Theodore Stickles

Prisoner Of Lust

CHAPTER 1

Paula knew she was dreaming. But even this knowledge did nothing to help. It was hot, it was hard, it was male, and, most importantly, it was in her. She lay helpless, caught up in the throes of passion, hating it, loving it, unable even to make a token gesture or croak a hoarse "No!" as he pushed it in her, pulled it out, pushed it back in again, churning her insides into a passionate pudding of pink-frothed lust.

God damn him! She knew who it was-knew just as clearly as if she could see his face. It was the most vivid dream she could remember in years. Damn! She hadn't felt this turned-on since-since something she didn't like to think about.

This goddam job was getting the best of her. She ought to quit-but out and go back to something safe like teaching, preferably in some all-girl school. Lately she'd been turning positively paranoid. It was bad enough having to deal with them all day, to look into their burning eyes and know exactly what they were thinking, feeling, planning for her. How could she have not known what they were thinking-after all, what could they be thinking after months or years in that place, locked up and away from even the sight of a woman?

But could they really see it in her face too? Could they read her mind, read her lush, unused body and know how long since she-how she ached and burned, lusted in the lonely silence of her darkened room?

God damn him! God damn the dream that was racking her empty body! God damn a god who created a full-blown woman's body with full-blown desires-and then dumped her into a place in society where she could not gratify those desires.

Oooooohhhh god damn it all-god damn everything! She could feel that great hot thumping lump of maleness humping her, driving a dick indefatigably in and out, in and out, filling her to bursting, leaving her panting and empty for a brief instant before once more stuffing her-like a sausage-like a Christmas goose! God damn it! She wasn't a sex object-something to be fucked and forgotten. She was a woman-an intelligent, sensitive, needful woman. She had a college education. She had looks. She was still young and had her health. She had everything she needed-job, home, car-everything except a man's hot, hard hammer sliding tirelessly into her, out of her, back into her every night.

Something had to give. She couldn't put up with this insomnia forever. And when she did finally manage to sleep it was worse. All she could dream of were those hungry eyes with their naked need that made her feel naked as they studied her statuesque blondness, mentally peeling off her severely tailored clothes, pulling hairpins from her chignon to send a cascade of blond hair almost to her small taut waist.

In the dream those hungry lusting eyes never looked into hers, looked only at the full firmness of twin peaks that peeped through a cascade of blond hair, pointing outward like twin headlights, their rigid pink nipples betraying her need, her shame, her inability to stop thinking about those hungry men with the hungry eyes, with the hungry insatiable need that raged in their bellies.

God damn it! She was a modern, educated woman. Liberated! Liberated-shit! What did liberation mean if her body, her belly remained in some dark, prelogical era where all it asked for was not intellectualizations or rationalizations-all her belly wanted was that prodigious prod sliding slowly in and out, in and out, pumping her full of pregnancy, pumping her full of male chauvinism, pumping her full of the peace-piece-pumping her full of the joy that passeth all understanding.

God damn that dream! Her whole body was reacting-reacting to a goddam dream-and she wasn't even fully asleep. She knew she was dreaming. After all, hadn't she been having the same goddam dream every night, the same goddam faceless man crawling silently into her bed, not even coming manfully in on top of her like a conquering hero, but sneaking stealthily up under the covers from the foot of her bed, slinking along with his head between her legs, between her thighs, doing his bungling, stiff-pricked best to sneak up on her and get it into her while she slept…

It was degrading. Without ever even seeing her face or exchanging a word, civilized or otherwise with her, he was just sticking his maleness into her body like some animal-using her with no more compunction than he'd use a piece of Kleenex. A piece of toilet paper, she decided, would be more apt.

And what good was her college education doing her? He wasn't raping her mind. He wasn't raping her body either. That was the humiliating part of it. She could live with a rape fantasy, Paula knew. That was something outside her, not a part of her. But to lie there passive, ready, waiting, willing, just to lie there while he crept into her bed like a thief in the night, lie there without a struggle. She ought to kick, scream, fight. Instead, she was not even offered the consolation of terror.

If only she could lie there too frightened to move, paralyzed by the sudden presence of a man in her narrow bed… But even that small consolation was denied her. Modern, college-educated, thoroughly liberated Paula was nightly subjected to the ultimate humiliation in her fantasy world. Instead of being assaulted and abused by some stiff-pricked King Kong, she lay there passive and waiting, not at all the master of her body nor captain of her soul, lay there waiting for some timid sneak-thief to scurry into her bed, up between her legs, to work ever so carefully at teasing her drowsing body into missionary position, knees flexed and thighs spread wide so that he could slip it gently into her, holding his frightened breath and struggling to perform the impossible, to fuck a lusting, deprived woman without waking her up. For Christ's sake!

And night after night she burned, ached, raged at her weakness, at her shame as night after night she felt her thighs spread, felt her body quiver and burn in anticipation of this shameful concession to her femininity. God damn it-why must she be so weak?

A vacation? She'd just gotten back from one only five weeks ago. It hadn't helped a bit. She'd gone fishing, clad herself in flannel shirt and Levi's, hip boots, every masculine, unglamorous accoutrement she could think of. She had stood ass-deep for hours in near freezing waters trying to catch a big fish, knowing somewhere deep in her mind even before she had decided on this abortive fishing expedition that a big fish-pesce grande, her grandmother would have called it-was old-fashioned Italian slang for a king-sized cock. And thank you, Hen Doktor Freud.

Vacation-shit! She was going to have to quit this job, throw her career away, forget about emancipated woman and new frontiers, stow herself safely away in some comfortable woman's hole of a job and leave those haunted, lusting eyes that saw through the severe tailored suits she wore, saw through jacket, saw through blouse, saw through bra, saw the rock-hard, throbbing nipples on that pair of full firm thirty-nines that had been her cross to bear, that had turned heads and had turned off minds, making her rage because all the time she was trying to argue a point and make somebody listen to sweet reason all that person could see was a pair of tits, full, firm, appealing, totally unliberated behind that bra, totally nonverbal and convincing that person not that she had a mind, only that she had a body, that it was a sin not to use, exploit, that body.

And she had a body, Paula knew. Damn, did she ever have a body! She was tall for a woman, almost five eight. She was a little on the heavy side too-a hundred thirty-five. But it was distributed with a totally non-intellectual symmetry above and below a twenty-four-inch waist-a full firm ass atop long straight legs, balanced by a firm bust and a pair of jugs that would have made an ordinary girl seem top-heavy.

Paula had stopped swimming years ago, only too aware of the effect of her body on others. Once a man had caught an eyeful of her in a bikini she knew he would never listen to her again without a mental image of that superb body superimposed on anything she might say, like a double-exposure blotting out any argument, any common sense, fogging his mind with a pink-tinged hint of patronizing prurience. Aw, you're too purty to bother your little head about things like that.

What in hell would the world be like if supreme court justices were interrupted in mid-argument- "But your honor, all that groovy white hair and all those deep thoughts inside such a handsome old head!"

And still that goddam little sneak of a man was slipping his great big sneak of a cock, his big fish, into her, out of her, moving so unobtrusively he probably thought he was stealing a cheap thrill from her sleeping body.

Even though it had been half an eternity since last she had sensed a man's magic working inside her, Paula could tell it was a very respectable-sized fish for so small a man. And it was coursing so steadily in and out of her cunt, poking her titillated pussy with the regularity of a metronome, of a heartbeat.

Whenever she stopped raging long enough to breathe she knew that no matter how she might hate it, her long-deprived body was loving it. Her cunt might be liberated but she could feel a faint flutter as of untried wings, like some bird too long in a cage and confused, frightened at the prospect of a liberty too free, a world too wide for weakened wings.

God damn it all, if she gave in to this fantasy she was going to be sopping in another minute. Already she could feel her prurient pussy pulsating in time to that steady thrust, could feel tiny drops of love's lubrication preparing her for something that was not happening, was not going to happen as long as she had anything to say about it!

But it was happening. Against her will she felt her rage soften until she could sympathize with him, whoever the poor bastard was, sympathize with his need, with the wild, throbbing rage of his long-deprived body. It seemed as if his honker had been sliding slowly and steadily in and out of her for at least an hour, moving with the calm regularity of a pendulum, uncaring whether that slow steady eroticism were to melt her will, melt her mind, turn her liberation into bondage and wipe its ass on her diploma.

Then he changed his rhythm slightly, stopping at the bottom of each deep stroke to grind his pelvis against the lush fur of her pubic bush, sending his rigid rammer around inside her, stirring her in deep circles, mixing her brains and her cunt into a passionate pudding of instinct that gave not a shit for all her preparation, her education, her liberation.

Oh god damn it! Was she ever going to get back to sleep? If only she could go one way or the other: either wake up all the way and go have a shower, douche the stickiness out of her crotch and go back to bed or, for Christ's sake, forget all this prurient foolishness and go back to sleep. Did she have to spend the whole goddam night mooning here half-asleep, half-awake?

She had a responsible position. She made decisions involving the lives of other people. She needed a clear head for her job. If this went on all night she would be so sleepy that tomorrow she would look up unexpectedly, would catch a pair of eyes devouring her, unable to conceal their naked hunger and if she were to look long enough into those eyes, Paula knew she was in danger of falling in.

Christ! It was easy enough to understand their need. They might be imperfect, incomplete, not especially likeable, but that naked need was not, at least not directly, their fault. But Paula… whose fault was it that she had gotten herself locked into this crazy situation?

Nobody's but her own, she knew. There was no real reason why she couldn't have a discreet little affair, providing she didn't flaunt it about or rub somebody's nose in it. But the trouble with having an affair was that somebody she really worried about might find out. Paula might find out.

And all her colleagues, all her friends, they wouldn't be shocked or mind-blown. Nobody would ostracize her any more than they did now. She would not be asked to resign from any professional societies. No; the penalty would be more subtle, more lasting, more totally and completely unbearable. They would all smile and be tolerantly amused. Amused, god damn them!

And god damn this sneaky son-of-a-bitch who was fucking her! God damn this indestructible dream! Sneaking in through the foot of her bed, up between her legs, and slipping it to her ever so slowly as if he thought he could get away with fucking a full-grown woman in her right mind, in full possession of her faculties, as if somebody could fuck the daylights out of Paula and not even wake her up. Still she struggled with that dismal half-awake, half-asleep sensation.

There was only one way to come up out of it, she guessed. She would let herself slip deeper into the fantasy, imagine him banging deeper, harder, faster until finally he provoked a trembling spasm and then she would be awake, humiliated and cheapened but awake and away from this denigrating fantasy. She kicked at the covers and threw her legs in the air, she closed them in a loving erotic scissors over a dream man and oooohhh wow!

It wasn't a dream, Paula abruptly realized. There really was a man between her legs. He had his cock in her and he really had been fucking her!

CHAPTER 2

Still partly asleep, Paula was forced to amend her last observation. Not only had the faceless little sneak been fucking her-now that she had thrown her long straight legs in the air, kicked away covers and wrapped around a fantasy that was suddenly real-now that she abruptly knew it was a real flesh and blood man in there, a real flesh and blood cock sliding in and out of her-now she knew that despite her sudden explosion of movement he hadn't even hesitated in his steady stroking. He was still fucking her.

He must be in some kind of a trance. High on something, perhaps? She opened her eyes and the room was dimly lit. She could barely make out the outline of his head. His face was in shadow. She was still being fucked by a ghost but as she clawed her way back into full awareness she began to see a connection. It wasn't just some sneak who'd found an open window and forced his way into the next open window between her sleeping legs. In a way she guessed she must have invited him in. Not deliberately, nor even knowingly. As if they didn't always know…

This morning early. That had been when it started. No. It had started last night with a phone call from that fine-feathered son-of-a-bitch who'd gone out into a world that welcomed men, gone from his bar exam straight into private practice, moving every six months into a fancier apartment and working his way from a battered VW to a Mark IV. God damned smart-ass!

They had gone through law school together. Paula had graduated and gotten a job. In the time it had taken him to move from a VW to a Mark IV she had gone from nine to twelve thousand per annum.

And last night he had called.

Not that land of call, she had remembered. She guessed it had been years since he had wasted his time trying or even bothering to batter at a wall which- Anyhow, it had been strictly business. "That banquet thing, Paula." Before she could give him a proper blast he had hastened with, "I know you're not going. Neither am I or anybody in his or her right mind but there's a bit of PR to be done for the bar association."

Paula had still been ready to tell him to stuff it when she remembered that she was a lawyer after all, that it wouldn't hurt her career to be seen once in a while. "I'm tied up all afternoon and evening," she warned.

"No sweat," Smart-ass rejoined. "They're filming it so if you can just get down to City Hall early and hand the old bastard a plaque… "

"Well," she said hesitantly, "I guess I could do that much."

"Fine! I knew you'd come through. Just put on some kind of long dress and be there before eight."

"Eight o'clock in the morning!" Paula was so outraged she didn't even find the breath to tell him she hadn't worn a formal since- She was still struggling for breath when she realized the line was dead.

God damn him! Chauvinist bastard! So the bar association wanted to hand his honor another useless honor. Why couldn't some man do it? Or if they needed a sex symbol why not hire some bunny to shed her ears and tail and pop out of a cake? She had been dialing him back to tell him to go stuff it when she realized he must have cooked it up already, that he had fixed it up with Christ only knew how many other people, and that if she were to let them down the bar association would cooperate with his honor's administration to find dozens of little ways to make her life miserable. Vacation schedules could be reshuffled. Promising or at least nonviolent clients would go to more favored officers. She could end up with the psychotics and the gorillas. Her paperwork could be sent to the wrong office, everything delayed. No matter how she might despise it, Paula knew you could kick only so hard at the system before it started kicking back.

Shit! She'd worked till after eight this evening. Now she'd have to be there with her hair all fixed and everything in place in less than-less than nine hours! What on earth was she going to wear?

She rummaged through her closet with a sense of despair, knowing there was nothing even remotely suitable except the gown she had worn once twelve years ago, back before she had discovered exactly how much of a man's world the law world really is, back before she'd become so embittered that her wardrobe had gradually become nothing but pants suits.

To hell with them! They were all men and they wouldn't know whether she was in style or not. And she didn't care. She got it out. The gown was not at all what might be expected of an evening gown. It had long sleeves and a high collar, with seed pearls strategically placed around the bust line. But at least it fulfilled the requirements. It was floor length.

She stood before the bathroom door mirror, holding the lame gown before her. Could she still get into it after twelve years? She stripped down to bra and panties and studied her reflection. She was full grown. But she really wasn't much bigger than she had been when she graduated. She slipped it over her head and struggled into it.

It fit a bit tight about the hips but she guessed an audience of men would probably approve. And if any women saw her, to hell with them. But the bust… she wondered if she could get away with buttoning it only halfway. Perhaps some pins or brooches…

The only real trouble was her undergarments. She had put on just enough weight in the last twelve years to make the gown fit more interestingly than the first time around. But now it fit just tight enough to outline bra and bikini panties with perfectly visible creases. She sighed and took the damned thing off. Then with sudden inspiration she took off bra and panties too.

Standing before the mirror she surveyed full un-draped splendor. Poor stiff-pricked bastards… no wonder they couldn't keep their minds on the law when they were looking at that body, trying to decipher its gorgeous outlines through all the severely tailored outfits-camouflages she was in the habit of wearing.

Her hair, when she let it free of that confining chignon, hung straight and blond almost to her waist. Her legs were long and straight and, by some quirk of nature, possessed a special prick-stiffening quality which made them appear, even now when she stood barefoot, as if she were standing in exaggerated spike heels.

Her hips were full and rounded, framing a belly that curved with feminine allure punctuated by a deep navel built for licking. Her waist was not really tiny but seemed that way because of the lovely bulge of hips beneath and midriff above.

And her tits-those lovely jugs! Full, firmly all-American, upstanding, looking steadfastly onward, forward, upward with all the unlimited enthusiasm of Kiwanis and Lions. Like twin headlights they illuminated her mirror, their nonsagging, never-need-a-bra roundness still capable after all these years of turning heads on the street, of making judges forget or ignore the finely spun thread of some legal argument.

She didn't need a bra-wore one only as an added safeguard lest her firm, hard little nipples show through layers of clothing and drive one of those haunted-eyed yearning clients right over the wire mesh that separated them. She turned sideways and studied her figure for sag. There was none. Her belly bulged in just the proper direction. Her full, firm jugs' upper slopes were twin ski jumps, curving with wicked unexpectedness as that long gentle slope approached a perky, skyward-pointing nipple. Their under surfaces were ripe with the lushness of grapefruits-twin melons full of sweet promise.

And how long had it been since a man's lips had closed over one of those nipples? How long since a man's hot hardness had slipped gently between her thighs, parted the blond-fuzzed labia of her vulva and done its chauvinistic best to rearrange the topography of her cunt country?

Angrily, she tore her gaze from the mirror and began struggling back into the formal. It still fit snugly and she knew she would have to walk carefully if it were not to ride up on her hips. But, with a will, plus the help of a few pins and brooches it could be done. She hung the dress where she could find it in the morning and stepped into the tub. While it was filling she lay back, reveling in sensuality as near-scalding water gradually rose round her recumbent body, inundating her until her ass was bathed in a roseate glow of not quite contentment. She lay inert while the rising water converted the blond bush on her mons veneris into a tiny triangular island next to the larger round island of her' navel-punctuated belly. Finally these islands were submerged and rising water exposed only the pink-tipped, firm-nippled aureoles of her matched set of jugs. She sighed and sunk deeper in the water. Christ but she was tired!

Paula nearly went to sleep in the tub but she was finally aroused from her lethargy by cooling water. She pulled the plug and toweled off hastily. Not even bothering with a nightgown, she went to bed naked.

And dreamed.

She was a fair-sized woman but he was a giant and he was not ravishing her in the traditional sense of the word. He didn't have her on her back in missionary position while he held her down and poured his masculinity to her in eight-inch doses. Instead, he lay on his back and she was on top and she wasn't even lying down atop him. She was sitting, legs extended, her full ass firmly spiked on a prodigious prod that was not going in and out of her but was literally screwing, winding her down on his spindle while she spun down on him like a nut.

He had his hands on her waist and he had his pelvis raised and he was spinning her, eliciting a melody from her long-playing body as if she were a rock-and-roll record spinning on the erotic turntable of his cock. And oh chauvinistic Jesus, did it ever feel goooood!

She was gasping, her whole body quaking under the erotic onslaught of his prodding spindle. With each erotic turn he screwed it deeper into her. Her legs were high; she was jackknifed, her whole body weight supported on that lovely lance that was stabbing her to a lovely death.

Then suddenly she was not just spinning, screwing her hot humming nut down around his bolt. Now he was bucking too, tossing her up and down while she spun; her thrumming vagina was being screwed to death and now as she bounced up and down he was driving it still deeper into her with each savage, soul-shattering thrust. She could feel her innards start to melt, shift, transmogrify into startlingly new and erotic shapes.

He sat up and such was his strength, his size, and his agility that even sitting up he could still hump her up and down, bend her legs up past her ears and keep her spinning while still feeding his firm eight inches into her, bouncing her up and down atop and around his erotic pogo stick. Only now he was no longer turning her by her tiny waist. Now her full firm jugs were his handles and he was spinning her faster, so fast they stuck out even straighter, more provocatively skyward-pointing and with each turn he ducked his face in to plant a kiss on first one humming, thrumming, rock-hard nipple and then the other. And oh Jesus chauvinist, didn't it ever feel gooooood!

She could feel great rhythmic contractions course through her, each surge of erotic joy leaving behind a tiny residual tension that accreted to the next pulsation of lust until her whole body vibrated with an ecstasy of anticipation. God but it was great to be fucking again, to feel a hot hard male back in the saddle, making his fleshy offering to the temple of her emancipated flesh, straining and tearing himself to erotic bits as he struggled to pleasure her throbbing body.

She could feel herself still spinning on his purple-tipped turntable, feel herself sliding up and down that prurient prod, feel her body reacting to something she had not learned in law school, her whole being responding to an older, more natural law that she had never learned how to repeal.

Her flesh was quivering with sweet torment, not just her belly but her whole body. With each turn he kissed a nipple, thus managing to keep both of those sensitive tips of her tits vibrating with a hope of future joy, of more, faster, deeper, now!

The eight-inch auger that bored into her quivering flesh seemed capable of fulfilling, filling her full, of delivering on the most outrageous of campaign promises. My god, did it ever feel gooood!

It felt so good she knew it could not last much longer. Nothing was forever-especially nothing this mind-blowingly, flesh-meltingly good. Even as she spun, Orbiting around that erotic center to her being, she sensed that the pivot on which she rotated was subject to the same physical laws as her lusting body. It was just a question of which of them would come first. Which of them would know joyous fulfillment and which would be left high and dry, needing, wanting, shedding tears of frustration and rage?

Then suddenly she knew which one it was to be. She felt all those tense rubber bands inside her thrumming belly start to snap one by one and then suddenly she was coming right in two, in three, into tiny shattered pieces of love's culmination. Maybe she wasn't exactly coming in two but Paula knew with utter certainty that she was coming.

CHAPTER 3

Still in the throes of orgasm, she struggled with tangled sheets and a growing feeling of familiarity. Damn! Did she have to dream off this way every night? Two or three times a night? Her cunt was sopping with love's lubrication and she was sticky all over. She got up grumbling and changed the sheets. Still muttering, she showered off and went back to a clean dry bed, knowing that unless she took enough sleeping pills to make her useless and stupid all next day, that it would probably happen again before morning. Maybe she ought to see a doctor.

A doctor with an eight-inch cock?

It was so exhausting to try to stay angry with the whole world, with herself, with a creator who gave her a body with certain instincts and then dumped her in a society where… It was, she decided with a certain accuracy, a pain in the ass.

And having delivered herself of this prosaic opinion, Paula finally dropped once more into confused sleep where she toyed with rape, with venery, with lust and perversions of infinite variety until she was interrupted in a mountain-climbing expedition, interrupted halfway up the slopes of Mount Orgasm by the tearing, jarring, tinkle of an indefatigable alarm clock.

"God damn it!" she greeted the new day. As she came fully awake her disposition was not improved by the memory of what she had to do that morning. Muttering curses like an angry Druid, she got her hair up in a chignon so tight it threatened to pull her eyes into a slant. Remembering the creases from bra and bikini panties, she got into the long-sleeved, floor length formal and began hanging the too-tight garment about her full-cut body, using pins and brooches wherever the endless rows of buttons refused to meet.

Goddam, eye balling assholes that surrounded Hizzonner the Mayor would probably think the ancient dress was designed to go on her this way, with a gap here and there to make things interesting.

She glanced at the clock and-shit! She had less than fifteen minutes. Hastily, she gave herself a final mirror check and decided it was good enough. She rushed about the house looking at window latches and spring locks. She got in the Datsun, touched the garage door opener gadget, backed out, and was on her way full speed ahead and damn the fuzz.

It was three minutes of eight when she surrendered her Datsun to the underground parking attendant at City Hall. The goddam long skirt caught in the automatic elevator door and she had to push the red emergency button, which cost her another thirty seconds before she could make the goddam door close again and the elevator start moving. She had to present a smiling, trouble-free countenance to Hizzonner and the TV crew. How could she manage to conceal the fact that she was boiling inside? Goddam chauvinist pigs! Why did she have to wear this silly thing? If they wanted sex appeal why not get a pretty boy? After all, that kind of swinger voted too.

It felt funny to be hurrying along without any panties. It felt funny without any pantyhose either-striding across the marble first floor of City Hall and feeling her bare inner thighs rub gently against each other with each step, feel the labia of her blond-furred vulva move back and forth past each other with a sensation very like something-hot, hard, and male coursing in and out of her with every step.