Peter Jensen - The blackmailed mother book II

And perhaps even more perverse was the consummate love he still had for his black-haired, desirable wife. He still wanted to go home and wrap his arms around Lonnie and have her wrap her vagina around his cock so he could make love to her, for no longer was he tortured with righteous indignation over whatever lewdness she had gotten involved in. He had the faith and the unquestioned belief that Lonnie loved him in return – that she was fucking that man, if she was at all, as he was fucking this girl, in a purely physical gratification of the senses and nothing more. In a way, he had the urge to call her up and tell her this… but he wouldn't. Because Kim Copeland was placing one knee on the bed now, her eyes wide with hunger and her lips wet with the moisture of her licking pink tongue-tip…

A psychiatrist might have diagnosed Roger Carmel as a man who had an irrational and sub-conscious fear of the basic male characteristic to mate indiscriminately. Perhaps this had stemmed from his Victorian mother who had smothered him from birth with the conviction sex was inherently bad and all men were beasts, and who had sentenced her son to a cocoon of prudery as he reflexively strove to prove that he wasn't such a contemptuous type, that he was a gentleman first, last and always.

Perhaps… but Roger Carmel wasn't a psychiatrist, nor at that moment was interested in pondering why he had kept the lid on his perfectly natural instincts with a blind attitude and stiff-necked disdain, or why this one adulterous fling had not brought the wretched self-incriminations he had assumed he should feel. Time enough to unravel such details later, for his chest was pounding as Kim Copeland crawled across the sheets to him, the predatory feline that she was, and his semi-hard cock began to flinch with the renewed pressure of arousal…

Roger Carmel had not changed – he had evolved, breaking out of his self-imposed, unhealthy cacoon from a mind-shattering combination of pressures from his work, his turmoil of anguish over his wife's alleged infidelities, and the liquor-fogged plunge into the world of sex for its own hedonistic sake. He had matured into a complete, physically whole man, virile, ripe, and alive, as his unconscious grip on the darker caverns of his soul was wrenched away, and no longer could he – or would he attempt to – return to the shell of his former half-life.

"Yes, lover," Kim breathed in panting harshness, "kiss my cunt and make me cum that way… then we'll fuck some more…"

And Harry Saunders in the closet couldn't repress the tortured moan of frustration as he saw that he was in for another voyeuristic session before he could empty his balls of their overloaded weight of churning seed. His hands trembled and he knew that he couldn't take any more pictures not now. He couldn't hold the camera steady enough, and all he felt was the crazy tide of his own sex-craved passions, the insane jerkings of his thighs and belly and especially of his now stone-hard cock as it fought the imprisonment of his trousers. His breath steamed the two-way glass and he thought he was going to have to take his penis out right there and use his hand to release some of the burgeoning explosions which engulfed his mind and body.

And Roger Carmel heard that groan, too, and recognized it for what it was. He sat upright, the shock of knowing there was a man some where nearby dampening some of his prurient longings for the warm, moist cunt of the girl panting over him. "Damnit," he said, "I heard it that time for sure. There's somebody else in this apartment!"

"No!" Kim Copeland cried out sharply. "No you must be wrong. It – it must have come from next door."

"Don't be silly, Kim," Roger said, getting off the bed. "Your bedroom overlooks the back garden; there's no connecting walls with the other apartments." He shook his head, frowning. "I'm going to take a look in the living room."

"No! Please don't!" the luscious, now panicked prostitute tried to grapple Roger by the arm. "Come back to bed, don't leave me."

Carmel eyed her, frowning over her odd resistance. "You sure as hell don't want me to go out there, do you? Why not? You know something I don't?"

"Of – of course not, Roger. It's just that… that I'm so hot and I want you now… I've got to have you," she pleaded insistently. "What's more important to you? Having me or some imaginary noise?"

"It'll take me just a moment, and then I'll feel more at ease. I want you as bad as you want me, lover, but I just won't feel right until I make sure we're alone. It could mean our jobs if we're caught. I'd think you'd want me to check around."

"No…" Kim whimpered, but it was too late. Roger opened the door to the living room and padding in baby naked, he looked around. Every thing was as he had left it, glasses on the table, the two thin pieces of Kim's lust-provoking sun suit… Carmel went on silent bare feet across the carpet to the kitchen and stuck his head in; nobody there. He turned around, scratching his hair and wondering if his imagination was playing tricks on him, that thinking only peripherally of his wife and her suspected lover hadn't given him an over-impression of plots and blackmail…

Harry Saunders, whipped to a fever pitch of sexual emotions, rashly took that moment to shift positions on his stool. He had heard and seen the man jerk upright and knew that he had heard his groaning. Trembling with the fear of being discovered, Saunders had sat perfectly still while the man went into the living room, but he couldn't see the man while he was looking through the two-way glass into the bedroom; he had to turn around and look through the living room mirror for that, and when he heard the squeaking kitchen door, he assumed in his blind position that the man had stepped inside. If he was going to turn and follow the man's search, he had to do it then… which he did. He was very quiet about it, too.

But his trembling, sweat-slick hands dropped the camera.

Roger Carmel whirled around, hearing the thank of something coming from what he had assumed was the coat-closet door. Anger stirred in him, and with caution and modesty thrown aside, he crossed and wrenched open the door, and the pale light of the living-room fell across the hulking figure of a middle-aged man, his straw-colored hair brushed European style back across his head, his large nose and dilated nostrils quivering, and his two, small, marble-glittering eyes filled with the kind of illogical fear of a cornered rat.

Saunders hurled himself off the stool, panic making him into a single-motivated body in search of escape. He swung at Carmel with his camera, unthinking that he was using the one object which he had been hired to use, its metal case hit Carmel on the side of the head and inadvertently the catch on its back snapped, and the roll of film flew through the air, unwinding to the light like a spool of yarn a cat plays with. Saunders stumbled toward the front door and freedom…

Stars danced in front of Carmel's eyes, but with unleashed fury of a man pressured far more than a mere tight corner, he reached out and caught the fleeing photographer's coat-tail and spun the short, dumpy man around. The camera came up again, Saunders' teeth set in a grimace of frenzy…

Carmel blocked the metallic blow with his left forearm, and blood pounded in his temples as he answered with a fist to the belly of the intruder. It was like slugging a bag of sand – wet, hard sand – and then he was catapulted forward as Kim ran from the bedroom screaming and lunged at his naked back. He swiped with his arm, and the lovely young prostitute fell away, sprawling unceremoniously on her delectable buttocks, her legs splayed wide and showing the full, rich furrow of her cuntal slit, where only moments before both men had been so lustfully engrossed. Her breasts heaved and danced, but the men took no notice now; her attack had sent them down on the floor in a tangle of arms and legs and the foulest collection of swearing Roger had ever heard in one place before. He caught the photographer's right wrist in his hand and bent it back, squeezing for all his might, and the older, unconditioned, unmuscular Saunders squealed in pain and dropped the camera he'd used as a weapon.