Carl Van Marcus - Lady Disk jockey

Finally it was the satiated Virgie who cried out and begged her to stop. Sally Sue’s sensuous mouth and exploring tongue were exhausted, and as Terry’s finger slid from her wildly puckering anus with a lewd popping sound, the older woman collapsed between the young girl’s wide-splayed legs, her brain a blur.

She had never dreamed sex could be like this . . .

Exhausted, Sally Sue quickly fell asleep, without realizing that the two teens were quietly dressing and departing.

The barking of the big dog wanting his breakfast awoke Sally Sue Bennett in the morning. For a time she lay in bed, her thinking disorganized. She knew something had happened during the night. There was a tingling in her loins, and for some reason her lips were swollen and there was a sticky sweetness in her mouth. It took some time to recall. She knew she hadn’t been drunk. She had no headache, no hangover, but it was all fuzzy. She breathed deeply and the unmistakable scent of sex filled her nostrils.

It came back slowly to her, like the memory of a nightmare.

It couldn’t have happened!

Yet there were expended flash bulbs on the floor to confirm her kaleidoscopic recollections..

She recalled innocent-looking Virgie arriving. And then having a cigarette with her . . . and then somehow they were in bed and Virgie was between her legs and a tongue wetly delving into her pussy. She associated a wild carnal pleasure with this.

And then bright lights flashing — the camera — oh God, Terry!

The two teenagers both in bed with her. Virgie whispering in her ear . . . and then her mouth filled with the boy’s penis and finally the sweet gushing of his delicious young cum.

And then she doing to Virgie what Virgie had done to her!

It had to be the nightmare of the century. Sally Sue wanted to scream. What in God’s name had ever come over her!

She prayed it was all a hallucination brought on by the medication she was taking for her infected wrist. But the discarded flashbulbs told her it had been real. In a daze, the shocked divorcee stumbled into the bathroom and quickly showered, hoping to wake up. Then she busied herself with feeding her animals and finally sat down to a cup of coffee. As she sipped it and the caffeine surged into her bloodstream, the details came back in shocking brilliance. With the drug dissipated, she began to remember it all, her subjugation and debasement by the teenagers she had thought were innocent.

What terrified her most of all was her memory of how she had become such an eager participant, overwhelmingly fulfilled in ways which she had never dreamed of!

God help me! the distressed woman sobbed as suddenly she realized this was not something from which she could run.

Her deeply buried carnality had been brought to the surface after all these years. If she quit her job and went to another place, even a big city, the same thing would happen again only with a different supporting cast.

Well, in a place like San Francisco, far out sex was the accepted thing.

But not with teenage boys and girls, and Sally Sue was sure, that no matter how good her intentions, they were the ones she would gravitate to.

A psychiatrist? No! She knew that therapy, even if successful, would take a longtime, and the temptations during that time would be too great.

She put her hands to her face and cried.

The persistent ringing of the door chimes pulled her out of her weeping fit. Belting her robe around her lithe body and dabbing at her eyes, Sally Sue went nervously to answer it. She wasn’t expecting anyone. It might even be the police come to arrest her. But it was a grinning Stan Oakes attired in the latest sports shirt, slacks and boots right out of the pages of Playboy . His red Ferrari was parked in the drive. For a moment she stared at him dumbly as his eyes swept wantingly over her figure.

“Hi,” the tall, sandy haired young man said. “Your phone isn’t working — some clown clobbered a pole down the road so I came to give you a lift.”

“A lift?” Sally Sue said, confused.

“To the croaker . . . the doctor. Your wheels are out of action, remember? .And you’ve got an appointment in a couple of hours.”

“Oh . . . yes . . . thanks, Stan,” Sally Sue mumbled, now recalling. “You didn’t have to come by. I could have taken a cab.”

“I wasn’t going to miss a chance to see you again,” he said, smiling boyishly even as he looked down into the soft valley of her half exposed breasts. He thought of how good she had been in bed, and how he had failed to bring her to orgasm, and the one thing he had to do was prove that he could. “You feeling better?”

“I never felt bad,” Sally Sue said, brightening because just talking to Stan took her mind off the nightmare of sex. “It was just a little fever. . . I was dizzy for awhile.”

“You wait and see the doctor’s report. The medico says you don’t work for a week.”.

“Then he’s an idiot!” Sally Sue shot back. “I feel fine!”

“Maybe — but listen to yourself.” Stan pushed a button on the portable tape recorder slung over his shoulder. “Sounds like somebody tied knots in your tongue.”

Sally Sue listened, and realized Stan was right. Her usually bell clear voice was blurred and fuzzy, the consonants indistinct. The medication she’d been given had messed up her voice. She couldn’t go on the air until it was spent from her. body. Abjectly she said, “What happens to the Sally Sue Show until then?”

“The Sally Sue Show is alive and healthy,” Stan told her. “A little editing of tapes and switching commercials around was all it took. You never heard of reruns?”

“You’re beautiful!” she said in honest exuberant gratitude. “Have some coffee while I get dressed.”

The distressed girl Di was suddenly in good spirits. The unexpected visit from Stan had almost, but not quite, wiped the memory of the night from her mind. And the visit to the clinic was also encouraging. The doctor examined her carefully and pronounced her fit, not in need of more medication as he replaced the dressing on the wound the hawk had left. But he seemed mildly disturbed after a close look into her eyes.

“Miss Bennett . . . by any chance have you taken any drugs other than those we gave you?” he asked.

“Why no,” Sally Sue said, believing she was telling the truth. “Not even aspirin. Why?”

“Your eyes are dilated. Well, that could be a side effect of what you were given. If you feel a headache coming on, I suggest you wear sun glasses for a couple of days.”

The long legged young woman thanked him and left, suddenly realizing her eyes did burn. Stan stopped at the drugstore long enough for her to buy shades and then took her home.

“You must be feeling housebound,” he said. “How about dinner tonight?”

“Well . . .” Sally Sue didn’t really want to go out. But even less did she want to stay home with her morbid thoughts. And if Stan made love to her, it might wipe out some of. the fragmented memories of the sordid sex with Virgie and Terry. “All right. I’d love to! Eightish?”

“Delicious,” he said with a grin as he dropped the fast sports car into low gear and roared away.

The day dragged interminably on for the emotionally disturbed young woman, and several times she wished the big motorcycle and the roadster hadn’t been disabled. Yet she realized it was for the best, because her eyes were still huge, overly sensitive to light, and didn’t seem to track just right. She knew she might hurt herself if she tried to drive. The animals which ordinarily gave her so much pleasure in her solitude suddenly seemed to be an annoyance.

It was impossible to get the passion of the previous night out of her mind. The more she thought of it, the more dismayed Sally Sue became as slowly returning details emerged. She knew she really must have been out of her head and, of course, nothing like that would ever happen again.