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15
To: redwards2010@gmail
From: the office of Brad Tomalin
Subject: at 8:30 every evening
password: carollost
The terminator--not Arnold, but the line separating day from night--does not move across the surface of the planet, it only seems to. Ross Edwards always remembered reading a poem in long ago days before business came to dominate his life that suggested Copernicus may not have done mankind a kindness when he proved that the sun does not revolve around us. For that matter Ross thought that while scientifically right, the Polish astronomer was emotionally wrong. Each of us is the center of our own universe and everyone else, everything else revolves around us.
Singapore had spun past the terminator and into darkness when he received the email in his apartment. Although he assumed that the subject line referred to California time, he clicked on the link, typed in the distressingly accurate password, and a window opened onto an empty room of long shadows and the low light near the other terminator 9,000 miles to the east. His room. His and Carol’s room. The living room of their condo in San Diego.
The view was from a high angle near the doorway. Perhaps above it. All of the living room was visible as was part of the dining area. He was startled by the sound of a door opening. The top of Carol’s head appeared, then her back disappearing around the corner to the corridor to the bedrooms. At this time of the morning, she could only be returning from her early rounds, about which Brad had considerately informed him. Ross wondered which of the neighbors she had just done.
He left the computer on, but the picture remained unchanged for almost an hour, before Carol reappeared for a few seconds, dressed for work, walking toward the door. Briefly she glanced up at the webcam before going out.
…
Ross checked the link several times the next morning. The live feed remained unchanged.
He tried to concentrate on his work, and even got a little done, before giving up and leaving the office at 10:00 a.m.
At 11:00 a.m. Singapore time. he was sitting naked in his living room, curtains drawn, idly stroking his cock, stopping from time to time to sip a gin and tonic--no longer did he wait until sunset for his first drink--while watching his other living room, which was empty but brightly illuminated. Not just the end table lamps, but all the recessed ceiling lights were on.
The room brought back memories. Good memories. They had made love there. They had been happy there. Or at least he thought they had been happy there. Would all this, or something like it, have happened anyway, even if he hadn’t followed his career to Singapore? He was beginning to think that it would have. That he was not at fault. That this, or the potential for it, must always have been buried within Carol, waiting to be unlocked. Although perhaps if he had stayed, the key would never have been found and turned.
At 11:28 Carol appeared from the left. Naked. She was breathtaking. Literally. The picture was sharp and clear. Ross felt as though he were there with her. That he could reach out and touch her. For a moment all the anger and humiliating pain disappeared, and he so desperately wanted to touch her, to make love to her, to go back to the happier time before any of this had occurred.
Carol walked toward the camera and looked up and said, expressionlessly, “If you are watching, Ross, I’m to tell you that the door is unlocked. The door is always unlocked.”
Ross felt as though he were trapped behind a one-way mirror in a soundproof room, he cried out, “Carol!.” But of course she could not hear and turned away.
Ross noticed that the floor to ceiling curtain to the balcony was pulled to the side. He did not need to be told that was Brad’s idea. People in several buildings father along the crest could see in. He wondered if any others were watching on the Internet.
She moved from the camera, from him, hips shifting, muscles flexing beneath tanned skin, her back and shoulders, Carol’s body, his wife’s body.
She stopped, went to her knees, spread her thighs apart, lowered her head to the carpet, stretched out her arms full length. Light reflected off the wedding ring on her left hand.
The camera and Ross were looking directly between her legs. His eyes focused on her cunt, then her anus, then her cunt again. Back and forth. Eyes and his hand on his cock. He so wanted to be sinking his cock into her.
For fourteen minutes, Carol knelt obediently. For fourteen minutes Ross stroked his cock slowly and sipped his drink. Both waiting for they knew not what. Both starting at the sound of the door.
A head appeared at the bottom of Ross’s screen, baseball cap with the bill to the back. Another. Then a knit skull cap. And a feathered Fedora.
“Will you look at that?”
“How not, my man?”
“Girl better than her pic.”
“I told you, bro.”
Four young black men, three in baggy jeans, unlaced boots, untucked oversize shirts to their knees, one in vested pimp suit, appeared on the screen.
“Shut the door, man. Don’t lock it. Man said not to lock it.”
They surrounded Carol, looking down. Through the blond veil of hair that had fallen forward and concealed her face, she saw three pairs of boots and one pair of extremely pointy black patent shoes.
“You been waiting for us girl? You prayers been answered. We is here.”
“And we is going to give you a fine time.”
“The time a you sweet life.”
“Man says you like be ridden hard. We hard riders.”
“That one fine ass.”
Ross watched the suit move, and Carol felt a shoe tip slide up her thigh, then start to push into her cunt.
“Not the cunt, bro. We can’t use the cunt’s cunt. We do that we never get to come back.”
She involuntarily flinched as the shoe tip touched her anus.
Black laughter.
“Wooo. Bitch don’t want you shoe up her ass.”
“Lift up. Let’s see yo tits and face.”
“Oh, my.”
“You a babe. How cum you do this? Kneel here and let strangers come in and fuck you?”
“Who cares, how come, man? Lez jus do it.”
A long black cock leapt out and slapped Carol in the face. She opened her mouth. It plunged in.
Clothes fell. Three of the black men were soon naked. One looked to be a mere boy. Maybe only sixteen. The others weren’t much older.
Hands everywhere. Squeezing breasts. In her hair. On her ass. A painful finger buried itself knuckle deep in her ass. Rotated. Withdrew. “Bitch’s clean.” Hand slap cracked. “Good bitch.
Pimp suit remained fully dressed. He never even removed his hat. Just unzipped and pulled out his cock.
Carol Edwards had discovered that she liked being manhandled. Lifted. Pulled. Turned. Forced. Cock after cock in her mouth. Thrusting for her throat. Gagging. Head bobbing. Spinning. Dizzy from lack of air. Almost passing out. Sensations multiplying. A cock up her ass. Mouth. Ass. Mouth. Ass. Pain from nipple twisted. “Fuck back, ho. Take it up. Bury that black bone in you white ho ass.”
Thousands of miles to the west, Ross was about to come. He didn’t want to yet. Unwound his fingers from his cock. But it was too late. A fountain of come spurted up and fell back onto his belly.
Carol Edwards was on her hands and knees. Pimp suit was behind her. One of the others on his back on the floor in front of her. All off the carpet. Hardwood brutal against knees.
“Take it all, girl. Man said you deep throat. Eat all that nigger cock.”
Buried too deep to taste, she gagged on the spasms as come slid down her throat.
Flipped onto her back. “Floor be killin me.” Dragged onto the carpet again. Carpet burning her back. Over to the sofa. Black hands on tanned legs. Lifted the lower half of her body vertical. Propped her against the sofa upside down. Ass in the air. Head on carpet. Ankles pulled apart and down. Pile-driving black cock after cock in her ass. Fingers circled her throat and squeezed. The men who used her are doing this more frequently, Carol thought. Faye too. Brad must tell them to. Suffocating. About to black out. Cock pounding in and out her ass. Instinctive struggle. Can’t breath. Cock filling her bowels with come. Fingers releasing. Gasping in air. Blocked by meat pushing apart her lips. New meat shoving up her ass. Teeth biting nipple. Sensations blurring. Her mouth tasted come. Deflating cock slipped out. A black big toe entered. She licked and sucked it.
Ross was again jerking his cock frantically. Seeing stills. Hearing audios. Even videos. Knowing it was happening and imagining. Was nothing like this. This was happening now. This very instant. The camera angle didn’t change. He couldn’t see everything. Bodies got in the way. But he could see enough. These black bastards were fucking the shit out of his wife. Well, not literally. One of them had said she was clean. He could feel their cocks in her. He wanted it to be him. What? He wanted to feel their cocks in him? He remembered how big the dildo felt in his ass. How it hurt. How hard he had come. Or he wanted to be them and feel his cock in her? It was all confused. His cock flooded again.
A lull. The four men had come twice each. Two sprawled on the sofa. Pimp suit lolled in a brushed steel and coffee brown leather chair. The fourth lay on the floor, beside Carol, whose face down, shuddering body he had just rolled off of.
“You one fine fuck, lady.”
“Should buy the ho from the man. Put her on the street. Make a fortune.”
Carol Edwards heard them, and her insane flesh responded to the thought of being a street whore. She wondered if Brad would do it. If she would let herself be sold? If she could prevent it? For that matter it wouldn’t be much different. Anyone could have her now. She didn’t choose. And if she were whoring, some of them would use her cunt. She’d get to come more. She already took cock from dawn to night. And she ate cunt. They just didn’t have to pay. And, she reminded herself, they were clean. At least she assumed Brad still was certain they were clean. For himself, if not for her.
“Floor too fucking hard, man. Bedroom back there?”
“Yes,” she croaked.
“Lez go.”
The youngest looked at his watch. “I gotta go. Had enouff. For now, anyway, you sweet thing. But I be back.”
“Me too. School tomorrow. I home much later, my momma kill me.”
They started to gather their clothes.
“Well I ain’t.”
“Me neither.”
Pimp suit pulled Carol Edwards up by her hair and led her off screen, stooped over, breasts swaying, followed by the one black man still naked, who reminded the other two, “Doan lock the door on you way out.”
For over an hour Ross Edwards watched his computer screen. A few sounds carried. He couldn’t be certain what they were. A man coming? Slaps? Flesh against flesh? A scream of pain or pleasure?
Finally he shut down.
He had left the computer once to take a piss and another time to mix a new drink. Perhaps they had left then and he had missed them. Perhaps they were spending the night.
16
Ross Edwards began to hate business lunches.
He couldn’t avoid them. They went with the job. Lunches with staff, with suppliers, lawyers, bankers, customers, prospects, investors, partners.
His mind was never fully there. He set the computer to record the live feed to hard drive; but it wasn’t the same. Viewing the recording later in his office, or sometimes not until that evening back in his apartment, of what had already occurred lacked the intense immediacy of knowing that what he was seeing was happening at that very instant.
The only advantage of being in his apartment was that he could get completely naked and shove the black dildo up his ass while he masturbated. He shared that with her: full asses. His with dildo; hers with strange cocks.
He had never been attracted to men. Had never thought of himself as gay or bi. He didn’t now. And he would never let Carol or Brad know what they were doing to him. He would never even give them the satisfaction of knowing he was watching. But they knew.
...
There was no pattern. Brad Tomalin saw to that.
Sometimes Ross would watch Carol kneel submissively for two or three nights in a row for the prescribed half hour and no one else appeared. This was almost worse. Tension building and building.
And sometimes men would be there night after night. Sometimes the same man or men for several successive nights.
For Carol it was better when they were. Just kneeling, waiting, she could sense her husband’s eyes on her. She could actually feel the heat of his gaze, though she knew that was not possible. The heat came from her own flushed flesh.
We all act differently when we know we are observed, and while she could never be certain, she always assumed she was being observed. The position was servile and shameless. As was she. She felt no shame. She was eager for the men to come because once they did, she lost herself in the things they did to her and made her do for them.
Ross saw that, saw her face change as she was used--when he could see her face. Her features soften, her eyes glaze with lust, even roll back. Sometimes they made her beg for it; sometimes she begged anyway.
The camera, he decided, must be hidden. The men never seemed aware of it. Only Carol and, of course, Brad Tomalin. And possibly Faye, but about her Ross was not certain.
Faye had appeared twice.
When her close cropped gray head had first moved across the screen, Ross had thought it was a man. Wearing jeans and a long sleeved shirt, from the back she looked like a man as she walked toward Carol. Only when she spoke, almost regretfully, did he realize his mistake.
“I wish you didn’t do this. I could…” Faye stopped and after a moment reached down and caressed the bare back. “Get up.”
As Carol straightened up, Faye took her hand and helped her to her feet. The same height. Eye to eye. Faye put her arms around Carol and kissed her. A long kiss. Voluptuous naked flesh pressed against hard clothed body.
When the kiss finally ended, Faye led Carol to the sofa. “On your back.”
Carol lay down.
“Your head at this end.” It was the end toward the camera.
Her back to the camera, Faye undressed.
Ross had never even seen her in a bathing suit. Her body dropped straight from the shoulders. No waist. No hips.
.
As she climbed onto the sofa into a 69 position, swinging her left leg over Carol’s head, he had a glimpse of her angular chest.
Flat ass descended onto Carol’s face. “Lick it. Lick it all.” Ross saw his wife’s pink tongue extend, disappear between folds. Faye sighed and ground back and forth. “Oh. Yes. Like that. Now back. No. My ass. That’s good. Very good. Yes. My cunt. Yes. Yes.”
Her own head fell forward between Carol’s parted thighs.
In seconds, Carol had stopped licking. Her head arched back. Face upside down to the camera. “Please. Don’t stop. Please. I need to come so much. I love it. I love it. Please. Oh, God. Oh, God. Please. Pleaaaughhh!”
Faye waited for Carol’s convulsions to end before saying almost gently, “Now finish me.”
And Ross Edwards watched his wife make love to another woman. It was, he thought, making love. Or more like it than anything else he had seen happen in that room.
…
Five nights later Faye appeared again. This time Ross recognized her immediately.
She was dressed in jeans, man’s shirt, and boots, and was carrying a plastic bag from which she removed a 10” flesh colored strap on.
Not undressing, she stepped into the straps, pulled them up over her jeans, knelt behind Carol’s upraised hips, spit on her hand, rubbed the spit on the end of the artificial penis and brutally shoved it up that beautiful ass.
Carol screamed. Ross saw her outstretched fingers clench into fists. But she remained in position as Fay fucked her like a metronome for ten minutes, pulled out, stood up, put the strap on back in its bag and leave wordlessly
Carol knelt sobbing for another minute or two, before getting to her feet and, face averted, disappeared off screen.
…
Brad Tomalin played to his audience. Although he never looked directly at the camera or spoke to Ross, they all knew.
The first night the hated figure appeared on the screen, Brad went and sat in the stainless and leather chair fully dressed, and ordered Carol to suck him off. Is this all? Ross wondered. But as he watched his wife’s bobbing head he realized: it was a recreation of the image in that very first devastating email.
…
Another night.
Brad entered and stripped. He was justly proud of his strong body. Without acknowledging the camera he presented himself from the best angles. He does have a good cock, Ross thought; but then, feeling what was in his hand, so do I.
Brad turned Carol around, so that she was facing the camera.
“What do you want?”
“Whatever you want.”
“What are you?”
“Whatever you want me to be.”
“My slut?”
“Your slut.”
“My whore?”
“Your whore.”
“My slave?”
“Your slave.”
“My cum bucket?”
“Your cum bucket.”
“Piss mop?”
‘Your piss mop.”
(What? thought Ross)
“And what will you do?”
“Anything. Everything”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
“Fuck anybody and anything? ... Are you hesitating?”
“No. Yes.”
“Which is it?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll suffer for me?”
“I already do.”
“Give me your pain?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll fuck anybody and anything?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck a dog?”
“Don’t make me do that. Please.”
“Fuck a dog?”
Finally, “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“I’ll fuck a dog.”
(No, thought Ross. She couldn’t.)
On screen, Carol grunted as Brad entered her. From the angle Ross couldn’t tell where, but he assumed her ass as usual.
Brad reached forward and pulled Carol’s head back by her hair, holding her face directly toward the camera.
His hands dropped, fingers fish-hooked her mouth, stretching it into a painfully wide grimace, from which droll streamed.
…
Another night.
Brad Tomalin stood naked in front of the rosewood coffee table sideways to the camera, cock jutting proudly. Carol Edwards knelt behind him. Her face buried in his ass. Her breasts rubbed the backs of his thighs. Her tongue busy. When he told her, “Start stroking my cock,” her right hand reached around and began a rhythm that was matched by her tongue and Ross’s hand 9,000 miles away.
Brad came without a sound. Ross was noisier. Brad’s come arched out and fell onto rosewood. Ross’s on his fingers and belly.
“Lick it up,” Brad ordered.
Ross watched his wife lower her head. Brad reached down and pulled her hair to the side so the camera could see her red lips suck goo from wood.
Ross brought his fingers to his mouth.
…
Another night.
Obviously Brad gave Carol instructions in advance. Probably while he does her in his office at lunch, Ross thought. Because some nights instead of leaving her arms stretched out servilely, at the sound of the door opening Carol reached back with both hands and spread her ass cheeks wide.
She had done so this night, and held herself open as Brad stripped off his clothes and fucked her ass where she knelt, forcing a grunt from her on each inward thrust.
Repeatedly he pulled out all the way, smiled down at the gaping O clearly visible to the camera, before slamming in to the hilt again.
…
Another night.
There was something odd about Carol when she came into view: she had a tail.
When she knelt, Ross saw that the two foot long tail of straight black hair sprouted from a red butt plug.
A few minutes later Brad entered accompanied by two men Ross had never seen before. Seeing Carol, they all laughed.
“I told you. A well trained pet.”
“Not to mention beautiful,” said one of the strangers.
“And accommodating,” continued Brad.
“Stand up. Turn around. Your back toward us.” Which was also toward the camera. “Wiggle it.”
Between shoulders, Ross saw Carol awkwardly wiggle her hips. Her tail swung side to side.
“Good dog. Come along and you can fetch bones.”
Brad took her by the upper arm, like a police officer escorting a prisoner, and they all disappeared from view.
…
Another night.
Brad entered, walked past Carol to the sofa. “Crawl over here.”
She did.
“Arms out. Put your hands on either side of the leg.”
He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and snapped them on her wrists, gave her ass a resounding slap, and left.
The sofa leg was a 3” square and 1” high block of wood. Carol could never get leverage to lift the sofa and free herself. She was trapped. At the unlikely mercy of anyone who came through the door. But no one did.
Ross watched the hand print on her ass become redder, then he had to go to a meeting.
He looked in from time to time and found his wife sleeping on the floor.
…
Another night.
A woman’s voice, laughing.
“You were serious.”
“Of course. Why would I lie?”
Ross saw Brad Tomalin and a black haired woman enter the screen. Her white sheath dress left tanned shoulders bare and stopped mid-thigh. They were lovely shoulders. They were lovely thighs. And calves. And ankles above white high heels. And when she turned, her face was lovely, too. If she wasn’t quite as beautiful as Carol, she was close.
“And she kneels here every evening, waiting for whoever comes along?”
“Tell her.”
Without turning her nose-down-in-the-carpet face, Carol Edwards said, “Yes.”
“What a slut. Can I have her one night. Me and my girl friends?”
“Why not?”
Carol had not been told to move, so she didn’t, remaining kneeling, arms stretched forward this evening, while they undressed.
Ross saw that the woman’s breasts were smaller than Carol’s, but high and firm and perfectly formed. Her hard nipples were smaller, too, but then most women’s were.
Carol heard the sounds and Ross watched fascinated as the black haired woman went to her knees and began sucking on Brad.
After a few minutes, he pushed her onto her back so close that when she opened her knees, one pressed against Carol’s thigh.
Now Carol could see from the corner of her eye. Brad kissed the dark haired woman’s mouth, nipples, thighs. She made small sounds of pleasure. Knee dug into Carol’s thigh as Brad licked the woman’s cunt, bringing her higher and higher, giving her the orgasm he denied Carol. Is there no end to the ways the man invents to torture me, she thought as the woman noisily came.
Brad gave the black haired woman a moment, before rolling her over and pulling her to her knees. Two beautiful women in identical poses. Bodies melding together. Forearms touching, shoulders, hips, thighs, legs, the sides of their feet.
An intake of breath from the woman as Brad entered her.
“Turn your face so I can see you,” she told Carol.
She reached over and brushed away blond hair. “You are beautiful.”
“So are you.”
Only inches separated their faces. Carol could feel the heat of the other’s breath. Feel the jolt of Brad’s thrusts into her body. The woman squeezed her eyes closed. “Fuck me. Fuck me.” Yet to Carol it was almost as though Brad were fucking her through the other woman’s flesh.
Ross could not believe what he was watching. He had never seen anything so erotic.
“I’m coming.” The woman screamed. “I’m coming.”
“So,” grunted Brad, who never made much noise during sex, so Carol assumed this was for her benefit. “So am I.”
The dark haired beauty collapsed forward.
Brad reached over and pulled Carol Edwards head to his cock.
“Clean it.”
Because of the orgasm, she had thought he had been in the woman’s cunt, but the cock tasted of ass.
The woman sat up. “I’m famished. Ready for dinner?”
They dressed and left Carol sitting on the floor. Naked. Empty. Alone.
…
A few evenings the living room remained empty, and Ross wondered where Carol was and what was happening to her.
Ross watched with increasing horror as she reappeared after one such absence, shuffling like an old woman, her body revealing as it came into focus massive bruises on back and breasts, ass and thighs. Not inadvertent bruises such as those following the first gangbang, but severe bruises of deliberate torture.
Carol groaned with pain as she eased slowly into position.
Her ass to the camera was crisscrossed by welts.
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