Then Karen nailed her head with Peter Sandier's cock and buried her nose in his thick, black, wiry pubic patch. She twisted her head, felt his cock rotate in her mouth and throat. She drew up fort breath, drove down again, mashing her nose against the MG's hard gut as his cock drove down her throat. It hurt like hell to try to swallow the monster bulk, but the pain added to her pleasure. She we going to get his load in her gullet. She wanted it in her mouth, too. If it went straight down her throat, she wouldn't get to taste it. It was something she really, really wanted to do. She wanted to taste his thick cream.
She pumped her head in time with the surging and heaving of his hips, let him fuck her face. His finger was gone from her twat, but she didn't care. All she cared about was the great cock sliding back and forth along her tongue.
"Suck it, suck it," Peter hissed.
She sucked even harder.
"Touch my balls," he moaned. "Roll them on your fingers. Feel them."
She did. She curled her fingers under the heavy warm egg-like masses. She squirmed them back and forth on her fingers. She felt them suck up toward the base of his dick. She drew her head up just as Sandier tried to jam his prick deeper into her mouth.
The first wad of come ripped the length of his dick and spattered against the back of her throat. She pressed her tongue against the slit of his cock tip, made the next one work to get out. It flowed over her tongue a cohesive, gooey, thick, flavorful mass. It was joined by more, and Karen, in order not to drown, had to swallow the flood of saliva and jizz that suddenly filled her mouth. Her tongue stroked the jetting dick, and more thick, creamy come erupted from it.
How much come did a man have, she wondered. She had read somewhere it was only a teaspoonful, or so. But it felt like gallons of ft were jetting into her sucking, swallowing mouth. Spit and jizz drifted her chin. Her stomach was filled with the creamy load.
The feel of the cock beginning to lose its hardness was pleasant and saddening, all at the same time. It was a pleasant feeling, the way the rigid tower was beginning to soften and shrink. It was pleasant to know she had done it, done it all with her mouth. But it was also saddening, because it meant there was no more come to taste, no more thick jizz to swallow. It also meant that she would fall from her crazy erotic high and have to face herself, and what she had done.
She licked and sucked and drew on the shriveling tool until it was a withered, flabby little worm. Finally, she knew she had no choice. She had to let it go and lift her head. She sucked in a shuddering breath and her gut spasmed with regret and disgust. She felt come and spit on her chin, felt cool droplets on her bare tits as she sat on the floor by the naked man.
This time she took her clothes with her when she retreated to the bathroom. But no amount of washing could remove the stain of what she had done. She dressed and tried to compose herself. She combed the tangles and crusty patches out of her long hair, and then sucked in a deep breath. Her tits ached, rose against her bra and blouse. Her panties were clammy and sticky. And, she was still horny.
She went back out to the office. Peter was dressed and was sitting behind his desk again. God! Why did just the sight of him make her want to take all her clothes off again? She managed to sit down.
"You'll do," Peter told her.
"I'll do?" she blurted out, forgetting momentarily what she had come for.
"For the show," he added patiently.
"Oh, of course. Thank you," she stammered.
"Here's where and when you report," he told her, handing her a card.
"What should I wear?" she asked.
"What you're wearing now will be fine. You'll spend an hour and a half in make-up. The taping will start at 10:30. We break for lunch at 12:30, and finish up by 3:00, usually."
"Do you interview all the contestants?" Karen asked suddenly.
"Only the promising women," he answered with frank smile. "Shanda interviews the men."
Understanding dawned. "That was Shanda on the roof today."
"Right. Don't be late for the taping," he cautioned. "Oh, and by the way you're a winner."
Karen wanted to ask what he meant by that, but didn't. She was too battered and numbed by what she had done. She managed to find the door and escape. She felt fouled and rumpled and horrified and sated, all at the same time. Neither of the receptionists even glanced at her as she left.
CHAPTER THREE
"Good morning, Mrs. Calder."
Karen studied the man behind the desk. She had been invited in to see Mr. Bernstein, the producer of the show, just the day before the taping. The invitation had brought a jolt of fear that, perhaps, she was going to be disqualified for some reason. Reassured by the MC's calling her a "winner" at the interview, she had made a number of purchases on credit, and spent the next two weeks' grocery money. If she didn't get on the show, and win, Mark would be furious.
"Good morning," she replied, softly and carefully.
"Miss Carlson, no calls," the stocky man ordered into the intercom. "And, we are not to be disturbed."
Karen felt a little queasy when she heard this.
"I understand you are to be on Peter's show tomorrow," the steel-haired man noted.
Karen eyed him warily. He was a stocky, powerfully built man. He was very well dressed. "Yes," she answered.
"Peter gave a glowing report on you."
Karen shuddered when she thought of what the MC might have said about her.
"Peter said that your knowledge of French was aah, extensive," the man went on.
Karen frowned, puzzled. "But, I don't speak French at all."
Bernstein chuckled. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "I enjoy a girl with a sense of humor. I really do."
Karen's bewilderment increased.
The man sensed her confusion, and it seemed to increase his amusement. His chuckle, swelled to a hacking laugh. The creases on his face deepened as his grin broadened.
"My dear Mrs. Calder, you are indeed a treat," he wheezed at last. "You are an expert on French culture, and you don't even know it, do you?"
Karen was frightened, and totally at sea now. She thought the categories of the questions she would be asked were what the man meant. Peter Sandier might, of course, have misled the producer. Was her chance to be on the show on the line? How could she pretend to know something she didn't?
"Why don't you take off your clothes, Mr. Calder," the producer suggested.
"I beg your pardon!" Karen squeaked.
The man's grin was gone. His face was like stone now. "Mrs. Calder, your place on the show can be filled in art instant. Peter gave me a detailed report on your oral abilities. Now, I suggest you show me just how you impressed him. Before my patience is exhausted."
Karen was horrified. She suddenly realized that when the man had said "French" he had not meant the language or the country at all. Her naive mind had failed to make the obvious connection.
"I suggest you make it very good, too," the producer went on relentlessly. "I've seen it all before, many, many times. It takes a great deal to impress me. And, I'm sure you realize, your chance to be on the show depends a great deal on me."
Karen felt sick. She was as angry with herself as she was with the situation. Just the thought of sucking cock made her mouth and pussy drool. The sadistic pleasure of the producer was attractive to her, too.
Desperately, she examined her options. She could get up and walk out of the richly furnished office, back to the dismal hovel she called home. She could try, somehow, to explain to Mark how she had gotten herself into a stupid money jam and didn't have food money for the next week or the week after. She could try to explain how their credit card balances had suddenly doubled.