Milt Stewart stomped on the Z4's gas pedal, taking the winding turns of the hillside outside Greenleaf at suicidal speeds.
Stewart didn't have a death wish. He was enraged and hurling toward a reckoning.
Nestled by the lake in the valley behind him sprawled the Oakmore Valley Resort. For ten years Stewart had managed the hotel and convention center with what his distant corporate bosses considered a remarkable and wholly unexpected success. An hour ago he'd left that all behind forever, turning over the keys, the passcodes, and the combination to the safe to young newcomer Tom Jacobs.
An unconscious smile curled Stewart's lips as he remembered the years of fun he'd had at the hotel, applying some creative and highly unorthodox "management techniques" to build it into the outstanding success it now was. He shook his head angrily as if physically shaking off the useless reverie.
The dead past,
he thought.
All lost.
The car roared through the gate at the end of the road, screeching to a halt in the circular driveway in front of his house. Stewart paused at the door to take a last look around. The place was a sprawling, gorgeous old farmhouse that he and Ruth had been proud to see featured in a regional architectural publication when they'd finished renovating and rebuilding it. It had just been the two of them, in those years before the birth of their only child, Keith.
Milt wished that he could torch the place.
The front door wasn't locked. It swung inward freely when he touched the knob. The first floor was deserted.
"I know it's you, Milt." His wife's mocking voice crackled from the intercom. "You really should fix the exhaust on that little toy of yours."
"Goddamn you, Ruth, you..." his wife's throaty giggle interrupted his outburst.
"Come on up and face me," Ruth laughed. "We're in the master bedroom."
Of course they were.
Stewart suddenly wished he'd packed his bags that morning and just headed out of state straight from the hotel. But no...there was an overlooked detail he needed to take care of, and so he squared his shoulders and climbed the stair. With each step, unwelcome imagination conjured up a moment from an old horror movie he and Ruth had once watched together, one of his first memories when they'd first moved in here: the long tracking shot down the hallway to Regan's bedroom in
The Exorcist.
From just beyond the bedroom door he heard Ruth speaking in a low husky whisper and the deeper sound of a male voice answering back. Stewart couldn't make out their words over the roar of the shower, which was going full-blast.
He shoved the door wide open.
Ruth crouched on the striped sateen sheets of their French provincial four-poster bed, wearing only lilac-colored silk thong panties and slippers. She rested her cheek on the flat belly of a completely naked young man who lay on his back, arms casually folded behind his head. The fingers of her right hand curled gently around the base of his erect cock. Her sea-green eyes roamed dreamily up and down the impressive length of that cock-stalk, and her wet pink tongue flicked briefly at her upper lip as if anticipating a gourmet feast.
"Hiya, 'Boss,'" the young man said, smirking.
Upon recognizing Bobby Tilson, one of the resort hotel's bell staff, Stewart felt a mixture of both anger and unexpected relief. Bobby, seemingly unperturbed by his former boss's sudden appearance, reached out to run his fingers casually through Ruth's long curls. "You know, you got a swell wife."
Stewart just stood at the door, momentarily stunned speechless by the sight of his wife brazenly making love, in their marital bed, to a man less than half her own age.
This was far from was the worst shock she'd given him recently.
Ruth Stewart could only be called ravishing. Her skin was fair as a Scandinavian blonde's, yet her flowing shoulder-length hair was lush, dark burgundy red. At the age of forty-three and despite motherhood she'd maintained a trim, youthful figure, with full hips and large high breasts. Ruth looked up from Bobby's prick as if noticing her husband for the first time.
"Did you bring a gun?" she laughed. "Did you? No?" She snickered. "See, Bobby, I told you: Mr. Stewart is really nothing to worry about. A lot of talk, no balls. I'm sure he's just here to collect a few things on his way to the airport...aren't you, Milt? I've already packed your bags myself, dutiful wife that I am. They're in the front hall."
"You're going to pay for this. Count on it," Stewart barked. The words rang hollow, even to him. Ruth held his level gaze for several moments, then just smiled and returned her attention to Bobby. The corners of her mouth curled upward at the sight of a drop of clear seminal fluid oozing from his cum-slit...then another and another, rolling in a lazy stream down the long shaft.
"Mmm..." she sighed, raising her head and leaning closer to Bobby's fuckmeat. Her full, pink lips, unadorned by lipstick, parted slightly and molded themselves to the head of his cock. She moaned softly, aroused by the taste of his pre-cum.
To Stewart's horror, he felt his own dick hardening in his trousers as he watched.
"Excuse me,
dear,"
she drawled, glancing back at Milt. "I really must attend to this. It won't take a minute." She was true to her word. She'd clearly brought Bobby to the brink of shooting his load before her husband had entered the room. Now, she opened her mouth wide and steadily lowered her head to engulf the young man's meaty pole. When she'd swallowed only half of it she stopped and held her head completely still, working her lips sensuously to massage his taut, sensitive flesh. Milt could tell that her tongue was moving inside her mouth, swirling and licking Bobby's prick, nudging him across that last little threshold toward an explosive cum.
Milt was a long-time expert observer of women sucking cocks.
Ruth's hand slipped downward. Her French-manicured fingertips caressed Bobby's swollen ball sack. In return, he slid his hand down along the hollow of her back and over her perfectly round ass, finally palming her pouting pussy mound. She shivered at his touch. He slid one big finger under the damp silk and slowly inserted it up between her cunt-lips.
"Ummph!" Ruth's eyes abruptly widened and her body stiffened. That momentary penetration was all that was required to set off her orgasm, at the very moment that Bobby started spewing jism down her throat. The delicate muscles of her long graceful neck rippled with her futile effort to swallow as quickly as he erupted. White cream oozed from the corners of her mouth. Saliva mixed with cum coated Bobby's pulsing prick as she raised her head up and released him, content now to feel the remaining spurts of his cumload splatter over her lips and tongue and splash across her face.
"Goddamn!" Bobby slumped back against the pillows, catching his breath. "Man, can this lady give blowjobs! And that's not just me talkin,' Mr. Stewart. Fuck, you can ask just about any guy in town."
The erotic spell broken, Milt Stewart's rage boiled over. He took two steps toward the bed, hands balled into fists. He knew that he could not match Bobby's raw physical power but was determined to fight and fall, broken, if necessary, to assert his masculine pride.
He stopped dead in his tracks. Someone had turned off the shower in the master bath.
Milt had been so shocked at the lewd spectacle of his wife and her young fuck-partner that he'd completely blocked out whatever had been going on in the bathroom. He turned and looked on in dread as the door opened and Keith, their son, stepped out.
"Hi, Dad." Keith flashed Milt a toothy, arrogant grin#&0151;the very mirror of his mother's mockery. Ruth had raised him after her own whorish heart.
