A sudden blast from a car horn awoke Lonnie Carmel. Then there was the fuzzy, distant, only half-jointed sound of the pattering of shoes and the slamming of a door… the roar of an engine, and the squeal of tires. Lonnie lay still for a time, listening. The house was now silent, strangely so, and the softness of her drowsiness was slow to dissipate, like fog on a cold, wet morning.

Lonnie moved at last, only to feel excruciating pain. "Ohhh," she groaned aloud, "what happened to me?" Her head was like a block of molten lead, and her muscles were tied in spasming knots which made her want to jump – but then the pain in her skull would begin and she had to lie still until it passed. She had a hard time thinking – remembering what had happened to her…

The drinking – the capitulation of her aroused, frustrated body to the blandishments, hands, mouth, and blonde-haired vagina of Cylvia Oliss – the obscene show with that nubile little girl and that monster beast of a German Shepherd dog – Sam Zeigler, naked and plunging his fiery cock deep, deep into her feverish, wide-splayed vagina… a vagina that had only been touched by her husband before…

The total impact of what she had allowed to happen to her hit hard and the traces of her sleepiness vanished. She shot upright, impervious to the pain. "My God!" Questions began to run through her head faster than her muddled brain could answer them. How did I get home? Who dressed me? Why did it happen at all? Why? Why?

She stumbled from her bed and lurched against the bureau, staring at herself in the mirror. "Oh no," she moaned thickly, "I must be dreaming it. I must be. I just must be."

Yet heavy lines marred her fresh, young skin, and her eyes were sunk deeply in their black rimmed sockets as though she'd aged ten years overnight.