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DESCRIPTION:Little did Doris know when she took the secretarial job offer from Romily Manor, the nature of the duties she was to perform. She hadn't counted on being a paid playmate for Mildred Wynton's twenty-five-year-old retarded son. Her horror deepened even further at the realization that she had to share her voluptuous body with the degenerate doctor and Mrs. Wynton's lascivious chauffeur. Mrs. Wynton was the mistress of the manor in name, but it was Doris' lush young body that held the title!EXCERPT:Doris started to regain consciousness very slowly. She was lying on her back and there was a great weight pressing down on her body.Where am I? she asked herself hazily. What kind of a dream is this?She tried to move but the huge mass on top of her prevented it; she realized then that her legs were stretched widely open, her thighs were apart and there was something moving on top of her, between her legs, and... She shivered: There's something INSIDE ME! Doris tried to turn—but couldn't. It's right inside my pussy—filling me like I've never been filled! She tried to struggle frantically but the swollen penis pinned her to the bed as though she were a fly.The huge column inside her vulva churned upward and Doris could feel her vagina being stretched and strained wider and wider open. Oh, my God—what's happening?The gross rod slid down and the walls of Doris' vulva undulated against it. It's fucking me! A monstrous cock's fucking my pussy!She tried to open her eyes but all she could see was a red haze. Am I dreaming? Is this real? A thrill ran through her belly as the massive organ pressed against her clitoris. I'm having a dream an exciting sex-dream that's going to make me come!She gave up the effort of trying to understand, let her eyelids drop, shut out the red haze—then the thrills came again, more strongly.The huge snake in her pussy was squirming wildly, pressing against all parts of her vulva at the same time. The tip of her clitoris was dragged inward by the thrust of the giant cock and as the shaft writhed, fierce throbs of ecstasy rocked through her sexual tissue. She felt the air panting from her lungs and her breasts, flattened against the mass of flesh on top of her, ached when she tried to move them. Her body jerked up the bed as the rod drove in deep again; she could feel wetness seeping out of her pussy, trickling down the walls of her vulva then wetting the tops of her thighs each time the cock pulled down.A violent thrill rocked up to the top of her belly and she groaned; drew in her pelvis—making the cock press more strongly against her clitoris. I'm going to come—I've never felt like this! This dream is the most—the wildest—I'm coming!Her clitoris was a crazy bobbing spire of sexuality as she started a wild orgasm. Right from my clit to my pussy—then round to my bottom and more—I'm coming all over!Doris' lips opened in a soundless scream; she orgasmed, again then again, jerked her thighs and felt her vaginal lips closing, hugging on the alien snake that was fucking her with excruciating strength.It's going right through main at the front and out of the back! I've never been fucked like this—not in a dream or for real!Willis made a high, whining, animal-like sound as his orgasm started again. The hot juice flowed to the end of his cock in ragged, uneven spurts—then squirted, scaldingly, inside her straining pussy.I'm all wet inside! I'm coming and I'm all wetted hot inside my pussy!The violence of Doris' orgasm increased...
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by Gloria Day
Originally Published by Gloria Day in 1972
This Lot’s Cave Edition
House of Dark Pleasure, © 2017, Lot’s Cave Inc.
All Rights Reserved
Cover by Lot’s Cave
All Characters In This Book Are Age 18 Or Older
This novel by David Crane was originally published in paperback pulp fiction by Greenleaf Classics as AB-1609 House of Dark Pleasure in 1972. The owners and publishers of Greenleaf Classics were convicted of obscenity and spent time in prison. While enjoying this public domain novel, please consider the price paid to produce this legacy which allows Lot's Cave to exist and publish new authors today. This special Lot’s Cave compilation edition has been carefully edited and annotated by Lot's Cave with corrected spelling errors, modernization for contemporary readers, and a fully linked table of contents added.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Lot’s Cave Novel
The needle plunged into Doris' arm again, and she lay very still on the bare mattress, her eyes open but unseeing, and the voices and sounds in the small room were just a garbled cacophony to her drugged ears.
“That'll keep her for four or five hours,” said the heavy-set man of medium height and middle years.
He removed the needle from the syringe, replaced them both in a small case and snapped it shut.
“Thank you, Doctor Marston,” said the tall, gaunt-faced woman, emphasizing the Doctor because Basil Marston wasn't a doctor any more: not since a zealous medical association had removed his name from its list because of unethical behavior or professional misconduct as they viewed his illegal operations and indiscriminate use of prohibited drugs.
“I don't like it,” the ex-doctor muttered now, looking at the young girl on the bed.
A tousled lock of brunette hair had fallen onto her forehead, making Doris Dainton look younger than her twenty-three years. Her big, brown eyes—usually luminous and alert—were dull and listless, and her five-foot-one, one-hundred-pound body slumped, rather than lay, on the bed in the upstairs room in the bleak, rambling mansion in a remote part of Maine.
“You don't have to like it,” said Mildred Wynton, coldly. “You just have to do what you're told.” She jerked her head toward the door. “We'll go downstairs now.” She turned to the fourth occupant of the room, forced a parody of a smile onto her face. “It's all yours, Willis, dear.” She moved to the bedroom door, opened it, half-pushed Basil Marston into the corridor, then her smile became a leer as she added to her son: “Enjoy yourself, Willis.” Her eyes flickered to the drugged girl again, and she moistened her lips as she finished in a whisper: “If you need me—just call.” Then she moved out of the bedroom quickly, clicked shut the door behind her.
“It-it's horrible,” muttered Basil as he descended the narrow stairway behind Mildred.
“Don't be ridiculous,” she snapped over her shoulder. “It's not horrible at all.” She reached the foot of the stairs, moved toward the old-fashioned but well-furnished sitting room. “Just because poor Willis—my son, remember, is somewhat unattractive to girls is no reason why he should be denied the... the normal pleasures of female...” she hesitated, then, “...company.”
“Company!” Basil spat out the word, stared at the severe but not unattractive woman of forty-five. “He doesn't want company.” He moved to a sideboard, poured whiskey from a decanter than took a big gulp as though he needed it very badly. “That-that freak—he's like a lust-crazed animal. All he wants is...”
“Don't call my son a freak!” Mildred's voice rose quiveringly high with anger. “He-he's just-just a little backward—just a little undeveloped in some ways.” She snatched up the decanter, poured herself a generous drink, lifted it to her lips.
Basil watched her, a sardonic expression on his dark, still-handsome face. “In some ways,” he repeated, bitterly, “just some ways!” He drained his glass.
Willis Wynton stared at the softly curved, lusciously inviting girl on the bed. An evil smile of anticipation crossed his misshapen face, and he drooled, saliva trickling down to his chin as his eyes drank in the sight of young and helpless female flesh that lay at his mercy.
He had a peculiar build, his legs being too short for his massive, bull-like torso and his arms—as if to make up for the brevity of his legs—were too long, causing his hands to dangle close to his knees.
He swung his hands loosely, now, as he moved toward the girl on the bed. His forehead, covered with a mass of long, black hair that hung down, was too wide—while his chin was too narrow, making the thick, sensuous lips seem out of place. His pointed tongue darted out, slicked at the edges of his mouth as he stared at Doris.
She was wearing a white-nylon blouse and short leather skirt; her feet, shoeless now, and legs, were encased in sheer pantyhose.
Willis reached to the top of her blouse, unbuttoned it, then gripped the thin fabric of her brassiere. He tugged at it gently, then seemed surprised when the flimsy garment ripped off. His eyes squinted as he stared at the twin mounds of soft, fragile flesh—then he slowly stroked Doris' breasts.
A low, guttural sound came from deep in his throat as he caressed the silky smoothness. Then he jerked himself back, grabbed at his crotch as though in pain.
His fingers trembled as he undid the front of his pants, then the huge, swollen organ thrust out and he wrapped his hand around the bulbous head of it, bent himself forward from the waist.
Doris lay unmoving, unseeing, unaware.
Willis stood by the head of the bed, his animal-like penis just inches from the drugged girl's face—then he pushed his pelvis forward, guided his shaft until its slitted ball of lust was touching Doris' cheek. He weaved his organ back and forth on the delicate softness of her cheek.
Low sounds of pleasure came from his throat as he performed his lewdly intimate action, and thin dribbles of moistness slid from the slitted mouth of his penis and oozed over Doris' cheek.
Suddenly, he dropped to his knees beside the bed, pressed his face over the girl's unfeeling body, encircled a small, pointed, pink nipple with his mouth, sucked it with sickening pleasure.
“Oooh, Maaamaa—Maamaaah,” he mumbled, sucking and licking with wet, squelching sounds. He drew his head back abruptly, letting the saliva-slicked nipple slide from his lips with a plop. “You're not Mama,” he mumbled, sounding more like a child than the twenty-five-year-old man that he was. “You're what-what Mama got for me,” an infantile smile spread across his face, “... for me to play with.” His hand caressed his penis as he spoke. “Mama said—enjoy yourself.” His smile became wider. “I can do what I like—whatever I like.” He reached down to the hem of the leather skirt, lifted it. “I-I know what I like to-to do...” he panted.
The pantyhose stretched tightly over Doris' belly and hips, so thin that the dark triangle of her pubic hairs was clearly visible. Willis clawed at it, and a long fingernail ripped at the crotch, tearing through the fragile silk, shredding it open until it was slitted from the waist to where it disappeared between her smoothly fleshed thighs.
Willis' eyes fastened on the thatch of dark foliage, then he touched it, stroked it gently at first, then more roughly.
His penis reared when his hand went lower, probed between the exposed thighs, found vaginal lips that were soft and wet and felt inside them.
“Nice pussy,” he drooled, rubbing his finger in Doris' intimate moistness. “Soft, wet pussy!”
He drew back, breathing heavily through his nose. “I-I'm going to do it,” he muttered, panting with excitement. “Mama said I can enjoy myself.” He began ripping off his clothes with frantic haste, keeping his eyes on the small pink opening between Doris' thighs. “I'm going to push my cock inside your pussy!” He giggled, highly like a girl, then dragged off his remaining clothes.
His chest, belly and legs were covered with thickly matted hairs and below his massive penis, huge balls were encased in tightly stretched flesh.
He cupped his gross testicles, moved to the foot of the bed, stared up into Doris' vulva. “Fuck,” he muttered. “I-I'm gonna fuck!”
He stretched out a long arm, gripped one of Doris' feet, moved it toward the side of the bed—then did the same with her other foot.
The silk-encased legs formed a gleaming V to the shredded slit at the crotch. Willis panted as he stared up into the wet pinkness. “Fuck,” he mumbled again.
He climbed over the end of the bed, breathing heavily, and crawled between the outstretched legs. His hairy thighs pressed against Doris' soft silkiness. He reached under himself, gripped his throbbing shaft, steered it toward the wet, waiting opening.
His breath panted onto Doris' face as she lay still, as though she were a doll.
The hard, round ball of lust pried at the vaginal lips.
“Small,” Willis complained, “so small!” He jerked his body angrily, and Doris' belly quivered under the thrust. The head of his penis probed again at the small, tight vagina—then Willis jerked his shoulders upward. “Let me...” he panted into Doris' face, “... let me do it!” He dragged a hand upward then slapped the drugged girl's face. “You-you gotta...” he moaned in childish rage. “Mama said I could!” He slapped Doris' face again, and her head rolled with the blow. A deep pinkness suffused her cheek where the palm of his hand had hit.
He reached under his body again, with both hands this time; gripped Doris' thighs, spread them apart into an agonizing, strained split. “I wanna fuck...” he half-cried.
His body lurched again—and this time the end of his shaft penetrated the slithery vaginal opening and slid inside.
“Oooheeh—ooheeeh!” Willis shrilled as he felt the soft walls gripping his lurching organ. “Inside—oooheehh—my cock's inside!” He squirmed his whole body with lustful delight.
“Squeeeeze!” he squealed. “Squeeze my cock, nice tight pussy!”
He drove himself inward, causing the stretched vaginal walls to be forced open even more widely. Doris' body jerked upward as he thrust inward. He pressed his face onto Doris', groped for her mouth with his wet, slavering lips—then kissed her with slimy hunger. “I-I don't need Mama to help me,” he mumbled when he drew his head back, “I can do it myself all by myself!”
His throbbing organ, swelling and pulsing, thrust inward again—then withdrew, slid in, slipped out. “Oooheeeh,” he shrilled, “fuck—fuck—ooheeeh!”
He screwed his organ in and out with ever-increasing strength and speed. Doris' body had become a jerking mass of tortured flesh as his climax began.
“Squirt...” he screamed suddenly, “I'll squirt inside you.” He dragged in a gasp of air as his organ contracted, expanded. “Right inside your pussy all so hot so wet...” he babbled as his crest neared. “Aaaargh!” He let out a deep groan then writhed his body wildly. The slitted lips in the rounded head of his organ opened, emitted a scalding spurt of juice, then closed—opened again, spurted again. “Ooooheeeh aaargh! Fuck—fuck your hot pussy!” His voice went high, then racking tremors shook his body as he expended the last squirts of his juice.
The long shaft softened, reduced in size, became limp.
Willis lay on top of Doris, breathing deeply, languorous with satiation. “Nice pussy,” he mumbled, licking at Doris' face like a cat. “Nice soft cunt! Hot pussy!” He smiled, idiotically. “Hot an' wet!”
He let his penis slide out of Doris' vulva; then he squirmed himself down to the foot of the bed, stared in between her grotesquely stretched open legs. “White inside...” he mumbled, “... my white stuff all inside!” He smiled, as though he'd performed a clever feat. “Nice fuck—nice pussy fuck!” He stroked the insides of her thighs, then fondled the wet tissue inside the lips of her vagina.
“Again,” he said slowly. “Mama said—enjoy yourself—I'm gonna do it again...” He started to stroke his reawakening penis with expectant desire. “Again an' again...” he mumbled, “I can do it again an' again—as many times as I want!”
The shaft was stiffening, so he guided it to the vaginal entrance again. This time it was easier; Doris' vulva was still curled open from the previous onslaught of his huge penis—it slid in smoothly, sensuously, stretching the abused and fragile tissue without effort. Willis grunted in satisfaction.
Downstairs in the sitting room, Basil Marston slammed down his glass. “D'you realize what time it is?” he snapped to Mildred. “He's been up there with that-that poor kid—for four hours!”
She didn't even glance up from the book she was reading.
Basil leaned forward, spoke urgently. “It's midnight.” He tapped the face of his watch. “That stuff'll be wearing off!”
Mildred looked up this time. “Oh, Basil—let the poor boy have his fun!”
“Fun!” Basil looked startled then angry. “D'you call raping a young, drugged girl fun?”
Mildred snapped shut her book. “Don't act so Goddamned righteous.” She paused, then: “After what I know about you...”
“Don't go into that...” he muttered.
She gave him a cat-like smile. “If I did go into that, there'd be criminal proceedings against you—not just being struck off...”
“I said—don't go into that,” said Basil, more loudly. He took a deep breath. “Like I just said—that stuff'll be wearing off.”
“What was it anyway?” asked Mildred curiously. “Just what exotic solution did you inject into that girl?”
“Exotic is right,” he muttered. “It's some stuff they use in the Far East when someone's in agonizing pain—it dulls everything—deadens the nerves...”
“Some herbal remedy...” Mildred's voice was disdainful.
“Hardly that,” Basil said. “It's strong—can be deadly—stuff.”
“But it just lasts four or five hours?”
“Depends on the dosage,” he murmured. “That's all I gave her.” He glanced at his watch again. “By God—isn't that long enough for that damned stud to do his thing.”
“Don't call him a stud,” said Mildred. “He's just-just a normal, developing male—with normal instincts.” She dropped her eyes as she spoke.
“Normal!” Basil gave a mocking laugh, then stopped suddenly. “You'd better go an' drag your normal son off his latest victim!”
Mildred glared at Basil angrily, then got to her feet. “I suppose I'd better go up.” She smoothed down her skirt. “Willis'll have to carry her back to her room before she comes to—it wouldn't do to have her come round in the attic!”
“Is that what you got her out here for,” asked Basil, “so that your son could rape her, abuse her an' amuse himself with her body?”
“No!” Mildred spoke, emphatically. “I really needed a secretary—that's why I advertised!”
Basil shook his head in anger or despair as Mildred swept from the room.
Doris Dainton had come across the small advertisement when she was scanning the classified ads in a New York paper. Though she already had a job—had held it for six months, in fact—with a New York realtor, she still continued to glance, al beit casually, at openings for secretarial assistants.
Secretary, the ad had said, for country estate management, rental, etc. Top salary, accommodation and board in fine old Maine residence. Age 21-25, single and unattached. Please enclose recent photo with application to Mrs. Mildred Wynton, Romily Manor, Romily, Maine.
Doris had read it twice, then thought about it. She was the right age, twenty-three, and she was single—and, she added to herself with a trace of bitterness, completely unattached.
Since Bruce had walked out on her two weeks ago, she couldn't have been more unattached! So maybe, just maybe, a change of scenery would be good for her morale.
She sighed. There'd probably be lots of applicants, and there was little chance that she'd be selected. Nevertheless, Doris wrote a careful application, enclosed a snap (Bruce had taken it during the summer) and mailed everything off.
Two weeks later, when she had almost forgotten about her application, she got a reply.
And what made this reply different was the fact that a money-order to cover her train fare with an extra ten dollars for expenses was enclosed with the letter.
I'd like to meet you, Mrs. Wynton had written, and if you like Romily and everything else is satisfactory, then...
Doris had read the letter very carefully, then decided that a trip to Maine, all expenses paid, would not be a bad idea, so she'd phoned—as Mrs. Wynton had also suggested then made the journey on the Saturday following.
She was met at Romily station by a George Bateman, her employer's chauffeur, and was driven to Romily Manor.
The Maine countryside had looked wonderful after the noise and dust of New York, and the manor itself was one of those delightful early American residences that never seemed to change.
“There really isn't a great deal of work involved,” Mrs. Wynton had said. “And since my husband died several years ago, I've managed everything myself—but now I feel I'd like to have someone take charge of everything for me.” She'd laughed. “Maybe I'm getting lazy in my old age...”
Mildred Wynton didn't look so old, Doris had thought, though her manner was that of a much older person.
What she'd learned of the job, Doris had liked. There were a dozen or so houses on the estate which had been rented to the same people for years—and half a dozen more which were rented out seasonably.
When Mrs. Wynton mentioned the salary, Doris' eyes had opened wide. It was higher than she was getting in the city—and all her living expenses would be taken care of here, too!
“Do you have any family?” she had asked, hesitantly, thinking that there might be more work involved.
“Just my young son,” said Mildred Wynton.
“Oh!” Doris had wondered. Young son! Would I be expected to baby-sit, too? Is that the fly in the ointment?
“How-how old is your son, Mrs. Wynton?” she had asked, wondering if she was being too bold.
“Twenty-five...” Mrs. Wynton had startled Doris by answering. “He's very delicate and stays in his room most of the time.”
Doris had nodded. If she has an invalid son, that could explain why she wants someone to help with the estate; it could also explain why I haven't seen any other members of the family.
She had told Mrs. Wynton that she would think about it; thanked her for the pre-paid trip and promised to call her, but by the time the train had rolled from lush countryside to the unprepossessing outskirts of the city, Doris had already made up her mind.
She had phoned Mrs. Wynton on Sunday, given her notice at the office on Monday, and by the following week was ready to make her move.
George Bateman met Doris again, touching his cap respectfully when she alighted from the train, then carrying her meager luggage to the waiting Chrysler.
It was an old car, Doris realized as they drove toward Romily Manor. Old but well-kept—then she glanced at the back of the driver's head. It would be hard to say how old George Bateman was, Doris decided; he could be anything from thirty-five to fifty. His skin was tanned, and his body, short but well-muscled, looked tough and durable like the countryside they were passing through.
Doris frowned. He looked out of place behind the wheel of the ear—he seemed more like an outdoors man.
“Do you work for Missus Wynton full-time?” she asked now.
He jerked his head as though he was surprised at being addressed, then: “Yes, Miss...” he slowed at a crossing, then went on: “I work on the grounds as well as drive.”
She nodded. It was as she thought.
“Miss—it's Miss Dainton, isn't it?” the driver asked.
“Yes,” she told him, “Doris Dainton.” She smiled.
“Did you...” he asked very slowly, “... meet young Mister Wynton when you were here before?”
“Why no,” she said. “He's an invalid, isn't he?”
George Bateman made a sound that could have been a laugh, then: “He's all right sick, but...” his eyes flickered to hers in the driving-mirror, “he's not exactly an invalid.”
“What's the matter with him?” Doris was startled.
George shrugged. “He's like, well backward...”
Doris' eyebrows went up. “You mean—retarded?”
George didn't answer for a while, then: “You'll find out soon enough, Miss.” He swallowed. “Missus Wynton wouldn't want me to talk about her-her son!” And he finished the drive to the manor in silence.
The massive front door of Romily Manor was opened by a buxom woman of some thirty years.
“Welcome to Romily,” she said to Doris, her pleasant face smiling. “I'm Mabel Williams, the cook—Mrs. Wynton is resting and she asked me to show you to your room.”
Doris smiled in reply, murmured a few words, then followed the cook through the high, spacious hall. George Bateman followed with Doris' luggage.
The wide stairway curved in a majestic sweep from the back of the hall to the mezzanine. Doris', room overlooked the carefully manicured grounds at the back.
“This is a beautiful room,” said Doris, surveying the deep pile on the floor, expensive drapes and the invitingly soft modem bed.
“You have your own bathroom,” said Mabel, opening a door at the side of the room, revealing a fully equipped bathroom.
Doris nodded with pleasure, then asked: “And is this a closet?” She indicated another door at the side of the bathroom door.
The cook shook her head. “That's just a spare room—the door is always locked,” she said briefly.
Doris glanced at the door casually, noticed the transom above—curtained from the other side, then turned away, dismissing it from her mind.
On the other side of the door, Willis Wynton stood on the seat of a chair, peered through a small chink in the curtains. He licked his thick lips when he saw Doris' curvesome figure, then waited, wriggling with impatience, for Mabel and Bateman to leave the bedroom.
When the door had closed behind the two servants, Doris dropped onto the satin-covered bed and let her body sink into the softness.
Willis' body became tense. Doris' brief skirt had worked up while she was squirming on the bed, and he could see the thin silk of her pantyhose straining across her crotch. A glimpse of darkness, like brunette pubic hair, was visible through the silk. Willis' hand slithered down to his crotch.
Suddenly, Doris slid her legs off the bed, then scrambled across to her luggage and dragged a suitcase onto the bedside chair.
She opened it, took out a dark-green dress and looked at it quizzically. After a moment, she threw the dress onto the bed, snapped shut her suitcase and started to unbutton her blouse.
Willis' lips became dry, and he slid out his tongue, wet them with jerky, excited licks.
Doris' flesh looked soft and smooth as she shrugged out of her blouse, then she unhooked her brassiere, threw it onto the bed and cupped her braless breasts.
Willis could see the pink tips of her nipples oozing between her fingers. He swallowed with an effort.
Doris had moved in front of the full-length mirror; now, she stared at her reflection as she gently caressed her milky-white mounds. Her lips pursed into an expression of pleasure as she felt the satiny-soft flesh squirming under her fingertips.
Reluctantly, Doris slid her hands off her breasts, reached to the waist of her skirt, unzipped it and slid it off.
Willis held his breath.
Her buttocks were tightly encased in the silk of her pantyhose, then she slipped her fingers in the waistband, slithered the silkiness of her hips and limbs.
He could see the cleft in her bottom opening and closing as Doris leaned forward—Willis' hand groped at the front of his pants, unfastened them—then gripped the thick shaft that protruded.
Doris turned around, showing the thick thatch of hair on her abdomen; showing, too, wet pink lips that rubbed against each other as she moved.
Willis' eyes were glued on the white, shimmering thighs and the exciting red slit between. His hand moved slowly, caressingly, as he massaged his swollen organ.
Doris picked up the green dress, held it in front of her naked body, scrutinized herself in the mirror. Her back was to Willis, and he could see the ripples running up and down her thighs and her buttocks as Doris swayed herself slightly.
His excitement increased; his hand moved more quickly.
She walked back to the bed, green dress in her hand, then sat on the edge, staring at the dress thoughtfully. After a moments she dropped onto her back, legs dangling over the side of the bed, and let the dress slip out of her hand.
Her thighs parted, then she stroked the insides of her legs with slow, lingering movements. Gradually, her hands moved higher—her thighs parted more widely—and Willis could see the red slot of Doris' sexual cavern stretching open.
She touched a wet vaginal lip with a fingertip—then a tremor ran through her flesh. Her eyes closed, then she jerked up her heels until they were propped on the edge of the bed. Her knees fell apart and she stabbed a trembling finger into the wet sponginess of her vulva.
Willis watched the finger sinking into the soaking tissue, and the vulva seemed to suck it, draw it inward deeper and deeper as though it was a hungry mouth.
The round ball at the end of his penis expanded, throbbed painfully. He closed his fingers on it, squeezed with sex-excited strength.
A slim, pink spire slid up from the top of Doris' sexual slit, and she used her other hand—to touch it, press it, squeeze it with exquisite pleasure. Her mouth opened and closed as she drew in gulps of air.
Willis' breath panted from his nostrils, and his body stiffened as he slithered his hand from the swelling base of his shaft to the hard, round ball at the end. His knees had begun to tremble, and the chair that he stood on vibrated gently with each movement.
Doris had lifted her buttocks, and her finger thrust in more deeply, pulled out soggily, dragging clinging tissue with it. Her clitoris had enlarged, and she tormented it with her finger and thumb, pinching it, pulling it and squeezing. Her hips began to undulate up and down.
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