Goddamn, he's fucking the hot little bitch good! Harry Saunders grinned as he snapped more pictures as Roger Carmel's lust-hardened cock disappeared to its hilt between the lovely young girl's widespread thighs. An obscene thrill coursed through the photographer, and a half-cruel smile crossed his face as he wondered just what Sam Zeigler's price was going to be, what amount he was going to extract from that writhing, heaving man who was fucking Kim so maddeningly. Zeigler always got his pound of flesh, one way or another, and he must have had a real fine reason behind all of this elaborate set-up. He hoped the man appreciated the truly talented screwing he was getting, because Saunders knew intuitively that it was going to cost him plenty in the near future.
Roger Carmel was no longer the chief engineer and vice-president of Skopos, or the inventor of the miniscopos VTR, or the husband of his lovely wife, Lonnie. He was a wild, untamed beast, tasting sex for its own pure sake for the first time in his married life, the prurience of this immoral, lewd affair was driving him out of his mind, and his body strove to superhuman efforts as he worked to bring him and this animal of woman under him to magical crests of orgasm. He ground his loins into the squirming mass of flesh as Kim strained back, arching her back up and lifting her buttocks inches off the squeaking mattress. She moaned incoherently beneath his pounding cock, chanting the song of intercourse as old as the world itself, and her legs opened and closed convulsively around his strongly pumping thighs, her mouth gaped open, and her head flailed from side to side. Nobody ever accused Kim Copeland of not enjoying her work.