“No… no,” Tamera whimpered abjectly, and she somehow managed to turn her head away, only to again see the screen, the woman, and the dog. The woman was being nuzzled by the German Shepherd, and what it wanted as it ground its snout into her salaciously open vagina was all too clear—it wanted the woman to turn over on her stomach! And the woman, after one wild-eyed shudder of terror, obediently rolled over and knelt up, elevating her firm rounded buttocks before the great beast in humiliated surrender. She cowered helplessly before it, awaiting its lascivious attack…
Tamera’s nerves were shattered, her brain whirled, and her body prickled with sexual heat. She knew deep in her mind that she had to run… run right now if she were ever going to be free of the warping influences on her mind, but she couldn’t resist the insistent hand on her helplessly throbbing cunt and the twin lewdnesses of that movie and what her girlfriend Nancy was allowing that boy to do to her body. It was too much for her innocent mind to bear!
“What… what is she waiting for?” the young girl asked. “She’s… she’s just hunched over like that. What’s the dog going to do?”
“Why?” Eddie chuckled gutturally. “Because the dog’s going to fuck her.”
“Wh-what?” His obscene explanation burned her soul.
“Fuck her, Tamera,” Eddie repeated. “Fuck her just like Jason is going to fuck Nancy and I’m going to fuck you!”
Tamera West almost lost her mind at that moment, and a thin film of drug-inspired passion glazed over her eyes. She nearly fainted.
Something had to give!
CHAPTER THREE
Mortimore McDonald drove his Cadillac through Mariposa, pausing to consider stopping for dinner at Luigi’s, and then decided not to. He’d be home soon, he figured, and could chew on some of the cold chicken Agnes had left in the refrigerator. Cold chicken—what an apt description for his wife, Mort thought with a smirk; Agnes had shriveled up into a puckered resemblance to a plucked chicken, her skin and temperament as crusty and brittle as the drumstick waiting for him a few miles away. But at least she could cook, he sighed, and she was a born housekeeper and society woman, which were assets he needed to get ahead in business, and he tolerated her also because of their son, Eddie, and because he couldn’t afford a breath of scandal which a separation or divorce would bring…
Not that Agnes would ever divorce him, he groaned, stopping for a red light. No, the only way she would part from her secure little feathered nest would be if she caught him with another woman—which had been mighty close a couple of times.
Mort McDonald was sharply dressed in the latest style, a natty robin’s-egg blue suit with an Edwardian cut to it, and a darker blue shirt set off by a wide, gold striped tie. He didn’t look as if he’d spent the better part of the day and evening haggling with the other executives of Tempo Tooling and Die Company, trying to bend some of them around to his way of thinking. As Vice-President in Charge of Sales, he couldn’t let the company manufacture the new gimmick that developing had come up with, seeing no market for a battery-run egg-beater. He’d fully expected to stay there all night, as the others had as well, but the squabble had been unexpectedly broken by Throckington, the owner and president, who tried the gadget and sliced his thumb. The project was shelved immediately.
Mort McDonald was not one to let such a golden opportunity pass. Not with the beady-eyed hawk of a wife always suspicious of where he was going and why. With time on his hands, he’d combed his salt-and-pepper hair and waxed his pencil-thin mustache and with the instincts of a predatory lion, went on the prowl. But oddly, the women he’d been fucking in the past didn’t interest him any more—the fun was in the chase, and he’d downed them so many times before that they’d become stale game—and his latest conquest, Dolores, couldn’t see him because she was meeting some dammed plane which left McDonald no choice but to slum round a bit, and after buying too many drinks and listening to too many sad stories from bartenders about lousy business, he’d decided to go home and call his opportunity a bust.
That’s the luck, he said to himself. When you’re looking for it, none of it is ever around. At least Agnes was at her sister’s again—that sister caught every disease known to mankind, and every one of them was supposedly her terminal one. He sighed, turning up the street leading to his house. Married by necessity, a bachelor by nature, he spent his leisure hours in the pursuit of new flesh, new sensations, new adventures with women, and at that moment he’d taken on just about anything willing to take down her panties, so long as she hadn’t taken them down for him before.