William Davis - The Polaroid club book I

But it was not over, not by any stretch of the imagination. Young Sally Reagan had only begun to participate in an evening of such lewd carnality that it would leave her almost witless at its end. For Steve Samuels, with remarkable regenerative powers, had his huge, swollen cock half-hard again even as she lay exhausted over his legs and the dog, Ringo, was sniffing once again at her still throbbing cuntal region.

"Suck me again, Mrs. Reagan," commanded the civil servant. "Suck me to full hardness. I want to fuck your cunt next, fuck your cunt like Ringo just did. Come on, Mrs. Reagan, suck me some more with your soft, soft little mouth."

And Sally obeyed, mouthing Samuels erect again, so that he could fuck her — submitting to other, incredible injustices involving the perverted clerk and his insatiable German Shepherd on and on into the night, on and on and on…

And then, at last, Samuels allowed her to dress and called her a taxi. When it arrived, he led her child-like form to the door, reveling in the knowledge that he had made her this slavish zombie with his great cock and his huge dog. "Go home to your husband, now, you little slut!" he taunted. "You're nothing but a little whore, and you deserve that pimp of a husband of yours. Serves you right, serves you both right, for filling our mails with your lewd pornographic pictures!"

He cackled obscenely as she half-ran, half-stumbled down to the waiting taxi. He watched her practically fall inside, watched the cab speed away, and he thought: I did everything to her tonight that I wanted to do — except fuck her in the asshole. But that's all right, because I'm saving that exciting little game for someone else, for someone much more exciting than this little Reagan bitch.

I'm saving it for a one Mrs. Cindy Jamison.

He cackled again as he shut the door and went back to the living room, the German Shepherd Ringo at his side. Yes, this was only a preliminary, all right. Mrs. Jamison was going to be the main event, the new conquest. He could hardly wait until he saw the expression on her face when he first confronted her with her picture, because that was the one thing that really turned him on, excited him above all else.

He went to bed then and slept the sleep of the guileless, dreaming all the while of Cindy Jamison and what he would do to her, how he would fuck her and subject her to his every whim, how he would subjugate her as he had Mrs. Sally Reagan.

Oh, it wouldn't be long now, not very long at all.

And then Cindy Jamison, that stuck-up little whore-bitch, would be begging him on hands and knees for his mercy…

Cindy sat dejectedly on the living room couch staring thoughtfully into a martini glass. Her head whirled from the fifth one she had drunk since arriving with her husband and the Taylors. The talk was lively around her; the other three in a similar, lightheaded condition from drinking, though not saddened.

She hadn't wanted to be part of the foursome tonight, feeling worse than she had when Ralph and Norma had taken her and Howard to dinner at The Gandydancer. She had pleaded with Howard when he'd called during the afternoon that she wasn't feeling well, that her head ached from the previous night, that… well, none of her excuses had worked, she thought ruefully. Here she was, once more with her head spinning from too much to drink, surrounded by loud, boisterous, crude talk.

Worse, she wasn't even in her own home, where, if things got out of hand or her own emotional breaking point was reached, she could have fled to the sanctity of her bedroom. Or what was left of that sanctity, she concluded harshly. Howard had changed so drastically, especially since that night when she had allowed those nude Polaroid pictures to be taken… for since then, there had been three successive nights when he had wanted to repeat that horrible performance, to once more set up the tripod and camera and writhe in abandon on the rug, or, as the case last night, on the bed. The very sheets seemed now permeated with debauchery, with the sins of carnality, and the remembrance of how he had tried again to push her head down on his penis and the coldness with which he had treated her afterwards when she had refused to do it brought tears brimming to her eyes. She wiped them carefully and took another heavy gulp of the martini, wincing slightly as it burned its way down her throat.

And tonight, this party was the crowning blow. Howard had actually threatened her on the phone, caustically overriding her objections with brutal words. "You're coming tonight, Cindy," he grated over the phone. "You're coming and you're going to like it. Understand? It's high time you learned which side of the bread the butter's on, and if my boss wants us to go to his cabin tonight, then we're damned well going up there."

"Howie…" she'd wailed, trembling with his angered voice.

"Don't Howie me," he'd snapped back. "Get into a pair of slacks and a nice blouse, comb your hair and be ready to leave as soon as I get home at six. And have a smile on your face, too!" And with that, he'd hung up so harshly that the sound had hurt her ears.

The distraught young wife, completely confused as to what would now bring her previously idyllic marriage back together, overwhelmed by the forceful way Howard's raucous boss had taken a more than guiding influence, terrified at the prospect of a total breakdown of her life, whimpered softly on the couch of the Taylor's mountain cabin. She finished the last drop of the martini and reached forward for the pitcher on the coffee table and poured herself another. The liquor dulled the anguish which pained her, at least, and made this nightmare of an evening a tolerable thing.

The trip to Ralph's cabin retreat had taken several hours, and had been frequently punctuated by stops at taverns and cocktail lounges along the way. Ralph had also brought along a thermos of daiquiris, which he had passed around as he drove, and all the while he and Howard and Norma had discussed everything under the sun in animated, ever louder voices. The sun had already set and the air was a bit nippy when at last they pulled up in front of the stone and redwood cabin, set at the edge of a fine fishing lake in the Sierra foothills.

As befitting Ralph, the interior was masculine and a little on the ostentatious side. The living room was huge with a high oak-beamed ceiling and a large stone fireplace, which Ralph soon had filled with a huge roaring fire. The cabin wasn't so isolated as to not have electricity, but the men had trouble getting the hot water heater going, partly because it was old and cranky and partly because both of them were more than a little drunk by that time.

Cindy hadn't seen the bedrooms yet, but she had the feeling that they would be warm and homey, with great big thick double beds and feather pillows. She'd soon know, she said to herself. She and Howard were going to spend the night here, courtesy of Ralph and Norma. And while her husband hadn't said so, there had been intimations that the weekend might be extended to two nights, the four of them returning late Monday. She hoped not. God, she hoped not, for then Howard would never be away from Ralph's almost evil influence. A small shudder passed through her. What would happen with such concentrated exposure to his manager's suggestions?

Her inner torment stopped abruptly as she was suddenly brought back to the present by Norma's thin, smooth-skinned hand on her shoulder. She looked at the woman, who was smiling in a concerned, worried way, and Cindy smiled back as best she could.

"Something's the matter, isn't it, Cindy?" the other woman said in a condescending way. "You've been sitting here all evening, your face like a mask of tragedy."

"Oh… oh, it's nothing, Norma. Really it isn't."