Dan Webster - Forced into damnation

Tears ran freely from Connie's eyes as she nodded to indicate her understanding. She could feel the thick pole of flesh jerking randomly in her mouth now. His balls were drawn tightly up against his body, working overtime at producing the torrent of hot semen that would soon be jetting from his throbbing hardon and wetting her entire oral cavity with its slimy viscosity.

His cock swelled suddenly, rearing back like a rattler about to strike. Then, with no further warning, it began shooting its hot load of pentup desire into the cavern of her reluctantly sucking mouth. The first spurt was a small one, and Connie could feel it splashing hotly against the back of her throat and then trickling down past her tonsils.

But each successive jet of white-hot liquid was thicker and fuller, and her mouth soon filled with the thickly whirling gooey stuff, making her feel as if she was drowning in it. She gulped quickly, trying to swallow the hot torrent before it filled her mouth, to overflowing. Foxy watched as her cheeks alternately puffed and hollowed in her frantic attempt to stay ahead of the gushing flood of scum.

She felt a warm trickle of liquid oozing from the corner of her mouth and feared for a moment that she would lose the race. But then, by swallowing deeply and quickly, she drew apace of the flood, just managing to prevent the viscous white fluid from dribbling from her lips. She felt it sliding thickly down her throat as she swallowed, hot tears of shame wetting her cheeks and pooling on her glisteningly naked tits.

Then at last it was over and the thick pole of cockflesh was shriveling in her mouth, the once mighty club with which Foxy had beaten away her self-respect shrinking at last to the size of a peanut. Finally, licking the wrinkled organ clean, she let it slip from her lips. Quickly she turned away, trying hard not to vomit. Finally, when she had fought down a rising gush of bile which bubbled up her throat, she turned back to look at him.

His face was distorted into a bestial mask of sated lust, his eyes lidded heavily and his tense features partially relaxed. "Not bad for a novice," he said, seeing her looking at him. "Not bad at all." He bent for his leather pants and pulled them on over his thickly muscular thighs, tucking his balls and deflated cock into their front, and tying the thong.

Without waiting for his permission, Connie reached for her clothes and put them on, covering herself quickly, anxious to shield her nakedness from his depraved gaze. Her eyes were dry now, all cried out. She felt cold and unfeeling, her emotions having been taxed into unconsciousness by the horror of her ordeal.

I hate him, she thought coldly. I'd like to put him in jail for the rest of his life. Then remembering the assignment which had first cost her her virginity and now had robbed her of her last vestige of self-respect, she felt more anxious than ever to get the evidence that she had come for, so that she and Lieutenant Blumenthal could use it to punish this horrible criminal. "What about that sample?" she asked, snapping the front of her pants. "Have I convinced you that I'm not a cop?"

"Yeah, I guess you were convincing enough," Foxy said with a smug little chuckle of satisfaction. "But I'm only the screening committee." His words disappointed her. Did that mean that she would have to deal with someone else?

"I'll have to arrange for you to meet my boss, Mr. Walker," the stocky thug continued. "Do you know the Glass Onion?"

"Yes," Connie replied, concentrating hard on her assignment in a desperate effort to keep from screaming in horrified frustration.

"Be there Tuesday night at eight-thirty." As he spoke, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp white card – about the size of a business card. The stiff paper was glazed expensively and the word "GUEST" was engraved on it in gold.

"Isn't the Glass Onion closed on Tuesday nights?" she asked, remembering how Lionel had deceived her less than a week before.

"It's closed to the public, all right," Foxy replied. "But only because it's the meeting place of a very exclusive club."

"What kind of a club?" Connie asked.

"It's a club where people with special tastes can get together and enjoy what they like," Foxy said, handing her the card. "Bring this with you," he said. "They won't let you in without it." He had already blown out the candle and was heading toward the door of the warehouse.

"Wait a minute," she called, "How will I know this Mr. Walker?"

"You won't," Foxy answered. "But don't worry about that. He'll know you."

A moment later he was gone and Connie was alone with her thoughts of shame and degradation.

It was just before eight-thirty when Connie raised her hand to knock on the ornately carved door of the Glass Onion. The shades had been drawn and no light could be seen coming from the windows of the little discotheque. It appeared closed, even to her knowing scrutiny. If Foxy hadn't told her, she would never have guessed that some kind of meeting was going on inside.

She wondered what sort of club it was that used the neighborhood hangout as its headquarters. An "exclusive club", he had called it. One for members with "special tastes". Connie was intrigued. Lifting the heavy onion-shaped brass door knocker, she rapped loudly, wondering whether Foxy hadn't been putting her on. When no one answered her knock, she raised the brass onion knocker for another try.

But before she could finish, a peephole opened in the door and she found herself face to face with a human eye. "Your card, please," said a voice from behind the door. Connie fumbled in her pocket for the gold-engraved card which Foxy had given her. Finding it, she held it up to the peephole for inspection by the anonymous eye. "One moment, please," said the voice politely.

Seconds later the door swung open admitting her to the familiar surroundings of the popular discotheque. As she entered, a tall thin man wearing the uniform of a nineteenth-century butler appeared at her side and took the card from her hand. "Will you be meeting someone?" he asked. "Or would you like your own table."

She considered mentioning Mr. Walker's name and then thought better of it. "I'll sit by myself," she said. "A gentleman may be joining me later on."

"Very good, Miss," said the butler. She followed him into the discotheque and allowed him to seat her at one of the tables which ringed the elevated stage. She ordered a gin and tonic – the incident at Lionel's apartment the week before having been enough to get her off scotch, forever – and waited to see what would happen. Looking around, she saw several waiters, all dressed like the man who had admitted her, flitting busily around carrying trays laden with cocktails.

Connie glanced around at the posters of rock stars which adorned the walls, and at the glass onion-shaped globes on the lighting fixtures. Although the room – with its familiar onion decor and crowded table arrangement – was exactly as she had always known it to be, Connie didn't recognize any of the waiters. The usual Glass Onion personnel were a friendly bunch – casual to the point of rudeness. They called all the customers by their first names and mingled freely with them, sitting at tables uninvited whenever they felt like it. But tonight the staff was stiffly formal. She saw one of the waiters bow to a customer as he placed his tray on the edge of a table.

The change, was refreshing and Connie smiled, forgetting for a moment the seriousness of her mission. She looked around in the dim light of the discotheque, hoping to spot a familiar face. But the customers were all strangers to her as were the waiters. She glanced at the bar, where a thin dark-haired girl sat sipping a drink by herself, and shrugged. Not even the bartender looked familiar. A moment later the waiter returned with her drink and Connie occupied herself by stirring it vigorously with the red plastic onion-topped swizzle stick. She raised it to her lips, savoring the tang of the liquored quinine.