White slave

CHAPTER ONE

Margaret Sorenson spilled another quarter-cup of Spic 'n Span into the plastic wash bucket and swirled it around with her delicate hand, feeling the grit instantly dissolve into sterile suds. She churned the suds to life and dipped her scrub brush into the hot soapy water to continue the humble task of scrubbing years of accumulated wax from the yellowed floor of her landlord's kitchen. Her modest red and white checkered house dress, still speckled with furniture polish from yesterday's house cleaning, pulled across her lap to expose her slim thighs. Margaret poked a finger to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her nape-tied scarf and, wiping a purling drop of sweat from her unwrinkled brow with a swipe of her sudsy hand, sat up to admire the rewards of her plebeian task. In an arm's stretch semi-circle around her, an oasis of white glistened in a desert of sandy yellow. Another two hours of sweating and scrubbing and backache, and she would have worked off one week's rent here at her Geary Street apartment in downtown San Francisco. But the thirty-eight year old woman refused to complain; at least she had a roof over her head, which was a lot more than many women in her situation could brag of.

The proud Swede had seen many an unfortunate woman in the social security collection lines. Single women, many not over forty, bent and stunted from malnutrition and medical neglect, a hive of buzzing, scraggly children at each side, pulling on her work-wearied body, each claiming a part of a mother who hadn't the energy left to enjoy her blessing of motherhood. And in the welfare lines too… unkempt, dirty hair, worn-down heels on blistering over-sized shoes bought for a quarter at St. Vincent de Paul's. The poverty and humility brought tears to Margaret's eyes. No, she would never resort to such poverty, even now in her widowed years. She would work off her debts with honest physical labor and not complain how many backaching hours it took to satisfy Roger Blasser's insistent demands.

After all, as landlord's go, he had been sympathetic enough to appreciate her dour situation since Sandor was killed in the construction accident down south of Market Street. Then, too, her poverty was only a temporary inconvenience; the union lawyers were working overtime trying to get a court date to settle the lawsuit involving Sandor Sorenson's needless death in the explosion that rocketed him twenty feet in the air to crash on the steel beams still loaded on the flat-bed truck below. When the case was finally settled, the union lawyers anticipated a $500,000 settlement for his death, plus another $100,000 for her trauma and personal loss; that didn't include either of Sandor's two life insurance policies that would come due in two months.

When her ship came in, she'd pack up her modest belongings and buy a ticket back to Sweden where her relatives were crying for her. But that was in the future and the thirty-eight year old husbandless blonde realized she must cope with the squalor of her existence until she could free herself. She would put up with the wheezing hydraulic brakes of the city's busses that roared beneath her bedroom window, and the cockroaches that infested every openly seeping draining in the soon-to-be condemned apartment house where a conglomerate of centurians, widows, taxi drivers, hippies left over from the flower days of Haight Street, and single-parented children hovelled in the ruins of what was once an elegant place to call home. It had its amenities, too. The rent was extraordinarily cheap for San Francisco, and transportation was readily available for people like Margaret who couldn't afford a car. Then, too, the landlord would accept excuses when the rent was late, like now; or better, still, he would accept what humble labor she could offer in exchange for a place to call home.

In the three years she had occupied her third floor one-bedroom apartment here on Geary Street, she had grown comfortable and had made friends with some of the occupants who shared the ten-story eyesore. After Sandor's death the widower from upstairs whose television set she had tolerated at three o'clock in the morning for three yeas without protest, ingratiated himself by inviting her up for coffee and to watch the afternoon soap operas. And Lola from across the hall had invited her to Saturday afternoon matinees. So it wasn't as if nobody appreciated her loss. Roger, too, had invited her to his apartment on several occasions, a truth which brought a blush to her cheeks and she kneed over to the far corner of the kitchen, pushing her sloshing mop bucket along ahead of her.

Roger… she mused, watching the water drip from the natural bristle scrub brush before descending it to the floor. Roger had been more than kind. Sandor wouldn't approve of her cooking and cleaning for another man, she thought guiltily; but what was she to do? Spend the rest of her life holed-up crocheting and mending house-dresses? Ah, it was silly! There wasn't anything between she and Roger. Margaret levered herself to her knees and elbows and dug the brush into the yellowed linoleum, watching cakes of dirt and wax lift like magic. But her mind wasn't on the floor, it was on Roger. Roger would be home soon, and for some unexplainable reason, she didn't want him to see her on elbows and knees like a common scrub lady. She was only thirty-eight; she had time to live… and love.

Oh, sure, he'd kissed her one time and hugged her, lifting her off the floor with his strong Arabian arms. But that was just kidding around, nothing serious. Roger liked women, Margaret knew with a small pang of jealousy. She'd seen several women, all dressed for the night club and heavily made-up, leaving his apartment at strange hours. Margaret sat up on her haunches, yanking down her dress that had hiked up to her thighs. Yes, she reasoned generously, Roger should have many women, he surely had the looks of a lady's man with his black thick hair and rich tanned skin. For a man of forty-five, he still carried himself in a dignified manner, straight and tall and strong. Margaret liked that. Sandor had been a strong man.

Tonight she would cook for him. Oh, he wasn't subtracting anything off of the rent for her kitchen labors, but he'd once said he loved meatballs and gravy, and Swedish meatballs was her dish – and it would be good having a man praise her cooking again. It had been so long… so darned long since she'd had anything to look forward to.

Margaret had cleared the gravy-smeared plates and run warm water from the dripping faucet to rinse them off before the cock-roaches decided it was time for a meal and came lurking out of the woodwork in silent armies. In the living room off the kitchen, she could hear the television set's scratchy roar; it sounded like a baseball game. Suddenly she remembered the world series season was upon fans everywhere; Sandor had always watched it, too, sitting in his favorite overstuffed chair, nursing a can of cold beer. The remembrance brought a smile to her lipsticked lips. Running a dishpan full of hot water, she set the dirty dishes in to soak and walked into the screen-lit room to sit beside Roger.

Roger smiled down at the blonde woman beside him and slipped his arm around her, never taking his eyes off the television set. Somehow it all seemed comfortable, and Margaret felt no guilt at this man showing a gesture of absent-minded affection toward her. She basked contentedly, sitting back on the aging springs of the sofa, and pulled a hand crocheted afghan over her knees that had been folded and thrown over the back. Her full stomach and after dinner glass of wine suddenly made her feel drowsy and she took the silent liberty of resting her head on Roger's shoulder.

"You're a hell of a cook," whispered Roger when the Gillette commercial interrupted the game. The Arabian landlord gave her shoulder a gentle nudge. His hand felt strong and powerful through the thin fabric of her cotton dress.

"T'ank you. And did you like the way I clean your floors?" she asked in her sing-songy Swedish accent, squeezing a little closer to the man's side.

And then, without a word between them, Roger allowed his fingers to slide along the upthrust swell of her breast until his opened palm cupped the full swinging mound of her tit delicately. He could feel her body stiffen, her breath suddenly coming faster as with one finger, his middle one, he caressed the inviting softness of her breast, rubbing the swollen tiny peak of her nipple through her flimsy dress as he admired the ample, womanly figure she still possessed. She was a specimen of health, her skin tight and resilient, so typical of blonde Nordics, and her shimmering blonde hair showed only one streak of platinum gray. Roger could hear a little purr coming from her lips, and he smiled to himself savoring the effect he was having on her… he had her wrapped around his finger, that was for sure, right where he wanted to keep her. She needed affection, that he knew and in return she would bring him a gold mine if only half of those law suits and insurance policies came to fruition. A lonely woman in a strange country with no man… hell!

He tweaked the sensitive nipple with his thumb and index finger, and she shivered involuntarily from the tip of her toes along her spine to her shoulders. Pausing for a moment, he moved his exploring hand around the firm curve of her breast until his fingers found what he was looking for: with practiced deftness, he eased the zipper down along the satiny plane of her back until he reached the taut elastic band of her panties. He stopped there an instant slipping his fingers between her warm flesh and the tight band, far enough down the hollow of her naked back to reach the first few inches of her fleshy buttock crevice. Teasingly, he flicked a finger against the tightly puckered ring of her anus and felt her quickly shrink away.

Shit, I'll bet old Sandor never poked his prick in there, Roger mused to himself.

He massaged her nakedly sensitive flesh in slow concentric circles as his hand eased back along the smoothness of her back until he reached the stretched fabric of her dress, pulled taut now over her shoulders. Pausing first to unsnap the tiny three hooks of her bra, he then eased the shoulders of her dress down along her arms until the dress hung limply over her whitely firm breasts.

He stopped his smooth seductive motions and looked Margaret over again, eyeing hungrily the rich, womanly full swells and hollows of her well-formed body. Yes sir, she was quite a nice looking woman, all right.

Again with his right hand, Roger tumbled the fabric of Margaret's dress and the sheer tissue of her bra over the bulging mounds of her breasts, exposing the twin half-dollars of her fully erect nipples, all pinkish and excited at being exposed to the air and to his eyes. They swelled even more rigidly as a sudden chill breeze caressed them, sending a burst of rippling electricity through her breasts and down into her man-hungry belly, fanning the embers of a long-dormant fire that once burned there.

Yes, God help her, she had been so long without a man, so long she had nearly forgotten the magic of a real man's touch, the thrilling ecstasy of being looked at and caressed this way.

His outstretched fingertips brushed lightly over the soft, warmly beckoning bulge of her tits, first one, then the other, before finally clamping tightly over the ripely mature mound, squeezing the delicate ivory-white flesh between his clenched fingers.

Margaret could stand no more; she had kept silent as long as she could. "Oh, you are a sweet man, Roger. Oh, it feel so good."

Her knees were opening and closing like an accordion and she flung the afghan to the floor; her firmly fleshed buttocks were ground tightly against the sofa. Margaret could feel the warm dampness of love juice spreading between her thighs as the cheeks of her fully rounded ass clenched like starving lips at the fabric, beneath them. Even his touch was driving her almost insane with heated desire; she was going out of her mind with blind passion… a scream was ready to burst from her lungs any second now from the agonizing deliciousness of his knowledgeable fingers were bringing her. She offered no resistance as he shoved her over onto the cushions of the long sofa, stretching himself out beside her and continuing to relentlessly caress the nakedly soft white mounds of her full fleshy breasts. A low moaning cry escaped from her lips as he roughly squeezed the tenderly pulsating nipples between his fingers, toying with them mercilessly as her whole body trembled and quivered from his touch.

His hands left the feverishly jutting nipples and slowly eased along the flat plane of her belly. Margaret's body arched off the sofa as his fingers slipped once again under the waist-band of her panties, brushing over the fluffy mound of her sparse pubic hair until his hand made a maddening electric contact with the warmly moist lips of her cunt; even in the dim light of the television Roger could see her flesh was covered with a million tiny goose-bumps as she shivered convulsively at his wonderful touch.

"Oooo, it is so nice, so nice…" the love-starved widow murmured mindlessly, floating in space now at the ecstasy of a man's hands down there on her naked cunt.

Clutching the moist flanges of her pussy with his palm, Roger ventured a finger between the wetly pink ridges, and Margaret gasped as her feverish loins suddenly ground tightly up against his hand. His middle finger now slowly explored the entire hot length of her narrow wet slit, starting with the taut muscular ring of her anus, easing over the hard membrane of flesh that separated the two enticing channels before the probing finger finally reached the moistly clasping sheath of her pussy.

The soft pink walls parted unhesitantly as his outstretched rigid finger slipped into the warmly clasping tunnel, and he could feel the fleshy passage open hungrily as he probed it deeply with his finger.

"That feel good?" he asked, sure of himself now.

Margaret tried to reply, but as her lips parted to speak, Roger sadistically squirmed a second stiffened finger into her constrictive passage, burying it up to the last joint in the warm juicy depths of her cunt. Only a muffled cry of pain and pleasure came hoarsely from her throat.

"Well, like it or not?" he teased again, grinning down at her between pearly white teeth accentuated by his bushy black mustache and flashing chocolate eyes. He wiggled his two fingers deep inside her hot, softly-layered flesh.

"God, oh, yaaaa!"

Roger's ravishing finger slipped from her pussy wetly clasping grip, and he tantalizingly dragged his fingertip along her warm slit until he found the throbbing little bulb of her clitoris. Using just his thumb and forefinger, he squeezed the incredibly sensitive nerve-ending as the sex-hungry widow moaned and squirmed beside him on the sofa. Back and forth, as if playing with a marble, he rolled the pulsing little nodule, and Margaret gasped and choked for air as rippling waves of undiluted passion and ecstasy swept over her shamelessly aroused body.

As her naked pelvis ground upward tightly against his palm, Roger continued his maddening assault on her loins, twisting and pulling on her hardened pink clitoris until she moaned and cried out loudly from the delightful agonies of his skillful fondling.

"Don't stop, please… Don't stop!" she screamed between hissing teeth, her shrill words reverberating above the roar of the baseball fans on television.

Sensing she was near her orgasm, Roger began to roughly rub her moistly throbbing cuntal slit with the tips of his fingers, stroking over the quivering fleshy peak of her clitoris and along the hot furrow between the hungrily pursed lips of her cunt.

"Oh, yaa, ya, ya!"

Suddenly Margaret's buttocks and back arched high off the sofa, and as if she were possessed by dozen demons, her warmly moist cunt began grinding madly against his open hand as a long pitiful moan slipped from her parched half-open lips.

"Oooohhh… Aaahhh…" The impassioned young widow suddenly quivered from head to foot and jerked convulsively as the shuddering currents of her orgasm raced from her hotly straining loins, bathing his hand in a slippery gush of orgasmic juices that soaked his palm and seeped down the crevice of her buttocks before spreading in lewd trickles over the soft half moon cheeks of her ass. Finally, with a trembling sigh, she slowly sank down on the couch, lying face to face with her landlord.

She gasped hoarsely, still struggling to regain her breath. "Oh, oh that felt so good!"

Roger only smiled wordlessly, pulling his fingers from the warm wet grip of her pussy, wiping the slippery traces of her orgasmic fury from his hand with a handkerchief, keeping one eye on the baseball game. Then he spoke, "We're not done yet. Take off your clothes."

Without thinking, Margaret hurriedly removed her crumpled dress and panties, then unhooked her garter belt and, sitting on the edge of the sofa, pulled down her stockings and left them in a heap on the living room carpet. In just a few seconds, she was completely naked, her ripely mature body glistening with tiny beads of perspiration from the excitement and the anguished anticipation of having her first man in almost six months. She glanced down at him reclining on the sofa with his head tilted toward the television screen watching the Oakland A's hit a home run, and she covetously eyed the thick elongated bulge in his polyester pants that seemed to her passion-glazed eyes to be a foot long. She twitched nervously, unused to a man's hungry eyes on her naked flesh. "You 'vant to watch 'vatch me or de game?" she whined finally, grinding her sleekly firm thighs together to fight the growing agony between her legs.

But Roger had other plans, plans he'd laid out as carefully as those he was watching on television. Only his stakes might be higher… Margaret was coming along nicely, even better than he'd hoped. But if she was going to have any respect for him at all, he was going to have to show her who called the punches. Women liked that, he thought, they liked to be dominated – especially blondes.

Margaret watched nervously and impatiently as he swung his legs off the sofa and without haste pulled off his clothes, tossing them to join the rest on the nearby chair. She had to quickly draw her hand to her lips to stifle a gasp as he tugged down his undershorts and the entire huge length of his massively thick cock swung out into view. God, it was so big! Even bigger than Sandor's! And so big around, nothing like the only one she had ever seen.

"You 'vant to fuck now?" asked Margaret with saucered eyes. Just the thought of making love again was enough to make her soar. And with a man as handsome as Roger, she thought. A man… her man. He liked her; he had praised her cooking and cleaning, hadn't he? Wasn't that what a man looked for in a good woman. A ripple of happiness spread through her tingling body: she wouldn't be spending the rest of her life alone after all. She had Roger. But it bothered her the way he kept watching television instead of whispering sweet endearments in her ear, as Sandor had done. Her forehead furrowed and her pouty lower lip protruded as she said, "You 'vant to make love, or not?"

Roger glared at her. "Get down on your hands and knees," he ordered. "I want a blow job. You Scandinavians are supposed to be good at that."

Margaret's mind reeled at the sound of those horrible words. Where was the love? She'd done it with Sandor thousands of times, but he had never demanded it of her. The blonde widow drew a deep breath and forced a smile. It that's what her man wanted of her, that's what she would do, but the tingling ache between her legs cried for a need to be fulfilled, too. "But can't we make love first?"

"You heard what I said. Now get down on your hands and knees and show me what you're worth." The landlord was determined that this step in Margaret Sorenson's total subjugation and humiliation would not be skipped over. "Down on your knees. Now!"

Brushing her blonde hair from her eyes, Margaret obediently crawled from the sofa and settled at Roger's feet, all the while trying to think of a way to get Roger to make love to her instead of what she must do. She knew he meant it; the flash in his dark eyes promised that. He was the only man in her life now. God had taken her first man, and now it was time for him to give her a second. She needed him, needed a man to cook and clean for and make love to her in return. His dangling cock, sagging from its own immense weight, was scarcely a foot away from her face as she struggled to hold back the hot lump in her throat, terrified and skeptical of having another man's big white cock in her mouth… that same mouth that had only kissed and sucked her dear Sandor's. Another man's cum in her throat… it was almost too hard to swallow.

Roger slid forward on the sofa, gauging carefully the distance from his limply hanging prick and her wetly trembling lips. He adjusted his hips just slightly so that the purplish swollen head brushed her lips ever so little.

"All right, baby… it's all yours! Do a good job and I'll make it up to you later. Now hurry up, the A's will be back at bat in a couple of minutes." And with that he gave her a rough pinch deep inside her naked thigh as she knelt below him, squeezing her soft tender flesh just an inch from the warmly moist lips of her still-hungry pussy.

Margaret turned her face away from the enormous bulb-shaped head and closed her eyes, hoping somehow that it would go away – or better still, turn into Sandor's long hard prick that she knew every ridge and vein of.

Roger spun her head back so that she was less than a scant inch from his half-erect, dangling prick.

"Listen, sweetie, I don't wanna get rough with 'ya, but I said to hurry up, okay? OKAY?" His tone was calm, but threatening, and Margaret didn't want to get him angry. She'd heard him yelling at some tenants upstairs about being late with the rent, and had witnessed his rage as he slammed his clenched fist into the door and sent it rocking on its hinges. With his size and strength, she knew she would be helpless against him.

Suddenly he grew tired of waiting and grabbed her ears with his powerful hands and twisted them upward, causing a pain so excruciating that she thought for a moment she would black out. She cried out for him to stop, but he ignored her pleas, keeping one eye on the television screen and one on her. Abruptly, he pulled her face roughly up to his naked loins, shoving his hips forward so that the blunted end of his heavy cock pressed lewdly against her moistly glistening lips. Once more he twisted at her small ears and she again groaned with pain.

"Now, Margaret… open your mouth and suck it! Now! Suck it!" he screamed above the deafening roar of fan's cheers blasting from the television set.

Her mouth opened slightly with one more twist and her agonized lips slowly parted as Roger gazed at the wetly open orifice in front of his loins, then very carefully forced the massively pulsating head into the warm moist cavern and let it lay there twitching slightly as it grew still harder and more erect. The young widow didn't move at all, lest the brushing of her quivering tongue on the enormous heated shaft of flesh should cause it to grow even larger.

"It's your choice, honey, but I will have a blow job…" His voice was suddenly convincingly cruel.

Margaret knew it was hopeless to resist the landlord and, admittedly, there was a part of her that didn't want to displease the darkly handsome man, this was something she must do or lose him… lose the one spark in her dreary life. And she couldn't stand the thought, no matter how disgusting this awful degrading act seemed. She fought back the churning ball of nausea growing thicker by the second in her knotted, fear-wrenched belly and closed her wetly walled lips over the throbbing fleshy staff and eased it reluctantly with her tongue, feeling his hands loosen their grip as she obediently complied with his harsh demands. His powerful hands still held her, though not as painfully, but she knew she should please him to avoid a scene. Margaret didn't like scenes; Sandor had been such a mild-mannered, loving man. But Roger had it in him to be brutal if he wanted to, and that scared her. She closed her eyes and tried to keep her mind on the long pulsing prick that loomed before her.

Roger looked down at the long thick pole of flesh protruding from his hair-covered pelvis and throbbing ever so gently in her warm, half-opened wet mouth, at the pursed lips stretching tightly around the immense purplish head, and he felt a twinge of disappointment that she hadn't protested more. Hell, it would have done her a world of good to get kicked around a little first, before sucking him off. Every woman worth her salt needed a good kick in the ass once in a while, he thought. At least the women he had out on the streets leaning against lamp posts sure as hell needed it to let them know who the boss was.

But there wasn't time for such thoughts now, all he wanted was to enjoy this blow job and watch the Oakland A's slam a homer to win the series. And watching her blonde head begin to reluctantly slide back and forth on the long, saliva-moistened length of his prick was nothing but pure joy. Damn!

He allowed his hands to slip from her head and down over the smooth, velvety skin of her naked shoulders, near-perfect and silky and unblemished, deliciously warm and soft to his caressing touch. She obviously wasn't putting her heart into sucking his cock, so the big landlord brought his hands back up to the sides of her head, his open palms firmly placed on either side of her face. His grip tightened and he held her neatly positioned there against his heatedly pulsating prick as he began a rhythmic pumping motion with his lower body, his still-growing long prick jutting from his pelvis and rubbing between her moistly ovalled lips as the bulbous, lust-distended head poked against the back of her mouth. He could feel her small white teeth grating against the sensitive bottom side of his prick and the wetly rough surface of her tongue as it brushed along the full length of his thickly erect flesh, now so finely attuned to the tiniest subtle movement of her hotly licking tongue and lips that just the very touch sent shivers of savage animal desire into his loins.

"Yeah, baby… that's nice, honey, real nice," he growled softly, beginning to pump his thick, rigid cock deeper into her throat, her warm enveloping lips sliding along its full length with each forward plunge of his hips, and his fleshy stalk grew harder, longer, and thicker by the second, stretching like a rubber band until it reached enormous proportions.

He grinned to himself as the young widow did her best to take his cock full length in her mouth, something he knew she couldn't possibly do; as it was she swallowed, gagged, and choked each time he gave an extra forward flick of his loins. That part he especially enjoyed; nothing was better for a good broad than a big cock to ream out her tonsils once in a while.

He hoped he'd found a good cock-sucker here, because there wasn't anything on earth he liked better than a really nice blow job, one where the broad knew her stuff, could relax her throat muscles like she could relax her asshole, and let his cock just slide right down that wetly smooth channel until the sides of her throat passage sucked him dry. Yeah, ol' Margaret here was doing all right for a Swede.

Margaret slaved over his loins, desperately trying not to choke on the pulsing fleshy cock invading her throat; it was so big! Each time his muscular abdomen slapped against her moistly pursed lips, the terrible punishing thing pushed lewdly against the back of her throat and at first, thinking she would surely be choked to death, she had fought it back, gasping and coughing with each of his vicious skewering thrusts. But gradually she had found a way to relax her throat muscles and now it wasn't as bad. He would pull it almost all the way out of her wetly clasping mouth, out over her widely ovalled lips until the lust-swollen head of his cock was between her teeth, and then he would begin that dreaded instroke, that journey deep into her tender throat. Somehow that hardened shaft managed to bend just enough when its throbbing head rammed against the back of her gullet to go down, lubricated with her hot saliva and the first slippery traces of his seminal fluid oozing fitfully from the tiny opening on the end of his prick. And every time it went down, she would have to swallow or choke, and soon she realized that the flexing of her own throat muscles was bringing on the inevitable torrent of hot cum even sooner, and she viewed the climax with mixed emotions. She wanted it over, to be rid of his pulsating rod that gagged and choked her so painfully… but the thought of what was coming next, his ejaculated cum emptying down her throat like she was a common whore! Sandor had never made her swallow it; in fact, he'd kept a box of kleenex next to his bed for just that purpose.

Margaret tried not to swallow, but she choked immediately and he pulled it out for a moment, rubbing its still throbbing head over her moistly smeared lips, and she could taste the beginning of the end as small whitish drops of his fluid oozed from the slit end and onto her tongue. He took the blunted head between his clenched fingers and lewdly, obscenely, painted her lips with his warm, slightly saline discharge, leaving them glistening from his impatiently dribbling semen. She was totally beaten now, kneeling at his feet like a servant girl in the old country.

Roger felt the telltale twitch of his loins and could feel the dammed-up seething flood of hot semen restlessly surging behind the restraints of his aching balls as he slowly, rhythmically, pumped in and out of her ovalled lips, savoring every inch of his delicious instroke as it disappeared agonizingly down her velvety throat channel. He wanted to feel every screaming millimeter of his cum's long fast run from his lust-distended balls of his prick's throbbing, blood-filled head, and his hands squeezed in on her ears now, holding her absolutely motionless in his strong grip while he rammed his cock down, deeper and deeper down that tight, constrictive little throat.

Ah, here it comes, he thought, it's cumming… it's cumming! He could feel the hot sperm rushing out of his testicles and up the bottom of his prick, and he stopped dead still, his madly throbbing cock rammed all the way to his pubic hair down her hungry throat, her head perfectly still, as he waited impatiently for the building explosion in his loins…

"Aaaahhhh!" he gasped anxiously, emptying his lungs as, at that same infinitesimal second, he emptied his sperm-laden balls.

Margaret sucked voraciously, harder and harder, for as strongly as her better reasoning had dictated, now – tasting his pungency for the first time – she wanted it. She wanted every precious drop of his hot seething flood, and she sucked at the long quivering cock, swallowing and gulping its gushing waves of heated thick fluid like a starving animal. Her arms spontaneously wrapped around his hips as she knelt at his feet, pulling his powerful loins in hard against her face and lips until every hot swallow was safely down her eagerly working throat.

He looked down at the kneeling figure of the love-starved widow and smiled as she finally pulled her hungrily sucking mouth away from his pelvis, a thin sticky trail of semen dangling from her lips and chin like a spider's web. Yes sir, she was right where he wanted her, nothing stood in his way now, those checks might as well be his!

But Roger had other things on his mind… other things that the love-starved widow would not have understood in her silent modest humility. Things a God-fearing woman such as herself didn't even know happened in a big city where everyone is prey to other lethal talons.