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Mastering Myrna


Love Stuff!

Special “equipment” made Wendell Corde a super stud. Driven by passions even he couldn't understand, he set everyone he met—from the Congressmen's wife to all the young girls —aflame with the lust to be tamed by the master!

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Mastering Myrna

Scott Campbell

This page copyright © 2014 Olympia Press.




Myrna felt the bead of hot perspiration trickle down the inside of her soft thigh. She was hot in more ways than one, but her thoughts were on Wendell Ardent Corde.

Just before the flower children and the hippies and the wide-eyed runaways stopped doing their thing where it was at, juggling their fragile numbers like untrained seals and fleeing homeward like a major exodus in reverse; and just before the acid and the drug-heads, and the radical political screamists learned that whimpering is more effective; and when lesbians felt unwanted in the Lib movement; just when this was occurring, Wendell Ardent Corde was released from prison. He even missed Watergate!

He'd missed the whole scene!

Wendell's exemplary prison behavior and radiation project cooperation had impressed and influenced the Federal officials. His early parole was the reward. Wendell had served ten long years in an enlightened Federal penitentiary isolated in the prairie wastes of the U. S. Midwest where escape was indeed possible, but futile. Prison helicopters, always on alert, could quickly and efficiently spot the fleeing prisoner in the vast, desolate wasteland, even at night because of the phosphorescent glow in the escapee's hair. A shaved head might help a little, but the special dye took many weeks to disappear from the hair and scalp.

Wendell Ardent Corde had every reason not to want to escape. To be precise—one million dollars' worth!

While the United States Marshal's car waited at the prison gate, Wendell gathered his belongings. He shook hands warmly with one of the guards he'd come to know extremely well.

“Now, Wendell,” said Mr. Cresworth, “until the dye wears off, don't go sitting in dark movies or you'll create a panic; people'll think your head's on fire!”

Wendell grinned, remembering the brilliantly lighted hair and heads of other convicts in the weekly movie at the prison. The view from the elevated projection booth, where he operated the cranky, stubborn machinery, had always reminded him of a scene from outer space.

“No time for movies, Mr. Cresworth. TU be too busy searching for a job,” Wendell replied. He followed the older man out of the Adjustment Center.

Mr. Cresworth smiled and shook his hand again. “Now, be sure to look up Trissie when you get to New York. I've already written her about you, telling her the whole truth. You've nothing to lie about, Wendell. Remember, you committed your crime and you paid for it. Probably it was more expensive than it might have been, but you did save a lot of time by being a good boy and working with the project.”

“Thanks again for everything,” Wendell called as the Marshal drove off into the hot blistering wastefulness, down the lonely highway toward a U. S. Atomic Energy Commission—airfield near one of their secret experimental stations. This installation was more than one hundred miles from the forbidding prison housing hundreds of prisoners who volunteered their bodies to science and to the often radically harmful but mostly harmless effects of iso-topic radiation.

To reduce his twenty-year sentence, Wendell, as had others, willingly offered to participate in many of the experiments conducted by the atomic scientists. These specialists worked and lived in a building in the prison compound. Dr. Johns was one of them. She exposed herself to many possible fatal risks, mingling with and periodically examining the convict-volunteers in the strategically leaded isolation quarters of the experimentation facility's quarters at the AEC base and on the prison grounds.

Dr. Myrna Johns, in her late twenties, a brilliant, inquisitive scientist, with horn-rimmed glasses, her waist-long hair always braided and pulled back tightly on her scalp, invariably dressed in a too-short mini lab-coat—under which she seldom if ever wore panties or brassiere. Now wearing open-toed sandals but more often than not barefoot, she was preparing to photograph a slide in the frame of the gigantic electron microscope.

“I'm going to miss our little threesome,” she said quietly to Miss Elizabeth Anderson (Andy), her full-time assistant, salacious lover and intimate confidante, “now that Wendell has gone away.”

“Maybe he'll rob another Tiffany's Fifth Avenue,” Andy grinned prettily, “and this time remember to leave the President of the United States wife's birthday pearls and diamonds alone.”

“Politics are funny!” Myrna mused. “Imagine that becoming a Federal crime?”

“You just don't mess around with the President, dear one,” Andy said, staining the next slide to be photographed. As she leaned over the black-light table to examine the total effect of the vegetable stain, her luscious, ripe breasts threatened to escape from her open blouse. Because of possible contaminants, the small photograph lab in which they now worked was not air-conditioned. The heat was fantastic—cloying, clinging to their flesh, beads of perspiration running freely down their bodies, both their breasts moist, even wet, from sweating in the unventilated laboratory.

“How many more fucking slides are there, darling?” Myrna wanted to know.

“About twenty.”

“That's an entire hour,” she said, “and I'm literally drowning in my own sweat. Go lock the door, Andy, and turn the DO NOT ENTER light on. I'm stripping!”

“Me, too,” Andy laughed, doing as she was bid. Returning to the workbench, Andy wrapped her arms around Myrna's naked loveliness and kissed the warm, silky flesh of her neck and bare shoulders. Her hands crept around and covered Myrna's gorgeous naked breasts. Andy's fingers rubbed across her erecting nipples.

“Oh, Andy, if you start that now—and don't get me wrong, I love it—well never get finished!”

“Okay, stinky,” Andy laughed and pressed her naked belly against Myrna's fleshy, bare buttocks, rubbing her pussy hair across the molded globes lasciviously. “Okay for you!” she sighed in mock frustration.

“Oh, Andy, do that again—just a little harder. I like that. Reminds me of Wendell, but without that enormous prick of his probing between my thighs...”

Andy pulled Dr. John's nakedness close to her again, again massaging her breasts while she rotated and undulated her groin and belly against the fleshy, rounded buttocks of her superior, pretending to fuck her from the rear, bumping and jostling her glorious buttocks. “How many times,” she sighed, kissing Myrna's pretty ears, dipping her tongue into the canal, “I've watched Wendell do this to you... Oh, how many wonderful times,” she exclaimed, letting one hand travel down over Myrna's soft tummy to touch the curly hairs of her pussy triangle, searching for and locating Myrna's turgid clitoris that responded instantly to the tantalizing, whispery contact with Andy's knowing fingertips.

“Okay! OKAY! That's quite enough!”

“Frigid bitch!” Andy laughed. She kneeled quickly and spreading Myrna's buttocks wide apart, jabbed her tongue into her pouting, hairless asshole. “There's something else to remind you of Wendell,” she laughed merrily, returning to her slides. “Either we're going to have to find and train another guy like him, or we're going to have to resort to dildoes, darling,” Andy smiled, bending over the black-light to see what the eye-dropper was doing.

“We'll think of something,” Myrna answered, shivering from the delightful touch of Andy's wet tongue in her erotic asshole. She trembled and a hundred thrills shot through her naked body. “Something. We'll think of something.”

For the best part of the next hour, the two females worked efficiently, both deep in reverie, each remembering the vivid, debauched hours they had spent together with Wendell in the prison compound lab and in the isolation chamber down at the AEC base; sometimes, after he was no longer accompanied by a stern-faced Federal guard, they drove alone together down by the riverbank with its lush greenery, halfway between the AEC base and the atomic radiation emitters buried out in the lonely, steaming hot desert. Here the three of them would bury their naked bodies in a common gravelike sand crater as they made wild, violent love to one another.

The nostalgia that flooded both Myrna and Andy was sufficient to wet their silky pussy lips and to cause slight tremors in their hot, perspiring bodies. As Andy was staining one fragile slide after another, she could feel her pussy throbbing, empty of Wendell's marvelous prick, her inner lips seeming to twinge and tickle as they, too, recalled the ecstatic friction his penis created as it worked deep up into her pulsing vagina.

Myrna was remembering something else. A soft smile played on her lips when she dimmed the lights in preparation of the next important photograph, after dialing the elaborate lens settings. One impossibly hot, stifling afternoon here in this very laboratory, all three of them were almost suffocating from the intense, fiery heat. They were stark naked on the cement floor, all quite raving drunk on a weird but tasty alcoholic beverage, concocted by Andy, who was also a chemist. She had used selected herbs and high volatile pharmaceutical spirits which sent all three of them into a delirium of uncontrollable giggling. These three sex-mad fiends had performed delightfully lewd and vulgar acts upon each other's shivering, naked bodies.

There were other times galore—all three, especially Myrna herself, convulsing with laughter and passion simultaneously, her beautiful, healthy nakedness shivering with multiple spasms evoked by Wendell's pounding penis as it wormed up her asshole while Andy nibbled on her sensitive clitoris, then Wendell switching effortlessly to jam his dripping prick deep into Andy's yawning pussy. Andy grunted as he plunged and plunged as Myrna burned his asshole with heated test tubes, the screams and the deep seething moans causing her own body to vibrate as she fingered her clitoris and poked a large cylindrical beaker up into her cunt, screaming and howling as the fiery hot glass instrument seared her tender flesh and slammed her into a frenetic ecstasy that remained long after the hot glass beaker began to cool.

Lubricating the beaker, Wendell would insert his thick hot penis into the glass sheath and fuck her mercilessly as Andy squatted over her face so Myrna could sip and drink the sweet, creamy juices generated by Wendell's penetrating tool, his lips and his tongue.

“This is the last slide, darling,” Andy smiled, the painstaking work getting on her nerves, this batch, however, concluding the experiment on the biological components of the radioactive plutonium on which they'd spent more than a month, Wendell's last month with them. Now only a brief waiting period was required before they could project the precious slides and begin to write the all-important thesis.

Laughing gaily, Myrna and Andy showered together, taking turns briskly drying the other's glorious body and then scurrying into the bedroom they shared, falling into each other's arms, squirming hotly and passionately until their clitorises met and began whoofing off like sputtering firecrackers until after only a few short moments, muted explosions deep up both vaginas set ablaze a wanton craving that only mutual cunnilingus could satisfy and extinguish.

At one point during their passionate whimpering, Andy looked up from between Myrna's milky-white thighs, her lips sleek with Myrna's glistening pussy juices.

“Do you think Wendell liked the watch we gave him, Myrna?” she asked, her sweet tongue again poking deep.

“I was just thinking about that myself,” Myrna murmured. “I only hope that it didn't get radium-infested with the twelve-o'clock syndrome. You now, I completely forgot I had it in my lab-coat pocket when I corrected the setting on the cathodes in the Betatron... just before we gave it to him in such a hurry.”

“You sound a wee bit worried,” Andy said and then gasped and moaned, feeling Myrna's expert lips encircling her burning clitoris.

“Just a wee bit, darling. A wee bit.”

“You mean because of the plutonium fragment we weren't able to recover from his anal canal?”

“Yes. Microscopic X-ray shows it's embedded and only time can erase its radioactive, stimulus-response vibratory powers.”

“Suck me deeper, darling. Suck my cunt!” Andy was squealing, squirming all over the bed, her naked legs thrashing and her breathing as rapid as a greyhound dog's after chasing the mechanical rabbit around the track.

“The only real danger,” Myrna mused scientifically, her mouth and lips pursed to suck up her friend's rich, tasty pussy cream, “is at noon and midnight, really. At 3:15 and 9:45—A.M. and P.M.—when the two hands are parallel again, there might be a minor biological surging that could behave as a catalytic agency in buffering the noon-midnight syndrome, but we'll have to wait to hear from him. And believe me,” she laughed, preparing to eat Andy's pussy alive—as Andy was hers, “his first vicious attack of tumescence, when that enormous prick of his will shoot up like a crazy jack-in-the-box, will propel him right to the telephone, and we'll know then whether or not the radium dials and numerals on the watch are clocking any radioactive ingredients. Hmmmmm. Tastes so sweet, hon. Yes, we'll be hearing from our boy soon, I'm flunking.”

“So,” said Andy, her eyes staring hungrily into Myrna's purple pussy, the lips sparkling with her dewy saliva and Myrna's glistening juices, “in about an hour or so, we should be hearing from him then?”

“Negative!” said Myrna Johns. “Remember the time difference? He's up in an airplane now on his way to New York. He'll have the first jolt in the aircraft and there's no way he can call us from heaven.”

“Ohoooooo,” Andy hummed aloud as Myrna's tongue swirled deep up her liquidy pussy, “won't he be surprised when he feels that magnificent cock suddenly leap up inside his pants? For his sake, I hope he's sitting in the rear in the dark and there's a pretty and very sex-hungry girl next to him.”

“And so do I!” Myrna exclaimed; then she grunted. “Darling, enough talk for now. Let's suck the come out of each other and go to sleep. It's been an exhausting day!”



Scientifically speaking, the biological phenomena of which Wendell was ignorant was little more than a perverse contraindication of an experimental therapy to which he had been exposed. The coincidental physical reactions to be supplied by the radium-dipped hands and numerals on his new gift watch from Dr. Johns and Miss Anderson would actually be the result of the atomically relative reaction from the plutonium fragment embedded in his anal canal, radiating its weak signals harmlessly unless it came into contact with an atomic reactive agent such as the minimal amount of radium on his new wristwatch.

Naturally, when the watch hands were together, the energy would be doubled and dramatically more powerful. This doubling would take place four times in a twelve-hour cycle, eight times in twenty-four hours. The radioactive fragment up his anus was harmless by itself. So was the radium in his watch. Were he to take the watch off, he would sense nothing. But as we've said, Wendell was ignorant of this. Thus, his physical reactions to the flow of protons would provoke violent biological impulses in his central nervous system, and particularly in all of his erogenous zones when the watch hands were parallel: 12-noon; 12-midnight, 3:15 A.M. and P.M., and 9:45 AM. and P.M.

Wendell was assaulted by the first terrifically puzzling reaction at precisely 9:45 P.M. as the giant Air Force jet—ferrying perhaps a dozen AEC officials and their wives and children to New York where they'd be assigned to other posts or go on leave—streamed through the night skies.

After an hour aboard he'd met and was now chatting with one of these wives who was traveling alone, her husband having flown ahead for some particular business reason. They sat quite alone in the rear of the aircraft near the steward's serving area. They sipped beer provided gratis by the steward who was now napping on the top of a double-decker bunk to the rear of the seat Wendell and Mrs. Cynthia Mason occupied.

Cynthia was a petite blonde, exceedingly frivolous and talkative, bubbling with all the energy of a twenty-three-year-old, and, to say the least, sexy and seductive! Before takeoff, when the heat on the runway was stifling, she'd been sitting across from Wendell in a single window seat. She was reading a book with a plain paper wrapper hiding its title. Wendell saw her squirm her behind several times and once brush her fingertips across her full breasts. She was wearing a bra under her light blouse. Hip-hugging, faded cowboy jeans were tucked into her high-heeled cowboy boots.

She caught the eye of the handsome young man silting opposite her several times when they roamed over her voluptuous breasts and sometimes caressed her molded thighs. Three blouse buttons were open until the craft's ventilation system functioned, and then she buttoned the bottom one, Wendell's eyes attending to the motion.

She turned to face him, brushing her damp hair back from her face. “Traveling alone, sir?”

Wendell nodded. He smiled. What a pleasant smile, Cynthia thought. “So am I,” she offered.

He remembered the old days before he pulled the magnificent hoist at Tiffany's and made the fatal mistake of including in the precious, million dollar haul, the President of the United States wife's birthday trinkets. Then he'd been an expert seducer of women. He patted the cushion on the empty seat beside his.

“My name's Cynthia Mason,” she began to babble and then, without his once interrupting, Cynthia told him her life story, her beautiful face smiling or frowning as she spelled out her joys, her doubts and misgivings and her plans for the future.

Before dusk as the jet cruised at altitude, they were both cozily intimate, Wendell having told her of his prison term, how the government had provided him transportation, a new suit and twenty-five dollars. Cynthia was thrilled at hearing the details of the fabulous jewel robbery. She remembered reading about it, and he became something of a hero to her, a celebrity.

She was astonished to learn of the AEC atomic radioactive experiments conducted so secretly, and also heart-glad that he'd not suffered anything serious from having donated himself to possibly fatal exposures.

When she wanted to know if the police had recovered the valuable jewels, Wendell smiled inwardly and said no, that they'd been lost... in the shuffle when they'd arrested him.

This was not true!

Wendell Ardent Corde, once he arrived in New York and made certain there was no official tailing him, had every intention of recovering the gems and converting them into cold, hard cash. In two years he would be free of parole and then the world would be his! All his!

At one point he asked what she was reading and Cynthia blushed crimson, at first refusing to let him see it, then sighing and, obviously embarrassed, showed him a copy of The Pearl, a pornographic classic of nineteenth century England. Haltingly she explained that she found the bawdy stories interesting.

“Do they arouse you sometimes?” Wendell asked.

Cynthia blinked her eyes and then lowered them. “Yes, yes they do,” she whispered and blushed again.

This confession provoked an interlude of sex talk during which she recounted and angrily condemned her husband's extra-marital exploits, his severe neglect of her physically after only one year of their three-year-old marriage. She'd had but one affair during this sexual starvation period and this was tragic because she'd become infected with a venereal disease... which, luckily, she was able to blame on her philandering husband.

“John believed me, you know, and he got me cured—and himself, so to speak—with antibiotics. He promised me faithfully he'd never cheat again and like a fool I believed him. He was so possessive it was all I could do to go to the toilet alone. Believe it or not, Wendell,” (she loved his unusual name) “this is the first time since I married him that he's trusted me to be alone. And the reason is that only AEC officials would be aboard and nothing romantic and especially sexual could happen during the flight. My husband knows all the people here and that includes the crew of the plane.”

“He didn't know about me, huh?” Wendell laughed.

“Hell, no!” she exclaimed, her hand now on his lower thigh, her breast rubbing softly against his arm. “God, he'd die if he knew. And you're so good-looking, Wendell.”

“Won't the others up forward rat on you?”

“No, No. I don't think so. They're a bunch of idiots like most of the lower-echelon AEC people. Besides, they're all asleep.”

It was true.

As the darkness increased Wendell caught her eyes glancing more than once at his neatly combed hair. He had to laugh to himself, realizing that already the phosphorescence was activating. He laughed aloud, imagining her reaction should the pilot snap off the cabin lights. He thought he better explain to her, and he did. Cynthia roared with gay laughter!

“That's too much!” she giggled. “Too, too much!”

“I'll look like something from outer space!” he laughed with her. “But you must not be afraid; when the lights go on, my head will go out!”

She roared again, doubled over, her eyes weeping.

“We're going to have a great time!” she smiled. “Is that all that lights up, Wendell? When the lights go out?” She licked her lips suggestively, her laughter bubbling over again.

“I hope so. I hope so,” he said and it seemed quite natural that he put his arm around her shoulder. She snuggled close to him and her fingers gripped his thigh harder.

The lights suddenly did go out then and Cynthia squealed and squealed. “You look like a torch!”

He knew how he looked.

“I have an idea,” she giggled, kissing his cheek spontaneously. “In my bag I have a black bikini bottom. You could wear it like a cap. It'll fit you, I think.” She got up and took her overnight bag from where she'd been sitting. She took out the bikini bottom and fashioned it on his head like a cap. “There... there,” she kept laughing, “it's somewhat better. Now you're only glowing like a distant star.”


He could smell the perfume of her body in the material of the brief bikini bottoms. It was like an aphrodisiac. He felt his penis throb when she once again snuggled close to him, this time holding hands with him.

“I could use a stiff drink,” Wendell said. “This beer's a drag.”

“It sure is!” she exclaimed. “And I have just the thing.” From her bag she produced a six-pack of canned, still slightly chilled cocktails. “They're Manhattans and not bad at all,” she said, handing him one, taking one for herself. “They're really strong and they have a funny way of staying half-chilled for a long time.”

They toasted each other.

“We're going to have fun!” she cried, hugging him and kissing his face in the dark. “You don't mind, do you, Wendell? I mean, our being close like this? I like you, you know. I've never ridden in a plane with a notorious jewel thief.”

He laughed.

“And one whose head lights up in the dark!” she giggled, wild laughter again racking her body.

Wendell glanced at his radium-dialed watch in the darkness. Nine-forty exactly! Little did he know what was going to happen in a mere five minutes! As he returned her gentle kisses the countdown began.





Wendell leaped up out of her arms so swiftly they were both shocked. He felt as though a bolt of fierce electric lightning had struck his genitals! His prick lifted up inside his new pants like a rocket ascending to the planet Venus! He was stunned! His asshole was burning hot! His bulging prick was stretching like a telescope.

“What's the matter? What's wrong, Wendell?” she asked in obvious alarm.

“I don't know!” he exclaimed, terrified to look down at the enormous, pulsating tool inside his trousers, his penis leaping up magically, a thousand erotic passions making it hammer and want to explode. He cried out and then muffled his mouth against his arm. “I don't understand,” he spoke quickly, moving away from her.

“Did I do something?” she asked in a small voice, wanting to hold his hand, Wendell rudely shoving her away. “Wait. Wait a second or two, Cynthia,” he said, his breath coming...


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