Bert Phelan: A degrading affair

The tall, dark man with the pencil-thin mustache took Marcy McCall by the hand and led her across the sidewalk to his waiting limousine. "We will go to my laboratory now," Dr. Dirk Villiers said.

Marcy nodded and followed him obediently. It had been an order, not a request, and from now on she had no choice but to do as this self-styled scientist told her to. Not five minutes ago she had signed away her right of free choice, her privacy, and her freedom.

As soon as they were seated in the rear of the car, Dr. Villiers spoke to the driver and then turned his piercing black eyes back to the girl beside him.

"There now," he said, settling himself comfortably, "we are alone."

"Are we?" Marcy asked, glancing at the chauffeur's reflection in the rear view mirror.

"Yes, quite alone," Villiers said. "Forget Monty. He'll be much too busy with the traffic to pay attention to us."

His hand moved quickly, opening Marcy's blouse and pushing aside her bra to bare her large, creamy breasts. Then he sat looking at the twin mounds, tipped with puckery, coral-pink nipples, as though considering a deep philosophical question. Marcy made no move to cover herself. She was too stunned by the events of the last few days to react with her usual virginal fear. Besides, it would be useless to protest or try to deny this man anything. She was his to do with as he pleased for as long as it took him to conclude the experiments he had planned.

Dr. Villiers' big hands came up to cradle her breasts. He toyed with the perky peaks until they hardened, then squeezed them between thumb and forefinger. When she didn't respond in any way, he sank his fingertips into the firm white flesh and tightened his grip until she gasped with pain. Then he laughed and released her.

"Big, firm and resilient," he commented. "They should be just about right for several projects I've been putting off for lack of a suitable subject."

Marcy said nothing, but when one of his hands snaked under her skirt, pushed aside the crotch of her panties, and touched the hairy triangle between her thighs, she sucked in her breath sharply.

His fingers opened the sensitive lips of her sex and moved inside them.

"What – what are you doing?" she asked, squirming uneasily.

"Just testing, my dear," Dr. Villiers said. "Making sure you have the kind of cunt I require for my research."

"What is the research for?" She noted with embarrassment that her thighs were flexing involuntarily around his wrist.

He chuckled. "Let's say I'm writing a monograph entitled Sixty Variations on Conventional Sex Practices as Performed by a Willing Virgin. You are willing, aren't you, my dear?"

In spite of her firm intention not to show any emotion, Marcy couldn't keep her breathing from speeding up as those arrogant fingers violated her most intimate parts. She could feel them deep in the well of her cunt, shoving in and out between the tight lips, massaging the delicate membranes.

"Yes, I'm willing," she heard herself say. "Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. Anything – it doesn't matter. If you want it, I'll do it with you."

"With me and with anyone else I command you to," Villiers said. "If I tell you, 'Fuck that man,' or 'Eat that woman's cunt,' or 'Suck that man while his partner fucks you,' you'll do it! Do you understand?"

Marcy shut her eyes and nodded. Yesterday the very use of such words would have offended her deeply. She had never allowed such vulgarisms to be uttered in her presence. All sexual organs, male or female, had been "privates", and "fuck" was something she not only didn't do, but refused to think about. But now here she was, unable to keep the sound of the words from affecting her, any more than she could keep his fingers from stirring up a hot lather in the blonde-tressed furrow between her legs. Her nostrils flared as the musky fragrance of her own cunt juice drifted up to her. The scent seemed to fill the whole car, and she was sure the chauffeur could smell it too, although he kept his eyes straight ahead as he steered the expensive car across the Golden Gate Bridge into Mann County.

She moaned, and without meaning to, slid her hips forward on the seat, opening her thighs wider so Dr. Villiers could get another finger into her. Her naked breasts were rising and falling rapidly, the nipples hard and aching, and her panties were becoming soaked. "Please stop – stop!" she gasped.

"I never stop an experiment once I have started it, my dear," Dr. Villiers said in a calm, unhurried voice. "That would be bad manners as well as bad science. You must cum for me before I can stop."

"Oh, no – no!" she cried, flexing her legs and then spreading them wider. She was lying almost flat on the seat now, and looking up, she could see herself in the rear view mirror. Her skirt was up around her waist, her legs were spread wide, and her thick forest of pubic hair was in plain sight under her wet panties. The plump pink lips of her vulva were exposed, with the man's fingers in the center of them, pumping into her innermost recesses. She looked absolutely wanton, and if the driver happened to glance over his shoulder, he would see exactly what she was seeing.

Shame turned Marcy's face red. "Please – please, let me up!" she begged, but her buttocks were wriggling frantically, and she saw her hands come up to grasp Dr. Villiers' hand and try to force his fingers in deeper.

"Very passionate for a virgin," he observed, and leaned forward to suck the nearest coral-tipped breast into his mouth.

Marcy bucked like a wild thing, almost torn apart by the violent sensations that possessed her. He bit down on the nipple, and something inside her skyrocketed and burst into a thousand falling stars, while her vagina contracted sharply and sent fresh gushes of juice onto his hand.

When it was over, she lay back spent and uncaring, her legs still sprawled open and her cunt exposed. What had happened to her had never happened before, and she was startled and dismayed to find herself so susceptible to this man's will.

"Who are you?" she asked, turning her head to look up at him. "You're not really a doctor – you can't be."

"No, not the kind of doctor you mean," Dirk Villiers told her, sniffing at his fingers before wiping them on a clean linen handkerchief. "I'm a Ph.D., an anthropologist engaged in experiments in human sexual response. You, my dear, are the newest of my laboratory animals."

"I don't understand," Marcy said.

"You don't have to. Laboratory animals aren't expected to understand the nature of an experiment."

Fear cut through Marcy's trancelike apathy, and she sat up quickly. "Laboratory animals? Like the kind they cut up?"

Dr. Villiers smiled. "Oh, I shouldn't think we'll go that far. Vivisection won't be called for. One of the more interesting factors of the study of sex as science is that all experiments can be best performed on living, breathing creatures."

Marcy drew a deep breath of relief.

"Of course, I suppose there is some interest in the practice of necrophilia and…"

"Necro – what?" Marcy didn't know the word.

"Necrophilia. It means fucking a corpse, my dear," he explained matter-of-factly. "A rather esoteric predilection that…"

He stopped as Marcy turned chalk-white and looked as though she were about to faint. He patted her knee comfortingly. "Don't worry, my dear. Interesting as such a study might prove, we'd have difficulty obtaining subjects of either the fucker or fuckee persuasion." He chuckled at his macabre humor.

Marcy didn't think it was funny. As her terror receded, her puritan upbringing took over. "Must you always use those disgusting words?" she demanded.

"Scientific precision, my dear. We always try to use the shortest, most descriptive words to deal with a subject." He raised the damp handkerchief to his nose and sniffed appreciatively. "Mmmm, what a delightful blend of soap, talcum, and spicy cunt juice."