William Davis - The Polaroid club book II

Cindy cried aloud at the quick brutal impalement, surprised by its thickness. Her whole body twitched and writhed uncontrollably as she groaned out in helpless and abandoned welcome to the punishing instrument sinking ever deeper in her cunt. But the pain was only momentary, and then the greedy walls of her vagina clasped around the fleshy cudgel hungrily, slithering up wetly to devour its length to its hilt. She groaned in relief at the filling of her wide-stretched cuntal passage as the general manager, his identity still unknown to the helpless young girl, began a heavy thrusting motion in her hungrily grinding pussy. She hissed her sex-fire between her clenched teeth, the inferno raging in her loins spurred on by the liquor and the obscene position she realized faintly she was in. Through glazed, half-lidded eyes she saw the black form heaving above her. There was somebody else watching them from just outside the station wagon, which she knew instinctively was Ralph Taylor, though she couldn't make out the blurred image… and now it wasn't important. The flames of unfulfilled lust infernoed out of control, and there was nothing else in the world. No today, no tomorrow, no Howard; nothing save her deep hole of lust and flesh, of belly smacking belly, of cock heaving against cunt.

"I'm cumming – oh, you little bitch, I'm cumming! Fuck harder! Fuck harder!" came the maniacal voice above her. "Uuuuhhhhhhhhh!"

Cindy Jamison, ruled by the pagan instincts of her female biology, responded automatically, not caring who was driving so deeply in her, who was ready to burst his sperm next. Her hands darted behind the man's driving buttocks, pulling him to her, spreading her legs wider and pulling them upwards until the soles of her feet pressed hard up against the roof of the car. Her juices flowed wetly out around his still-pounding prick, trickling down the splayed crevice of her buttocks and mingled with the spent seed of the sales manager's orgasm.

"Give it to her," the Ralph-voice goaded excitedly from somewhere in the distance. "Shoot it in her!"

Spurred on by the words and Cindy's greedily twisting body below, the general manager, Lathrop, dug yet deeper into the girl, forcing her legs yet farther back, doubling her in half, fucking her like a pile-driving machine out of control. He groaned and Cindy felt the hot waves of his sperm shooting into her dilated cunt, mixing lasciviously with the pool Ralph Taylor had throbbed into her before. Her head whirled in depraved sensuality as the powerful spurts surged wildly in her, filling her to the bursting point with its sticky wetness. The burning walls of her vagina clasped and unclasped desperately like a starving mouth, and she was utterly caught up in the lewd web of ecstasy. She opened her mouth for a soundless scream…

And her own orgasm struck!

There, in the back of the Volkswagen, being fucked half to death by a man she could not identify, Cindy Jamison was totally reduced to a churning mass of sensual jelly in that instant. Great flashes of pinwheel light sparkled before her tightly shut eyes, and pleasure so acute that it bordered on pain consumed every fibre of her being. She heard but did not hear the wild sluicing sounds of Buddy Lathrop's ejaculating penis sawing in and out between her legs, – felt but did not feel the fleshy smackings of his sperm-loaded testicles against her flailing thighs – knew only that she was grunting out her climax and was nearly out of her mind with its impending magnificence.

She collapsed then, her firm young body drained of everything, her limbs loosely spread on the black floor mat as Lathrop's grip was released. She lay spread-eagled as she felt his heavy weight lift from her and again the night air flowed over her sweat-soaked skin. The Ralph-voice spoke in the distance as she faded to deep, peaceful unconsciousness.

"Help me get her panties on now, will you? We'll put her in the front seat and then go back to the party."

"Soon as I get my pants on. What about her husband?"

Taylor chuckled as he peered in at the comatose young wife of his star salesman. "He'll never know. Take my word for it. She won't ever spill what happened to her tonight. Now, come on. We'll tell old Howie-boy that his little darling had too much to drink and fell asleep. True enough; we just won't add about the part in between the too much to drink and the falling asleep. He'll take her home and that will be that."

"You son of a bitch, Ralph," Lathrop said approvingly, reaching for a leg of the piteous little housewife. "You really earned that raise tonight."

"And the hundred dollars, too, don't forget."

"Don't worry, after fucking that sweet little cunt? I can't forget!"

On the Thursday following the party, at eleven-thirty a.m., Ralph Taylor left Auto Circus and drove into downtown Morriston. He parked his year-old Cadillac in front of the large graystone building which housed the post office on Second and Market Streets, and stepped out into the brilliant sunshine. He was smiling openly, with smug self-satisfaction and anticipation, as he made his way along the crowded sidewalks, filled with morning shoppers, to enter the mausoleum-like structure.

He walked leisurely along the marble interior corridor, his eyes seeking out and locating the window above which a horizontal sign jutted out at right angles, reading: Parcel Post – Post Boxes. He stopped by one of the canted writing desks set against the opposite wall when he noticed the fat woman with a large parcel under her arm step up to the window and begin an earnest conversation with the smallish figure who sat behind the counter.

Ralph waited patiently, casually puffing on one of his expensive cigars, until the woman had finished transacting her business and left the window deserted. Then the automobile executive sauntered slowly over to the cubicle and leaned his thick elbows on the countertop. He smiled lazily as the gnome-like clerk looked up at him and said in a gravely voice, "Help you?"

"You can," said Ralph, blowing smoke over the clerk's right shoulder with studied disregard, "if your name is Steve Samuels."

The government employee frowned, close-set eyes narrowing. "That's my name, all right. What's it to you, mister?"

Ralph laughed softly, smoothly. "Oh, nothing much. I'd like to take you to lunch, that's all, Samuels."

"Lunch?" The clerk's eyes were almost hidden now beneath their puffy lids, and his rubbery lips were set warily.

"That's right."

"What for?"

"To discuss a certain matter."

"What matter?"

Again, Ralph Taylor blew a stream of smoke. "Concerning a certain young housewife named Cindy Jamison," he said easily.

Fear leapt suddenly in Steve Samuels' eyes, and his claw-like hands clamped hard onto the edge of the counter until the knuckles were white. Sweat popped out in beaded pustules on his forehead and sallow cheeks, and spittle flecked his thick lips. "I… I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do, Samuels," said Taylor.

"No… no. You'd better leave now, or…" Samuels let the sentence trail off as more sweat appeared on his face.

"Or what?" Ralph said with a soft chuckle. "You'll call the police, or the building guards? Who're you kidding, Samuels? You don't dare call anybody, and you know it." He lowered his voice even more than he already had. "I doubt if you'd want your superiors to know what kind of little racket you've been running from behind your postal position."

"R-racket?"

"Don't try to bluff it out," Taylor told him, some of the patience leaving his voice to be replaced by hard, authoritative tones. "I know who and what you are, Samuels, and I know what you've been doing with the mails and with some of Morriston's more nubile young wives. I've got you cold, Samuels."