It wasn't easy for the half-naked older man to speak or move, what with the blood pounding so urgently through his lust-distended cock, but he finally managed to gasp out, "Let the Goddamn thing ring, baby. Don't answer it."

"Shut up! You shut up, you – you monster!" the hysterical young blonde screamed, giving him a violent shove which caught him off his guard and sent him staggering away from the couch. Then she rushed into the hallway, grabbing the phone just before it rang for the fifth time.

"Hello?" she cried in a breathless voice quite unlike her usual soprano tone. "Yes? Yes? What is it?"

"Hey, take it easy, honey," she heard the throaty voice of Clare Johnson, the wife of the dark-haired man who stood in her living room with his massive, penis shamelessly pointed straight out from his hard-muscled stomach, and Sandi's knees went weaker than ever in relief that at least it wasn't the hospital. Then, a moment later, she felt a wave of sick guilt so intense that she had to lean against the hallway's flower-papered wall to keep her balance, and she noted distractedly that her knuckles clutching the receiver were as white as if no flesh covered the bone. She prayed that Larry would keep quiet, at the same time loathing herself for having to think a thing like that.

"Clare…" she gulped.

"Gee, honey, I'm so sorry about Verne," the other woman's voice buzzed into Sandi's ear. When there was no answer she added, "Larry did tell you, didn't he? He called me from the airport and said he'd be stopping by your place to…"

"Yes," Sandi swallowed. "He… told me." She glared with wide, hate-filled eyes at the man in question who stood awkwardly poised beside the living room sofa, his formerly rock-hard penis shrinking as he realized that it was his wife at the other end of the line. "He j-just left."