or calm the throbbing ache at the base of his skull.
There had been no question, of course, about staying in Atlanta any longer. The heat had simply become too intense on all sides, and there was nothing the three men could do except get the hell out while the getting was good. To remain there would have been worse than foolish. It would have been lethal.
They had known from the beginning that they were bucking hard odds when they joined up with Benny Mosconi as freelance guns. Mosconi was going up against the Andreotti family in an effort to topple "Spooks" Andreotti, the regional kingpin of organized crime, and he needed all the young guns he could gather to even the odds out even slightly. The risks had been high, sure, but the pay was reasonably good and they literally had the world to win. They had signed on with Mosconi.
Ten weeks of bloody gang warfare in and around Atlanta had done much to take the edge off their little adventure, and with the passage of time it became increasingly obvious that they were not about to win anything from Andreotti except a six-foot hole in the ground. Mosconi had fielded thirty-five men against the vastly superior enemy forces, and by this time last week, only eleven of those gunmen were still alive. From there it was downhill all the way, with no street corner or alley in all of Atlanta a safe haven for Mosconi and his dwindling band of urban guerrillas.
Masters and his two companions had actually been with Mosconi when the end came. Christ, he was standing right there beside the very car they were driving now when the lead started flying, turning him into an unrecognizable pulp before he hit the ground. Two of the car's windows had been all shot to hell before they could screech away from the curb, and there were some suspicious brown stains across the rear seat which vividly told of Benny Mosconi's violent passing.
And yeah, Atlanta was too hot to handle, for sure. A hundred guns were hunting them on the streets, and by now the cops would be in on the search as well. Flight was inevitable, and the direction didn't seem to matter a hell of a lot, so long as they picked up speed and covered ground in a hurry.
Masters had picked the country road totally at random, tired of Jed Wilson's snoring in the back seat and sick to death of Tom Watson's repeated asking about when they could stop for coffee. The little back road, not even paved, had seemed ideal for their purposes, and Masters had driven past several rambling rural homes before choosing one to stop at, again making the selection at random.
He stood now on the porch of the house he had selected, sweating in his expensive suit and cursing softly at the heat, wondering whether he should repeat his knock or try to jimmy what looked like a genuine antique lock on the front door. Jed Wilson stood beside him, rocking slowly back and forth on the balls of his feet, whistling tunelessly to himself. Tom Watson sat behind the wheel of the car, with the engine running quietly and a sawed-off shotgun hidden in his lap. Just in case.
Masters had decided to try knocking once more, and was raising his fist when he heard the faint sound of approaching footsteps from inside the house. After another moment's hesitation, the front door swung slowly open, and he found himself facing a beautiful young girl.
Masters let his eyes rove appreciatively over the girl's cherubic face and ripe young woman's body. She wore simple clothing, possibly hand-me-downs, but her breasts and hips swelled amply against the garments, and the man could feel his pulse quickening at the mere nearness of her. He idly wondered how old she was, then shrugged it off, deciding that if things went well he would have plenty of time to find out first hand.