Calvin Mason: Gang bang sisters

"Cold hands… warm cock… a shirt…" Tom ignored her. "Very interesting."

"What difference does it make, Tom?" Ann whispered seriously. "Everyone is getting a big kick out of it. Who cares if it's the real thing or not?"

"I care! This is my club and I don't want some fuck taking it over with phony magic," he fired back in a loud voice.

Cynthia heard his remark and came over to join him the conversation. Ann filled her in on what had been said.

"Don't feel that way, Tom," Cynthia said. Her eyes widened with enthusiasm as she continued, "This could be the greatest thing in the world for us. Our own cult! We could double the membership tomorrow if we spread the word that we really made contact with Satan – or even just a spirit."

"Who needs more members? The more people in our game the greater risk of having the law down on us."

"Sure, but just think of all the money we could take in." Cynthia's eyes were sparkling and dancing as she spoke. "This could make us all rich!"

Tom sat in silence weighing Cynthia's loge. The club already had a few hundred dollars in the treasury, and with so little expense it would multiply with more members.

"I read about cults in California where they take in thousands of dollars a week," Cynthia pressed on. "And if we really have something supernatural we'll make millions."

"Well, I can tell you right now, we don't," Tom said with a vengeance. "He's clever, and it's going to be hard catching him, but I tell you it's someone as human as you and me."

"If you're so sure, why don't you just confront him? Why don't you stand up to him next week and tell him to bug-off?"

Tom sulked over that. He lowered his eyes as Cynthia, Ann and Stella stared at him for an answer. Then he finally said, "Because I don't know what this hut is capable of doing to us. He already has a way of slipping hallucinating gas or drugs to us to weaken our minds. Who knows what else he might have?"

"Okay, but while we're checking it out, I'm starting to line up new members. You'd be surprised how many people are interested in Satanism."

Tom liked the idea, remembering now that when he first told the others about his plan for a club he said it was part of his "pyramid theory" to increase the membership. The only thing that had blocked his way was the intrusion of the mystery guest. His ego wouldn't allow him to step down as the leader of the group. Especially now, when it was a success.

"Just remember, Tom," Cynthia added as the discussion ended, "I got Laura to come to our meeting without even trying… I could fill this place with gorgeous girls. They really go for the excitement of Satanism."

The weeks and the meetings went by and "Satan" appeared each week like clockwork. One week he ordered the members to have a black girl for him at the next session, another time he ordered, as if reading from a menu, an Oriental. The members obliged, running around the city all week in twos and threes, trying to hire prostitutes that fit the description. The black girl charged fifty dollars plus cab fare to come; the Chinese girl charged a hundred. They were all going broke, but they didn't dare not obey "Satan's" orders. Arthur Klein, now beginning to think of himself as a "devil", indeed, didn't care. He was having the ball of his life!

It was six weeks later that Tom knocked on Arthur Klein's door, and when it opened, said: "Hello, Satan."

Klein turned red, immediately began to sweat, and this, along with his sudden trembling, confirmed Tom's accusation.

"Pull yourself together, you old sonofabitch," Tom smiled. "Let's sit down and talk about it over a cup of coffee. Or better still, a beer. Ain't you gonna ask me in?"

Arthur Klein had three fast shots of Scotch before his hands stopped shaking and then he asked, "How'd you find out? Anybody else know?"

"Just me. And if we're smart we'll keep it that way. You made one mistake. Last Friday night the kitchen in the bowling alley went on fire. Laid smoke all over the building. And soot on the roof up by the skylight. After the meeting – hey, that Spanish chick you ordered turned out to be something else, eh? We had to go up to Harlem to get her for you – anyway, I just made like Sherlock Holmes. Went up on the roof and followed your fuckin' sooty footprints all the way, right to this door, you hockey puck."

"So the party's over, eh?" Klein grumbled, reaching for a fourth shot.

"Nope, just beginning. So we got ourselves a devil. Great. And the only member that knows is me. The word will spread like wildfire. Even Vegas can't advertise that big a star. You're our star, get it? We up the kitty for joining the club, and we'll charge dues you wouldn't believe. And you get to lay a new broad every week. Now you can't beat that, right? Jeez, I feel like J.P. Barnum. A sucker born every minute and all that good shit. Yes or no, you in? You're the only experienced devil I know."

It took Klein only one musical "beat" to say, "I'm in, I'm in! A star, eh? Maybe I oughta get myself an agent."

"None of that shit," Tom grinned. "I'm still running this show, remember?"

"Sure, sure. You're a smart boy, know that? One thing. Next week, could ol' Satan have himself one of them high-society broads from over in the city? Park Avenue stuff, maybe."

"Funny you should mention that," Tom winked. "Was working overtime the other night and who comes sprinting in, just like Loretta Young used to do, but my boss' daughter. Rich kid, private schools and all. And she's bored to team with it all. So I invited her to our next meeting. She said if she likes it, she'll get her girlfriends to join. And I'm thinkin' that if I get this chic laid by ol' Satan himself, I just might end up owning the whole fuckin' company! Her old man has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel anyway."

Now Arthur Klein was calmed down, and he smiled. "Like I said, Tom. You're a smart boy."

The girl's name was Susan, she was rich, bored, and ready for just the kind of action the club offered her. She arrived in a taxi, and for a time thought she may be going home in an ambulance. But she loved it!

As it turned out, "Uncle Satan" was just a warm-up for the hot-blooded Susan, and Tom, always the opportunist, soon had her to himself.

His first coming was fast, too fast, but Susan licked the sticky syrup from his limp cock and was about to suck it into her mouth when Tom, always the businessman, gasped out, "There's… an… old house… for sale… around the corner." Then he was lost to the sensations for a short pause, before adding, "Wanta make a donation to the club by buying it, Susan?"

"Hmmmm," came the hot answer on his cock. "No problem."

Susan reached down between Tom's legs and latched onto his shaft. She felt the limp meat pulse, harden, throb, harden more and finally stand upright. There was an empty feeling inside her that longed to feel that expanding muscle stuffed snugly, tightly in the moist, empty cove. Here, in the middle of the room, for all to see, she wanted to fuck, and Tom yielded to her prodding, falling on his back as she straddled him.

All at once she had the experience of a whore, Tom thought, watching Susan's determined expression as she inserted his cock into her cunt. He watched as she slid down the slick pole and began riding him as though he were a bucking stallion.

"Ohhh, how I've needed this," she sighed.

It was her show now, bouncing wildly up and down on the swollen cock, spurred on by the helpless look of her captive trapped beneath her, her cuntlips squeezing and sucking the smooth stick, driving it deeper and deeper with each bounce, a gaze coming over her eyes as the fat cock filled her insides, making her give out girlish squeals and sobs… until the hot lava shot into the depths of her body, all the way up to her brain, and the dam broke inside her, flushing her own hot juices into the roaring tunnel.