Michael Jaeggers - Honeymoon hotel

Sue didn't relax her vigilance; she riveted her eyes on him as she withdrew the contents. She could tell by the feel that they were photographs. She made one rapid glance down at the top one, and then room began swirling around her. She heard his satanic laughter burst out, and he sat down in the chair, laughing uproariously at her stunned and disbelieving expression.

"Oh," he gasped, "if you could only see you face, my dear. Divine! Absolutely fantastic! Almost as if you had suddenly stumbled upon Jack the Ripper in the darkness."

Sue gazed down in horrified disbelief. It was a photograph of herself. Not her as she saw herself each morning in the mirror, but a photograph of a totally alien her – wantonly smiling as she sucked away on Lord Medwell's sausagelike cock. Her lips were grotesquely pouting around the instrument, but it was her expression that was the most astonishing thing about the picture. It was obvious to anyone – even herself! – that she was blissfully and erotically enjoying what she was doing. Her hands were clearly shown; one was cradling his testicles as though she were weighing them, the other had two fingers wormed deep into his open rectum.

Sue's legs failed her. She was forced to steady herself on the back of a chair and then sink slowly into it. She continued to stare at the picture. Finally she closed her eyes and moaned, "Oh, my God!"

Lord Medwell continued to cackle. He choked, then coughed and wheezed. "You may like to know, my dear, that no one had to tell you a thing. I have never known a more apt pupil, one who picked it up so rapidly – within seconds, so to speak. You were born to bring pleasure to a man… and you don't have the intelligence to realize it. Pure womanly instinct." He sighed. "But really, you should look at the others."

Fear, almost wishing that God would strike her blind, Sue turned to the next photograph. She blinked and the hot tears began streaming down her face. This picture showed her with legs spread wide apart and Lord Medwell's head buried in her vaginal crevice. Her tongue was hanging laxly out of the corner of her mouth and her eyes were rolled back in her head. Shown clearly were her taut stomach muscles and flexed buttocks, and her fingernails clawing a bloody trail of lust down his back. Her face was smeared with what could only be cum; it glistened all over her neck, and a huge puddle of it could be seen alongside her shoulders on the rumpled sheet. As she gazed through watery eyes at the photograph, it was all coming back to her now. The dream! It hadn't been a dream, alter all. She remembered the moment; in the dream it had been so wonderful to have her husband doing that to her.

She realized that Lord Medwell had become silent. He merely stared at her, and his expression was once again one of anger… and something else.

He didn't make a command, but she turned to the next photograph… already sure of what she would see. It was a closeup of Lord Medwell's cock in the process of being jammed into her vagina. What made the picture so unbelievably horrible again was the sheer expression of delight and impatient lust on her face. She thought dully: It didn't hurt at all when he did that; it was wonderful. I remember the sensation now. Beautiful. But I thought it was my husband making love to me… not someone using me as a ploy, an insensitive whore. She suddenly realized that no one seeing the photograph would ever think of her being an "insensitive" whore. A "whore," yes. "Insensitive," never! Not with that gloating sensual expression on her face, not with those fingernails digging deeply into his driving buttocks. No, if anything, she was a very "sensitive" whore, one who was enjoying the fucking of her life.

The next, as she was pretty sure it would, showed Morgan with his stubby little cock in the process of sodomizing her. Again the photographer had masterfully focused on her expression. She was the personification of wantonness. The hang of the taut breasts like ripe fruit about to drop from a tree, the tendons of her neck, the muscles of her inner thighs, the deep indentations created by the eager flexing of the anal muscles… all were clear indications that she was within seconds of obtaining an orgasm.

It was all too much to bear, much less understand. Her dignity crushed, sobs wracked her body and each breath was a shuddering one. She had never been so mortified, so humiliated, so ashamed in her life. The photographs, no matter how they had come to be taken, gave Sue an insight to that darker being within her whose existence she had never known or even suspected.

Lord Medwell was no longer amused; he stalked angrily toward the door and closed it. He stood there, impatiently rocking back and forth, glaring at her. "Whimper all you want, slut. Cry your heart out. It makes no difference. Your precious husband shall see these when he returns from the hunt tonight. And in tomorrow's post, an envelope identical to the one I gave you will be transmitted to your mother, to your local police authorities, and to…" He took his hand from behind his back and held out Sue's blue address book. He grinned evilly "… every name in this book."

She screamed and leaped toward him; she was rewarded by a vicious backhand in the face that sent her sprawling to the rug. In falling, her peignoir ripped; her gown slithered up to her waist, where the full ripeness of her upper thighs and buttocks were fully visible to Lord Medwell's cruelly glinting eyes. "You beast you, you filthy beast," she sobbed.

"My dear young lady. These photographs are not of a 'filthy beast'… but of a common street whore sucking, being sucked, being, if you'll pardon the Saxon expression, 'fucked'… and being sodomized. Oh, how she loves it all. Note the enjoyment upon her face. How amusing it will be when your mother and all of your little friends and relatives see what a happy honeymoon you're enjoying."

"What is it you want?" she gasped, feeling horror and sickness suddenly wash over her like an unrelenting tide of despair.

"That's hardly the question you want to ask, is it? What you really want to know is: 'How do I get those photographs back?'"

Sue looked up from the floor. She could see the bulge growing in his trousers as he gazed at her uncovered body. She made a futile attempt to pull her gown down. A part of her mind was screaming like a frightened caged animal, "… help me, please, someone… help me." Yet she knew there would be no help. No help from the local police, and certainly none from Dick. If Dick ever saw the photographs, he would leave her in an instant. With a sudden caving in of her spirit, she asked in a barely audible voice, "What do… I have to do… to get them back?"

Lord Medwell smiled. "Excellent, my dear. You are, as I said before, a quick study – a fast learner." He picked up the envelope and withdrew the first one. He rolled his eyes theatrically. "Oh, yes! I remember it well. It was delightful; you showed such tremendous talent for it." He looked as if he were thinking, then nodded his head. "That's it! That seems fair enough. For each photographic scene you recreate, I shall return a picture."

As she realized what he was asking, Sue suddenly felt a painful spasm in her stomach; she was sure she was going to vomit. Oh, God! How could any human being so degrade another, so debase another as he was trying to do to her. She wouldn't do it… she couldn't do it. She shook her head and mumbled, "I won't." Then she looked up in tearful pleading, "Please, Lord Medwell. Please have mercy – pity. Give me the photographs. Please!" The last was a half hysterical scream.

"Of course, my child. They shall be returned to you… upon my word as a gentleman… just as soon as you fulfill the conditions of our contract."

Sobbing incoherently, Sue shook her head violently from side to side, "I can't. I just can't do that!"