Carl Van Marcus - The motorcyclist_s wife

"Clare…" she gulped.

"Gee, honey, I'm so sorry about Verne," the other woman's voice buzzed into Sandi's ear. When there was no answer she added, "Larry did tell you, didn't he? He called me from the airport and said he'd be stopping by your place to…"

"Yes," Sandi swallowed. "He… told me." She glared with wide, hate-filled eyes at the man in question who stood awkwardly poised beside the living room sofa, his formerly rock-hard penis shrinking as he realized that it was his wife at the other end of the line. "He j-just left."

"Oh good!" Clare exclaimed. "That's why I called, really. I wouldn't have bothered you at a time like this, but I got so worried, what with this fog coming up and all. It's so hard not to worry, especially after…"

"Yes," Sandi broke in, not wanting to hear Verne's accident mentioned, not wanting to continue this dishonest conversation. She stared dully out of the uncurtained living room window, scarcely hearing Clare's condolences, as it suddenly struck her that any passerby could quite easily have seen into the living room and observed the depraved way Larry Johnson had crouched between her legs and touched her in unspeakable places with his mouth. Oh God, how had it happened, how? She'd never even let her own husband touch her in that perverted way.

Suddenly Sandi's head ached so badly and her legs felt so trembly that she knew she was about to collapse on the floor. "G-good-by, Clare. T-tomorrow…" she stuttered, letting the white plastic receiver fall down with a clatter as she stumbled into a chair. I'm still naked, she thought vaguely, I have to cover myself up. But all she really wanted was for Larry to vanish, and Clare as well – how would she ever face the brunette again? – and everything about this horrible evening to be erased from her memory forever.

"Sandi…" Larry said, stepping toward her, his deflated penis jerking slowly back into semi-erectness. Goddamn Clare anyway, he cursed silently. It's gonna take a fucking miracle now to get her back down on the couch. She looks madder than hell, the stupid bitch!

"Get away from me, Larry Johnson! What's the matter with you?" Sandi hissed in a voice that was more weary than angry. It was hard to sound indignant when her traitorous body was beginning to pulse with lewd desire for the orgasm which had been so abruptly terminated. Inconceivable as it was that she could be feeling like this, it was impossible to deny the wanton waves of erotic lust still shivering in her nearly naked body.

If there was one thing that infuriated the egotistical motorcycle enthusiast, it was to have his plans thwarted. All his life as an only child, he had been the first, the favorite, the winner of prizes and scholarships. The good-looking youngster had passed from being the strongest kid on the block to being president of his high school class without encountering any serious obstacles, and by the time he was in his early twenties he'd capitalized on the new motorcycle fad to become richer than most men twice his age. All of this had occurred so smoothly as to make him feel it was his due, and quite naturally Larry Johnson had come to believe by now that there was no reason why he shouldn't continue to have everything handed to him on a silver platter. He certainly wasn't about to take no for an answer from some uptight cunt who obviously wanted to be fucked as badly as he wanted to fuck her!

"There's not a Goddamn thing wrong with me," he snarled rather nastily at the glassy-eyed blonde slouched disconsolately in the chair across from the couch. "But there's sure as hell something wrong with you! How come you're all uptight all of a sudden? You were liking it all right five minutes ago, and you know as well as I do you're dying to get a taste of this in your tight little pussy." He pointed his hardening thickness menacingly at the girl as he spoke, his face a mask of raw lust and his black eyes shooting out sparks of impatient fury.

At her husband's disloyal friend's scathing words, Sandi Smith's flushed pink cheeks blanched greyish-white. What hurt most was his all-too-true assumption that she wanted to make love to him. Waves of self-disgust rose stronger than ever in her throat, and tears of shame welled up in her eyes as her well-meaning efforts to draw her contoured thighs close together only succeeded in increasing rather than eliminating the forbidden sensations surging up from her frustrated vagina to her still crazily churning belly.

Johnson, though, by now so aroused and enraged that he wanted to rape the lushly ripened nineteen year old wife of his injured friend, forced himself to think calmly. It was too late to do anything tonight, he realized. Clare expected him home at any moment; besides, Sandi was so distraught by now that she'd be sure to scream and rouse the neighbors. One thing the Cycle Circus certainly didn't need was bad publicity. And damn it all! Here he was so horny he could hardly walk!

"Don't talk to me like that!" Sandi blazed, her indignant voice made shriller by her knowledge of her own very real guilt. "Get out of here! I never want to see you again!"

"But you'll be seeing me, baby," Larry snarled, his handsome face contorted by his vindictive anger into a caricature of a villain. "You'll be coming around begging for more of what I've got to give!"

"Shut up!" Sandi hissed, putting her hands over her ears.

"Yeah," the dark-haired man added spitefully as he tugged his form-fitting Levi's up over his unsatisfied and still swollen penis. "Yeah, you'll be hurting pretty bad when you find out how it is living with a husband who's paralyzed! It's no use pretending to me, sweetie – I know you can't go long without a good stiff prick in that hot little hole of yours!"

With that parting shot, he yanked open the front door, determining to fuck the hell out of Clare and slap her around a bit, too, to pay her back for fucking up this perfect opportunity to screw Sandi Smith. "I'll be seeing you, baby," he hissed from the doorstep, then slammed the door so hard the living room walls shook, and with a loud squeal of tires headed toward his almost identical ranch house a few blocks away.

Sandi never heard his last words or his noisy exit. At his statement about her "paralyzed husband", she'd blanked out to all else in her surroundings. For what seemed an eternity, but was actually only about ten minutes, she sat frozen in the armchair. Then, at last, she fell into unconsciousness, her voluptuous body slumped over the wide chair arm and her dreams filled with blood and fear and giant naked men with enormous cocks who menaced her as she stood in the middle of a motorcycle stadium.

"Typing speed?" the pinched-faced employment-office lady snapped even before Sandi had a chance to settle herself down in the squeaking metal folding chair. "Shorthand speed? Telex experience? Dictaphone?" she continued as though reciting a litany, never even glancing at the nervous young blonde.

"I… I'm afraid I… I never worked in an office," Sandi stammered, trying to smooth her short navy blue skirt down over her ripely rounded thighs. She'd chosen the skirt, a relic from her high-school wardrobe, as being more appropriate than the vivid-hued outfits which Verne had brought her. Although she certainly preferred the new clothes, they'd seemed somehow too frivolous for a job interview, and it was only now that she realized how very short this skirt was. She felt her cheeks grow hot as she thought that this stern woman must be thinking she was trying to look seductive in a rather sluttish way.

She needn't have worried on this score, for the woman still did not deign to glance at Sandi, although she did adjust her white-plastic framed glasses to frown at the card the young blonde had filled out in the outer office.