Tonight, though, she had regretted ever having had second thoughts in the past, for she was wallowing in the wild intensity of this delicious pleasure-pain, savoring every second of the delectable torment he was inflicting on her ravaged back passage. The writhing young girl tightly clenched her buttocks, intensifying the masochistic thrill that had taken control of her body.
Nothing mattered now except this, nothing but this long hard pole of masculine flesh that was bringing her such incredibly wanton ecstasy. God, she wanted its hot load inside her! She wanted to feel its scalding warmth flooding her very intestines with an unending torrent of life-giving sperm until it sloshed in her belly and ran through every pore of her naked body in gushing rivers of wicked pleasure.
And an instant later, Sandy's erotic fantasies were fulfilled as Roger suddenly let out a loud grunt and his enormous cock rammed far, far up into her ravaged rectum. Almost immediately, she felt the awesome wave of her own orgasm, so long in coming, sweep over her, bringing an anguished moan to her lips.
"Aaaaggghhhh, God, yes! Aaawww!" she wailed loudly, her savage moans filling the darkened room and reverberating from the walls as, suddenly, his wildly jerking penis grew even larger and began spewing its white hot load deep up into her hungrily clasping back passage. His cum ricocheted heatedly around inside and spurted from the ravenously sucking hole to stream in a thick white river down the young brunette's firmly trembling thighs, soaking his own balls as they slammed tightly in the sopping wet crevice beneath her wide-stretched anus. The oozing liquid flowed warmly down over his leathery testicles as they continued to lightly brush against the glistening lips of her pussy. Violent shudders of excitement ran through her naked body as her orgasm built, crested and intensified.
"Aieeee… I'm cumming," she shrieked. "Oh, God, fuck harder, I'm cumming!"
Sandy screwed her buttocks tightly back against the still spewing cock buried deep in her flooded rectum and abruptly, as a loud scream burst from between her clenched teeth, she felt her whole body explode with the pricks of a million red-hot needles as his last punishing thrust took her up, up, and over the brink into a chasm of complete ecstatic pleasure. Her strength was suddenly gone, and she fell forward on the sofa as his long glistening cock slipped with a lewd wet sucking sound from the fist-like, grip of her tightly clinging rectal walls. She shivered once more as the cool air swirled around and up inside her unplugged, still dilated opening, chilling her very insides with the cold blast.
Roger weakly collapsed on the floor beside the sofa with a gasping moan that seemed more of relief than of pain, amazed that his body had not come to pieces and exploded from the fury of the last few minutes. He lay very still beside her, his hand resting on her nakedly trembling thigh as she heaved and gasped for breath, and for a long while, there were silent.
"It's damned good, money, sugar," said Roger, dressed now except for a shirt. Sandy was lying on her naked back smoking a cigarette, pondering the amenities of Roger's proposed career for she and Chris. She looked totally refreshed and renewed, like an entirely new person, glowing with the special radiance that comes to a woman when she's been really and truly satisfied by a man. And satisfied she was, not remembering when she'd enjoyed a fuck since she was twelve… but no, her mind protested. She shouldn't think about that.
Roger played with one taut nipple. "Baby, we could make a fortune. Hell, it's not prostitution anyways. It's going out on dates, that's all. With my connections and your ass, we could make a couple thou' a month. And you won't have to rely on foodstamps," he laughed.
"Sounds good to me," smiled Sandy. "But you're going to have a hard time convincing Chris. Chris has always followed the straight and narrow, but don't get me wrong," she immediately filled in. "Chris is a great girl, my best friend and I don't want to lead her into anything that she'll regret later."
"Simple enough. We put her up with the mild ones until she gets used to it. Then we'll turn her on to something that'll make her want a little more… if you know what I mean."
Sandy didn't reply, just stared at the lit end of her smouldering cigarette. "Okay," she grinned in her impish way. "I'll talk to Chris tomorrow. But let me tell you this. She's always stuck by me and I don't want to see her hurt."
"No sweat," reassured Roger with a tweak of her right nipple.
Eleven stories above, Chris O'Brien lay in her bed, trying to sleep despite the deafening din of the buses and traffic outside of her bedroom window. Minutes later she sat upright in bed, hearing the familiar midnight sound of Sandy turning her key in the lock and listening to the footsteps shuffle in the direction of her bedroom, turned on the bedside lamp in time to see Sandy emerge through her door.
"We're going to be out of debt in no time," giggled Sandy, collapsing on her roommate's bed. "And we start tomorrow night!"
CHAPTER SIX
Chris O'Brien took a glance around her, the plush red velvet draperies, the crystal chandelier casting glimmers of light over the potted palms in the corners of the restaurants… and wondered why she had been so reluctant to give up a night alone in her dumpy apartment for a French meal at Fisherman's Wharf overlooking the San Francisco Bay.
She glanced around the restaurant again. The lights were low, the atmosphere hushed. Waiters moved across the deep carpet as quietly as cats. And Francois, her date for the evening, with his lean, handsome face, his classic features, the touch of gray at his temples that made him look even more distinguished than his accent could attest to. He'd sat opposite of her, choosing the perfect wine to go with the perfect meal he would select. Yes, Chris thought, there was no reason for her being so afraid when he'd come to the door.
She would try to act the lady, conversing fluently in French with this mysteriously good-looking gentleman, and remember her etiquette, squeezing her lemon with the prongs of the fork, dipping the soup spoon away instead of towards you… those tiny, yet consequential vignettes of cuisine that separated the more sophisticated from the lesser. And when the Chateaubriand for two would be served, she would not stuff herself, though it had been two weeks since she'd anything as delectable as a piece of piping hot meat steaming in front of her.
Between sips of her Fuisse Pouissy, Chris and Francois stared out over the blackened night, watching the ships slip by announced only by the low throaty moan of the fog horn. He'd been in merchant marine at one time, he told her through his mellifluously enunciated accent, and since then had made yearly trips back to the old sea port by the bay where he's spent many a memorable evening parading up and down Broadway Street, watching the pimps, the barkers, and the prostitutes.
He asked about her background; the obvious questions a man who's paid for an evening of womanly companionship wants to know. Had she traveled? Had she gone to school? And through it all, he hadn't pried, hadn't insinuated or demanded.
Even when he walked her to her door, he had remained a perfect gentleman, kissing her hand delicately and wishing her a good evening's rest. Chris went to bed that evening of a full stomach and a prayer in her heart for Sandy. Sandy, maybe this once I misjudged you. A free meal and a few drinks, and I'll be out of this mess you got us into. Yes, maybe for once you were right, Sandy.
Stories below, Margaret Sorenson completed her nightly ritual of watching Johnie Carson on television while sipping a small glass of sherry. On the kitchen table sat two place settings; only one of them used. Roger had not shown up for dinner, despite the note of invitation she'd tacked to his door. When she had gone down to investigate at eight o'clock, just as she'd taken the roast out of the oven for the second time, she'd heard the unmistakable grunts and groans of lovemaking.