Free Slave Lover by Marco Vassi Page A

survival techniques for the Boy-and-Girl Scouts Manual.
    He wrapped his legs around one of her thighs and rubbed himself on her vigorously, the rocking of his pelvis beating in counterpoint to the dancing of his finger and the swimming of his mouth and tongue.
    His orgasm was frightening. The stupendous fear, guilt, and horror hiding behind the mountain of fat and the brutal tendencies and the infantile behavior, exploded as the sluggish gobs of thick sperm oozed from his half-erect cock.
    Crushing remorse speared him at the very instant after orgasm.
    He rose to his knees. His gorge rose.
    Constance was sure it wasn’t intentional, but when he vomited, his mouth was directly above hers, and since her jaw was paralyzed, she couldn’t close it.
    “This is too much,” she said to herself as she squeezed her brain tight and forced herself to become unconscious. And yet, as she went under, the hot, flaky mass cascading over her face like thick communion wafers in a heavy sauce, her last thought was, “Poor man. He’s going to hate himself even more after this.”

Four
    It was a week before Chet began to be concerned. Constance often disappeared for several days when she was on a story and didn’t always remember to let him know where she was going. But seven days was longer than he was comfortable with. Finally, he went to her apartment and let himself in with the spare key which he promised to use only with her permission or in emergencies. She had wanted him to have access to her place, but also wanted him to respect her privacy.
    He let himself into the flat, half fearing he might find a partially decomposed body. Instead, the place looked normal. And that was the trouble. It didn’t have the neat look of a place that had been tidied up by someone who was going to be gone for a week. Rather, there was the same casual dishevelled air it would if Constance had just run out for a container of milk. The bed was unmade, the lights on, and when he went into the kitchen he heard the hum of the radio. It had overheated and blown a tube, but was still switched on. He turned it off and gazed around. Bread, now moldy, sat on the table. An opened bottle of beer, now warm and flat, stood next to it.
    Chet sat down heavily, his elbows suddenly weak. There was no doubt in his mind. Constance had been snatched. And it could only be due to her work on the story of the disappearing women.
    “The Slavers!” he said out loud, and a cold thrill ran down his spine.
    He knew it was a meaningless gesture, but he called the police and reported her absence. He said nothing about his idea. It would only confuse the issue and to no point. Also, he didn’t want to get involved in such a public way. He reasoned that if anyone could help, it would be the FBI. He resolved to gather all the data he had put together for Constance on the disappearances and, if she did not return within a week, bring it to the bureau.
    The police came, poked around, wrote steadily in their notebooks, and left. Chet was free to roam around the apartment. He knew there would be nothing by way of a clue, yet he felt he should search anyway. It took him two hours to look through Constance’s clothing, books, papers, toilet articles. The only thing of any interest was a packet of love letters written to a man she had been having an affair with years earlier. He couldn’t resist the temptation to read some, and when he had, he wished he hadn’t.
    “Do you know what you did to me last night?” one read in part. “When you plunged your donkey cock into my cunt and I tore the skin off your back with my nails, I died a thousand times. Worlds were born and died. I wanted to swallow you whole. I gave myself to you completely and eternally. And no matter what I shall ever feel with any other man, he will never have me as you did. Never, I swear it.”
    He snickered and smirked but part of him was hurt. It also made him think back to his early loves, when each woman shone