William Davis - The Polaroid club book I

Sally stifled the low groan which threatened to escape her throat, and remained sitting there almost like a statue. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. Oh, God, what kind of filthy things its he going to do to me tonight? No… no, I can't think about them, I can't think ahead… have to make my mind a blank, a blank…

Samuels came around the coffee table, still massaging his huge prick with his fingers, and sat down next to the beautiful, almost completely naked young wife. His rubbery lips were parted wide, and thin rivulets of saliva coursed out at their corners. His eyes were fever bright. "Won't you have a cigarette, Mrs. Reagan," he said gratingly. "It will relax you while you look through the pictures. These are good cigarettes, Mrs. Reagan; you've had them before, remember?"

Pot! Her mind screamed. Oh, no, not more marijuana! She remembered the last time, how he had forced her to smoke one of the little brown cigarettes, and another, how she had become giddy and light-headed, responding to his commands almost eagerly as the fear and disgust left her body under the influence of the drug. But wait… maybe that was the best thing now… yes, for if she allowed herself to become high under the emotion-numbing drug the evening would go quickly and she would not be fully cognizant of the certain perversions he would perform upon her unwilling flesh. Yes, she had to get high, very high… pretend it was Jack touching her body as Samuels would surely touch it, pretend that her loving husband's penis was being thrust inside her when the time came instead of the grotesque monster of this gnome-like fiend… yes, that was what she would do, that was how she would survive this night…

Almost eagerly, Sally Reagan's fingers sought the scarred humidor on the table next to the pictures and next to an odd looking, black-cased, slender thing she had never seen before. She opened the box, extracted one of the crude brown cigarettes, and placed it between her soft, moist lips. Beside her, Samuels snapped a lighter into flame with his left hand, his right still stroking his blood-heavy penis, and lit the cigarette.

The young wife drew smoke into her lungs, holding it there as he had taught her that first time, releasing it finally. Then she repeated the process, and a third and fourth time.

"That's fine, Mrs. Reagan, that's just fine," Samuels croaked. "Now the pictures. Look at the pictures while you smoke. Look at them, now."

Already, after the first deep drag, the marijuana cigarette was beginning to have an effect on the tense young woman, relaxing her somewhat, making some of the fear and loathing and hate disappear, and she reached out and lifted the stack of photos. She held them up to her eyes, drawing on the stick again, then began to shuffle through them.

She knew them well, these snapshots. Jack and she had taken them together that night several months ago, with his brother's Polaroid. God, she wished she had never seen them, wished they had never existed! But she had seen them, and they did exist, and she looked at them, at one after another of them…

Jack and she, lying on their bed, with her hand circling his huge, erect penis while his middle finger was extended and half-buried in the warm, glistening folds of her wide splayed pussy… Jack with his lips pressed to one of her jutting breasts, while his extended finger tickled her erect, quivering clitoris… Jack with his mouth buried in her pubic hair, and her thumb rubbing across the swollen head of his penis… Jack with his head full between her wide-splayed thighs, his tongue pressed into the tingling flanges of her tenderly excited femininity and her face twisted grotesquely with the joy of the warm, wet contact… her, now, with her lips on his stomach while she stroked his organ and his testicles… her with mouth poised above the red, seminally-lubricated head of his member… her with her mouth closed over the head now, sucking as her fingers tickled his scrotum (God, she remembered the taste of his penis, the bittersweet flavor of his masculinity; she had liked it, because it was her husband and she loved him and wanted to please him, but now it seemed so revolting and obscene)… her with the full length of his great member pressed tight into her ovaled lips, her nose gently tickling his wiry pubic hair… the two of them on the bed, she straddling Jack, her buttocks raised to the camera, knees spread wide on either side of him, his penis inserted into the shimmering, petal-opened expanse of her vagina as she rocked back on it while kissing him full on the mouth… the same photo, only with Jack's middle finger teasing along and partly inserted in the tiny, rubbery opening of her anal passage…

"You like them, don't you, Mrs. Reagan?" Samuels intoned next to her, his fingers inside his under pants and wrapped around his trembling cock now. "You like them, and you're getting hot looking at them, aren't you?"

"Y-yes," Sally heard herself answer. "Yes, yes."

"Then lean back and put your hand down between your legs," commanded the postal clerk throatily. "Play with yourself like I'm doing, Mrs. Reagan. Put your fingers in your cunt, Mrs. Reagan. Ah, that's it… no, no, don't pull your panties down. Just pull them aside between your legs, and put your finger in your slit… yes, yes, now you've got it!"

Under his droning directions, the young marijuana-drugged housewife had begun to slide her middle finger slowly, slowly, up and down the moistening expanse of her tender young vaginal slit, feeling the juices of her femininity begin to flow in spite of the situation and because of her relaxed state of being. It's Jack's finger, not my own, she told herself over and over, it's Jack's finger, not my own…

Samuels, tremendously excited now by the sight of the sweet young woman slowly masturbating before him, removed the swollen, blood-engorged penis from his underpants, letting it jut high into the air as his claw-like fingers stroked it up and down. Goddamn, but this was really living! To have young married sluts like this at his mercy were the finest moments of his life, the things he really lived for… Jesus, Jesus, how he loved to torment the haughty Goddamned young bitches for his own pleasure!

"Another cigarette," he wheezed. "Here, I'll light it for you… no, no don't take your fingers out of your cunt, Mrs. Reagan! Keep playing with your clit while you smoke… good, good!"

The second marijuana joint relaxed the young woman even more, and she felt all her emotions go gently ebbing away, so that she was relaxed to a large degree and no longer apprehensive. And… yes, she was beginning to feel, in spite of her hopeless situation, a gentle tingling in her softly warm cunt. Jack's doing it, Jack's doing it, Jack's getting me excited like he always does, Jack Jack Jack…

She finished the second joint, and her head was swimming now, her finger moving with increasing rapidity in her cuntal valley, her eyes glazed over and her breasts heaving. The postal clerk, watching her and stroking his own burgeoning genitalia, snickered aloud as he saw the mounting sexuality in the young wife brought about by the marijuana and the pictures and her own manipulations. She was going to be fine tonight, a regular Goddamned hellcat; he'd teach her a thing or two, son-of-a-bitch if he wouldn't!

"On the table, Mrs. Reagan," he droned. "The vibrator… yes, that. Now take it in your hand… good, good, there's a little button on the bottom… click it forward, now you've got it."

Vibrator? What… what did he want her to do with that? Sally thought in her torpor. It was an ugly thing, black-cased, resembling an elongated candle stick with a rounded head — almost phallic-looking, like a slender, ugly penis. It was slippery in her hand, and when she clicked the button forward as he had directed it began a gentle tingling against her palm and she saw that the rounded head was oscillating from side to side with a steady rhythm. Vibrator, vibrating against her hand… what did he expect her to do with…?