PART 1: PUSH BACK
The Movers and Shakers of America were enraged at only winning some battles but not the war. The men who pulled the strings behind the scenes could look back on 50 years of success on the economic front. But on the cultural front the enemy prevailed. And the enemy rubbed their victories into the faces of the Patriarchs.
No more. The men who called the shots knew if they were going to take back the nation, the only way would be fighting house-to-house, in hand-to-hand combat.
The initiative came from certain right thinking members of the judiciary. They formed a special, secret court, similar to the Star Chamber of medieval England. They named it the Court of the All-Seeing Eye.
The Court discretely recruited patriots to be their special investigators, their special, secret agents. They picked men who were resolute, capable of the most intricate planning and off-the-cuff improvisation, ready willing able to go under cover, to deeply penetrate enemy territory. To overcome all resistance. To get their hands dirty.
When the recruitment was over, the agents were issued special warrants commanding them to take back their neighborhoods, by any means necessary.
PART 2: COMEUPPANCE
Alexandra Cappodocia felt a warm glow from the head to the toes of her ripe body. The warmth wasn’t just the beams of California sun that tanned her almost nakedness (her red bikini was barely within the vicinity of community standards). It was also the warm glow of accomplishment, for she was well and truly in the catbird seat. Today was her fifth wedding anniversary and now it was time to get divorced. Her plan was coming to fruition.
Sandra reflected on the last five years of her life as she lay on a lounge chair beside her husband’s pool, her third passion-fruit daiquiri of the morning dangling from her right hand. She looked at the large diamond of the wedding ring on third finger of the hand wrapped around the sweating cocktail glass and murmured, “Sucker.”
Not bad for a 35 year old former diner waitress, a high school drop-out from Venice Beach, the grand-daughter of Greek-Turkish immigrants, thought Sandra, gazing blankly into the depths of her husband’s Olympic-sized swimming pool.
For such a rich man–a self-made rich man he never stopped droning on about–John Smith was dumb as shit, Sandra smirked slyly to herself, bowing her head forward, causing her shoulder length, messy black hair with dirty blonde high lights to partially cover her chin and her somewhat saggy oily breasts.
“Next time I go to the salon, I’ll get a different ‘do instead of ‘bed-head,'” she laughed out loud at her own joke.
Sandra had immediately recognized John Smith when she asked him for his order: the millionaire who hated hoity-toity food had been profiled on-line. Smith’s eyes went level to Sandra’s large breasts up to her brown eyes and he had gulped, “What do you recommend?” Sandra saw her chance. She said, “Three crispy strips of bacon, two eggs sunny side up, white toast: there’s nothing better in this world.”
A month of Smith visiting the diner and unbuttoning two more buttons on her blouse was all it took for the thirty year old Alexandra Cappodocia to become the wife of 55 year old John Smith.
Funny, I never think of myself as “Mrs. Smith,” thought Sandra as she looked up to the sky. John is a nice man, too nice for his own good. He’s completely clueless that the reason he hasn’t got me pregnant is I’ve hidden from him that I’m on the Pill. Sandra simultaneously rolled her eyes and snorted.
In the first year of her marriage Mrs. Smith was self-disciplined enough to not have any flings (a dildo she hid inside a large monkey plush toy helped in this regard).
But after a year, whenever Mr. Smith was out of the house, of gasping to herself, “Think about the money, think about the money”, her head filled with a vision of her yoga instructor eating her out, sliding the dildo in/out of her slickness, the dam burst. Her decision to start having flings was made easier by her belief that her husband was a fool.
Sandra started having flings when she started working in the restaurant industry. When Sandra was honest with herself, she knew they weren’t really affairs or flings, but more accurately described as one-morning or one-afternoon or one-night stands. As is well known, old habits are hard to break.
Starting with her yoga instructor (the first of many instructors over the last four years) whenever Sandra got what she called “the craving”, she fed herself to the fullest. Her husband believed her when she told him the reason she started waxing her pussy silky smooth was to please him.
Sandra had “flings” with young men who she easily got under her thumb, be they white, Latino, black, single, married. Jiggling her breasts and not wearing a bra when she prowled LA in one of her husband’s Beamers opened many doors and…zippers. She even seduced a few illegal immigrant pool boys (who were always arrested by ICE soon after the flings).
“Pool boys,” she mumbled, “what a cliche…I’m such a cliche,” she laughed at herself and then drank the daiquiri to the dregs.
“Now I’m going to get me the right kind of lawyer, milk Smith of his last bottom dollar and be filthy rich for the rest of my life.” Sandra was a bit tipsy, unaware she had said spoken out loud. She yawned, stretched all her limbs, crinkled her toes and arched her back like a waking cat. On each of her legs, just above the ankles, were tattooed flames, all the way around, like shackles. The first time John Smith saw the flame tats was on their wedding night–and he was dismayed. Sandra didn’t care.
“I know the perfect lawyer for the job. A real shark. My husband’s lawyer. The twins will work their old black magic once again and lickety-split I’ll be free of that fucking pussy.” Sandra jiggled her breasts, laughing.
Smith’s lawyer was named Del Toro. She didn’t know his first name. But she knew Del Toro was a man; bottom-line, that meant he would be putty in her hands, she believed. “Well hopefully not putty…”she moaned softly, starting to imagine what not just her hands would do to Del Toro to get him to see the light.
It suddenly dawned on Sandra that it must be nearly high noon and it was time to get into the shade. She swung her legs over the lounge chair, turned, sat up, facing her husband’s mansion. Sandra froze like a cougar caught in the head lights of a Jeep Cherokee. Del Toro was looking down on her from the window of her bedroom on the second floor of the mansion. (Six months after they got married Sandra convinced Smith that it was his idea that they should have separate bedrooms.)
How long has he been watching me? Sandra asked herself, looking up into Del Toro’s (always menacing) black eyes. He had a hard stare. Sandra shuddered.
Wait, this is a sign that somebody up there likes me, Sandra got a jolt from this line of thought. No time like the present, let’s commence Operation Get Them By the Balls.
Not breaking eye contact with Del Toro, Sandra slowly stood up, smiling widely. He did not acknowledge her.
After a quick stretch, Sandra scampered over the hot stones of the patio in her bare feet into the shadows of her husband’s mansion, her heavy breasts bouncing, glistening with sun tan lotion and sweat.
Sandra stood in what her husband called the “Rec Room” of his mansion, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, the air-conditioning cooling her skin, making the nipples under the red triangles of her bikini perk up.
“Rec Room–he’s so old fashioned,” she muttered, blinking, her long eye lashes fluttering quickly.
“There’s something to be said in defense of the old fashioned,” a basso profundo voice boomed out from the blur in front of Sandra. The frightening voice focused her vision: there stood at the foot of the marble stairs her husband’s lawyer.
Del Toro was a blunt man. Both in words and looks. His head was always shaved. His large nose had been broken more than once. Mr. Smith said his lawyer had “Roman features” (whatever that means Sandra had said to herself at the time). He was six feet tall, his strong shoulders taut under his tailored suit. He had big hands with blunt fingers. Whenever he visited the mansion (which was frequent due to her husband’s business dealings all over the globe) he looked at Sandra with black eyes filled with contempt. Sandra had a vague recollection of her husband telling her recently that Del Toro had been made a partner in a big firm and got married for the first time at age 45. “He’s a blunt instrument,” was Smith’s assessment of Del Toro.
And now Mrs. Alexandra Smith stood under the glowering gaze of her husband’s lawyer, for all intents and purpose, naked. Sandra was 5 feet 2, 130 pounds, with large, all-natural somewhat sagging breasts, a rounded belly with an innie and what used to known as “child-bearing hips”. Most men were too distracted by her tits and ass to notice her shapely legs. The glistening sun tan lotion that covered her accentuated the lushness of her body, its MILFy ripeness.
Sandra always had carefully plucked eyebrows and always wore magenta eye shadow. When people said she looked Mexican, she sharply corrected that her face, with its slightly pointed nose and slightly too wide mouth, was the best of Greek and Turkish femininity (much to every one’s bafflement). She rarely smiled.
“John’s not here, he won’t be back until eight, to take us for our anniversary dinner party at Hell’s Kitchen,” Sandra spoke in her usual near whisper. Just thought I’d put that out there, she said to herself.
“I know that Sandy,” the lawyer replied, bluntly. Sandra winced.
“You know I prefer to be called Sandra,” she said, raising her voice.
“I know what you prefer,” Del Toro replied sharply, dressing her down with his eyes.
The heat, daiquiris, and the vision of her husband’s millions had gone to Sandra’s head and she missed the implication of Del Toro’s declaration.
Turning her back on Del Toro, Sandra gave him an eye full of her ass, which was bare except for a red thread that disappeared between its cheeks. Sandy’s tanned full round ass quivered deliciously as she walked across the Rec Room and went behind the bar. She tried but failed to not look surprised to see that Del Toro was now seated on the left side of the white couch, which was between the bar and the base of the marble steps.
“What can I get you…to drink,” Sandra purred as she unscrewed a bottle of vodka, “I’m having a Screwdriver.” Then she looked for OJ in the mini-fridge behind the bar.
“I’ll have Scotch on the rocks,” the lawyer ordered.
“Whatever gets your rocks off,” she joked without a smile.
Del Toro looked at her stonily and said nothing.
As she made their drinks Sandra smiled to herself when it dawned on her that Del Toro had never seen her in a bikini during his previous visits to her husband’s mansion. He’d never before seen so much of what Sandra called “the goodies”.
She took her own sweet time walking, a tumbler in each hand, to the white couch. Though he would have seen a lot of the twins at social events where I wore dresses with always favored plunging necklines, Sandra laughed inside as she bent down to give the lawyer his Scotch on the Rocks and an up-close-and-personal look at her swaying tits. Then she plopped down next to Del Toro and sucked on the red straw of her Screwdriver.
“I have a proposition for you,” Sandra blurted out.
Del Toro arched his left eyebrow and made a gesture with his right hand, which grasped the glass, that said go on, making the ice rattle.
Sandra licked her lips, her cheeks were getting flushed. In spite of the air-conditioning, the temperature was rising in the Rec Room.
“Del Toro, John is a tired old man…you’re an absolutely…brilliant lawyer…if anyone in the world could figure out how to…release me…from the Prenup–it’s you,” Mrs. Smith purred unctuously, looking shamelessly into the lawyer’s eyes.
Del Toro’s eyes flared but he otherwise sat still as a statue of a Roman emperor. For a full ten seconds neither of them spoke, not taking their eyes off each other. Then the lawyer asked in an emotionless voice: “I’m an officer of the court–what you propose would be unethical.”
Sandra couldn’t stop herself from smirking and then pulling a face that said Oh come on, seriously?
The millionaire’s wife sucked on her bottom lip a moment, her face growing a deeper shade of red.
“I’ll make it worth your while,”she sputtered.
“How?”
“You–you make a plan to make the Prenup meaningless–and get me a di…divorce, take John to the cleaners and I’ll…I’ll give you…give you,” Sandra looked down at her breasts, which were heaving because she had started to pant, “Half of every I, we, take off of him.” Sandra was lying.
Del Toro drank all his Scotch and put the empty glass on the floor beside the end of the couch he was leaning on. He then grabbed the Screwdriver from the startled Sandra’s hand, took out the red straw, threw it across the room, and drank the Screwdriver in one loud gulp. He then slowly put the second one into the tumbler on the ground.
Del Toro stood up and moved about a foot in front of Sandra, who turned and leaned back on the couch to be able to see the lawyer clearly. Sandra put a well-manicured hand on top of each thigh. Each of her finger nails was painted a different shade with fancy patterns. She had a worried look of her face.
Del Toro slowly took off his jacket and threw it over the armrest furthest away from Sandra.
“I have a counter proposal: I fuck you,” Del Toro’s deep voice boomed like the crack of doom. Sandra felt it resonant in the pit of her stomach. It made her nipples grow harder.
“I–told you, I’ll, I’ll make it worth your while, of course if–” Del Toro curtly cut off the flustered, panting woman.
“Either I fuck you before I leave here, or I’ll give John some evidence ICE discovered during an apprehension, that I intercepted before it got to him,” he snarled as he pulled a smart phone from his shirt pocket. He held it up for Sandra to see a video clip of two people, a man and a woman, who looked vaguely familiar, their naked bodies dappled with sunlight in an otherwise dark room, they were…
“I’m sure you were remember the Guatemalan pool boy, it was two and a half months ago,” Del Toro sneered at Sandra, who shuddered with alarm.
“I thought he was Mexican!” Sandra bit her lip. “That vid is a deep fake!” Sandra voice was shrill as she tried to use something she saw on YouTube.
“This? A deep fake? No!” Del Toro bellowed like an ox as he shook the phone, “You’re the deep throat-ed fake Sandy.” The lawyer laughed mirthlessly.
“It only happened that one time,” Sandra simpered, sweat starting to appear on her brow, making some of her disheveled hair stick to her forehead.
“Once is all it takes–according to the Prenup, proven adultery on your part, means John can and will divorce you and you won’t get anything, not even the shirt on your back, and there won’t be a damn thing you could do about it, Sandy,” Del Toro laughed derisively into her face and then leered like the Big Bad Wolf in the French version of Little Red Riding Hood. (Pushing down the panic, Sandra said to herself, clutching at straws: He only knows about one of my flings.)
The blunt man, his black eyes shining, towered over the sitting woman. Silently he dropped the smart phone on to the carpet. He slowly undid the slim black tie that dangled from his neck and let it slip through his fingers on to the carpet. He flicked off his leather shoes.
Del Toro barked an order: “Strip!” Sandra nearly jumped out of her bikini from the savagery of his voice. She blinked rapidly. Sandra suddenly brightened. Some people can think on their feet; some can think on their back; the way out of this sticky situation comedy is to blow his mind; he’ll come around to my point of view, Sandra told herself.
Looking at Del Toro, Sandra still leaning back on the couch and keeping her bare feet on the carper, raised her ass off the seat of the couch and slid her bikini bottom to her knees. She sat up, bent down and pulled the panties from first one, then the other foot.
Interesting, Del Toro thought, she exposed her cunt first. The lawyer began to quickly unbutton his crisp, white shirt.
Her hands slightly trembling, Sandra reached behind her neck and untied the straps. The weight of her breasts pulled the opened straps down in a flash flood. Freed from the red triangles that had held them at bay, Sandra’s tanned tits sagged even more appetizingly. Each breast was rounded off with bright white triangles in the center of each were large aureoles. Sandra’s nipples were large. They were as hard as ripe grapes.
Del Toro laughed, thinking: It looks like she has the Great Seal of the USA on each tit–how ironic.
Sandra arched her back, awkwardly undid the ties behind her and threw the red bikini bra at Del Toro’s feet. Mrs. Smith now sat completely naked in front of her husband’s lawyer. She panted like a bitch in heat.
Del Toro rolled his shirt off his shoulders, revealing his broad shoulders, hairless barrel chest, thick forearms and a stomach that looked like a Barbecue grill.
When Del Toro reached for his belt buckle Sandra suddenly felt a stab of fear: Oh God, he’s going to whip my ass! That fear vanished when Del Toro threw the belt across the room and Sandra noticed for the first time–unbelievably–the big bulge in the front his pants. That’s not just a tent, that’s a Cirque du Soleil tent, she moaned inwardly.
In one efficient move, Del Toro pulled off his pants and his boxers.
Sandra face blushed beet red. Her eyes bulged out her head. Sandra had seen and sucked a lot of cocks since she enthusiastically gave away her virginity to a friend of her parents when she was bittersweet sixteen. Del Toro’s cock was one-of-a-kind. It was cock-of-the-walk-all over-her. Del Toro circumcised cock didn’t curve in any direction, it jutted out straight, ram-rod straight. His dick was thick, ropy, ugly. But what most arrested Sandra was how angry, no!, enraged Del Toro’s shaft looked. It was a scepter of imperial purple, topped by a bulbous red crown, hell-bent to go berserk.
Well I’ve had a lot of black males, I’m should be used to the taste of blackmail by now, Sandra told herself, as she contemplated Del Toro’s totem pole. Sandra’s body writhed, the aching of her nipples, the taunting of her cunt, blotted all thought of the future from her mind. Mrs. Smith eagerly reached forward with both hands, her mouth agape, her nostrils flaring, her eye filled with blind lust. But before she could get her hands on his rod, Del Toro roughly shoved Sandra back.
“I don’t want you to suck me off,” he growled, his dark eyes flaring.
“That’s a first!” Sandra nonplussed, blurted out, and made an exaggerated pout, unbecoming her thirty-five years. Ooh, he wants the Main Attraction, he can’t help himself–God don’t let it be a wham, bham, thank ma’am.
With a serious look on her face Mrs. Smith spread her legs open, giving her husband’s lawyer an unimpeded view of her smooth pussy, it pinky folds accentuated by the white oval left by the bikini. Del Toro gave her a penetrating male gaze.
Del Toro pointed a thick forefinger at his jacket and in a nasty tone told Sandra, “There’s a bottle in one of the pockets–take it out and hand it to me–now!” Sandra was startled, looked unsure of herself. Then she stretched over to the side of the couch furthest away from her, her breasts banging against each other like bells, and with some difficulty pulled out a large black squeeze bottle labelled in red capital letters: VLAD’S LUBE. She handed the bottle to Del Toro.
Eagerly, Sandra near whispering, “You’re not going to need that, I’m wetter than a, a, a…swamp right now–just shove it into me.” She leaned back, again, and spread her thighs open widely, again.
“You sure?” Del Toro asked in a neutral tone.
Sandra nodded demurely, her throat too choked up with craving to speak, spreading her legs wider.
“I’m going to impale you,” the lawyer pronounced.
Sandra sat bolt upright, her panting sharpened, “Impale?” A distant memory of her Turkish grandma came back to Mrs. Smith. “Impalement…that’s how the Sultan punished people in the old days, especially women in his harem who–”
“Dishonored him,” Del Toro butted in. Sandra’s field of vision was filled by the enraged cock. The ugly thing was…throbbing.
Del Toro shook the bottle in his right hand. The red letters got her attention.
Suddenly Sandra was the millionaire’s wife berating a waitress at a pricey restaurant: arrogant, entitled, clueless. Wagging her right forefinger, tossing her hair, she announced: “I don’t do anal–end of story–not with my husband, not with any of my,” Sandra had the presence of mind to clam up. Some of the boys she flinged with had asked for anal; they all took “No” for an answer.
“Do you enjoy spending your husband’s money?”asked Del Toro like a prosecutor, his muscled, hard body, rippling with barely contained demonic energy.
Mrs. Smith’s eyes widened, she blew out a blast of air as if she’d been punched in the guts and sagged back into the couch, her tits heaving-ho and snarled hoarsely, “You fucking prick.”
Del Toro popped the cap off the black bottle of Vlad’s Lube with his right thumb. Like a cop, he said: “Turn around–get on your knees–bend over.” Sandra knew these weren’t requests, they were orders. Del Toro didn’t ask, he took.
My ass is grass. Sandra was filled with fear. Fear both dreadful and exciting. Her hands and her lips trembled with lust provoked by blackmail. Her cunt quivered. With a deep moan Sandra got on her knees and bent over the back off the couch, presently her round bronzed ass to Del Toro. Driven by a deep compulsion, she spread her thighs, so her husband’s lawyer could see her all.
Del Toro relished the compromised position he’d put Mrs. Smith in. Del Toro relished the sight of Sandra’s big round ass, her pink cunt, the puckered brown ass hole. He rubbed two finger nails up from the back of her knees to the small of her back. It made Sandra’s whole body quiver. His hot strong hands caressed her ass, squeezed and cupped each ass cheek in turn.
Sandra whimpered when Del Toro’s fingertips touched her pussy. Del Toro spread her cunt lips open and looked deep inside Alexandra Cappadocia. The vivid pinkness and profound creamy wetness of Sandra’s cunt, proved to Del Toro how intensely his rough treatment had aroused her. The beast was yet to come. The besting was yet to come.
Moving her hips back and forth, Sandra pleaded pathetically, “Just shove it into my pussy please, you own it.”
Del Toro was tempted to plow her cunt but his stern sense of mission overcame temptation. He quickly, thoroughly, lubricated his right forefinger. Sandra felt her ass cheeks spread open around her ass hole. She tensed up in anticipation of the pain that would surely come.
She winced when something hard and wet pressed gently on her ass hole. Behind her back, Del Toro sneered, “I like to be thoroughly prepared–I don’t do anything half-assed Sandy,” and then slide his slick blunt index finger inside her ass hole.
Sandy sobbed. The lube helped but it still hurt. “It hurts,” Sandy sobbed some more.
“Good,” said Del Toro, ruthlessly.
“You fucking prick,” Sandra screamed, clamping her ass cheeks around Del Toro’s finger.
“For a loose woman, you have a surprising uptight little ass hole Sandy.” Del Toro spent the next five minutes sliding his lubed finger in and out of the ass hole of the bent over woman, her pendulous tits bobbing, her tousled head arched back, clenching her teeth, each time going deeper into Sandy.
He gently inserted the well-lubed small nozzle of the black bottle into Sandra’s ass hole and nosily squirted lube into her three times, giving her a nasty surprise, that radiated out from her ass hole throughout her pelvis and her pussy and got her back up. He then slid his finger its full length repeatedly into Mrs. Smith’s ass, until everything was to his satisfaction.
“Get up off the couch.” Again, it was order, not a request.
When Sandra was standing in front of the couch, Del Toro lay back on to it, his head and shoulders on a cushion, his enraged cock ram rod straight and ogled Sandra as if she was chattel in an ancient Roman slave market. He eyed her up and down, inside and out, rubbing lube on his prick until it was a greasy pole.
It didn’t seem possible to Sandra, but she could swear Del Toro’s blunt instrument was thicker, uglier, more enraged than when she first laid eyes on it 15 minutes before, which seemed a lifetime ago. It was her impalement spike.
Sandra’s emotions split her in half: on one side, there was the pain in her ass, the humiliation Del Toro’s “preparation” made her feel, the fear of being completely exposed by Del Toro and being stripped of everything, even the cloths on her back, and–eyeing her impalement spike, her lips involuntarily parting–the pain that was to come.
On the other side–eyeing his greasy pole, her pussy lips twitched–none of her flings (though admittedly a lot of them were a blur) had made her crave so hard. Her lush body writhed, her cunt was soaking wet, her mouth was parched. Contemplating the full length, the full measure of the beast on the couch, made part of Sandra want to go to the bitter end.
“Step up on the couch–straddle my waist–squat reverse cowgirl style and impale yourself on my spike.” A sob involuntarily escaped Sandra’s lips. Spike? Can he read my mind?
After the slightest hesitation Sandra obeyed Del Toro’s commands.
When she climb on to the couch and lifted her legs Del Toro noticed the soles of Sandy’s feet were dirty. She turned her back to Del Toro, straddled his waist and began to squat, her body trembling.
If I get his cock in my pussy, he won’t be able to control himself, Sandra told herself.
Del Toro reached up and spread Sandra’s ass cheeks.
“Balance yourself with your left arm and hold my cock, just under the crown, with your right hand.” Sandra reach down under her ass and wrapped the first two fingers of her right hand around Del Toro’s hot rod. By pushing and pulling Sandra’s ass cheeks he maneuvered her ass hole so it was right over his ramrod.
“Impale yourself now.”
Whimpering, Sandra squatted deeper and the slippery, hard, bulbous head of his prick was push into her ass hole. It felt Alexander the Great to Del Toro. Comically Sandra let out an “Ouch” as she yelped in pain, her right hand let go of Del Toro’s cock as if stung by a bee. But it was all for nought because Del Toro’s shaft was firmly implanted in Sandra’s ass. “This feels soooo good,” moaned the euphoric man.
Sandra was gasping for breath, trying to absorb the shock, balancing on her arms which were rigid beside of her hips. Sandra felt bitterly humiliated. She tried not to move a muscle.
Del Toro received exquisite pleasure from Sandra’s uptight little ass hole. Del Toro also got exquisite pleasure from the mutual knowledge of how degraded he made Sandra feel. For his balls were full to bursting from the frustration of five years of cock teasing by Mrs Smith.
Del Toro’s large, blunt, strong, hot hands clamped around Sandra’s waist, holding her firmly in place. This stranglehold made it impossible for Mrs Smith to go in any direction but down, which meant getting more of Del Toro’s red hot poker up her ass. Sandra bent her head back, her eyes clamped tightly shut, gritting her teeth, her face and chest flushed, sweating profusely, trying to stay precariously perched on the crown of Del Toro’s mace, pushing up with her toes.
Sandra’s felt Del Toro’s hot breath on her back, he was groaning with delight. His strong hands slide from her waist to her hips.
As if an answer to a prayer, Del Toro surprised Sandra by smoothly saying, “Move your arms back, lean back.”
He’s letting me get off his cock! Sandra told herself quixotically.
As Sandra jaggedly moved her arms back, Del Toro’s hands slide down her hips like boa constrictors to the outside of her knees and slid his hands under each of them. In the blink of an all-seeing eye, in one inexorable motion, he pulled Sandra’s legs into the air. Her ass was pinned against his Barbecue grill stomach. Sandra’s legs were splayed open, held in place by a vise-like grip.
Someone facing Sandra thought her raised legs formed a fleshy, wobbling upper-case V. Her bare naked cunt was on display for all to see. Sandra’s new posture made it possible for Del Toro’s ugly, enraged cock to piston her ass hole.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck you’re so deep inside my ass hole!” Sandra cried out in shocked disbelief, her shoulders leaning back, her back and head curled forward, bent at the waist. Her ass was dominated by a burning sensation.
“You stupid, fat whore!” Del Toro yelled with utter contempt, reveling in each thrust into Mrs Smith’s fat ass.
Each word was like a slap across her face. They stung. The truth hurts. No one had ever called her such words. They felt like red hot branding on her tits and ass. None of the boys of her flings had treated her this way. None of those boys had made her feel this way. But there’s the thing: Del Toro wasn’t a boy, he was a man–a real man. He was an assassin.
Two worlds collided inside Sandra’s pelvis: a world of hurt and a world of pleasure. Someone watching Sandra’s face saw a kaleidoscope of sensations and emotions and expressions rippling through it: pain, fear, humiliation, desperate craving, and an arousal of a red hot intensity.
The tight knitting of her brows evinced deep strain. Her mouth hung open. Bent forward, the flesh of her belly folded like an accordion, her saggy tits slamming the top of her raised wide-open thighs, Sandra’s eyes filled with morbid fascination as she stared down at the unwavering penetration of her ass hole by Del Toro’s enraged prick.
Each thrust up her ass made her pussy bulge. Del Toro’s ram rod filled her to bursting. It forced to her look inside. Each time the lawyer’s ugly dick was shoved deeper into Sandra’s ass hole, her inner gaze look deeper and deeper into herself. It ripped away all the veils. It brought her face-to-face with her innermost self. And what did Sandra see there? A fat stupid whore.
Sandra screamed.
The Rec Room resonated with the squishAH-squishAH sound made when Del Toro’s fat cock stuffed Sandra’s fat ass. It made Sandra cringe. Her mind raced desperately to the finish line:
I’m just a piece of ass. He’s possessing me. I’m his possession. I’m just a piece of property. He owns me. He owns my ass.
When this crazy train of thought went off the rails Sandra, compelled by her nature, reached down between her legs and started twirling her right forefinger tip around her X-rated clit. When Del Toro’s thrashing of her ass made her hand fly off, she stuffed her first two fingers into her pussy and put her clit under her thumb.
The compounding interest came to a crisis. Like a bolt of lightning from the blue Sandra had the hardest come of her life. She screamed incoherent obscenities, stuffing a third finger into her spasming foamy cunt, the muscles of her belly clenching, un-clenching, twitching. Sandra’s head spun, the pounding in her ears doubly matched by the pounding in her ass, her long hair flying every which way. For some reason Sandra didn’t understand, the flame tattoos around her ankles briefly held her attention.
Del Toro felt the spasming of Sandra’s cunt. It raised his hackles. It raised Cain. It raised the stakes. Holding her legs in an iron grip, Del Toro’s shaft pounded Mrs Smith’s ass like a pile driver. He thrust his lance deep into her guts. The demonic roller coaster Sandra was on sped up, plunging deeper, riding higher. Del Toro body slammed Sandra’s ass cheeks, which shuddered like palm trees in a typhoon.
“Take it you fat stupid whore, I’m going to make you take it all!”Del Toro shouted to the roof tops. Each fully engorged invasion of Sandy’s tight ass gave Del Toro boundless immense intense pleasure on many levels. His diamond-headed drill sparkled as it burrowed deep into the bowels of the fat stupid whore. Sandra’s mouth opened widely but no sound came out. She was hypnotized by the sight of the power plunging into her ass. Her face looked feverish, large patches of red mottled the top of her chest, sweat trickled between her heavy bouncing sagging tits, her nipples were grinding into to top of her upraised thighs. Sandra was impaled.
“Fat–stuPID–WHORE!” Del Toro stentorian voice triumphantly roared as he shot his heavy load deep into Alexandra Cappidocio’s ass, who thrashed around like a tattered flag on top of a pole in a storm.
“Oh God he’s coming up my ass, oh God he’s coming up my ass!” The words burst out of Sandy from a place deep inside her soul.
Del Toro shoved and shoved and shoved his spike in to Sandy’s ass hole. She was flooded with thick ropes of his heavy load, sparing no expense. She took his heavy load. He gave her his all, his body an ode to joy. Sandra was well and truly shafted. Sandra had got her so richly deserved comeuppance.
Only when he was satisfied that he had completely emptied his balls into Sandy’s ass, did he pull her legs down and make her lay on top of him on her back. They lay that way for a time, a beast with two backs: Sandy with a groggy expression absentmindedly fingering her cunt, their mutual panting slowly subsiding, Del Toro’s cock–which was still in Sandy–slowly softening.
Del Toro effortlessly lifted Sandra’ off him and sat her on the couch. He sat up beside her. Their bodies were slick with sweat. Del Toro smiled like a crocodile that had just finished swallowing a naked, red-headed, big-breasted 20 year old environmentalist–feet first. Sandra, glassy-eyed, looked like a newly minted stuffed rabbit on a taxidermist’s bench, the trophy of a skilled hunter.
Del Toro slowly slid his right index finger into Sandy’s soaked cunt up to the knuckle. “The silly goose is cooked,” he growled. He then took his finger out of Sandra and licked it clean of her dirtiness.
Del Toro began to squeeze each of Sandra’s tits, kneading them as they were bread dough. Sandra did not resist. Her mouth went slack. Her eyelashes fluttered briefly. Putting his palms under each of her saggy tits, he lifted them up and down. Looking into Mrs. Smith’s now questioning eyes, Del Toro lips sneered and he declared: “Thou are weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.”
Without warning, Del Toro slapped Sandra’s left nipple hard, then even harder, he slapped her right nipple. The slapping made Sandra’s tits jiggle like two large bowls of jello overturned on a platter.
Sandra was flabbergasted. Then anger contorted her features.
“You fucking prick!”
Del Toro laughed in her face.
“You…”Sandra’s swearing was cut short by a sharp pain in her bowels. She hunched her shoulders and clutched her stomach with both hands. Growing alarm spread across her haggard face. Del Toro laughed raucously.
“Oh God–I’ve got to–go–now!” Sandra whimpered and rose unsteadily to her feet, wind-milling her arms to keep upright. As Sandra wobbled to the Rec Room’s bathroom Del Toro uproariously laughed at the sight of her bouncy reddened booty. Sandra slammed the bathroom door behind her.
Alone in the Rec Room Del Toro dressed quickly. He left the black bottle on the floor by the couch where he dropped it after he had finished lubricating his rod. The bottle and the mess made on the white couch by her impalement was Sandy’s problem.
Del Toro found “Carmen Burana” on the Rec Room’s sound system and turned up the volume.
When he was leaving he put Sandy’s bikini bottom into one of his jacket’s pocket. Del Toro then drove home to his wife to prepare to make an appearance at the fifth anniversary dinner party of Mr and Mrs Smith. It would be good for business.
Mrs. John Smith sat on the toilet of one her husband’s marble bathrooms, clutching her knees with both hands. Her ripe body drenched with sweat, she winced as she took the shit of a lifetime, sobbing with her eyes shut: “O God–I am a whore–I want more!” She didn’t hear the music coming through door from the Rec Room.