Dan Webster - Forced into damnation

Her asshole was wonderfully tight, and Foxy knew that it wouldn't be long before he pumped her full of his hot joy-juices giving her a thick gooey enema. He pumped faster and humped harder hearing Gloria's cries become louder and more agonized. He knew that no woman's asshole could ever stretch wide enough to accept his cock comfortably, and Johnny apparently knew it, too. For here he was using Foxy's cock as a tool in the subjugation of Gloria.

This realization added to Foxy's mounting excitement and he felt his balls about to explode as he drove his burgeoning prick onward in the roiling depths of the girl's anus. In a moment, his climax was upon him. He felt his cock swelling and then spitting like a submachine gun, pumping pellet after pellet of thick hot semen into the wide open channel of Gloria's nether passage.

The flood of hot sperm eased the friction of Foxy's penetration, greasing her rectum and allowing his swollen cock to slip in and out more freely and less painfully. Gloria knew that he couldn't stay hard much longer now that he was ejaculating. Soon it would be over and she would have her shot. But his stamina was incredible and he drove on and on pumping load after load of swirling hot scum into her burning belly.

Then at last she felt the thick but deflating cock slip from her asshole, leaving the lips of her anus stretched, flaccid, and gaping open to allow a hot trickle of sperm to drip unchecked from inside. She slumped forward against the foam rubber surface of the platform and then slid to the floor, the pain in her ass slowly subsiding but not altogether disappearing. She could feel the thick juices of Foxy's orgasm sloshing around inside her, dripping from her anus and running down the backs of her needle-scarred thighs.

She looked imploringly at Johnny Walker, shivering involuntarily at the snarl of hatred which distorted his lips. "Can I have my shot now?" she asked, her voice soft and strained.

"I guess you've earned it," Johnny said contemptuously. "But it's the last shot you're ever going to get from me." Then turning to Foxy who had already pulled on his leather pants and was tying them at the front, the Black gangster said, "Give her a fix and get her out of here. I don't want to see her again."

His words struck Gloria like a stinging slap. She knew, of course, that Johnny was finished with her now. Otherwise he wouldn't have treated her that way. But here he was talking about her like some kind of stray dog that had, wandered in out of the street. She looked up at him through defeated eyes. If only he would say one kind word she thought, anything to acknowledge the good times we had together.

But his words were cold and hard and full of hate. "Now take your shot and beat it," he said. "If you really shake your ass, you might be able to get down to Eighth Avenue and hustle enough money to buy your next fix by peddling your ass with the rest of the junkie whores. Your freeloading days are over."

Then, yawning and stretching elaborately, Johnny headed for his bedroom, leaving Gloria with Foxy.

Connie looked around the living room of Fred Bergen's dimly lit apartment, hoping to spot a familiar face. But the cloud of thick blue smoke which filled the room made her eyes burn and she found it difficult to see anything clearly. Finding herself a cushion on the floor, she settled down, her back propped against a wall, to get her bearings for a moment. She had been at the party for at least fifteen minutes and, so far, she hadn't seen anybody that she knew.

Connie had been living in Forest Hills for nearly a month, occupying a furnished studio apartment on One-Hundred-Third Street just off Queens Boulevard. The rental was high, but she had drawn expenses in advance from the Police Department Paymaster before going out on the assignment. She found the apartment on her first day out and had moved the suitcase containing all her civilian clothes into it at once.

When Connie rented the apartment, she told the landlord that she was nineteen years old and a student at a downtown Manhattan art school. Her long hair, done in braids and tied with two thick pieces of brightly colored yarn, made her story easy for him to believe. When she added that her family lived in Connecticut and that she would be staying in Forest Hills only as long as she remained in school, the landlord had insisted on collecting two months rent in advance. Connie had accepted this as proof that her cover story was convincing and considered it her first victory as an undercover agent.

She told the same story to all the kids that she met at the Glass Onion, which she began to frequent almost as soon as she moved into the neighborhood. She made it her business to drop in at the Forest Hills discotheque every night – except Tuesdays when it was closed – even if only for an hour. At first she just ordered a drink and sat at the bar sipping it slowly while she gave all the regulars a chance to get used to seeing her around.

But it wasn't long before the young crowd that had made the discotheque their hangout began to notice the new face. About a week after she had begun dropping in, Connie started receiving the friendly nods and occasional greetings of many of the regulars. She always returned the greetings with a casual smile or a simple "Hi," not wanting to appear anxious to crash any gates.

The young people who frequented the Glass Onion were a friendly bunch, most of them feeling that the "new culture" to which they belonged required the quick acceptance of strangers – so long as the strangers looked and dressed the same way they did. Connie's braids and her jeans were enough to convince the Glass Onion crowd that she was "all right". She soon became friendly with several of them, sitting with them at tables in the evenings and going out of her way to greet them whenever she happened to run into them on the street during the day.

In her conversations at the Glass Onion, Connie heard many vague references to drugs, quickly learning the meanings of slang words like "grass" and "stuff" and "shit" and "junk". But so far she hadn't seen or come into close contact with anything stronger than Gordon's Gin and Schweppes. Nevertheless she was satisfied with her progress considering the short time that she had been in the neighborhood. And she was certain that no one suspected her true identity.

When Fred Bergen, a young long-hair with a well-trimmed beard and intense look in his dark eyes invited her to a party at his "pad" on Tuesday night, Connie knew that she was coming closer to accomplishing her objective. She had been sure that there would be drugs at the party, and that she would have an opportunity to get some of the information that she was after. But although many of the people in Fred's living room looked like they were stoned on something or other, she hadn't seen anything being used or even smelled the familiar acrid aroma of marijuana smoke. She wondered whether this party was going to turn out to be a waste of time.

Shifting her weight from one buttock to the other, Connie tugged at the hem of her yellow miniskirt in a vain effort to pull it to a more respectable level. Although she had been practically living in jeans since coming to Forest Hills, she had decided that the skirt would be more appropriate for a party. With it she wore a red blouse with puffy sleeves and a neckline that was open, but not low enough to be immodest. But now, as she tried to find a more comfortable position on the cushion, she felt her short skirt sliding up again, revealing too much of her bare thighs and wondered whether it had been a mistake. She looked quickly around her to see if anyone had noticed and was relieved to see that no one was paying any attention to her. She was thinking of getting up and looking for another seat when Fred Bergen suddenly appeared in front of her.