Carl Van Marcus - The motorcyclist_s wife

Ted guffawed loudly, his eyes never leaving the firm-fleshed mounds of the blonde's buttocks which undulated provocatively, even beneath her heavy velveteen bathrobe as she scurried out to the kitchen. "She looks sweet and innocent enough," the red-faced wife heard him say, "but are you sure she's really a good fuck?"

"I oughta know! She's hot as a firecracker, and I got scratches on my back to show it. Just needs the right guy to set her off!" the photographer boasted.

In the darkened kitchen, the humiliated blonde leaned her spinning head against the cool refrigerator door and blinked away her tears. This new degradation, following so closely on the heels of her unspeakable wanton performance that afternoon and her husband's manager's upsetting phone call, was too much for the intoxicated nineteen year old to handle. There was only one clear thought in her mind – she had to get out of this situation, for another perverted violation of her body was inevitable unless she did so at once. In the past twenty-four hours she'd learned to recognize the signals of sexual danger radiating from aroused males and from her own traitorous body, and all her instincts told her to flee before it was too late.

Shaking her tousled blonde curls to clear her mind, the desperate young girl opened the refrigerator door and rattled the bottles standing on the inside door rack – much more loudly than necessary. Then, focusing her eyes on the back door, she slammed the fridge as hard as she could and dashed toward the beckoning safety of the dark back yard – completely forgetting in her panic-stricken haste that the ironing board she'd used to press her skirt that morning barred her path. The heavy metal iron hit the tile floor with a clamorous crash, and as Sandi desperately struggled to disentangle her foot from the legs of the half-collapsed ironing board, she heard the two men's footsteps thudding toward the kitchen.

A moment later, the overhead kitchen light flashed on and four rough male hands were pulling the frantically fighting young wife to her feet.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going, you stupid bitch?" taunted Tony, twisting her wrist so hard that she gave a gasp of anguish. Then, turning to his friend, Ted Gladstone, with a conspiratorial wink, he continued, "We can't have insubordination like this from members of our cast, can we, Ted? I think maybe she needs to be taught a lesson!"

"Yeah," the blond youth drawled, his eyes sparking with excitement as he caught his friend's underlying mood of sexual sadism. It wasn't all that often that you got a woman in a position where she had no choice but to submit to you, and they might as well take advantage of it while it lasted. And, of course, if the movie deal ever came off, it'd be an advantage to have her completely under their power. "Yeah, I think she needs to be taught that our actors do whatever we tell them to do."

There was an ugly undertone to the good-looking males' conversation which frightened the cowering nineteen year old wife so badly that she stopped her useless struggling and let her body fall limp in their grasping arms. If she'd not been able to fight off Tony this afternoon when he'd been alone, how on God's earth could she expect to escape from the two of them? Several weeks ago she'd come across an article about rape in one of the woman's magazines, and though she'd never imagined it would ever pertain to herself, something had led her to read it word for word. Interspersed among the lurid personal accounts, there'd been a psychiatrist's advise on what to do in case you are attacked. "Just keep quiet and don't fight back," he'd instructed. "Any protest may provoke the sex maniac to additional physical violence."

But could anyone really consider it "rape" when, not four hours before, she'd been locked in a passionate, adulterous embrace with one of these two men almost of her own free will? As she remembered how she'd writhed in orgasm beneath him, calling out sinful words and urging him on, Sandi knew that once again she had only herself to blame. Who could blame the photographer for thinking she was just some cheap little tramp? Wasn't she, in fact, no better than a prostitute?

"That's the way!" Tony leered as the blonde model stopped trying to wrench her slender figure from them. "But we can't have our star actress trying to run out the back door when we ask her to pour us some wine. You're gonna have to be punished, baby."

"But I'm not your actress… I'm not going to be in your movie… I'm not!" Sandi wailed, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks.

"You fucking well are!" Tony said, cruelly twisting her arm beneath the red velvet robe. "That is, unless you want your husband to know what kind of a slut he's married to! Sure is a shame he's not home… you'd sign the contract this minute if he were."

At the mention of her husband, the degraded young wife burst into hysterical sobs. "You can't do this to me! You can't!" she screamed.

"And you'd better stop making that noise, unless you want the neighbors finding out about your extramarital activities…" the photographer threatened.

Suddenly, the light-haired young man let go of the frightened woman and began ripping open the snaps on his jeans jacket and Levi's. Sandi gaped at him, the terrible realization that her vagina was pulsing and moistening in response to the angry-red thickness that sprang out straight as a pole from his loins sending icy chills of corrupt masochistic desire surging through her veins.

"What the hell are we standing around for?" Ted demanded. "I want to – uh – audition our new starlet before her hubby shows up." The handsome blond male turned toward his cringing victim, his huge penis swelling to even greater girth as he took it in his hand and massaged its aching length. "Get undressed!" he commanded.

Sandi Smith stood still as stone, her young body suddenly paralyzed from the surfeit of sexual abuse, guilty anguish and alcohol. Everything inside her brain seemed to have been caught up inside the spiraling whirlwind of a tornado, and out of the confusion only one clear thought emerged: It's happening again – he's going to rape me! Oh God! Please don't let my body betray my marriage again! Please, please don't let me like it…

"Didn't you hear what Mr. Gladstone said?" Tony, who still grasped her by the wrist, demanded. "He wants to take a look without this shit!"

As he spoke, the sadistically-inclined photographer seized hold of the floor-length red velour robe and ripped it from the blonde-haired model's sloping shoulders. His own virile penis was almost as erect as his friend's in lewd anticipation of the spectacle he was about to witness, for he took a perverse, voyeuristic delight in watching other people's sexual activities.

Sandi Smith's wide hazel eyes stared numbly down at the robe her husband Verne had given her, wondering distractedly how she was going to explain the jagged tear down the back of the brand new garment. A picture of the day her husband had given her all the clothes and had tried to make indecent love to her right in the very kitchen in which she now stood flashed before her eyes. How very long ago it seemed… it was almost as though that day had happened in someone else's life.

These thoughts were abruptly terminated as Tony Fletcher's fingers hooked inside the elastic waistband of her pink-flowered nylon bikini panties and tore their delicate fabric in two. As she watched her last wisp of protection floating down between her naked and trembling legs, Sandi felt a stinging slap on her firm-fleshed buttock.

"Nice ass, huh?" the photographer leered at his friend Ted, making Sandi feel for all the world like an animal being auctioned off at a county fair. Her face blushed a furious shade of red, and she closed her eyes to avoid the lecherous stares of her two violators.