She could have turned off the buzz-box. Sure. She could have gone tome and pretended that she hadn't heard anything. Yeah. She could shit purple and walk around the world on her hands with her legs kicking in the air, too. Her face was going pale, then beet-red, and sweat bubbled on her forehead, leaking out from under her tousled hair. She could feel perspiration forming in her armpits, too, and in the cleavage between her tits. It was fear-sweat, and she was sure she could sniff its rank, tense aroma despite her deodorant and talcum and cologne.

She heard more clinking and clacking, and she could close her eyes and see it all as clearly as if she were watching it. Tom spreading his legs, the giggling girl pulling down his pants. And his cock springing up, a big red lance of erected gristle, capped by a sweet fat knob of purple flesh.

"Suck me!" Tom moaned, and there was an intensity in his voice that chilled Joanne, left her numb and shaking. She'd heard him say that before, many times, but not lately. And – my God, she thought – can this be the reason? Is it his job that's taken away his sex drive, or – God – is it this other woman?

Did she even have to ask? Wasn't the answer so obvious?

"Suck my cock! Bite it! I want to fuck you in the heart, I want to shove my dick down your throat until I touch bottom, I want you to swallow me, all of me, Jesusssssss!"

"Love it," the girl mumbled, and it was difficult to understand what else she was saying. Joanne blanched when the reason for that occurred to her. The girl had a mouthful of dick. Joanne's stomach twitched again. She knew she was going to be sick, knew it, knew it, knew it. If she could only lean over, pull that wastebasket close… she couldn't.