Carl Van Marcus - Lady Disk jockey

What frightened her was the shameless — almost mindless — arousal that surged through her voluptuous body, the tingling in her loins that came from just thinking about having her ravenous mouth so deliciously filled with young Terry’s penis and finally becoming an eager receptacle for his spurting cum. And even more perverted, she thrilled at the thrilling sensation of little Virgie’s smooth teenage thighs enclosing her face as her tongue burrowed in the sweet little slit of the blonde child’s delectable young cunt!

For Sally Sue, the depth of her shame and degradation was an emotion she had never felt before. There was no way to rationalize away her vile misdeeds, even by blaming them on the medicine which had been injected into her. With her upbringing she should have been able to resist, even subconsciously. But a well of wantonness had been tapped.

The only good thing she could see in it was that it had revealed her inner nature and perhaps prevented some even more serious thing happening in the future. Sally Sue realized she had been a fool to deny her body’s needs and yearnings all these years just because of an unfaithful husband. She knew that for a long time she would not be able to contemplate marriage again because the hurt was still deep. But there was now the knowledge that she could enjoy sex in a variety of ways. And in the permissive modem society, nobody would be likely to castigate her if she found a compatible man and simply lived with him.

Sally Sue knew she would have to do this, or risk falling into the carnal trap of her awakened flesh again.

To occupy her mind she caught up on her housework and then began drafting and testing some new commercials on her tape recorder. Then it was time to bathe and dress. She put on one of her most alluring outfits, a mini-sheath with low cut bodice that left the firm full mounds of her breasts exposed almost to the sensitive buds of her nipples. She brushed her mass of blue-black hair until it gleamed and then slipped on soft leather, calf-high boots with narrow heels that enhanced the long, slender perfection of her legs.

As she studied her statuesque reflection in the bathroom mirror, Sally Sue wondered if the costume was perhaps a little too daring. It was one she wore frequently when broadcasting from the Trap, but that was a professional thing. She knew a lot of the male customers — and maybe some of the women — came to the night club not to listen to her mike chatter but to ogle her. Well, after all, she was in show business, Sally Sue reasoned. She decided to wear the revealing dress.

With relief Sally Sue learned Stan was taking her to a small but very exclusive dinner house miles out in the country. She had always wanted to go there but for one thing it was, for her budget, outrageously expensive. And as she very seldom dated, she would have felt uncomfortable in such surroundings without an escort. Even now she shuddered when she looked at the list of delicacies — Chateaubriand, breast of guinea hen, pheasant, Maine lobster, quail and numerous dishes with exotic French names which she couldn’t come close to identifying. Sally Sue’s mouth watered. She was disturbed to see that no prices were listed and guessed that if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it.

The raven-tressed disc jockey found herself puzzled. She knew that with her talent fees and the separate salaries she was paid by the Trap and Rosie’s, that she had an income five times that of the lean young man across the table in the dim lighted booth. She was well aware of how inflation and taxes ate into her purse — so how could a mere trainee who didn’t take home over a hundred dollars a week afford to bring her to such a quietly extravagant place? She didn’t think Stan Oakes was the sort to spend a huge amount of money just to impress her. Why should he — he’d already been in her bed!

But how could he afford a seventeen thousand dollar Ferrari either? She’d had a glimpse of the registration clipped to the sunshade. It said Stan was the owner — the car wasn’t mortgaged.

And how come he never talked about himself or his family?

Sally Sue Bennett decided the tawny-haired young man was an enigma.

“What looks good?” he asked, smiling easily.

“Everything,” she said quickly. “Everything here makes me drool. But one thing will look bad — the bill.”

“No more than that zoo of yours eats in a week,” he said, baring white teeth as he chuckled. “Would you like me to order?”

“I’d be afraid to,” Sally Sue said. “I like it all.”

He nearly took her precisely at her word. Course after course appeared. A clear, fragrant bouillon, grilled mountain trout, tender asparagus tips and a steaming baked potato whipped and fragrant with cheese to flank a huge, pink-rare Chateaubriand which the elderly waiter carved from a silver cart with the deftness of a surgeon; a bowl of fruit surrounded by a dozen different types of cheese, fresh strawberries in whipped cream and a Chantilly cake so fragile Sally Sue had an insane urge to toss it in the air and see how long it would take to float down to the table. There were wines, superb wines of which she had never been aware — the wine waiter carried a list that looked about the size of a billboard when opened.

The nature of her work had trained Sally Sue to pick up on little things such as body language, in which the folding of the arms, crossing of legs, leaning back in a chair or leaning forward, and above all, eye movements said much more than words. And this delightful dinner was full of inconsistencies.

Although the headwaiter had greeted them like any other diners who could afford the exquisite food and quietly sumptuous surroundings, he had escorted them to what was obviously the best and most secluded booth, overlooking a huge stone fireplace where a decorative blaze battled against the soft whisper of the air conditioner. No waiters hovered, but no sooner had they finished one course than the dishes and wine glasses were cleared away and the next brought.

And when Stan Oakes was selecting the wine, even as he requested the sommelier to suggest the best vintages, she saw his finger dancing over the list and almost imperceptible nods from the quietly dressed man with the chain and key around his neck.

Sally Sue made a snap judgment. She was escorted by a handsome young man who had a lot of money and for reasons of his own didn’t want her to realize it. Although churning with curiosity, she had sense enough not to pry. If and when Stan wanted to explain, he would.

As they finished the huge meal, a silver-haired man began to play an organ Sally Sue hadn’t noticed before. There was a small, dim lighted dance floor and wordlessly Stan took her hand and led her to it. The music was slow and soft — what a relief to hear something other than the crashing, thumping aural pollution she had to put on the air! With a sigh she fit her body to his as they began to move sinuously. Her breasts seemed to be on fire, and she could feel the long rigidity of his penis rubbing against the softness of her belly and his leg sliding teasingly between her own. He nuzzled her ear and whispered.

“I won’t even ask if you liked it . . . you didn’t leave enough for the kitchen cat to get a sniff.”

“Ummmm . . . if anything but bare bones was left on a plate here, I think I’d be barred for life,” Sally Sue murmured, holding the tall young man, tight. It was so good to be with him . . . so healthy after what she’d gone through. She thought he might even save her from herself. She felt tears begin to flow down her smooth cheeks and impulsively she pulled his head down and kissed him deeply, probing his hot mouth with her tongue as his arms tightened around her and a hand slowly moved down her bare back to caress the quivering cheeks of her buttocks. She felt the rigid pole of his manhood grinding against her hotly throbbing vagina as his tongue twined with hers passionately. The fire built within her, and abruptly Sally Sue Bennett made the most daring decision of her life. Hesitatingly she breathed “Stan . . .”