Theodore Stickles: Prisoner Of Lust

Suddenly Paula was crying angry tears of rage and frustration. She was getting ready to pitch coffee over handed at the kitchen wall when she realized who would end up cleaning it up. She stood in mid-kitchen, still clad only in her quilted robe, and: saw the blue phone was still off the hook. She put it back. Immediately it started ringing. She took it off again and placed the receiver face down. Still sobbing, she waited a minute and hung up again. Immediately the blue phone was ringing again.

She let it ring while she rummaged through the nightstand beside her bed. Finally she came back with a police whistle on a gold chain. She picked the phone up, blew the whistle with all her strength into it and hung up again. Immediately the goddam thing was ringing again. She sighed, took it off the hook, blew the whistle again, then put the phone down without hanging up. My god, was she on TV already? Didn't the idiots have sense enough to cut it or fuzz it out of focus or something?

Was she already showing every crisp blond ringlet of her crotch to every lip-licking chauvinist pig of an asshole bandit in this city? What was she going to do?

The doorbell chimed. She was about to ignore it when abruptly she remembered. The breaker and enterer who thought she was going to make new parole laws and let him leave the state… She went to the door and looked through the peephole. Hat in hand, he stood on her front stoop, looking very much like what he was: a paroled breaker and enterer, a ratlike, George Raft of a man with straight, slicked-back hair, a prison pallor, and a missing chromosome-the well-meaning little shnook who always got caught in the cogs of the machinery because he quite simply couldn't understand that he wasn't all that smart, that you don't break and enter exactly the same way over a hundred times without even the dumbest of cops learning to say, "Aha, Harry Riggs is on the street again!"

But who got caught in the cogs of the machinery this morning? Paula forced her face into an amiable neutrality and opened the door. "Good morning, Harry, like some coffee?" she asked.

Harry most assuredly would. He followed her into the kitchen like an eager insurance salesman reincarnated as a puppy dog and was sitting in the chair recently vacated by Smart-ass before Paula even remembered that she still wore only her robe. She hoped Harry Riggs had not seen the TV news yet.

"Well Harry, apart from not letting you leave the city, much less the state, what can I do for you?"

Harry wasn't saying. He had a manila envelope under his arm. He put it down and began removing his topcoat. Underneath he wore a cheap suit that came from the same factory that clothed all her clients until they got a job or went back into the rackets. Paula turned her back on him and began fixing coffee. "Kitchen's a mess," she said, "Why don't you go sit in the other room and I'll bring in a tray." She remembered how short of money, how often these poor losers were actually hungry and decided it would cost her nothing to pile a couple of sandwiches on the tray. It was five minutes before she was finished. •

Damn! Ought to duck into the bedroom and put on something but it would take time and the poor man had already waited too long and she was going to have to tell him no anyhow so… besides, the bedroom was reachable only by going through the other room where he would be sitting on pins and needles waiting to tell her all about his chance of a lifetime. Still in the chignon and high heels with which she had greeted Hizzonner the Mayor, plus a quilted robe that would conceal the rest of her providing she was careful how she sat and didn't let a knee or a whole damn thigh escape, Paula picked up the tray and walked into the front room.

"Harry!" She was so startled she nearly dropped the tray. Goddam! Had she gotten her files mixed up? This was Harry Riggs, wasn't it? The man who had made a career of breaking and entering? She couldn't recall any other information in his file. So what on earth was he doing standing stark naked in her front room, his clothes in a neat pile at one end of the sofa, his cock in full erection?

"Harry, what on earth are you up to?" she babbled. "Have you been a closet flasher all these years?" Damn! had her morning been so hectic she'd gotten him mixed up with some deviate dingbat?

Harry's face was grim and unsmiling, his eyes glazed. She remembered that look-had seen it countless times on the faces of these men locked up away from women, so hungry that even the sight of a fully clothed woman was enough to make them gasp and ejaculate. Had Harry seen the TV news already? It didn't seem to make much difference. She had let him into her house and now he was carrying an invitation one step farther.

Paula stared, fascinated, her eyes ranging up and down his naked, scanty-haired body. His cock, she noted, was uncircumcised. It was in full erection, heavy veined, an angry purple head peeping from his tight-stretched prepuce. It was pointing straight at her and for the first time she truly appreciated the impact that her full, firm tits must have whenever they looked a deprived, sex-starved man straight in the eye.

He was a wiry, muscular little man, no taller than she was. She wondered if she could overpower him and wrestle him down long enough to call for help. "Harry," she said, "Don't you know you can't do this? Don't you know what'll happen to your parole?"

"Don't shit me," he gritted. "I know you want it. I know you're as hard-up as I am." Still moving toward her, approaching her with his ram at a dangerous angle, he continued, "Besides, who'd believe you? Told you I was comin' over half an hour ago and you ain't even dressed. Don't try to shit me!"

As he came close to her she could feel hot male heat radiating from the throbbing head of his cock, warming her right through the quilted front of her robe. She knew she ought to resist-hit him, run, do something!

She couldn't. Paula was paralyzed by the sight of this submissive little man stalking her with a stiff prick. It was as startling as if he had suddenly grown a hairy face and fangs. "No, Harry," she cautioned in a tremulous voice. "No, don't!"

Paying no attention, Harry was pushing her nerveless hands aside. He tugged at the sash of her robe and it fell open to display a swatch of her frontage from neck to ankle. He put his arms on her shoulders and Paula found herself once more in a remembered position just as she had shrugged out of that long-skirted formal devoured by the escalator.

This time it was not a machine; it was a man undressing her. He pushed gently and the slick quilted sateen slid off her shoulders until the robe collapsed behind her like a deflating balloon.

I can stop him, she told herself. I know I can. He isn't any bigger than I am and he isn't any superduper athlete. I can stop him. If only I could move.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm! He was rooting like a pig in the soft valley between her full firm breasts. His hands on her shoulders slipped down around her waist and then he was bearing down until her knees bent and slowly they sank to the wall-to-wall and then they were both kneeling and he was still rooting in her warm soft jugs and his arms were around her waist and he was urging her backward and then she was on her back on her own living room rug and he was kneeling between her thighs and her knees were bent and, for Christ's sake, she was falling right into missionary position and she could feel the heat of his hot hammering cock burning her thighs and then his fingers were parting the blond-ringletted lips of her cunt and he was threading his cock into her and he didn't even have a rubber on and oooooooohhhhhh it was going in.

She gasped and tried to struggle but it was no use. He was on top of her now and her will had turned to water and, ever since she had seen that great thumping cock in full erection moving toward her, Paula had been unable to do more than protest feebly and now it was in her and he was pushing and it was sliding smoothly, slickly, not hurting at all and, oh my god, whether she had wanted it or not, her body had been ready and this stiff-pricked breaker and enterer was entering her and he hadn't even had to break in. She could feel his cock sliding in, in, in deep into her, filling her full of maleness, full of the stuff her dreams were made of, only this wasn't a dream, not even a nightmare. This was really happening. She was getting raped in her own house, in her own front room, on her own wall-to-wall rug and she was getting raped by a convicted felon and he was one of her very own clients and she had violated every rule in the book by even letting him find out where she lived and, come to think of it, how did he know?