*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, using Microsoft's Spell-Check. You have been forewarned.
X.
Dr. Roger Taylor James came to. His head hurt tremendously; it hurt to even try and open his eyes. His eyes felt grimy; his whole face felt sticky, grimy.
He scrunched up his face against the throbbing pain in his head. As more awareness crept into his fogged brain he realized his stomach also felt raw, tender. There was a terrible thirst in his throat, but the thought of water made his raw stomach lurch.
He tried to sit up and immediately regretted his movements. The blinding, searing, throbbing pain in his head and in his belly made him gasp out.
Taking in a deep breath to gasp, Roger noticed that his nipples hurt. He reached a cautious hand up and felt his scrawny chest. His flesh was clammy, cold, with a sheen of sweat.
And his nipples had two rings threaded through them. He could also feel the dried, crusty blood on his tortured flesh.
"Oh God," he grunted and again tried to open his eyes.
The small lamp next to the bed was on. The forty watt bulb seared his eyeballs with a blinding light.
Looking around through just one eye, Roger saw that he was on the bed in their guest room. There was the rustic bedside table of honey blonde stained wood, the brass lamp with lace shade, the wagon wheel headboard and the honey blonde armoire.
Part of the reason for his thumping headache became apparent. Music was thumping and grinding and booming throughout the house.
Roger again tried to rise and became aware of another pain. The thick foreskin of his cock felt constricted, sticky.
Reaching his hand from his sore nipples, Roger tentatively felt his cock.
"God!" he croaked, throat raw.
His foreskin had been pierced. He now sported two rings through his foreskin. The rings were on the underside of his cock, peeling the foreskin back slightly.
"Jesus, Cheryl, what the hell, huh?" he sobbed out.
As he managed to work himself into a seated position, he also noticed a sharp pain in his left buttock.
"They didn't, huh?" Roger asked himself and reached down to feel.
No, there was no piercing on his buttock. But there was an area of tenderness, of pain.
Roger chanced getting to his feet. Thankfully, the armoire caught him before he tumbled to the floor. He leaned against the heavy piece of furniture, trying to catch his breath, fighting off the waves of nausea.
He weakly staggered to the closed door of the bedroom and opened it. The booming, thumping music became even louder, assaulted him.
He peered around with his one eye and saw the lights were on in his, their master bedroom. Roger weakly lurched toward the door and managed to catch the doorjamb.
Inside the room, Cheryl James, his wife of three months was being fucked, quite roughly by one of the basketball players at Missouri River State University, where Roger was a professor of Mathematics. In her mouth was the cock of another black man.
Next to his beautiful blonde wife was Rebecca Durst, Cheryl's best friend. The beautiful red head was taking three black cocks.
Even over the loud thumping booming music, Roger could hear the seven people groaning in pleasure.
Roger fought down the sudden rush of bile and lurched toward the stairwell.
He was thankful he'd insisted on heavy bannisters. The handrails supported him as he staggered down the stairs. He was shivering, even though his body was covered in a sheen of sweat. His nude body had goosebumps and he felt clammy.
Finally, he managed to reach his home office, his 'man cave' as Cheryl called it. He shut the door, wincing at how loudly he had slammed the door. Then he realized, there was very little chance the people upstairs could have heard the door over their own passion, over the insistent music.
Roger lurched toward the wastebasket and vomited heartily. The exertion to travel from guest room to bedroom, from bedroom to stairs, from stairs through living room to his inner sanctuary had been a grueling, arduous journey.
"Nine one one, what is your emergency?" the operator intoned.
"I'm, I'm locked in my office," Roger hissed, then retched again.
"Sir? SIR!" the operator called out.
"I'm here, sorry, got sick again," Roger whined into his cell phone. "My wife, my wife and her lovers, I think they drugged me, no, I know they drugged me."
The operator dispatched an ambulance and two patrol units out to 1811 King's Court, Colfax, Missouri. She also stayed on the telephone with Roger until the police arrived at the home.
"What the fuck? Someone at your door," one of the black men told Cheryl as he pulled his spurting cock from her pussy.
"What? Who?" Cheryl asked.
"Fuck, girl, I look psychic?" the man asked.
Cheryl pulled on a robe and walked down the stairs. When she opened the door, two uniformed officers entered.
"Ma'am, could you please turn the music off," the taller of the two officers said.
It was not a request. Cheryl quickly did hit the switch for the stereo system.
"Ma'am? Where is your husband, please?" the other officer asked.
"He's upstairs, in the guest room," Cheryl answered, puzzled. "When he learns his place, he can come back to the master bedroom."
"Please go get him," the first officer ordered.
"What the fuck is this?" one of the black men demanded.
"Sir, stay right where you are," one of the police officers ordered.
"He's not in there," Cheryl said, returning.
"Ma'am, where's his office?" a third police officer asked, the paramedics nervously waiting behind him.
