Jason Cannon: The ministers_s daughter

"No," she said, handing him a twenty. "A bucket of ice, a quart of good Scotch, and two glasses from the dining room. I hate the fucking glasses they put in these rooms. The twenty's yours if you hurry."

"Yes, Ma'am!" he said with sincere emphasis, and dashed from the room.

Quickly she hung the few things she had brought with her in the closet, undressed and slipped into a thin, completely transparent negligee. The top and panties that should have gone with it went, instead, into a drawer.

She stretched across the bed, her body appearing nude through the gown in the room's half-light. She surveyed herself, the perfection of her body, in the full-length mirror across from the bed. At forty she was still a beautiful woman. Her body was full-figured, but it had little of its youthful resilience. The lush tits were heavy, yet they retained their cleavage even while she lay on her back, propped up on a pillow. The nipples were sharply contoured and pink, set off with huge aureoles, tinted a purple hue by the surge of passion she always aroused in her body by looking at herself.

The ample curves of her belly and hips molded into the dark patch of her pussy where it was clearly outlined and amplified by the gown's material. Her stomach was gently rounded, with a deep navel set in the tanned skin, and a mass of crisp black curls at her crotch.

It was a good and beautiful body. It had given her money and power and it would give her mare. But right now she wanted sex for just herself. Sex for the sake of sex. That was one of the prime reasons she desired money and power, so she could dictate the course of her own desires and satisfy her every whim.

The bellhop would do for a start, she thought, he was young, good-looking, black, and obviously interested. It would be a good weekend full of laughs, kicks and sex, and all oft at her direction.

She needed these little holiday weekends away from the watchful eye of her husband, Roscoe, and the pressure of keeping her own abundant sexual desires under wraps lest they mark a weakness in her rather than a strength.

For a long time now she had managed to get away at least twice a month. And every time it had been something new, exciting, and different to feed her need for turning her sexual fantasies into reality.

The twenty dollars she got from them meant nothing to her. It was the excitement and the danger of selling her body to unknown men that she wanted.

She had just finished fucking the brains out of her third pickup when they came. There were five of them, four blacks and a white. They were all dressed to the teeth, mean, and mad.

"Mama, we don' like no free-lancin' in this neighborhood."

He was the biggest, with an ugly scar that ran down the side of his cheek, over his thick neck, and into his collar. She hoped he'd be the first because she was sure his cock would be huge and practiced.

"I don't know what the fuck you mean," she said, calmly buttoning her dress, careful to give them all a good solid look at the size and lushness of her tits first.

"Ah mean you re a queen cunt but you don't fuck this neighborhood without you first workin' for one of us. Do you dig that?"

"Fuck you!" she said, and spit in his face.

He only smiled as be slapped her with his left hand and balled his right into a fist to slam into her belly. She flew across the bed and, in an instant, they were holding her.

"So you want some fucking huh, some fuckin' for bread? Well, don't let it be said we don't pay for our fuckin' just like anybody else."

Scarface dropped his pants and shorts to his ankles but not before he'd pulled a bill from his pocket.

"What are you going to do?" she said, feigning fear and hoping that they wouldn't see the juices running like a river from her cunt.

"This here's a five. That's a buck from each of us. Now that outta make you feel good-it's a buck apiece more than we usually pay. But then you look like a real quality piece."

He wadded the bill up, spit on it, and rolled it into a ball between his palms. When it was the size he wanted he shoved it up her cunt. Then she saw the huge, black cock, its purple head massive as he leaned forward and, in one stroke, buried it inside her ready cunt. His cock, full and hard with a bulging, throbbing head, sent the wadded bill far into her belly.

She loved it.

All five of them fucked her again and again until she was a bone weary mass of bruises and semen..

Another time, she had decided to try for kicks in Philly, instead of New York. On the way down a motorcycle gang passed her, screaming and careening around both sides of her car. In a second the idea came to her and she followed them.

When they stopped in front of an old ramshackle tavern she parked across the street. Twenty pairs of narrowed, disbelieving eyes stared as she entered and walked straight to the bar. She ordered a shot of whiskey, and downed it neat. Then she turned to the room and declared, in a loud, clear, ringing voice, "I suck, I fuck, and I've got twenty-four hours. Who's first?"

They stripped her in a back room arid laid her out on a pool table. They all disrobed from the waist down, several of them not bothering to remove their boots, and stood around waiting their turn. There was never less than two of them on her at one time, and quite often there would be three.

One would be fucking her cunt or ass, whichever he hit first, and another would be reaming her throat, while a third straddled her belly, enclosing her huge tile over his cock and humping between them until he would splatter the bottom of her chin with his cum.

She had started to admit to herself that men in their twenties, late teens, and even in their early thirties could take their pick of pussy much younger and much better-looking than she was. She longed to get into some of the orgy action that she knew existed with the young crowd. And even though she had the money for such good times, she knew it was Roscoe's money. Without Roscoe she would be totally on her own, and she wasn't up to that big a gamble.

Roscoe was handsome, fairly young, and very rich when she met him. Before the wedding she dreamed of the good times they would have, and the good sex. It never happened.

Just before this trip they had gone through another knock-down, drag-out fight about sex. It had started the same way and it had ended sit had always ended.

"I know everything you do, Lucille," Roscoe said, trying his best to be firm with her. "And I've never said anything about it. There isn't really much I can say, I guess. I know you drive to New York every weekend or so, and pick up men. But I won't have it right here in the house."

"You won't, huh?" she said.

"No. And I mean it."

He had caught her with one of the houseboys. It wasn't the first time, but he insisted that it be the last. If it wasn't, he told her, then no matter how much he needed her, he would divorce her.

"Well, weekends a couple of times a month aren't enough, Roscoe," she said, trying With the force of her will and the beauty of her body to force him to look directly at her.

"Lucille, please?"

"Please what? Please don't run around naked? Why not, for Christ's sake? Does it excite you too much, Roscoe? Does it give you a big whopping hard-on? Shit! If it does give you a hard-on, I never noticed."

"Be serious, Lu. You know I.."

"Yes, I know all about your problem. But I've got my own problem. I want it. I need it, and I'm going to get it more often than weekends. Unless, that is, you want to start getting it up and fucking me. C'mon, Roscoe, fuck me!"

She jumped on the bed, lay back and stroked her tits, and spread her legs wide.

"I've wasted years on you, Roscoe. And now you know you've got me… I'm too old to leave you now. Or at least you think so."